Time After Time (24 page)

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Authors: Karl Alexander

BOOK: Time After Time
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“Saturday, November 10, 1979.”
She gasped and lurched back. Oh my God, she thought, is it so easy to skip days, then return to one's own time and become a prophet? There was no doubting the newspaper. Herbert had not been playing games; he had not been lying; he was as true as Antony was to Cleopatra, as Romeo was to Juliet. She looked up—astonished, bewildered—and saw him cautiously approaching her. He was H.G. Wells, and she was certain that he loved her. She looked at the newspaper again. No, she was not deceiving herself; the date was the same. As an afterthought she rummaged through the sections of newspaper just so she would know what the big deal was Saturday
morning according to the gospel, Chronicle. She found page one on the bottom of the pile, took one look and gasped again.
She sat down hard in the desk chair, her hand to her mouth, her body convulsing with fear and nausea. The headline would be eternally etched in her memory.
“What is it?” asked H.G.
She only had the strength to point. He followed her gesture, stared at the newspaper and exhaled slowly. His face became ashen, then turned crimson.
“We shall see,” he hissed. “We shall bloody well see about this!”
“What are we going to do?” she managed to utter.
“What else? Change the future.”
He folded up the newspaper and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he picked her up and half carried her back to the time machine. Right now, she was alive and she wanted to prolong that precious gift forever. She did not know exactly what he was thinking or what he could do, but she definitely had destiny on her mind. Once in the cabin, he kicked the Rotator Control until it was free and they were thus able to journey into the past.
No, she would never forget that banner story: the San Francisco Chronicle. Saturday, November 10, 1979. “CAREER GIRL MURDERED. Fourth ‘Ripper' Style Slaying Has Police Baffled.” There was no mistaking the photograph of the victim and the identifying caption underneath:
“Bank of England employee, Amy Catherine Robbins.”
When they reached the sanctuary of her apartment, he held her for a long time even though she seemed remarkably stoic. He knew that time-traveling just in itself had had a profound effect on her mind. That, combined with the shock of the newspaper, would have sent anyone else into hysterics. Amy was strong, he thought. And thank God for that.
Finally, he felt her relax in his embrace. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, her head still buried into his chest.
“Want to talk?”
“I don't suppose you can tell me I just woke up after a horrible nightmare.”
“No. I'm sorry.”
She sighed. “Well, I'm not going to blame you for all this. I didn't have to get involved with you.”
“I suppose we can always leave,” he said, looking off, preoccupied.
“What?”
“I don't like the idea of retreat and I detest the thought of leaving Leslie John Stephenson at large in this fine city, but if worst comes to worst we can go away in The Utopia before the time of your death. Or even on an airliner, I suppose.”
“What are you saying?”
“Simply this—we avoid your murder,” he said flatly. “And by so doing, we effectively change the future, quod erat demonstrandum.”
For a moment, she was excited. Then the light in her eyes faded. “What if we can't change anything? What if it's hopeless? I mean, you've heard that old saying, ‘What will be, will be.'”
He raised his eyebrows. “If you don't mind, I'd prefer not to hear a lot of rubbish about predestination. I happen to believe that man is capable of controlling his own destiny.”
“I just don't want to die!” Her voice quavered slightly. She bit her lip.
“Amy, you are not going to die! Free will exists. And I have already changed the future by coming here on a time machine and meeting you.”
“I'm sorry.”
He did not remind her that Stephenson had also changed the future by committing two grotesque crimes.
Then he remembered that the newspaper from the future was in his coat pocket. He spread it out on the dining room table and studied it, hoping that the article would provide him with some clues as to Stephenson's whereabouts. It did not, but, the story did recount Stephenson's heinous activities leading up to Amy's demise.
“Hm.” He skipped over the section about the oriental prostitute in the massage parlor, for that much he already knew. He read with horror and interest about what Stephenson had done to a rather pretty salesgirl named Marsha McGee. Other than Amy, however, most of the reportage was devoted to the death of someone named Dolores Clark, the daughter of a prominent and wealthy black attorney. The girl's body had been found in John McLaren Park near a parking area between the lake and John F. Shelley Drive around 3:05 A.M. Thursday morning, November 8; approximately one-half hour after she had been murdered, police experts estimated. H.G.
pressed a button on his watch. It was now 11:30 P.M. Dolores Clark would die in less than three hours.
Suddenly, he looked up. An idea was taking shape inside his head. A marvelous idea: infinitely clear and simple and foolproof.
He got up and hurried back into the living room.
“What?”
“By George, I think I've got it!”
“You do?” Her eyes shone gratefully.
“According to Saturday morning's Chronicle, Dr. Stephenson has already murdered someone else. Her name is Dolores Clark and she will die in a matter of hours.”
“All due respect—and I mean that sincerely—what has that got to do with me?”
“Everything.”
“Explain.”
“If we prevent that atrocity from occurring then your death will not occur, non quod erat faciendum.”
“In other words, we head him off at the pass.”
“Precisely.”
“But how is that possible?”
“We know exactly when and where her murder will occur.”
Wide-eyed, she stared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded and agreed. “That's—that's brilliant!” she whispered, then laughed, full of immense relief. “Everything's going to be all right, isn't it?”
“My dear girl,” he replied, “nothing is beyond the capabilities of man. All one has to do is think positively.”
“You're absolutely amazing.”
“How long does it take to get to John McLaren Park?”
“Twenty minutes. At the most.”
“Just so we have plenty of time, why don't we leave at one-thirty?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“In the meantime, I suggest that we rest. I, myself, want to be
fresh for something as historic as a match with destiny.” He sat down on the couch.
“What if we overslept?” Amy asked. She moved next to him so that her breasts pushed into his arm.
He chuckled. “You, a child of the present, are worried about oversleeping?”
“What's so unusual about that?”
“You have clocks that are run by the mighty, endless electron,” he said expansively. “They don't lose time and their alarms are never stilled.”
“Unless we have a power blackout.”
“Oh.” He gave her a brief, sidelong glance and felt stupid. “Yes. Of course.”
“We don't have to sleep.”
“How the devil could I sleep now?” he scolded. “My bloody eyes will be glued to the clock for the next two hours waiting for the damned electricity to stop!”
“I mean, there are other ways to relax.” She placed her hand on his thigh then stopped.
“I wonder,” she asked.
“What?”
“When this is all over, we'll have to sneak into the museum again and try it.”
“Try what?”
“Making love, silly! Can you imagine what it would be like if it were timeless?”
He gaped at her with astonishment. “What a simply marvelous suggestion.”
 
 
Just off Broadway and Columbus Street was a nightclub and sometime discothèque. Its façade was a wall of imitation black marble
crammed between two larger buildings and deliberately located on a narrow side street to promote the idea of an intimate and exotic hideaway. Other than the soundproof front door, the only break on the glossy black surface was a green neon sign, its letters drawn out into an elongated parallelogram.
“THE GREEN LIGHT BALLROOM” winked every thirty seconds, implying to those who cared that the inside of the club was an ultramodern lie, yet at the same time urging one to enter, pay five dollars for a mixed drink and find out for himself.
One who did not care was sitting at a small table inside drinking gin. Leslie John Stephenson idly watched young couples—not necessarily heterosexual ones—dancing in front of the curtained stage. The men—some attired in flashy three-piece suits—twirled their partners as if they were dolls to be experimented with. Stephenson guessed that he was witnessing a modern minuet. The pace was no doubt faster than it had been in the seventeenth century, but he imagined that the cynical and decadent overtones were the same. Some things never change.
He sipped his drink and leaned back. It was good to relax afterward. The suggestive movements of the dancers reminded him of Marsha McGee swaying to the music in her apartment. Before.
He recalled her face and how her expressions had changed. At first, when he had begun to beat her, she had reacted with a surge of passion; then, when she realized that the force of his blows had far exceeded the bounds of lustful exuberance, her eyes had opened wide with uncertainty. And finally, after he had hit her with his closed fist, her look was one of pain, terror and utter vulnerability, for she was naked, pinned beneath him, and he was inside her. She had started screaming, but moments later he had slashed her throat and ended her life.
After he had performed his bloody ritual, he had cleaned up in
Marsha's antiquated bathroom. Then he had left the Noe Street flat and taken a taxi to Russian Hill. He had gone to Amy Robbins's address and broken into her place. He had been surprised that she wasn't there, for he had assumed that a working girl would have been in bed early, resting up for the next day's toil. He had been wrong. He had considered waiting for her return, then had grown nervous. What if she didn't come home at all? Given the late hour, that was entirely possible. In fact, she was probably coupled with someone right now elsewhere in the city, the morals of these modern women being what they were.
He had left then, as quietly as he had come, cool-headed with the knowledge that time was on his side. So Amy Robbins was not home. He would come back tomorrow night.
Then he had gone to North Beach and discovered the Green Light Ballroom.
The music ended and the dancers returned to their tables. A master of ceremonies spoke into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Green Light Ballroom is proud to present for the first time in San Francisco, the Pet Killers!”
To mild, perfunctory applause, the curtains parted, revealing a band of lean and tall musicians dressed in black, their faces painted white, their lips purple. On a dais behind them was a silver cage. Inside it was a blond woman attired in a flowing chemise gown. Stephenson leaned forward with interest.
The band began with a complex oratorio that was titled “Blood Fever Blues.” The room shook with the voluminous decibels from the huge speakers. Lights flashed and glittered, and Stephenson was enthralled, for he could imagine that Satan himself would gladly make an appearance on that stage.
Midway through, the woman was released from the cage by a singer. He led her around by a leash. Other band members pushed
her, screamed epithets at her. Some even slapped her. At the music's climax, they ripped off her gown, tied her up, then doused her with gallons of crimson fluid that Stephenson hoped was real blood.
As the guitars crescendoed with the final chords, the singer pushed the woman to the floor, stepped on her, then pulled her across the stage and out of sight, leaving a dark-red trail behind her that was bathed in green light. Stephenson leaped up and began applauding vigorously and shouting for an encore while most of the audience sat in humorous or detached disbelief. The musicians, themselves, seemed surprised that one guest in particular would receive their first attempt at musical macabre so enthusiastically when even they wondered if they'd gone too far.
When the Pet Killers finished, Stephenson thought, why not? He hadn't done two women in the same night since September 1888. That had been a time when he had been anxious to demonstrate not only his virility but also (thanks to his class in basic surgery) certain other newly acquired skills. London had panicked then. So why not give the splendid city of San Francisco the same opportunity?
“Would you like to dance?”
He turned. The girl kneeling on the empty chair behind him had not been there a moment ago.
“I'm Dolores.” She smiled.
He was surprised and taken aback by her because she had approached him. Moreover, she was black, and he had never considered a woman of color before. She had exotic eyes, a pert nose and a lush, full mouth. Her body was not buxom as Marsha McGee's had been. Rather, this Dolores was petite and willowy, almost oriental in flavor. Her hair had been arranged into dozens of small braids, and the unusual styling made her appear to him a combination of the urbane and the tribal.
The attire was something to behold, too. She had on silk pajama
pants which were tucked inside alligator-skin boots. Instead of a blouse, she wore a moss-tinted undershirt which advertised the club that they were patronizing. Her wrists were sheathed in thin bracelets that jingled when she moved, and her long neck was adorned with pearls deliberately tied askew.
Perhaps this black girl would be an interesting partner, he thought. And why not? They both would have been condemned in the nineteenth century for being together, but apparently that was no longer the case. He had observed and rather approved of the casual mixing of the races in 1979. It seemed areligious, asocial and out-of-step with Mother Nature, hence fitting to a Luciferian world. Therefore, wasn't it time that he participated? Besides, this girl projected sophistication and charm, indicating that she came from a wealthy background. She was definitely a step up from Marsha McGee, the middle-class shopgirl. That settled it, then.
“I'm Leslie John.”
He rose and guided her to the ballroom floor. They began to dance. He was hesitant at first, then closed his eyes so that he could sense the mood. He tossed his head back and became involved in the hard beat of the music. He moved closer to Dolores, twirled her back and forth, and imagined that she was a swaying, hooded cobra like the one he had seen at the Zoological Gardens in Regent's Park. The vision became graphic: she alternated between the deadly reptile of the Kashmir plains and the houri, a beautiful, voluptuous, colored virgin—indigenous to the Koranic Paradise. Were those her fangs that were drawn back or her legs? His own dance became more frenzied, and he imagined that he, too, was a cobra. They were doing a mating ritual. Soon, they would entwine, exchange mutual strikes of passion and inject poison into each other.

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