by MK Alexander
“Whoa, you are talking about time travel.”
“If you insist on calling it that, very well then, yes. It is different however in this sense: when I travel to the past. I merely go back to a place where I have been before. I re-visit that consciousness, if you will.”
“Isn’t that called memory?”
The inspector chuckled. “For most people.”
“How is this different?”
“When I cast myself back, I bring with me all my new experiences, those from the present— and not to confuse matters— those from the future.”
“It’s impossible.”
“I agree. Yet it is so.”
“But how?”
“How? This is a very big question.”
“Can you travel to the future?”
“I can… though this is a different kettle of fish. It’s all rather complicated.” Fynn leaned forward in his seat. “Traveling from place to place often fractures the present.”
I poured myself another cup of tea and dumped in a sugar packet. I tried to think what he meant. “Okay… so, this is like alternate timelines or something?”
“I dislike that word, but it will suffice for now.”
“Let me try to get this straight. In one timeline, these murders that I remember, happened... but now they haven’t, because it’s a new timeline.”
“That’s a rather confusing way to put it. Recall that I fixed these other murders.”
“By traveling to the past?”
“Correct.”
“And returning to the present.” I thought about that for a second. “My present... which would be your future.”
“Also correct.”
“So you can travel back and forth?”
“Not precisely. It’s more involved than you might think. There’s a lot to understand.”
“Why am I the only one who is noticing both, um, both realities?”
“This is most unusual, as I’ve mentioned. Why you remember me at all is extraordinary, nearly unprecedented in my experience.”
“Durbin doesn’t remember anything?”
“Not a whit.”
“And Arantez really is in Amsterdam?”
“As far as I know.”
“But I remember both timelines.”
“As you say. I cannot explain this at all, except to say it has something to do with you.”
“Me?”
“You are somehow different than most other people.”
“Okay,” I said, stalling, trying to find a new tack. “How did you fix these first two murders?”
“By traveling back to the past and changing things. What happens in the past always changes the present.”
“But how did you fix them so quickly, I mean, since yesterday?”
“It may seem that way to you… For me, nearly a year has passed. It’s been quite a complicated endeavor.”
“Okay, then how?”
“How?” he repeated and stared at me with widened eyes. “Oh, you mean the particulars?”
“Yeah.”
“Well for Clara, who likes to take her dog to the beach, it was rather easy.” The inspector sat back and crossed his arms. He grinned, there was something distinctly owl-like about his expression, though I’d never seen a bird smile.
“You kidnapped her dog?”
The inspector glanced at me and surprise crossed his face. “Yes… no dog to walk, no murder to commit.”
“You brought Roxy to the future?”
“Into the present, yes.” Fynn paused. “For a second time.”
“A second time?”
“It seems Clara was clutching her dog on that first tragic night…”
“When she was murdered?”
“Yes. But her little pet seems no worse for wear despite his arduous journeys.”
“You can do that? Take a passenger with you?”
“It works for dogs… they live very much in the flux of the now and seem to be immune to this sort of travel.”
“Wait, I’m hearing some implications to that.”
“How so?”
“It works for dogs but not for people?”
“Patrick, you are very astute. It does not go well for people.”
“Why not?”
“There is the searing pain for one.”
“Searing pain?”
“It’s complicated… but more, it’s about awareness. A person’s consciousness does not usually survive such a journey.”
“Yours seems to.”
“I’ve had many years of practice.”
“How many years?”
“Untold years.”
“I can’t believe any of this.” I scratched the back of my neck. “It’s a trick, some kind of elaborate hoax. But I can’t figure out what you’re looking to get—”
“It’s no trick, I assure you,” the inspector cut me short. “I am trying to offer an explanation here, an explanation that is comprehensible to you.”
“Well it’s not comprehensible at all.”
“Ah, I understand how you must feel at the moment. All that I’ve said flies in the face of science. Yet there is a certain amount of evidence which you cannot deny.”
“Like?”
“Roxy for one... Your own memories…”
“But, like physical evidence?” I asked, then paused to answer my own question. “There’s none. Roxy doesn’t count.”
“I agree. There is no real physical evidence. I’m sure the files I presented to you do not qualify.”
“Oh those… there’s no way for me to verify any of that.”
“Yes, you have nothing to compare them with… only your fleeting memory.”
“Can you do it now?”
“What?”
“Travel back in time.”
“Now?” Fynn asked, slightly astonished.
“Why not? Prove it to me.”
“No. I have no wish to do so at the moment. Not on such a full stomach.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“So, this is a scam. You can’t offer any proof.”
“I cannot.”
The inspector remained silent for a time. He poured another tiny cup of tea. I thought to change tacks again. “How did you save victim number two, grandma Helling?”
“Would you really like to know?” A smile spread across the inspector’s face.
“Hell yeah.”
“Alright then, we will go for another drive.”
“What, now?”
“Have you finished eating?”
I had, and I also had to pick up the check. Asian East did not accept Euros, nor travelers checks. I was out forty bucks now. I guess it was worth it. Scam or not, this was going to be a great story.
The inspector asked me to drive through town towards the Marina. We crossed through the dockyards and the piers at the end of Long Neck and he directed me down a small alley I’d never seen before. We pulled into a gravel parking lot surrounded by low concrete structures. He got out, held up a key and walked towards one of the buildings which was a garage. He unfastened a giant padlock and I helped lift the door. It was dark, but I could see a car inside, covered by a tight-fitting tarpaulin. Inspector Fynn gingerly unwrapped the vehicle. I stood face to face with a 1974 Pontiac T-37. It was pumpkin orange and premo, like it had just come from the dealership. I was speechless. The inspector came up to my side and handed me a key on a rabbit’s foot, then started to chuckle softly.
“Check the mileage,” he suggested and found a light switch. A single bulb glowed from the low roof.
I unlocked the car and got in on the driver’s side. The odometer read less than ten thousand. I also found a pocketbook on the seat. Inside: lipstick, some gum, twenty-two bucks and a California license, Debra Helling, DOB: August 8, 1954. Her face seemed very familiar.
“But how?” I asked. “You time traveled in a car?”
“No. Nothing of the sort.”
“You st
ole it though.”
“I did.”
“It’s Debra Helling’s?”
“It is.”
“And that stopped her murder?”
“Absconding with her vehicle was enough to upset her routine. She gave up jogging for a time.” Fynn smiled. “Check the registration. It’s still in the glove box.”
I searched and found a faded document, it was almost crumbling and hard to read. The car was registered to Debra Helling but it had long since expired. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a hideous troll, a miniature pink doll only a couple of inches long with blue hair, wide staring eyes and a smirk on its face. I walked around the car and examined it more carefully. Wasn’t off the showroom floor after all. I could see swaths of rust had spread across the chrome bumpers. The plates had been removed. It had four flat tires and the finish was starting to dull. The salt air had indeed taken its toll on the vehicle.
“Well?” Fynn asked, “Physical evidence?”
My brain went into logic mode. Here I was, standing next to a forty-year-old abandoned car. There was a murder victim that only I remembered, or at least only Fynn and I. The registration matched, a pocketbook… but how about the VIN? Or fingerprints even? My thoughts were racing. Corpsicle came back to mind. My tongue had a will of its own. I blurted out: “You killed her forty years ago, you stole her car, you came back and dumped her body two days ago— forty years later. Why? It’s so sick and twisted...”
The inspector was clearly astonished by my outburst. “How can you say such a thing?”
“It’s the only possible explanation.”
“I see,” Fynn said a little too patiently. “Well then, you should take me to Detective Durbin and have me arrested for a murder which has not been committed.”
I looked at Fynn, searching for anything I could understand, anything that would make sense. A different trail of logic prevailed, a crazy trail. Time travel? “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m sorry. I must.” Fynn put his hand on my shoulder. “For the fourth time, Patrick, I will say, you have an extraordinary memory.” He looked hard at me. “I need your help again.”
“Again?”
The inspector said nothing.
“We’ve met before… I mean, before yesterday?” I asked.
“Yes, any number of times.”
“I don’t remember those.”
“No. I don’t suppose you would. They are somewhat further from our present.”
“Okay, okay, say this whole thing is not a hoax... I still don’t get what’s going on.”
“Slowly, it will be made clear, I promise.”
I felt overwhelmed and started to stammer, “Mr Fynn... Inspector… I don’t know what to say. I don’t understand what’s happening here. And, I’m very confused right now.” I felt like sitting down but settled for leaning against the back of the Pontiac.
“I’m sure you are, and I am sorry to ask so much of you.” The inspector paused and faced me. He gently put his hand on my shoulder. “Not long ago, I woke up to find that my wife and daughter were missing,” he said solemnly and gave me an expression filled with sorrow. It seemed genuine.
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes. Anika… she is a bit younger than you.” Fynn hesitated. “It is most unusual that my own reality should be changed like this. Such a thing has never happened to me before in my long life. Perhaps, it shouldn’t even matter to me. Perhaps somewhere, in a parallel reality, my wife and daughter are absolutely fine and content… Yet, this does bother me, dreadfully.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Someone else has changed my present, my timeline, if you will.”
“Apparently, it happens to me all the time.”
The inspector gave me an odd glance, then he smiled and chuckled, and started laughing. “You’ve always had a fine sense of humor, Patrick.”
I started to piece together everything he’d said. “I’m sorry about your wife and your daughter and all… but why can’t you just fix it, like you did for the others?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“It’s not?”
“No.” Fynn gave me a long look. “As I say, I need your help.”
“How?”
“I need your extraordinary memory.”
Something stuck in the back of my mind, something completely absurd: Did I still have to call Alyson for a lunch date? “I’m not sure I’m getting any of this,” I said hesitantly, still leaning on the car. “You say you can travel to the past and back to the present… and the future?”
“Yes, the future as well, though this is a relative term.”
“What do you mean, relative?”
“Time is not so linear as you might believe.” Fynn paused again. “For me there is not such a great distinction between the past and the future.”
This is crazy stuff, I thought, but said, “Okay, say I accept all this for now… how do your special powers help you solve crimes?”
“They don’t, not in the least.”
“Why not?”
“Causality. As I’ve already said, the past determines the present.”
“Causality?”
“Yes. Cause and effect. My abilities are useless for solving crimes, though they are quite useful in preventing them.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Not at all. When I prevent a crime there is little else to discuss… and, in this case, no one but you would remember.” He gave me a quick smile. “There would be no criminal, no justice to serve. Crimes can only be solved in the present, usually with evidence and deduction.” Inspector Fynn turned off the light and drew the garage door down again.
“Shouldn’t you lock up?” I reminded him. “You know, prevent a crime?”
“I’m debating what to do...”
“You want someone to steal your car?”
“Well, it’s not really mine… and yes, I would be most curious to see who is interested in this car at present.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Only that if someone else does show an interest, this would be important.”
“I say lock it up anyhow.”
“Yes, perhaps you’re right.”
chapter 11
barefoot breach
There is a saying around these parts: “If you don’t like the weather, wait an hour or so.” It was pretty much true— something about the wind coming off the ocean or the bay. And sure enough, the rain had cleared. The sun was breaking through and this March day was definitely warming up. There was almost a mugginess to the air. I had no idea what to do next. I think my brain was starting to shut down.
“What now?” I asked the inspector.
“It’s entirely up to you. Perhaps you need to return to your newspaper?”
“That can wait… one of the perks of the job. As long as I finish my story by deadline, my time is my own.”
“I see.”
“Should I take you back to the station?”
“I’m not sure what good that will do at the moment.”
“Won’t Durbin be needing you?”
“He would call your mobile phone if he does.”
“You are the chief now,” I admonished, though not seriously.
“Ha, yes, I suppose I am. But it’s only my first day after all.”
“Don’t you want to find out about the woman at Sunset Park… um, your wife?”
“There’s little more to know until the forensic reports come in.” He turned in his seat and gave me a slightly pained smile. “And I’ve learned much already.”
“Like?”
“The clothes she was wearing. Her earrings. The shoe prints…”
“Italian again?”
“I believe so.”
“What about the earrings? You recognize them?”
“I’m not entirely sure. It was a long time ago. Maybe my memory is not so good as yours, eh?” Fynn made a funny face. “But yes, these d
olphins seem familiar to me.”
“Dolphins?”
“Her earrings.”
“Why was she cold? Cold to the touch, like you said.”
“I don’t understand this as of yet.”
“How about her clothes?”
“Any woman might wear such clothes on a given day.” He paused. “Though surely, she was not dressed for today’s weather.”
“What about being barefoot?”
“We’ve both seen this before at the other crime scenes. It is a way to obfuscate.”
“How’s that?”
“I suppose shoes are rather easy to trace, easy to identify.” Fynn paused. “I don’t think there’s anything more to it than that.”
“What else could it be?”
“I’ll have to give it some more consideration. I’m sure it’s nothing though…” There was an awkward silence as Fynn seemed to be lost in thought.
“Bring you back to your hotel?” I finally asked.
“If you’d like, but I’d prefer not. I’m feeling quite distracted.”
“How about a walk?”
“A walk?”
“Sure, up on the beach. It’s my favorite thing to do. There’s not a problem that can’t be solved by a nice long hike along the shore.” I firmly believed this, though that usually meant walking alone. It wasn’t clear how it would work with company, and especially the company of Fynn.
“Very well then.” The inspector smiled broadly. “I would enjoy a long stroll.”
We drove back up Long Neck but I turned right before the Village, cutting across Baxter Estates. It was another narrow, twisty road, Stewardess Avenue. To our left was Kettle Pond, summer cottages obscured by scraggily pine trees, mostly abandoned in the off season. On our right, I pointed out the large housing development, Baxter Estates, where most of the houses looked very similar, all in cedar shingles of one muted color or another, and all separated by one acre zoning requirements. They were tasteful homes, different only in their floor plans and their facades. Most were high peaked boxes, roofed with skylights, and set back in a huge clearing. The trees were still growing in, all less than twenty years old. Just after the looming water tower, the road forked to the right and to the left again. Left took us to the ocean. Right took us there too, but crossed the dunes and the salt marsh, and all the hidden sandy paths that the off road vehicles took to the beach. That automatically disqualified my low-riding Saab.