“I ordered dinner,” I told her. “My notes are on the table. If you want to look them over while I pick up the food, we can talk about it while we eat.”
“Should we invite Linda?”
“No. Not yet. I want to do this with as little emotion as I can. You and I can do that. Do me a favor though. As you go through each scenario, think about if you get a feeling.” Jane's feelings have impressed me as to their accuracy in reality.
“Ash, you were in the portal all weekend. Your feeling is the one that counts.”
After dinner, she finished reading and making her own notes, and we started from the beginning, this time filling in details as she asked her questions. We'd covered all but Franklin and Lincoln, so we bagged it until morning.
Before wrapping up for the night, I gave a moment's thought to Linda. On Sunday, after my whole day in the portal, I asked her if the possibility that she might never see Fritz again had crossed her mind. When she grew angry, first at me, then at Fritz, I yelled at her, something I had never done before. When I told her that in my opinion she had behaved like a spoiled brat instead of a wife and mother, she launched into me about Fritz caring more about the portal than her or TJ. I retorted something unkind about her father and money, and our chat would have escalated if her mother hadn't stopped us.
“Ashley, stop now,” Emily said barely above a whisper. “Enough destructive words have been said in the past six months to last a lifetime. I won't allow either of you to wreck your friendship. You'll both need each other to get Fritz home.”
As I gazed at the ceiling, Jane kissed my neck. I told her I wanted to write Linda a letter to apologize. But I wondered if I could depend on Linda to help.
“Come to bed. It's getting late. You can do it tomorrow.”
“No, I want to do it now while it's on my mind. I won't be long.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “I went to the doctor today.”
Chapter 3
Paris, France
THE MANY-NAMED man sat alone in a corner reading the Tuesday edition of the International New York Times, a cup of coffee in his hand. Unconcerned with the information his lawyer had provided, namely of the government's knowledge that he had skipped the country, he had agreed to meet the lawyer for breakfast. Arthur Salzmann approached the table and waited. Koppler, known to his waiter as Richemartel, gestured for the man to sit.
Before Salzmann had pulled his chair in, the waiter arrived with a freshly-brewed pot and a cup and saucer. “Merci, Armand. Two house specials, s'il vous plait.”
“Oui, Monsieur Richemartel.”
“Arthur, lose the frown. I haven't skipped. When they want me back, you'll let me know and I'll come back. All this publicity is arduous and upsetting. I needed to get away.”
“Thomas, you're not talking to the reporters or the lawyers. This is me. The only thing that you're upset about is not controlling the new Cabinet. Your Caballeros have turned on you. The case is filling in with eyewitnesses. You may be my brother-in-law, but I doubt any lawyer anywhere can get you out of this mess.”
“You'll be leaving tonight, Arthur. By the time your plane departs, I will have shown you how you will get me out of this mess. It's going to be quite simple. They have nothing but circumstantial evidence of crimes I couldn't have committed.”
“What about the teacher? The president himself saw you attack with that blade in your boot.”
“The president. No one believes him. He's old news. He's packing up to leave. Russell attacked me. What boot?”
“Come on. I've known about that blade for years. Joseph bragged about how he built it for you.”
“You've never seen it, have you?”
“No, but Joe…”
“Joe is dead. Shot by the intruders. You, of all people, know how his imagination got the best of him. Arthur, how many times did you have to get him out of trouble, even as a kid?”
Koppler watched as the arguments slipped away from his brother-in-law, the final fact sucking the air out of them. “Now you know how you're going to get me out of this mess. Let's eat.”
When Armand returned carrying their breakfasts of croissants, cheese, fruit and imported Danish ham, his customers had vanished.
Chapter 4
Ashley
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
I stuffed five books into my briefcase, carried the other four, and dumped everything on the front seat. On the way, Jane's tease had me shaking my head. When she said she went to the doctor, I'd almost fallen out of the chair. She laughed. “He said I need glasses.” I wonder how long she'd waited to use that line. Her laugh still lingered when I'd climbed into bed.
The traffic crept steadily on the road to school. I listened to the news, always a source for possible future class assignments. About halfway, the radio shut off, and my car stalled at what was normally the nicest spot on the drive. Through the windshield, a full panorama of earth and sky decorated an overcast with a pink sky background quivering, as if time-lapsed shock waves had pulsed across the entire view. I rolled down the window expecting to hear explosions. Tapping on the dashboard, I hoped to hear a report of what had just happened. The sky went out of focus. I rubbed my eyes to clear it up, and as quickly as the radio blinked off, sound returned, the distortion vanished, and my car started on its own.
On the days when Jane left early, I did too, so an almost full parking lot bewildered me. I must have taken more time watching the sky than I had paid attention to because homeroom was about to begin. I ran past more cars than usual, and when I gripped the door handle to enter the school, a strong surge of energy ran up my arm. I jerked my hand to free myself of the shock but pulled the door open instead. When I walked in, the door released my hand, the buzz still running through me.
I strode through my open classroom door, but a woman I'd never seen before sat at my desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Gilbert. May I help you?”
“This is my classroom.” The kids began to laugh.
“Not today. Your classroom is two doors down on the other side of the hall.”
That's Fritz's room. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. Sorry.” Laughter followed me into the hall, which bothered me much less than knowing something had changed and not knowing what. As I walked the short distance, the ugly tan color in the halls yelled to warn me. When the door across the hall opened, I figured I was in trouble.
“Morning, Ash.” Sandy Horton's smile might brighten up anyone's day at some other time. Today, she just turned me on my head. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look like you've seen the proverbial ghost.”
“Hi.” Not proverbial. “Late start. See you later.”
I scanned the room. Had I caused these changes? The painful greenish-tan walls had returned. No homeroom to attend. The shelves contained a library of history and biography. It was Fritz's room. And now my room. Sandy had left Riverboro a year ago. My morning paper waited, folded on the desk. I set the books down, put my briefcase on the floor, and sat at Fritz's, my, desk and gasped at the headlines.
I did a double-take at the large black letters, and then checked the date. The same one as when I'd left the house, Tuesday, next to the last day of November, 2016. The headline, “First Black President Outlines His Agenda,” used up most of the front page columns with stories about his plans for the Cabinet, the economy, and his views on foreign policy priorities. In a small box, outlined in a heavy black border, a memorial to James Koppler, former advisor to presidents, smacked me in the face. The last line said the story continued on page eighteen. I flipped the pages. A picture, the same one I had paperclipped, headed the story, along with a prominent photo of Koppler. The story told of the assassination attempt which took the lives of his brothers, Thomas and William in 2008, but had left him in a coma the past eight years. The story noted that the killings took place just before the election that had propelled the first woman into the presidency.
What the hell did he do? And where is he now? I continued readi
ng until the bell for first period rang. I folded the paper open to the story, folded it in half again and set it to the side. Now what? A sullen group of ninth graders began to stroll in, and I received more than one stink-eye as they sat down. I opened my desk drawers to see if they might contain any idea for me. From where Fritz always kept his lessons, top right, I removed the folders and opened the first period notes. Written in my hand.
“Good morning, class.” I waited, serenaded by dead silence. “Did you all complete your assignment?” Nothing again. I didn't know any of these kids. I checked the seating chart. “Let's try a different approach. Jamie Brompton, tell us one thing that you found most important.” I hadn't looked to see if I could find their homework assignment.
“Mr. Gilbert, the most important thing is I can't believe you made us read that stuff. Stuff isn't the word I want to say, but we're in school.” The class snickered.
“I'm glad it made an impression. Now, tell us why you feel that way.”
“I can't imagine killing one billion people all at once. Your questions were nuts, too. 'What would be the most efficient ways to kill that many people without harming others? How would that benefit the rest of the world?' Even Hitler and Stalin together only killed twenty-four or twenty-five million.”
“Only? That's a pretty large number, don't you think?”
“Not compared to a billion. And the writer made the President of the United States the one who ordered it. So you asked us to write what would happen if that story were real. Do you think this is funny?”
“Did you come up with answers? How about the rest of you?”
Jamie continued, his anger bubbling just below the surface. “Nuclear weapons wouldn't work. Biological weapons have the chance to escape to the rest of the world. I figured drones, chemical weapons, and poisons worked best. If we kill all the animals, the people would starve. We could poison the water supplies. No food, no water. That would eventually turn one on the other and they'd end up killing each other, or eating each other just to have food. But I couldn't figure out how to get rid of all the bodies.”
“Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Gilbert, I know.”
I glanced at the seating chart. “Go ahead, Walt.”
“I keep asking you not to call me that, Mr. Gilbert.”
“Sorry … Walter.”
“Or that either.” The class responded in full-blown laughter.
“So, what should I call you? Remind me.”
“Jack.”
“So answer the question … Jack.”
“All the people who don't get killed should pile the bodies and then we send drones with napalm.”
“That's a lot of napalm. And a lot of drones. Did you think how you get the live ones to collect the bodies?”
“Tell them the only way for them not to get some dreaded disease is to get the bodies isolated.”
“If they don't want to, then what?”
“What Jamie said. Chemicals and poison.”
“Wow. You guys are pretty bloodthirsty. Anyone have anything to add?”
“Mr. Gilbert, I have a question. Why would you want us to think like killers?”
“I don't. But I want you to understand how easy it could be for a government, elected by its people, to get out of control.” Well, that came out of nowhere. And pretty easily. My flipping through notes located the assignment, a book I'd read a few years ago about a president elected because no one believed him when he said all sorts of outrageous things and most people didn't vote. “If you read the entire book, you'll see that the president turns on American citizens later. The author tried to draw a parallel to the rise of the Nazis. He created a situation where Americans became so disgusted with government that they gave away the freedoms they said they valued. Not so far-fetched if you listened to all the campaigning we just finished. See you tomorrow.”
While they were leaving, I pulled out the folders and read the next class quickly. Tenth graders. Familiar names at least. I looked at the assignment. Then I checked the next period. I looked at my fourth period class folder as the bell rang. I, well not me, had given all of them the same homework. Why choose such a bleak subject? I had to come up with a quick answer, but I would never have assigned it.
By the time the second period ended, my first task was clear—to figure out what had gone wrong, and I had to work fast. As I headed to the cafeteria after my fourth class, Sandy caught up to me and asked where I was going. When I told her, she frowned. She asked if I felt okay. I said I was fine and why did she ask.
“Because you have a class now. You have lunch next period.” I stopped in mid-step.
“Thanks. See you later.” As I turned back to Fritz's classroom, my classroom, I asked myself what other weird things would surprise me. I found out just around the corner. On the floor, surrounded by a group of students, two girls were wrestling, punching and yelling. Classrooms were emptying and teachers stood by, blocked out by the three-deep circle of students.
I started to force my way through when Liz Chambers grabbed my arm. “You don't want to get in the middle of that, Ashley. This fight has been brewing for weeks.”
“I'll stop it.” I elbowed my way past the outer layer of kids, but the closer I stepped the tighter the circle became. The students were holding me back. Still on the floor, Rachel and Nicole continued to damage each other. They both were bleeding from facial cuts and I could see sharp-edged rings decorating each hand. I shoved past the inner circle and went to grab each girl.
Someone grabbed my collar and pulled me back. I planted my foot, balled my fists and swiveled, only to be facing Tom Jaffrey.
“Are you nuts?” he asked. “The police will stop this. Chief Shaw handles this without our help.”
“They'll hurt each other.”
“And be gone from here forever. Don't worry about it. And Rachel and Nicole likely will spend their college years in jail. The cops are here now.”
Behind us, coming from the trophy case, a row of officers in riot gear walked toward the crowd. A second row entered from the parking lot. The squeeze worked because no new students joined the gathering. All the classroom doors were being guarded from the inside by teachers except for the three teachers in the hall. Another group of ten police officers came around the corner from the main lobby, all carrying handfuls of manacles.
Police broke through the circle using their clubs to poke the kids or smack arms or legs. Thirty-seven kids had been slammed against lockers, cuffed and hauled to the vans waiting in the parking lot.
A man I'd considered mild-mannered grabbed my arm and pulled me down the hall. Tom Jaffrey, at least four inches shorter, looked up at me and shouted. “What's the matter with you? It's not our responsibility to stop this behavior. We can get hurt.”
“So can the kids,” I said. “What's going on here?”
His anger, not at the kids, but at me, added to my confusion. “If you start breaking up these fights, teachers will be expected to step in. We need to get these bad apples out of here.”
“But Rachel and Nicole … they're friends.”
“What world do you live in? They hate each other. They've been looking for trouble since they were freshman. Extorting money, starting fights, bullying younger kids. Now we can be rid of them. They can take exams in jail.”
“But they're both smart kids. We shouldn't let…”
“Let them ruin their lives? Have you forgotten the kids they've stolen from, had assaulted, and Johnny Clayton, knifed just before the last football game he could have played in. He only talked to Rachel, and Nicole stabbed him in the leg. Just talking. About a physics exam.”
I told Tom I'd forgotten about that. In fact, Johnny had played, had been All-State, and had received a sizeable chunk of money to attend Princeton, playing football as a freshman.
“Sorry, Tom.”
“Damn, Ashley, us stopping these little bastards would be as likely as stopping the wars in the Middle East.”
Once the ruckus ended, I
went into my classroom, to a class sitting quietly.
“So who won, Mr. Gilbert?”
“No one. Were any of you involved?” I looked to see all the seats were full. “Good. No one.”
“What's going to happen to them?”
“I don't know. I don't understand it. I've never understood why anyone wants to hurt others.”
Two voices from the back had my answer. “That's easy, Mr. Gilbert. Do unto others,” said the first. “Yeah. Before they do unto you,” said the other.
I held the door for them on the way out and looked up and down the dingy hallway that just yesterday had been a distant memory. Perhaps more distant than I appreciated.
When the final bell rang, I sat at my new desk. What could have gone wrong? The portal. Before I could have a cogent thought, my door opened. The principal's arrival couldn't have made the day any worse. Wrong. Red-faced before he said a word, he started shouting before the door clicked shut.
“Will you control that girl? She's making me crazy.”
“What girl?”
“Susan Whatshername”
“Leslie. George, calm down. She's not worth a stroke. You look like a beet.”
He pushed the door open. “Don't be a wiseass. I don't know why I put up with you.”
“I have a contract?” I offered. “I'm a good teacher? Uh, maybe you think I'm handsome, debonair and humorous. So you're envious?”
George shot daggers and headed out. His final words made me duck a bit. “Control that girl.”
Sandy had heard my last comments as George departed and bit down to keep from laughing. I had retreated to my desk and wrote as fast as I could to capture all that had occurred since my drive to school. The words galloped from my pen as though I sprayed them on the yellow pad. When Sandy said hello, I jumped.
The Portal At The End Of The Storm (Quantum Touch Book 6) Page 3