"Nah. I got tired of that so I’m driving for Uber now," he says, looking at me with a slick grin. "It's a sick job. I work when I want to work, and sleep when I want to sleep. Plus, do you know how many chicks have a thing for Uber drivers?" By the smartass smirk on his face, he’s obviously proud of himself, but who am I to judge?
"I guess I'll have to consider doing the same if tonight doesn't go well." I'm not sure I'd be too disappointed with driving around all day and getting laid occasionally, but at the moment, I don’t have a car to drive. I’m sure my job application and interview will go really well when they see I spent a year in a psych ward. God, I’m so screwed.
"Well, I'll be taking a nap, so just let yourself in when you get back," he says, making himself comfortable.
I hike across town, sweating my balls off even though it’s the middle of January. I don’t remember a winter this warm here. It’s got to be like sixty degrees, and I’m wearing cold whether shit. In any case, it's nice to be walking around out here versus the alternative.
The Long Wharf hotel is less than a block away, and my blood is pumping heavily through my veins as I ponder why some guy from the government wants to talk to me, of all people. I suspect he knows what the hell I've been up to for the past year, which just makes this more questionable.
In all the years I've lived around the city, I've never been inside this hotel. It's a five-star resort, and I've only seen rich folks walking in and out. It’s not like I didn't already feel out of place, but the bellhop feels the need to make it clear that he’s noticed my appearance, staring at me with a disgusted sneer as my boots thud across the lobby.
In search of the Black Diamond restaurant, I spot it off in the back corner. I’m forced to cross in front of the hotel’s checkin desk, and I feel their glares burning against my back. They can all shove it. I'm sure they're not getting paid all that much just by working behind a desk all day, which tells me they aren't good enough to be staying at a place like this either.
In front of the Black Diamond restaurant, I find a middle-aged man in a brown suit. He’s scrolling through his phone and not paying attention to anything around him. I don’t know if this is the guy I’m supposed to be meeting or not, so I stop near him but try not to look over in case he’s not this Agent Roberts guy.
"Axel Pierce," the man says without lifting his gaze from whatever he's reading on his phone.
"Yes, sir, that's me," I reply, walking over to him.
He nods his head toward the restaurant and drops his phone into his jacket pocket. "They have a table waiting for us," he says.
He still hasn't made eye contact, and I get the feeling he has no intention of doing so. This is fucking weird.
We're led into the restaurant to a corner table for two. It's segregated from the rest of the restaurant, giving us privacy—something I'm not so sure I want with this freak.
As I take a seat, Agent Roberts unbuttons his coat and slowly squats into the seat as if he were in pain. "Do you know why I put a watch out for you?" he asks. He clearly doesn’t intend to waste time, which I’m okay with.
"No, sir, I don't."
"You've been treated by Dr. Mason Phillips for the last two years, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"When's the last time you've seen him?"
The last few months of rehab didn't include many sessions with Dr. Phillips, not like the prior year and a half. I was taking classes at the rehab facility, so I saw him maybe once every other week, but at this point, it’s been a bit since I was going through discharge and all that crap. "It's been a month or so," I tell him.
"Well, he's in prison right now," Agent Roberts tells me.
I want to say I’m not shocked, seeing as Dr. Phillips was a fucking nutcase, but I saw him as a mad scientist type, nothing more than that.
"For what?" I ask.
"Forty counts of murder," he says, as if it's no big deal.
A laugh hitches in my throat because for a second there I thought he said forty counts of murder. "No, really? What's he in for?"
"It's no joke. He was committing highly illegal practices. Did he ever try any unorthodox type of treatment on you?"
"I don't know. What do you consider to be unorthodox?" I ask. In truth, I've never met with any other shrink before him so I don't have much to compare Phillips to.
"Did he ever do any type of hypnotization?"
"Yeah, but not like with a yo-yo and shit." I realize I'm cussing at this government agent, but what the hell is he getting at here? "Is this for a job, or are you just interviewing me for information?"
Agent Roberts clears his throat and leans back into his seat as he calmly folds his hands on top of the table. "I do, in fact, have a job for you if you're up to the task?"
"I'll take it," I say without question. "I don't care what it is at this point. A job is a job."
"This isn't just any kind of job, Mr. Pierce."
"Call me Axel," I correct him.
"Fine, this isn't a typical job, Axel."
"It's fine. Whatever it is, I'll do it."
Agent Roberts places two fingertips between his lips and whistles. I don't see who he's calling over since no one is in the nearby vicinity, but a curtain is released from a nearby wall and swooshes around us, creating a closed off confinement for us. Shit.
"Dr. Mason Phillips knows too much, and he shared it with too many people. Are you following?" he says, speaking quickly and nearly under his breath.
I shake my head, not following at all. "Not really."
"Whatever you hear over the next ten minutes is confidential information. You repeat it, and you're dead. You help me, and you're free from your five-year probation sentence."
I may still be confused, but I'm not confused about my answer. "Say it, and consider it done."
Agent Roberts tilts his head to the side and swivels the tips of his fingers together as if it were a nervous twitch. "There have been three apprentices working with Dr. Phillips over the past year. One of them was killed in an accident while crossing Commonwealth Avenue a few months back. The other committed suicide two months ago. There's only one left. She was Dr. Phillips's right hand-person throughout all the research he had been conducting. We believe she has the remaining data we’ve been trying to acquire from Philips. Not only is she likely holding the documentation, but she’s supposedly well-versed in the practice of using it, as well."
The thought of death and suicide doesn't affect me like it might affect some people. I'm numb to it after being exposed to it at such a young age. Maybe this guy has done his research on me and knows I'd be the best candidate for whatever the hell it is he wants. "So, there's one person left," I repeat to him.
"Exactly."
"And you want me to extract the documentation and bring her to you."
"Exactly," he says. I notice his fingers stop moving and he rests his hand back down on the table.
"Very well. In order to do so, I'd be interested in knowing some of the facts about what she was doing with Phillips," I tell him, unafraid of being blunt. A job like this will pay me nicely and—"I also want my criminal record erased."
"Consider it done," Agent Roberts says.