Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 98, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 588 & 589, October 1991

Suicide by Andrew Klavan

Quietly, Pruskin moved to the light switch by the door. He flicked it up. The yellow light fell on the sleeping figure. The figure lay on his side, but Pruskin could make out the shock of his limp black hair, the profile of his lean, pale, hawkish face. His own face, his own young face.

Pruskin felt a warm surge of tenderness at the sight of himself. God, he thought, I look so innocent when I’m asleep.

An unusual story, a hybrid of mystery and science fiction. For some it might be reminiscent of the works of Frederic Brown and Robert A. Heinlein, but it is also a fine murder tale with several surprises lurking in the shadows.

To learn more about the author (who appears on our cover), see page 141. But first read the story — we think that afterward you won’t look at yourself in the mirror in quite the same way...

Where the hell am I?

Joshua Pruskin’s eyes shot open. He found himself sitting inside a plexiglass capsule. There was a shrill pulsing tone coming from somewhere. It hurt his ears.

Frantic, he peered through the capsule’s clear sides. He saw what looked like a deserted storeroom. Old shelves leaning against the walls. Old equipment on the shelves: burners and clamps, broken machinery with naked wires twisting out of it.

He began to tremble. He didn’t recognize this place. He didn’t know how he had gotten here or what he’d been doing a moment before. He couldn’t remember. And what was that sound, that irritating tone?

Where the hell am I?

He looked down and found the source of the noise. It was coming from a small black box in his shirt pocket. Pruskin took the box out, turned it in his hand. A red light flashed on it as the tone sounded again and again. Under the light was a button and a plastic label with the words: off. press here. A wire ran from the box to the back of his neck. It seemed to be attached to his neck somehow.

Pruskin hesitated. His hand was shaking. Finally, with a convulsive movement, he jabbed the button with his finger.

On the instant, a white-hot vibration corkscrewed through him. His body went rigid. His head was thrown back. His eyes bulged. His teeth clapped together.

Then, it was over. It was over and he was looking around him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. All the breath was leaking out of him in a steady stream. He whispered:

“Sweet Jesus. Sweet Jesus Christ.”

And he remembered the Time Machine.

It’s useless. Stone had said that. Phil Stone; he remembered him, too. That bastard. Sniveling. His boss: Pruskin’s. A shallow, grant-grubbing, glad-handing wart like that.

It’s useless, Josh. You have to help us.

Yes, he remembered everything. Stone had come to him. Whining, near tears. He’d been happy enough to grab the media attention when things were going well, hadn’t he? “Phil Stone’s Time Machine.” “Phil Stone: the man who made science fact out of science fiction.” The reporters had practically swarmed around the “dynamic, youthful-looking scientist.” And they ignored “his assistant.” The old man with the torso shaped like a teardrop: his chest sunken, his belly big beneath his belt. The man with the pinched face and the thinning grey hair. They had no use for old Pruskin.

But when the animal experiments went wrong, Stone came crawling to him in a big hurry. You’re the real brain of the project, Joshua. I’ve always said so. You have to help us. The machine is useless. If a living creature sent back in time grows younger, his memory patterns will be erased. He won’t know where he is, what he’s doing. He’ll go insane.

Still sitting in the plexiglass capsule, Pruskin smiled. His hand slipped into his open windbreaker. He touched the butt of the revolver wedged in his belt.

Well, my memory patterns are just fine, Stone old chum, he thought, remembering exactly what he had come for.

His heart beating hard, he crawled out of the capsule. He stood looking at the room a long moment. Seconds ago, its walls had been covered with control panels and computers. The Time Machine itself had stood at its center: a metal hull surrounded by a plexiglass tube; a shape like the planet Saturn.

Now the room was once again the abandoned basement place that it had been. His eyes moved over it slowly. Then they stopped.

In the far corner, there was an old showcase. A cabinet fronted by a large pane of glass. Pruskin saw it and stood stock still. A small, trembling sound escaped him.

Look at me!

He gaped at his own reflection on the surface of the glass.

He was young again. He was. His hair was black and lush again. His chest was broader. The bulge of flesh at his waist was gone. He hadn’t noticed it before, but his pants and shirt were loose on him. He was slim and taut and muscular all over. He was young again. He was young.

Trying to keep his hand steady, he reached up now and worked the black box’s electrode out of the base of his neck. It had all gone right. Everything had worked perfectly. He was young and yet he could still remember. He could remember his whole life.

And yet his whole life lay before him.

To avoid the security guard, he left the lab by way of the roof. He was carrying his duffel bag now. It was strapped to his back. All the same, he practically danced his way down the fire stairs. And when he reached the ground, he struck off swiftly into the night.

What a walk that was! Through the dark, under the clustered trees of the quiet campus. Up the hill toward the apartments on the north side. With every step, he felt the force of his new energy — or his old energy, really, his old health. And his old painlessness. He hadn’t appreciated that when he was young, when he was young before. No dull burning in his lower back. No achy gurgle in his stomach. None of that constant niggling in his bladder. He appreciated it now. He loved it now.

Pruskin laughed out loud as he strode up the hill. He wasn’t even out of breath. He drew in the honeysuckle and the California autumn with deep, deep lungs.

This place, he thought. This very place. He had been a graduate student here. A brilliant young man. The most expansive scientific mind since Einstein, one of his professors had said. And no less a physicist than Chaim Mendohlson — Chaim Mendohlson himself — had been his mentor.

He reached the top of the hill. He paused there. He turned and looked behind him at the night trees, the still campus. This place, he thought, this was where I was before. Before his friends turned away from him, before the scientific establishment rejected him. Before the women. Yes, especially the women. Before all those women ruined him.

Even now, his stomach went sour at the thought of them. Betsy Farmer, who had seduced him away from his mentor. Julia, his first wife, whose affairs with his colleagues made him a laughing stock. And his second wife. And his third; Christ, his third.

He shuddered. He turned away again. It didn’t matter now, he told himself. It wasn’t going to matter any more, ever again.

He walked on. Left the campus. Hurried up Eucalyptus Avenue, taking in the sights. There was the old Pizza Garden where he’d held court with admiring friends. And the arty movie theater — The Seventh Seal every two months. And the all-night donut shop: he breathed in the smell of it, he remembered the smell of it. He remembered all of it. His body remembered it all.

He went on, up to the corner of Eucalyptus and Ash. There was a house here. Charming; a brick front covered with ivory. A white portico with two broad casement windows opening out above its pediment.

Pruskin stood on the sidewalk, looking up at it. Those windows led into the second-story apartment; he remembered that, too.

Once more, he reached under his jacket, patted the gun in his belt.

This was it. He had reached his destination.

He’d been locked out of this building once. It was at the height of his passion for Betsy Farmer. He’d come home from a date at four in the morning to find his respectable landlady had bolted the door. Young Pruskin had had to shimmy up the portico’s columns and swing himself into his room through the open casements. As he remembered it, it hadn’t been all that hard to do.

So he did it now. Clipping himself to the pillar with knees and elbows, jerking upward like an inchworm in the night. Hell of a way for an old man to behave, he thought. But even with the weight of the duffel bag strapped to his back, he was soon scrabbling over the pediment, grabbing for the window’s ledge. A moment more, and he slid noiselessly into the darkened apartment.

As soon as he entered, it was as if he had been here yesterday. In spite of the dark, he knew — his senses knew — the boxy rectangle of the tiny studio. The Hollywood bed pushed against one wall. The record player and its stack of 45s: “Travelin’ Man,” “Runaway,” “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” In one corner of the floor there was the portable TV on which he’d watched news of the Cuban missile crisis. In another corner was a small table with textbooks and papers scattered on it everywhere. Yes, he knew it. It was good to be in the old place again.

His eyes began to adjust. He turned in the direction of the Hollywood bed. Now he could see the figure, lying still, breathing evenly, under the covers.

Quietly, Pruskin moved to the light switch by the door. He flicked it up. The yellow light fell on the sleeping figure. The figure lay on his side, but Pruskin could make out the shock of his limp black hair, the profile of his lean, pale, hawkish face. His own face, his own young face.

Pruskin felt a warm surge of tenderness at the sight of himself. God, he thought, I look so innocent when I’m asleep.

For a moment, he didn’t know if he’d be able to go through with it. His legs felt weak. His mouth felt dry. He slid the duffel bag off his back and let it down to the floor. Walking unsteadily, he came forward. He sank down and sat on the edge of the bed.

No. There was no turning back. He knew that. The Time Machine had been left behind. The choices were already made. He had to steel himself. He had to think of all the terrible things that would happen if he didn’t go through with it. The foolish career decisions his young self would make, the bad investments, the treacherous advisors. And those women. Those women: they would destroy him — all the hopes, all the promise that he saw lying there. He had to do what he had come for.

He breathed in deeply. He felt his pity — his pity for himself — dissipating like mist. His lips pressed together tightly. He reached forward to take the pillow from beneath his own sleeping head.

But before he reached it, the other — his young self — made a noise. He began to open his eyes.

Pruskin froze, his hand extended. Now, he told himself, you have to do it now!

But he couldn’t. He just sat there, hung there above his young self, staring down at him, fascinated.

His young self blinked sleepily. He turned his head on the pillow. He saw Pruskin, this other Pruskin who had come, sitting over him.

“What?” he said. He returned the intruder’s stare. He shook his head. He said again, “What?” Wide awake now, he sat up quickly. He kept shaking his head. His back was pressed against the wall.

And still Pruskin the time traveler remained motionless, his hand half extended.

“What’s happening?” Pruskin’s young self looked at him wildly, looked wildly around the room, at the wall, at the door, back to him, himself, this living reflection of himself. He clutched his head as if to hold it together. “What the hell is happening here?” He covered his face. Rubbed his eyes with both hands.

Pruskin couldn’t help it. He let out a short laugh. “It’s not a dream,” he said. “It’s yourself you’re looking at.”

“What’s happening?” the other said yet again. “I don’t understand this. I don’t— Oh, God!” He held his hands over his mouth. His eyes were the eyes of a cornered animal. “What is it?” he hissed frantically. “What’s going on?”

Pruskin smiled gently now. “It’s time,” he said. “In the future, you can travel in time.”

But his young self only stared and shook his head.

Pruskin tried again. “Use your brain,” he said. “You’re already working on the principles. Hough’s tunnel, atomization. It all becomes real. It all works. You’re the first person to actually do it.”

Now, finally, it started to get through. Pruskin could see the realization rising in those terrified eyes. His young self straightened on the bed. “Time?” he whispered.

“I’ve come from your future. I am your future. Or I was, anyway.”

His young self wiped his mouth with his hand. “You’re—?”

“That’s right. Now you’re getting it.”

“But that’s— But you can’t— I mean, you’re — young. You’re my age. You’re... you’re me!”

“Yes, that surprised us, too. Turns out a living body traveling back in time grows younger. Light speed makes no difference.”

Suddenly, young Joshua let out a laugh just like the one Pruskin had let out a moment ago. He shook his head again, in wonder now. And then: “But what about your memory?”

Pruskin was pleased. I always was a quick study, he thought. “Well, of course that was a problem. I had to create a kind of recorder: a computer that memorizes the synaptic patterns of the brain, then uses a series of electrical signals to reconstruct them when you reach your destination.”

“Oh, that’s great. That’s brilliant.”

“A lot smarter than Phil Stone, anyway.” Pruskin chuckled an old man’s chuckle. “I didn’t even tell him about it. He’s probably still scratching his head, wondering who stole the goddamned capsule.”

“Phil Stone? Cripes, we’re not working with that ass.”

Pruskin shrugged. “He got the funding.”

“He got the funding? But he’s an idiot! He’s second rate — third rate.”

“Yes. And he still is. But he knows how to handle himself, you see. That’s the thing. He knows how to get grants, how to make friends and which friends to make. What I mean is: he knows all the things that you don’t. He gets ahead, while you make mistakes. A lot of mistakes. That’s why I came back.”

Pruskin paused a moment to let his young self take this in. He watched tenderly as that familiar young face slowly began to glow with understanding.

“I get it,” the youth said softly. “You know what’s going to happen. To me. To us. You know what happens in my future.”

Pruskin nodded. “That’s it.”

“And you can show me what to do. You can tell me what to look out for, where the pitfalls are.” He was sitting rigid now with excitement.

But the elder Pruskin sighed. “Unfortunately,” he said, “experience is not something you can just tell.”

“Well, yes, but you can alert me to trouble spots. You can—”

“No.” Pruskin shook his head sadly. “That’s the point: experience changes you. Each mistake changes you into the sort of person who won’t make that mistake again. I’m not the man I was, you see; I’m not the man you are. I’m now finally the sort of person we need — that you and I need — in order to live our life the way we should. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Well — no,” his young self answered. “I mean, how can we do that unless you take over my—” He stopped short.

Yes, Pruskin thought sadly, I was a quick study even then.

“But what about — what about me?” said his young self. His poor young self. And even as he spoke the words, Pruskin could see that he understood.

“I’m sorry,” Pruskin told him.

“No.”

“Try to understand—”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You want a good life, don’t you? You don’t want to be poor and obscure while other men, lesser men, win all the honors.”

“But—” The youth was pressed up hard against the wall now, as if he were trying to get away. “But, I mean, it wouldn’t be me then. It wouldn’t be my life any more.”

“Oh, it’ll still be you,” Pruskin said soothingly. “It’ll just be the later you. The better you. The you that you’ve become.”

His young self was shaking his head again, but Pruskin was ready now. He was growing excited, in fact — breathless. He was eager to get started on his new existence.

“Please,” said his young self, “you can’t do this to me. To yourself. Please.”

Pruskin made a face. He didn’t like to hear himself whimper. He reached inside his jacket.

But all of a sudden, his young self threw the bedcovers aside. Pruskin whipped out his pistol. His young self froze. “Please,” he whimpered again.

“Just relax,” Pruskin told him. But he could hardly speak himself, his heart was pounding so hard. “You can’t die if I’m alive. We’re the same person. As long as I’m alive, we’re—”

“Oh, God!” His young self tried to break from the bed, but Pruskin was too fast for him. He snapped the gun barrel across his forehead, knocking him to the floor. Now he grabbed the pillow and was on top of himself in an instant. He pinned his arms with his knees. He pressed the pillow over his face. He felt himself struggling under him, his body twisting and heaving. Pruskin’s breath squeezed out of his throat in hoarse rasps as he pressed the pillow down hard, as he felt his old life darkening — darkening, and dawning again inside himself with a rich, bright, mushrooming warmth.

And then it was over. His young self lay still.

His eyes closed, Pruskin leaned over him, pressing the pillow down, rocking gently back and forth.

He buried himself in the Thunder Cave, by a lover’s lane in the mountains. The cave was a dirt-floored crevice rent by earthquakes in the mountain rock. Tremors caused frequent cave-ins there, which kept explorers and spelunkers away. He didn’t think the grave would be uncovered anytime soon.

But the work itself was nervous work. He had to wrap his body in the tarp he’d brought, carry it outside to the parking lot, dump it in the trunk of his old Chevy, and grit his teeth as the jalopy sputtered and chugged its way up the mountain road.

He parked at the base of the lover’s lane, then carried his duffel bag down the slope to the cave entrance and returned to the car and got the body. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he started up the path. The weight of it — the weight of his own corpse — made him queasy. The feel of it flopping against his back. He kept looking around, afraid he was being followed.

No one can suspect you, you old fool, he told himself. For Christ’s sake: the victim is still alive.

He reached the cleft rock. He lowered the body and the duffel bag into it, then climbed down himself.

By the dim beam of a flashlight, he worked his way deep into the rocks. When he felt he was in far enough, he set down his burden. He got his tools out of the duffel bag and began to dig.

The pick and shovel sounded loud to him in the stony earth. He stopped his work every few minutes. He listened to the night, to the corners of the cave. No one was there. No one could hear. No one could suspect him.

The work went slowly. It was two hours before the hole was deep enough.

Finally, he unrolled the tarp and dumped his body into the grave. In the dim glow of the flash, he saw his own eyes staring up at him out of his own youthful face. It made him feel sad now to see himself limp and lifeless in the dark earth like that.

He tossed his gun in beside the body, then filled the hole in as quickly as he could.

One evening in November, Pruskin sat alone in the northside Pizza Garden. He was eating a slice, drinking a beer. Reading a paper on “Entropy and the Direction of Time.” Feeling very good, very satisfied with himself indeed.

It had taken him a few weeks to get adjusted. After all, while he knew his future quite well, his present had become only a dim memory. He had had to remember so many little things: what classes he was taking, where he kept his checkbook, not to mention the names of all the people he was supposed to know.

But then, he was known to be absent-minded — he could get away with a gaffe here and there. And the advantages of his situation far outweighed the inconveniences. With thirty new years of science in his head, he was far more brilliant now than the first time he’d been in school. He knew which professors to cultivate and which to ignore. And, perhaps most importantly, he knew which people he had to avoid.

He was just smiling at these thoughts when he looked up from his journal and saw her. She had sat down across from him. Just the way he remembered her: her small smile glistening, her eyes deep and green.

“Aren’t you Joshua Pruskin?” she said.

And for a moment, Pruskin couldn’t answer her. His eyes moved slowly down over her brown hair, her slender neck, the swell of her peach blouse, the down on her bare arms. Yes, he thought, a little breathlessly, and you’re Betsy Farmer. The coed in Elementary Particles.

But out loud he only said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Betsy Farmer,” she said. “The coed in Elementary Particles? I really admired the paper you wrote on the strong force.”

God, thought Pruskin. She’s so young. To make love to a girl that young, that soft again—

He started to smile into those cool eyes. And then he stopped. He remembered: the Sanderson project. She had sought him out; she had slept with him. And then she had begged him to enlist in the Sanderson project. He had gone along, enthralled to her, even though he knew Professor Sanderson was Chaim Mendohlson’s arch rival. And after his relationship with his powerful mentor was ruined, the project failed miserably — and Betsy abandoned him so she’d be free to conduct her affair with Sanderson out in the open.

Pruskin slapped his book shut. He showed the coed a wintry smile. “Excuse me, Miss Farmer,” was all he said. And he pushed his chair out and stood.

As he left the Garden, he glanced back at her. She was just sitting there, staring. Her mouth was actually hanging open. Pruskin laughed as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He continued chuckling all the way back to his apartment.

But that night he lay awake on the Hollywood bed. He lay with his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. She was so young, he thought. The skin of her arms was so smooth, so pink. To feel such fresh skin against his own again. To drink it in with all the energy of youth, the experience of age, and the yearning, the yearning of so many years.

He wanted a woman. He wanted the privilege of his new youth: a young woman. But the very thought of it made his heart clutch with fear. He would have to be so careful this time. It couldn’t be like before. He would have to keep away from those smart, crafty, calculating bitches. He would have to choose his target. He would have to stay in control.

But no matter what else, he realized, one way or another, he was going to have to have a woman.

A few days later, he found one. He was sitting in the student union between classes. He was in an armchair. He had a textbook open on his lap, but his eyes were moving over the other students. He watched them: sitting on the tattered furniture, standing by the broad picture windows, even lounging on the worn rug, reading, talking, sipping sodas, munching chips. Pruskin studied them for a long time. And then one of them looked back at him.

She was a shapely blonde in a pleated skirt and a crisp white blouse. She had her hair in a high ponytail. She had a sweater draped over her shoulders. She blushed when he returned her glance — lowered her eyes and swiveled away.

Pruskin remembered women like that. Her youth — the shy youth in her eyes, the young shape of her — made him nervous, almost as nervous as he would have been the first time he was young himself. But this wasn’t the first time. He stood up and walked over to her.

Her name was Cathy. She told him she was majoring in English. I’m in! Pruskin thought. He asked her out to dinner.

He took her to The Haven, a lobster place out by the water. They sat by the window and drank white wine while a full moon rose over the darkening waves.

“I don’t know,” Cathy said to him. “I mean, I want to get married and have kids and all that. But sometimes I think, you know, I could do other things, too. For a while at least, anyway. I mean, I don’t want to be one of those girls who just comes to college to meet guys. Not that I don’t want to meet guys, you know, but — I don’t know, do you see what I’m saying?”

Pruskin nodded sympathetically. He had often thought that given another chance he would treat women differently than he had in his youth. He would control his ego and hold his tongue a little. He would listen to them more. He thought it was by far the surest way to get them to put out.

“I understand,” he said.

And Cathy smiled gratefully.

By the time they had their coffee, she was leaning across the table toward him. When they left the restaurant, she let him take hold of her hand. They walked together across the parking lot to his Chevy. When they reached it, he took her by the shoulders. Cathy tilted her head back, closed her eyes. He kissed her.

“This has been wonderful,” he told her softly. “I don’t want it to end.”

She looked at him, let her eyes play over his face. Then she lifted them to the sky. The big moon now hung ripe and orange above the Pacific.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she whispered. “Let’s drive up to the Thunder Cave.”

The words made Pruskin shudder. It was a natural thing for her to say, of course. That was where the students went in those days — to “neck,” as they called it. Still, it was only six weeks since he’d buried his body in that cave. He could still see those blank eyes, his own eyes, gazing up at him sadly as he shoveled the dirt on top of them.

But he wasn’t about to risk losing this moment. He let her into the car and they drove up to the mountain.

It was Friday night. There were plenty of others parked on the lane up there. Pruskin had to drive down close to the cave before he found a spot for the Chevy. There, he and Cathy sat together silently for a while. They looked out through the windshield at the lights of the town below. Pruskin put his arm around the girl. She slid close to him. She lay her head on his shoulder. The scent of her hair, the heat of her scent, went through him like whiskey. Cathy raised her face to him. He kissed her until his mind swam. Those lips, those soft cheeks, the firmness of her breasts when he put his hand on them: only a man his age could truly appreciate it.

He glanced over her shoulder a moment. In the distance, in the moonlight, he could just make out the shadow of the rockfall where the cave was. He felt the gaze of those sad, those buried eyes of his. Oh, you would have ruined everything, he thought. You would have been destroyed by Betsy Farmer, ruined your whole career. Stop complaining. He lowered his lips to Cathy’s neck.

“Mm,” she said after a while. “I really do love it here.”

“It is nice,” said Pruskin. He was holding her in his lap now, stroking the inside of her leg gently.

She stretched in his arms. “I’m going to come up here again on Sunday,” she said.

“Are you? Not with someone else, I hope.”

“No, you goof.” She laughed. “No. Me and some of my friends are coming up. We’re going to explore the cave.”

“What?” Pruskin’s breath caught. His stomach went cold. “You can’t do that,” he said.

Cathy laughed again. “Sure, I can. Why not?”

“Um... well, isn’t it dangerous?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point. No one’s been down there in over ten years.”

He tried to speak again, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t think at all. And he had to. He had to think.

“Uh... look, Cathy.” He lifted her up quickly and set her back in the seat beside him.

Her lips parted in surprise. “Joshua, what—?”

“I’ve got a — test. I have an important test tomorrow and I really have to study for it.” He started the car engine. He had to get rid of her. He had to think. He had to figure out what to do.

“But tomorrow’s Saturday,” Cathy said.

“Is it? Yes, well, they work you hard here, don’t they?”

He pulled out of the lane. Cathy gave a great huff and slid away from him, her shoulder against the far door. He drove down the mountain quickly, bumping over the dirt. Cathy crossed her arms over her chest. She pressed her lips together, not speaking until the car stopped before her dormitory. Then she flung herself out of the car. “Thanks a lot!” she said. And the door slammed shut behind her.

The Chevy’s tires screeched as Pruskin pulled away from the curb.

He paced the floor of his room into the night. He worked over the possibilities.

Maybe they won’t find it, he thought. But he knew they would. Maybe I should kill her, too. Draw her out into the woods and— But he knew he couldn’t. And what about her friends? Was he supposed to kill all of them?

No, there was only one answer. It ate its way out of him, the worm in the apple. He paced from the shelves to the bed and back again, and it chewed and screwed and slid relentlessly to the surface of his consciousness. By three-thirty that morning, he could no longer avoid the conclusion.

He was going to have to move the body.

He waited a day: a damp, sickly day. He lay in bed, clammy, shivering, watching the shadows ride across the ceiling. Even when night fell, he stayed where he was, lying on his back, the sweat running down his temples, dampening his pillow. All that night he waited. Saturday night. He knew the last lovers wouldn’t leave the lane until morning.

At two A.M., he went. He drove up the mountain. He parked on the empty lane and walked down to the cave in the dark.

With his duffel on his back, he worked his way into the rock. In a few minutes, he was there again, standing at his own grave. In the glow of his flashlight, he could see the ruffled earth. There was no question but that Cathy and her group would find it. With a sigh, he set the duffel bag down. He took out his pick and shovel and set to work.

The earth was harder than before, but it hadn’t frozen. The pick worked through it easily. The shovel cleared it away. Pruskin dug quickly, without thinking. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to think about what he was going to find.

But at last he did find it. The point of his shovel sank into something thicker than the earth, and softer. Pruskin’s gorge rose. He forced it down. He dug more carefully. A new smell wafted up to him, a dense gas that forced its way into his throat. Pruskin gagged, but he kept on digging. Slowly, the body was uncovered. The legs first. Then the torso. He squinted, trying not to see.

And then he cleared a shovelful of dirt and saw: the face.

It was still his face, his own face. His own face with the skin stretched so tight that it pulled the jaws apart. A grey beetle, startled, clambered out of his open mouth. Pruskin choked and turned away. He pulled the tarp out of his duffel bag and dropped it over that decaying reflection.

And as he did, the cave’s shadows were blown apart by a burning white flash. Pruskin reeled back, blinded. The light bore down on him. He raised his arms to shield his eyes.

And a voice shook the cave like a quake, like thunder: “Stand back! Stand away from the grave! Put your hands in the air!”

Pruskin peered over his raised arms. A figure stepped toward him out of the light. “Put them up,” it said again.

And he saw her. It was Cathy. She was holding something in front of him. It was her wallet. It was her badge.

“Cathy Norris,” she said. “DA’s office. You’re under arrest.” Behind her, the man with the spotlight and the mini-camera continued to film the scene.

Before Pruskin could say anything, he was grabbed from behind. Powerful hands wrestled his arms around his back. Rings of cold metal snapped shut over his wrists.

He was brought roughly out of the cave, pulled from above, pushed from below. Young men with stern faces closed in around him. He stood with his hands cuffed, his head bowed, his mind spinning. He jumped as the red light of a police car came flashing up the lane.

A moment later, Cathy climbed out of the cave. Another figure stepped out of the dark and stood beside her. It was another woman. No, it wasn’t. Pruskin stared stupidly. It was not another woman, it was the same woman: it was Cathy, too.

The first Cathy and the second Cathy smiled at each other.

“Thanks for letting me watch,” the second Cathy said. “It was really, really neat.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have,” said the first Cathy. “But I know how much you always worried about your future.”

“Yeah,” said the second Cathy. “But working in the DA’s office: that’s just really, really neat.” She sighed. “So how’s my love life?”

The first Cathy laughed, patted the other’s shoulder. “Hang around, kid,” she said. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

With that, she left the other one behind and approached Pruskin.

Pruskin’s mouth opened and closed. “You’re from then,” he managed to say finally. “You’re old. You’re from then.”

“Fifty-four is not exactly old! I mean, jeeze.”

“How did you find me?”

“Someone finally stumbled on the body,” Cathy said. “It was quite a mystery, too: a 1960s skeleton buried in the cave with a 1990s gun lying beside it. Nobody thought the two things could be connected at first. But when I did finally think about it, I naturally thought about you. After all, where I come from, you’re a very famous man. Inventor of the Time Machine. Winner of the Nobel Prize. One of the most impressive careers in modern science and all that. Still, it took me a while to figure it out exactly. Then I checked your dental records. They matched the skeleton’s teeth — if you left out all the work done after the Sixties. When I saw that, I suspected what’d happened. The only problem was how to prove it.”

She took hold of one of his elbows. A man approached and took hold of the other. They started to lead him up the slope, toward the lane where the police car had parked.

Pruskin’s jaw was slack. He still couldn’t quite comprehend it. “Was it always you, then? Even in the student union?”

“Sorry,” Cathy said. “It was me right along. If I’d known the exact time of death, I would’ve come back to witness the murder itself. As it was, I had to get you up here, get you to tip your hand, before I could be sure, before I could make my move.”

They reached the police car. A man, faceless in the night shadows, pulled the back door open. Cathy guided her prisoner down onto the seat. Pruskin looked up at her and sneered.

“Every female I’ve ever known has betrayed me,” he said.

Cathy shrugged. “Whose fault is that? You pick ’em. The way I look at it, you must be self-destructive.”

And then she laughed — and then she shut the door.