Bug in His Nose

© John A. Ward

It was very small. He had to examine it with the Fresnel lens that he carried in his wallet, the lens he bought in the used book store. It was well designed, round. If it were square, as most microchips used in computers are, it would have been painful. It was the wire that came loose and intertwined with a nose hair that caused him to sneeze. The wire must be an antenna. How long had it been there? When was it implanted? He really should clip his nose hairs more frequently. Some men his age did it every day. He did it once a week. He had forgotten for a month now. Someone could have sneaked it into his beak thirty days ago.

It was undoubtedly a listening device. That means they heard everything he said, from the time of the implant, even in his sleep, even in the night he spent with Ursula, before she left for Australia. Ursula could have implanted it. Was she a spy? What could she have hoped to learn? Maybe she planned to blackmail him. But, how? She was the only woman he was involved with since his wife left.

He couldn't remember if his wife was on a world cruise, or if she had left him permanently. How long does a world cruise take? Maybe she just told him she was going on a cruise to be nice.

Maybe his wife was in league with Ursula. Did he talk about the lottery in his sleep? Fourteen million dollars, fourteen years ago, just before they were married, but only by a week, it was exempt from community property. Still, he never told her. Fourteen years he lived off it in secret, still lived off it. He pretended to go to work every day.

Did she find out? What if they were in Sydney right now, planning to take his fortune? What next? He stared at the chip in his handkerchief. He'd better put it right back in his nose for now, so that they won't suspect that he knows. He'll have to be very careful what he says in his sleep. He'll record it. He can't listen to the recording, or they'll hear. He'll play it back into his computer and do a voice-to-text conversion, then read it off his screen. He has to plan his escape before they get wise.

Just then, the waitress bent over to freshen his coffee. “What you got there?” she asked. “It looks like one of those combination eavesdropper-GPS devices they use on CSI Saskatoon.”

Ursula reached for the phone in her office at the Done Her Wrong Detective Agency and dialed his wife. “The Groundhog saw his shadow,” she said.

“Let it snow in San Antonio,” said the voice on the other end.

When he died, it would look like an accident. His wife would claim his secret stash of cash when it was announced by the state as unclaimed property. When she had learned about it, she checked the date on the marriage license. It was wrong. That January day, fourteen years ago, the preacher was still writing the previous year on checks and other documents. It happens to everyone.