Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (4 page)

She walked to a desk and leaned back against it. “But dat ain’t gonna be helpin’ you none.” She switched back to her upper-crust English dialect. “Look, Sherlock, I’ll save you a lot of time and stop you from wasting mine. That woman didn’t travel in time from the future. Time travel from the future isn’t possible.”

“But how can you be sure?”

She crossed her arms. “Ever hear someone ask what would happen if an unstoppable force met an immovable object?”

“Sure.”

“It might seem like some deep mystery. ‘Oh wow, profound.’ You might go back and forth thinking, well it can’t be moved, but the force can’t be stopped, but the thing can’t be yada yada yada. But if you step back, the problem is solved by realizing those two things simply cannot both exist. If an immovable object exists, an unstoppable force can’t also exist. And vice versa. By definition. Same idea with traveling into the past.”

“You’re losing me here.”

“You’ve heard of the grandfather paradox, right?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Sure. If you traveled back in time and killed your grandfather—”

She held up one hand. “That’s enough. I’m tired of hearing it. Especially in the last two days. And I don’t know why you’d have to kill your grandfather, you’d only need to travel back a few minutes and kill yourself before you stepped into your machine. But it doesn’t matter. That paradox simply tells us that you can’t do it. You can’t do it and avoid that paradox, so it’s impossible. As with the two forces.”

“What about parallel universes?”

“Phooey.” She waved her hand as if pushing something away. “That’s not time travel, that’s travel to another place. I’m not saying the mysterious mademoiselle couldn’t have done that, but it’s not time travel.”

“Okay, I got it. Time travel isn’t possible, so maybe—”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What? You just explained why time travel isn’t possible.”

“You weren’t listening, young fellow.” <
I like playing with this guy.
> She stood, reached up, and knocked on my head as if on someone’s front door. Then she pinched my cheek. “No, I said time travel to the past is impossible. Travel to the future is simple. Happens every day.”

I squinted and pulled on my ear. “Um—”

“They probably didn’t teach special relativity and time dilation in PI school, right?”

This I knew. “Fly to Pluto and back, near the speed of light, and your onboard clock will run slow. It will be the future when you return. Your friends will have gotten old—”

“And wrinkled. Okay, you’ve got the idea, genius, now watch this.” She stood, walked to the other end of the lab, and walked back. She held out her arms. “Ta-da, I’ve traveled to the future. My, how old you look, Eric.”

“But you were nowhere near the speed of light.”

“Doesn’t matter. I have traveled to your future. Just a tiny, tiny bit.” She held her thumb and forefinger together. “Want to see me send a message to the future?”

I shrugged.

She picked up a scrap of paper, wrote something on it, and dropped it on a desk. Then she stood up, crossed her arms, and tapped her fingers against her arm for ten seconds. “La-di-da-di-da.” She looked at her watch, picked up the paper, and handed it to me. Like an excited child who’s just gotten a message out of a bottle, she asked me, “What’s it say, Eric? What’s it say?”

I read it. “Hello from the past. How are you?”

“I say, old chap. Amazing, is it not? The Earth is spinning, we’re speeding around the sun, the sun is moving in relation to the galaxy and the galaxy is moving in relation to others. We’re moving along at thousands of kilometers per hour, but I was able to send a message to the future, and it ended up right here on this desk. But could I send a message to the past. No. Got it?”

“If I want to find out where she came from, look to the past.”

“You got it, Einstein.” She poked me in the belly. “Now get the hell out of my laboratory and let me get my wrinkly black ass back to work.”

CHAPTER THREE

The next day found me on my weekly walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. Suicide-prevention patrol.

In 2017, San Francisco spent seventy-six million bucks building a suicide-prevention barrier below the bridge. It looked like a chain-link fence on its side, jutting out fifteen feet below the railing. The idea was that suicides wanted an easy, one-step way to die. They wanted to jump off the bridge, fly for four seconds, and smash into instant, wet oblivion at seventy-five MPH. They didn’t want to break a leg when they jumped down to the mesh.

It didn’t work. Suicides jumped off the bridge onto the barrier, walked or hobbled to its edge, and jumped off into the sea. The first suicide happened only two days after installation was complete. I wondered whether the guy left a suicide note saying, “See? I told you it wouldn’t work.”

Occasionally I wonder whether saving these tortured souls from themselves is the best thing to do. They want to die, right? Yet sometimes a suicide is prevented, and the person goes on to live a long life. Maybe even a long, happy life. On the other hand, in 1988 an eighteen-year-old Sarah Birnbaum jumped off the bridge, survived, and then did it again later that year (and died). Practice makes perfect.

But even with over eight billion souls on the planet, preventing anyone from ending his or her life is probably a good thing. So, I was doing my part.

I don’t want to reveal my mind-reading gift to the world. If I did, I’d become a captive guinea pig in some government lab. Perhaps scientists could figure out how I do it and make this ability available to others. It could change the world for the better. So, it’s pretty selfish of me to keep it a secret.

To lessen my guilt, I give back. A bit, anyway. I prevent a few suicides. Once a week I go for a walk on the bridge that is the world’s number-one location for self-destruction, and I listen.

Every two weeks, on average, someone makes the leap. Am I likely to be there at just the right time? No. But I often come across someone who is seriously considering it. Someone who might come back later and do it.

Eight a.m., and the west wind pushed fog through the bridge, making the cables whistle and moan. It was too foggy for most tourists. I fastened the top button of my lined trench coat. Nice and warm.

The wind force-fed me the scent of seaweed and fish.

A muscular man stood looking down over the railing near the bridge’s south tower. <
I’ll land on the cement foundation. I won’t have to worry about surviving.>

Bingo. Every person who looks over the railing thinks about how it might feel, but this guy was planning, not imagining. You might say I hit the jackpot.

He wore jeans and a white t-shirt. He must have been freezing. He was put together like a bodybuilder, with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on the back of his neck. Charming.

I walked up beside him, put my elbows on the railing, and said, “How you doing, friend?”

He jumped. Sorry. I should have said “he startled.” He glanced at me and then out through the fog. Didn’t say a word.

“You must be freezing. Hey, listen. I’ve got an old sweater on under this coat.” I opened it up to show him. “You’re welcome to it. I’m plenty warm.”

He mumbled something.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m not your friend. Take a hike.” He was shaking. <
I don’t want to talk. Can’t he tell? Wait until he sees the news tonight.>

Usually my goal with people who are contemplating suicide “someday soon” is to get their name and the name of their doctor. I’ll say, “Hey, I’m new in the area, can you recommend a doctor? Who’s yours?” If that works, I’ll send the doc an anonymous note: “John Doe is seriously considering killing himself. I recommend you speak with him ASAP.”

This guy, however, was going to do it. Today. Right now. What to say? I’m no shrink.

I buttoned up my coat. “I had a friend who jumped off this bridge. He survived. You know what he said to me? What’s your name, by the way? I’m Eric.”

The skinhead stared out into the fog.

“He said that the instant he jumped over the railing, this is before that stupid barrier went up, the instant he went over the railing, he knew he’d made a mistake. But he survived. Went in feet first and yelled to a passing boat.”

That was a true story. I’d heard it on the radio. I didn’t know the guy—that was the part I made up. I added a few more fabricated details. “Yeah, he survived, but he’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. No feeling below his waist. He has to wear a diaper. It happened right over there.” I pointed to my right.

When I looked back, my skinhead buddy was gone.

He was on the outside of the railing, dangling from some pipes along the pavement.

In 2005, a teenager jumped over the side of the bridge. A cop saw him and said, “Hey, wait a second!” The boy heard that, grabbed the railing, and held on. After a ninety-minute conversation, he let the policeman pull him back to safety.

I yelled, “Hey, wait a second,” and the skinhead let go.

I leaned over and watched him hit the barrier. It rattled and gave enough to cushion his fall, like the netting under a trapeze. He moved toward the edge.

I vaulted the railing and, just like my made-up friend, thought,
this is a mistake
. Would I break my leg? I tried to absorb the shock with my knees, but my legs collapsed, driving my knees into my chest, knocking the wind out of me. The mesh shook enough to knock my friend off his feet. He started crawling to the edge on his hands and knees.

I grabbed his ankle, but his sock and high-top Nike shoe came off in my hand. I lunged again and got a good grip on the hem of his jeans with my right hand. My diaphragm was still in spasm, but I started getting some shallow breaths in.

Like a claw, my left hand gripped the steel mesh. I couldn’t pull him back, but I could keep him from dropping off the edge. He rolled and kicked. I held on.

Then he sat up and put his hands in the air. “Okay, you got me.”
.>

My PI training taught me that although I’m not a good fighter, knowing what someone is going to do before they do it is a big advantage. I spun my head to the right. I didn’t escape the blow, but it turned a knockout punch into a painful stunner.

Thinking he was done with me, he resumed his trip to the edge, now slithering like a salamander. I jumped forward like a frog and came down on his legs. His waist was at the edge of the mesh, and he was bowing down and up, trying to flip off into the void. <
I hate this fucking bastard.
>

I gripped chain-link with my hands and pressed my body down. His legs were sliding out from under me.

I peered down through the mesh and a gap in the fog. The water streamed out of the Gate like a river. If we both went over, the wind would push us eastward, and we’d indeed land on the cement tower foundation. The yelling of a crowd washed over us from above.

I had to decide: keep trying and maybe fall with him, or let him go. He was determined to die. He was fighting for it. This wasn’t an impulsive decision. I chose: I’d let him go. Let him end his tortured life. I’d done my best.

But apparently he had a different view of his chances of success. Just as I started shifting off his legs, he grabbed the mesh, flipped over, and did a sit-up, popping back onto the surface. <
A head-butt will finish this mother.>

This time, I had plenty of time to prepare. A head-butt is effective if the crown of the attacker’s head hits the victim’s face. I tilted my head down, tensed my shoulders, and lunged upwards, meeting him halfway. Our roles were reversed, and although I was knocked silly, he was knocked out cold.

I lay back on the mesh, rubbing my head furiously and opening and closing my jaw. Ow.

* * *

I didn’t need an ambulance, but the first responders insisted.

The jumper and I each got our own ambulance. Good. I never wanted to see him again.

The EMT who rode with me was a stunning brunette of something less than thirty with bed hair that fell across one eye. She peered at me and shook her head slightly. <
What a plain-looking guy.>

Hey!

I shut off her thoughts and concentrated on my own.

That adventure went well, right? People tell me I’m reckless. Sure, it was foolhardy to jump down without any forethought, but it turned out to be the right decision.

Anyway, this should help with my guilt. I saved a life. True, he didn’t want to be saved, but maybe he’d lead an altruistic life, inspired by my apparently unselfish act. Or he’d go on beating up immigrants or whatever it is skinheads do. And I’d be responsible for that.

Maybe someday I’d turn myself in. Demonstrate my powers and submit to testing. I’d become a public figure, followed around by paparazzi. Unless the US wanted to cover it up and keep me chained up in a basement somewhere.