Middle Falls Time Travel Series, Books 4-6 (Middle Falls Time Travel Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Shawn Inmon

  When did we start using debit cards for everything? Not until at least the 90s, right? I’ve gotta get used to carrying cash around, I guess.

  Joe rode the old-fashioned elevator down to the lobby and stepped outside. He was immediately pelted with cold rain.

  And, I need to find an umbrella somewhere.

  First, he found a cozy diner on the corner and ordered steak and eggs. While he waited for his food, he spread out a map of the city he had gotten through the mail before he left. He had drawn an “X” where the Empire was, and he situated the map on the table so it ran north and south. He traced a finger along the map, tracing the route to The Dakota.

  Joe turned left out of the coffee shop and walked through the misting rain, collar pulled up. He passed a store that had men’s suits and hats in the display window. In one corner of the window was a black umbrella stand, with half a dozen different umbrellas sticking out of it.

  “Bingo,” Joe said to himself, and ducked inside, shaking the water off him as he did.

  The inside of the store was sedate, separate from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. Classical music played quietly and a well turned-out man who quickly approached Joe. “May I help you?”

  I’d like to ask if you have any Grey Poupon, but I don’t think that would tickle your funny bone.

  “Just looking for an umbrella. Can you show me what you have?”

  The man looked at Joe’s work shoes, Levi’s, flannel shirt and leather jacket dubiously, but said, “Right this way.” He led Joe to a long bar that had different kinds of umbrellas hanging on them. “What style are you looking for?”

  “The style that keeps me dry,” Joe said. The man didn’t flinch, crack a smile, or move. “Can I see that one?” Joe asked, pointing to a plain black one.

  “Certainly. We prefer you not open it in the store.”

  “I understand. I just want to see how much it—oh my God! Does this price tag say $110?”

  “Yes, sir. That model’s on closeout, so it’s marked down.”

  “I think I am in the wrong store,” Joe said, handing the umbrella back as though it had turned into a snake.

  “Yes, sir. I think the bumbershoot you are looking for may be a block down, in the drug store. You can’t miss it.”

  Joe fled. He did find the drug store he was looking for, and it did indeed have exactly the kind of umbrella he wanted, priced at $7.99.

  Still a little more than I wanted to spend, but I don’t want to drown.

  Outside, on the sidewalk that ran alongside Central Park West, he opened the umbrella, turned left once again and counted the streets as he worked his way toward West 72nd St.

  When he was still a block away, he recognized The Dakota. Even in a city filled with spectacular buildings, the Dakota stood out. It’s fantastically peaked gables and profusion of dormers gave it an odd, gothic vibe in the midst of a very modern city.

  Joe approached in quiet awe. After reading about it and seeing pictures of it for decades in his previous life, it felt like he had stepped into the pages of a picture book. He moved along to the main entrance, where a small crowd of thirty or so people milled about. There were small knots of people talking and laughing, a few couples leaning in close, and a handful of individuals.

  Nothing in particular seemed to be happening. Everyone was milling around, waiting. Joe saw a man in a uniform standing to the left of the main entrance, where the large vestibule led to the inner sanctum of The Dakota Apartments. It wasn’t the uniform of a police officer, but that of a doorman.

  Joe walked up to the man and stood next to him, waiting for him to turn his attention. He didn’t.

  After a full minute of being ignored, Joe said, “Excuse me?”

  The doorman didn’t move his eyes from the street in front of him. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “Yeah?”

  “Why are all these people standing here? Is something about to happen?”

  The man finally turned and looked at Joe. He took in his very non-New York appearance, then landed on the birthmark. His eyes softened. “Lotsa famous people live here, kid. These crowds are here every day, rain or shine, hoping to see somebody famous. Maybe grab an autograph.”

  “And it’s okay for them to just stand here like this? It’s not dangerous?”

  The doorman returned his eyes front. “It’s a free country, kid. You can join ‘em, if you’d like.”

  Joe wandered along, trying to get a feel for who was here. Most of the people were young. A little older than Joe looked, maybe, but still young. They all seemed to be laughing and enjoying themselves, in spite of the weather. It was like a party, but a party where a celebrity might drop in, unannounced, at any moment.

  Joe heard a small commotion behind him and turned to see what caused it. The crowd, which had been spread along the sidewalk on both sides of the vestibule, tightened. A man and woman in dark glasses emerged, covered by an umbrella that looked like it may have come from the store Joe couldn’t afford to shop in.

  Almost instantly, the crowd gauged them for who they were—someone wealthy, someone who lived at the Dakota, but no one famous. The crowd once again loosened and spread out.

  When it did, Joe saw him. He was staking out a spot, just inside the arched public entrance. He was average height and pudgy, with a double chin. His eyes were covered in oversized, brown sunglasses. He clutched a copy of a record album in his right hand. Joe took a few steps closer to him and he could see that it was Double Fantasy, the new John Lennon/Yoko Ono album that had just been released. The man wore a long dark pea coat and black watch cap against the December temperatures. He had a completely blank expression, as though someone had run a vacuum cleaner across his face and sucked off any emotion.

  It was a forgettable face in every way, except one. Joe had seen that face so many times, it was burned into his memory forever.

  This was the man who was lying in wait to kill John Lennon.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Instinctively, Joe took another quick step toward the man, but stopped himself and just watched him. The man was leaning back against the inside of the vestibule, one foot braced against the stone. The collar of his coat was pulled up high and he seemed to be trying to disappear down into it.

  Come on, come on! Don’t come all this way, then lose your cool. This is a Sunday. It’s only December 7th. He must be doing just what I’m doing, staking the place out, getting the lay of the land. He’s not going to do anything until tomorrow. Assuming, of course, that things play out exactly the same as they did in my first life. Things close to me change and evolve, but something so far away and unrelated to me, I think will be the same.

  Joe glanced around. Everyone else was continuing to chatter and have a festive time. Joe’s stomach felt like it was in his shoes.

  Casually, Joe moved toward the vestibule entrance and walked to the side opposite the man in the pea coat. Joe acted as relaxed as he could. He glanced in toward the main doors, then up, then back out at the street. He tried to avoid looking at the man across from him. After a few minutes, he did glance over and was met with an unsettling sight.

  The man was staring at Joe with a laser focus. His eyes were searching Joe, taking in the way he dressed, the backpack he carried, his birthmark, everything. Joe felt like he was being catalogued for later reference.

  It was difficult, but Joe gave what he hoped was a friendly nod of his head. The other man did not look away. He stared at Joe in a way that would make an exhibitionist uncomfortable. Finally, the man spoke across the vestibule.

  “You a Beatles fan?”

  The voice chilled Joe. Softer than he had expected, a Southern accent that wasn’t pronounced, but still noticeable.

  “Of course,” Joe said. “Isn’t everyone?”

  The man shook his head. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Greatest band ever, but some people don’t recognize that.”

  “How’s the new album?” Joe asked, nodding at Double Fantasy. />
  “Don’t know. Just bought it. I want to get John to autograph it, then I’ll put this one up in a frame and buy another one to listen to.”

  Joe nodded. How in the hell did I end up in a conversation with this guy? Joe looked at the large pocket of the coat. Wonder if he’s got the gun in there right now. Of course he does.

  “What’s your favorite Beatles album?”

  “For me, it’s always Abbey Road. Those harmonies, the inventiveness.” Joe caught himself and shut up. I’m not going to have a music-fan conversation with John Lennon’s killer.

  “I like Meet the Beatles. I didn’t always love some of that later stuff.”

  Joe simply nodded and turned to move out of the vestibule. I gotta get away from this guy. He is weirding me out.

  “Hey, where are you going? I’ve been here since yesterday, waiting for John to come out. I know all the doormen, but they won’t ever tell me when he’s coming. It gets kind of lonely, waiting by myself.”

  That’s it then, killer? If you’d had a friend, you wouldn’t have drawn a gun and snuffed out one of the brightest creative minds of the century? Whatever.

  “I’m from Hawaii. I came here once before and waited. That’s when I got to know all the doormen. I never got to see him that time, so I had to fly home, but now I’m back.”

  Joe continued to edge toward the entrance.

  “Hey, where you going?”

  Joe looked over his shoulder and said, “Gotta run. See ya,” then hustled away. He could hear the man’s voice, soft, yet insistent, calling after him.

  Joe crossed Central Park West and into Central Park proper. He just wanted to get away. He walked into the park and to the area that he thought was the area that had been called Strawberry Fields in his first life. It was impossible for him to tell, of course, because there was nothing like that in this life, and he had only seen pictures of it many years before.

  Strawberry Fields will be here again, if I don’t find a way to stop that guy. I’m sure it was a beautiful memorial, but it should be built when John passes away from natural causes.

  “That guy’s a bit much, isn’t he?”

  Joe was startled out of his reverie and realized that the question was addressed to him. He turned and saw a man in his late-twenties or early-thirties looking at him. He had longish, straight black hair that ran over his collar and onto his shoulders. He had a droopy black moustache and was wearing a green canvas army jacket. The name stamped over the left pocket was “Mckenzie.”

  “Sorry?” Joe said, not certain who he was, or why the man was talking to him.

  “That dude back there that wanted to be your new best buddy. He’s a little too intense. He did the same thing to me a couple of hours ago. He makes me nervous.”

  Joe raised his chin—a gesture of agreement. Hard to argue with that, but who are you? My mama told me not to speak to strangers, especially in the big city.

  “Anyway, didn’t mean to disturb you,” the man said. “Just wanted to let you know I noticed it too. There’s something off about that guy.”

  More than you know.

  “I appreciate it,” Joe said. On impulse, he reached his right hand out. “Joe. Joe Hart.”

  The man shook his hand. “Scott Mckenzie.”

  “Wait a minute,” Joe said. “Scott ... Mckenzie?”

  Mckenzie laughed a little and nodded. “Yep. Just like the guy that sang the ‘put flowers in your hair’ song in the sixties. You can bet your ass my buddies gave me some shit about that.”

  “I’ll bet,” Joe said. “Probably doesn’t happen so much anymore, does it? He hasn’t had a hit in a long time.”

  “That’s one of those songs that seems to stick in people’s minds, though, for some reason. Woulda been a lot cooler if my name was Jim Morrison or something.”

  “Good point.” Joe looked Mckenzie up and down. He was thin, but more wiry than underfed. Up close and talking to him, he revised his estimate on his age. Probably mid-thirties. Maybe even a few years older. “Well, nice talking with ya. See ya around.”

  “See ya around, buddy,” Scott said and headed off in a different direction.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  December 8th dawned clear and warmer than it had been. Joe clicked on the television in his room and the local weatherman was predicting only scattered clouds and a high in the upper-fifties.

  That’ll be better. If I’m going to spend all day hanging around the Dakota, it will be nice not to freeze while I’m doing it.

  Joe had lain in the narrow bed for almost eight hours, but had barely slept. He’d had crazy dreams during those few catnaps he did catch, including one where the man with the gun had turned the gun on Joe first, then shot John Lennon while Joe lay dying.

  Sitting in his house in Middle Falls, the whole exercise in stopping the killer had been academic. Now that he had seen the place where the murder had taken place, even met the man with the gun, it felt all-too real. Even at this late date, he still had no real, concrete plan as to how he would stop it. He didn’t have a weapon of any kind, and he didn’t want to buy one. Using violence to stop an act of violence against one of the strongest proponents of peace felt jarring and wrong.

  That left him only two weapons—his knowledge that the attack was coming, and his wits.

  Joe returned to the same coffee shop he had eaten in the day before and once again ordered steak and eggs. He played the whole situation over and over in his mind. He walked the same route he had the day before. As he passed the men’s store with the fancy umbrellas, the fussy clerk was adjusting the tie on the mannequin in the window. Joe saluted him and tipped him a wink. The fussy man rolled his eyes.

  He crossed Central Park West and walked into Central Park proper. He wanted to see the carousel that featured so prominently in The Catcher in the Rye, the book that the killer would claim inspired him. Central Park is a big place, and Joe easily got lost. He found himself in the middle of a large playground. On a Monday in December, it was as deserted as anywhere in the city. A few nannies pushed strollers along the path and only a few children screamed and laughed and played on the playground equipment.

  Finally, Joe asked one of the nannies where the carousel was, and she looked at him like he might be simple. She pointed at a path directly behind her. Sure enough, Joe found the carousel straight down that path. He could hear it before he saw it—the tinkling, music-box notes carried throughout that section of the park.

  To Joe’s eye, it looked like any older carousel. Horses go up, horses go down. I guess it’s cool because it’s right in the middle of one of the largest urban areas in the US. Beyond that, it looks like any ride you might find in an old amusement park.

  He turned to backtrack the way he had come when a solitary figure sitting on a bench caught his eye. It was him. He was wearing the same dark coat and had his hands stuffed deep into its pockets. His face was once again a complete blank. Joe moved to put the carousel between him and the gunman, then faded down the path he had come.

  Don’t want to set any alarm bells off for him, put him on guard. This is going to be tough enough to pull off.

  Joe hurried back through the park to the street and back to the main entrance of The Dakota. Even though the weather was much improved, the crowds outside the building were much smaller. A function, no doubt, of it being a work day.

  Joe remembered that on this Monday, the famous photographer Annie Liebowitz had gone to John and Yoko’s apartment. While there, she had taken one of the most iconic photos ever taken of the pair—John, naked, curled in a semi-fetal position around Yoko. They had said Liebowitz had captured their relationship perfectly in that single shot.

  People constantly strolled in and out of the building. Any of them could be Annie Liebowitz or her assistants, if she even has assistants. Who knows? I really should have paid better attention to things. One thing I do know, I wouldn’t recognize Annie Liebowitz if she stopped and asked me what time it was.

  Joe
stood at the corner of the vestibule, peering in and wondering what it would be like to have your every move cause so much excitement, when he heard a ripple of noise behind him. He turned and looked straight into the face of John Lennon.

  He snuck up behind me! He was just walking around the city like it was safe.

  Lennon was stopped, chatting with a small group of people and signing an autograph. His hair looked shorter, as though he had just come from having it cut. He gently broke away from the crowd with a wave and brushed directly past Joe.

  “Sorry, mate,” Lennon said to Joe.

  “It’s okay, John,” Joe answered, and those were all the words he could get out. He had wondered a hundred times if he might get to see and talk to him, and in a blink, the opportunity had come and gone.

  Joe was so star struck he couldn’t move. The arm that Lennon had touched as he brushed by tingled a little at the memory.

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, the killer-to-be had also walked from the carousel to The Dakota and walked directly up to Joe.

  “Seen him?”

  “Yes. He just walked in.”

  “No!” The man set his lips in a thin line, anger vivid on his face. “I just wanted to go look at the ducks and the carousel.” He held out an old paperback copy of The Catcher in the Rye. “It’s in this book. I just wanted to see it again, one last time.”

  “Leaving town, then?”

  “Not until I see John Lennon. That’s why I came all the way here.”

  “Right. Of course.” Again, Joe felt trapped being so close to him, but didn’t want to be too far away on this day, either. He said, “Excuse me,” and moved away, while the man was left talking to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At noon, Joe noticed the assassin-to-be talking to another man. It was a relief to have him focused on someone else, but nonetheless, Joe stood not far away, where he could keep an eye on him. If things played out the same way, John and Yoko would emerge from the Dakota in the late afternoon and climb into a limousine to go to the recording studio.