HE
drove back to the town house and parked down the street. The tape was still up, but the investigators and police had gone. He picked up the converter and attached it to his belt. A couple of people were standing near the tape, but they weren’t paying any attention to him.
He set the instrument for 11:00 P.M. the previous night. He took a deep breath, and, with more reluctance than he’d ever felt before, pushed the button.
Torrential rain poured down on him. The sky was full of lightning. But lights were on in the town house. Downstairs.
He moved beneath the overhang of a storefront, which provided some shelter from the storm.
A van cruised past and turned right at the intersection.
The curtains were drawn in the town house. The garage was open, as it had been when he’d arrived to see the results of the fire.
He stood watching, trying to make up his mind. He could save Shel, but he knew that hadn’t happened. Knew he hadn’t gone in and told him what was coming. But did that really mean he couldn’t do it?
If he brought Shel back, how would they explain it? He was officially dead now. Hopelessly, definitely dead. Identified by his dental records.
The experiments had scared him. Plan on taking the book out of the briefcase, and bad things happen.
The overhang wasn’t providing much protection. Another car rolled past. At one of the houses across the street, a door opened, and he heard voices.
“Good-bye, Babe.”
“See you tomorrow, Lenny.”
It took another minute or two before a guy with an umbrella appeared. He came in Dave’s direction, stopped, and got into a car. The headlights came on, he backed into the street, turned the wheel, and splashed away.
Dave stared at the downstairs lights. There was no hurry. He didn’t need to make up his mind at that moment. There was no reason he couldn’t wait and think things out. He could come back whenever he chose.
HE
bought a couple of books on the subject of time, Edgar Mathews’s
Time in a Bottle
, and Rice Bakar’s
All the Time in the World
. He couldn’t make much sense out of either. What he needed was
Time Travel for Dummies
. But both books seemed to be saying that whenever multiple possibilities exist, the universe splits, and all possibilities occur. So there really cannot be a paradox. Cannot be a loop. If he were to rescue Shel, it would simply create a new universe in which Shel had survived the fire, and that was all there’d be to it.
So you plan to rescue a friend, and it causes a heart attack. Who could believe that?
What he really wanted to do was to go back and put the question to Michael Shelborne again. But he couldn’t without letting him know what had happened. And there was no way he could bring himself to do
that
. At least not yet. Maybe later, when his own emotions had subsided.
In the end, he did nothing.
CHAPTER 34
“I took no pleasure in his death, Trainor.” “I know that, Achilles, but it could not have mattered to Troilus.” “Yet his blood—” “—Is on your hands.” “So much death to preserve the pride of Menelaus.” “Indeed. But take heart. He died defending those he loved. You could have given no greater gift.” “Nonsense. I could have brought a cask of wine.” “Yes. But let us pretend it is not so.”
—SOPHOCLES,
ACHILLES
DAVE
was outside raking leaves when a black car pulled up.
Two people, a man and a woman, were sitting inside. They opened the doors, got out, and started up the walkway.
The woman was taller, and more substantial, somehow, than the man. She held out a set of credentials. “Dr. Dryden?” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Lake.” She smiled, a neutral gesture that purveyed no warmth. “This is Sergeant Howard. Could we have a few minutes of your time?”
“Sure,” Dave said, wondering what it was about.
Sergeant Howard was a wiry, angular man who came up to Dave’s shoulders. He had dark skin and features screwed up into a permanent frown. His expression implied he was being nice even though Dave was probably guilty of something.
He opened the front door, and they all went inside. Lake sat down on the sofa while Howard shoved his hands into his pockets and took to wandering around the room, inspecting books, prints, computer, whatever. “Can I get you some coffee?” Dave asked.
“No, thanks,” said Lake. Howard managed a smile but shook his head no. The lieutenant crossed her legs and leaned forward. “I wanted first to offer my condolences on the death of Dr. Shelborne. I understand he was a close friend of yours?”
“That’s correct,” Dave said. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
She nodded, produced a leather-bound notebook, opened it, and wrote something down. “Did you have a professional relationship?”
“No. We were just friends.”
She seemed to expect him to elaborate.
Dave lowered himself into an armchair. “May I ask what this is about? Has something happened?”
Her eyes locked on him. “Dr. Dryden,” she said, “Dr. Shelborne was murdered.”
Dave’s first reaction was to laugh. But she was dead serious. “You can’t believe that,” he said.
“I never joke, Doctor. Someone attacked the victim in bed, battered him seriously enough to fracture his skull and break both arms. Then he set fire to the house.”
Behind Dave, the floor creaked. Howard was still moving around. “That can’t be right,” he said. “It was a lightning bolt, wasn’t it?”
“There
was
a lot of lightning, and we can’t tell whether the place actually got hit. But it’s irrelevant. Somebody dumped gasoline on the ground floor and set it ablaze.”
“
Gasoline?
I just don’t believe it.”
Her eyes never left him. “Who’d want him dead?”
“Nobody had any reason to kill Shel. He had no enemies. At least, none that
I
know of. It would probably have been a burglar, wouldn’t it? A break-in?”
“Burglars don’t usually attack occupants in bed. Or burn the house down.” She pressed her index finger against her lips. “The killer broke into his desk, as well. Pried open one of the drawers.”
“The bottom drawer?”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
Think fast, Dave. “It was where he kept his spare cash.”
“Who else would have known that?”
“I don’t know.”
It was of course where Shel kept the other converters.
Someone else was in on the secret!
“How much cash did he keep on hand?”
Dave shrugged. “Just small bills. Walking-around money. It wouldn’t have been worth a break-in. Certainly not killing someone.”
“You’d be surprised how little a life can be worth, Doctor. Would there have been anything else in that drawer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, whatever the killer was looking for, he found it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The other drawers were untouched.”
My God. A maniac loose with a converter.
“Are you okay, Dr. Dryden?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” His heart was pounding.
“You look pale.” She frowned, and he could see her make a decision. “Doctor, why don’t you tell me what the thief was after?”
Sure. Shel had a time-travel device in there. “I’ve no idea,” he said.
“Okay. The fire happened about 4:30 A.M. Friday morning. I wonder if you’d mind telling me where you were at that time?”
“At home in bed,” Dave said.
“And you were here all night, right?”
“Yes,” he said, and added, unnecessarily, “asleep.”
She nodded.
“You’re sure about all this?” asked Dave.
She kept writing. “There’s really no question that it was arson. And murder.”
Dave was beginning to feel guilty. Authority figures always made him feel guilty.
“And you can’t think of
anyone
who’d want him dead?”
“No.”
She tapped her notebook with her pen. “Do you know if he kept any jewelry in the house?”
“I doubt it. He didn’t wear jewelry. As far as I know, there was nothing like that around.”
Dave started thinking about the gold coins that they always took when they traveled. A stack of them had been stashed in a shoe box in Shel’s bedroom closet. (Dave had more of them upstairs in the wardrobe.) Could anyone have known about them? He thought about mentioning them. But they’d be hard to explain. Best keep quiet. And it would make no sense that he knew about a lot of gold coins in Shel’s shoe box but had never asked about them.
Her eyes wandered to one of the bookcases. It was filled with biographies and histories of the Renaissance. The eyes were dark and cool, black pools that seemed to be waiting for something to happen. She tilted her head slightly to get a better look at a title. It was Ledesma’s biography of Cervantes, in the original Spanish. “You speak Spanish?” she asked.
“Yes. More or less.”
“Did he also speak Spanish, Doctor?”
“Shel had
some
facility.”
Howard had gotten tired poking around. He circled back, picked out a chair, and sat down. “Dr. Dryden,” Lake continued, “you live alone?”
“That’s correct, Lieutenant.”
“And you were alone in the house Thursday night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I take it there’s no one who can corroborate any of this?”
“No. There was nobody here.” The question surprised him. “You don’t think
I
did it, do you?”
“We don’t really think
anybody
did it, yet.”
Howard caught her attention and directed it toward the wall. There was a photograph of Shel, Helen, and Dave, gathered around a table at the Beach Club. A mustard-colored umbrella shielded the table, and they were laughing and holding tall, cool drinks. She studied it, and turned back to him. “What exactly,” she said, “is your relationship with Dr. Suchenko?”
“We’re friends.”
“Is that all?” She canted her head, and he caught a hint of a smile.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s all.”
She made another notation. Glanced around the room. “Nice house.” It was. Dave had treated himself pretty well, installing leather furniture and thick pile carpets and a stowaway bar and some original art. “Not bad for a teacher,” she added.
“I manage.”
She closed her book and began to button her jacket. “Thank you, Dr. Dryden.” He was still numb with the idea that someone might have murdered Shel. He had never flaunted his money, had never even moved out of that jerkwater town house. Possibly he’d come home from somewhere, and they were already in the house. He might even have been using the converter. Damn, what a jolt that would have been: return from an evening in the nineteenth century and get attacked by burglars. So they’d killed him. And burned the house to hide the murder. No reason it couldn’t have happened that way.
Dave opened the door for the two detectives. “You will be in the area if we need you?” Lake asked. He assured her he would be, and that he would do whatever he could to help find Shel’s killer.
It had been painful enough believing that Shel had died through some arbitrary act of nature. But it enraged him that a thug who had nothing at all to contribute would dare take his life.
HE
attended a Monday evening memorial service for Shel at St. John’s Methodist Church. Jerry was a member of the congregation, and had arranged things for his brother, who hadn’t paid much attention to churches. Jerry was there, of course. And a few cousins and uncles, and some other people Dave didn’t know. The preacher invited those who wished to speak to come forward, and they did. They described a stray cat Shel had taken in, and his two seasons as coach of the Little League Panthers. A member of the local Humane Society said how generous he’d always been both with time and money.
Dave remained silent. He would have liked to say a few words for his lifelong friend. But he didn’t dare get started talking about Shel because he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t finish at the Library of Alexandria. Or with Molly Brown.
Helen was there, too.
When it was over, he took her to Strattmeyer’s, and they had a couple of drinks while she looked listlessly out at the passing traffic on the Expressway. They exchanged all the usual clichés about how they couldn’t believe he was gone, how there’d never be another like him, how it just seemed impossible.
“I saw him Thursday night,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Helen.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“We were going to get married.”
“I’m not surprised to hear it. He loved you, Helen.”
“The police have been around to talk to me.”
“They were at my place, too.”
“They think it was murder. Dave, I can’t believe that. Who’d have wanted to take his life?”
“I don’t know. I don’t buy it. It’s a misunderstanding somewhere. It’ll get straightened out.”
But he
wasn’t
dead. Not really. He’s alive in 1931, he’s alive in New York on V-J Day, and in the Lamplight back in Durham. Time travelers never die. Not really. And, in a way, we’re all time travelers. Somehow, the entire temporal stream exists, but we’re only conscious of a single moment. Is that how it is? That it isn’t the
world
moving through the eons, but only our consciousness, like a light passing through a series of dark rooms? Or, maybe a better analogy, like an old-time film, in which only one frame at a time moves in front of the bulb?
He stopped with his second drink. Had to drive, and two was pretty much his limit.
“Are you going tomorrow?” she asked. She meant the funeral.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
CHAPTER 35