The man in the chair was certainly dead.
I hated this part of the job.
I’d arrived back on the date of Foster’s suicide, the minute after I heard the gunshot in the Phillips’ house. Outside, two men lurked in a blacked-out SUV and an earlier version of me was standing in the alley on the next block recording the time. Soon he’d jump back to the future to make his way to becoming present me. Twisty time travel.
Death doesn’t bother me but this scene did. Foster Phillips was staring blankly toward the wall beyond his desk with a piece of his head missing. Despite any troubles he’d had with the law, he was a young man with a beautiful wife and a promising future.
There was less blood than I expected. Not like TV.
I didn’t move. Just observed. I only had a few minutes till Isla showed up.
I slipped my sunglasses on and hit record as I studied the scene.
Learn fast.
I scanned the room. Foster’s body, still warm. The desk had a laptop open. A browser window showed the same vacation listing he’d had on his phone. A loose pen cap rested on the desk with no sign of the pen. A half-empty glass of water sat on a coaster. A drop of blood had spattered onto the outside of the glass. Otherwise the desk was uncluttered. I didn’t touch a thing.
This was the most dangerous part of what I did.
Jumping through time in an unfamiliar location is a good way to wind up fused with a piece of furniture. That’s bad enough. But the act of inserting myself into a known past is every bit as dangerous. People think time is a straight line—the actions of a concrete history creating the fleeting present ahead of an amorphous and undefined future. They’re wrong on all counts.
Time isn’t a straight line, it’s a fractal, capable of being broken or altered at any point. But while an infinity of variations could exist, it’s a finite number that actually does. The reality of a “present” is an illusion, though as Einstein suggested, a very persistent one.
A good time traveler always walks the past like a crime scene, careful of his footsteps.
Unless the police report mentioned a private detective with classic movie star good looks being present at the time of their arrival, I had to be gone when they got here. Anything else would mean a paradox, or possibly a change to time. Not what I was there to do.
Observe. Take notes. Don’t disturb anything.
At least that was the plan until the man in the balaclava stepped through the doorway.
Thankfully I’m bad at shrieking or I might have tried it.
I’d been focused on keeping my cool with the scene before but now I mimicked an ice sculpture. Froze in place.
Who was this guy?
He didn’t notice me at first, intent as he was on the body in the chair.
He stooped to have a look at the weapon on the floor beneath Foster’s limp arm. Looked like a Glock 23 from where I stood. Then the man looked up.
Perhaps it was a function of the ski mask over his face but when his eyes went wide, he looked cartoonish.
His hand still hovered near the planted gun.
My fingers flew to my chronometer, dialing my destination as fast as I could. I expected him to go for the gun again. I had time. But he raised his other hand instead. Something invisible struck me in the chest. My stomach spasmed, my legs turned to jelly, and I lost muscle control. I hit the floor hard, gasping for breath. It wasn’t a stun gun. Something worse. My mind flickered, sight coming and going as my consciousness fought to stay.
He stepped closer. Not a big guy, but a giant from my perspective. He loomed over me and aimed his gloved palm at me again. Something at its center glowed. “Whoever you are, you’re a dead man.”
“Not yet,” I muttered. My hands were beneath me on the floor. My fingers found the pin on my chronometer and I pressed it.
The image of the man standing over me vanished as I catapulted myself forward through time. When I arrived, my body was still reeling from whatever I’d been hit with and my chronometer was scalding hot, burning my wrist. I fumbled with the latch and the chronometer clattered to the floor. I hissed through my teeth as I rubbed my wrist and stayed curled in the fetal position on the floor.
Shit. That hadn’t gone well.
I checked my arm. A burn in the shape of forked lightning had spread from my wrist halfway to my elbow.
I unclamped my jaw and rolled onto my side with a groan. I located the chronometer and shoved it into my jacket pocket. I was only just feeling like I could try moving again when the door opened and Isla Phillips appeared in the doorway.
“Jesus, are you okay?”
“Not Jesus,” I muttered as I climbed to my feet. “But people confuse us all the time. Same great abs.”
She must not have found me funny. Maybe her ears were ringing too.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Dizzy spell.”
“What can I get you?” Isla asked. “You look like you should sit down.”
She guided me out of the office and back to the living room. “Are you on something? You need a doctor?”
“No. I’m fine. One too many is all.”
By the time I reached the couch I was steadier. Enough that I declined the seat. My body aches were letting up and the effects from whatever had hit me were dissipating.
“I’m staying right next to you till we’re sure. What about some fresh air?” She led me back outside, this time to a wicker loveseat near the pool.
Once we were seated she leaned close and put a hand to my arm. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you need something . . .”
“Better now. But I’ve discovered a few things. One is that your husband was murdered.”
Her breath caught.
Isla Phillips was a strong woman. It was evident in the natural grace she exhibited. Grace doesn’t thrive on its own in the modern world. It must be projected from strength. But even strong women have limits.
My words settled into her. Changed something.
“How? Why?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“But you’re sure. Murdered.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded.
She let out the breath and her shoulders slumped. “You have proof to give the police?”
“Not yet. But I’ll get it.”
“If you need to keep the phone longer . . .”
She thought I’d found my proof on her husband’s phone. Of course she did. What else could I have been doing in a closed office? Certainly not getting knocked down by a guy six months ago.
“That would be helpful. I’d like to hang onto it for a day if I can.”
She nodded. Wrung her hands. “I’ll reset the password before you leave. Will you stay a bit longer? I’m worried about you leaving in the state you’re in.”
“I do have a few more questions.”
“Ask me anything.”
“Why him?”
She met my eyes, questioning, but seemed to understand. She took a breath. “He was . . . different. Not what I was used to. He had this incredible assuredness about him. I think part of me just wanted to see what that was like.”
“You weren’t used to confident guys?”
Her expression darkened. “I was used to entitled assholes. Foster wasn’t like that. He’d worked for everything he had.”
“Any of these entitled assholes ever come around while you were married to Foster?”
“Occasionally on the job. But never outside of work. Foster would run them off. He wasn’t shy about that. Didn’t tolerate other guys hitting on me. He could be a bit . . . possessive.”
“Violent?”
“Never with me.”
“But you tolerated it.”
“It’s not the worst thing. A man who fights for what’s his. He made me feel like I was his whole world. I felt . . . protected.”
“How long did you date before you were married?”
Isla bit her lip. Held her breath. Her response came out with her exhalation. “Two weeks.”
I tried to stay stoic but my raised eyebrows betrayed me.
“We were doing something spontaneous. But we really had a connection. It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds.”
I ruminated on that. “Somebody wanted your husband dead, Mrs. Phillips. Who do you think that was?”
Isla fidgeted with a bracelet on her wrist. “I don’t know.”
She knew something but I didn’t push her. Not yet.
“That a charm bracelet?”
Isla looked down at the bracelet she’d been fidgeting with and stopped. “It was a gift. He used to call me his lucky charm. It’s from a quote he saw at the casino the night he met me. I know it’s not the style anymore but it was something he gave me that felt real.”
She had a slight hitch in her voice. It sounded authentic. She turned back to me with moist eyes. “How do you know he was murdered? What’s your proof?” Her face was expectant, vulnerable. She needed hard evidence and something to validate her faith in me.
“I’m playing that close to the chest for now. Still working out the details. But I’ll get justice for Foster. I don’t know what that looks like yet, but I promise you’ll have it.”
She seemed mollified by that.
Isla gathered herself and rose. We wandered back indoors.
I sipped water and oozed competence. The unflappable calm of the stalwart detective.
Isla was still attentive. Would I like another beer? Stay a little longer?
I wanted both but the nagging in my head wouldn’t let me.
Despite my rampaging confidence, all I really had to show for the night was a busted chronometer, a sore body, all the signs of an impending hangover, and a dead guy’s phone.
Nothing good ever happens after midnight, and getting there in the proximity of Isla Phillips wasn’t going to do anything for my mental clarity.
It was time to go.
Isla walked me to the door.
“Call me tomorrow?” she said.
“I’ll check in,” I said. “Goodnight.”
I summoned a ride on my phone.
Standing on the curb, I stared up at the few stars the trees and light pollution couldn’t obscure. I wondered what the rest of the universe was up to tonight. It was only as the Uber was arriving that I noticed the shifting silhouette in the driver’s seat of an eighties model Dodge truck down the street.
I climbed into the passenger seat of my rented ride and watched the side mirror.
“Back to the Burg?” the driver asked.
She was hipper than me.
“In no particular hurry,” I said.
She shifted the car back into drive and pulled away. A block behind us the Dodge slunk out of its parking space. Its lights didn’t come on until we were turning the corner.
Looked like my night wasn’t over.