Death Ray Butterfly by Tom Lichtenberg (dark books to read TXT) 📖

Death Ray Butterfly


by Tom Lichtenberg


Copyright 2010 by Tom Lichtenberg
ISBN: 978-0--557-41683-7


One

If there's one thing i hate it's private detectives. And lab guys. Lab guys think they can figure out who done it just by measuring how hard it was to mop up the blood. And private detectives think all it takes is some kind of unique slant on things and there you go. One time there was this crippled albino midget gypsy detective from Albania who thought all that individuality he had was enough to go solving crimes, but he just got in the way, like they all do eventually. The main thing that kept all those cases cold was people sticking their noses in and mucking up the waters.

Pet peeves. I could go on and on with those. Don't think I ever found the limits to that! Maybe it's what they want, I don't know. They told me go ahead and start talking into this little black box here and just keep talking, long as it takes. Said don't worry about it. Whenever you start talking, whenever you stop, the little black box will know. Don't have to turn it on, turn it off. It doesn't make any noise either so I don't know. Just keep talking, they said, so that's what I'm doing. Wanted it all for "posterity", their word. Me and my famous cases, all of that. Another cranky old man going on about the good old days? Tell you one thing, it ain't gonna be like that. Never were no good old days I knew about. Or maybe there were and just nobody told me “here they are! Enjoy 'em! Ain't gonna last!”

So here I am, seventy two years old, been retired from the force a few years now. Worked that beat a long time. Fifty god damn years. That is a long time, tell you that much. Started out, there was one telephone in the whole department. By the time I retired, they got one planted in everybody's skull. So a lot can happen in fifty years, even if you don't stick to the one same universe the whole time, or even get back to the one you started out on. That's the thing. I can't tell for sure if I ever did. Back when I chased old Cricket Jones throughout the time-space continuum, I'm pretty sure I started out on the one old Earth I was born on, but did I ever see it again? Can't say for sure. Similar, definitely, very much so, and maybe that's enough. You'll see what I mean when I get to it.

They want me to talk about Cricket. Want me to talk about Reyn Tundra. Melvin Eldon and Eldon Melvin too. Make sure you get Racine in there while you're at it, they said. Everybody loves to hear about her. They can't get enough of Racine, the cold-blooded mini-skirted killing machine she was. Talk about who stole the lady's leg bone. Don't forget about Shrimpie. All right, all right, I'll get there. In my own way, damn it. In my own time. See I'm just talking here, me and this little piece of black plastic I am holding in my hand. They said I didn't need to hold it, just be somewhere nearby but hey, if I'm talking to a thing, at least if I touch it I don't feel like I'm just talking to myself, which is what it looks what. They said I could go out and walk around if I like. Why would I do that? Seventy two years spent mostly on my feet chasing bad guys. Time to sit down now. Look out the window. Raining out there anyway!


Two

So then my assistant Kelley says, why don't you start with the time they dragged you back in time to stop the toddler assassin? That was some weirdness there. See I'm sitting on my ass in the headquarters' office canteen enjoying my meltdown caffeine when the general - he's got bangles and shit on his coat - comes charging in, barking orders like straight out of an old time crappy movie.

“Mister Mole? Come with me. Big trouble. I need you to plug it like a leak.”

I don't budge too easy so the guy started shouting louder like it would help me get the picture. Never did understand why people wave their hands around while they're talking. If I want to play charades I'll let you know. Generals don't impress me neither. I did some military time myself. Boy was I young then! Must have been some kind of war going on, it's hard to say. We did a lot of marching around. Some kind of yelling they did too. I don't get with all the talking so loud. I can hear you pretty good so just pipe down will you?

He's jabbing his finger this way and that, saying he's got some kind of machine and no time to waste, or rather a time machine that was going to waste, or he only had a few rides left before the time expired, like the thing was going to pop like Cinderella's pumpkin. I finally dragged my butt over to the window where he was trying to show me it was outside. Thing looked like an ordinary car to me.

“Let me get this straight”, I said to him. “You want me to go for a ride in that old buggy of yours, is that it?”

“No bugs,” he shouted. “Nobody will hear a thing!”

“The car”, I shouted back. I can shout too when I want to. “Go for a ride in the car?”

“Yes, of course”, he jumped up and down all agitated. That was what he wanted after all, so I said okay and I followed him down the stairs and out to the street. He opened the passenger door for me and so I got in. He got in the driver's seat. It was pretty much your regular everyday car, only when he turned the key, it wasn't any engine turning on. We just vaporized. Poof. Like Cinderella's pumpkin after all. Next thing you know we're in some place I had never been before. He showed me a newspaper and jabbed a finger at the headline.

I was carsick. I climbed out of that thing and puked all over the sidewalk. The general he's there offering me a glass of water but if I remembered one thing they always told me about strange places it was don't ever drink the water so I didn't. General shrugged and led me into this really nice hotel room where they were planning to put me up. Slowly I got the story out of him, once I made him understand he didn't need to shout and to talk more slowly please.

Somehow they'd found out - I guess it was from their time machine - that some nameless three year old girl was going to assassinate a presidential candidate. Sounded kind of fishy to me. Three year old girls usually have names! Okay, a sorry excuse for a joke, I know. Sue me.

I didn't know what they wanted me to do about it, but it turned out they wanted me to stop it from happening. Since I was a detective from the future, they figured I'd know how. I wanted to ask him how they'd come up with such an incredibly stupid idea but he beat me to it.

“Look”, he told me, “It's a disposable time machine, okay? It's got presets.”

When and where it could go was already fixed and it could only go two places and one time each place. They found out about the murder the first place and time. They ended up outside my office the second place and time. The general only had an hour so he asked the first person he saw who the best detective was and that was my assistant, Kelley, who said it was me, and that he could probably find me sitting on my fat ass in the kitchen drinking yesterday's coffee.

So now what, I wanted to know. How long did I have to solve the case, and how was I supposed to get back to my own time after I did that? Then the general told me, speaking quietly for a change. that he didn't have a freaking clue. He'd done his bit. The rest was up to me, or God, or whatever.


Three

So where the hell was I? Somebody's going to have to go through this someday and do something about it, put it all in order, or not. What do I care? I'm just doing what they tell me. Seems like it's always been that way. Regulations and rules. Follow the procedures, fill out the paperwork. I spent half my career just staring at a piece of paper with a pencil in my hand. Summarize, they tell you, as if you can take the constellations of events, the coincidence of all those lives colliding at that very point, all of the accidents, alignments and misfortunes that it takes for every little thing that ever happened to happen at all. It astounds you if you have any sense whatsoever.

If that old lady had gone only one mile an hour slower or faster and if that city bus had stalled out only one or two seconds before and if that grocery cart wheel wasn't crooked and bent and if that umbrella, lying in the street, and if that young man had trimmed his sideburns just a hair, and if the sun had come up in the south and the cosmic dust had settled on a different rock ... you can drive yourself crazy thinking about stuff like that.

The boys on the beat never let me forget a word of it. Maybe I'd been in a coma or something for a moment, but once it got around, there I was, reputation and all. Stanley K. Mole, finder of lost souls, of Alma Perdida, the only police inspector in the force to witness the quantum mystery. That's when they started piling all those cases on my desk, beginning and ending with the coldest of the cold, Reyn Tundra.

I never let it bother me. At least I wasn't stuck on traffic duty, like Sergeant Oliver Jamm was after his close encounter with the alien grape. I wasn't pensioned off like Captain Zanzig Neese was after she was caught coddling cadavers in the cooler. I may have gone off my rocker but I got back on pretty quick and I stayed back on that rocker ever since. I take it all with abiding grace if I do say so myself and I do. Say so myself.

They called the cases cold but I called them hard, and I was a hard case myself. Back since I was a kid, is what my dad always said. That boy's a hard case, got a hard head. All because I rode my bike down Ganges Hill without any brakes, just flew off into the hedges at the bottom, put my faith in God. Caught me all right, but scratched the hell out of me too. I still have the lacerations on my chest, been sixty years by now. Me and Smidge McCullers used to do that trick, him on roller skates even, the rickety four wheel kind. One