The Anarchists

by Brian Thompson

  “You injected me?” Flustered and woozy, Micah stared at him. “Are you insane?”

  “What did you see? Answer my question.”

  “Answer my questions first!”

  “It’s an analgesic and anesthetic. Without them, the process could cause unconsciousness, pain, and might drive you insane.”

  “Why did you do that to me?”

  “Metaphysics; an alteration in your perceptions of time and space. Most scholars believe those concepts to be progressive and linear, like the path of an arrow.” He pantomimed the action of aiming and shooting an arrow. “Is it truly unreasonable to assume that time and space are malleable, even reversible, just because no human being has found a way to successfully do it?

  “Have you ever had a dream familiar to your emotional intellect but foreign to your ability to reason? It’s long been a belief of mine that our dreams are escaped manifestations of primal codes embedded in our subconscious.”

  The lightning-fast linguistics confused him. “I don’t understand.”

  “A baby comes from the womb, innately knowing that he must suckle at a breast to live. He must inhale and exhale to survive and sleep to function. Codes to regulate these behaviors exist in our lower brains, along with clues to our destinies. God engineers them into our bodies so that we cannot forget them. We, who embrace these clues best, are those considered to be successful. Those who do not have ‘dreams’ about what could be; live life as ordinarily as they see fit.”

  “What I just saw was really a clue to my destiny?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  “Then it’s a dream. But suppose the inventor of the AIDS cure never pursued his purpose? Billions would have died. No wonder the world has so many problems. Nobody risks believing in themselves. The future will find you, Micah. Here's the true question – will you recognize it when you see it?”

  Micah never considered it from that perspective. The doctor defended the position with belligerent conviction, as if he really believed his probability theory to be the truth. “We‘ve literally been over this a million times and there‘s just no answer to the Sixth Equation.”

  Chu handed Micah a pair of black-rimmed visors. They had the weight of eyeglasses, but held a greater importance. Micah held them as such. Has Chu solved the mystery?

  “Half an hour ago, you had a peek,” Chu said, extending the visor’s arms. “Now, take a look.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  January 27, 2050 – a week later

  Suddenly aware of himself, Damario slid over on the bed and massaged his lower back, which ached from the dip in the old mattress. Vintage scotch whiskey mixed with a sugar-like sweetness lingered on his tongue. Even through a mild hangover, he had dreamed again.

  “No more Sweet Georgia Brown.” Robinne Coley stirred from her husband’s movement. “It’s late and I‘m sleepy.”

  Damario retrieved his navy blue flannel pajama bottoms from the floor. “I’m good. Go back to sleep, babe.”

  He padded to the in-suite bathroom and set the lights to dim. After swallowing some aspirin, he scratched his bald head and looked in the mirror. His face bore three vacation days worth of beard, which he intended to shave off later that morning. He’d been too busy with domestic duties to do it during his day off. Meanwhile, Robinne home-schooled their daughter Christian, and Gabriel, their toddler.

  Damario’s clean-up efforts led to an unexpected lovemaking session that his wife initiated. During his off-duty periods, Robinne sprung up with life, but inactivity drove him nuts. If he dreamed and insomnia struck – like it did now – only one thing granted him true peace. He scooted down the hall to the study and silently secured the door.

  There, he used the computer to pull up the bank account where he stashed his investment earnings. Now that the figures transitioned from units to marks, the digital totals were even more robust than before. He cracked his knuckles and glanced at the clock. At a quarter after 1:00 Thursday morning, the American exchange would open in five hours, but the European trading hours had barely begun.

  As the operating system loaded, he wistfully thought about how much he’d earned last week. He studied economics in his undergraduate college days, but eight months ago, he whimsically played the market by guessing which stocks he would buy – if he had “mad money” to use. Robinne would never approve of anything so financially risky. If they stayed their austere course, their house mortgage would be paid off by 2065, and then, the middle-lifers would live a relatively comfortable life.

  Comfortable was not an option in his mind, and only Madison Shenk, his longtime partner on the force and “work wife,” understood that. Last April, she loaned Damario a week’s worth of lunch money to play his risky hunch. When it hit, he rewarded Madison with fondue and drinks at her favorite restaurant. To cover for his winnings, he worked more overtime and inflated its monetary worth to Robinne. He also purchased her a pair of heels she’d window-shopped for months to smooth over the tension. His wife suspiciously eyed them before placing the box into the closet.

  Bit by bit, Damario accelerated the percentage of his monthly pay into the stock market. By July of last year, he flipped his entire check twice over by the time the next one arrived. Since Robinne did not ask about the overdue bills that suddenly disappeared, she did not need full disclosure. It brought him unmatched joy – almost as much as solving a lengthy and puzzling crime.

  Another hour later, Damario transitioned the excess money into an independent account, powered down the machine, and eased back into bed.

  The doorbell frantically rang at a quarter past 7:00. Maddie’s date must’ve gone south, Damario thought. He scooted to the bathroom to make himself presentable before joining the adults in the kitchen. There, wearing spandex black running tights, worn grey sneakers, and a powder blue Spelman College sweatshirt, Madison nodded with fresh eyes at her partner and tipped her coffee mug to him.

  “Morning, D.” She playfully sniffed. “You smell Irish this morning. Don’t go over there before you shower. Robinne, I’m warning you – you might get a contact buzz.”

  Damario popped his A-shirt at the collar and sniffed. A faint whiff of alcohol assailed his nostrils. He slid over to his wife, who scrambled eggs and fried turkey bacon at the stove. “Morning, doll. Do I smell that bad?”

  Probably, she thought, but she would not say so. She rustled her naturally kinky hair with her fingers and shed her blue terrycloth bathrobe to the elbows. Her pink tank top revealed a ton of cleavage. Robinne bent close and slowly inhaled, her lips brushing his beard. “No,” she said with confidence. “I don’t smell the Oban at all. Don’t worry, I’m immune to scotch, Madison.”

  Pleased, Damario gave his wife a quick peck, though she yearned for more. “See,” he replied, directing his attention to the coffee pot. “It’s you, not me.”

  Robinne uncomfortably smiled and slipped back into her housecoat. Regardless of Madison’s presence, she had hoped for a smack on the rear at the least.

  Damario noticed copious amounts of red lipstick on Madison’s ivory cup. “So?”

  “. . .it-did-not-go-well,” said the trio in singsong unison. A few sips into his coffee, Damario refreshed Madison’s cup.

  “So, it was a blind date. We’ve established that?” She watched Damario pour and halted her hand when the coffee reached a half inch from the lid.

  “Yeah.” He returned the pot to the brewer.

  “Mommy!” cried Gabriel from the living room. “I want juice!”

  Robinne rolled her eyes. “How do we ask?” she yelled back.

  “Please!” Gabriel responded.

  “Want a plate, Madison?” Robinne poured apple juice into a spill-proof cup. Her politely curt tone contained a hint of the expectation she’d say no. But the single moocher never turned down free food. “We’ve got plenty. You’re welcome to it.”

  “Sure.” Her morning jog had made her ravenous, and Missus Col
ey effortlessly made restaurant-quality food. “So, Yvonne, you remember Yvonne Rochester. . .real deep southern accent? She introduced us. I forgot his name, it was that bad. Every time I let her fix me up, they have some big flaw or obvious mental defect. I don‘t know. Give me a woman’s opinion, Robbie. Am I being too picky?”

  Yes, definitely. Who cares? Get a boyfriend already. It’s been too long. “No.”

  “Listen.” She slapped Damario’s forearm. “This one kept asking me dumb questions all-night-long, like. . .”

  He anticipated the end of her sentence. “He didn‘t ask to. . .”

  “. . .hold my Ordnance? Yes, he did.” She mocked her date’s deep voice. “‘Can you handle mine? What’s it like on a stakeout? Do you guys really drink a lot of coffee and eat doughnuts? What is it with guys, anyway?”

  “Don’t go in blind next time,” Robinne said. “Soup’s on.” Robinne left to feed the children, and Madison and Damario served themselves.

  “I’ll be right back.” Madison excused herself to the bathroom to wash her hands.

  Robinne returned and jabbed her finger into Damario’s chest just below the neck. “Why do we keep having the same conversation? I don’t like having people over this early in the morning! We’re half-dressed; I’ve barely washed my face. Look at my hair! She poked fun at my sobriety, too? And I don‘t care what happens, you-aren’t-going-to-work-today. You‘re hung over, anyway. So don‘t think about it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal, Robbie? It’s just Madison. She’s like family. You said we‘ve got enough food. I just bought a couple dozen eggs the other night.”

  “That’s not the point – she’s a single woman and she’s not like family.” Robinne angrily portioned her own food. “You work together. She’s your partner. Put a real shirt on, for God’s sake, and learn some professional boundaries.”

  Madison returned and noticed the marital tension. Undaunted, she sat next to the two of them at the breakfast table and bowed her head during Damario’s prayer, though she did not say grace herself as a regular practice.

  “So, he paid the check, about 500 marks.” Madison said between bites. “He got gassed about it, too. He talked the whole time about how he loves to work out and the kind of property acquisition work he does.”

  Robinne‘s eyes brightened. She cared little about Madison‘s life, but the woman scoured real estate listings as if she meant to move every week. “Look at the bright side, Madison. . . you two have something in common, then.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Well, somehow he thought he’d get some. Since I drove to meet him, he walked me to my transport and. . .”

  “Left or right cheek?” Damario figured the poor slob did something else to offend Madison; slapping was her go-to move.

  The sparkle in Madison’s eyes affirmed it. “Left. I almost used a closed fist.”

  “Wow.” Robinne marveled at the ridiculous tale. “You didn’t have to hit him.”

  “He grabbed a handful of my butt, Robbie. He needed to be slapped. Not everyone's a gentleman like your husband. It’s a shame Brian and Carla couldn’t pop out one more like him.”

  To Robinne, Madison’s easy camaraderie with her husband felt worse than a torrid physical affair. I love my in-laws. “Glad he’s mine then.”

  “You should be. D is the only guy I know with half the sense God gave him.”

  “I’ve got at least 75 percent.” Damario changed the subject. “Any more word on the James’ case?”

  Robinne’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not working, I said. You look half in the bag.”

  Madison agreed. “She’s right. You’re off-duty and you‘ve been drinking. Stop obsessing and enjoy your long weekend.”

  But he couldn’t. No one had seen the renowned mathematician and scientist since the inauguration of President Mateo and the death of Kareza Noor last Thursday. The other detectives wanted James for questioning on the “convenient” disappearance of his boss. With the absence of more than circumstantial evidence, only Damario and Madison shared the suspicion of foul play – though he had to convince her, too, at first.

  “Fine.” He bumped fists with Madison. “I’m gonna catch a shower.” He parted their company, bathed, and dressed in a black sweater and grey jeans. Even if he wanted to wear his street blues and work off the clock, Robinne had washed all of his uniforms and not dried them. He did have a spare at the station, but it did not fit well.

  Robinne entered the bedroom, followed by Gabriel. “Almost ready, babe? Christian‘s watching her cartoons, but after I do her hair, we‘re out – 15 minutes, tops. Dad‘s barbecuing this afternoon. Make sure you drink some extra water, so you don‘t get dehydrated.”

  Damario picked up Gabriel and braced himself for a fight. “I’m not going.”

  “I told you to stop drinking so late at night. Fine, I‘ll drive there. But you‘re driving back. I need a big margarita and I‘m going to have one.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m fine,” he said, as his son pawed at his face.

  Robinne examined her husband‘s demeanor. “Christian!”

  In a few seconds, her daughter rumbled into the room. “Yes, Mommy?”

  Robinne pulled a kicking Gabriel from Damario’s grasp. “Take your brother in the living room to watch HTV. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Christian obeyed and dragged her brother out of the room by the hand. “C’mon, buddy, let’s go.” When the children cleared, Robinne secured the door and set a soundproof barrier.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Work. There’s something I have to do.”

  She hissed through her teeth. “You can do it Monday, when you’re sober and scheduled to work. Madison can handle it until then.”

  “She can’t – not by herself. Look, the sooner I get to the bottom of this, the better. It‘ll all be over soon. And for the last time, I’m okay.”

  “I’m not having this conversation again, Damario.” She crossed her arms. “Excuse yourself from the case and come with us.”

  “I can’t do that, baby. Not this time. It's mine to solve.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” She gestured at the space between them. “I hate this. All you do is work! Your son misses you. . .we all do. When’s it our time, Damario? When do we get to be your number one priority, instead of some violent crime or random kidnapping victim? When's it our turn?”

  This kidnapping isn’t random. Damario wrung his hands. “I don’t know what else to say. But, trust me, when I can talk about it, I will.”

  She kicked off her shoes – the same Zara Hristoff heels he’d bought for her months ago. “If you’re not going to be watching me wear these, I might as well wear flats.”

  He sidled up to her. “You were wearing those for me? Can I have the Sweet Georgia Brown tonight, when you get back?”

  She gave him a sideways glance and eased away. “I’ll be too tired from driving for the Sweet Georgia Brown. Maybe on the next vacation day you don’t skip.”

  Robinne pulled the room’s barrier down, opened the door, and quickly kissed her husband goodbye. She loathed the routine; being a detective’s spouse meant the last time she saw her husband may be the last time she saw her husband.

  Damario grabbed his badge and Ordnance, hugged and kissed his children, and then joined Madison on the brownstone’s front steps.

  “I have to stop being so daggone predictable,” he grumbled. “First her, now you. . .”

  “It’s not like you’re a kaleidoscope of variety, Coley. You’re constant like the tide, but that‘s a good thing. Unpredictability means you might get me killed.”

  He huffed. “I guess.”

  “You had another dream, didn’t you?” she asked, concentrating on the remains of her fourth coffee. I hope Robbie didn’t spit in it again.

  “Yup.”

  “Still haven’t told your wife about the dreams, have you?”

  He exhaled. “Nope.”

 
Madison rested her cup beside her left thigh. “You’re going to fail your next psych eval if you don’t start sleeping.”

  “Relax,” he scoffed. “It’s only been a week.” That’s when the dreams started. “I slept fine before that, all the time.”

  “What happened? The round room again?”

  “It’s like I’d been operated on, or something. I pull this breathing tube out of my mouth. There’s one empty chair, like an old dentist’s chair, to my left. A Hispanic girl’s in that one, and there’s three others to my right. A mixed-looking woman is in one of them and someone else’s there too. I get up, and go to this high rise apartment building. When I handprint the door, I wake up.”

  “What if a new opportunity will open for you? Something like that? And the operation means you have to go through something painful first? I don’t know. I still don‘t see how two people you don‘t know and have never met have to do with it.”

  She assumed two because he kept Harper James’ presence to himself. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “Maybe I do need to see someone.”

  Madison put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re as sane as they come. It’s just another case you have to crack, Detective. I know you haven‘t contacted them.”

  He self-consciously looked down. “You expect anything less?”

  “Hardly. I bet Robinne's pissed.”

  In a word, yes. “I hope she’ll get over it faster this time.”

  “Robinne’s a good woman and you blow it every time you ditch her. Tell her what you’ve been going through. It’s not like she’ll leave you because you’re making money and having crazy dreams.”

  “Thanks Maddie,” he deadpanned. “I really appreciate the love.”

  “No problem. If you’re checking in to the station, you better sober up first.”

  “I’m good.” He planned to check his blood-alcohol levels anyway. “I’m going to question Harper James again. I’m missing something.”

  Madison stood up. “Let me know how it goes. Good luck.”