A Dead Man's Tale (30 page)

Professor Reed’s Tall Tale

Prior to his life-changing encounter with Ms. Theodora Phillips, Samuel Reed would not have considered offering such an outrageously unbelievable anecdote—particularly to a couple of hard-nosed cops who might not take kindly to being trifled with. But a soul who has discovered that it is indeed more blessed to give than to receive has enjoyed a foretaste of true freedom. The experience was exhilarating for a man who has been entangled with the dubious pleasure of amassing a fortune. Reed’s partial release from his worldly entanglements was delightfully intoxicating; he was now capable of saying and doing all manner of things that would amaze those who were acquainted with his former self.

The recently emancipated sinner got right to the heart of the matter without so much as batting an eyelash. “My ability to peer for a few hours or days into the future is not what is commonly called precognition. On the contrary, it has to do with slipping backward in time. From today to yesterday; from this month to the one before.”

Charlie Moon was not surprised. His eyes had seen what was between the covers of the book in Reed’s guest-house bedroom.

Scott Parris’s mouth drooped into a distasteful scowl. “Sounds like science fiction.” He preferred Westerns set in the late 1800s, with big six-guns belching lead and smoke as bodies of bad guys thudded onto the saloon floor.

The scientist who had taught university-level physics classes found the tone of the cop’s remark off-putting. But Sam Reed was not entirely displeased; no pedagogue worth 10 percent of his inflated opinion of himself can pass up an opportunity to explain an incomprehensible phenomenon. Particularly to one whom he considers his intellectual inferior, a category that typically includes about 99 percent of the earth’s adult population. But let’s listen in; Professor Reed is puffing up his chest for the task.

He delivered his opening blow in the crisp tone of one who is
in the know
. “Time is a fantasy, a figment of our imagination.” Enjoying a favorite private joke, the successful investor generously decided to share it. “Which, since Time is Money, calls into question the reality of dollars, pounds, and francs—not to mention yen and rubles.” Confronted by Parris’s blank stare, the professor realized that humor was wasted on this knuckle dragger. “Can you tell me the time of day?”

Parris consulted the Timex on his hairy wrist. “About twenty minutes past five.”

“Well done. Now, pretend that you do not own a timepiece.”

Parris shrugged. “Okay.”

“Under that constraint, how would you find out what time it was?” Reed waggled a disapproving finger when the shrewd fellow eyeballed a Seth Thomas clock mounted on the dining-room wall. “You are not allowed access to any manner of man-made chronometer. Nor do you have any means of communicating with those who do.”

The beefy cop was reminded of one of his favorite pastimes. “Like I’m off somewhere in the mountains hunting a bull elk?”

“Precisely so. And because elk season ends at six
P.M
. sharp, you naturally wish to know what o’clock it is.”

Parris raised his gaze to the plastered ceiling and watched a tiny eight-legged creature that was suspended on an invisible thread. Ever so slowly, the crafty creature lowered herself toward the brass chandelier. “If it wasn’t too cloudy, I’d check out the sun.”

“Of course. And if your elkish rendezvous was scheduled for midnight, you might consult the moon.”

Parris cocked his head. “So what’s the point?”

“The point,” the scientist said in a condescending manner, “is that the fourth dimension, which we homo sapiens refer to as ‘time,’ is merely a human invention to keep track of changing physical events, particularly those of a cyclical nature. Such as the rotation of the earth, which produces the illusion that the sun is passing overhead. The phases of the moon. The annual circuit of our rocky planet around the nearest star.” Reed tapped his chest. “And the thumping of the pump that circulates blood through our soul’s fleshly abode.”

“Everybody knows that,” the sensible cop said. “But time wasn’t invented by people; it’d still be here if everybody on earth was dead and gone.”

“An excellent exposition of an almost universal misconception.”
This is somewhat more difficult than I had expected.
Reason having proven ineffective, Reed resorted to authority. “To paraphrase Professor Einstein—time is an illusion, although a very persistent one.”

“I don’t care who said it.” Parris jutted his chin. “Any way you slice it, it’s still baloney.”

Reed paused for a sigh, a roll of the eyes. “I should not expect to relieve you in a moment of an error that you have embraced for a lifetime. But just to raise a healthy doubt in your mind, I shall pose what scientists and philosophers refer to as a thought experiment.”

The cop’s expression reflected his increasing uneasiness.

“This won’t hurt a bit, and you might even enjoy the process.” Samuel Reed was obviously enjoying himself. “First, imagine a vast, boundless universe that is entirely empty.”
Much like the space between your ears.

Parris sensed a trap. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Merely to humor me.” Reed cracked a genuine smile. “That, and I’ll give you something special that I have in my jacket pocket.”

The intransigent pupil was instantly won over. “This empty universe don’t even have a speck of dust?”

“Not a solitary atom, electron, or quark.” A first-rate scientist is able to imagine impossible things.
And unlike the so-called vacuum of our outer space, its immense emptiness is a true void. There is no energy. No matrix of space to warp. No virtual particles popping into existence, only to vanish immediately.

Parris closed his eyes and tried to imagine Nothing.

Professor Reed regarded his slow student with amusement. “Are you there yet?”

The reluctant scholar grunted. “Close as I’m gonna get.”

“Excellent. Now, let us place a single particle in this vast, vacant space.”

“A particle of what?”

“Never mind.” Reed’s eyes narrowed imperiously. “Just do as I say.”

“Okay.” The cop imagined a teensy-weensy black speck. “Got it.”

“Excellent. This is a very special particle, Mr. Parris. It has no component parts and it neither vibrates nor spins.”

“Okay by me.” His sunburned brow furrowed. “How big is it?”

“The question of size has no meaning, as there is no meter-stick in this imaginary universe to measure our lonely particle with.”

Maybe so, but this was Parris’s imagination. The infinitesimal speck grew to the size of a BB like the ammo he’d loaded into his childhood Red Ryder air rifle. Little Scotty was about to pull the trigger and shoot the sphere across the empty universe when—

Sam Reed added another constraint. “And as vast as its home is, this particle cannot move to another place.”

Bummer. “Why not?”

The physicist turned his head to address the silent Indian. “Would you like to make a guess, Mr. Moon?”

The Ute shook his head.

The haughty pedagogue returned his attention to the Caucasian cop. “With only a single particle, there are no
places
in this universe, Mr. Parris—no reference points. The concept of movement or velocity has no meaning whatever.”
Inertia is another matter, but that subject is beyond the scope of this cartoon universe.
He drew in a deep breath. “What we have is a rather simpleminded example of a perfectly static universe. As there is no possibility of change, the concept of time is meaningless. Thus, the temporal illusion in our own universe is unmasked for what it is—a mere artifact of physical alterations. Planets spinning. Satellites circling. Molecules vibrating. Automobiles passing mile-marker signs along the highway.”

“So you say.” Parris opened his eyes and shot a wry glance at the Ute rancher. “So what does that have to do with the price of beef next week?”

“Ah, I should have expected that you would get right to the point.

Here it is. As the seasons and moons wax and wane, your wristwatch tickety-tocks, and my noble heart beats, I am approaching a significant mile marker. For the purposes of this discussion, I shall call the little green signpost on my life’s highway ‘June fourth.’ Quite unexpectedly, I encounter a Mack truck. Head-on.”

Like his Ute colleague, the Granite Creek chief of police had examined enough twisted wreckage and mangled flesh to last for several lifetimes. “Sounds to me like you’ve cashed in your chips.”

“An astute observation, and entirely correct—as far as it goes. My earthly husk is as deceased as a fossilized sunflower seed, and before many days pass it will be planted beneath the sod.” The scientist’s eyes assumed a dreamy glaze that was more appropriate to a visionary or poet. “But this is not the end of my story.”

Parris waited for the punch line.

Also Moon.

“When my death occurred on June fourth, that ineffable essence of myself which contained my iron will, sparkling personality, and astounding memory—my humble
soul
if you prefer—found itself back at an
earlier
mile marker. I refer, of course, to May third.”

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.

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?”

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.”