Travel Bug (32 page)

“Andrew, you okay?” Harold asked.

“Yes and no.”

The dream was within a dream and within a dream and wrapped in a nightmare that one could never wake from.

“Thank God, you fell asleep, Andrew. You’re losing you…”

“What?”

“You, son, are losing, you,” Harold said, grimly.

“I know.”

The hangover of time travel was overwhelming. I mean at least alcoholics get to black out every once in a while or I suppose all the time depending on how much their disease has progressed.

“Don’t descend into madness,” said the old man.

“Such fine advice for just another sinner…”

The unnamed species had to be murdered like an unfaithful wife…… or husband… or a man who betrayed his country. The bug was a pedophile, a serial killer that simply had to go. He had to be put down for his own good, like a sick pet or a sick man…

“Andrew?”

I fainted.

When I finally came to, I almost half regretted ever gaining consciousness again. Everyone from the greatest sultan to the poorest beggar has felt this way. It’s part of being human. This, I firmly believe, is one of the universal experiences that transcends faith, culture, sex, race and even race and wealth.

“You need to wake up and help me,” Harold said, firmly.

“Yes,” I answered him.

“Soon,” he hissed.

“This journey ain’t over no matter how dark our hearts get!”

“I know.”

“Good Now lighten the hell up!”

We moved on.

“It’s lovely,” he said.

The mansion where I grew up was stunning but only under new management. My parents kept it so sullen it was like some kind of public television movie about being a manservant or about a place where evil things abide. Actually, that wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Andrew?”

“Yes?”

“You need to accept the life you’ve been given. Now countless jealous, misinformed, confused or delusional members of the human race could make this world better if they accepted reality.”

It was hard to admit it but it was undeniably true. People suck. In an odd way, it was less confusing to admit that you jerked off five times a day then to state the simple truth that humanity was… more negative than positive.

“Andrew?”

“Yes, Harold?” I asked him.

“Don’t be a fool who suffers the wrath of delusions; accept the truth for what it is, son.”

Blood and irony have a stench all their own and the smell was damn near unforgivable. I wanted to be normal and time screwed me over. Then I wanted to be a charitable and still a rich bastard and time and life screwed me over. No one was ever who they really wanted to be. Life was full of dark irony and plenty of it, you know…

“Life ain’t fair boy,” Harold said.

It was scary but logical. If one could surrender to one’s own delusional hopes that one was a hero, all else must be sacrificed to make the hallucination come true…

“Son, let’s allow our journeys to have some good illuminating factors on our lives and souls.”

“Oh, I agree with that,” I said.

“We need to be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves.”

I smiled at that. It brought me a moment of brief peace…

“There simply are no answers to some questions and that’s where faith comes in…”

“That is what faith is for.”

“Let’s spend a few blessed days apart and then reunite.”

“Why?”

“Andrew, we’re both going mad, particularly you…”

“Killing that damned bug, that monster, that fiend is something I relish…”

“The death of a bug that doesn’t know it’s being eaten and probably doesn’t even know it’s alive is not the answer, son.”

I grimaced.

“Son, it’s time for a real change…”

“Like what?”

“The opposite of separation anxiety; we will part company and meet two days from now, Andrew.”

“Where would that be?” I asked him.

“The old train tracks of course, just outside of town, son. You know I watched you in the crib and as a teen sitting beside those train tracks. I would leave the family mansion of the house of Godley and sit there, too. Just like you did, young man, there are many similarities between us.”

When I was ten I had a little foam bug that had the numbers of one through ten made up within it. It was black, red and many other colors. I look back on it with sheer horror because I know what it all means now. Yes, Harold and I both loved sitting by the train tracks and waiting for the next train. That was our spiritual connection.

“Harold, I won’t do that,” I said, attempting to sound humble.

“Look son when we get back together we kill her but only if we have to do that,” Harold said. His face grimaced and then moved very quickly to what looked like strength, spiritual strength. “God wants us to forgive,” he said with conviction. “We will show her compassion and mercy…”

“I want to show her the scattered side of a loaded shotgun!”

“I know, son.”

For some odd reason, we were both lovers of trains, connected by them but far from being born on the wrong side of the tracks. We were at a crossroads. I decided to swallow my pride whole and just go along with what this man who was dead a very long time before I was naturally born wanted to do.

“Let’s save the world, Andrew, and then worry about the details later.”

“Yeah, let’s do it now!”

The train was very symbolic, dear reader. It had huge tracks and one could certainly argue that it represented the future and the past. Time was a train, at least in a metaphorical sense. Who in their right mind would ever believe that the only known time machine was a bug?

LUTHER’S CAT

“A cat is more intelligent than people, and can be taught any crime.”

—Mark Twain Notebook, 18

Cats were always mysterious little animals. This was the case whether they were revered as gods by the Egyptians or despised as demons by medieval Christians. Of course they are neither gods nor devils. They know when to cry and when to hide. Felines are friends to man and yet they really are fiercely independent little bastards, aren’t they? Luther lost a lot of friends in Iraq and he experienced the horrors of war. Nonetheless, he still never backed down from a fight. The current fight in question was whether or not cats were for sissies. He blew that theory out of the water. A man, who fought, bled and killed for his country had every right not to choose a dog as his best friend after returning home. Davistown, Pennsylvania was his home. It was located just outside of Philadelphia and it was utterly quiet in nature. Not a whole hell of a lot happened there or at least not much was expected to happen in this town. The harsh truth was that it seemed like a hell of a lot of bizarre and unbelievable things occurred in what should have been a boring and meaningless little town.

“Luther Knox, it’s good to have you home again,” said Ethel.

“Thanks,” he answered her.

Ethel was damn close to ninety years of age. She lost her husband in the Second World War. Her only son Jonathan died in Vietnam two days short of what would have been his twentieth birthday. She had run her little store, the Center Point Grocery Store for decades. She had to take solace in being a local town character. The town grew to love her, generation after generation. The other thing that kept her going were her many cats. People talked about the lack of sanitary conditions present in her store due to the multiple felines. Still, no one ever refused to shop there because of the sacrifice of her family. She had known Luther since he was little. Seeing him come back in one piece filled her heart with joy.

“These sodas are on the house, son,” she said.

“No, ma’am,” he answered her.

“I will be insulted if you pay, Luther.”

“Very well,” he responded.

“Thank you, Ethel.”

“You’re welcome,” she said to the vet.

Luther was done with the military and could now look for a job in town. He would probably do this when he ran out of money. He thought that something easy like working as a manager at the local cinemas might do the trick for a while. Luther could also go back to school. He dropped out of a Pennsylvania state college where he was half way through getting his teaching degree in English. He always enjoyed novels, the great classics. Short stories however, those always made him enjoy and ponder great ideas in literature. He took his groceries home, he was walking distance, to his apartment. It was in the country just like the little store. Luther enjoyed the country and so did his cat.

“Hello, Moose,” said Luther.

The cat meowed and looked up at him. The dammed little beast was hungry again.

“Okay, salmon and rice. The moist stuff is what you enjoy best.”

“Now how about a nice beverage for dessert, sir, does that sound good?”

Moose looked up at Luther, somewhat impatiently.

“Fine, have it your way.”

Luther watched his cat jump on top of the sink. Obviously, only a cat who was some kind of freakish genius would know how to turn the sink handles to get the water he was after.

“Hey, come on! Turn on the sink, cats are supposed to be so damn smart!”

Although he didn’t turn the handles, Luther was taken by utter surprise.

“Damn, I’ll be damned.”

Moose was swatting his big yellow paws at the sink handles. Evidently, he knew where the water came from. He couldn’t turn the handles, which would have shown real intelligence, problem solving ability, but this was not unimpressive either.

“Good God, I’ll be damned.”

Moose waited patiently for his master. Luther finally came through and turned the sink handles so the cat could get his much sought after beverage. The cat’s master had always loved him for his looks. He was a beautiful male tabby. Pink paws, lips and nose. Yellow eyes and a beautiful cream colored coat. Moose was fussy and demanding and really hyper. He loved to hide and jump out at him. He was almost keeping him ready for assassination attempts like in some comedy from the 1970’s.

Luther had no social skills to speak of, except for what he learned in college. They were so poor in fact that it was the reason he had to drop out. He was strong and athletic but he couldn’t even pretend to be an extravert for the sake of acquiring a better job. It just wasn’t in the cards for him. He was who he was. Luther had a feeling that if Moose were a person he would be more outgoing, a natural born leader in fact. Then he decided he was thinking nonsense because he was talking about some stupid cat and not a real person. Luther tried to maintain friendships and failed miserably. Sometimes he was too socially awkward to even begin the friendships before he could fuck them up.

“I think you were made for people like me, Moose.”

The cat did not respond but Luther liked to imagine that he understood human language, in this particular case English.

Luther loved animals and distrusted people. Besides, Moose knew where the clean water and the food came from. Luther loved how he would be using the internet and Moose would jump on his lap. Reading a book, he would suddenly feel his cat rubbing up against him. It was pure love. Luther never had too much luck with women either although he had slept with a few. He was a good looking twenty six year old man. When women discovered he had little personality and not too much in the way of social skills they would leave.

“I guess you’re the great love of my life, handsome,” said Luther.

Moose did not respond in any way. He certainly didn’t seem flattered by the prospect of all this. Still, the friendship offered by animals is always the most nonjudgmental love that could possibly be offered. There is no business deals, kickbacks, sexual favors, serious obligatory or religious conversions involved here. It’s cut and dry unconditional love with an implicit social contract of providing dinner.

“I know I’m your master but I hope I never make you feel that way,” said Luther with a big smile.

Moose was now bored with him and ran under the kitchen table to take a nap.

This return to small town life was all very well and good but Luther knew that nothing including unconditional animal love was ever that simple. Something had to give because that was simply the way of things in this world. The United States government knew he was a gifted killer. It was as simple as that. He knew that talent wouldn’t be allowed to just go back to small town life. Luther’s service was allegedly over but there was a big part of him that didn’t buy it.

“Okay, fine, take a cat nap now,” said Luther.

Then the phone rang. His hands got cold and sweaty. A phone call could mean anything. The last time the phone rang was right before he deported to Iraq. They told him his estranged mother had died. Prior to that the phone rang he was told his estranged father had died. How could this possibly be good news? Luther had no friends and his family was dead. Who the fuck would be calling him now?

Martin Wesley called Mexico. The number of his former partner Jack Smith’s hotel room was in his hand. The man’s wife had died and he went on an insane drinking binge to try and forget all the pain he was in. He didn’t want to talk to Martin anymore and he suspected their friendship was gone forever just like their detective agency. Well, half of their agency anyway. Martin had absolutely no desire to stop working because he loved his work a great deal.

“Damn it, you know I’m trying to call you,” he said out loud.

It was to no avail. His friend was too deep in the bottle to be wasting time talking to him today or tomorrow probably. They had done this little town and the city of Philadelphia some pretty damn big favors. Some of their private clients did in fact, occasionally write them some pretty big checks. The police couldn’t always be counted on but they could be, for a reasonable (and sometimes unreasonable) price. Wesley was growing bored and wanted some, needed some help in choosing his next case. He could ask his wife or some friends but he chose not to do so. Martin Wesley needed some professional consultation, not the advice of friends and family. He knew that he would be going to his Monday evening Knights of Columbus meeting. This was a good thing; it would get his mind off all of the craziness of the last month. The worse part of all of this was that his most famous capture, Thomas Grey wanted to speak with him about something. He was serial killer with a hellish agenda. Like Jack felt about him now (for radically different reasons), Martin wanted nothing to do with Grey anymore.