Sand City Murders (41 page)

“Yeah, so? It’s very popular, especially with the tourists.”

“Oh, and an open mic night— Thursday’s, really?”

A Ska night was also scheduled, skinny ties optional; and a Metal weekend, headlining
The Day of the Beast
. Shorties was also trying something new this year: a Zydeco brunch every Monday.

Another fifteen minute walk down the beach and I reached my final stop: Sneaky Pete’s. I met with Sneaky Pete himself, aka Francis Peters, an older guy in his sixties, balding with the rest of his hair in a pony tail, and a real impresario. He owned the place too, an odd L-shaped building, open to the east and the south. There was no dance floor at all. It was just a vast sandy arena, about the size of half a football field, but covered with a canvas ceiling. Part of me wanted to ask about the back page. I still remembered that Jo-Anne had sold him a twelve week, full color run. I thought better of the idea and maybe I could find out from Pagor or Melissa. Sneaky Pete gave me a list of upcoming shows.

“Well, that’s a pretty impressive line up for the season... two A-list bands, three B-list bands, an exclusive reunion, and a famous rocker has-been.” One in particular blues artist on the list caught my attention. “I thought he was in a coma or something.”

“Don’t think so, I talked to him on the phone last week, well, his agent at least. No, he’s still kicking, still playing the blues… ”

He slid two tickets across the table.

“What’s this?”

“A couple of comps for the first show… Let me know if you need more.”

“Hey, thanks…” I continued down the schedule. There were a bunch of bands I’d never heard of, like
Chrome Alliance
, and the
Pointy Scanners.
”

“Kind of like a hipster wanna-be band. They’re very big on Spotify. And the
Scanners
have a huge following on Radio Reddit.”

“Wow, the
Furs
are re-uniting? No way. I thought most of them were dead already.”

“Most of them are… You gotta read the fine print… it says
re-formed.
They sound just like the real thing.”

“So, no original members?”

“The sax player might be, I think.”

“So more like a brand name than an actual band name?”

“I guess…”

“What was this club called before you bought it?”

“I’ve owned this place for like thirty years,” Pete said, seeming a bit prickly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that… I thought it might be a good story, all the clubs, all the weird names in the past…”

“Oh, okay, I see where your going…” Sneaky Pete smiled. “It used to be called—”

His sentence was cut short by a voice from the shadows. “It was called the
Yabadaba-Do
— I believe they ran into some serious licensing problems however.”

We both turned to see a figure back-lit against the bright blue sky. He was standing outside on the beach near the dance arena, but quickly stepped in.

“Fynn, what the hell? How are you?” Pete said and rose.

“Francis, how are things?” Fynn walked forward with an outstretched hand. “I hope you’re being kind to my friend here.”

Pete glanced over at me. “You’re friends with this guy?”

“I am.”

“Oh, and here I was thinking he was just a hack.” Pete started laughing.

It seemed apparent that Fynn and Sneaky Pete knew each other pretty well. I wondered from which time, or which timeline. Francis treated us both to lunch.

***

Inspector Fynn’s trousers seemed a bit formal for the day, a hot summer-like day. Once he stripped off his socks and shoes, and rolled up his cuffs though, he could’ve passed for a beach bum. It was probably the first time I’d seen him in short sleeves. I should talk, I was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with the sleeves entirely cut off. He was now appropriately dressed for the hot weather and it was then I noticed a strange scar on his forearm. It was about the size of a dime, I’d say, and had an odd crescent shape to it.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Hmm?”

“That scar.”

“Oh, an injury occurred when I was a child. A nasty gash. My grandmother fixed me up, but back then, she cauterized the wound with a hot poker. It’s been with me ever since.”

“Before your first jump?”

Fynn had to think about that, and cast his memory quite far. “I believe so, yes. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.” He glanced at me. “It seems to be very much like yours.”

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 apparent 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.”