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-Toothbrush

Chapter 3: The Bad and the Ugly

Farluck's office isn't what I expected it to be. It's charming, for one. I bet Farluck wouldn't look charming to a sex-starved prostitute with eight teeth missing. Okay, that was rude, I apologize for that.

But seriously, this place is remarkable! Golden walls splashed with sapphire curtains, mahogany desks poised atop maroon parquet tiles, and enormous bookshelves are stacked against every wall that isn't lined with antiquity, like paintings framed with gold and aborigine-looking masks. There's even a plague doctor hood towering atop a rod iron coat hanger. To top it off, as far as I can tell, everything congregated in this room is authentic.

"This is a lot more comfortable that I thought it was gonna be," Jamie sighs from across the room. He's sunken into one of the armchairs by the coat hanger. "Yo, Saint Mikey." He pats the seat beside him. "Come tell me a story."

Mikey takes one glance at that plague doctor hood and blanches. "How about I just tell you one from here? Once upon a time, there was a psychotic killer who found a group of criminals that broke into his office and he beat every one of them to death."

Jamie's lips purse in a mock pout. "Damn, I wanted to hear about how you became a pant-pissing mommy's boy. Is that a course they had at the all-girls school you went to?"

Maggie turns away from the conflict. Avoiding conflict is something she and I have in common, albeit we do so for different purposes. I avoid it because the tension is unbearably uncomfortable for me. Maggie avoids it because she finds arguing arbitrary. I suppose that's why Maggie has been so distant lately; all the boys have done since Mikey arrived is duke it out. I start to intervene, but I'm beaten to the punch.

Mikey rounds on Jamie, eyes blazing furiously. "Look, I know you don't like me all that much, but can you stop making fun of me? Maybe I am a little bit of a baby, but that doesn't make me any less human than you. There's always something you're afraid of! Maybe you're terrified of your dad—I heard he abused you, right?—but I don't tell you that you're a baby for being afraid of him! What makes that any different from me?"

Jamie begins to rise out of the seat, infuriated that his dad's been mentioned, but this time I'm quicker and move to stand between them.

"Knock it off," I snap, "both of you. This is petty shit to be arguing over. I'm sorry," I add, feeling guilty for speaking so harshly, "but both of you are becoming a risk to each other and the mission. If you can't solve this peacefully, then I won't be bringing you along on any future excursions—" Mikey brightens, if only a little. "—and I'll cut your grades in half for failure of participation." Mikey deflates.

"Then why can't you just let one of the other curators babysit him?" Jamie hisses, still regarding Mikey with a venomous glare. Mikey flinches.

I whirl to Jamie, raising an accusing finger in his face. "You're acting like you need the babysitting right now, dude."

His jaw clenches in attempt to remain stoic. I know my disparaging affects him deeply and emotionally, but I can't allow him to use Mikey as a scapegoat. It's been trouble for him since his father's imprisonment—blame others for his personal frustrations. It's never been as much a problem before, but Mikey does embody many things Jamie dislikes. A major one being Mikey's proclivity to speak his mind no matter who he may offend. And Jamie absolutely despises anyone who mentions his father.

"This isn't just a class, Jamie. This is a team. I was never the biggest fan of working in teams, either, but that has to change sometime. There's always going to be someone who pushes your buttons. And you can hate them all you want, kiddo, but it's not gonna solve shit for you later. It's just a lot of baggage you're going to be carrying around for the rest of your life and, someday, you're gonna realize that there's no one around to help you unpack it. And you can't blame someone else for you chasing them away."

I squeeze his shoulder affectionately, lowering my voice to a soothing murmur. "You're fueling these arguments just as much as he is. A man can fail many times, but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else. You can't antagonize Mikey because he's different from you, Jamie. He's just as much a part of this team as you are, kiddo, and teams work together, whether they want to or not."

Jamie refuses to meet my eyes. He's focused on a spot somewhere over my left shoulder, but there's an unspoken regret in his expression that tells me he's heard everything I've said and recognizes it as an unwelcome truth. Three years and now he finally looks like it's sinking in for him. Then again, I've never confronted him like this before. I dislike reprimanding anyone in front of an audience, but the situation is already stressful and it acted as a catalyst for my confrontation. Either way, this was inevitable. I have a habit of bottling things inside—something instinctive that I use to avoid conflict—but whatever I've bottled up has the proclivity of leaking out at odd times. This is one such occasion; I've been harboring this irritation directed at Jamie but haven't acted on it until now, until the situation catalyzed my emotions. I'm only glad I handled it so gently. I usually have a tenancy for exploding when I'm stressed and then I argue solely on how I feel. I'm pretty damn grateful that I didn't vomit all that on Jamie.

"We good?" I ask in hopes of lightening the mood. Jamie doesn't respond and he still won't look at me. I back away, allowing him time to process what I've said. I know better than to ask for him to apologize for his outburst, but it still hurts that he won't answer me. "Cool—so now we just need to find my shit and we can get the hell out of here."

"Thank fuck," Mikey mumbles.

"Director," Maggie calls from across the office. She's standing in the doorway to a connected closet of some sort. Mikey jumps as though he'd forgotten she existed. Maggie does that sometimes—pop up when you least expect her. She can be quite talkative at a logical standpoint, but she's more interested in observing, like some robotic alien incognito. Even I'll admit that she has her creepy moments. "I have located your trunk. Completely intact with nothing missing to the extent of my knowledge."

"My babies!" I exclaim mercurially, rushing to the claustrophobic sanctum of treasure. Just as she says, the trunk and books are heaped against the back wall amidst a clutter of jade dragons and painted clay vases. However, the stolen book is nowhere to be seen.

"We're going to forget about this just like that?" Mikey looks on incredulously like he's astonished that a trunk of books could be so much more exciting than the recent drama. Apparently he's not over it yet. "Sorry—but it's just—we were in the middle of something important that still needs to be solved—"

"I am not partial to your argument," Maggie interrupts coolly, "nor do I wish to be. Leave what has passed in the past."

"Don't patronize me, you—you mannequin!" Mikey counters angrily.

"Okay, okay," I shout as I begin restacking books within the trunk, "that's enough for one afternoon, okay kids?"

"Stop calling me kid!" Mikey roars. I groan and knock my head against the chest lid, feeling the familiar wave of guilt rise up inside me that returns whenever I've offended someone. A brief silence ensues before Mikey stammers, "I—sorry, I just—I'm sorry…I—Director?"

I turn to see him standing in the doorway, a good foot from Maggie as though he's trying to keep her at length. He flushes and I notice that Maggie is regarding him with her trademark leer. Bereft of physical emotion, but you can still feel it piercing into you like a laser beam.

"It's okay, Mikey," I chuckle reassuringly. "It was my fault, I shouldn't have acted so flippantly. We can—"

"No, no," Mikey objects, "I'm just being whiny. I'm being a baby, I'm sorry." He tucks his chin against his chest.

For a kid who can take criticism, he sure is emotional. I smile despite myself. Seems he can get as guilt-ridden as I do. I want to hug him—mutual comforting—but I don't want to make things awkward between mentor and student.

"No you aren't," I respond dismissively. Time to diffuse the tension, something I actually do very well. "No one here is. We're just all stressed out—it's been a really weird day and we're all a little on edge, so it's normal to explode. Once we're out of here and back safe and sound at the museum, I'll take us out for sushi or something. Sound good?"

Mikey brightens almost immediately and he offers a shy smile. "I'd like that. Creepy shit makes me hungry. At least this place is basically unguarded, huh? Oh—let me help you."

He steps further into the room and starts to assist in organizing the trunk; Maggie turns back to analyzing her tablet. I pat Mikey's back graciously. He hoists the trunk up with some initial struggling and helps me carry it out of the closet.

"Why the hell did he take your books, anyway?" Mikey grunts. "Like, why ransom your stuff? Why not the professor's or some other curator?"

"Wish I knew," I reply as we lay the trunk on one of the desks. "Of all the shit he could have taken, it had to be the books. Maybe he thought I had his book on me, but that wouldn't make sense since the books were still in my office when I left to check on Rosalind. You know what creeps the shit out of me? That he had to have taken my books while I was still in Rosalind's office."

"How did you know Farluck had them?" Mikey wonders.

"He called me up after I got off the phone with 911 and physically told me that he had them." I shake my head at the recollection of his malicious voice rumbling through the receiver. "The asshat gave me two weeks ultimatum to recover that book he wanted. Called it the Book of Primal. But on the night of the twelfth day—yesterday—he decided that he'd been waiting long enough and thought that taking my shit would serve as a warning that I wasn't quick enough." I chuckle at the ridiculousness of his idea. I probably sound maniacal, but it's thrilling because it illustrates my vexation on a level the others can understand. "He's going to wish he didn't screw with me. I wouldn't be so pissed if he hadn't hurt Rosalind. But he did and if I learn that he's hurt Arture, too." I feel my expression darkening. "I'll blast a hole through his skull the size of the fucking underworld."

See what I mean about emotions leaking out at weird moments? I am genuinely pissed right now—in rare form. I think I'm a pretty laid back person. In fact, I've been criticized for being too laid back. But whenever I even think that someone I know has been jeopardized, I transform into a crusading vigilante. There is no mercy where my family has been compromised.

Mikey flinches and steps cautiously back. Maggie raises her head from her tablet, a similar sinister gleam in her eyes. I've noticed that she reflects my emotions like this sometimes, like a poised mannequin. It's kind of inspiring to my temper.

"Is the book in there?" Jamie questions quietly.

I don't even have time to feel belated that Jamie's talking to me again—an alarming epiphany suddenly strikes me. Dammit to hell, why didn't I think of this before! I shake my head grimly. "No. He has it on him."

Mikey grinds his jaw in vexation, assuming that this means we're going to be staying even longer than he'd anticipated. "How do you know it's on him?"

I damnably smack the lid of the chest. "That fucker knew I was going to come here. Why else would he have taken my things? No guards, unlocked doors. This was a ploy to coerce me to come."

"For what?" Mikey gasps, flabbergasted. "Some kind of personal vendetta?"

"Something like that."