by Robin Ray
“Remember, I just alluded to the universe having no beginning or end,” he repeated. “When people ask questions that begin with who, what, when where, why and how, they automatically ascribe a dimension to the answer they’re looking for. But those questions are woefully inadequate to something as formless, massive and endless like the universe. In other words, to reveal the secret of the universe, you have to move beyond who, what, when, where, why and how.”
“What else is there?”
“That’s the rub,” the amateur philosopher said. “It’s beyond our own human-thinking dimensional restraint to know what that question would be. We just don’t have the capacity for another question outside of the usual six.”
“So we can’t know the answer because we don’t know the question,” Tony guessed.
“Exactly,” Gregory stated, “and I have a feeling that’s why we’re going around in circles. We gotta think outside the box. Who said, ‘these are the times that try men’s souls?’”
“Donald Trump?” Tony asked jokingly.
“No, you nitwit,” the elder PI laughed. “But maybe you’re right because he did make a fortune with all his businesses. You know,” he added, glancing at the sign over the hearth –
Amy’s Bed & Breakfast Inn
“…I bet Amy’s business would have really taken off if she wasn’t blindsided like that.”
“Yeah,” Tony agreed, eyeing the sign. “All that trouble…for nothing.”
The young D stared curiously at the handmade 3’ by 1’ marquee consisting of black cursives on a white field. Something about it made the wheels in his head start spinning at 100mph. Getting up, he went over and took a closer, more meaningful look at it.
“What’s the matter?” Gregory asked him.
“Hey, G,” Tony wondered, “do you have that picture of Amy on you?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “Why?”
“Let me see it.”
Complying, Gregory removed the photo and handed it to his sidekick.
“I’ll be damned,” Tony mumbled, staring at the photo. “Hey, G, look at this.”
The elder detective walked over to the sign. “What am I looking at?”
“That’s not a J in the photo,” young sleuth said. “She died before she was finished; she was making a B.”
“How do you know?”
Tony took out the copy of the sheet of cursive letters given to him by Deng Shiru and handed it to Gregory who, after studying it only briefly, quickly noticed the connection.
“They look the same,” the elder D realized.
“See the B?” the young sleuth asked, pointing to the Bed & Breakfast sign. “Amy started drawing the first part with an upstroke that looks like a J. She just never got around to completing it. This Chinese calligrapher in Painters showed me how she did it.”
“27B,” Gregory hummed. “It could still mean Brian.”
“Think outside the box,” Tony instructed him.
The ex-cop thought for a moment, then –
SLAM!
“What was that?” Tony asked.
“Sounded like the back door,” Gregory guessed.
Quickly racing to the rear of the house, Tony pushed open the back door; both detectives then stepped out to the back porch, surveyed the area, but saw nothing.
“Maybe it was just the wind,” Gregory thought.
“I think we were being spied on,” the young PI figured.
“What’s that?” Gregory asked, eyeing the ground around the Hawkeye apple tree. Quick stepping towards it, he saw that somebody had been digging in the dirt where Brian’s wooden case was buried. “Now who would know where this stash was?” he asked himself. “I told no one.”
“What stash?” Tony asked.
“Brian’s paraphernalia.”
“Sounds like somebody’s covering their tracks,” the new detective surmised.
“Maybe,” Gregory mused. “We’d should probably head over to the station to make sure he’s okay.”
Racing into the station minutes later, the out of breath detectives went directly to Sergeant Drașovya who had his anorexic right foot up on the desk cutting his toenails by carefully using a laser beam emitted from his right index finger.
“We have to see Brian Jones right away,” Gregory told him.
“Why?” Nosferatu’s doppelgänger asked, putting his right foot down.
“He might be in danger.”
“Oh, you humans,” the sergeant groaned. “Everything’s an emergency with you. How y’all live past 20 with all that stress and aggravation on your bodies is a mystery to me.”
“Humor me,” Gregory requested.
“Okay, okay,” Drașovya relented.
Entering the ground floor, all three individuals saw a shimmering bright light emitting from a cell just a few feet ahead. Hurrying quickly, they saw Brian Jones supine and unconscious in the middle of the floor. A glowing ball of pink light the size of a full grown Doberman pinscher was entering the downed musician’s body.
“Hey!” the sergeant yelled, removing a ring of keys from his pocket.
Quickly opening the cell, he raced to the light, thrust his hand into it, then it disappeared. Crouching down by Brian, he palpated his carotid artery.
“He’s alive,” Drașovya said, “but barely. Let’s get him across the street.”
“How?” Gregory asked.
The sergeant turned to Tony. “The drunk tank is two doors down on the same side as this cell. Bring one of the wheelchairs, if you can.”
The young sidekick immediately ran out of the cell to fetch the medical equipment.
“What was that light?” Gregory asked Drașovya.
“I’ve never seen that before,” the sergeant admitted. “I’ll bring the matter up with the other angels later. How did you know Mr. Jones was in trouble?”
“We were continuing our investigation at the 27 Club,” the detective answered, “but as it turned out, we weren’t alone. The back door slammed; by the time we went out, the person was gone. Whoever it was, they knew where Brian hid his drugs.”
“If that’s the case,” Drașovya figured, “then they came by to silent him permanently.”
Gregory crouched down by Brian and lifted his tunic to expose his abdomen. “Just as I figured,” he thought, pointing to the fresh, but faint, cigarette burn-like scar beneath his ribcage. He turned to the sergeant. “Is there a way you can detect the Anima Furabatur from a distance?”
“Perhaps,” the sergeant said. “It’ll be hard because we don’t know what materials it’s comprised of. I will discuss that with the other angels.”
“What human can change into a ball of light?” Gregory asked rhetorically.
“You’re suggesting one of us is behind all of this?” the shocked sergeant inquired.
“Is that not within the realm of possibility?”
“No, it isn’t,” Drașovya firmly attested. “Arrgghh!” he suddenly screamed.
The sergeant’s wail caught the detective completely off guard. “What’s the matter?”
“Why did this have to happen on my watch with Vai so close to visiting?!”
Gregory shook his head in disbelief. “I really have to meet this angel that has you guys quaking in your boots.”
“Put that in writing,” Drașovya told him. “I’d like to see you eat those words after you meet her.”
“Here we go,” Tony interjected, returning with an old wooden wheelchair.
“Where’d you get that from?” Gregory asked. “The antique store on Main Street?”
“Come on,” the sergeant growled. “Let’s get him up. We’re running out of time.”
CHAPTER 36
Woodstock Hospital was as casual as they came. Many times, when you entered city hospitals, they were usually hotbeds of activity, often emitting more lights and sounds than the average amusement park. Of course, in the super-sized trauma centers, where helicopters are air lifting perforated gang bangers, and 90%
burn victims are being wheeled in through padded freezers, you’d expect a commotion that would rival any activity in a garden variety ant colony.
The laid back medical center across the road from the police station on Tinker Street had several advantages – there were never any gunshot wounds to close, no serious bacterial infections that required total isolation, no cases of leprosy, malaria or Lhasa fever to evacuate a town for. There were also no time clocks to punch; by that token, there were also no paychecks to collect. The workers didn’t mind, though. The credit levels on their blue cards said it all. One day in service at the clinic roughly equals three or four fancy dinners at a world class restaurant, 15% discount at the clothing emporiums around town, free passes to any of the gyms in town, and several other amenities that made exposing yourself to blood, phlegm, spit, urine and poop worthwhile.
In the relatively non-busy hall just outside Brian Jones’ room, nurses and therapists were going about their daily routine of rendering care to hapless citizens. There weren’t really that many to begin with anyway. Besides Brian, there were maybe six or seven patients on the floor in their private rooms. Gregory and Tony, planted in seats just outside the multi-instrumentalist’s room, sat patiently while the nurse inside attended to the recuperating musician. Restless Tony kept checking his watch as if that would speed time up. His stomach was grumbling, but since the D’s were recently notified that Brian was awake, but weak, he might be able to answer a few questions before the meds he was on knocked him out again.
Just as the young detective checked his watch for the fifth time, the 40-something year old male nurse, garbed in light blue scrubs, comfortable bamboo slippers, and a purple stethoscope around his neck, exited from Brian’s room. At the first sight of the medical professional, Tony leaped to his feet with a smile as broad as Broadway.
“All done, gentlemen,” the kindly nurse told them with his Southern accent. “He’s responding but he is still kind of weak. Try not to upset him too much, you hear?”
“Thanks,” Gregory said. “Tony, as you coming?”
“I just want to talk to Elvis for a minute or two,” he answered, then turned to the Jailhouse Rock singer-turned-nurse, “if that’s okay with you.”
“I have time,” the rock icon promised.
“Then I’ll see you in a little while,” Gregory said to his partner as he entered Brian’s room.
“It’s really an honor to finally meet you,” Tony said, shaking Elvis’ hand.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Presley told him. “What was your name again?”
“Tony Lopez,” the young man answered. “Tony is fine. You know, when we wheeled Brian over here, I really thought he wasn’t gonna make it.”
“He was almost gone,” Elvis admitted. “I encouraged the doctors to use an experimental treatment on him – Cryogenic Tissue Manipulation to prevent Cell Death by Apoptosis. You freeze the cells, you lock the soul in place. The bad thing about that is the rapid cooling could destroy the cells instead of freezing them.”
“I’m very surprised.”
Presley looked puzzled. “About what?”
“The king of rock and roll is now a doctor.”
Elvis laughed. “I’m not a doctor, just a nurse, but I spent about eighteen years in Micro Sciences, you know, taking a break from the music. Never too late to pick up a new hobby, right? I’ve been researching, writing about, and advocating for, Tissue Manipulation Cryosurgery but they said it was too dangerous. In this instance, they didn’t have a choice, especially since celestial matter is different than carbon-based organisms and could handle more extremes in temperatures – to a certain extent.”
“Not bad,” Tony concluded. “Still, being that, you know, you’re not a doctor, it’s kinda weird you’d be able to influence the surgeons like that.”
“And that’s surprising, actually,” Elvis acknowledged. “It was just a suggestion. Many researchers had also successfully profiled the science on the medical journals up here but I guess I get some of the credit because I got the ball rolling.”
“I gotta admit,” the young detective said, “I’m impressed. Who would’ve known!”
“So, Tony,” Elvis asked, sitting down cross legged in one of the chairs outside of the room, “anything else you want to know?”
“I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to Elvis Presley,” Tony said, finding a seat for himself. “You look pretty good, man.”
“Thanks.”
“You look like you lost a lot of weight.”
“Yeah,” Elvis conceded, rubbing his abdomen, “cut back on my carbs years ago.”
“How do you feel?”
“Okay,” the icon answered. “Can’t complain.”
“Are you playing the festival?”
“Uh, huh,” the black-haired singer replied. “I’m headlining the first day, Rockin’ 50’s.”
“I haven’t seen any posters of the lineup, yet,” Tony admitted.
“They’re still getting everyone together. My own band isn’t even together yet,” he revealed. “Should be good to go in a few days, though. I’ll be performing with the Ramones.”
“A punk band?”
“They’re going to tone it town,” the king of rock promised, “but they’re really into that 50’s stuff. Can’t say I blame them. Raw power, you know what I mean? Hip shaking, man.”
“How come you’re working as a nurse?” Tony asked the originator. “Kinda got tired of the fame, huh?”
“You know,” Elvis said, scratching his head, “that’s a no brainer. I’ve spent so much time in places like these, I thought it’d be nice to give back a little.”
“So you went to school to learn the trade?”
“Yep,” the ex-Graceland resident attested. “Over in Medical.”
“Must’ve been hard, you being, you know, Elvis.”
“Man,” the king said, “I can tell you some stories that would make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Over here in R&R, I’m safe. Everybody knows me, I know everyone. No big deal. But, man, as soon as I get out the transfer station to another world it becomes chaotic all over again.”
“You don’t like the attention?”
“I like privacy sometimes,’ he acknowledged. “You know, Tony, there is no right or wrong way to deal with fame. Either you can handle it or you crumple like a ball of tin foil. You really need thick skin. I mean, you have fans, but you will have detractors, too. When I first got here, you know who I hanged out with most of the time?”
The young PI shook his head.
“Jimi Hendrix,” Presley stated. “He understands the need for privacy real well, but he also knows this bubble we inherited can stifle us, too. He’s good people. Really learned how to take things in stride from him.”
“Or you would’ve lost your mind?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Elvis supposed. “You know I have a little lady now.”
“Oh, really?” Tony asked. “You remarried?”
“Yep,” he answered. “Sweet little gal from Philly – Clara Ward. Sounds familiar?”
“Should it?”
“Great gospel singer,” Presley attested. “She was in Viva Las Vegas with me. Beautiful woman. She’ll be playing the festival, too. Probably singing with me or Canned Heat. She’s recorded with them before. Well, young man,” the legend said, standing up, “I have some vital signs to take care of, so, keep in touch.”
“Of course,” Tony said, standing up and shaking his hand. “It was a pleasure.”
“Same here,” the king replied. “See you around.”
“How did it go with Elvis?” Gregory asked as Tony entered Brian’s room which was so warm that the elder PI was using a towel to sop the sweat from his brow.
“Fascinating,” the neophyte admitted. “Hey Brian,” he greeted the recovering musician who was lying in bed beneath three blankets. “Why is it so hot in here?” he asked his mentor.
“Elvis didn’t tell you about cryosurgery?” the loun
ging patient asked him.
“Yes,” Tony answered. “He said he pioneered it or something like that?”
“It works,” the multi-instrumentalist claimed, “but as you can see, they’re still working out the kinks. They over-freezed me.”
“Okay,” Tony said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to his teacher at Brian’s bedside.
“We got to him just in time,” Gregory told his partner. “The Anima was just being warmed up to be used.”
“Was it an angel?” Tony asked the blond guitarist.
“I think so,” he answered. “I was just pacing back and forth when this ball of light came in right through the wall and knocked me out. Obviously, I don’t remember anything after that.”
“Hello, people,” L’Da said as he and Ba’al’figor, both attired in black, entered the room.
“Hey,” Brian greeted the angels.
“We just came by to see how Brian’s doing,” L’Da said, walking over to his bedside with Ba’al’figor following right behind.
“I’m okay,” the guitarist claimed. “I was lucky, thanks to these two gentlemen.”
“Good news,” L’Da said to the group. “The Council of Angels has pardoned Brian.”
“They have?” the ex-Stones artist jubilantly exulted.
L’Da nodded. “Just in time, too. It didn’t seem like the concert was going to happen.”
“So what do we do now?” Tony asked the angel. “Somewhere out there, someone’s running around loose with a soul stealer.”
“We’re on it,” Ba’al’figor promised. “They won’t get far.”
“Well,” L’Da said in conclusion, “I was just coming by to give you the good news. Glad to see you’re recovering well,” he said, turning to Brian. “Oh, by the way,” he added, looking at Gregory, “we tried to locate the Anima using heat signature tracking, but so far, nothing’s shown up. That’s good news. It means you two did a good job of preventing a disaster. As we speak, the angels and engineers are speedily working on a technology that would let us insert a new soul into Amy. Hopefully, they’ll get it done in a few weeks and we put this whole affair behind us.”
“Sounds promising,” Tony acknowledged.
