Fortune

by Craig W. Turner

  “What are you doing?” Jeff said, to either of them.

  “I left the blowtorch. Go now!” Dexter said, then turned and darted back into the house.

  They all shouted after him, but they heard a crash inside the house, then strong footsteps. Not just Garvey’s, but multiple people getting louder.

  The rear door to the house burst open and immediately Jeff had at least four rifles pointed at him. He closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, he was in a fenced backyard, the sun blaring down on him. A swing set sat near the rear of the yard next to one of those bounce-back nets that little league pitchers use when there’s no one around to play catch. A three-burner grill sat in front of sliding glass doors leading into the rear of a Philadelphia brownstone.

  He looked at his hand, still clutching Emeka’s arm, and then at Abby, who was similarly holding his.

  She’d saved their lives.

  But none of them were attached to the chest filled with precious stones. Or to Dexter.

  “Well, that couldn’t have gone more wrong,” was all he could bring himself to say.

  “If we’d waited five seconds more, it would’ve,” Abby said as they detached.

  “No chest,” Emeka said. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I dropped it when it looked like Dexter-”

  “I don’t care about the chest! We’ve got to get him back,” Jeff said, it quickly sinking in that they’d left his best friend two hundred and fifty years in the past. He grabbed the device from Abby. “Abby, what are the coordinates? How do we get back there?”

  She stepped back as Emeka snatched the device out of his hand. “Calm down,” he said.

  “We’ve got to get back there! They’ll kill him!” He lunged for the device, but Emeka held him off.

  “We’re going to be calm because we have a time machine here,” he said in a smooth, low voice. “We need to be smart about this, and that means taking a deep breath and doing some research.”

  Alright, Jeff thought, he had a point. It didn’t really matter when they went back to get him because they could pinpoint the time. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right. But getting Dexter is our top priority now.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Emeka said, a little put off at Jeff’s suggestion that he thought it wasn’t.

  Jeff held up his hand. “I’m sorry, I’m just thinking out loud. Let’s get out of these people’s yard, get our van, and get back to New York. We’ve been through a lot today – we’ll get some rest and start in the morning.”

  They used a wooden toy box near the side fence to climb over it easily, and walked two blocks to catch a bus back to Chester and their waiting van. Then they changed into more modern clothes, and started the trek back up I-95, now three instead of four, and all stunned into silence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Despite already knowing they’d be undertaking a mission to rescue him, finding peace about leaving Dexter in the 1700s was an exercise in futility. As a result, not only was the ride home devoid of conversation, but several times Jeff looked down to find he’d unwittingly pushed the van’s odometer over the century mark. It was a miracle that he wasn’t flagged on the generally well-monitored Turnpike, but he figured fate must have understood they’d had a bad enough day.

  Jeff pulled the van into the parking lot of the rental car shop and shut down the engine. He sat still, his hands on the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip as though he was still gunning it in the fast lane. After a moment, he finally relaxed his shoulders.

  “Abby, I never thanked you,” he said without turning. “You saved our lives, but we’ve been so preoccupied with Dexter that I forgot to say anything about it.” He could see an apprehensive smile cross her face in the rearview mirror. “That was quick thinking,” he said, continuing. “Quick thinking.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Let’s just make sure that my saving your life saves Dexter’s.”

  He nodded. “You said it,” he said, turning now to look at them both. “You guys can go. I’ll take care of returning the van and catch up with you tomorrow.”

  Abby reached forward and squeezed Jeff’s shoulder. “Don’t worry – we’ll get him. We’re getting good at this.”

  He touched her hand. “I hope so.”

  Emeka patted him on the shoulder as well, then they left the van headed for their own cars that were parked on the street. A moment later, they were gone.

  No longer feeling responsible for the team members who were actually lucky enough to make the trip back, Jeff forced himself to spring into action. He tossed the keys into the drop box without bothering to finalize the rental paperwork, and silently slid into his own car. A quick ten minutes later, he was parallel parking in front of his house. It seemed like weeks since he’d been there, but it was really just that morning when he’d left.

  He hurried up his front stairs three at a time and all but ran into the house, throwing a meatball and mozzarella Hot Pocket into the microwave and pulling a Yoo-hoo from the refrigerator. One hundred and twenty seconds later, he was perched in front of his laptop, ignoring the scalding cheese oozing into his mouth from his quick dinner and searching for anything remotely related to Dexter’s existence in Colonial times. This kind of research was not his forte, and he had little immediate luck. Nearly an hour of random Google searches passed until he stumbled on something useful. The search was “precious stones and garvey and robbery and philadelphia,” which offered one link to a Drexel University web page and then a long list of solicitations, including – “Would you like to know more about precious stones Garvey robbery Philadelphia?” and “Would you like to purchase preciousstonesGarveyrobberyPhiladelphia.com?”

  He clicked on the Drexel link, which opened a 72-page dissertation done by a Dr. Rosalynn Darby, titled British Officers in the American Revolution: The Wrong Men for the Wrong Job. He used the window’s search function to look for “Garvey,” which brought him to a section about halfway through the document. He read through a couple of paragraphs about how Garvey rose to his position of prominence in Philadelphia, then found a passage of real note:

  “It was about this time that Major Garvey was reported to receive a shipment of precious stones - emeralds, rubies and diamonds - from King George, to be dispersed among various field generals in the British army. Wealth was often used as a form of encouragement and reward for officers who maintained a strong command in their area of supervision. Given the restlessness of the Colonials at the time, gifts such as these were becoming more and more prevalent. Despite the fact that England was confident that any unrest would be dealt with and did not comprehend or predict that the situation would ultimately result in war, it can be argued that the King was hedging his bets, as land would most certainly be the most sought-after reward for a military job well done. If there might not be land to be had, there had to be other carrots to dangle before officers taking on the demeaning duty of babysitting Colonials thousands of miles from home.

  “This particular bribe backfired, however, as Colonials impersonating British soldiers entered Garvey’s home and successfully stole the jewels. The stones’ path was never discovered. The King’s displeasure with Garvey grew when, a week later, his Market Street home burned to the ground. Garvey’s commission was revoked and he returned to England in shame. Little is known about Garvey following his return to England, though some suggest that a J. Garvey, who died in 1811 and was buried at the North Burial Ground in Providence Rhode Island, is, indeed, Major Garvey, leaving open the possibility that he returned to America following the Revolution.”

  Jeff sat back in his chair. “But we weren’t successful in stealing the chest,” he said out loud. “What is she talking about?” Did Dexter somehow get away with the stones? He scrolled down the page, but it went on to talk about another British officer, so he printed the page he’d been on originally. The story was interesting – maybe only because he’d just been in Garvey’s house, he had to admit – but it really didn’t give
him anything. They’d had an impromptu firing squad lined up and pointing at them, so he couldn’t imagine there was any way that Dexter had been successful in making off with the chest. And there wasn’t likely to be any write-up on him anywhere – he was some non-descript Colonial who committed a crime, and was most likely punished accordingly.

  He leaned back again, covering his eyes. “C’mon, Dexter, buddy. Talk to me.” He picked up his Yoo-hoo and saw it was empty, and headed to the kitchen for another. Realizing as soon as he opened the fridge that not only had he exhausted his Yoo-hoo supply, but that he actually needed something a little stronger, he instead reached up into the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Pinot Noir. Nothing fancy this time. Just an $8 bottle he’d picked up on one of his regular “stock-up” trips to the liquor store. He pushed aside a 2005 Georges de Latour Private Reserve that Dexter had given him to get to it. That one would be saved for his friend’s return. Seeing the bottle, he thought about Dexter using his own collection to help put these missions together. Sacrificing his own history for the opportunity to be a part of history. It was incredible of him – and selfless. And now, of course, he’d literally become a part of history.

  As he poured the wine, he tried to channel Dexter – how he, himself, would approach this challenge. Somewhere among his vast collection there had to be something to point him in the right direction. Though, without a catalog of information, between his home – which he knew would be the first place the team would be heading in the morning – his office, and the collection at Columbia, that information was a needle in a haystack. He would have no way of knowing how to find anything useful.

  He started back toward the living room and his computer, and stopped. Dexter’s office.

  The stein.

  The key.

  The journal.

  He needed the advice of an expert to save Dexter, and who better than to ask than the foremost expert himself? Sliding the glass back across the counter and leaving the wine open, he darted out of the room and pulled his keys off of the table. Just before he closed the front door, he heard the wine glass slip into the sink and shatter.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jeff looked up at Dexter’s building, realizing that he hadn’t conjured a good reason for being there if anyone confronted him. Especially now that business hours were over for the day and the place was probably empty. He’d underestimated the time it would take to get into the city and find a parking spot, ultimately parking illegally on 10th. He figured the $90 ticket would be worth the expense. Once inside the building, he walked through the hallway as he’d done many times before, up the hardwood stairs and up to the second floor. He’d grabbed Dexter’s keys that he’d kept in the van when they left for the Garvey mission, but rather than go right for the door, he walked well past it to make sure he could get in without raising any suspicion. There were two people talking at the far end of the hall, but neither paid him any attention.

  He sat down on a wooden bench to think, figuring that if anyone saw him they’d simply believe he was there waiting for a meeting; they’d seen him around Dexter’s office enough in the past, after all. He didn’t feel comfortable opening the door until the people, a man and a woman, left. He thought of his last visit to Dexter’s office, when he’d shown him the key and the journal, and how they’d talked about going after Robert Miles and the sack of cash. The difference in the atmosphere hit him, and his eyes opened up to the reality that danger was part of the equation, that he really had been treating the whole thing as a game. Even though he’d insisted to Dexter that was not the case. Talking about the “next mission” as though they were deciding which tight end to take with their next fantasy football draft pick now seemed incredibly irresponsible.

  As his mind frustratingly wandered, he considered that the least conspicuous way into the office was to go back in time to a point where he was in the office, and then jump to the present. However, if he was going to do that, he might as well just go back and not do the Garvey job. Which raised the question of whether or not he could undo what had happened to Dexter by changing their present-day plans, or, since Dexter had been caught and presumably died 250 years earlier – meaning that it had already happened – did he literally have to go back to that time to make the correction? If he had to wager, it would’ve been on the latter.

  A door to his left opened, and a young woman with curly brown hair and thin glasses stepped out, fumbling with a handful of folders and books, locking her door behind her. Instinctively, Jeff engaged her. “Excuse me, I have an appointment with Dr. Murphy,” he said. “You wouldn’t know if he’s in his office, would you? I knocked, but no answer.”

  The woman shook her head no. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Is there an administrator or someone around that I could ask?” he asked.

  She wanted to leave, but was being polite. “Well, there usually is, but I think everyone’s gone.”

  He tried to look confused. “Hmmm. I guess I’ll just wait here,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

  She nodded and was quickly down the hallway and into the stairwell. After the sound of her footsteps subsided, he noticed that the two people from the end of the hall had also left. He rose and approached Dexter’s door. He looked up and down the hallway, trusting the woman that everyone was, indeed, gone, and pulled Dexter’s keys from his pocket, opening the door easily.

  Once inside, he quietly closed the door behind him, making his way to Abner Doubleday’s stein, where he pulled the key out from underneath it. A moment later, he had the black-and-white journal in his hand and was flipping through it. He sat in Dexter’s chair, but felt immediately uncomfortable about it, and left for the small bench below the window. The evening sun was casting a shadow into the room, so he switched on his friend’s desk lamp and adjusted its direction – it shed just enough light for to reach him.

  The book was about 2/3 full, so he flipped to the last pages that contained his friend’s handwriting and began to skim. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for. Just as he’d envisioned, Dexter had thought ahead. In fact, he’d put together a whole section of the journal dedicated to “In case I don’t make it...” Jeff read the intro that he’d written:

  “If anyone else on the team doesn’t make it back from one of these trips, I’ll know what to do. If I don’t make it back, that’s a whole different ballgame. Below are instructions should that happen (hopefully, one of you will know enough to go looking for this journal).”

  Jeff panned down and saw a section written about the Wilton job – it was XXed out in dark Sharpie marker. As was the Miles job. Each was a paragraph about where they’d be able to find Dexter if the worst had happened. In 1849, should Dexter have been injured or left behind, his plan was to run into the woods to a safe area and wait. In the Miles job, since it was in-and-out, the instructions were simple – just come back to the same spot five minutes later.

  The Garvey job was a different entity, spanning a couple of pages. It was written in bulleted format, as there were a number of specific steps Dexter wanted them to follow. Jeff read:

  #1. If I don’t make it back, chances are it’s because I was captured by British soldiers. If this is the case, I’ll probably be hanged within a day or two of the capture. Which likely won’t make any history books, so you might have to do some searching. Please try to come get me before that happens.

  Not even a question, Jeff thought. He was coming. With Dexter’s assessment, however, they’d probably have to time travel with pinpoint accuracy – rescuing Dexter during his swift judgment and execution while not bringing any harm to themselves in the process. It was likely a very small window in which they had to operate.

  #2. There’s a strong chance that this won’t work, but I am bringing my smart phone with me. I know it’s risky bringing technology from the present with us, but we have too much on the line here to go in empty-handed. I am going to plant my phone, powered off, as best as I can in
my location - I’m assuming it would be the prison about three blocks from Garvey’s home. If, by some stroke of luck – or, more precisely, a miracle – the chip could last that amount of time without deteriorating, you would be able to use the GPS function to find my exact location. The phone does not need to be on.

  Jeff hadn’t even finished reading by the time he’d pulled his own phone from his pocket and quickly began shuffling through his applications. He found the “Friend Finder” application he’d used to find Dexter a couple of days before and clicked on it – only to be told that his version needed to be updated.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, and clicked the button to get the upgrade. A moment later, the program loaded.

  A handful of thumbtack images illuminated on the screen, showing the current locations of a few friends who had the same app, as well as his own. All in the NYC metro area. He slid his thumb across the screen and the map danced southward into New Jersey. He continued to pull across the state until he hit the Pennsylvania line, then dragged further southward to Philadelphia. Two of his friends were in the City of Brotherly Love at that moment, so he highlighted the closest one. It was Tony Rich, an old college pal who he knew had followed his girlfriend to Philadelphia and, if he remembered, correctly, married her and had a fairly successful career in real estate.

  Not the right guy, though, so he closed out of Tony’s location with a reminder to himself to send him an e-mail, and then clicked on the other.

  Amazingly, Dexter’s photo popped up. It was his friend in a forest setting wearing a coonskin cap. He’d seen the picture a thousand times. The thumbtack icon pointed to the intersection of Third and Market Streets.