Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  Manny sighed. “Just when you thought it was enough to hold it together yourself, along come the Hartmans of the world to remind us to be wary of being taken down by the next guy’s insanity.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Winona took a second to dry her sniffles and finish composing herself. She prayed for the patience she needed with the two detectives she was nursemaiding. After all, in some ways, this mess was as much her doing as it was Hartman’s.

  “What are you doing?” Manny asked.

  Winona kept pen to paper. “Making up a list of the order he's going in.”

  “How do you know that?” Robin asked.

  “You don't love someone for twenty years without learning a little about them,” Winona said.

  “Who says?” Robin leaned over her shoulder. “My wife's turning into a man before my eyes and I didn't see that coming.”

  “It takes a little sensitivity, you oaf.” She handed the list to Manny.

  Manny scrutinized the names. “Let me guess, the most incorrigible ones at the top, the ones most likely to get over themselves at the bottom.”

  “You're a regular virtuoso next to your partner,” Winona said.

  “Come on.” Manny pocketed the list. “Let's go find Danny Sparks. Let Hartman’s groupie here do her puzzle box thing on these sealed rooms— which reminds me— Why are they locked in so only a genius can get them out?”

  “That kind of psychoanalysis is above my pay grade.” Winona had a better answer based on what she had reasoned out already. But it wasn’t fair to the young detectives to do their thinking for them if she wanted them to grow. And she sure didn’t need to put any more nails in Hartman’s coffin. “Best guess, Hartman’s parents left their mark on him in all sorts of ways.”

  “Yeah, with what they pay college professors, I guess it figures he had to inherit this.” Manny ran his eyes over the interiors. “And everything that went along with it.”

  Robin regarded the framed Polaroid of everyone who’d shown up for Hartman’s send-off party positioned by the fifty-inch monitor. “And how did Danny make it to the top of the list? He can't be ditsier than that Fiona chick.”

  “She's a wild card,” Winona said. “Might be too low down the food chain for him to notice. Considering how he regards his best and brightest, he could mistake her for a standing lamp.”

  ***

  Fiona leaned into the mirror to make sure she got the dye to set more evenly on her hair, applied additional gel as needed.

  She picked up the scissors. Before she made the first cut, she scrutinized the snapshot in Vanity Fair with the look she was going for, determined to etch the image in memory.

  Throwing caution to the wind, she made the first snip.

  ***

  Hartman entered Danny Sparks’s room through a hidden passageway to find Danny bouncing a ball against a wall. By the time Danny turned at the sound of the sliding panel, its location was no longer clear.

  Hartman noticed the monitor was off, and Danny's anxiety wasn’t directed at him. “I see you don't go in for much TV.”

  “I have things to do, people to see. Who's got time to keep up with current events?” Danny thwacked the ball harder against the wall.

  Signs of a racing mind, Hartman thought—and someone trying to subdue it.

  “Hey, can you get us out of here?” Danny caught the tennis-sized rubber ball he was bouncing.

  “Door's locked, I'm afraid. Barred back the way I came, too.”

  “Damn it!” Danny hammered the rubber ball against the wall so hard it tested his reflexes, and stung his hand when he caught it. “Aren't you supposed to be a sage overlord? Guardian of the underworlds of perpetual reason? Where no feeling shall ever come to your rescue, and—perish the thought—paranormal abilities of any kind?” Punctuating each of his questions with a throw of the ball, he hurled it even harder against the wall as he said, “Sagely get us out of here!”

  “I'm more ‘The Wisdom of No Escape’ type.”

  “That's just great!” Danny pocketed the ball and switched to biting his fingernails. His fingers bled. He had previously gnawed at them until there were arguably no nails left. He was reduced to sucking the blood from his raw fingers in a curious act of vampirism.

  “Why are you so worked up?”

  “How should I know?” Danny spit out a piece of finger nail. “Just high-strung, I guess.”

  “That's not it. You're running from something.”

  “Huh?”

  “You're afraid if you calm down, the anxiety level will no longer be there to shield you from whatever it is you can't face.”

  “No idea what you're talking about.” Danny lost himself in his mindless nail chewing.

  “Think hard. Something from your childhood, maybe. Something buried so far in your past, you forgot.”

  “How could I forget something you say happened to me that was so horrific?” Danny’s reasoned conclusion was the first glimmer of genuine mental activity Hartman had detected.

  “By practicing at it every day your whole life.”

  “I can't focus for five minutes, far less carry out a sustained campaign.” Danny retrieved the ball from his pocket and bounced it. “Is there anything to eat around here?”

  Hartman took a deep breath. “I think you need an endorphin spike to simultaneously calm yourself, and flood your brain with neurochemicals you can actually use to think.” Hartman caught the ball, squeezed it. “You've been running around like a chicken with his head cut off for so long, I really question whether you have the right stuff up here, any longer,” he said, pointing to his head.

  “Sorry, I don't do drugs.” Danny ran his eyes up and down Hartman. “You might try it, though. You can start with a suppository to help you slide that stick out of your ass.”

  “The goading— You like getting people to pummel you into unconsciousness. Self-flagellation by proxy.”

  “You give lucidity a bad name,” Danny said. “This is why people choose not to be fully conscious. Who could stand the sustained awareness of what we’re up against with each other’s mule-headedness?!” Danny stretched out his hand for the ball, the way an infant reaches for a pacifier. “Come on, give it here.” He was seeking his anxiety regulation mechanism that kept the level of tension throttled to just the desired intensity.

  Hartman ignored him and sauntered casually into the next room – and, just as casually, ripped the bedpost off the bed.

  “Now we're talking!” Danny said.

  “When I say ‘Now!’ I want you to kick the wall as hard as you can.”

  Danny thought about it. “Tunnel through the walls… worth a try. You can forget those solid wood doors.” Danny sounded unsure this breakout scheme was going to work, but he was willing to give it a try. He scooted himself into position.

  “Now!”

  As Danny kicked as hard as he could, locking his knee in place, Hartman broke his leg with the bedpost.

  Danny shrieked and crumpled to the ground.

  “It's not like you have brains or beauty. But I see something in you, kid. And I trust my judgment.”

  “You psycho!” Danny wailed.

  “Just lie there and let those endorphins saturate your brain. See if you can claw your way back to the truth.”

  “And what if I can't?” Danny screamed.

  “Then the next swing I take will be at your head.”

  ***

  Reeling from pain, Danny lost focus.

  By the time he adjusted his eyes again, Hartman had long since vacated the room.

  And Danny had no clue how he escaped.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Robin heard muffled cries on the other side of the door. “Who is it?”

  “Chad!”

  Manny checked his census. “He's second down on the list. Close enough. Get us in here, lady.”

  Winona studied the door and surrounding walls. They were standing in one of the crawl spaces, in a section in which they still had a generous
amount of space in which to move about. That might explain why this door didn’t just pop open by pressing on a hidden lever, Robin thought, in the event service men were allowed back here to work on the electrical wiring.

  “Step back. Let me do my thing.” She passed her hands over the crossbeams in the door, found a trigger latch, slid it up until it popped out at her. She found two more the same way.

  “Help me.”

  They simultaneously turned all three segments counterclockwise until the door popped open.

  Robin considered how one person could work all three rotators, then realized, with some ingenuity, it might be possible to coordinate them with the aid of an improvised implement.

  “Thank God!” Chad exclaimed the second they were inside the room.

  “Now, lock us in here,” Manny said.

  Winona did so without hesitation.

  “Now look here!” Chad shouted frantically. “Lock yourselves in here if you like, but let me the hell out!”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth, kid,” Robin said.

  “I'm not playing hide-and-seek with this loser all night.” Manny spun the barrel on his gun, checked its action and confirmed the presence of bullets in each chamber. “I don't care if Chad is second or tenth on the list. We wait until Hartman comes, and we take him out.”

  “I have to admit, the strategy with the least aerobic exercise works for me.” Robin was still panting from the trials of the labyrinthine crawl spaces behind the walls.

  Manny was already getting a feel for the room. “Winona, you want to find any other hidden entry points? Let’s see if we can get the jump on him.”

  “Sure. I'll take your guns first, please.”

  “Like hell,” Manny said.

  “I’m with him,” Chad blurted, pointing to Manny.

  “Sorry, gentlemen, I'm thinking you'll be much more inclined to arrive at a peaceful settlement minus the guns.”

  Manny and Robin exchanged looks. Robin winked at Manny, then handed over his gun – minus the bullets. Manny caught Robin’s meaning just fine, but scowled just the same. He removed the shots from the chambers, and then handed over his pistol.

  Chad, practically stammering, said, “Ah, guys, I realize they don’t teach logic in police school, but take my word on this, that’s a really bad move.”

  Winona sauntered over to the window, smashed it with the butt of one of the guns. She squeezed the first gun through the wrought-iron bars. Chad built up enough nerve to try and rip the second one out of her hand. Manny threw him to the floor with a wrenching twist of his arm.

  Chad rubbed his shoulder where it hurt, and regarded Manny, ironically reassured by how easily he’d been manhandled.

  The three of them watched Winona drop the last of the two guns to the ground outside.

  Robin, taking respite on the arm of a chair, his leg swinging loosely, was perplexed by the nod Manny was giving him. When he realized his ankle gun was exposed, Robin stood, and edged toward the window.

  Chad peered at the guns on the ground outside the window. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

  “He's a lamb,” Winona said. “You just have to know how to work him. Now, stand back.”

  She combed the walls with her hands. “There's one here.” She continued canvassing, and stopped at a section of wall directly behind Robin. “And here...”

  Robin jumped when he realized he was in a vulnerable position.

  “Better check the adjacent rooms,” Manny said, “bed and bath.”

  Robin followed her into the bathroom. They were both partly visible from where Manny was sitting. Robin realized self-consciously he could overhear them just fine.

  Robin cleared his throat. “You say you can make him do anything you want?”

  “Pretty much.” Winona looked to Robin like she was doing Reiki on the walls. “Most of these geniuses are just overgrown kids,” she said. “Once you master raising kids, you're fine.” She continued sensing with her hands as she talked.

  “So you’re convinced you can talk him down?”

  She sighed. “I’m sure I’m the best chance he’s got.” Her tone said it all; she wasn’t sure so much as hopeful.

  “About my wife... I'm trying to talk her out of becoming a man.”

  “How's that going?”

  “She's got a ten inch dick now. To go with the boobs. And as much as I try to pretend it's a really big clitoris... look at my mouth. Do you need me to hold up a slide rule?”

  “No, detective, I think I'm getting the picture just fine.”

  ***

  Overhearing the conversation between Robin and Winona in the bathroom concerning Robin’s transgender wife, Manny smiled with amusement. He lit a cigarette, offered one to Chad.

  Chad clutched the roll of tobacco. Manny lit it for him. He took a puff and coughed.

  “As good a time to start as any,” Manny said.

  ***

  “What should I do?” Getting no response, Robin spun Winona around. Now she looked like she was doing Reiki on him. (Berkeley, in addition to being the consciousness and lesbian capital of the world, was also the Reiki capital of the world.) She “scanned” his body and sighed.

  “Have you thought of becoming a woman?” Winona said.

  “Very funny.”

  “I'm not joking.” Winona multitasked the conversation with “dousing” with her hands for hidden compartments. “You seem like the sensitive type. Personally, I think you'd make a great woman.”

  “I'm used to getting screwed, but I can only get so excited about curling up in bed with another man.”

  “Get on female hormones,” she suggested. “See if that changes your mind.”

  Robin grimaced. “Might at least help me get on her wavelength. We used to be able to carry on conversations for hours. It was so easy to get lost in them.” Robin, using the marble countertop of the bathroom sink to rest against, felt the line edging it riding his ass in glorious anticipation of things to come. He shifted his weight so he wasn’t slicing right through himself. “Nowadays, if she wants to bring me back into the moment, she’s got to remind me subtly and not-so-subtly how lost I’d be without her.”

  “Found one!” Winona crowed, discovering another hidden passage.

  “At this rate we're going to have to hide under the damn bed if we want the element of surprise,” Robin mumbled.

  “Tell me, detective, what do you and your wife most love about each other? I mean, was it ever about the sex?”

  “No, not really,” Robin confessed. “She's a chow-chow on legs whichever way she goes. I guess it's more of a soul mate thing. We understand one another so deeply.”

  “You think you’ll ever make a connection like that again?”

  “Not in another ten lifetimes,” Robin admitted.

  “So gender is looking like less and less of an issue.”

  Robin took a deep breath. “God, I can't believe I'm talking myself into becoming a woman.”

  “Works for me,” Manny said, raising his voice from the next room. “I have to hear you carry on as much as I do, perfume beats cheap aftershave any day. It's not like swirling sirens and Pall Mall unfiltered are enough to jump-start my mind, anymore.” Robin watched him in the adjoining room regard the cigarette, as if still stinging from the personal betrayal.