The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “A drone? What do you do, fly it through the arena?”

  He takes another sip of whiskey and grins. “I fly my pride and joy anywhere I damn well please,” he says tapping a controller device on a side table near his desk. “It’s an octocopter—eight blades with a fifteen-pound payload, so I got a full color, zoom camera on board. Tell me something Mr. Brooklyn, any of those other fancy arenas around the world you been to got a drone? Didn’t think so.” He swivels around in his chair and points at one of the monitors. “MBD. Mr. Benny’s Drone.” He cackles.

  The little man speaks with a sense of accomplishment. These are his people—this is his building. I admire his pride.

  “How about the vendors,” I ask, “food and souvenirs? Are they yours?”

  “Nah.” He waves a hand through the air, dismissing the thought. “Them weirdos come and go. That stuff’s all contracted out. My guards and staff’s all I care about. This building’s only six years old, practically brand new, you can still smell the paint.” He takes a deep breath, letting out another long, “Ah,” and chortles. He pulls out the flask and offers it to me. This time I decline. He takes a short sip. “You’re renting this building for twenty-four hours, Mr. Brooklyn. It ain’t yours, so don’t break it. I’m serious about that, now. We had one of them highfalutin Hollywood film crews in here ‘bout a year ago and they did some God-awful things to my building. So, please, if you need something, ask one of my people. They’ll clear it with me. If it ain’t cleared by me, it don’t go by me. Got it?”

  I nod, wishing I’d accepted the flask.

  “There’s something I don’t like about him,” Samantha says.

  Where the hell have you been?

  “Tell you later. For now, just keep your eyes open around Mr. Benny, okay, Brooks?”

  Why, what do you—

  “Just like them dogs you got sniffing ‘round,” Mr. Benny says, “I gave the okay to your man for that. Didn’t have to, but I did. If I didn’t want them mutts in my house, they wouldn’t be here. Understood? If it ain’t cleared by me, it don’t go by me. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Benny.”

  He sticks out a boney paw and we shake. Apparently, he’d given me enough of his time.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Benny.” I have to admit, I don’t like him very much, but I appreciate his grit. I’m a guest in his house. He doesn’t bother to stand when I exit the office. The metal door clangs shut behind me.

  Samantha does her best to imitate the old man. “If it ain’t cleared by me, it don’t go by me.” She laughs.

  Speaking of which, you didn’t clear your AWOL with me, Miss Greene.

  “Miss Greene? What happened to Sam?”

  That depends on your answer. You went off radar at Sully’s house. Why?

  “I…uh…I had to look into something. Nothing to worry about.”

  You’re a terrible liar, Sam. Tell me what’s going on.

  “I’m going to tell you, but you’re not going to like it. We received another Soul Spark from Sebastian.”

  We received another what?

  “A Soul Spark, remember?”

  Should I? What the hell’s a Soul Spark?

  “Oh no, you’re already forgetting bits and pieces of my memories. I warned you about sharing—how quickly the recollections can fade.”

  If you say so. Would you just tell me where you went?

  “Brooks, a Soul Spark is a message sent to earth by Sebastian. You remember who Sebastian is, yeah?”

  I scrunch my brows together, trying hard to make sense of what she’s saying. I think I remember Sebastian. He gave us a list of suspects.

  “That’s right. Well, he’s sent us another message. Brooks, tell me you remember what that means—that a human vessel must receive the spark.”

  Right, a human vessel. I close my eyes and it hits me hard. Oh my God, someone has to die to receive the message. That’s it, isn’t it? Tell me who. Who died?

  She hesitates, then whispers, “Gayle.”

  I bend over at the wave of nausea that hits me. Gayle Betters and I built the company—hell, Gayle was the company. I need to sit down, but Samantha won’t allow it.

  “Deep breath. We gotta get to the Diamond Oasis. We have to find Tilly.”

  Why? I straighten up. What’s wrong with Tilly? Was that what the message was about? Tell me about Gayle. Tell me everything. I jog down to the parking garage. The Mustang’s gone.

  “Are you sure you parked it here?” Samantha asks.

  I don’t have time for this. I jog to the exit, make my way to The Strip, and hail a cab. The heat presses down hard. It seems to take forever for a cab to pull over. I yell at the driver, “Diamond Oasis.”

  Samantha’s voice comes through the ComLink, “Brooks, you know Sebastian is going to take care of Gayle, right? I mean, she’s in good hands even as we speak.”

  What was so damned important about that message?

  “Sebastian has ruled out Wade Barrow as a suspect.”

  And that’s it? Gayle had to die for that? Wade was never on my list.

  “Since you and I ruled out Morton Sully today, that only leaves Gunther Burns and Tilly Knight. Burns has been out of touch for several weeks, so that leaves Tilly. The process of deduction is pretty clear—her name has to go to the top of our list.”

  I can’t say anything. Gayle Betters was my rock, my go to. The fact that Sebastian took Wade off his list should not have cost Gayle her life. I pluck the ComLink from my ear and cram it in my pocket. Casinos, fountains, palm trees, and tourists rush by in a colorful blur. I wipe the tears from my eyes and lean back in the cab, my breath shallow and sporadic. Panic attacks are no fun, especially since I thought they were a thing of the past.

  So, the world is supposed to end tonight—total nuclear destruction. I close my eyes, shutting out the sun’s glare, and brood over the horrors of atomic radiation and flash burns—fire from the sky. The tourists strolling by, laughing and drinking, have no idea what horrors await them. Who knows, maybe Gayle got off lucky—she missed the fireworks and beat the crowd to After World. I brush away another tear and wipe the sweat from my brow. Sebastian had no right to take her. I do remember that bastard. He looked me dead in the eye and told me he wasn’t God. Really? What lie is he telling Gayle right now? What’s he told JoJo?

  And what’s your excuse, Samantha Greene? You say we’ve come back before and tried to stop the inevitable. That only means we failed. Nuclear annihilation over and over and over. What have you got to say for yourself? I shoved the ComLink back in my ear.

  “We’re not going to fail this time. This time we succeed.”

  What’s the point if everyone I care about dies in the process?

  “I’m sorry about Gayle. I’m sorry about JoJo, but we’re talking about the lives of seven billion souls. Seven billion. Brooks, this time we won’t fail. This time we win.”

  I scoff. A pep talk from a ghost. I clear my throat and sit up. Well, okay Miss Greene. Let’s see if you’re right about winning this time.

  “Look, there she is.”

  You know I can’t see where you’re pointing, right?

  “Tilly’s getting into that cab, right over there, on your three.”

  Turning to the right, I spot Tilly Knight slip into a blue & white taxi. I knock on the partition and yell the famous line, “Follow that cab,” to my driver.

  XX

  Tilly’s blue & white negotiates a U-turn at Flamingo Road, then continues north on Las Vegas Boulevard. Traffic is heavy and moves like extra thick molasses, but my driver manages to stay two car lengths behind, keeping her in sight at all times. I’m in good hands—he’s obviously done this kind of cagey driving before. I relax, lean back against the brown fabric seat covers and let the driver do all the heavy lifting.

  I keep my eyes on the blue & white’s travels while my mind takes a little journey of its own. Samantha warns me against reminiscing, saying it will only interfere with the task at hand. I
can’t help it. Years ago, Gayle and I shared a few private moments, and a lot of laughs, over a couple bottles of cheap champagne.

  “I remember,” Samantha says, her voice in high spirits.

  How can you be so up? I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Gayle.

  “I know, Brooks, I was there.”

  I pull the ComLink out of my ear to be alone with my thoughts for just a little bit. Samantha may have been there, a dutiful Guide, silent and loyal, but she isn’t feeling Gayle’s loss like I am now. Gayle saved my life, kept my head above water. Every day got better for me because of that woman.

  I consider bowing out of my promise to Sebastian. The bastard killed my best friend. And for what? An inconsequential message that didn’t add anything to our investigation. I want to let the world take care of its own problems.

  I pop the ComLink back in my ear. After the faint “beep” Samantha attacks, “Brooks, you can’t give up just like that. And don’t shut me out—please. It’s not only childish, it’s rude, and not only that, it’s definitely not safe to stop communications, not even for a moment. You must realize what’s at stake, not only—”

  “Whoa, that’s way too many ‘nots.’ Would you just shut up for a minute?” The conspicuous silence lets me know who’s acting childish now.

  Liz pipes up, “Say again, boss. I didn’t copy that.”

  “Wait one, Liz.” Samantha, I need to speak to my team about Gayle. I know we’re on a higher mission, but you have to give me this. Please.

  Sam’s voice is soft, almost a whisper, “I understand, Brooks.”

  The air conditioning in the back of the cab feels good on my face, a moment of cool, artificial sanity in a world gone mad. I clear my throat, knowing I can’t put it off any longer, “Liz—Brooks—come in Liz.”

  “Right here, boss.”

  “Liz, I’m on my way in. I need a status check.” This is a shitty thing to do, but I can’t think of any other way to get it done. Time is running out. I need to make sure Gayle’s body is found by one of us, not housekeeping or hotel security. My voice cracks as I repeat, “Status check, team.”

  “Barrow—main watch.” Wade Barrow is with Dr. Knight.

  “Blaine—arena.” Richard Blaine is still at the U.S. Data Center Arena.

  “Smitty—DFAC.” Dee-fack. Sean Smith is grabbing a bite to eat.

  “Junior—rack out.” Junior Perkins is in his room trying to get some rest.

  “Liz—you know where I am, boss.” Elizabeth Childs is, as usual, in her room, monitoring this entire charade—the absurdity I’ve cooked up for one single purpose—

  “Gayle? Come in Gayle.” I waited a beat, then force myself to say the next few words, “Gayle, what’s your status? Does anybody have eyes on Gayle?”

  Tilly’s blue & white turns into the Mojave Springs Hotel and Casino, stopping under the porte-cochère. My driver plays it cool, slowing down and pulling in behind a black Cadillac. He keeps the motor running while I inspect the surrounding area. A doorman opens the rear door of Tilly’s cab. She exits and strolls across the polished cobblestones of the expansive drive, heading directly for the massive revolving door. I pay my driver well for the extra service and step out into the hundred-plus afternoon.

  A flurry of activity which includes bellhops, tourists, and taxis, give me more than enough cover. I wait a few seconds in the blow torch heat then make an arrow for the entrance. The conditioned air inside covers me just like diving into an ice-cold swimming pool.

  Tilly saunters across the front lobby, promenading in an unhurried gait. I’m certain she has no idea I’m following her. She slows down, examining the window displays of high-end retail shops—designer fashions, fine jewelry, and art galleries lining both sides of the mini-mall leading to the casino. She doesn’t linger too long at any one window, but neither does she ignore any of the merchandise on display. It’s clear, at least to me, she’s not here to window-shop, but something is holding her back. Maybe she’s killing time to keep an appointment. But with who?

  I step to one side, and suck in a deep breath. “Gayle Betters, report.” How long do I have to keep up this pretense before somebody—

  “Gayle,” Smitty takes over, “Gayle, status. Come in, Gayle.”

  Liz jumps in, as is her wont, “Smitty, report to room three-oh-one-nine, copy?” Thank God for Liz. I can’t go on with this deception for one more moment. Memories of the good times, the bad, and all the rest wander through my head. Gayle deserves more, much more than this. Unfortunately, this is all I’ve got.

  Thank you, Sam. My team will do the right thing. Tell me Gayle didn’t suffer.

  She paused, then answered quietly, “It was quick, Brooks. She was happy to deliver the message. Believe me, Sebastian will take good care of her. Trust me.”

  Sebastian. The name lingers in my thoughts like a curse.

  Smitty sounds sullen, heartbroken, “Liz, something’s wrong—” I reach for the ComLink in my ear.

  “Brooks, what are you doing?” Samantha shouts over Smitty’s voice.

  Your turn to trust me.

  “What choice do I have?”

  I tug the earbud out and slip it into my pocket. My company, my team, is just like family. I can’t listen to this anymore. Losing someone in a firefight is one thing, it’s honorable, almost expected. But this? This is offensive. I don’t care how good Sebastian will take care of a sweet soul like Gayle Betters, it won’t be enough. A reckoning is in order.

  Tilly wears a dark olive tank-dress with white sandals. I scan the lobby, catching a glimpse of her gliding up the escalator. She’s staring straight ahead, still oblivious of my presence. I take my time, fall in line behind a young couple who were, hopefully, on their way up to get a room, and step onto the moving staircase. With one hand on the rail and one eye on the back of Tilly’s shoes, I relax and let the escalator lift me up.

  The music overhead is bland and generic—quite soothing. An intoxicating blend of aromatic colognes and perfumes waft through the air. People converse in whispers, their voices light and joyous. The motion of the escalator, together with the scents and sounds of the moment, elevates my mood. It hits me—I’m at peace. Instead of “trying to meditate” in search of serenity, it just happens. By not intentionally looking for something, I found it. My breathing and heart rate even out to a steady rhythm. Tension is gone. Thoughts, once muddied, are clear. I know who Tilly is here to see. I know, because it plays out like a video in my mind’s eye.

  I place the ComLink back in my ear. My team is frantic—orders are being barked out—commands shouted. “Liz, Brooks, copy?”

  “Copy. Oh my God, boss, I can’t believe it. An ambulance is on the way.”

  “Liz,” I say, “calm down, you know what to do. Wade, make sure Dr. Knight is in his room. Junior, take up a position in the hall outside his door. Smitty, wait for first responders.”

  “Roger that,” Smitty says. “What about you?”

  “I’m fifteen minutes out,” I lie. More like an hour, but at least I bought myself fifteen more minutes of quiet. There’s no time to explain to my team what I’m doing.

  “Who is Mrs. Knight here to see?” Sam says.

  Why do you ask? Can’t you read my mind?

  “Of course I can—well, I thought I could,” she says. “I knew the old Brooklyn Davis inside out, but you’re acting strange. What’s going on? Who are you?”

  Version 2.0, I guess. I don’t know, Sam. I’m having some kind of epiphany.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  It means I’m seeing things more clearly now than I have in a long time—maybe ever. We’ll find out in a few minutes.

  I follow Tilly to an elevator lobby. She shows a room key-card to an underpaid, indifferent hotel guard, then steps aboard one of three empty cars. I hang back, waiting for the doors to slide shut. It’s a glass elevator and I watch her as she’s carried up. The floor indicator panel stops at 4. She marches out of the car and
turns to the right.

  I flash my ID book in the hapless guard’s face, placing my thumb over the letter D of the big blue BDI letters, hoping his subconscious will make a connection to a different combination of three letters—FBI. He does, and I’m soon in an elevator heading for the fourth floor.

  “Well done, Brooks.”

  Thanks. It was, wasn’t it?

  “No, I really mean it, you sold that convincingly. Of course, the suit may have helped, but…there’s something different about you. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  You’ve got fingers?

  “Knock it off. You know very well what I mean. You don’t seem—”

  Shhh. The elevator shudders to a stop, and an electronic voice clothed in a female British accent announces, “Fourth Floor.” The doors glide open. Tilly’s been out of sight for a good twenty seconds. She could be anywhere. I turn to the right and dart down a long, empty hallway. The plush carpet hampers my stride. Hurrying ahead to another T-intersection, I choose right again. Bingo. She’s sauntering down the hall at an easy pace. Stepping back, I take cover behind the corner, wait two beats, then chance another peek down the hall.

  She inserts her key-card into a lock, opens the door and smiles. A muffled voice greets her. My fears are confirmed.

  Samantha yells into the ComLink, her tone incredulous, “Sebastian?”

  XXI

  I rush down the darkened hallway. Tilly sees me at the last second, her eyes wide with fright. She tries to shut the door but I get there first, forcing my way in. Her expression is a mix of confusion and surprise. I’m sure I carry a version of the same look.

  The smell of fresh paint and new leather fills my senses. Blackout shades are drawn over the only window. Artificial light floods the room, making me squint.

  Tilly screams, “Get out.”

  Nothing she says or does will keep me out of room 422.

  She scampers back against the wall. I slam the door shut and focus on my target—The Director of After World, Sebastian Thorogood.

  He holds up his hands, palms out, and scurries back. “My boy, you must listen to me. I insist that you—” He goes down easily. One punch to his jaw and he’s splayed out on the thick beige carpet—time for siesta.