A Ripple In Time [A Historical Novel of Survival]

by Zugg, Victor

  “Okay Mike,” he said, as he started to turn. “You’re okay, right?”

  Reeves turned, faced Miller directly, and smiled. “I’m fine. Just need to take care of some stuff for a buddy.”

  Miller tightened his lips, raised his chin, and closed the door behind him.

  Reeves stared at the closed door.

  ◆◆◆

  Reeves drove his rental sedan onto the Mount Pleasant Regional Airport grounds and pulled to a stop next to a white Prius. He exited the rental and approached Mason’s car.

  Local law enforcement had run the tags and confirmed it was Mason’s car, but Reeves recognized it from Miami. He always thought it was weird that a tough, special forces operator would drive such a mild mannered car. The search had been called off early that morning, so the car had not yet been searched.

  Reeves checked all the doors but found them locked. He peered in the windows and found it empty except for a single cardboard Amazon box on the back seat. The delivery address on the box was clearly visible. He made a note.

  He walked over to two men standing next to a Piper Malibu Mirage. “Nice plane,” he said, as he approached.

  Both men nodded.

  Reeves pointed at the Prius. “I’m wondering about the owner of that car.”

  “Belongs to Mason, Steve Mason I think,” one of the men said.

  “He’s here practically every day,” the other man said.

  “When was the last time either of you saw him?”

  The first man cocked his head. “Can I ask who you are?”

  Reeves pulled out his badge and flipped open the case. “He’s a former employee.”

  The man stepped closer and peered at the badge. “Federal Air Marshal.” He stepped back. “Well let’s see.”

  “I think it was three days ago,” the second man said, “Monday. He was here early and departed as usual.”

  “As usual?”

  “Yeah,” the first man said. “He flies several times a week sometimes. Always gone about five hours, which is about the range on the Cessna he flew.”

  Reeves gazed around the field. “Is that plane here?”

  Both men glanced, but already knew. “No,” they both said in unison.

  “What’s this about?” the first man asked.

  “He went missing two days ago, out over the Atlantic,” Reeves said.

  “That’s too bad,” the first man said. “He kept to himself, but he seemed like a nice guy.”

  “He was,” Reeves said. He thanked the two men, peered in the windows of the Prius again, and returned to the rental car.

  Reeves used the GPS in his car to find the address listed on the box, and he soon pulled up in front of the house. He knocked on the door and was greeted by an elderly lady.

  “Hi, my name is Mike Reeves,” he said to the woman. “I’m a friend of Steve Mason’s.”

  “Mason,” the woman said. “He rents a cottage from me. In the back.”

  “There’s been an accident, and it appears he may have gone down in the plane over the ocean,” Reeves said.

  Shock replaced the woman’s kind expression. “That’s terrible. What happened?”

  “Not sure,” Reeves said. He pulled out his badge and opened the case. “He’s a former air marshal, a federal law enforcement official. I’m here to try to figure out what happened.”

  The woman glanced at the badge. “What can I do?”

  “I’d like to get access to the cottage. There might be something there that will help us piece it together.”

  “Wait just a moment,” she said, as she turned back into the house. She returned a few moments later with a key in her hand. “It’s around this way.”

  Reeves followed the woman down a stone walkway to the cottage in back.

  The woman opened the door and stepped inside. She held the door for Reeves. “It’s simple, but Mister Mason didn’t seem to mind.”

  She stood in the light of the open door while Reeves stepped into the interior.

  There wasn’t much to see. There were a few items of clothing in the bedroom, some food in the fridge and on the counter, the covers on the bed were tossed, and there was a pad and some papers on the small kitchen table.

  Reeves examined the papers. There were receipts for a number of items. Reeves found the one for the two pair of leather high-top boots, and the one for several items of clothing from a local tailor. He read the description for the clothing. When it registered, he let the receipts drop to the table as he lowered his arms to his sides. He stared at the ceiling. After several moments, he dropped his chin and picked up the pad. A list of various items was scribbled on several pages, along with a lot of doodling, and an address. It was a house number on Ashley River Road, Charleston, SC. He made a note of the address. Based on the receipts, the notes, and the items he had purchased, it appeared Mason was planning a trip into the bush. Camping maybe. That would be a good explanation except for the period clothing he had bought.

  Reeves turned to the woman. “Thank you.” He surveyed the room again. “I think that’s all I need.”

  The woman led Reeves to the door and stood to the side as he stepped out. “Is he coming back?”

  Reeves stopped and turned. His jaw tightened for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  “What do I do with his stuff?”

  “I think it’s safe to donate anything usable to Goodwill,” Reeves said.

  The woman nodded.

  Reeves returned to his car, set the GPS for the address he found on the pad of paper, and drove away. It was late afternoon, but he felt he had time even with the traffic in Charleston.

  He drove west, crossed over the Cooper River on the Ravenel Bridge, through the city on Highway 17, across the Ashley River, and north on Highway 61. He soon pulled into a driveway

  indicated as his destination on the GPS. Before him stood a high, wrought-iron gate attached to arms that would open the gate electrically. In front of the gate on the driver’s side stood a concrete pillar with a key pad and a camera. A small placard said to push the number 3 for service. Reeves pushed the number 3.

  The loud speaker squawked with a man’s voice. “Yes?”

  “Hi, I’m following up on a missing person. I found this address written on a pad in the man’s effects.”

  “Are you law enforcement?” the man asked. He sounded middle aged, forties maybe.

  “I am,” Reeves said.

  “Hold your badge up to the camera.”

  Reeves did as instructed. He saw the lens in the camera change focus. A few seconds later the gates swung open.

  “Drive up to the house,” the man said.

  Reeves pulled up and stopped at the top of the circle drive.

  A man in probably his late forties, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, was standing in the open doorway. He approached when Reeves opened the car door and stepped out. It was warm for a March day.

  “What is this about?” the man asked. “And please excuse my appearance. I was working in the back yard. Came in for some water and heard your buzz from the gate.

  “I’m looking into a missing person,” Reeves said.

  “And you think it has something to do with me?” the man asked.

  “Well, this address. As I mentioned, I found the address scribbled on a pad in the house he was renting. He went missing a couple of days ago.”

  “Can I see that badge again?”

  Reeves pulled the badge and extended his hand.

  “Federal Air Marshal,” the man said, as he lifted his chin.

  “He was a colleague. His plane when down over the ocean a couple of days ago.”

  “I see,” the man said. “And who was this man?”

  Reeves pulled a four by six color photo from his inside coat pocket.

  The man perused the photo for several seconds. “He does look familiar somehow, but I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Sorry.”

  “You’re sure?”

  The man looked at the p
hoto again. “Nope, never met him.”

  “And you’re the owner of this property?” Reeves asked.

  “I am, along with my three brothers, as of last year when our dad died.”

  Reeves turned in a circle. “It’s a beautiful place.”

  “Been in the family for three hundred years,” the man said.

  Reeves turned back to the man. “Well I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He turned to leave but then stopped. “By the way, any chance I could get a glass of that water?”

  “Sure the man said,” as he turned and stepped off. “Follow me.”

  Reeves followed the man through the open door and into a large sitting room with a fireplace.

  The man continued through the room and into an adjoining kitchen. He placed a glass up to the refrigerator’s water dispenser and let the glass fill. “Filtered water.”

  Reeves smiled and nodded. He took the glass from the man when offered and took a long drink. He looked around the kitchen. “The house really is beautiful. How old?”

  “This version was built in 1872 to replace the one burned down during the Civil War. The one before was burned down during the Revolutionary War so this is the third iteration.”

  Reeves finished the water and handed the glass to the man.

  He placed the glass on the counter.

  “Well, I guess that’s all I need,” Reeves said. He turned. “This way?”

  “Yep,” the man said. He led Reeves back into the sitting room and toward the front door.

  Reeves paused in the middle of the solid wood floor and gazed around the room. His eyes fell on a painting hanging over the fireplace. He pointed. “Original owners?”

  The man stopped and turned back. “First in the family.”

  Reeves focused on the five people: two men, two women, and a boy. All wore clothing from the early eighteenth century. He stepped closer to the painting and squinted at their faces. He tightened his jaw. One of the faces he recognized. The resemblance was unmistakable. “Who are they?”

  The man stepped closer. “That’s Jeremy and Lisa Jackson on the left and Karen and Stephen Mason on the right. That’s their son, Michael, there in front. The first owners in my family.”

  Reeves gazed at Mason’s likeness in the painting. He glanced back at the man. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Michael Mason. I was named after the boy in the painting.” He smiled as he peered at the boy.

  “And the four of them owned the property?”

  “Well, started out in the Jackson name, but apparently the wife wasn’t able to have children. The property was willed to Michael there.”

  “And the Mason’s only had the one child.”

  “Yep. With so many childhood deaths back then, most families had a parcel of kids hoping at least some would survive.”

  “But they had just the one,” Reeves said.

  “Not sure why they didn’t have more, maybe the wife wasn’t able.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t want to mess up history,” Reeves said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Reeves said, as he stepped closer to the painting and squinted. “What’s that in Mister Mason’s right hand?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Michael stepped closer. “None of us in the family could ever figure that out. Looks like something gold. His fingers are closed around most of it. Hard to tell, especially with the age of this painting. It’s pretty much the only thing here that goes back to the very beginning, except their graves. They’re all buried on the property.”

  “Like a badge,” Reeves said.

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, like a badge.” He leaned closer to the spot of gold in the painting and then peered at Reeves. “Like your badge.”

  Reeves nodded and turned to Michael. “Where are your brothers?”

  “Two doctors and a lawyer,” Michael said. “Too busy to worry about this place. That’s my job.”

  Reeves extended his hand. “It was very nice to meet you Mister Mason.

  Michael took his hand. “You too Mister—”

  “Reeves, Mike Reeves.”

  Michael escorted Reeves to the door. “I can’t imagine why this address was written on the pad, but I hope you find your missing man.”

  “I have a very good idea where he is,” Reeves said.

  Michael smiled, they shook hands again, and Reeves returned to his car.

  He drove away with thoughts of what it would be like to live in eighteenth century Charles Town.

  A REQUEST FROM THE AUTHOR

  Thank you for reading A Ripple In Time. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I do have one request. I ask that you please take a few moments to enter a product review on your Amazon Orders page. Independent authors depend on reviews to get their books noticed. And reviews also help make my future books better. A few moments of your time would be much appreciated. I look forward to reading your thoughts. —Victor Zugg

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Victor Zugg is a former US Air Force officer and OSI special agent who served and lived all over the world. Given his extensive travels and opportunities to settle anywhere, it is ironic that he now resides in Florida, only a few miles from his hometown of Orlando. He credits the warm temperatures for that decision.

  Check out the author’s other novels—Solar Plexus (1), Near Total Eclipse (Solar Plexus 2), Surrounded By The Blue, and From Near Extinction.