The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “Bon voyage.” Somebody shoved me over the edge of the cliff and into the void.

  I zipped through the Portal, like a bullet flying through the barrel of a gun. Gazing to my left, I grimaced. Millions of people whooshed by in the opposite direction. A clear, flexible membrane kept them separated from me. They made no sound, neither did their movement cause a whoosh of air to pass me.

  The sudden realization of being brought back to life dawned on me. A realization that sunk into my bones, my flesh, my very soul. The thought made me uneasy. I closed my eyes, trying to ward off the motion sickness swirling in my gut. After a few moments, the feeling of nausea faded. I opened my eyes, searching for Samantha. She was nowhere in sight. Only the millions of other souls sharing the Portal were visible. I was alone on this journey back to earth—back to life.

  You’re not alone. I’m with you.

  Sam’s voice echoed in my head. Little tremors of hope stirred. Something she believed impossible, something Sebastian told me was hopeless had just happened. She sent me a message. Had the technicians fixed the communications glitch?

  Sam, where are you? Why can’t I see you?

  No answer. I tried shouting, but my numb lips wouldn’t work. Sam, where are you? I repeated the thought over and over. No answer. I tried one last time. Silence. My mood sank. I lost hope of ever seeing her again. I closed my eyes and continued my incredible voyage through the Portal, through space, through time. Only four other souls had ever braved this journey before. Each of them had, like me, been tasked with changing history. Each had failed.

  A radiant white light wrapped around me like a super-heated blanket. I panicked. Did someone make a mistake? Had I been thrown down the wrong Portal? I lost all sense of direction. Was I travelling up or down? The thought of catching fire, or landing in Hell’s Lake of Fire, terrified me, but a greater fear overtook me—

  We’re born alone.

  We die alone.

  Apparently, we’re resurrected alone.

  Part Two

  The Beginning of The End

  X

  Two more days and it will all be over.

  Not only had the tour gone off without a hitch, this will be the biggest payday Brooklyn Davis, Inc. has ever seen. Just two more stops—Mexico City tonight, and Las Vegas tomorrow.

  I have to roll over to check the red numbers on the clock—five a.m. The squishy mattress, like most of the hotel offerings I’ve had on this international tour, make me bounce up and down like a trampoline every time I move.

  After punching down the pillow, I take a deep breath hoping to steal another twenty winks, but realize I’ve already committed to welcoming the new day. With one eye fully open and the other wanting to, I can’t ignore the telltale signs of dawn sneaking in around the edges of the blackout shades—confirmation of another restless night. Twenty stops on the international tour, twenty fitful nights.

  The stillness, between waking and rising, offers me a perfect time to lie motionless, breathe deep, and meditate for a few minutes. The best way to recharge my batteries in front of a hectic day. I repeat the mantra by heart—lie still, find a comfortable position, and clear my mind. Ten minutes of thinking about nothing at all doesn’t guarantee peace, but I am ready to face the day ahead.

  Sliding back the blackout shades, I take in Mexico City from twenty stories up. Downtown high-rises, endless avenues, and countless parks spread out in a colorful carpet. The modern mixed with the past, shopping centers and churches, favelas and mansions, all packed together, on top of each other, stretching out for miles. Smog, garbage, and traffic, the byproducts of nine million residents also vie for my attention. A mix of old world and new, castles and slums, keep me hypnotized. It’s all so impossible, fantastic, and yet breathtaking.

  I think about dialing room service but remember what a fiasco the day before had been—the day from Hell. We had flown in from Rio, arrived late, and finally got our room assignments sorted out by midnight. I made sure everyone had what they needed, then put JoJo on first watch outside Dr. Knight’s room. JoJo’s always good for midnight watch—calls it his “thing,” whatever that means. I finally hit the sack around 1 am. By this time all housekeeping carts are stowed away, and any calls to room service produce a recording.

  After a steaming hot shower, I dress and head downstairs for some caffeine and a plate of eggs. I make sure my bags are packed before leaving the room. We’re hitting the airport two hours after the speech tonight—the red-eye to Vegas. It’s a four hour hop, and I like to be ready before I have to be ready. That’s my thing.

  I trudge downstairs to the café. There’s a pharmaceutical conference in town and the hallway is packed with people, even at this early hour. I guess everyone wants to get a jump on the morning. I fall in line behind everybody else following their noses to the buffet.

  After two minutes of not moving, I check my watch to determine what’s more important—standing in a never-ending line for a couple of eggs or being on time for the security walkthrough at the arena. Waiting here will make me late, so hunger goes on the back burner, once again. My trek across the room to the beverage tables takes longer than expected. I fill a cup with steaming hot coffee and mix in cream and sugar, managing to spill more on the black tablecloth than ever gets into my cup. I scorch my tongue in a hurried sip, utter the first curse word of the day, and finally admit I should have stayed in bed for those extra twenty winks.

  My cell comes out of my coat pocket with ease. It’s something I do about a hundred times a day—emails, messages, news alerts—it’s become part of who I am. Whether that’s a good thing or bad is a moot point. It’s just my reality.

  Turning back to the exit, I catch a glimpse of a woman standing in the far corner of the room—five feet two, strawberry blonde, in her early thirties. Memory is a funny thing. Some people are blessed with the gift of total recall—I’m not one of them. But this girl raises a red flag. I’ve seen her before—somewhere on this tour—and the little I can recall isn’t pleasant. In fact, the memory gets my adrenaline pumping.

  I ditch the coffee cup on the nearest table and double-time it toward the girl. By the time I dodge through the crowd, she’s vanished. I don’t know why it’s so important to confront her, but now I’m disappointed, which doesn’t make any kind of sense, since I don’t know why I wanted to catch her in the first place. A hand perches on my shoulder.

  “Brooks,” says Wade Barrow, one of my company’s tactical experts and my best friend.

  “What’s up, Wade?”

  “I don’t know, you were the one tearing through the crowd. You tell me what’s up.”

  “I thought I saw…” I shake my head. “There was this girl—”

  “Always is, am I right?”

  “No, this was different. This girl, she…this girl was like my best friend.”

  “Hey, that’s my job. What’s her name?”

  My mind’s a blank. I can barely recall her face now. I stare at Wade in silence.

  “It’s okay, pal,” he says putting a hand on my shoulder, “she sounds like a real Georgia peach.”

  “Funny, I can’t even remember her name.”

  He grins a sly expression and I roll my eyes, but still he has to say it. “That’s the best kind of her to know.” Wade considers himself quite the man with the ladies, though I have yet to meet a lady who would agree. More like harmless, but definitely fun to be around.

  “I’m headed over to the arena,” I say, “share a cab?”

  “No can do, amigo,” Wade says with a wink. This time I’m certain of what he’s going to say, “I’m just here to grab a coffee and head back up to the room. Can’t keep the señorita waiting.”

  “Lucky girl.” I give him a wink of my own. “Just be on time this afternoon. You’ve got afternoon watch, copy?”

  “Copy that. Fourteen hundred hours.” He’ll be on time. He always is.

  “And say hello to the lucky lady, uh…”

  “Uh, Maria.�
��

  Right. Maria—the most beautiful woman in his imagination.

  Mexico City is waking up. The sun warms all the nooks and crannies of this amazing and complicated metropolis. Taxis are few in number at this hour, but I manage to hail one and settle into the back seat. “Azcapotzalco,” I get out, “the Mexico City Arena.”

  “Si, señor. Americano?”

  “Si.”

  In perfect English he says, “Are you in town for Dr. Knight’s tour? The man is a genius. He really sees everything through a unique perspective, don’t you agree?”

  I perk up. “Si, I mean, yes. He’s one of a kind.”

  “My wife and I are going tonight. She’s a true fan. She has every one of his books.” He swerves around a truck that appeared out of nowhere. He leans out the window and shouts, “Pendejo!” After passing the truck he continues in a calm voice, “Dr. Knight’s message of peace and unity is amazing, no? We are one is more than a slogan, they are words of wisdom, no?”

  “Yes. I agree.”

  “You know señor, you’re arriving very early. The doctor doesn’t begin his speech until eight. Do you work for the tour? A…what do you call it? A roadie?”

  “What’s your name?” I’m always intrigued by someone who exhibits a degree of intelligence and supposition. This man displays both.

  He keeps one hand glued to the steering wheel and thrusts the other toward the back seat. “Jorge Robles, and you?”

  I shake his hand. “Brooklyn.”

  “Ha, like the Dodgers.”

  “Sorry, pal, way before my time. Most people call me Brooks. Tell me, Jorge, where can I get a decent cup of coffee?”

  “Starbucks is just a few blocks up ahead.”

  “Starbucks?”

  I see Jorge’s eyes twinkle in the rearview mirror. “A few blocks more is The Best Coffee. They make an espresso to die for.”

  “Sounds good. What’s it called?”

  “That’s the name, señor, The Best Coffee.”

  “The Best Coffee it is. Come in with me—my treat.”

  “Señor, I wish all my fares today are as pleasant as you. It would be my pleasure.”

  I enjoy becoming someone I’m really not with somebody who’s never met me. It’s liberating. I’m generally not a good-natured person. In reality, I’m skeptical, cynical, and cautious. As long as I’m being honest, I hate being that way. I wish I were more like the person I’ve presented to Jorge, but it’ll never happen. Never. So, I’ve learned to live with who I am. Besides, suspicion comes in handy in my line of work—c’est la vie.

  I’m glad Jorge joined me. We sit outside, enjoying our espressos in the early morning sunshine. Traffic builds on the avenue and horns honk with increased regularity. Bumper to bumper is the norm for Mexico City.

  “Rush hour,” Jorge says between sips. “The same all over the world.”

  “Where have you travelled?”

  “Italy, England, and, of course, the US. Oh, the traffic jams in Italy, ni me digas.”

  “Rough, huh?”

  “The worst. Thank you so much for the coffee.”

  “My pleasure.” And it was. I have a love/hate relationship with the personal protection business. When my firm works for someone like Dr. Knight, it’s love. His take on science and religion, the “new age” movement and what he calls “alternative globalization,” is hypnotic. The We Are One world tour is wildly successful, making him the wealthiest speaker on the circuit, and his books have literally given me a new lease on life.

  As for some of the others we’ve protected, I could have easily done them in myself—pure hate. Sometimes all I want to do is close up operations and drive a taxi, like Jorge. Leave all my worries behind. Occasionally yell pendejo out the window at jerks who cut me off.

  “When you get to the arena tonight, go to will-call. I’ll have a couple of backstage passes waiting for you and your wife, sound good?”

  His face brightens. “Si, señor. Muchas gracias.”

  “Don’t mention it. Thanks for turning me on to The Best Coffee. It really is.”

  We kill a few more minutes on the sidewalk discussing life, politics, and sports. He brings out his wallet and shows me pictures of his wife and two boys. A proud papa.

  Foot traffic increases on the sidewalk, with crowds of businessmen marching to work, filing by in an endless stream. Soon joined by schoolchildren, shoppers, and tourists, the sidewalk becomes congested.

  “We should hit the road.” I hate to get back to the “real” world, but it is what it is. We climb back into his cab and I think about tonight, tomorrow in Las Vegas, and then…what? Coming back here and driving a taxi? No more mistrust, no more hunches, no more intrigue. The thought brings a rare smile to my face.

  He pulls up in front of the arena, twists around in his seat, and refuses to accept the fare. Instead, he shakes my hand. “Thank you again, señor, will I see you tonight?”

  “Of course.” I lie. There won’t be time to greet him, to meet his wife, or exchange pleasantries. My team will be too busy getting the good doctor out of the arena, and to the airport in one piece. Then it’s off to Sin City for the final stop on the tour.

  I stand on the sidewalk and wave, watching his taxi fade into the distance. I like Jorge. I’m certain he’s the kind of guy who would definitely have my back if he were in the game. Good people.

  XI

  I check in with the head of security for the Arena Ciudad de México at 0900 hours. The offices are located in the subterranean levels of the 25,000-seat auditorium. Major Roberto Flores speaks fluent English, bypassing the need for a translator.

  Currently, the firm of Brooklyn Davis, Inc. lacks the financial resources to obtain most of the items on my wish list of high-tech security devices. I’m confident this will soon change. Until then, we rely on event security to provide metal detectors, a canine presence, and additional manpower at all entrances, along with closed-circuit monitoring of significant access points. Major Flores proudly displays his banks of single-zone walk-through metal detectors. My advance scout, Richard Blaine, had already provided me with that depressing news. We obviously prefer the more advanced thirty-three-zone walk throughs, but until we can afford our own equipment, single zones will have to do—beggars, choosers, and all that. Blaine had also sent me the layout of the arena. Twenty-three high-risk zones were more than my team would be able to cover.

  “Major Flores,” I say with a smile, “we’ll need to close off floor exits 11 through 18, and shutdown hallways 4, 5, and 6 leading to the terrace seating.” One way to mitigate the disadvantage small security teams pose is to direct the crowd where we want them to be.

  “Of course,” the major says, “are there any other requests?”

  “We’ll be on a very tight schedule tonight. We have an eleven o’clock flight out of the city, so it’s imperative we depart the arena directly after the speech. Can you show me the parking layout?”

  “Of course, this way.”

  Major Flores and his detail escort me to the underground parking garage. I check my watch and time the journey between the limo and the arena’s main stage—forty-three seconds. I keep my eyes open for any problems along the route and point them out to the major. He agrees to post extra staff at the locations I indicate.

  All in all, I’m satisfied with the layout of the facility and the capabilities of Major Flores’ team. Once again, I’m frustrated at my lack of resources to fill the gaps. Facial recognition equipment, sniffer dogs, and a larger number of operatives would go a long way in alleviating my anxiety. Still, with the major’s staff and local police having eyes on the arena, and my team focusing on Dr. Knight, I’m confident in our ability to provide protection for tonight’s event.

  “Thank you for your time.” I hand the major a red and black lanyard, and a small bronze pin engraved with the word ONE, the “day pins” my team will use for identification. “One more thing, I promised two backstage passes at will call for a friend. Should I
arrange that with ticketing, or—”

  “Nonsense, señor, I’ll take care of it myself. The name?”

  “Jorge Robles and guest.”

  “Muy bien, señor Davis,” the major says writing the name down in a small notepad, “a dignitary? Diplomat, perhaps?”

  “Taxi driver.”

  He grins. “Very well. We’re looking forward to hosting Dr. Knight. It should be quite an evening.” We shake hands and part ways.

  At the entrance lobby, I notice Sean Smith and Gayle Betters showing their identification books to one of Major Flores’ men.

  “Smitty, Gayle, right on time.” I walk over and shake their hands. “The security office is downstairs. I just spoke with Major Flores. Nice guy.”

  “You look like you need some shut-eye.” Gayle knows me better than I know myself. Without her dogged determination, there would never have been a Brooklyn Davis, Inc. Fate sure smiled on me when we met during her second tour of duty to Iraq. Standing five-foot-six, she’s built like a mixed martial arts fighter. Of course, she was my first pick when I started BDI, in fact, I would bet since grade school, she was always somebody’s first pick.

  “That can wait, I need some food first. Any ideas?”

  “Casa Toro just around the block,” Smitty says. “Heard it was decent.” He’s the only member of my crew who’s non-military. Instead, he served six years with the LA County Sheriff’s Department—Operation Safe Streets Bureau (OSS). Responsible for anti-gang maneuvers, he’s a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, one man wrecking crew.

  “Casa Toro it is.”

  “Better keep your eyes open, boss,” Gayle adds, “if you’re gonna walk, this ain’t the safest neighborhood.”

  “Will do. See you at eighteen hundred.”

  Casa Toro is decent. They know how to grill a steak and the homemade sauce is just this side of the best I’ve ever tasted. The meal is super cheap so I over-tip. Playing the ugly American is my least favorite role.

  I grab a taxi and head back to the hotel to check on Wade. He’s standing watch outside Dr. Knight’s room. He’s my team’s best tactical planning and execution guy, and there’s nobody better in a firefight.