by Zugg, Victor
“Where was I found?” Mason asked.
“You were eighty miles off the coast, north of where the plane was when we lost contact. We presumed the plane went down close to where you were found. We’ve concentrated our search around that area. We’re still searching, but so far there are no signs of anything. Just you. And you’ve been unconscious since they brought you in three days ago.”
“How did you find me in all that water?”
“Some fishermen spotted you, pulled you on deck, and called it in,” Reeves said.
“Pings off the black box?”
“No,” Miller said. “We never got any pings. We’ve concentrated our search around where you were found. So far we have zip. Except you.”
“How do you explain that?” Mason asked.
“Plane may have slipped off the continental shelf,” Miller said. “We don’t know.”
“That’s two hundred miles out,” Mason said.
“We won’t have the answers until we find the plane,” Miller said.
Reeves nodded. “Let’s give him some more time to rest. What do you say we return here tomorrow? Okay with you Mase?”
“Sure, but my story won’t change. What about all the people’s names I know? How could I know their names?”
Miller cocked his head. “You sat next to Lisa, you talked to Karen and Angie, you had an encounter with Nathan, Dorothy was in first class with you, along with Travis. You had contact on the plane with most of the prominent characters in your story. For the others, maybe you reviewed the flight manifest and forgot.” He shrugged his shoulders.
Mason shook his head but said nothing.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Reeves said.
The two men said their goodbyes, shook hands with Mason, and left.
Mason rested his head back against the pillows. I wouldn’t believe it either.
CHAPTER 27
Including the three days Mason was unconscious, he spent a total of ten days in the hospital. He was subjected to five more interviews during that time. His story did not change. Upon his release, he returned to Miami and sequestered himself inside his condo, except for a few follow-ups with local doctors and two more interviews, one by FAA and one by his own agency. He stuck to his story.
After a month of rest and recuperation, the TSA concluded that Mason could not be returned to active duty as long as he continued to show signs of mental distress. A month after that, Mason resigned his position as a Federal Air Marshal. Reeves tried to intervene. He tried to convince Mason to give it more time, but Mason was adamant that time would not wipe away the memories. They were not dreams or hallucinations; they were memories.
Mason was fully aware that it didn’t have to play out the way it did. He could have told them enough of the truth to make them happy and claim he couldn’t remember anything else. He could have lied. He could have described a crash in the ocean never knowing the cause and not knowing how he ended up on that piece of wood. But somehow, to do that, would have denied the memory of Karen, Jeremy and Lisa, Manny, Dorothy, and the others. Even Nathan. Those people followed his lead. They trusted him for guidance. He could not pretend their lives in Charles Town did not happen. It did. Three hundred years ago.
A couple of weeks later Reeves stopped by Mason’s condo and tried again to convince him to give it more time.
Mason remained adamant.
As Mason walked Reeves to the door, Reeves handed him a small package.
“What’s this?”
“Something to remember us by,” Reeves said.
Mason opened the box, lifted the folds of white paper, and stared at the contents.
“It’s a replica of your badge. A retirement badge.”
“I didn’t retire,” he said, staring at Reeves.
“I pulled a few strings. You deserve it.”
Mason tightened his jaw and extended his hand. “Thank you Mike.”
“I just wish it had worked out differently,” Reeves said.
Mason opened the door.
“You take care,” Reeves said, as he stepped out. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will,” Mason said. “Thanks.”
A month later, Mason put the condo up for sale. It sold almost immediately, and he closed within thirty days. On the morning of closing, the Salvation Army picked up most of his belongings. He loaded his Prius with a few essentials and headed north on Interstate 95. He didn’t know where he would end up; he only knew he needed a new start.
He drove without the radio, eyes fixed on the road, but deep in thought. He contemplated the many scans, the prods, the pokes, the lab exams, the neurologists, sessions with the psychologists, and their conclusions. He had suffered a serious blow to the head. There had been some bleeding in the brain around the hippocampus near the medial temporal lobe. This was the area responsible for memories. What Mason thought he remembered were really just aberrations of the mind created to fill gaps in his memory. Basically he imagined the whole thing. After all, time travel was impossible.
Their logic was solid. Time travel was impossible. These were experts, and they had seen this sort of thing before. Maybe they were right. But Mason’s mind kept coming back to the details and the vividness of those details. He replayed each encounter with Karen through his mind, the kisses, the hugs, and especially their romantic encounter on the boat. He thought about the strong emotion he felt toward her, still felt. Would that be possible with a dream? These were not like dreams which tended to be vague around the edges. To him, it was all real.
After several hours of driving and thinking, Mason’s mind was weary and his head hurt. He popped a couple of Tylenol, suggested by the neurologist for his headaches, and washed them down with water from a plastic bottle. He flipped the radio on and searched the channels for something that would take his mind off the past. He came across a talk radio channel and sat back to listen. He tried to focus on what they were saying. The host was discussing the various political happenings in Washington. It was the same type stuff everyone had been talking about when Mason boarded the plane. The president did this, and the president didn’t do that. It was as though only a few days had passed, which was exactly what the doctors were trying to get Mason to understand. For the first time since he woke up in the hospital, a sliver of doubt entered his mind.
Forty miles past Savannah he saw the sign for Charleston. It was funny that since waking up in the hospital he had not even thought of visiting the source of his memories. At the last moment he veered into the exit lane and merged onto Highway 17. He made a quick stop for gas and then continued. The sign read sixty-three miles. He was tired, but he had no intention of stopping. He could drive another hour.
It was early evening when he crossed the bridge over the Ashley River, took the first exit toward the visitor’s center, and ended up on Bee Street. Of course the city looked nothing like it did during his latest encounter, but for the most part, the streets were still laid out in a nice grid pattern. There were just a lot more of them.
He drove around making turns at major intersections, first on Rutledge and then on Calhoun, generally where his instinct for direction told him. There were three streets he remembered from old Charles Town: Bay, Meeting, and Broad. As he drove down Calhoun Street, he came upon Meeting Street first. Waiting for the light at the intersection, he spotted a hotel on the southeast corner and decided he had done enough driving for the day. He continued across Meeting Street and pulled into the hotel’s drive.
It appeared to be a nice place, probably expensive. But he didn’t care what it cost. He just needed a pillow to rest his now throbbing head.
As it turned out, being a Thursday, they had a vacancy. But only for the one night. They were booked for the weekend. That was fine with him. If he decided to stay longer, he’d find something cheaper.
Mason checked in, moved his car to the lot behind the hotel, and found his room. He wasn’t hungry, just tired. So he took a shower, closed the drapes, and f
ell into bed.
◆◆◆
The next morning he was up early. His head felt much better, and he definitely had an appetite. He ordered a hearty breakfast in the hotel restaurant. While waiting for his food, he took out the new iPhone he had acquired shortly after he arrived back in Miami. He did a search for the oldest homes and structures in Charleston. He was surprised to learn there were several built prior to 1720 that still exited. Colonel William Rhett’s home was among them at 54 Hasell Street, just as Dorothy had said. It was built in 1712 according to the article. Another was the Powder Magazine, built in 1713, on Cumberland. He remembered the Powder Magazine; he had walked past it a time or two, but on neither occasion did he pay it much attention. He also learned from the article that the walls that surrounded Charles Town in the early eighteenth century ran along what were now Meeting, Bay, Cumberland, and Water streets. He therefore wouldn’t have walked past Colonel Rhett’s home. Hasell Street was outside the walls of old Charles Town and he didn’t stray outside the walls except on the east side when he followed the surveyor to the canoe landing.
Since it was still early after he finished his meal, he decided to take a walk. He had plenty of time before the twelve o’clock check out, so he left his belongings in the room, stepped out onto the street, and walked to the corner. The old part of the original town was to the south, so he started walking in that direction.
Charleston was a busy, metropolitan city with lots of buildings, people, and cars. The cobblestoned streets that remained of old Charleston didn’t even exist at the time he was there last. The streets he walked were all gravel, dirt, and oyster shells.
He continued walking until he came to Hasell Street. Deciding he’d take a look at the Colonel’s house, he turned east. He stood in front of the large, three-story dwelling and perused the double entrances. As he suspected, nothing clicked. He had never seen anything like that house before. And even if he had seen it in 1720, a lot had probably changed.
He walked back to Meeting Street and continued south. He soon crossed over Market Street, already starting to get busy, and continued another block to Cumberland. He turned east and within a few yards he stopped in front of the Powder Magazine.
The building was a lot like he remembered. The roof was different, and, of course, the surroundings were much different, but the building was basically the same. Still, a lot had changed. A multi-story parking garage stood where the earthen wall once was. The bastion with cannons pointing to the north that once existed just outside the magazine was now an asphalt road. His version of the magazine, with the wall and cannons, did nothing to support his memories since no one in modern times really knew how the property around the magazine was laid out three hundred years ago. His version really meant nothing. It could be a fabrication of his dreams, or hallucinations, or whatever they were.
He continued along Cumberland, turned on Bay Street, and soon found himself standing in front of the Old Exchange and Provost Dungeon building at the end of Broad Street. This was where he had been called to the Night Watch to answer questions about the dead body on the wharf. But nothing about the building was the same. The original building, tiny in comparison, was gone and, of course, the entire wall was gone. Nothing rang any bells.
He began to think his visit to Charleston had been a stupid idea. What did he hope to prove? Even if it really happened, that was then, and this was now.
He made his way back over to Meeting Street and began walking toward the hotel. Within a block of Calhoun he saw a sign for the Charleston Museum. He decided that as long as he was in town he might as well take a look.
The museum had just opened when he stepped up to the doors and entered. He paid his fee at the desk where he was handed a map of the various exhibits. He walked around the exhibits but found that except for a few Native American displays, there were almost no artifacts back to 1720 or before. A lot about the old town had been destroyed during the Revolutionary and Civil Wars. Charleston was an impressive place, he concluded, with a lot of history, but none of that helped his cause. He wasn’t even sure what his cause was, or why he was walking around Charleston. Doing so just made him question himself even more. Curiosity was rapidly turning into depression. It was time to leave.
On his way out through the lobby a stack of magazines in a chair caught his eye. The colorful cover depicted an artist’s rendition of a Native American village. He flipped the pages and began to read the cover article. Apparently, archaeologist had discovered the remains of what they thought was a Native American village in the area of Myrtle Beach. Their dig had produced arrow heads, pottery shards, wood fragments, partial skeletons, and even the remains of a smooth-bore musket. The scientists had no way of knowing which tribe had lived at the site, but they speculated it pretty much had to be one of the several coastal tribes. The bone had been carbon dated to the late seventeenth or early eighteenth centuries.
Mason gazed at photos of the various artifacts and read their captions. He wondered about Mato’s village. Was that the one they had found? There were others in the area; it was hard to tell. He flipped the page and immediately froze. His eyes locked on one particular artifact, mostly rust colored with a single spot of silver. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He focused on the image. There were several engraved letters, barely visible. He could just make out an 82 and the letters DOM at the end of an unreadable section. The full inscription immediately came to mind—Steve Brown, USA, 82nd Airborne, Operation Iraqi Freedom. It was the bracelet Mason had given to Mato only months earlier.
Mason read the short caption which basically said the scientists had found it next to a skeleton and they had no explanation for its existence at that site, especially given the depth and context. It was a mystery.
At last he knew for sure. His memories were not aberrations of the mind; he lived them. He slowly closed the magazine, returned it to the stack, and closed his eyes. He knew where he had to go next.
CHAPTER 28
Mason checked out of the hotel and headed west back across the Ashley River. Just past the west bank he veered onto State Road 61 and drove northwest. About seven miles up the two-lane road, he turned off onto an asphalt drive. Thick trees and brush lined the drive up to an aluminum gate and beyond. An elderly man, probably in his seventies, had just closed the gate and stood watching as Mason pulled up. The man’s pickup truck was parked, still running, just beyond the gate.
Mason stuck his head out the window. “Excuse me.”
The man raised his chin.
“I’m doing research for a book about South Carolina plantations. I saw your property on Google Maps and was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
The man rubbed his clean-shaven chin. He checked the watch on his arm. “I have a couple of minutes.”
Mason stepped out of the Prius and approached. “Thank you; I won’t take much of your time.” He stuck out his hand and stepped closer to the gate. “I’m Stephen.”
The man reached over the gate and took Mason’s hand. “Fred.”
“You have a beautiful piece of property,” Mason said. “Google Maps indicates plenty of open fields. This must have been one of the bigger plantations back in the day.”
“Started out with rice in the flatlands along the river; food crops on higher ground,” Fred said. “It’s been in my family for three hundred years.”
“The house as well?”
“No that was burned down twice, Revolution and Civil Wars. The core of the current house was built in 1875. We’ve been adding on ever since.”
Mason turned in a three-sixty and scanned the surrounding forests. The house was not visible through the trees.
“We don’t get many visitors,” Fred said. “Put the gate up to keep the kids from driving through.”
“It must be something.”
Fred nodded. “You look like a nice-enough fellow, would you like to see the property close up?”
“I would,” Mason said. “Thank you.”
Fred opened the gate wide. “Just pull your car up behind the truck.”
Mason returned to the Prius, pulled slowly through the gate, and followed the pickup down a winding drive. After seventy-five yards the trees gave way to a broad open area of mostly grass with a few large, sparsely placed oaks. The house stood in the distance. It was nothing like the original. The new house was all red brick. It was large but not massive. Five white-framed windows on the top floor and two on each side of the front door overlooked a circle drive. A large garage, and probably a work shop, also of red brick, stood separate off to the left side of the house.
Fred stopped his truck on the circle drive in front of the door.
Mason stopped behind the truck, got out, and met Fred standing next to his truck.
Fred waved his arm in a wide arc. “Started out a thousand acres. Grew to three thousand at one time. It’s now only five hundred.”
“It’s beautiful,” Mason said, as he scanned the property. He turned to the house. “Backs to the river.”
“It does,” Fred said. “We have a wide porch on the back side.” He faced Mason. “I didn’t get your last name.”
Mason paused for a moment to think. “Johnson. Steve Johnson.”
“Fred Mason,” Fred said.
Mason’s expression did not change, having learned the name of the owner from the Internet on his phone before he drove out. “Three hundred years. That would put this property very close to the start of Charleston. It’s been in your family from the very beginning then?”
Fred rubbed his chin. “You say you’re writing a book.”
“Yes sir. Just gathering data for now.”
