Time of Death

by Nathan Van Coops

  First things first. I ate the burrito. No good working on an empty stomach.

  The tool kit was in the credenza. Once the burrito was gone, I made short work of opening the back of my chronometer and inspecting the damage. Easy to find. The capacitor for storing excess static had overloaded and separated at its seams. Whatever I’d been hit with at Isla’s was meant to do more harm than I’d received. The capacitor had taken the brunt of it. Might have saved my life.

  I retrieved a spare capacitor from my parts kit and used the magnifying lamp to do the requisite surgery. I had the chronometer back together in fifteen minutes.

  Test trip.

  I stood and put my fingertips on the rings that selected the time. Then I double-checked my pockets for anything that wouldn’t make the jump. Found Foster’s phone in my jacket. I stuffed it into a drawer of my desk.

  “Hey Waldo, you awake?”

  “You know how I love it when you ask questions you already know the answers to.” His voice droned from the speaker in the desk lamp.

  “What time did I leave the office this morning?”

  “Eleven forty-one AM. Eastern Standard Time.”

  I set my chronometer for 11:42.

  “See you this morning.” I touched my chronometer hand to the desk, noted the time on the wall clock, and pressed the jump pin.

  The onslaught of daylight made me squint.

  The office still smelled like Isla Phillips. Lovely.

  My Stinger 1911 was on the desk—the exit anchor my earlier self had used to jump home. Time to clean up after myself.

  I snatched up the gun and moved to the credenza. The right-hand cabinet concealed the gravitizer. Ten seconds inside was enough to imbue the gun with enough of the temporally unstable particles to make a trip in time. I took off my jacket and put on my shoulder rig while I waited. The gravitizer made a satisfying chime when the treatment was complete. I slid the pistol into the shoulder holster and donned my jacket again.

  “Hey Waldo, can you research a Kentucky license plate number for me?” I read him the plate number.

  “Honoring your request will again require me to circumvent local legal parameters.”

  “But for a good cause.”

  “Are you appealing to the conscience of a synthetic mind?”

  “I know you have a heart of gold, Waldo. Lack of a body is a technicality.”

  “I’ll see what I can manage.”

  I smiled.

  Time to go meet my new friend.

  I set my chronometer for shortly before my Uber driver would show up and jumped back to the nighttime. I locked up the office and trotted down the stairs.

  I was across the street near the roundabout when my earlier self arrived by Uber. He lingered in the line for a burrito while the Dodge drove by.

  Tick tock tick tock. Fun with time travel.

  My mystery driver made a left out of the roundabout and headed for First Avenue South. I jogged across the street to conceal myself behind the closed Thai restaurant on the southwest corner. Trucker Hat came slinking back on foot and posted up at the southeast corner, spying on the version of me in line for the burrito. I waited till my earlier self was unlocking the office door before skirting across the lot of the Thai restaurant to get a better angle on my stalker. I was peering around the rear corner of a parked car when my earlier self peeked out the blinds of the office. Once the blinds stopped moving, I was in the clear.

  I had one hand on the grip of my Stinger as I jogged across the street. Trucker Hat still had his back to me, watching the office. Sweat stained the back of his Guy Harvey T-shirt. He had a buck knife in a sheath clamped to the belt holding up his Levis.

  The movies always show guys jamming guns into people’s backs. I wasn’t that dumb. I kept my distance and raised my voice.

  “See anything interesting?”

  When Trucker Hat spun around, I had the Stinger leveled, waist high and aimed at his chest. He did a double take.

  “I know. I was there but now I’m here. How’d I do that?” I puffed my cheeks out and mimed an explosion from my skull with my free hand.

  He looked tired and rumpled. Long night of watching Isla’s place?

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “You got the wrong idea.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  His eyes were frantic.

  “Don’t run,” I added.

  He ran.

  Shit.

  I wasn’t above shooting people, but unarmed strangers sprinting down Central Avenue didn’t make the cut. I holstered my pistol. People gave Trucker Hat odd looks as he dashed to the end of the block and raced around the corner. Headed to his truck no doubt.

  I checked my phone. A notification showed Waldo’s info on the license plate was there in the data cloud. Truck was registered to a Dirk P. Walls. Dirk. That’s a name you don’t hear often. A quick check of the time showed I still had a few minutes till my earlier self would be done fixing the chronometer in the office. I walked across the street and ordered a beer from the burrito place. When my watch hit the appropriate time, I ascended the stairs again and walked back into the office. My earlier self was gone.

  “Failing at your job again?” Waldo asked.

  “This one’s a sprinter.” I set my beer on the credenza and reset my chronometer. Before my jump, I fished around in the toolkit and came up with a slim jim that ought to work on an ’80s model Ford.

  Let’s try this again.

  I reappeared in the office prior to either of my previous visits and trudged back down the stairs. It would be a full ten minutes till I’d show up in the Uber now. Enough time to avoid my other selves. I crossed the street, followed the trail of my future quarry, and located the only open parking space on First Avenue South. Then I waited, lurking in the alley, concealed by a malodorous dumpster. Oh the glamorous life of a P.I.

  Dirk Walls arrived in his battered pickup truck and parked. He walked off to stalk me.

  I used the slim jim on his passenger side door and had it unlocked in seconds. I climbed into the truck and left the door ajar as I rifled through the glove box. There was a Smith and Wesson .38 with a half box of ammo in there. It wasn’t a Glock like Foster’s killer had used, but maybe he had multiple guns. There were a few receipts for truck parts and several loose ketchup packets.

  Man of simple tastes.

  The truck was a manual. I respected that.

  I closed the truck door the rest of the way and slouched in the darkened interior, taking care to flip the switch on the dome light all the way to the off position.

  The minutes ticked by and I turned to keep an eye out for Dirk. First Avenue South was a one-way street four lanes wide here. The truck was parked on the left side of the road meaning Dirk would approach it from the left rear. We were a good distance from the nearest streetlight and he’d have a minimal view of the passenger seat until he was climbing in. That was my hope anyway.

  He showed up at a dead sprint minutes later, huffing and puffing down the sidewalk. I slid lower in the passenger seat with my hands resting across my abdomen. Dirk had to fight with the keys to get the driver’s side door unlocked. He yanked the door open and didn’t seem to notice that the light failed to come on. He was all the way behind the wheel by the time he saw me sit up.

  “Oh shit!” He went for his knife.

  I grabbed the hair at the back of his head with my left hand and slammed his nose into the top of the steering wheel. His hat fell off.

  “Jeezus!”

  “Time to talk, Dirk.” I plucked the buck knife from his belt and tossed it to the footwell on my side.

  He put a hand to his face and felt his nose. I hadn’t slammed him hard enough to break anything but his eyes were watering.

  “You ought to realize you can’t run from me. Let’s not do this dance anymore.”

  “What do you want?” he mumbled through his hand.

  “Shut the door. Let’s go for a drive. You get to tell me all
about yourself.”

  7

  Dirk P. Walls didn’t seem a bad sort. His teeth would thank him if he quit the dip and he could use a more frequent hygiene regimen, but he was a man’s man who knew what he was about. His truck ran well and the white fur on the seat said that a dog was a frequent resident of his passenger seat. He couldn’t be all terrible.

  I plucked one of the dog hairs from the seat. “You own a wolf?”

  He glanced at me and then the hair. “White shepherd.”

  “Start talking, Dirk. What were you doing outside the Phillips’ house tonight?”

  “Just watching out for her is all.”

  “For Isla Phillips.”

  “Been a friend to Foster. He’d want her checked on.”

  “And with a heart of gold like yours, you’re the man for the job.” I checked the time. It was almost one o’clock. Good thing I had a siesta. “So tell me the story, Dirk. Foster takes his life, you pop round to see how the missus is doing. How often? You been by before?”

  “Time or two. Nothing to trouble yourself over.”

  “You must think I’m an idiot. Did you not get close enough to my office to read the sign?”

  Dirk Walls sucked his teeth.

  “Says ‘detective,’” I added, in case he wasn’t getting it.

  “Shit.” It came out like “she-it.”

  “You want me to go poking around your life, pestering everyone with questions and stirring things up? It’s literally my job and I’m annoying as hell.”

  Dirk was staring hard at the road but his mind was on my threat.

  “Or you could cut the bullshit now and tell me what you were really doing there.”

  I let the ensuing silence work on him. Only took about a minute till he cracked.

  “Foster and I had an arrangement. Just business.”

  “What kind?”

  “Unfinished kind.”

  “Seems like you finished it to me.”

  “What? No. Not like that. You think I killed him?” Dirk’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

  “Who said he was killed?”

  “Nobody. He killed his self.”

  “This business you had get Foster killed? You in it too? Who else?”

  Dirk clenched his jaw.

  “Okay. Here’s how this game goes. Foster was murdered and you just shot straight to the top of my suspect list. In order to not be at the top, someone else with a motive has to bump you. Who else knew what you were into?”

  “Not saying nothing else.”

  “That’s a double negative.”

  “I’m done talking.”

  I pressed him. “There were a couple guys in a black Mercedes SUV sitting outside Foster’s house the day he died. Big ugly fat one and a slick skinny one with pinched eyes. White dudes. You know ’em?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No.”

  I’d bet he did.

  “You’re making me resort to poking around. Gonna be a lot of poking. Bound to run into whoever it is knows you’re involved. Maybe I’ll have to tell them you’re involved. Either way it’ll be awkward.”

  “Stay out of it then.”

  “Awkward for other people. Not me. You mostly.”

  “What are you gonna say to ’em?”

  “I’ll say Mr. Dirk P. Walls is holding out on them. Knows things he won’t share.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “How so?”

  “Because Foster wasn’t murdered. Did himself in.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Told me he was going to.”

  “He told you he was going to kill himself?”

  “Not outright. But something like it. Said, ‘You know there’s a beach for the dead? That’s the place I’m going.’”

  “Beach for the dead.”

  “That’s what he said. And sure enough, he did it.”

  “When was this?”

  “Day he died.”

  We were up Fourth Street by now. Dirk’s eyes flicked to the Burger King sign on Thirty-Eighth Avenue. Open late. Sitting outside Isla’s all night must have been hungry work.

  “Pull in.” I gestured to the turn lane. He didn’t hesitate. I reached for my wallet and extracted a few bills. I added an extra twenty and let him see it.

  He eased into the line of cars waiting at the drive-thru.

  “Dinner’s on me if you give me a good reason you aren’t Foster’s killer.”

  “We served together. Afghanistan. In the shit.”

  I swore internally and gave him the cash.

  Dirk chewed his lip. Ruminating on something. But he spoke again. “Foster said he had a job coming up. Something to do with the casino his old lady works at. Said he might be out of town for a bit. He wanted me to look in on her. Make sure nobody came around messing with her. You seen her. Never been a day in her life she was single when she didn’t want to be.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to be the relationship police? What, she’s supposed to consult you before she’s allowed around other men?”

  “Foster was my friend. Just doing what he wanted done.”

  “Foster’s dead. What’s he care now?”

  “You ever knew what it was to follow orders, maybe you’d understand. There’s a code. A man does what he has to for his boys. He made it sound like she might be in some kind of trouble with him gone. I told him I had his back. So him dead or not, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “I don’t believe you, Dirk. I’m going to ask around about you.”

  “You ain’t gonna find nothin’.” He spit out the window.

  “There you go with your double negatives again. I’ll leave you now.”

  “Don’t be telling nobody about me, you understand? I’m just doing what he wanted.”

  I popped the door open and climbed out. “Your secrets aren’t unsafe with me.” I slammed the door.

  Dirk gave me a scowl. I got the impression would have liked to roar off in a cloud of exhaust smoke, but his position in the drive-thru line precluded such a manly exit.

  I revised my opinion of Dirk. Dog or no dog, he was an asshole.

  8

  I crossed Fourth Street via the crosswalk, then strolled south into Old Northeast. It was a fair hike to my place, but once I was off the main road and under cover of the old oaks, the walk was less of an inconvenience. I could use it. Clear my head.

  My encounter with Dirk had given me another angle to this puzzle but now it was all corners and no edges. My mind kept showing me scenes from my night. Mostly Isla’s lips and the gaping hole in Foster’s head. Needed a good night’s sleep and a fresh start.

  Hawk was waiting for me at the top of my steps, his golden eyes reflecting moonlight and making him look like the predatory killer he was. I scratched under his chin till his purring got loud, then filled his food dish. It occurred to me as I navigated the hallway to my bedroom that I’d left a nearly full beer at my office. It was still cold when I left too. I was too tired to go back for it now but I did make a note on my phone. A future me wouldn’t let it go to waste.

  I undressed and crashed into the pillows face-first.

  When my alarm went off at 7 a.m. I was still tired. I noticed the door to the guest room was locked. Not a bad idea.

  I jumped back in time two hours, careful not to wake myself on arrival, went into the guest room and locked the door. I got another two hours of sleep before the alarm went off at seven again. This time I felt I could handle it.

  Coffee first. Then coffee.

  Breakfast was fresh fruit over oatmeal, juice, two glasses of water, and Advil. The Old Fashioned and the beers had been a great idea at the time but today would require reparations. Workout shorts and a T-shirt got me out the door. Hawk was missing again. Off regulating the local feline population no doubt. Had to keep the neighborhood hierarchy in order.

  I refilled his water bowl and trotted down to the garage.

  There was a sexy beast of a machine in the dri
veway.

  The Boss.

  Dad must have jumped it here sometime overnight. Never heard it arrive.

  I hadn’t owned a car in a decade. Wasn’t anywhere I wanted to go that I couldn’t get to by bicycle, rideshare, or time travel, but I had to admit the Boss had style. Dark as death and just as mean, the car’s curves were an assault on decency. It had the body of a ’68 Mustang fastback but had been taken to the future for upgrades. An electric auto-drive system was rigged beneath an upgraded factory engine. More importantly, it could time travel. The intake for the supercharger yawned wide like a ravenous predator. It was a vehicle that would devour its enemies and crush their bones beneath its tires. Chrome door handles and window trim were the only accents keeping it from being mistaken for a black hole.

  Not a car you parked outside if you wanted the neighbors to like you.

  I opened the garage to see if I could make room.

  My weight bench was centered in the right-hand bay. Toolboxes and more anchor cabinets filled the left. Relocating the weight stand was a workout in itself but once I got the bench moved, I loaded the bar with two forty-five pound plates each side and pressed out a set. Not bad for a warmup. I stretched and loaded up another pair of thirty-fives, then climbed into the interior of the car to sync it with the house.

  It took over an hour to upload Waldo to the onboard CPU of the Boss, but it was worth it. Bouncing around time, access to the cloud could be spotty. I finished my workout while I waited.

  By late morning I was freshly showered and changed, wearing my cozy stakeout clothes: a black hoodie, worn-in jeans, a T-shirt, and Chuck Taylors. I wore a ball cap and shades as well, completing the look. It was one of my ABC’s of investigations. Always be comfortable.

  Plus, it was Saturday.

  Then, it was mid-October. Foster’s death day.

  Time to fit another piece in this puzzle.

  I parked the Boss in Hyde Park, a block away from the Mercedes G-Class SUV and Foster Phillips’ house. There were already too many of me in the vicinity today. One of me staking out the alley on foot, one showing up inside the house and getting zapped by a dude I assumed was Foster’s killer, and now me, lurking in the pitch-black void of the Boss’s interior.