Parris was beginning to get the gist of it. “The day before you showed up in my office with the story that somebody was gonna murder you.”
“Yes, but again you get ahead of me. The relevant issue is that this is not the first occasion when my consciousness has taken the reverse journey along that illusory pathway which we refer to as time.” Reed frowned at his distorted reflection in the jar of colorfully wrapped candies. “I have no doubt that time-slips are occasionally experienced by practically everyone, though the vast majority of us are either unaware of the peculiar phenomenon or dismiss it as a mere product of the imagination. In my case, the experience has become a frequent occurrence. The slippage may be as little as a few minutes to several months, and though a jarring emotional event sometimes initiates the adventure, there is not always an evident trigger for it.” He turned his gaze from the multicolored candy to Parris’s ruddy face. “Shortly after the most recent event, all that I could recall of my future were isolated bits and pieces. Such as leaving the candy shop with a box of chocolates tucked under my arm. Getting into my Mercedes in the bank parking lot. Driving for two or three blocks. After that, nothing except the evening’s highly unpleasant climax—being shot dead. I didn’t know where the horrific event had occurred. But a few days after the transition, I gradually began to regain a more complete memory of the critical half hour prior to my death. Within a week, I recalled virtually everything—including the fact that I was gunned down as I entered my home.”
Scott Parris posed the obvious question: “Did you see the shooter?”
The storyteller shook his head. “It was too dark.” He hesitated. “My final recollection was stepping into the rear entrance of my residence, seeing the flash of a gunshot, the sensation that a boulder had struck my chest, feeling the bullet tear through my flesh.” Sam Reed paused to compose himself. “I concluded that it was almost certainly my wife who had shot me. Irene had the classic motives: the significant difference in our ages—and an enormous fortune to inherit. But later, when she made the 911 call about a break-in, I was greatly relieved. I initially concluded that this was the prelude to a future error on my wife’s part. I theorized that on the evening of June fourth of my previous life, Irene had mistaken me for a burglar.” He frowned and shook his head. “But the next day, I learned that the police officers had found no evidence that anyone had been prying on our back door. That, and the troubling fact that that my spouse was expecting me home at eleven on the evening of the shooting—which was precisely when I had arrived—made it appear far more likely that my spouse’s emergency call was a phony; the coldblooded groundwork for a homicide that would be excused as a tragic instance of mistaken identity. Dear Irene was planning my untimely demise.” The intended victim smiled wanly under his thin mustache. “A birthday present for herself, as it were.”
Scott Parris went for a sucker punch. “So how’d you find out about the boyfriend?”
Reed’s face stiffened, but it had been a glancing blow. The widower’s smile was as bitter as the taste in his mouth. “When I expressed an interest in how Irene was spending her spare time, several of our closest country-club friends were only too happy to drop heavy hints about my wife’s infidelity. One of the gossips took me aside and identified Mr. Perez as the object of Irene’s adulterous affections.”
Charlie Moon had been watching Samuel Reed’s remarkably expressive face. He’s either the best storyteller in Colorado or the man’s suffering from a severe case of self-delusion. The Ute poker player couldn’t quite make up his mind. Too many tells can be tougher to read than a face sculpted from stone.
Chapter Sixty-One
Audience Response
His performance completed, Samuel Reed addressed the lawmen. “So. What do you fellows think of my story?”
How palpable was the silence?
You could have carved off slices of hush with your Buck pocketknife, rolled the chunks up between your fingers, and used them to caulk logs in the cabin wall.
The performer was wide-eyed with contrived surprise. “What, no applause?” Reed assumed an equally false expression of injury. “I did not expect big cowboy hats tossed into the air, raucous hoots of approval, and thunderous boot-stomps demanding an encore performance—but this is faint praise indeed! The very least you owe me is a measure of constructive criticism.” The fastidious man arched an inquisitive eyebrow at the Indian. “What say you, Charles?”
Charles Moon did not respond.
“Oh, come now—tell me what’s on your mind. Did you find the notion of reverse time-slipping somewhat disconcerting?”
“I can take it or leave it.” So long as you don’t try to make me believe it.
“Fair enough.” Turning away from the taciturn Indian, the teller of tales presented an expectant expression to the chief of police.
“Sorry, Sam.” The cop shrugged dismissively. “Your tale’s a might too Twilight Zone for me.” And, for reasons Parris did not care to share, a little scary. “It’d be easier to believe that Charlie was grazing a herd of pink unicorns on a crop of purple prickly pears.”
“A colorful metaphor. But allow me to remind you that my whimsical anecdote about how I remember the future—while based upon widely accepted tenets of modern science—was presented for the sole purpose of entertainment. I never suggested that you should believe a smidgen of my tallish tale; I merely hoped that you would enjoy it.” Reed’s lips curled into an impish smile. “When you spun your fantastic yarn about a ferocious ape chasing a terrified lady across the golf course, and Mr. Moon made his extraordinary claim about executing ne’er-do-wells for the princely fee of twenty-five cents per lowlife—did I protest that either of you was attempting to deceive me? I will eat my hat if I did!”
“Okay.” Parris eyed Charlie Moon’s candidate for the golf-course gorilla. “It’s an awfully queer story, though. Somebody shoots you dead on June fourth, and you wake up healthy as a floppy-eared hound puppy on May third. And then you recall what’s gonna happen during the next several weeks.” He shot a sly glance at his rancher friend. “Like ups and downs in the price of beef.”
The tribal investigator was distracted by a whispering in his ear. And those pesky flesh-eating worms were beginning to wriggle under his skin again. Charlie Moon knew he shouldn’t raise the issue, but some things just have to be said. “Your story’s okay as far is it goes.” He paused as if puzzling over just how to make his point. “But there’s one thing that bothers me.”
“Only one?” Reed laughed.
Moon regarded the wealthy man with a quizzical expression. “I’ve been thinking back to May fourth, when you showed up at Scott’s office. And I’ve been trying to imagine how I’d be spending my time if I believed somebody intended to murder me.”
Reed returned a solemn look. “Let me assure you that such a circumstance tends to concentrate one’s attention.”
Charlie Moon nodded. “A man in your shoes would have plenty of serious business to take care of. No time for the small stuff.”
“Most definitely.”
“That’s what made me wonder why you did it.” Moon waited.
Sam Reed was literally on the edge of his chair. “Did what?”
“With all your problems, you took a stroll down Spruce Lane and paid a call on Leadville Lily.”
Scott Parris blinked. I must’ve missed something here.
The stunned man stared at the tribal investigator. So it was you who followed me to the tattoo parlor that morning. Needing a moment to organize his thoughts, the deadpan scientist held his tongue.
Scott Parris could shatter any annoying silence he happened to encounter. “I don’t get it, Charlie. What’s ol’ Tattoo Lily got to do with Sam’s weird story?”
“Now that’s the question, pard.” Moon’s gaze did not waver from Reed’s frozen face.
The object of the Indian’s intense scrutiny managed to find his voice. “Do you have an answer to this hypothetical question you pose?”
<
br /> Moon responded in a monotone, “Thought I’d leave that to your imagination.”
“Oh, I see.” Evasion having failed, Reed resorted to a pretense of misunderstanding Moon’s insinuation. “Your introduction of a tattoo-parlor visit does present a worthy challenge to my ability to improvise.” To purchase a few more seconds, he coughed. Hummed a few bars of “Jack of Diamonds.” Thrummed his fingers again on the table. Finally: “I’m trying to think of a way to weave this unforeseen element into my story line.”
The lawmen waited.
The chief of police with a puzzled look. What’n hell is Charlie up to?
The tribal investigator with a wry twinkle in his eye. I bet this’ll be good.
It would.
Samuel Reed had come to a difficult decision. I shall tell them the unvarnished truth. That would be the last thing a couple of cynical cops would expect, and was certain to create confusion. He cleared his throat and began. “I paid Leadville Lily fifty dollars to tattoo an identity mark on my left forearm.”
Surprised at the man’s candor, Charlie Moon nodded. “Like a brand on a steer.”
“Indeed.” Reed flashed a smile at the rancher. “But let’s amend that to ‘bull.’”
Bull works for me. Parris glowered at the shifty customer. “Don’t you carry a driver’s license in your wallet like ordinary folks?”
“I certainly do.” Reed regarded the lawman with an expression that suggested infinite patience. “And that plasticized card would prove useful to the authorities in the instance of my untimely death—say in a horrendous motorcycle accident where my handsome face was obliterated. The authorities could immediately determine that the grisly remains were those of Samuel Reed, Ph.D., who formerly resided at 1200 Shadowlane Avenue in Granite Creek, Colorado.” Go ahead. Ask the obvious question.
Parris’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “So why d’you need your name tattooed on your skin?”
“I do not.”
“What?”
Samuel Reed removed his jacket, unbuttoned his cuff, and rolled up his shirtsleeve. “Behold.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
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.”
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