The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “What did you think?” Samantha says through the ComLink.

  I think we don’t have a minute to lose once we get off this plane. We have to find out who’s responsible for planting the bomb, get them to tell us exactly where it is, and dispose of it. Someone may eventually kill Dr. Knight down the road, but it won’t be on our watch, and that, in and of itself, is doing something different which, according to Einstein, will produce a different result.

  I can almost feel Samantha’s warm smile touch my face when she speaks, “I like it.”

  Yeah? What did you like about it?

  “The way you said “not on our watch.”

  XVII

  “I know, Liz. I know. I know. Yes, charters are expensive, and so are helicopters. Throw in the new communication system you said we couldn’t live without, and—”

  “I believe my exact words were… ‘ComLink 6.0 looks better on a contract proposal than still using a carrier pigeon.’”

  I waited a beat. “My point is, we’ll be lucky to break even on this Knight’s job. I mean let’s be realistic, from now on, no more international gigs.”

  “So, you really want to go back to babysitting boy bands?”

  “It paid the bills.”

  Liz keeps the books. Her contagious optimism talked me into purchasing the new ComLink 6.0 system. The-state-of -the-art communications package—touted as the latest and greatest, released just a month before. It came with all the newest features, including lifetime software upgrades and support. Even I was impressed, and that’s saying something. I’m still an analog guy living in a digital world. Liz likes to tease me about the five-year-old Windows operating system running my office desktop. Hey, if it ain’t broke…

  But she was right about our communications system. We badly needed the upgrade. Besides, without the new equipment, I might never have discovered Samantha.

  “Boss, we talked about that a few months ago.”

  “Talked about what?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to take the business to the next level. We can’t do that with outdated, underperforming—”

  “Hey, I get it, Liz. I’m sorry we, uh, I mean, I wound up in Chihuahua, it couldn’t be helped. And I know a charter is expensive, but it’s necessary. We can talk about it in Vegas.”

  “No, I’m sorry, boss. You’re right about this job being a nightmare. And now with JoJo…” A heavy sigh. “Speaking of which, it turns out there were some cameras in the garage, after all. The news outlets paid a fortune for phone stills and videos. Guess what?”

  “None of the cameras caught the shooter.”

  “Bingo. How’d you know?”

  “Educated guess.”

  “Anyway, we’ve been contacted by all the major networks. They’re begging for an exclusive interview.”

  “Not happening.”

  “I sure am glad this job’s coming to an end. And you’re right, maybe we should reassess our current situation when it’s over.”

  “Nothing too drastic, Liz, not yet. We’re down, but not out. Keep your head up and we’ll see you in Vegas.”

  “We?”

  “Just an expression.”

  “Roger that. Out.”

  I pluck the ComLink from my ear, push the seat back to recline, and close my eyes. The jet engines of the private charter lull me into a light sleep. My body’s floating, but my mind won’t shut up.

  I had always known this job was over my head, but I honestly thought we could handle it. And we did, until Mexico. I never had a client attacked before, hell, I had never even drawn my weapon while on duty before. I guess, sometimes, when you think you’ve got something under control, it’s the other way around—it controls you.

  Dr. Anwar Knight isn’t just a man, he’s an international phenomenon. How I thought my motley crew, highly motivated though we were, could protect him is beyond me now.

  Starting out as a bodyguard all those years ago was cake, even fun—easy money and part time work. But after a while, I wanted more. I applied for a business license and added another employee, then two. We provided protection for wannabe pop idols, then graduated to serious bands—those making real money. That’s when things got complicated. I hired Liz to help with logistics and communications. She threw in the bookkeeping for free. Add a few more employees, and the next thing I know, I bid for this crazy We Are One world tour. I needed one more team member—actually I needed several, but one was all we could afford—so I hired JoJo last minute.

  Now, he’s dead, and some whacko named Major Roberto Flores and his evil henchmen are after me—not the client, mind you, they’re after me, personally. How had it all come to this?

  My eyes shot open and I sit upright. Security will be easy, I told myself all those years ago, just rely on your military training. Ha. I plug the earbud back in and rub my forehead.

  Samantha pipes up, “Brooks, you’re not the bad guy here. Stop putting the problems of the whole world on your shoulders.”

  I scoff. According to you, as impossible as it may seem, the fate of the whole world is already on my shoulders…literally, remember?

  “Of course I remember, do you? The difficult can be done immediately, the impossible takes a little longer.”

  Her words shake me. That’s on a plaque hanging on my wall. How could you know—

  “Exactly. Think about it.”

  But how…how could you know about that? Am I still dreaming? Having a conversation with someone in my head is crazy—am I hallucinating?

  “Brooks, we should be way past that by now. You know I’m real. I helped you talk with JoJo, we saved Jorge, and we escaped Chihuahua. This charter was my idea, remember?”

  I need a drink.

  “No, you don’t. You need to think.”

  She’s right. I thought I had turned “need a drink” into “want a drink” years ago. Tell me again. Tell me about Sebastian and the end of the world. Tell me about The Portal and Soul Sparks…tell me everything.

  “I can do better than that, but first I need to make sure you can handle it—most human beings can’t.”

  I furrow my brow. Okay, what do you need me to do?

  “There’s a way I can share all my knowledge with you, all at once, but it’s a dangerous process, well, for you, not really for me. Like I said, most humans can’t handle it. It can be painful, but the reward is worth the risk.”

  Have you ever tried it before? I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. Can it kill me?

  “No, there’s no chance of that.”

  Then do it.

  “But it might fry your brain a bit.”

  Then hold off.

  “Ha. I’m just teasing. There’s no chance of frying your brain.”

  Then do it.

  “Even still, there’s the unbearable pain, and that’s no joke. So, which is it, Brooks? Shall I share my memories with you, or do you want to remain ignorant? There’s no shame in it—no judgement, at least, not from me.”

  I glanced out the window, wondering whether we’d crossed over the border into America. Would I face the unbearable pain in Mexico or the US? I guess it really didn’t matter much, except to me. The last time my brains were fried, I was a million miles from home in the middle of a burning desert. I just needed to know where we were.

  “We crossed over a few minutes ago,” Samantha said, “we’re in the USA.”

  Do it then—share your memories.

  “Once again, I must warn you, downloading a massive amount of data directly into your brain will be something you’ve never experienced before. The process should move along fairly quickly, though, depending on how open you are to receiving the information. Are you ready?”

  I squeeze the armrest like a classic white-knuckle flier and close my eyes, preparing for an electrical shock to surge through my body.

  “It’s nothing like that. From what I’ve been told, you may feel like you’re drowning—like you can’t take in any air, but that will pass.”

  I
relax and take a deep breath. No feeling of an electrical surge? Promise?

  “No.”

  “What?”

  A searing pain digs into the back of my neck and races down my spine. It branches out, attacking every nerve ending, moving fast, picking up strength. My fingers twitch, as do my eyeballs. Breathing is sketchy at best. White noise rings in my ears. Spittle drips down my chin. Red is the only color. Samantha was right—the lack of air is like drowning. But I’m right as well, I’m also being electrocuted. Will the torture never end?

  “There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Did…did I…pass out?

  “Ha, you wish.”

  What’s that supposed to—

  Wait. What’s this? I’ve wasted enough time talking to her about the process of memory sharing. Like the sun appearing after a sudden rainstorm, my mind clears, made new and fresh by parting clouds. All thoughts of pain, of anguish, are forgotten. This is awesome.

  My new memories, materializing from nowhere like clean, fresh air are sharp. Memories of the past are unimportant—swept away like dirt. Complete recollection—nothing falls through the cracks. It’s weird, I’m navigating an unknown course, but know exactly where to go.

  I think of a Soul Spark and instantly have full knowledge of its theory, design, and use. I see it being tested. I witness the spark being extracted from a pure soul, then packaged neatly into a small milk-white capsule and launched to earth via The Portal. Everything makes perfect sense. Soul Sparks are a way for Sebastian to send messages to earth—to me. The messages are involved. They carry pin-point, on-the-nose meanings that detail the current state of the investigation. It takes an incredible amount of celestial energy to send each Soul Spark, that’s why they’re so rare. The investigation, however, is ongoing, and more soul sparks are being readied for launch.

  I explore my relationship with Sebastian. How I admired him, then doubted him, then went against his command in an attempt to try something different on this, our last attempt, at changing the past.

  I see the magnificent buildings of the neon city. They climb straight up into the sky for miles and disappear into the clouds. The spongy ground beneath my feet helps me trudge along for hours with no need to rest. The air is sweet, enriched with vital nutrients, giving me everything I’ll need for a long and healthy after-life.

  Babies, toddlers, and small children arrive in After World, delivered from earth for whatever reason, and immediately mature into angels and guides. I have empathy with everyone—feeling instant liberation from chronic pain, unspeakable injury, and horrifying disease. All arrivals are made whole, both in body and soul, to the best version of themselves.

  Everything makes perfect sense, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle. The Nefarists, are nothing more than shadows, the darkness of all that’s good in the universe. They dwell in The Abyss, forever intent on destruction. Only recently have they discovered The Portal.

  Pain tears into my stomach, like a hot acid drip, doubling me over. What’s…what’s wrong? I manage between gasps.

  “The memories aren’t permanent,” Samantha says, “hold on to them for as long as you can. They’ll fade quickly—faster than your own memories die.”

  The process is ending far too soon. I want to see the lab, touch the Pearly Gates, and visit Heaven. But most of all, I want to meet Samantha in the flesh.

  “Here I am.”

  She appears, taking shape from nothing. Five-feet-two, strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, a warm smile.

  “Are…are you real?”

  She nods. “It’s really me, your Guide.”

  I wrap my arms around her. She fits next to me like she belongs, like something I need but had lost for a long time. I back away and beam. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I don’t mean to insult you. Come here.”

  She steps closer. I embrace her again. This is my Guide. My imaginary friend when I was a toddler. The one who heard my prayers in times of trouble—and now, a colleague assisting me in saving the world. This is Samantha Greene.

  All at once, I’m hugging nothing but air and have returned to my seat on the plane. Nausea overtakes me, even my hair hurts. What’s the matter with me?

  “Whoops,” Samantha says, “I forgot to tell you about the withdrawal.”

  Stumbling, half blind, down the aisle, I hope I can reach the restroom in time. Bile fills my throat. My head is splitting, and my eyelids feel like sandpaper. I never want to do this again.

  “You did great, Brooks. I’m so proud of you.” In my mind’s eye, I see her arm reach through a wall of smoke and touch the back of her hand to my forehead. In a flash, she’s gone.

  I stand at the restroom door, but don’t open it. All my symptoms vanished at once. I turn around and return to my seat. She was right—the pain was intense, but worth it.

  The pilot’s voice comes over the cabin speakers, “Welcome to Las Vegas. Temperature is a flat one hundred degrees. Please fasten your seat belt and prepare for landing.”

  “What did you think?” Samantha says through the ComLink.

  I think we don’t have a minute to lose once we get off this plane. We have to find out who’s responsible for planting the bomb, get them to tell us exactly where it is, and dispose of it. Someone may eventually kill Dr. Knight down the road, but it won’t be on our watch, and that, in and of itself, is doing something different which, according to Einstein, will produce a different result.

  I can almost feel Samantha’s warm smile touch my face when she speaks, “I like it.”

  Yeah? What did you like about it?

  “The way you said “not on our watch.”

  XVIII

  Our pilot is dead on. I open the weather app on my phone—100 even. McCarran International offers a terminal reserved exclusively for private jet use, affording me the luxury of avoiding Saturday morning tourists, if not the heat.

  Vegas is a living, breathing city. On Thursday, Friday and Saturday, the players and their cash are inhaled. Exhale begins on Sunday and Monday, while counting profits and cleaning rooms—making ready for the next big breath. Tuesdays and Wednesdays? Even money. Being a frequent visitor to Sin City, I’m well aware of its strong pulse, temperature be damned.

  I press my finger to the earbud and enter the frigid confines of the terminal. “Liz, Brooks—come in.”

  “Welcome to Vegas, boss.”

  “Status?”

  “Everyone’s tucked in at the Diamond Oasis, resting up for the final speech tonight. What’s your ETA?”

  “I want to swing by the arena before the D.O. Who’s on client watch?”

  “Who else? Wade. He’s taken day watch the past six days running. Knight must’ve put some magic hoo-doo on him or something. Remember how cynical he was of the whole ‘We Are One’ thing at the beginning of the tour? He’s practically a convert now.”

  I also remember Wade’s name being on the list of suspects Sebastian forwarded via JoJo’s Soul Spark messenger. “What about Richard? Have you heard from him?”

  “He has a wakeup call in about an hour.”

  “Did he say anything about the search at the arena? Did he use sniffer dogs?”

  “Yup, he sure did. Came up empty.”

  “Have him do it again in a couple hours.”

  “Boss, what’s up? You got a premonition, or something?”

  “Yes—no—Hell, I don’t know, Liz. Call it my super-secret sixth sense.”

  “You call it that, I can’t even say it.”

  “Very funny. Have him use the dogs again, too.” I step out of the chilly terminal building, into the broiling heat of the morning desert then hop into the back seat of an air-conditioned cab. Fire and ice all day long, welcome to Vegas in June. “How you doing, Liz?”

  She hesitated. “They won’t release JoJo’s body. The Mexico City Police Department is so huge, it’s the biggest tangle of bureaucratic red-ta
pe I’ve ever seen. They say they need to do an autopsy first—in fact, get this, they want all of us, the whole company, to come back to Mexico City to be interrogated.”

  “Well, that’s not gonna happen. Don’t give up, Liz. Get the State Department involved if you have to. Morton Sully can help with that—get a hold of him.”

  “Roger that, boss. Did you get any sleep?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “What do you think?”

  I shake my head. Liz is the kind of person who will do everything in her power to get JoJo home. She’s got a one-track mind. Once she sinks her teeth into a problem, like a shark, she’ll never let it go.

  “I told you before,” Samantha pipes in over ComLink, “don’t worry about JoJo.”

  “Be quiet, Samantha. Do you mind?”

  “Who’s Samantha, boss?”

  I have to take a deep breath. Samantha can read my thoughts and only I can hear her through ComLink. Perfect. “Sorry, Liz, I’m getting some cross chatter on this unit.”

  “Roger that, boss. I’ll swap it out when you check in.”

  In the meantime, Sam and I can continue our private conversations, if I just remember to keep my big mouth shut.

  “No argument there,” Samantha says. “And seriously, you know you don’t have to worry about JoJo. Sebastian will take good care of him. The only thing we have to concentrate on is interviewing the four suspects on our list.”

  You’ve become quite the sleuth.

  “A regular Sherlock Holmes.”

  You sure it’s not Nancy Drew?

  “Please, this is getting us nowhere. How about we start with Morton Sully?”

  You sure you want to start there?

  “Why not? His name is on the list.”

  His name’s also on Forbes Richest People in The World list. I’m just saying, do you want to tackle him first?

  “Sure. If he did have something to do with planting the bomb, using his hometown would make quite a statement, wouldn’t you say?”

  Good deduction, Miss Holmes. Queen’s Garden it is.