Authors: James D. Doss
Samuel Reed’s Brand
The lawmen leaned forward to examine this example of Leadville Lily’s art.
What they beheld on the pale skin of his forearm was a mere number.
24
Scott Parris barked like a an irritable old dog, “So what the hell’s
that
good for?”
As he rolled his sleeve down, Samuel Reed returned Parris’s glare with a cold stare. “If I tell you, you won’t believe a word I say.”
“I might,” Charlie Moon said.
“Yes, I expect you would.” Reed rebuttoned his cuff.
You must’ve been onto me for some time.
“Each morning when I wake up, I check my left forearm. If I see the proper number on my skin, I know that my conscious self is occupying the same body it did when I drifted off to sleep the night before.” He shrugged into his jacket. “If my skin is a blank slate, so to speak—or if I see a smaller number—I realize that I have slipped backward in time and into another version of my strikingly handsome fleshly self.” He fastened three buttons on his jacket. “When I have made a slip, I am able to
remember the future.
If the slippage amounts to at least a few days, I am able to profit thereby by buying low and selling high.”
The chief of police stared dumbly at this cool-as-ice customer who had engineered the deadly encounter between his wife and Chico Perez. This did not compute. For the moment, it was if the trillions of tiny gears in Parris’s brain had jammed.
Likewise, Samuel Reed seemed to have
had his say
.
The Indian cop broke the brittle silence with a compliment. “Well done.”
“Thank you, Mr. Moon.”
The effort to wrap his mind around all this balderdash was making Parris’s forehead ache. “What’n hell are you talking about?”
Having entirely recovered his composure, the storyteller addressed the town cop with a supercilious curl of his thinly mustached lip. “I have done my best to provide a lucid explanation of the means whereby I have amassed a fortune.” He cast a wry glance at the Ute. “Perhaps Mr. Moon would like to give it a try?”
Mr. Moon was pleased to, and directed his remark to his friend. “I believe that our scientist-magician has just pulled a couple of dozen parallel universes out of his hat.”
Parris was more puzzled still. “Parallel
what
?”
“The subject is far too complex to explain in a few words.” Reed exhaled a weary sigh. “Suffice it to say that the concept I have utilized to account for an alleged visit to a tattoo parlor has to do with the cosmological theory that you, Charles, myself, and everyone else—all exist in an enormous multitude of worlds. Some of which are very similar to this one, while others differ strikingly.”
The chief of police’s head felt like a toy balloon that was about to float away. “What does
that
mean?”
“Merely that there are other, parallel realities wherein we live out our respective lives.” Raising his hands to fend off a growling protest from the bearish cop, the physicist continued. “I do not propose to offer a detailed explanation, but I could refer you to several excellent books on the subject which are intelligible to the intelligent layman.”
A little flattery does no harm.
“What it all boils down to is that whenever a human consciousness—or a copy thereof—leaves one body to occupy another, it likewise departs from one universe and enters another.”
Having nothing to say to
that,
the presumably intelligent layman stared at Reed.
The Ute smiled.
He should try writing some science fiction.
The scientist inhaled a refreshing breath. “I am glad that I have told you fellows about this strange business while I can still recall it. My memories of the recent shooting of Samuel Reed Number 23 and my subsequent slippage in time are already beginning to seem more like a fantastic dream than an actual occurrence. Within another month or two, I will retain only vague recollections of these events.” The teller of tales paused to flash a counterfeit smile at his small audience. “There, what do you think—was that not a commendable display of on-the-spot improvisation?”
The cops stared at the enigmatic man, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Charlie Moon:
Reed’s either a first-rate slicker or…or something else altogether.
Just what that
something else
might be was an issue the Ute did not care to pursue.
Scott Parris:
Am I looking at the one-and-only Sam Reed who makes up dopey stories? Or has this guy not only come back from the dead—but from some other world that’s practically just like this one?
Increasingly uncomfortable under this intense scrutiny, the uninvited guest got up from the chair, popped the spiffy homburg onto his head, and retrieved his elegant walking stick, which began to twirl in his hand like the blades of an electric fan. “Please pardon me for intruding on your private meal.” He tipped the hat. “A good evening to you both.” As Samuel Reed was opening the dining-room door to depart, he encountered a uniformed hotel employee carrying a silver tray that was heavy with delicious victuals.
An instant after the waiter had unloaded the tray and departed, Samuel Reed reappeared in the doorway, tapping the ivory-knobbed cane against his shoe. “Please excuse me.” He flashed a foxy smile at Scott Parris. “I was in the lobby when I remembered my promise to give you something special.” His left hand removed an object from his jacket pocket and placed it onto the dining table by the cop’s platter of lasagna. “I thought you might like to have this small memento of our shared adventure. I found it in the magazine rack by the parlor couch, where Irene apparently lost it.”
The cop who had searched every nook and cranny in Reed’s home stared dumbly at the pink telephone.
Charlie was right again. Sam had it all along.
“You will no doubt be interested in a number of text messages stored on my spouse’s misplaced mobile phone.”
The furious chief of police turned his wolfish gaze on the liar’s face. “Messages exchanged by Mrs. Reed and her boyfriend?”
“Yes.” Reed reached into the pocket again. “I also have something for Charles.” The hand emerged with a smallish object.
Moon watched the wealthy widower place a cassette tape beside his linen napkin.
“I hope this is not an imposition,” Reed said. “But when you have the time, I would be obliged if you’d have a listen.”
The Ute could not unfasten his gaze from the gift.
This has to be the tape he recorded the break-in effects on.
Did the fellow actually have the brass to literally lay the evidence on the table—and dare them to implicate him?
No. Even the brash Samuel Reed would not go
that
far. Prior to this morning’s recording, the tape had been carefully erased. But there was just a hint of a prankster’s mischievous smirk as he said, “I hope you will not think me absurdly presumptuous.” He pointed his ebony stick at the cassette. “This amounts to shameless self-promotion; a devious means of securing an audition with your highly regarded bluegrass band.”
The leader of the Columbine Grass turned a puzzled look on Samuel Reed.
“You are already aware that I am an enthusiastic member of the local barbershop quartet.” The gifted tenor smoothed the slender left wing of his mustache. “But you may be surprised to discover that I am also a fair hand with the mandolin.”
“I’ll give it a listen.” Moon slipped the cassette into his shirt pocket.
“I’m not quite ready for a raucous gig at a smoky honky-tonk where rowdy cowboys fling long-neck beer bottles at the performers, but I’d love to hit a few hot licks with you and your lively crew.” Reed winked slyly at the Ute musician. “If you like my performance, perhaps you will invite me join your group during some upcoming jam session.” He gave his cane its final twirl for the day. “And now I will leave you fellows to enjoy your delicious food.” A courtly bow. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Parris scowled at the heavy door the clever man closed behind him. “He lays the phone he swiped from his wife right on the table, knowing there’s no way I can use it to prove how he set up his wife and her boyfriend. And he gives you the cassette tape the ‘ape’ made the break-in sound effects on. That barefaced bastard is determined to twist our tails!”
“It does look like Professor Reed enjoys the last laugh.”
But what’s done is done. And he did it with style.
Charlie Moon enjoyed his final smile for the day.
Scott Parris Raises the Critical Issue
One of the allegedly legendary lawmen was already chowing down on a full pound of grilled trout.
As the other picked listlessly at his lasagna with a silver fork, he addressed his friend in the morose tone of a diner who has lost his manly appetite. “Charlie, d’you mind if I ask you something?”
The famished Indian kept his eye on the platter. “Would it matter if I did?”
“No.”
“Then go right ahead and ask.”
“This stuff about Reed slipping backwards in time—d’you figure there might be any truth to it?”
“No.” Charlie Moon paused to return the trout’s flat-eyed gaze. “I don’t think so.”
Parris laid his fork aside. “But you’re not absolutely dead certain.”
“The things I’m absolutely dead certain about, I can count on the fingers of one hand.” As he slipped along toward tomorrow on the presumably illusory arrow of time, the practicing Catholic counted all four of them.
The chief of police started to say something, then decided to let it ride. At least until Charlie had finished his meal.
A Reflection on Life’s Mysteries
After dessert, Charlie Moon was ready to settle back and let recent events recede into the past.
Not Scott Parris. The man who could never leave well-enough alone felt compelled to broach a worrisome subject. “Charlie?”
Uh-oh.
Moon reached for the last cookie. “Don’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Whenever you say ‘Charlie’ in that tone of voice, you generally end up ruining my good mood.”
“All I wanted to say was…well—I don’t know how to account for the fact that a smart man like Sam Reed believes the strange things he does.”
Moon didn’t agree with the premise of his friend’s concern. The fellow who’d outsmarted both of them was smart enough and then some, but what the fellow actually believed was hard to pin down. As far as the Ute was concerned, Reed’s story was a tall tale and that was the end of the matter. “Maybe Professor Reed’s
too
smart.”
“What does that mean?”
The rancher bit off half the cookie and took his time enjoying it. “When a man’s IQ gets beyond a certain point, sometimes he slips off the deep end.”
That was an interesting notion. “You figure Reed’s a genius who’s also a nutcase?”
“Let’s just say that he’s an overly clever fellow who occasionally lets his imagination run away with him.” Moon pointed the half cookie at his friend. “Don’t ever let that happen to you.”
“You figure I’m that smart?”
“Nope. I figure you for the other type.”
“What?”
“Gullible.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say, Charlie.”
“Okay, consider it unsaid. How about ‘highly impressionable’?”
“That’s better.”
But not much.
“So let’s forget all about Sam Reed dying in June and coming back in May.”
Parris nodded. “And ending up in world that was more or less like the one he left, and remembering his future.”
“Yeah, forget about that too.”
“I’ll try.” A pensive sigh. “But it ain’t as easy as you think, Chucky.”
“I hope you’ll notice that I’m not asking ‘why?’”
“Well, because that tale Reed told us kinda got me to thinking.”
“That’s
your
problem, pard—don’t go giving me heartburn.”
“I can’t help it.” Parris belched and felt the sting of acid in his throat. After crunching a Tums, he explained, “Since Sam Reed told us all that weird stuff—I’ve recalled about a half-dozen peculiar things that’ve happened to me over the years. Any one of ’em could be explained by me slipping back and forth between this universe and another one like it.”
“I don’t want to hear a single, solitary word about it.”
“Okay, here’s a f’r instance. About a year ago, I woke up one morning with a mole on the back of my right hand. One that wasn’t there the night before.”
“Maybe some moles are like tomatoes, pard—they grow fastest at night.”
“This was a great big one, Charlie. Size of a nickel.”
“That’s a whopper all right.”
“You haven’t heard the really creepy part.”
“And I don’t want to.”
“The very next day, that mole was gone—I mean there wasn’t the least sign it’d ever been on my hand. Now explain how that happened.”
“I don’t have to; it wasn’t
my
mole.” Glancing at the clock on the wall, Moon began to unfold his slender frame from the chair. “Discussing your skin blemishes is great fun, pardner—but I’ve got to be rolling on down the road toward home.”
Parris was gazing at his unfinished meal with a glassy-eyed expression. “One morning when I was a kid, I was fishing for catfish in Pigeon Creek and I fell asleep. When I woke up I was a good twenty miles away.”
“Maybe you got abducted by undocumented aliens.”
Parris shook his head. “I was in Aunt Minnie’s house in Midway and it was the
day before yesterday
.”
Charlie Moon didn’t try to conceal his surprise. “There’s a Midway in Indiana?”
“Sure.” Parris blinked. “It’s midway between De Gonia Springs and Richland City.”
“Sounds like a nice spot. I’ll check it out next time I’m in the neighborhood.”
Charlie’s trying to make me forget what I was talking about.
“You oughten to make sport of me.”
“Why not, pard?” Moon reached for his hat.
The displaced Hoosier jutted his chin. “Because some fine morning…” He turned a blank stare on the candy jar.
The happy man flicked a fleck of white fluff off the brim of his Stetson. “Some fine morning
what
?”
Parris elevated his gaze to glower at the tall, thin man. “Some fine morning, you’re liable to wake up and find out you’re
somewhere else
. And in another time.”
As the rancher donned his handsome black hat, he thought about that. “I hope it’s on a nice beach in Tahiti in 1950, and pretty girls in grass skirts are bringing me pineapples and papayas and whatnot.” The Ute saluted his best buddy in this universe. “See you later.”
“Drive careful.” For quite some time after his Indian friend had departed, the chief of police tarried in the private dining room. After taking a tentative taste of the cold lasagna, the famished man commenced to consume samples of every treat in the candy jar except for the Gummi Bears. While absorbing about three thousand sugary calories, the lawman contemplated his conversation with the tribal investigator.
I guess it’s a good thing that Charlie’s so down-to-earth and levelheaded.
But Scott Parris’s grunt suggested that a “but” was in the offing.
But every once in a while, he sure does go against the grain.
The discomfited soul comforted himself with the hopeful thought that
sooner or later, Mr. Moon’s gonna get his comeuppance.
Sooner.