Agent of Time

by Nathan Van Coops

  “Yeah. I’m sure he’d love to help but you missed him. He left a few minutes ago.”

  “Will he be back later today?”

  “Uh, no. They actually took off on a trip. Going to, um, can’t quite remember the first stop. Boston maybe? But they won’t be back for a while.”

  Stella frowned. “Is there a way I can contact him? Perhaps a phone number of somewhere he’s staying?”

  Carson chewed his lip. “Yeah, they won’t be near a phone for a while either. It’s sort of an off-the-grid kind of trip.”

  Off-the-grid in Boston? Stella sized him up. Despite the answers being unhelpful, he seemed to be open to talking.

  “Are you familiar with a man named Malcolm Longines?”

  Carson slipped his hands into his pockets. “Not really. But I think Ben chatted with him a few times, I haven’t talked to him much.”

  “But you know who he is? Do you know who he works for?”

  “Is this regarding something specific?” Carson asked. “Is Ben under investigation or something?”

  Stella tried to smile reassuringly. “Nothing to worry about. Just trying to get a little help with a case I’m working on.” She decided to try a different angle. “I need assistance solving an arson and murder case. Have you had any contact with a man named Elton Stenger?”

  She saw a flicker of change in Carson’s expression. To his credit, he didn’t lie.

  “I don’t think that guy is going to be a problem anymore.”

  Stella’s pulse quickened. “And why’s that?”

  “I don’t know, I think I could take him. I’m not worried about it.” He grinned. “Besides, you’re going to catch him, right?”

  Stella frowned. “So you think this Elton Stenger is still out there, but you don’t think he’s a threat?” She had hoped he would more directly confirm that Stenger was dead. “So, have you seen this guy lately? Stenger? In the last two days?”

  “I’d rather not get into it.” Carson fidgeted absentmindedly with the watch on his wrist.

  Stella hadn’t noticed the watch the last time she had met him, but it was a model she had never seen before, larger and more complex than any wristwatch she had ever come across.

  “That’s a nice watch.”

  “Thanks.” Carson stopped fidgeting with the dials and put his hands behind his back.

  “Do you mind if I ask where you were Thursday night?”

  Carson smiled. “We were at the hospital that night. My friend’s grandfather was ill. We went to visit him.”

  “This was Robert Cameron, the owner of this house?”

  Carson nodded.

  “And were you anywhere near Ninth Street and Fifteenth Avenue that night?” she asked.

  “That’s not far. Might have passed by.”

  “Do you know anything about the fire that started in a building near that address, or why your friend Ben might have been in the vicinity?”

  “Wish I did. You’ll have to ask him.”

  Stella was fairly certain he was lying now, but she wasn’t positive. His expressions were difficult to read. Whatever he knew, she seemed to have reached the limits of his willingness to share. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you remember any more details that you think may be relevant to the events of that night, or if you have any more reasons to believe this Stenger guy is still a threat, give me a call, okay?”

  “Happy to.”

  Stella took a few steps off the porch and then turned around. “What’s your estimate for when your friend Ben might make it back to town? I’d like to speak with him too,” Stella said.

  “I wouldn’t wait around on that,” Carson replied. “It’s going to be a few years.”

  “Years?”

  “He’s working on a project that’s going to take a while. But if you feel like stopping back around 2009, I’m sure he’d be happy to chat with you.” Carson winked at her and opened the front door. “See you later, Scully.” Stella caught a glimpse of a happy-looking border collie peering around his legs before Carson disappeared inside.

  Stella found herself staring at the house in curiosity.

  Two-thousand and nine. That year kept popping up. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time.

  When Stella sat down in Special Agent in Charge Renfroe’s office, he already had her report in his hands.

  She had typed it up the moment she was back in the office and suspected the ink might still be wet.

  Special Agent MacGregor was in the room as well, looking as surly as she had last seen him. The days off hadn’t seemed to help his demeanor.

  “Let me see if I am getting this straight,” Renfroe said, browsing over the pages. “You’re trying to say that the incidents in this investigation are the result of an unknown group of persons . . . tampering with time?” He raised an eyebrow. “Is this really what I’m reading?”

  “It sounds preposterous,” Stella replied. “I thought so too, but when you look at individual elements of the case with that possibility in mind, the facts start to line up. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’ve seen, and I believe it warrants further investigation.”

  Renfroe scowled. “With that possibility in mind? What’s next, we’re supposed to consider alien abduction as a possible explanation for every missing person’s case? Was Jimmy Hoffa caught up in the rapture? I can think of a lot of cases we could chalk up to the fantastical if we wanted to lose all credibility as an agency.” He laid her report down and crossed his fingers on his desk. “I understand that you suffered a recent hospitalization, and I realize that as one of this office’s first female agents, you may feel as though you are under a lot of pressure to prove yourself here. But that does not mean we are going to cast off reality in the course of an investigation simply so that you can gain attention. I suggest that you seriously consider the future path of your career with the FBI as you frame your response.”

  Stella scooted forward on her chair. “Sir, I can assure you that no part of this report is an attempt to gain attention for myself. I believe that there is something worth investigating here. I understand that my career in this office has been short so far, but can you recall ever having a case with this many paradoxical irregularities?” She gestured southward. “There is a man in the St. Petersburg morgue that appears to be a genetic clone of George Wallace, or, as has been suggested, he is George Wallace from the year 2009. Everything about this case is irregular, right down to the victims. In order to resolve this, we are going to have to look into all the facts, and some of those facts are going to seem fantastical until we finish the investigation and find out the truth.”

  Renfroe held up her report. “And you plan to defend your story of having witnessed a fatal traffic accident on Interstate 275 that killed our perpetrator, despite the fact that no one can corroborate your account?”

  Stella hesitated only briefly. “According to one of my sources, that was possibly a glimpse of an alternate timeline, but I know what I saw.”

  Renfroe sighed and laid the report back on the desk. “Let me make things very clear for you, Miss York. You are going to be reassigned. Special Agent MacGregor will be assisted by another agent and you will have nothing more to do with this case, is that understood?”

  Stella wanted to object but kept her mouth shut.

  “I suggest you take the rest of the day off. When you come in on Monday, we’ll determine where this office will make use of your talents. You’ll turn in any remaining information on the case to Agent MacGregor.”

  Renfroe stood, and Stella rose from her chair as well. She made her way over to the door. She paused with her fingers on the doorknob and looked at MacGregor. “Well, you got what you wished for, Bart. Now you can prove how well you can solve the case without me slowing you down.”

  “You think I don’t know? With another partner, I’ll have it done in a week.”

  “We’ll see.” Stella opened the door and stepped through, closing it
behind her.

  12 Resurfaced

  Thirteen Years Later.

  “It doesn’t matter that it’s your personal copy of the video,” Stella said into the phone. “It’s not licensed for commercial use.” She leaned back in her chair and checked the clock on the wall.

  Still another twenty-five minutes to go.

  “Yes, I get that complaint a lot. It’s not the type of situation we can investigate unless we have evidence of an actual crime.”

  The woman on the other end of the phone continued to ramble.

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand that you’re upset that he taped over your shows but that’s the danger of VHS tapes. I don’t know if you know, but if you break off the little tab on the label edge he won’t be able to . . . No. I’m sorry. We can’t arrest your husband for that.”

  She placed her head into her palm and leaned against her desk. “You can certainly stay on the lookout for anything else suspicious. Yes, ma’am. Thanks for your call.”

  She hung up the phone and checked the clock again. Twenty-three minutes to go.

  Stella pivoted in her chair and faced her computer again. A colorful memo was pinned to the bulletin board on the wall behind it. ARE YOU READY FOR Y2K? BACK UP YOUR FILES!

  Stella browsed through her latest email until the phone rang again. She looked up at the clock. Damn. Still had to take it.

  She lifted the receiver. “FBI Las Vegas Office. This is Special Agent Stella York. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Stella. It’s Detective Danny Briggs. It’s been a long time.”

  Stella sat up straight in her chair.

  Danny Briggs?

  “Uh hello, Danny. What’s . . . Why are you calling me?”

  “Hey, I know we didn’t leave things on the best of terms all those years ago, but something’s come up with the case we were working on together and I thought I should call you.”

  A few agents walked by chatting and Stella waited until they had passed before speaking again. “You’re talking about the St. Petersburg van murders?”

  “There’s been a development. Do you have a minute?”

  “Um, sure. But it’s not one of my cases anymore, Danny. I’m not even in Florida. I’m out west in Las Vegas now.”

  “I know. I’m not there either. I moved out to California a few years ago. But I ran into a connection to the case out here and I think you should hear about it.”

  Stella settled back in her chair. “What’s going on?”

  “It has to do with a recent murder. It happened here in L.A. a couple days ago. It’s a high profile homicide and they want answers quickly. They pulled me in because they found out I had some prior experience with the case. Unfortunately we don’t have a lot to go on.”

  “Who’s the victim?”

  “His name’s Carson Bradley. You might have heard of him. He was a big shot music and film producer out in Hollywood. Produced some mega-star artists.”

  “I do know him,” Stella said, her mind flashing back to decade-old memories. “I met him in St. Petersburg. He’s been murdered?”

  “A few days ago. Someone kidnapped Bradley’s girlfriend, and when he tried to deliver the ransom, he ended up dead. The L.A. Police Department was able to get some prints from the house—the scene of the abduction, and they matched some we had on file from the van murders in St. Petersburg. I know you always swore that guy was dead, but I think you should know, they matched the record we have for an Elton Stenger. Local PD tracked him down in Gainesville yesterday. They’ve arrested him for the murder.”

  Stella ran a quick search of the system for an update on Elton Stenger, and waited for the page to load. A few seconds later, a mugshot appeared. Something was definitely wrong.

  “I know he’s in the system now, Danny, but that can’t be the same guy. He had to be close to forty when he burned those buildings in St. Petersburg.” She checked the date of birth on the computer record. “This guy would have been seventeen at the time.”

  “I know it doesn’t add up,” Danny said. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted to call you.”

  Stella frowned. “So you can have a good laugh seeing me try to convince the Bureau to reopen the investigation? No thanks, Danny. It’s not my problem now.”

  The detective sighed audibly on the other end of the phone. “Listen, I also called because I wanted to tell you that I was wrong to write off your experience back then,” he said. “I should have believed you years ago, but I was an idiot. I’m sorry.”

  Stella shifted the phone to her other ear. “Would have been nice to hear that at the time, but . . . thanks. What made you change your mind?”

  “When I saw this guy’s name come up again, it set me thinking about the dead ends we had run into on the case before. You remember the drivers of the van that we examined at the morgue? One looked just like his dopplëganger, and one was a John Doe?”

  “Um, yeah. Wallace, right? Something Wallace?”

  “Right. But I got to thinking about the other guy, the one we couldn’t ID. I decided to run his prints through the system again and this time I got a hit. An eighteen year old guy named Brian Halpert just started work in the prison system. I got my hands on a photo and it’s the same kid. Still younger than when we saw him by about ten years, but it’s him. So if he goes back in time at the age we saw him, that would be around—”

  “Two thousand and nine,” Stella said.

  “I’ve tried to come up with any other explanations, but yours is the only one that makes any sense. This shit has to be some kind of time travel.”

  “Hope you aren’t staking your career on it. I can tell you how that turns out.”

  “I’m keeping my thoughts to myself for now, but after I told the department here about your investigation, they wanted me to reach out to you. And it’s not just our personal history with the case that made me want to call. There was something at the scene too.”

  “What?”

  “The victim—Carson Bradley. He had an old business card in his wallet from the FBI. A business card with your name on it. Phone records show he tried to call, too, right before he went off looking for the kidnapper.”

  Stella’s gut clenched. “He tried calling for help?”

  “I don’t know why he called, but he did. Didn’t get the right office, since you moved, and he apparently didn’t get word on how to reach you. I just figured you should know. And I feel the same way you do about the Elton Stenger from Gainesville. The Department is set on prosecuting him, but I can’t help thinking we have the wrong guy. I think whoever killed Carson Bradley is still out there.”

  Stella checked the area around her desk to see if anyone was paying attention, then rolled open her desk drawer as far as it could go, reaching into the back for a tattered file folder she hadn’t handled in months. She laid it on her desk and rested a hand on it. Did she really want to reopen this chapter of her life? Her fist clenched, almost involuntarily, but then she opened her palm and rested it atop the file.

  “If I get involved in this again, are you going to have my back?” she said.

  “There’s no way I’m cracking this without you,” Danny replied. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  Stella chewed her cheek. “I guess I’ll have plenty of time to think about it. I’m taking a drive tonight.”

  13 Carson

  Las Vegas to Los Angeles was a four hour drive on a good day. It was a lot of time for introspection, and dredging up the emotions of the case.

  St. Petersburg had been a long time ago. Two office transfers. A rocky marriage. A nasty divorce. It felt like several lifetimes had passed since then. Despite the fallout from her time assisting the Tampa office, she’d salvaged her career in the Bureau. She hadn’t talked about her experience in St. Petersburg for over a decade, but she still kept the file. And over the years it had grown.

  She flipped the folder open on the passenger seat next to her as she drove.

  There had been new snippets added.
News articles. Missing persons reports. It was hard to know what was relevant anymore, but Stella had never been able to let the case out of her mind. On one side of the folder she’d even stapled a publicity photo of TV Special Agent Dana Scully from the X-Files. One more piece in the puzzle.

  There had been other killings over the years. Fires. Chewed match sticks found at crime scenes. It was hard to tell how many were connected.

  She picked up a faded newspaper clipping from the pile.

  NOTED SCIENTIST MISSING.

  The article spoke of a scientist named Dr. Harold Quickly who had disappeared from a lab in St. Petersburg a few years ago. He was supposed to be working on a new theory to explain time. Last seen at the Temporal Studies Society. An employee records search listed a Malcolm Longines there as well. Malcolm Longines who said he had a boss who disappeared from another timeline in 1986.

  She no longer believed in coincidences.

  There were other articles too. Odd bits of news about Carson Bradley and his meteoric career in the entertainment industry. His talents as an artist were respectable, but his success as a writer and producer had been far superior. No less than fifteen of the albums he produced had hit number one on the charts. He dabbled in screenwriting for Hollywood too, producing several blockbuster franchises that critics had called visionary. In one red-carpet photo, he grinned back at the camera with his girlfriend, Jessica Poist, on his arm. The happy couple apparently had no idea what was coming.

  Detective Danny Briggs still looked good. The intervening decade had added a few pounds and his hairline had crept back, but his brilliant blue eyes still had the same way of crinkling at the corners when he smiled at her. And he was holding a case file of his own.

  It was nearing midnight. Far too late for a rendezvous for evidence collecting, but he was there. Stella appreciated the effort.

  “You’ll have to thank your wife for sparing you tonight, detective. I’m sure you have other places you could be.”