The Silver Screen

by The Silver Screen (retail) (epub)

  “Mitchell is the last one. Retrieval in three weeks. Normal maintenance. Remind wardrobe it’s ‘39. Baggy pants, no vent jackets, black and white tie.”

  “Okay. Got it.”

  “Leave the report with The Array.”

  “Done.”

  The voices disappeared as the door opened and the sound of the elevator moving hummed and then disappeared.

  Cautiously, Hawk opened the door, looked both ways and slipped out. His sense of excitement was, in a word, consuming. What the hell was going on here? It sounded like a plan for a movie. But what did retrieval mean? Retrieval of what? And who is Mitchell?

  Curiosity won over caution as Hawk decided to go in the direction he had heard the voices coming from. He looked around, finding a simple door at the end of the hall. He tried turning the knob and it opened easily. He stepped through and his mouth fell open. The walls were dirt—crude and rough; a long tunnel lay before him. Strange emergency lighting gave the tunnel an eerie glow. He moved carefully along as it moved to the right and then a sharp left. A gray metal door confronted him with an electronic eye that glowed red.

  “Shit,” he was being watched. He looked around for anything. Nothing. Dead silence. As he turned to leave, he stumbled over a pebble and looking down noticed what looked like a piece of paper. He carefully brushed the dust and earth away and discovered a matchbook. Frowning, he lifted it as close as possible to the weak light. Odd, it was imprinted with the name “Macombo.” His brain remembered the popular old 1940s nightclub. He opened the matchbook and examined it closely. It looked brand new. On the inner flap was the word STARR. So intent on the matchbook, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the earth sway and then jolt. “Son of a bitch,” it was an earthquake. Momentarily paralyzed, he watched as a thin veil of dust descended off the ceiling and several small pebbles rolled off the walls. Then, absolute silence.

  Hawk slowly released his breath. He stepped forward and then took another deep breath. He had to get the hell out of here. Another serious shaker and they’d never find him in this mess.

  He ran back to the nondescript door, more than relieved to find it still opened. He went straight to the old elevator door. It opened at his touch. He pushed the lobby button and prayed to God that that’s where he would arrive.

  The matchbook tucked neatly and safely in his wallet, he walked through the elegant lobby. Business as usual. No sign that an earthquake had upset anyone. “Only in California,” he reflected. Adjusting his sunglasses, he headed toward his Jeep. The pieces of the puzzle were growing. All he had to do was make them fit.

  * * *

  Kate had spent the better part of the afternoon driving around Los Angeles and finally arrived at the beach in Santa Monica. Her mind was a gridlock of questions with which she had somehow managed not to bombard Sherman. He was up to something and she was convinced that something was The Array. “Out of business.” Not on you life. The question was, what business? The possibilities were endless. And where in the hell was this place? The location of The Array had to be easy access, but where in LA?

  Her mind empty of answers, she returned home to the bungalow. As she entered the front door, she looked into the living room. The melted tape and VCR stared back. An

  irritating reminder of a very bad start to this unending day of surprises.

  Overwhelmed, Kate knew she needed help and dialed her best friend of ten years, Laura Kane, owner of the popular Santa Monica resale store called Aunty Mame’s Attic. They had supported each other through various levels of life’s ongoing challenges, but Kate knew when Laura heard the latest she would agree the word “surprise” had taken on new meaning.

  Kate listened as the phone rang several times and then the machine engaged. “Damn,” she had forgotten Laura was in San Francisco buying. “Laura, it’s Kate. I have to talk to you. Something so unreal has happened, you won’t believe it. A teaser, I’ve found out who my real dad is and more news to follow. It’s incredible. How about drinks, Kings Head, tomorrow, 7:30? Leave me a message. See you then. Bye.”

  Kate had relied on Laura’s intuition, which as far as she was concerned was gold.

  Kate had told Laura a million times she was psychic. Laura never bought it. Kate didn’t care. She needed help from Laura’s crystal ball and she needed it yesterday.

  * * *

  Across town, Hawk was having a tormented night of fruitless search until his friend Tango arrived. Tango, a short Spanish man with long black, pony-tailed hair, had been Hawk’s buddy for several years. It was an interesting friendship in that they had met because of their interest about UFOs. Hawk respected Tango’s expertise in the art of investigation on the internet. He had become a kind of mentor as the two shared their passions for the unknown. But most importantly to Hawk, Tango never bailed on him, no matter how nuts it got. Now, seated across from each other beside Hawk’s computer, they were discussing the afternoon’s event at the Regent Beverly Wilshire.

  “So what do you think?” Hawk asked Tango, running his hand over his beard-stubbled face in restless agitation.

  Tango picked up the Macombo matchbook. Turning it slowly, his dark brown eyes were pensive. “Most likely it was printed in Hollywood. There are . . .”

  “I know, a thousand novelty shops.”

  Tango nodded, but continued to study the matchbook. “But,” he finally said, “. . . if what you say happened at the hotel, it could be the first tangible link.”

  “The word inside, what do you think it means?” Hawk asked.

  “A code,” Tank replied quickly.

  “Why?”

  “Just instinct.”

  “A code for what?”

  “Good question. Read this.” Tango handed Hawk a large manila envelope. “I did some checking on Sherman Avery and his company.”

  Impatient, Hawk ripped open the envelope. He tilted his head, his gaze momentarily overwhelmed by the volume of facts and figures. “What is all this?”

  “Take a closer look,” Tango said.

  “At what?” replied Hawk in agitation.

  Tango reached over and pointed to the top of the page. “Check out the original founders of Tyme Studios. Check out Howard Hughes.”

  “So.”

  “Man, are you brain dead tonight?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Listen Hawk, Hughes would have the money and connections if something as progressive as time travel was involved.”

  “And?” Hawked looked up from his fistful of papers at Tango’s dramatic pause. “And?” He repeated.

  “Hughes loved Hollywood. He was legendary for dropping tons of money to promote films and starlets. So it would seem logical that he would create a studio as a front for this time travel business.”

  Hawk’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and intense interest. “Yeah, could be, but he’s been dead since the 1970’s. A complete nutcase if I remember the press.”

  “Right,” Tango nodded, “But how did he get that way? It has never really been answered. He was just put down as a complete eccentric.”

  “So?” Hawk asked. “What would fry his brain chemically, change him to this long-haired, long finger nailed, neurotic about cleanliness?”

  “Exactly!” Tango said, watching Hawk’s mind going into overdrive.

  “So what you are saying,” Hawk interjected, “. . . is that the effects are similar to what happened to the crew of the Philadelphia Experiment?”

  “Bingo!” Tango nodded. “But it took longer as they now have perfected the technique. If someone was going to feed millions into something as fantastic as time travel, don’t you think he’d use himself as the guinea pig?”

  Hawk nodded, “Makes sense. But man, that’s a scary way to die.”

  A momentary silence punctuated the quiet evening when Hawk finally remarked, “That only leaves one st
udio then.”

  “Yeah, right. Tyme Studios.”

  “Well, that ties in with what I heard today. It makes the pieces come together.”

  “Which was?” Tango said with a faint smile of indulgence.

  “Tyme Studios never does any sequels.”

  The words he spoke sank in as Tango said, “Score again!” Tango’s smile widened. “So now we are getting someplace.”

  “Damn straight!” Hawk couldn’t recall when he had felt such a rush of anticipation.

  “You see, my friend,” Tango said, “. . . there are signs everywhere.”

  “Hey, don’t go all Zen on me. We have too much to do tonight.”

  “What’s next?” Tango asked, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “The photos.” Hawk was out of his chair in a flash, talking as he went to retrieve the photos of The Array and the other men in the hotel lobby.

  “These guys . . . there’s four of them . . . they are part of all this, I am certain. I don’t know who they are . . .” His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner into his lab. He grabbed half a dozen photos and quickly returned, handing the stack to Tango.

  “Do you recognize them?” Hawk asked eagerly.

  Tango was silent, intent on studying their faces.

  “Well?” Hawk said impatient.

  “I’m looking. Give me a minute. Interesting. Interesting. Yes . . .”

  “Interesting, what?” Hawk demanded.

  Tango looked up, his eyes dark. “I recognize one of them. There was an article I read when I was in Madrid. It was back in the ‘60s. It wasn’t a big splash, but involved work with crystals and lasers.”

  Hawk was silent a moment, distracted by the information. He ran his fingers unconsciously through his shoulder length, brownish red hair.

  “Lasers and crystals. Where have I heard about the use of crystals?” Hawk asked more to himself than to anyone else.

  “In present day or in the past?” Tango asked.

  “What do you mean?” Hawk said.

  “Exactly that. Crystals are very popular today with psychics and holistic healers. In the past, theory exists that the fabled continent of Atlantis used giant crystals for healing as well as destroying. They were a very advanced civilization. This includes . . .”

  Hawk nodded, following his friend’s thought. “I know, the Bermuda Triangle—the land of strange disappearances—maybe into another dimension?”

  A knowing smile rose to Tango’s intelligent, intent brown eyes. “Score again, my friend!”

  CHAPTER IV

  “I don’t agree,” Jack Baldwin repeated, unable to muster sympathy at Sherman Avery’s attempt to convince him he was overreacting to Kate’s colorful display earlier that day.

  “Jack, try to understand. I agree with you, she’s feisty, but certainly not a vindictive person. I have known her . . .”

  “I know,” Jack cut in. “She is like family to you.”

  “True,” Sherman agreed.

  “But,” Jack continued in a firm tone, “. . . she doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman that backs down easily.”

  “Okay. She’s a bit stubborn, but I know I reached her.” Sherman insisted. “Granted, with half truths, but it’s all I had to work with. I don’t see this boiling into a real problem. She’s hurt, you know that.”

  “Yes, but she could blow the lid off all the work of the last 35 years. Up in smoke, just like that!” Jack snapped his fingers.

  He heard Sherman sigh, an affirmation of his own concerns. But in his usual style of Papa Bear, leader of the clan, he glossed over them.

  Jack appreciated the noble effort for morale’s sake, but The Array was seriously vulnerable now. The worst case scenario of trouble was staggering to think of if they were exposed. Jack frowned, rubbing his forehead in agitated concern. They

  had been so lucky for so long. He felt Sherman was over-confident.

  “Listen Jack, she’s not going to the Enquirer, CNN or anyone else. It would accomplish absolutely nothing. Besides, she needs us. We are her only family.”

  Jack was quiet a moment, digesting Sherman’s words. Somehow it still bothered him. Finally he said, “Perhaps, but as they say in the cop movies, this doesn’t sit well in my gut.”

  “So get some Pepto Bismol!”

  Jack cracked a grin, “Yeah, right.”

  Sherman’s chuckle echoed over the phone lines. “Look, I’ve talked to the group. It’s agreed. We stay focused on finishing this project. I’ll keep Kate occupied with enough stories until we’re in the clear. Then as planned, The Array will vanish without a trace.”

  “Let’s just hope it plays out that way,” Jack remarked.

  “It will. Trust me on this, Jack.”

  Sherman and Jack talked for a few more minutes, going over pre-retrieval meeting plans. He reminded him of his medical checkup that was scheduled the following morning.

  Jack finally hung up the phone and shook his head. He just didn’t like where this was going. He sat a moment longer thinking of his life and wondering how it had all come to this, but of course, he knew.

  It had all begun when the United States put the first man on the moon. His childhood dream was to grow up to be an astronaut. To say he had been upset when his family moved from Florida to Long Beach, California was a giant understatement. His parents had tried to explain how lucky they were that Daddy was going to work for the great Howard Hughes Air. Jack was not in the least impressed. But life was weaving its tapestry of destiny, and because of his father’s brilliant engineering skills, he was soon brought to work at Tyme Studios. Jack saw this in somewhat of an improved light.

  Jack grew up to follow into the high-tech world that was still in its infancy in the ‘70s and early ‘80s. Quick, innovative and passionate about the unexplored, he had pursued a career in the world of computer technology. His parents supported him, but part of his pioneering spirit still yearned to be a modern day Christopher Columbus. On many a warm evening, graced with breezy Santa Ana winds, he would walk along the Pacific seashore, look at the stars and wonder what lie in outer space. That fed his sci-fi fantasies.

  But it was the 1980’s movie, “The Philadelphia Experiment” that suddenly changed everything. It had introduced him to time travel, creating a belief in him that time travel was more fun than star travel. He began to devour anything he could get his hands on about the subject. He was completely amazed at the volume of research that had been conducted by various scientists around the world.

  He remembered his mother had dismissed his latest passion as just another phase he was going through. His father reacted differently. They would sit and talk thoughts and theories well into the night. At first, Jack was surprised by his father’s apparent openness and extensive knowledge on the subject. He never questioned it though how his father came by this knowledge. Sadly, he was to discover that answer suddenly and tragically.

  After this 28th birthday in October of 1985, as he returned to his apartment on Doheny Drive, he noticed his answering machine blinking with new messages. As he listened, he was shocked and devastated to learn his parents had been in a fatal car accident, both killed instantly. His world had been turned upside down again.

  Sherman Avery had entered his life at this point, took care of funeral arrangements and later offered Jack a job in production at Tyme Studios.

  Amazed and strangely comforted by the unconditional support of his father’s boss, he had decided it would be an exciting new avenue to pursue. Little did he know just how exciting.

  Two years later, in the spring of 1987, Sherman Avery asked Jack to join him at his Regent Beverly Wilshire office. It was to be the meeting that would grant his fondest wish and change his life forever.

  Finally, Jack got up and dismissed those old memories. He went into his modern black and white kitchen, then selected
and opened one of his preferred bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon. He poured half a glass, leaving the open bottle on the gray granite counter.

  Turning, he squinted at the rays of the setting sun. It had been one hell of a day. He went over to the sound system, pulled out a CD of his favorite Big Band sounds, slipped in the CD and pushed play. He needed to relax.

  As the sounds of Duke Ellington’s “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” filled the room, he went to the sliding door and opened it. The hum of Wilshire traffic entered the pleasant evening air. He went out onto the balcony and stood a moment at the railing, looking out at the twilight sky. His thoughts seemed to mingle with the word fate, one he certainly didn’t use often. However, it seemed to fit lately and rhyme with the word Kate, the woman that had so unexpectedly re-entered his life.

  Jack turned, bent down, put the glass of wine on the small side table and sank into the comfortable cushions of the lounge chair. He needed time to think. To say he had been stunned at Kate’s transformation was an understatement. The once shy girl he had met in passing so many years ago was replaced by a fiery beauty. A face framed in auburn hair with moss green eyes that held an incomparable fireworks show. The impact had riveted him in a moment of acute awareness of an attraction one couldn’t afford.

  He had kept much to himself over the years in regard to relationships, because of his job secrets and the security required. He also had justified it because he hadn’t met that perfect woman. None so far had broken down that formidable barrier of reasons. In his line of work, it only allowed for the occasional mindless sex. Long term commitments were outlawed. Unquestionably however, there was nothing mindless about Kate. There was also the potential threat that she posed to The Array.