Brink by Mikel Parry
Chapter 12 - Bobbies

CH-BOBBIES

The phone calls brought on an upsurge of commotion. Finding each agent was now Thomas’ number one priority. He needed to get to them before the altered course of time ripped them apart. As their car screeched around another corner, he could hear Banks screaming into his phone’s receiver.

“Where are they? We need to know now! I don’t care about protocol! You need to tell me—they are in immediate danger!”

It appeared that even in a secret organization, all of the proper strings had been properly attached by gluey, procedural bureaucracy. With a few more insistent demands, Banks finally appeared to be making some headway. Slamming his phone shut, he looked over at Thomas and sighed.

“You’d think I’m the killer the way they treat me. It’s ridiculous how much red tape they put up.”

“So did you get anything? I’m not enjoying our downtime here.”

Banks took a deep breath in.

“They’re out for breakfast.”

Thomas cringed at the mention of their whereabouts.

“Breakfast? I thought those guys were on lockdown?”

“They are, but they still have to eat, don’t they? Last I checked we all do.”

A gurgling slurp and slop in Thomas’ stomach reminded him that was also running on empty. But his mind took precedence. It was unrelenting.

“We need to get to them. Can you call them?”

Banks nodded his head as he pressed his phone up against it.

“Already on it; I got their numbers, finally.”

“You guys always so disconnected?”

“You have no idea.”

Thomas slipped into the car as Banks rambled on the phone. His attitude was one of both concern and annoyance at the process. A process that, by design, was supposed to keep agents safe, and was now the one thing barreling them towards disaster. As the car screeched down the streets of the city, he took a moment to reflect. David Schilling the plumber had been spooked by the minor alteration of the words on a fridge. He had tried to make some sense of it by running to a cigarette-addicted tarot card reader, but she had given him no relief. Tiny pebbles rolling down a mountain—tiny pebbles that had created a massive landslide that had just climaxed. This was art; perverse, disturbed art. The challenge was amplified by the urgent nature of it. Had he bitten off more than he could chew, let alone swallow?

“This should be the place. They’re fine, or so they’ve told me. They’re together and technically out in the open, but I know these guys. They wouldn’t just wander into something blind,” Banks said, looking towards an old diner on a street corner.

Thomas silently agreed with the statement. Sitting in a diner, the odds of anything drastic happening seemed slim. But there had been a shooter; a shooter who was still at large. But it couldn’t stay that way, things needed to start to come together. This diner had to have something in it that could help him start putting the madness together; some sort of evidence or clues.

“We’ll figure that out once we’re inside. It looks like the place just opened anyway.”

The store was just awakening from its nighttime slumber. A retro neon sign buzzed, assuring that the doors were open. Through aged windows, Thomas and Banks could see two agents discussing something over an empty tabletop. They quickly walked inside. A wonderful mixture of pan-seared bacon, griddled waffles, and hash browns met them. This came as a clear-cut reminder of human necessities. Banks was the first to put a card on the table.

“Hungry? I can’t imagine you’ve really had much time to eat. I know I haven’t. Might as well grab a bite.”

Thomas shuddered at the mention of slowing his progress. He didn’t like it.

“No time for that.”

“You’re no good to anyone starved. I suggest you speak with these guys, clear your head, and refuel.”

Banks took the lead, moving cautiously towards the two seated men. Thomas followed reluctantly—he was piecing apart the building—so many floating points that needed to be addressed. His head ached. His body was raising the stakes in his game of overcoming it. Looking at Banks, he watched as he greeted the two men and sat down.

“This is Mr. Ghune. He is currently working with me on our project.”

The two men turned and examined Thomas, who stood at an awkward distance from the table. Banks gave him a stern look of annoyance. The strange behavior was embarrassing him. One of the agents sitting closest to the outside put out his hand to greet Thomas.

“I’m Agent Matthews and this is my partner, Agent Reynolds.”

Thomas moved in close enough to shake Agent Matthews’ hand. He let it lay as lifeless as a dead fish in Agent Matthew’s grip. An unsettled look crossed over Agent Matthews’ face.

“You there, Mr. Ghune? You’re not looking so good.”

Thomas put on the best façade he could. The smile he conjured looked as fake as ever.

“Yes, sorry, just a lot on my mind.”

“So I’ve been told,” chuckled Agent Matthews.

Forgetting his place, Thomas released a torrent of, until now, internalized questions on the unsuspecting agents.

“Anything out of the norm happen today? Any interruptions to your schedule or habits? Anything at all? Notice anything out of place, perhaps, or a sudden change you weren’t expecting?”

Agent Reynolds put down a sugar packet he was reading and looked at Thomas and then back at Agent Matthews. It appeared that Thomas was the unforeseen, out-of-place oddity of the day.

“I mean . . .”

“No, I get what you’re going for there. And the answer is no. We’ve eaten at Bobbies so many times I can’t count them. And nothing is out of the ordinary,” said Agent Reynolds.

“Well, actually, it did open slightly later than normal—the cook showed up late because he was recovering from a cold or something,” added Agent Matthews.

Thomas noted the statements and nodded for them to continue.

A cold—opening late—where is this going? But as for this table, looks pretty safe to me. Only issue is our food we ordered ten or fifteen minutes ago. I’m starved.”

Banks smiled and took a seat across from Agent Matthews. He motioned for Thomas to do so but was denied outright.

“I want to go poke around a bit. Maybe talk to some of the people around here.”

Agent Reynolds picked up another sugar packet and weaved it through his fingers.

“Have it your way. You’ll want to order the bacon here, it’s amazing. Just relax, buddy; we’re on our toes here.”

Thomas smiled and turned. Looking around, he saw sparse morning traffic passing by outside and an early morning skeleton crew inside. A waitress painted in cheap makeup and who looked stuck between her fifties and sixties skulked around the room. At the counter a corpulent cook walked back and forth, eyeing orders before disappearing to the back to fill them. Thomas tried to catch his attention by waving his hand in the air.

Come on, bubba; pay attention.

Frustrated, he walked up to the counter and rang the order bell. The moment he did, a large man who gave him a very bothered look came out from the back.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Thomas immediately sprang into action.

“Do you work often?”

The man nodded. He looked over Thomas’ shoulder and shrugged.

“I’m a regular . . . what of it?”

“Notice anything out of place recently, perhaps today?”

The man sniffled, congestion making it difficult for him to breathe through his nose.

“It’s a diner; how out of place could anything be? Now, if you don’t mind I’ve got some orders to fill, and I’m not feeling too chatty.”

“It’s important, alright? Any pipe problems or plumbing issues?”

The man frowned.

“Do I look like a plumber? You’re asking the wrong guy. I’m just another Monday guy. I show up for work and go home. I don’t look into that crap.”

Thomas now frowned as well. This was going nowhere. He watched as the man sucked in a long, labored drag of air through his stuffed nose. The thought that the same man was cooking the food made him instantly nauseated.

“Why don’t you go home and take care of that. It’s disgusting,” grunted Thomas as he walked away.

“Who are you, my doctor? Shmuck.”

As Thomas headed back towards the table, he could see that Agent Reynolds was missing. Panicking, he ran the rest of the way.

“Where is he?”

Agent Matthews and Banks looked up from their conversation.

“He’s in the bathroom. People gotta use it sometimes, you know?” answered Agent Matthews.

“Where’s the bathroom?” demanded Thomas.

Agent Matthews pointed towards a hall leading away from the kitchen.

“What is it? What’s going on?” probed Banks.

“Nothing—well possibly—oh, I don’t know . . . I just need to make sure,” responded Thomas.

He looked ill. The dots in his head were forging connections with the streaming reality he was in. It was weighing him down. But which possibility would it be? What was this leading up to?

“Hey, why don’t you calm down, Thomas? These guys come here all the time. They’ve been on watch and under protection. This is as safe of a place as any.”

Thomas ignored Banks’s placating remarks and he headed towards the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” called Banks.

“I need to take care of something.”

Thomas wiggled his way around tables and chairs as he rushed towards the bathroom. As he did, he scanned the room with his mental radar, letting his surroundings sink in. But there was nothing—nothing that stuck out—nothing that called to him. It was an empty, white canvass with no discerning color. Then, something caught one of his other senses—an odor—a faint yet apparent odor. It was incredibly difficult to focus on as it competed with the more flavorful smells that had been caked onto the diner’s walls. But it was still there. What was it? Taking a few more steps towards the bathroom, a sensation from somewhere in his past came tingling into his mind. A sensation with a direct tie to David Schilling that was tied inseparably to something that was just about to happen. What had taken months to put together, took mere seconds to all fall apart. The blast blew out the bathroom door, sending a wave of flame with it. On the other side of the wall there was a booming eruption that shot pieces of the kitchen through the air with incredible force. The moment seemed to pass by slowly, frame-by-frame. Dancing flames etched their way through the air at Thomas’ body. The invisible force gripped him in its arms, throwing him back into the diner as if he were a small child. His screams were muffled by the chaos playing out around him. Suddenly, everything went dark. Had death’s icy fingers finally squeezed what little life he had left out of him? Had he finally found his place as another martyr; as part of some psychopath’s quest? Only time would tell.

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