9781940740065

by Paul B. Kohler

  Peter thought about reviewing more of the envelopes from his satchel but thought better of it. Applegate would shit purple Twinkies if Peter openly reviewed confidential information like that. He smiled and seriously considered it on that basis alone. He can’t do a thing from 2013.

  Applegate stained his thoughts as he sipped his scotch. Nearly everything that he had been told by the man had been a lie or an excessively fabricated truth. Nothing had been what it seemed. How did my life become so full of deceit, he asked himself. That’s when it hit him. Maybe Julie’s letter was yet another attempt by Applegate to deceive him. Am I really going to judge her without hearing her side? Peter knew better than that. He decided his next step should be to talk to Julie and try to coax the truth from her. With everything that Applegate had told them both, he hoped the truth would come out quickly.

  He tossed back the remaining whisky and stood. The bartender glanced his way and held up his hand as he counted out some change from the register. “Keep the change, my friend,” Peter said and smiled at the expression on the bartender’s face as he walked out.

  CHAPTER 7

  Peter sat stoically behind the wheel of their newly acquired 1937 Packard Six, minding the speed limit. The hour and a half drive to pick up the car seemed worth it, since they had been able to buy it with cash, no questions asked. At $725, he felt good about not overpaying for a car that would inevitably be abandoned at the end of their mission.

  Julie sat next to him as he drove, her eyes not on the road but on the train schedule she had picked up a few days earlier. “It looks like the train we want departs on August 12 at 4:24 in the afternoon.”

  Peter nodded his head. “I think we’ll be ready. Hopefully Dr. Epson will have the security badges for the docs by then.”

  “I think he’ll have them much sooner. Gerty said he’s already started the paperwork and even put a rush on it. He’s getting us all badges just in case.”

  “That makes sense,” Peter agreed. “At least we’ll be able to get in and out of the base until we leave and have easy access after France.” He paused. “What were you going to tell me about Miss Stewart the other day? You said you had something important to tell me.”

  Julie looked up from the schedule before answering. “Oh, she said that she found it odd that we were newlyweds is all.”

  “How’s that important? It’s just part of our cover.”

  “She felt that we really didn’t act much like a couple that had been recently married. I think the term she used was ‘sterile.’”

  Peter cringed at the word. “Really? I don’t think we’re sterile together.”

  “I guess she’s used to seeing more affection between lovers. I assured her everything was all right between us. But maybe we should try to be a little more, I don’t know . . . more in love?”

  “But, darling, you are the apple in my pie,” Peter said.

  “You are the apple of my eye,” corrected Julie.

  “Right, that’s what I said,” Peter said as he touched her hand lying on the bench seat next to him. Julie smiled.

  Peter hesitated briefly before deciding to delve into the informal interrogation. “Julie, now that we’re out of the grasp of General Applegate, I feel like I need to share something.”

  Julie moved her hand and wove her fingers into his. “Okay. This sounds a little ominous.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that Applegate has something on me that, in effect, persuaded me to join the team.” Peter paused. “You see, after my wife died, I nearly lost everything. I tried to climb into a bottle and forget about my problems for several years. If it wasn’t for Applegate and this mission, I would likely be in a different place right now. He bailed me out of a jam I was in and has asked me to do things that I would have never agreed to do before.”

  “Applegate has his ways of manipulation, that’s for sure,” Julie said as she released her hand from Peter’s.

  “That’s right. You mentioned that he’s holding something over you . . .”

  “It’s nothing, really. Just something that happened a long time ago.”

  Peter’s eyes remained focused on the road while his attention was affixed to the conversation. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Like I said. It’s nothing, really.”

  “We’re in this together, Jules. Let’s clear the air. Go ahead,” Peter pushed.

  “I . . . I, um, I kind of killed someone.”

  Peter’s heart sank when he heard her words. “How is killing someone ‘nothing’?” he protested.

  “It wasn’t malicious, if that’s what you mean. There were circumstances.”

  “Like?”

  Julie looked out the side window, away from Peter’s glare. “It was my father. He was an abusive alcoholic. My mom had divorced him years before, and he actually left town. At the time we thought he was gone from our lives.” She paused to wipe a tear from her cheek. “It was the week of my high school graduation, and I’m not sure why he thought he’d be welcomed back. He stopped by our house one night, and we were alone—just mom and me. She told him to leave, but he was too drunk to listen. He forced his way in and started to knock my mom around. I tried to pull him off her, but he hit me so hard, it nearly knocked me out.”

  Peter remained stoic as he listened, despite the anger building inside of him—anger at having to hear the wretched story, but also for Applegate’s attempted deception.

  “I laid there on the floor, playing dead long enough for him to leave me alone. When he returned to continue to beat on my mom, I snuck down the hall and grabbed Frank’s shotgun. He’d taught me how to shoot it earlier that year, so I was comfortable handling it. I came back into the living room and told him to get off my mother. He did, and I thought it was over, or would be as soon as he left. He didn’t leave, though. He stared at me and made some crude comments about both mom and me before he ran after me. I . . .” Julie stopped, her chin quivering with her sobs.

  “Hey,” Peter soothed. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. You don’t have to continue. I understand.”

  “But you don’t. When he charged me, I pulled the trigger and missed. He stopped and had this look of . . . surprise, that I actually pulled the trigger. That’s when I pumped another shell into the chamber and pulled the trigger again, hitting him in the chest. He was dead before he hit the floor.”

  Peter was silent once again.

  “I killed my own father when I didn’t have to. But I knew he’d come back again and again, because that’s how crazy he was. Mom called the police right away and said she’d killed him. We fabricated the whole story by the time the police arrived. Mom said that I had my whole life ahead of me, and that it was nonsense for me to go to jail when that bastard deserved to die. In the end, the jury called it self-defense, and the whole thing went away.”

  “And Applegate somehow knew?” Peter asked.

  “Yep. He confronted me about it a few months ago. He wasn’t mean about it. He was actually very compassionate, but he said that he would make sure the problem would disappear forever if I went on this mission.”

  Peter noticed the familiar scenery sweeping by the car window and let off the gas pedal.

  “I’m sorry, Jules. I never meant to bring back those memories. But . . .” Peter paused as he turned onto a side road. “But I had to know.”

  Julie looked around as Peter slowed the car to a stop. “Are we going somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to drive by my old house, or new house. Depending on your perspective.”

  “Wait, what did you mean you had to know?” Julie said tensely.

  Peter sighed.

  “Julie, Applegate has been at it again. Before we left, he gave me an envelope with profiles on everyone on the team, as well as information on Epson and his assistants. He told me that it was for my eyes only. The information about you mentioned briefly what you just described, but it was not the complete truth. He skewed the facts, insinuating that I woul
d need to keep an eye on you.”

  “That son of a bitch! What else did it say?”

  “I’ll let you read it for yourself when we get back to the hotel if you want. I contemplated not telling you at all, but I felt you should know. I knew you were a better person than how Applegate portrayed you.”

  Julie sat in silence the rest of the way to Peter’s house. Peter felt it best to remain quiet. Don’t poke the bear and all that.

  Fifteen minutes later, he parked the Packard in the dirt driveway in front of 713 Glencoe Drive. The exterior walls were framed but the interior remained a mystery. The neighborhood was relatively new, with only a half dozen homes complete or under construction.

  “Do you want to come look, or do you want to stay in the car?” Peter asked.

  “What are we looking for exactly?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s just, how often do you get to see your own house being built? My architecture background is getting the better of me. I sort of get all third-graderish any time I walk through houses under construction.” Peter smiled.

  “Sure. I’ll come,” Julie said. “You’re a goof, you know that?”

  “What? I can’t help it.” He smirked.

  Peter escorted Julie up to the house and entered through the garage. The interior walls were framed, but the lath and plaster had yet to be installed. As Peter walked through the house, he noticed a number of oddities. Some of the rooms were different from how they existed in 2013.

  “How bizarre. This room doesn’t even exist now. Someone, between now and when we bought the house, had removed this wall,” Peter said, pounding his fist gently against one of the wood studs.

  Julie didn’t reply but walked around the floor, peeking around half-framed walls.

  As Peter continued surveying his home, an idea began to form. The more he investigated, the more he recalled how his home was finished in his own time. It wasn’t until he went into the cellar that his planning bore fruit. As he walked about the basement, he looked up at the framed floor above. In his own cellar, the framing looked identical. Down to the random knots in the lumber, it looked exactly like his did back in 2013. He paused near the furnace, and although his own furnace had been replaced, he recognized the behemoth as the one they tore out after buying the house. That’s when his plan started to coalesce into the makings of a genuine possibility.

  What if I hide the pennies here in the house somewhere? he wondered. It would solve all the problems that Applegate mentioned in his letter. They would sit here, stashed beneath some random piece of lumber until he returned from the mission. They’d have aged through the years and would be good to sell off one at a time, discreetly.

  Peter stood in silent contemplation for much longer than he realized. It was Julie’s hand that brought him back to the present.

  “Are you okay? You’ve been just standing there staring.”

  “Oh, really? I was just imagining how the years have gone by. This is the first house we bought. It’s just . . .”

  “I get it, Peter. You miss your family. I miss mine too,” Julie said as she wrapped her arms around him and hugged. Peter returned the hug, and the two stood embracing each other for several minutes.

  “As nice as this is, Peter, we should probably get back to the hotel.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Thanks for indulging me.”

  “Thanks for listening earlier. I haven’t told anyone about that, and it helped getting it off my chest. You have no idea. It feels like a huge weight’s been lifted from my shoulders.”

  “Don’t mention it, Jules. From now on, we shouldn’t keep anything from each other. We’re partners in this, and without each other, we’d be lost. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. Let’s go and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  Peter led the way back to the car, and they were back on the road to San Francisco within minutes.

  CHAPTER 8

  As Peter lay on the sofa bed, he looked around the darkened room, waiting. Slivers of bluish moonlight cascaded through the partially open drapes, saving Peter from utter obscurity. He listened intently toward the bedroom door. Silence. Julie was sure to be fast asleep.

  Wondering if it was time to get moving, he glanced at the nightstand, but the moonlight wasn’t cooperating. He moved his wrist in front of his face, but he couldn’t see the hands on his new watch either. It has to be after one, he surmised.

  He dropped his legs off the hide-a-bed mattress and into a new pair of trousers he had purchased a few days earlier. He stood, sliding his feet into a pair of Oxfords, which were the closest to casual tennis shoes he could find. Finally, he grabbed the tattered leather jacket acquired from a secondhand store and stepped into the hallway.

  The lights were dim because of the late hour, but they were bright enough that he could see his watch. It was 1:46—later than he’d anticipated but still giving him plenty of time.

  Peter took the back stairway, which dropped him in the alley behind their hotel. The guest parking lot was just across the street. Peter had purposefully parked the Packard in the back row to avoid waking anyone when the engine rumbled to life.

  As he slalomed his way through the parking lot, he considered the leather jacket. The temperature was hovering around sixty degrees, but the humidity was high. He contemplated leaving it, but with only a white cotton T-shirt, it might be useful, if a bit uncomfortable. He slipped it on as he slid into the driver’s seat. He chuckled at the reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked like James Dean from Rebel Without a Cause. It was one of Minnie’s favorite movies. If she could only see me now, he mused. Of course, she wouldn’t be born for another thirty years.

  Peter eased out of the lot and turned toward his midnight destination. In all practicality, he could have walked the mile and a half to the bay, but the thought of lugging his supply bag made him rethink his mode of travel.

  At nearly two in the morning, the streets were deserted. Without traffic, he could make it the water’s edge and back with time to spare. The only unknown lay beneath the streets. His plan was simple. Tonight’s excursion was Peter's “dry run” into the U.S. Mint.

  Back in 2013, Peter had meticulously analyzed all potential entry points into the mint. Armed with Chet's fortuitous information, Peter had discovered the only feasible, yet incredibly unsanitary, approach was through the city's sewer system. According to the historical maps, there were several storm drain overflows that dumped directly into the bay. Because the sewer had recently gone through a major renovation, the outlets still remained uncovered. It wasn't until 1953 that the vulnerability was discovered and barriers installed. Since that wouldn’t happen for another eleven years, Peter was free to enter the sewer at his leisure.

  The ten-block drive was mundane, and within minutes Peter had parked along the pier. Considering whether or not to leave the car so close to his entry point, Peter opted for convenience. According to his schedule, he could make it to the mint and back within fifty minutes.

  Peter opened the trunk and pulled out a large duffle bag. From its side pocket he slipped out a neatly folded packet. He slung the bag over his shoulder, stepped over the rope barrier, and climbed down the stone embankment. By the time he reached the water’s edge, he had unfolded his map and was studying it in the moonlight. Once he had his bearings, he walked another twenty paces until he came upon a large concrete tube. Stepping over two rows of heavy riprap, Peter stood up in the mouth of the opening. Flicking on his flashlight, he strode into the darkness.

  He had expected the ceiling to descend, but after a dozen steps into the bowels of the city sewer, he was still able to stand fully upright. Adjusting his map, Peter plotted his route and continued onward.

  The map—the proverbial key to the castle—had been something of a windfall. Chet, the coin shop owner, had spoken of a flaw in the original security. The original documents had been sealed shortly after the flaw was discovered. Luckily though, the sixty-year confidentiality had serendipitously expired
only a few months before Peter's trip through the time machine. He had examined every detail regarding the breach and had found an unaltered map of the city sewer system. Peter hadn’t been able to take the map out of the records room, so he’d had to memorize it. His map was something he was quite proud of; he had drawn it completely from memory upon arrival in 1942. With his architectural background and razor-sharp memory, he’d been able to sketch the map with superior precision, even without the benefit of the original.

  After a few hundred feet, Peter stopped to review his map more closely. He had been navigating smoothly for no more than five minutes before he came upon his first variance.

  Peter rotated the map as he made a slight right turn before continuing straight for another fifty feet. As his eyes adjusted to the murkiness of the sewer, Peter pointed the flashlight toward the ground and let the light float down the tunnel. In the distance he could see his first obstacle. He had to jump across the main diversion tank to make it into the main sewer line, which ran straight to the mint. Stepping to the edge of the tank, the crevasse was not as far as it appeared on his map. At the reduced scale of his drawing, he’d anticipated the gap to be in the neighborhood of nine feet across. Thankfully, whether by his error or inaccuracies in the original map, the distance was closer to six feet.

  Stowing the map in his inside jacket pocket, Peter tossed his duffle across. It landed with a muffled thump before rolling to the side. He took half a dozen steps back, turned, and ran for the divide. A split second before leaping over the opening, he heard a loud howl echo throughout the concrete network. His nerves clenched instantly, but his focus and training prohibited a catastrophic error and potential injury.

  Reaching the edge of the opening, Peter leaned forward as his legs shot his body over and across the gap. He landed with an easy tuck-and-roll, standing at the conclusion of his acrobatics. Without hesitation, Peter reslung the duffle over his shoulder and moved forward. Not even a minute had passed when the screeching echoed through the tunnel again. Peter stopped and flashed his light through the darkness as far as the rays would reach. All he saw was a trickle of water at the bottom of the brick-lined cylinder. With no desire to meet whatever had made the horrendous sound, Peter trudged on. Based on his progress, he still had another twenty-five hundred yards of pitch-black labyrinth to navigate before reaching his destination.