Fortune

by Craig W. Turner

  “California.”

  “Don’t they have UW in California?”

  She took a breath, thinking about her words. “I’ve never heard that term, no.”

  “Universal wireless?”

  She fake-laughed nervously. “Oh, yeah, sorry. We don’t call it that, though. Didn’t know if it made it east yet.” God, she hated sounding stupid.

  “It’s been like five years,” he said. She could hear his annoyance at her naiveté.

  “Okay, thanks,” she said then touched the screen again and cut him off.

  “What do you mean we don’t need any help from future Jeff in figuring out where to go?” Jeff continued the conversation that she’d interrupted.

  She answered him as she illuminated the tablet screen. “The kid at the front desk said we were here three years ago. Which to me means that, not only did we stay here three years ago, but the fact that future you knows we’re here right now tells us that we also made it back to our present time, and that the plan – details aside – went the way it was supposed to. I’m going to bet that if I start searching around the time that you checked into this hotel three years ago, we’ll find our target.”

  “Well, I’m curious to see what you come up with,” he said, leaning over her to look at the screen.

  She stopped. “That’s not going to work.”

  “What’s not?”

  “I won’t be able to work with you hovering like that.”

  She could feel the bed shake as he nodded his understanding. “Alright. Well, while I’m tempted to hop online and search the internet, I’m very reluctant about learning too much so I’m going to resist that temptation. Maybe I’ll close my eyes for a little while. I still haven’t caught up on sleep. Thanks to you.” She looked over at him. He was smiling at her.

  “Wow. That’s some self-control,” she said, ignoring the smile even though it was rather charming. She fiddled around with the tablet until he settled himself onto the easy chair in the corner of the room and shut his eyes. A couple of moments later she heard his breathing settle into a rhythmic sleep pattern. It was good because it gave her some time to work in solitude.

  Once she’d easily connected to the internet, which seemed to be very much the same internet, she rang up Google, which seemed to be very much the same Google. On the first search she did, “time travel,” yielded hundreds of links to science fiction movies and books, numerous articles by scientists refuting the notion that time travel was possible, numerous articles by scientists saying it was possible, and several reviews of a “90s” restaurant in Cleveland called “Time Travel,” which served up everything from artisan breads to stuffed-crust pizza while episodes of Seinfeld aired in every corner of the establishment.

  Conspicuously, though she searched through the first 100 or so pages of results, she saw nothing linking the name “Dr. Jeffrey Jacobs” to the keyword “time travel.” So, she searched for the two of them together and also found nothing. Then Jeff’s name alone. She found lots of links to his stimulus grant and the moderate success of his project, but nothing related to his true scientific breakthrough. She began to process how she could hold Jeff accountable for a decision that he, present-day Jeff, hadn’t made yet, but that she now knew he would never make. Clearly, he hadn’t gone to the government folks with his invention as he’d promised he would do. But what was her play? To let him know she knew that – or to work harder toward making him do it?

  As he slept, she put that topic on the back burner and delved into those key dates in March three years earlier. Not surprisingly, she found that those days were of great significance in American history – it was when the United States officially made the switch to a cashless system. As she read, she learned that mobile device technology had advanced itself to the point where it included reliable biometrics that would enable individuals to securely collect, spend and save money with a thumbprint. While the technology at the time was becoming more and more widely accepted, not everyone was able to afford the appropriate devices. However, as a federal budget balancing measure, the government created a program where key public domain entities – banks, airlines, government offices, libraries, etc. – would implement ATM-type devices through which people without their own personal technology could easily engage the system. She read reports that the savings to the federal government on the printing costs for paper and coin money were several billion dollars annually.

  The challenge was also the opportunity that made them book a room at the Ocean Dunes Motel three years earlier: that the federal government now had to clean up the paper money and coins that were “on the streets.” She delved further into the related web pages to find that collection drives were held in nearly every community across the country – where people brought their in-hand cash and “exchanged” it onto their devices, getting it into their personal and business accounts. She read about the public debate as to whether thumbprints were even necessary, given the wireless capabilities of the devices, but how powerful consumer advocacy groups successfully lobbied that the biometrics offered better security for a nation now trusting their everyday finances to technology. Apparently, for the wealthy and for numismatists, cash and coins became extremely valuable collectibles, even more so because the government, preferring to have as much money as possible out of circulation, frowned upon the hobby. Crime was rampant for a short while, but much of it ebbed quickly after the changeover, with law enforcement prioritizing a crackdown on cash transactions for anything. As a result, a large percentage of illegal drug trade was forced off-shore, an unanticipated benefit of the new policy.

  Of course, Erica came across several articles on corruption and how the government was moving itself further into the role of “big brother.” One story highlighted a scam sadly devised by the pastor of an upstart church in Indiana who bilked his parishioners out of their savings by creating an account where they could collectively hoard their money to prepare for the “tribulation.” But on the surface, it looked as though, while the change was dramatic, it was a positive thing for the country.

  It was also good for their little project, because at any given point there would be piles of unnecessary cash around that would still have much value in their present time. She searched a bit further to see what the government was planning to do with all of the paper money and coins that were collected, but as she suspected, that information wasn’t readily available save for the pundits’ and conspiracy theorists’ views that the coins were recycled to make bombs and that the paper money was actually funneled to countries which would still accept it. She could imagine that in Jeff’s mind it would be equally as justifiable to take some of that money as it was Wilton’s or Miles’. She’d nailed it.

  The only question was where would be the safest and most fruitful place from which to take it?

  A heavy gust of wind whipped against the sliding glass doors, startling her. She looked at the time and realized that she’d been working – and Jeff had been sleeping – for several hours. The wind hadn’t been enough to rouse him, but she set down the tablet and inspected the weather outside. The starlit night was gone, replaced by an ominous dark grey cloud covering the full view of the sky. She could see that the waves were coming in with more ferocity than when they’d arrived.

  Figuring they had even less time than they’d thought before the storm hit, she jumped back into her research, taking a moment to plug the tablet’s charger into the wall. Though they certainly had the flexibility to wait the storm out if need be, it would be inconvenient if there was a power outage and she wasn’t able to recharge.

  She searched for news stories that talked about the cash being collected at various sites around the country, figuring that some media outlet would have captured the sensationalism of exactly how much was being collected and where. She was right, finding several graphically-enhanced stories of vast amounts of money being pulled into single locations. Not surprisingly, the most heavily-populated areas were the highest takes,
but she also found it interesting that many people had done away with cash even before the policy change, so while the government did collect millions upon millions of dollars at certain locations, it was far less than many anticipated.

  After finding several “Top 10” lists echoing the same information, with locations in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles yielding the biggest collections of turned-in money, she found herself stuck on how to narrow down a location. As another wind gust hit the window, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes to gain some focus. As she did, the wine bottle placed by future Jeff fell over and thumped against her leg, so she picked it up and set it on the nightstand.

  As she did, though, she realized that future Jeff had put the wine bottle and the note in the room knowing full well that they would be there. Which meant that everything had already transpired. Future Jeff was the same person who was snoring in the chair five feet away from her, and he had full knowledge of everything that had happened. Whatever the two of them sitting there in that motel room chose to undertake had actually already happened. All they had to do was see it through.

  With renewed energy, she was back into the tablet, looking for any crimes related to the changeover. She found little, but deep into the search, she found a page where a YouTube video had been removed, dated with the appropriate day and titled Armored Car Disappears into Thin Air. She searched a little more for other keywords like ‘armored car’, ‘heist’, and ‘robbery’, but found nothing.

  Another gust of wind, and Jeff stirred. She looked over at him and guessed he’d be up soon. Any solitude she had would be gone. She thought she’d gotten pretty far, so she decided to divert for a few minutes before she would bring him up to speed.

  She cautiously typed in her own name. The screen listed a number of results, mostly related to articles and a couple of books she’d written on American history, links to full episodes of The Mystery of History, and a keynote speaking role at the American Historical Society’s Conference of Historical Studies Professionals, which must’ve been a great honor, about six years earlier. Not exactly what she was looking for, though. She delved further into her personal life, calling up on the screen one of her social media web pages to see if it still existed and if the password was the same.

  It was, and her page opened. Jeff stirred again, so she quickly scrolled through her biographical information. Apparently, at some point she’d married a man from Southern California named Greg Barrett, was still teaching at Stanford and, other than the husband, seemed to have pretty much the same life as she had ten years earlier. Which from one perspective was comforting, and from another was kind of depressing. She clicked on her future husband’s name to read a little bit about him, strangely with an air of defiance about her that, regardless of what this future said, she knew she wouldn’t have to abide by it. He was a techie, working for a company called TransitTech that created software for linking public transportation systems. He sounded kind of dry, even if he was a handsome guy. She wondered what could’ve drawn them together.

  She backed up to her own page to answer the big question for herself... Kids. In the back of her mind, she knew the presence of kids would make her think twice about what she was doing. Under her biographical info, however, there were no children listed, so she clicked over to photos of herself. There were only about ten – she wasn’t a big picture-taker – and most of them were of her on-stage somewhere giving a lecture that other people had posted. One folder was separate, called “Uploads,” which she opened. The first picture was a selfie with the Golden Gate Bridge behind her. Which gave her an odd feeling, because she remembered taking the picture. It was taken long before she’d ever met Dr. Jeff Jacobs, when she’d first started this account. She remembered trying to come up with an ID picture that would indubitably represent her, and figured her love of San Francisco, the bay, and history could be summed up in that one shot. Strange to see that it was still in her album, even if her new ID was just a photo of the San Francisco skyline.

  “C’mon,” she said, muttering to herself, “I just want to see what I look like in ten years.”

  She clicked to the next picture and her eyes began to water. It was a shot of her standing in what looked to be a bedroom, taking a picture of herself in the mirror. Her left hand held her cell phone camera at eye level. Her right hand hugged her tummy – a pregnant belly protruding out and covered by a loose burgundy blouse. Tears began to stream down her face.

  Her attitude change caught her by surprise. A moment before, she’d felt as though there was no validity to what she was reading about herself, as there was no destined path that she was required to follow. That she could make whatever decisions she wanted. She also felt slighted, though. As if she couldn’t trust that fate could deliver for her what it seemed to be promising. She forced herself to accept that it didn’t work both ways. Either she was a believer or she wasn’t, and she couldn’t help but remain a skeptic.

  One of the plastic chairs on the balcony caught the wind and slapped against the sliding glass doors, jolting her up and sending the tablet off her lap and onto the floor. Jeff was startled by the noise, as well, and sat straight up in a fog.

  “What was that?” he asked in confusion, wiping at his eyes.

  She took a deep breath, collecting herself before he could notice anything. “Just the wind,” she said. “The hurricane is getting close.”

  Still sitting, he looked out the window into the darkness for a moment, then back at her. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s good. I’m definitely on to something.” She used retrieving the tablet as an excuse to hide her face for a moment and wipe her eyes.

  He looked at her closely. “Were you crying?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just tired. I’ve been staring at this thing for a long time. You’ve been asleep for hours.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About four a.m. It should be getting light soon.”

  He looked back to the window. “No rain yet? Just wind? Lightning?”

  “All I’ve heard is wind.”

  “We should get out of here as soon as we can. What’ve you got?”

  Excitedly, Erica spent the next half-hour laying out for him everything she’d found, with the exception of the sleuthing she’d done on their personal lives. His enthusiasm hearing that she’d made progress helped him wake up quickly, though he did brew a pot of coffee while he listened. With each new idea she raised, he became more and more animated until he was pacing around the room. His energy was contagious, which was good because she was definitely feeling fatigued and in need of the adrenaline boost.

  She just hoped he could fill in the open parts of the puzzle by the time the storm hit. It was tempting to look at a news forecast, but she really wasn’t sure she wanted to know how dangerous this storm would be. She didn’t have hurricanes in California, and the thought of riding this one out in a beachfront motel was starting to terrify her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Jeff’s latest pace across the room left him standing in front of the double glass doors, staring out into the darkness. There was no light except for that coming from inside the room. Both chairs on the patio were overturned and he thought for a moment about bringing them inside, but realized it would be a distraction. At this point, though the wind was heavy, he still thought it was safe enough for them to get back to the beach to make the jump – provided they came up with the plan they needed in the next half-hour or so.

  “The armored car is probably the key,” he said. “Armored cars don’t just go disappearing. If it was some kind of stunt there would be no reason to take the video down. But we need to figure out where it’ll be. I’m assuming since the video was removed from the web site it means the story is probably under tight wraps. Dammit... There’s one person that knows, though.” He glanced at Erica for her reaction.

  “You mean future you.”

  “Yes.”

  “But wouldn�
�t he – you – have told us if he’d wanted to?”

  “Good point,” he said, deep in thought. He paced again, trying to figure himself out. Why would he reach out to them the way he did, only to leave them short? Was there something strategic or scientific about them having to figure it out on their own? Something that could do harm to them or to him if he told them too much? In ten years, would he be the type of person to leave them hanging as a sort of riddle, or was he teaching them an important lesson? Had his experience with time travel made him overly cautious?

  Then he noticed the wine bottle and stopped. “No,” he said, “I did.”

  “You did what?”

  “I mean, he did. Told us where to go.”

  “How?”

  “The note,” he said, picking it up and pulling it out of the envelope again. “You know, something clicked when I read it the first time. I don’t ever remember buying wine in Times Square for any reason. I immediately wondered why I would write that on the note. It’s clear now. It’s the location.”

  “A riddle?” Erica said. “Seems kind of far-fetched. Is that really something you would do?”

  “I see no other explanation... and I wouldn’t put it past me. Here – search for Times Square with all of the other keywords you’ve been using.”

  He watched as she flicked her fingers across Abby’s tablet, trying not to look over her shoulder as he’d been warned. After a moment, though, she looked up at him. “Here it is,” she said, handing the device to him screen-first, showing a picture of what looked like throngs of people in Times Square.

  He took it and read the caption under the photo. “‘Over 300,000 gathered in Times Square for a money-collecting party that rivaled any New Year’s Eve celebration the city has ever seen.’ Sounds like the place to be to me.”

  “Yes, it does. What does it say the date of the event was?”

  Jeff scanned quickly. “March 23. The day after we checked into the motel here.”