Death Ray Butterfly

by Tom Lichtenberg

died in her throat.

  “What happened then?”, Captain Cameroon asked Curly, but he just shook his head.

  “She took off too, like my brother did, only into the woods instead of away from them. Haven't seen her since.”

  “What did she look like?”, I asked him. “Was she the same as the one you killed? Was she different? Older? What?”

  “Exactly the same”, Curly said. “No different. It was like she got cloned on the spot.”

  “You're facing life in prison”, Cameroon told him, and Curly just laughed again.

  “Jones said you'd say that”, he winked at her. “He also said he'd get us out, and there was no way on this Earth that you could ever stop him. That's exactly what he said.”

  Seventeen

  Why was I not surprised to get a phone call from Arab "Cricket" Jones? He was after something, I was sure, but I didn't know what it was, what he wanted from me. What he said he wanted was for me to watch him on the Kerd Palliver show that evening. He'd be on right after the famous supermodel, Elle Bee. I had never heard of Kerd Palliver, which Jones could hardly believe. Hey, I'm an old man and I don't really give a crap about who's who and what's what in the world of contemporary somebodies. They all just come and go as far as I'm concerned. If I even tried to keep track of them, I'm sure they would all just blend into one in any case.

  So I followed Jones' instructions anyway. Found the segment, watched the bit with the girl. She blended, as I expected. Could have been any showgirl any time. Hair, smile, approvable bits and pieces, and nothing at all to say. Palliver himself was some kind of hairdo and voice apparatus. Had a distinctive style, which I figured was what he was famous for. Had a way of squirming in his seat as if he was about the collapse with sheer delight at any moment. Big teeth, happy eyes, loudness. In between the guests there were lots of commercials for IntelliWig, the mood-altering hairpiece, and the Latest in Subatomics. I had already clued in to the fact that the war on stuff already consisted of different stuff, which was not proof I was in a different universe, only proof that a day or two had passed since the last time I checked on the list.

  Jones was introduced as a gentleman, a scholar, and a prophet. He had a lot to say. Palliver would get in half a question, and Jones would jump right in, take over, and talk for several minutes. I kind of already knew what he was going to say. It went something like this.

  “I want to tell you a riddle about a butterfly”, he said. “They say that when a butterfly flaps its wings in China, it might cause a hurricane in the Atlantic. I ask you, what happens when that selfsame butterfly fails to flap its wings? What happens if that butterfly is squashed?”

  Here he leaned over and pulled out a small board from under his chair. The board had a large yellow and black monarch butterfly pinned to it.

  “This here butterfly”, he continued, “will flap no more, and guess what? It makes no difference. It didn't matter when it was alive and flapping, and it doesn't matter now that it's not. You see, not every butterfly counts. You might say, it's the rare butterfly, the extremely rare one, that makes any difference whatsoever. It might even be so rare as not to exist at all.”

  “And it's not just butterflies”, he went on. “We're all in the same boat. You, me, my friend Inspector Mole, whom I hope is watching right now. Are you watching, Inspector? Because you know what I'm talking about. All of those old cold cases of yours, people who died and were never missed. A cave man with a bullet in his skull. A killer who saw herself killed. A rich man who lost his temper once too often, and paid for it in blood. Nobody cared about them then, and nobody cares about them now. They are all mere butterflies no longer flapping their wings. Did they change the world? No, not when they lived, and not when they died.”

  “What in this world is not disposable? Who is not? Nothing and no one, I tell you. Nothing and no one. Like my little cigarette lighter here, fashioned to produce a certain number of small flames and then no more. On to the rubbish heap with the thing. Fill up the oceans, fill up the mountains, with all the crap we throw away, and all of us as well. There's no limit to the waste of creation! God in his infinite wisdom has created an infinity of trash. What's one more butterfly more or less, eh?”

  And with that, he pulled out his little shiny gun and shot poor Palliver dead. Then he clicked the lighter and he disappeared, right off the set. Palliver fell off his chair for real this time. The audience gasped. Quickly the show turned to commercial and when it returned, a pale, shaking producer announced that this was no trick, as far as he knew. Jones had murdered the host, and somehow self-destructed without leaving a trace.

  But I had seen enough, and I thought I knew, finally, what he was up to. He was insane, that was clear, but insane like a cat gone crazy from the joy of toying with mice, and I was one of those. I knew I hadn't seen or heard the last of him. He had to be stopped, and I had two choices. I could either go after him, or I could wait for him where I was. Either way, I would have to be prepared for our next encounter. Everything would depend on it.

  Eighteen

  The more I thought about the matter, the more confused I became, because it occurred to me that stopping the one Arab Jones I knew of couldn never be enough. If what he kept saying was true, there were bound to be an endless number of nearly identical Joneses, each doing more or less the same thing in their various locations. But that was only "if" he was telling the truth. If he wasn't, if the whole thing was a big lie, some kind of sham, then where did he get to every time he disappeared, and how did he pull it off? I've never been much of a fan of magic - I'm the perfect mark, because I never understand it, never see the sleight of hand, which was one reason why I was already at the point of saying 'forget the whole thing' and just going to bed. Maybe it would make more sense in the morning.

  I knew I wouldn't, and I knew it wouldn't, either. I already hadn't slept in a couple of days and I wasn't feeling the least bit weary. I warmed up some honey water with lemon and sat nursing it while I sat on the top step in the front of my house. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe I thought Jones would show up again. Maybe I thought a parade of ghosts or zombies would go streaming past my doorway. What I didn't expect was of course what actually happened. A bright red sporty car pulled around the corner, raced up my street, and screeched to a halt right in front of me. The driver and the passenger jumped out at exactly the same moment, and came rushing over. It was dark enough out that night, but not so dark that I could see these two men were practically identical.

  They were tall and thin, dressed very nicely in white suits and peach-colored ties. They wore quite polished black shoes and each one carried a thin black briefcase. They had the same brisk, professional stride and when they stopped, they stood stiffly erect, lips pursed slightly and eyes wide open. The one on my left spoke first.

  “Good evening, Inspector. I trust we are not disturbing you.”

  “In other words”, said the one on my right, “We believe you are not presently being disturbed.”

  “Not at all”, I replied, and tried to appear friendly and calm, when in fact I was feeling suspicious and alert.

  “The name is Melvin Eldon”, said the first one.

  “Eldon Melvin”, volunteered the other.

  “We're certain you know why we're here”, said the first.

  “In other words”, added the second, “We are sure that you are aware of the reason for this visit.”

  “I have no idea”, I told them both.

  “You are in violation”, said the first. “You are not where you are supposed to be, and you know it.”

  “In other words”, the other one continued, “You are what we call a 'claim jumper'. You have inserted yourself into the presence of your other.”

  “This”, picked up the first, “Is in direct contradistinction of multi-galactical rule number eight point seven point nine point three point six.”

  “Point seven”, correct the other.

  “Quite”, agreed the first. “My mistak
e.”

  “Not a problem”, said Eldon Melvin.

  “I don't know of any other”, I said. “I'm simply me. Myself. And I.”

  I thought i was being funny. My inquisitors were not amused.

  “One cannot tell from the inside, obviously”, said the one on the right, impatiently.

  “Just as one needs a mirror in order to see one's own face, so one needs the Llunet to view the other within”, said the second.

  He reached into his briefcase and pulled out what looked like a notebook sized tablet, and stretching it up towards me, peeled back a cover, and told me to look directly at the glass. I did, and I saw nothing. Or rather, I saw only myself, more nearly a shadow of my features, scarcely reflected in the darkness.

  “There, you see? Your other.”

  “No, I don't see”, I told him. “I see only one image, and that one hardly at all.”

  “It is the other”, snapped the second. “Believe us. We know these things.”

  “I don't even know who you are”, I replied.

  “We have given you our names”, said the first. “Here is our card.”

  He pulled pulled back the tablet and with his other hand offered me a business card, on which was written their names, and a familiar address downtown. It was the same building where you go to renew your identification papers periodically.

  “You are not where you belong”, said Melvin Eldon (the first).

  “In other words”, said Eldon Melvin, “You shouldn't be here. You should be there.”

  “And where is there?”, I wanted to know.

  “Where you were. Where you came from. To whence you must return.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”, I snorted. “Click my heels together three times and say the magic words?”

  “Use your lighter”, said the first.

  “Yes, we know all about it”, said the other. “Sadly, we also know it's been preset. You may never return to your own place, and yet you must try, or forfeit one of your souls.”

  “One of my what?”

  “Souls”, said the first. “What you have seen in the spitter was the soul of your other.”

  “Spitter?”

  “S-P-I-D-T-R”, explained the second. “Spiritual inter-dimensional tracker. Quite a device, I must say.”

  “Invented by our friend in San Francisco”, continued the first. “It's how we know.”

  “And it is our job to know”, added the other.

  “Then you know about Jones”, I said.

  “Of course”, said the first. “But that is none of your concern, any more than is his companion, Racine.”

  “His companion? But he had her killed.”

  “One of her, yes, we know. But again, this is not your business. We understand why you think it is. After all, we are also law enforcement professionals.”

  “But on a different level”, added his partner.

  “We give you this choice”, said the first. “You have precisely twenty four hours. Try and get home, and if you succeed, then all is well and good. Otherwise you will forfeit this soul.”

  “In other words”, said the second, “One of you, the one you presently think of as you, will be erased. The others, of course, will go on as usual.”

  “No harm done, really”, said the first.

  “Why only twenty four hours?”, I wanted to know.

  “Because of your friend Jones”, said the first. “Tomorrow at this time, those little gadgets he stole will be added to everywhere's stuff list. They are easy to find. We know exactly where all of them are. Our friend is particular about his inventions.”

  “In other words”, said the second, “The gadgets will not only self-destruct at that time, but their possessor's soul will also be taken along with them.”

  “What if I give it to you now?”

  “I wouldn't”, said the first. “You might want to give your self at least a chance.”

  “In other words”, added the second, “If you give it to us now, we will be required to collect your spirit now as well.”

  “Keep it”, advised the former. “Who knows? You might even get lucky.”

  “But wait a minute, hold on a minute”, I said. “How do I know that I'm not, as you say, where I'm supposed to be. Everything seems the same to me. I don't think I even believe in this parallel universes gag.”

  The two looked at each other for a moment, then turned back to me.

  “We're not permitted to tell you much”, said the first.

  “In other words, we can only tell you a little,” added the other.

  “For one thing”, said the former, “Where you came from, presidential elections are a matter of course. They occur on a rather regular schedule.”

  “In other words”, added the latter, “they happen every four years.”

  “And there are no identity roundups”, continued the first.

  “Then what do the generals do?”, I asked, incredulous.

  “They don't interfere”, said the first. “And neither will you, if you take our advice.”

  And with that, they spun on their heels, jogged back to their car, piled aboard and drove off as if they were already late for their next appointment. What a job, I thought to myself, collecting souls in violation! And that bit about elections. Seriously? That didn't seem normal at all, but I couldn't tell which one of me was surprised, and which one of me could no longer be surprised by anything.

  Nineteen

  I think I must have got a little sleep because I was woken up early the next morning by my assistant, Kelley, who'd come to check on me. Kelley was worried because there was a crowd or reporters already gathered outside of HQ clamoring to talk to me because of what happened on the Kerd Palliver show. Kelley didn't want them besieging me at home, so we went in together in the squad car. There were a bunch of them all right, maybe twenty or thirty huddled around the entrance. I recognized a few of the loudest - Rae Beth Smirkins, from Channel Ten, Benny Schnizzle from Twenty Two, and the notorious Jan Etor from the National Set. I thought about sneaking in the back way, but it wasn't going to happen. They had spotted me and rushed the car. I had to get out and face it. They were shouting all at once and I had to wave my hands around to get their attention, calm them down, promising to answer each and every one of their questions.

  “What can you tell us about the Palliver murder?”

  “Where's Cricket Jones now?”

  “ How did he get away?”

  “What about the frigid caveman with the bullet in his skull?”

  “What do you know about the sudden global extinction of the butterflies?”

  It was not my shiningest moment. I really couldn't tell them much about anything they wanted to know, and I wasn't going to tell them anything about what I didn't want them to know. Nobody seemed to have the slightest idea about what Jones was really up to. They all assumed there was a trap door or some other parlor trick that explained his vanishing act. I wasn't going to raise an alarm about how this guy could apparently appear and disappear at will throughout unlimited parallel existences. That would scare the crap out of everyone!

  I didn't know anything about the murder. I hadn't been assigned to the case, even though my name was explicitly linked to it thanks to Jones, and I could only assume that the regular schmoes had already botched the job in their customary fashion. Kelley had told me on the way that the bullet they took from Palliver matched the one that was taken from Reyn Tundra as well as that from the desiccated corpse of the former Racine. I already figured it did. Jones had a thing for that particular gun and those particular bullets. Most killers are superstitious, like professional athletes or anyone who wants something badly enough.

  What caught my attention was the thing about the butterflies. When Schnizzle asked me that one, I turned the tables and asked him instead. What did HE know about it? It was the first I had heard. He told me, and the others confirmed his version, that out of the blue that very morning had come reports from a
round the world that butterflies were dropping like, well, like flies, as the saying goes. No one knew why, but it seemed to be happening everywhere. I of course suspected Jones, but how did it happen? Nobody knew. Scientists were stumped. The creatures had all simply stopped breathing.

  Rae Beth Smirkins wanted to get personal, as was her trademark. How did I feel about being singled out by Jones for public mockery on the airwaves. How was my family handling it? Was there anything I wanted to express to the citizenry at large. Yes, I told her. It's not about me, and I don't care about my family anyway. Jones is a criminal, a fugitive on the run, and I was certain the authorities would catch him and justice would be served. Of course, I didn't really believe that. It seemed to me there was no stopping him now. He'd continue to rip through the fabric of the space-time continuum, tearing holes in it willy-nilly, for whatever reason he was doing so. I didn't understand him, not at all, and that did not bode well for me. For once in my life I was the one being hunted. I was half expecting him to show up at any moment.

  I got through the journalistic ritual. The reporters weren't satisfied but after I'd repeated my non-answers often enough they finally gave up and drifted off. Then I went into the building, where I faced another barrage of inquiries from my fellow officers. It went pretty much the same way. Nobody had a lead on Jones, of course. Everyone was expecting me to handle it. I even heard from the Chief, who almost never talked to me. He just stuck his head into the break room where I was hanging out and said,

  “Mole? Get this all straightened out, will you? The generals are bugging me about it. Get it? Bugging me? You know, the butterflies and all?”

  The Chief thought he was hilarious and wandered off, laughing loudly at his little joke. My peers all gave me knowing nods and winks, and my juniors gave me thumbs ups as they passed by. What a bunch of jerks. Even my assistant, Kelley, was not much use. He made some excuse about paperwork and took off, leaving me all alone to, to do what? I realized they were all expecting me to DO something, like I could flip a switch and solve all the mysteries just like that. The truth was, I didn't even know where to begin. I was in way over my head.

  Twenty

  The big question I had to answer was, should I try and chase after Jones, or should I give it up. Really, it boiled down to that. If I went after