The Anarchists (25 page)

Harper and Quinne exited the vehicle. Damario moved to do the same, but Madison tugged at his jacket. “Wait, Damario. Wait a second.”

He looked back. She rarely called him by name. “What?”

You’re keeping that disk? What aren’t you telling me? Why won’t you be honest with me?
“Headed home?”

“I need to,” he said with resignation. “It’ll be 11:00 by the time I get there. You said it yourself. Robinne‘s a good woman.”

“Good night.”

Madison shifted over to the driver’s seat. She watched Damario hand Quinne her belongings from his transport and then she followed him as he drove through the James manse’s side exit. Tempted to trail him all the way home and confront him over the missing piece of evidence, she split from him when the location of her apartment required her to take a different route.

“Why’s he contaminating evidence?” she thought aloud. In all the time she had known Damario – dating back to the academy – she did not know him to act like this. He was unbalanced, distracted, and a little unpredictable. He customarily did everything by the rules and refused to turn a blind eye to misappropriations and missteps by others.
Wouldn’t he want me to hold him to the same standard?

She trusted him, unlike any other man she had ever met in her life. Damario’s presence and encouragement at the academy helped convince her that she did the right thing in choosing public service over a real estate career. Besides, she could always invest or flip properties on the side. 

Whatever’s he doing, I have to know.
She
made a U-turn. 

Damario inhaled and held his breath, but Robinne did not occupy her customary squawking perch: the cold and empty front room.  Even in the midst of their worst fights, she retained a measure of composure and hospitality by piling bed sheets and a pillow on the worn armrest. Not any longer.

“Hall dim,” Damario whispered. If he tripped, Robinne might wake up. But the closer he drew to the top of the staircase, he noticed a growing triangle of light. He cursed and placed his hand on the wall access panel. The bedroom door retracted. His rolling suitcase faced him on the neatly-made bed.    

Robinne emerged from the bathroom with his grooming bag. “I didn’t think you’d be home before midnight.”

“Am I going somewhere?” he deadpanned.

“I packed enough to get you through the next few days.”

“It’s my house, too, Robinne. I’m not going anywhere.”

Robinne‘s shoulders dropped. “You want to try and talk me out of my decision? We’ve been through this.”

Damario approached the bed and lifted the envelope. “What does it say?”

“Nothing new,” she shot back. 

You’re a workaholic. Great with the kids. You avoid everything. Emotionally cold.
Damario sat next to the suitcase.
This won’t be an easy fix,
he thought. “Listen. . .”
  

“Stay at a hotel on the other side of town. We can afford it.”

His eyes widened.
She knows about the investment account.
“I can explain. . .”

“You’ve stashed away a small fortune. I knew you didn’t buy those fancy shoes with overtime pay,” she said, arms crossed. “After all these years, you’re dirty? What’ve you been spending it on, strippers? Prostitutes? Another family?”

Damario licked his lips, rubbed his hands on his legs and exhaled.
I have to tell her the truth, although she won‘t believe it.
“I’ve been having dreams – the same dream – for a week. They’re like intense repressed memories that I can‘t shake.”

Intrigued, Robinne tossed the grooming bag onto the closest side of the bed and pulled up the sleeves of her white wool sweater. “Go on.”

“I’m inside a round room, surrounded by equipment – like I’ve had an operation. I saw something like it inside a condemned building downtown, but I’d never been inside that building before in my life. But I wasn’t alone. Three women were there. One of them was Harper James, and another one died tonight.”

 The development complicated the quick break she had planned. It explained his behavior as of late, including his obsession with the missing person case. 

“The money,” he said, stopping when Robinne sat down next to him and moved closer. “I play the stocks. I knew you wouldn‘t approve, so I borrowed some marks.”

The air between them constricted. Robinne bit her lip and eyed the ceiling.
Madison.

“Why are you always like this about her?”

Robinne faced her oblivious husband. “She’s single, skinny, her butt’s tight with boobs that don’t sag. She flirts with you all the time, and you like it.”

“Robbie.”

“Robbie what?” She stood to her feet. “Look me in the eye and deny it.”

In college, she and Damario were inseparable. He turned down the one threat to their relationship – a paid internship offer at G.R. Cooper – years ago. He graduated with honors and a business administration degree, while she completed her studies and the certification process for early childhood education.  

Years in a dead end job and the pressure of Christian’s impending birth sent Damario toward the financial steadiness and thrill of a civil service position. For the most part, Robinne dealt with the constant possibility her husband might be killed. But every once in a while, she cried in fits and experienced insomnia.

“Madison’s my partner.”

“I’m your partner!” she shouted back, pointing at her chest.   

 He knew Madison’s continued presence in his life hurt his marriage more than helped it. When they met, Madison had a husband, whose chain she yanked until he divorced her. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll request a transfer first thing in the morning,” he said in a monotone.

“Don’t do me any favors.” Robinne leveled the suitcase to the floor. “Leave.”

Believing space to be the best option, he slightly bent to kiss his wife goodbye, but she turned away from him. Irritated, he snatched the bag by the handle and left the room, pausing at the hand plate to shut the door behind him. He purposely stomped his feet down each stair and exited the home.

On the first concrete step, he deeply inhaled the crisp midnight air until his lungs burned. He could purchase a few days at the deluxe hotel where the Coleys spent their first year anniversary. He could also stay at the Four Seasons – another designer hotel where celebrities stayed – or the budget options; a Red Roof Inn, Howard Johnsons, or Microtel. He had money to burn.     

Opening his holophone, he thought about calling Robinne and giving a conciliatory speech; about how he was wrong to allow Shenk to be so close to him, their flirtatious partnership bordered on adultery, and he was sorry. He’d apologize for things she regularly accused him of doing, but he did not notice himself. Closing the hidden accounts would help, and he would no longer trade.

Midway into dialing his own home number, a pair of red taillights and a trail of exhaust smoke caught his eye. He ventured down the street until the familiar license plate came into view. Smiling, he entered the street. The passenger lock clicked open and he opened the transport’s suicide door. He needed a friend. 

“Blinds, open 50 percent.”

Gears whirred and parted the Venetian blinds enough for Robinne to watch her husband safely get into his transport. He’d sit inside of it, turn on the engine, and think about things. Then, he’d call her in a few minutes and issue a blanket apology. She’d try to play hard to get when he did and then give him the Sweet Georgia Brown. In the morning, he would request a transfer out of the precinct and all would be well.  

Whenever they fought, he left their station wagon so she could shuttle the kids around without hassle. He had his police vehicle and the department did not mind him using it for personal travel, as long as he stayed inside city limits. Robinne smiled and readied herself for the house holophone to ring when a blue glow lit up the palm of his hand. Her handheld lay on the dresser. Either way, she prepared herself to hear what he had to say.  

When he closed it, Robinne stopped.
Is he coming inside?
No, he headed to her left.
But why?
She rumbled down the stairs, opened the front door, and scuttled down one step from the pavement. There, she saw her husband’s silhouette open a passenger side door, toss his bag into the back, and get into the transport. When it pulled onto the street, Robinne recognized the municipal license plate and cursed.

She could not get into the house fast enough. Inside, she compulsively brushed her hands through her hair and paced.
I should call him. But he’s sitting next to her!

Mind scrambling, Robinne dismissed the idea of a drink. One would smooth the edges off of her anxiety; two could put her better at ease. It had been five years. She and Damario downed shots after their graduation, and followed it with marijuana – at her suggestion. Robinne’s former reputation when it came to hallucinogenic substances preceded her. But, she kicked the habit during her first pregnancy and had not sipped alcohol since. 

She hated scotch, but Damario’s Oban represented the only alcohol in the house. Without the kids to cling to, Robinne hurried to the kitchen before she changed her mind and poured herself a glass. The brown liquor gushed into the tumbler. She sniffed it at a last attempt to deter herself, but it failed. It burned going down her throat and warmed her stomach. A distinct, pleasantly distasteful residue remained on her tongue.

Robinne refilled her glass and drank it faster than the first.
I hate you.

She placed the glass onto the counter and swallowed a generous swig straight from the bottle itself.
You made me do this.

Tears burst from her eyes as she dropped to her knees, still drinking. The scotch sloppily dribbled down the sides of her cheeks, down her chin, and onto her sweater, staining it.
They
’ve
been
sleeping together, probably this whole time.
She used the edge of her sleeves to blot her face and clean off the wetness from her face.

Seething with anger, Robinne screamed and collapsed into a sobbing heap on the black-and-white tiled floor. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

January 29, 2050

Micah James kept the ragged sweatshirt hood pulled low over his forehead. This way, he could be unidentifiable from all distances. If anyone broached his periphery, he balled up his fists to strike first and ask questions later. The tactic served him well against the aggressive vagrants who attacked for the sake of doing it. He lost his watch and tuxedo jacket the first night he spent sleeping on the street, but gained a sweatshirt and a trenchcoat a couple of days later.

He hoped Harper had not given up on him. He lived. Sending word in any form – a holophone call or personal appearance – threatened that status. Micah suspected the police force worked to find him, but that the people after Doctor Chu would get to him first. Once he figured out what to do, he would move on it.

Each morning, he walked the streets, asking for food only when his stomach rumbled. Guilt plagued him. He and Harper possessed enough money to feed every homeless person for the next three counties. But he had to stay under the radar – not just for his sake, but for those counting on him.

At six o’ clock each morning, he patronized a rescue mission on Market Street with an antique neon
Jesus Saves
sign hanging outside of it. The place served breakfast without scanning identification. Micah had cased it for days, unsure whether or not he could partake of it without being recognized or questioned.

On his first day, a cheery blonde filed past the masses and made it a point to welcome him. “Hi! My name’s Crystal, but my friends call me Cee Cee.”

Micah paused and stuttered until she laughed and clapped her hands.

“You don’t have to tell me your name. You looked new, and I know all the regulars. Welcome to the Market Street Mission. If you need anything, ask for me.”

This morning, he looked for her to ask if she could protect his lone valuable. Gradually, the line moved inside and he noticed a tuft of teased yellow hair bobbing back and forth behind the service line. Crystal smiled at Micah, and when he did not return it, she removed her gloved hands, dropped her spoon in the grits, and left. Soon, a man replaced her and did not break stride serving the men, women and children. Micah accepted hominy grits from him, but they would taste different now that Crystal no longer served them.