by Tim Kizer
Apparently, Nora somehow slipped up. She wasn’t a professional assassin, after all. The question was: what was her mistake?
Too bad Nick hadn’t told him how she was going to kill him. If he knew Nora’s plan, it would be easier for him to figure out how she got caught.
Or maybe she never got caught. Maybe she made a deathbed confession to her grandkids to unburden her conscience.
Whatever. Who the hell cared?
The murder weapon—what would it be? A gun? A knife? A sledgehammer? Sodium cyanide? Or a hairdryer in the tub?
Ted got up and began pacing the room.
For some reason, he had no doubt now that Nora was not acting alone.
How about a private investigator? People often hire PIs to sniff out their spouses’ secrets.
No, he’d rather not involve a private eye in this matter. What if Nora ended up dead sometime down the road? The fact that he had hired an investigator would indicate to the police that he suspected his wife of adultery, which would lead them to believe that he’d had a motive to murder her.
If you want something done, do it yourself, isn’t that what they say?
Two days later, Ted managed to install a spy application on Nora’s cellphone, which allowed him to track the cell’s location, see the call history, and read every text message his wife sent and received. He was on the right track, but he didn’t know that yet.
14.
There was a breakthrough in Ted’s investigation on October 21st, eight days before Nora was predicted to strike. The breakthrough happened by accident, around midnight, when Ted came home from a poker game at his buddy’s place. As he crossed the semi-dark living room, he saw Pete sitting in an armchair with the whiskey decanter in his hand. Ted didn’t have to smell Pete’s breath to figure out that his son was drunk like a skunk.
Ted was slightly annoyed that Pete was pouring from his personal decanter. You do not touch Ted’s alcohol, that was the rule. Why hadn’t the kid bought his own damn whiskey?
“What’s the occasion?” Ted eased into the chair on the other side of the table.
At least he wasn’t getting shitfaced at some sketchy bar or a drug den in Pacoima, Ted thought.
“No occasion. Want some?” Pete raised the decanter and gave Ted an inquiring look. His speech was slurred.
Ted shook his head. Under different circumstances, he would not mind having a glass of whiskey, but right now he was too preoccupied with trying to figure out Nora’s plan as well as processing her betrayal. Besides, he didn’t want to cloud his judgment; he needed a clear head more than ever before.
“Is it about some chick?” Ted asked.
This had to be about a girl. At twenty two, at least half of your problems were pussy related (if you were a regular straight guy, of course). As the Beatles said, you can’t buy love.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
After a short pause, Pete asked, “Dad, why did you ask Mike if Mom was cheating on you?”
Ted studied his son’s face for a few seconds, wondering if Pete suspected anything, and then replied, “I was just having a bad day, that’s all.”
There was no distrust or contempt in Pete’s eyes. Perhaps he was genuinely curious.
“Are you getting a divorce?”
Ted smiled. “No, of course not.”
Pete nodded, then leaned back and closed his eyes. When Ted looked at him again, he seemed to have fallen asleep.
After staring at the walls in complete silence for several minutes, Ted stood up to turn off the lights. As soon as he took his first step towards the lamp, he froze. There was something wrong with his exquisite Rolex Submariner Date wristwatch, which had set him back thirty grand. It had become significantly lighter; Ted could barely feel it on his arm. And what was even weirder, the Rolex was growing transparent. It was fading. Ted could make out the hairs on his wrist right underneath the watch. This was no joke: he could actually see through his timepiece.
His Rolex Submariner was turning into a fucking ghost.
The room was going through the same transformation as the watch. The beautiful rug under Ted’s feet, the furniture, the walls, the ceiling—they were all fading away, like a hologram on a dying battery.
It felt as if he were waking from a dream in slow motion. For a moment, Ted thought that his worst fear had come true, that all of this—the email with the numbers, the jackpot, the house in Encino—had been just a dream, which had finally ended.
Only Ted knew he was not waking up. It was something else. It was the other thing that he had been fearing since winning the lottery.
Ted wheeled around and dashed to Pete. His heart pounding heavily, he shook his son by the shoulders. “Wake up, Pete! Wake up!” He was almost yelling. “Wake the fuck up!”
Pete remained asleep and motionless. Thanks to Ted’s efforts to wake him up, Pete’s head was hanging so low now his chin rested on his chest, which made him appear dead. He could be dead, for all Ted knew.
Horrified, Ted lowered his cheek to his son’s nostrils and waited a few seconds, which seemed like a year to him. Then he closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief; Pete was still breathing. Thank God, his son was still alive. But it didn’t take a doctor to see that Pete’s breath was terribly weak.
Pete was about to die, and with him would die Ted’s chances of receiving winning numbers from Nick. His two hundred million dollars would be gone.
Perhaps Nick Duplass was Pete’s great-great-great grandson. Or maybe Pete was the only one who would bother to remember Ted’s instructions.
All hope was not lost, however. He could still reverse his slide into the alternate reality in which he never won the lottery; that was why the watch and the house—things he had purchased with his jackpot money—had not vanished completely.
Ted pulled his cellphone out of his jeans pocket and swiftly dialed 911. And as soon as he heard the operator’s voice, the fading stopped. Ted could still see through the Rolex, and the armchairs, and the table, but they were not getting any more transparent.
“What’s your emergency?”
“My son is dying,” Ted said in firm voice. “I need an ambulance immediately.” Then he gave the operator his address.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Pete Duplass. And my name is Ted Duplass.”
“Can you describe what happened to him? Is he conscious and breathing?”
“It could be alcohol poisoning, but I’m not sure. I need an ambulance right now. He’s unconscious. He is breathing.” Ted told the operator his address one more time.
“Help is on the way, Sir.” The operator read Ted back his address and his cellphone number, and he confirmed that both were correct.
“Are they close?”
“Help should arrive shortly.”
“Okay. Can I hang up?”
“Yes, it’s okay to hang up.”
When Ted touched the End Call button, his Rolex instantly came back to life, solid and substantial. The room looked real and normal again.
15.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Ted asked, peering at Nora’s face. It was October 25th. His death was four days away.
“What do you mean?” Nora took her eyes off the TV and looked at Ted. “You want to hear how my day was?”
“Maybe. How was it?”
“I didn’t spend too much today, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
‘Why the fuck do you want to kill me?’ These words were dancing on the tip of Ted’s tongue, and he was seriously considering uttering them out loud.
How do you start a conversation like that?
It had become clear to Ted by now that the best way to solve the problem was to make Nora disappear. How far was he willing to go? Was he ready to nail Nora’s feet together and dump her in the desert to die?
“Why do you want to kill me?”
Ted asked.
He decided to take the bulls by the horns.
Nora frowned. “What did you say?”
“I said, why do you want to kill me.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t want to kill you.” Nora creased her forehead. “Is it a joke, Ted?”
How was he going to take Nora out? Shoot her? Where? He couldn’t do it at home; that would be too risky. Off the top of his head, he’d say that the safest option would be to make her death look like a street mugging gone wrong. A late night mugging on the other side of the county.
A positive thing about guns was that it was fairly easy to kill with them: just pull the trigger, and you’re done. Their big downside was noise; these suckers were very loud, even with a silencer. Besides, an unregistered pistol was not easy to obtain. You could end up in prison just for trying to buy one.
The question was: would he have the guts to pull the damn trigger when the moment came?
Ted didn’t consider knives, blades, or any other cutting instruments. He knew for sure he was not capable of slitting Nora’s throat or stabbing her in the chest. It was just too savage for him. He felt the same about strangling or beating Nora to death.
Hiring a hitman was not an option. Ted had no desire to risk being blackmailed for the rest of his life.
Divorce remained out of the question. Ted couldn’t allow Nora to get rich at his expense after she had betrayed him. He also kept in mind that California had a six-month waiting period for divorces, which meant that Nora would have at least half a year to take care of him.
Anyway, this whole discussion was pointless. Nick had told him his future; Nora was going to kill him, no matter what precautions he would take.
“I want you to stop it, Nora,” Ted said.
“Stop what?” Nora appeared sincerely puzzled.
“They’re going to find out that it was you who killed me. Believe me, Nora, I know what I’m talking about. Just give it up, please.”
“Where are you getting these ridiculous ideas from, Ted? I don’t want to kill you, I swear.”
“You know exactly where this is coming from. You know why I’m sure that it’s true.”
“Really?” Nora knitted her brows. “Wait a second. Is that what this guy from the future told you?”
“Yes. The guy from the future told me that.”
“And you believed him?”
“I’ll tell everyone that you’re trying to kill me. I’ve given my lawyer a letter, which he’s going to give to the cops if I die. This letter says that you’re planning to murder me in order to get all of my money and that I fear for my life. This is bombshell evidence, Nora. Juries love that stuff.”
“The funny thing is that I actually believe you wrote that letter and gave it to the lawyer.”
“If anything happens to me, you’re going to prison, Nora.”
“I’ve had enough, Ted.” Nora got up from the couch. “A shrink—that’s what you need.” She glared at Ted. “Desperately.”
“Sit down.” Ted snarled.
“What did you say?” Nora squinted.
“I had my whiskey decanter tested a few days ago. And guess what they found? Lots and lots of Xanax.”
“Xanax? How did it end up in your whiskey? And why did you have it tested in the first place?”
“You almost got Pete killed, do you understand that?” Ted made a grimace. “Your own fucking son. He could have died. All because of you, you dumb toad!”
Nora lowered her eyes. Ted started counting seconds until she blamed the Xanax on Pete. To his surprise, Nora didn’t do it.
“I don’t know how Xanax got there.” Nora finally sat down.
“Okay. You don’t know.” Ted nodded.
Well, this was it. He had given it a shot. Being civilized hadn’t worked.
He was a peaceful, friendly, law-abiding man, not some bloodthirsty monster. However, he had no other choice but to remove his wife from this world. He had tried to warn Nora, to reason with her, hadn’t he? What else could he do? If you think about it, he was acting in self-defense. It was Nora who had started it; he was just minding his own business, you know. And if he kept sitting on his thumbs, Nora would sooner or later get him, there was no doubt about it. He didn’t want to live in fear, constantly looking over his shoulder. Bodyguards wouldn’t solve the problem; they couldn’t be by his side every minute of every hour. JFK had bodyguards and still got popped off.
“Here’s what I know,” Ted went on. “I know about Chuck. Did he put you up to this?”
“Who is Chuck?”
“Chuck Coyle. Twenty nine years old, lives in Redondo Beach. I know about him.”
“Have you been spying on me?” Nora winced with contempt. “Oh Jesus. I bet you’re recording this conversation.”
“How long have you been fucking him? A couple of months? A couple of years? How long?”
Ted was dying to quote a few of the sexually charged text messages Nora and Chuck Coyle had sent to each other in the course of the past week. He elected not to mention the texts because that would have tipped Nora off that her cellphone had been compromised.
Nora gave a nervous laugh and shook her head. “Oh Jesus, what does it matter to you, Ted?”
“Was it Chuck who got you the Xanax pills?”
Nora remained silent. She was scrutinizing her nails.
“I have a solution.” Ted rubbed his right jeans pocket just to confirm that his Ruger LC9, the unregistered semi-auto compact pistol he had acquired two days after Pete’s brush with death, was still there. The gun was still in his pocket.
Yes, it was illegal to possess an unregistered pistol, but he had gone ahead and bought one anyway. He had no desire to use it tonight, however.
Ted rose to his feet and fetched his whiskey decanter and a glass from the bar. Then he sat down, filled the glass with whiskey, and put it on the table in front of Nora. “Drink it, please.” Ted pointed at the glass. “You thought it was okay for me to pour this shit down my throat, so go ahead... I’m just treating you the way you treat me. I believe that’s fair.”
“I’m not going to drink it, Ted. If you put some poison in the bottle, I won’t drink it. I’m not stupid.”
“Of course, you’re stupid. You tried to kill me. After all I’ve done for you. After all I’ve done for our family. Instead of simply enjoying life, you decided to take it all.”
Their eyes met. Nora suddenly looked ten years older.
16.
Two glasses was what it took.
When Nora fell asleep, Ted suddenly felt a pang in his chest. It was as if his heart had bumped into a cactus. Then his head became hot, and a tiny tear came out of his right eye. He didn’t know what to call the feeling that had overcome him. Sadness? Regret? Shock? A little bit of this and a little bit of that, maybe.
Nora turned out to be an honorable woman, after all. She was capable of feeling guilt, which was quite rare nowadays. He respected that.
There was no remorse, though. He had done the right thing, and Nora had realized that, too.
She might have thought he was bluffing about the tranquilizer, by the way. She might have thought she would just get inebriated and wake up with a headache. But it was a moot point now.
Holding the cellphone in his right hand, Ted fixed his eyes on his Rolex. He was cautious enough to admit that his wife might be critical to the success of his idea. Nora knew about his plan, and, theoretically, she could be the one who was going to ensure that future generations of Duplasses remembered Ted’s instructions.
As Pete’s poisoning had demonstrated, the mix of alcohol and a tranquilizer didn’t kill quickly. Ted had about ten minutes to call the ambulance and thus prevent Nora from dying. He only needed five to determine if Nora had to live.
Ted let out a relieved sigh. The Rolex hadn’t evaporated as he had feared; it was still on his wrist, pleasantly heavy. And the living room had not disappeared either. Ted sprinted to the window and looked outside. Nor
a’s Mercedes and his Range Rover were still sitting in the driveway.
Ted dialed 911 one hour after Nora stopped breathing. He had no trouble sounding shocked and devastated as he spoke to the operator.
17.
There was a new email from Nick in the inbox when Ted came home from Nora’s funeral. The message read:
‘Ted Duplass was killed by Kenneth Shelton, 27, on January 6, 2014.
I found your time capsule.
Nick Duplass.’
Ted raised his eyebrows, highly intrigued. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly a moment later.
Maybe his efforts to avoid death were futile. Was it even possible for him to change his fate? That was an interesting question.
Look on the bright side: he knew what was going to happen to him, and that was half the battle.
Kenneth Shelton, 27.
27 must be the guy’s age. Good thing Nick had put this detail in the email: it would help avoid a bloodbath in the style of King Herod, who had ordered the execution of all young boys in Bethlehem to get baby Jesus and thus save his throne. How many Kenneth Sheltons were there in America? Probably thousands.
Ted wished Nick had provided more information about his future killer—his address, for example. Or his date of birth, at least.
King Herod, huh?
By the way, was it going to be a premeditated murder or some sort of accident? This Shelton guy could turn out to be the driver of the semi-truck that would smash into Ted’s car on the 6th of January, 2014. Or maybe he mistook Ted for a deer during a hunt.
One thing was certain: Kenneth Shelton had to go. Two months was plenty of time to take care of this guy. The best defense is offence, right? He already had the gun, so he might as well use it.
What if it didn’t end on Kenneth Shelton? What if Nick emailed him another name after he bumped off Shelton? He would have to dispatch that person, too.
How many times was Ted planning to repeat this? The answer was simple: he would keep doing it until he received an email that said he would die of old age. That was the kind of death Ted desired. Death of old age. Very old age. Triple-digit age. By the way, he should ask Nick to figure out a way to send him a life-prolonging drug that would let him live to be a hundred and fifty; they would surely have these in 2223. These pills would probably cost as much as a house, but it was okay—his boy Nick Duplass must be loaded.
