Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  I looked at him surprised, and a bit unsure what he meant. He pointed to the top of my left arm. I looked down. “Oh that. It’s just a vaccination mark.”

  We left our shoes near a driftwood shrine and ambled down to the water.

  “It’s a shame really, about Francis…” Fynn began.

  “What?”

  “No matter how hard he tries, he cannot live up to his name.”

  “What the sneaky part?” I had my doubts about that.

  “Yes,” Fynn said and began to laugh. “Shall we take a walk?” he asked. “I’d very much like to see the venue.”

  “What venue?”

  “Where the Policeman’s Ball will take place.”

  “Oh...” I was hesitant. “See that jetty, way up the beach?” I pointed towards the shimmering horizon a couple of miles north. A dark finger of rocks reached out into the ocean.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s right near there, the Beachcomber… and well, that’s where I just came from after I dropped you off.”

  “You are too tired to take a stroll?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m just wondering if there’s still going to be a party.”

  “Ah… but nothing must jeopardize the Policeman’s Ball.”

  “What, like... five unsolved murders?”

  “Even this.”

  “It’s that important to you?”

  “Yes, I believe it is the best chance to draw Mortimer out. If he is in our present, he will go to the ball.”

  “And he’ll be talking or dancing with his accomplice?”

  “That may not be the case. I doubt he would be so careless.”

  “So what’s so special about this?”

  “It is an important social event. If he chooses not to go, he will be conspicuous by his absence. Anyone who does not come to the ball would be a leading suspect to my mind.”

  “If I know Durbin, I wouldn’t bank on this.”

  “I have my doubts as well. After this kennel tragedy and poor Lucinda, the Policeman’s Ball seems somewhat unlikely.” Fynn considered. “Alright then, I will have to meet these people one by one, and you must arrange it.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, we must locate Mortimer and his agents.”

  “Wait, now it’s agents, plural?”

  “Who can say? Some people maybe helping him inadvertently.” Fynn paused again. “Perhaps you can make a list?”

  “A list?”

  “Yes. One list of people who might be Mortimer, and another of those close to you, who might be helping him.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” I replied but felt a certain amount of paranoia well up inside.

  “Tell me, these two jetties have names?” Fynn asked pointing to the closer line of rocks.

  “Names?”

  “Like everything else on your map. Perhaps, something simple like North Jetty and South Jetty?”

  I laughed slightly. “No, they don’t have names.”

  “Well, I’d like to explore them nonetheless.” Fynn stooped to pick up a piece of beach glass. He showed it to me, seemingly quite proud of it. “Look, this one has a peculiar color, this dark blue glass. It stands out from the others.”

  “Smoothed by the sands of time?”

  He looked at me and smiled slightly, then raised an eyebrow. “In my hotel there is a jar full of beach glass and we are encouraged to contribute to it. This will make a fine addition.”

  We walked south a bit towards the nearby jetty. Fynn stopped to look up and down the beach.

  “These large white chairs along the shore... I’ve seen them before,” Fynn said.

  “Yeah, in the photos of Boxtop Beach, lifeguard chairs.”

  “They are also present at North Hollow, yes?”

  I nodded an affirmative.

  “Ah, but these are perfect places to jump from. Just the right height.”

  “Back to libra lapsus, huh?”

  “Of course, we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

  “Speaking of hopping,” I said, “What do you say we walk out on the jetty?” I nodded to the long line of boulders that jutted into the ocean. Most of them were at least ten feet across or bigger, tumbled haphazardly against each other. It probably stretched nearly a quarter of a mile out into the Atlantic. “It’s low tide so we’re in luck.”

  “I’m not sure luck is the word I would use.”

  I smiled.

  “Which way is this jetty facing,” Fynn asked and took out his compass.

  “Planning another trip?”

  “Not at the moment.” He grinned. “Nor is there much chance of libra lapsus. This faces east.”

  “That makes a difference?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you should proceed with great care.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of these rocks are wet and certainly slippery. It looks easy to fall, maybe crack your skull open.”

  “You be careful too.”

  “Rest assured, I will.”

  Fynn was extremely agile, moving from boulder to boulder quite easily, though very sparing with his jumps, preferring instead to climb or use all four of his limbs. He demonstrated a tremendous economy of motion, not a single movement was wasted. As needed, Fynn would spring from rock to rock, especially if he could avoid getting wet from a crashing wave. He had no problem keeping up with me, and I was a pretty good climber.

  “I cannot pretend to know how this actually works, scientifically. I can only guess that it has more to do with space than time,” Fynn said while standing on a huge slab of stone.

  “You’re talking about libra lapsus?”

  “Yes. I think we do not quite understand what space is exactly, how it expands for example, how it expands faster than the speed of light, and I would argue, how it may contract. Perhaps in the moment of libra lapsus, something changes to the space directly around me.”

  “Like a bubble?”

  “That is a distinct possibility. For instance, everything I am touching travels with me…say, my clothes, my possessions…”

  “So you’re a space traveler.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am that.”

  “What about when you back-jump to a previous consciousness? What did you call it— a soft jump? How does libra lapsus work for that?”

  “Nothing travels with me, only my awareness. When I slip back, it also depends on duration. If I am in free fall for a long period of time, I will go back to a previous self that could be quite far from the present.”

  “How far?”

  “There are limits, but for a soft jump, I would say many hundreds of years. It is the hard jump that is a risk. I usually do not like breaking my legs or spraining an ankle.”

  “So it’s like you jump here but land there?” I thought for a moment and clarified, “for a hard jump.”

  “It is, but things are not so simple. The terrain might be a bit different, indeed the altitude. It’s sometimes quite problematic.”

  “So you have broken your legs?”

  “I will say yes to that. Certainly twisted my ankle more than once.”

  “How do you choose between going back or going forward? Past or future.”

  “This depends on direction, the direction I am facing relative to Hydra.”

  “Hydra, the constellation?”

  “Yes…”

  “I really don’t get how this works.”

  “Ah, the magic of libra lapsus… In this instant everything is turned upside down, and I’ve come to believe in the theory of inverse proportional velocities.”

  “Come again?”

  Fynn laughed. “You recall how we are traveling at blistering speeds through the cosmos?”

  I nodded.

  “In the moment of libra lapsus, all these velocities turn on their heads and become inversely proportional. The fast becomes slow and the slow becomes fast.”

  I wasn’t really understanding what he said, and it must’ve been app
arent from my expression.

  “As far as I have learned, in the midst of libra lapsus, every velocity is suspended, or perhaps that’s not the right word, they are equalized.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “All the various speeds at which we hurtle through the universe, all the different directions, all momentum, is the same. It’s as if small, local movement is just as important as our cosmic speed, or even more so.”

  I had a hard time understanding what Fynn was trying to say. “This is how you leave the present?”

  “Yes. This is what shifts my awareness.”

  “So, let me get this straight… one second you’re here with me, but in another second you might be hanging out, drinking mead with some Vikings or somebody.”

  “I can understand how it seems impossible to you.”

  “So, if you went back right now, you’d still remember me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You could travel back in time to like a thousand years ago and turn to some Viking guy and say, ‘Hey, I know Patrick Jardel and he’s going to live in 2013, in a place called Sand City.’”

  “Yes, I could do this.”

  “Wow. It just blows my mind.”

  “This is in theory, not necessarily in practice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s hardly any reason for me to return to the eleventh century. It wasn’t a particularly good hundred years. Not the most fun place to be. And, if I were to hard jump there, it would require several leaps to return.”

  “Several jumps?

  “As I’ve said, there are limits to libra lapsus.”

  “Still not getting this exactly.”

  “As I’ve doubtless mentioned: direction and duration. In this case duration. To jump back so far, I would have to fall very far as well. Instead of causing myself grievous harm and injury, I’d probably make a series of incremental back-jumps.”

  “This is pretty complicated.”

  “It is at that.”

  “So you don’t go back there much?”

  “No. It’s quite far even for me.”

  “Can you make tiny jumps, like very small jumps in time? Maybe only a few minutes or an hour?

  “It’s possible, I suppose… though it is not in my experience. I’ve come to believe there is a threshold which must be crossed in order for libra lapsus to take effect.”

  “I remember you saying that.”

  “It is by no means a certainty however. I may have made many small jumps, but who can say? It is all about awareness.”

  “Well, if anyone can say, it would be you. You are aware, right?”

  “Not always, a small jump, or change in a timeline will not necessarily manifest itself immediately. It may take hours or days to realize something else has rippled through a particular timeline.” Fynn smiled. “Where one timeline ends and another begins is impossible to say. It’s not like a switch that turns on or off.”

  The jetty seemed to be submerging more quickly than I anticipated. Some of the boulders were now awash by incoming waves. “The tide is coming in faster than I thought. We’d better head back.”

  “I’d like to make it to the very end, to that blinking light.” Fynn pointed.

  “The buoy? It shouldn’t be underwater like that, not yet anyhow... better go back.”

  “Surely you’re not going to let an old man like me beat you to the end, eh?” Fynn grinned and leapt to the next rock with unexpected prowess. It was wet but his bare feet held firm. A smile spread across my face and I leapt beside him. But Fynn was gone as I landed, clamoring to another boulder further out. A wave hit with a big slap against the rocks and sent a splash some ten feet in the air. I was nearly covered by a wall of water. We were going to get soaked. Fynn started laughing, so did I. He jumped again and I followed. Suddenly being wet didn’t matter in the least. I made it to the end of the jetty before Fynn and touched the buoy; he was only a few seconds behind me though. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he let me win on purpose.

  I promised to pick up Fynn early the next morning from his hotel. He was most insistent on talking to Lorraine, or Elaine again. Apparently there was something in her story that didn’t sit well with him. It was possible that Elaine had actually made a deal with Mortimer… a way to save her own skin but at the sacrifice of her sister. I was still trying to figure out if it was Elaine or Lorraine. I couldn’t completely accept that Fynn was right about this, despite the earrings.

  chapter 27

  dead ringers

  I arrived at the Blue Dunes Hotel early, probably just before eight and we set off to Garysville again. Fynn and I both had a feeling of dread. Elaine or Lorraine was not the easiest person to talk to. I pulled into the sandy driveway slowly, my tires crunched against shells and pebbles. We eased up to the cluster of tiny one room shacks. The double cottage in the back was all boarded up, the garage door was closed too. I had a bad feeling that something was amiss. Fynn probably saw it on my expression.

  “What’s wrong, Patrick?”

  “Something… it doesn’t look the same. It doesn’t look right.” I quickly got out and checked the doors and windows. Everything was locked up tight. “I’ll try calling.” I had her number on my cell. It started ringing. A man’s voice picked up. I recognized it immediately. It was Durbin.

  “What are you doing on this phone?” I asked.

  “I should ask the same question,” he answered. “You just called a dead woman’s phone.”

  “What?”

  “Is the chief inspector with you?”

  “Who, Fynn?”

  “No, Arantez.”

  I was glad to hear some sarcasm there and handed my phone to Fynn.

  “Yes… Detective Durbin, how are—” He cut himself short to listen. “Yes… yes… alright. Immediately.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “To your Spooky Park. There’s been another murder.”

  “What?” I ran around to the driver’s side, hopped in and took off out of the driveway. “What did Durbin say?”

  “Another woman has been killed. He’s waiting for us at the scene.”

  “Who?”

  “I fear the worst.”

  “But how?”

  “I know nothing more yet.”

  “It’s her… it’s Lorraine, isn’t it?”

  “It cannot be Lorraine.” Fynn glanced over at me. “I believe it is Elaine.”

  “Did you do this?”

  “Do what?” Fynn eyed me. “You’re not saying I killed someone again?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “Did you change the timeline? When you jumped out of Partners… or maybe all that hopping around on the jetty?” I asked, somewhat alarmed.

  “No, impossible. I only traveled forward.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I did not back-jump. I did nothing to change the present.”

  “So, it’s this Mortimer guy again?”

  “I don’t think it has to do with me traveling.”

  There was no fast way back to the Village anymore. Traffic was crazy bad already. I chose Route 16A and hoped to catch a back road to the Village. It took us almost half an hour. We pulled into a scene of considerable confusion. There were police cars, ambulances and even a fire truck; lots of flashing lights and radio chatter, and quite a few gawking tourists. A uniform stopped us at the main road that had been barricaded. I rolled down my window.

  “Hey Jardel… who’s this guy with you?”

  I stared at Officer Allen, slightly puzzled. “It’s Inspector Fynn.”

  Allen peered into the car. “Oh sorry, didn’t recognize you, sir. Go on through. Park over there on the left.”

  I pulled up at the bottom of the hill, and up to Sand City’s only phone booth, the one painted blue, just at the Village Green. A slate path circled the whole park, and a few others led up the hill the main lawn. Why it was named Spooky Park is still something of a cont
roversy. It’s official name is Central Park, as it stood more or less in the center of the Village. The actual name Spooky came from two dubious sources: its close proximity to a large and ancient cemetery, or to the infamous raccoon that prowled there, or did in the 1960s. Apparently he lived in an old elm tree all those years ago and would stalk the grounds every night, scaring anyone he’d run across. The locals named him Spooky. And any Raccoon that took up the same residence was also so named. I think I did a story on it once…

  Durbin greeted us at the police tape. “Jardel, Inspector Fynn,” he acknowledged our arrival grimly and led us into the park. There were crime unit techs swarming all over the place, probably called in from the county or the state. They were unpacking equipment and carrying steel boxes filled with bags and tags, swabs, masks and gloves, and little numbered yellow markers. There was no way Durbin could not ask for help after so many killings.

  I’m not sure I could make sense of what I was seeing at first. We walked by some high hedges and came upon the Egg, Lorraine Luis’ sculpture. It was about eight or nine feet in diameter, and about five feet high, rounded and roughly oblong, and along the top I saw a woman’s body draped across rather artfully. Clearly, she had been posed. She was on her back. Her head was tilted to one side facing away from us, her neck arched severely, and one leg was propped up with a bent knee. Her other leg was crossed underneath, straight, and it tapered to her foot en pointe, just like a ballerina’s. One of her arms dangled towards the lawn with an open palm, the other was draped across her forehead. She was barefoot as well. We walked closer. I could see she was dressed in a white gauss skirt, maybe thigh-length, and a white midriff top. It seemed to have a red speckled pattern on one side. For the time she was frozen in this pose.

  Durbin broke the silence: “Spotted this morning, early... Annabel from the library... She called in the nine-one-one… paramedics at first…”

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  “The preliminary says blunt force trauma, somebody hit her hard, and more than once.”

  “She’s barefoot,” I commented. “Just like her sister…”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jardel?”

  “Like the girl in Wright’s Park.”

  “Wright’s Park? Where?”

  I glanced at Durbin. He didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. “The Jane Doe at Sunset Park.”