The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  I give him a “hey, what’s up” nod. “Is he awake?”

  “An hour ago.”

  I knock on the door. The wait gives me the opportunity to take a mental assessment of my team, like a chess player evaluating the board—

  Gayle and Smitty are at the event site reviewing sightlines and evacuation scenarios. Wade is on primary watch. Junior Perkins, our designated driver, is in his room sleeping in—as he always does. JoJo Jackson is somewhere reading a book—probably James Patterson as he always does. And Liz Childs, the team’s information technology specialist, is busy putting together our party favors—lanyards, day pins, and communications hardware, set to the proper channel and ready for use. She’s also making the final arrangements for our departure from Mexico City, and confirming our hotel reservations in Las Vegas where I already sent Richard Blaine to do the advance work.

  You forgot me.

  The female voice is so clear, so close, I check to see if there’s a communication bud stuck in my ear. The hallway is empty, except for Wade.

  He gives me a sideways glance. “What is it, boss?”

  “Nothing. I thought…nothing.”

  The door swings open and Julie Williams, Tilly Knight’s personal assistant, greets me with a quick nod. She holds a stack of letters, probably fan mail, in one hand and her glasses in the other.

  Tilly strolls toward the door, her brilliant smile and easy manner making me forget all about my mystery voice.

  “Good morning, Brooks. Please,” she says stepping aside and ushering me in with a wave of her hand.

  I nod at Julie who disappears into another room. “Thank you, Mrs. Knight—”

  “Tilly, for the one hundredth time, it’s Tilly.”

  Her smile is authentic. I want to say, “and you can call me Brooks,” but it wouldn’t be appropriate. It will always be “Mrs. Knight.” I step inside, close the door, and approach the good doctor.

  He sits on a cream-colored couch in the middle of the suite. The three-bedroom penthouse has all the trappings of a comfortable bungalow—modern furniture, colorful throw rugs, works of art, a 65” flat screen TV above the fireplace, and a postcard view of Mexico City. Too rich for my blood.

  When Dr. Knight glances up from his newspaper, I feel the power in those steel gray eyes. He could say anything right now—the sky is green, the sun is blue—and I would believe him. He rises and extends a hand.

  “Good morning, doctor.” I give his hand my “let’s get down to business” shake. “Just wanted to let you know—”

  “That everything is on schedule and looking good,” he says with a wry grin. The grin grows to a full smile, revealing cavernous dimples and dazzling white teeth. “You’ve been the bearer of this good news every morning since the tour began. For that, Tilly and I are grateful.”

  His accent hints at Mediterranean or Middle Eastern, something I’ve never been able to either guess, nor discover. His background seems a purposefully guarded secret, with several conflicting rumors making the talk show circuit.

  One story claims he’s a rescued orphan by US troops from a bombed-out village in Afghanistan. Another says he arrived in the US as part of the Diversity Visa Lottery. Still another alleges—or is it urban legend—that Dr. Anwar Knight’s sudden appearance on the international scene is proof of Divine Intervention. Whatever the case, he’s here now, and I’m responsible for his well being.

  “Do you mind if we have a word—alone?” he says glancing at Tilly. She bows her head and disappears into another room. He sits, motioning for me to follow suit. “I hope you don’t mind if I speak openly. It’s certainly not my wish to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  All at once I’m uncomfortable.

  “I’ve given your situation some thought—”

  “My situation?”

  “Quite so. We discussed it during your interview.”

  Months ago, along with submitting a sealed bid to obtain this contract, Dr. Knight met with me for an informal discussion. He asked questions about my background, and a series of other personal questions. Straightforward with him, I relayed my experiences during the war. He was keen to hear about my capture, torture, and subsequent escape. Talking to Dr. Knight about those awful memories came easy, far easier than discussing it with any of the shrinks I had been ordered to see.

  “I can empathize,” he continues. “Believe me when I tell you, I know exactly what you’re going through, both emotionally and physically. Our path is one.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Remember this, Brooklyn—everything must have a beginning, and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. Your journey is just beginning, my friend.”

  I don’t know what to say. He stands, and so do I. The experience of talking to this venerated man, of witnessing his genuine concern for me, is spiritual in nature, like I’ve just been baptized—or won the lottery.

  “I want you to listen very carefully,” he says, gray eyes boring through me. “I’m going to tell you something, but it cannot leave this room, yes?”

  I nod.

  “I will soon be in need of full-time protection and would like to offer you the position.”

  His proposal catches me off guard. It takes a conscious effort to close my gaping pie hole. “That’s very generous, sir, but my team—”

  “You may hire whomever you wish. Truth be told, I’ve become quite fond of your entire team—quite professional.”

  My heart rate kicks up a notch. I clear my throat. “If I may, sir…why me?”

  “Well, for one, you and your team have performed admirably throughout the tour. Beyond that, you’ve been quite open about your past, and I value honesty. The way you were treated by your enemies…by your country…such a disgrace. How did you put it? Oh yes, you were forgotten, ignored, as if your struggles were insignificant. I wish to assuage your fears about the past and allay your doubts towards the future.”

  I couldn’t speak. His words gave me something I hadn’t known for a long time—hope. It was as if he understood me, the real me, still trapped behind enemy lines, in my own personal hell. He offered me a way out, a way back—he offered me the possibility of a new purpose. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then say nothing. Tomorrow night, in Las Vegas, when this tour is over, I will be making a very special announcement. Perhaps you will give me your answer at that time.”

  “Announcing the SST accord?” Where did that come from?

  Dr. Knight’s face grows red. “What did you say?”

  “I have no idea. SST? I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Are you speaking truthfully?”

  “Of course. I respect you far too much to ever lie.” He holds my gaze for a full minute. It’s as if he sees right through me.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best, Mr. Davis. You’ve seen my special guests come and go, the meetings we’ve held well into the early mornings. The dawning of a new age is coming, sir. A dawn some would choose to delay. I want you and your team to join my team, share my vision. I have a singular feeling about you, Brooks. Your journey is just beginning.”

  We shake hands and I leave the room uplifted, his words carved into my memory—your journey is just beginning.

  It sure is. The female voice again.

  I rush past Wade and scan the hallway, once again searching for the mystery voice.

  “You okay, boss?”

  “Yeah, Clyde, I’m fine. Junior will be here in a couple hours. Do you need anything?”

  “Negative.”

  “Roger that.”

  Patting my forehead, I wipe away a few beads of sweat and stride down the carpeted hallway to the elevators. Reality hits me hard—I’ve got a voice inside my head. Shit. I had put a lot of pressure on myself to wrap up this tour without incident. After all, providing security for the world’s most respected figure is pressure enough, let alone doing it with a skeleton crew on a shoestring budget. So far, everything has gone off wi
thout a hitch, but now there’s a voice stuck inside my head. Wonderful.

  I draw in a deep breath, trying to release some of the negative energy this mystery voice has triggered. Just two more stops on the tour, and it’ll all be over.

  I sense the presence of someone behind me, watching, waiting. With my hand on the 9mm under my coat, I turn around. “Show yourself.”

  A “ding” announces the arrival of the elevator. The doors slide open and two people exit. I climb into the empty car and press a button, any button, just to get the doors shut ASAP.

  It’s true what people say—life isn’t fair. The moment Dr. Knight shows an interest in pulling me out of my funk, I start going nutso. What the hell is SST?

  My room is bright and sunny. I cross to the window and draw the shades, putting an end to that situation, pronto. Fumbling with the buttons on the alarm clock, I give myself enough time for a two-hour nap. What do they call it? A siesta. After undressing, I crawl under the covers and get comfortable, hoping sleep will usher away the crazy mystery voice. I punch down the pillow, roll on my side, and picture a dark fog rolling over the room, concealing me from the rest of the world—protecting me.

  The fog covers me like a plush robe, thick and warm. It shields me from prying eyes, from whispers, and especially from that damned voice playing tricks inside my head. I thought those days were long gone. As natural as can be, I float above the bed, and breathe in the light scent of this wonderful fog.

  Buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz.

  I flop over and hit the alarm. It’s time to shake off this idiotic dream and get up. In a few short hours we’ll be back in the good old USA.

  XII

  After a quick shower, I dress in my usual black, nondescript suit. I check the room twice for anything I may have forgotten—a phone charger, some runaway socks, or anything else that tends to go AWOL during hotel stays. I’ll ride in the limo with Wade, JoJo, and the Knights to the arena. Junior will drive.

  Two taps on the door sound out, followed by three more. Liz stands in my doorway, her light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a dimpled smile plastered on her face. She clutches a brightly colored red and black box to her chest, as if someone might snatch it from her at any moment. The grin tells me what it is before asking. She dances into the room.

  “It’s finally here,” she says, “and it’s better than even I expected. This is the lightest, most powerful high-tech communications device in the industry, and guess what? They accepted our request to beta-test the latest version.” She opens the box, carefully placing the empty package on the bed. With a theatrical “Ta-dah” she whirls around, presenting a tiny earbud for my inspection. “Introducing ComLink 6.0.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Uh-huh? Is that all you have to say? For your information, Mr. Davis, this little earpiece can do things other gadgets can only dream about.”

  “Assuming gadgets do, indeed, dream.”

  “Okay, Neanderthal, enough with the wise cracks. Everybody else already loves their ComLink.”

  “You mean I’m the last to get one?”

  “Of course, I always save the best for last. Anyway, here’s the basics,” she says displaying the earpiece in the palm of her hand. “This tiny, wireless device has advanced speech amplification, dynamic noise control, holds a charge for three days, and has a range of eighty-five miles—eighty-five miles. It’s a multi-channel, totally hands-free, comfort fit, global positioning marvel. There’s never been anything like it.”

  “Did you say hands free? Wait a minute, does that mean you’ll hear everything I say, wherever I am, at all times?”

  “Ha, you wish. No, there’s a hyper-sensitive heat sensor coating on the outer shell. It activates at the slightest pressure of your touch—”

  “You mean it’s got a button.”

  She growls, a sound I’ve come to expect and like. “You’re hopeless.” After a deep breath, she tries a new approach. “With this tiny miracle, I’ll be able to track you, direct you, and protect you. This baby may very well save your life one day. It’s feather-light, waterproof, shockproof, and impervious to radio frequency interference. It also comes in a variety of colors. Here” —she pushes the earbud toward me— “yours is black.”

  “Gee, thanks. Was pink unavailable?”

  “Go on, try it on for size.”

  I place it in my ear. It emits one soft beep. After a few seconds, I can’t even tell it’s there.

  “All kidding aside, Brooks, thank you. I can finally keep an eye on you guys in real time, monitor your chatter, focus on the action, and call out the cavalry if needed. It’s about time you splurged on this gear instead of the dime store walkie talkies we were using. Honestly, that stuff was embarrassing.”

  “I’m glad the new equipment has earned the Liz Childs seal of approval.”

  “Ha, very funny.” She puts the ComLink box on the dresser along with a lanyard and a day pin. “Seriously, boss, this stuff is the bomb.”

  “The bomb? A bit dated, but I’ll accept it. But don’t thank me, we’re able to spend on some long overdue upgrades because of this tour. And the fact that the ComLink folks cut us a break to be their Guinea pigs—”

  “Beta testers,” she says with a big grin. “Nobody else in the world has anything close to what we’ll be using in the field.”

  I pluck the earbud out of my ear and place it in my coat pocket. “Right. That’s what I meant. Is there anything else, Liz?”

  “For God’s sake,” she says leaning in to me and pulling it out of my pocket, “don’t you dare lose it. ComLink does things no other device in the world can do. It can—”

  “I’m glad you’re excited about it, and I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

  “Neanderthal.” She winks and marches toward the door. With her hand on the knob, she hesitates. “Boss?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that…well…we’re almost finished with this tour, and some of us were wondering…what I mean is—”

  “Out with it, Liz. You’ve never been one to hold back, what’s on your mind?”

  “Some of us were wondering what’s next? Is there another job lined up after Vegas? Because if there isn’t, well, some of us need to put out feelers. I hate to be so blunt—”

  “Feelers? Listen, as far as the future is concerned, I’ve got a line on something that’ll keep us all busy for a very long time. I can’t say anything more about it right now, but just be patient, okay?”

  She brightens. “Yes, sir.” She pulls open the door. “And thank you.”

  I place the ComLink back in my ear and wait for the faint beep. The tiny gadget makes me think about Liz, which makes me smile.

  “Ten minutes out,” Junior’s voice comes over the device crisp and clear.

  “Roger that.” I glance at my watch. It’s showtime.

  I grab my bag and leave a tip, in US dollars, on the pillow for the hotel staff. “Greenbacks” go a lot further than pesos. Even though I didn’t use room service, and stayed just one night, the money is a small thank you for a clean, comfortable place to stay.

  It only takes a few minutes to negotiate my way down to the parking garage. Junior is at the wheel of the black limo. I throw my bag in the trunk. Wade, JoJo, and the Knights step out of the elevator and into the limo. I take my place in the front passenger’s seat—shotgun—and place my hand under my coat.

  “Good evening, Brooks.” Dr. Knight’s voice is enthusiastic.

  I turn and nod. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “God willing,” he says.

  He always says this, whether it refers to the time it takes to get from point A to point B, or when we drop him off at his hotel suite and I habitually say, “Piece of cake.” I guess Knight’s view is one way of looking at things—it’s all in God’s hands. I prefer to take a more practical approach, at least when it comes to the short-term future. It’s really in the hands of my team. If we keep our eyes peeled, and our e
quipment performs as designed, the future will be one less thing to worry about…God willing.

  We pick up two police motorcycle escorts as we emerge from the garage. There’s only a few protesters with hand-drawn signs loitering on the sidewalk. Their message is weak at best—We Are Not One. One sign even says, No One, whatever that means. In any case, they pose no threat and we speed past them as if they aren’t even there. Knight never seems to mind the protest signs. If anything, he enjoys their creativity.

  The red and blue lights of the motorcycles get traffic out of our way. Just outside the arena we pick up two more police escorts. The demonstrators are thicker here, and with good reason—more press. The protestors have exchanged their hand-made signs for a more professional look. Uniformed in color—red and black—and cut to a standardized size, they even carry slogans that are a bit more professional. Anwar Go Home—We Are Free—and a new one I hadn’t seen before—A Dark and Stormy Knight. I point it out to Junior.

  “I like that one.” Knight nods his head and laughs. “People can be so creative.”

  The limo slows down and I give Junior a glance. He shakes his head and yells at the motorcycle cop who has drifted in front of the bumper. Junior stomps on the brakes. I brace my hands against the dash. “What the…”

  “Sorry, boss,” he says, “I can’t run over him…can I?”

  “Just nudge him out of the way.”

  Demonstrators surround the limo, some of them banging on the windows. I crack my window open a few inches. The motorcycle cop is still blocking our way, and I’m pissed. “Pendejo!”

  The cop jerks his bike to the right and turns to face me. His glare registers just before the pistol in his right hand gets my attention. Pop. Pop. Pop.

  The shots aren’t aimed at me. Junior hits the gas and tags the back of the leading motorcycle, sending the officer flailing to the ground. I turn around to get a look at the Knights. JoJo and Wade are covering him like a winter coat. The limo speeds past the protesters and screeches into the underground garage. I’ve got my 9mm out of its holster, pointed down at the floorboards. My heart is bouncing around in my chest like a pinball.