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Ellory Pickett may not have been a time-eating monster from outer space, but he was a common link in both of our mysterious death cases, and he may have played some sort of role in the murders. But what was it Sherlock Holmes said once? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I wasn’t ready to buy into the Inspector’s “time-eater” theory just yet. Ellory’s impassive face stared back up at me. I glanced down at the wrinkled stack of files.
He slammed the papers onto my desk and strode to the door, his trench coat whipping behind him. We need to stop Ellory before he feeds again.” “I know you don’t believe me yet, but this is your answer, Mark. Every second we waste is another second it could be stalking its next prey.” He rubbed his cheek hastily, clouds of dense smoke billowing from his mouth. Didn’t you hear me? This thing feeds on time. There’s a perfectly rational answer to all this, and we’ll find it. But you can’t just go around inventing monsters that fill in all the blanks. “I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about, but do you hear how crazy you sound? I agree that whatever’s happening here is weird. It’s like a parasite, leeching the life force out of others.” The time-eater takes those missing years and feeds on them. The past tries to catch up to the present, and wham. “This thing is reaching back in time and tweaking little details – an unbuckled seatbelt, a faulty parachute pull cord – so that our victims die years before they should have.
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It’s like a piece of latticework, a series of avenues that go forward and backward and sideways in all directions.” He tried to gesture with his hands, but gave up. “This… entity doesn’t perceive time the same way you do. Let’s just call it a ‘time-eater.’ It’s messing around in the past, turning these people’s near death experiences into real death experiences.” “You don’t have a word for what this thing is. The Inspector began to pace in agitated circles. There’s something inside him – something that’s been eating away his years until he became that dried-up husk you saw.” I knew what we were dealing with the second you described him to me. There’s no way a person could age that much in the course of one year.” “The old man I saw on Ellory’s porch must have been his father or something. “This guy’s only forty years old,” I said, looking up from the paper. I could imagine it growing white and wispy in several years’ time. His nose had the same crooked bent to it, and his stringy black hair was already starting to thin. That’s not to say there wasn’t a resemblance.
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The license was newly issued, just as the Inspector had said, but the figure in the photo was far too young to be Ellory. Pickett just last year.” He passed it to me, his fingers taut. “This is a license renewal, issued to Mr. The Inspector reached for the desk and withdrew another sheet of printer paper. “But what do these sources have to do with Ellory Pickett?” “This can’t be coincidental,” I agreed, handing back the files. I thought of her body, splattered in a puddle on the front porch, and an unpleasant tingle crawled over my skin. The girl in this picture had no idea how close she would come to dying. There was a photograph of her plummeting through the air, laughing, with a stretch of grassy ground waiting far below to meet her. The post from Vivian’s blog was cheery and riddled with emoticons. The newspaper didn’t say much about Edgar’s car crash, but the vehicles in the picture had been crumpled like used soda cans, and I had a hard time imagining anyone walking away from this one. I glanced through the Inspector’s sources.
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A few more seconds and she would have hit the ground full force.” Apparently she was skydiving with her college roommate last summer when she had a close call with her ripcord. And look at this.” He shifted the papers and showed me a grayscale printout. The paper says he would have gone through the windshield on impact if he hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt.
Edgar Guerrera was involved in a car accident eight years ago that nearly killed him. He handed me the papers and stabbed at the first source so hard his finger almost poked through it. “I’ve been looking through my research and I’ve found a disturbing link between the victims,” he said. He glanced up, startled, as if he hadn’t heard me come in. He had a stack of papers in his hands that he kept flipping through.
The Inspector was waiting by my desk when I finally got back to the station.
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