Time After Time (28 page)

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Authors: Karl Alexander

BOOK: Time After Time
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The grandfather clock bonged once. Six fifteen. The sound resonated with an ominous finality. Her heart pounded. Her hands were shaking.
She must leave.
She grabbed her wallet off the dining-room table and ran for the front door. In the foyer she remembered her car keys; she stopped and fumbled in her pockets, but didn't find them. She frowned and turned. Had she left them on the sofa? Or put them in the desk?
 
 
In the interrogation room, H.G. sat at an imitation-wood table in a chair similar to the one he had first experienced at McDonald's. Three times he had patiently explained who he was, where he was from, how he had arrived in 1979, what he was doing and the immediate danger faced by the love of his life, Amy Robbins. Three times Lieutenant Mitchell—baffled by Wells's rational and sane sincerity—had shaken his head in disbelief and asked H.G. to start again. Three times a police recorder at the other end of the table had silently, inconspicuously worked a small keyboard and taken down the bizarre tale.
Mitchell chain-smoked and paced in the center of the room, but remained calm and detached. He was, a patient, thorough man. He turned. “Let me see if I've got this straight.” He raised a finger and looked at H.G. with a blank expression. “Your name is H. G. Wells and you came here on a time machine called The Utopia and you're chasing a Dr. Leslie John Stephenson who you insist is Jack the Ripper.”
“You've got it, Lieutenant.” H.G. nodded furiously. “That's absolutely correct. I could not have phrased it more succinctly myself.”
“Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?”
The black hand of the wall clock jumped forward. H.G. glanced at it, then wiped sweat off his ashen face with a trembling hand.
It was 6:17 P.M.
“For God's sake, Lieutenant! There isn't much time! Please! Save the girl!”
“I already have, Wells,” Mitchell replied coldly. “Her and a lot of other women in this city.”
“In forty-three minutes, Leslie John Stephenson is going to walk into her flat and murder her!”
“Leslie John Stephenson doesn't exist and never did.”
“What are you saying?”
“Stephenson is you and you are him. Half of you wants to kill women and then cut them up. The other half is sickened by such behavior and wants to get caught.” He grinned. “Congratulations, Wells. Your half finished first.”
“No! You've got it all wrong! You must believe me! Please! There isn't much time!”
The lieutenant emitted a dry laugh. “I don't know about you, Wells, but I've got all night. Now why don't we try again? From the top?”
H.G. tried to calm himself so that he could explain a fourth time, but was unsuccessful. He shook badly all over. When he tried to speak, his throat would close, and he would convulse in a dry retch.
Mitchell observed, then left the room without a word. Moments later, he returned with a pitcher of ice water and a glass. He poured some and handed it to Wells.
H.G. gratefully drank. The gagging sensation left him. He looked up at Mitchell and nodded with thanks.
“Now. Would you like a smoke?” Mitchell held out a pack of Camels. “Would that help?”
“No,” H.G. replied hollowly. “I detest cigarettes.”
Mitchell lit one for himself, straddled a chair next to the recorder and rested his chin on its back. He scrutinized H.G. thoughtfully. Someone rapped on the door. “It's open.” Mitchell's eyes never left H.G.'s face.
Sergeant Ray entered the room with a sealed manila envelope which he placed on the table in front of Mitchell. “These are his personal effects.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Yeah. This.” With his other hand, Ray gave Mitchell the .38 Smith & Wesson special and the box of ammunition.
The brusquely examined the weapon, then casually tossed it
onto the table. It made a loud and rude clatter. He ground out his cigarette and rubbed his wrinkled face. Then he fixed Wells with a jaundiced eye and gave him a knowing look. “They didn't make thirty-eight specials eighty-six years ago, Wells.”
“You've got it wrong, Lieutenant! I purchased the weapon just this afternoon so that I might defend Miss Robbins! I was going to apprehend the foul miscreant, Stephenson! I was prepared to shoot him, if necessary!”
Mitchell laughed. “You'll have to do better than that. A whole lot better.”
H.G. closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Cold, nervous sweat dripped down his flanks. He had to remain calm; he had to control himself. He had to use his logical mind and think of a way out of this. Somehow he had to convince them. “Please, Lieutenant,” he said softly. “The girl, Miss Robbins—”
“I've got another theory, Wells.” Mitchell got out of the chair and resumed pacing. “None of the women you murdered resisted. As a matter of fact, all of them were engaged in sexual acts just prior to their deaths. Why? How? Very simply, you had a gun at their heads. This gun.”
H.G.'s eyes widened; he could not immediately reply. He was filled with terror, realizing that this clever, methodical police lieutenant already had enough evidence to send him to prison! The man's theories were solid; his arguments were perfectly logical. But there wasn't a shred of truth to anything that he was saying! There must be a way to convince him otherwise; there must be a way to save Amy's life in the short time that remained.
“Let's see what else you were carrying around, Wells.” Mitchell ripped open the manila envelope and dumped out its contents.
“Please, Lieutenant! Forget everything I've said, all right? Just forget it! You must save Amy Robbins!” He shouted. “Why can't
you at least send one of your men over to her flat to protect her? If you don't she is going to die at seven o'clock!”
But Mitchell wasn't listening.
 
 
Instead, the lieutenant was looking at an edition of the San Francisco Chronicle which he had removed from the manila envelope. He gazed at the picture of a very pretty young woman named Amy Robbins and read a headline about another murder.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he whispered to himself. He could not fathom what he was seeing; he did not know what to make of it; never in his twenty-seven years on the force had he ever encountered anything quite so bizarre. The newspaper was dated November 10, 1979, tomorrow morning's edition—something which wouldn't even be printed for another eight hours or so. He rubbed his face furiously, then handed the newspaper to Sergeant Ray. “What do you make of this, Sergeant?”
“Yes, that's right!” the little Englishman shouted. “Take a look at it!” He turned toward Mitchell, a glint of hope in his eyes. “It proves my innocence! It proves what I've been saying, you fools! Now do you understand what I've been telling you?” He glanced up at the clock. “It's twenty to seven, Lieutenant! You've got exactly twenty minutes! Now will you send someone over to protect Miss Amy Robbins? So that she does not end up on the front page of that blasted newspaper?”
Mitchell ignored Wells. “What do you think, Sergeant?”
“Jesus, I don't know.” His gnarled face was pale. “Maybe we should send somebody over I mean, did you see this box up at the top?”
“What box?”
“One-hundred-to-one shot pays off big at Bay Meadows,” he
quoted, then glanced at Mitchell. “What if this thing is for real, Lieutenant?”
“Of course it's real!” H.G. exclaimed.
Mitchell could see that his partner was shaken, for he kept glancing at Wells as if the man really might have supernatural powers of some kind. The lieutenant snorted derisively. “You're not looking at a psychic, Sergeant Ray! You're looking at one of the sickest killers you've ever seen!”
“Yes, sir, but the date. What about the date?”
“For Christ's sake, Sergeant, use your brain! Haven't you ever heard of novelty shops where they print fake newspapers?” He gestured at Wells. “This guy is so twisted that he concocted a newspaper story about his next victim!”
“Yeah.” Ray nodded sadly, still distracted. “Payoffs like that only happen to people who are retired or unemployed, anyway.”
H.G. was astonished. “You mean … you mean you don't even believe that? An example of futurological history?” He waved at the newspaper. “My God, man, what more could you possibly want?”
“The truth.”
Mitchell saw his prisoner rise up in his chair, his entire body coiling for an explosion. He tensed himself.
Then, suddenly, Wells sagged and went limp. Tears streamed down his face and his lips quivered. “I'll make a deal with you, Lieutenant!” he cried.
“You're in no position to make a deal.”
“If you'll send someone over to the flat of Miss Robbins, I will confess to anything that you like.”
“I'm not interested in copping a plea, Wells. I want the truth.”
“What the hell, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Ray interrupted. “What can it hurt? I mean, if that's all he wants. Why don't we send a car over?”
Mitchell sighed. “Yeah. You're right. Then maybe he'll cooperate. Right, Wells?”
H.G. nodded.
Mitchell glanced at the sergeant. “Go ahead.” Ray left the room, and then Mitchell swung back to H.G., an expectant expression on his face. “I'm listening.”
“I killed them all,” H.G. croaked, his voice choked with relief. “Every last one of them.”
 
 
Amy had looked in her desk, she had looked in the kitchen, she had looked in the bedroom and the bathroom. Everywhere. She had gone through her coat pockets a dozen times. The car keys were nowhere to be found. She went to the desk one last time. Still no keys. Desperate, she emptied all of the desk drawers on the table and sorted through the contents. Nothing. She ran back into the bedroom and did the same with her dresser drawers. The grandfather clock bonged once more.
Six forty-five.
She had fifteen minutes left. That was all. The hell with the car. She would run. Right now. She hurried to the front door, then froze.
The doorknob was slowly turning and the lock was moving right along with it.
She lurched back, her eyes wide, her head shaking “no” over and over again. She heard the lock snap free. She spun around, and slipped inside the foyer closet with just moments to spare.
Her breath hissed out. She reached behind her and grabbed the clothes-hanging bar so that she would not faint and fall. When the blood returned to her head, she carefully worked her way behind the unused coats and dresses. She squatted on the floor. She began shaking; her breath came in gasps; she felt cold all over; and her
heart pounded so hard that she was sure that the sound could be heard in the living room. She bit her lower lip to stop from shaking.
Then she heard him out there—moving around slowly, quietly, catlike, professional. He was early! She screamed inside. Early! In the newspaper story, the coroner had reported that the murder had occurred between seven and seven-thirty. Well, the coroner was wrong!
She screwed up her face, preventing a sudden rush of tears.
The fear was awful—worse than the actual event, she was certain. Her skin crawled, anticipating a madman's chortle, a strong hand in her hair, a sudden jerk as she was upraised, and then a searing pain as a knife slashed through her throat and cut open her abdomen. She twitched spasmodically. She moaned low. She feared that she would snap and burst out of the closet and throw herself at his feet, begging for release, to control herself.
Somehow, she found the inner strength to close her eyes and pray with dignity to a supernatural being that she had accepted only casually before.
 
 
He pushed the door closed with his gloved hand, then carefully slipped the surgical knife that he had used to unlock her front door back into its sheath inside his polished half boot. He moved quickly across the foyer into the living room, his lithe, powerful body crouched low, ready for the unexpected. He paused, his eyes darting around the flat. He saw nothing, straightened up and relaxed a little. Then he checked out the dining room, kitchen, and bathroom. Finally, he crept into the bedroom, halfway hoping that he would find Wells and the girl coupled passionately, unable to stop even though they both recognized the chilling incarnation of death. No such luck. Instead, the room gave him the impression that a thief had been here before him. He frowned with puzzlement,
then grinned. He rather liked the look of chaos about the room—the sense of disorder and turbulence.
He turned and walked back down the hallway and into the kitchen, a small, satisfied smile on his face. He was alone.
This time, he would wait, although he did not think it would be long. The girl had left the lights on, which told him that she was only out for a short while. Maybe dinner, perhaps, since he saw no dirty dishes in the scullery. He rummaged in the cabinets and found the bottle of Bombay gin. He grinned again. So Wells had been here! Then there would be no problem. Certainly the girl would know where he was. Maybe they would return together. Wouldn't that be a pleasant windfall?

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