September Sky (American Journey Book 1)

by John A. Heldt

  "I guess you could call it a general sense of unease," Chuck said. "Something about this just doesn't add up."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I'm still trying to figure out Professor Bell's motivation in asking us to participate in this 'adventure.' If he really holds the key to time travel, why on earth share it with strangers? Why not just keep the secret under wraps or share it only with a small group of people he knows and trusts? Bringing us in makes no sense unless …"

  "Unless what?" Justin asked.

  "Unless we're guinea pigs in an experiment that has serious downsides – downsides the professor doesn't plan to share with us."

  "You're getting paranoid, Dad."

  "Am I? What do you know about this guy?"

  "I know a lot, actually," Justin said. "Last week I called a few friends who have taken his classes. Every one said he's a stand-up guy. Two have been to his house for dinner. From all accounts, Professor Bell is as normal and honest a person as you can find in this town."

  "That still doesn't explain why he picked us."

  "He picked us because we're ideal candidates. He even told us that. Think about it. You don't have a job. I just quit school. We have time, money, and no ties to this world except a few uncles and cousins and Grandma. Why wouldn't he pick us?"

  Chuck nodded and then returned to the window. He knew Justin was right. They were ideal candidates for a trip like this. If they traveled to the past and never came back, only a smattering of friends and relatives would even notice. One person who wouldn't notice was an eighty-year-old woman in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's disease.

  Chuck thought about his mother as he watched cars zip by on the street below. He had not seen her at the facility in San Jose since March 10 and not seen her as the person he once knew in years. He didn't feel right about possibly leaving her forever, but he also knew it didn't matter. She was in a different place now, a place he could never visit.

  Chuck turned away from the window a second time and gazed at his only child. He couldn't help but admire the person he had become or, more accurately, remained.

  If anyone had a right to be cynical and distrusting of people making promises, it was Justin Townsend. He had faced enough rejection, disappointment, and tragedy to fill a lifetime, but he had never lost his faith in humanity. He had never lost his faith in his father.

  "So you really want to do this?" Chuck asked.

  "Yes. I do," Justin said. "I know there are risks, but I'm willing to take them. I need a change, Dad. I need to clear my head, gain perspective, and maybe find a new purpose. Going to the past may help me do that. I want to accept the professor's offer. I want to go."

  Chuck smiled as he studied his son's earnest face. He had to hand it to the kid. He didn't let doubts get in the way of a dream.

  "All right. If you want to go, then we'll go. I'll fill out these forms, write out a check, and give the good professor a call," Chuck said. "In the meantime, do what you have to do to 'get your affairs in order.'"

  "I will."

  Justin walked slowly across the box-littered room. When he reached his father, he stopped, tilted his head, and looked at Chuck closely.

  "Dad?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Are you still OK with the year? We can pick another if you want."

  Chuck shook his head.

  "No. There's no need. I'm OK with the year. You made a compelling case for it yesterday. If we're going to travel to the past, then we should go all out."

  Justin nodded.

  "We're going to have fun, Dad."

  "I'm sure we will," Chuck said. "I know we will."

  Chuck glanced at his son and smiled. Then he gave him a closer inspection and laughed. Wearing khaki shorts, Vans, and a Dodgers jersey, Justin looked like a Southern California boy on loan from Central Casting.

  "What's so funny?" Justin asked.

  "Your outfit."

  "What's wrong with my outfit?"

  "There's nothing wrong with your outfit – if you wear it around here. But if you wear it where we're going, you might turn some heads."

  Justin chuckled.

  "You think so?"

  "Yes. I think so," Chuck said. He smiled again and put a hand on Justin's shoulder. "Now let's go call the professor. We obviously have a lot to work out before we have all that fun. Nineteen hundred's going to require a whole lot of thinking."

  CHAPTER 8: CHUCK

  Monday, April 18, 2016

  The Painted Lady in the West Adams district was something of a rarity in the City of Angels, where newer was better and progress was measured in steel and glass. It was a vivid reminder of the choices people had made in building the nation's second-largest metropolis.

  Unlike San Franciscans, who had saved and restored most of the thousands of Victorian and Edwardian mansions built before 1915, residents of Los Angeles had rushed to tear them down. Most of those that remained occupied isolated pockets of the city that developers had ignored or passed up in favor of greener pastures.

  Chuck admired the blue, green, and gold house with the gables, bay windows, and ornate trim as he drove his Civic into a small brick driveway. He still didn't know what to make of Professor Geoffrey Bell, but he had to admit that the man had style.

  "Are you sure this is the place?" Justin asked.

  "This is the address he gave me," Chuck said.

  Chuck turned off the ignition and collected his thoughts for a moment as Justin exited the car. This was it, he thought. They were really going to do it.

  Chuck pulled the keys from the ignition, turned around, and hastily gathered a few papers he had placed on the back seat. He folded the papers, stuffed them in a Number 10 envelope, and stepped out of the Honda into the warm California sun. He tucked the envelope in a back pocket, walked around the back of the vehicle, and joined Justin on the edge of the driveway.

  "Are you ready?" Chuck asked.

  "I'm ready."

  Father and son took one last look at the impressive residence and then climbed a dozen or so brick steps to a small porch and a massive front door. The door looked like it had been made out of solid oak, if not carved out of the tree itself.

  Chuck knocked twice, looked at his son's face for signs of second thoughts, and then waited patiently for a person who said, "Just a minute," to greet them. A moment later, an attractive middle-aged woman with red hair and a warm smile opened the door.

  "Good morning, ma'am. We're the Townsends," Chuck said. "We've come to see Professor Bell."

  "He's been expecting you," the woman said. "Please come in."

  Chuck followed the woman and Justin through a narrow hallway and into a parlor that looked like an exhibit at the Smithsonian. When the woman stopped to retrieve a dust cloth from the parquet floor, Chuck took a few seconds to assess his surroundings.

  To his left, he saw chaise lounges, mahogany end tables, and Tiffany lamps in mint condition. To his right, he saw striped wallpaper, oil paintings, and a grandfather clock large enough to hold a linebacker. Opulence filled the entire room.

  "I apologize for the delay," the woman said as she turned to face the visitors. "I had to put Lucy, our cat, in another room. I didn't want her to run out of the house when I opened the door."

  "I understand," Chuck said.

  "I'm Jeanette Bell. You must be Charles."

  "I am. It's nice to meet you."

  Chuck shook her hand and then motioned toward his right.

  "This is my son, Justin."

  "I gathered that. My husband told me that you had a college-age son. He didn't say he looked like Heath Ledger," Jeanette said. She turned to face Justin. "I'll bet you're a hit with the ladies in Westwood."

  Justin blushed and laughed.

  "I haven't been lately."

  Chuck smiled.

  Jeanette flashed Chuck a puzzled look.

  "Did I miss something?"

  "His girlfriend just walked out on him," Chuck said.

  Jeanette frow
ned and looked at Justin empathetically.

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Justin. I promise you'll be treated better here. Welcome to the Bell residence. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "You too," Justin said as he took her hand.

  Jeanette stepped back and addressed both of her guests.

  "My husband is in his den, preparing your things. Would either of you care for something to drink before I take you in?"

  "No, thank you," Chuck said a second ahead of his son.

  "Very well. Then please follow me."

  Jeanette turned away and led the Townsends down another hallway toward an open door that provided access to the den. The room featured a bookshelf wall, an Empire-style settee, and a massive hardwood desk that stood in front of a picture window. Sitting at the desk, with his back to the window, was Professor Bell.

  "Our visitors have arrived, Geoffrey," Jeanette said.

  "I see that," Bell said. "Thank you, dear. We'll meet you in the basement."

  Chuck gave Justin a sidelong glance.

  The basement?

  Jeanette smiled at the Townsends and took her leave.

  "Please take a seat, gentlemen," Bell said as he returned to his guests. "I will speak to you as soon as I complete this paperwork. I need just a few more minutes."

  "Take your time," Chuck said.

  The visitors sat on the settee, which faced the wall of books, and waited for Bell to finish his business. Several sheets of paper littered the top of the desk, including two that looked a lot like birth certificates.

  Chuck inspected the room again and saw a few things he had missed the first time, including two leather suitcases that stood near the door and a pair of three-piece suits that hung in a shallow open closet. Underwear, socks, shoes, and derby hats lay atop a nearby table. All could have come from Theodore Roosevelt's wardrobe. The professor had taken care of the basics.

  A moment later, Bell assembled the scattered papers, placed them in a manila envelope, and got up from his chair. He walked around his desk to the middle of the den, turned to face the Townsends, and handed the envelope to Chuck.

  "I believe everything is in order," Bell said.

  Chuck opened the unsealed envelope and pulled out a few of the sheets.

  "What are these?"

  "Those, Mr. Townsend, are documents you may need on your travels. The ones you will use first are two train tickets to El Paso. I chose El Paso because that is where you will change trains should you decide to travel to the Midwest or the East. I have also included birth certificates, character references, college degrees from one of this state's finest universities, and twenty fifty-dollar bills."

  "You manufactured fake documents?"

  "I created the birth certificates, references, and your degrees from official stationery and forms. The banknotes are authentic. They were issued in 1896."

  "I can do the math, Professor. You didn't do all this with the check I sent you."

  "No. I did not," Bell said. "I gladly invested some of my own money in this enterprise because I want you to spend more than a few days in 1900. I also want you to experience life to the fullest and succeed at everything you do."

  "That's very generous of you. I suppose all this comes at a price. I assume there are at least a few rules you want us to follow."

  "There are several, in fact. I will explain them later. In the meantime, I would like you to change into the clothing I have provided. Your suits, as you can see, are in the closet. The rest is on the table. You can leave your present attire in the box next to the settee, along with the keys to your vehicle, your wallets, and any documents or belongings that might be anachronistic in 1900. I will look after them in your absence."

  "Is there anything else?" Chuck asked.

  "Yes," Bell said. "When you are done, bring the suitcases with you. Each contains extra clothing and other important items. We will meet in the parlor at eleven and go from there."

  With that Geoffrey Bell, professor of physics, cruise-ship lecturer, and time-travel agent, walked out of the room and out of sight. He left his guests with Victorian clothing, bogus documents, and twenty-first-century anxiety.

  CHAPTER 9: CHUCK

  Thirty minutes later, Chuck followed Bell and Justin down a steep, medieval-looking stone staircase. He braced himself for the Tower of London.

  When he entered the basement, however, he found not a dark dungeon but rather a brightly lit space that seemed almost heavenly. The thirty-by-forty-foot room featured white walls, a white ceiling, plush white carpeting, and no furniture, save two large white leather couches and a glass-and-brass coffee table.

  Jeanette Bell placed a tea set on the table and then sat on one of the couches. The teapot, tray, plates, and cups, like nearly everything else in the room, were white.

  "Is this the purification chamber?" Chuck asked jokingly.

  The professor laughed.

  "In a way, it is. It's where I want you to rid yourself of any lingering doubts, concerns, and fears you may have about this journey," Bell said. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss."

  Chuck and Justin walked to the unoccupied sofa, set their suitcases on the floor, and sat down. Each placed his hat in his lap.

  Bell took a seat on the other couch next to his wife, who smiled at Justin like a mother might smile at a son. The matron of the house had clearly taken a shining to the boy.

  "As you can see, I made some tea," Jeanette said. "Would you care for some, Charles?"

  "I would. Thank you."

  "Would you like some as well, Justin?"

  "Yes, please."

  Chuck couldn't help but admire how the Bells carried themselves. Polite, articulate, and refined, they seemed more like a duke and a duchess from Downton Abbey than a down-to-earth couple from downtown L.A. Chuck suspected that they had picked up more than a few things from the Brits during the five years Professor Bell had taught at Oxford and Cambridge.

  Jeanette poured tea for four. When she was done, she returned to her seat on the sofa, folded her hands on her lap, and smiled at the reporter and the boy she no doubt wanted to adopt.

  "Thank you, dear," Bell said as he looked at his wife.

  The professor took a sip of his tea and then directed his attention to the men on the facing couch. He seemed relaxed and in good spirits.

  "Now that we're all settled, let's get down to business," Bell said. "I'm sure you still have a lot of questions for me. Perhaps we should start by getting them out of the way."

  Chuck shrugged.

  "I'm good with that, though, to tell you the truth, I don't have many questions. The materials you sent us pretty much spelled out what this is about. I am curious about one thing though."

  "What's that?" Bell asked.

  "Where is your time machine?"

  Bell smiled at his wife and then at Chuck.

  "Why, Mr. Townsend, it's right through that door," Bell said as he pointed to a barrier on the far side of the room. The white, nondescript door almost blended into the wall.

  "That's it?"

  "That's it. Beyond that exit is a short tunnel made of limestone. The tunnel leads to another door, the backyard, and today, anyway, the year 1900."

  Chuck tilted his head and stared at Bell.

  "So the tunnel is a time portal?"

  "Indeed, it is. Percival Bell created it when he built this house in 1899. He made this place his home and laboratory shortly after making his incredible discovery."

  "I sense a story coming on," Chuck said.

  "You sense correctly," Bell said. "My great-grandfather was a man of forty when he participated in a scientific expedition through the Sierra Nevada in the summer of 1898. Though he had joined the group primarily to gain knowledge of Cretaceous rock formations, he soon gained knowledge of something far more interesting. On the third day of the journey, Percival entered a limestone cave and discovered hundreds of mysterious symbols carved on a wall. With the help of his brother, an anthropologist, he was able
to determine that the writing on the wall was a formula – a formula for time travel."

  "I'm afraid you've lost me, Professor. What does a formula in a limestone cave have to do with a time tunnel in Los Angeles?"

  Bell stared at Chuck.

  "It has everything to do with it. Using the formula, limestone bricks, and gypsum crystals he found in the cave, Percival was able to construct a chamber much like the one in the mountains. He was able to create an environment that allowed him to defy the laws of physics."

  "I see," Chuck said. "There's still something I don't understand though."

  "What's that?"

  "How do you manage this time machine of yours? How do you control it so that it does not send you to 1850 or 300 BC or the day the Earth was formed?"

  "I do it by synchronizing crystals in the tunnel with reusable ones I carry and by observing astronomical tables. Yes, Mr. Townsend, the sun, the moon, and the stars are part of the mix."

  Chuck nodded.

  "That explains a lot, but it doesn't explain why we can't travel to, say, the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries or even to more years in the twentieth."

  Bell smiled.

  "No, it does not," Bell said. "There are two reasons why you can't travel to the distant past. The first is because the tunnel did not exist, at least in its finished form, before January 7, 1900. The second is because the maximum range of my 'time machine' is 116 years. I discovered that limitation just recently. I believe the stars are to blame, but that's only a guess."

  "OK. I get that part. But why did you limit our travel options to nine years?"

  "I did so to ensure your safety," Bell said. "I selected those nine years because I knew with absolute certainty that this home was not occupied during those years. I suspect that even you would not want to mingle with the owner of a Doberman or a shotgun."

  "You're right. I wouldn't," Chuck said. "But if you wanted to make sure we did not encounter a homeowner, then why did you list 1900 as a travel year? You just said that Percival Bell built this house in 1899. Did he not live in his own home?"

  "He did, but only for a short time. He lived here with his wife and two children until March 22, 1900, when he died of a stroke."