“I know where Glen Cove is. Is that it?”
“That’s it. But-”
“Well, that’s our girl. That must be her. But wait, they’ve already had the funeral for the family. Jesus Christ. How long has the girl been out on the ocean?”
“There’s just a bit more to the story. And it’s the more that I can’t really figure out.”
“Jesus Jake, any more riddles and I’m gonna fire your ass.”
“The story I found was from 1965. The funeral for the Davenport family took place in 1965. Krully was found on August 8th, 1965.”
“What the hell are you talking about. You been drinking? Smoking some of that weed, Jake? Jesus.”
“No boss. Here’s the story. See for yourself.” I handed a copy of the story to my news director.
“Holy shit Jake, this is damn weird. So, two girls with the same name, fifty-something years apart lost at sea. Look up this Krully guy. See-”
“I already did.”
The house was on a short private drive on the shores of Tiana Bay in the town of Hampton Bays. It was easy to track down Krully, but I was surprised he was still alive. On my drive out from Manhattan, the news was abuzz with the story of Debbie Davenport. I was amazed that no other reporter had discovered the unexplainable anachronism. Yet.
After knocking on the door, a young, pretty, Hispanic women answered. “May I help you?”
“Is Tom Krully in?”
“He is. Can I ask who you are?”
“I’m a reporter from New York. Tell him I’d like to ask him about Deborah Davenport.”
I was not expecting her to come back, but after a few minutes during which I nervously bit my fingers nails, the door opened and I was invited in. “Mr. Krully is in a wheelchair. He hears and sees fine. He’s just not very mobile any longer.”
I walked into the family room, which was decorated with nautical décor: a captain’s wheel as a coffee table, a drawing of a lobster above a recliner, pictures of boats on all the walls, and on the mantle framed snapshots of a captain’s life. Captain Krully, with long legs and a thin torso, sat in a wheelchair, holding a beer. He appeared old yet far from frail. His full head of gray hair was tangled and messy, and his skin still a rich shade of light brown like that of someone who spent his days outside. The old boat captain greeted me with a pleasant smile. “I’m always happy to talk about the Davenports. Sad, sad thing. Horrible for those kids to lose their lives so young.”
“Yes, horrible, sir. Um, do you watch the news at all?”
“Not much anymore. Too much political crap for my taste. Occasional fishing show. Sometimes the Mets – I hate the Yankees.”
I pulled my laptop from its case, opened it, and pressed the power button. “I’d like you to see something. Are your eyes sharp enough to see this smaller screen?”
“My eyes are still damn good. I might not be able to spot a boat out on the open sea three miles away, but I don’t have any problems.” Krully was rather defensive about his eyesight as I imagined a crusty old sea captain might be.
After the machine powered up and I found the right news video, I clicked on it and placed it in front of Krully, holding it steady for the old man.
…and Debbie Davenport remains hospitalized, but we have received the good news that her condition has been upgraded from serious to stable. She’s one tough little girl and hopefully we can learn more about her ordeal in the coming days. This is…
When the video ended, Krully took his eyes off the screen and stared out a window at the laconic bay, glistening in the morning sunlight. “Ok, son, why are you here?”
“Well, sir, I found a Deborah Davenport, lost at sea. Never found. Except it was in 1965. You were the captain of that boat and the only known survivor. I didn’t have much to go on for the 2016 version of Debbie Davenport, only images of her on the boat that rescued her, but they seem to show a girl who looks quite similar to the Deborah Davenport who was lost at sea in 1965.”
“I don’t appreciate what you are trying to say. It was fifty years ago. I have no idea what the connection was. Two girls with the same name lost at sea – guess it sounds odd, but coincidences happen all the time, young man.”
“I’m just checking out this coincidence. Seems very odd to me. That’s why I’m here – to check out your story. To, um, I don’t know, find an explanation for this”
Krully took a swig of beer, placed the bottle on the table, and looked me straight in the eyes. “I would prefer that you leave now. I think I need my morning nap.” He turned his head and called for his caregiver. “Esmeralda. Please come in. Show this young man out.”
Though I had no idea what the connection was, I knew I’d be back. I left without resistance or remorse. A good news reporter practices patience and persistence when necessary – and it’s always necessary.
My first job as a reporter was investigating personal UFO accounts for a blog about strange phenomena around the world. It was funded by a billionaire who was passionate about conspiracy theories and alien visitations. Though the blog made barely enough ad revenue to cover basic overhead costs, I was still flown around the world for two years in search of the mysterious and unexplainable. The blog had a passionate and vocal following, and I admit, I did run into some bizarre and incomprehensible tales. But I longed to put my journalism degree to good use and I wanted a honorable and worthy reporting job. When one came from a television station in New York, I jumped at the chance to leave behind the mystifying and puzzling and to start reporting on real world events like murders, rapes, political corruption, and the occasional feel-good human interest story.
I was faced with a story that contained far more mysteries than some hillbilly UFO encounter or curious flying objects above the rural East European skies.
My news director, a minor local legend named Barney Brightman, debated whether to release the story about the 1965 mishap at sea and its unbelievable link to the recently discovered little girl. Ratings would have been huge, and God knows how much Brightman loved ratings. Still, he decided to hold off because after a day or two of those high ratings, he worried about becoming the laughingstock of the industry. “Dammit – we’re not the National Enquirer.” He bellowed.
We did put out a request on all our newscasts for any information about Debbie Davenport. That request brought in many individuals with oddball and thoroughly ridiculous stories about the little girl.
“For tonight, throw in the Bermuda Triangle for good measure. She was found in the Bermuda Triangle, right?” Brightman asked me the next day. “None of your wacky theories or nothing about any old archived news stories – we’ll keep that to ourselves for now. Viewers like that Bermuda Triangle shit.”
The story aired with the Bermuda Triangle slant and the next day more loonies visited our offices to offer their opinions about what they think had happened. Alien abductions, sea monsters, pirates, George W Bush, Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, Donald Trump, and the entire Congress were just some of the suggested villains. One guy said that Jesus had sent her to us to save the world. Of course, that guy had been in and out of mental hospitals for the past thirty years, but he did resemble Jesus just a little, so who knows.
Around five, just as I was preparing to leave the office and head to my favorite watering hole for a much-deserved craft beer, the receptionist stuck her head in my office door and said someone was there to see me – an old man who said he had something to tell me about the Davenport case.
“Send him in. I guess one more alien abduction or George Bush Illuminati story won’t ruin my thirst for an ice-cold beer.”
I thought it might have been Krully showing up to confess to something he couldn’t have possibly been involved with, but it wasn’t. This man wasn’t in a wheelchair, but he was frail and he walked with a cane. He appeared to be about the same age as Krully, and looked to be only a few exits away from death’s highway. He wore large wire-rimmed glasses, neatly pressed trousers pulled up nearly to his chest, and
a Hawaiian shirt.
“Have a seat sir.” I motioned toward the only extra chair in my office. The man groaned and creaked as he bent to sit, but he made it without any geriatric mishaps.
“Your name? I learned that question in journalism school.
“Edward Wells. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here. I hear you have some info on Debbie Davenport. Was it George Bush or Barack Obama who put her on a secret nuclear submarine? Are you Republican or Democrat?”
The man coughed, covering his mouth and bowing his head. “I’m not sure what you are talking about, kiddo. Not sure how my political affiliation matters.”
“Just joking. Sorry. I’ve heard a lot of stories today. None of them make any sense. So, what’s yours?”
“I don’t have a story. I saw your newscast and figured I should come in. I think I’m the only relative of Debbie Davenport.”
“You’re related to Debbie Davenport?” My curiosity radar was activated.
“Her uncle. Her mom’s brother – kind of a black sheep of the family so I wasn’t around on a consistent basis. I was a con man, what you might call a grifter. Guess I can say that now. Statute of limitations has surely run out. I’ve been an upstanding citizen for forty years now. When I was conducting my, um, business, I traveled all over the world. I showed up to see my niece and nephew here and there. She was cute as a button. Though I was a selfish bastard back then, I miss them two with all my heart.”
“You’re related to the father or mother?”
“Mother’s brother, as I said.” Looking at this old man it was hard to believe that he was the brother of any woman with young children. Didn’t make much sense, but in this age of medical miracles, maybe the age issue had an explanation.
“I’m sorry. Must have been quite a shock.”
“It was. But long over it now. Guess I still miss her. Been fifty years now.”
“Did you say fifty years?” I pushed forward and placed my elbows on my desk. “Fifty, as in FIVE OH?”
“I’m ninety years old now. Do I look like I’m any little girl’s uncle? I don’t understand it, and I’d have to see the girl to even begin to think it’s true. But, that Bermuda Triangle thing got me to thinking, and well, here I am.”
“Here you are.” I took my elbows off the desk and leaned back in my chair. “It’s got me to thinking too.”
Our news bureau put in a request to talk with the Davenport girl, but of course, we were denied. We contacted law enforcement and told them that Debbie Davenport’s uncle had contacted us. They were interested.
I talked with Edward Wells daily, and on August 15th, he was contacted by police and informed that the little girl was well enough to talk. She hadn’t said much, but when told her uncle was around, she smiled and begged to see him.
I got a call around 3:30 PM that same day from Edward Wells. “Pick me up and take me to the hospital.”
“You want me to go with you? Not sure the cops will allow that.”
“Hell with them. You’re my help. I need assistance getting around and I don’t hear all that well. I need assistance and I picked you to assist me. It’s my nurse’s day off. Besides, you’re the only one crazy enough to even think something weird is going on.”
We arrived at the hospital and after some negotiating with the police and hospital staff, we were led into her room. Lying in a hospital bed surrounded by stainless steel medical equipment and a few bouquets of brightly-colored flowers, was a blonde-haired girl with rosy cheeks. She was thin but her color was good and she well-nourished. The television was playing some recent animated Disney movie while nurses and physicians moved in and out of the room.
She looked up when she saw us, but there was no recognition in her eyes. Shit, I’m thinking. Did I just get fooled by some wild story, and what the hell does this old codger want?
“Little Deb? It’s Uncle Ed. You remember our little poem – little Deb, little Deb, where is your uncle, uncle Ed. Is he far, far away or under the bed? Nope – he’s come back home to see his little Deb.” He turned towards me and shrugged, “Not quite a rhyme, but it served its purpose at the time.” His gaze moved back to the little girl. “Remember when I used to wake you up in the morning after being away for so long?
She sat up with a wide smile stretched across her face. “And you brought me presents from all over the world.”
She put down the remote and opened her arms as her uncle bent to hug her. I held onto the old man’s arm to steady him as he grasped onto his niece. Tears were plentiful, and I rubbed my eyes to prevent the tears from rolling down my cheeks. My fake macho-guy exterior exposed once again.
“I can’t believe it’s you. Oh my God. It’s really you! I never, ever thought I would see you again.”
Uncle Ed, I-I don’t understand where I am. Nothing seems the same. I-I know everyone’s, um, gone.”
“I know little one. I know. I’m here, though.”
“B-but you don’t look like you. You look, ah, you look –“
“I look old.”
“What happened?” She started weeping and they held each other closer.
“I’m old little Deb. Very old.”
“I miss everyone. I don’t understand anything.”
“I know. Maybe I can explain it when you’re all better. Little one. I have to talk with my friend here for a moment. This is Jason.”
I waved. “Hello Debbie.”
She returned the gestured, but did not smile at me.
Edward continued. “I’ll be right back. Maybe these nice people can get you an ice cream or something. OK?”
We walked out into the hallway, looking for a chair away from the crowds. I motioned away any officer or doctor who wanted to talk, or any of the reporters who wanted an interview. “Give us a moment. Please.” When they were slow to retreat: “C’mon guys. Give an old man a break.” They grudgingly backed off and retreated to their places outside Debbie’s room.
“So Edward, what is it? Can you explain anything? Clear up anything?”
“Son, I have seen so many wonders around the world in my time.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I’ve experienced mysterious things, but I don’t know what to say. That is without a doubt my little niece. That is my beautiful sister’s little girl. That is basically what little Deb looked like in 1965. I saw her, um, maybe two months before they went on their trip. That’s her. Not much works on my body no longer, but my eyes aren’t too bad and mind is still sharp as a tack.”
“Holy shit. I chased UFOs all around the world for two years and this is ah, well, this is indescribable.”
“Well, son, this must be a reporter’s dream. Story of the century I suppose.”
“Do you think you could ask everyone to leave the room so your niece could talk to only you and me?”
“If that’s what you want, I’ll kick all those bastards outta there. You got a plan?”
“I got a thought. Not sure how much of a plan it is.”
After getting the doctors’ approval, I interviewed the little girl, and what she told me was unlike anything I had even heard. All those UFO stories and alien abductions might have been real – the laws of physics don’t preclude strange flying objects and aliens from landing on our planet and messing with stupid humans. But time travel, from the little science I know, tests the bounds of scientific reason and imagination.
I spent the remainder of the night on the Internet and in our office basement studying archived news articles. I also called a few contacts I had cultivated over the years. Even my two years as an UFO chaser had provided me with some interesting and resourceful contacts.
It took hours but I knew I had found several items that would turn out to quite helpful. I had to perform a few stealth operations the next morning to get away from the office without a million questions or someone following me. I picked up Edward Wells, who insisted, no demanded that he tag along, and drove out to the east end of Long island to pay another visit to crusty old
Captain Krully.
I was not a welcome sight at the Krully residence and Esmeralda told me that the Captain was sleeping, but reporters are persistent if nothing else, and when they realized I was going to camp out at the entrance to his driveway until I spoke with him, they eventually relented. I put on my obstinate reporter’s face and Edward wore his stubborn old geezer facade and it worked. We were shown into the family room, its nautical décor still inviting tales of those lost at sea.
Krully wheeled into the room. “Yer back. Can’t say I’m happy to see you. Who’s this old timer you brought with ya?”
“This is Edward Wells. Uncle of Deborah Davenport. I’ve also spoken with the little girl. She’s doing perfectly fine now, in case you wanted to know.”
The Captain’s left eyebrow raised on hearing the news, but he remained silent and rather sullen looking.
“You believe in time travel?”
“I’m a boat captain, not a scientist.”
“Fair enough. You’ve heard about the Bermuda Triangle and all the weird happenings there, I assume.”
“Who hasn’t? And the point of this is?”
“A boat from Montauk to Bermuda shouldn’t go through the Triangle. I had to look on a map, but that dreaded triangle is points south of Bermuda.” He offered no help so I continued. “But you were picked up south of Bermuda, as was the little girl a week or so ago. I don’t know why you were south of the island, but you were in that terrible Triangle. Any idea why?”
“We were looking for a prime fishing spot if I remember. Went south of the island and then we were planning to go to Hamilton. And then the weather-”
“I read the accounts, Krully.”
“I imagine you did.”
“Ever hear of Bruce Gernon? He gave a credible account of flying through a time warp – not necessarily time travel, but he did figure he had traveled about a hundred miles of space and thirty minutes of time in about three minutes. Quite a weird story. Besides the disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle, there have been other anecdotal cases of time loss, gain, or travel. Hard to separate fact from fiction, but some weird shit goes on in that notorious triangle.”
Altering the Apocalypse: and Other Short Stories About Humans and Time Travel Page 3