The Prophet of Queens

by Glenn Kleier

  The threat of sabotaging history made Ariel’s head reel. If such a thing were to happen, the future might never unfold. The present could be trapped in whipsaws of revision, looped back on itself, stretched and twisted until, ultimately, spacetime imploded into nothingness. She couldn’t dwell on these thoughts. Butterfield simply had to exist in a different dimension, and Stan had to prove it, and rescue their dreams.

  Once more, the vortex appeared, the hole opened, and Max inserted the antenna, all eyes on Stan’s laptop.

  Stan’s fingers flew across the keys, turning the screen into a sea of code. Quickly he announced, “Butterfield’s router is as outdated as his computer, first hurdle cleared. Same with his firewall…” Then smiling, he added, “I’m in.”

  Ariel was encouraged to see the image of Butterfield’s desktop suddenly replace the code on Stan’s screen. The Crab Nebula, with two rows of file icons on the right. Stan examined the date/clock display to show it was consistent with what they’d seen before: the day of the week was off, the date and time the same as theirs. And again, no year.

  Tia reminded Stan, “Make sure the coast is clear.”

  Stan commandeered Butterfield’s webcam, and the screen changed to a live shot of an empty chair bathed in the ashen light of the monitor. Behind it on a wall hung a framed photo of a pretty blonde woman in a dated dress and hairstyle.

  Switching back to Butterfield’s desktop, Stan said, “Now, let’s see if we can determine what year, and hopefully, what universe.” He called up a browser and tried to jump online to The New York Times.

  “Good thinking,” Max said from where he stood by the hole, holding the antenna.

  But nothing came up on screen.

  Puzzled, Stan tried a few other tricks, and when those failed, he opened “network preferences” to find no Internet connection.

  “Of course,” he groaned. “There’s a Trapping Horizon force field on Butterfield’s side, too. No signal can penetrate it, in or out.”

  “Now what?” Ariel asked.

  Max told Stan, “Check his browser archives.”

  Stan did, exposing a lengthy list. And scrolling down to one week ago, by Butterfield’s calendar, he came upon a saved Times article, clicking it open.

  It popped up too small for Ariel to make out the date, but the headline read:

  Unemployment Claims Mount

  Nothing telling about that. Stan located the date, and zoomed in, and a moan filled the tent. Ariel felt the air go out of her, and Max hissed, “I’ll be damned.”

  There in black and white—Monday, October 6—four years ago.

  “Christ,” Tia cried. “Get out, quick, before we set off more butterflies!”

  “Wait,” Stan said, “gotta cover my tracks.”

  He closed the browser and returned to Butterfield’s desktop, and Tia reminded, “Now the hosting program.”

  But before he could act, his screen abruptly reverted to lines of code. He turned to Max, who stood in front of the vortex waving the antenna. He’d pulled it from the hole.

  “What are you doing?” Tia snapped. “He’s not done.”

  Max leveled frustrated eyes. “Look, every time we think we’ve got this thing figured out, it throws us a curve. We assume we’re hooked into our own past, but we’re in unchartered waters. For all we know, Butterfield exists in a parallel world, on a four-year delay. According to Superstring, he could be in any number of infinite worlds, why not one in a time warp?”

  In fact, they’d already upended several accepted wisdoms of quantum physics.

  Ariel asked, “But how do we determine something like that? How can we tell our past from a mirror past?”

  Looking at the clock, Max replied, “I don’t know yet, but we haven’t come this far to walk away empty-handed. Four minutes left, think outside the box.”

  Against Tia’s grumbles, he re-inserted the antenna, and Butterfield’s desktop appeared on Stan’s screen again.

  They refocused, and everyone drew blanks until finally, Stan offered, “Maybe Butterfield’s files hold clues to the nature of his universe. Something to prove it different from ours.”

  Tia asked, “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure, I’m fishing. Inconsistencies, maybe. Things that happened over there that didn’t here, or vice versa. A long shot, but what have we got to lose?”

  Max asked, “Anyone have a problem with us copying his files? There’s no risk of butterflies, he’ll never know.”

  Ariel had reservations. It felt wrong stealing the records of this unsuspecting man they’d never even seen and knew so little about. Albeit, they knew the terrible fate awaiting him if, in fact, he occupied their universe. A fire that they could reach back in time to prevent, but for fear of altering history. She and Tia exchanged searching looks, and Tia said, “If we’re gonna do it, hurry.”

  Stan rushed to download the eight files on the desktop, and no sooner had he sucked out the last cache and uncoupled the hosting program than Ariel sounded closing bell. Max withdrew the antenna, the vortex snapped shut, and Tia switched off the camera, perhaps ending for good their acquaintance with the mysterious Scott Butterfield.

  Chapter 55

  Sunday, October 14, 2:30 pm, Talawanda

  The team reconvened in the living room at the coffee table, gathered around Stan’s laptop, eyeing Butterfield’s stolen files as if waiting for them to speak.

  Ariel clung to the hope that hidden somewhere in these documents lay evidence the wormhole led to a different dimension—one running four years behind theirs. Prove that, and she and her friends could not only proceed with their press conference, but they could also warn Butterfield about the coming fire without releasing “butterflies” into their world.

  She sighed. “If only he were still alive on our side of the hole, he could settle this right now.”

  No doubt if Butterfield still existed in their world, he’d recall the bizarre ordeal he’d gone through. Especially the damage Newton did to his apartment. But if Butterfield couldn’t recall, it would be compelling evidence there was another Butterfield in another dimension who did. Unfortunately, the man’s tragic death ended that prospect.

  Max wasn’t deterred. “Somewhere in these files are clues,” he said. “Surely Butterfield filed a police report about our ‘break-ins.’ Or made an insurance claim, or notified his landlord.”

  Ariel asked, “What good would knowing that do us?”

  “It gives us a basis for comparison. Say we learn Butterfield made an insurance claim. We can hack the insurance company’s files in our world to see if there’s record of it. If so, we’re screwed. But if there’s no record, it’s evidence Butterfield exists in a different world.”

  Stan added, “Also, Butterfield may have contacted friends about his problem. If we can find out who he told, we can track those people down in our world, assuming they’re still alive, and see if they recall anything.”

  He pulled his laptop closer, and the others crowded in, viewing the icons of the eight folders copied from Butterfield’s desktop. Stan selected Sent Emails, opening on numerous messages. He scrolled back to a few days before the vortex’s emergence and began skimming while the others read along.

  Their first glimpse into the person of Scott Butterfield.

  Ariel saw appeals to creditors asking for extensions. Job-feelers to bookkeeping firms. Inquiries about student loans. But when Stan caught up to the time period where the vortex first appeared, the emails dropped off. Only one after that, a week later, a response from Butterfield to someone named “Zing,” with a cc to a “Reggie.” In his reply, Butterfield stated simply that all was fine now, thanking them for their help.

  Max said, “The message could refer to the problems in his apartment, let’s come back to it.”

  Stan moved on to the next file, Browser Cache. “This should tell us if he uses social media,” he said, “and if so, he may have gone there to confide in someone.”

  He opened and sorted t
hrough multiple links: science and math sites; online videogames; a self-improvement site. And more recently, spiritualist and occult sites. No social media accounts.

  “Christ,” Max said. “Of all people that hole could connect us to, we get a superstitious recluse. What else we got?”

  The remaining folders were, Acct. Recs; Ivy Fund; PL; R U God; Infinitiman; and Blue Angels. Ariel assumed the first file was accounting records, the next an investment fund, but she’d no clue about the rest. She asked, “What’s PL?”

  “Profit/loss statements?” Stan guessed, clicking it.

  He was wrong. Ariel saw a journal, and Max corrected Stan, “Make that Personal Log.”

  Everyone pressed tighter as Stan went to the most recent entry, last night, four years ago:

  how much more can i take? came home to find the apartment a wreck, homer terrified, my belongings ripped up as if by demons. feel i’m losing my mind. archdiocese refuses exorcism, at end of my rope.

  Tia said, “Homer’s the cat, I bet. Here’s a guy desperate to confide in someone.”

  Max sat back with a strange gleam in his eyes. “Demons, archdiocese,” he said. “Butterfield believes his apartment’s possessed. Interesting. Keep going.”

  Stan picked through earlier entries, which also chronicled Butterfield’s growing nightmare. He stopped on one.

  zing thinks the cause is microwaves, and reggie thinks the apartment’s haunted. i’m scared i’m going nuts. if reggie’s right, i’ll have to move out.

  “Bingo,” Stan said. “Zing and Reggie are friends he told. Bet they haven’t forgotten. And now we’ve got their email addresses.”

  If so, and if the team could reach them in the present, Zing and Reggie might finally settle what dimension lay on the other side, helping to justify this invasion of Butterfield’s privacy.

  Max seemed not to be listening. “Haunted,” he murmured with intrigue.

  Stan continued backward through more accounts of the strange goings-on. Events familiar to the team, if terrifying to Butterfield. As the poor man made clear, he was fearful for his and his cat’s safety, fearful of ridicule, of losing his privacy, his job, his home, his sanity.

  At length, Stan arrived at log entries corresponding to the first collider runs. Ariel was excited to see Butterfield had spoken to neighbors about “loud noises.”

  “One of the neighbors has to remember,” she said.

  Max reminded, “All tenants died in the fire with Butterfield. Also, his sister.”

  Ariel felt sad and confused. In the warped time of the wormhole, these people still lived.

  Stan saw nothing more of value, closing out the file, and Max said, “Enough groupthink. Let’s divvy up the rest of these and do some solo digging.”

  Ariel picked two items. The entirety of Butterfield’s personal log that they’d previously touched on, and a large Word file called Infinitiman.

  As the others settled in with their choices, she started with the log, working backward through a glut of entries. It was disorienting to trace the man’s life in reverse, watching it rewind from a state of terror and desperation into de-escalating fear, ultimately furling up in a tiny, forlorn little existence not unlike her own, once. She felt an odd affinity.

  Eye out for more mentions of Reggie, Zing, and others who Butterfield may have disclosed his problems to, Ariel pushed to the end, coming up empty. The log proved less an account of the man’s day-to-day than his thoughts and dreams. Seemed he’d no close friends, and no girlfriend. In fact, from what Ariel gathered, he’d never been in a serious relationship.

  Again, not unlike her life at one time. She’d have new introspections to record in her own journal tonight.

  Moving on to the file, Infinitiman, Ariel saw the draft of a novel. She’d hardly begun reading when Tia, announced, “Anyone care for a look at this guy?

  Popping into Ariel’s in-basket was an email with attachments. A dozen color images. First, a copy of a yellowed photo presumably of Butterfield as a babe in the arms of his mom—a pretty, sweet-faced blonde doting on her cherubic child.

  Max noted, “That’s the woman in the photo on the wall behind Butterfield’s desk.”

  More shots of child and mom as he grew into boyhood. He and the woman seemed to share a close bond. Also, facial shape and mouths. But his teeth came in crooked, and he was dark while she was fair.

  Next, a snapshot of a man who had to be Butterfield’s dad, the resemblance so strong. Dark hair, clean features. The man stood alone in the tiny front yard of a small, shingle-sided house, hand resting on a “sold” sign, expression somber. As if, I’m in over my head.

  Then a dozen pictures of a fair-haired girl advancing from infancy to teens. Cute, impish. The last photo showed her in what appeared to be a high school uniform. White blouse, pleated plaid skirt. Pretty girl. The very image of her mom, who was absent in the girl’s shots.

  Only one photo of Scott Butterfield as an adult. Twenty, perhaps. Identifiable by his resemblance to his father. Especially the troubled eyes. A young man of average build and bad haircut, slouching in the same front yard. Every inch the introvert Ariel had imagined.

  As night fell, Tia ordered pizza while they worked. Max turned on the TV, keeping it low in the background. But soon he upped the volume for a news bulletin. The headline read:

  U.S. to End Funding for Hadron Collider

  The collider where Max’s new job awaited. Or not. He went livid. “The bastards.”

  The doorbell rang, and Max leaped up swearing, hurling the remote in his chair. He stalked to the door and threw it open, causing the pizza boy to drop his pies.

  Chapter 56

  Sunday, October 14, 6:00 pm, Talawanda

  They continued sifting through Butterfield’s files as they ate, and at length, Max grumbled, “How about a status report?”

  The others turned to him, and he led off. “All I learned new is that Butterfield took some community college courses online, but never graduated. No contact with classmates or profs. That file, Blue Angels, is a porn video. Not porn, actually—lame-o, R-rated stuff.”

  “Yeah,” Tia sniffed. “Real men watch hardcore.”

  Stan went next, eyes sparkling. Ariel knew he’d found something.

  “I looked into the accounting info,” he said. “Butterfield kept the books for a small grocery chain.” He broke into a smile. “And in the payroll records, I came across the full names of his friends in his log. Zing Li Po, and Reggie Watson. Married. Families. Shouldn’t be hard to track them down if they still live in New York.”

  He got a round of applause and Ariel felt the tension in the room abate. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

  Stan continued, “Regarding that file, Ivy Fund, it’s a college savings account. Not much savings, a few hundred bucks. And last, the file R U God, an online simulation game. I’ve played it before, a real mind-bender. I didn’t last a month, but Butterfield was a phenom, still going strong after more than a decade.”

  Tia’s turn. “I looked into his other online accounts. Two of note. A matchmaker service called ‘DateMe,’ and a transcendental site, ‘selfhelpguru.’ Here’s his profile from the dating site:”

  She tapped keys, and Ariel received another attachment. A headshot of the young man she’d seen before, a bit older. Dark hair, long and draping into his face. A sallow face, redeemed by the strong nose and jaw he got from his dad. Tight-lipped smile at odds with melancholy eyes. Ariel scrolled down to view his personal stats. If honest, he was 26—Ariel’s age—5’9”, 160. His interests were videogames, science/math, sci-fi novels and movies.

  Stan offered, “The age syncs with what’s on his tax returns.”

  Tia added, “Doesn’t appear anything came of the dating service. A few fleeting matches. Regarding the guru site, he did some online seminars and chats about self-esteem issues, but all before the problems in his apartment. He went quiet afterward, and that’s about it.”

  Ariel’s turn. “I went a ye
ar deep into his personal log, and like Tia, I found him a loner.” She paused. The man had also appeared lonely and lost in life, and all but resigned to it. But that smacked too much of Ariel’s own past, and she omitted it. “He writes mostly about himself. Hopes, dreams, worries. He’s smart, and well-read.

  “He talks about his family, too. There’s his father, Joseph Sr., and little sister, Ivy, who lived together in the Bronx. Ivy’s the beneficiary of that college fund Stan mentioned. As to whether Scott confided in either, the way he spoke of them, I doubt it. He wouldn’t burden his sister, and he wasn’t on good terms with his dad. His mother, Rose, was deceased. Of course, Scott and his sister died in the fire four years ago, leaving his dad sole survivor.”

  The others took down the names. Ariel continued, “Reggie and Zing come up on occasion, coworkers of Butterfield. He also speaks of a neighbor downstairs, Mrs. Steiner, another victim of the fire. And he mentions his boss from work, Margo, but not favorably, not someone he’d unburden to, I suspect. He lived in fear of losing his job.

  “And finally, the file Infinitiman. A novel he was writing. I’m just a few chapters in, but I don’t see it helping us, either. Still, there appears to be more to this man than I think we’ve credited him.”

  Stan asked, “What’s the novel about?”

  “A dystopian future. America under the rule of technophobes and luddites.”

  “Not fiction,” Tia said.

  “Seems Butterfield had a crystal ball,” Max said. “Four years ago, the Dark Agers weren’t in power, the economy was recovering, and Shackleton looked like a lock to beat Filby.”

  Ariel winced to recall the eleventh-hour meltdown of the woman’s presidential campaign.

  Max said, “Makes you wonder if someone in the future isn’t looking back at us right now examining our lives the way we are Butterfield’s.”