Dark Luck (A Suspense Thriller) Read online

  And how about those investment gurus who consistently beat the market? Ted wouldn’t be surprised if they received stock tips from the future. Apart from insider trading, that was the best way to explain their performance.

  7.

  After giving the matter a fair amount of thought, Ted decided to allow his sons to gain full control of their trust funds when they reached the age of thirty five. He announced his decision at the next family meeting.

  “Each one of you will receive three grand a week,” Ted said. “You can live very comfortably on three grand a week, I promise you. And I’m going to adjust your allowance for inflation every year.” He turned to Nora and added, “You’re getting five grand a week, honey.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Mike said. “Five grand a week? Seriously? We won two hundred million!”

  “I don’t want to spoil you, guys. I don’t want you to get complacent. If you lose focus and stop working on passing my instructions down the line, all this money will be gone just like that.” Ted snapped his fingers.

  You see, even though the plan had worked, Ted knew he shouldn’t soften his grip—not now, not ever. He and his kids (as well as the future Duplass generations) had to proceed as if they didn’t have two hundred million dollars in the bank. They couldn’t rely on any reminders that they wouldn’t have been able to afford if he hadn’t won the jackpot—such as a fifty grand private mausoleum, for example. A six-hundred dollar tombstone with his email engraved on it was okay because he had the means to purchase it before the jackpot, but a mausoleum would be a dubious bet since community college instructors could only dream about it.

  To put it briefly, the outcome couldn’t be its own cause.

  “What do you mean, Dad?” Joe asked. “We’ve already won.”

  “Are you an expert on time machines?” Ted replied. “Do you know how it works? No, you don’t. And I don’t either. I’m just guessing here, but do you want to take a chance and see what happens? Do you want to risk losing two hundred million dollars?”

  Joe shook his head. “No, of course I don’t.”

  “The same goes for your future children. Don’t spoil them. Don’t let them get fat and lazy, okay? We have to be very careful here, guys. This plan will work only if we keep our eyes on the prize and act as if nothing changed. Do you understand that? As if nothing changed.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Pete said. He exchanged glances with Joe and Mike. “I think I know what Dad’s talking about.”

  “Very good.” Ted gave Pete an approving nod. “Let me explain it again: if you don’t want to go back to being poor, we need to keep doing what we’ve been doing the last three years.”

  “Repetition is the mother of learning,” Joe said, imitating Ted’s voice. Everyone, including Ted, laughed.

  “One more thing,” Ted went on. “I want all three of you to start families in the next three years. You can surely afford that now. And I want you to have your first child in the next four years.”

  “First child?” Mike asked. “How many kids are we supposed to have?”

  “Three would be great. It’s a numbers game, boys. We’ve got to have as many irons in the fire as possible.” Ted wasn’t sure if this idiom fit the situation but used it anyway because he liked how it sounded. “I want you to be the best parents ever. I want your children to love and respect you. I want you and your kids to be tight as ticks. There’s no other way to make it work, guys.”

  8.

  Ted spent the first two weeks of August house hunting. Since he wasn’t looking for a mega-mansion, he set his target price at no more than four million dollars. Now, four million bucks could certainly buy you a castle with an inside swimming pool somewhere in Phoenix or Kansas City, but for Encino, which Ted had picked as his new home, it was nothing to brag about as far as real estate was concerned.

  He liked Encino for several reasons. It was an upscale city with a lot of beautiful houses in his price range, which couldn’t be said about Beverly Hills or Bel Air, where he would have to settle for a three-bedroom shack. Encino had a low crime rate—always a big plus—and was fairly far from the ocean, which could prove critical if the sea level actually rose at some point in the future.

  By the end of August, he was a proud owner of a gorgeous five-bedroom house about one mile north of Encino Reservoir.

  Then the fun came to an end.

  9.

  This question must have resided in Ted’s mind this whole time, but it was after his meeting with the insurance agent that he began to realize that he just had to know the answer to it. After they had discussed the homeowner’s insurance policy Ted was about to purchase, the agent asked him if he had sufficient life insurance coverage.

  “Accidents happen, Mister Duplass,” the agent said. “People die young every day. I’m not saying it will happen to you, but one has to be aware of this and prepare accordingly. Life insurance provides a safety net for your family's financial security.”

  “They already have a safety net,” Ted replied. “They’re going to have plenty of money without life insurance.”

  In the end, Ted promised the agent to think about getting life insurance for himself and his family. He spent the next couple of days pondering the agent’s words. The guy was right; accidents happened all the time, and people—both rich and poor—did die young on a regular basis.

  One week after Labor Day, Ted came to the conclusion that he should ask his future descendants to tell him when and how he was going to die.

  “Why do you want to know when you die?” Joe asked.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know that?” Ted replied.

  “Nah. I think it’s too depressing.”

  Ted waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not surprised. Guys your age think they’re going to live forever.”

  Ted had no doubt there was nothing wrong with wanting to know when and how he was going to die. Kings in ancient times—both mythical and real—just loved to ask their seers and oracles this question. Ever heard of the Oedipus complex? Oedipus was the son of King Laius of Thebes. After the oracle at Delphi had predicted that Oedipus would murder his father and marry his mother, King Laius drove a pin through his son’s feet to fasten them together and then left the child on a mountainside to die. Although the Oedipus story was a myth, Ted suspected that things of that nature had indeed taken place two thousand years ago. By the way, the prophecy came true; when he grew up, Oedipus did kill King Laius and marry his own mom, unwittingly, of course.

  “What if you find out that you’ll die tomorrow? What will you do?” Pete asked.

  “If it’s a plane crash, I’m going to stay home.”

  Pete and Mike bobbed their heads thoughtfully.

  “So let’s recap,” Ted said. “Now there’s one more message I need you to pass on to your kids and grandkids. I’d like to know when and how I die. Can I count on you to remember that?”

  “Sure, Dad,” Mike replied.

  “We did remember the lottery thing, right?” Joe said.

  “Yes, you did.” Ted shifted his eyes to Joe. “And I’m really proud of you all.”

  “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 10th, 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.