With the end of his cigarette gathering ash, Taylor slouched off the mattress only to stub his toe on an open box.
"Bastard!"
He kicked the box and several hardback books spilled out over the floor. Every copy was covered with a layer of dust and images of Taylor's cocksure younger self staring back at him. With a stern expression, he bent to stub his cigarette into the eye of his own past.
He straightened to face the detailed map and meticulously structured data covering it. It was a chronological story of a mystery, and the facts were as follows:
Penelope Taylor, prominent doctor and wife of Nobel Prize winning Physicist, Hamilton Taylor, had vanished. She was last seen heading south on Route 22, on the night of November 5th, 2041. No vehicle or body were recovered, there were no clues, no motive, and no trace.
"I have your wife, mister! 1000 credits by midnight or else she's fucking dead!"
*Beep!*
Taylor felt numb all over, as if he'd heard each message a thousand times in a thousand variations. He lowered his head and drifted away from the wall. There was nothing new to see, and no new way to see it.
'HUSBAND LAUNCHES 2ND APPEAL!'
"This is Hank calling from City-Corp. Did you lose your home after the Greater Depression? We can compensate you!"
*Beep!*
'PRESUMED DEAD!'
"I seen your wife asshole! I got her right here...on the end of my dick!"
*Beep!*
'COLD CASE: 3rd ANNIVERSARY OF MISSING DOCTOR!'
"Do you seek relief from debt? There's no shame in it. Call Reverend Mike Schutz and his flock will pray for your debt deliverance. Let the Lord ease your financial burdens! Call today for our special rates!"