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Page 27.
Chapter 21.
 The call came while Jeff was feeding Checky. Dry dog food rattled into large dish while dog wagged tail. The rain had let up; vapor trails painted a gray-pink dawn sky. "This is McCarthy. Hold on to your hat. We had another dead editor last night."
"No!"
"Yeah. Pincus, from Jonathan Grace."
Thank God, Jeff thought, it wasn't Lexa. "Another clock?"
"Yeah, but with a twist. Well, I'm not trying to be funny. Couple of wild men invaded his house, strangled him with a cuckoo clock, tossed him in the pool. His wife called 911, but it was too late. His neck was broken, and in any case he drowned. Whichever came first, you know? We got us a real nut here, Maxxon."
"I'll say."
Jeff drove to the county hall of records. Either Max Dusenbery was just a crank, or else there was an overlooked needle in this haystack.
The county building was a 1930's abstraction, a lion with stained paws, situated at the edge of a park land in the middle of Raritania. Fog rolled along the concrete walls. Statues with accusing eyes raised swords and books, scales, and broken hands in warning. Jeff's footfalls echoed in the dim hallways. The books were old and dusty, like the light. He crawled among dim spaces, searching blindly. The dusty volumes mutely tempted him, and he pawed through them in frustration. Slowly, his search took him backward in time. Max Dusenbery's words echoed tauntingly in his memory. Bastard, Jeff thought. What is it you know, that you say will jump out at me?
There was not a specific volume for the Beering family. Instead, there were separate records, day by day, of land transactions; of births; of deaths; of DD214 military discharges; and so on.
Jeff jumped from Beering to Beering, hoping to find his answer. He found Lexa's birth certificate recorded in 1970, and lingered over that, lovingly. Father: Alex Beering. Mother: Myra Whiston-Beering.
Jotting those names down on a torn piece of paper, with a pencil stub scavenged from the librarian's desk, Jeff thumbed his way forward in time. 1974: The death certificate of 1LT Alex Beering, born such and such 1940... Jeff made a leap backward in time, opening an old volume with crumbling binding. June 21, 1940: Alex L. Beering, born to... Wait a minute! He grew eager, almost obsessed, pawing through the pages. Alex L.? He found the middle name: Louis. What did that mean? Alex was certified dead at the relatively tender age of 34, so he could not be the Louis that Albert Beering was after.
Eagerly, Jeff followed the thread of births and deaths forward, looking for some hint of a lost son. And found nothing. Slamming a volume shut, he sat angry and frustrated. Still, Max Dusenbery's words rang in his mind. He remembered the absent volume, 1900-1962, from the City Museum. It dawned on him that here were the records that might enable him to step through all those names. Could there somehow be a connection between the missing book and this elusive young man with the bulbous forehead and odd clothing?
Within an hour, Jeff hit pay dirt. "Holy Moses," he said out loud, staring into the browned fountain pen entries of some 1936 clerk. He was looking at the recorded death certificate of one Louis Beering, aged 30. Cause of death: Officially given as heart failure, circumstances not enumerated, on July 1, 1936. No spouse, no offspring.
It took minutes for Jeff to look up the birth certificate. 1906: Louis Beering, son of... "Lord," Jeff said, closing the book. Albert Beering had had a brother named Louis, who was about four years his senior. So much for that; now where was the Armaday connection? Jeff searched a while and could not find any record.
But his excitement continued as he raced back to the City Museum. He asked Nikos Stavros. "Did you know Albert Beering had a brother named Louis?"
Stavros shook his head slowly. "Not that I recall. It would have been in that missing volume..."
"Thanks," Jeff said, hurrying to the only other source of information he could think of. In the Public Library, one was able to look up old newspaper articles on microfiche. Jeff first asked for the week of July 1, 1936. Searching through the grainy pictures, passing oddly quaint but stylish ads for art deco hats, he came to the obituary article: "Mr. Louis Beering, 30, son of G. Lloyd Beering, brother of Albert Beering, died suddenly yesterday of heart failure. With his unexpected and tragic passing, the considerable fortune of the Beering family is expected to pass to his younger brother Albert. Family and friends expressed their grief in an impressive funeral mass held at Our Lady of Angels Episcopal Cathedral in Raritania City..." It was a short obituary article, and told little of who or what Louis Beering had been. Jeff found this suspicious. No school honors, no military service, nothing. What kind of life had this shadow lived? It almost seemed as though his passing had been observed in a pained, reticent manner.
Most importantly, why had Albert Beering failed to mention his long-dead brother?
Jeff paid for photocopies of the obit and went to a street phone.
Max Dusenbery was at home. "I was waiting for your call."
Jeff was once again fleetingly entertaining thoughts of leaving town and the hell with it. He rubbed his forehead. "Mr. Dusenbery, people are playing games here and it's giving me a headache."
"Did you find what I hoped you would find?"
Jeff touched the article folded in his pocket. "I'm not sure. I discovered that Albert Beering had a brother who died in 1936, named Louis."
"Good," Dusenbery said. "Then what deductions are you making?"
"That you're all crazy here in Raritania," Jeff said.
"Come, come," Dusenbery said. "Surely you are not evading the inevitable conclusion?"
"You tell me, Mr. Dusenbery."
There was a pause. "Well," Dusenbery said in a very sane and even voice, "Beering has asked you to find Louis. The only Louis in his family was his brother who died many years ago. Then, if you are to find a Louis Beering in the present, it is most likely his brother, who has traveled forward in time."
Jeff hung up.
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