by Zack Mason
She was not sure what to do. She sized him up for several seconds.
“Wait here,” she finally breathed. “Thomas!” She receded into the house. After a minute, she returned. “Please come in. My husband is waiting for you in the study.”
He was a solid, sturdy looking man. As he and Mark shook hands, his no nonsense grip communicated an honesty one could respect.
“I’m Thomas Henderson,” he introduced himself.
“Mark Carpen.”
“Lucy says you’re offering to help my son. What do you know about him?”
“Just that he’s sick with a lung disease and no medicine has worked for him so far.”
“And why you think you can help?”
“I won’t know if I can until I examine him, but I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think it were possible.”
“What are your qualifications? Have you been to medical school?”
“My qualifications aren’t important. I have some medicines that may help him. What do you have to lose?”
“Well, it occurs to me that you may be a quack out to make a quick buck preying on desperate families, sir.”
“I won’t ask you to pay me until you’ve seen the medicines work.”
“What if these “medicines” hurt Jeffrey?”
Mark shrugged. Henderson stared him in the eye for a full minute weighing the man and his offer. In the end, he either decided to trust Mark or desperation just won out. They clearly believed their son was on the road to death if they didn’t find a new treatment that worked.
“Come this way please.”
He led Mark to a bedroom in the back of the house. Jeffrey looked to be about seven years old. He lay on his bed motionless, covered with blankets in spite of the heat of the day. His skin was pale, his breathing labored. He seemed very ill, and Mark understood why they thought he might die if his sickness was not remedied
After they explained the history of the boy’s illness, Mark was relieved. For a moment, he’d worried the boy might actually have some serious disease for which Mark could not help, but he’d gambled that little Jeffrey might simply be suffering from some ordinary ailment that the medicines of 1918 just could not handle.
From the description of the symptoms, Mark believed the boy had asthma, which was probably allergy induced. Yet, since the asthma and the allergies had gone unabated for so long, heavy mucus dripping into Jeffrey’s lungs had probably since turned it into a case of pneumonia.
In 2011, Mark had purchased a plethora of over-the-counter drugs while he was at Wal-Mart, rightly figuring that Extra Strength Tylenol might be a big hit in 1918. He’d stuffed his backpack with everything from Sudafed to Pepto Bismol. Before coming to the Henderson home, he’d emptied the old-fashioned, glass medicine bottles he’d bought at the drugstore, throwing the useless 1918 pills into the woods, and peeled off the labels. Then, he’d removed several of his Wal-Mart drugs from their aluminum packaging and poured those pills into the empty bottles so his modern medicines wouldn’t appear futuristic to the people from this age.
He went to the boy and laid his hand on his forehead. He had a strong fever. Definitely an infection in the lungs. Mark pulled out a Primatine Mist asthma inhaler. He sat the boy up and told him to breathe out deeply. The poor boy didn’t have much breath to give. Mark depressed the inhaler in the boy’s mouth as he breathed back in. After a couple more times, the boy seemed to be breathing easier.
His parents stood astonished with their mouths agape. They hadn’t expected any quick improvement. Mark handed them a bottle filled with antibiotics he’d had in his backpack since when he’d first gone to live off the mountains. They were strong ones and would likely handle this infection okay.
“Give him one of these pills three times a day, with food. He has an infection in his lungs. These will help with that.” He handed them several packs of Primatine Mist tablets and several inhalers. “The inhalers will help when he has moderate trouble breathing. If he has serious trouble, give him the tablets, but try to limit how many you give him because they can be addictive.”
They nodded.
“Do you have any cats or dogs?”
“Yes, we have several cats.”
“You must keep the cats outside the house permanently. They must never come inside again. Then, take all your furniture, blankets, and pillows outside and bang the dust out of them until you don’t see any more. After that, scrub the house from top to bottom and get rid of any dust you find.
“I also strongly recommend having cement poured underneath your home so it’s not sitting over wet dirt. Your son may be allergic to mold spores too.
“Even if you do those things, he may still have trouble in the Spring and the Fall. If he does, just give him some of these.” Mark handed them some Sudafed, Chlor-Trimeton, and Benadryl. “Try different ones to see which works better. Some will keep him awake, some will put him to sleep. These are not as strong as the other tablets I gave you, so use them accordingly. Any questions?”
Both Thomas and Lucy were dumbfounded by the assertive recommendations, so they just shook their heads. “Oh, by the way, if you have any feather pillows, get him some different ones — and keep horses and other animals away from the house too. I’ll be back in a few months to check on you. You can pay me then if the medicines worked.”
Yeah when I get where I'm going,
there'll be only happy tears.
I will shed the sins and struggles
I have carried all these years.
“When I Get Where I'm Going”
~Brad Paisley
June 16th, 1918 – Lawrenceville, GA
The humidity was thick and choking. Mosquitos swarmed around Mark’s head as he made his way up the block. He swatted at them sporadically but eventually gave up. He was going to have to remember to pick up some Deet spray next time he was at Wal-Mart.
Thomas and Lucy Henderson had seen him coming and were waiting for him on their front porch. Both were smiling from ear to ear.
He stopped at the bottom of their steps. “How is he?”
“See for yourself.” Tom called out toward the back of the house, “Jeffrey!” Shortly, the boy who had been so sickly just a few months prior, now ran energetically to his father, perfectly healthy.
“Those medicines were wonderful, Mister. They’re miracle drugs. Jeffrey’s never felt so well. What are they?”
“Did you pour concrete under the house?”
“Yes, we followed all your instructions to the tee. Do we have to keep the cats outside and the horses away still?”
“Absolutely. I’m not sure what Jeffrey’s allergic to, but there’s a number of common culprits which could cause his breathing problems. If you bring those animals back, he could relapse and you would need even more medicine.”
“Would you like to have dinner with us. It’s about ready.”
“Sure.” Mark didn’t make a habit of passing up free meals, especially home-cooked ones.
The dinner was piping hot and delicious. Mark enjoyed eating with a family again — it reminded him of being at Red’s house. After dessert, Mr. Henderson offered him $100 for the medicines Mark had given them. It was the equivalent of two and half months of pay for a working man in 1918. He took it.
He found a few other things to sell around town. He sold several bottles of Pepto-Bismol and Tums to a lawyer for $5. He sold an old Walkman he got at a garage sale to an elderly gentleman for $10 along with several packs of batteries. The man was amazed he could walk around his yard listening to the radio with tiny speakers in his ears.
If one compared what he was being paid for these items with his original cost in 2011, it would appear to the layman that he was actually losing a little bit on each sale, but what he was really doing was converting his 2011 dollars to 1918 cash. $5 in 1918 would become $500 in 2011 after ninety years of compound interest.
These sums might seem paltry, but they were significant to these people who might only earn $
30 to $40 per month. In the end, he collected a little under $200 total.
An added bonus was that Brand Bank already existed in the same location in 1918. In fact, the marble stone header above the door said 1905. He deposited his money in an account there and was confident it would carry through all the way to 2011.
He decided to check on his account every three to four years after 1980 (the computer age) so the bank wouldn’t declare his account inactive and send his money to the State Treasurer’s Office.
When he finally arrived in 2011 again, he now had $2,124 waiting for him in the Brand Bank savings account, more than enough to cover his safety deposit box fees. A few more shifts back and forth, and he’d worked out all the glitches in paying the fees before the contents were confiscated.
He was finally able to retrieve his Wal-Mart shares, all properly aged, and still had enough of a cash reserve to pay for a taxi to Atlanta.
***
In Atlanta, he located a securities firm that would help him cash in. The four original shares of Wal-Mart stock netted a cool $350,000. Not chump change by any degree.
It was all downhill from there. He was only limited by his own creativity in the different ways he could make money. However, there were lessons he’d learned from his forays back in time so far which he was careful not to neglect.
One of the first things he did upon reaching Atlanta was to do some research into finding a large, reputable law firm that had existed for at least 80 years. He needed a firm he could hire to manage his affairs over decades, a firm he could visit at any point in the last century and find out how his assets were doing at any given moment. They would need to be able to handle the sales of properties and stocks, pay income and property taxes, collect dividends, manage his bank accounts, etc., so it had to be somebody reliable.
At first glance, one would think it would be an easy task to find such a firm, but most law firms did not have such a long life. In the end, he chose one firm to manage his affairs from the 1920's to the 1950's, and a second firm to manage them from the 50's to the present. It was a simple matter to go back to 1953, the year the first firm would close its doors, and transfer everything into the hands of the other.
He also had to find a larger bank which would be intact for that same span of time. Finding enduring institutions to handle finances would be essential.
Once he’d nailed down many details such as those, Mark began to research in earnest. He became a regular at the public library. He bought all kinds of almanacs and yearbooks for different industries.
Before long, he was going back in time and buying key stocks at the right times. He made a killing in 1929 by selling short across the board.
He also tried his hand at gambling. Of course, he always won. He bet on World Series games, Super Bowls, horse races, boxing bouts, sailing cups, golf tournaments, you name it. He always bet on the long shots, though, the ones he knew from history had overcome the odds to win. Why waste time with penny ante stuff? Better just to go for the gold every time. He made a ton off of Seabiscuit’s first winning race. The odds had been 70 to 1.
While at first glance it seemed possible to make an infinite amount of money jumping through time, the truth was, one had to be careful. For example, he would have loved to bet all $350,000 on Seabiscuit in that 70 to 1 race, but the idea posed two problems.
First, how do you move that much money back through time. He solved that problem by learning to convert his funds to physical gold and then transporting the gold back with him, but that could be cumbersome.
The second problem, however, could not be overcome. Placing a $350,000 bet on Seabiscuit would have netted him a theoretical $23.5 million, yet such an amount would have broken the track and put the owners in bankruptcy. They wouldn’t have been able to pay his winnings, and it would have drawn unbelievable amounts of attention to him, which of course he did not want. It could have even drawn suspicion upon the owner of Seabiscuit as to somehow rigging the race.
No, Mark had to be content with medium-sized wins, which he then invested in long-lived and profitable stocks that he redeemed in 2011. He had to be careful how much of each stock he purchased too. If his percent ownership in any one company became too great, he could bankrupt them in the future when he cashed his shares in.
He bought lots of land in Buckhead, a suburb of Atlanta, while it was still rural and sold his properties for millions once it became the hot spot of Metro Atlanta. He did similar things out in Cobb, Gwinnett, and North Fulton counties, where he knew prices would go up and when.
He bought gold mines in California and oil wells in Texas long before anybody knew what would be found on those lands. He bought land all across the country in places he knew the U.S. government would be forced to pay him top dollar in order to pursue its highway projects.
He invested in Starbucks, Apple, Microsoft, and Home Depot long before they ever became famous.
In short, Mark Carpen went from broke to a billionaire in a matter of months.
February 21st, 2012 – Atlanta, GA
Mark leaned back in his plush, black leather chair and let out a long awaited sigh. He hadn’t allowed himself to fully relax until now. The specter of that million dollar lawsuit had haunted him from the shadows for too long.
This morning, however, when he’d opened his eyes, it had hit him — he truly was financially secure now, able to take on any horde of attorneys that wanted to mess with him. He felt like an abused puppy that had escaped its master and was just now realizing its freedom was real.
It was a new day. Spring was just around the corner, and he finally had no worries. He had managed to net almost $20.3 billion in just five months time, an amazing feat in of itself. Once he’d passed the half-billion mark, he’d begun to stash his accounts in various international banks around the world, from Switzerland to the Caribbean. No reason in particular other than he still preferred to avoid drawing much attention to himself.
His sudden wealth was not noticed by the modern world, for to them he had simply inherited funds which had been in bank accounts untouched for decades. He’d paid off the lawsuit damages he owed to the Governor’s nephew in full, and what had once seemed an unbearable burden was suddenly off of his back.
His ex-wife Kelly had discovered his new found wealth, though she wasn’t sure exactly how much he had, and sued, claiming he’d hidden funds from her during their marriage and was entitled to half. Technically she was right, but his old married self would have never known about the huge bank accounts available to him now.
He could have hired the best lawyers money could buy to rip her case to shreds, but he didn’t have the heart. What did he care? He could get more. Besides, she was willing to settle for a couple hundred million, why not just give it to her and be done with it.
He considered trying to reconcile with her. Now that he had money, they had nothing to fear from the lawsuits which had ruined him before. Maybe their marriage would survive if they were without the financial strain.
The more he deliberated though, the more he realized they’d had no hope once the kids had been taken. The grief had been too much to handle together. Too much.
He longed for the way things used to be. He ached to see Daniel and Brittany. He wanted it to be the four of them again, living happily in their cozy, three-bedroom ranch. Saturday morning cartoons and frosted flakes. Family picnics in the park and snuggling on the couch at night.
He would trade all the wealth in the world for a chance to get his old life back. He could travel back in time, but he couldn’t turn back time. He could go back a few years and see them at any age he wanted, but he couldn’t be a part of their life again. You can’t put the eggs back in the basket.
Money and grief are lonely partners, he was learning.
Epiphanies have a way of shining a piercing light into an abandoned area of our mind, a place full of cobwebs where we thought new ideas were impossible, and at the same time mentally slapping us upside the head for b
eing so dense we hadn’t considered a possibility before. The truth dawned on him.
He had a time machine. He’d saved Red from the falling tree — which had to mean he could prevent the Accident. Excitement and anticipation rushed into his veins like a narcotic. He was more than ready. He would be kicking himself for months to come for not having thought of it before.
This should have been the first thing he’d done. Then again, when he first found the shifter, he hadn’t even had enough money to eat, much less provide for his kids. Now he could operate from a much stronger position to save them.
It was all moot anyway. At this point, he just needed to get busy.
***
Friday, May 23rd, 2009 3:17 P.M., Lawrenceville, GA
Mark’s nerves were humming. He sat in a rented sedan along GA State Hwy 124 in the parking lot of the Hair Cuttery. There were no customers this afternoon at the tiny hair salon, which was located in a quaint old, red train caboose behind him, and that was good. It made for fewer potential complications.
His plan was simple. Mark knew that he — his former alter ego that is — would be driving by in approximately five to ten minutes with his children in the back seat of the car, unaware of the fate awaiting them around the corner. His former self would turn right onto Hwy 20, and just as they were passing the old Belk’s shopping center, the drunken football star would whip out in front of them, slam on his brakes, and the unbearable tragedy would begin.
Unless Mark could change it that is. All he had to do was watch for his Camry. When he saw it coming, he would pull out in front of “himself” and basically do everything in his power to slow the other car down. Hopefully, he would change the timing of events just enough for his family to be saved.
He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Changing history was a whole different matter when it was your own family at stake.