Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Lucas shrugged. He knew there was no right choice. It was all just a guess.

  Masago slapped him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “My father used to preach to me that inaction breeds failure. He believed that in order to succeed in life, we have to act, not react. Otherwise, we have no hope of ever getting ahead.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “There has to be a way. We just have to find it,” she said in a firm tone. “No—I’m not going to let you quit. You’re a better man than that.”

  “At least you believe in me,” he said, running his fingers through his short-cropped hair, thinking about Drew and his mother. They were alive in this time period, but there was a high probability their fates were still on a collision course with horrible, untimely deaths.

  Part of him wanted to abandon everything and go see his mother before the Krellian energy domes appeared. His heart longed to hear her voice one more time. To get a tender hug and peck on the cheek. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t—Masago was right. He had to try to complete his mission while there was still time. First up, get the glasses working and repair the suit. Then, travel back to an earlier date. Otherwise, his mother’s death, and everyone else’s, would become permanent.

  There, he finally made a decision, allowing him to breathe a little easier. Granted, it wasn’t much of a decision, but it would have to do. Besides, who’s to say that Masago’s help wasn’t supposed to be part of this newly formed timeline? A slight smile grew on his lips.

  “Maybe the professor will have some ideas?” Masago asked.

  Lucas nodded. “Worth a try at this point. Will you drive me to campus?”

  “Sure! Anywhere you want to go.”

  He flexed his leg. It may have been his imagination talking, but the range of motion felt like it was even better than a few minutes ago, and the pain was less. His thoughts shifted to the Tumbler and their trip into town.

  “If we’re going to do this, we’ll need a different ride.”

  “Why?”

  “Yours will attract too much attention. It doesn’t exactly blend in.”

  “I see your point. Maybe my brother will loan us his truck.”

  “Is he close?”

  “Rocket’s place is only a few miles away. Won’t take long. You stay here. I’ll be right back to pick you up.”

  Lucas was thankful she didn’t want him tagging along. There was little chance her brother would be cool with her hanging out with some dude she just met in the desert.

  The happy-go-lucky look on her face wilted. “While I’m gone, you should start flexing that knee. You’re way behind in your recovery.”

  “I doubt anything works that fast.”

  “This medicine does. Trust me. It’s time to start pushing through the pain. It’ll help loosen it up. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  14

  Attorney Randol Larson waited for the two-hundred-fifty-pound secretary to open the door to the office of the university president, then waddle her incredibly huge rear out of the way.

  Her butt cheeks were wrapped inside laser-cut, red spandex pants, highlighting every triple-sided roll of fat growing on her five-foot-two frame. Her buns flopped and wiggled with each step like an out-of-control waterbed. Her figure, if you could call it that, was a far cry from the bevy of perfect specimens he’d wanted to enjoy at the strip club earlier.

  Larson held back a comment swirling around inside his brain as he made his way inside the office, walking across the university’s emblem, which was etched into the wood floor of the expansive office. He sat in the visitor’s chair and waited for President Lathrop to finish reading a stack of paperwork in a red folder on his desk.

  Randol studied the body language of the fifty-something president, the youngest in school history. Every move appeared to be calculated and measured, as if President Lathrop knew he was being watched. He was a confident leader, and Randol knew he’d better be ready for anything. He ran through a list of excuses in his head, making sure each one would hold up to scrutiny, depending on the direction and intent of the meeting. That’s assuming this get-together was actually a meeting and not an exit interview in disguise.

  His boss closed the folder and looked up, his face stiff and eyes focused.

  Randol took a deep breath. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Lathrop stood from his chair and slid the folder across the desk. It spun around twice before coming to rest an inch from the edge. “We have a breach.”

  Randol opened the folder. Inside was a photocopy of a magazine article from an issue of Astrophysics Today. It was several pages long and entitled “The Laws of Physics Are Merely a Suggestion.” He scanned the first page of the article, trying to make sense of the scientific mumbo-jumbo coursing through the paragraphs. He caught the gist of it and recognized its significance. “Who wrote this?”

  His boss walked to the front of the oak desk and sat on the leading edge, less than a foot from Randol’s knees. He took his bifocal glasses off. “Look on page three.”

  Randol flipped the paperwork to the last page. He found the author’s name—Lucas Ramsay. “Where’d you get this?”

  “It came in the mail today. Imagine my surprise when I read the byline.”

  “You subscribe to this rag?” Randol asked, feeling the body heat from his boss wash over him.

  “I went to MIT, remember?”

  Randol nodded, scooting his chair back a bit so he could breathe. Every inch of extra clearance felt like a yard. He wondered why his boss was sitting so damn close. Probably some type of intimidation maneuver, he decided. He tried to ignore Lathrop’s proximity, but couldn’t.

  Lathrop continued, “I find it helpful to stay abreast of things, especially when dealing with brilliant, but arrogant, academia types like Dr. Kleezebee and Ramsay.”

  Randol read through the last page. “If I’m understanding what Ramsay is saying in this article, he’s talking about the possibility of inter-dimensional travel.”

  “That’s an accurate assessment.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Ramsay’s project about antigravity?”

  Lathrop nodded.

  “Okay, maybe I’m missing something. Granted, I’m just a lawyer, who doesn’t speak geek, but there’s no mention of antigravity. Where’s the confidentiality breach?”

  “Not confidentiality breach—security breach. I just got off a call with Hudson Rapp, the director of NASA. He expects heads to roll. So does William Myers, with Homeland Security.”

  “Homeland Security? Why?”

  “There was a recent incursion just outside of town. Fortunately, General Alvarez was able to deploy his forces and neutralize the threat. Apparently, NASA has been the target of recent terrorist threats, and Rapp’s claiming this paper brought undue attention down on everyone. He believes this leak of information directly led to the attack. Myers, with Homeland, agrees with Rapp’s assessment, and so do I. The evidence suggests the insurgents followed the money trail to Tucson and ultimately discovered NASA’s secret installation on campus.”

  “From this paper? That seems like a stretch, boss.”

  Lathrop inched a bit closer to Randol, still resting his backside on the edge of the desk. “You know how much we rely on NASA’s funding.”

  “This is precisely why I advised you not to allow them to build their facility beneath our property. Once they establish a foothold, they’re bound to exert their considerable influence and demand certain concessions. They knew how cash-starved we were when they brought their original offer to us, and now they’re going to use it as leverage. Every opportunity they get.”

  “That may be true, but at this point, it boils down to one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “If they’re concerned about a breach, I’m concerned. And if I’m concerned, then it’s your job to make it go away.”

  “So, let me make sure I’m understanding correctl
y. Basically you’re suggesting I make up some bullshit against Ramsay and have it stick?”

  “It’s not a suggestion.”

  “I could be disbarred for fabricating evidence.”

  “I wonder what would happen if the State Bar Association learned of your extracurricular activities on Broadway Boulevard.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Do you really think I don’t know about your visits to the strip club? You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re a married man.”

  “Black Beard’s? You know about that?”

  “As the president of this university, it’s my job to know everything. And when I learn of something that can tarnish the reputation of this fine institution, I take action and deal with the problem head-on.”

  “What I do on my own time is my business. So is my marriage. I advise you to tread lightly when it comes to my wife or my kids.”

  “Aren’t you in recovery?”

  “Again, that’s a private matter.”

  “Last time I checked, beer is still considered to be an alcoholic beverage. Driving a motor vehicle after several rounds of Fosters in an hour is considered a DUI in this state.”

  “You son of a bitch. You had me followed.”

  “You left me no choice. Several staff members complained of alcohol on your breath. I was forced to launch an inquiry.”

  “When?”

  “Last year.”

  “And yet, you waited until now to throw this in my face?”

  “He who has the knowledge, has the power. That’s the key to success in any endeavor. Of course, it’s even more important to know precisely how and when to use it. I’m sure your wife would be disappointed if she learned where you’ve been spending your lunch hours. And with who.”

  “So now you’re gonna blackmail me?”

  “Blackmail is such a distasteful term. I prefer to think of it as focused motivation.”

  Randol was about to release his temper when something occurred to him. He could use Ramsay’s article and its security breach as an excuse to halt the experiment tonight. Then collect the bonus payment from the buyer tomorrow. It was a gift from heaven. His rage evaporated.

  “What do NASA and Homeland Security want?”

  “Terminate Ramsay’s experiment.”

  He held back the smile tearing at his lips. “That can only be sanctioned by the Advisory Committee, which won’t be easy. Kleezebee has a lot of friends on that panel.”

  “I have every confidence you’ll find a way, now that you’re properly focused.”

  “Why don’t you simply pick up the phone and have it shut down? After all, you are the president. I’m sure the Board of Regents would agree with your decision.”

  Lathrop shook his head, looking at the floor for a moment and then back at Randol. He stood and walked around the desk, taking a seat in his high-back leather chair. “I need you to handle it. I can’t be involved directly.”

  “You really are a son of a bitch.”

  “I’m sure there are those who would agree with you. But I’m just doing my job to protect this institution.”

  “Yeah, from the shadows,” Randol said, feeling this was a personal vendetta. It was clear he was being used to carry out some underhanded tactics. As a litigation attorney and a former marine, he loved a good fight, and normally would stand his ground. But not today. Not now. He needed to defuse the situation and use it to his advantage. He didn’t want to tip his hand.

  Larson exhaled, taking a good ten seconds to let the air out. “You’re right. I have a problem. For whatever reason, I can’t seem to stay away from the club. We all have a weakness, right?”

  “Once we’re through this crisis with NASA, I’ll expect you to check into rehab. You need to get clean and sober. Then we’ll find you a counselor who can help with your stripper problem.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your support.”

  “Once the experiment is shut down, I need you to confiscate the E-121 material and have it delivered to NASA.”

  “That’s what this is really about—the E-121?”

  “They want an exclusive.”

  “Kleezebee will never allow it. I’m pretty sure he secretly funded its recovery from Mexico through one of his offshore holding companies.”

  “He won’t have a choice. The situation now falls under the purview of national security. We can’t allow anyone to leak information that incites terrorism. Especially a junior researcher like Dr. Ramsay.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Randol said, thinking through the ramifications of this meeting and how it might affect his standing within the family. “If I do this—”

  “When you do this.”

  “Yes, when I do this, General Alvarez can never know about my lunchtime activity. You do know I’m married to his sister, right?”

  “Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to dip your wick into the forbidden fruit.”

  “Look, judge me all you want, but consider the fact that my brother-in-law despises me already. He’s just looking for a reason to put a bullet in my head. If he learns of this, you’ll never find my body. That certainly won’t help you with NASA or the feds. You know as well as I do that Kleezebee won’t go down without a fight. You’re going to need me to carry out more of your legal dirty work, and that can’t happen if I’m buried in the desert somewhere.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Then we have an agreement?”

  “For now.”

  “Good enough,” Randol said, sliding the folder back across the desk. It landed in the president’s lap.

  “Be sure to shut the door on your way out,” his boss said.

  Randol stood and walked away without a response. He took the cell phone from his coat pocket and deactivated the recording software before he made it to the door. He was going to be up late tonight, sorting through the day’s audio files on both devices after he returned home from his wife’s dinner party.

  He walked past Lathrop’s secretary without saying a word, not that she noticed. She was busy reading an issue of Weight Watcher’s magazine while snacking on a king-size Snickers bar.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Larson slipped through the revolving doors of the science lab carrying his briefcase and made his way to the security desk where Bruno Benner was talking to a group of students. Randol made eye contact with the friendly guard, giving him a head bob to get his attention. Bruno moved out from behind the station and walked to Randol’s position, ten feet away from the waiting students.

  “Good afternoon, Counselor. What can I do for you today?”

  “I need a pass.”

  “May I ask the nature of your visit today?”

  “I need to speak to Dr. Davies, then Dr. Ramsay.”

  Bruno checked the iPad in his hands, scrolling through several screens of information. “I don’t see your name on the list.”

  “When has that ever been a problem?”

  “Sorry, no unscheduled visitors today. Dr. Kleezebee’s orders.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t say. But all visitors must be preapproved and then escorted by security personnel while they’re onsite.”

  “This is an outrage! He can’t deny me access!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders.”

  “Is Kleezebee here? I need to speak with him, at once!”

  “He stepped out for a meeting. But you could try him on his cell.”

  “Better yet, why don’t you do your fucking job and stop wasting my time. Walk your fat ass over to that little security station of yours, pick up the goddamned phone and call him. I’m certain he’ll authorize access, especially after you explain to him that the university president has ordered a complete investigation into Ramsay’s project. There’s been a security breach and I’ve been tasked to lead the investigation.”

  “Security breach? How?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s above
your pay grade. Are you going to make the call, or do I need to get President Lathrop involved?”

  “No, no, no. That won’t be necessary. Wait here,” Bruno said before he turned and walked to the security station. He picked up the phone and spent a solid minute talking on it before returning to Randol.

  “I spoke to Dr. Kleezebee. He’s cleared you for access, but asked that you return in one hour.”

  “Why?”

  “Neither Dr. Davies nor Dr. Ramsay are currently here.”

  “When will they be?”

  “In an hour, when their shifts are scheduled to begin.”

  “So, you’re seriously not going to let me pass?”

  “Sorry, Counselor, but I have my orders. We all answer to someone.”

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” Randol said, checking the time on his watch. He turned and stormed for the entrance, banging his shoulders on the revolving glass doors as they carried him outside.

  15

  Masago tore through one curve after another, pushing the front suspension of the Tumbler to its limits as she flew across the washboard terrain of the open desert on her way to her brother’s secluded compound. The thick layers of sand and gravel should have been making the vehicle skid from side to side with each nudge of the steering wheel, but the virgin off-road tread on the jumbo tires was gripping the surface as if it were dry pavement.

  “Let’s take it up a notch,” she said, stomping on the accelerator, hoping to force-feed her chest with more adrenaline. It worked. The back end of the Tumbler was now fishtailing wildly as she navigated a series of switchback bends in the trail. If Lucas had been along for the ride, she imagined he’d be screaming by now.

  “Roads? Who needs roads?” she said, pushing a smile through her clenched lips and stiff jaw. She aimed the front tires at a four-foot-tall swell of dirt, sending her and the vehicle airborne.

  “Oh yeah!” she screamed, waiting for the back end of the Tumbler to make contact with Mother Earth. It did, clearing a swimming-pool-size spread of river rock in the process.

  Then she saw it—the teetering, double-stacked, red-colored mailbox. It was about a hundred feet away, marking the last mile of dust to nowhere. Well, not nowhere exactly; it was the home stretch that would take her to the razor wire fence protecting Rocket’s prepper camp.