Travel Bug (35 page)

“True but that reminds me of something.”

“What?”

“His name sounds like an expression somewhat familiar to me…”

“Oh, fuck you…”

“Do you remember it?”

“Memento Mori…”

“Yes.”

“This is not even near enough information and damn you, I know you know more.”

“Perhaps…”

“I can’t catch any suspect with the precious little I have here…”

“I have faith in you, I think you can.”

“Really?” asked Martin, forgetting he was speaking to a monster.

“Yes, I do. Don’t be such a doubting Thomas, detective.”

Following orders could be hell.

“You’re in charge, okay?”

The cat was hiding in the basement.

“I know a soldier’s job. We have mercy and compassion; we are citizens. That’s just how we’re wired you know. Please don’t feel like I’m feeling guilty here. I’m really not, fuck no! Jonathan Stephens deserved a whole hell of a lot better for his service. Fuck, it wasn’t even a service, he gave his life. It was such a sacrifice that it could have made a druid blush on Halloween.”

***

Slow tip toeing. The cat came back up the stairs. Slowly he made the happy meowing sound that Luther had always loved. Then he rubbed up against him and purred. It was pretty obvious that the cat knew him as his only friend prior to all of this new stuff. The man would go mad if Moose were to die now. This was a cat that was a little bit higher on the evolutionary scale, to put it very mildly. For the life of him, he could not figure out why he could not remember when he got this fine animal. It must have been the damned government. They put Moose in his life and planted a false memory of him purchasing him at the shelter just after his service in Iraq. The enemy could have tortured him (maybe they did but if they did, he was in denial), the government could have made him do unspeakable things (he was reasonably sure this was true) but no one could change who he was deep down inside. His soul was his soul. A soldier was a noble profession and one with a good stomach was invaluable. Killing in the name of freedom was the ultimate in being a fine citizen. A good citizen, in fact, would do this quite often. Somehow Luther knew this was going to be his fate.

The cat looked up at him again, this time rather sternly.

“I know,” Luther answered him.

The cat ran away from him.

“You’re such a nice, dammed cat. You don’t remember what your purpose is or why you are in fact a genius. Maybe not compared to all men but for fuck’s sake, in the animal world you make Einstein and Socrates seem like they flunked out of community college!”

“Really, I do?”

Fuck. He just realized that the damned cat might not be talking at all and he just might be crazy. The terrorists were everywhere and it was far… far too late for him to be a lunatic. Much too far gone then he was… now. If he was going to be crazy, he might just want to be like… his old friend… Thomas Grey. Now this poor kid had such an abusive childhood, he could only imagine things going wrong.

“Damn, you were a fucked up kid,” he said out loud.

His thoughts ran away from Thomas’s childhood, none to speak of, was irrelevant, he never killed innocent people, that was wrong. Well, casualties of war were as inevitable as oxygen and sunrise. Killing for sport was sadistic and wrong. That wasn’t a soldier, he had to be himself, and this was no dishonest man. Denial was never where Thomas would reside. He knew what he was and he was proud. Never to the point of being arrogant, however, that wasn’t who he was.

The cat ran past him quickly and gave him a swat on the leg.

“Oh, I suppose that means business.”

Perhaps it did.

“I’m always ready and willing to do my duty for my country.”

No denial here. He thought that there could be some distant memories being repressed, they would, of course be the painful kind. No. He was ready to do his duty. This was more than just a fine cat. He probably always knew it on some level. The stares that he gave were almost… human. His bites, which were sometimes painful, seemed to be more instruction than begging or play. Some of those initial meows might have just been nothing short of the cat’s first attempts at real intelligent communication. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel that the locals or average people were not as good as him. No. There just wasn’t equal service on their part. The men and women, who never befriended him, owned him a hell of a lot of gratitude. It would be a debt that would never be paid, an honor that would never be bestowed upon him. That was all fine and good because he had an honor and a duty… service was far from over.

The orders were given and he followed them to the letter. Like a man who truly deserved his citizenship and was willing to spill his blood, give his life, always. Death came to everyone but honor did not. Freedom and safety were not always compatible but were worth all of the troubles they might cause. The harsh treatment he received in his military training had served him well in every aspect of his everyday life. The others were going to be assassinated soon enough. This sleepy little town was full of traitors and terrorists. The cat jumped on the bed next to him. It was almost morning. He wanted him to perform his duties… they ordered him to do this… during broad daylight.

“You’re not giving him back, are you?” asked Dennis West.

“No,” answered Luther He had not been back to the shelter (to the best of his recollection) in a long time. Stray dogs and cats, imprisoned in their cages surrounded him. The old man West had been working at the shelter since he was a kid. The ex-hippie sixties douche bag protested Americans who fought and died during Vietnam. He, of course, never served one day himself. That was, unless you counted saving a puppy or two. He may have even belonged to one of those groups that sent blood to the Viet Kong and the insurgents. Luther wasn’t really sure.

“Good, that cat is awfully fond of you, I can tell.”

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Just looking, I guess.”

“Oh, I see.”

No. He never saw a damned thing about the country he took for granted and put down with every opportunity offered up in his sheltered life. Ironic that he worked in a shelter, Luther thought. Then a crazy thought raced into his head. He wouldn’t want his son (if he were ever fortunate enough to have one) to fight in any war. Fuck Vietnam; fuck Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, North Korea, China and Canada if it ever came to that. Not worth the life of a son, Luther thought. This was different. He was a disrespectful baby boomer asshole. The kind of guy who would defend the rights of women and gays and the terrorists but he would ignore the fact that terrorists would behead all of them. It wasn’t east versus west anymore. No more fighting the Russians, who were for all intents and purposes, a rational enemy?

“You have some fine animals,” said Luther.

“Yes, we do,” he answered him.

“I’ve always loved animals a great deal more than people.”

“Well, I know that wasn’t true for all people,” said the hippie.

“Oh?”

“I mean you must have been devastated by the death of Ethel. My goodness, she was like a surrogate mother to you. That woman loved you so much. That terrible war took her son Jonathan away, you know. She must have thanked God that you made it out of America’s latest travesty alive.”

“Yes,” Luther said.

“American imperialism…”

“Uh…”

“You know nothing against you…”

“Um…”

“I support our troops but the government is corrupt.”

“How is it corrupt, Mr. West?”

“Well, maybe I’m just getting too controversial.”

“Maybe, you are.”

“How is Moose?”

“Good.”

“He was an exceptional cat, really. I am not just saying that. I mean I know that you hear a lot of folks say that someone has a beautiful baby but they don’t really mean it. I have never told anyone with an ugly baby a lie. That is an interesting cat.”

“That he is.”

“He sure took to you.”

“Yes he did.”

“I think that your cat is extraordinary. Moose is very smart.”

Now Luther found himself letting out uncontrollable laughter despite the dirty task he was sent to do to Mr. Woodstock.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“We’re all just puppets of the right wing shadow government.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry but I think there is a right wing conspiracy.”

“Oh?”

This time he looked all around the shelter to detect truth from lies. The customers were not there and there was no one but him, the useful idiot and stray animals.

“You can’t tell me that sweet old lady was going to kill herself at that old age. The moment of truth… death was already coming. Why the hell would she kill herself?”

“I don’t know,” Luther said.

“Exactly, my friend, she wouldn’t do that. I hope that you get yourself a more educated job now that you’re out of the stupid military and survived that awful war.”

“You work in an animal shelter,” Luther said sarcastically but still friendly.

“True but I play guitar for tips on the weekends.”

“Good for you,” answered Luther.

Things were getting tense. He quickly made an effort to ensure that he did not hate all military personnel.

“You know, whether a war is just or not, that doesn’t take away from the bravery of the individual soldier.”

“No?”

“No, absolutely not,” said the baby boomer.

“Good to know,” Luther answered.

“I hope that I haven’t offended you.”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You see, I’ve been let down by human beings my entire life. My parents, my family, former supervisors and the list of betrayers are very, very long. I will continue. The college professors who didn’t believe in me, my Sunday school teachers and so many more, I could write a fucking book. Then there was the drill sergeant who didn’t see that I had the heart of a good man and the trigger finger of a superb soldier, just to name a few. Then there were more. The ungrateful spoiled brats who don’t appreciate the sacrifices of men who would die to protect their freedom, they get on my nerves a little.”

“Oh, Luther…”

“Yes?”

“Once again, no disrespect intended.”

“Fine, my friend, no disrespect intended, then.”

“I mean… no offense. Really, I mean that.”

“Well, Christ, I suppose none taken.”

“Good.”

“I’m glad we can agree to disagree… the founding fathers would honor that.”

“Indeed they would.”

“Yes, sir, indeed they certainly would.”

“They wouldn’t honor praising communism’s genocide above personal liberty because they felt guilty about being white or middle class.”

“What?”

“Sorry, just a mere observation while we still have free speech.”

“Okay, have you seen some of our new kittens?”

“No.”

“Is Moose the only cat you need?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Once again, an extraordinary cat, he must be exceptional.”

“Oh, he is.”

“Do you feel close to him?” he asked, nervously.

“You know that I do.”

“Okay.”

He couldn’t stand the small talk anymore. Luther punched the old man so hard in the face, he lost consciousness.

“I guess we’re so damned fiendish, the patriots who fight, you don’t know what the hell to do.”

The old man briefly regained consciousness. He looked up at Luther for a moment.

“What…… ?”

“This is the end, my only friend, the end…”

The late singer’s memory and the Woodstock concert briefly flashed before his very unpatriotic eyes. The rebel in question was only twenty seven when he died and that was in the very Un-American country of France! Then he realized… not for long… this man really meant him harm… he was the grim reaper for real. The American fascism that he dreaded was coming true, at least on a personal level. No more Mr. nice guy… if he would have lived… He would have pointed out that the American right-wing death squads were coming for all of those who dared speak out against an imperialistic, fascist form of racist government. No need to bother now. He was dead.

***

“This is good stuff,” said Martin Wesley.

“What?”

“They’re playing The Doors all weekend long on this station.”

“Oh, I see,” said Calvin.

“No, I don’t think that you do.”

“What?”

“Jim Morrison was a fucking genius but you only care about the immediate and not the past.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize that I had a man whose wife was still alive in my car.” Calvin regretted it the instant it came out of his mouth.

Now came the classic Catholic guilt and Martin was no stranger to that. When you just happen to have loved ones who are in the prime of life and still breathing air… should you feel grateful or guilty? A damned good question to be sure. He had a blessed life and a wonderful wife. He was proud and delighted with his son. No problem there. It was plain and simple. Martin Wesley was just a luck son of a bitch and that’s all there was too it.

“I’m sorry for your wife’s passing.”

“Thanks.”

“No, sincerely, I truly am.”

“Okay. I appreciate that”

“No, really, if you knew me, I am honest.

“You are?”

“I am.”

“That’s good to know.”

“No, really, I am…”

‘”Okay.”

“Just like a good agnostic Catholic should be.”

“I guess,” he said, laughing.

“No, you’re man of faith to be sure.”

“I think we need to be men of action, constable.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, hell,” said Wesley.

“What?” the older man asked. He was getting nervous because they driving a lot faster than he was comfortable with.

“Calvin?”

“Yes, Wesley?”

“We need to talk about Luther.”

The lists of terror suspects who would receive execution, sentence to be carried out immediately. The list of terror suspects was now growing. Now Luther drove out of county, from Deer to Bucks to go back to school. Professors were always a little nutty, whether on the right or the left. Learning to be a normal person was difficult for an academic. If one considered oneself to be truly intellectually gifted than avoiding smugness was an occupational hazard. Donnis University was known for having quite a few smug professors as well as an infamous reputation for the male professors sleeping with their young, beautiful female students. No doubt about it. That wasn’t Luther’s concerns and the cat had not given him orders regarding any such trivial matters. They did not relate to national security so they were essentially negligible.