Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [117]
“We don’t really think anybody did it, yet.”
Howard caught her attention and directed it toward the wall. There was a photograph of Shel, Helen, and Dave, gathered around a table at the Beach Club. A mustard-colored umbrella shielded the table, and they were laughing and holding tall, cool drinks. She studied it, and turned back to him. “What exactly,” she said, “is your relationship with Dr. Suchenko?”
“We’re friends.”
“Is that all?” She canted her head, and he caught a hint of a smile.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s all.”
She made another notation. Glanced around the room. “Nice house.” It was. Dave had treated himself pretty well, installing leather furniture and thick pile carpets and a stowaway bar and some original art. “Not bad for a teacher,” she added.
“I manage.”
She closed her book and began to button her jacket. “Thank you, Dr. Dryden.” He was still numb with the idea that someone might have murdered Shel. He had never flaunted his money, had never even moved out of that jerkwater town house. Possibly he’d come home from somewhere, and they were already in the house. He might even have been using the converter. Damn, what a jolt that would have been: return from an evening in the nineteenth century and get attacked by burglars. So they’d killed him. And burned the house to hide the murder. No reason it couldn’t have happened that way.
Dave opened the door for the two detectives. “You will be in the area if we need you?” Lake asked. He assured her he would be, and that he would do whatever he could to help find Shel’s killer.
It had been painful enough believing that Shel had died through some arbitrary act of nature. But it enraged him that a thug who had nothing at all to contribute would dare take his life.
HE attended a Monday evening memorial service for Shel at St. John’s Methodist Church. Jerry was a member of the congregation, and had arranged things for his brother, who hadn’t paid much attention to churches. Jerry was there, of course. And a few cousins and uncles, and some other people Dave didn’t know. The preacher invited those who wished to speak to come forward, and they did. They described a stray cat Shel had taken in, and his two seasons as coach of the Little League Panthers. A member of the local Humane Society said how generous he’d always been both with time and money.
Dave remained silent. He would have liked to say a few words for his lifelong friend. But he didn’t dare get started talking about Shel because he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t finish at the Library of Alexandria. Or with Molly Brown.
Helen was there, too.
When it was over, he took her to Strattmeyer’s, and they had a couple of drinks while she looked listlessly out at the passing traffic on the Expressway. They exchanged all the usual clichés about how they couldn’t believe he was gone, how there’d never be another like him, how it just seemed impossible.
“I saw him Thursday night,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Helen.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“We were going to get married.”
“I’m not surprised to hear it. He loved you, Helen.”
“The police have been around to talk to me.”
“They were at my place, too.”
“They think it was murder. Dave, I can’t believe that. Who’d have wanted to take his life?”
“I don’t know. I don’t buy it. It’s a misunderstanding somewhere. It’ll get straightened out.”
But he wasn’t dead. Not really. He’s alive in 1931, he’s alive in New York on V-J Day, and in the Lamplight back in Durham. Time travelers never die. Not really. And, in a way, we’re all time travelers. Somehow, the entire temporal stream exists, but we’re only conscious of a single moment. Is that how it is? That it isn’t the world moving through the eons, but only our consciousness, like a light passing through a series of dark rooms? Or, maybe a better analogy, like an old-time film, in which only one frame at a time moves in front of the bulb?
He stopped with his second drink. Had to drive, and two was pretty much his limit.
“Are you going tomorrow?” she asked. She meant the