Time Thieves

to the window. The lawn was empty and still, the town quiet. He could not see anyone lurking about the willow or the hedges. There was no movement among the oak trees by the curb. Certainly, there was no one close enough to be heard.
        
        Apparently, there was someone in the house, more than one someone, and the best he could do for a weapon was a handsized dumbell with twenty pounds of weight on it. He hefted it and left the bedroom.
        
        The whispers continued, barely audible strings of words which only occasionally were clear enough to understand. “… twice in one week… only then… what am I going to… isn't… where…”
        
        It was not sufficient to be sensible, and the clarity of it did not increase as he went from room to room. He thought that it was a woman's voice, though it was more neuter than anything else.
        
        In fifteen minutes, he had cautiously inspected the house, and he had not discovered any intruders.
        
        Still: whispers.
        
        He stood in his den, by the large walnut desk there, holding the dumbell as if it were a talisman. Slowly, it occurred to him that he was not listening to a voice; he was not hearing these words with his ears, but in some altogether strange fashion that sent a chill along his spine.
        
        “If he thinks he can… never… even if she… there shouldn't be… could kill him if… damn, damn, damn…” The voice became softer until it was not a voice at all, but the distant, lonely weeping of a woman. Definitely a woman.
        
        But who?
        
        He stood there in the dark, “hearing” the sobs of the woman, unable to decide what to do.
        
        In time, he put the dumbell down and sat in the black leather swivel chair behind the desk.
        
        The running commentary began again, though it was now as distant as the crying, too far away for him ever to catch a single word of it.
        
        His head lowered so that his chin rested on his chest, he tried to close out all stimuli except that ghostly voice. He closed his eyes now that he felt secure in his own home, and he placed his hands over his ears-an act which did nothing to dull the murmur of the eerie voice.
        
        The voice grew distinct again; it was most definitely a woman's voice, soft and musical. She sounded as if she might be in her early or middle thirties. Indeed, he was struck with the notion that the voice was familiar, though he did not know where he might have heard it before.
        
        “… money… he'll pay… then see… who…”
        
        The voice seemed to emanate from his left, though there was nothing in that direction but a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Nonetheless, he swung his chair in that direction, keeping his eyes closed and his hands pressed flat to his ears. When he faced the bookcase, he found that her voice was clearer than it had been. He was catching whole phrases and some short sentences instead of random words.
        
        “Hank, you sonofabitch!” she moaned, voicelessly.
        
        That was followed by the soft, barely audible sobbing sounds.
        
        But that line had been delivered with such ferocity, such depths of emotion, that he knew immediately who he was listening to. Next door, in an eight room Tudor house, Henry and Annie Faydor lived with one child, seven-year-old Robbie. Annie was a vivacious blonde, thirty-one or two. It was Annie he had heard.
        
        He listened, his throat dry.
        
        In time, the chaotic sobbing noises died and words trickled back to him again. He listened, tuning more closely to what she said. It was a long, sad tale about Henry-Hank-and his unfaithfulness. She alternately considered killing him, merely divorcing him, or even taking him back and forgiving him. She rambled over the horrid details, fascinated by his faithlessness, but mostly giving way to the dominant train of thoughts that took most of her attention: “I'm going to take him to the cleaners, get him for every dime, the house and the car, fifty percent of what he earns from now on, until no woman would have him and he'll be fighting like hell to make ends meet!”
        
        He let her whispers fade into the background until he could only hear bits and pieces again. He was disgusted with himself for eavesdropping as long as he had.
        
        He sat in darkness,