by Greg Ahlgren
“Lewis, how is this any of our business?” Paul asked, agitated.
“She lied, Paul. There’s no kid in Braintree. The divorce decree says that they were married just over four years. No children.”
“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Paul argued. “How do you know the paperwork’s not wrong?”
“She was married to a guy named Gunther, William Gunther. My source checked him out. He was in real estate in Chapel Hill. Still is. There’s no William or Bill Gunther in Braintree. And after her divorce she went back to Leipzig again. Voluntarily.”
“Oh for Christ sakes, Lewis, you think all women lie. You don’t believe stories about freaking tires. There are a hundred possibilities. Maybe your friend is wrong. Maybe the records are wrong. Maybe the squishers are screwing with us. Did you ever think of that? How do you know they didn’t doctor up her file to make us suspect her? Why would she make up a story about a kid in Braintree? Vodkaville would have come up with a better one than that, and then planted documentation.”
Paul stood and began pacing. “Look, if Amanda wanted to screw us up, if she were Agency, heck if she and our Natasha friend and that Russkie dude were all best buddies, all she had to do was have a hit man take us out!”
Paul made a gun with his hand and thumb and pointed it at Ginter. “Pow. Pow. Pow. All over. Why screw around with putting us one year too late? That’s not Vodkaville’s style. You know that as well as anyone.”
Ginter tossed the folded paper aside and threw himself back on the bed.
“Maybe you’re right. But Eckleburg sending that Rhodes girl makes no sense. She knows nada about bomb making. Eckleburg should have known better.”
“Or Maddox?”
Ginter shrugged. “Either way, Eckleburg should have seen through it. Even if Maddox is dirty.”
“So, you got any ideas?” deVere asked.
Ginter sat back up, reopened the paper, and smiled.
“I’ve got one.” He pointed to an advertisement. “Moreau’s hardware, they should have automobile tools.”
“Huh?”
Ginter flipped to another page.
“I wonder how far it is to 1569 Elm Street? Resnik Motors.”
“Motors?” Paul asked. “What are you talking about?”
Ginter pointed to another ad. “A used 1961 Corvette for $2,995.00. And I’ve got the cash and a New York State’s driver’s license.”
DeVere snatched the paper from his friend and stared at it.
“What are you going to do with a used Corvette?”
Ginter smirked. “First off, find a place to get these copied so we can all have a set,” he said, indicating the itinerary.
“And second,” he added, “buy a gun.”
Chapter 16
Lewis Ginter turned on to the Amoskeag Bridge and guided the 1961 Corvette east across the iron cage structure that spanned the Merrimack River at Manchester’s northern edge. To his right stretched the city. Even though it was now mid-afternoon the temperature had only reached the upper seventies. The convertible’s top was down and beside him Pamela Rhodes reclined in the passenger seat, eyes closed, soaking in the sun.
Lewis felt a bit absurd in the white shirt, chinos, and dress shoes he had just purchased. His jeans, underwear, sport shirt, socks, and Reeboks–all he had come through the wormhole with-were safely stored in the Floyd’s bag stuffed inside a locker at the bus station located off the Carpenter’s lobby. Only what had come through the wormhole could return, and Lewis had no intention of appearing naked back at the lab.
He incessantly replayed the events of the last six hours. He was amazed at how normal everything seemed. He pressed his fingers tight on the steering wheel and concentrated on the sensation. Back in Cambridge he had often wondered what it would be like, what he would feel.
Ginter shifted into third gear. When he removed his left leg from the clutch he stretched it to the side until he felt the muscle in his lower back begin to pull.
“Damn Soviet artillery,” he muttered. “I’ve got an injury from a war that hasn’t been fought yet. If I can go back in time why doesn’t my back regenerate, too?” Then he realized that if his body regenerated, he would have come through the wormhole as a single cell, or even less, in 1963.
He was left with a sense of awe. When he had contemplated the possibilities in Cambridge he had thought that the experience might possess a movie-set-like quality. DeVere had mused that if the Accelechron propelled one through the wormhole, it was impossible to know what the experience would be.
At the eastern end of the bridge Lewis slowed and turned right under a blinking traffic light. He headed down Canal Street toward the Carpenter Hotel. The array of oncoming fifties, and early sixties models on the narrow road confirmed the reality. Along his right ran a double set of railroad tracks. Beyond, a canal formed a mile long border to the labyrinth of canals, train tracks, and mill buildings that stretched down to the river.
“A mill town,” Paul had recalled in his eleventh floor room at The Carpenter just hours earlier. According to Amanda, he remembered rightly. In its heyday, the Amoskeag Corporation had been the largest textile company in the world employing, at one point, over 17,000 workers. The corporation had run the town and to Lewis’ left stood the remnants of the company housing where the Amoskeag had been able to recover in rents much of the measly wages it paid its immigrant workers.
It had always been the story of the South, with its plantations and slavery, that revulsed Lewis, but the North too had its story.
The Corvette was humming perfectly, and Lewis slammed it into second to slow, waited for a 1958 Dodge to pass, and then swung left and accelerated up Middle Street toward the Carpenter. After his quick trip with Paul to Easler’s and Floyd’s clothing stores, he had talked Pamela into accompanying him on a walk to Resnik Motors. He had carefully examined the Corvette in front of a suspicious sales clerk before paying the $2,995.00 in cash. He was surprised that no title was involved. From there they drove to a place called Riley’s Gun Shop in Hooksett, and then made the short drive to Concord to register the car.
As he approached the stop sign opposite the porticoed entrance to the Carpenter he slammed on his brakes and jerked the ‘Vette hard into a parking space. Pamela roused and sat up.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, brushing back her bangs.
“Cops,” Lewis said.
Across the street three Manchester police officers stood outside the main entrance, talking to the desk clerk. Two cruisers sat parked across the street. A fifth man, heavyset, turned and ducked into the building with one of the officers.
Without taking his eyes off the group Ginter asked, “What does Collinson look like?”
“Huh? You mean Ralph?” Pamela pursed her lips. “Older guy. Mid-fifties. White hair, balding. Very pale. Looks like everyone’s favorite uncle.”
“Heavy?” Ginter asked. Across the street the desk clerk remained huddled with the two officers.
“No, pretty thin. Why?”
“A guy just went into the building with one of the cops,“ Ginter said. “It wasn’t Pomeroy. I thought it might be Collinson. But he was heavy, and much younger.”
Lewis squinted at the group. “Look at the cop on the right,” he instructed. “Does he look familiar?”
Pamela raised her right hand and shielded her eyes. She studied the group and shrugged. “It’s not like I’d know anyone back here,” she answered.
“This morning, in the park, the two cops, wasn’t that one of them?” Ginter asked.
Pamela turned back to the group. The officer glanced up and looked directly at Ginter. He turned and said something to the other two men before crossing the street to one of the cruisers.
“It’s him,” Ginter muttered, and slammed the Corvette into first. He pulled out of the parking space and rolled up to the intersection. He turned right and threaded the sports car between the group and the cruisers without looking to either side. The desk clerk looked up and said
something to the officer. At the corner Ginter turned left toward the city’s main thoroughfare, checking his mirror as he did so. A black Studebaker station wagon came up behind him. Behind it, the cruiser pulled out and turned up after him.
“Shit!” Ginter muttered.
Pamela turned and looked back.
“What are were going to do?” she asked, turning front again.
Ginter pondered. “We’ll circle around and try to get back into the hotel to check it out.”
The traffic light turned red and Ginter stopped the Corvette at Elm Street. He nonchalantly glanced back in his mirror again but the Studebaker blocked his view.
“See any ‘No Turn On Red’ sign?” Ginter asked.
Pamela shook her head.
“It’s O.K.,” she said.
Ginter looked to his left. Nothing was coming and Ginter turned right.
“We’ll circle back and park and approach the hotel on foot. We’ll go in the side entrance and up the stairs to their rooms,” he said.
Behind him the police cruiser whipped out around the Studebaker, turned right on Elm Street, and activated its red bubble light.
“He’s after us!” Pamela exclaimed. She turned to Lewis, her face pale. “I don’t have any identification on me.”
Lewis grimaced and checked the mirror again. The cruiser had closed to 100 feet.
“Buckle up,” he commanded.
Pamela reached back with both hands.
“There are none,” she said.
“Then hang on.”
Pamela grabbed the dashboard with her right hand and the edge of her seat with her left as Lewis turned the Corvette sharply to the right down Pleasant Street.
He accelerated down the steep hill only braking when he saw the road ending at Canal Street. Across the way were the railroad tracks and beyond, the array of mill buildings. Ginter shoved the ‘Vette into second and released the clutch. The car slowed and he turned left. Pamela twisted in her seat and stared back at the cruiser whose piercing siren could now be heard.
“The highway,” she called out to Ginter. “Get to the highway. You can outrun him there, like you did in Cambridge. You gotta’ go the other way.”
Ginter cranked the wheel hard right at the next intersection and the car jounced over triple railroad tracks and into the mill yard.
The cruiser slowed to take the same turn. Ginter turned the ‘Vette again, this time hard left, and accelerated along a cobblestone road between the train tracks and more brick housing.
“No highway,” he answered. “He’ll radio the State Police and they’ll put up a road block. We’ve gotta’ lose him in town. He can’t follow us in tight turns.”
Ginter twisted the wheel hard right and the car bumped down another cobblestone road between more brick housing. Laundry hung from porches. Ginter glanced back as the cruiser picked its way across the tracks before disappearing from view.
At the bottom of the hill the lower canal stretched before them and Ginter swung left. Directly ahead lay a main thoroughfare with heavy traffic. Beyond that to the left was a small railroad station.
“Shit!” Ginter said as he braked just before a sign that read, “Granite Street.” He nosed out into traffic and turned right as an approaching delivery driver slammed on his brakes and leaned on his horn. Ginter crossed over a small bridge above the lower canal before again swinging right onto Commercial Street and back into the mill yard.
“Watch for the cop,” he ordered and shoved the car up into third gear as he accelerated between two mill buildings. To his right was a low red brick building that blocked the view of the Corvette from the other side of the lower canal.
After several seconds Pamela said, “He turned with us.” The return of the siren’s wail confirmed her observation.
“Fuck!” Ginter exclaimed. “I thought he’d keep going across the river.”
“You weren’t far enough ahead. When he didn’t see you...” Pamela’s voice trailed off.
“I can fix that,” Ginter snarled as he popped the ‘Vette into fourth and raced up to sixty. The chassis vibrated violently over the cobblestones. Pamela turned forward and grabbed the dashboard with both hands.
Commercial Street was narrow with mill buildings close on both sides and Ginter wove the Corvette between parked vehicles and along a railroad spur that ran up the middle of the road. Startled workers quickly moved aside.
“Three more turns,” he chattered as the ‘Vette bounced over the cobblestones, “and that guy will be toast.” Behind them the siren began to fade.
They raced past a large horseshoe shaped building on the left with a “Habitant Soup” sign at the near end and a “Waumbec Mills” sign at the other. When the low building on their right ended Ginter jerked the ‘Vette hard right. The rear of the sports car slid out but Ginter cut the wheel back and the car skimmed past the building’s wall. He accelerated under an overhead walkway and across a steel bridge over the lower canal. Straight ahead loomed another main roadway. To their left lay the Amoskeag Bridge and the highway entrance. Behind them the siren grew fainter.
“Go for the highway!” Pamela yelled. “Left, left!”
At the far edge of the canal Ginter passed one more set of mill buildings and then swung hard right down Bedford Street.
This road was narrower and filled with trucks backed into a line of loading docks. Ginter braked to a crawl and picked his way around the vehicles. Curious faces stared down at the pair.
To their right was a five-story building while another lower building lay on their left. As Ginter cut around a 12-foot box truck he slammed on his brakes. Straight ahead the road ended at a wasteway that connected the two canals. A narrow train trestle spanned the wasteway, but sitting on the trestle was a locomotive which had backed three freight cars into the yard. Workers from Mill 3 on Ginter’s right were loading boxes into the second car.
“Shit!” Ginter exclaimed.
They both swiveled at the same time. The cruiser was not yet in view.
“Did the cop turn?” Pamela asked.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Ginter said. He shut off the ‘Vette and yanked the key from the ignition. He and Pamela flung open their doors. At the rear of the car he grabbed her hand.
“Let’s go!” he commanded, and together they ran back along the cobblestoned road. The siren grew louder. Several workers paused and stared in the direction of the approaching wail.
“The door!” Ginter shouted and pulled a stumbling Pamela toward a section of the low building that protruded into the roadway. They raced up five steps and Ginter tugged open an iron door as the cruiser hove into view. He pulled Pamela inside and yanked the door shut behind them. He looked desperately for a latch or lock. There was nothing.
They were in a stairway. One door led into the building while a set of iron stairs rose to a landing. On each of the metal risers the name “Amoskeag” was stamped. Ginter grabbed Pamela’s hand again and led her toward the stairway.
“Where’re we going?” she protested.
“Up!” was all he said.
Ginter passed the second floor without pausing. On the third he stopped and let go of Pamela’s hand. She was panting heavily. He could no longer hear the siren.
“Did he leave?” Pamela rasped.
Ginter shook his head. “He shut it off. Come on,” he said, and pulled open a tall wooden door. Together they walked on to an open floor piled high with crates and boxes arranged in neat rows.
“Storage,” he announced.
It was stifling. The high windows were all closed. The temperature was close to 100.