by Rachel Ford
Alfred found himself sighing throughout the introductory spiel. It was the standard load of innuendo and half-truths that, presented by such a straight-faced and ridiculous narrator, normally would have elicited laughter of his own. But tonight it didn’t strike him as very funny.
As Dr. Wooding moved from a summary of his own “decades of extensive research” to “a very special journey into the hidden truths of extraterrestrials,” the taxman was ready to throw in the towel.
Until, that is, he saw Nancy glance at her phone. A text had flashed across the screen, and he scowled at the name: Josh.
“Hey Nance,” it read, “I hate to ask this…but I got a callback about the job. They want to schedule a follow up for Friday. My car won’t be out until next week. Any chance I could bum another ride?”
Alfred paused the film. “What’s up?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.
“Just a text from Josh,” Nancy said. “You don’t have to pause it.”
“Oh. I thought we were watching it?”
She drew back enough to glance up at him, and frowned. “It’s not like I’m going to miss anything, is it?”
He flushed a little for the sharpness of his tone, if nothing else. “No.” Then, he added, as if he’d not already read the message, “What does he want?”
“He got a callback. They want to see him again on Friday.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good.”
“Yeah. But he needs a ride.”
“Well, that’s what Uber’s for.”
She frowned again. “Come on, Alfred. Would you want to show up to an interview in a cab?”
He scowled and turned back to the TV.
She continued, “I was thinking I’d just let him borrow my car.”
This was an improvement, as it meant less time alone with the marine. Still, it wasn’t much of an improvement, because it introduced its own host of difficulties. “How will you get to work then?”
“Well,” she said, nestling in by him again, “I was hoping I could get a ride in with you.”
“Oh.” That did put rather a new spin on things. “Alright. That’d work, I suppose. But what about being discrete? If we show up together, people will notice.”
She shrugged. “I don’t mind, if you don’t mind.”
He didn’t mind at all. “I don’t mind.”
“Good. Then I can tell him he can borrow the car?”
“Yeah.”
She pecked him on the cheek. “Sounds good.”
He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her closer, and played the film. Dr. Wooding delved into primary sources on medieval UFO sightings, and he found himself laughing again. The show was definitely on an upward trajectory, and he was feeling pretty good, all things considered, when the phone buzzed again.
It was Josh, again. This time, though, he didn’t bother pausing. And despite his inclination to glance over and read the text, he didn’t.
Nance responded, and said, “He says that works well. And thanks.”
“Good.”
He’d forgotten about Josh when the screen flashed again. He fought a grimace, but kept his eyes on the television.
When Nancy responded and yet another text appeared, though, he could no longer resist the urge to see what was occupying her attention. The marine was asking her opinion on which suit to wear to the interview. His grimace turned into a proper scowl. “Can’t you tell him we’re busy?” he sighed as another message popped up.
“One second,” she said. “He’s just figuring out which suit to wear.”
He sighed again, more audibly this time, and watched as she typed, “Definitely the black one. But I got to go, I’m about to find out how we know the black plague was actually introduced by hostile extraterrestrials.”
“Oh God,” Josh texted back. “Better you than me.” Then, another line added, “Thanks again, Nance. I owe you.”
“No problem. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
Alfred’s scowl was set now. He stared with stony eyes at the television. There was, he found, nothing at all amusing to be gleaned from Dr. Wooding’s hypothesis on the real source of Black Death.
The program rolled on, but didn’t improve in the taxman’s estimation. They’d reached Wooding’s theories on the secret abduction of author H. G. Wells when Nancy spoke. “Hey, by the way, did you have a chance to think about MarvelousCon? Next weekend will be here before you know it. If we’re going to get you a costume, we need to get started sooner rather than later.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if I want to put up with all those crowds of crazy people.”
“Crazy people?” Nancy repeated. Her tone was playful, but it was touched with a hint of annoyance.
“You know what I mean. A bunch of weirdos dressed up like characters from comic books.”
“Or TV shows?” she asked. Hints had made way for full-blown annoyance.
“Come on. You’re not a weirdo,” he said.
“Just people who like the things I like?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Not really, actually.”
It was now, of all times, that Josh Stevenson chose to message Nancy again. Alfred caught the name, but the phone was too far away to read the message. Still, it was enough. “Jesus Christ. Can’t he leave you alone for two seconds?”
Nancy sat back to frown at him. “Is that what this is all about, Alfred?”
“Is what? And about what?” he prevaricated, flushing.
“Why you’ve been huffing all night long? Why you’ve been in such a bad mood? Because I took Josh to his interview?”
“Of course not,” he lied. “And I haven’t been in a bad mood. But, come on, Nance. Does the guy really have to talk to you every second of the day?”
“That is what this is about.” She shook her head. “You’re really going to be pissy because I gave him a ride?”
“I’m not pissy,” he snapped. “And you didn’t just give him a ride. You’re lending him your car. You’re advising him on what to wear.”
“He’s my friend.”
“He’s your ex.”
“That’s right,” she said. “He is. I’m dating you, not him, Alfred. But he’s still my friend. He’s been there for me when I needed help. He’s put himself in harm’s way for me on our cases. A ride to a job interview isn’t too much to ask in return.”
Alfred scowled. “And nonstop private chats either, apparently. Even after you tell him we’re watching TV.”
“He was telling me that he’s home all Thursday, so we can drop the car off whenever. But private? Jesus, Alfred.” She grabbed the phone and thrust it toward him. “Here. Read them for yourself if you’re so damned insecure.”
“Insecure?” Her gesture of openness combined with the use of that word both shamed and mortified him. The two sentiments morphed into an ugly stew of anger. “Well, if I’m insecure, who the hell can blame me? How would you like if I was always on the phone with my exes?”
Nancy let the opportunity to observe that it would be a very short series of conversations slide. “I’m not always on the phone with Josh. We’ve barely talked in weeks, until he got this interview.” She scowled. “And what do you think, Alfred? I’m what? Cheating on you?”
“Of course not, Nance,” he snapped. “I just don’t like you talking to that damned jarhead.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Why? You’re defending him, now?”
“He didn’t do anything wrong, Alfred. Dammit, you’re the one making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing? That’s probably what Justin’s ex used to say too.”
“Justin? You mean, Justin at work?” She shook her head, confused. “What the hell does he have to do with any of this?”
“He thinks it’s ridiculous, too, you hanging out with your ex.”
She stared at him now. “You mean, you’re talking shit about me – about us – with that damned creep?�
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“No,” he protested. “Of course not.”
She stood up, though. “You know what, Alfred? I’m going home. And don’t worry about going to MarvelousCon with me. I’ll hang out with the other freaks on my own. You don’t have to lower yourself.”
He scowled that she’d bring that up, now. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Like hell I do,” she shot back.
“You know I hate comic books. And crowds.”
“And I hate chess tournaments, and alien shows,” she countered.
He gaped. “Hate them? You had fun the other weekend. And you picked up this one.”
“Yeah, Alfred. For you. I picked it up for you, because you like the stupid things. And I had fun because you were having fun. Because I…” She broke off, shaking her head. Then, in a more measured tone, she said, “Because I care about you. Because I like to do things you enjoy, because it makes you happy. And I thought, maybe, you felt the same.”
There was a mist in her eyes that cut through all of Alfred’s anger, straight to his heart. “Nance,” he said. “I…”
She blinked back the tears, and her tone grew steadier. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” She grabbed her purse and keys. “Enjoy the show, Alfred. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
Alfred shut the TV off. He stood in his darkened living room, alone, for a few minutes after she’d gone. First, he was dazed. Dazed, though, was preferable to the wave of emotions that followed. He had rarely felt as wretched as he did now.
Fudge muffins, he thought. He’d been everything she said, and everything she’d been too polite to say: insecure, self-centered, demanding, irritable, unreasonable. He should have trusted her, and respected her autonomy. He shouldn’t have listened to Justin. What, he berated himself, had he been thinking to view his relationship through the eyes of an embittered cynic who still hadn’t moved on from a divorce eight years ago? I’m an imbecile.
He called her, and was immediately redirected to voicemail.
He waited five minutes, and tried again. It rang and rang, and then went to voicemail.
“I’m sorry, Nance,” he texted. But no answer came.
He paced the living room for a while, hoping she’d write back. Then, when she didn’t, he logged onto his personal laptop, and pulled up a florist shop. He searched the catalogue, balking at the prices. He’d seen enough movies and TV shows to know the established protocol for the boyfriend-in-the-wrong. He just didn’t realize it was so danged costly.
Still, he couldn’t shake the sight of tears forming in Nancy’s eyes, and the realization that he’d put them there. He got out his bank card, gritted his teeth, and prepared to pay the exorbitant fee required to have a bouquet of eighteen long-stemmed roses, arranged with baby’s breath and assorted greens, delivered to the office.
Then his phone dinged. It was a text from Nance. His heart hammered as he read, “It’s fine.”
Sugar cookies. He really was in trouble. He added a dozen chocolate dipped strawberries to the order, just to be on the safe side.
He drafted and redrafted the accompanying message half a dozen times, settling at last for:
I’m sorry, Nance. Please let me come to MarvelousCon with you.
Yours,
Alfred
He’d almost written, “I love you.” But, he realized, he’d never told her that; not yet. And an apology didn’t seem the right place.
He wondered, staring at the order confirmation that promised to have the flowers and berries delivered by nine o’clock sharp the next morning, why he hadn’t done that already. Because the fact was, he did love her. He’d loved her for months now. She was a light that had filled the darkness of his solitary life, that filled him with joy and hope and purpose. Half a year ago, they hadn’t even been a couple; and now, he couldn’t imagine his life without her in it.
He would tell her tomorrow, he decided – if she forgave him enough to speak to him.
Alfred woke at his desk. He realized he must have fallen asleep there. “Ow,” he groaned, straightening his back.
A ringtone was sounding next to his head. Someone was trying to initiate a video call. Who the heck’s calling me this time of night? If they hadn’t fought earlier, he would have guessed the answer; only Nancy, of all his acquaintances, would be up at two in the morning. But he had to see her name on his screen to believe it.
“Nance,” he said as he answered. He didn’t even mind the time.
Nancy’s face popped onto his screen, the familiar dark hair outlining a now tired face. “Alfred.”
“Listen, Nance, I’m so sorry. You were right, and I was-”
“That’s not why I called, Alfred. I think I found something – something important.”
“Oh?”
“That work I was making up, from earlier? After – well, after I got home, I couldn’t sleep, so I started going over some of it. It’s a report, from one of the Special Agents. I’m verifying transfer IP’s on a routine audit.”
“Okay.” He suppressed a yawn. He knew her well enough to know that this was leading somewhere. Moreover, he knew it had to be important. Nancy’s night owl habits might be annoying, but they were never unproductive. “What’s an IP now?”
“Never mind that part,” she said.
Oh good. It was too early in the morning to talk computer language. “Okay.”
“The important part is, I think I found a discrepancy. And I know this is your department more than mine, so I wanted to run it past you before I bubbled it up the ladder.”
His interest was picking up. “What kind of discrepancy? And what are we looking at?”
“The ECF: the Entrepreneur’s Children Fund. There’s a payment, on September 10th of last year-” Nancy broke off suddenly and glanced behind her, into what appeared to Alfred an empty room. “What was that?” she wondered, more to herself than him.
“What was what?” He saw her get up and go to the window. “Nance? What’s going on?”
She stood for a moment by the glass, checking the yard beyond. Then she returned to her seat with a shrug. “I don’t know. I could have sworn I heard something, but there’s nothing there now.”
Alfred felt his pulse, which had spiked at that, start to relax. “Nance,” he said, “I’m going to come over. We’ll talk about it in person. If you’ll let me, that is?”
She nodded, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Alright.”
“And Nance?”
“Yes?”
“There’s something I need you to know. I-” He stopped short, the I love you frozen on his tongue. “Nance, lookout!” There, behind her, was a masked man, gun in hand. “Nance!”
Alfred heard the gunshot just as she started to turn. A spray of red passed by the screen, and he saw Nancy collapse.
“Nancy!”
The gunman turned to the phone now, and fired again. Alfred’s screen went dark, and he lost the call.
Alfred called 9-1-1 en route. He arrived at Nancy’s house before anyone else, and found the front door unlocked. He raced upstairs to the spare bedroom she’d converted into a home office, taking the steps two at a time. He’d hardly breathed since he got that call.
Whether she was alive or not, he couldn’t say. He feared the worst. But he couldn’t think it. He didn’t dare.
He burst into the office, and a strangled cry escaped his throat. “Nancy.” She was slumped onto the ground, in front of the desk where her laptop – now gone – used to be. “Oh my God, Nancy.”
Blood seeped out of a hole in her back. He didn’t see the rise and fall of her chest that indicated breathing. He turned her over carefully, and cried anew at the sight of her eyes staring back at him, open and unseeing.
Nancy Abbot, his sweetest Nancy, was dead.
Chapter Four
Alfred sat at his desk, his forehead furrowed into a deep frown. He was staring with unseeing eyes at his monitor. Somehow, despite his best efforts, he c
ouldn’t shake Justin’s words. That’s what my ex-wife did. Right before she moved in with the ex.
He knew it was stupid to be worried about Nance, of course. She’d only dated Josh for two weeks, and she’d been the one to call it off. It was stupid to worry.
Of course it was.
A whoosh, like a sudden breeze, sounded behind him, and the taxman spun around. He almost yelped when he saw himself – a distorted, haggard, blood-soaked reflection of himself – standing behind him. This second him reached for the door, closing it quickly.
“What the heck?” Alfred – real him – gasped. “Who are you?”
“I’m you, in about twenty hours,” the haggard man answered.
“What?”
Future Alfred held up a shiny silver gadget. “I had to use this.”
The taxman felt the color drain from his face. He recognized the gizmo. It was a spacetime manipulator, developed by Futureprise Corporation. It was the last remaining prototype of a device that could transport users through time and across dimensions. He and Nancy had each held onto a piece of it, vowing never to use it: the risk was too great. “You used it?” he asked his future self, incredulously. “Why? You know what could happen. We could split the timestream. We could-”
“I had to,” the other him said, and his voice cracked as he did. “Nancy – she’s dead in my timeline.”
“Dead? No.” He felt his heart sink, as hard and fast as a stone dropping to the bottom of a lake. “How?”
“Someone murdered her. I was on the phone, on a video call. He shot her, right in front of me.”
Alfred felt the bile rise in his throat at the very idea. “My God.”
“You’ve got to save her, Alfred. So my timeline doesn’t happen.”
“Of course. What do I do? Who was it?”
“I don’t know. It was related to a case she was working – it had to be.”
“Okay.” He nodded briskly, seizing onto this tidbit to arrange his thoughts around, to order his mind. “What case?”
“I don’t know. She said something about a charity, the Entrepreneur’s Children Fund. She’d found an irregularity, something from the tenth of September last year, but he killed her before she could tell me what it was.”
