The Fabric of Time Read online

  “With all due respect, Jay, I’d like to stay on this Doe case. Everyone is acting really strange about them, and I think I can make some headway.”

  He frowned a little. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but these Doe cases have been a big fat waste of time and resources thus far. You’re worth more doing something that actually matters instead of chasing ghosts. If I had my way, we would’ve already dropped them. I’m going to send someone to retrieve the evidence from your desk and assign it to Gavin.”

  Gavin? It’s not important, and they’re going to replace me with Gavin? Bristling, Emelia crossed her arms in front of her chest and fought hard to not scowl angrily at Jay. She did not like anyone in her space or touching stuff at her station—everyone knew that and everyone obeyed the unspoken command to stay far away from her area. But Jay was her superior and he had every right to reassign her.

  Emelia simply nodded and stalked off, saying nothing for fear that she would regret anything said in that moment.

  She had gotten several steps away from him when he called after her, “I apologize for the inconvenience and frustration, Emelia. I know you don’t like people moving stuff from your station. I have an accounting from the evidence locker of what bags were signed out to you and I have personally vouched for every item, releasing you from charge of them.”

  “Thank you,” Emelia said flatly, turning around and smiling weakly at him. “I appreciate that consideration.”

  She ducked back inside her office and shut the door, then the blinds, trying not to let him see her fume.

  There was no point in going to the lab until they were done moving things around, so she whiled away the next 30 minutes cleaning and organizing her office, not that it needed it. When Emelia got to her lab area, there were several things shuffled around and misplaced. She hated when people touched her stuff. Whoever had gathered the John Doe evidence had replaced it with a bin of bags containing evidence from the investigation Jay mentioned she might be better suited for. With a huff, Emelia yanked the paperwork out of the front of the bin. They had kindly left it there for her, instead of her office, so she could just sit there and study it.

  Emelia thumbed through the papers, distractedly, not really paying any heed to the words that danced before her on the pages. She was seething mad, more than she ought to be over being pulled off the John Doe cases, but something about the whole situation stunk.

  This reeked of internal politics. Jay clearly didn’t like his star analyst being wasted on a case he didn’t consider important, and Emelia briefly ran through a list of people he could have been arguing with. When she didn’t come up with any obvious answers, Emelia sighed and started skimming the report. It seemed depressingly straightforward, and she wondered about being insulted. Even Gavin or Janean could do the work for this one. She resigned to move on, until a voice interrupted her train of thought.

  Steve, one of the new technicians Emelia wasn’t fond of, was talking to Gavin on the other side of the room. “Dude, look at this weird tat on this guy’s neck. It’s kind of like a broken barcode. Who would bother to get that done?”

  Emelia’s chin popped up. Already started, huh? Well at least she couldn’t accuse Gavin of laziness. She watched Gavin look toward his colleague and say in his weird affectation, “That is not a barcode, Steve, my dude. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a barcode.”

  The two men bent over the work area to study the picture more closely while Emelia continued to fume silently in her area. She set the organized crime file on her desktop and turned to the machines that, suddenly, had gone silent.

  Gone silent? Emelia glanced at the systems that had stopped working. They were such silent machines you had to have a trained ear when working next to them to hear when they were on and when they had stopped their analysis. In the loud laboratory, it was often difficult to know they were cranking away because the screens showed no activity until the summary was complete then it spit everything out at once in a comprehensive report.

  They left the fibers and have no idea I have them or that I’ve tested them.

  Emelia rolled her chair in front of the machines and studied the information they were churning out on the screens. She knew she was going to feel guilty about this, but Emelia couldn’t keep herself from looking. However, the results didn’t make any sense.

  “Damn . . .” Emelia whispered, biting her lip and twisting her necklace chain absentmindedly. “How can this be?”

  The tests she had run were straightforward and generally foolproof. However, the results on her screen were perplexing and . . . well . . . insane, really. The results had determined that both fabrics were of the same make, that they were most likely from the same article of clothing, and that they were both nearly one hundred years old.

  “What the . . . a hundred-years-old?” Emelia was whispering behind her hand, stunned to find this conclusion. She was absolutely certain that these fibers had come from the precise make of that shirt she had run across in the department store. The fabrics had looked and felt exactly the same.

  Then Emelia glanced at the estimated age of the blood on the fabric. Although determining age through blood samples was far from ideal, the response concerned her: Male, Est. Age 60-80.

  “What the hell is going on?” she mumbled, and saved the file to her personal online storage space, off of the system’s network.

  No one knew she had the information and she wanted to keep it that way for the time being. Sure, if they figured out what she knew that would be one thing. But she was mad enough about being sidelined that she wouldn’t just hand her findings to Gavin. Especially Gavin.

  Glancing around her, she pulled the fibers from the two machines and put them in two tiny spare bags from the stash she kept at her station, in case a bag from one of her cases tore.

  Surreptitiously, Emelia slid them along the desk, hiding them behind the bin in the corner. It wasn’t really concealing evidence. There were plenty more fibers to test if they even thought about doing so. It had been overkill of Emelia to run the analyses in the first place.

  She left the evidence area, walked to her office, and stood at the door, ignoring the mail in the inbox beneath her nameplate. It was two seconds until the green light blinked on and allowed her in. Her mind was rambling over the confusing details of the results. Emelia glanced at her watch, it was only 4:30 p.m., but she couldn’t focus and was willing to declare her workday complete. She never left before 5 p.m., but tonight was going to be an exception.

  Emelia grabbed her purse from the drawer, dropped her phone somewhere inside, and walked out without closing the drawer or her curtains. She didn’t bother checking the moisture of her plants’ soil and didn’t even pause to adjust the picture that never seemed quite level to her on the wall.

  When Emelia closed the door behind her and strolled down the hall toward the elevators, she was wholly lost in her thoughts about the John Doe. It was selfish to keep the findings to herself, but she wasn’t having any of Jay or Gavin’s garbage. Jay meant well, certainly, but Emelia had never been reassigned like this and found the circumstances insulting. And Gavin? Best not to think about Gavin.

  6 Troubled Times

  By the time Emelia made it home that night, she was smoldering. She locked the door and stomped to her closet, slinging her purse inside with such profound force that it bounced against the wall, fell off the shelf and dumped its contents all over the floor. Emelia looked at it for a long moment before picking up her phone and shoving everything else back inside, impatiently setting the purse back on the shelf behind her.

  Emelia quickly slid into loose fitting pajama bottoms and a baggy sweatshirt. Although it wasn’t necessarily cold, she was chilled to the bone, and to say that she was pissed was a royal understatement. If her coworkers had thought that Emelia was the Ice Queen before, they were in for a real treat tomorrow morning. It had taken her all of five minutes to find something from the Doe cases to run with and, although the
results baffled her, at least she had a lead—which was much more than Goober Gint or Slimeball Steve could say for themselves. Complete idiots.

  She sulked over to the couch and flipped on the television, channel surfing without landing on anything good. Emelia had almost done a full loop through the TV guide when a news channel caught her attention.

  “. . . now to Studio Twelve where Marjorie Parks has been joined by Noah Thicke . . .”

  “Thank you, Samantha,” Marjorie said straight into the camera, tossing her blonde hair over her right shoulder with a flirty half-smile and a nod in her signature move, “. . . and thank you for joining me, Mr. Thicke.”

  “It is my pleasure, Marjorie,” he assured her with his deep, gravelly voice. “But, please call me Noah.”

  With that, Marjorie blushed. And giggled.

  “Good hell . . .” Emelia muttered to the empty room with an eye roll.

  Marjorie cleared her throat, flipped her hair again, and smiled at Noah. “Mr. Thicke . . . er Noah, there have been some rumors circulating that you are going to run for president in the 2020 elections. Would you care to comment on that?”

  Noah tossed his head back and laughed. His grin turned wolfish. “Well, Marjorie, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Let’s just say that I think some very exciting things are in store for the future of the United States, and the world at large.

  “This nation is facing some serious and divisive issues,” Noah said somberly. “The rioting and protests that are happening across the nation are only the beginning of our problems.”

  Marjorie nodded slowly, intrigued.

  “You mean that there is more violence to follow?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Tell us Noah, have you seen what is coming?”

  Emelia snorted.

  Here they go again, The Amazing Thicke and his “prophecies.” Even in her thoughts her tone oozed sarcasm and disbelief. Noah turned from Marjorie to the camera and spoke.

  “Over the next few years, the quality of America’s education and health care systems will slowly decline. The lagging economy and the burgeoning debt of the government will only worsen, causing widespread poverty and unemployment. The terrorist attacks and shootings will increase, leading to continuous civil unrest. Before long, I fear that we will find ourselves in the midst of a second civil war.”

  Marjorie’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Noah gushed forward, “As tensions mount around the globe, many deaths will accompany the deterioration of our great nation. I see crowds erupting in violence in Morocco. Innocents will flee to Milan, putting a strain on the city with disastrous consequences. The ‘Day of the Dead’ will take on a whole new meaning in Mexico next year, and I would advise everyone to steer clear of Singapore in August.”

  The camera swung to Marjorie’s face. She was opening and closing her mouth as though she had something to say but couldn’t quite find the words. Noah always spoke with such conviction, as if he knew what was going to happen. It was both inspiring and terrifying, but worst of all was that Thicke was hardly ever wrong.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, Marjorie swallowed, “You paint a grim picture of our future, Noah . . . I . . . I’m not sure what to say about all that.” Trying to regain her composure, Marjorie forced a nervous laugh and continued, “You always say that you see a bright future ahead of us, Noah. How . . .”

  “Now, don’t fret Marjorie, I see good things, too. I see medical advancements like the first self-regulating artificial heart and archeological breakthroughs that will help us understand the mysteries of Stonehenge and Easter Island. Thomas Parker’s vision of electric cars for the common man will improve the quality of the atmosphere, and continued space exploration will yield something very worthwhile. On top of all that, in less than a decade I see the end of all cancers and a cure discovered for AIDS.”

  “Noah,” Marjorie interrupted, “You’re saying that you ‘see,’ as though you’ve had some sort of vision about all of this. Is that just a figure of speech? Or do you claim to be some sort of prophet?”

  Noah chuckled amiably. “No. Marjorie, it is a . . . figure of speech,” he chuckled again. The sound of his hollow laughter grated on Emelia’s nerves.

  “I can easily imagine this future,” Noah said, smiling with a placating glint in his eyes, his hands up in a gesture of surrender, “both the good and the bad. If we leave things as they are now, I assure you that these ‘prophecies’ will come to pass—both the devastating destruction as well as the amazing advancements. However, I also have a plan to help our country achieve the miracles while avoiding the misery.”

  The camera focused on a befuddled Marjorie. She swallowed hard, blinked a few times, and smiled weakly before saying, “Well, Noah, this had been . . . uh . . . certainly . . . exciting. Thank you for being here today.”

  “Of course,” Noah said, nodding and staring straight into the camera. With an ominous edge, he said without blinking, “I have seen the future, and I know the way.”

  They immediately went to commercials and Emelia, having had her fill of nonsense for the day, changed the channel. A fairly ugly anchorwoman was mid-report, her face portraying more boredom than concern. “In a Davidson Council meeting this evening,” the reporter said evenly, “protestors unleashed their fury, demanding William Tanner be arrested.”

  In the picture window to the left of her head, there were images of people pointing fingers and yelling at a council of people who sat calmly, staring at them stoically. “Tanner, the 8-year veteran police officer accused of shooting 21-year-old Parker Anderson on September twelfth, testified earlier today for six hours in front of the Davidson Tennessee grand jury regarding this case. The people’s outrage over Anderson’s death is erupting in protests all around the city . . .”

  The scenes rolled on, protest after protest, angry face after angry face, violence following violence, tearful eyes, gravesites. Emelia’s heart skipped a beat as she watched, Noah’s warnings ringing in the back of her mind. Increased violence, continuous unrest—he wasn’t wrong.

  Emelia flung her blanket onto the floor and rose from the couch abruptly. Rather than help her relax, the TV had only made her more agitated. She decided to go for a walk to get some fresh air and threw a bulky jacket over her baggy sweatshirt. Emelia squished her feet, with their two pairs of socks, into her tennis shoes, then ran down the stairs and out into the night.

  Outside twilight was kissing the sky, the last rays of sun softly fading under the horizon. Emelia walked briskly, turning this way or that and fumbling absentmindedly with the ring at her neck. She wandered around her building’s complex, weaving in and out of the gardens between buildings. The air was crisp and refreshing and, before Emelia realized it, she was roughly two miles away from her apartment in the pitch-black night.

  Glancing at her watch, she pivoted around and began heading home, deciding it was too late and dark for her to stay out. As Emelia turned around, she noticed not fifty feet behind her a man on the courtyard’s sidewalk, dressed all in black. Emelia was certain that she had not passed him earlier, and something about the way he was standing made her heart race. She took a deep breath and pulled her cell out of her pocket, pretending to make a call.

  He’s probably just drunk. Or homeless. Maybe both.

  Emelia began walking slowly, one hand pressing her phone to her ear and the other shoved deep into her coat pocket. As she got closer, Emelia realized that the man was staring at her intently. It wasn’t a threatening or menacing stare, but rather his eyes were fixed on her with a look of disbelief transitioning into puzzlement. It was as if he knew her, or was trying to remember her, which made Emelia shiver—even under four layers of material.

  She was worried that he would confront her, but as they came parallel he shifted his gaze to the ground and kept walking. They bumped shoulders and he murmured an apology. Emelia turned to watch him go, nervous that he might still try to follow her home.

  He had entered the breezeway wh
en she heard a scraping sound of stone against wood. Emelia cast her eyes upward, searching for the source, but every window in the complex was dark. She was about to dismiss the noise and head back home when it happened.

  Like a dramatic slow-motion movie scene, Emelia watched in horror as one of the gigantic flower boxes from the top floor of the closest building toppled over the balcony and plummeted toward the ground. Before Emelia had time to scream a warning, the concrete corner of the flower box connected with the man’s skull and he crumpled to the floor.

  “Help!” Emelia screamed as she ran toward the man. “Someone, please, help!”

  Several doors swung open, people coming out on their balconies and stepping out of their front doors. A gentleman on the first floor hollered, “I’ll call 9-1-1!”

  Emelia dropped to her knees beside the stranger. He was nothing but a puddle of blood and black fabric and immediately she knew that an ambulance wouldn’t be necessary. He was already dead.

  She reached out and lowered his eyelids, his head cradled under her left arm. Emelia didn’t know how long she sat there on the pavement with him. He had one hand on his chest, his fingers loose from what was once a clenched fist, and there was a small scrap of paper poking out near his thumb. Curious, Emelia gingerly slipped the paper from his fingers, careful not to move him too much. Scrawled in messy cursive across the parchment were two words:

  Find Artemis.

  Just then, the sirens sounded from around the corner and Emelia looked up to see that the ambulance had finally arrived.

  Not entirely sure why she did it, Emelia tucked the paper into her coat pocket then started to get back on her feet. As she pulled away, something on the man’s neck caught her eye—the strikingly black lines of a familiar tattoo. Her stomach churned and an array of images flooded her brain. The Doe cases from work, the man in Meredith’s story, and the dead stranger in her arms—they all had the same markings and she had no idea why.