Dark Luck (A Suspense Thriller) (3 page)

“Dad, what if we ask them to tell us what year they
invented the time machine?” Mike said. “Can we do that? I’m really curious.”

“Sure. Why not?”

As a matter of fact, that was a good idea: it would be
quite useful to know how long they were going to have to keep his message alive.

10.

‘14, 28, 29, 33, 48. Mega 1, Megamillions, June, 2035.

Time device was invented in 2222.

If you have questions, write them down, put letter in
stainless steel time capsule and bury it at +34° 20' 2.63", -118° 26'
32.64."

Nick Duplass, May 1, 2223.’

Nick’s second email came on September 12th. To Ted’s
disappointment, it had no mention of the date of his death.

As Ted reread the message, it crossed his mind that
either articles ‘a’ and ‘the’ became optional in the future, or Nick simply
didn’t care about grammar.

Ted was glad Nick had signed his full name. And it was
nice to know what year he was writing from.

Ted printed the email, then folded the printout and put
it in the wall safe. Telling his sons about the second combination now was a
bad idea, he figured. They’d start spending like there was no tomorrow if they
knew that another pile of cash was coming twenty two years from now. 

Nick Duplass. Judging by the last name, it appeared
that Ted was dealing with his direct descendant. And it was two hundred and
nine years from now that they were going to invent the time machine. Two
hundred years was certainly no cakewalk, but it was much more manageable than
half a millennium. Nine generations. It made Nick his
great-great-great-great-great… Well, who cares?

The realization that his bloodline survived for the
next two centuries gave Ted a warm, fuzzy feeling.      

14, 28, 29, 33, 48. Mega 1,
Megamillions, June, 2035.

It looked like Nick had sent him another winning
combination for Mega Millions. And he did it without being asked, by the way.
Or maybe one of Ted’s future great-grandkids added a second jackpot to the wish
list to enlarge the inheritance. Two hundred million dollars was a lot of
money, but when you split it among ten heirs, you suddenly end up with a
laughable figure. And don’t forget the estate tax; this sucker could go as high
as fifty five percent—and maybe even higher—depending on who was in charge of
the government. Yes, a disciplined investor could double this fortune every twenty
years, after accounting for taxes. However, the number of heirs was also going
to increase considerably in twenty years. Just look at the Rockefellers: there
currently were one hundred and fifty living descendants of John D. Rockefeller!

Ted walked to the bar cabinet and poured himself half a
tumbler of whiskey from the decanter.

If you have questions, write them
down, put letter in stainless steel time capsule and bury it at +34° 20'
2.63", -118° 26' 32.64."

Nick finally took the initiative. Now Ted could see
that Nick Duplass had brains.

The coordinates—what else could those numbers
be?—pointed to a spot in the middle of Wilson Canyon Park, which was located
twenty miles north of Encino in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. Ted
was beaming with satisfaction. He liked the fact that Nick had picked a place
just half an hour away from his house. Ted was fine with Nick’s choice of
medium, too; a written note could last for several centuries in a metal box.
Although paper sounded like a flimsy material, there were plenty of books in
libraries that were over five hundred years old.

Why did Nick decide not to take advantage of the
Internet to store Ted’s messages to him? Perhaps he didn’t want to rely on
servers and Internet companies. Two hundred years was enough time for computer
data to be lost twice and for a dot-com company—even a giant one—to go bankrupt
a dozen times. It was also possible that they did not use the Internet at all
in 2223.

Wasting no time, Ted opened the word processor and typed
his message to Nick:

‘I want to know when and how I die. My name is Ted
Duplass, I was born in Seattle, WA, on March 10, 1970.

Ted Duplass.’

It was not an epistolary masterpiece, but it would do
the trick. Short and to the point.

When he was about to send the document to the printer,
Ted decided to add his social security number. The more details, the better, he
thought. There could be more than one Ted Duplass born on March 10
^th
,
1971 in Seattle, WA.

Then he went online and ordered two time capsules on the
site called Future Preservation. He paid for expedited shipping; he couldn’t
wait to see if Nick’s idea would work.

Later that day, he drove to Home Depot and bought a
shovel. As he placed the shovel in the trunk of his Range Rover, he asked
himself how deep a hole he was going to dig, assuming he would bury the time
capsule upright. According to its description, the capsule was eleven inches
long, so Ted figured that two feet should be deep enough. 

11.

Two days later, Ted went to Wilson Canyon Park and,
when it got dark, buried the capsule with his letter at the spot indicated in
Nick’s email. The hole he dug was two feet deep, just as he had planned.

He couldn’t stop thinking about death as he shoveled
the earth.

How old would he be when he left this world? How was he
going to die? Would it be a heart attack? Cancer? An accident? Or maybe he was
going to be murdered?

Suicide?

No, Ted was positive he would never consider killing
himself.

By the way, would Wilson Canyon Park still be a park in
two hundred years or was it going to be turned into a residential area? That
burial spot could very well be located in Nick’s backyard in 2223.

When he finished filling the hole with soil, Ted was
giddy with impatience. He had no doubt that Nick would receive his message, but
nevertheless he wanted to see clear and positive proof of that. As Ted walked
to his car, it dawned upon him that he probably wouldn’t have to wait too long.
He might not have to wait at all. You see, Nick knew the location of the capsule
two days ago, the minute he sent Ted the last email. He might have replied
yesterday.

Ted took his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and
opened the email application. A jolt of adrenaline shot into Ted’s system:
there was one unread message in the
[email protected]
inbox.

The email was from Nick. It was brief and to the point,
as usual. 

‘Ted Duplass was killed by his wife Nora on September 30,
2013.

I found your time capsule.

Nick Duplass.’

Ted stopped walking and reread the email. What the
fuck? Nora was going to kill him? Why? How?

September 30th. Two weeks from today.

What the fuck?

12.

“Did Nick tell you when you’re going to die yet?” Mike
asked when Ted handed him his allowance check. It was September 22nd, eight
days before Nora was supposed to kill Ted. 

Ted shook his head. “No. I’m still waiting.”

Honestly, Ted was impressed that he hadn’t hesitated to
lie to his son. The ability to think on your feet was a great quality to have.

Why had he lied? Well, telling Mike that his mom was
going to kill his dad didn’t seem to be a very good idea to Ted.

Anyway, it was what they called
a white lie
, so
no one had gotten hurt.

Watching Mike shove the check in his jeans pocket, Ted
said, “By the way, do you know anything about Mom that I ought to know, too?”

“Like what?” Mike gave him a curios look.

“Cheating, for example. Is Mom cheating on me?”

“Why do you think she’s cheating on you?” Mike lifted
his eyebrows.

“I didn’t say she’s cheating on me. I’m asking if you
know something that could be of interest to me. And apparently, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s okay, son.” Ted patted him on the shoulder.

Later that day, Ted left for Las Vegas. He chose not to
fly, fearing that Nora might somehow gain access to airline databases (through
a friend working at the Los Angeles Police Department, for example) and find
out where he went. He used a fake name when he checked into the hotel. He paid
for all his purchases with cash from the moment he left Encino till the moment
he came back home.

Ted suspected that his murder would be premeditated. Nevertheless,
he kept an open mind and recognized that the possibility, however nebulous,
existed that it was going to be an accident. Nora might run him over after
losing control of her car. Or shoot him while cleaning a gun. Do you have any
idea how many people get injured or killed in gun-cleaning accidents in America
every year? One hundred.

It could also be one of those cliché scenarios where a
character actually caused the prediction to be fulfilled while trying to
prevent it from coming true.

Ted was still alive when he returned to Encino on
October 15th. He stayed two weeks past the date from Nick’s email just in case.

He hoped the problem had been solved. He was wrong.

13.

Ted received a new message from Nick on October 17th.

‘Ted Duplass was killed by his wife Nora on October 29,
2013.

I found your time capsule.

Nick Duplass.’

Ted frowned. What did this mean? Was the date in the
previous email wrong? Or had Nora simply rescheduled the killing?

Well, he should have expected that. Nora didn’t quit
easily.

Depending on her motive, she might never give up this
dumb idea. By the way, what was the motive?

Most likely, money. Nora probably wanted to lay her
hands on his fortune, which was certainly understandable. She might have a
lover. Some hot young surfer type with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. A woman
in love doesn’t care about the law and the consequences of breaking it.

But it could also be the good old spousal hatred.
Twenty two years of marriage can do that to you. He had never hated Nora,
though; he wondered why. 

Ted sighed quietly. At least now he knew that the
murder was premeditated.

What could he do to stop her?

Maybe he should tell Nora that he was onto her. That
was how civilized people handled conflicts—they talked to each other.

Showing his cards to Nora was risky and accomplished
nothing. You don’t tell your killer that you know what he (or she) is up to.
The information he had received from Nick was his trump card, and he had to use
it wisely.

Divorce? Unfortunately, since he had won the lottery
while they were married, he’d have to give Nora half of his winnings, so
divorce was not the optimal solution. 

He could write Nora out of his will—and tell her about
it. She wouldn’t bother killing him if she got nothing after his death, would
she? That would be true if his money was all she was after.

He couldn’t go to police since he had no real evidence
that Nora was plotting to murder him.

By the way, how did the cops find out that it was Nora
who killed him? They couldn’t get this information from him, because he
couldn’t be his own source. You see, Nick wouldn’t have known that Nora was the
killer if the cops hadn’t cracked the case first.

Apparently, Nora somehow slipped up. She wasn’t a
professional assassin, after all. The question was: what was her mistake?

Too bad Nick hadn’t told him how she was going to kill
him. If he knew Nora’s plan, it would be easier for him to figure out how she
got caught.

Or maybe she never got caught. Maybe she made a
deathbed confession to her grandkids to unburden her conscience.

Whatever. Who the hell cared?

The murder weapon—what would it be? A gun? A knife? A
sledgehammer? Sodium cyanide? Or a hairdryer in the tub?

Ted got up and began pacing the room.

For some reason, he had no doubt now that Nora was not
acting alone.

How about a private investigator? People often hire PIs
to sniff out their spouses’ secrets.

No, he’d rather not involve a private eye in this
matter. What if Nora ended up dead sometime down the road? The fact that he had
hired an investigator would indicate to the police that he suspected his wife
of adultery, which would lead them to believe that he’d had a motive to murder
her.

If you want something done, do it yourself, isn’t that
what they say?

Two days later, Ted managed to install a spy
application on Nora’s cellphone, which allowed him to track the cell’s
location, see the call history, and read every text message his wife sent and
received. He was on the right track, but he didn’t know that yet.

14.

There was a breakthrough in Ted’s investigation on
October 21st,
eight days before Nora was predicted to strike. The
breakthrough happened by accident, around midnight, when Ted came home from a
poker game at his buddy’s place. As he crossed the semi-dark living room, he
saw Pete sitting in an armchair with the whiskey decanter in his hand. Ted
didn’t have to smell Pete’s breath to figure out that his son was drunk like a
skunk.