Fortune

by Craig W. Turner

  “You son of a bitch,” he said. “You figured it out.” It had worked. His friend was a genius.

  And just that morning, he’d yelled at him for bringing his phone on the mission.

  Just that morning.

  He was so excited that he actually did a little dance in the middle of the office. He wanted to call someone to let them know how unbelievably crazy this was – that a cell phone had survived two and a half centuries buried somewhere. The people who really needed to hear it were the ones who made the phone, but he could get to that later. Abby? Emeka? His first call would normally be to Dexter - which made him focus himself and get back to the steps his friend had laid out.

  #3. I don’t want you engaging in any kind of mission without background knowledge. Even if the phone trick works, you’re going to need to know what you’re walking into. There’s only one person I would trust to help you with that in my absence, and that’s that Erica girl from California. You need her to come get me. Don’t try it without her.

  Jeff slumped back onto the bench and sighed deeply. The wind had left his sails. Not what he expected Dexter to say. That bridge had been badly burned, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to rebuild it. He couldn’t imagine that Erica would be as passionate about saving Dexter as he was, so expecting that she would jump at the opportunity to engage in something that had brought her such heartache was not realistic. He glanced back down at the book.

  #4. Don’t spend the Wilton $$ without me.

  Underneath, Dexter had drawn a picture of the American flag, but the original flag, with the circle of stars representing the original 13 states. He’d been far more prepared for this than Jeff was. He hoped that once they rescued him, his friend would be willing to forgive him for getting him hanged. Reading that last bulletin, Jeff had to think that Dexter had had doubts about this mission in particular, and he wondered if his own rushing of the process had partially led to the disastrous outcome. He hoped it wasn’t the case, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

  The mention of Erica meant that Dexter had written these pages only in the last two days. He was well aware of where the conversation, and as a result, the relationship, with Erica had gone, but still recommended that she was necessary to help him put together a rescue mission. Jeff had been trusting for a couple of years now that Dexter knew what he was talking about. He’d have to trust him again, no matter how hard following through on his instructions would be.

  The rest of the journal’s pages were blank, so he put the key back under the stein and folded up the book, bringing it with him. Walking back to his car, he went into planning mode. He’d call Emeka and Abby from the car and let them know what the next steps were. For the newest member of the team, though, the phone wasn’t going to be enough.

  He was going to have to make a house call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Erica settled into her chair and took a deep breath. She’d been on camera enough times that the recording light no longer flustered her, but she did like to deliver her lines as articulately as possible the first time. Retakes were a pain. So before Cindy Kramer, who was still in makeup, arrived, she had a routine she generally went through to prep herself.

  These were the studio shots, which would comprise only about six or seven minutes of the hour-long show. Erica was booked for the following weekend to go to Philadelphia to film some on-location shots at various historical buildings, then on to El Paso to finish the segments. While she preferred opportunities to film closer to home, she did enjoy the travel – there was nothing wrong with employer-financed getaways. Plus, she had a weakness for Philly cheesesteaks, and she was paid extra for going out-of-town. Over the last year, she’d put together a nice little discretionary spending account with the cash.

  This show’s “mystery of history” was based on a story she’d come across at times, but was becoming one of her favorites as they put the episode together. While her forte was The West, she had a special place in her heart for the American Revolution, dating back to some of her first introductions to history in middle school. School history classes often seemed to spend significant time on the American Revolution, and hers had been no different, revisiting the history over and over again until she practically knew it by heart. It was the heroes of the time that really grabbed her – Franklin, Adams, Revere, Washington – and even at that young age, she wondered where those types of people had gone. She’d always wished she could eventually become something like them herself – admirable, if not great. Why they weren’t around anymore was the real mystery. That sentiment had set her on her path, and she wouldn’t have been sitting on the set of The Mystery of History without the thought-provoking atmosphere of Mrs. Taylor’s 7th grade history class where the Revolution had provided the backdrop for why the study of history was so engaging. Later, simple geography and her link to Joe Wilton would steer her career, but she did love the Revolutionary War and its captivating stories.

  That being the case, she was enjoying this opportunity. Planning the Wilton episode and Erica’s subsequent comments had riled Connie up about exploring missing treasures from American history, and now yet another treasure was the focus of the day -- a collection of rare gemstones that had been imparted to a British officer, Major Jonathan Garvey, to be distributed as a reward to officers in the Royal Army for meritorious work. Following a robbery by two Colonials impersonating British soldiers, the stones had been lost and never resurfaced. Though Erica was familiar with the story in her own studies, she’d revisited it in recent days, and was finding the show’s newest theme, treasures unaccounted for, to be a fun departure from some of the more dire misfortunes that the show often focused on otherwise. After all, who didn’t have a little child inside their heart, ready to get excited about missing treasure?

  When Cindy arrived, the cameras rolled, and she told that story while her counterpart nodded incessantly to let viewers know that she was listening. At pauses, Erica wondered if Cindy actually ever picked up any of this historical knowledge she came across while doing these shows, or if she was simply a mannequin sitting there, smiling.

  Her turn to talk came again. “Some historians believe that the chest full of stones was successfully stolen from Major Garvey’s house by the intruders, who would have likely dispersed them to the Colonials in nearby neighborhoods, ultimately building at least a small amount of wealth that could’ve been used as a resource in the building war. Others believe the stones are still on the premises of the old home following the fire that occurred about a week after the robbery.” That line would be used for voice-over to accompany footage of her walking in front of the brownstone that now sat on the site. Picturing this even as she spoke, she realized she was getting good at this – maybe she’d try producing her own show at some point. “Even though the area has been excavated and rebuilt, there’s not any real record of what was in the chest, so no one’s really clear on what they should be looking for.”

  “How do we know there even was a chest full of stones?” Cindy asked. Softball question. Scripted ahead of time.

  “Major Garvey had sent the king a thank you letter for his generosity.” Another voice-over while the graphic of the letter, which was housed at the Smithsonian, would be shown. “Garvey thanked the King and praised him for his wisdom in doing a little bit extra for officers who were getting frustrated with the state of things in the Colonies. The letter reached London just about the time the stones were disappearing.”

  “Was the King upset that the stones went missing?”

  “There wasn’t too much to say,” Erica said. “One of the intruders was caught, unfortunately for him, but there’s little record of what happened to him. Likely, he was hanged. Though with the fire coming so soon afterward, things could’ve gotten lost in the shuffle, which could explain why there’s no record. Two of the British soldiers who were sentries at the Garvey home were also punished for their carelessness, particularly when during their questioning they blathered on a
bout the thieves disappearing before their eyes. According to British military records, the soldiers were put in what was the colonial equivalent of a psychiatric center and were never heard from again. Major Garvey, himself, ultimately lost his commission, but that was more likely due to the inadequacy of his work than the robbery.”

  “That’s incredible,” Cindy said. “What do you suppose that means, the thieves disappeared?”

  Erica laughed at Cindy’s wide-eyed amazement, proficiently manufacturer since she already knew the program’s questions and answers. “To be honest, it probably means that they were in on the heist and couldn’t come up with anything better. There’s no way of knowing.”

  Cindy sat for a moment and laughed quietly, perhaps reflecting on what Erica had said. Or, more likely, thinking about a joke that her new boyfriend, Evan, who Erica’d had to hear all about prior to filming, had made over dinner the night before. She really couldn’t tell.

  Since the camera was still rolling, Erica asked, “We good?”

  Cindy awoke and glanced over at Connie Rich, who nodded. “I guess we’re good,” she said.

  Erica rose from the chair as Connie approached her. “That was nice and easy,” she said.

  Connie handed her a small package of papers. “Here’s the script for next week. We’re going to do the shots in front of the house, then have the Independence Hall shot, and I like the idea you had of using that public park where the gallows were. That’ll be a nice touch.”

  Erica nodded, flipping quickly through the pages and scanning them.

  “We put those together using your notes, but take a look through them over the weekend and .pdf me with any changes you have. I’ll get you the final Alamo script together ASAP.”

  Erica nodded again and Connie left. She said a quick goodbye to Cindy, then went into the studio bathroom to wash the makeup off of her face. She couldn’t stand it. She understood why it was important for on-camera work, with the lighting and all, but she didn’t want to be seen in public with it caked on her, not if she could help it. Cindy, she understood, probably didn’t mind walking around town looking like a porcelain doll. Not her, though – she tucked her hair back into its standard ponytail and pushed through the bathroom door.

  She stopped short. Standing in front of her was Dr. Jeff Jacobs.

  At first glance, she didn’t know quite how to feel about him being there. She was irritated because of the way he’d left things with her, him and his friend, and their games they played at everyone else’s expense. But beneath that, she was stubbornly intrigued at what they were claiming to have accomplished. While their story was not believable, over the past few days, she’d spent a good amount of time wondering why someone would craft such a fairy tale. That anyone could say that they “went back in time” and changed something. There wasn’t a practical argument you could make against them because the concept was so inane. But, as she’d thought about it, she’d also realized that every time anyone on the planet made a decision, it created one reality and left another behind; that they didn’t call it a reality, because they didn’t acknowledge it as such, didn’t defeat the fact that it had been a possibility for the true reality they faced at any moment. If – and that was an enormous if – someone could figure out how time could be manipulated, changing history would be pretty easy. In fact, actually not changing time seemed like it would be more difficult.

  But the whole thing made her blood boil, so she instinctively took a defensive posture against him. Except that he didn’t look offensive right now. He wasn’t smiling like he was happy to see her. He wasn’t smug and overconfident, like he’d been that evening in his living room. His face wasn’t apologetic for rattling her world either. He was just... there. In front of her.

  “Garvey stole the stones for himself,” Jeff said, without emotion.

  “What?”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, his hands in his pocket. She only knew him slightly, but his posture seemed odd to her. It wasn’t him. “I listened in on your segment. I just wanted you to know that Major Garvey stole the stones for himself.”

  “And what makes you think that?” Still on guard. The remaining crew milled around behind him, repositioning chairs and setting the backdrop for whatever the next taping was.

  “Because the thieves never made off with the chest,” he said. “They escaped. But they left the stones behind.”

  “And how would you...” Suddenly she realized she’d been in this conversation before. “No, you didn’t.”

  Before finishing, she pushed past him and out the studio door. The hallway was bright, and she squinted as the light hit her eyes. She walked at as fast a pace as possible, past a line of posters for successful shows the local network had rolled out over the years, and her hurrying only magnified her anger, but still she heard his footsteps close behind. Finally, she stopped and turned.

  “You expect me to believe that you did this?” she asked. There was no one else in the hall, but frankly, at this point, she didn’t care if anyone overheard.

  “Honestly,” he said, “it doesn’t matter what you believe.”

  “Doesn’t matter? Why? What gives you the right?”

  “Garvey was a bad man. If anything, what we tried to do would’ve helped the Colonials’ cause.”

  “Well, that’s not your responsibility. They won just fine without you, remember? Everything has happened the way it’s supposed to happen and it’s not any one person’s right to change it.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  “Well, then we have nothing further to talk about,” she said, and turned away from him again. She was about five feet from the door to the parking ramp. For the duration of those five steps, she was torn between saying something so awful to him that it would ensure that she would never have to see him again – though the worst she could come up with on the spot was, “I don’t ever want to see you again” – and storming through the door without another word, leaving the conversation hanging in the balance.

  Decision time came as she put her hand on the door and started to push. It was Jeff that spoke, though, and he immobilized her with his words and the tone with which he said them.

  “I need your help.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jeff carefully walked back to the table carrying two mocha lattes, setting one in front of Erica, who was checking e-mail on her smart phone. He sat down across from her.

  The small coffee shop was mildly busy for mid-day, about two-dozen patrons sitting throughout – some deep into their tablets or laptops, others busy in conversation. In the corner, two suited men talked too loudly about politics. Erica had chosen the place as one of her usual haunts. In fact, on their way in she’d asked Jeff to order for them because the guy behind the counter, who was kind of creepy, she said, had a crush on her. She said he’d know what she wanted, though, so Jeff just ordered two of those.

  After a moment, she finished and slipped her phone in her purse. She held up her coffee and nodded a thank you to him. No smile, though. It was pretty clear that he wasn’t her favorite person.

  She started. “Okay, so I saw you earlier this week, and according to you at that point, you hadn’t yet gone back to 1770. Yes?”

  Jeff nodded.

  “But to me, the history of you trying to steal Garvey’s jewels had already been written. I’ve known that story for years. The script for the show I was taping has been written for months. I can only assume that when you and I talked a couple of days ago – and this is going to sound really weird, but I have to say it anyway – in your recollection of history, Garvey’s stones hadn’t been stolen. Am I right in my line of thinking?”

  “Yes.” Maybe he could get away with short answers and let her talk herself into helping him.

  “That’s insane.”

  He had to agree. It was a perspective he hadn’t considered, and would have to spend some time thinking on in the future.

  She continued. “So in your mind,
before you did what you did, what happened to the stones?”

  He shook his head. “We don’t know. Garvey’s house burned to the ground and the stones were lost. The assumption was that Garvey kept them for himself.”

  “So, the house still burned down anyway? In both realities?” She picked up a napkin and wiped a drip of coffee off the side of her cup. “Let me switch gears. I’ve been trying to figure out what could’ve made you need my help so badly that you’d fly all the way out here unannounced to find me. I’m guessing something went wrong with your little experiments.”

  “You’re right.”

  She pulled her coffee to her lips, but it was too hot so she placed it back on the table. “You have to understand that if you screwed something up in history, it will be near impossible to fix it. Too many things are dependent on each other.”

  He sat back in his seat. “So you’re a believer now?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” she said, laughing. It wasn’t a sincere laugh of humor. More along the lines of a you’d-better-get-to-your-point-soon; much as she’d asked him to wait on his plea until she had some coffee in hand, his short answers now were becoming infuriating. “I’ve come to terms with the concept that, if it were possible for historical events to change, there’d be no way that any of us could know about it. I still don’t know how I feel about the idea that you’re the driver of it, Jeff.”

  “Then given that logic, does it really matter?”

  “Well, sure it does. Why should you be the one who gets to determine what happens? Why should anyone? You’re assuming that you’re the only one who’s able to do this.”

  He nodded, thinking, as she tried her drink again. She was right. He’d raised it with Dexter. What’s to say someone wasn’t doing the same thing around him? “True,” he said, “but then that reinforces my point. Does it really matter?”