The Time Travelling Taxman Series Box Set

by Rachel Ford

  “Oh.” Her expression softened, and she took his hand. “The crowds?”

  He blinked. “Umm…yeah?”

  She smiled tenderly. “I forgot about that. Sorry, babe. Of course you can come with me. Just, no peaking. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Their meal arrived on schedule, and Nancy was quiet as she ate. She’d gotten through half her gyro when she set it down and gazed at him. “Alfred?”

  “Yeah?” he said through half a mouthful.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t…well, I didn’t realize this crowds thing was that big of a deal to you. I knew you didn’t like them, but I thought it was more a passing discomfort than…well, anything more serious.” Her brow was creased, and she seemed genuinely troubled. “Are you all right here?”

  Alfred felt a pang. Of course he was all right. He didn’t care for crowds, but only because he didn’t in general care for people. They were noisome, annoying and usually in the way. Crowds, being composed of many people together, were just that much more distasteful. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “Because if you’re not…we don’t have to stay.” He began to protest, but she interrupted, “No, babe, I mean it. I don’t want you to be miserable.”

  “Oh Nance, crowds don’t bother me like that. I just…it’s a hell of a lot of people, and I don’t want us stuck trying to find each other in that kind of chaos.”

  She scrutinized his face, as if trying to decide if he was telling the truth. “Are you sure?”

  He squeezed her hand. “Completely.”

  In a minute, the lines on her forehead relaxed. “Alright. But if it gets to be a problem, promise me you’ll let me know?”

  They headed back after lunch, and Alfred tried not to consider what a fool he was. He couldn’t escape the realization, though, that his efforts only seemed to expand the hole he’d dug for himself when he’d first hid the truth from Nance.

  She was walking with an arm around him, and he could tell she was still concerned. His entire motive in concealing the murderer from her had been so she could enjoy her time; and now she was worrying that she’d not simply asked him to step a little out of his comfort zone but subjected him to anxieties he didn’t even feel.

  Fudge muffins. Somehow, he’d made a mess of things again. “Hey,” he said after a space, “what’s the rest of our day look like again?”

  “There’s a reveal on the upcoming MDC movies at three-thirty. And I need to get our names in the autograph drawing for tomorrow.”

  “Autograph drawing?”

  “Yeah, to have a shot at getting pictures and autographs with the Fire Fell crew.”

  “Oh.”

  “And then there’s a preview of the next Station 49 game at five.”

  Alfred rolled his eyes. “That’s that stupid space marine game you play, isn’t it?”

  She grinned. “It’s not stupid. But yes.”

  “There’s another one coming out? Aren’t there like ten already?”

  “This is the eighth. But it’s a new storyline, with mostly new characters. And it takes place on a new station.”

  He shook his head. “Oh Nance. It’s just dolls for grownups.”

  “Congratulations,” she said, nudging him playfully. “Now you sound like my mom.”

  “She must be a smart woman.”

  “She is. But, I’m firmly convinced, living in the wrong century. Like you.”

  Alfred smiled. “Well,” he said, “I was the one who sent us back in time, remember?”

  “Yeah. Fittingly, among the dinosaurs.”

  They’d reached the exhibit hall now, and Nance said, “Okay, can you wait here?” He glanced around nervously, scanning the crowd for any deadly incarnations of Swell Dude. She hastened to add, pointing to a stall a little way down the makeshift thoroughfare, “I’m just going over there. But you can’t look. Remember: you promised.”

  “Alright, alright,” he grumbled.

  “Good,” she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him. “I’ll be right back.”

  Alfred took the opportunity afforded by her absence to check his phone. He had no messages from Josh, so he pulled up Nancy’s profile picture, and the comments under it.

  There was nothing new from Randy Barret, but there was a comment from – of all people – Justin Lyon. It read, “Nice. Looks like Freddie’s having a blast.”

  Alfred frowned. It was an innocuous message on the face of it, but this was Justin, after all. And not typical Justin; this was Justin after being chewed out.

  The taxman scrolled up to glance at the picture. He was smiling, but the longer he stared, the more he noticed a stiffness in his expression.

  His frown deepened, and he went back to the comment to reread it. This time, he could practically hear it in Lyon’s voice, dripping sarcasm. Looks like Freddie’s having a blast.

  He tapped Justin’s name to bring up his profile. There was nothing like passive aggressiveness to spawn a little impromptu cyberstalking. He surveyed the other man’s profile picture, and the confident grin – almost sneer – that spread across his features. He scrolled down.

  Justin had three new posts up. The first was about sports, and he scrolled past. The next, though, caught his eye. It was an image overlaid with text, saying only, “Political correctness is cancer.”

  He scrolled to the next post. This was a link, declaring, “Political correctness is destroying the American workplace”.

  The posts from the beginning of the week were in the same vein. Starting Monday around three o’clock – shortly after his conversation with Caspersen – Justin’s page had been flooded with lamentations about people who couldn’t handle the truth, politically correct tyranny, and intellectual cowardice.

  Prior to Monday at three o’clock, Alfred noted with a grin, it was nothing more than a hodgepodge of sports memes, bad jokes, and self-congratulatory statuses.

  Alfred laughed out loud and handed Nancy the phone as soon as she returned. “I don’t think Justin took his chat with Caspersen well,” he smirked.

  Nancy shifted the parcel she was holding and read, in turns frowning and groaning. “Oh my. That’s quite a temper tantrum. I’m glad we’re out of the office.”

  The taxman laughed. “Yup.” Then, he glanced at the package she held. It was wrapped in several plastic bags, and while he couldn’t determine much else, he could see that it was a rectangular box. “Did you get what you needed, though?”

  She nodded. “All done.”

  “So why can’t I see what it is?” he wondered.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “It’d be a surprise now: I don’t know what it is.”

  She laughed. “Yes, but it’s not your birthday now, either.”

  “You mean, I have to wait until my birthday?”

  “That’s usually how birthday surprises go…”

  “That’s not fair. You can’t get a present in front of my face and not let me know what it is.”

  “Watch me,” she grinned.

  “You know, a real woman wouldn’t do that,” he grinned. “A traditional woman wouldn’t make her boyfriend suffer.”

  Nancy groaned. “Oh God.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alfred sighed. He was waiting on a divan in a niche outside the restrooms. Nancy had joined the line five minutes ago and had only just moved out of sight. His eyes now were resting on her purchase, his birthday present. He wasn’t going to look inside the bag, of course. That would be cheating. But if he picked up any external clues that might tell him what lay inside, that, he thought, would be perfectly fair.

  “Alfred!” It was Nancy, standing in the hall.

  “Babe?” He glanced back at the line, surprised to see her back so quickly. She’d only just stepped around the corner, and the glacial pace of the line so far had convinced him that it would be awhile yet. How she was back – much less how she’d gotten past him without hi
s notice – baffled the taxman.

  She, meanwhile, crossed the space between them, and threw her arms around him. “Oh my God, Alfred.” She held his face in her hands and kissed him with an urgency that was at once gratifying and mystifying.

  “Nance,” he said when she finished, “what’s going on?”

  She wrapped her arms around him, though, saying, “Oh thank God.”

  Now he was really alarmed. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  She drew back to look at him. “Alfred, I…it’s going to sound crazy, but…I’m from the future. From tonight.”

  The taxman blinked. “What?”

  “I know it sounds nuts. But it’s true.” She pulled a device – the device – out of an oversized pocket in her uniform.

  “Wait,” he said, “what are you doing with that?” He reached into his own trouser pocket. Sure enough, the spacetime field generator was there. He withdrew it slowly, eyes moving between Nancy and the two devices. “What the hell?”

  “Listen to me, Alfred,” she said. “I took it off your body.”

  “My body? Wait…you mean…I’m dead in the future?”

  She nodded. “Someone stabbed you, Alfred. We were at the party – the one tonight, after the costume contest. You went to the bathroom, and someone stabbed you.” She shook her head. “When you didn’t come back, and you didn’t answer your texts, I got worried. I asked someone to look for you. And they found you…babe, you were almost dead when I got to you. And all you said was ‘Swell Dude.’”

  “Swell Dude?” He frowned. “Like, the superhero? Those were my last words?” He couldn’t imagine a less impressive way to die, with the name of a comic book hero on his lips.

  She nodded. “I think that’s who killed you, Alfred. Someone dressed as Swell Dude.”

  “Sugar cookies. Randy Barret.”

  “Barret?”

  “Nevermind. Listen, Nance, you say this happened at the party tonight?”

  “Yes.” She clutched his arm. “Listen, babe, you can’t go to that. Promise me.”

  He nodded. “I promise.” Then, he frowned. “You used the device, though, Nance. To warn me?”

  She ran her fingers across his forehead, and down his cheek, and her eyes welled with tears. “Of course I did, babe. I don’t care what we said: I couldn’t let you die. Promise me, Alfred: promise me you won’t go.”

  He fought to swallow the lump in his throat. “I promise, Nance.” She smiled, and then, in the blink of an eye, vanished, leaving Alfred staring at his empty lap.

  He took a moment to collect himself. Then, he pulled out his phone and called Josh.

  “Alfred?”

  “I just got a visit from Nancy. From the future. From tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Someone knifed me in a bathroom.”

  “You mean, they’re going to, right? They haven’t yet?”

  “Right. Future me gets knifed in a bathroom. By someone in a Swell Dude costume.”

  “And future Nancy told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus. Garrity shouldn’t have trusted either of you with that thing.”

  “You’d prefer I let Nance die?”

  “No, of course not. Just…what else did she say?”

  “It happens at the party tonight.”

  “Well…don’t go to the party.”

  “No sugar cookies, Sherlock.”

  For a minute, Josh was silent. Then he said, “Don’t freak out, taxman. I found Barret.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been on his trail for about an hour. He’s with another guy. I think they’re partners. The other guy’s in a Captain Patriot costume.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I’m just keeping an eye on them both.”

  Alfred scowled. “Not a very good eye, if I end up dead in a few hours.”

  “But this is good news, in a way.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah. It means they’ve moved on from targeting Nance. Now they’re after you.”

  “Oh.” Alfred considered. In normal circumstances, that would be anything but good news. But considering that it meant that Nancy was in less danger, he had to agree. “I guess so.”

  “Which means,” Josh continued, “that my work’s done.”

  “What?”

  “I signed on to protect Nance. She’s out of danger. I’m going home.”

  “Wait,” Alfred hastened, “you can’t just leave. I’ll die!”

  “Not my problem.”

  Alfred was flabbergasted, and started to unleash a torrent of protestations when the marine laughed.

  “Calm down, taxman. I’m just kidding.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course. As long as they’re still after you, Nance’s still in danger.”

  “So am I,” Alfred felt it necessary to point out.

  “Yeah, that too. I’ll keep following Barret. You make sure you don’t go to the party. We’ll catch this guy before he succeeds, sooner or later.”

  “And what…I just wait in the meantime?”

  “Unless you want to level with Nance.”

  “No,” he decided. “She’s got a plan for the day. We’ll follow it, unless we get any more visitors from the future.”

  “Okay. Listen, they’re on the move. I gotta go.”

  The taxman hung up, staring at the hall and its ebb and flow of traffic beyond. He was, in truth, stunned. Somehow, he’d drawn the assassin’s attention. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

  “Finally,” a voice behind him said, and he started at the sound of it. “I’m out.”

  “Nance.” He looked her up and down, searching for any sign of anxiousness, or giveaway that she was from another time period.

  She, in turn, scrutinized him. “Babe, you look like you just saw a ghost. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “You just startled me.”

  Now, she laughed. “You fall asleep or something? I was gone long enough, I suppose. It’s mobbed in there.”

  The three-thirty program was the highlight of Nance’s afternoon. They got good seats, and so she was near the stage. “Oh my god, that’s Rick Ashworth,” she whispered as a turtleneck-clad figure stepped onto the stage and took his seat at the waiting table.

  “Oh boy,” Alfred whispered back playfully. “The one and only.”

  She nudged him. “And Kate Dallas too.”

  A woman of similar age followed the comic book writer, taking a seat next to him.

  It was the third reveal that practically sent Nancy into a dither, though. He was tall and broad shouldered, with the kind of physique and chiseled features that would have looked more at home among marble statuary than mere mortals. His light hair, blue eyes and square jaw seemed to have been peeled straight from the comic book pages. “It’s Chris Becket,” she said, “who plays Swell Dude.”

  He grimaced, reminding her, “I have seen the movies, Nance. Unfortunately.”

  She grinned up at him, but ended her narration.

  One by one, members of the MDC universe took the stage. It was a who’s who of the dubious talent behind such masterpieces as Fire Fell. The crowd shared Nancy’s enthusiasm, erupting in applause with the appearance of each member of the panel.

  When all the seats had been filled, Ashworth spoke. “Good afternoon everyone. You all having a good time so far?” The crowd responded with raucous cheering, and he grinned. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. Well, we’ve got a lot to cover today, and hopefully we’ll give you some more reasons to cheer.”

  Of course, this comment elicited another round of applause, and Alfred grimaced.

  “First,” Kate Dallas said, “we want to take a minute to highlight some of the accomplishments of the real backbone of Marvelous Detective Comics: our fans.” Rick nodded, and the screen behind them jumped to life. A slide displayed a figure: one hundred thousand dollars.

/>   “Some of you may remember our presentation from last year. At that talk, Rick and I announced our plans for giving back. We said we were going to start by donating one hundred thousand dollars for each film in the universe to my Entrepreneur’s Children Fund.”

  The numbers on the screen began to climb, racing up to nine hundred thousand dollars, and lackluster applause sounded here and there.

  “That’s nine films, nine hundred thousand dollars.” She shrugged. “It was a starting point. But we could do better than that. Can’t we?”

  “So we asked our stars to pitch in,” Rick said. Chris Becket and the other actors on stage grinned and nodded as the numbers started climbing again.

  “That brought it up to five million,” Kate said. “Rick and I talked. We could still do better than that. So when Fire Fell came out, we made a pledge: ten percent of net to the ECF.”

  The numbers raced wildly, speeding up to ten million, then twenty, then fifty. They continued to climb, and now the crowd’s approbation rose with it. When they hit seventy-five million, the room was practically deafening. At eighty million, the numbers slowed.

  The final tally came to rest at eighty-four million, three hundred and thirteen thousand. People all around him got to their feet. Nancy did too. Alfred remained sitting, but forced himself to clap at least.

  “That applause is for you, folks: without you, without our fans, Fire Fell wouldn’t have been the smash it was, and those numbers would be nowhere near what you see. So if you’re clapping, clap for yourself, not us. Because there is no Marvelous Detective Comics without our fans.”

  Again, the actors nodded and applauded. Alfred sighed. There was an air of showmanship here that the cynic in him couldn’t abide.

  “So here’s our first announcement of the afternoon,” Rick said as the noise quieted. “For every film from here on out in the MCD Universe-”

  “Every single one,” Kate emphasized.

  “We’re going to match that ten percent net donation.”

  The announcement received a second standing ovation.

  “And what’s more,” Kate said when the noise subsided, “is today we’re announcing a new public face of ECF: Chris Becket as Swell Dude.”