Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [4]
There was something in his voice. “Dad, are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it. Where did you have in mind?”
“How about the Italian place?”
“Servio’s?”
“Yes. Maybe eleven thirty, so we can beat the crowd.”
“That’s good.” Shel had been watching the Phil Castle Show. They were interviewing someone who was trying to sell a new movie. He’d been about to turn it off when the phone rang. He did so now. “Are you home to stay? Or are you going back?”
“I’m going to take a couple of days off. Then I’m going back to Swifton.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. We missed you.”
“I missed you, too, Shel.”
“And I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
BEYOND a mild physical resemblance, Jerry Shelborne could hardly have been less like his brother. He was several inches taller than Shel and had for years enjoyed introducing his brother as “the other half of the comedy team.” Jerry was trim and kept in good shape. He was one of those guys who worked out at his club every day.
The chasm that had opened between them came from Jerry’s view that Shel was shuffling through life. That he’d caved in to his father’s wishes instead of following his own muse—that was actually the term he’d used—and that consequently, Shel would be stuck selling electronics for the rest of his life unless he got his act together. There was, unfortunately, some truth to the charge. And that, of course, made it all the more painful.
Jerry saw his own career as a way to “leave a footprint.” He argued that he was protecting those he called “the little people.” “The corporations will take us all,” he liked to tell prospective clients, “unless we’re willing to fight back.” And, to give the guy justice, he usually seemed to be on the right side of his cases. Though he was obviously collecting a substantial fraction of the money that was changing hands in the courtroom.
They were waiting for their father at Servio’s, an upscale Italian restaurant near City Avenue. “There was a case last week,” Jerry was saying, when Shel glanced at his watch and broke in.
“He’s twenty minutes late.”
“Not like him,” said Jerry.
Shel took out his cell phone and made the call. A recorded voice responded: “Dr. Shelborne is not available at the moment. After the tone, please leave your name and number.”
“Let’s go find out what’s going on,” said Shel. He told the waitress, whom he knew, what had happened. “If he comes in,” he said, “call me, okay?”
MICHAEL Shelborne lived on Moorland Avenue in a modest two-story frame with two big oaks in the front yard and a backboard that Shel had used growing up, and which now more or less belonged to the neighborhood kids. Shel and Jerry pulled up in Shel’s car and parked in the driveway. Michael’s black Skylark was visible in the garage.
“So why isn’t he answering his phone?” asked Jerry.
Lights were on in the kitchen and in the den. They walked up to the front door, and Shel rang the bell.
A squirrel wandered across the lawn, stopped, and looked at them.
Shel rang again. He listened to the chimes.
Jerry twisted the knob. It was locked. “You bring the key?” he asked.
Shel had been coming over from time to time during their father’s absence to make sure everything was okay. A control unit turned lights off and on periodically to create the illusion someone was home. Still, the Skylark had been in New Mexico with their father. It wouldn’t have been too hard to figure out no one was here.
“No,” said Shel. “I didn’t think I’d need it.”
“Maybe one of the other doors is open.” They tried the back, but it was also locked. The side door was located inside the garage, but the garage door was down, and it locked automatically.
Shel lived only a few minutes away. “I’ll get the keys,” he said. “Be right back.”
THE door was chained. “Not a good sign,” said Jerry. He stuck his head in as far as he could. “Dad, you here anywhere?”
“Maybe we should call nine-one-one.