CHAPTER 10
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” the confounded angel professed, reading the printout of information from the library on the Anima Furabatur. Sitting at the desk in the office in the police station’s lobby, L’Da scanned the note thoroughly. Gregory was standing in front of the desk awaiting instructions while Tony sat in another chair watching a man he’d never seen before, twisting and turning the knobs on the polygraph machine with such familiarity it seemed like he built it himself.
“Oh, gentleman,” L’Da said, forgetting his manners. “This is D’Ariel. He’s a forensic specialist from Legal Heaven. You might say he’s on loan. And, yes, he’s an angel. D’Ariel, this is Gregory and Tony.”
D’Ariel waved ‘hi’ to the partners and they returned the gesture. Unlike the other angels, the polygraph specialist wasn’t dressed totally in white; he was clad in black harem pants, a decorative red tunic and brown shoes. His bald head was so shiny it could blind anyone should sunlight reflect off it at the wrong angle.
“D’Ariel,” L’Da asked, “can you come over for a minute?”
“Sure.” The bald visitor got up and trekked over to the desk where L’Da passed him the sketch of the Anima Furabatur.
“Ring any bells?” the white-attired angel asked his friend. “A soul stealer?”
“Can’t say that it does,” D’Ariel answered. “It’s improbable though, only because the soul cannot be removed, as far as I know anyway.”
Gregory chimed in the conversation. “Is there a way to check if someone has no soul?”
“I’ve never heard of a way,” L’Da lamented. “Yes, your soul can be read by the device in Karen’s employ, but never has it been tasked to read that which wasn’t there.”
D’Ariel remembered otherwise. “You know, I’ve heard something once but, like everything else, seemed like a myth at the time; maybe still is. There’s an old contraption in the archives that hasn’t been used in several millennia because it’s never been needed. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know where it is today or even what it looks like, but like I’d said, probably just some old wives’ tale made up to keep kids out of the forest.”
“Where are the archives?” Gregory asked him.
“Can I see your manual?” D’Ariel asked in return.
“I left mine back in my room,” the PI admitted.
“I have mine,” Tony stated, removing his from his pocket.
D’Ariel took the blue covered manual and flipped through a couple of virtual pages.
“You know,” Gregory wondered aloud, “I must say I’m very surprised.”
“About what?” D’Ariel asked, pausing his search.
The PI threw up his hands like he was Atlas holding up the world. “That you guys just don’t do magic and find what you want. I thought all y’all did that.”
“What pro basketball team did you play for, Gregory?” D’Ariel asked, tapping the manual non-consciously. “The Lakers? The Suns?”
The detective squinted at the forensic specialist. “I never played pro ball.”
D’Ariel shook his head. “That’s a surprise. I thought all y’all did that.”
Gregory jumped up like he was going to force the bald interloper to swallow his words, then he realized what tempestuous feelings the slick angel was trying to create, and at which he succeeded.
“Touché,” the corrected PI admitted.
D’Ariel continued browsing through the manual till he arrived at his destination. “Just like I figured,” he expressed. “The portal was changed.”
“Heaven grows by leaps and bounds continually,” L’Da informed the detectives, “so it’s often necessary to shift portals and chambers around.”
“What’s a portal?” Tony asked.
“A door to a parallel dimension,” L’Da answered.
“Oh,” Gregory joked, “like the Twilight Zone, except without Rod Serling. This is a journey, not of sight or sound, but of mind.” When he saw everyone in the room kept a straight face at his poor Serling impersonation, he went back to reading the pamphlet in his hand. “Why do I even waste my time?” he mumbled to himself.
“I can locate the machine,” D’Ariel hoped. “It’d just take a day, maybe less.”
“You have to go to another heaven?” Tony asked.
“No,” D’Ariel reckoned. “There’s a portal to the other portals in the basement of this building. Once I’m in I’ll begin my search. It just takes a long time because the halls of the archives are endless. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll start.”
“Thanks, D’Ariel,” L’Da stated, then turned to the newly arrived residents. “In the meantime, you two feel free to interview as many people as you can. The sooner we solve this problem, the better the chance of staving off a ‘stop placement’. I can just imagine the havoc that would wreak throughout the universe.”
By mid-afternoon, Gregory was beginning to feel the burn from all the walking around he and his partner had done. They’d spoken to six people thus far who stated they were knowledgeable about interdimensional travel but none could help the duo the way they hoped. Taking a break, the elder PI opted to visit the farmer’s market in the center of town to purchase food for his apartment and emollient for his aching feet. Tony, itching to play a guitar, any guitar, told his friend he’d see him later, then moseyed on over to Les Paul’s shop just down the block to check out what was on sale. Because his ID card was new, he knew he’d at least have to volunteer for several jobs around town just to be able to earn enough credits for an el cheapo axe. Entering the cozy luthiery shoppe, he started checking out the dazzling, shiny instruments displayed against a wall. Carefully bringing one down, he sat on a stool and started strumming away.
Over at the farmer’s market, Gregory grabbed a black handbasket from a stack near the door as he entered and proceeded inward. The first thing he noticed was a conspicuous lack of cash registers in the store. There were self-checkout stands, as well as aisles and aisles of goods, but no traditional payment terminals in sight. Strolling around, he noticed it was set up like a typical market. There were familiar offerings such as bottled water, bread, fruits and vegetables, paper products, beauty supplies, beer, cigarettes, canned goods, and so on. On closer inspection, it appeared none of the items were manufactured by international corporations; that is, no Coke, no Colgate, no Charmin – according to the labels, many of them primitive in nature, everything in the store was naturally or holistically created or grown in Woodstock, from asparagus to zucchini and everything in between.
Looking down an aisle, he noticed one of the market workers stocking different personal care products up on a shelf. Removing his ID card, he approached the bearded gentleman with the warm, inviting face framed by long red hair streaming down his back.
“Excuse me,” the PI opened, holding up his spanking new, recently-issued, dark blue card. “Where can I find out what’s left on here?”
“Over there,” the stocker said, pointing to a small black box at the end of the aisle. “Also, as you come in, you can just swipe it in front of one the checkout kiosks.”
“Thanks,” Gregory conceded. “So, I just get whatever items I want, put it in a cart, walk to the front and watch credits get subtracted from my card?”
“Just like that.”
“Suppose my card is empty or I don’t have enough?”
“That’s okay,” the stocker said. “Food you can take. You’ll just owe credits to your card. You wouldn’t be able to check out the good stuff, though.”
“The good stuff?”
“Non-food items like beer, wine, cigarettes…and you have to be at least 21, otherwise you’ll set off an alarm, and that’s pretty embarrassing.”
“I see. And to add credits I just volunteer or do something good for somebody.”
“That’s it,” the employee stated. “Real easy.”
“Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Duane. Duane Allman.”
“Hey, Duane. I’m Gr
egory. You’ve been helpful.”
“Any time, man. Oh, by the way,” Duane added, waving a box of toothpaste in his hand, “in case you’re interested, all the flax products came in. Get ‘em while they’re hot.”
The PI took the natural toothpaste from the clerk and studied it. “These are big sellers around here?”
“You bet,” Duane answered. “Can’t keep ‘em in the store. You know, flaxseed oil has kind of a short shelf life.”
Gregory gazed at the shelves the worker was stocking. “What do they make from it?”
“A lot of stuff,” the crimson pated gentleman replied. “Toothpaste, soap, shampoo, hand cream, rash and inflammation cream, foot cream…”
“Yeah!” the excited PI shouted. “I’ll take one of those. My dogs are killing me.”
Gregory waited as Duane rummaged through one of the boxes by his feet, brought out a jar of whitish cream, and handed it to him.
“Flax Mill Foot Cream,” the detective read, then opened the jar and sniffed the contents. “It doesn’t have an odor,” he noticed. Dipping two fingers in lightly, he pulled them back out and rubbed them together. “It’s not greasy,” he realized. “You know what? I’ll take one of each of that flax stuff.”
Duane glanced at Gregory’s relatively short curly black hair. “Including the shampoo?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the PI objected. “I can’t use shampoo?”
“No, no, no,” Duane quickly backtracked. “I didn’t mean anything. My hair’s long and I don’t even use the stuff. To each his own, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Gregory snickered, adding the shampoo to his basket. “To each his own.” And with that, he strutted off while the clerk loudly gulped, swallowing his spit.
The PI continued walking around the store checking out its many contents, even sampling some of the faux cheeses, jams, crackers and Asian-flavored tofu squares that were being handed out by volunteers from various farms. At the back of the store he studied the meat and seafood collection closely. Amazing, he thought, that they could create vittles which resembled the real thing so closely. At the deli, he picked out a steaming, barbecued shish kebab of lamb, onions and peppers, a bag of cooked de-tailed, de-veined prawns, Spanish brown rice, and several other items, all of which, according to their tags, should equal around 25 credits. Walking over to one of the credit check boxes, he scanned his card to make sure there was enough currency in it – there was – and proceeded to the exit.