The Portal At The End Of The Storm (Quantum Touch Book 6)

by Michael R. Stern

  “I can time travel.”

  I expected a laugh, some form of dismissal, disbelief. She sat back, reached into the saddle bag she called a purse, removed a pen, a pad and a recorder. She leaned her chin on her right hand, and asked, “When did you stop chewing your nails?”

  So, other me bit his nails. I had never been a nail biter. “Is that the giveaway?” She nodded. “Nat, no recorder. My life is too messed up as it is. If you want me to talk, it's off the record.” She reached to the OFF button. Then I started.

  “So I exist in another dimension.” Not a question, just a surprise to her when I had told her most of the story.

  “Yup. Maybe more than one. I don't know yet.”

  “And you can't do anything without a thunderstorm?”

  “Right. I think my desk, the current one, will still work, but I don't know until I can try it. And I can't find Fritz until I know everything works. I've got to try to find where he went and soon. Being here may not last. If he's the reason the world is jumbled, then it stands to reason that everything he does forces more changes. I just don't know yet.”

  “Paperclips, really?” I thought back to Nat's first encounter, not unlike this one. Not skeptical, lots of questions. And she shut up when she first met the president. “And to find Fritz, you have to meet Robert E. Lee, Winston Churchill, the Wright Brothers and Abraham Lincoln.” Her smile tugged at me like a magnet. “I'm not letting you out of my sight.” A genuine smile, totally disarming. “And all I have to do is wait for bad weather. You're a lot more interesting than you, I mean, you know, the other you.”

  Chapter 11

  Fritz

  CHRISTMAS WENT on hold the minute I returned. Our new customers were what I expected—cops. Seated at the same table as their first time. Cindy sat rigid, across from them. The look on her face flashed a warning, but not of what to fear.

  “He's back, so let's go,” said the one who had stared at me on his first visit. All three of them stood.

  “Russ, take care of things, will you?”

  “What's up? Where are you going?”

  “I'm being questioned. I asked them to wait until you got back.”

  “Do you have a lawyer? Do you want me to find one?”

  As she stepped to the door, she said no, she'd be back soon. They pushed her into the back seat of the car I had spotted at the ATM, and she looked at me as they pulled away. She mouthed, “Help.”

  I didn't know where they were taking her, or what I could do, besides keeping the place going. So instead of going home, I decorated. I had been at it for about an hour, not only the lights but the other junk she'd collected had some place to go, when the phone rang. I had never answered it, so the ring made me jump.

  “Call Flynn Connolly, you've met him. Tell him I'm at the police at City Hall. He'll know what to do.”

  “Are you being arrested?”

  “Don't know yet. Call him. Now. And keep the place going.” She disconnected.

  The man she wanted me to call carried a brogue as heavy as a barrel of Guinness, and hung up the phone faster than a Belfast bullet. And I had no idea what “keep the place going” meant. Or when she'd be back to keep it going herself.

  I began a list, some things don't change, of what I would need to do. Cleaning up the decorating debris came first. My job was easy. Cook. She did everything else. I thought about what I needed to buy (she did that), how to cook and juggle twelve tables and four booths (she did that). Pick up, wash up, clean up, sweep up, close up. She did all that too. I'd never let that fact reach my conscious thought. She is quite remarkable, yup. I continued the list in detail, until I reached my last question. What should I do with the money? I counted it, made a note for the register, and put it in my pocket.

  Although I'd locked the front door, I left the back door unbolted. When it slammed open and three rather large men of dour countenance walked in, I stopped wondering about me, and addressed what they were doing.

  “Sorry, we're closed, and that's not the entrance.”

  “We know.” The wild red hair exploding from his head identified one Flynn Connolly. He headed for his destination, and he ignored me.

  “What do you want? Is Cindy all right? Is she in jail?”

  “Not now, bucko. We've got to move fast.” They pulled up one of the floor runners, exposing the opening to the cellars. I didn't even know we had a basement. “Turn off the lights in the kitchen,” he told me. “Then hold the trap door open for us.” A series of wooden cartons were lifted up to the floor, and I moved the tables to make room. I'd seen enough movies to guess what they contained. When a dozen crates had been removed, one of the men backed a truck as close to the back door as possible.

  “Give us a hand. We'll be out faster.” I lifted and gauged the weight of a case of rifles. In less than ten minutes, the truck pulled down the alley and into the night.

  “Where's Cindy?” I asked, as the big man reached the door.

  He snickered. “I expect she'll be out soon. I'll tell her you Christmased the place up. Oh, and she said to take the money home. She'll settle up with you later.”

  “What's this all about?”

  “You don't need to know.”

  “If you want me here on Monday, I need to know.”

  “She trusts you. I don't. I do know that you're not who or what you say you are. So until I trust you, you don't need to know. You read too much, too many real books to be a know-nothin', say nothin', just doin' my job, kind of guy.”

  That little tidbit raised warning signals. “What books I read aren't any part of this. How do you know anyway?”

  “I make it my business. She hasn't kept help as long as you since she opened this dump. And now you have regulars and you're attracting attention. That wasn't the plan.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Make you a deal. Tell me who you really are and if I like the answer, I'll think about what you're entitled to know.”

  “Let's just say I'm an illegal alien, who knows those boxes didn't hold used car parts.”

  “Smart-ass answers aren't what I was lookin' for. I know you aren't Russell Furst. I know that you don't exist, anywhere, you have no official records. We've looked. So Mr. Furst, what's your story?”

  “You wouldn't believe it if I told you. All you need to know is that I'm here and I have no interest in being involved in anything illegal.”

  “So you're running and hiding. Just what I thought.”

  “You're guessing.”

  “Listen to me, and listen carefully. Cindy is a concern for us, for lots of reasons. Believe this red hair when I tell you that nothing happens to her that I can prevent. Now close the place up, go home, and be here all the earlier on Monday. You'll be needin' some help, I imagine. I have your mobile number. You'll hear from me by evening tomorrow.” His quick turn revealed the gun holstered beneath his left arm. Seeing his back and hearing the door click shut, I locked it, both the locks, and stared at the closed door. Involvement with gun runners and people who carried them placed below last on my to-do list. But I had nowhere to go, so I closed up and went home.

  Monday morning came as early as it did any other day. I opened the back door and waited for the help that Flynn had promised. Loud pounding on the front door took me away from setting up breakfast. Not surprised, two young women and one long, skinny man walked in, accompanied by my new Irish friend.

  “This is Seamus, and the girls are Jane and Kathleen. I'll be back at 5 p.m. Finish up and close up, but don't leave. Let the girls go when you're done. Seamus will stay with you. He knows what to do.”

  “What do you mean, 'what to do?' ”

  He grabbed my right shoulder and leaned in to my left ear. Squeezing my shoulder, hard, he said, “Do … what I say. And keep your mouth shut. If you need anything, send Seamus.” He removed his hand, turned and left through the back door.

  “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “let's get to work. Ladies, would you
set the tables. Seamus, I need to start with the batter. If I get it started, will you mix it?”

  A new brogue met me. “I've worked for Katie before, Russ. I know me way about the place. And I can cook for ya if ya wish.”

  “Good. But who's Katie?”

  He turned seven shades of red, and reminded me of Ted, my student in my other world. “I mean Cindy. You know.”

  “Okay.” I let that slip of the tongue hang around on a back burner for the time being. “Then I need to get the potatoes started. I cook 'em on high and move them to a low heat to keep 'em warm.”

  “And you'd be tellin' an Irishman how to cook potatoes?”

  That made me laugh. “Well, I guess I am. But I've done this alone for so long that I have a system. Sorry.”

  “I know. Ka … Cindy's told us. Been here a few times meself. You're good. We like the waffles, too.”

  By opening time, everything was ready. But the expected, usual trickle became a steady flow and then verged on a mob. The suits were plentiful, including our cop newcomers. I told Seamus to go out back and call Connolly, let him know the cops were in the house. He carried a half-full trash bag out to the dumpster, and came back, whispering local cops were in the alley. I told him to take over the grill, and went out front.

  “What do you guys want? You're upsetting my staff. What's this all about?”

  The staring guy said, “Let's go outside.”

  “Fine.” He followed me out the door. “Look, I just work here. I'm holding down the fort, but you're making life difficult.” I was talking to a rock.

  “Your name is Russ, right?”

  “You know it is. So why do I have a full house when maybe we get twenty or thirty for breakfast on a Monday. Are they all yours?”

  “Not ours, but Cindy's Cozy Kitchen hit the news over the weekend, so people are checking it out. Your crowd is a lot of press. You did a good job on the website.” He stopped my next question. “She told us. And I looked.”

  “So if they aren't yours, why are you here?”

  “We want to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Russell Furst doesn't exist.”

  I tried to hide the intimidation and my tensing muscles. “I'm right here.”

  “Cut the crap. We're not interested in you or your story. Your boss has been storing and shipping small arms, rifles and pistols, to the provos in Northern Ireland. We just haven't caught her at it. So you can tell us and then we can let you be.”

  “So let me understand. You want me to tell you all I know about an international gun smuggling plan and you'll go away?”

  “Yep, that's it. Simple, huh?”

  “Yeah. I don't know anything, so I can't tell you anything. I come in early and leave by mid-afternoon. If I had something to say, I'd tell you.” I watched his reaction, meeting me eye to eye, and hoped the lie would be undetected.

  “I suspect that's not true. But we'll be watching.”

  “So when's Cindy coming back?”

  “When we're done with her. And we'll have eyes on you.”

  Self-restraint took over. After years of repartee with Ashley, and a wise-crack at the end of a conversation, this guy didn't crack a smile, unlikely to appreciate my humor. As I returned to the kitchen, he called across the room, “Good waffles.”

  “Secret recipe. Stop in again some time.” Relief and anger were fighting for first place.

  “Oh, you can count on that.”

  Just as promised, Flynn Connolly walked in the back door with Cindy close behind. The Christmas lights brought an endearing smile to her otherwise worried face. With their arrival, I put my coat on, but she said not to leave yet. Seamus locked the back door as the three of us sat in a booth.

  “Thanks for looking out for the place, Russ.”

  I took the cash I'd been holding, laid it on the table. “No problem. But I think you better start looking for a new cook.”

  “Not a good idea,” Flynn said. “You're invisible here, and Kate will need to be away to visit her sick mother. Off and on for a few months.”

  “Let me tell him, Flynn. My name's not Cindy.”

  “I guessed that one already.”

  “My father, two brothers, and six cousins have been murdered in the last ten years by agents of the Queen. Flynn's family raised me in the States to keep me safe. But things at home are worse than ever. Northern Ireland is the last gasp of the British Empire, and they won't let it go. We here are their only source of help anymore. The rest of the world doesn't care. A civil war they call it, a religious war. But it's not. It's a war to gain our freedom from their oppression. And it's personal.”

  In my world, the wars in Northern Ireland, the Troubles, had been resolved more than two decades earlier and peace had slowly found a home. In this one, the world seemed hell-bent on its own destruction. None of the efforts to keep peace were working, as the Middle East boiled, China had become the world's largest naval power, and the oceans had begun to change the US coastline. The US had slid out of the forefront of economic, political and social dominance. Influence in global affairs had all but dissolved with our constant internal in-fighting. Everyone, at least according to one media source or another, was a terrorist, and they all called themselves – “So you're a freedom fighter?”

  “I am, and proud of it.”

  “It sounds to me like you want revenge. That won't solve anything. It never has. I know that for certain.”

  “Do ya?” Flynn's red hair flamed in every compass direction. “Then now is the time for you to tell us your real story, bucko.”

  “No, it's not, and not here.” Tom Andrews' tall figure and serious face flashed before my eyes. “I can't believe you'd be so careless. Have you checked to see if this place is bugged. A cop or a cop's accomplice has been in every seat in the place.”

  Flynn reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bottle, a knowing grin on his stubbled face. Crushed particles that looked like some kind of ground spice took up half the container.

  “This place is checked constantly,” Cindy said. I wasn't ready to accept the name change. She held out what I thought to be a rosary. “It sends a message to my computer which links to a cell phone. It buzzes when it detects uninvited transmissions. Bugs. I grind them up. That's why we have two meat grinders. So this place is safer than any.” Having included me in one little secret, she asked, “So, Russ, what's your story?”

  Chapter 12

  Fritz

  “I'M A TIME traveler.” I'd learned over the years that if you said it right, the truth could be told and accepted as a lie. I remember having that thought a while ago and how strange I felt analyzing lying. That had been a good lesson to learn. I'd studied body language, facial expressions, tones of voice. Amazing what you can learn watching the news, especially in an election year.

  I continued my story, surprised that they didn't interrupt. Even Seamus had taken a seat at a nearby table. I didn't need to elaborate. A story so far-fetched needed no twinkle lights. I neglected to mention that I was also a murderer.

  When I ended, Flynn rubbed his stubble, but before he said that he didn't believe a word, Kate said, “So for eight years you've wandered. No family, no friends, no way back. Sounds a lot like me.” Her sad smile contained both genuine sympathy and a touch of sensuality. “No girl friends?” I shook my head.

  “Oh, stop.” Flynn glared. “Then why's your photo in such a prominent place in the FBI files?” He knows? “Yeah, we've had you pegged for quite some time. They don't have a name to attach and it's old news now, so you've been lucky. But you can bet they'll piece it together. Those fellas that took Kate are suspicious. They'll figure it out. So you better stay where I can keep you out of trouble.”

  “What did you do, Russ?” I filled in the rest. “So, you went back in time and killed the men who tried to kill you, screwed up your life and you ended up turning all of time on its ear.”

  “That's pretty much it. I just wanted my family to
be done with it. At least, they're safe. I didn't expect to turn everything upside down, but I hadn't planned to be going back anyway. I've had plenty of time to think about this. History, the past, doesn't want to be changed, and I'm here now, because history fights back. In ways I'd never considered. I've tried not to mess up here in case that affects the other dimension.”

  She reached out and placed her hand on mine. “You're a freedom fighter, too.”

  We closed up and Flynn asked if I would give Seamus a lift. I told Kate I'd see her in the morning.

  “You never know.” Her smile returned.

  Seamus climbed in and told me to head into the Northeast. I've never lost my fascination with Washington, but rarely now would I cross the bridges. I'd burnt mine already. The Monument gleamed between the buildings as we turned down K Street. He directed me to a bar called McNamara's, emblazoned in fluorescent green, and said he lived in an apartment upstairs. He told me to park and come in for a beer. I said I wanted to get home.

  “I'm not really askin'. Flynn has some things to discuss.” A minute later, a pint of porter bubbled in front of me, delivered by one of the waitresses who'd helped out at the café. Jane placed four menus on the table. I quizzed her with a glance.

  “They're on the way, Russ. Can I get you a snack?” I told her I'd wait. All eyes were on me, mostly Irish eyes, I guessed. I would find out later that I had sat in Flynn's seat of power. Moments later, my other helper delivered another pint of porter. “I'm still working on this one, Kathy.”

  “I think you'll find no shortage tonight, Russ. So I hope you know how to drink.”

  “I'm a little out of practice, I'm afraid.” More than a little out of practice, I'd stopped drinking anything stronger than diet in case I needed to hit the road fast. Another lesson learned in a small town near the Nebraska-Iowa border, when a local constable posed a question as to why an eastern accent found itself so far from home turf.