The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “Liz, please stay off this channel for a few minutes, copy?”

  “I copy, but I don’t—”

  “Do me a favor and sign off for five.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Now then, Samantha, tell me who you are.”

  “You know me. I’m your guide, and you don’t have to keep speaking into—”

  “My guide? What the devil’s that supposed to mean? Where are you?”

  “I’m with you—right beside you. I’m always with you.”

  Her answer comes without pause, delivered loud and clear, sounding as if she believes it’s the truth—her truth, anyway. “I can’t see you. If you’re right here, why can’t I see you?”

  “Because you can’t.”

  “Oh, that clears everything up.” I notice the taxi driver eyeing me in the rearview. Great! He thinks I’m crazy—and why not—the crazy voice inside my head is driving me nuts.

  “Look,” she screams through the earbud, “I don’t know how I was able to communicate with you earlier today, but it’s always hit and miss—it saps every ounce of my energy, that’s for sure. But now I think we can communicate because of this new ComLink 6.0 package you’ve got. I think the technicians found a way to hack it, that’s probably why only you can hear me.”

  “Technicians?”

  “Never mind about that. Just get to the hospital and talk to JoJo. He’ll be able to clear everything up. At least we’ve found a way to communicate.”

  Yeah…at least there’s that.

  XIV

  “Look, I can’t go to Vegas.”

  “Why not?” Liz says, her voice rising.

  “Stand by, Liz. I’ll get back to you in a few.”

  “Boss, I don’t understand why you’re—”

  “Trust me. Give me five minutes off the com.”

  She hesitates, then, “Copy that.”

  “I’m not ready to leave Mexico, all right? Not just yet—you must know why.”

  “Hold on,” Samantha shouts in my ear. “Don’t tell me you want to go back to the arena and try to rescue that taxi driver. The fate of the entire world is in your hands.”

  I dash down a darkened, tree-lined street, more in an effort to get away from the hospital than run toward a destination. “You say I’m here to save the world, right?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “The entire world?” There’s a pause. I step out into the street, hunting for a taxi. The avenue is almost deserted. “Once again, the entire world?”

  “Okay, okay, stop pressing the issue, you win. What do you have in mind?”

  “You tell me—you’re still in there, right?”

  “Right, and speaking of that, why are you talking out loud?”

  Because I’m not use to having someone snoop around in my head, that’s why.

  “It’s not snooping,” she says, “it’s my job.”

  Pot-a-toe, po-tat-o. “Liz?”

  “Right here, boss. Who are you talking to about saving the world?”

  “Look, I’ll explain later.” I cross over two streets to a more populated boulevard. The traffic is light, but steady, so I raise a hand. A taxi pulls over. I hop in the back, tell the driver where I want to go, and continue speaking aloud, not bothering to hide it from the cabbie. “Has Knight gone on stage yet?”

  “Forty minutes ago.”

  I do the math—the speech will last another forty-five minutes, easy. By now, the crowd is on their feet chanting, “We Are One.” They’ll stand for the remainder of the speech, reciting the well-known line with vigor—they always do. “Patch me through to the team, would you, Liz?”

  “Go ahead, boss.”

  Time to give a little speech of my own. “Listen up. I strongly suspect Major Flores and some of his security team of orchestrating the attack against Knight today in the garage. I’ve just come from the hospital. JoJo is dead.” Saying it out loud hits me hard. We provided security for Dr. Anwar Knight’s world tour, a tour touting peace and harmony—nobody was supposed to die. “I want everyone to tighten in around Knight. Eyes on all exits. It’s my firm belief they’re gonna try again.”

  “Boss, Smitty. Where are you?”

  “En route, ten minutes.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Right now, it’s Plan B.”

  Smitty scoffed at my use of the term. We always had a Plan B…in theory. “Circle the wagons and keep your eyes open. Your job is to get Anwar and Tilly to the helicopter pad just south of the arena right after his speech—and I mean the second he stops talking. Don’t let him field any questions or talk to the press. Hustle his ass out, use force if you have to, and knowing him, you’ll have to. We’ll make nice later—I’m sure he’ll understand. Copy?” I get confirmations from each member of my team.

  “Liz, arrange helicopter transportation to the airport. Do it now.”

  “Short notice, boss. It’s gonna cost—”

  “Screw the cost. I want a chopper waiting for the team, not the other way around. I have faith in you, Liz.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Gayle, you with me?”

  “Go, boss.”

  “Stay with Tilly. Make sure she’s ready to go. I want everyone on that chopper together, right after the speech. Do not wait for me. Copy?” Once again, I get clear confirmations.

  Are you ready, Samantha?

  “Ready for what?” Samantha’s in my ear again while Liz makes arrangements with the helicopter service.

  I’m gonna need your help to get this done.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  I need you to have my six. Be the eyes in the back of my head. Copy that?

  She snickers, a sweet and light sound before lowering her voice, attempting to mimic mine. “Copy that, boss.”

  Knock it off, we’re almost there.

  The arena looms ahead, a silent gray monolith, cold and forbidding. I ask the taxi driver to drop me off two blocks away. He accepts his fare with a quick “Gracias,” then motors off into the night. Friday evening’s thick traffic on the Avenida de las Granjas blends his taillights in with other vehicles at once.

  “What’s the plan?” Samantha says.

  I’ll get as close as I can, hopefully without being noticed. I’ve seen the reach of their CCTV cameras—gives me about forty feet to the entrance. When the speech is over, I’ll use the crowd as cover to get in. Security should be pretty lax, after all, most of the staff just want to go home. I don’t know how many of Flores’ men are dirty, so it’s gonna get ify.

  “Ify? What do you mean by ify?”

  Read my mind.

  “Oh, my. I see why you want me to have your six.”

  Exactly. I glance at my watch. Dr. Knight should be wrapping up by now. A muffled roar escapes the confines of the arena.

  We are One…We are One.

  Remaining in the shadows, I wait for the sound of excited voices, the stamp of feet, and the rush of activity that comes from the arena clearing out. Just a handful of protesters remain outside—security is lax. My heartbeat kicks up a few notches, my mouth dry.

  “Breathe,” Samantha says, “you can do this.”

  We can do this together. From what I remember of this morning’s walk through, Major Flores was quite proud of his pistola, but none of the other guards were armed. I close my eyes, visualizing the layout of the arena, noting exits, hallways, and offices. The security office is located in the basement, just off the main entrance. It should take about forty seconds to get to the office as the crowd files through the lobby, making their way to the exit. Then…

  “Then what, then what?” Samantha asks in rapid fire.

  Shhh. Sounds of laughter cut through the silence. Distant voices prattle on in excited tones. The clatter of sandals and boots, sneakers and heels—all manner of footwear meld together, slapping the concrete in a quiet rumble. The opening movement of a human symphony which will soon burst out in full volume.

  A few people
race past me, trying to be the first to their cars or taxis or bus stops. More shapes blend together in the darkness. A small crowd rushes by, cackling and laughing. I leave the safety of the shadows behind and merge into the swarm of people, slipping through them toward the entrance. Their numbers increase, slowing my progress. They’re all in a good mood, and no one gives me a second look. I hope for the same oversight from the eyes on the CCTV monitors. My dark suit provides an additional measure of cover in the shadows. I enter the arena without incident.

  “So far, so good,” Samantha whispers in my ear, “there’s no one following us.”

  Down the main hall to the left. Twenty seconds out. I have no idea why I give her these instructions. She’s in my head and knows exactly what I’ll be doing and where I’ll be going. It’s something I would normally bark out loud, giving my team a heads up during an operation.

  “Thank you.”

  For what?

  “For accepting me.”

  I pass, unnoticed, by two security guards. They’re obviously not part of Major Flores’ clandestine team. Their eyes are on the crowd, but their minds are on the clock. I slip around a hallway and race toward the northeast stairwell. I can’t remember if there are any cameras in this hallway or on the stairs, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m ten seconds away from the office—no turning back now.

  Jumping down the stairs two at a time, I hit the push bar of the security office’s metal door like a linebacker rushing the quarterback. Three people face me. Major Flores reaches for his firearm. I fly into him headfirst. His firearm skids across the tile floor in our tumble to the ground. A hand grabs me from behind. Shouts bounce off the bare cement walls. I’ve got the major by the throat. Something clobbers me on the back of my head—once, twice.

  I slam my fist into the major’s nose. He won’t be getting up anytime soon. I roll over and face the two bruisers standing over me. It’s a good news, bad news situation. Bad news? Their hands are balled into big meaty fists. Good news? They’re not holding weapons.

  I search the floor for the major’s weapon. One of the bruisers follows my eyes, which sends him scurrying after the handgun. I trip him but get kicked in the gut by bruiser number two. Bruiser number one is on his hands and knees, crawling toward the firearm. Doubled over in pain, I can’t do anything to stop him.

  The scene plays out in slow motion, one bruiser crawling, the other kicking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone else pick up the weapon. Jorge Robles. He points the weapon at the crawler, then raises it to the kicker. They both freeze.

  It takes a few seconds to catch my breath and realize the firearm is mine. “Jorge. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” The words come out faint and garbled, but I think he knows what I’m trying to say. His big grin eases my pain. I stumble to my feet and take a few deep breaths. Major Flores groans.

  “Where’s your wife? Is she here with you?”

  “No señor, she did not come tonight. What’s happening? Who are these men?”

  “Tell you later.” I handcuff the bruisers to each other and shove them into a back room, which might be a broom closet. The god-awful smell of damp mops and pungent odor of cleaning supplies is a pretty decent giveaway. As soon as Flores is semi-conscious, I hustle him into the closet and daisy-chain his handcuffs around the cuffs holding the two bruisers. When the door is closed, I turn and give Jorge a dry grin.

  “I’m sorry about all this, my friend.” I bend over and pick up the major’s pistola.

  “No importante.”

  “Vamanos.” Let’s go.

  We hustle up the stairs and blend in with the crowd still filing out of the arena.

  I shove the 9mm back into my shoulder holster, toss the pistola into a garbage can, and keep my hand on the small of Jorge’s back.

  Is anyone following us?

  “No,” Samantha says. “We’re nearly out.

  Just a few more steps.

  “We did it,” Samantha squeals into the earpiece on our exit of the arena.

  The cool night air gives me a sense of hope. Almost. Even though Samantha assures me we’re not being followed, it’s only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose. When Major Flores is discovered there will be a massive manhunt for the gringo who opened fire in the garage earlier this evening, then attacked the security office.

  “Where are you parked?” I ask Jorge. Although I should distance myself from the man, it’ll be safer for me to travel with a companion. The police will be searching for a lone gunman roaming the streets.

  “I drove my taxi. It’s parked a few blocks from here.”

  What better way to blend in with traffic than in the back of a cab? “Would you mind giving me a lift?”

  “Con gusto, señor.” With pleasure.

  The sound of helicopter blades roar overhead. The chopper rises straight up into the night sky, then hurtles away from the Arena Ciudad de México. I smile. My team, along with Anwar and Tilly Knight are safely aboard, heading for the airport.

  “Great job, Brooks,” Samantha says.

  Couldn’t have done it without you, Sam.

  “I always like it when you call me Sam.”

  XV

  Apparently, I do have a resemblance to JoJo Jackson after all. After ditching the 9mm in a garbage can, I pass through airport security with flying colors and board a nonstop to Las Vegas, Nevada. JoJo even signed the back of his credit card, so my signature is a perfect fake. I let out a slow breath once I’m in my seat. The four-hour flight will give me some time to sort a few things out and get some shut-eye.

  After giving Samantha strict orders to stay off the com, I speak with Liz. She assures me the team is now on a flight to Vegas. “Great job, Liz. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Are you okay, boss?”

  “Better than expected. Have you heard anything from Richard in Vegas?”

  “Nope. Anything like what?”

  “Get in touch with him and have him check the arena—use dogs.”

  “You got a hunch, boss?”

  I don’t know how to answer that, so I remain silent, guessing that was answer enough. “And Liz, can you make arrangements to have JoJo’s body flown back home?”

  She hesitates. “Will do.”

  “Thank you. You’re an angel.”

  I pull the ComLink from my ear and take a sip of bottled water. Doubts, second-thoughts, and what-ifs run through my mind. JoJo joined my team late, but he was a real professional. His presence will be missed. I should have never let this happen. It leaves me pissed at the world in general, and at Major Flores in particular. When this tour is over, accounts will be settled.

  I should use the next few hours to get some sleep, but this is the perfect opportunity to have a few words with Samantha. I pop the ComLink back in my ear.

  Sam, are you there? I want to talk to you.

  “Good.” Her voice sounds through the earpiece. “Because we’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  By all means, go ahead.

  “You sound angry. Don’t be upset.”

  JoJo was a good man.

  “He was. I’m sure he’s being well taken care of now.”

  What does that mean…he’s dead?

  “Oh, I wish I could make you remember.”

  Remember what?

  “Well, remember me, for one thing—remember the neon city and the people, billions of them. Remember After World, and the—”

  Describe yourself.

  “What?”

  Describe yourself to me—help me remember.

  She hesitates as if reluctant, or unwilling. Maybe she doesn’t have a physical body to describe. For all I know, she may be some kind of floating apparition—

  “I’m not a ghost. Of course I have a physical form. I’m…I’m just a little shy, that’s all. Okay, here goes, I’m just over five foot two inches tall, I have blonde hair, although you call it strawberry blonde, but I hate that. It’s just blonde. My eyes are green—”


  Green…greene with an “e”? Samantha Greene?

  “That’s right,” she shouts. “You remember.”

  Hold on, not so fast. Maybe I…I think I remember, I just don’t know, you know? There’s fuzzy memories, something about a crowded city…a soft, squishy ground.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  That’s impossible. How can there be memories in my head of a place I’ve never been?

  “Calm down. Relax, Brooks, and take your time. Thank God, that’s the one thing we’ve got right now, plenty of time—”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We seem to have a slight problem with a pesky little hydraulic line. Nothing to worry about, but we’ve been instructed to touch down in Chihuahua just to be safe. We’ll be landing at the Aeropuerto Internacional General Roberto Fierro Villalobos in just a few minutes. I sure am sorry for any inconvenience this delay might cause. Please accept our apologies, and I’m confident we’ll be back on our way just as soon as we can take care of that hydraulic line.”

  Looks like we’re out of time…okay, fortune teller, what happens next?

  “I have no idea. I can’t see into the future, that’s for sure. Certain things change every time we come back.”

  What do you mean every time we come back? You mean we’ve done this before?

  There’s a long pause. The plane shudders with the lowering of the landing gear. My stomach flip-flops. The implications of time travel and rebirth race through my head, making me nauseous. My mind’s eye flashes on cradling JoJo in my arms on the oil-stained cement of the parking garage just a few hours ago. Now he’s dead, I witnessed him pass. Would he be reborn? Are we all?

  “No. That’s not the way it works…unless you’re a Buddhist. In that case—”

  The cabin shudders and Sam stops talking at once. There’s always that brief moment, just before landing…

  The earth rises—street lights that once floated in slow motion miles below now race by the windows at bullet speed. Quiet prayers are palpable, filling the metal tube hurtling to earth. A bounce, a clatter—a second bounce, shake and rattle—the sensation of being pushed forward by reverse thrust. Everything slows down and prayers stop being relevant. Ding, ding—the seatbelt light turns off. Belts unbuckle. I breathe.