The Empire

by Richard Todd

  Time Tunnel: The Empire

  By Richard Todd

  Copyright © 2019 Richard Todd Miller

  All rights reserved.

  Pre-publish edition

  Not for resale

  Print Edition ISBN: 978-1-7331936-0-3

  Kindle Edition ISBN: 978-1-7331936-1-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019907714

  This book is dedicated to Laura

  7 West 75th Street

  New York, NY

  September 11, 2001

  20:12 hours

  Timeline 002

  Padma Mahajan watched TV in a dark room. Images from the oversized flat-screen TV saturated her face, already swollen and wet with tears. Padma hugged her bare legs to her chest. Her long black hair fell on her shoulders, shrouded in one of Kyle’s white dress shirts. She buried her face in the unbuttoned sleeves. She could smell Kyle, as though his arms were in the sleeves wrapped around her.

  Behind the sofa, on a small table stand by the black apartment door, sat a tiny blue-skinned ceramic figurine of Krishna playing a golden flute. A votive candle flickered next to the porcelain deity. Bright marigold blossoms surrounded the shrine.

  Padma had stared at the TV screen for hours. The same images and sounds repeated—harrowing videos of American 11 missing the World Trade Center’s North Tower by mere feet. The roar of the 767’s overtaxed engines and the screams of the crowd could be heard as the airliner hurdled toward the North Tower, suddenly tilting on its side to skirt the building at the last microsecond before impact.

  The action videos were interleaved with interviews with American 11 passengers and crew. Then there was the one static picture that punctuated the videos—the one of her fallen husband, Major Kyle Mason, the heroic Delta Force soldier who had helped lead the charge against the hijackers.

  In the picture, Kyle was wearing his Army officer’s uniform. It occurred to Padma that she had never seen him dressed in his officer’s uniform before. His chiseled jaw framed an easy smile. Green eyes pierced through the screen and met Padma’s dark brown eyes.

  He is so handsome, she thought.

  Padma broke down again. He was so handsome.

  The day before, on September 10, Padma had stepped out of their SoHo Grand honeymoon suite for a cigarette and coffee. When she returned, she expected to find her Adonis the way she had left him—naked in bed. Instead, Kyle was fully dressed and rapidly packing his bag. She saw the pained look on his face, reflecting her own expression of surprise. Kyle told her that he had been recalled for a mission that he could not discuss with her. Though Padma understood that “the unexpected” came as part of the package of marriage to a Delta operator, she could not mask the deep pang of disappointment of being abandoned on her honeymoon. Mixed with the pain was fear for her man. When most people left for work each day, the certainty was virtually 100 percent that they would be home for dinner. With Kyle’s job, the odds were real that he would never return.

  Before he left, Kyle made a strange request.

  “I need you to promise me something,” he said.

  “Of course, love, anything,” replied Padma.

  “Promise me you won’t go to work tomorrow.”

  Padma laughed. She thought Kyle was joking. Padma was a rising-star investment banker at Cantor Fitzgerald. Twelve-hour days at her Twin Towers office were routine for her. Taking a day off for her honeymoon was already a stretch. Taking a second day off for no apparent reason was impossible. In Padma’s business, time was money.

  Padma saw that Kyle was serious.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you,” Kyle replied. “Promise me you’ll stay home.”

  Kyle kissed her goodbye. She could feel urgency on his lips. To Padma, it felt like a last kiss.

  Padma watched the hotel door shut behind him. She turned to the lonely remains of their empty love nest. The tossed bed linens and pillows lay on the bed. A tray with wheat toast, coffee, and a bowl of berries sat on the end of the bed. A half-eaten slice of toast rested on the tray—Kyle’s hurried breakfast. She worried that Kyle had not had enough to eat before facing whatever dangers lay ahead.

  Padma honored her promise to Kyle and went home to her Upper West Side brownstone apartment, a stone’s throw from Central Park. With her honeymoon cut short, she suddenly found herself with time to kill—unprecedented for her.

  Padma’s apartment was spartan. Her job left her little time to do more in her dwelling than sleep, shower, and change clothes. The apartment’s plain white walls held no art, save a single framed charcoal sketch of a leaf floating in a pool of water—the drawing she had made as a teenager. A Tarom Persian rug in the living room covered the dark hardwood floors. The rug’s crimson and burnt orange were interwoven with violet accents. An iron coffee table stood atop the rug. A clay-colored leather sofa and contemporary dark wood sideboard completed the ensemble. Padma’s one indulgence, a brand new 2001 plasma TV, was mounted on the wall over the sideboard. She had no time for entertainment—she used the TV to monitor news and market conditions as she got ready for work in the morning.

  Padma walked to her apartment’s sole bedroom, kicked off her boots and unbuttoned her crimson blouse, tossing it on the bed—queen-sized with contemporary head and footboards decorated with right-angled black iron bars. A single onyx-colored nightstand with a simple lamp bounded the bed. Padma’s long black hair fell down her naked brown back, nearly touching the waist of her jeans.

  She opened a cramped closet. In addition to her signature jet-black business suits, blouses, jeans, and a handful of dresses, a few changes of Kyle’s clothes hung in the closet. She took one of his white dress shirts off its hanger and put it on, buttoning it up partway and leaving the sleeves undone.

  From her second-floor balcony, Padma gazed at Central Park in the afternoon. The park was a gorgeous eruption of summer green. She marveled at its beauty. A fleeting thought challenged her work-life balance choices over a cup of coffee as a summer breeze wafted across her balcony.

  That evening, Padma slid off her jeans and climbed into bed wearing only Kyle’s shirt.

  At 1:05AM on September 11, the phone rang. It was Kyle.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” said Kyle.

  “I’m not,” replied Padma, groggy.

  “Honey, I’ve gotta work late again tonight.”

  “What’s the excuse this time,” replied Padma, sharpening up.

  “Gotta save the world,” said Kyle.

  “There’s always something,” said Padma.

  There was a pause.

  “Come to my bed,” said Padma.

  Kyle sighed. “You’re killing me.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who had to go save the world.”

  “Right about now, I’m thinking your bed is worth a court martial.”

  “My bed’s worth a firing squad,” said Padma.

  “You are making me crazy.”

  “Good,” said Padma. “Then quit the Army and come home.”

  “You know there is no place else I want to be,” said Kyle.

  Another pause.

  “Are you being careful?” asked Padma.

  “I am,” replied Kyle.

  “That’s good,” Padma said, “because I really don’t think I can live without you.”

  “I wouldn’t live without you,” said Kyle.

  After they hung up, Padma tried without success to get back to sleep. The words cycled in her mind.

  I wouldn’t live without you.

 
; Padma eventually dozed off, arriving in a dream where she tried to find Kyle in an office maze of hallways and cubicles. She ran toward glimpses of her husband, though she could never reach him. Someone or something always interrupted her, slowing her down. Each time she arrived at the place she had sighted him, he was gone.

  At 6:00AM, Padma rose from bed and started her morning routine, making coffee and flipping on the TV to scan the day’s financial news.

  At 8:35AM, her phone rang again.

  “Are you at home?” Kyle asked.

  “Yes, I’m exactly where you told me to be,” Padma replied cheerfully. “I miss you. When am I going to see you again?”

  Her question was met with silence.

  Padma sensed trouble. “Kyle? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not coming home.”

  “Oh God! No,” she gasped. “No! No! No!”

  Though Padma knew the possibility of Kyle’s untimely death was a risk that came with marriage to a Delta soldier, she had assumed she would have more than 48 hours of married life with him before she was widowed.

  Padma sobbed on the phone, unable to speak.

  “I am so sorry,” Kyle said. “I wanted to live with you. You don’t know how much I wanted to live with you.”

  “I do know,” said Padma, crying.

  Padma tried to pull herself together. “I need to be strong for you,” she said. “What can I do for you? Tell me what you need.”

  “I was supposed to be the one to protect you,” said Kyle.

  “I know that you already have,” said Padma.

  “Beloved,” Kyle said, “know that if there is any way I can be with you, I will. I promise I will. There is no other place I want to be.”

  “I am selfish, but I don’t want you to rest. I want you to haunt me forever,” she said.

  “I will be your ghost. I feel sorry for the next guy who tries to date you.”

  Padma laughed through the tears.

  “I don’t,” she said. “I want to see the look on his face when you rattle your chains.”

  “I am so sorry, love. I have to go now,” said Kyle.

  Padma sobbed.

  “Goodbye, my love.”

  “Goodbye, beloved,” Padma cried. “Please take my love with you.”

  “I will, love. Always.”

  Padma dropped the phone. She raised her hands to her face and cried into them.

  Minutes later, news of American 11’s near miss of the North Tower flashed across her TV. Was this connected to Kyle’s warning for her to stay home?

  News trickled out over the following hours. Kyle was on the plane! He had died while leading a charge to retake the plane from Muslim extremist hijackers.

  Padma realized that Kyle had given his life so that Padma might live in a world without Kyle. The irony was maddening to her.

  More news began to flow. Bizarre reports. Stories of murdered young Middle Eastern men in hotel rooms in New Jersey, Boston, and Virginia—was there a connection? Though FBI agents had instantly swarmed the crime scenes, squelching news, rumors filtered out from first responders about assassination-style killings and strange notes left at the scenes, suggesting American 11 was not an isolated incident but instead part of a broader terrorist conspiracy involving as many as four airliners. The implications were chilling. Speculation churned overtime on news networks.

  Among the interviewees were Kyle’s parents in Palo Alto, California. The press had wasted no time flushing the two grieving middle-aged parents out of their home and into a phalanx of cameras and microphones.

  Kyle and Padma had not yet told their parents that they had eloped two days prior. No one knew Padma was the brave Delta Force operator’s widow. As she watched Kyle’s parents struggle to maintain their composure in the strange, alien world that had landed on their front lawn, Padma was thankful her 48-hour marriage was a secret. No reporters would be waiting for her when she emerged from her brownstone.

  Padma knew her own parents would call when they saw the news. She dreaded the call. Padma’s parents knew their daughter was in love with the Army Special Forces soldier—someone they considered beneath her station. They hoped the infatuation would pass and that their daughter would marry a doctor or lawyer.

  “You should not be alone right now,” said Padma’s mother. “There is a very nice man you should meet. I think you would enjoy his company.”

  “Are you serious?” Padma responded in a deep voice, as though her measured words coiled like a serpent to strike. “I’ve lost the love of my life and you’re trying to fix me up? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “He’s a lawyer at Skadden Arps,” her mother added.

  “Mother! Love is not a pedigree!” Padma cried.

  She hung up. The phone rang again. She yanked the cord out of the wall and screamed. Orange rage mixed with her other colors of pain. Padma wondered if she too would lose her mind when she grew older, as her mother clearly had.

  At that moment, Padma heard the lock of her apartment door unlatch. Someone pushed the door open.

  Padma spun around as the door closed shut. A man stood in front of the door behind the sofa. The stranger was illuminated only by the TV and the solitary candle —too dark for Padma to see clearly.

  Wearing nothing but Kyle’s shirt, Padma’s sense of vulnerability swelled in the intruder’s presence.

  “Who are you?” demanded Padma. “What are you doing here?”

  The man stepped toward Padma. He was a big man, over six feet tall, wearing black. He carried a backpack in one hand. He dropped the pack on the floor with a thud.

  Padma screamed and covered her face with her hands.

  Kyle Mason was standing in her living room.

  7 West 75th Street

  New York, NY

  September 11, 2001

  20:13 hours

  Timeline 002

  Padma shrieked at the ghost standing in her apartment. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. She felt Kyle’s hands around her wrists. Instinctively, she jerked her hands and pulled away.

  “No! You’re dead!” she screamed. “You’re dead!”

  “Beloved,” Kyle said softly, “I’m here. I’m really here.”

  Padma pulled her hands from her eyes, eyeing the man with suspicion.

  Kyle pulled up his sleeve to show Padma the Sanskrit tattoo of her name on the inside of his arm. “It’s really me.”

  Padma looked at the tattoo in the dim light. She reached out and touched it cautiously with her forefinger.

  She withdrew her finger. Her gaze returned to Kyle’s face.

  “I don’t understand,” said Padma in a breaking voice. “How can you be here?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Kyle. “For the moment, can you trust that I am?”

  “Not if it’s only for a moment,” cried Padma. “If you’re here, you have to stay here. You can never leave—ever! Can you make that promise to me?”

  “Yes. I can make that promise. I will never leave you again.”

  Padma wrapped her arms around Kyle and kissed him hard. The moment she touched him, she felt something strange.

  Noli me tangere.

  The Latin words flashed in her mind—Jesus after his crucifixion admonishing Mary Magdalene to “touch me not” because of his unrisen state. Padma’s body was rejecting something about the man she was holding. There was something foreign about him.

  But the man she was holding and kissing was Kyle. She recognized his face, his body, his voice. She dismissed the false voices in her head, hoisted her body up onto his and wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her into the bedroom, laid her on the bed, and pulled her shirt open, ripping off the buttons and exposing her naked body.

&nbs
p; She looked up at him with molten dark chocolate eyes. “Come to me,” she said.

  7 West 75th Street

  New York, NY

  September 12, 2001

  02:47 hours

  Timeline 002

  Padma looked at the man sleeping soundly next to her. Candlelight and shadows moved across his body. Though hours of lovemaking had exhausted them both, the warning voices in her head persisted, keeping her wide-awake. She took the votive candle from the nightstand and held it close to his right arm to view his tattoo more closely.

  She gasped.

  The fresh tattoo, which had been crisp, black, and bordered by red inflamed skin the previous day, was completely healed. Age had blurred it and faded the black ink to dark patina. She instinctively held her hand to her mouth, squelching a shriek. Her heart raced.

  The man to whom she had given herself was an imposter.

  She felt a bolt of dread in her stomach. Tentacles of fear fired through her arms and legs. Frantic, conflicting, terrified thoughts overwhelmed her mind. The man sleeping next to her looked like Kyle. He knew things that only Kyle could know. And yet, he was not Kyle.

  Padma carefully slid out of bed, put Kyle’s white dress shirt back on, and exited the bedroom.

  7 West 75th Street

  New York, NY

  September 12, 2001

  06:30 hours

  Timeline 002

  Kyle Mason opened his eyes. Next to him was the cavity of a vacant white pillow. The head that had rested there was gone. In its place, a strand of long black hair lay tucked in the pillow’s ample folds.

  He got out of bed.

  “Padma?” he called as he began to walk through the apartment. Morning light was beginning to stream through the windows. Kyle found Padma in the kitchen. She was sitting at the small wooden kitchen table. A mug of coffee sat on the table in front of her. Her forehead rested on the table, her long black hair splayed across it. Kyle noticed that his backpack rested on the floor next to Padma’s chair. It was unzipped.

  “Padma?” Kyle asked, standing naked in the kitchen doorway.