Black Sheep

“I asked Samuel Brooks’s niece if she had money to go to Utah. And I fucked her. In the library. And on my desk. And in a classroom.”

“Jesus Christ, Kaplan,” Fletch hisses as she tosses an ax toward the target. “I don’t know whether to be proud or disgusted.”

“Both,” Blake chimes in. “Have you ever thought of maybe taking her to a hotel room? Or like, your house?”

Fletch snickers and elbows Blake. “That would be too tame for our friend here. Haven’t you heard his nickname? K—”

“Shut it, or I’ll tell Blake your nickname.”Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

Blake huffs a laugh. “What, Farty Fletchy? I already knew that.”

Fletch grins as I pass her to take a turn with the ax. “Who’s Samuel Brooks anyway?” she asks.

“Essentially, the most renowned Berkshire faculty member in recent years. He was the dean of Engineering for over two decades. He contributed a huge donation toward the Palladium Building on campus. His name is on a plaque at the door. He retired just before I started, but I’ve heard about him.”

“Anything in particular?”

I shrug and toss the ax, and it smacks into the target near the bullseye. “Not really. He’s a bit reclusive, apparently, though he seemed very engaging when I met him. Wildly brilliant. Intimidating. From what I understand, he’s not one to suffer fools. But he also did a lot to advance the department, and pushed the good students to become great ones.”

“Sounds like Bria comes by her nature honestly, from what you’ve both told me about her,” Blake says as she takes her shot with the ax.

“Wonder if that includes her murdery vibes,” Fletcher chimes in.

“She doesn’t have murdery vibes,” I retort, crimson heat crawling up my neck.

“You’re the one who said it in the first place in the Uber to the party. And then you said she was going to make a mask from your skin.”

“I was wrong,” I snap. Fletcher’s brows climb and a knowing smile crosses her face. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to go for her, and now that I’m trying, she’s a murderer? What the fuck is that?”

“I didn’t say she is a murderer. I said she gives murdery vibes.”

“What kind of murdery vibes are we talking about here?” Blake asks. “Does she go off on people at random or threaten other students?”

Fletcher shakes her head. “No, not at all. She’s very composed. Almost…too composed, like she’s trying too hard to keep a mask up. And for a brief moment, once in a while, it’s like she goes dark and the mask slips.”

“She’s exceptionally intelligent, you know that. It probably takes work for her to fit in,” I say. I let out a heavy sigh and take up the ax, throwing it with too much frustration. It bounces off the target and lands with a thud on the floor. “She’s unique, that’s all.”

“She certainly is that.”

“Fletch—”

“I meant that in a good way, I swear.” Fletch balks a little when I give her a skeptical glare. “Smart unique.”

“Right.”

“Speaking of which,” Fletch says, sounding like she’s trying to dig her way out of a hole, “did you know she’s a mnemonist? She said she developed a memory palace naturally as a kid. She’s going to let me test her when you’re back from Ogden.”

“What’s a memory palace?” Blake asks as Fletch takes a turn with the ax.

“It’s a strategy to memorize and recall information through visualization of a location,” I explain. “In simplified terms, you place the details you want to remember at different places along the route you take within the palace. Normally, this strategy is taught. For Bria to have developed it naturally as a child is pretty unusual.”

“So she can remember anything she wants to?”

“Possibly,” Fletcher says.

“What about the stuff she wants to forget?” Blake asks, and I see the spark of scientific inquiry glow in Fletcher’s eyes. “What happens to that?”

Fletcher kisses her wife’s cheek. “What a great question, babe. I’m going to try to find out.”

“No,” I say in a tone that brooks no argument. I know so little about Bria, but with the threat of someone prying into her past, certain pieces of her seem to emerge and slot together. The way she jolts or winces when someone touches her back unexpectedly. The way she’s never elaborated on her family aside from Samuel. Even her words in the library. No one’s ever taken care of me like this.

“No,” I repeat. “It’s one thing to test the limits of her capacity to remember. It’s another to delve into her past.”

Fletcher’s initial surprise to my response quickly wanes to irritation. “I want to inquire about her ability to forget, not root through her past.”

“And if she can’t easily forget whatever battery of information you give her to remember, how will you test that? Unless you plan to carry this out over months or even years, the distant past is the only place left to go. You don’t know what you might open up,” I say. Fletcher looks like she’s about to say something but stops herself as she considers my words. “Let me speak to her about it. She’ll tell me if she can’t elaborate on that question.”

“Yeah, Kap. Of course.” Fletcher smiles reassuringly as she hands me an ax. We assess one another with a long look before I turn away and align myself to the target.

My grip tightens on the handle. I don’t understand this urge I have to protect a woman who doesn’t need anyone’s protection, but it’s an instinct I’ll follow.

The ax lands in the heart of the circle.

Though we move on to other topics, my interest in hanging out starts to dissolve. After another thirty minutes, we leave and head to our respective homes, where I spend a little time working on the new profiles we’re building for the source of the missing individuals from Berger’s circle. The person responsible must have resources, both time and money. Potentially military or police experience. It’s an individual with advanced computer skills. Maybe even more than one person. But their motivations? That’s tougher to nail down. Maybe a distraught parent looking for their daughter, or someone whose loved one was harmed by Lamb Health’s pseudoscience bullshit. But none of it seems to make sense. A family member would be more likely to try for Caron directly. This seems more like a calculated effort to cause upheaval within his organization. It’s as though they’re not just after Berger, but Legio Agni and anyone who contributed to building it.

In that case, the best fit is someone who has left Legio Agni and wants revenge for everything that was stolen from them.

I click on the secure link to all the documents Agent Espinoza has uploaded for my review, and start compiling potential questions for the interview subjects that might illuminate whether someone they know might fit this profile. It’s a long shot as there are several compounds run by Legio Agni. They might not know of anyone who has these capabilities, but it’s at least a place to start. I then make a list of questions for Agent Espinoza. Has anyone left the cult who would be skilled enough to exact revenge? Have any other cults on the FBI’s radar experienced a similar takedown pattern in the last several years? If so, can we quickly line up interview subjects?

I open my email and send a quick message with these questions to Agent Espinoza, requesting a call for tomorrow to run through my theory. Once the email is sent, I catch up on my inbox. There are a few faculty notices and some student questions about assignments, but nothing urgent. Bria’s message from yesterday lingers in my inbox and I reread it, grinning at her response to my gift. She hate-loved it, which is a success, and I try not to dwell on Fletcher’s words earlier as protective anger bubbles up in my chest. Without really thinking about it, I pick up my phone.

Me: On a scale of 1–10, how much did you hate the tree? 

The dots of Bria’s reply start bouncing immediately.

Bria: 20. 

Me: Excellent. In that case, I think you should come with me to Grindstone tomorrow before class. We can start prepping for interviews. 

Bria: I’m not sure I understand the connection between the two…

Me: There is none, but if it makes you feel better, we can also make a list of things you despise and I’ll do every one of them. 

Bria takes a long moment to respond, and I tap my fingers on the edge of the phone as I wait. Only a minute passes, but the weight of it feels like five.

Bria: What if someone sees us and starts asking questions?

Me: We’ll have papers and computers and shit. And I wasn’t planning on fucking you on the table. I think it’ll be fine. 

Bria: Damn, I was looking forward to the second part 😉. Okay, what time? 

Shit. My dick jumps to attention with her reply. I already know there’s no hope of getting that imagery out of my head now, so I close my laptop and head to the bathroom to shower and jerk off to yet another fantasy of Bria Brooks.

Me: Eight?

Bria: See you there. 

I smile at the phone and set it down on the counter as I start the water, stripping my clothes off as I wait for it to heat. When I check my phone one last time, there’s another message from Bria.

Bria: This is hard. 

Her honesty steals the air from my lungs. It’s refreshing but there’s sorrow in it. It’s vulnerable but it’s a weapon too. It disarms me. I might not have many walls to maintain, but when she says something like this, I rush to destroy the last ones standing. The bravery it takes to throw these thoughts out into the world cements my conviction that Bria Brooks is the most formidable person I’ve ever known.

Me: Yeah, it is, but it won’t be hard forever. 

Bria doesn’t respond, and I don’t expect her to. I get into the shower but my fantasy has suddenly changed, and all I see is Bria waiting for me at a table with a coffee in her hand, bathed in the morning light.