by Anthology
The idea was that the person being X-rayed placed his forehead against a plastic rest, and his chin in a cup-shaped support. The camera was located inside a cone which was mounted on a rotating arm. The arm and cone would traverse the head, and produce a single panoramic image of the teeth. The only problem was that the patient normally stood during the procedure.
“It’ll take six to eight minutes,” said Helen. “During that time we have to keep him absolutely still. Think you can do it?”
“I can do it,” I said.
“Okay.” She checked to make sure there was a film cassette in the machine. “Let’s get him.”
We carried Victor to the orthopantomograph. At Helen’s suggestion, we’d brought along some cloth strips that we now used to secure him to the device. It was an uncomfortable and clumsy business, and he kept sliding away from us. Working in the dark complicated the procedure, but after about twenty minutes we had him in place.
“Okay,” she said. “He should be all right now. Don’t touch him. Right?”
I backed away.
“Something just occurred to me,” I said. “Victor Randall already has the head wound.”
Her eyes closed momentarily. “You’re suggesting the arsonist didn’t hit Shel in the head after all?”
“That’s what I think.”
She considered that piece of data. “This keeps getting weirder,” she said.
A mirror was mounted on the machine directly in front of the patient’s face. Helen pressed a button and a light went on in the center of the mirror. “They would tell the patient to watch the light,” she said. “That’s how they’re sure they’ve got it lined up.”
“How are we sure?”
“What’s the term? ‘Dead reckoning’ ?” She punched another button. A motor started, and the cone began to move.
Ten minutes later we took the cassette in back, carefully leaving Victor in place until we were sure we had good pictures. The developer was located in a windowless storage room. Helen removed the film from the cassette and ran it through the machine. When the finished picture came out, she handed it to me without looking at it. “What do you think?”
The entire mouth, uppers and lowers, was clear. “Looks good,” I said.
She held it against the light. “Plenty of fillings on both sides. Let’s see how it compares.”
The records were maintained in manila folders behind the reception desk, where the counter hid her from anyone passing outside.
The folder was filled with records of Shel’s visits. “He goes every three months,” she said. “That’s not bad.” (She also tended to talk about him in the present tense.) The results of his most recent checkup were clipped on the right side. In the middle of the sheet was a panoramic picture, like the one we had just taken, and several smaller photos of individual sections. “I think they call these ‘wings’ ” she said. “But when they bring a dentist in to identify a body, they do it with these. ” She held up the panoramic and compared the two. “They don’t look much alike in detail. And if they ever get around to comparing it with the wings, they’ll notice something’s wrong. But we should have enough to get by.” She removed Shel’s panoramic, and substituted the one we had just taken. Then she replaced the folder. We wiped off the headrest and checked the floor to be sure we’d spilled no blood. “One more thing,” said Helen. She inserted a fresh cassette into the orthopan tomograph. “Okay. We’ve done what we came to do. Let’s clear out.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “They’re going to know we broke in. We need to do something to make this look like a burglary.” As far as I could see, there wasn’t much worth stealing. Magazines. Cheap landscape prints on the walls. “How about a drill?” I asked. “They look expensive.”
She squeezed my arm. “What kind of burglar would steal a drill?’ She went on another tour of the office. Moments later, I heard glass breaking, and she came back with a couple of plastic bottles filled with pills. “Valium,” she said.
8
Saturday, November 12, 1:15 A.M.
I had the coordinates for Shel’s workshop, so we were able to go right in.
It was located in the basement of the townhouse, a small, cramped, cluttered place that had a Cray computer front and center, banks of displays, and an array of experimental equipment I had never begun to understand. Moments after we’d arrived, his oil heater came on with a thump.
Helen grumbled that we would have to carry the body up to the second floor. But I had done the best I could. The math had always been Shel’s job, and the only place in the house I could get to was the workshop. So we dragged Victor up two flights of stairs to the master bedroom, dressed him in Shel’s pajamas, turned back the sheets, and laid him in bed. We put his clothes into a plastic bag.
We also had a brick in the bag. Shel kept his car keys in the middle drawer of a desk on the first floor. We had debated just leaving the clothes to burn, but I wanted to leave nothing to chance. Despite what you might think about time travel, what we were doing was forever. We could not come back and undo it, because we were here, and we knew what the sequence of events was, and you couldn’t change that without paying down the road. If we knew anything for sure now, we knew that.
I had left the Porsche at home this time. So we had to borrow Shel’s green Pontiac. It had a vanity plate reading SHEL, and a lot of mileage. But he took good care of it. We drove down to the river. At the two-lane bridge that crosses the Narrows, we pulled off and waited until there was no traffic. Then we pulled onto the bridge, went out to the middle, where we presumed the water was deepest, and dropped the bag over the side. We still had Victor’s wallet and ID, which I intended to burn.
We returned Shel’s car to the garage. By now it was about a quarter to two, forty-eight minutes before a Mrs. Wilma Anderson would call to report a fire at the townhouse. I was a little concerned that we had cut things too close, and that the intruder might already be in the house. But the place was still quiet when I returned the car keys to the desk.
We locked the house, front and back, which was how we had found it, and retired across the street, behind a hedge. We were satisfied with our night’s work, and curious only to see who the criminal was. The neighborhood was tree-lined, well-lighted, quiet. The houses were middle-class, fronted by small yards that were usually fenced. Cars were parked on either side of the street. There was no traffic, and somewhere in the next block we could hear a cat yowling.
Two o’clock arrived.
“Getting late,” Helen said.
Nothing stirred. “He’s going to have to hurry up,” I said.
She looked at me uncomfortably. “What happens if he doesn’t come?”
“He has to come.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way it happened. We know that for an absolute fact.”
She looked at her watch. Two-oh-one.
“I just had a thought,” I said.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe there is no firebug. Or rather, maybe we are the firebugs. After all, we already know where the fractured skull came from.”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”
I left the shelter of the hedge and walked quickly across the street, entered Shel’s driveway, and went back into the garage. There were several gas cans. They were all empty.
I needed the car keys. But I was locked out now. I used a rock to break a window, got in, and retrieved the keys. I threw the empty cans into the trunk of his Pontiac. “Wait here,” I told Helen as I backed out onto the street. “Keep an eye open in case someone does show up.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get some gas.”
There was an all-night station down on River Road, only a few blocks away. It was one of those places where, after eleven o’clock, the cashier locks himself into a glass cage. He was a middle-aged, worn-out guy sitting in a cloud of cigarette smoke. A toothpick rolled relentlessly fro
m one side of his mouth to the other. I filled three cans, paid, and drove back to the townhouse.
It was 2:17 when we began sloshing the gasoline around the basement. We emptied a can on the stairway and another upstairs, taking particular care to drench the master bedroom, where Victor Randall lay. We poured the rest of it on the first floor, and so thoroughly soaked the entry that I was afraid to go near it with a lighted match. But at 2:25 we touched it off.
Helen and I watched for a time from a block away. The flames cast a pale glare in the sky, and sparks floated overhead. We didn’t know much about Victor Randall, but what we did know maybe was enough. He’d been a husband and a father. In their photos, his wife and kids had looked happy. And he got a Viking’s funeral.
“What do you think?” asked Helen. “Will it be all right now?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I hope so.”
9
Sunday, November 27, Mid-morning.
In the end, the Great November Delusion was written off as precisely that, a kind of mass hysteria that settled across a substantial chunk of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware. Elsewhere, life had gone on as usual, except that the affected area seemed to have vanished behind a black shroud that turned back all attempts at entry, and admitted no signals.
Fortunately, it had lasted only a few hours. When it ended, persons who had been inside emerged with a range of stories. They had been stranded on rocky shores or amid needle peaks or in gritty wastes where nothing grew. One family claimed to have been inside a house that had an infinite number of stairways and chambers, but no doors or windows. Psychologists pointed out that the one element that appeared in all accounts was isolation. Sometimes it had been whole communities that were isolated; sometimes families. Occasionally it had been individuals. The general consensus was that, whatever the cause, therapists would be assured of a handsome income for years to come.
My first act on returning home was to destroy Victor Randall’s wallet and ID. The TV was back with full coverage of the phenomenon. The National Guard was out, and experts were already appearing on talk shows. I would have been ecstatic with the way things had turned out, except that Helen had sunk into a dark mood. She was thinking about Shel.
“We saved the world,” I told her. I showered and changed and put on some bacon and eggs. By the time she came downstairs it was ready. She ate, and cried a little, and congratulated me. “We were brilliant,” she said.
After breakfast she seemed reluctant to leave, as if something had been left undone. But she announced finally that she needed to get back to her apartment and see how things were.
She had just started for the door when we heard a car pull up. “It’s a woman,” she said, looking out the window. “Friend of yours?”
It was Sgt. Lake. She was alone this time.
We watched her climb the porch steps. A moment later the doorbell rang.
“This won’t look so good,” Helen said.
“I know. You want to duck upstairs?”
She thought about it. “No. What are we hiding?”
The bell sounded again. I crossed the room and opened up.
“Good morning, Dr. Dryden,” said the detective. “I’m glad to see you came through it all right. Everything is okay?”
“Yes,” I said. “How about you?”
Her cheeks were pale. “Good,” she said. “I hope it’s over.” She seemed far more human than during her earlier visit.
“Where’s your partner?” I asked.
She smiled. “Everything’s bedlam downtown. A lot of people went berserk during that thing, whatever it was. We’re going to be busy for a while.” She took a deep breath and, for the moment at least, some unconscious communication passed between us. “I wonder if I could talk with you?”
“Of course.” I stepped back and she came in.
“It’s chaos.” She seemed not quite able to focus. “Fires, people in shock, heart attacks everywhere. It hasn’t been good.” She saw Helen and her eyes widened. “Hello, Doctor. I didn’t expect to see you here. I expect you’re in for a busy day too.”
Helen nodded. “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Thanks. I’m fine.” She stared out over my shoulder. Then, with a start, she tried to wave it all away.
We sat down. “What was it like here?” she asked.
I described what I’d seen. While I was doing so, Helen poured her some coffee and she relaxed a little. She had been caught in her car during the event on a piece of rain-swept foggy highway that just went round and round, covering the same ground. “Damnedest thing,” she said. “No matter what I did, I couldn’t get off.” She shook her head and drank coffee.
“I could prescribe a sedative,” said Helen.
“No, thank you,” Lake said. “I should be one my way anyhow.” She patted my shoulder in a comradely way and let herself out.
Lake turned her attention to me. “Doctor,” she said, “you’ve informed us that you were home in bed at the time of Dr. Shelborne’s death. Do you stand by that statement?”
“Yes,” I said, puzzled. “I do.”
“Are you sure?”
The question hung in the sunlit air. “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”
I could read nothing in her expression. “Someone answering your description was seen in the neighborhood of the townhouse shortly before the fire.”
“It wasn’t me,” I said, suddenly remembering the man at the gas station. And I’d been driving Shel’s car. With his vanity plate on the front to underscore the point.
“Okay,” she said. “I wonder if you’d mind coming down to the station with me, so we can clear the matter up. Get it settled.”
“Sure. Be glad to.”
We stood up. “Could I have a moment, please?”
“Certainly,” she said, and went outside.
I called Helen on her cellular. “Don’t panic,” she said. “All you need is a good alibi.”
“I don’t have an alibi.”
“For God’s sake, Dave. You’ve got something better. You have a time machine.”
“Okay. Sure. But if I go back and set up an alibi, why didn’t I tell them the truth in the beginning?”
“Because you were protecting a woman’s reputation,” she said. “What else would you be doing at two o’clock in the morning? Get out your little black book.” It might have been my imagination, but I thought the reference to my little black book angered her slightly.
10
Friday, November 11 ,Early evening.
The problem was that I didn’t have a little black book. I’ve never been all that successful with women. Not to the extent, certainly, that I could call one up with a reasonable hope of finishing the night in her bed.
What other option did I have? I could try to find someone in a bar, but you didn’t really lie to the police in a murder case to protect a casual pickup.
I pulled over to the curb beside an all-night restaurant, planning to go in and talk to the waitress a lot. Give her a huge tip so she couldn’t possibly forget me. But then, how would I explain why I had lied?
The restaurant was close to the river, a rundown area lined with crumbling warehouses. A police cruiser slowed down and pulled in behind the Porsche. The cop got out and I lowered the window.
“Anything wrong, Officer?” I asked. He was small, black, well-pressed.
“I was going to ask you the same thing, sir. This is not a good neighborhood.”
“I was just trying to decide whether I wanted a hamburger.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. I could hear the murmur of his radio. “Well, listen, I’d make up my mind, one way or the other. I wouldn’t hang around out here if I were you.”
I smiled and gave him the thumbs-up. “Thanks,” I said.
He got back in his cruiser and pulled out. I watched his lights turn left at the next intersection. And I knew what I was going to do.
I drove south on route 130 for about three-quarters of an hour, an
d then turned east on a two-lane. Somewhere around eleven, I entered Clovis, New Jersey, and decided it was just what I was looking for.
The Clovis police station occupied a small two-story building beside the post office. The Red Lantern Bar was located about two blocks away, on the other side of the street.
I parked in a lighted spot close to the police station, walked to the bar, and went inside. It was smoky, subdued, and reeking with the smell of dead cigarettes and stale beer. Most of the action was over around the dart board.
I settled in at the bar and commenced drinking Scotch. I stayed with it until the bartender suggested I’d had enough, which usually wouldn’t have taken long because I don’t have much capacity for alcohol. But that night my mind stayed clear. Not my motor coordination, though. I paid up, eased off the stool, and negotiated my way back onto the street.
I turned right and moved methodically toward the police station, putting one foot in front of the other. When I got close, I added a little panache to my stagger, tried a couple of practice giggles to warm up, and lurched in through the front door.
A man with two stripes came out of a back room.
“Good evening, Officer,” I said, with exaggerated formality and the widest grin I could manage, which was then pretty wide. “Can you give me directions to Atlantic City?”
The corporal shook his head sadly. “Do you have some identification, sir?”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “But I don’t see why my name is any business of yours. I’m in a hurry.”
He sighed. “Where are you from?”
“Two weeks from Sunday,” I said. “I’m a time traveler.”
11
Sunday, November 27, Late evening.
Sgt. Lake was surprised and, I thought, disappointed to learn that I had been in jail on the night of the fire. She said that she understood why I had been reluctant to say anything, but admonished me on the virtues of being honest with law enforcement authorities.
I called Helen, looking forward to an evening of celebration. But I only got her recording machine. “Call me when you get in,” I told it.
