Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (6 page)

Tuesday, April 23, 1946

I may have jinxed us with my last journal entry. Who could have known?

Sports betting is not yet legal in Nevada!

Apparently that doesn’t happen for at least several more years from now. I know my Dad talked about doing it in the mid-1950s. This is a disaster. Absolute disaster. We spent almost all of our remaining cash on this trip! I’m sure we could find some unsanctioned (illegal) outlets for this type of enterprise, but that is far too risky. I proposed that we should go back to my earlier plan involving the stock market. Ken thinks there is still hope with gambling. He said it involves horses.

Denver enjoyed a few long sips on his cup, surprised and grateful that it wasn’t
simulated
coffee. As he contemplated his options, he constructed a mental map of what he had seen of the area. The town of Normal, frankly wasn’t normal. It was so picture perfect that it reminded him of those meticulously designed fake communities used in nuclear testing in New Mexico. Or was it Nevada? Or maybe both.

But the real difference, he noticed, was the people. Those model towns were meant to be destroyed. Their citizens and their pets were wood and plastic mannequins, but here, real flesh and blood. In those simulated communities, they were studying blast effects and radiation, but what about here?

What are you researching here, Uncle Sam?

He imagined they were studying a very different kind of bomb, a psychological blast. Perhaps testing the limits of human endurance and the breaking point of a person whose entire life has been replaced, down to the coffee stains on a paper menu.

It seemed so far-fetched, so fantastic, but it was the only possible explanation.
Right
?
The only one
possible
.

But unlike the Army, he didn’t sign up for this, for any of this. Maybe that was the point. After all, it wouldn’t be much of a test if you knew it wasn’t real. He had left active duty over eight years ago, but perhaps there was some clause, some fine print, a tiny caveat that gave Uncle Sam permission to conduct psyche tests, even without consent.

It didn’t matter.
I’m not a guinea pig, and I’ve got enough trouble in my personal life. I don’t need military trouble as well.
I’m getting off this train.

Katie navigated past with a tray filled with plates for a nearby booth. Denver snagged her attention. “Excuse me, Katie. Uh, what is the best way for a guy to get out of town, like, as soon as possible? “

She stopped on a dime, balancing her burden. “Hmm... what is it, Friday? Well, probably the ten-fifty to Chicago.”

“Ten-fifty? What is that?”

Without a free hand, she tilted her chin at a clock on the wall. It was almost 10:30 in the morning.

“Ten-fifty. A bus for Chicago leaves in about twenty minutes, just up the block, corner of West Beaufort and Broadway,” she offered. “I'll be right back.”

She continued on with her delivery, and he grabbed his smart phone. Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, it read: 1:18 A.M., MONDAY. He studied it closer.

Still
no bars, no signal
.
Not even GPS
.
How is that possible?
You can’t hide from satellites
.
Must be scrambling the signal
.

Katie returned with an empty delivery tray dangling by her side. “Whatcha got there...a picture?”

“A picture? Oh, no, I was, uh, just checking the time on my iPhone.”

“Huh? I'm sorry, did you say your
phone
?”

He glanced into her confused face, and shoved the device back into his pocket. “Well, yes…and uh, no…well, it's—it's—”

“
Complicated
, right? Well, look, sit tight and I'll be right back with your
uncomplicated
food.”

He nodded with a forced smile. “Thanks.”

Police Chief James McCloud, out of breath, frustrated, and sweating completely through his uniform, rushed up to the front door of the police station. He tried everything he could think of to open it
—
except for kicking it in
—
but that did cross his mind.

It's locked
,
no keys, thank you—Denver Collins
! He still yanked on the handle a final time anyway. He spun about and met the stare of two women transfixed by the unusual spectacle.

“Mornin’, ladies,” he covered. “Just a little routine security check. Nothin’ to see here, folks.”

They appeared satisfied, and he tipped his hat as they moved along. The Chief rounded the corner and jogged his heavy frame to the back alley, only to be greeted by a steaming mass that was once his fully-functional squad car. He leaned in the car window and searched for the keys.

Nothing
.

He mopped his dripping brow and jerked vigorously on the handle of the back door to the station.

Locked, of course!

He scanned for observers in all directions, and stepped back. With gun drawn, he raised his right leg and kicked the door in, splintering the lock area with a loud crash. The commotion startled the stray mutt half a block down out of his summer slumber. The dog raised his head as McCloud was shocked by the mess inside.

What the…?

He caught sight of the mangled pieces of metal and wood that used to be his weapons collection. He looked up at the splintered remains of the door to his handmade gun cabinet. It was hanging on by a single, bent hinge. The entire scene reminded him more of tornado damage than vandalism. He stepped over the shattered chunks of glass and checked the bathroom, then the closet.
No one.

McCloud went off high alert and secured his weapon into his underarm holster.

Wait…what’s this?
He moved towards the cell and leaned over, spotting his keys on the floor under the cot, and the contents of his ammo boxes littering the area. He picked up a loose shotgun shell and then tugged on the cell door.

Locked, of course.

The Chief couldn’t help but smile.
This guy is good, real good
. He hurled the shell against the cinder block wall. It broke apart and tiny pieces of lead bounced and rolled all across the floor.

“Nicely played, Mr. Collins, nicely played.“

The swinging metal doors burst open and Katie emerged from the kitchen with Denver’s steaming dinner plate. He may have had trouble believing his eyes here in Normal, but he couldn’t deny the reality of the home-cooked meal that his nose conveyed.

She eased the large dish down in front of him with grace. “One cute little cow in the wheat field...”

He smiled and lifted the bun, revealing the vegetables hidden below. “And then run it through the garden,” he said. “I get it now.”

She pointed at the fries. “And a side with eyes.”

He couldn’t decode this clever culinary clue. She appeared almost hurt. She pointed again. “
Potatoes
. Eyes.”

He shrugged in ignorance. She waved her hand. “Forget it. Anything else I can get for ya?”

“Uh, yes—and no, I mean, no I don’t need anything.” She began to walk away, he reached up. “Oh, wait, actually yes. Can I have my bill now? I have to literally eat and run. Maybe even run and eat. Sorry.”

Katie pulled out her pad, scribbled some barely decipherable math and slipped it face down by his plate. “You can just pay me when you're ready.”

He thanked her and devoured his food, eyeing the clock several times. He plucked the bill and turned it over.
Sixty-two cents
. He shook his head as he continued to wolf it down.

_____________________________________

Katie and Bev converged in the kitchen and watched him eat, with all the base interest of a couple of adolescents at a peep show. Bev broke the silence first. “You know what they say—healthy eaters make healthy lovers!”

“Would you stop it! No, he's in a hurry, said something about getting out of town.”

“You know, a man like that has a girl in every port,” Bev said. “Probably headed to the next one now.”

Katie faced her cynical companion. “You don't know that. Anyway, he has a wedding ring, but he kinda got strange about it.”

Beverly backed up and began collecting a few items. “Definitely a big danger sign, Miss Katie Long. He is a walking, talking heartache. I can smell it from here.” She paused for a second. “A
handsome
heartache, but it all hurts the same in the end, no matter how they look.”

Katie continued to study him, and leaned in closer to the window. “I dunno. I somehow feel sorry for him. He seems kinda out of place, almost...
lost
.” She paused and pushed through the door.

_____________________________________

Denver was finishing his last burger bite as Katie appeared with a pot of coffee. “Fresh cup for the road?”

He protested with his hand as he reached for his wallet. With some difficulty he managed to swallow. “Oh, no, no thanks. I really have to go.”

Denver thumbed through his cash and tried to pull out a five dollar bill. It snagged on something and almost tore the corner off. He held it up and frowned. “Well, it all spends the same way.” He slid the bill across the counter as he stood and wiped his mouth. “This should cover it, and keep the change.”

She was wide-eyed and nearly speechless as he made his way out. “But, you, you can't be serious!” she protested. “This is too much mon—”

He waved with a “don’t mention it” look and was gone before the dysfunctional doorbell finished clanking.

Katie remained staring, almost frozen. Bev drew up beside her, and grabbed her coworker’s shoulders.

“If you love someone, you gotta let 'em go—and if they don't return, well, then you need to hunt them down and strap 'em to a crop duster.”

Chief McCloud plopped his frustrated and tired frame down at his desk and began dialing his desk phone.
At least he didn’t cut my phone cord!
He scooted back and partially opened a drawer, then jerked it out all the way.
Of course! He came back for his wallet and phone
. He shifted the phone to his left hand and examined all the drawers. Disgusted at what he didn’t find, he slammed them all shut and leaned back.

“Hey Leah, I need Shep.” He rechecked a few of the drawers. “It's me. Listen. We have a situation. He's gone.” He tapped on the desk. “Denver Collins is
gone
, and he is armed.” He scrubbed his chin. “Yes. And there's something else—he found his wallet and his phone.”

He rolled his eyes and rubbed the sweat off his wrinkled brow. “I know...I know that, too. I am well aware of what this could mean…I will find him, we will find him…I've called O'Connell in.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I know this is a bad time!”

McCloud leaned in and fished a liquor flask out of the bottom drawer. He nodded a few times and took a quick hit on the bottle. “No, he only knows what I've told him.” He put the cap back on the bottle. “No, he doesn't know 'bout that. Don't worry! We will clean this up. I promise you, I promise you: I won't let
them
get to him first.”

He returned the flask to its hiding place. “I will eliminate this threat. Period.” McCloud slammed the phone down into the cradle.

He pulled out his gun, and checked the chamber. It was full.

As he made his way back to secure a seat, Denver thought that the 10:50 to Chicago idled more like a freight train than a bus. With each step, he debated the rationality of this escape plan. Surely the bus was as much a part of the grand charade as the rest of this psychological experiment.

Where will it take me?
Back to jail?

To Chicago? Hardly believable.

A fake Chicago?
Even more absurd
.

Halfway back an open seat to his left came into view, and he slid into it carrying nothing but a list of questions. A few stragglers poured in as the bus prepared to leave, and with a deafening release of air brakes, the lumbering vehicle eased onto the road.

Denver scanned the passing streets. There was no sign of Officer McCloud, let alone any evidence of a manhunt. He never really considered himself as important, but the idea that a disoriented psychological test subject was loose on the streets of this pretend Midwestern town surely demanded more of a response than this.
This is so odd.

The uptown district was gradually replaced with various neighborhoods. The yards and houses were absolutely convincing, down to the children at play, erratic sprinklers, and pets of all shapes and sizes. Denver couldn’t even begin to imagine what a setup like this was costing the taxpayers. It had to be in the multiplied millions.

And for what purpose?

He strained to see beyond the residences and eventually caught sight of the outskirts. It looked like farmland: flat, dirty, and rows upon rows of corn with no end in sight. He half expected to see miles upon miles of desert. Denver had convinced himself that this was probably a new addition to Area 51 somewhere in Nevada. The temperature was about right, but the humidity didn’t match at all. The air wasn’t oppressive, but it was much heavier than it should be.

But where are the fences? The guard shacks? The checkpoints?

There were no fences, or guard shacks, or checkpoints, just vast stretches of rural landscape. The pleasant smells of the countryside drifting in through his cracked window offended him strangely. Visuals could be faked, sounds could be imitated, but the nose was virtually impossible to deceive.

A child giggled and Denver's attention abruptly snapped inward. He straightened up to survey those around him, hoping that perhaps one of them would hold a clue as to his current predicament.

Behind him sat a distinguished-looking, older gentleman in a nice suit, scanning a Chicago newspaper. A soldier—probably home on furlough—was just ahead, with a large rucksack leaning up against him. To his left and up a row, he caught sight of a young couple engrossed in each other.
Get a room
. He turned and stared across the aisle at a young mother holding a baby girl wrapped like a doll in a quintessential pink blanket.

Wow, actual babies. They really are serious about this illusion. Wait, maybe it’s just a fake baby, a doll
. The tiny infant blinked a few times and fussed.
Wrong again, Collins.

The sweet sight across the aisle triggered a sweeter memory a lot closer to home. He retrieved his wallet and pried it open, and with loving reverence pulled out a photo of his daughter. It was his favorite picture of her: goofy party hat, tooth missing, and a bit of icing on her tiny nose. He turned it over, greeted by a message in smeared blue ink: JASMINE, 5
th
BIRTHDAY 2013.

Denver flipped it back over and traced his finger across her face
. First, your momma tries to keep me from you, and now the government is doing the same. But don’t worry, I’ll be home soon, sweetie.
I can handle Jennifer, and I can handle them.

He blinked hard to stave off a tear or two. Now that things had calmed down, the repressed emotions of the past twenty-four hours refused to be ignored any longer. He stared at the photo for a few more moments, and carefully hid it away in his front shirt pocket.

Palming his wallet, his head rolled to one side and he glanced out at the green and gold patchwork quilt of farmland.
Where is this? Where am I?

It seemed that the sheer burden of unanswered questions forced him to slump down in his seat and close his eyes. The relaxing trio of a rocking bus, the almost comfortable seat, and the exhaustion of continued uncertainty, all knocked him out almost as fast as McCloud’s tranquilizer dart.

He had no idea where or when he would wake up this time.