Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series

by McWilson, Randy

  She chuckled and waved her hand at him. “I’ll see you in the morning, Chief.”

  “Yes you will, Ms. Larson…yes, you will.”

  CHAPTER 50

  1:56 a.m.

  Howard Ross returned his watch to the interior pocket of his long, dark overcoat. With the minor exception of the occasional drunk stumbling away from a bar to his left, he appeared to be a lone, dark figure on the streets of Chicago.

  It was surprisingly quiet as he hovered near the payphone. The only sounds were the muffled, intermittent jukebox singles that drifted in and out of the nearby tavern door along with the winos.

  He found it odd that a city of such ethnic diversity and famous for cultural and civic corruption could sleep in such apparent harmony. Of course, he knew it was merely an illusion, a thin veneer.

  Like his overcoat, the darkness concealed layers upon layers of secrets. And tonight, just as many other nights stretching into the past, he was willing to pay a nameless, faceless voice to keep it that way.

  The payphone began ringing, like a siren call threatening to expose him in the night. Ross yanked it off the hook.

  “I'm glad to see you're dressed for the occasion,” the voice began. “It can be brisk this time of the year in the windy city, Howard.”

  For a powerful man who concealed many of his nation’s deepest secrets, Ross felt naked and exposed. He spun around, identifying every possible vantage point on his location.

  Where? Who?

  He clutched the receiver and growled. “You won't need a jacket where I'm gonna send you, you little sonofabitch, when, and I do mean, when, I find you!”

  “Whoa—harsh language there, Howard,” the caller taunted. “Even for a big shot CIA-man like yourself. Of course, harsh words are not your biggest problem, Howard. I would say that these compromising photos that I am holding are a much bigger problem.”

  There was a pause.

  “So, I would choose my words a bit more carefully.”

  Ross made some effort to contain his rage. “I think I've paid you enough over the last few years to use just about any kinda language I want!”

  He could hear the blackmailer smiling. “Paid enough? Well, well, Howard, that all depends on what these pictures are worth to you, I suppose.”

  Ross had played this game too many times before. “So, where's the drop?” he asked.

  Unfortunately, the caller at the other end of the line was obviously still enjoying the banter. “Is the address of Director Dulles still Washington 25, Howard?”

  “Where is the drop?” he demanded as an inebriated couple passed by him, singing the entire way.

  There was an infuriating pause. “She is very pretty. I’ll give you that, Howard. It’s a shame you didn’t look deeper than her face, though. You of all people should know that the truth is always buried somewhere below the surface story.”

  Ross wouldn’t be baited.

  “A big, important G-man like yourself, you should have known that she was just as red as her lipstick, Howard.”

  Ross relaxed his tone. “The drop?”

  “And just how do you get any rest these days…I mean, knowing that you were sleeping with the enemy?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Ross glanced around, fidgeting with the packet of money stuffed in his coat. “I’m still waiting,” he said.

  “Was she anyone’s whore or just your whore, Howard?” No response. “Either way—I’m sure she wasn’t paid nearly enough.”

  “The drop.”

  “Twenty feet from where you are standing—there is a storm drain on the edge of the street. Do you see it?”

  Howard turned about and spotted the tell-tale metal plate. “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Throw your money down the drain.”

  The phone went dead. Ross stared at the handset. “I couldn't have said it better myself.” He slammed it on the hook and walked away, glancing up and down the quiet and empty street.

  He stopped next to the storm drain and made a final check in all directions. Ross knelt, as if to tie his shoes, and surveyed the area yet again. He reached into his coat and tossed the thick bundle—and a good chunk of his self-respect—down into the hole.

  Ross drew out a cigarette and cupped his hands, lighting it. He made one last survey of the serene yet deceitful scene. He rushed over to his sedan, and moments later, was gone—another thirty days of fragile silence bought and paid for.

  The engine noise of Ross’ hurried getaway had just begun to fade when the door to the nearby bar opened once more.

  Neal Schaeffer stepped out of the lingering smoke and strolled toward the drain.

  CHAPTER 51

  The incessant knocking at his front door grew louder by the moment. Robert Sheppard roused from sleep, and leaned over, struggling to find and pull the lamp chain. The light popped on, blinding him momentarily as he squinted to read the clock. The knocking continued.

  2:41 a.m.

  He threw the covers back.

  Even more knocking.

  “Alright. Alright!” he growled as both feet hit the cool, hardwood floor and he stumbled through the darkness toward the living room. There was a final round of loud pounding just as he cracked the front door.

  “It’s me,” McCloud said. “We need to talk—now.”

  “Terrific,” Shep muttered as he unhooked the safety chain. McCloud pushed past him in a rush.

  “Let me guess,” a groggy Shep said, “they didn’t find Betty’s collection?” He yawned. “You know, you could’ve waited til tomorrow morning to give me an update.”

  The Chief turned around. “We have a situation.”

  Shep yawned again. “Yes, we have a situation. We always have a situation.” He strolled past McCloud to start a pot of coffee. “Our whole existence in this town, at this time is a situation, McCloud. What’s new?”

  The Chief hesitated. “Denver Collins got arrested tonight.”

  Shep stopped cold at the coffeepot. He paused for a moment then looked up at McCloud. “Ok…uh, arrested? Hmmm. By who? County, State—Bloomington?”

  “By me.”

  Shep stared back at the coffeepot. “Look, Chief, I really hope you’re having fun with this little late night joke, but—”

  “It’s no joke, Shep,” the Chief said. “I don’t know if you have ever met Ike Sanders, but he happened to see our boys inside the Journal. He stopped Denver and laid ‘em out cold with a crowbar.”

  Shep stared at the floor. “And Frazier?”

  “Frazier’s fine, he got out with the goods. Ike didn’t see his face.”

  “They found her collection?”

  “Yes. It was in the safe.”

  Shep kept his head down as he wandered back into the living room. “And, uh, what else happened?”

  “I had to call Betty in.”

  Shep snapped his head up. “You did what?”

  The Chief was resolute. “I called in Larson. Like they say, it’s important to keep your friends close, and your enemies way, way closer.”

  Shep stepped up to him. “Oh, and let me guess. She saw Denver, too?”

  The Chief nodded. “Of course! But it doesn’t matter—she would have seen ‘em the next day, anyway.”

  “Yes, yes it does matter!” Shep blurted out. He paced for a moment. “It could’ve bought us some time, time to figure out a better exit strategy, McCloud!”

  The Chief started to rebut him, but held his peace.

  Shep shook his head and put his fingers on his temples. “This absolutely can’t be happening! How could you let this happen?”

  McCloud didn’t budge.

  Shep snapped his head up and glared at McCloud. “Your mismanagement of this whole—crisis, is jeopardizing everything we have worked toward, McCloud!”

  The Chief fired back. “Whoa, I don’t remember you comin’ up with any great ideas to deal with this situation, Shep! You and I both know if we try to cover this thing up, it’ll blow up in our face!”

>   Shep lost control. “What in the devil’s hell is your problem, McCloud? It has already blown up in our faces!” He stormed off across the room, looking out the window. “And it continues to blow up in our faces!”

  Shep rubbed his chin. “The way I see it, there are two huge problems: the first is that walking disaster area known as Denver Collins.” He spun around, walking up to McCloud. “The second is just how blind you are to what truly needs to be done with him!”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Shep moved closer. “There is only one way to even begin to fix this mess. Denver Collins is a walking, talking liability! Can you imagine what would happen if this went to court, if, if he had to go before a judge? The Feds probably have his wallet, McCloud! He is way too hot. He needs to be removed from the equation. Permanently.”

  Shep started to turn away, but McCloud grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. “Forget it, Sheppard! You ain’t draggin’ me down that twisted road. You’re way outta line!”

  Shep shoved the Chief’s hands off of his shoulders. “Don’t lecture me about tough but necessary moral choices, Police Chief James McCloud!” He circled around him. “Because every single, accusing finger you raise up to point at me is already dripping with blood. No, forget dripping—no, no, it’s—gushing!” Shep looked up with feigned ignorance. “Or, my good friend, have you already forgotten?”

  “We did what had to be done. And remember, it wasn’t even my idea.”

  “No,” Shep said as he continued circling. “No, it wasn’t your idea, but you helped in the execution.”

  “We did what was best for the survival of the group!”

  Shep smiled. “And I’m only saying that, three years later, we just need to do it once again.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Sometimes it is far better to be completely wrong than anywhere close to being right.

  And tonight, for Betty Larson, it was one of those times.

  She had predicted that she wouldn’t be able to sleep, and when Betty rolled over at just past four a.m. to check the clock—she cursed her own fulfilled prophecy.

  At other times she would invoke the medicinal properties of a good novel to woo herself towards oblivion, but the breakin at the Journal, and the loss of her unusual collection mocked any known sleep remedies.

  Disgusted, she sat up and turned on the bedroom light. Betty envied that select group of blessed people who had hobbies and interests they could engage in to pass the hours at nearly any hour.

  For Betty Larson, work had always been her hobby, and her husband, and her home. It’s not like she hadn’t tried to diversify and multiply her interests. Betty had even made a few running starts at relationships over the years but with minor amounts of success and generous portions of disappointment.

  At first she always imagined that each implosion was all on them. But eventually, her journalistic knack for the truth fixed the blame much closer to home.

  The editor convinced herself that she had become a victim of her own profession. Betty dismissed her inability to get close to people as stemming from a reporter’s ultimate virtue: objectivity.

  She maintained that every journalist worth their salt knows that to get involved with a story is to potentially corrupt a story. In like manner, somewhat unconsciously, Betty imagined that getting involved with people brought similar—perhaps even inevitable—transgressions.

  But tonight, with her dizzying array of concerns, Betty needed a distraction. She needed something else as a focal point. The emotional consequence of the robbery, of having her private affairs ripped open and violated, was that Betty longed for those things that remained. It was time to be reoriented to that which is real, to that which is secure.

  She slid out of bed and knelt beside it, almost in an attitude of prayer. Her right hand slid beneath the white bed skirt, searching for something for a few moments. She latched hold and eased a ragged shoe box out into the open and laid it on the bed.

  Perhaps as a nervous reflex, she turned her head, scanning the room for any witnesses.

  She was alone of course.

  Betty lifted the cardboard lid and set it aside. She leaned forward and gazed into the humble container. She was relieved. Everything in her second stash was still there, including a Sony Walkman tape player, a well-worn Bee Gees Saturday Night Fever cassette tape, a ten-dollar bill minted in 1974, and a handful of color-faded photos.

  She dug around and fished out one of the Polaroids and pulled it close, studying the picture. It had a teenage girl in a red graduation gown clutching a diploma with a beaming, well-dressed man standing beside her. Betty’s eyes dropped down to the words along the bottom, handwritten in black ink: GRADUATION 1966.

  She looked up—ideas and explanations tormenting the tired reporter. She knew, she positively knew that something not normal was happening in Normal. She didn’t put much stock in intuition or premonition, but she felt that she was so close to an answer. Incidences and coincidences seemed to be converging of late—but to what end?

  It was maddening.

  Losing the cash would definitely hurt in the short term, but financial loss was not forefront in her mind at the moment.

  I can’t believe they took my safe!

  She rose off her knees and walked over to the sole bedroom window and gazed toward the scattered lights of town.

  They took my safe! What are the odds?

  She froze for a moment, paralyzed by her own question. The odds. Yes—what are the odds?

  She played with the catch on the window release.

  But who could’ve known what was in the safe? She continued to mess with the lock.

  Nobody knew. Well, nobody except for someone completely trustworthy.

  She stopped toying with the window and looked toward the middle of town. Betty had always been driven by curiosity, by questions, and some questions grew into obsessions. It was yet another curse of being a journalist. At that very moment she felt the odd thrill of a new obsession emerging, and there was nothing she could do to stop it, nor did she want to.

  She stared at her shoebox collection over on the bed. Is the robbery related to these items? But how? Why?

  She faced the window again, leaning against the sill, her heart pounding faster. Wait. Maybe, just maybe those aren’t the right questions, she thought.

  Forget the how and the why for just a moment, Betty.

  She stared into the night. Betty recollected watching Chief McCloud open the door of his squad car, as if in slow motion. She recalled, in brief flashes, the bruised face of a nameless man spread across the seat.

  The Mystery Man.

  Forget the how and the why, girl, she contemplated. Focus on the who. The who.

  She raced over to her dresser and grabbed a notebook and pen. There were so many points and possibilities, like dots on a page.

  It’s time to connect them.

  Journal entry number 743

  Friday, July 3, 1953

  There will be fireworks…and that has me concerned. When I was growing up in Pueblo, the excitement about the 4th of July was almost on par with Christmas morning. But I am not excited about this one.

  A few days ago I walked into the middle of a conversation in The Basement that I am confident that I was not supposed to hear. In fact, after a little investigation, my fears were confirmed. My worst fears actually.

  I have irrefutable evidence that some of our group are planning to break the Third Accord. They are making plans to exploit our technology and use it for purposes that could alter the future in unforeseeable ways.

  Terrible ways.

  I am going to privately confront them right after the holiday. We have come too far. We have all sacrificed so much, far too much to let something like this happen now. I have never had more hope and educated optimism about our future.

  It kills me to think that some would be willing to do this.

  CHAPTER 53

  It was the very essence of a contradictio
n.

  The late afternoon sun poured golden beams through his window, transforming the swirling dust into brilliant, dancing shafts that played across the floor.

  But he didn’t notice.

  In fact, he never noticed.

  It was difficult to even imagine him outside of the rusty wheelchair that was his pathetic throne. Its occupant was a shell of a man—whose hair, beard, and emotionless gaze made it impossible to accurately discern his age. He faced the incoming rays, apparently transfixed by the view, yet his cold form had probably not been truly warmed in years.

  The heavy, metal door that separated his lonely existence from a callous hallway opened in a short arc. A sensuous voice called out to him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson.”

  There was nary a change in his stupor to indicate his awareness of her presence or even of her voice. Nurse Beussink closed the door with both hands and walked up beside her newest patient. She attempted to gaze into his distant eyes. “Gordon?”

  Predictably, there was no response.

  She knelt beside him, caressing his bare right arm, and leaned in close. “Gordon. I want you to know...I believe you.”

  Then it happened, not all at once, but it happened.

  His head began moving—it was almost imperceptible at first—and he turned to face her, but tortuously slow, like a glacier.

  She was thrilled. “Yes...yes, you understand. Don't you?” His clouded eyes darted around to some degree and she took it as a good sign. Nurse Beussink slid her hand down into her side pocket and produced a syringe of dark, orange fluid.

  She focused her gaze on the tip and a small, glistening drop emerged. She smiled with satisfaction. Her eyes studied the door for a moment, and then she plunged the needle into his arm. As for the pain, his catatonic expression masked it well, if he even felt it at all.