The Very Last Days of Mr Grey (13 page)

“I can’t do it.”

“You must. This is what you are here for.”

“To risk my life?”

“Yes. If not that, what else—”

“Mr Grey!” Banging at the bathroom door. “Let’s not go through this again. We just need to speak with you, clear up a few things.”

“Dammit.” He hadn’t even heard them get through the main door. Mason placed both hands outside the window, he shook his head once, took a deep breath, and pulled.

He pulled too hard, however, and was sent sailing out into the air.

“Mason!”

“I’m okay,” Mason shouted. He wasn’t, but he was compelled to say something. He wanted to be able to remember his last words, and ‘I’m okay’ wasn’t bad, as they went.

He somehow spun, and was facing down now. Yep, there was the ground. He was falling, he was going to die.
What if you don’t?
a voice teased.
What if you live?

Mason realized he was going to land in bushes. They would impale him, but he might survive.

His life wasn’t—

Impact. The world rang, air left him. All his bones broke.

He lay there for moments, awaiting the pain. Finally, he became cognizant of the fact that he was alive. He realized that maybe not
all
of his bones had broken, that the crunching sound was at least partly due to the broken branches of bushes he now lay in. The smell reminded him of being a kid, and getting that sticky crap all over his clothes when he and his friends would play army in the “forest” behind their houses.

He saw Sera pull herself onto the roof. He saw someone look out the window he fell from.

He realized he was on his stomach. He opened his eyes. It was dark. He rolled over, and it got brighter. He waited for pain, but only disorientation came.

This new view allowed him to see that the roof was a false one. In his mind, his vision of Sera, it had seemed real. In life, it was a squared-off U, with the hospital’s logo on the edge, glowing into the night. He watched Sera disappear onto it just as the two agents peered out and down at him, from the window he’d just inadvertently jumped from. The same two agents. He hoped they would get stuck again.

As though he had tempted them, one leaped out of the window.

No, he thought.

The man sailed a distance at least as great as it was high—which for the distance-challenged, was pretty freaking far. His legs were stretched, like he was mid-sprint. He looked at Mason as he passed overhead, his head tracking him like a missile turret.

That’s impossible
, Mason thought.
Like a man’s fist breaking on your face
, a voice whispered.

Then the agent landed above Mason’s head with a crash that was palpable.

Mason let his head roll back. He saw the upside-down vision of the man, who’d cleared the bushes and landed on sturdy asphalt, where he was now crouched in a pose like a superhero in some comic book.

Mason wondered if that made himself the villain.

He tried to move. He managed this, but now could no longer see the agent. He saw the first agent, still in the window, disappear inside, then he grabbed at the bushes, pulling himself away, toward the building. If he could just reach it, he could… He could… He could climb it. Or go inside. It wasn’t that far.

“Mr Grey. You’re causing a lot of trouble.”

Mason turned to look at the approaching agent as he walked across the grass toward Mason. Other than a single scuffed knee, he was impeccable.

“Now you are coming with us.” He looked at his partner, who was somehow by his side already. Mason realized he was on his back again, facing away from the hospital.

The agent tilted his head. “We have some”—he looked to his partner—“questions”—back down at Mason—“for you.”

The room was an interrogation room.

That was obvious even to Mason, who had never been inside one. He had never been inside a police station period, so he had no idea whether it was odd or not that they brought him in through the front door, through the room with desks and police officers on phones or joking with one another, and straight into one of the doors, which had led to a room that had already been occupied.

“That the kid?” the officer interrogating a man in his early twenties asked.

Mason and the two agents stopped in the doorway.

The agents looked at Mason, then back to the officer.

“No,” the officer said, “guess not. Where you fella’s from?”

“Ministry of Defense.”

The cop frowned, getting up. He made a gesture, and another officer appeared behind them moments later.

“Let’s see some ID then,” the cop in the interrogation room said.

The agents looked behind them, and seemed disgusted. They looked at Mason as though it were his fault, saying, “This is pointless.”

They showed the officers their IDs however.

The cop looked at the IDs, nodded, then handed them to the uniformed officer. “Frank?”

The officer apparently named Frank examined them, nodding as well. “Ministry?” he questioned, “your badges say department.”

“Leave the feds alone, Frank.” The other cop was already sitting back down across from the suspect, who seemed both confused and happy.

Frank grinned, leaned in, “DoD wouldn’t be handling cases inside the States. You must be MI:5, right? Your accent’s good, but
just
slightly off.” He frowned. “Or is it MI:6? What’s the difference?”

“All right, Frank, get back out there and finish the paperwork. I wanna get this guy booked.”

“I want an attorney, man.”

“See what you gone and did Frank?” the cop asked, exhaling loudly.

Frank pressed his lips together in a tight grin and shook his head. “Duty calls. You can use six. Room six that is.” He pointed. “Nice and quiet. Very well insulated.” He looked at Mason as he had said this. Mason
didn’t
gulp.

And then Mason had been led to this very room, where they had handcuffed him in his current position, then left him.

Now, he was alone, waiting, and this much at least he expected from movies. The “let him stew” scene; there so the criminal could contemplate what he’d done wrong.

But Mason hadn’t committed any crimes, and so instead he wondered about Sera. He worried about Emily. How would he explain to her that he couldn’t make it to her birthday tonight because he was in custody? Or worse, jail.

He wouldn’t worry her like that.
Best to let her wonder
, a voice said.
Best to let her suffer
.

“Shut up.” Mason became acutely aware that the room he was in was likely bugged. He resisted the urge to cover his mouth. This all felt like a dream, like the day after having way too much caffeine, the nights spent downing those blue Rockstars, waking up early the next day, then that night, getting the pulsating sense of wrongness, in the center of his head, the unreal sense of being in a world that didn’t exist, or that simply didn’t matter.

Soon, the door opened, preceding a man into the room. It was one of the ones who’d brought him in, the ones he’d previously successfully gotten away from in just the same manner: by jumping out a window. Only this time, instead of falling into a place where they couldn’t follow, he’d fallen into some bushes just below the window, and where they followed with all too much ease. He had been so close to freedom, that now having it snatched away was all the worse. All the things he could have done were all he could think of. If he’d just done this or that differently—And it wasn’t even that abstract. If he’d just avoided the hospital, just drank the tequila in the freezer, just not sought out Sera again, just stayed with Emily, slept just a little bit longer and not gotten hit in his car, none of this would have happened, and he’d be safe, somewhere.

But he was here, looking at a man who Mason had seen do something impossible. Sure, Mason had jumped out of the window—accidentally—and seemed no worse off for it—not even his stitches split this time—but that man, what he’d seen him do, was something else entirely. He’d not just jumped, but seemed to have flown out the window, and landed if not on his feet, then at least in an imposing pose. And now here one of them was, to question him.

Mason had at first thought it was the one who jumped, but he saw the pant leg was unmarred. This made him realize how he paid more attention to their suits and other details of their appearance than their faces, and how odd this was that it should be so. Mason made an effort to look at the man’s face.

He sat down across from Mason, and looked at him for a moment. Then he spoke. “You’re a hard man to track down, Mr Grey.”

Mason stared.

“Mr Grey, we need your help.”

Mason remained silent. He’d already asked for an attorney, inspired by the kid whose interrogation they’d interrupted, and none was provided to him. When he’d made this request, they’d looked at each other, then at him like he was mad.

“You can help us, Mr Grey. You could help us a great deal by telling us where you are.”

“Where I am?” Mason blurted out before he could stop himself.

“Yes. Exactly.” The man leaned in, hungry. “Is it the asylum? Is that where you are?” He leaned back. “It would make sense.”

It was as though they were trying to get him an insanity plea, which made no sense. But, hey, what did he know? “I’m in a police station,” Mason answered, confused.

The agent looked disappointed. “You are causing my partner and I a great deal of work.”

At this point, as if called in, likely definitely called in given where they were, his partner entered, looked at him, nodded.

The questioning agent stood, walking around to Mason’s side of the table. “It would be easier on all of us if you just told us.”

Mason looked at him. “What?”

His newly arrived partner shut the interrogation-room door and joined him next to Mason. “Pay attention! Where!” he screamed. “Are you in Joffrey Columns? You are, aren’t you? That’s where you are. You’re a Builder gone bad.”

“I think it is,” his partner said. “Or maybe he’s a rotten Dreamer.”

“Is that what you are, huh!?” He slapped the table.

Mason looked between his two captors. “Who are you!”

The agent looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “My name, is Consul Ehd.”

Mason, shocked at the change in tone and that he’d gotten an answer, asked, “What’s a consul?”

The agent—consul—wore a slight grin. “You can think of us as investigators.”

“I’m Investigator Ehd, and this is Investigator Fredriks.”

“Ed? Your name is Ed?”

“Yes.”

“Like, Mr Ed?”

“Consul Ehd.”

“I thought you said investigator?”

He punched Mason in the face. “I’m sorry, what was your question?”

“Ow.”

They let him recover for a minute.

Mason twitched his nose several times. It was numb, but didn’t seem to be bleeding or broken.

“Now, Mr Grey,” the one called Fredriks said at length, “just tell us where you are and this can all be over. We all get to go home. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Mason shouted nasally. Except, that wasn’t entirely true. He remem—

The fist moved fast, but Mason saw it coming this time. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to avoid it, and it slammed into his already bruised face, on the cheekbone.

He felt the stitches in his torso stretch as he was nearly knocked out of his chair.

The agent (for Mason had no idea what a consul was, and investigator seemed too quaint, and so they would forever be agents to him) leaned over and calmly whispered into Mason’s ear, “Just tell us, and this will all be over. It can stop right now, it’s up to you. You’re in control here.”

“Hey,” his partner said.

The agent stood and straightened himself, running a hand over his hair.

Mason struggled to focus on their faces. He didn’t see the fist coming this time. But something was different. He was so tired, in so much pain. He just wanted this to stop. And as the fist connected with his face, a connection formed in his mind, of another fight, another fist. In Mason’s mind, the word appeared, large and bold:
STOP
.

His neck locked and the movement of his head halted, all the momentum being thrown back, straight into the fist.

“Shit!” Ehd shook his hand.

Fredriks looked quizzically at him. Mason knew this even without raising his head to confirm with his eyesight what his mind had seen. The partner looked back and forth between them once. “What?”

Ehd just stared at Mason. “Think you’re clever, getting around our block, do you?” He leaned in close. “This may be your dream, but it’s our rules.”

The blow landed in Mason’s stomach before he knew what was happening. He let out a breath, then vomited bile onto the table. There was blood in it.

Ehd leaned back, seemed to shake himself, as if to let the wrinkles out of his suit, then swiped a hand over his hair, smoothing the clump that had fallen over his forehead back into place.

They didn’t hit him again after that. Maybe they were worried he’d die. Maybe it was something else.

That didn’t mean they went easy on him though. They worked on him for several hours more. Asking him where Blackburn was (Mason didn’t know
what
Blackburn was), who was in the Guile (again, Mason didn’t know what this was either), and many other questions that would not make sense to him for quite a long time. But just then, there was nothing for him to tell, and so nothing was what they got.

Eventually, they left him there, sore and chained and tired.

The one called Fredriks looked at his partner, shook his head once, stood, then left.

Ehd stared at him for a moment across the metal table. “This isn’t doing you any good. You should just tell us.”

When Mason didn’t respond, he too shook his head and left. He paused at the door, turned his head down and to the side, not quite far enough to catch Mason’s eye. “Before we have to take you somewhere and force you out.”

The door shut. Mason would have gotten up and tried to open it, but he was still handcuffed to the table. And the floor.