From the Pen of Greg Norgaard, Book 1: Change the Past

by Greg Norgaard

  Chapter 5

  One drink often turns into multiple but the men kept it to just two. Always count your drinks. If you don’t, you’ll end up in the paper or the hospital or the jail.

  Tom pulled open his bag and revealed his yellow paper pad. He flipped through the pages. He knew what was missing; he was just reaffirming his personal predictions. Being empathic has its benefits.

  Sam said, “I was leery of those two.”

  Bass asked, “And what’s that?” He pointed.

  Tom answered, “My notes.”

  “And?”

  “Pages are missing. Five of them.”

  “Crap.”

  “That’s not all that’s missing,” said Tom. “A piece of essential equipment is gone.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Bass. “You think it was those two?”

  Tom took a look at his watch; slid out of the booth. “Yes, sir. It's called a Time Shift Circuit. They know that the piece is a worthless box without any information on how it works. The papers they’ve absconded with are fake, worthless.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Sam.

  Tom gathered his papers and dropped them into his satchel. “I’ve a stop to make.”

  “Oh?” said Bass.

  “I know where they are.” Tom glared. “Follow me.”

  The three men exited the bar with purpose.

  The walk into the dark street air was sobering to say the least. Tom had decided to lead the city’s two best detectives to a place that would allow only one possible outcome. Whatever happened, that call was going to be made in two hours and twenty-five minutes. Whatever was to be before that moment, would be. Que sera, sera.

  The difficult enterprise of staying awake, getting near to sober, and not getting lost, forced the time to spread. The sky was black, not a star was visible. Only the clouds stuck by to keep the men company. The town homes blended into each other like a bad wallpaper hang job. Tom monitored his watch and pushed forward. Eight blocks total; four south and three east and then up an alley. They balanced the inner edge of skid-row.

  Eventually the men stood in front of a five story apartment building, decayed and probably haunted. It was an unsound white brick structure with black paint graffiti swirling outward from around the door in wisps and waves. The graffiti framed the frame.

  Tom said, “101 West Sycamore Street.”

  Tom and Bass communicated with hand gestures and carried forth with a genuine understanding of what the other was thinking. Bass led the charge but abided by Tom’s hand motions. Bass walked; Tom and Sam followed. Sam had his gun in the ready.

  They scaled the building’s concrete steps. Bass didn’t ask how Tom knew the address; he just understood that he trusted the man. Step by step they moved.

  Tom said, “Sam, please take post out back.”

  Sam nodded and was off without a question.

  Bass consented to a slight smile, and pressed forward with a revolver in his hand. They managed the lock on the front door of the apartment building.

  They worked their way up to the second floor and were on their way to the third. Eternity was never so long.

  Tom whispered, “Have you appeased the pangs of your hunger?”

  Bass stopped. Quizzically he said, “And what made you ask that?”

  It was quiet again as they continued upward.

  Tom said, “I can hear your stomach.”

  Bass sighed.

  Tom followed up with, “But if you can ignore it, I can.”

  Bass cocked his head.

  Halfway between the second and third floor, Tom said, “Those drinks were thick.”

  Bass turned. “You gonna make it?”

  Tom said, “I can be light-hearted. I know the call gets made.”

  “I’m glad you’re confident.”

  Tom said, “Bass, it gets done. My worry is the call I make after. I know you clean up here. It’s the curse of knowing the future. In this universe you do what you need to do. It’s my universe that’s in doubt.”

  Bass acknowledged his friend with a slight nod and turned and continued up the wood-floorboards.

  At the large oak door of the third floor apartment of 101 West Sycamore Street, Tom and Bass stepped to the side and gingerly put their ears to the frame. A tall narrow window hanging over the staircase provided just a touch of light. It was strong enough for the men to see each other, but it was dim enough to allow them to notice a beam of cream-colored light exit out the bottom break of the door.

  As they listened, a ghastly howl vibrated through the mass of the building. It was a man-made sound. Then it was silent. Bass held his left ear to the frame as he faced Tom who had his right ear to the frame. There was a crackle from a static-filled speaker and some snapping intermixed with a clicking noise. A subdued wallop smacked and whacked on the other side of the door. There was a high pitched whistle.

  Tom said, “Okay, now I’m sober . . . and with that, I’m nervous.”

  Bass remained fixated on the sound. A woman began to talk. Her voice was eerily familiar to Tom. They held fast as she spoke in a quiet calm of incoherent words; she paused and began to count in a random order. She stopped, and after a minute of silence the speaker answered her. It was a child’s voice. A young girl’s voice coming from a radio speaker. She spoke matter-of-factly, relaying a sequence of numbers in an oddly repetitive and obscure manner. It sounded like a voice from the other side. The side from which the dead might reside.

  A high-pitched tone hummed for a few moments and then the recitation of numbers continued. There was a child’s song playing in the background of the transmission. The instrument sounded like a music-box being muffled by a pillow.

  Bass blurted in a whisper, “It’s a numbers station.”

  Tom nodded.

  The voice continued to count. It went on and interrupted itself with a random letter here and there and every so often it broke its cadence with a pause of complete silence.

  “You think they’re Russian?” asked Bass.

  “Probably . . . maybe.”

  “Okay, let’s move,” said Bass.

  “Wait, let’s let the message finish and then move. When we get inside, look for a wood box, about the size of a shoebox but square.”

  Bass acknowledged with a curt nod.

  The child’s voice finished and then a female voice answered. There was a faux accent encased in it.

  Tom finally recognized the voice. “It’s the barfly.”

  “What?”

  Tom said, “The barfly, Sally, and there will be those two men in there, too.”

  Bass cocked his .38.

  Tom said, “Guns blazing?”

  Bass grinned that charming smile that Emily inherited. “I think it’s best to be prepared.”

  Tom said, “Okay, it is going to be dark, and we have the element of surprise.”

  Bass pointed his sidearm up. “And?”

  The radio stopped blaring numbers. There was a click of the receiver. It was quiet but then a man spoke loudly, “Oh, goodness that’s you, good and drunk. As always!”

  A woman said, “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” Her fake accent was gone. Like it had never been.

  “I just know now that decorum is off the table for the evening, that’s all,” he said.

  “Lest you forget, I’m the one who got the notes to this damn contraption.”

  A well-handled voice drawled, “Hollow bitch.”

  “That ties it.”

  With the occupants distracted, Tom gestured to Bass.

  Bass had mass. His motion was slight but calculated. The door popped open to a dark room and three bodies that were back lit by the moonlight from a dining room bay window.

  One pale man in a pell-mell suit sat at a desk. Another plain-looking gentleman carried a confused state of despair on his mug and a .357 in his hand. He stood off to the side, next to one tight female, Sally, the barfly who had hit on Tom in the bar. All, apparently, were numbers-a
gents. Those men and women whose job it was to spy for their homeland. All designated with nefarious duties exchanging orders and information over the air via shortwave radio. And they all hovered, aghast.

  Both Tom and Bass stalled. Tom gave an indirect look out the corner of his eye to the small assortment of spies. Bass had his gun pointed at the center of the group, ready to go if anyone made a sharp move.

  It was quiet as everyone waited for someone to do something.

  Bass said, “We’re looking for someone to play ducks-and-drakes. Join us?”

  The woman answered, “A .357 round or buckshot, your choice. I’ve no druthers one way or the other.”

  The pale man caressed a shotgun resting on the desk by the radio. Next to the radio was the box; it was the Time Shift Circuit.

  Tom saw it but didn’t acknowledge it. He said, “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

  “Social niceties seem to have eluded her personality,” said Bass.

  “She has the propensity to antagonize,” the pale one said.

  Tom answered, “Really? Her dialogue gave me to understand that she was insane.”

  “I’ve got no bid here. I’d play nice but she can’t stand up straight,” said the plain one.

  “That’s not stopping her from delivering a message,” said Bass. “I could end all your worries here quick and in a hurry.” He swayed his .38 at Sally.

  Sally said, “You wouldn’t shoot a woman.” She began to move her arm in the direction of the table that housed the microphone and the radio.

  Bass tightened his grip around the handle of the pistol and said, “Baby . . . I’ve got no qualms about splattering you all over your friends.”

  She believed him. She gulped and said, “How’d you find us? Who was the stoolie?”

  “There wasn’t one,” said Tom.

  All parties mentally acknowledged that the others carried ordnance. And all weapons were easy to use.

  Bass whispered to Tom, “I don’t believe they’re going to develop a social conscience.”

  “Then it’s our job to convince them,” said Tom.

  “You’re outgunned,” said the pale one. “Put your weapon on the ground.”

  Bass and Tom looked at each other and came to the same conclusion.

  Bass un-cocked, lowered his gun to the floor and gave it a slight push with the toe of his wingtips. His true intentions were slightly mirrored in his contorted face. There was no way Bass and Tom weren’t going to get what they wanted. Outgunned meant only one thing; it’s just not going to be easy.

  There was a muffled clump as Sam attempted to open a window without making a sound, but the frame was caked with dust and broken paint chips. The plain one stared; the pale one lifted his shotgun. Sally? She ducked into a dark shadow.

  At the distraction, Bass stepped forward and to the side, extending his long reach. The blow hit the plain one on the side of the head, causing him to stumble to the side just as the .357 revolver discharged into the front door, splintering the wood and destroying the lowest hinge.

  At the desk, Tom grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and pushed it away from his body as it unloaded into the ceiling. Sam pushed in the window and worked his way through the tight space to squeeze his way into the fight. Sally reached for the Time Shift Circuit as Tom and Mr. Pale fell into her, dropping her straight down on her pulchritudinous ass. Tom managed to kick the man’s legs out from under him and he choked him out with his strong hands. Bass threw Mr. Plain against a wall. Mr. Plain’s head bounced off the brick. He fell sprawling, his hands clutching the lump.

  Sam managed to reach the desk as Sally once again attempted to seize the device and exit the violent scene. She held her hands above her head in fear that Sam’s finger might get itchy.

  She whispered, “My apologies.”

  Sam said nothing. He kept pointing his weapon her way.

  Tom’s palms were sweaty from the fight. He was sober now. The cracks in his knuckles had widened. He stood in the moonlight that shone across his frame. The moonlight caused the blood dripping off his relaxed hands to look black.

  Tom faced the wall as he spoke: “What do the Russians want with this device? You really think you can reverse engineer it?”

  Mr. Plain made a quick move to stand. Bass changed the man’s mind with a rabbit punch that sent him reeling. Mr. Plain straightened, reached to his neck, stumbled, dropped, slept.

  Sally laughed.

  Sam pushed her into a distressed red leather chair. Her laugh grew in intensity. She said, “The Russians? You think we’re the Russians? That’s rich. You’re reading too many pulp comics.”

  Tom’s head cocked; he walked and picked up his equipment. He inspected it and, satisfied, put it under his arm. It was intact and hopefully unaltered.

  Sally glared. “We’re just as American as you are.”

  Tom asked, “And why would the US government want this?”

  “Interest in the technology that has the strong possibility of sending a message back in time? Of course your government wants it. In order to be the first to have that knowledge. Call it national security.”

  “You ever hear of asking nicely?” said Bass.

  “That’s not our modus operandi. You should know all about that: you were in the Army.”

  Tom shook his head. “Not the least bit surprised.”

  Sam said, “Bass, I believe you just knocked out a G-man.”

  Detective Bass Taylor adjusted his tie and brushed his jacket down with the palms of his hands.

  He said, “Ooops.”

  “What do we put in the log?” inquired Sam.

  “Don’t care.”

  Bass Taylor pushed the awakening G-man to his back with a gentle shove of his foot. He then rousted him by the neckline of his shirt and coat, pulling him to a somewhat erect stance.

  Tom tossed Bass his revolver and walked to the door.

  Bass said, “You need any help?”

  Over his shoulder Tom said, “Just watch over our new friends for a while. Give me a couple hours and then you can cut them loose. If everything works out the way I want it to. This never happened.”