The Nick of Time

by Mike Parker

  “Thanks, Doc. I’d do it myself, but Emerson Michaels is not exactly one of my biggest fans.”

  “Ha, just wait til he finds out what you’ve really been doing in here with his beam. He’ll be all over your coattails before you can say Schrödinger's cat.”

  “You know that’s right,” Carl agreed with a cringe.

  With that, each man went about his assigned tasks, both of them realizing that it was going to be another long 24 hours waiting for the Phoenix’s next attempt at bringing their friends home. The real question however, the one neither one of them wanted to think about, was how many more attempts would they have to wait for until the actually saw Nick and Ainsley again?

  – 22 –

  This is Not the Lab

  “This is not the lab,” Nick said aloud in bewilderment. He was slightly disoriented from the teleportation, as was usually the case, but this trip had left him utterly confused. He distinctly remembered being in his Gettysburg hotel room. Someone had knocked on the door and woke him up. He had gone to open the door. It was Ainsley. Or was it? Perhaps he had just been dreaming. After all, not only did Ainsley have no means by which to get to 1863, she had no reason to do so.

  “Think Jones! C’mon!” he chided himself. “You can figure this out.” Of course, whether Ainsley’s visit had been real or imagined was not, the issue of chief concern here. The little BIRD should have taken him back to the lab in the present, but, clearly, this was not the lab. The burning question of the moment was: where was he? The much more concerning question was: why? But that question would have to sit on the back burner for a while.

  The time traveler took a minute to survey his surroundings and do his best to assess his new location. He was standing next to a five-foot-tall, wooden stockade fence. Nick slouched down and rested his back against the fence. In front of him was a small parking lot, so clearly he had advanced forward, back into the twentieth century. The vehicles in the parking lot looked to be of an older vintage than those he had seen during his Watergate mission, but not by much.

  Nick sat calmly behind the fence for a few minutes trying to clear his mind and process what was happening to him. It was a difficult task as there seemed to be a large number of people on the other side of the fence making quite the ruckus. He was about to peer through the fence slats when three loud bangs reverberated through the air. Nick heard screaming and stood to see people on the other side of the fence scurrying down the small, sloping hill and scrambling in every direction.

  “Oh no,” Nick gasped. “This is not good.”

  It only took a brief moment for him to recognized Dealey Plaza and JFK’s motorcade. Immediately realizing exactly where he was standing and how very not good it would be to hang around, the time traveler turned and sprinted across the parking lot. Once he had traveled a couple blocks, he slowed to a less conspicuous pace as he attempted to lose himself in the streets of Dallas. It was not until he passed by a department store with a large window near the sidewalk that he caught a glimpse of his reflection.

  “Oh, come on!” Nick exclaimed in exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  It had not occurred to him until that moment that he was still dressed in his Gettysburg suit. Not only that but all the money he had, aside from being counterfeit, was likely worthless in 1963. Without any other alternative coming to mind, the time traveler slipped into the department store, as inconspicuously as possible, and made his way to the menswear section. Thankfully, security cameras didn’t appear to be common in stores yet, which allowed him to take multiple pairs of pants and several shirts into the fitting room unnoticed.

  After trying on several outfits, Nick selected a pair of neatly pressed slacks and a plain collared shirt to wear. He put these items on under his 1860s attire and left the other items in the room. Fortunately, all of the staff in the store were fixated on the radio listening to reports of the president’s assassination and didn’t pay much attention to the man in the odd suit coming into their store and then leaving ten minutes later empty-handed. Two blocks down the street, Nick ducked into an alley and peeled off his historical wardrobe and returned to the street feeling much less like a sore thumb.

  As he wandered the streets of Dallas the time traveler tried to think of a way to get himself some cash. After about an hour of aimless wandering, he came across a large pawn shop. He didn’t think much of it at first, but after he had passed it by he had an epiphany: Stuffed under his arm was a vintage, mint condition, two-hundred-year-old suit. That had to be worth a lot of money to some collector, which meant he should be able to get at least a little cash out of a pawn dealer for it.

  Twenty minutes later Nick walked out of the pawn shop having managed to turn his Gettysburg suit and his few remaining greenbacks into five hundred bucks of cold, hard, and most importantly, spendable cash. He likely could have held out for more, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He now had enough to get some food and secure a place to spend the night. With basic needs covered it was time to turn his attention to more perplexing matters, namely, what on earth was going on!

  The light faded and Ainsley gazed around her new surroundings. She stood at the back of a large crowd of people standing in a grassy area between two streets. She was surprised that no one had noticed her arrival, but clearly everyone’s attention was on whatever parade or procession was coming down the road. The reporter was content to remain where she was and avoid notice.

  “Where are you, Nick?” she muttered to herself.

  Ainsley knew that her friend had to be nearby somewhere, but there were just so many people around it would be nearly impossible to pick him out of the crowd. It was like a life-sized game of Where’s Waldo? only Nick wasn’t wearing a red and white striped hat. No, but he was wearing mid-nineteenth clothes. At least she hoped the union soldier uniform Nick had left behind had been replaced by some kind of other clothing he had picked up. If so, it should help her spot him. If not, he should be even easier to pick out, she thought with a slight chuckle. And that’s when the realization hit her: she was wearing a mid-nineteenth century replica dress.

  While she was pondering how to find something less out of place to wear, three gunshots rang out. The people all around stood frozen for a split second and then began running off in all directions. As the people ran, Ainsley’s view of the street cleared and she could see the president’s motorcade surrounded by secret service men and attempting to pick up speed. As she watched the car move down the street she noticed someone pop up from behind a fence on the other side of the road.

  “Nick?” she said in surprise, both in shock and excitement.

  Before she could get his attention, Nick had ducked out of view again. The reporter did her best to make her way across the street and up to the fence line, but it was slow going. The chaos of the crowd and the remaining cars in the motorcade made progress incredibly slow. By the time Ainsley reached the top of the grassy knoll, her friend was no place to be seen.

  “Great, just great,” she puffed in exasperated tones. “What am I supposed to do now?

  Ainsley left Dealey Plaza and wandered the streets of Dallas trying to formulate a plan. On any other day, she would have garnered a huge amount of attention parading around in her bouffant gown, but, fortunately for her, everyone in town was focussed on something much more important today.

  After about 40 minutes of walking, the reporter found herself outside the Hotel Indigo. She made her way around back and slipped in through the rear entrance and slipped into the staff only area. Virtually everyone in the hotel was in the lobby or their rooms glued to the tv. It only took a few minutes to find an unsecured locker with clothes her size inside. The reporter quickly peeled off her dress and dawned a button up blouse and a pair of floral embellished denim pants. She felt bad about stealing some poor maid’s clothes, but she was in a huge bind and the clock was ticking.

  Ainsley snuck out of the staff room and exited the hotel. She made her way quickly down the
street attempting to avoid someone spotting her wearing their outfit. As she walked, the reporter did her utmost to generate a plan to track down her missing friend. She only had a limited amount of time, and Nick could be literally anywhere in the city of Dallas. Frustration mounted as she wished she had caught a glimpse of Nick leaving the parking lot at the plaza. At least that way she would have a direction to start looking in, but now she had nothing. Given that it had been almost two hours since she had seen Nick he could be anywhere within a five or six-mile radius, and that was a lot of ground to cover, especially if he continued to be on the move.

  “What happens if I can’t find him?” Ainsley had asked her brother before she had teleported to Gettysburg.

  “That depends,” Carl answered pondering the options. “When your 24 hours are up you can override and stay an extra day. However, the more time that passes, the harder it might become to track him down.”

  “Can’t I just come back to the lab and then return to Gettysburg again?” the reporter asked.

  “No,” the physicist explained. “teleporting you more than once to the same moment on the timeline would be too risky.”

  “What if he’s not in Gettysburg anymore?”

  “Pretty much the same principles apply,” her brother replied. “If you track him to the new location you can override after a day, but, again, the longer you’re there, the less chance you have of narrowing in on his position. And…”

  “And the better chance I have of screwing up the timeline by interacting with people,” Ainsley acknowledged.

  The reporter was so busy replaying the conversation in her head that she almost didn’t notice the worker dressing a mannequin in a pawn shop window. In fact, she initially walked past the store before it clicked in. Ainsley stopped dead in her tracks and rushed back into the store.

  “Where did you get that suit?” she urgently inquired.

  “Some guy brought it in earlier today,” the man in the shop answered. “He also traded in some hundred-year-old bills.”

  “Can I see those bills?” the reporter asked.

  “Sure, I guess,” the man said. Ainsley examined the bills carefully for a moment. “I haven’t had them officially authenticated but they look genuine to me.”

  “Thanks,” she said softly under her breath, feeling a sense of pride in her work.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Um, thanks for letting me look at these bills,” the time traveler smiled. “Did you happen to see which way the man who sold you these went when he left?”

  “I think he went up that way,” the guy replied without convincing certainty.

  “Thank you very much,” the reporter said and exited the shop and headed up the street in the direction the shop worker had indicated.

  “Okay,” she said to herself. “You’ve got yourself some cash and, presumably, some new clothes. What do you do next, Nick? Where do you go?”

  Ainsley knew that her friend must be wondering what on earth had happened. He knew nothing of the synchrotron overload or the time burst. All he knew is that he was supposed to return to the lab in Boston and instead ended up in 1963 Texas. What would she do in his shoes, she wondered. It was a difficult thing to fully predict, but her money was on finding something to eat and a place to lie low and figure out what was going on. The only question was where.

  – 23 –

  Not a Minute

  Too Soon

  Ainsley spent a few more hours in slightly less than aimless wandering through the streets of Dallas. Her only hope was that she might stumble across where Nick sitting down to collect his thoughts or grabbing a bite to eat. Eventually, time ran out on her and she realized she would need to find some food and lodging for herself before long. Thankfully her second-hand clothes came with a little bit of money in the pocket. It wasn’t much, but at least it was enough to grab a burger from McDonald's and secure a bed at a local youth hostel for the night.

  The next morning, the reporter woke up early. The sun was shining brightly through the window and there was a lot of commotion in the hostel with people preparing to get started with their day. Ainsley didn’t mind the early start since it gave her more time to search for Nick. She still had very little idea where to look, but that didn’t diminish her resolve to try. Since her pocket money was running low, breakfast that morning consisted of a granola bar and a bottle of orange juice she picked up at a convenience store.

  The task before her was seeming more and more impossible with each passing moment. Around 10 o’clock she began contemplating what she should do once noon hit and the Turtle Dove’s auto recall system was initiated. Of course, she could always hit the override button again, but unless there was some indication over the next two hours that finding Nick was gaining probability instead of losing it rapidly, she wasn’t sure what the point would be.

  “You’re just in time, Doc,” Carl greeted the professor as he walked into the lab.

  “Just in time for what?”

  “I’m going to record a message for Ainsley.”

  “Didn’t you do that yesterday?” the doctor asked in confusion.

  “Yes,” Carl replied, “But I just remembered something I totally forgot to tell her that could prove very helpful.”

  “I see.”

  “I thought I would put that information in the recording this time, instead of all that mushy ‘I love you, take care of yourself’ stuff in yesterday’s message, just in case she overrides again.”

  “Do you think she will?” Dr. Stevens asked.

  “It depends on whether or not she’s found Nick yet.”

  “Or still believes she might.”

  “Good point,” the physicist agreed.

  “Do you think the override and track functions worked properly?”

  “I guess we’re about to find out,” Carl replied. “Her recall point is in about five minutes.”

  “Better get recoding then.”

  “Very true.” The scientist pressed a series of keys on the computer and began his message for his sister. “Hey there, Ainsley. Hope you’re okay. I’m here in the lab with Doc.”

  “Hello, Ainsley,” the doctor cheered.

  “Anyway, I hope you’ve had some luck tracking down Nick. In truth, I hope you never hear this message, because that means you’ll both be back here safe and sound. But if you override again there is something I should have told you. Look at the Turtle Dove. See where the tracking button is. There are four tiny lights around that button. Up, down, left, right. Once you have followed Nick through one leap, the Turtle Dove will be able to track the Little Bird. If the top light flashes Nick’s ahead of you. If the bottom light flashes, he’s behind you. If the right light flashes, well, you get the idea. The faster a light flashes the closer you are to the Little Bird. Hope that helps you out a bit. See you soon, sis!”

  It was only a few minutes after Carl finished his recording that the moment of truth was upon them. The Phoenix powered up, but then, just as it had done 24 hours before, it powered down. The doctor opened the chamber door just to be sure, but they were both fairly certain of what they would see: nothing.

  Carl examined the computer screen again. “It looks like our message went through. Even more importantly it looks like Ainsley has sent another message back to us!”

  “Which means she’s okay?” the doc asked.

  “Well, at least she presumably was,” the physicist stated matter-of-factly.

  “What does it say?” the doctor inquired.

  “Hi, guys,” Ainsley’s voice softly rang over the speakers. “This is just to let you know that I still haven’t found Nick. I almost had him in Gettysburg, but then he teleported to 1963 Dallas. I tracked him but appeared too far away from his location, and I lost him. I’ve been trying to find his trail ever since, but without much luck. I may hit the override once more to buy me a little more time, but if I haven’t located him by this time tomorrow, I’m coming home.”

  “Where are we at with
the overload investigation?” Carl asked once the recording had finished.

  “Michaels wouldn’t really give me much information at all,” Dr. Stevens reported.

  “He must know you’re in cahoots with me,” the physicist said dryly.

  “Perhaps, but I spoke to one of the technicians and he told me that although they have not yet concluded exactly what caused the synchrotron to overload at that particular moment, they are 100 percent sure that it was no accident.”

  “Really?” Carl said sounding intrigued.

  “Yes, they are certain that somebody tampered with the machine. They just don’t know who or how for that matter.”

  “What do you mean? That whole area is under surveillance, isn’t it?” the scientist asked.

  “Apparently not all of it,” the doctor replied. “There are a few hidden corners here and there that the cameras don’t catch, and the area where the sabotage occurred is one of those corners.”

  “Ok, that’s unlikely but certainly possible I suppose,” Carl stated. “However, it seems entirely unlikely that anyone could get in and out of one of those hidden corners without passing through other areas covered by several cameras.”

  “Extremely unlikely,” Doctor Stevens affirmed. “Literally impossible in fact. That’s what’s got them so confused.”

  “Has someone tampered with the tapes?”

  “They’re looking into that,” the doctor explained, “But thus far, they’ve found no indication of such.”

  “I think we should get a hold of those tapes and take a look at them ourselves,” Carl declared. “Can you do it?”

  “I’ll check into it,” the doctor offered, “but it will have to be under the table because I’m sure Emerson Michaels isn’t going to hand them over to us!”

  Nick had been doing his best to lie low all day. Every television screen he passed had the sketch drawing of a man spotted on the grassy knoll at the time Kennedy was shot. The sketch was based on one woman’s description and looked eerily like the time traveler. However, it was not just the risk of being picked up by the polices or being pummeled by a mob of people enraged over JFK’s death that kept him from going far, rather it was the ever more disturbing fact that he didn’t know where to go or what to do.