Time Travelers Never Die (40 page)

The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.

 

 

 

 

DURING
the funeral, Dave kept thinking how Shel would appear at any time, walk up and say hello, ask whether he and Katie would like to join him and Helen for dinner. One of the curious phenomena associated with sudden and unexpected death is the inability to accept it when it strikes those close to us. People always imagine that the person they’ve lost is in the kitchen, or in the next room, and that it requires only that we call his name to have him reappear in the customary place. Dave felt that way about Shel. They’d spent a lot of time together, and, with the advent of the converters, had shared a unique experience. When the dangers and celebrations were over, they normally came back through the wardrobe.

Shel stood up there now, just outside the bedroom door, his face emotionless.

Dave froze.

Shel advanced to the top of the stairs and looked down. “Hi, Dave.”

“Shel.” Dave could barely get the word out. He hung on to the banister, and the stairs reeled. “Shel, is that you?”

Shel smiled. The old, crooked grin that Dave had thought not to see again. Some part of him that was too slow-witted to get sufficiently flustered started flicking through explanations. Someone else had died in the fire. It was a dream. Shel had a twin.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s me. Nice funeral.”

“You were there.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“I didn’t exactly stand up front.” They stared at each other. “You should try it sometime, watching people throw flowers on your coffin.”

Somewhere, far away, he heard the sound of a train.

“I’m sorry,” said Shel. “I know this must be a shock.”

An understatement of sorts. Shel walked across the landing. Dave’s heartbeat picked up. Shel came to the top of the stairs and started down. Dave started to back up, to make room. Shel grabbed his arm so he didn’t fall. His hands were solid, the smile very real.

“What the hell’s going on?” Dave said.

Shel’s eyes were bright and sad. He slid down into a sitting position and dragged Dave with him. “It’s been a strange morning,” he said.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

He took a deep breath. “I know. I
am
dead, Dave. The reports of my death seem to be accurate.”

Suddenly it was clear. “You’ve come back from
downstream
. Or
up
stream. Who the hell cares? You’re alive.”

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.”

“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.

He has gone, left, cleared out, bolted.

 

 

 

 

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 professional 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.”