Glasses were raised, the toast echoed, and then he raised his hand again. “Now make room and we'll eat and drink and think happy thoughts for those who can't be here with us.” He swallowed the porter in only a couple of gulps.
Before his glass hit the table, a new one had replaced it. He turned to me, and lifted the shot glass and signaled I should do the same. I had the only other shot, and all eyes were on me again.
He said, “You found Mary's shop without anyone telling you.” I nodded. “You've made the Cozy Kitchen a profit. And you've made me trust you, Fritz Russell. While I've asked others to bid you welcome, this night I'll do it for meself. So with no more speechifying…” He held the glass out to me. “Welcome to our family, Russ.” I tapped his glass and we each drank.
“Thanks, Flynn.” Kate put her arm around me and reached up and kissed me again.
I've been to wakes and weddings, bar mitzvahs and parties of all kinds, but never anything like this. Kelly must have cloned herself in the kitchen because so much food, and of so many varieties, constantly arrived on the long tables. I hadn't noticed, but three kegs had been placed around the room and people helped themselves. After so many years, being a part of something again brought happy feelings. Even without the booze, it would have been intoxicating.
Before the night ended, Flynn had them quiet once again. “As you know, Katie will be leaving day after tomorrow. And as you know, we have an angel watching us all. Since Kate won't be here, tonight we summon the angel to look over us now, and while she's gone.” A drumroll began, and a little blonde girl was carried to steps by the tree and lifted to the top. She put the angel topper in place as the cheers resumed. She waved as the assembly clapped and waved back. Flynn said the angel would have waited until Christmas Eve, but we could all use a little of her special help even now.
Little by little, the street emptied, some coming in as others left, some giving up and going home. They had all been invited, I found out later. Flynn said they were all part of the family. When I had a chance to catch him alone, I handed him his wad of cash. All of it, I told him. He said he'd been rarely caught off guard, but “You're a revelation, you are.”
“I taught kids for ten years and I tried to tell the truth. I've had to lie about everything for the past eight. I hate it. But if lying gets me home faster, know this. I'm gone. As much as being part of a family, yours, entices, I'm not safe and none of you are safe around me. You have your own lives, here. And as much as I'd like to make a new life, as much as I think Kate and I could have something special together, this isn't where I belong. I can't go to Ireland and I shouldn't stay here.”
“Then don't go upstairs, Russ. I'll get someone to take you home. Seamus will take care of the Kitchen from now on. Stay away from Kate. If you change your mind, you have until tomorrow night. After that, I don't want to see you again. Understood?”
“Perfectly.” He told me to stay put and went outside to find someone sober enough to drive, poked his head in to get me, and in a half hour, I sat down at my kitchen table. For the first time in years, I cried.
The banging on my door jolted me from a bad dream, where I'd been chewed little by little by a dragon. The sun peeked over the apartments across the street and in through my window. Sleeping with my head on the table made my headache worse. My neck stiff, my shoulders sore, the banging on the door increased the throbbing.
“Hang on. I'm coming.” I opened the door which was kicked wide open. Tim McNamara and his partner pointed pistols at me. “What's going on?”
“Russell Furst, you are under arrest for the murders of William, Thomas and James Koppler.”
“That's nuts. You woke me up. I have to go to the bathroom and then I'll do whatever you want.” The partner read me my Miranda rights while I peed, with the door open. I asked if I could at least get some clean clothes. While I changed, I pondered that I'd been waiting for this moment for a while. As much as I regretted the circumstances, I had prepared my strategy. I asked if handcuffs were necessary.
“Procedure.”
“I have a hangover. I'm not going anywhere.”
“Damn right, you aren't,” said the partner. I'd never felt as controlled as when he pushed me into the waiting car. Three patrol cars sat in the parking lot. Neighbors were scarce because of the time, but a few resumed their own commutes as I stared out the back seat window. One television station had a camera on me the whole time. A single picture from them would take facial recognition to one hundred percent.
Lost in my thoughts, the police did their paperwork and stuck me in a room, handcuffed to a gray, scuffed table, and left alone. I waited, my headache subsiding, thanks to the aspirins I'd popped while in the bathroom. The room looked like one from every cop show I'd ever seen. A small glass mirror which I presumed to be two-way, a couple of chairs on the other side and one against the wall completed the scene.
I anticipated what the process would likely be. Charges, an arraignment, and then a turf fight between the locals and the Feds. Then some kind of move to somewhere else, maybe a different arraignment. I'd tell the judge I didn't have money for a lawyer and I'd get some overworked legal aid newbie. For now, I'd just sit tight. I had nowhere else to go. As I had expected, the process played out exactly, except for the part where the cell door clanged shut. That part I'd overlooked.
Perhaps for the first time in these past years inside the portal, I had plenty of time to ponder all that had happened. I figured I'd be here, or some other cell for a while. I had nothing. No money for bail. No friends to help. I only really wanted a pen and paper.
By mid-morning, the good cop, bad cop routine started. Men I didn't know started the questioning with why did I kill the Kopplers? They asked my true identity, where I came from, all the basics. I wasn't afraid of them, just continued to repeat my name, job title and my Social Security number. They never grasped that all I gave them was name, rank and serial number. I didn't care. When the yelling began, I leaned forward, looking from one to the other and said as softly as I could, “You have the wrong guy.” When they finally gave up, for that round at least, I chuckled a little. So far, they had done nothing more than turn my years of planning into reality.
In a few minutes, the good cop entered, in the person of Tim McNamara, with a tray of coffee, smokes and some papers in his hand.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Thanks, officer.”
“Smoke?”
“Later, if that's okay.”
He placed a few sheets of paper in front of me, the first, the report of facial recognition. He told me to take a few minutes and read through them. Then barely moving his lips, he said to cover my mouth when I talked. A slight nod toward the mirror confirmed my suspicion.
“I assume that this room is well-guarded. So how about taking off the handcuffs, so I can walk around?”
“Can't do it.” I shrugged.
“Well, thanks for the coffee.”
“You can see that we've got you. Exact facial rec. So why not just tell me what happened?”
Rather than a conversation, I returned to my original approach. He already had more information than what I intended to tell him now. He'd been included in the time travel story. Neither of us would mention that.
“So what were you doing last night?” I told him the truth since he had been present.
“I went to a party. My boss is going on vacation, so some friends were celebrating Christmas early. She invited me. I didn't have anything else to do.”
“Do you usually hang around with terrorists?” Whose side was he on? Did Flynn know? Or did Flynn set this up?
“Terrorists? You have to be kidding.”
“Where are the guns?”
“You have one under your left arm. Are you a terrorist? Should I be scared. Ooooo.” He didn't take kindly to my mocking him.
“Okay, wiseguy. If you won't talk, read. I'll wait. You'll talk eventually.” He sat back and crossed his arms.
The first c
ouple of pages were the investigative reports from eight years before, with my picture taken from a side angle, probably from a cell phone. The early models weren't very clear and I had been moving, so the picture was blurred. A couple of shots had been taken from across the street from the Cozy Kitchen. And a single frame from the morning's TV video.
“Well, I'll admit, you work fast. That TV shot is me.” The next page caught me by surprise. A note from Flynn, apologizing. It said the Feds were moving in, and by letting Tim get there first, they could tie the process up for weeks. He said he would have a lawyer appointed from legal aid who knew what to do. I glanced at Tim, but I didn't react.
“I'll have that smoke now, if you don't mind.” He handed me a pack, and he lit it for me with a Zippo lighter. On its face was a shamrock, like the one on the sign outside McNamara's. “Thanks.”
I turned to the next page, put the stack down, leaned back and took a long drag. The sheet of copy paper, eight and a half by eleven, contained a handwritten letter from Kate.
Chapter 19
Ashley
THE PORTAL HAD provided surprises but thus far no real clues. As I had promised, I'd saved my media question for a day Natalie could join me. The day before I'd told George and waited for him to consider saying no, until he registered that she reported for a local newspaper.
“I don't know what's happened to you. You're like that young man I hired ten years ago, not the one you've become.”
Natalie chatted with my next class when I walked in. Seniors, with a lot of attitude.
“So, we have with us, as you already know, a person who is well-qualified to do battle with today's question. Natalie Johnston works as a reporter for the paper here, and has serious media credentials including magazines and New York newspapers. Let's get started. The First Amendment provides for freedom of the press. Newspapers were common at the time of our Constitution's writing, and the only way news spread other than by letters. Today, newspapers and letters are almost extinct. From those little tiny boxes you all carry around, you have instant access to all the information that has ever existed. How many of you have apps for newspapers like the New York Times?” Two hands. “What about the Riverboro paper?” No one. “So how do you know what's going on in the world? Don't answer. Let's answer this.” I pointed to the blackboard. “What role should the media have in politics?”
“You mean the lame-stream media?” We were off and running. I asked, “Will you tell me what the lame-stream media means to you?”
“My parents say the reporters are all liberals, never tell the truth, and never report both sides.”
“Ash, let me take over. This is my territory.” I told her to go ahead. “There aren't always two sides. There may be differences of opinion, but not of the facts. And opinions differ depending on what point of view you hold. Here are some examples of facts. The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The Nazis murdered six million Jews. The U.S. put a man on the moon. Now let's take the stories for the first one. America imprisoned thousands of Japanese-Americans. Tell me if that has two sides.”
“They could be spies,” one student said.
“It was morally wrong,” said another.
Nat held her hand up. “Americans are supposed to have the right to a trial and to be proven guilty. Didn't happen. No Japanese-American was proven to be a spy. Homes, businesses and lands were confiscated. The government created laws so they could seize the property.” She turned to the second student. “Wrong is a value judgment. That's your opinion. Let's move on. The Nazis murdering Jews. Two sides?”
“Some people say it never happened, that the press made it up.”
“That's ridiculous,” came a response from the back. “Pictures and movies prove the holocaust happened.”
“They could have been photoshopped, or whatever they did back then. The German people didn't know what was going on.”
“That's stupid. How could they not know?”
Nat stepped in. “Let's move on again. America's space program put men on the moon, not just once, but a dozen times. What's the other side?”
“Moon, New Mexico.” The class laughed but Natalie stopped them.
“Think about these examples. I can give you plenty more. But what are your responses? They're not logic. They're opinions. You repeated things others told you or have been taught to believe. You've bought the idea that news and opinions are the same. Reporters don't interpret. They report research and observation. What the news means often gets twisted with lies and half-truths, and constant repetition until it sounds like it must be true. What is important is that you learn how to distinguish facts from news and opinion. You need to read sources that have earned a reputation for accurately reporting. And you need to compare what you read with what you personally see and hear and experience. Let me give you another example. Is welfare abused by people who could get a job?” No answers. “Yes or no. Raise your hands. Yes. About half the class. Are the rest of you 'no's'? Up, up, up. So half and half. Let's try another. Most welfare payments go to black women who have never been married and have lots of kids. Raise your hands if you think 'yes'.” Close to three quarters. “Here's a fact.” She stopped and looked around. “The majority of people who receive the majority of the money we call welfare are white, or children, who live in rural areas where jobs are almost impossible to find. Most of the others are people who actually have jobs, but because they live in or near cities, they don't make enough because the cost of living is much higher. Those are facts.”
“What about the women they call 'welfare queens?' ” Larry asked.
“Good question. Be honest now, did you ever cheat on homework, or a test? Even a little bit.” Larry blushed a little, but didn't answer. “People everywhere cheat a bit. On taxes. Running a red light. Finding extra coins in a change slot. Welfare has cheats, too. But it's hard to do, and eventually they get caught, most of the time.”
“It's a lot of money we have to pay for people who aren't contributing.”
“The majority of welfare recipients have jobs, but wages are too low to get them above the poverty line. Even if wages stay the same, inflation over time leaves less spendable income. Does anyone eat tuna fish?” She waved her hand to tell them to raise theirs. “Have any of you looked at the size of the cans lately?”
“They're smaller, but the price didn't go down.”
“Right. That's inflation. You get less for the same amount of money. My father told me that when he was your age, he could buy a candy bar for a nickel, gasoline cost less than fifty cents a gallon, and he could buy a pair of sneakers for less than ten dollars. Not that long ago.”
I sat at my desk, entranced. Natalie had them all listening, and I could tell they were thinking.
Another hand went up. “But aren't you part of the media? Aren't you saying what anyone would say if that's their job?”
“Good question. I am part of the media. And I take my responsibility under the First Amendment seriously. We're done for today. But if you take anything from what we've said here, it should be read, analyze, discuss, and form your own opinions. Remember, everyone has opinions, but not all opinions are based in reality. Be as smart as you can.”
The most amazing thing happened then. They started to clap, and then one by one, stood up and continued clapping for the short time until the bell rang. I asked her if she'd ever had a standing ovation before. She said only once, when she did a striptease at work, and then winked at me.
Just as lively as the previous class, the kids in the last period did all the talking. And arguing. One student said the news always slanted politics. She opened a book with campaign signs and slogans, mentioning both Honest Abe and Honest Ape, the Republican gorilla. Another said that the press was important when they asked hard questions. Even terrible answers were good ones because it helped people see the character of the candidates.
“Mr. Gilbert, I remember hearing last fall that only 5% of the people were undecided about who they would vot
e for. If that's true, then all that time and money seems like a waste to me. And it was all pretty nasty.”
“Throughout our history, most presidential elections have been close,” I said. “More than once, the man with the most votes didn't win, because of the Electoral College rules. Which gives you a head start to prepare for tomorrow's question.”
“What's the question?”
“Think about it.” The bell rang and before they were all out, Sandy walked in, scowling.
She said, “My car is going to cost me $2000 to repair. Your insurance doesn't cover enough.”
“Not my insurance, Sandy. The other guy's. Sorry. I wasn't involved. After you left, I went to warn Churchill. Anyway, I may have bumped the other guy back here. When I came back, I think I bumped him somewhere else. I don't think both of us can exist in the same dimension at the same time. Make you a deal. I'll split the out of pocket with you. It might be my fault that he showed up.”
“This is so strange.”
“You should be in my shoes,” I said, and grinned. Fritz, where are you? “I'll have a check for you next week. Okay?”
“Thanks Ashley. I've overspent for Christmas already. That really helps.”
“It might take a couple of days dressed as Santa and ringing bells, but I'll get it.” She shook her head and left.
School ended on Thursday with Christmas three days later. On Christmas Eve day, not having planned to be here, I went shopping. I bought a small turkey, mostly to have sandwiches, some instant stuffing and canned cranberries. I expected to have a chance to study where to go next and maybe watch some football. With a week off, I thought about what else I could do, besides waiting for spring. The toot from the yellow Beetle changed my plans.
The Portal At The End Of The Storm (Quantum Touch Book 6) Page 14