Sand City Murders (13 page)

“Yes, the future as well, though this is a relative term.”

“What do you mean, relative?”

“Time is not so linear as you might believe.” Fynn paused again. “For me there is not such a great distinction between the past and the future.”

This is crazy stuff, I thought, but said, “Okay, say I accept all this for now… how do your special powers help you solve crimes?”

“They don’t, not in the least.”

“Why not?”

“Causality. As I’ve already said, the past determines the present.”

“Causality?”

“Yes. Cause and effect. My abilities are useless for solving crimes, though they are quite useful in preventing them.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not at all. When I prevent a crime there is little else to discuss… and, in this case, no one
but you
would remember.” He gave me a quick smile. “There would be no criminal, no justice to serve. Crimes can only be solved in the present, usually with evidence and deduction.” Inspector Fynn turned off the light and drew the garage door down again.

“Shouldn’t you lock up?” I reminded him. “You know, prevent a crime?”

“I’m debating what to do...”

“You want someone to steal your car?”

“Well, it’s not really mine… and yes, I would be most curious to see who is interested in this car at present.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Only that if someone else does show an interest, this would be important.”

“I say lock it up anyhow.”

“Yes, perhaps you’re right.”

chapter 11

barefoot breach

There is a saying around these parts: “If you don’t like the weather, wait an hour or so.” It was pretty much true— something about the wind coming off the ocean or the bay. And sure enough, the rain had cleared. The sun was breaking through and this March day was definitely warming up. There was almost a mugginess to the air. I had no idea what to do next. I think my brain was starting to shut down.

“What now?” I asked the inspector.

“It’s entirely up to you. Perhaps you need to return to your newspaper?”

“That can wait… one of the perks of the job. As long as I finish my story by deadline, my time is my own.”

“I see.”

“Should I take you back to the station?”

“I’m not sure what good that will do at the moment.”

“Won’t Durbin be needing you?”

“He would call your mobile phone if he does.”

“You are the chief now,” I admonished, though not seriously.

“Ha, yes, I suppose I am. But it’s only my first day after all.”

“Don’t you want to find out about the woman at Sunset Park… um, your wife?”

“There’s little more to know until the forensic reports come in.” He turned in his seat and gave me a slightly pained smile. “And I’ve learned much already.”

“Like?”

“The clothes she was wearing. Her earrings. The shoe prints…”

“Italian again?”

“I believe so.”

“What about the earrings? You recognize them?”

“I’m not entirely sure. It was a long time ago. Maybe my memory is not so good as yours, eh?” Fynn made a funny face. “But yes, these dolphins seem familiar to me.”

“Dolphins?”

“Her earrings.”

“Why was she cold? Cold to the touch, like you said.”

“I don’t understand this as of yet.”

“How about her clothes?”

“Any woman might wear such clothes on a given day.” He paused. “Though surely, she was not dressed for today’s weather.”

“What about being barefoot?”

“We’ve both seen this before at the other crime scenes. It is a way to obfuscate.”

“How’s that?”

“I suppose shoes are rather easy to trace, easy to identify.” Fynn paused. “I don’t think there’s anything more to it than that.”

“What else could it be?”

“I’ll have to give it some more consideration. I’m sure it’s nothing though…” There was an awkward silence as Fynn seemed to be lost in thought.

“Bring you back to your hotel?” I finally asked.

“If you’d like, but I’d prefer not. I’m feeling quite distracted.”

“How about a walk?”

“A walk?”

“Sure, up on the beach. It’s my favorite thing to do. There’s not a problem that can’t be solved by a nice long hike along the shore.” I firmly believed this, though that usually meant walking alone. It wasn’t clear how it would work with company, and especially the company of Fynn.

“Very well then.” The inspector smiled broadly. “I would enjoy a long stroll.”

We drove back up Long Neck but I turned right before the Village, cutting across Baxter Estates. It was another narrow, twisty road, Stewardess Avenue. To our left was Kettle Pond, summer cottages obscured by scraggily pine trees, mostly abandoned in the off season. On our right, I pointed out the large housing development, Baxter Estates, where most of the houses looked very similar, all in cedar shingles of one muted color or another, and all separated by one acre zoning requirements. They were tasteful homes, different only in their floor plans and their facades. Most were high peaked boxes, roofed with skylights, and set back in a huge clearing. The trees were still growing in, all less than twenty years old. Just after the looming water tower, the road forked to the right and to the left again. Left took us to the ocean. Right took us there too, but crossed the dunes and the salt marsh, and all the hidden sandy paths that the off road vehicles took to the beach. That automatically disqualified my low-riding Saab.

“Go right,” the inspector said unexpectedly.

“Why?”

“I should like to see South Point. I’ve heard much about this breach.”

I was only slightly impressed by his local knowledge but veered to the right nonetheless.

“They say that sometime in the future we’ll be an island.”

“Hmm?”

“The breach… someday it will cut us off from the mainland, and Sand City will become an island.”

“You could do worse, I suppose.”

I started to wonder if Fynn was even listening. We pulled into the parking area. There was only one other car, a beat up Subaru wagon, plastered with bumper stickers, and with a rusty old bike rack that was empty. It wasn’t likely that anyone would be riding today, or here… I guess somebody could access the bike path a couple of miles north. I pulled up to the far end of the lot, closest to the shore and shut off the engine.

“Don’t get me wrong, Inspector Fynn, but I’ve been thinking. You don’t seem too broken up by the fact that your wife is dead.”

He gave me a grimace. “I assure you, it hurts rather deeply. But I must remain above this feeling for the moment. I must have a clear head to solve this crime, or fix it, as you might say. I console myself by knowing that this is a temporary state of affairs. I will see my wife and daughter again. This particular present will be rectified and I shall never return to it.”

“Never return? What does that mean?”

“Ah, this is my first rule of travel. There are many places in my past to which I never return. They are painful places and this will be one of them.”

“The first rule of travel?”

“Yes. I have five hard and fast rules. The first being, don’t go back to terrible places.” The inspector undid his seatbelt. “There are rules of travel… and, how do you call them? Modes of travel…”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“By no means… There are only two modes of travel, both somewhat beyond my control. The rules of travel are my own personal guidelines.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Time traveling.”

“Since I was a child.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“A very long time,” he said. “So long a time, you would not believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

The inspector said nothing but hauled himself from the car onto the parking lot. I did the same and we made our way over a small gap in the dunes out onto the broad flat beach. The surf was churning wildly, waves crashed against the shore with their inscrutable rhythm. The clouds were low, rolling off to the east along the horizon. I didn’t see a soul anywhere on either side of us. The inspector sat down quite suddenly on a huge piece of driftwood. That startled me. I looked down at him.

“I can’t abide walking on the beach with shoes,” he said to my unasked question. “Cold or not, one must feel the sand between one’s toes.”

He was right of course, and I sat as well to take off my shoes and socks. The sand, a bit chilly at first, in no time felt fine, almost soothing. “Italian?” I asked and smiled.

“No, English, or made in China perhaps. I’ve forgotten…” He returned my smile and set off south towards the breach, probably about a mile’s walk. He set a surprisingly fast pace and came perilously close to the surf that relentlessly reached across the shore. We walked along the cold wet sand. I supposed that the ocean would still be freezing. I stopped to let a foamy wave touch my hand. It was bone chilling as it disappeared into nothing. I jogged a few steps to catch up with Fynn.

“The way I see it, we have two big topics of discussion. One: this new murder— and how I’m supposed to help you with it... And two: all this stuff about time travel.”

“That’s quite an agenda for our little jaunt. Where would you like to begin?”

I was flustered by his reply. “Let’s start with Lorraine.”

“Very well.”

“How can she be your wife?”

“I met her in the past, we fell in love and we were married. She is from your fair little town.”

“She’s from Sand City?”

“Yes. And there is a chance that Arantez may have known her.”

“A chance?”

“I seem to recall he was around back then as a very young man.” Fynn smiled slightly. “He doesn’t seem to remember me though…”

“Remember you? Back when?”

“In the nineteen seventies.”

“Oh…” I said, still confused. “Wait a second… is he a suspect?”

“No longer.”

“No longer?” I repeated, surprised.

“I have investigated his movements quite thoroughly and I’ve determined he is exactly who he says he is.”

I laughed at this. “Hang on… Is Durbin a suspect? Am I a suspect?”

“You’ve both been eliminated from my list.”

“What?” Words failed me again.

The inspector chuckled. “Both of you are far too young, and neither of you seem to have the ability to travel in time.”

“Are you saying the killer is also a time traveler?”

“That would appear to be the case.”

“This is a vendetta against you? A revenge thing?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“So… who?”

“It’s difficult to say. Someone with a cane perhaps?”

I stopped in my tracks but the inspector kept walking. “Okay, maybe I picked a bad place to start. I’m just getting more confused,” I called out and quickened my pace. “Suppose you tell me your story instead.”

“It’s a very long one,” the inspector said and turned to me. “Where would you have me begin?”

“You mentioned your childhood…”

He glanced at me quizzically.

“You said you’ve been doing this a long time, since you were a child.”

“Ah yes, this is so.”

“Why not start there?”

The inspector let off a deep sigh. “Alright, as you wish.” He folded his hands behind his back and set off again along the shore. “My first memories seem to date back to the fifth century…” The inspector paused and glanced at me for a reaction but I said nothing, deciding to just listen for now. “I lived with my family, my father, my mother and two brothers on the western road in the nation now called Hellas, somewhere between the island of Corfu and Delphi, on the mainland— but to say it was a road is an exaggeration... I was eight or nine, I suppose. My father owned what we would call a restaurant today. It was a way station, a kind of inn perhaps, or a campsite, right along the river on the north south road. Not much more than a stone hut with a thatched roof made of reeds. He would cook and serve a kind of trout— a rarity, that freshwater fish, and he’d make a few drachma from the enterprise. The world away from our little river glen was of course rather barren and arid. But here was an oasis, a wonderful place. Cool in the summer… and sheltered in the winter months. And the water, sparkling and beautiful. My task was to care for the fish in the pens.

“My father of course had fought against the Persians. He was a great hero. This little taverna was a family legacy. His father owned it, and his father before, all the way back to as far as anyone could remember. Apollo was the god of our household, though my mother favored Athena, as she was born and raised on the plains of Attica. My father met her just after the war and they were married despite their differences. And this was no small source of contention in our house as well. I dimly recall that my grandmother was involved in all of this… Yet, every year we would make the pilgrimage to the Theban Plains, to the east of us, to celebrate the defeat of the Persians that had occurred only fifteen years earlier.”

“Wait… fifth century, BC?”  I asked.

“Ah, your history is quite good, I see,” he said, then continued with his unbelievable tale. “Yes, back to my story: This river glen, this valley was truly an ancient place. Nearby, high up on the cliffs were many caves, a frightening yet enticing location for us brothers to visit. A place that contained the bones of people that lived before the Gods, even before the Titans, we imagined. My brothers and I would climb up there on any idle day and sift through the ancient fossils of animals, and perhaps some sort of men, which had been deposited there over the years. It was a long, hot and treacherous climb. More often than not, one of us would hobble home wounded or bruised, or cut to the bone. On one particular day however, we found a great length of rope… made of hemp, I suppose. Maybe left by a passing army or a militia. They often traveled the roads back then.”

Fynn glanced at me to see if I was still listening. I was, intently. This was an incredible, rambling yarn. I didn’t believe a word, but it was well told and fairly captivating. We walked on in silence for a few steps.

“So now armed with our newfound possession, my brothers and I were bent on having a bit of fun in that hot summer. We tied the length of rope to the highest branch of an old willow tree. Our aim was to swing out into the deep part of the river and drop in with a great splash. Being the youngest, I had to wait my turn; eventually it came: I felt myself swing, then drop to the water. But, in that very instant, something indescribable happened. Even at that tender age, I knew something was terribly wrong, and even beyond the searing pain. When I came up from the water, I could sense immediately that everything had changed. Firstly, I was quite a bit downstream from where I ought to have landed; a kilometer or more— no swing from any branch should have taken me so far…” Fynn paused, almost wistfully.