Time Travelers Never Die

by Jack McDevitt

  Shel nodded. “Yes.” He drew his legs up in a gesture that looked defensive. “You sure you’re okay, Dave?”

  “I’ve been trying to get used to this. To the idea that you’re gone. Or were gone. Whatever.”

  Shel took a deep breath but said nothing.

  “You’re using the converter now.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So when you go back—”

  “—The house will burn, and I’ll be in it.”

  For a long time neither spoke. “Don’t go back,” Dave said at last.

  “I don’t see how I can avoid it.”

  Ridiculous. Dave’s mind filled with images of lightning strikes and burglars in the night and the charred remains of Shel’s desk. “Stay the hell away from it. What have you got to lose?”

  “It’s not that.” His voice sounded tight. And there was a hunted look in his eyes. “I have no intention of going back there. But I’m not sure it’s my call.”

  “That makes no sense, Shel.”

  “It happened, Dave. You know that, and I do. Somehow, I’m going to wind up in that fire.” For a long moment, he simply sat on the staircase, breathing. “They found me in the bed.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Shel was pale and his eyes were red.

  “They think you were murdered.”

  He nodded. Said nothing. They made their way back down into the living room and dropped into armchairs.

  “What happened, Shel? Do you have any idea who it could have been?”

  “None.” His head sank back and he stared at the ceiling. “I was downstream, looking at stuff. And I did what we always said we wouldn’t do. No matter what.”

  “You looked at your bio.”

  “Yes.” He shook his head. The heating system came on with a thump. Dave thought how he had to get it fixed. Shel got up after a minute and walked over to the liquor cabinet. “Mind?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  “You want anything?”

  “Rum and Coke would be good.”

  He mixed the drinks, brought them back, and gave one to Dave. “I couldn’t help it.” He fell back down into his chair. “I read how I was one of two sons of Michael Shelborne. That I’d been in public relations. And that I’d died in a fire on Friday, September 13, 2019. The fire wasn’t caused by lightning. It was deliberately set. Perpetrator never caught. That was all they had to say. Oh, and that my father vanished under mysterious circumstances.”

  “I’m sorry, Shel.”

  He sighed. “Goddam it, Dave, I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Dave tried his drink. There was too much rum. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s a scary thing to have the story of your entire life lying at your elbow. And it amounts to two lines.”

  “This is what comes of traveling alone.” Dave was annoyed. “We agreed not to do that.”

  “It’s done. And if I hadn’t, I’d be dead now.” He was pale, frightened. He buried his forehead in his palms. “What the hell am I saying? I am dead.”

  “You’re here.”

  “And I’m also in the graveyard.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” He seemed lost. “It’s waiting for me back there.” His breathing was loud.

  “Don’t go back to the town house,” Dave said. “Stay here.”

  Shel seemed not to have heard. “It must have been burglars.”

  “They broke into the desk. Into the bottom drawer.”

  “Well, that’s what burglars do.”

  “You’re sure nobody else knew? About the converters?”

  He just stared out of those dazed, blank eyes. “Nobody else knew. But at least I’m warned. Maybe I should take a gun back with me.”

  “Maybe.”

  Avoid the irreparable act.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I thought you’d want to know I’m okay.” He snickered at that.

  “Don’t go back at all,” Dave said. “With or without a gun.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “Good.”

  “If it drops me in the Atlantic, so be it.” It was supposed to be a joke, and he laughed, though Dave remained silent. “Dave, I’m scared.”

  “I know.”

  “At some point, for one reason or another, it’s going to happen.” He finished his drink. “Maybe I get drunk. Maybe I lose my mind. Maybe I just decide to get it over with. Whatever it is—”

  “Let it go, Shel.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s knowing the way of it,” he said. “That’s what tears me up.”

  “Just stay here,” Dave said again. “You’re safe here.”

  Shel shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Dave.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “Nothing like watching your own funeral to remind you how valuable sunlight is. And that you don’t have it forever. I’ve got a few places to go. People to talk to. Then, when I’ve done what I need to, I’ll think about all this.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve got a place downstream. I’m going to stay there.”

  “Really?” said Dave. “Where?”

  “Center City.” He didn’t elaborate, so Dave didn’t push. Shel picked up the glass, drained it, wiped his lips. “Are they sure it’s me? I heard the body was burned beyond recognition.”

  “The police checked your dental records.”

  “They matched?”

  “Yes.”

  His brows came together. “Do me a favor, Dave. Make sure they actually did the identification. Maybe they thought there was no question it was me, and they just put that out there but didn’t really bother. Okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll make sure.”

  He got up, wandered around the room, touching things, the books, a bust of Plato, a table lamp. He paused in front of the picture from the Beach Club. “I keep thinking how much it means to be alive. You know, Dave, I saw people out there today I haven’t seen in years.” He played with his glass. It was an expensive piece, chiseled, and he explored its facets. “When is the reading of the will?”

  “I don’t know. They may have done it already.”

  “I’m tempted to go.”

  “To the reading?”

  “Why not?” He managed a tight, pained smile. “I could wear a black beard and reveal myself at the appropriate moment.”

  “You can’t do that.” Dave was horrified.

  Shel laughed. “I know. But by God I’d like to.” He shook himself, as if he were just waking up. “Dave, truth is that I know how I’m going to die. It’s different from the simple knowledge that you won’t live forever.”

  Dave said nothing.

  “But it doesn’t have to happen until I’m ready for it.” He looked past Dave, out the window.

  “I think you need to tell her,” Dave said gently.

  His expression clouded. “I know.” He drew the words out. “I’ll talk to her. At the proper time.”

  “Be careful,” Dave said. “She’s already been through a lot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  He nodded. Dave thought he might say something like Not bad for a dead guy. But he let it go.

  CHAPTER 36

  He has gone, left, cleared out, bolted.

  —CICERO

  THE critical question was whether they had in fact buried Adrian Shelborne, or whether there was a possibility of mistaken identity. Neither Dave nor Shel knew anything about police procedure other than what they saw on TV. So, in the morning, Dave set out to pursue the issue.

  He started with Jerry, who seemed annoyed that Shel had died, almost as if he had in some way brought it on himself. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” he told Dave. “He was a decent man, but he never really made his life count.” That was an echo of what Shel had said, but the meaning was different. Jerry thought in terms of a p
rofessional reputation and the attendant compensation. He sat behind a polished teak desk. An India rubber plant in a large pot stood by a sun-filled window. The furniture was expensive, padded with leather, ponderous, exuding a sense that whatever went on in the office was significant. Plaques covered the walls, appreciations from civic groups, corporate awards, various licenses and testaments. Photos of his two children were prominently displayed, a boy in a Little League uniform, a girl nuzzling a horse. His wife, who had left him years earlier, was missing.

  “Actually,” Dave said, “I thought he did pretty well.”

  “I don’t mean money, Dave. But it seems to me a man has an obligation to live as part of his community. To participate in community functions. To help out. To belong to, say, the Optimists. Support one of the churches.”

  “I’ve a question for you,” Dave said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “In a case like this, how thoroughly do the police check the identity of the victim? I mean, it’s Shel’s house. He’s the only one in it. So I was wondering if they might figure who else could it be? And maybe they just don’t bother going further.”

  Jerry shook his head. “The cops are usually pretty careful about that sort of thing, Dave. Now understand, criminal law isn’t my field, but they’d be crazy simply to make assumptions in a situation like this. They’d be opening themselves up to all kinds of liability. Which is why they check the dental records.”

  “They said they did. But is there a chance they might not have gone to the trouble? Because they were already sure?”

  “No. Believe me, it’s no trouble. And they’re not going to risk lawsuits and public embarrassment. If they say it was Shel, you can believe that’s who it was.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s the way life is sometimes.” He rose, signaling that the interview was over.

  They walked toward the door. “You know,” Dave said, “this experience has a little bit of déjà vu about it.”

  Jerry paused with his hand on the knob. “How do you mean?”

  “There was a language teacher at Princeton, where I got my doctorate. Same thing happened to him. He lived alone, and one night a gas main let go and blew up the whole house. They buried him, then found out it wasn’t him at all. He’d gone on an unannounced holiday to Vermont, and turned his place over to a friend. They didn’t find out until several days after the funeral.”

  Jerry shrugged. The colossal stupidity loose in the world was no surprise to him. “Unfortunately,” he said, “there’s not much chance of that here.”

  DAVE probably shouldn’t have tried to see how Helen was doing because his own emotions were still churning. But he called her from a drugstore, and she said yes, she’d like to see him, and suggested lunch. They met at an Applebee’s on City Avenue.

  She looked worn, dazed, and her eyes were bloodshot.

  Nothing in his life had been quite as painful as sitting with her that day, seeing those raw emotions and knowing that, had it been Dave who’d died, she’d have been sorry but would have gotten over it easily enough.

  The conversation was full of regrets, things not said, acts undone. She was as soft and vulnerable as Dave had ever seen her. By all the laws of nature, Shel was dead. Was he still bound to keep his distance? He wondered how she would react if she knew Shel was probably in Dave’s kitchen at that moment, making a submarine sandwich.

  He wanted to tell her. There was a possibility that, when she did find out, when she got past her anger with Shel, she’d hold it against Dave as well. He also, God help him, wanted to keep Shel dead. It was hard to admit to himself, but it was true. He wanted nothing more than a clear channel to Helen Suchenko. But when he watched her bite down the pain, when the tears came, when she excused herself with a shaky voice and hurried back to the ladies’ room, he could stand it no more. “Helen,” he said, “are you free this afternoon?”

  She sighed. “It’s my afternoon off. Just as well. People get nervous around weepy doctors. I’m free. But I’m not in the mood to go anywhere.”

  “Can I persuade you to come out to my place?”

  She looked desperately fragile. “I don’t think so, Dave. I need time to myself.”

  He listened to the hum of conversation around them. “Please,” he said. “It’s important.”

  THE gray skies sagged down into the streets, and all the headlights were on. Helen followed him in her small blue Ford. He watched her in the mirror, playing back all possible scenarios on how to handle this. He’s not dead, Helen. Leave out the time-travel stuff, he decided, at least for now. Use the story he’d told Jerry as an example of how misunderstandings can occur. And then bring him into the room. Best not to warn him. God knows how he’d react. But get them together, present him with a fait accompli, and you will have done your self-sacrificial duty, Dave. You dumb bastard.

  He pulled into his driveway, opened the garage, and rolled inside. The rain had grown even more intense. Helen stopped behind him, and hurried out of her car. “This way.” Dave waved her into the garage.

  “Glad to be out of that,” she said, with a drenched smile. “Dave, I can’t stay long.”

  “Okay. We’ll only need a minute.”

  The garage opened into the kitchen. He unlocked the door but stopped to listen before going farther. Everything was quiet inside. He stood back so she could enter and closed the door behind her, making no effort to muffle the sound. He switched on the kitchen light, then led the way into the living room. “About Shel—” He raised his voice a notch.

  “Yes?”

  “This is going to come as a shock.”

  She frowned. “You’re not going to tell me he was already married.”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  A white envelope lay on a side table, with Dave’s name on it, printed in Shel’s precise hand. He snatched it up, but not before she’d seen it.

  “Just a list of things to do.” He pushed it into his pocket. “How about some coffee?”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “It’ll have to be instant.” He went back out into the kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove.

  She followed. “Do you always do that?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Write yourself notes?”

  “It’s my to-do list. It’s the first thing I do every morning.”

  She got two cups down. “What’s going to come as a shock?”

  “Give me a second,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He slipped out and opened the envelope.

  Dear Dave,

  I don’t know how to write this. But I have to think about what’s happened, and figure out what I need to do. I don’t want to jump the gun if it’s not necessary. You understand.

  I know this hasn’t been easy for you. But I’m glad you were there. Thanks.

  Shel

  P.S. I’ve left most of my estate to the Leukemia Foundation. That will probably generate a half dozen lawsuits from my relatives. But if any of those vultures shows signs of winning, I’ll come back personally and deal with them.

  Dave read it a half dozen times. Then he crumpled it, pushed it into his pocket, and went back to the kitchen.

  She was looking out the window. Usually, Dave’s grounds were alive with blue jays and squirrels. But none of the critters was in sight at the moment. “It’s lovely,” she said. Then: “So, what’s this about?”

  “Son of a gun,” he said. “I went out to get it, and I forgot.” He suggested she relax for a minute “while I get something.” He hurried upstairs in search of an idea.

  The wardrobe also functioned as a small museum. It held items brought home from their travels, objects of inestimable value, but only if you knew their origin. It had a sextant designed and built by Leonardo, a silver bracelet that had once belonged to Calpurnia, a signed folio of Jean Racine’s Andromaque, a pocket watch that Leo Tolstoy had carried while writing War and Peace. There were photos of Martin L
uther and Albert Schweitzer and Pericles and Francesco Solimena. All more or less worthless.

  He couldn’t bear to give Calpurnia’s bracelet to Helen without being able to tell her what it was. He decided instead on a gold medallion he’d bought from a merchant in Thebes during the fifth century, B.C. It carried a serpent’s likeness. An Apollonian priest had insisted it was a steal. At one time, he’d said, it had belonged to Aesculapius, the divine doctor, who had been so good he cured the dead. He’d backed up his statement by trying to buy it from Dave, offering six times what he’d paid for it.

  He carried it downstairs and gave it to Helen, telling her that Shel had wanted him to be sure she got it in case anything happened to him. She glowed and turned it over and over, unable to get enough of it. “It’s exquisite,” she said. And the tears came again.

  If that thing had possessed any curative powers, Dave could have used them at that moment.

  RAIN filled the world. Gradually, a murky curtain descended on the windows, and the world beyond passed from view. “I think we’re going to get six inches before this is over,” he told her. The Weather Channel was saying two.

  He put on some music. She stood by the curtains, enjoying a glass of Chablis. They’d started the fire, and it crackled and popped comfortably. David added Mozart and hoped the storm would continue.

  A pair of headlights crept past, out on Carmichael Drive. “I feel sorry for anybody who has to get around in this,” she said.

  “Stay here.”

  She laughed. “That wasn’t a hint, Dave. Thanks, anyhow. But when it lets up, I have to get home.”

  They talked inconsequentials. She had composed herself, and Dave wanted to believe it was his proximity. But he had no real chance. Even if Shel were safely in his grave, he was still the embodiment of too many memories. The decent thing to do would be to fade out of her life, just as Carmichael Drive, and the trees that lined it, were fading now.