A Redeemer - Chapter Four (Waylon II)

“I’m fine,” Waylon lied, taking over his wheels in the hall. He wanted to occupy his hands and pretend they weren’t trembling.

The doctor allowed it and slowed his own pace to match. “Mr. Park,” there was a sigh to it, “he attacked you and we can’t let you see him again. We’ll need to transfer him immediately.”
“He didn’t attack me,” the programmer protested. And with his stomach roiling, he had to admit he believed his own words, though he knew it was wiser not to trust such a sentiment. Eddie had wanted to be free—and maybe it would have been as it had in those shadowed halls, lightning fury and then drizzle-like, soft touches quick to atone for any brutality.

The guy was dramatic enough to have made old films his paragons of wisdom, attested by his behavior and sudden, fierce embraces.

“Mr. Park…”

“Look, he surprised me and I fell out of my chair. I was the one who made all the noise.” All that noise and rage; he’d wanted to destroy his fucking chair after he couldn’t get back into it. When he’d kicked it away he hadn’t wanted to get back into it, never again, and even now he loathed the feel of it. “You can’t just send him away.”

“When he’s physically capable I can,” the doctor countered.

“He’s going to be a bigger problem if he knows I’m not nearby,” Waylon informed him.

He was regarded closely for long, detaining moments. “Why are you enabling him?”

The technician closed his mouth so hastily his teeth clacked loud enough for the sound to rebound off the walls and back into his ears. His cheeks burned in shame and he didn’t attempt to speak again. Thankfully, instead of continuing to prod the raw and incomprehensible flow of Waylon’s thoughts, the doctor left him alone in his room to fester.

It was simple: Eddie couldn’t be saved. What did saving him even mean? For whom was he saving him? Eddie couldn’t understand or appreciate what the programmer wanted to do for him. He wouldn’t understand being placed in another asylum—another prison for him. Could he get better if he didn’t understand why he was so reprehensible to others in the first place? He wouldn’t accept being taken from Waylon’s side.

Nobody else cared if Eddie lived. Nobody else knew he existed, save Murkoff employees, the families of his victims, and those who remembered shocking newspaper headlines. The majority of people in any of those categories would prefer him dead; less taxes spent on attempted rehabilitation and less information to snub for the shady corporation that way.

So, he had to be saving Eddie for himself. But how much sense did that make? Why did he still feel such a sense of obligation? Duty? Why help his rapist when he would’ve been fine with his death had it happened in the asylum? When he’d even been wishing for it?

Again and again; again and always he knew he’d wonder about this. Can you save everyone? As long as they were breathing and sweating and eating could they be saved, get better, change? When did trying cross into hopelessness?

In Eddie’s case, how much of I was by his own volition, if any? Did he want to get better for himself or for Waylon’s approval? Did it matter the reason?

“No,” he answered out loud, a murmur though it was the utterance did more for his conviction than his swirling thoughts ever had.

He’d wanted to stop those experiments, to help those people. It hadn’t mattered that it had been because of his own unease and guilt rather than some sense of philanthropy. It had been wrong and eventually he’d come to see that through the veil purposefully thrown over his eyes.

Eddie would never live his life outside of a psych ward and Waylon would never hold his wife or boys again, but they could upend Murkoff. And not for morality’s sake—Waylon was no hero, nor brave, nor did he feel a clichéd righteous pull to do what was ‘right’—not anymore.

They could get revenge. They could get justice, a revenge of sorts though not the kind he wished he could enact. There was no power in the world that could give him every last Murkoff employee’s head on a platter, so he’d settle for what they could get: bankruptcy and jail for some of their enemies, hopefully ruined lives for them all. What was there to lose at this point?

They had only each other, and really not even that, in the end.



The FBI prosecutor was thrumming with energy, almost tangible to Waylon whom was made all the more mentally and physically exhausted by it on top of his anxiety, drugging, and the beginnings of rehabilitation. Her eagerness had been obvious prior to their meeting, considering that it had only taken two days for her to show up, briefcase and laptop in tow.

He slept more than he would’ve liked in her presence, though that gave her time to watch his greatest shame, her soon-to-be damning evidence in all its digital horror. It gave her time to strategize it, or so he figured in his waking moments when she was either hunched over a legal pad or clicking swiftly across her laptop’s keyboard.

She was a determined-looking lady, though he might not have been in the best mind to truly say. Determined to keep a high-profile case and its publicity, most likely. She was in her fifties and obviously one of the best at what she did. She dyed her hair an auburn color to hide her grays. She had arched brows over reflective brown eyes, a long nose, and lips that seemed mismatched with the top being so much thinner than the bottom. Most of these features were tense, enraptured in her work. She must have always been as such, judging by the lines around her eyes, mouth, and decorating her forehead.

He knew, even in his state, that she was fierce. He could trust in that quality to go for Murkoff’s jugular, but not for it to care about his or Eddie’s well-being.

“What’s your name again?” Waylon managed to croak one day when he felt more alive than usual. There was water next to his bed and he reached for it. As he sucked hard through the straw he noted how he had felt no tenderness during his movements. A better day than the others.

“Isabel Fuentes,” she replied without looking up, and Waylon liked how her accent changed around the name. Her fingers clacked for a few more seconds and then she straightened and gave him a smile he supposed was meant to be reassuring or tender. As with most things lately, it only unsettled him. “I think after all I’ve seen we should be on a first name basis.” And that explained it.

Waylon watched her silently, wanting her to make the first move. Eventually she did, but only after an interruption caused by a nurse who placed a less-than-appetizing lunch in front of him with fresh water. When he left and the technician was prodding at some limp vegetables Isabel placed her laptop aside and crossed her legs at the ankles.

“Waylon, I need you to understand that investigations and trials of this magnitude may take some time.”

He swallowed a bland carrot and then speared another. “By ‘some time,’ you mean months? A year? More?”

“A year would be the fastest.” She opened some of her files. “These people will cover their tracks, they’ll hide, and when we corner them they’ll fight.”

Waylon stabbed a bite of chicken but left it on his plate. “The worst of them died at Mount Massive. The ones we’re after now are the ones who funded it. They think they’re safe.”

“Rich men hiding behind their money,” Isabel agreed.

“I don’t want them to be safe. I want them to go to jail. I want their lives ruined.”

“I can guarantee that,” the prosecutor said. “The evidence is overwhelming.”

The chicken was equally as bland in his mouth, but he chewed it as though it weren’t, giving himself a moment. He speared another piece and did the same before setting the fork down and leaning back against his pillow. “There’s something else I want. The investigators made me a lot of promises.”

“About your family?” She held her hands up with her palms down and then moved them in a downward motion, as if smoothing the air. “They’ll be safe. Given aliases and moved.”

Waylon laughed darkly at himself. “And I never get to see them again. Great. Thanks. Not what I meant.” He turned his face towards the window. “I’m going to need to testify?”

“Yes,” she answered. “The defense will call on you.”

“Then after you’ll put me in witness protection, too?”

“Yes.”

Then I deserve to get what I want, for starters and enders. “They want to move Eddie Gluskin from here. You can’t let them.”

Isabel blinked, eyebrows high and lines of her forehead prominent. “I’ve been informed that he’s dangerous.”

“There has to be a different part of the hospital they can put him in? We need him to be calm, and he’s going to be the opposite once they move him away from me.”

The attorney looked down and distinctly uncomfortable. “For your safety, I think he should be moved.”

“We’re in separate rooms with the FBI hanging around; I’m not worried about it.” He looked to her and after a moment she met his eyes. “He’s insane, I get it, but we need him as evidence if nothing else.”

The older woman stood and heaved a sigh. “I’ll talk to the doctors. He’ll be transferred to a different part of the hospital, still.”

Waylon nodded. “There’s another thing.”

“Still something to do with him?”

Another nod. “After the trial, I don’t know where they’ll put him.”

“A secure, unnamed medical facility for the rest of his life.”

Something occurred to him then, jolting worry through his torso. “They won’t put him on trial for the asylum?”

“Under law he is considered mentally unfit. He is legally insane.” She moved some more papers around. “With the information you’ve given us about the tests, procedures, methods, and machines used it’s fairly clear his insanity was…” she waved a hand, seeking a word in the ceiling, “intensified. I don’t know how they managed it, but they did, and any trial would refer him to the same punishment he was meant to serve for the rest of his life.”

“Another asylum.”

“A medical facility that will be thoroughly checked. He’ll most likely also be given a new identity.”

“Where?”

This caused her to pause. “That hasn’t been decided yet. Under witness protection the safest thing would be to move you both out of state.”

There was another request-demand on the tip of his tongue, one that unnerved him to have even made it as far as that. He bit down on the appendage ever so gently with his teeth.

“Anything else?”

He gave himself a moment and tried to resume eating but the food had gone cold and he felt no hunger. “We’re both going to heal before the trial; we won’t be staying here.”

“Mr. Gluskin will go into a ward in the capital with twenty-four hour protection and you’ll be placed in a nondescript hotel or boarding with similar surveillance.”

It felt as though there was a small, but spreading, puddle of relief in his chest, grown and calming by the end of her sentence. It was the best they could hope for, he knew. Living through the asylum to become Murkoff’s most damning evidence had been the last thing he’d wanted when he thought he was going to die, besides seeing his wife and family one last time. Now he may never have the latter, or maybe Lisa would try and find him in a few years if things settled down and he survived that long. Maybe she wouldn’t.

Maybe Murkoff wouldn’t be able to track him down and kill him. Maybe they would. Making it to the trial to testify, which would be hard, he knew, would be nice. And he couldn’t think of any other word but nice. Staying alive after that? A blessing, maybe? Though when you lose your family and the happiness you once had he didn’t know if it counted as a blessing. He supposed he wasn’t religious enough to say.

He had told himself, though they had taken his life, his leg, that he would fight. He couldn’t let a depression cloud his thoughts of the future. What else did a person have? He and Eddie had revenge to get and if depression was going to rear its head then Waylon would combat it with his anger. Constantly supervised, kept from his family and home, told where to go and when, what to eat—yeah, he could probably keep that anger up for a few years. Long enough for it to matter.

Waylon shook himself, remembering his guest. It seemed as though she had sensed his introspection, however, with the way she was quietly observing him. After a few moments she began to tidy up her things.

“Waylon,” she said it in what must have been her ‘gentle’ tone. “I know you’ve been through a lot. I know you’ve lost a lot.” In theory, maybe. You’ll never actually know. He thought this and other dark things but let her continue. “We’re going to put them away. We’re going to get you justice. Things will be hard for a while, but you can do this.” I know. “I’m going to make things as easy as possible for you. You worry about getting better and I’ll do the hard part.”

Waylon couldn’t help laughing at that.



“I don’t know if they’ll have you testify,” the programmer told Eddie when he was allowed to see him two days later.

The larger man was still shackled to his bed, but the doctors and nurses hadn’t mentioned any other outbursts. There was color back in his face, but as far as lucidity in his mind? The blue eyes looked both critical and dazed at finding Waylon propped in that wheelchair in front of him once again. The younger man had even been welcomed with a grin that had morphed into and remained a lazy smile.

“You want me to? If they ask?” There was even less of a lisp to his voice.

“Yes.”

“Then I will,” Eddie promised.

Waylon fiddled with the armguard of the wheelchair. “The trial won’t take place for a while… we’ll be healed enough to leave the hospital long before then.”

“Where will we go?”

“You’re going to go to another facility in Denver, and I’m going to a hotel or something. We’ll both have people to protect us.”

The strong brow before him furrowed. “I’ll protect you.”

Waylon gave a pointed look to the handcuff and was only slightly relieved, and astonished, at the sheepish smile he was given.

“I meant we are safer together.”

The technician slouched back in his seat. “We’re going to the same city. That’s enough for now.”

“And after?” Eddie asked, voice strained. “After that they’ll let us be together?”

“After,” Waylon murmured, trailing off in thought, watching the bed-ridden patient’s boxy chest rise and fall with worried breaths. “…After they’ll move us again. They’ll change our names so nobody can ever find us and hurt us. I don’t know where they’re sending us.”

It wasn’t a lie, and it seemed to appease the other man. His smile was back and he reached out with his free hand towards Waylon who had rolled himself within range if they both stretched enough. The officers outside glanced in through the window now and again, but his body and the chair would block sight of the movement.

So he slipped his hand into the larger one.

Eddie gave his fingers a gentle squeeze and then began stroking his knuckles with the pad of his thumb. His eyes followed the motion, his face etched in thought.

“A facility,” he said after a while. “That’s a nice way to say ‘psych ward.’”

Waylon pursed his lips and then shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, that’s why I said it.”

Eddie laughed, pressing his fingers together tenderly again. The technician gave his own small chuckle and let a smile linger for a moment before looking down and away from their hands.

“We’re going to check this place to make sure they’re clean. That they’ll actually try to help you get better this time.” The words felt hollow coming out, though perhaps they didn’t sound so.

“Can I get better?” Icy eyes were waiting for his when he lifted them.

He didn’t have an answer and he felt his mouth smack open and then close a few times. He didn’t know. “…Tell me about before the asylum. Before they made you go there. Before they caught you.”

“You mean when I killed those women?”

Waylon flinched but resolutely did not pull his hand away.

“They said I did that because I was sick.”

“You were. You are.”

Eddie frowned. “…I didn’t want to kill them all. They kept making mistakes. They had to be punished.” He looked confused, and his hand twitched against Waylon’s as if he wanted to pull it away and touch his forehead but he didn’t.

“They didn’t. You hated them. You hated women.”

“No,” the retort was angry. “I wanted to find the one. I wanted to find the perfect wife, how could that be hating women?”

Waylon was the one squeezing this time. “You can still want them but hate them. You killed them. A lot of them.”

Eddie’s throat bobbed several times.

“Why did you hate the things they did?”

“Because they were wrong.”

“Who told you that?”

He did pull his hand away after that question. In fact, the patient turned his entire body away. Waylon watched the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fist balled. He waited for the anger, but when it came for the first time he could remember since those assailants in the asylum, it wasn’t directed at him.

“Before that, when I was young my father--…”

“You don’t have to tell me about that,” Waylon interrupted, catching on with a jolt. “That’s not---that wasn’t your fault.”

“They said it made me sick and that’s why I couldn’t help myself.”

And maybe they’d been right. Maybe it had been the defense they used. Waylon didn’t know how much damage being betrayed by the people you trusted most in such a disgusting way could do. In his readings Eddie had never seemed to plan his killings. They had seemed impulsive; perhaps he had taken these girls on dates and they’d made a wrong move. Enough to set him off. Maybe they’d been too scared to placate him the way Waylon had managed. Or maybe Waylon had been lucky because of how warped Eddie’s mind had been at Mount Massive. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

“But my one wasn’t a woman,” the quiet revelation snapped Waylon back out of his ever-oppressive mind.

“Don’t say that,” he demanded.

Eddie looked at him, sharply. “I’ll say what I want.”

The programmer shook his head and rolled his chair back.

“I remember what I did to you. I…It’s fuzzy but I was there…sometimes I was there.”

“What does that mean?” Waylon’s heart beat began to race.

“It was me, and the me before that they tried to make better.”

That was no clearer to younger man who just stared helplessly.

“I was there but I think I could only watch.”

So being a prisoner of his mind? All the wretched parts brought forward and enhanced while any rationality, what little of it those men had ever had, was buried deep. They’d been exposed to those experiments for so long… how long would it have taken to bring the darkness out of Waylon?

“Tell them that,” he said, his voice cracking, “when you have to testify.”

“I’m telling you that,” Eddie’s voice dropped low. “And I’m telling you about the one who is trying to save me after all I did.”

“You saved my life in the asylum, what did you expect me to do?” I made the choice to stay alive. I left you to die and you followed… and to live I had to let you keep following.

“And you saved mine, too.” Those eyes bore into him, straight into his head and down through his veins and nerves. His chest clenched with clamoring, rivaling, unsure emotions. “And now it’s after. Why are you still saving me after?”

Because you saved me. Because I need you to testify. Because maybe you can get better. Because maybe I felt guilty for everything I did. Because it’s all of those things.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”