Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (29 page)

Friday, July 3, 1953

There will be fireworks…and that has me concerned. When I was growing up in Pueblo, the excitement about the 4
th
of July was almost on par with Christmas morning. But I am not excited about this one.

A few days ago I walked into the middle of a conversation in The Basement that I am confident that I was not supposed to hear. In fact, after a little investigation, my fears were confirmed. My worst fears actually.

I have irrefutable evidence that some of our group are planning to break the Third Accord. They are making plans to exploit our technology and use it for purposes that could alter the future in unforeseeable ways.

Terrible ways.

I am going to privately confront them right after the holiday. We have come too far. We have all sacrificed so much, far too much to let something like this happen now. I have never had more hope and educated optimism about our future.

It kills me to think that some would be willing to do this.

It was the very essence of a contradiction.

The late afternoon sun poured golden beams through his window, transforming the swirling dust into brilliant, dancing shafts that played across the floor.

But he didn’t notice.

In fact, he never noticed.

It was difficult to even imagine him outside of the rusty wheelchair that was his pathetic throne. Its occupant was a shell of a man—whose hair, beard, and emotionless gaze made it impossible to accurately discern his age. He faced the incoming rays, apparently transfixed by the view, yet his cold form had probably not been truly warmed in years.

The heavy, metal door that separated his lonely existence from a callous hallway opened in a short arc. A sensuous voice called out to him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson.”

There was nary a change in his stupor to indicate his awareness of her presence or even of her voice. Nurse Beussink closed the door with both hands and walked up beside her newest patient. She attempted to gaze into his distant eyes. “Gordon?”

Predictably, there was no response.

She knelt beside him, caressing his bare right arm, and leaned in close. “Gordon. I want you to know...
I believe you
.”

Then it happened, not all at once, but it happened.

His head began moving—it was almost imperceptible at first—and he turned to face her, but tortuously slow, like a glacier.

She was thrilled. “Yes...yes, you understand. Don't you?” His clouded eyes darted around to some degree and she took it as a good sign. Nurse Beussink slid her hand down into her side pocket and produced a syringe of dark, orange fluid.

She focused her gaze on the tip and a small, glistening drop emerged. She smiled with satisfaction. Her eyes studied the door for a moment, and then she plunged the needle into his arm. As for the pain, his catatonic expression masked it well, if he even felt it at all.

She watched with interest as his left eye blinked in an erratic fashion and his lips began quivering. She leaned in, catching raspy attempts at incoherent words, merely fragments of thoughts borne of a fragmented mind.

Nurse Beussink grabbed a noisy metal chair and scooted right up to him and sat down. She retrieved a notepad and a pen. “It's okay, Mr. Thompson. Go slow. Now, what was that?”

His body started to vibrate. Then it shook, as he struggled to speak. Words began forming, words actually in order. “I...I'm...I'm...not, not—”

She cocked her beautiful head a bit. “You're not
what
, Mr. Thompson?”

The trembling invalid strained to complete his thought. She was waiting. “You’re not what?” she asked again.

His eyes appeared to be staring at hers. “Not…cr—crazy.”

She licked her deep red lips and nodded, rubbing his shoulder. “I know, I know you're not crazy. I
believe
you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if to relish the moment. Tears welled up and began to cascade down his wrinkled cheeks as he opened heavy eyelids again. She brushed the tiny droplets away and studied his face with feigned compassion. His countenance continued to brighten. It was as if his tears were washing away years of abuse, neglect, and isolation.

Now she couldn’t be certain, but Nurse Beussink thought that she had detected a hint of a smile.

She placed her soft, manicured hands on either side of his rugged face and tilted it to match hers. The nurse opened her eyes wide and smiled even wider. “Listen to me, Gordon. Listen to me.”

He managed to lock misty eyes with hers. She nodded with a rehearsed subtlety. “Tell me, Gordon. What year are you from?”

He began blinking, apparently processing her request. She nodded again with a politician’s grin. “Tell me
when
, Gordon.”

He gazed down at her lips as his own began moving. “Fffr—from—from.“ He paused and strained.

“That’s it, yes, what year, Gordon?”

He hesitated once more and then leaned forward. “Ffr—from—nnn—nine—nineteen.”

“Yes, nineteen. Nineteen
what
, Gordon?”

“Ni—nineteen—eigh—eighty—seven. Nineteen—eighty seven.”

The nurse’s mesmerizing blue eyes grew wide with excitement, an excitement that had been waiting patiently for years. She caressed his arm, her own tears welling up, and moved close to his trembling face. “Tell me, Gordon—do you know Mr. Nelson? Have you heard of Mr. Nelson?” She scanned his eyes for even a shred of confirmation.

Her heart sank as the broken man started to nod off, his heavy head drooping onto his chest. She scrambled to reload her syringe, her own tears making it difficult to focus as she attempted to pierce the narrow opening on the bottle.

He was fading fast.

The nurse slapped his arm. “Hey, hey, now—Mr. Thompson, hey! Stay with me.” She raised the needle and shoved it into his atrophied shoulder.

“Hey, come on, now—Mr. Thompson? Don’t you go to sleep—we still have lots to talk about. Hey. Hey!”

His head didn’t move, but the pathetic patient started mumbling once again. She slid out of her chair without delay and knelt before him, looking up into his tired face. His eyes were half open, and a thin line of drool was beginning to dangle from his quivering mouth.

She reached into a pocket and held up her shiny silver ring. The red gemstone seemed to glow in the narrow beams of sunlight. With grace she rotated it before his eyes, hoping to give him a point of reference, a focal point.

“Look at this pretty ring, Gordon. Isn’t it beautiful? It was a gift from my mother.”

His eyes crossed a few times and blinked, but eventually locked onto the piece of jewelry.

“There, there. That’s better. Now, Gordon,” she said, “can you pretty please tell me if you know Mr. Nelson?”

His eyes opened wide and his head rolled to one side.

“Nelson,” she requested. “Do you know Mr. Nelson?”

His head bobbed a bit and he clamped his eyes shut. The trail of drool dripped down to his shaggy beard.

As she wiped up the spittle he spoke, and spoke with an increasing clarity.

“Nelson,” he said. “Phil—Phillip.
Phillip
Nelson.”

The sun had risen in all of its late August fury. All in all, it appeared to be a typical Monday morning in Normal, Illinois.

But, of course, it wasn’t typical.

There hadn’t been a typical day in Normal since the arrival of Phillip Nelson in early 1946. And no one knew that better than an exhausted and desperate Police Chief James McCloud. He stared down into his third cup of coffee, lamenting the fact that he was still waiting for the effects of the first one to arrive. He blinked hard as he set it down and glanced over at an occupied but silent jail cell.

Denver was still sleeping off the results of the previous night’s successful disaster.

In many ways (minus the probable concussion) the Chief almost envied him. Face down, dead to the world, free room and board, three squares a day…what more could a guy want? Add a pretty blonde to the list and McCloud might even
volunteer
to trade places.

He laughed inside as he contemplated it. What the heck was he thinking? He already had a pretty blonde. If he could just find a way to get to her. Helen was about 600 miles away as the crow flies, and right at forty years as time flies.

The Chief always joked with the other Jumpers saying “It wasn’t the
distance
, it was the
time
.” It could have been funny if it weren’t such a sad reality. But unfortunately, he hadn’t thought much of Helen of late. The frenetic events of the past few weeks had dominated his waking moments, leaving little time to reminisce about his wife or his boys, Trevor and Zach.

S
ince he had arrived in 1950
, h
e had held an unshakeable confidence that he would find a way to get back home to them.
But today his confidence was being eroded by violent waves of doubt. He looked over at his unconscious captive. Even the very idea that Shep was right was both an unbearable yet undeniable conclusion.

For the second time in just over three years he faced horrific choices.

But regardless of where his decisions landed him, he honestly wondered if his humanity would survive the fall.

McCloud shook his head and grabbed a small flask out of the bottom right drawer. He spiked his coffee twice. It may have been way too early to drink, but it was the perfect time to be drunk.

Perhaps as a small mercy, his grim cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of Officer O’Connell with Betty Larson in tow. Billy held the door for her.

The visibly-fatigued newspaper editor glanced over into the cell. “Any update on the mystery man behind jail-bars number one?” she asked.

McCloud shrugged. “What you see is what you get, Betty.”

She walked closer to the cell. “Has he come around at all?”

McCloud rose up and set his cup down. “Oh, he’s moaned and fussed a few times.” He strolled over to the sink area. “You want some coffee? I know we all had a long night.” He held up a mostly-empty pot. “It’s my special law enforcement blend.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Oh, no thanks, Chief. I’m fine, or fine as can be, I guess.”

Billy didn’t need to be asked twice, and he hurried over and poured himself a steaming cup. “Everything was pretty quiet over at the paper last night,” he reported to the Chief. “I rigged the back entry, and Ike Sanders dropped by this morning. Said he felt bad about the front door and he helped me put up a sheet of plywood. It’ll hold for now til Hank gets there.”

The Chief slapped him on the shoulder. “Couldn’t ask for a finer deputy.”

Betty looked up. “Oh, yeah, definitely. Thanks again, Billy.”

He blushed as he took a hot sip. “No problem, Ms. Larson. I almost felt like I was on a stakeout. My pleasure.”

She finished studying Denver. “You, uh, said there would be some paperwork?”

McCloud looked up. “Oh, of course.” He pulled out his chair and sat back. “Gimme a sec…yes, right here it is.” He slid a page towards her and pointed. “Just fill out this part, and give us a list of what was stolen. Obviously the amount of cash, and then the, uh, other items.”

Her eyes darted up at him. “Other items?”

McCloud paused. “Well, uh, remember that big hole in the wall? I assume you want to report at least a safe was stolen. And, uh, then, whatever was inside it.”

She searched his eyes for a moment and then glanced down at the form.

Right then something caught Billy’s attention and he moved toward the front window.

Betty picked up the sheet. “Can I bring this back, Chief? I still need to do a little inventory.”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am, absolutely. You can just get that back to me whenever it’s convenient. As long as I have it before John Doe over there stands before Judge Seyer, we’re good.”

She stashed the form away in her purse. “Thanks, Chief.”

McCloud nodded and glanced over at his deputy. “Alright, Billy. What’s so interesting?”

The young officer adjusted his hat. “Dark sedan just pulled up. Government plates.” He paused. “A couple o’ suits are getting out. I’d say Feds if I were a bettin’ man.”

The Chief tried to conceal his concern as he stood up. Betty raised her eyebrows. “Oh, are these your friends you were telling me about? The ones that you said would know what to do?”

The Chief was blindsided for a few seconds. She elaborated. “You know, about my
items
. Our meeting at the bridge?”

He connected and recovered. “Oh,
those
friends. Gotcha. No, no, not those guys. No, not them.”

She appeared deflated. “Oh, okay, well, just let me know.”

He was so distracted that he didn’t even respond to her. She headed for the door. “I’ll see you officers later.”

The Chief looked over. “Oh, yeah, Betty. We’ll be in touch.”

She started to reach for the handle when the door popped open. Betty retreated as two men brushed past, clad in matching suits, matching sunglasses, and matching hats. The second one apologized and held the door open for her. “Ma’am.”

She smiled and nodded back as she walked out. The second man forcefully pulled the door shut behind her.

_____________________________________

Betty paused for a moment on the sidewalk and glanced over at the like-new government vehicle. Her reporter’s instinct wouldn’t let her just walk away.

Connect the dots
, she thought.

Betty scurried down the empty concrete, going well past their car. She turned, walked out into the street, and then came up to the vehicle on the driver’s side. She glanced over at the police station window. Only Billy was visible, and he was obviously looking at the VIP’s. She took a deep breath and inched up right beside the driver’s side rear window.

The sudden influx of hot tires, hot engine, and warm asphalt caught her senses by surprise. She choked back a quick round of coughing.

These boys must’ve come straight from the Big City.

Betty peered inside the immaculate car and spotted a briefcase in the backseat with a folder lying next to it on the near side. The folder sported a large stamp across its surface which read: CONFIDENTIAL – FBI. She glanced down. The door was unlocked. Her pulse quickened.

The opportunity was just too irresistible. She scanned the street.

No one.

She gazed through the car windows at the police station once again. Even Billy was nowhere to be seen.

It’s now or never, Larson.

Betty paused for a moment.

It’s now.

She pried the door open and knelt low, sliding the folder across the seat to herself. She took another breath and then flipped it open with trembling fingers. The top page was filled with typed information. She perused it and spotted a repeated name:
Denver Wayne Collins
.

She set the first sheet aside and her heart almost stopped beating. Underneath was an artist’s sketch of the mystery man she had seen passed out in the back of the squad car several hours before.

Why is the FBI after a petty thief?

She concentrated on the sketch, mulling over various scenarios.

Unless Denver Collins is more than just a two-bit burglar.

But how did they already know he was here?

She looked up at the police station.

What is going on, Chief James McCloud? Did you call them in? Why? Is this about my collection? Did you lie to me, Chief?

The rumble of an oncoming car broke her internal investigation and Betty shut the folder in haste, sliding it back precisely where she had found it. She waited for the car to pass, keeping her face hidden, and then shut the car door with care.

Betty scurried away from the encounter with only one answer, but at least a dozen new questions.

_____________________________________

“Mornin', gentlemen,” the Chief began as the two visitors paused and surveyed the area. In unison, they removed their sunglasses and their eyes were as void of expression as their pale faces. McCloud wondered to himself if maybe they were just both having a bad day, or worse yet, perhaps these were their happy faces. He had met a few Feds in the past—smiles didn’t seem to be standard issue.

The taller of the two men, who was carrying a file folder, broke the tension. “Police Chief James McCloud?”

The Chief nodded and stepped forward. “Guilty as charged, gentlemen, that is, unless the charges are serious.”

He smiled.

They didn’t.

He tried to salvage the introduction. “James McCloud, at your service.” He turned. “And this, this is my deputy, Officer O’Connell.” They acknowledged him, but only in the academic sense and continued looking around.

The shorter agent broke away and headed down the tiny hallway. He checked the bathroom, and even opened the storage closet. He glanced over at the other agent and signaled. His partner reached into his vest pocket and produced a golden FBI badge. “I’m Agent Simmons.” He motioned towards the other, who displayed his credentials as well. “This is Agent Jameison.”

The Chief grinned. “Well, Agents Simmons, and, uh, Jameison, what can we do for the Bureau today? Can I interest you gentlemen in some coffee?”

Simmons ignored his offer. “Are we alone, Chief McCloud?”

The Chief looked around and nodded. “Just the four of us, Agent Simmons. Well, I guess
five
if you include our, uh,
sleeping
guest over there.”

Agent Jameison walked from the storage closet over to the cell and inspected Denver as he lay there, face down, almost snoring. Jameison looked back at his partner. Simmons cracked opened his folder and produced the artist’s sketch and the driver’s license photo of Denver Wayne Collins. He handed them to the Chief. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

Billy moved casually beside the Chief and they stared at the two images. Years of poker were finally paying off and McCloud began shaking his head. He glanced up from the sheets and made eye contact with the deputy. “How about you, Billy?”

The young time Jumper looked like he was about to throw up, but played it cool. “I, uh, I don’t believe so…no, no, Sir.”

McCloud acted like he was concentrating. “Doesn’t seem to ring a bell here either, gentlemen.” He handed them back, “What's he wanted for, if I may ask?”

Simmons glared down at him. “You
may not
.”

Jameison rejoined his partner and Simmons continued. “His name is Denver Wayne Collins. Approximately five feet eleven inches tall. Medium build. Blue eyes. Brown hair. May or may not have a beard, probably not.”

The sleeping inmate began a fresh round of groaning and mumbling, and both agents zeroed in on him. The Chief panicked at first but then smiled. “Well, gentlemen, I could put those pictures up at the Post Office, if—”

“Out of the question, Chief McCloud,” Simmons snapped. “This investigation is to remain a strictly
internal
, law enforcement affair. No public, no press.”

Agent Jameison made his way back over to the occupied jail cell. He studied the unconscious convict and waved over at his partner. Simmons closed the folder and joined him. Jameison whispered something and Simmons nodded.

The Chief noticed that Billy was getting paler by the second. The deputy’s eyes displayed a primal fear and the Chief discreetly pointed at the door.

Billy’s voice cracked. “Chief, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have to see if Betty needs any other assistance at the
Journal
.” He grabbed his hat and car keys.

The Chief glanced over at him. “Uh, sure, Billy.” He raised his voice. “That is, unless you two gentlemen have any further need of my deputy?”

Simmons spun around. “Wait. Deputy. You said
Journal
. Is that the local newspaper?”

Billy was almost to the door, and was probably seconds from losing his breakfast (and most of his dinner). McCloud covered for him. “Uh, yes, but my deputy has some unfinished business there. They, uh, had a small breakin last night. Nothing major, some vandalism, probably kids’ stuff, you know.”