The Anarchists

by Brian Thompson

  “Yeah.” He paused. “Harper and Quinne – they need to come with us.”

  Clearly, her partner had a plan. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  Within five minutes, the solemn caravan of two ambulances and a Caper screeched to a stop in front of the hospital’s emergency bay doors. Damario and Madison rushed inside behind the stretchers, validating their identity as admission tickets. Harper and Quinne remained. Nothing the officers did indicated that they should do otherwise.

  “We just s’posed to sit here, Harper?” Quinne unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and folded it inside her mouth.

  “Caper doors don’t open from the inside – at least the ones in the back don’t. So yes, Quinne, we sit here and wait.” Harper folded her hands and exhaled a deep breath. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Uh uh. You first.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Quinne loudly chomped for a few seconds. “Harper’s a weird name for a chick.”

  “My grandfather loved this old book, To Kill a Mockingbird, so he named my daddy after its author. Daddy thought I’d be a boy, so he decided I’d be his junior, and couldn’t be talked out of it. Harper was his name, Charlotte is hers. My middle name is Charlotte.”

  “Got any kids?”

  “No.” Her answer rang with hints of sadness. “How old are you? Planning to go to college?”

  Quinne stared at the glistening condensation on the transport window. “I’ll be 20 this May. Ain’t goin’ to nobody’s college. Too expensive and pointless.”

  “What will you do, then?”

  She clicked her teeth. “You think I’m on assistance, eatin’ up your hard earned marks? When I worked, they took it outta my check, so I take it when I got to.”

  Harper turned her head toward the window, away from her fellow prisoner. She had never known the difficulty of juggling bills, nor would she.

  Madison’s shadow and the approaching taps of her work shoes against the pavement broke through the silence. A gust of cold air whisked into the transport when she opened the driver’s side door and closed it after settling down onto the leather seat. This was the last place she wanted to be – babysitting Damario’s merry band of amnesiacs. If he did not return in 10 minutes, she would go in. After all these years, death still did not sit right with him.

  “She’s in critical condition and in intensive care,” said Madison with gravity.

  “That don’t sound good.”

  “It’s not good, Quinne,” Madison replied. “The medical droids don’t expect her to survive the night.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Teanna stirred, opening her eyes to white. Any sound she might hear would be drowned out by nothingness. She stood, though no pressure or weight reported to her back, legs, or feet. The bright atmosphere yielded no sun or source of light to illuminate it. It smelled of nothing – no freshness, stale or distinctive odor. She was alone and not breathing.

  “Hello?” The sound of her voice flowed from her brain, drowned in her throat, and resurfaced into the space as a gentle, unintelligible whisper. Her lips failed to move. Am I dead? A dozen small burns needled her skin, like a group of smokers had smudged cigarette butts onto her body. She wasn’t dead, at least, not the way she imagined death to be.

  Suddenly, a hand touched her skin. Stripped of the ability to move beyond the impulse to blink, she looked ahead. A handsome gentleman in a police uniform appeared in her peripheral vision. The man said something to her, but the voice rumbled like it was underwater. Whatever he said, it carried importance – like lives depended on it. He soon disappeared. In his place came an ethnic mutt of a man who looked to be of Asian ancestry. Worry lined his face in the form of crow’s feet and wrinkled cheeks. Whatever concerns he had clearly brought him deep sadness.

  “You’ve done a terrible thing,” he said with compunction.

  Teanna understood. His voice resonated in her ears and mind, but she could not directly provide an answer. What I gone an’ done?

  “The strongest human impulse is self-preservation.” His weathered face animated with grief. “We would do anything to save ourselves, to preserve our way of life; others, not so much. You made one such decision.”

  Two things came to mind, both of which she regularly reminded herself to forget by burying them inside of a glass. A tinge of regret shot into her heart each time she thought about it, but she knew the risks. Without those incidents, Teanna had a shot of living a normal, healthy, productive life. Her throat and eyes swelled, sending her into a pit of swallowing blackness.

  “I am Stan Witmore, of the pilot medical droid program.” The mechanical head raised and adjusted so that its optical lenses were level with Damario’s eyes. “Teanna Kirkwood’s condition has worsened. A reaction to her anesthesia led to angioedema in her throat and eyes. We performed an emergency cricothyrotomy to give her the ability to breathe and we relieved the swelling in her eyes. She still cannot breathe on her own.”

  Damario hung his head. Whatever information Teanna possessed, including the identity of her assailant, would likely die with her. “Does she have a living will on record, Stan?”

  “Yes, Detective. We have received it, and it will be executed according to her wishes.”

  “Its orders?”

  “Do Not Resuscitate.”

  Damario held his breath. Stan rolled to the side of Teanna’s bed where the ventilator and machines monitoring her vital signs were located. He imagined the android would perform a complicated operation. Instead, Stan used a mechanical digit to touch an infrared sensor to disconnect the ventilator.

  The Asian man, now a shade older than he previously appeared, opened Teanna’s eyes with his fingers. “You do not have much time left.”

  For what? What ain’t I got time for? Who are you?

  “You do not know me because I was never born. But I have my father’s eyes. I had a sister once.”

  A slender-but-curvy girl appeared beside the man; a female young enough to be his granddaughter. The golden streaks in her hair reminded Teanna of the most beautiful sunrise she had ever seen in Japan. Tears burst from the corners of Teanna’s eyes.

  “Do not cry for us, dear one. You are forgiven.”

  Teanna regained her mobility. She tightly embraced her children. Gradually, a luminous aura surrounded the trio.

  Thirty seconds after Stan deactivated Teanna’s ventilator, her bandage-patched body exhaled like a deflated balloon. She lay still. The heart monitor abruptly jumped to a flatline.

  Damario dropped his head in defeat and turned away. He’d lost her.

  “Easy, D,” said Madison, her arm wrapped around his waist. “There’s nothing you could’ve done. Someone got to her before we did.”

  “I thought. . .”

  “Yeah, but I thought you might need me here.” He’s taking this too hard.

  Years of closely working together had endeared her to his habits following the loss of a victim. Madison was a good partner and an even better friend. “Thanks, Shenk.”

  “I’ve already requisitioned her personal effects.” She clung to a clear bag and scoped it at eye level. “Nothing worth noting; a Hristoff clutch it would take me decades to afford, the usual. Makeup, birth control. . .wait.” A gold, thumb-sized disk rolled down the bag’s bottom seam to a corner.

  Madison handed Teanna’s belongings to Damario, who donned a pair of plastic gloves. He reached into the bag for the disk and held it between his right thumb and index finger. Dr. Miles Chu/CEO Exodus Foundation. He could not risk placing the disk into evidence and losing it via clerical error. Pocketing it would contaminate evidence and place the investigation in peril. “Jupiter’s back at the James’ house. Give me a lift?”

  “Of course.” Madison led Damario from the room and out to her Caper, where both Harper and Quinne dozed off. The sudden temperature change and the sound of the lifting and closing of doors roused them both.

  “What happened?” Harper read their expressions,
as did Quinne.

  “Tell me you got something?” Quinne waited for an affirmative answer.

  Damario thought back to the disk. “No. Nothing.”

  Madison witnessed her partner’s dismissive face. Why did he lie?

  En route to Harper’s home, about 20 minutes away from the centrally-located hospital, Madison and Damario did not exchange words, but listened to the police scanner. Quiet. In their experience, peace preceded storms of relative chaos and anarchy. The white noise lulled Harper and Quinne to sleep in the backseat.

  Meanwhile, Madison thought the lack of action had a chance to stick. US President Mateo scheduled a week-long talk with Italy Prime Minister Nandor Adharma. All senior officers were given some sort of street duty starting in less than 48 hours. Open cases would be moved to an “as needed” basis or, in an emergency, be handed to officers of lesser rank. If she and Damario pleaded to continue their investigations, it would have to come on the heels of concrete evidence. They had none.

  In front of the entrance to the James home, Damario stirred the sleeping passengers with a gentle hand. “Harper, Quinne, we’re here.”

  “Pull closer, Detective,” Harper mumbled, while waving her hand. “The gate’s sensor won’t pick up my DNA markers this far away.”

  Quinne squinted her eyes. “This ain’t my side of town.”

  Damario slowly directed the transport past the opening gates and around the property to where he parked. “It’s Harper’s. You’re the next stop.”

  Realization evolved into panic. “I can’t go back, not after today.”

  Harper yawned and stretched out her arms. “You don’t have to. Get your things. You can stay with me tonight. Figure the rest out later.”

  “Why you bein’ nice to me? You don’t even know me.”

  She brushed off Quinne’s suspicion. “Someone once did the same thing for me.”

  Madison released the safety locks on the rear doors and turned her head to face them. “Call us if you remember anything at all. We’ll be in touch.”

  Harper and Quinne exited the vehicle. Damario moved to do the same, but Madison tugged at his jacket. “Wait, Damario. Wait a second.”

  He looked back. She rarely called him by name. “What?”

  You’re keeping that disk? What aren’t you telling me? Why won’t you be honest with me? “Headed home?”

  “I need to,” he said with resignation. “It’ll be 11:00 by the time I get there. You said it yourself. Robinne‘s a good woman.”

  “Good night.”

  Madison shifted over to the driver’s seat. She watched Damario hand Quinne her belongings from his transport and then she followed him as he drove through the James manse’s side exit. Tempted to trail him all the way home and confront him over the missing piece of evidence, she split from him when the location of her apartment required her to take a different route.

  “Why’s he contaminating evidence?” she thought aloud. In all the time she had known Damario – dating back to the academy – she did not know him to act like this. He was unbalanced, distracted, and a little unpredictable. He customarily did everything by the rules and refused to turn a blind eye to misappropriations and missteps by others. Wouldn’t he want me to hold him to the same standard?

  She trusted him, unlike any other man she had ever met in her life. Damario’s presence and encouragement at the academy helped convince her that she did the right thing in choosing public service over a real estate career. Besides, she could always invest or flip properties on the side.

  Whatever’s he doing, I have to know. She made a U-turn.

  Damario inhaled and held his breath, but Robinne did not occupy her customary squawking perch: the cold and empty front room. Even in the midst of their worst fights, she retained a measure of composure and hospitality by piling bed sheets and a pillow on the worn armrest. Not any longer.

  “Hall dim,” Damario whispered. If he tripped, Robinne might wake up. But the closer he drew to the top of the staircase, he noticed a growing triangle of light. He cursed and placed his hand on the wall access panel. The bedroom door retracted. His rolling suitcase faced him on the neatly-made bed.

  Robinne emerged from the bathroom with his grooming bag. “I didn’t think you’d be home before midnight.”

  “Am I going somewhere?” he deadpanned.

  “I packed enough to get you through the next few days.”

  “It’s my house, too, Robinne. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Robinne‘s shoulders dropped. “You want to try and talk me out of my decision? We’ve been through this.”

  Damario approached the bed and lifted the envelope. “What does it say?”

  “Nothing new,” she shot back.

  You’re a workaholic. Great with the kids. You avoid everything. Emotionally cold. Damario sat next to the suitcase. This won’t be an easy fix, he thought. “Listen. . .”

  “Stay at a hotel on the other side of town. We can afford it.”

  His eyes widened. She knows about the investment account. “I can explain. . .”

  “You’ve stashed away a small fortune. I knew you didn’t buy those fancy shoes with overtime pay,” she said, arms crossed. “After all these years, you’re dirty? What’ve you been spending it on, strippers? Prostitutes? Another family?”

  Damario licked his lips, rubbed his hands on his legs and exhaled. I have to tell her the truth, although she won‘t believe it. “I’ve been having dreams – the same dream – for a week. They’re like intense repressed memories that I can‘t shake.”

  Intrigued, Robinne tossed the grooming bag onto the closest side of the bed and pulled up the sleeves of her white wool sweater. “Go on.”

  “I’m inside a round room, surrounded by equipment – like I’ve had an operation. I saw something like it inside a condemned building downtown, but I’d never been inside that building before in my life. But I wasn’t alone. Three women were there. One of them was Harper James, and another one died tonight.”

  The development complicated the quick break she had planned. It explained his behavior as of late, including his obsession with the missing person case.

  “The money,” he said, stopping when Robinne sat down next to him and moved closer. “I play the stocks. I knew you wouldn‘t approve, so I borrowed some marks.”

  The air between them constricted. Robinne bit her lip and eyed the ceiling. Madison.

  “Why are you always like this about her?”

  Robinne faced her oblivious husband. “She’s single, skinny, her butt’s tight with boobs that don’t sag. She flirts with you all the time, and you like it.”

  “Robbie.”

  “Robbie what?” She stood to her feet. “Look me in the eye and deny it.”

  In college, she and Damario were inseparable. He turned down the one threat to their relationship – a paid internship offer at G.R. Cooper – years ago. He graduated with honors and a business administration degree, while she completed her studies and the certification process for early childhood education.

  Years in a dead end job and the pressure of Christian’s impending birth sent Damario toward the financial steadiness and thrill of a civil service position. For the most part, Robinne dealt with the constant possibility her husband might be killed. But every once in a while, she cried in fits and experienced insomnia.

  “Madison’s my partner.”

  “I’m your partner!” she shouted back, pointing at her chest.

  He knew Madison’s continued presence in his life hurt his marriage more than helped it. When they met, Madison had a husband, whose chain she yanked until he divorced her. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “I’ll request a transfer first thing in the morning,” he said in a monotone.

  “Don’t do me any favors.” Robinne leveled the suitcase to the floor. “Leave.”

  Believing space to be the best option, he slightly bent to kiss his wife goodbye, but she turned away fr
om him. Irritated, he snatched the bag by the handle and left the room, pausing at the hand plate to shut the door behind him. He purposely stomped his feet down each stair and exited the home.

  On the first concrete step, he deeply inhaled the crisp midnight air until his lungs burned. He could purchase a few days at the deluxe hotel where the Coleys spent their first year anniversary. He could also stay at the Four Seasons – another designer hotel where celebrities stayed – or the budget options; a Red Roof Inn, Howard Johnsons, or Microtel. He had money to burn.

  Opening his holophone, he thought about calling Robinne and giving a conciliatory speech; about how he was wrong to allow Shenk to be so close to him, their flirtatious partnership bordered on adultery, and he was sorry. He’d apologize for things she regularly accused him of doing, but he did not notice himself. Closing the hidden accounts would help, and he would no longer trade.

  Midway into dialing his own home number, a pair of red taillights and a trail of exhaust smoke caught his eye. He ventured down the street until the familiar license plate came into view. Smiling, he entered the street. The passenger lock clicked open and he opened the transport’s suicide door. He needed a friend.

  “Blinds, open 50 percent.”

  Gears whirred and parted the Venetian blinds enough for Robinne to watch her husband safely get into his transport. He’d sit inside of it, turn on the engine, and think about things. Then, he’d call her in a few minutes and issue a blanket apology. She’d try to play hard to get when he did and then give him the Sweet Georgia Brown. In the morning, he would request a transfer out of the precinct and all would be well.

  Whenever they fought, he left their station wagon so she could shuttle the kids around without hassle. He had his police vehicle and the department did not mind him using it for personal travel, as long as he stayed inside city limits. Robinne smiled and readied herself for the house holophone to ring when a blue glow lit up the palm of his hand. Her handheld lay on the dresser. Either way, she prepared herself to hear what he had to say.