Time After Time (27 page)

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Authors: Karl Alexander

BOOK: Time After Time
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But how?
Suddenly, he gasped, for he knew what he was going to do. His face turned ashen. He slowly stood and shuffled for the great oak doors. He was going to pursue the only acceptable alternative left open to him.
He was going to purchase a pistol.
 
 
“Sam's Pawn Shop—Instant Cash” was east of Market Street near the Greyhound Bus Depot. Although only blocks away from the library and the civic center, complexion of the city was different here. There was debris and grit in the streets, despair and resignation in the people's eyes. The buildings needed painting and the air tasted heavy and foul with fumes.
H.G. tried not to think of this as he stood at the counter and waited for the proprietor. When he had left the library, he remembered Stephenson saying that anyone could buy a weapon in this so-called Utopia of 1979. All one had to do was find a sporting-goods store. Well, apparently pawn shops sold small arms, too, H.G. thought, along with a little bit of everything else in the universe. He stood there, staring into the dark black recesses of the shop and saw relics that had not even been conceived of in 1893. A technological scrap heap, he mused. Monuments to the future capabilities of science hanging unnoticed and unused. He wondered what functions they had once served. And if this were the end for these futurological antiques, then why had they been built in the first place? He saw an “RCA High Fidelity tape recorder—only $12.50.” The name was cracked and discolored.
As other relics took on shape, he imagined the human race might end up back where it started. Like this, in a cave; man, with his objets de précision hanging on the wall. Mankind, with its penchant for rushing in where angels feared to tread, had created a mindless technology already. Who knew what synthetic monsters man was capable of creating in the future? Monsters which could devastate the earth's surface? Were computers, in fact, the beginning of such a debacle? His thoughts were interrupted by the proprietor.
“Eighty bucks.”
“Seems reasonable enough.”
The man shrugged. “This day and age I wouldn't be caught dead without a piece.” He whistled faintly. “But that's just me.”
H.G. tentatively picked up the pistol. It was, according to the tag, a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson special. He could feel and smell the light coat of oil that covered the weapon's surface. His hand began to tremble, and the pistol felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Never before had he touched a firearm; never before had he not wanted to tinker with a mechanical device. He hated the snub-nosed, malevolent example of man's inability to be rational; the steel-blue symbol of man's inhumanity to man; the tempered icon of Ara, the goddess of vengeance. He detested the pistol. It stood for everything that he abhorred. He moved to set the weapon down.
Something stopped him.
What about Amy?
Suddenly, he was surprised. Now the pistol actually felt quite good nestled in the palm of his hand. He hefted it. He felt calmer; a sense of well-being came over him. He was astonished.
“Like the feel of it?”
He did not respond.
“Here, let me show you how it works.”
Twenty minutes later, H.G. left the shop, the special in one coat pocket, a box of ammunition in the other. He moved slowly along the dismal street and tried to convince himself that everything would be all right. Despite his purchase, he was worried. Yes, he was going to shoot an ex-classmate for the good of humanity, past, present and future.
Except what if he couldn't go through with it?
 
 
Amy stirred. Although not awake, she half rose from the bed. As soon as her body felt cold air, she fell back, rolled into a ball and snuggled in the comforter. How nice. H.G. had covered her up.
She was warm. Toasty. It felt so good to be warm. To sleep. Everything was fine. Soon, H.G. would take her away and they would live happily ever after. But it felt so good to sleep. She dreamed.
She was on the boat at the lake, drifting through the summer, her arm dangling over the side, the water caressing her fingers. The sun was setting behind the pine and birch on the shore, making the surface of the lake golden. A warm breeze blew. The water lapped against the side of the boat and made a comforting, sloshing sound. The boat rocked gently, and for a moment she was in her mother's arms, then a lover's. The world was perfect; the joy was endless. She sighed then, completely secure. She had always been a highly tolerant, strong child. Moments like these were why. Her existence was placid. Her life would be a smooth drift through the golden waters of the cosmos. Her thoughts would always be free from worry; her flesh would always be caressed by cool water and warm breezes. She was an eternal child of the universe; Amy, the goddess of Tranquility.
Someone was calling her from the shore. The boat turned and she opened her eyes and could see the dock. H.G. was there and he was waving at her and smiling. She felt a surge of joy and was surprised. She had not expected him. Obviously, her lover had come up to the lake to join her for the holidays. Now every day would be a holiday. Yes, that was him on the dock, and he wanted to be with her now. Together they would laze through the universe, a union of blissful perfection.
She should get up and bring the boat around and sail to the dock so that he could get on board. Yes, that was what she would do, even though she did not want to disturb her reverie. She looked up. The boat no longer had a sail; it had vanished. She shrugged. She would row. She reached out languidly and her hands found the gunwales, but the cold metal eyelets held nothing. The oars had vanished,
too. She sighed. What to do? Nothing to be done. She missed her lover so.
The breeze became stronger, and the boat drifted farther away from the shore. H.G. got smaller and smaller; he receded into a dot, and no longer could she hear him or see him waving. She thought that maybe she should dive over the side and swim to the dock. He would reach down and help her up the ladder and they would hold hands and laugh and gaze at the horizon. But wasn't it too far to swim now? she wondered. And the boat had drifted farther away still. Did she know how to swim? Or had she forgotten?
Then she could no longer move. She laughed inside. It didn't matter anymore.
Still fast asleep, she pulled her pillow over her head.
 
 
H.G. went down Mission Street, his coat sagging from the weight of the pistol and the ammunition. He walked through six more blocks of the industrial slum before he realized that he was not going to find a taxi in this part of town. He turned and headed back toward the center of the city, depressed. The gloom of the area had finally gotten to him. Almost one hundred years of technological development and scientific progress had not improved life for most people here. Moreover he himself had just purchased a pistol. Did that mean that Stephenson was night? Would he play Mephistopheles to H.G.'s Dr. Faustus?
“No, damn you!” He said out loud.
All I want is for the juggernaut of science and technology to push human civilization toward a workable value system, a pervasive golden rule. Something that mankind has always wanted and now—because it has unlocked the doors to eternity and the universe—can achieve. All I want is to see a few examples of that kind of progress so that I
may return to my humble, primitive century relieved and not have to spend too much of my time worrying about of Armageddon.
Not to mention, Amy. His digital chronometer told him that it was half-past two in the afternoon.
Soon, he would send Amy off in her Accord—hours before the supposed time of her death. She would never be in jeopardy. Then he would take up root in the rocking chair, squarely facing the door, .38 Smith & Wesson special ready to fire. When Stephenson came through the door, he would pull the trigger and end the man's twisted existence.
A taxi finally pulled over and stopped. H.G. climbed in the back and gave the cabby the address. The driver accelerated north on Market Street.
H.G. sighed. It seemed as though this taxi were taking him further and further away from a part of himself that he did not want to lose: his optimistic views on the human condition. And how could he seriously champion rationality when here he was with a pistol in his pocket? It would appear that no matter what happened, the inimical surgeon had won the battle of philosophies. H.G. stared out the window and felt small. How could he worry about an innocent population, how could he consider justice when the world he found himself in seemed so much more inherently evil than the one he had left? He had encountered no bastions of morality, none even falsely conceived. Rather, his observations had told him that the world of 1979 was more conducive to a Jack the Ripper than it was to, say, a savior. Wasn't he, himself, walking testament to that fact? A peace-loving, law-abiding human being now actively planning to kill someone?
He suddenly began to weep. Man is the cruelest animal, Nietzsche had once said. Unto himself, H. G. Wells added. He was utterly disconsolate.
All he had left was Amy.
“Can't you go any bloody faster?” he exclaimed.
His outburst startled the driver. The man pushed down on the accelerator. The taxi responded sluggishly, but eventually was lumbering through the city's streets at a good clip.
At Jones and Green streets, H.G. paid the cabby, and hurried down Green Street. He was here. Thank God. He would be with Amy in seconds and they would be the first two human beings in the universe ever to defeat destiny.
He stopped by one of the boxed trees on the sidewalk in front of her building, briefly glanced at a strange sedan parked on the street, then paid it no heed. Amy was waiting.
He ran up the steps, burst into the foyer and was about to race up to her door when four, steel-like hands grabbed him. He was jerked back through the foyer, out the front door and tossed onto the hard concrete of the sidewalk. Dazed, he tried to rise. A hard, polished boot connected with his midsection, and he went down again and smacked against the box that held the tree. He flailed his arms and tried, to scream Amy's name when something heavy smashed into the back of his head. The world went gray then, and his body limp. He was jerked up and tossed into the strange sedan that he had noticed just moments earlier.
Then the motorcar was moving, turning, accelerating. He was overcome with nausea, for he was helpless. He was being forcibly taken away from Amy during her hour of ultimate need.
Leslie John Stephenson stirred in the dark-brown sheets of his king-sized bed. He stretched, then emitted a loud yawn and relaxed. Smiling, he raised his head to look at the clock on the dresser. Fifteen minutes past three. My, wasn't he the slothful one, lying around until the middle of the afternoon! Especially when he must resolve the business with Wells. He chuckled. Enjoying two women in the same evening could put a strain on a man. He wasn't as young as he used to be, either. And the police had gotten to McLaren Park much sooner than he would have expected. It was as if they had been called. He had been surprised and had to run like back in white chapel. He hadn't gotten home until seven o'clock in the morning, and he had been exhausted.
“Even angels of Satan must sleep,” he said to himself.
He swung his naked frame out of the bed, went into the bathroom and stood under a hot shower.
It had been worth the exhaustion. The seduction and murder of Dolores Clark had been the most profoundly satisfying sexual occurrence that he had ever experienced. Completely naked, she had been astride him with her back to his chest, her dark, glistening body moving wildly; she had been moaning, but gradually those sounds had become shouts, frantic pleas for release. He had
groped for his knife, found it, then climaxed with a frenzy while driving the blade into her belly time after time. He did not clearly remember what he had done next, so great had been his passion, so utterly complete his satisfaction.
He took his ritual cup of tea in front of the Danish fireplace and watched the winter sunlight shining through the large stained-glass window across the living room. Wells was probably going crazy reading the accounts of the murders in the newspapers, realizing that his time machine was responsible. Yes, Wells was no doubt still trying to find him. What delicious irony! He would find him very shortly, only not quite in a way he would suspect.
Stephenson poured himself more tea, relishing his classic yet rococo scheme. His actions would be liberating; they would leave him unfettered and unthreatened. He would have a time machine at his beck and call; he would be invincible.
So inspired, he went to the secretary desk in the corner, sat down and began to compose a poem.
Why, true love belongs to brutality,
Said the King with keen mentality.
Come, come, my queen, my dove,
Let us quench our thirst for love.
I am yours forever, she nodded and vowed,
To be done away with, killed, or ploughed.
For a lass must understand the reality
Which saith, “True love belongs to Brutality.”
He threw back his head and laughed, delighted with his quick, off-the-cuff creation. He jotted it down for eternity, then shivered with pride. While the poem had been written quixotically, it nevertheless had a lightness, a fandango rhythm, a voice that was positively tongue-in-cheek. And yet, he had sacrificed none of his important thematic
material. Yes, this piece of verse was definitely worth posterity. He would have to arrange for its publication. He was certain that his composition would rival anything Shelley had put down in The Cenci.
He quickly dressed, then left his flat. He wanted to purchase an exotic knife before the night got under way. Maybe—if he had time—he would stop and enjoy a light supper before proceeding to the flat occupied by Amy Robbins. He smiled. Surely Satan had blessed him.
He turned into the traffic. No taxis appeared in the next onrush of vehicles, so he struck a pose that he had already witnessed many times in 1979, stuck out his thumb and waited for a ride.
 
 
The smaller of the two men drove the sedan slowly down Jones Street as if on a languid tour of the city. The other was turned, looking over the back of the seat and hefting the .38 Smith & Wesson special, a bemused expression on his face.
“You're making a mistake!” Wells shouted. “A horrible, terrible mistake!” The handcuffs cut painfully into his wrists. “A girl is going to be murdered back there, do you hear me?”
“Nice piece. Where'd you get it?”
“Why don't you read him his rights?”
“Yeah.”
“Will you please listen to me!”
“You have the right to remain silent—”
“Please!”
“And the right to an attorney of your own choice.”
“For God's sake, man!”
“You are hereby warned that anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”
“You don't understand, do you!” H.G. screamed.
“Listen, dude! If you don't quit screaming at me, you ain't going to be able to talk much longer! Do you understand that?”
“Or care,” H.G. added softly. He stared out the window, his mind racing with ominous, cosmic questions. He could not let his mind snap or all would be lost.
They finally got to police headquarters and drove around back to a loading dock where uniformed officers lounged, smoking and joking with each other. A sign overhead read “JAIL”. They pulled him out of the sedan and led him toward the building. No one took any particular notice. The little inventor could have been anyone—rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. He was routine.
As H.G. was propelled through the door, he managed one last look behind him. The shadows were long, and he wished desperately that he could read his watch, but it was on his wrist behind his back.
Time, now the most cherished gift of all, had been stolen by the police.
“I am no criminal!” he exclaimed, but no one listened.
They led him down a green corridor to an elevator. He was made to board, and the machine slowly descended. He became numb and bewildered; he was filled with a great sadness. He realized that if he had been totally honest with Amy and told her his intentions, he probably would not be here now. At the very least, she would have accompanied him. As it was, Amy was alone—waiting for him to return. He could only hope that she would have the sense to leave her apartment. If she dallied, she would be greeting Dr. Leslie John Stephenson instead. With that thought, he straightened up, screamed with panic and threw himself at the elevator doors. The larger detective hurled him against the far wall of the elevator. His head snapped hard into the metal facing. He slid down the wall to the floor. The detective impassively helped the little man to his feet and steadied him.
Then the elevator stopped and its doors opened H.G. was led to
a desk at a caged window, and he recognized that the officer behind it was a sergeant, hence a man of some authority.
“I demand to see Lieutenant Mitchell!”
They removed his handcuffs. Then they handed the sergeant H.G.'s pistol, his newspaper, his traveler's checks, his precious digital chronometer and everything else in his pockets. As a final indignity, they took off his belt, and he reddened, thinking for a moment that his trousers would fall off.
“My good man!”
“We wouldn't want you hanging yourself now, would we?”
And then he was fingerprinted and photographed and it took such an agonizingly long time. Everyone was so casual, and H.G. wondered if all these modern police ever did was laugh at each other's tasteless jokes, smoke cigarettes, discuss women and comment on “the Raiders,” whoever they were.
He was led to a cell. He realized with sudden horror that he was not immediately going to be given a chance to explain. “Please, there isn't much time! I must see Lieutenant Mitchell!”
“You hot to confess or what?”
H.G. pulled away and made a hapless break for the door. He was caught before he could get outside. They twisted his arms to the breaking point, propelled him back across the room, hurled him into a tank and slammed the door.
He got up off the floor and looked around. The cell smelled faintly of urine and bile. Helpless, he put his face in his hands.
 
 
Lieutenant Mitchell was doing what he usually did when a murder investigation made him nervous. He was enjoying a leisurely dinner at Rocca's. For some reason, food calmed him and removed the nausea brought on by exhaustion. If he ate slowly; and that, he had.
He finished his vanilla ice cream, then sipped his third cup of
coffee, lit a cigarette and reflected. There was really nothing else he could do but wait. Sure, the press was howling, but they always did. The D.A. and the commissioner had the good sense to be unavailable for comment; they let him and the chief handle it. That was what made Mitchell's job worthwhile. The politicians respected his track record and left him alone.
He sighed. The meal had removed his tension. He checked his watch, left a healthy tip for the good service, then drove back to police headquarters.
When he walked into his office, he saw the light on his phone was flashing. “This is Mitchell!”
“Where you been, Lieutenant?” asked Sergeant Ray. “I've been trying to get ahold of you for a couple of hours!”
“What's up?”
“We got him! Officers Spector and Scheff apprehended the suspect entering the building at 92
1/2
Green Street.”
Mitchell grinned and chuckled. “You can tell Spector and Scheff to pick up their sergeant's stripes.”
“You bet, sir.”
“You can lift the rest of the stake-out around the girl's place, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn't I tell you I had it figured right?”
“You sure did, Lieutenant. He wanted to be caught. That's where he was staying, all right.”
“He didn't harm her, did he?”
“Who?”
“Amy Robbins.”
“She wasn't there.”
Mitchell sighed. “I sure as hell hope that she doesn't turn up dead somewhere.” He lit a fresh cigarette. “Where you got Wells now?”
“Downstairs in the slams.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“I'll set it up right now, Lieutenant.”
Mitchell grinned. “Oh. One more thing, Sergeant.”
“What?”
“You still think he's a psychic?”
 
 
The old grandfather clock in her living room bonged six times with a muted, brass chime that hung in the air for a few seconds, then dissipated.
Amy woke abruptly and sat up straight, her eyes wide and unblinking. For a moment she didn't know where she was, since the drug had left her senses groggy. She swung off the bed and looked at her window. It was night outside! She peered at the clock above her bed. Six? There must be some mistake! What was she still doing here?
She turned on the lights.
“H.G.,” she called tentatively. “Don't you think it's time we got out of here?”
She walked down the hall and rapped on the bathroom door. “H.G.? It's awfully late,” she whispered, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice. “H.G.?”
He wasn't in the bathroom. She peered down the hall and saw that the rest of her apartment was dark. She grew afraid and strained to listen for a noise—anything—that might forewarn her of danger. There was nothing except the very faint sound of a stereo coming from across the street.
H.G. must have fallen asleep on the couch in the living room because he hadn't wanted to disturb her. She relaxed somewhat. Sure. That was it. After all, he had been up all night.
She tiptoed down the hall. She paused at the edge of the living room and strained to see into the blackness, but all she could make out were vague forms.
“H.G.?” she whispered insistently. “H.G.?”
She waited for several minutes, afraid to cross the room, then bolted to the couch.
“H.G.! Wake up! H.G.!” She was leaning over the sofa and feeling for him, but all her hands found were pillows in the darkness. He wasn't there. He was gone! She stumbled blindly into the foyer. Whimpering, she fumbled for the light switch and turned it on. She slowly turned and surveyed the room. She was about to come unglued. She took a deep breath and controlled herself.
She glanced back and made sure the front door was locked. She hurried to the couch, found her sneakers and put them on. Where had he gone and why? When had he left? What had happened while she so blithely slept? If she hadn't believed in him, she never would have allowed herself to take the Valium in the first place! She frowned. He, himself, had insisted upon total honesty between them. Yet he had not been honest with her. He had left the apartment and had not told her and her life was in jeopardy.
She went into the bedroom. She put on her coat and turned off the light. Why? Why had he left? She shook her head. She could not think that he had betrayed her.
She refused to doubt him now. She could only hope—fervently so—that he was all right. She wiped away a lone tear, a simple expression of longing to be by his side. Suddenly: What if something had happened to him?

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