Sand City Murders (47 page)

“Myself?”

“Such is a distinct possibility. It’s difficult to say for certain.”

My mind traveled back to our drinking bout at the kitchen table. “Wait a second… what about that magic trick you did?”

“What magic trick?”

“The thing with the paper, when you asked me to choose the inventor of the telephone.”

“Oh yes.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You manipulated my reality then. Couldn’t this guy do the same?”

“Ha, that was merely sleight of hand, a magic trick. An illusion.”

“Oh,” I said glumly, but then thought about it. “Wait a second. That was more than sleight of hand. I checked the internet… it was right there on my computer.”

“Yes, you did.” Fynn started laughing.

“You changed my reality right then and there, and I don’t remember any
jumping
… neither of us
free fell
.”

“Ah, but you don’t remember jumping over the breach, or along the boardwalk in the swamp? Or perhaps you slipped on the stairs? I believe you manipulated your own awareness. This trick only works because of your extraordinary memory. You have the ability to recall the differences. You slide back and forth without even realizing...”

“So it wouldn’t work on someone else? On Durbin say?”

“Not at all. To him the inventor of the telephone could not change depending on which scrap of paper he chose. He cannot remember two choices… just the one.”

That sort of made sense to me.

chapter 30

no picnic

Believing Fynn, believing that he could travel through time was a relief. This was completely unexpected. I felt a great burden had been lifted. All doubts erased, and even if my own timeline was completely screwed up, at least I knew I wasn’t insane. And now I had a clear purpose, a certain goal, an objective. Somehow we would find this madman, this Mortimer, and bring him to justice for his crimes, especially for the brutal killing of Alyson and Emma. I felt motivated and sure of myself, though a bit confused about the next steps to be taken.

Saturday morning found me impatient and restless. The weather had turned as well. The last couple of beach days ended abruptly. The cool air returned, and rain was a definite possibility for the afternoon. I telephoned the Blue Dunes and tracked down Fynn, asking if he’d like to go for a jaunt. He readily agreed. It was unseasonably cold, and the clouds looked pretty threatening when I picked up Fynn from his hotel.

“Where are we bound today?” he asked with some enthusiasm. “It looks like rain perhaps.”

“I thought we’d try something a little different. It’s off the map.”

“Well, off the map, I am intrigued. The sanatorium?”

“No. Call it a picnic. To a place that is all my own. I think you’ll like it.”

“A picnic... and what’s on the menu?”

“A thermos of coffee… and sandwiches. And there’s some single malt if you want.”

“Sandwiches… what sort? Irony sandwiches?”

“What?” I turned and stared at Fynn. “What are you talking about?”

“Sorry, it just popped to mind.” He smiled apologetically. “Such things happen to me on occasion.”

“They’re from Nora’s Bakery… ham and munster, or turkey and Swiss.”

“I think you have the cheese wrong.”

“What?”

“Turkey and munster, or ham and Swiss would be better combinations all around. Mayonnaise or mustard?” he asked.

“Vinaigrette, I think.”

“Well then, I’ll come along for the company and the conversation at least.”

I pulled onto a sandy strip just off the road before North Hollow Beach. Technically there was no parking here, and in another week it would actually be enforced. Durbin was expecting his reinforcements just before next weekend, Memorial Day. The Sand City police force would at least triple in size, though most of the new recruits were auxiliary police, hired on for the peak season.

“I have an admission to make,” I began as we walked up the quiet path.

“What’s that?”

“In the beginning, when we first met, I didn’t believe a word you said— well, barely… and so… I was lazy, I didn’t have to think about time travel very much. I said to myself, it’s just impossible and put the whole thing out of my mind. But now—”

“But now, you have many questions… and you begin to realize that it is quite complicated.”

“Yeah… And um, I did a little research on quantum theory and all that.”

“Well done.”

 “I did some reading: entanglement, space-time, probability…”

“Have you? Well, that’s a good thing, I suppose. And you understand it all?”

“Not really.”

“But you’ve reached some conclusions.”

“Yup. I’ve decided you are an Einstein-Bose condensate.”

“Am I now? And why is that?” Fynn gave me a broad smile.

“Well, you are a complex set of single atoms that works as one.”

“I am at that.” Fynn began to laugh.

“You are the Quantum Detective.”

“Am I? That’s a good title for my book.”

“Your book?”

“Yes, the book you mentioned. The one I am writing and revising all the time… always changing the characters’ lives. You are the editor or someone— now I’ve forgotten...”

“Oh that.” I felt embarrassed by my previous slightly drunken analogy. I led Fynn to my private pine grove, that spot in the dunes where the scrubby trees hung low to the ground and offered shelter in almost any weather. We each found a tree to lean against, facing each other, and even if it did start to rain, we’d be the last to get wet. I poured out two cups of coffee and the inspector added some scotch to his. The pungent pine needles were soothing enough for me.

“So what’s it like being Fynn?”

“How do you mean?”

“What’s your life like?”

“I have many lives.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Think of it this way: every minute of your life is exactly like every minute of mine, only I have many lives to choose from, hundreds of lives which I can visit when I wish. It all depends on where my awareness goes… But the only life I am truly living is the one in the flux of the now, in the present.”

“So it’s not really time travel at all.” I sat back and took a sip of coffee.

“No, I am a
space traveler,
as you commented only a few days ago.”

“You’re avoiding my question,” I said. “Really, what’s it like?”

“It is rather fun for the most part.” Fynn leaned back against his tree.

“That’s it? That’s all you can say?”

The inspector glanced over at me. It was clear that answer was not going to satisfy. “As I’ve said, only the present moment matters. This is my life.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Very well then, my life revolves around two things—”

“Don’t say the past and the present.”

“No, I will say hard jumps and soft jumps.”

“Why those?”

“Each is a distinctly different experience and this has shaped my life more than anything. Traveling back to an old place is rather easy, things are familiar. A hard jump however is often disorientating, to say the least.”

“Soft jumps to the past and hard jumps to the future, searing pain and all?”

“Searing pain and hard landings.” Fynn paused. He gave me an almost weary glance. “You may understand that I have lived much of my time on the edge of society, on its fringes.”

“Why is that?”

“But you must see the trouble, why I live on the margins. Imagine it is the twelfth century and you suddenly find yourself on the outskirts of a tiny village. You have no money, you do not speak the local language, and more often that not, your clothes are highly inappropriate, outlandish even. Most people would not take kindly to such a stranger. You have no friends or family, no means of support… so yes, some journeys can be quite difficult.”

“I never really thought of that.” I paused. “Have things changed?”

“Such a question.”

“I guess I mean is it harder now, or easier, in this present?”

“I see… Well, the modern era grows ever more complex. For example, in the old days it was quite easy to secure a new identity; now, not so much… passports, credit checks, mobile phones, email addresses... ” Fynn took a slurp of his enhanced coffee. “Of course over time, I’ve adjusted and taken a few practical steps to minimize the trauma. For example, I try to carry with me twenty gold sovereigns. Currency, gold currency I have learned, crosses the boundary of every culture and even time itself.” Fynn reached into his pocket and took something out. “Heads or tails?” he asked.

“What?”

“I have a small gift for you. I hope you will accept it.”

“I won’t, no gifts please.”

“Are you not even curious?”

“I didn’t say that… I just can’t accept any gifts.”

“And why not?”

“We’re friends.”

“As you say, and as your friend, I have a small token, something I think you might appreciate. I would be insulted if you turn me down.”

I looked at Fynn. He promised never to lie to me. Maybe he would be insulted. I guess it was some kind of old world thing.

“It’s not at all like a
thank you
gift. It’s more by the way of a memento.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“You can never be sure.” Fynn smiled.

“Okay. What kind of gift?”

“Something small, something you may need in the future.”

“The future, eh?”

“Yes. Whenever I travel, I always bring a few of these with me.” Fynn quite unexpectedly took my hand, turned it palm up and placed a heavy coin there. I looked at it carefully... not like any coin I’d seen before. It seemed to be hand forged; it was gold, a bit larger than a quarter and much thicker and heavier. On the front was a man’s face in profile. On the back was a seated goddess. She was holding a staff. There were letters on the side, but in a language I didn’t recognize, probably Greek.

“What’s this?”

“A coin from long ago… from the days of Alexander the Great.”

“You… you…” I stammered.

Fynn winked at me. “No, I purchased it from an antiquities dealer some years ago in Prague.”

“Wow, it’s beautiful.”

“And quite rare. I’m glad you like it.”

“I can’t possibly take this.”

“Please…” He closed my hand around the coin. “I have found it makes suitable currency no matter where I travel.”

“Well thank you, Fynn.”

He sat back and smiled. “Sometimes I find a place that I like and I’ll stay for fifty years or so; other times, I am not at all pleased with where I’ve arrived, and I jump out almost immediately.”

“Why is that?”

“They are dreadful places and I leave as soon as I’m able.”

“How many lives have you lived?”

“Impossible to say really, hundreds if not more. Though far fewer of them are complete ones. You might say all my lives are only partially lived. It’s less of a progression and more of a pastiche.” Fynn gave off an audible sigh.

“Sounds kind of lonely.”

“Ah, I suppose it is. Over the course of things, I have sought stability. Recall that my third law of travel is
stay as long as you can.
This is solely to maintain my own sanity, a sense of continuity.” Fynn took a slurp of spiked coffee. “Basically, I try to live in a fairly normal fashion. I stay in one place, choose a career, sometimes have a family… I grow old… and then at some point, when I am near to the end, I slip back to a younger self. From there, I jump to a new place entirely and begin again, so to speak.”

“What was your life before this one?”

“When do you mean?”

“Right before this life as Inspector Fynn. Who were you?”

“A policeman in Hong Kong. A lowly detective constable… it was part of the Commonwealth at the time.”

“What time?”

“During the war mostly.”

“Before that?”

“I was living in Ontario, around the turn of the century… the one before this.”

“What did you do?”

“I was a policeman of course.”

“Are you always a policeman?”

“By no means… Have you always been a reporter?”

“Well no, but I’ve never worked in an ancient copper mine either.”

“As far as you are aware,” the inspector said and grinned.

“You remember them all?”

“Of course not. Do you recall every detail of your own life? Certain memories stick out more than others, but much of it passes like a dream.”

“How can you keep track of it all?”

“I cannot. It is impossible.”

“What about all these other lives? The ones you leave or just partially live? Are they in limbo, do they just stop? Are they just stuck in a closet or something?”

“Ha, the closet of time. Close the door and forget about them.”

“Until you need a new pair of shoes or something.” I smiled.

“I like the way you think, Patrick.”

“But where do these lives go when you’re not living through them? Is that really you living in that life? It can’t be, if you’re here... I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“It’s very difficult for you to understand, I’m sure. To you, all these lives are in the past, most of them, the very distant past. For me they are concurrent. They are simultaneous.”

“That just seems impossible.”

“Understand that my awareness, my consciousness can only unfold in one place. It can only be in one present, in the flux of the now… but where that
now
exists, can span the centuries. So, in a very real sense, these lives are concurrent.”

“Doesn’t that get confusing?”

“It can be at times. And it’s true what you say. I often wonder if it is really me living these lives. It’s a bit of a curse, I suppose… When I revisit the places of the past I bring so much with me, so many memories of the present and the future. I am in a large respect a completely different person.”

“If you go back and live for fifty years and then return to the present, how much time passes?”

“None at all, at least from your point of reference. For me, fifty years have passed.”

“And when you travel back, I mean, back here, everything gets reset?”

“Yes. I’ve learned to alter the timeline as little as possible, below the quantum threshold as it were. Each jump fractures the timeline in a very real sense. This is my second law:
Tread Lightly.
Again, this serves my well-being. To jump to a future that bears no resemblance to my past can be most disconcerting.”