Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (10 page)

Denver’s interest was piqued. “Where is Mr. Nelson?”

Shep looked long and hard over at the Chief. Denver noticed the solemnity of the silent exchange. The Chief took the lead once again. “He, uh, had an unfortunate
accident
.” Shep shot him another look, but McCloud never missed a beat. “But, uh, in 1950, when I jumped, the leadership decided that a few of us Jumpers should try to get highfalutin jobs in the community. My police background was perfect, and with a little
budgetary
persuasion, the mayor appointed me just over four years ago.”

“So,” Denver began, “all of the Jumpers, except for you and Billy, work here?”

The Chief deferred to Shep on this one. “The simple answer is,
yes
.” Shep paused. “All of the Jumpers living in Normal, that is. Well, and then there's Grandma Martha. But she’s retired.”

Denver stopped. “Wait—there are
others
?”

Shep gave the Chief a “we-ain’t-going-there” look. McCloud smiled big as the outdoors and cleared his throat, placing his hand on Denver's back. “So many questions, as to be expected. But trust me, Mr. Collins, there'll be plenty of time to answer ‘em all. We ain’t gotta write the whole Bible in a day.”

What are you hiding, McCloud?
Denver thought.

With a strange popping sound and a few flashes, electricity returned to the factory, albeit with some reluctance. The lights hummed and began to grow brighter, and a few machines chirped and whirred. A small audible celebration erupted throughout the staff, just as a hint of burning oil drifted by in the heavy air.

Shep smiled with a helpless shrug. “Yep, power's back on, just in time to shut down for the weekend. Well, sir—
that's business
.”

Denver looked at the equipment to his left as they approached a door on the far wall. “To be completely honest, I’ve never worked in manufacturing before. I’ve broken a few windows, but never made one.”

Shep chuckled. “We have a saying around here—windows are a
pain
.” He searched Denver’s eyes. “Get it? Pain. Pane.”

It was clever, but that’s about all it was.

Shep pointed at a palletized bundle of finished product. “So, yes, we do make windows here, but that's not the whole picture, Mr. Collins,“ he said. “It's true that we make lots of windows
upstairs
, but
downstairs
, well, we are just making
one
window.”

Denver cocked his head. “
Downstairs
?”

Shep produced a key and opened a door to a much smaller side room. They stepped in and Denver saw a couch, coffee table, and a few magazines. He imagined it was either a break room, or a meeting room for clients and vendors.

The Chief was beaming with pride. “It's time to show you…
The Basement
.”

“No offense, but I've seen quite a few basements, Chief.”

The Chief just grinned as Shep unlocked what appeared to be a wide door to a shallow closet. Inside the useless space he inserted another key into a small hole. Denver wasn’t prepared to see the entire back wall of the closet open outward. Shep spun about with an almost arrogant smile. “Oh, you've never seen a basement quite like this one before, Mr. Collins.
Trust me.
”

He was right.

Deep down inside her, something yearned for simpler times.
The days before electricity would probably be a good start,
she thought. Katie Long hurried behind the counter toward the register in a mad dash to make up for the lost time caused by the annoying power outage.

Simpler days.

Grandma Long used to talk about them quite often. Katie chuckled inside as she remembered Gram-Long, as she called her, ranting and raving about all the new-fangled machines and such. She could still hear her, clear as day: “They will be the ruination of us all, I tell ya.” Well, today, granddaughter Katie was beginning to agree with her.

Katie glanced up from her final duties over at a dark-haired woman several seats down the bar. “Now that the power's back on, I'll get you a fresh cup of coffee, Miss Larson. I'm headed out in a minute, but Bev'll take care of you when I’m gone.”

The middle-aged patron acknowledged her without even looking up from the copy of
The
Pantagraph
newspaper she was glued to. Katie finished getting the coffee started, and turned to the register and fished her tips out of her apron. Amanda, the owner, had always told the girls to count their tip money in the back. She said it wasn’t proper to do that in front of the customers.

Katie surveyed the room. First off, Amanda was down in Bloomington for the day, and secondly, the only customer close enough to see her was obviously more interested in local gossip than Katie’s personal business.

She looked down at her daily haul—a motley assortment of small change: a pile of pennies, several nickels, a few dimes, and two quarters. She paused and checked the room again: no one was looking. She reached into her front pouch once more, and retrieved a single five dollar bill. At least, it
resembled
a five dollar bill. She held it up cautiously, examining the strange design and colors. It was a five dollar bill, but then again, it wasn’t.

Miss Larson looked around the corner of her page as she turned it. “What'cha got there, Katie?”

The waitress was so lost in the moment that the question startled her like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She hesitated and then hid the bill down beside the register. “What? Oh, nothing.”

Miss Larson set her paper down. “Katie, you forget that as a seasoned newspaper reporter and as this town's editor, I can spot a story a mile away.” She paused, then continued. “Plus, no offense, but you are a terrible liar!” She winked at her.

Katie dismissed her own concern and raised the bill, or whatever it was, back up into clear view. “Oh, I don't know, Betty, but it, uh, it's probably nothing.”

The inquisitive reporter stood up and moved closer. “Katie,
today's
secrets are
tomorrow's
headlines.”

For just a fleeting moment, Katie felt like she was being scolded by Gram-Long. She could “cut you to the quick” with a word, sometimes just a stare. “It’s, it's just this—something's wrong. I've never seen money like this before.”

“You got some funny money? Or is it some Confederate cash? I’ve seen some of those floating around of late.”

Katie handed the bill to her. “Maybe. I dunno.”

Betty flipped it over a few times. “Colorful. Creative—I’ll give ‘em that. Who gave it to you?” she asked without looking up.

Katie turned to check on the coffee. “Never saw him before. Outta-towner. I think he hopped on the bus to Chicago just before dinner. A shame, he was a looker.”

“A handsome counterfeiter...hmm.” At last she glanced up at the puzzled waitress. “Seems like the good ones are always criminals.”

Katie forced a laugh. “Just my luck. I'm always attracted to the wrong kinda man. Tall, dark, and
Wanted
.” She checked the coffee. It was steaming, and she grabbed the pot.

The newspaper editor continued to study the fascinating piece of paper. The date near the bottom seemed to catch her eye—2013.
She stared at Katie for a moment, then went back for her purse. Katie poured her a fresh, hot cup as Betty cracked open her billfold. She slid some cash across the counter discreetly and dropped her voice down considerably. “Tell you what, let’s trade money.”

Katie looked down and saw seven one dollar bills on the counter. Betty patted the hand of the waitress. “With a few extra to, uh, just keep this between us for now.”

Maybe it couldn’t buy love, but it appeared that Betty was counting on the fact that money could still buy silence.

Saturday, September 14, 1946

Our profound need may have just been met in a tabloid. (When was that term coined?)

Ken was reading
Popular Science
magazine yesterday and stumbled upon an announcement for the 9
th
Washington Conference of Theoretical Physics. The annual gathering in DC is a Who’s Who of eminent scientists and researchers. It said that several dozen physicists from around the world will converge the end of this October and early November in a post-World War II think tank. This sounds like a godsend.

Of course, the perils and pitfalls are many. None of us can even begin to imagine how awkward and potentially dangerous that first contact will be.

What do we say?

How can we prove our backstory?

Why should they be willing to help us?

What if they turn us in? (This is a huge risk.)

Is money enough to motivate them?

Is the current state of theoretical physics able to help us?

In addition to all of these questions, how can we, in good faith, seek help from a scientist without violating the First Accord? And once we have them, how can we avoid trampling all over the Second Accord?

Hypothetically, if we did acquire the help of a physicist, and if he was able to help us all return home, imagine the size of THAT footprint? We would return to the proper time stream, yet we would leave behind a physicist with an immense cache of futuristic information, even if we did minimize interaction.

There is a counterpoint. The benefits of returning a group of time-displaced persons, as soon as possible, is in the best interest of the First and Second Accord. The shorter our intersection is with this time period, the less possibility of adversely impacting it. Perhaps the cons of accidentally influencing a single theoretical physicist is far less dangerous than three or more time travelers loose on the streets of mid-America. And that leads to another uncomfortable thought: I don’t see myself as breaking it (who knows?), but what happens as this whole time-drama wears on? What happens if one or more of us kind of “snaps” and breaks the Second Accord?

Potentially, as hope fades, and our minds acclimate to a no-return ideology, then the temptation to capitalize on our knowledge could prove overwhelming. I pray that day never comes.

Funny thing about temptation, it doesn’t seem tempting…until it’s you.

We are planning to discuss the Washington Conference strategy tomorrow morning. We will need to make a decision soon, and we will probably need at least one more trip to the races to secure a sufficiently attractive financial portfolio, at least Ken thinks so. We could offer thousands of dollars of 1946 money, which, adjusted to 1980s dollars, would be over a hundred thousand, maybe more.

In all of our confusion and uncertainty, it’s good to know that, even in 1946, money probably still talks. It’s not much of a virtuous reference point, but it does feel a bit like home.

“The contractors who built the basic structure of The Basement were told it was going to be a bomb shelter,” Shep called out over his shoulder as he, Denver, and McCloud descended a long concrete staircase. His voice reverberated as if in a drain pipe. “Bomb shelters are in fashion right now. Cold war. Perfect cover story.”

Denver’s tension started to rise again as they descended. Combining the idea of going down into a concrete tomb while sandwiched between an enthusiastic cop and an athletic alpha-male certainly didn’t elicit any warm-fuzzies.

In fact, the whole scenario of being a part of a trio of men, carefully navigating concrete steps in the dark, made him flash back to any one of several missions in Afghanistan. Only this time, he had no weapon, no advantage, and no concept of an exit strategy if things went south.

Just play this one by ear, Collins…one step at a time.

“Almost there,” Shep announced as they reached another door. He inserted a key and pushed it open.

Chief McCloud leaned forward and whispered, “I know you’re not Alice, but, uh, welcome to Wonderland.”

The door opened, revealing a medium-sized room with a tall ceiling, large table, a smattering of electronic consoles, cabinets, a few doors, and three researchers.

Not quite Wonderland
, Denver thought.
Still not impressed.

Three researchers glanced up from a schematic discussion, and one-by-one walked across the room to meet them. The Chief pushed to the front. “Dr. Papineau, Ms. Finegan, and Doc…may I introduce Trailer Denver Wayne Collins: stock broker turned armed, dangerous fugitive.” The Chief smiled at Denver with an oversized grin and slapped him on the back.

Ellen Finegan reached them first and examined Denver head to toe, then circled him like chum in a shark tank. He actually felt like a piece of meat, but she was attractive enough that most men wouldn’t have minded. He examined a little of her as well, just more discreetly.

“So this is how they grow 'em in the twenty-first century?” she observed with a sultry smile. The Chief looked over at Shep’s concerned face as Ellen continued. “You know, we were a bit worried that you would be one that got away.” She came to a smooth stop just inside his comfort zone, and locked eyes with him. “I, for one, am glad you
didn't
.”

Shep cleared his throat and interrupted Ellen’s admiration. “Denver, this is Ellen Finegan, one of our friendly researchers here in The Basement.” Denver nodded to her, then Shep pointed. “Also, Dr. Emile Papineau...”

The short, French researcher bowed a bit, and Denver nodded in return, but wondered if perhaps he should have bowed as well.

“And finally, Dr. Glen Stonecroft.”

Doc pushed forward and grabbed Denver's hand with all the enthusiasm of a rock & roll groupie. “Indeed, it is a rare pleasure to make the acquaintance of a fellow New Yorker, who has been temporally displaced within a reasonable distance from my own time zone!” Denver didn’t actually shake as much as he just merely held on. The energetic stranger provided all the necessary motion.

For whatever reason or reasons, Denver immediately liked this one. Doc’s genuine demeanor, his obvious command of language, and his appearance as the quintessential scientific sage, all played their respective roles in Denver’s positive reaction.

Denver noted Doc’s name badge.
He Jumped in…2005. Getting closer. He will know about 9/11, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. He’ll know Presidents Clinton, and Bush, but not Obama. Hmmm…he may or may not know about Hurricane Katrina. I think that was 2005, or was it 2006?

“This lab represents the true heart of our operation,” Shep boasted. “But at this point in the tour, I will defer to Doc's overwhelming expertise and presentation skills.” With that bit of flattery he motioned at Stonecroft who blushed and waved his elderly hand in modest protest.

Stonecroft laid hold of Denver’s arm and led him towards a door to his right. Doc lowered his glasses and looked up at Denver. “Did they retrieve a radiation sample from you yet, Mr. Collins?”

“Excuse me, a what?”

Stonecroft halted and called out to the group. “Did anyone bother to initiate his TRS sample?”

It took a moment for all of them to stop chatting and look up. The Chief apologized. “We’re sorry, my friend, what was that?”

Dr. Stonecroft took a deep breath then enunciated every word. “I said, has anyone bothered to gather the requisite TRS from Mr. Collins? Perhaps last night in the detention facility, or sometime early this morning?”

One-by-one they either looked away or began pointing playfully at each other in a blame game. Doc waved his hand at them in faux disgust. “
Incompetents,
the whole lot of them. Come with me, my dear Mr. Collins.”

He led Denver toward a tall storage unit with double doors standing against the wall to their left. He unlocked it and opened the right-hand side. Denver wasn’t expecting the rush of cold air that invisibly poured out of the refrigerated unit. The door was filled with multiple rows of test tubes, many of them capped and labeled. Doc donned a pair of thin gloves and retrieved an empty tube, and shut the door. He opened a smaller drawer nearby and grabbed a pair of tweezers, spraying them with a clear liquid. He waved them in the air for a few seconds and stepped up to Denver who, understandably, had grown a bit nervous.

Denver broke the tension. “Lemme guess…
urine
sample?”

Doc was puzzled. “Urine? Oh, no, no, my good man, wrong end.” He moved around behind his nervous victim and started running his fingers through Denver’s hair. “You may experience a slight nervous response,” he said dryly.

Denver began to ask for clarification when a sharp pain in his scalp provided all the clarification he needed. Doc circled back around holding a sizable clump of Denver’s hair in the tweezers.

“Don't tell me you can't afford a cheap pair of scissors in this research lab?” Denver complained as he rubbed the back of his head and his eyes watered.

Doc let out a controlled laugh as he inserted the hair into the test tube. Ellen came alongside and started capping and labeling it. She leaned towards Denver. “It's not really the hair we need. It’s your
roots
.”

“The roots?”

“Once mammalian hair protrudes from the scalp,” Doc explained, “it is necrotic tissue. We need living, viable cells.”

Denver didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Viable cells?” Nazi-era medical procedures flashed through his mind. “Wait, are you trying to clone humans down here?”

Ellen smiled, and leaned in even closer. “Not clone,
capture
. We need to capture your radiation chronology stamp.” She looked into his hopelessly lost eyes. “It's a temporal marker embedded in your cellular structure.”

Denver spun around and faced the group. “Um, I'm supposing someone actually speaks
English
down here?”

Doc nodded at Ellen while he placed the sample in the cooler.

“Okay, English,” she said. “Well, you were pulled here by a particular temporal rift, a time portal—”

“Yeah, the Chief told me about the cracks in the space-time-thing, and the lightning.”

She grinned. “Excellent. Well, the cracks that each of us were pulled through have highly specific signatures, like a fingerprint. As you passed through, your living cells were imprinted with this unique marker.”

Doc ripped off his gloves and took control once again. “We can extract the specific radiation signature from your follicles. Dead hair cells cannot retain the pattern, but these follicles, now separated from your body, will expire, consequently leaving them with an immutable temporal marker.”

Denver struggled to interpret and organize this information into layman’s terms. He attempted to recite it back. “So, hair roots are alive, living cells, and when I jumped, they received a stamp, a pattern of radiation or something.”

Stonecroft pointed in his elation. “Yes. Yes. Spot on.”

Denver’s confidence increased. “And then, those hair cells will die, but they will have a permanent pattern locked in them.”

“Correct again, Mr. Collins.”

“So, uh, why do you need hair cells and stamps and all that?”

Ellen interjected, “Dr. Stonecroft, may I?” He nodded. She locked arms with Denver like a young crush, and led him straight ahead to a large door with three locks. Stonecroft and Papineau walked over and each of them pulled out a key and unlocked a tumbler. Ellen waited for them to step aside and she inserted the final key.

Oh, wow, three locks. This is gonna be a triple disappointment.

As she opened the door, Denver looked above it and noticed a small plaque:

IN MEMORY OF PHILLIP NELSON 1946 - 1953.

The Chief cleared his throat. “All this tech talk makes my head hurt. I'm headed topside and check up on a few ballgames on the radio. Holler if you need me.” A few of them waved and he vanished up the stairs, heavy footfalls echoing the whole way.

Ellen turned back to Denver. “If and when we are successful creating a sustainable, temporal rift—”

Denver interrupted, “Which is a...?”

“A wormhole, a time portal, Mr. Collins,” she offered. “Once we achieve a successful rift, we can use your TRS, your signature, like an address, to send you back, or actually
forward
, to the same moment in time you jumped.”

Denver was wide-eyed. “You’re, you’re serious?”

Ellen smiled and shrugged. “Well, at least...in theory.” She winked.

“But, my good man,” Stonecroft added, “don’t let uncertainty cloud your appreciation. The mathematics behind it are quite sound, I assure you.”

Denver shook his head. “So you’re telling me, you're trying to create a
time machine?
”

She donned a mischievous grin. “Not trying, Mr. Collins.
Perfecting
. Wanna peek?”

He raised his eyebrows.
This I gotta see
.

She shoved on the heavy door and motioned for him to proceed inside. After a deep breath, he stepped through, hoping to finally see Wonderland.

He would have settled for something, for
anything
that would give him hope that he would one day see Jasmine again.