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Page 28.
Chapter 22.
 Jeff slammed the door behind him and strode across the carpet. He tossed a copy of Louis Beering's obit on the desk. "Mr. Beering, I have found Louis."
Albert Beering sat motionless, and for an instant, Jeff thought he was dead. Skeletal, the old man looked up. His eyes were racked with grief. "Not quite, Maxxon." He picked up the article and gazed lovingly at the picture of Louis.
Jeff said: "I'm going to share this with McCarthy, and then I'm off the case and back to my book."
Beering arched an eyebrow. "That's fair, I guess, but I think just now I need you to stay with it."
"Why, Mr. Beering?"
Beering shoved the article back, gently. "I confess, I have not told you the whole story." He reached in his desk drawer and lifted out a large, leather-bound volume. "Maybe this will raise your interest."
"So you had the missing yearbook all along." Jeff planted his fists on the desk and leaned forward. "Mr. Beering, people are being murdered out there. Maybe you think your brother is doing it. If you know something and are withholding it, you're committing a crime."
Beering gathered his words carefully. "I'm not used to being spoken to like this. If this were a business matter..."
"It's a criminal matter," Jeff said.
"It's a family matter for me," Albert said. "Nevertheless, I have asked Detective McCarthy to come, and he should be here any moment. Why don't you have some juice?"
"I'll just sit down if you don't mind," Jeff said. Despite himself, he could not help leafing through the yearbook. It was filled with documents, photos, yellowing news clips. Here and there, one of the brothers was smiling. Jeff had to look closely each time at the caption to see if it were Louis or Albert, they had looked so much alike.
Beering said: "Max?"
Jeff looked up, startled.
A thin man, easily Beering's age, but with a full head of silky white hair, stepped out of an adjoining room. "Hello, Dr. Maxxon. We were waiting for you."
Jeff rose, and they shook hands.
"So we meet at last," Dusenbery said without a trace of his former rancor. Jeff could see the charm and persuasiveness in this old mystic, and wondered if he wanted to strangle him, or just walk out. Dusenbery's eyes fastened with genuine surprise upon the book in Jeff's hand. "Albert, it was you who took the yearbook! Why?"
Beering prepared a long cigar. Jeff noted that Beering's bluish fingers seemed to tremble slightly. "Maybe it was foolish," Beering said. "I wanted to protect Louis. I don't blame you for being angry. I'd like to level with you."
"That would be swell," Jeff said.
The intercom buzzed. "Yes?" Beering snapped.
"Sergeant McCarthy," a female voice announced.
"Ah! Send him in!" Beering faced Jeff, looking more composed. "I wanted us all to meet and straighten things out."
McCarthy let himself in. He wore his long, wet overcoat, and held his hat against his chest, as if covering up a truth in his heart. Beering sprang around the desk and ushered McCarthy to a chair. "Come in, come in, Sergeant. I know I've kept you and Maxxon somewhat in the dark, and no time like now to get it all on the table." Beering went back to sit behind his desk and said: "Maxxon, one of your selling points for me was that you are a historian. I hoped, once we got you past the disbelief stage, that you would help us. I thought we had more time, but I'm afraid we don't. So, after this conversation you will either say Dusenbery and I are crazy and walk out on us (I promise not to fire you, and you can go finish your book) OR you will help me convince my brother to go back."
"Back?" Jeff echoed.
Beering lit a match and hollowed his cheeks. The cigar began to steam. "Back to 1936. Back safely to the past, so he won't be killed."
"Or kill any more editors?" McCarthy added.
"I didn't forget that," Beering snapped. "Maxxon, whether you believe it or not, my brother is walking the streets of our city today. I can see from your look that you think I must be hallucinating. The old boy had a bad dream, saw a ghost, you're thinking. No no, I assure you, the minute I heard about Miss Sondergood's death in the clock, I KNEW."
"You had me and McCarthy on a wild goose chase."
"Easy, Maxxon," McCarthy said.
Beering's face looked pink and strained, and his eyes grew wet. "He is my brother, Maxxon. I understand what he has done, and I hope we can help him to undo it."
Jeff held his head. He remembered the odd sensations he'd been having now and then, of another presence in his mind, of old cars driving by where there weren't any. "Let me try and understand. Your brother traveled forward in time and is here, killing editors. You want me, or us, to stop him, bundle him back in his time machine or whatever--if we should believe this--and make him go away." Jeff noticed that McCarthy was hanging his head. "Mr. Beering," Jeff said, "assuming all this is true, your brother is a psychopathic killer. I don't see any hope --."
Beering held the old photograph in both hands without listening to Jeff. He had a weird shine, a glow of love, on his face. Jeff and McCarthy exchanged looks, shakes of the head.
Max Dusenbery butted in. "Perhaps I can offer some help. You see, there is another person involved in all of this."
Jeff's heart thudded. Lexa?
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