You Can't Kill the Multiverse
Page 2
“The size of cars?” Superintendent McCrae continued.
“That is correct,” Faith answered. “It makes sense, since…” she bit down on her lip, but the words had to come out: “the cars had turned into frogs.”
“The cars had turned into frogs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What,” Superintendent McCrae asked in the certain knowledge that he was not going to like the answer, “happened to the people in the cars?”
“They…were surprised to find themselves sitting on top of giant frogs, the drivers holding reins,” Faith stated.
“It was like being in a fairy tale, many of those affected reported,” Hope added, “except the details weren’t quite like any fairy tale they had ever read!”
“That’s such a Mary Beth observation to make,” Faith told her.
“You think so?” Hope tried to hide the delight in her voice in front of their boss.
“I’m jealous.”
“I know you always pictured yourself as Mary Beth, so that means to a lot to me.”
Constables Farrah “Faith” Achmed and Rachel “Hope” Hoppshivitz had an ongoing argument about which of them was Cagney and which Lacey. Hope was tall and skinny and had short-cropped red hair; Faith was dark-skinned, Rubensesque of figure, with long, luxurious black hair. In truth, neither of them comfortably fit the mold of the characters portrayed by Sharon Gless and Tyne Daly on the CBS television series aired from 1981 to 1988, but everybody – even officers of the law – can dream, can’t they?
“Credit where credit is due,” Faith said.
“Do you think,” Hope asked, “I could have been a bit more…insouciant?”
“No. Your insouciance was perfect.”
“I don’t know. I thought I could have been more insou –”
“CAN WE GET BACK TO THE CASE?” Superintendent McCrae roared.
Superintendent McCrae, the head of 37 Division (which was an odd name consi – no, it’s an odd number, so that wording could be construed by some as actually being appropriate – which was a…strange name considering that it was a prime number) and their superior, seemed to have only one response to every stimulus – from getting up in the morning to tracking down serial killers: he acted as if he had just swallowed a bug (childhood memories aren’t always bucolic, you know). He had honed this attitude of annoyed aggressiveness during years of being a wrestling fan, and he was secretly proud of the fact that he was quite good at it. When they were first assigned to work together, Hope and Faith assumed his attitude towards them was based on the fact that they were two women trying to get ahead in a man’s world; they were disabused of this notion the afternoon when Yakabuki, an Afghan war vet, left Superintendent McCrae’s office blubbering like a baby.
Every so often, somebody in the squad room would suggest that they hold an intervention, purely for Superintendent McCrae’s benefit, you understand; after all, if he didn’t do something about his anger issues, it was only a matter of time before he spontaneously combusted. While most of the police on duty at the time would agree that something needed to be done, the enthusiasm for an intervention would only last until the next time Superintendent McCrae threw an object through the window of his office, at which point everybody would magically find something else to be busy with and the impulse would die out.
Superintendent McCrae’s office was white, clinical, with simple furniture that could fool most people into thinking it had been constructed out of things that had once been part of something living. Behind Superintendent McCrae’s desk was a board with a Crayola crayons box worth of coloured strings tacked onto it at a variety of lengths and angles. A couple of old-timers swore that there was a map of the city under all that string, but the other cops in the Division had their doubts. Clearly, the issue of the string would have to be dealt with by Superintendent McCrae in one of his sessions with his therapist. If he ever realized how much he needed a therapist. And, after he dealt with the anger issues, of course.
And, that could take some time.
Hope and Faith assured him that they could get back to the case. “How many cars were affected?” he asked like he was about to eat his desk out of frustration.
They reported that all of the cars in a 20 mile radius had been affected. The change seemed to have happened at 2:37 in the morning, so damage was minimal. There had been a 10 frog pile-up on the Don Valley Parkway, but those involved were more confused than hurt. Other than that, various minor hindleg benders had been reported throughout the affected area, but nothing serious.
“Thank god nobody got killed,” Superintendent McCrae said, although it sounded like he was offering to duel with a man who had slept with his wife. “What’s being done about the giant frogs in the streets?”
Faith and Hope explained that the frogs were slippery bastards that were extremely difficult to corral. One of the smaller frogs had been tasered, to no effect. Half a dozen officers tried to taser said frog at the same time, but this stopped its heart. This did not go over well with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, let me tell you. After this incident – the complaint will be filed in due course – the officers on the street agreed to leave the giant frogs to the professionals.
“The SPCA?” Superintendent McCrae asked, hopefully.
“No,” Faith replied, “chefs in French restaurants.”
“If you start seeing monster specials on the menus in French restaurants,” Hope added, “you’ll know that they were successful.”
Superintendent McCrae frowned, a big, sloppy, unhappy kind of facial movement. “Any theories about what happened?” he asked.
Faith and Hope looked at each other. Then, they looked back at Superintendent McCrae. Then, “Turn on the TV,” Hope advised.
Had it been anybody else, Superintendent McCrae would have barked at them for proposing he amuse himself by watching television in the midst of being briefed about an ongoing investigation. However, experience had shown him that – he couldn’t make up his mind between the adjective eerily or uncannily, so you decide – whenever the television was on when they were in the room, it aired something relevant to their current case. So, Superintendent McCrae opened the desk drawer that didn’t contain a gun, rummaged around for a moment and pulled out a remote. He pointed it at the TV set high into the wall in the far corner of the room and pressed the on button. Nothing happened. He looked at the remote closely and pressed a button on the top, bulbous part of it, then pointed it at the TV set and pressed the on button again. Still nothing happened. He looked, pressed, aimed at the TV and pressed several more times until, with great frustration, he threw the converter back into the drawer and got up to turn the television on by hand. Unfortunately, the room had a relatively high ceiling, and he couldn’t quite reach the television. With a great roar, he went back to his desk, pulled out the chair, wheeled it over to the TV and, teetering precariously, pressed the on switch. Faith and Hope had watched this routine many times and remained stoically silent throughout. They were rewarded with this:
EXT. STREET – DAY
SASKATCHEWAN KOLONOSCOGRAD (34, four foot eight, smoldering eyes) stands on a street corner holding a microphone. In the lower right corner of the screen is an octopus-like creature whose tentacles are embracing the planet, the logo of the Alternate Reality News Network.
KOLONOSCOGRAD
(into mike)
…ogs that suddenly appeared on city streets last night. We have spoken to Jamaica O’Reilly, who was only just disbarred three weeks ago, and he assures us that cars turning into frogs is covered by most insurance policies.
PAN OUT to reveal BYRON FINKERSTEEN (60something, tall, scraggly beard, wild eyes) standing next to her. He is holding a sign that reads, “The end is nigh!” only the word “nigh” has been scratched out with a marker and the word “HERE!” has been written over it.
KOLONOSCOGRAD (CONTINUES)
To help us understand what happened, I have with me local resident Byron F
inkersteen.
BYRON
Hello.
KOLONOSCOGRAD
(into mike)
Now, Byron, we’ll get to your theory of what happened in a moment, but, just to be clear, you are a complete raving lunatic – is that correct?
Turns microphone to Finkersteen.
FINKERSTEEN
(into mike)
Absolutely, Saskatchewan. Stark raving. I haven’t had a sane thought in my head since Trudeau’s last waltz.
Turns microphone back to herself.
KOLONOSCOGRAD
(into mike)
Good. Now that we’ve got that…unpleasantness out of the way, why do you think the frogs appeared?
Turns microphone to Finkersteen.
FINKERSTEEN
(into mike)
It’s the end of the world, Saskatchewan. Sinners will be drenched in hellfire for all of eternity and the righteous will be saved. Hurrah!
Turns microphone back to herself.
KOLONOSCOGRAD
(into mike, earnest)
I see. And, on what do you base this?
Turns microphone to Finkersteen.
FINKERSTEEN
(into mike)
You mean, aside from the massive neuronal misfirings in my cranium?
Turns microphone back to herself.
KOLONOSCOGRAD
(into mike)
Yes. We’ve already established that.
Turns microphone to Finkersteen.
FINKERSTEEN
Well, the Bible, of course. In Revelations, it clearly sta –
SOUND: RIBBIT! It is so loud, Kolonoscograd and Finkersteen are nearly blown over by it. SWISH PAN to the street, where a frog the size of a mini-van is playing tag with two men in chefs’ smocks and tall white hats.
KOLONOSCOGRAD
(over)
Adenine, this is the kind of chaos that has been visited on streets all over Toronto. Police are baffled as to why frogs appeared on city –
Superintendent McCrae apoplectically stabbed the converter and, to everybody’s surprise, the television turned off. O, fickle technology! “End Times?” he sneered. “That’s what you’ve got?”
“It was a legitimate lead,” Faith protested.
“Anyway,” Hope added, “We spoke to a Buddhist Monk, a Rabbi and an Episcopal Minister in a bar, and, although it sounds like the set-up to a bad joke, they were actually very helpful. Of course, they all denied that it could be a sign of the End Times. So, we won’t be following up on this lead unless any corroborating evidence presents itself.”
“Where does that leave us?” Superintendent McCrae barked. His third wife – the one who owned a library of self-help books – had told him to try thinking of himself as a tree at times like these, a calm, quiet, majestic tree; unfortunately, he managed to find an unhelpful way to interpret her advice.
Faith and Hope looked at each other. They had already used the television dodge, so there was nothing for it: one of them was going to have to express what they had been thinking.
“Frogs are usually associated with…what?” Hope prompted.
“Warts?” Superintendent McCrae responded.
“That may actually be toads,” Faith said, “but, good try. Think…fairy tales. What associations do frogs usually have in fairy tales?”
“Tarts?” Superintendent McCrae answered.
Faith and Hope looked at each other. Neither of them wanted to inquire as to the fairy tales Superintendent McCrae had grown up with. Finally, Faith turned to him and said, “We suspect that magic was involved.”
“Magic?” Superintendent McCrae roared. “But, this is not a realm of magic!”
“Well, exactly,” Hope agreed.
“That would mean that the perp came from another universe, a universe whose physics allowed for magic,” Superintendent McCrae continued.
“‘Fraid so,” Faith said.
“That would mean,” Superintendent McCrae concluded, his face darkening, “that this would be a case for the Transdimensional Authority.”
Faith and Hope held their breath and their tongues, but their souls were agreeing with him.
“Well,” Superintendent McCrae gloomed, “let’s hope that it’s just the End Times!”
2a.
“You know,” Lavonia Schmelson said as she poured tea for Faith and Hope, even though they had both repeatedly told her that they didn’t want any, “I have a nephew about your age. He’s a good catch – he has a law degree and almost all of his own teeth!”
“Thanks,” Hope told her, “but I was happily married for four years.”
“Oh? Then, what happened, dear?”
“I stopped being happily married.”
Missus Schmelson nodded sagely and asked Faith, “How do you like your tea, dear?”
Faith, having grown frustrated that Missus Schmelson refused to take no for an answer to the tea question, stated: “Like coffee?”
Missus Schmelson, ignoring her completely, sweetly replied, “I’ll just put you down for milk, one sugar. A girl must watch her figure.”
Faith gently made a face at her.
They were sitting in an apartment that was all lace and plastic covers. On one wall was a cabinet that held commemorative plates about events they had never heard of – the Queen choking on sushi during the Royal Visit of ’87? Elvis singing a duet with The Bangles? Star Blap – The Movie winning a Best Picture Oscar? – unfortunately, bad taste was not a crime in their jurisdiction. The apartment was bathed in a warm, golden light, which was odd since it was two in the afternoon; Hope assumed that the effect was created by specially tinted windows.
The landlady was at least 70 years old, with enough warts, moles and birthmarks to supply the witches of a complete volume of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. She was exceedingly polite, in that pushy way that some little old ladies seem to have perfected. She handed Faith and Hope their tea, which they immediately put down on side tables next to the couch.
“Have any of your tenants said or done anything lately that seemed…odd to you?” Faith asked.
“My tenants wouldn’t do anything odd!” Missus Schmelson objected in the most adorable way. “They have to have at least three references, and only one can be from a corrections service!”
“Can you think of any of your tenants – any at all – who might have wanted,” Hope asked, “to turn cars into frogs?”
“Hmm…” Missus Schmelson considered, as she happily drank her tea. “I suppose there’s Rosemary in 3c – but, no. She’s such a tiny, frail little thing. I’m sure she wouldn’t be capable of anything like that. Then there’s Darth in 4d – but, no, no, I can see him trying to destroy the world, but I don’t think he’s the kind of person who would play that kind of practical joke. No, I’m sorry. My tenants wouldn’t do something like that.”
“Have any of your tenants shown any odd behaviour?” Hope pressed. “Anything at all?”
Missus Schmelson considered this a moment, then answered: “Drink your tea, dears. Wouldn’t want it to get cold.”
Faith and Hope picked up their cups with varying degrees of lack of enthusiasm.
“Now that you mention it,” Missus Schmelson stated, “there is Solomon. Don’t get me wrong – he is a quiet type who always pays his rent on time, and I never caught him trying to sneak pets into the building. We have a no pets policy, you know. I’m not a one for the pets. But, Solomon, he wears this big pointy hat with stars and moons on it and a long black robe. At first, I thought he wore it because he was going to some kind of party…or maybe it was a fraternity pledge thing…or maybe some new kind of psychotherapy. Ever since Mister Schmelson passed, I haven’t kept up on the psychiatric literature like I used to. But, in the three months that he has been with us, that’s the only thing that I have ever seen him wear.”
“A big pointy hat with stars and moons?” Hope asked.
“That’s right.”
“And, a long black robe?” Faith followed up.
“May we see his room?” they asked in unison.
“You…you’re sure you’re officers of the law?”
Faith and Hope nodded vigorously, offering to show her their ID badges. Again.
“Well, that’s all right, then,” Missus Schmelson said. “He’s in apartment 2a. Let me just get the key.”
When they got up the stairs, Hope rapped loudly on the door of room 2a. “Mister Malvoncellious?” she shouted. “Mister Solomon Malvoncellious? Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
After a prudential silence (not to be confused with a Prudential silence, which is what you hear when you try to make a claim on an insurance policy), Hope nodded at Missus Schmelson, who used her pass key to unlock the door. Faith and Hope entered the apartment, Missus Schmelson trailing.
There was no furniture in the room. Dominating the scene was a large mound of rocks, in the middle of which something or some things had been burnt. The walls were covered with words in a language none of them spoke, and images that might have been of a mystical nature; they had been applied with a red substance the police officers immediately recognized as blood. On one wall, somebody had taped a Black Sabbath poster, also covered in bloody characters. The whole scene was suffused with a warm, golden glow. Yep. Missus Schmelson had definitely done something with the glass in the windows of the building.