Fortune

by Craig W. Turner

  “It does, yes,” she said.

  “So to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” she asked. Erica pinpointed her accent as she listened to her voice to remember exactly where Rosalynn called home. Charleston, she remembered.

  “I was wondering if I might pick your brain,” she said as another bus went by. “I’m sorry for the noise – I’m standing on a pretty busy street.”

  “Oh, this must be good,” Rosalynn said. “A person doesn’t call a historian from the sidewalk that often.”

  Erica laughed. “That’s true, but I need some information fairly quickly, and I know you’re the person that’s in the best position to have it.”

  “Fire away.”

  As two young men who may or may not have been a couple exited the restaurant, the smell of tempura wafting from inside the restaurant hit Erica’s nose, which distracted her for a moment. “My question is about Major Jonathan Garvey and the attempted robbery of King George’s jewels.”

  “One of my favorites.” Erica could picture her sitting in a trellised garden enjoying her evening tea as she took the phone call.

  “The gentleman who was captured in the raid... Do you know if his fate was documented anywhere?”

  “I believe he was hanged.”

  “Any idea when and where? More importantly, would there be any way of knowing where he was held until he was hanged?”

  “Well, I’d have to look it up in my research, but I would imagine the Old Stone Jail. Can I put you on hold for a moment and I’ll check?”

  “Certainly.”

  She heard the phone placed on the table – it sounded like glass, in a way confirming her guess of Rosalynn’s whereabouts. Maybe she’d interrupted her doing the daily crossword or reading the newly released biography of George Washington that Erica had bought and hadn’t opened yet. In a way, it seemed like a nice goal for her in her life to end up like Rosalynn Darby.

  Another bus went by, so while she waited Erica darted back into the crowd to find a quieter place to talk. Five minutes went by, so she simply kept walking until she came to a neighborhood park, one she’d walked past many times without stopping. She grabbed an empty bench and waited another few minutes until she heard footsteps and then a shuffle of the phone as Rosalynn returned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “that took longer than I’d anticipated it would. I’m not quite as quick as I used to be.”

  Erica thought it probably had been eight or ten years since they’d talked; she appreciated that the woman was willing to take this time for her at all, without any notice. “That’s not a problem.”

  “Well, there doesn’t appear to be much written about the gentleman,” she said. “We can assume, like I said, that when he was captured he was taken to the Old Stone Jail, simply because that’s where many prisoners were taken.” Erica hated assumptions even more now that she was trying to pinpoint something specific. “But that was a place where many didn’t survive, so there’s no guarantee what happened to him once he was in. However, a brief entry in the Pennsylvania Journal four days later spoke of three men being hanged, one of whom was accused of impersonating a British soldier. Other records show this was the tactic of the man attempting to gain entry into Major Garvey’s home. Is it the same man? That’s difficult to say. But there does seem to be a strong chance they’re the same, considering the time frame. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m doing a piece on the Garvey robbery for the show,” she said, knowing full well that the mention of air time would get an offer from the other end of the line to participate. “The question came up while we were taping, and I thought it would be helpful to have the information.” She braced herself.

  “Oh, that will be great,” Rosalynn said. “You’ll have to let me know when it airs. I’d love to come out and film with you, but I’m afraid I don’t travel that well anymore.”

  Dodged that bullet, Erica thought. “I’ll make sure to let you know. Do your records say where the hanging took place?”

  “Hold on... The Commons. Just like all the others.”

  So, if their theory was right, despite how nervous it made her to think about doing this based on theories, there were three possible points of extraction, places where they knew that Dexter would be – at Garvey’s house, where they had certainty of his whereabouts, but a messy environment; the prison, among a host of other prisoners; or actually at the hanging.

  “Rosalynn, that’s wonderful,” she said. “You’re a huge help.”

  “There’s one more thing here,” she said, pausing. “I’m sorry, honey, I’m having trouble making out my own writing. Looks like ‘fire,’ then, it must be ‘Market Street, 1834.” Through the phone, Erica heard her flipping through pages. Maybe the thump of her opening a new binder. “Oh, here we go,” she said. “Yes, an office of records on Market Street was destroyed in a fire in 1834. It’s possible that some of the documentation you’re looking for is gone.”

  “Do you think they would’ve kept detailed records on people that were hanged prior to the Revolution?”

  “Well, you have to assume” – again with the assuming – “that, given the unrest, the British would’ve wanted everything documented to back up their actions to London. The fact that the newspaper knew that the man was hanged for impersonating a British soldier would lead you to believe that there was a resource from which the paper received that information. Though it doesn’t offer a name.”

  “I wonder,” Erica said, thinking. “Look, Rosalynn, I want to thank you. This has been a tremendous help.”

  “Glad I could help, honey.”

  “We have to catch up some time when I’m out East. You know, I dialed your area code, but I don’t even know where you are now. Is that still Charleston?”

  “No, I’m in Savannah now. Charleston was a long time ago.”

  “Well, next time I’m in Georgia, I’m going to look you up. Is that okay?”

  “I’d love it, dear.”

  “And how’s your daughter?” she asked, remembering that last time they’d spoken Rosalynn’s daughter – Elizabeth, the name suddenly came to her – was headed off to college. They’d never met, but she remembered Rosalynn talking about her incessantly.

  “Oh, Lizzy’s doing great,” she said. “Thanks for asking. She’s living in my favorite city, Philadelphia, so I try to get up there at least once a year. That’s about all the traveling I do now, though. I’m happy here in my garden.”

  “Sounds nice,” she said. “I’m very happy for you. Rosalynn, thank you again for your help, and your time.”

  “My pleasure,” she said. They gave their goodbyes and ended the call. Erica reminded herself to make sure she followed through on that offer, and let her know about the Garvey episode’s airing date, as well. She did like the woman.

  The phone put aside, she picked up her purse from off of the bench next to her and swiftly walked the four blocks to her apartment. Once there, she poured a glass of wine, heated up some leftover lo mein from a cardboard container, and sat down in front of her computer.

  In order to put history back the way it was supposed to be, she had some planning to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  After checking into his hotel, tossing his overnight bag across the room, and sprawling on the closest of the two queen beds, Jeff regretted two things: (1) not inviting Erica to dinner, and (2) not getting her phone number.

  The first was less about spending time with her specifically than it was about spending time with anyone. At least that’s what he was telling himself. While he knew that from a scientific standpoint his time travel invention made it so that there really was no rush to get to Dexter, he was having a hard time wrapping his mind around that concept. Now that he’d set things in motion, he was getting antsy. And even though he would’ve liked more than anything to clear his mind of it, he couldn’t think about anything else. He thought about seeing a movie as a distraction, but even then it felt crass of him to do something to occupy hi
mself with anything but a rescue attempt. As if he deserved to have his mind tormented with worry. Dinner with Erica would’ve at least given him an outlet – while at the same time not sparing him outright.

  If he couldn’t get her for dinner, he would’ve liked at least to have a way to contact her. He knew, of course, that he could research and find it, but it bothered him that she hadn’t offered her number even more than that he didn’t have access to her. In her position, wouldn’t she want to have access to the man she might be working with, to the man who’d had such a profound effect on her life? He was sure he would have.

  Either way, Jeff lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. It reminded him of when he was young, when he would sit on his bed daydreaming. He thought adults didn’t spend enough time lying around and staring at ceilings. Probably not enough time daydreaming, either. Too many problems to solve. Too many things to get done. Of course, in his case he’d created his own problems, but that was neither here nor there.

  His conversation with Erica hadn’t ended with an affirmative, so he wasn’t quite sure what she’d be spending her evening doing before meeting with him in the morning. He imagined that she’d do some preliminary digging of her own to see if she could get any leads on Dexter’s whereabouts in 1770, and if she could pinpoint anything she might be more apt to join him. He hoped that’s what occupied her. That’s if she was truly able to overcome her skepticism altogether, which he was pretty certain she hadn’t. Not yet.

  The bigger question for him, though, was what if she didn’t find anything? He couldn’t imagine that they’d kept detailed records for every prisoner that went to the gallows in Colonial times, much less that any records would’ve been preserved for two centuries. The odds were really against her coming across anything useful. Which left him where? Without Erica, he’d be flying blind. Not going back to get Dexter was no option, so without her help he’d be hurling himself into a treacherous and potentially – if not likely – deadly situation. While it didn’t seem enticing, lying there on the bed, he told himself that he had to come to grips with the possibility that he might have to go it alone. Emeka and Abby would likely jump to the cause, but he was hesitant to bring them into it without someone knowledgeable to guide them. Plus, if he honestly didn’t want to do anything to change history, keeping Emeka away from any conflict was probably the safest bet. Threatened, Jeff wouldn’t put it past him to kick off the Revolutionary War himself.

  He thought that was an angle that he could use with Erica if she came back in the morning with a negative answer – that he was going anyway, and that he could really use at least a send-off in the right direction. She didn’t seem like someone who would let him wander haphazardly through time, off to his death. Though, after what he’d done, it was quite possible that she wouldn’t be too heartbroken if he ended up on the end of a British bayonet.

  Taking a deep breath, he got up from the bed and strolled to the room’s window, overlooking the bay. While he did chastise himself for trying to get Dexter out of his mind, he hadn’t been reluctant to check himself into one of San Francisco’s nicer hotels – and a nice room in that hotel. People who had gold stashed at Christie’s ready for auction didn’t stay in a roadside motel just because they’d egotistically trapped their friend in the 18th century.

  The view was beautiful. He couldn’t see the sun setting behind him, but it reflected off the water, the Bay Bridge, and Oakland on the other side of the water. The view made him think of Joe Wilton, what he would’ve thought the first time he laid eyes on it. Especially having come so far. He snickered at his own inconvenience of having to get to the airport two hours before departure, and the extra ten minutes it took to get frisked and take off his shoes. For Wilton, his trip took months through untrodden and dangerous mountain paths. This place must’ve looked like pure heaven to him by the time he got here. No skyscrapers – just open land with small settlements of gold miners, peddlers and homesteaders. No Bay Bridge, no Golden Gate, no Alcatraz – well, the island was there, but not the prison. It was amazing. If they figured out how to use his time travel device to observe and not change history, he had to think that Wilton’s time would be one of the first he’d like to experience.

  Staring out the window, he lost himself in his recollections, trying to remember the exact moment that he became a history nerd. Not that he had reached Dexter and Erica’s level, but three years ago the idea that he’d be standing in that hotel room thinking about how cool it would be to be alive during the Gold Rush was inconceivable. It was never anything that remotely interested him. In fact, it was only when his successful experiments made history his playground that he started to pay attention.

  He thought back to his early work – sending tiny objects back five minutes in time. Until he worked up the nerve to actually experiment on himself, that was about the scope of what he could do. There was no sending anything back 100 years because he’d have no way to determine if it was working. But each experiment he tried came through the way he expected until, ultimately, it became pointless to repeat them. The only way to truly test his technology was to witness it himself.

  Of course, the challenge was that the objects he was sending back in time were contained within the small particle accelerator. Obviously, a human couldn’t fit into the chamber, and even if he could, he’d have no way to get back. His solution was to turn the accelerator inside out using electromagnets expensive enough to require a federal stimulus grant to pay for them, so that anything touching it would have the same effect as if it were inside the chamber.

  His theories proved to be correct. That first experiment on himself was unnerving, but he pushed the button and sent himself an hour back in time. He’d almost passed out from the vertigo it caused, but it might also have been his elation. With one success under his belt, he tried another – a week. Then a month.

  Through the trials, he learned that his calculations were precise enough that he could pinpoint any moment in history and go there. Which was only part of the equation when he started to take into account not only time, but place and atmosphere. At that point, he knew he would need a professional to guide him, but the lack of one didn’t stop him from looking through history on his own to find a destination that interested him. Being a baseball fan, he started there.

  Completely lost in thought, he barely noticed that his cell phone was ringing. He picked it up from off the bed where he’d tossed it and inspected the number. It was a 202 area code, which meant the Smithsonian. They’d actually left him a message while he was in-flight to California earlier in the day, but he didn’t want to deal with that right now. He needed to stay focused on Dexter. There would be time to make the arrangements with the Wilton gold. He silenced the phone and set it on the nightstand.

  A moment later, it rang again. This time it was Emeka, so he answered.

  “They keep calling,” he said after they exchanged greetings. “I haven’t answered, but eventually I’m going to have to.”

  “Yeah, they’ve called me too. Divide and conquer.” He sat down in the recliner and put his feet up.

  “What’s our move?”

  “Nothing yet. We’ve got to get Dexter back first.”

  “How’s that going? Is she pissed?”

  “Not as much as you’d think.”

  “Will she do it?”

  “I don’t know yet. Let’s put the Smithsonian guy off for another day at least. I’m assuming the guy at Christie’s probably wants us to take as long as possible to decide because that would mean we’re struggling with the decision.”

  “Probably true. But he said we could only keep the gold there for 48 hours.”

  “I really don’t think he’s going to make us move it. Not when his offer is still an option.”

  “Alright. You’re the boss,” Emeka said, then they hung up.

  He was probably right - they would need to move on the gold sooner rather than later. But if Erica was somehow amenable to joining their effort to r
escue Dexter, he wanted to get to work as quickly as possible.

  Feeling a little lonely and a little jittery, Jeff decided he could use a something to drink to calm his nerves. He thought he’d seen a poster in the elevator highlighting a bar on the top floor of the hotel, so he grabbed his room key and headed upstairs, hoping there would be some decent people-watching opportunities.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  As it often did, Jeff’s enthusiasm got the best of him and he arrived at Erica’s building a half-hour before she’d asked him to be there. In his defense, he had no way of judging the traffic time from San Francisco to Stanford, though.

  Still treading lightly with her, he didn’t want to come across as overanxious, and found a coffee kiosk in the lobby instead of going right to her office. He bought a cup, poured some hazelnut flavoring into it, and grabbed a short, soft orange chair to the side of the room, out of the traffic flow. If she happened to wander through the lobby, she didn’t need to see him sitting there early. He had to be cool and collected.

  To pass the time he flipped through a student newspaper that was sitting on a small table next to him. It brought back some memories of being in college himself, reading what was important to the students and, as a result, the editors and writers of the paper. He was amazed at how much things changed when you got out into the “real world.” As he read a letter to the editor about the pieces of sashimi served in the commissary being too small, he thought back to his own priorities as an undergrad. He had to admit that he’d abhorred being slighted on his tuna. Like the author of the letter, a “Charles Baker,” portions were important to him. If only that were the worst of his worries now, he thought, and laughed to himself.