The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  Just hear me out. What if The Nefarists used Burns to place the bomb in the arena weeks ago, then got rid of him—all they’d have to do is hide it from being found, something they specialize in. A sense of pride comes with those words. After all, my commitment to this case began with nothing and steadily progressed—going from total disbelief when I first woke up in After World, to cautious involvement thanks to Samantha, and finally proclaiming myself lead investigator.

  “Lead investigator, huh?”

  Uh-huh, a little while ago when I replaced Sebastian at the helm.

  “Replaced him with extreme prejudice,” she says. “You should be proud.”

  Sam makes me smile. It’s been a long journey since the war. She put up with a lot of shit but stuck by me, and we got through it. It felt good to feel good.

  “Finally.”

  Hey, these are private thoughts.

  “No such thing when I’m around. C’mon, let’s make that call.”

  Oh, you know about that?

  She giggles as she says, “I know everything about you.”

  Hopefully not everything. I pull my cell from my coat pocket and dial.

  “Varjak.” The way he says his name commands attention. A man who has no time for bullshit, and knows it when he hears it. A man whose trust must be earned, but once you have it, it’s never questioned. It’s a powerful voice, in control, prepared for anything. In my book, one of the few good people.

  I speak fast, “Paul, it’s Brooks. Long time. Listen, I need a favor.”

  “Wait one.” I hear a click, a faint beep, and a voice I’m not familiar with say, “Go.”

  Paul is back on the line in two seconds. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Bad?” He’s always teased me about my initials. I like it. “How’s BDI going? The last time I heard from you, you were begging me to join your little ragtag band of mercenaries. Don’t tell me you’re still—”

  “No, I’m not asking again. I should have known I’d never land a big shot like you.”

  “Yeah right,” he says, his tone telling me to get to the “good” part—the reason I called.

  “Paul, I never thought I’d say this…I need a favor.”

  He’s silent. We both know how this will play out. I hold his marker. I saved his ass in Afghanistan, laying down cover so he and his unit could make it out alive. Me? I wasn’t so lucky. Saving his life cost me a good part of mine.

  His voice stays calm, in control, and he gets straight to the point, “What have you gotten yourself into, and how can I help?”

  “This is for your ears only.” I wait. Another click, another muffled, “Go.”

  “Paul, I’ve got a situation in Vegas. You know I got the contract for the We Are One world tour, right?”

  His voice is quiet, but rushed, “We’re in the black. What do you need?”

  “Three things. First, there’s a device in the arena.”

  A slight pause. “Source?”

  “100 percent. I need serious help.”

  “Lester’s Cleaning Service. ETA one hour. Tell me, what happened in Mexico?”

  “Are you keeping tabs?”

  “On and off. You didn’t make any friends down there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Guy named Roberto Flores. He’s a strong anti-globalist and he’s currently in the wind. Watch your back.”

  “Second,” I say going on with my petition, “can you get me status on a Fayard Powell, thirty-six-year-old male, Jamaican passport.”

  “And?”

  “Tell me what you’ve got on a Benjamin Grossman—aka Mr. Benny. Heads security at the US Data Center Arena.”

  “Will do.” Click.

  I let out a purifying breath. For the first time in…ever, I can truly relax while someone else does the heavy lifting. Varjak is so high up in the deep state chain, he has the ability to assemble an expert team that will be on site in one hour. They’ll sweep the arena, comb it from top to bottom, scrubbing it better than a germaphobe’s bathroom. Guaranteed. All off Paul’s book and my budget—thank you Mr. and Mrs. US taxpayer. The Nefarists are supposed to be experts at hiding things, maybe from canine sniffers and human eyes, but let’s see how they match up against my new action officer. I grin—Witchcraft vs Tradecraft. Bets are placed twenty-four-seven in Sin City. My money is on Lester’s Cleaning Service.

  “I know you have amazing faith in your secret agent friend,” Samantha says, “but, if I may, let me play Devil’s advocate. Let’s say Paul and his men are able to find the bomb and the arena is safe for tonight’s speech. What about the next night, or the night after that?”

  My contract runs out tonight.

  “Are you serious? You’re going to walk away from Dr. Knight just like that?”

  Who said anything about walking away? I’m talking about a brand-new contract. After tonight’s speech he’s going to announce the SST accord—the dawn of a new age, remember? It looks like protecting this man is just beginning. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have to get through tonight first.

  The taxi drops me off in front of the arena. Late afternoons in Vegas can be brutal. The sun beating down all day saturates the ground and radiates it back up—heat from above, and hell from below. It leaves nowhere to hide but inside artificially controlled environments. I climb the steps to the front entrance and show my ID to a slipshod security guard. His name tag declares him to be Billy.

  “Mr. Benny know you coming?” Billy asks.

  “No, he doesn’t. Would you let me in so I—”

  “Got to clear it with Mr. Benny first.”

  If it don’t go through me, it don’t go. The old man’s words stick in my head like the garbled lyrics of a song I want to forget. I nod, wiping the sweat off my brow. Thank God, Richard Blaine strolls up and pushes open the glass door.

  Billy frowns. “Hey, wait a minute. I ain’t cleared it with—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Richard says. He leans in and whispers, “This damn crew is so frustrating. I swear they gotta get Mr. Benny’s okay to take a piss.”

  The arena’s conditioned air pours over me like a cold shower. I take a deep, cleansing breath as the heat washes away. “Thanks, Richard. Say listen, I’ve got a professional crew coming in to sweep the arena.”

  He furrows his brow. “A crew?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me. They should pull up at the loading dock in the rear. Can you make sure they get started as soon as possible? They’re called Lester’s Cleaning Service—should be here any minute. I’m gonna go have a word with our pal, Mr. Benny.”

  He nods, giving me a mock two-finger salute. “You got it, boss.”

  The hopeless security guard fumbles with his two-way radio. “Hey, I’m still gonna have to let Mr. Benny know that—”

  “You do what you have to do,” I say, “and tuck in that shirt.”

  He lowers his head, grabs a handful of shirt flap, and shoves it into his khakis. His radio falls out of his hand, slamming onto the cement floor. “Damnit.”

  I shake my head and turn toward the stairs leading to the lower level. I don’t know if Mr. Benny is watching any of this on one of his cryptically marked monitors, but it doesn’t matter.

  What I’m doing isn’t cleared by him, but it will go.

  XXIII

  I make myself comfortable—well, as comfortable as I can get in Mr. Benny’s fortified office. Keeping my eyes on the monitors, I watch three white vans come to a quick stop in back of the arena, carrying men and women outfitted in tan coveralls. Lester’s Cleaning Service consists of twenty-two operatives, apparently highly trained in explosive ordnance removal. Richard opens the roll-up loading dock door for them. Little is spoken as they arrive. They haul in heavy tools, meters, and rolling carts with a precision only time and practice can produce. God bless Paul Varjak.

  Watching them sweep the entire arena in a little less than an hour gives me a renewed sense of pride in my country. These are true professionals, w
orking as a well-trained team with a common purpose. They cover the arena from top to bottom, inspecting every square inch, using meticulous methods in a coordinated effort.

  The CCTV cameras give me a front row seat to everything they touch, everywhere they go. I’m amazed at the speed and precision in which they carry out their task.

  Mr. Benny takes another pull of cheap Scotch from his flask. A new bottle appears, as if by magic, and he refills the container. I don’t know why he bothers carrying the flask if he’s got a bottle at hand—maybe several—but I’m not about to ask him. Who knows how many “snorts” that makes for the day. His eyes are clear but his words are slurred, “What’cha spectin’ ta find? Ya been running a pack of hounds through here all day and night, and now this shit. I ain’t cleared this, ya know. Ain’t cleared none of this cleaning crew shit.”

  “Boss, Liz, come back.”

  I press a finger to the ComLink. It’s good to hear her voice. “Go Liz.”

  “They transported Gayle to UMC Hospital on Charleston.”

  “Any word on cause?”

  “Smitty stayed with her. He said, the way the paramedics were talking, it was probably her heart.”

  “Listen up, team.” I need to say something about Gayle—to give just a little comfort, some reassurance—but the words won’t come, and I know why. When I say them out loud, her loss will be all too real. I hesitate, then clear my throat. “We’re going to miss Gayle. I can’t tell you how much her passing means.” My eyes mist over in my search for the right words. “We’ll each mourn her in our own way, in the days, months, and years to come.” I didn’t know what else to say. As a pep talk it’s miserable. It’s even less memorable as a memorial. My heart isn’t in it—it’s broken.

  Samantha speaks up, “We will not say goodbye to Gayle. We refuse—say it, Brooks. Say what I say. We refuse to say goodbye to Gayle. Say it.”

  I follow her lead. “We refuse to say goodbye to Gayle. We’ll always remember her—how can we not? Her laugh, her guile, the way she made us feel about ourselves. She was more than our colleague, more than our mentor, she was a true friend. She taught us how to work like a team by always being a teammate, how to be our best by always giving her best. And so, we refuse to say goodbye, because she’s not gone. She lives in each of us. She’s right here, in our hearts, even now.”

  I pull the ComLink from my ear, wiping at my eyes. Thank you, Sam.

  “You might wanna go fix your makeup.” Mr. Benny stands up and blocks my view of a monitor labelled B22. He takes another quick “snort.”

  I crane my neck, trying to focus on the screen. “Move aside. Where is that?”

  He keeps quiet, a peculiar expression covering his face.

  Glancing through the one-way mirror, I witness four members of Lester’s Cleaning Crew using a hand powered lift truck to raise a cylinder. They’re on the main floor, a few feet away from the stage. I place the ComLink back in my ear.

  Scampering out of Mr. Benny’s office, I race toward Section B, and jump over a demolition hammer lying on the ground. A gaping hole in the floor stops me in my tracks. The cylindrical device had been buried under the arena, covered by at least twelve inches of quick-dry concrete mix.

  Two members of the cleaning crew dart past me and kneel down to inspect the device. One of them waves a black wand over the cylinder, while the other holds a meter and calls out numbers, “Eight-seven. Two ten. Minus three-zero-one.” More cleaning crew operatives arrive, some wearing excited expressions, others showing concern. They huddle together speaking in quiet voices, each one of them exhibiting a calm professionalism.

  Richard Blaine joins me. “Unbelievable. What the hell did they find?”

  My heart is racing, my mouth bone dry. “The bomb-dogs never stood a chance. It was buried under the floor—cement poured over it. They had to jack-hammer through to get at it.”

  “Okay, tell me, how’d you know there was something here?”

  I could tell him a lie, but the words don’t come. I could tell him the truth, but those words were stuck as well. I simply couldn’t speak.

  “Devil caught your tongue?” Sam says.

  What do you mean by that?

  “Hey, just an expression, boss. Nothing personal.”

  This is incredible are the only words that come to mind.

  “What’s incredible?” Samantha pipes in. “The fact there was a bomb in the arena, or the fact that you found it?”

  Finding it makes it real. Just like speaking about Gayle makes her death real. I don’t want any of this to be real.

  “But it is.”

  Exactly. Which means a device was hidden here by an otherworldly force of evil.

  “Which you found,” she says, “and that means, The Nefarists failed.”

  This time.

  My cell phone vibrates. I slip it out of my pocket and turn away from Richard. “Brooks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Paul Varjak says, his normally calm demeanor sounds a bit out of whack. “Who was your source? How in the hell did you know it was there?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “A little voice in my head.”

  There’s a pause. “We’ll take care of disposal—no extra charge.”

  I turn and face the cylinder suspended a few feet over the cavity in the ground. “What about the clean-up—”

  “We can’t call them Lester’s explosive ordnance disposal crew, but you can trust them to clean up just the same. They’ll take care of everything. In a couple hours you’ll never know anything was out of whack. What time’s the speech?”

  I glance at my watch. “Eight. We have about six hours.”

  “Perfect. The next time you hear that little voice in your head give me a call. You saved about twenty thousand lives today.”

  “Any word on my other requests?”

  I hear paper rustling in the background. “Fayard Powell, thirty-six-year-old Jamaican. Good looking kid. He was on his way to Vegas via Mexico City when he ran into some kind of…uh, passport problem in Chihuahua. Anyway, it got straightened out and he’s on his way to Sin City as we speak.”

  “And Benjamin Grossman?”

  He pauses. “We came up empty.”

  I can’t speak—again. “How can that be? Everybody leaves a trail.”

  “The guy’s a ghost in the wind.”

  Maybe more than that. “Thanks, Paul. I owe you.” I put the cell in my pocket and turn to face Richard.

  “What now, boss?” he asks.

  “Tell the crew to get ready for tonight. You take my place on the incoming transport.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll catch up to you later. There’s something about this bomb that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yeah, like how it got here in the first—”

  I turn away from the scene and jog towards Mr. Benny’s office.

  Samantha speaks up, “What are you going to do?”

  Check something out.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She waits for an answer, an answer that will never come. I’ve already taken the ComLink out of my ear.

  The metal door to the security office is shut and locked. I stare straight at the CCTV camera, knowing Mr. Benny is inside, watching me. This may be one staring contest I can’t win. He’s not going to open the door without a little persuasion. I point at the camera and mouth the words “You’re dead.”

  The lock mechanism makes a ka-chunk sound and the door cracks ajar. My foot helps it open the rest of the way. The monitors that usually brighten the room in a dull electronic glow are all powered off.

  “Grossman,” I shout. No answer. “Grossman, I know you planted the bomb. More than that, I know why.”

  Seconds tick by. “Why?” The voice is scratchy and weak.

  A silhouette sitting behind the desk materializes bit by bit as my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Relax, Grossman. You did what
you had to do, what the Nefarists told you to do. You didn’t really have a choice.”

  More time, more waiting. “Wrong.”

  I can make his shape out now, a dark form in the back of the murky cave. I inch inside, my eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness. He’s holding the metal flask in his right hand—his left rests on the desk. “Why don’t just you tell me, then. What’s your role in this? Who are you?”

  “Well, young fella.” He pauses to bring the flask to his mouth, tilts his head back, and takes three long pulls. Then he tosses the empty container onto his desk. “Ah,” he says, along with a wretched howl. “You might not wanna know the answer ta that particular question.” He fumbles with a key, holding it to his top desk drawer.

  “Stop,” I shout, “put your hands on the desk.” But he doesn’t stop. Instead, he concentrates on opening the drawer.

  A red glow fills the room as he pulls out a small, lighted globe. “The Nefarist didn’t make me do a damn thing.” He raises the pulsing sphere into the air. “’Cause ya see, young fella, I am the Nefarist.” He squeezes the orb.

  The room is bathed in a fierce radiance. He has to be holding a Portable device. Without thinking, I clamber over the desk and wrap my hands across Mr. Benny’s shoulders. His eyes grow wide. Sparks fly from his mouth, his ears, his eyes. His head shakes viciously from side to side. He activated the Portable to escape my questions, to travel…but to where? After World? The Abyss? Even though my money is on the latter, I hang on tight, preparing to be a stowaway to an unknown destination. The thought is both exhilarating and frightening. But if this is what it takes to save the world, I won’t back down. This is Vegas—I’m all in.

  XXIV

  Darkness. Vertigo. Speed.

  Memories crawl in and out of my mind, like millions of tiny earthworms burrowing deep into my brain. Visions of torture hold me in a silent scream—memories of bones cracking and flesh burning, of sand, fire, shit and piss. Good men fell to rescue me. Epinephrine, amphetamines, and steroids brought me back to life—vengeance gave me a reason to live.

  After coming home, after the inquiry, after the surgeries, therapies, drugs and booze, the despair finally, finally faded. So did the night terrors—until now.