Time-Travel Duo

by James Paddock

  “A double portion,” Ruth told him. “Because you missed supper.”

  After James left, Ruth fixed something for the two of them and then they sat and talked for a half hour. It wasn’t until Ruth yawned several times and then excused herself for the night that Anne remembered the rumpled bed, but the more she thought about it the more she felt foolish. To bring it up would be like a child whining because someone touched his toy while he was away. Childish. Ruth herself might have gone in and relaxed for some reason, or a houseguest.

  Stop thinking about it.

  Go to bed.

  Nathaniel Bronson was sitting on a chest, not eight feet from the attic door, thinking through his plan. Knock Mrs. Waring out with the ether. Carry her down the stairs and out the door to the car. Take her to the beach house and then, in a bit more than twenty-four hours, take her to the U-boat. Suddenly there was a noise and then...

  “You’re supposed to be outside.”

  James Lamric – right outside the door.

  “Got tired of waiting.”

  Mrs. Waring! He listened to the exchange, realizing that they suspected someone was in the house and that Lamric was coming to look in the attic.

  There was little more than fuzzy shapes to guide him, but Bronson managed to move to a corner without making a noise, and lay down behind an old dresser. And there he remained – after the crash, the breaking glass and Anne’s scream, after the house quieted down, and then for at least another three hours, maybe four. When he finally moved, he did so slowly, remaining on his hands and knees, gently feeling ahead for the broken glass. When he started finding it, he carefully brushed it aside, clearing only a few square inches at a time.

  Once at the door, he opened it and then sat and listened. The first thing he had done when he came into the house was memorize her bedroom layout and the path to the back door. From there he observed the yard for obstructions, analyzed the simple lock and ensured it disengaged quietly, and then retraced his path back to her bedroom. He bounced his weight on her bed. A bit noisy but not much different than if she changed positions – a normal sound. The last thing he did before climbing up to the attic was cycle her door several times until he was sure he could open it noiselessly. He didn’t know what woke her in September, but he was determined to not do it again.

  The fact that the front door was unlocked wasn’t normal. He should have thought of that. He got lucky and as a result almost got caught. If Lamric hadn’t broken the window, would he have discovered the bulky form behind the dresser, lying in spider webs and mouse droppings?

  He didn’t like the idea that he got lucky. Luck can also turn against you. He sat at the top of the attic steps for another ten minutes and then began his slow progress down to the second floor.

  Anne woke with a start, sat up and looked in every dark corner of the room. She rose from the bed, put her hand on Elizabeth until she could feel her breathing, and then slipped back under the covers. It was a sound that woke her but she couldn’t figure out if it was in her dream, which was totally forgotten, or if it was real. Maybe Ruth got up and was moving around, or maybe the house just creaked.

  She pulled the blankets up around her neck and stared at the ceiling, listening to the house, wondering if she would be able to fall back to sleep. What was it that woke her two months ago, when she was attacked by Bronson, when she got a handful of him and sent him out the door hurting?

  The smell! That’s what woke her last time. The ether smell. She took a deep breath and listened to the report from her olfactory nerves.

  Elizabeth Anne.

  Humidity rising off of old wood.

  The wool blanket on top of the comforter.

  She let out the breath, heard the chime of the clock in the distant reaches of the house, felt a weight pull down on her eyelids, fought it briefly, and then fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  Chapter 56

  Saturday ~ November 6, 1943

  Bronson thought he knew which was the bad board on the steps; was certain he had counted when he hit it going up. He stepped across the third and placed his entire weight, unchecked, onto the fourth. The scream from metal scraping against wood made him jump. It sounded loud enough to wake the people in the next house. He considered retreating into the attic and then chose instead to wait and listen. He eased his weight off the step, onto the next and considered what to do if a bedroom door opened.

  Run for it. James Lamric wasn’t home so there was no worry about getting away, but he would lose his chance at Anne Waring.

  He should have used a gun. The ether didn’t work the first time so why was he trying it again? Because, buying a gun when your face is on every telephone pole in the state is risky. A German spy has no friends. Even in disguise a gun dealer has smart eyes.

  A toy gun. In the dark something that looked like a gun would have worked and he could have easily gotten one of those.

  The clock downstairs chimed the half hour. Bronson wondered what half hour that was – 3:30 or 4:30?

  He eased farther down the steps and then sat at the bottom for at least another ten minutes.

  Standing outside her door, Bronson poured a portion of ether into a rag, put the lid back on the bottle, returned it to his pocket, and then gently opened the door and slipped in. Not wasting time like he did before, he went directly to the bed. In a quick motion he pressed the cloth over her nose and mouth, straddled across her chest on his knees trapping her arms against her body, and then waited. She struggled but there was no contest. Even in the dark he could see the glare in her eyes, a fierceness that made him glad she was trapped. It had to be minutes that she held on before she was forced to breathe and then it was still more minutes before she succumbed.

  Easy.

  He pulled back the covers and was pleased to find she was in a nightgown. He had clothes for her at the beach house, so he slung her over his shoulder and walked down the stairs and out the back door. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.

  Only one low fence to step over and then another half block, and into the back seat of his car. No one out. Dark and quiet. He drove two blocks without his lights, then turned them on and worked his way over to Hwy. 17. It wasn’t until he was over the Ashley River Bridge that he started relaxing and breathing normally.

  In twenty-four hours I’ll be on the U-boat and all this will be behind me. I‘ll be with my own people, who will respect me for my accomplishments on enemy soil. He had sent back much important information over the proceeding year and would expect a position in Hitler’s regime commensurate with his dedicated service. He would be able to visit the graves of his mother, father, and grandparents, with the assurance in his own mind that their deaths had been avenged. Twenty-five years since his parents left him in Chicago to bring his grandparents out of Germany, only to be murdered by the American Army. Twenty-five years since his insides turned to ice.

  Twenty-five years, Bronson thought and then felt the car become sluggish and start to pull off the road. He held it until he could stop in front of a used furniture business. He wasn’t out of the city yet, although farms were starting to get a bit more frequent. The furniture store was the end of the commercial area. He stood in the dirt looking down at the tire gone flat and patted himself on the back for being prepared. Only the month before he had a flat and no way to repair it. This time not only did he have patches and a pump, but he also had a spare and a lamp. He checked on his captive, who was still sprawled where he had put her, and then started pulling what he needed to change the tire from the trunk.

  “Are we there yet?” Annabelle asked her father and mother who were in the front seat.

  “Not yet, Annie,” her mother said. “Lay back down and go back to sleep. It’ll help the time go faster. Still about six more hours to Fargo.”

  Can’t wait to see Grandma and Grandpa Hair. Just lie down and sleep – let the hum of the road and Daddy’s Buick bring back the sleep.

  Suddenly it felt different – rougher – as thou
gh they left the highway for a dirt road. They stopped. Anne started to say, “Something wrong, Daddy?” She probably would have if she had not realized she wasn’t nine years old and not in the back seat of her father’s Buick. She was an adult, waking up in the back seat of some other car. The waking up part was hard. The sleep monster kept trying to drag her back down into the dark abyss, but her conscience kept pulling her up. A tug-of-war, and her stomach was taking the brunt. Her conscience was winning however, more because of the help from her rolling and churning insides.

  She knew for certain she was awake when the car door opened and cold air rushed in around her neck. Whether some inner instinct told her not to move, or she actually couldn’t, she wasn’t sure. The door closed and then she started inventorying her extremities, seeing what she had control of without upchucking on herself. Whoever opened and closed the door was now banging things around in the trunk. Had she been at a party and now was passed out in the back of Ruth’s and James’ car? Her mouth didn’t taste like alcohol. It tasted like dust and rubber. She adjusted her position. Her stomach rolled again and her head turned into a mass of pain.

  She needed to sit up.

  Carefully she pushed herself up to where she could see out the side window. In the partial moonlight, a dark figure was crouched over something. A match flared and then a lamp came aglow.

  Bronson! She ducked down.

  And then she remembered him on top of her, trapping her arms and legs, holding a cloth over her mouth until she had no choice but to breathe in the gas. She remembered not being scared. Angry! That’s what she was and she had glared her anger at him until his face became fuzzy.

  Where are we now? What is he doing?

  She chanced another look at her captor. Across his bent-over back, she saw tools and a tire.

  Flat tire!

  She lay back down expecting the headache to flare. It didn’t, but it still hovered in the background like a circling vulture. The urge to expel her stomach contents hadn’t gone away, but right now that was secondary. She peeked out the window again. He was still intent on the task. Now is my chance. Not two minutes from now. Not thirty seconds from now.

  Yet, she didn’t move. Where was she escaping to? She hadn’t the faintest idea where she was. Bare feet and wearing nothing but a nightgown. That was asking for a lot more trouble.

  Stop thinking about it.

  “Just do it, Annabelle,” her mother said.

  “But I have to think about it, Mommy.”

  “Sometimes we have to stop thinking about things and just go for it,” her mother added. “Now go.”

  And she did, face first into the water. Her first dive. A belly flop, or more like a face flop, but it didn’t kill her.

  Neither would this.

  She eased to the other side of the car and looked out at a dark building, badly in need of paint. “Southern Carolina Used Furniture,” the huge sign said. If not for its apparent fresh paint, Anne would have thought the building was deserted.

  “Just do it, Annabelle,” the voice inside her head repeated.

  She looked back at the glow of light outside the far side of the car, saw only a shadow move, and turned back to where her hand rested on the door handle. She hadn’t even realized she had put it there. Again she fought back the churn of her stomach and pushed down on the handle.

  Much to her relief, the door opened quietly. She stepped out, eased it closed, and then, bent low to the ground, walked-ran to the side of the building. Once all the way in the back she stopped, waited a few seconds to see if he came after her, and scanned her options.

  A pair of parallel dirt tracks ran away from the back of the building to a dark house about a hundred yards away. Her headache wasn’t as bad but there was still a pulsing pain. Her stomach lurched. She tried to push it down – not time to get sick – but what the body needs to do, the body does. It lurched several more times and then expelled its contents. Immediately feeling better, she turned and ran down the road.

  How much time did she have before he discovered her missing? This was exactly where he would look for her. But every place else, she was out in the open.

  Dogs!

  What if I wake a guard dog?

  In the yard of the house she turned right along a wood rail fence. Something reared up at her. She stifled a scream and stumbled back, falling hard on her butt. A huge horse-head snorted down at her from the top rail of the fence. She scrambled to her feet, said, “Sorry, boy,” and continued down the path.

  The reasonably traveled trail continued along a bare field across which she could see the furniture business. She could also see the glow of light from Bronson’s lantern and knew that eventually the angle would open to the point she could see him. In her white nightgown he would also be able to see her if he happened to glance in her direction. Ahead of her was a stand of trees.

  Keep going.

  She ran on, focusing on the placement of her feet. They had grown tough and calloused from walking with the Thigpen girls, who never wore shoes. They made fun of her because she had a hard time walking up the dirt road from her cabin to their house. But she kept at it and now was grateful. The bottoms of her feet were hard. However, she still had to be careful.

  At the edge of the trees, she looked back across the field. Bronson was bent over. He picked a tire off the ground and as he put it in the trunk, Anne continued down the path that led deeper into the trees. No time to watch. No time to linger.

  Bronson picked up the lantern so he could see in the trunk. Everything was secure. He scanned the area once more, and then put out the lantern and stowed it away. He closed the trunk and then started down the passenger side of the car.

  He froze.

  The back door was ajar. He jerked it open, slammed it, and screamed, “Damn you, Mrs. Waring!”

  Anne stopped at the report of a car door slamming. She heard Bronson’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words. She could certainly imagine them though.

  The path went on for only another few minutes before it broke out again onto a field with several houses. Farmers got up early and she wondered what time it was. It could be minutes or hours until sunrise. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to deal with people or not. She just wanted to get far away from Bronson. She wanted to get back home.

  How long was she unconscious? Ten minutes? Two hours? Was she still in South Carolina?

  Southern Carolina Used Furniture! – Had to be South Carolina, and had to be near the coast if he was going to try and get her to a U-boat.

  Or was that his plan? She realized she was only assuming. She really didn’t know.

  She shivered. She was so intent on getting away, she hadn’t thought about the cold. But now it hit her. She was going to be in trouble soon if she didn’t find something more to wear or get in somewhere warm.

  She moved on across the front yards of the houses, well aware of her visibility from the road. The path ran parallel to it. But Bronson wouldn’t be looking along there, at least not yet. He would be looking around the furniture building. Passing by the second house, she could see that the path continued between the fields, and it looked to be a long way to the next stand of trees. What happens if she runs out of path? South Carolina woods are too thick to just walk through, especially in bare feet and almost no clothes in the middle of the night. She would have to get back up to the road. But if Bronson was smart, he would drive up and down the road until he saw her, knowing she would be trying to get back home.

  Something caught the corner of her eye.

  Sheets!

  Behind the second house were sheets, hanging still, glowing in the moonlight. She worked her way along the side of the house until she was standing between two rows of sheets hanging on clotheslines. Can’t wear sheets and there was nothing else except white socks. Not even a slip. She grabbed two pairs of socks and put them both on. She considered wrapping a sheet around her, decided against it, and then turned to go back to the path.

  Oh s
hit!

  A big black dog was standing at the corner of the house. His head was up, slightly turned, eyes on her.

  “Hi, big boy,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice calm. She was sure the fear was radiating off every pore of her body. “Hi, doggie.” She started moving wide around him, eventually coming up against a low fence. “Sorry about the socks. I’ll return them if I can.” She lifted one foot over the fence and came down on top of something that moved and snorted. She jerked back and fell flat on her back. A pig snout and eyes looked at her through the fence rails and she started wondering if she was better off back in Bronson’s car. The dog moved, keeping a respectful distance, opening her escape route up the side of the house. She came to her feet and slowly walked in that direction. The dog followed but remained at a distance.

  Back on the path, she started walking fast. When she looked back, the dog was standing in front of the house, watching. She was lucky. He didn’t attack her or bark and give her away. She was sure she wouldn’t be that lucky with the next dog she encountered.

  She ran along the field, staying focused on the dark line of trees a quarter or a half-mile ahead of her. She wondered how visible she was from the stand of trees she left behind, or from the road, which she sensed she was angling toward. She needed something dark. She would watch for more clotheslines and hope there were no more dogs.

  Suddenly the path stopped and she was looking at a creek. Or was it a swamp? She backed up and looked around until she found where the path branched to the right and followed between the water and the field, heading back toward the road.

  No choice.

  She started running up the path, but there was no cover. Whatever had been planted in these fields was dead and there wasn’t a thing higher than a foot. Then, something slithered ahead of her and the vision of Water Moccasins froze her into immobility. She could see nothing. The sound of moving grass stopped.

  Run past! her mind screamed, but her legs, her feet, locked her where she stood. Go! Go!