Time Thieves

which Graham Textiles wanted to grace their underwear ads in all the trade journals. It had been a long session, and despite Janet Beecham's cute rump, she was a witless girl who seemed to do half of everything wrong. Today, then, was Thursday, the end of the month with no picture session scheduled. Larry had been assigned the last bits of design, and Pete had decided to take the day off to work at the cabin.
        
        He took a few more bites of the sandwich now that he seemed to be getting on top of things. By the time he had finished, however, he could still not remember anything more than the day of the week. He rinsed the dishes under the hot water and stacked them to dry.
        
        As he turned away from the sink, he saw the day-date calendar next to the message board on the wall.
        
        The calendar said: Monday, August 10, 1970.
        
        He stood there for a long while, looking at the date, not comprehending at all. How could it possibly be two weeks later than he thought? He would have been missed in all that time. They would have come looking for him. Della would have been hysterical, even though her mask of cool self-assurance seldom cracked. Then there must be something wrong with the calendar.
        
        As confident as he pretended to be, the fear remained, burgeoning inside him. Suddenly, the entire kitchen seemed alien, as if he were in someone else's house and not his own. The quiet of the rooms was deeper than it should have been. His skin goose-pimpled, and he had to laugh aloud to break the paralysis that had overtaken him.
        
        He turned to the message board, and he stopped laughing. Across the top of the board was written: “Della, Chief Langstrom called with news. Give him a ring when you come in. Cheer up, huh?” The message had not been written by Della or anyone else he knew, though it was a distinctively feminine hand.
        
        This time when he went through the house, he noticed the changes. His clothes had been shoved back in the wardrobe; a strange woman's clothes were there instead. In the bathroom, there was a second set of makeup utensils complete with a new tin of powder and brushes. There was a third toothbrush.
        
        He felt weak, ill. And he did not know exactly why.
        
        Downstairs again, he looked up the number of the police station and dialed it. When a healthy baritone voice answered, he asked for Langstrom and was told the boss would be back in an hour. Just as he dropped the phone into its cradle, the back door opened. Della stood there, her mouth open, her eyes wide with surprise.
        
        She was a beautiful woman in the prime of her loveliness, just turned twenty-three. Her black hair was worn long and framed a face that was freckled and pug-nosed. Large green eyes and a generous mouth finished the smooth and masterful canvas. Her breasts were high and full, her waist narrow, her legs almost too long. She wore a light summer dress which accentuated all these perfect lines. He could not help but feel a moment of pride, even in circumstances such as these, and he wondered if her pride matched his.
        
        “You,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, cast at him like an incantation.
        
        “Me,” he said.
        
        Her face paled.
        
        “Della, are you all right?”
        
        “You're alive.” It was said quietly, gently.
        
        “Looks that way,” he said, grinning.
        
        She ran across the kitchen, her sandals clacking on the tiles, and she was in his arms. But not for comfort, not to be kissed. She pummeled him, striking his shoulders with her small, fisted hands. Her face was furiously red and contorted, her lips strained back from white, even teeth.
        
        “What the hell!” he shouted, trying to fend her off and not managing it very well.
        
        When she had no more energy to use against him, she took two steps backwards and glared at him, green eyes flashing. “Where were you? You can't just stand there and pretend that you haven't been gone for twelve whole days!”
        
        “Twelve days?”
        
        “Damn you!”
        
        She kicked his shin.
        
        And then the fear in him became outright terror. Twelve days. He felt his knes weaken. He was trembling all over.
        

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    II
        
        
        It had