Turn It Down, Please

Across town, a lone figure stood in the burned wreckage of a warehouse. He wore a dark trench coat and a gold watch. With a flashlight, he surveyed the damage.

A microscope, or what had been one, slumped and gone to char. Steel cabinets blown open and emptied. A long bench crushed under a fallen run of roof beams, and under the beams, a whole floor of broken glass. High up, a blade of failing afternoon light fell through the gaping hole in the roof and lay across the wreckage.

The beam traced the floor. In the center of the space was a black burned area. The damage all seemed to radiate out from that point.

Boots crunched broken glass, somewhere behind him. Then a voice from the dark. “That you, Dickinson?”

The man with the gold watch didn’t turn. “You who they sent?”

The footsteps approached until the man stepped into Dickinson’s view. He was big, broad through the shoulders, hands loose at his sides, an FBI badge clipped at his belt, catching the light. “Name’s Monger. They said you’d be the one standing in the dark. So what do you need me for? From what I heard, you have your own… personnel.”

Dickinson brushed a fleck of ash off his pants. “The bureau was never supposed to get involved. Someone messed up and now we have to play along. So obviously, run interference.”

“That won’t be difficult,” Monger said. “Been doing that for twenty years. What else?”

“There was a survivor.”

“Yeah. That’s a weird one. A kid. Scraped him off the street outside the explosion. Burned and barely alive. We don’t even know his name or where he came from. I’ve had agents camped outside his hospital room since the accident. Initially, the doctors told them he was too far gone to save. But… well…”

Monger pulled out his phone.

“This photo was just after he went in.” He thumbed to the next. “This was a day ago, and this,” he thumbed again, “was this morning.”

Dickinson pursed his lips.

“Now,” Monger said. “How can a kiddo who goes in burned and almost dead three days ago come out looking like nothing happened to him?”

Dickinson ignored the question. “Can you get him back?”

Monger slipped his phone into his pocket. “That’s the plan. Kid’s been comatose. Until about twenty minutes ago.”

Dickinson’s head snapped toward Monger. “He’s awake?”

“Yeah. My agents just made contact. He’s alert. Talking. And apparently doesn’t remember anything. Half the time suspects’ amnesia stories are fake. My bet is he’s lying.”

“Monger. Don’t wait. Bring him in. Now. Don’t let him think. Don’t let him do anything. Just get him here. Tell me you understand me, Monger.”

“I gotcha. Already in motion.”

“Good.” He clicked off the flashlight. “If the kid’s awake, our lives are about to get more complicated. Now, I’ve got some calls to make. You know where to find me.” He took three steps away from Monger before turning. “Watch yourself, Monger. The kid?” He shook his head. “He’s more than he seems.”

Dickinson stepped over charred rubble and disappeared through what remained of the main entrance. Monger stood there in the wreckage until he was alone and sure of it. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket, scanned the room once more, and dialed. A deep voice answered.

Monger whispered into the phone. “Hey. It’s Monger. I’ve got something for you. Some kind of weapons research lab blew up. Director brought me in to manage the bureau and clean up the… loose ends.”

A satisfied chuckle rattled the phone.

“Yeah. You know me. But he’s really nervous about a survivor.” A pause. “Yeah, just a kid. Listen, I’ve got a hunch about this one. My lip’s been twitchin’, and you know when my lip twitches, I’m onto something. I’ll keep you apprised. But my gut says this is the one. Warm up our leads. Tell them…” he smiled. “Tell them we have some new tech that’s beyond their wildest imaginations. For the right price.”

Another chuckle rang out, then some clipped words.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Monger ended the call, took a breath, then scrolled through his phone until he found the contact for Sarah Colby. He pressed dial and held the phone to his ear. As it rang, he muttered, “Easiest money I’ve ever made.”

The hallway chairs were built to punish sitting. Colby had been in hers most of the day. Vickers came around the corner from the coffee machine with two paper cups.

“Recharge, boss.”

He handed her a cup and she drank. Burnt and watery at the same time: objectively terrible, but also subjectively needed. She forced it past her gag reflex then sat a little straighter.

He dropped into the chair beside her. “How much longer are we doing this? Tell me not long. My eyes are glazing over from doom scrolling my phone.”

“I know, Vickers. But we’re stapled to these horrible seats until they discharge him.”

Vickers spun his empty cup in his fingers. “You saw him, right? The burns? Most of his body?” He shook his head.

She sipped again. “I saw.”

“And now he’s sitting up asking for water.”

“I saw it, Luke.”

Her phone lit on her knee. A photo filled it: a girl mid-serve, ponytail flying. She thumbed it up and put it to her ear.

“Hey, bug.”

“Mom — okay, so, we made regionals. We actually made it.” The sound of shoes squeaking on a gym floor crawled through the phone beneath her words.

Colby’s face brightened. “That’s my girl.”

“It’s on the twenty-second. This Saturday. Are you gonna be there? Like, actually there?”

Colby watched a cart roll past. “Baby. You know I can’t promise that.”

“Yeah.” Her voice dropped. “Figured as much.”

Colby shifted against the hard plastic. “How’s your dad?”

“Fine. We’re… doing what we always do.”

The line sat silent a second, then the phone buzzed hard against her ear. She pulled it away and looked. MONGER.

“Bug, I’ve gotta go.”

“’Course you do.”

“Hey. I love you. You hear me?”

“Yeah. I love you too, Ma.” The line beeped.

Colby dropped the phone to her lap for a moment. It continued to ring. She raised her chin, then pressed answer. “Colby.”

The voice came through like a punch. “Status.”

“He’s awake and talking but hasn’t moved.”

“I have authorization to bring him in.”

She sat forward. “Bring him in? On what?”

“Person of interest.”

Vickers leaned forward in his chair. “What’s wrong, boss?”

Colby held up a finger, then: “Monger, he’s a kid. Burned half to death, can’t remember his name.”

“We’ve got reason to think he’s tied to whatever lit that building up. Until we know how, he’s a person of interest, and you are going to treat him like one. Do you understand?”

Colby lowered her voice. “Sir. He doesn’t read like a suspect to me.”

“Agent. Bring him in. Now. Unless you want me to find someone else—”

“No, sir,” she snapped.

“Good. Well then, I suggest you do it.”

The line went dead.

Colby glanced at the screen, then shoved the phone into her pocket.

“Boss?” Vickers’s eyebrows had risen high enough to show over his sunglasses.

Colby braced an elbow against her knee, then shoved herself off the terrible seat. “We have a job to do. Let’s do it.”

PJ lay back against the lumpy pillow and stared at the ceiling. He’d been so sure of himself. The doctor had been there. He’d spoken to him. But as he puzzled, the cracks in his certainty began to spread.

Then a high-pitched ringing began in his ears. He’d noticed it earlier, lingering beneath the chatter leaking into the room from the hall. But now it was climbing, thinning and sharpening, until it became a pressure. A cord drawn tight in his skull. He pressed his hands to his head and squeezed his eyes shut. The line pulled tighter until it snapped.

And then he heard everything, way too loud. The fluorescent tubes ticking overhead. A bad wheel on a gurney. The wet, private work of someone’s stomach.

Then the agent’s voice, out in the hall. “Tell them to bring the car around. We’re moving him.” Beside her, the big one. “Finally, some action.”

Then from nowhere. “Hey!”

PJ screamed. “GAH! Stop scaring me!”

The young man was back at the bedside. “Sorry! So sorry.” He wrung his hands. “Great news, really. You’re discharged! Cleared. All patched up, good as new… better than new, even. So we should… you should get up. Get dressed. Get moving. Now’s good. Now’s a real good time.”

“Why can I hear that woman’s stomach?”

His hands stopped. “What?”

“Across the hall. I can hear all of it. I can hear a phone call from the other end of the building.” He turned his head, slow and careful. “My ears are like crazy sensitive.”

“That — okay, that happens, it’s a head-injury thing, you would not believe what the brain gets up to after a—”

“I really don’t think super hearing is a thing that just happens.”

“Okay, we can argue about super hearing later. Right now, you need to move. So…”

He scrunched his nose. “Who are you? Why do you keep running whenever anybody comes close?”

Heavy footsteps, quick, coming up the hall.

Superdoc flinched. “Alright. Whatever happens? Don’t tell them you saw me.” Then he turned and ducked into the little bathroom.

PJ’s mouth gaped when Pat came in with a cup of water and a frown. She stopped when she caught his face. “What’s the matter?”

He pointed at the bathroom. “That super… doctor. The one I was talking about? He just went in there.”

Pat looked. She pushed the door, checked behind it, peered into the corner by the sink. Came back. “Hon, there’s nobody in there.” She set the water on the tray. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”

He didn’t answer. He was listening to the hall. Two sets of dress shoes, closing fast. And then they filled the doorway: Agent Colby, Vickers a step behind.

Pat planted herself between the agents and the bed, hands on her hips. “What now?”

“We’ve been cleared to take him into custody.”

“Custody. On whose authority?”

“Ma’am—”

“Whose?”

Colby stepped around her and came toward the bed, her voice gone soft. “We’re going for a short ride. Just to answer some questions, alright?”

His heart was going hard, and his new ears made a drum of it. His eyes flicked to Pat.

Pat caught Colby’s arm. “No. Look at him. You’re not walking this boy out of here.” Pat moved, herding, a heavyset woman pushing two federal agents back across the room on nothing but nerve. “Out. Both of you.”

Then they were in the hall, and the voices climbed over each other, Pat’s over the top of all of them.

The young man came out of the bathroom at a run and dropped to the bed rail. His smile was crisp, but his eyes were frantic. “So. How about that discharge?”

PJ balled his sheets into his fists. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

The doctor’s giddy expression evaporated.

“Listen. They’re gonna try to take you. And if they do, you’ll never see daylight again. Now,” he moved toward the window. “The alley’s seven floors down. There’s a ledge, runs to the next room over. We go out the window, cross to the fire escape, then down to the street.”

“Dude, you are really, really freaking me out right now.”

In the hall, Pat’s voice went up to a shout. “Security! Security to seven, now!” The agents’ footsteps pounded closer.

Superdoc glanced over his shoulder, turned back, smiled, and then he wasn’t there. Between one blink and the next, the rail was empty.

“What—”

“Eyes on me.” Colby was at his side. “We’re going to stand up nice and slow, and we’re going to take a little walk.”

Vickers set himself at the foot of the bed, big hands loose, filling the gap between the bed and the door.

Okay. I’m gonna do a thing. Are you okay if I do a thing? It’s for the greater good, I swear, just. Relax.

“What?”

The voice was unmistakably the doctor’s, but not from the room; from inside his own skull.

He was trying to decide between answering Colby, who was tugging at his IVs, and the voice when every muscle he had seized at once. His body coiled, then launched itself up off the bed past Colby straight at Vickers’s chest.