Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [113]
The book that night was Shoot-Out: The Life and Times of Calamity Jane, by Michael Hevner. He turned on the bedside lamp, settled into the sheets, and began to read. Calamity was out in the Rockies someplace, functioning as a scout for the cavalry. And yes, he could literally see it. See her. He remembered her touch. Remembered the way she’d smiled when he bought her a whiskey.
He was, he decided, the luckiest man on the planet.
HE slept peacefully through the night. Once or twice he woke to the rumble of distant thunder. But the rain had stopped altogether. He wondered if maybe one day a time traveler from the distant future would come back to meet him.
By morning, the storm had passed though the sky was still gray. Dave showered and dressed, went downstairs, and started a couple of hard-boiled eggs while the TV pundits switched over to the deteriorating relations between India and China over food and energy. The president had offered the services of the United States to assist with negotiations.
He made two pieces of toast, collected his eggs, and put them in a cup. He decided to go with grape jelly for a change on the toast and poured a glass of orange juice.
The new Star Trek film was being released tonight, and everybody expected it to top the charts. Susan Holvik and Gary Park, a pair of Hollywood superstars married amid considerable hoopla eighteen months earlier, were splitting. And Evin Cowper was rumored to be taking over the James Bond role.
Same old stuff. Dave turned off the TV, and ate his breakfast with the current Newsweek propped up in front of him. When he’d finished, he picked up his briefcase. Later today he would go back to 1936 Britain to buy an early bronze from Lynn Chadwick, then in his early twenties. The bronze was part man, part eagle, with wings spread, and a distinctly threatening aspect. Dave didn’t know much about sculpture, but he liked the piece, and he knew its value would multiply substantially over the price he’d negotiated.
He was getting his converter out of the sock drawer when the phone rang. It was Jerry Shelborne.
“Dave,” he said, “have you heard the news?” His voice was hollow.
Dave’s first thought was that there’d been a terrorist attack. “No. What’s wrong, Jerry?”
“Shel’s dead.”
“What?”
“It happened this morning. Lightning hit his place. It burned to the ground.”
“He didn’t get out?”
“No.”
DAVE got it up on the computer. The lightning had struck the town house at about four thirty in the morning. The fire department had responded within minutes, but they were unable to rescue Shel, who was apparently asleep in his bedroom when it happened. The body had been burned beyond recognition.
Dave read the report through, then simply sat, empty of all feeling. He knew, absolutely knew, it wasn’t possible. Shel couldn’t be gone.
The phone rang again. “Dave, I just heard.” It was Katie. “I’m sorry, Dave. He was a good guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?” She paused. “I guess that’s a dumb question.”
“I’m okay,” he said.
HE was still in a state of shock when he got into his car and headed for the town house. It was going to turn out to be a terrible mistake. Had to be.
When he arrived, the place was a smoking ruin. The walls and roof had collapsed. At the side of the house, the garage was blackened but still standing. Shel’s Toyota was apparently okay. The music store that flanked him on one side was moderately damaged. The pharmacy, on the other side, had apparently escaped the conflagration. A police car and a black vehicle marked CITY OF PHILADELPHIA were parked at the curb. Yellow tape sealed the property off. Two people from the fire department were standing to one side. He could make out a corner of the sofa, which was half-buried under blackened rubble. And what remained of the coffee table. And the frame of Shel’s desk. Where he kept the converters. No way they could have survived.
Several people watched from across the street.