9781940740065

by Paul B. Kohler

  “I’ll assume that your ploy about ‘historical research’ is just some clever cover, and your reason for being here is much more elaborate,” Asher stated.

  Although Peter was well rehearsed for this kind of interrogation, he had hoped to avoid it. He prepared the necessary responses in his mind.

  “It’s obvious that you have someone close to Dr. Epson. What have they said?”

  “I’m asking you, Peter. Never mind how I know about your existence.”

  Peter realized he wasn’t going to get much from Asher. “It’s true, but it’s not as elaborate as you might think. Two scientists, Julie Frey, and I came through Epson’s time machine. We arrived on July twenty-seventh. Our purpose here is to help Dr. Epson complete his research on time travel and then return back to 2013.”

  “You expect me to believe it takes four individuals to help fix the time machine? What exactly is your part in repairing the device?”

  “I . . . I’m not a scientist, if that’s what you are asking.”

  “Then why are you here? And how about Miss Frey?”

  “Julie and I came back to help control the situation from a nontechnical standpoint. Julie and I are here for damage control—to make sure nothing is changed that could affect the future.”

  “That, Peter, I believe,” Asher said. “But what has me perplexed is why you need to travel to France.”

  The blood drained from Peter’s face. “France? What makes you think we’re going to France?”

  “I am aware of the travel plans for you and Miss Frey. From what I understand, you will be traveling by train next week and departing from, I can only assume, New York on or around the fourth of September.”

  Shit! Peter thought. How did he know so much? Did he get to one of the docs?

  “I . . . I have no idea . . . how’d you know?” Peter was caught completely off guard. There is no sense in denying the trip now.

  “I have my sources, Peter. What I don’t know is, what is the purpose of your mission?” Asher asked.

  “I’m sorry, Asher, but I can’t tell you that. It’s best that you know as little as possible about our purpose. The fact that you know about me and my team is already laced with disaster.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. For that reason, I cannot permit you to return to your time. Too much has changed in the present, and the further you contaminate the timeline, the worse you are making things for the future.”

  “So far the only thing that has not gone as planned is you, Asher. It’s up to you to stop the contamination by minding your own business and letting me complete my mission.”

  “What is your mission, Peter?”

  “I’ll say it again: I cannot tell you.”

  “Why?” Asher prompted again.

  “Contamination, remember?” Peter shot back.

  Asher did not look amused. “Peter, you leave me no choice but to contain the situation. I’ll have to have your time-travel mates picked up and the four of you detained until the threat of—”

  “You can’t do that!” Peter burst out.

  “Oh, yes I can. And I will. You’ve given me no other choice,” Asher said.

  Peter studied Asher’s face as he worked through his next response in his mind.

  “Okay, okay. Julie and I are planning on going to France, but our reason isn’t as sinister as you would like to think. You can believe it or not, that’s completely up to you, but Julie and I are history professors for the Jeffersonian Institute. We were sent back to gather information on life in France during the war,” Peter said, pausing long enough to catch his breath. “You see, there are several inaccuracies during the time in question. Julie and I are here to confirm, or deny, certain political situations during the last few weeks of September.”

  “What sort of activities?” Asher asked, his curiosity provoked.

  “Asher, I can’t. I’ve already said too much.”

  “And as I’ve already said, you don’t leave me with much choice—”

  “Who are you to think you can control people’s lives like this?” Peter asked.

  “I head a private organization of individuals with the sole purpose of preventing situations like this from advancing.”

  “How on earth could you have realized that time travel was possible, let alone have the time to create a militia to prevent it?”

  “We were established long ago, for other reasons. It just so happens we were in the right place at the right time to handle your situation.”

  “So then, what is your purpose? To prevent scientific advancement? Are you Amish with an attitude?” Peter asked sarcastically.

  Asher chuckled. “No, we’re not Amish. We are here to prolong the existence of man and to ensure a rich, full life for everyone. Anything that threatens that, we deal with swiftly.”

  “I suppose you have a plan in place to prevent the atomic bomb, too?” Peter asked, knowing that the Manhattan Project was already underway.

  “Yes, we are aware of the development of the A-bomb, and unfortunately, that is out of the reach of our society,” Asher said as his brow tightened. “In a perfect world, Peter, there would be no war, but some things are out of our control.”

  Peter saw an opening. “Suppose we could help each other?”

  “How on earth could you help me?” Asher asked incredulously.

  “Well, you see, our mission has a lot to do with the war. Allow my team to continue on as planned, and you might get exactly what you desire most.”

  “I’m listening. Continue.”

  Peter stood and paced about Asher’s office for dramatic affect. He stared into the void as he began to speak.

  “It’s true that Julie and I are to observe life in France. I’m not denying that. However, because of our vast knowledge of historical facts, we know a lot about the war, including how and when it will come to an end. Now, suppose we could accelerate the end of the war by several years—”

  “Several years?” Asher blurted. “It continues on that long?”

  “You know I cannot tell you when it will end, but I believe my partner and I could devise a . . . a plan, something, that could benefit both of our interests.”

  “Wouldn’t you risk changing the outcome of the war as well?” Asher asked.

  Peter thought about the question and realized how close to the truth the whole conversation really was. If he and Julie did accomplish their mission as planned, just how much would it change the outcome? He pushed the thought from his mind, trying to prevent Asher from controlling the conversation.

  “Not necessarily. With the knowledge that Julie and I possess, the outcome could remain relatively unchanged, but the timeline could be shortened tremendously.” Peter took his seat again. “I need to confer with Julie about all of this before fully committing to anything, you understand.”

  Asher contemplated their conversation for several minutes in silence.

  “Suppose I let you and Miss Frey continue with your mission. Who is to say that you don’t simply run and never return to San Francisco?”

  “Wouldn’t you just love that! Have us complete our mission and not return to 2013? That’s a win-win for you, Asher.”

  “Okay, Peter. You win. I’ll permit you and Miss Frey to continue to France. In the meantime, I will meet with the other members of our ‘militia,’ as you call it, to determine the future of you and your team. I will say this: your actions in France will greatly determine your chances of returning to your time. I suggest that you and your wife prepare an impressive plan for us to review prior to your departure on September fourth.”

  Peter felt relieved for the moment. At least he would be able to make it back to Julie . . . and the docs. He would deal with returning through the time machine when he arrived at that bridge.

  “Great,” Peter said, standing to leave. “Don’t mind if I show myself out.”

  “Not so fast, Peter. I have some stipulations, of course. I will need to send someone to accompany you and Miss Frey. I n
eed to keep tabs on you to make sure you stick to your plan.”

  Peter sank back into his chair. “A babysitter?”

  “Not exactly. Consider it a chaperone.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Peter was escorted from Asher’s office by the two goons that had detained him hours earlier. Has it been hours? The conversation he’d just had with the leader of the Society had passed in a blur. The exchange of information between himself and Asher made his head spin. Peter knew he would have to tread lightly for the remainder of his time in San Francisco.

  Stepping out of the elevator, Peter glanced back at his two escorts and said, “You know, I’m quite capable of making it back to my hotel on my own. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here.”

  The two looked at each other, obviously confused.

  “Are you surprised? You brought me in with a bag over my head. And yet, I still know! It’s magic!” Peter flourished, not expecting a response. “The cat was let out of the bag, so to speak, when I sat across from your boss with that breathtaking view behind him. You see, I know that to have a view that impressive, we had to have been pretty high up. Maybe even in the tallest building in San Francisco?”

  “Yeah, whatever. Mr. Mandrake asked us to see you back to your hotel peaceful-like,” replied the muscle of the two. The other fellow was more of a squirrelly guy and remained silent.

  “Suit yourself. I just thought I’d let you two off the hook. Come to think of it, do you mind if we stop by the drugstore? I need to pick up a few things.”

  Neither of Peter’s escorts said anything. Muscles simply guided Peter toward the door of their waiting chariot. It was a 1941 Lincoln Zephyr with the unmistakable rear suicide doors.

  “Wow, nice ride, boys. The boss lets you drive this all by yourselves?” Peter asked, almost certain his sarcasm and intellectual jabs were bound to trigger some kind of reaction. Surprisingly, they were both well-tempered on the drive to his hotel. In fact, the short jaunt up Market Street passed in complete silence.

  As they pulled up to the hotel, the Squirrel turned around to Peter and said, “Listen, I’m not sure who you are or what you’re all about, but neither me nor my friend here want to play any games.”

  Peter stared blankly at him. “I’m sorry, but what games?”

  “Mr. Mandrake said for us to keep tabs on you and be ready for anything. He thinks you’re a pretty slippery guy. I’m just sayin’, we don’t want any games, and everything will be fine. Just fine.”

  “Okay, then. On that note . . .” Peter unlatched the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He walked away from the car, leaving the door wide open. Seconds later, he heard the car hastily pull into traffic. “Dipshits,” Peter mumbled as he stepped into the hotel foyer.

  The lobby was empty, save for a bellhop that must have recognized him, because he returned to reading his newspaper the moment he saw Peter.

  Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and wondered what his next move should be. His right hand felt a cylindrical paper tube. The pennies.

  “Shit,” Peter said aloud. His plan all along was to drive to his house and stash them somewhere . . . creative. He looked at his watch, and it read 2:30. It can’t be that early, Peter thought. He tapped at the face of his watch, and as he did, the second hand moved a few ticks and then stopped again. Damn mechanical watches!

  He walked up to the bellhop. “Got the time?”

  The bellman looked through Peter and onto the wall across the lobby where a large clock with Roman numerals showed 6:34. He didn’t respond but just nodded his head in the general direction.

  “Thanks, buddy. Remind me to tip you a few bucks for all your help.”

  The bellman straightened up and said, “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, kid. I’m just messing with you,” Peter said as he walked through the lobby toward the back stairway. He wondered if he still had time to get out of town to make the stash. Deciding that he did, he kept walking straight out the back door and into the parking lot.

  The traffic was lighter than he’d expected. The normally forty-minute drive to his old neighborhood took him slightly less than half an hour, and he was thankful that the construction workers were gone for the day.

  He parked in the yet-to-be-poured driveway and entered through the garage, which was still void of an overhead door.

  It was near sunset, and deep shadows began to loom through framed window and door openings throughout the main floor. Peter guessed he had fifteen minutes of usable daylight to find an adequate hiding place.

  Starting in the kitchen, Peter searched for a place that he hoped would not be discovered during the remaining construction activities. Between plumbing and electrical runs that still needed to be completed, he dismissed the room and moved into other parts of the house.

  Passing by the main floor powder room and dining room, Peter entered the living room. The room was enclosed by framed walls, and the lath installation had begun on the ceiling. Hiding the roll of coins above the ceiling plaster would have been ideal, but Peter couldn’t find anything to climb on. Determined, Peter continued to search the room. As he moved toward the end wall, he noticed a small opening in the stone hearth. Kneeling next to it, he could see that the mortar for the stone was still tacky. He assumed that the masons had just set the stone earlier in the day.

  As Peter knelt next to the fireplace, he missed the car that crept slowly by the front of the house.

  He scanned the room, searching for something. To the left of the fireplace, he saw a scrap of tar paper. Grabbing it, he wrapped the impregnated paper around the pennies. Hoping that the extra layer of protection would endure the seventy-plus years before he could recover his precious trove, he leaned close to the hearth and attempted to slide it into the void. With the thick wrapping around the pennies in his hand, his closed fist would not squeeze past the surrounding stones. He maneuvered the roll between his fingers, rotated his wrist, and tried again. Success, but not without scraped knuckles.

  With his hand deep into the void and his body leaning into the hearth, Peter tried to drop the pennies. The space inside the hearth was so tight he could not release his grip. He tried to shift his hand to the side and try again, but it was useless. At that moment, his vision blurred and the room began to spin. He tried to pull his hand back, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried to tuck his thumb into the palm of his hand, hoping to make it as small as possible, but the effort was in vain. He was stuck.

  Seconds later, the spinning subsided and he regained focus. He realized he was no longer alone. With his right hand lodged securely in the hearth, Peter was unable to turn in the direction of the visitor.

  “Hi, there. I suppose you’re wondering—” Peter began.

  “Stehenbleiben! Nehmen Sie langsam die Haende hoch. Machen Sie keine ploetzliche Bewegung oder ich erschiesse Sie,” said a harsh female voice in an unrecognizable language.

  “Come again?” Peter asked as he tried to contort his neck to see who the voice belonged to.

  With effort, he was able to glimpse a woman wearing a military uniform of unfamiliar origin. All the insignia were completely unrecognizable. Startled at her appearance, he began to thrash his hand wildly inside the stone hearth in an effort to free himself. As he did, he heard a gun being cocked.

  Peter froze. He slowly twisted his head again to see the woman holding a machine gun pointed at his face. It was a German MP40, the weapon of choice for the Nazi army.

  The woman moved to Peter’s left, pressing the barrel into his cheek. “Was machen Sie hier? Das ist ein Sperrbereich der Deutschen Befreiungsfront,” she asked.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t speak German,” Peter said, guessing at the language after seeing her weapon.

  “Vhat ah you hea for?” she repeated in heavily-accented English.

  “I . . . I was looking for something . . .” Peter managed, as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

  “Show. Me. Yor. Hends,” she said very slowly, as if con
structing each word in her mind before speaking.

  Unable to release the roll of pennies, Peter began to work his hand free of the hole, not without trouble. He twisted his wrist a quarter turn and pulled again. His knuckles left bloody streaks around the hole as his hand finally broke free. As he began to raise his hands and face the woman, the room suddenly lurched, causing Peter to lose his balance. His head struck the edge of the hearth and darkness enveloped him.

  Blackness and pain abounding, Peter tried to focus. There was nothing.

  “Peter? Peter! Are you all right?” said a familiar voice. Then a soft shake of his shoulder. “Peter. You’re scaring me.”

  “I, uh, what . . . what’s going on?” Peter said. He tried to sit up but was held down by a firm hand.

  “Lie still. You hit your head.”

  “Jules?” Peter asked as he reached for his face. His hand found a cloth draped over his head. “I can’t see—”

  “It’s me. Don’t try to move. You were bleeding pretty bad when I found you. I found a rag in the back of the car to clean you up.”

  Peter held Julie’s hand while he pulled the rag from his face. Twilight had come and gone, and the room was almost as dark as it had been with the cover over his eyes. Almost. From somewhere outside, a light shone through the windowless openings around the room.

  “Wha . . . uh, what happened?” Peter stuttered.

  “I don’t know, Peter. You tell me. I followed you from the hotel,” she said.

  “You followed me?” Peter asked, lifting his head from Julie’s lap and turning to face her.

  “I did,” Julie shot back. “Ever since we’ve arrived, you’ve been deceitful. I know what you’re up to, and let me tell you, you can’t. Just don’t.”

  “What do you know? I . . . I’m here . . . because . . .” Peter said, trying to come up with a reason.

  “Peter. Stop. I figured it out. I just want to hear it from you.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said, feeling a little déjà vu.

  “I know you’re going to hide something just so you can retrieve it once we get home.”