Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [139]
CHAPTER 42
That old bald cheater, Time.
—BEN JONSON, THE POETASTER
DAVE had been reasonably successful with women, but not so much that he needed to organize a data center. Not to the extent, certainly, that he could call one with a reasonable hope of finishing the night in her bed. Except maybe Katie, who would do it as a favor, but he didn’t want to involve her in this. What other option was there? He could try to pick somebody up in a bar, but you didn’t really lie to the police in a murder case over a pickup.
Well, he’d have to come up with something. Meantime, he would need his car keys. He came out of the washroom, apologized to Lieutenant Lake for the delay, got his keys, and started out with her. “Oops,” he said. And stopped, patting his rear pocket.
“What’s wrong?”
“Let me get my wallet.”
He went upstairs, into his bedroom, and used the converter to return to the night of the fire, to Thursday evening, when he’d been out with Katie. It was about seven hours before the town house burned.
He came back down into the den and let himself out. The garage, of course, was empty. He used the converter again to move forward to 12:30. He was home by then, and the lights were out in his bedroom.
He held his breath while the garage door rolled up. But everything stayed quiet. He opened the car door as quietly as he could, slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed out into the street.
HE wasn’t going to find a credible woman wandering the streets, so he pulled over to the curb beside an all-night restaurant to think about it. He was in a run-down area lined with crumbling warehouses. A police cruiser slowed and eased in behind him. The cop got out, and David lowered the window. “Anything wrong, Officer?” he asked. The cop was small, black, well pressed.
“I was going to ask you the same thing, sir. This is not a safe area.”
“I was just trying to decide whether I wanted a hamburger.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. Dave could hear the murmur of the police radio. “Listen, I’d make up my mind, one way or the other. I wouldn’t hang around out here if I were you.”
Dave smiled, and gave him a thumbs-up. “Thanks,” he said.
The policeman got back into his cruiser and pulled out. David watched his lights turn left at the next intersection. And he knew what he was going to do.
HE crossed over into New Jersey and drove south on Route 130 for about a half hour. Then he turned east on a two-lane. Somewhere around two thirty, he entered a small town and decided it was just what he was looking for. Its police station occupied a drab two-story building beside the post office. The Red Lantern Bar was located about two blocks away, on the other side of the street.
He parked in a lighted spot close to the police station, walked to the bar, and went inside. It was smoky and subdued, reeking with dead cigarettes and stale beer. Most of the action was near the dartboard.
He settled in at the bar and commenced drinking scotch. He stayed with it until the bartender suggested he’d had enough, which usually wouldn’t have taken long. But that night his mind stayed clear. Not his motor coordination, though. He paid up, eased off the stool, and negotiated his way back onto the street.
He turned right and walked methodically toward the police station, putting one foot in front of the other. When he got close, he added a little panache to his stagger, tried a couple of practice giggles, and lurched in through the front door.
A man with corporal’s stripes came out of a back room.
“Good evening, Officer,” he said, with exaggerated formality and the widest grin he could manage, which was then pretty wide. “Can you give me directions to Atlantic City?”
The corporal shook his head. “Do you have some identification, sir?” “Yes, I do,” Dave said. “But I don’t see why my name is any business of yours. I’m in a hurry.”
“Where are you from?” His eyes narrowed.
“Two weeks from Sunday.”