Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  He went to the crib and bent down, putting his palm on top of the child’s thin, soft hair to pat it gently.

  “Hey, little buddy. You’re three now. Time to lose the diapers and the thumb. You need to take charge of your life because nobody else will. Trust me on this,” he whispered to his blue-eyed self, feeling a strange tingle crawl across his arm and enter his chest.

  “And one more thing. When some bully calls you a freak, just turn and walk away. Otherwise, you’ll end up looking like me. These scars are more than just skin deep. They never really go away.”

  Baby Lucas smiled and giggled again, never taking his thumb from his mouth.

  Lucas turned and went for the door. His fingers pushed it open, allowing him to slip into the hallway. He gave baby Lucas one last glance, then shut the door behind him, leaving it open two inches as before.

  Before he could take a step, he heard a loud crash. The cracking, splinter sound made him think someone had just kicked in a door. A second later, a woman screamed as heavy footsteps and clatter rang out ahead of him.

  “Don’t move!” a male voice shouted.

  Lucas froze, wondering if he’d been discovered.

  “Who are you?” another man asked, his voice lower in pitch.

  “What do you want?” the woman asked, crying through the words.

  Lucas heard a whack, then a heavy thump, like something had just hit the floor—all of the sounds came at him carrying a faint echo. However, all he saw was empty hallway, meaning something was happening in one of the connecting rooms ahead.

  “Secure her!” the first man commanded.

  “Let go of me!” the woman yelled. She sounded like she was struggling.

  The next few seconds were filled with scuffling sounds and several more thumps and whacks.

  Lucas stayed low and moved silently to an arched opening on the left side of the long hallway. He peered around the wall break and found a tall houseplant next to the opening on the other side. Its thick leaves and branches provided an effective cover as he observed the spacious room. There were leather couches, plush recliners, glass coffee tables, a stone fireplace, and a ceiling-mounted projection TV.

  Seven tall, slender men—all wearing dark ski masks, fitted black suits and white, pressed dress shirts—were armed and huddled around a couple in the middle of the room. The man and woman were kneeling on an area rug. Both of them had wedding rings, red hair, and looked to be in their early twenties. The husband’s face looked swollen, and he was bleeding from a cut on his lower lip. His wife was next to him, crying, with heavy splotches of makeup running down her cheeks. Her mouth was covered with a white strip of cloth, and one of the intruders had the barrel of his pistol pressed against the side of her head.

  Lucas assumed the couple was his parents. At first he thought this was a drug deal gone bad, but what he was seeing didn’t support the hypothesis. Drug dealers don’t typically wear matching, expensive suits and ties and show this much restraint, at least not in any movie he’d ever seen.

  One of the assailants went to the kitchen. It was located on the far side of the room, directly across from Lucas’ position. A suite of stainless steel appliances, beautiful raised-panel hickory cabinets, and stunning granite counters caught his eye first. His parents were rich, at least by his standards—living in a spacious home with modern furnishings and state-of-the-art electronics—at least for 1984. Not exactly the kind of house he expected two lowlife criminals to own.

  He was starting to wonder if the information he’d heard about his drug-dealing parents was wrong. If it was, it would mean he’d spent his entire life hating them for no reason. The skin across his chest tightened when he realized the very foundation of who he was and why he was ultra-motivated to make a name for himself had just been eroded to a paper-thin wafer.

  If they weren’t drug dealers, then he wasn’t a crack baby. The kid in the room behind him wasn’t out of control. In fact, he was just the opposite—a happy, relatively calm kid who was loved by affluent parents who showered him with toys. Deep down, he knew his subconscious had always used the crack baby excuse as the fundamental reason to live with a bit of an edge, letting his temper roam free whenever it wanted. Had he been an asshole all these years and done so on his own? What kind of man did that make him?

  What else don’t I know about them?

  The man in the kitchen retrieved a pair of fancy, high-back wooden chairs from the breakfast eating area and brought them to the center of the room. As the man moved, his suit coat rose up and exposed something shiny on his belt. It was a pair of handcuffs, and they were hanging next to a handheld radio.

  Cops?

  Or feds—he couldn’t be sure. It could also be a hit squad, or a band of well-dressed mercenaries. Could even be the CIA for all he knew. Something definitely felt off, and it wasn’t just the squad of men with guns or the revelation about his parents. The scene playing out in front of him was all wrong. He didn’t know what this was, but it wasn’t about crack junkie parents and their drugs.

  His parents were pulled to their feet and forced to sit in the chairs by two different men, who promptly secured their hands behind their backs.

  A man stepped forward and grabbed Lucas’ father by the chin, tugging it up with force. “Who’d you give it to, Chapman?”

  Chapman? My last name is Chapman?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chapman said after the man let go of his face.

  “The floppy. We are here to reacquire the information you stole.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy.” Chapman nodded at the wall by the fireplace. “See all those certificates? I’m a chemist. I design food preservatives.”

  Lucas looked at the man’s display of accomplishments and felt a wave of pride enter his body. His old man was a scientist, like him.

  “We know who you are, Chapman. Or should I say, Red Seven. We’ve been tracking you for some time.”

  “I told you, you have the wrong guy. I’m a chemist. Not a spy.”

  Holy crap! My dad’s a spook? But for what country? Ours or someone else’s?

  The lead man looked to his right, grabbing one of his team members by the lapel. “Bring in the doc. Time to expedite,” the man said with no perceptible accent.

  The tension in the room rose tenfold. Lucas watched the man’s colleague hustle outside through the splintered door hanging gingerly on its hinges. It was a few feet to the left of the impressive kitchen.

  Lucas needed to go get help and save his family from these thugs. The hallway he was hiding in looked like it angled around and emptied into the kitchen from the right. He might be able to make it that far safely, then hide behind the center island where his parents’ six-burner gas stove was installed. But getting to the broken door undetected was going to be next to impossible. He’d need a diversion or a miracle. Maybe both. Then he’d have to figure out how to slip past however many men were standing guard outside.

  “What are you going to do?” his dad asked the man in charge.

  “Starling’s going to administer a special blend of pharmaceuticals to your wife. Once he does, you’ll have precisely three minutes to tell us what we want to know.”

  Starling? Dr. Starling? The guy I knocked down in the hospital?

  “What happens after three minutes?” Chapman asked, spitting a patch of blood from his mouth.

  “Her heart stops. But trust me when I say this cocktail is designed to induce more pain than anyone could imagine. At least it does right up until the moment when the heart explodes. We call it Protocol 2, and it’s most effective on trained operatives.”

  Lucas’ mom starting screaming muffled sounds into the gag, stomping her feet and shaking the chair she was strapped to.

  “You can’t do that! We’re US citizens and we have rights!” Chapman snapped.

  “Not today, Chapman. Today, all you have is a few minutes. So decide now. Tell us what we want to know, or watch your wife suffer a horrible, pa
inful death.”

  “If you harm her, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  “Those are big words from a lowly food engineer. Besides, I don’t think you’re in a position to be making threats. You might want to save your energy for what comes next.”

  Lucas turned and looked at the baby’s bedroom door. His mind slipped into analytical mode, sifting through all the data he’d gathered. If this home invasion happened the first time around, he didn’t remember any of it. Why? It wasn’t because he was only three years old. He had other memories from this age, albeit faint and spotty. Still, a home invasion of this magnitude would certainly be something he’d remember, even as a toddler.

  That meant none of this happened the first time through history. If it didn’t, then this incursion, along with each of his previous, had caused bigger and wider ripples to bleed back and change the past.

  Fuji did mention something about significantly more power being needed to travel further back in time. More power would result in bigger ripples, affecting larger chunks of the past each and every time. With each change, the math would grow infinitely more complex, so much so that even a brilliant man like Fuji couldn’t anticipate all the variables and formulate corrective action.

  Then it hit him: time travel was a no-win scenario.

  Every incursion, no matter how carefully planned and executed, would always cause timeline changes to bleed back and alter more of the preceding past. The effects would spread and magnify, making the entire process unpredictable and unquantifiable. It was all starting to crystallize in his mind: their plan to target specific anchor points with planned changes wasn’t going to work, regardless of how tightly focused the selection process was.

  Time would always find a way to fight back and adjust, like the flow of a river around an obstacle.

  Regardless of the temporal mechanics at play, right now his task was the same. He couldn’t leave the child to face a life without parents—a life in foster care. Or face the wrath of the men holding his parents hostage. He needed to take the baby far away and keep him safe, avoiding the orphanage and a future with Drew. To do that, he’d need a car and a modicum of luck.

  His eyes returned to the scene in front of him and spotted his mom’s purse sitting by the toaster on the kitchen counter. There were probably car keys inside, and he was already a pro at stealing women’s keys.

  A chance came to move down the hallway undetected when all the men in the room had their heads turned. He took it, circling around to the unguarded entrance to the kitchen on the right. He crawled on hands and knees while the men’s eyes were focused elsewhere, scooting into the kitchen behind the center island. His hand went up and felt around for the purse. He found it.

  Once it was locked in his fingers, he pulled it down from the counter, praying none of the cops saw his covert maneuver. He paused for a minute to listen and verify. The conversation in the other room hadn’t changed. He figured he was safe and peered around the island. All heads were turned the other way, allowing him to crawl back to the hallway with the purse hanging from his mouth. A minute later, he was back in the room where baby Lucas was now sleeping.

  He dug through the purse and found a set of keys. The key chain said Lincoln. He put the purse down quietly and opened the bedroom window. It only took a second to push the screen out before grabbing the sleeping kid, who fell limp in his arms. He climbed outside and ducked behind a bush to check for sentries. There were none. Perhaps the rest of the invaders were out front and not on perimeter watch since the Chapmans had been secured inside. Then again, the men wouldn’t want to raise suspicion with the neighbors, so a low-profile presence would have been wise. He may not have to fight his way through a gauntlet of men after all.

  A slight grin fell on his lips, realizing his simple escape plan might work. Like Professor Kleezebee used to say, sometimes the easiest solution is the hardest to find.

  Keep it simple. One step at a time.

  He needed to work his way around to the garage and slip in through the main door on the side. Mom drove a Lincoln, which in 1984 was a heavy sedan. It should make an excellent getaway vehicle. He needed it to be full of gas and parked in the garage. Otherwise, this would be the shortest escape attempt of all time.

  42

  Lucas peered over the fence from the side yard to check if there were any men out front. He could only see a small portion of the front yard, but didn’t see anyone, and there weren’t any vehicles on the driveway leading to the street. He used his mother’s keys to gain entry to the garage through the side door. A four-door, lime-green Lincoln Town Car was parked inside. It was spotless and looked brand-new.

  The dome light had been left on, allowing him to see inside before opening any of its doors. He prayed the battery hadn’t been drained completely, otherwise the starter wouldn’t receive enough cold cranking amps to turn the engine over. A child seat had been installed behind the front passenger seat, much as he expected. In fact, he’d counted on it.

  He opened the door and put baby Lucas in the car seat in the back and strapped him in, taking extra care to ensure a snug fit for the rough ride ahead. He was amazed the kid was still asleep—out like a light. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping that hard, at least not since he was dumped off at the state home as a preschooler. Danger had a habit of finding him, so he had slept with one eye open in his bunk. It was a tough habit to break, even after the Ramsay family took him in a few years later. If he was lucky enough to get four or five hours of actual sleep, he was usually good to go in the morning. Though perpetual tiredness did have a tendency to make him a little cranky.

  He was about to walk around to the driver’s seat when something occurred to him. What if this child wasn’t him? What if it was some random red-haired little boy whose name just happened to be Lucas? It wouldn’t be the first time the universe had tricked him. He needed to know for sure before he risked his life and humanity’s future. There wasn’t time or the equipment for a DNA test, and he couldn’t compare fingerprints with a child. So only one choice remained—his birthmark.

  It didn’t take much for his fingers to peel down the side of the diaper, allowing him to check the baby’s hip. There it was, right where it should be—a random splotch of skin discoloration that looked like a wrinkled koala bear. The test was conclusive. This child was him, and the people being tortured inside were his parents.

  He couldn’t risk waiting for the garage door to open on its own. The men outside would react instantly, surrounding the car before he could step on the gas. His only choice was to gun the engine in reverse and smash through the aluminum door, then spin a one-eighty and make a run for it. His plan would put baby Lucas in danger, but he didn’t have a choice. The safety seat needed to do its job.

  The Town Car’s seats were a gray leather—soft and plush. His butt nestled in, appreciating the comfort and fit of a true luxury car. He used the power controls to push the seat back to make room for his legs. He’d obviously gotten all his height from his old man since Mom was a shorty, having to sit so close to the steering wheel and pedals.

  He put his forehead against the top of the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. He had a plan in mind, but it was going to take everything he had to make it work. The number of men out front was an unknown, and so was their reaction. Would they fire their weapons or simply try to block his exit? He figured they’d give chase regardless, but it would take them a minute to run to their cars and begin pursuit. Once he had a head start, he’d need to find a way to give them the slip.

  “Evasive maneuvers” was one of his favorite tag lines from Star Trek. That’s precisely what it was going to take to get away unscathed. He was planning to send help back for his parents, assuming he had a chance to do so. If not, they were on their own. If time was watching him and making corrections to his actions, then they were probably dead anyway. Baby Lucas was his one and only priority. It was a new twist on the old saying, take care of yourself
first.

  He looked at himself in the rearview mirror, summoning all his resolve. It worked. He was now ready, and so was a snoring baby Lucas in the backseat.

  The eight-cylinder engine seemed to start on its own. Its powerful howl made his body react, moving the transmission into reverse and stomping on the gas. The rear-wheel drive Lincoln spun its tires on the slippery garage floor for a few seconds before they caught traction.

  The four-thousand-pound beast lurched backward, crashing into the door and plowing through it. The garage door screeched and clanked as its metal was bent back and out of the way. The Lincoln cruised across the cement apron and made it to the street. A moment later, he made a U-turn and put the car into drive. He raced off, his eyes checking the scene. Three identical black sedans with government plates were parked along the curb in front of his parents’ house, but he didn’t see any of the men. They must have all been inside.

  He drove a quick fifty feet and turned onto a connecting street, cruising away from his parents’ house. The compass ball on the top of the dash told him the car was pointed north. The rearview mirror showed four men running to their cars from the front door of the house. One of them was using a handheld radio, while the rest seemed content to holster their weapons as they moved.

  The neighbors around the home were stirring now as lights popped on and doors opened. Lucas made alternating lefts and rights, accelerating through the network of residential streets in what he assumed was an upscale neighborhood in Tucson. Probably east Tucson, if he had to guess, near the luxury homes he knew existed at the foot of Mount Lemon.

  The digital clock on the dashboard told him it was 1:37 a.m. He smiled and increased his speed, knowing the streets would be mostly deserted at this time of night. He continued north, planning to disappear on the mountain roads of Mount Lemon. If he could make it up and over its 9,100-foot peak, he’d be home free.