Time-Travel Duo

by James Paddock

  Jerry never came to see him. Nobody did, except Gracy and Francine, and Abby, but Abby didn’t come back. Where did she go? Was she still in Charleston or did she go back to Charlotte?

  Take one tablet, once a day, with water, the label on the bottle read. Another sign of age – the daily medicine. He had never felt his age, always prided himself on feeling twenty years younger than his peers, determined to live until now, until he could see Anne again, until he could touch her and smell her, hear her voice, glory in her presence one last time.

  Did he have a heart attack for the reasons the doctor said or did his heart simply stop because there was no longer a reason to keep going? Maybe they should have just left it alone.

  He looked up to see a nurse coming through the door with a wheel chair. “Looks like you’re ready to go, Mr. Lamric.”

  “I’m still waiting for someone to pick me up.” He didn’t know who that was and unless it was Abby, he didn’t really care.

  The nurse rolled the chair up next to him and locked the wheels. “They’re already here.” She looked around. “They were right behind me I thought. You’ve got some important friends. Yesterday Congresswoman Keeton, and today Senator Johnston.”

  James said nothing. He obediently stood and then sat in the wheelchair.

  “I’ll let you hold this,” the nurse said and placed his duffle bag in his lap. She turned the wheel chair around as Senator Johnston and Lieutenant James walked in.

  “All right, Nurse. Just do as we say and no one gets hurt. We’re breaking this old cop outa here.”

  “You won’t get a fight out of me,” she laughed.

  “James. We meet again.” Henry held out his hand. “Henry Johnston. This is Wilson Harris.”

  “It’s only been two days. I may look senile but I’m still ticking. How you doing again, Wilson?”

  “Not bad considering.”

  Henry said, “We’re all getting together for breakfast downtown – got a suite and some good catered fix’ns.”

  James had a sudden urge for somewhere quiet, with Abby. He certainly didn’t want to mingle with a bunch of people right now. He never was a mingling type anyway, and now that this was over, he only wanted to return to Charlotte, and try to repair his old life. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d really just like to find my wife and go home.”

  “This is the way I see it, James. It ain’t over until, and I must be politically correct here, the pleasantly plump person is through singing, and right now he or she has done nothing more than told everybody bad jokes.”

  “What do you mean? Gracy...’

  “I know what those two blabbermouth women told you. They’re sorry they said anything.”

  “But Bronson... Sam...”

  “We’ll talk about it on the way. Let’s let this beautiful nurse do her job and sneak you out-a-here.”

  And then all was silent until they were in the Suburban, eastbound for the city on Interstate 26. James sat in the second seat while Lieutenant James drove. The senator turned halfway around to face him. “What have you figured out so far?”

  “I’m not sure, to be truthful with you. According to Mrs. Frick, and Gracy, Anne might have been shot getting on the U-boat. She was never found.”

  “That’s the short and not so sweet of it. You need to hear the entire story.” He opened a compartment and pulled out a couple sticks of black licorice and offered one to James. James declined and Henry continued. “I would say I shouldn’t start in the middle but really, where’s the beginning?” He chewed for a few seconds. “I’ll back up a little, to Friday. That’s the night Anne was to return, except Sam managed to find her.”

  “Bronson. I know. I was there until he got the best of me.”

  “It was that fight, the diversion you created, that gave Anne the opportunity to leave Elizabeth in the bubble and draw Sam after her. In that you may have saved Elizabeth’s life. After he caught Anne, he stole your handcuffs and took her to the beach house, where she remained handcuffed until the following night, last night. That was when he made the prearranged contact with the U-boat that would take them to Germany. Since his previous two attempts at capturing her had gone afoul, this was his third and final chance. That was his third promise to the U-boat captain. This time everything went as planned. A small boat was sent for them and they were brought out to the submarine. Then it all went wrong.

  “Let me back up just a little bit again. It seems that sometime in the thirty-three hours between sending Elizabeth home, and getting to the U-boat, Anne figured out that Sam... ah, Bronson, as you knew him, was her grandfather. Can you imagine, James? Travel 44 years in time only to be taken captive by your German spy grandfather? She kept bringing up things about him. She was starting to drive him crazy. And then, just before they got to the boat, she tells him that he already has a nine-month-old daughter by his old girl friend in Chicago – Francine. The next thing he knows, they’re at the boat and the captain is issuing orders to shoot them both. He remembers standing there in shock and hearing Anne yell, ‘You’ve been set up!’ She jumps from where she was sitting and launches herself into him, propelling them both into the water, getting in the way of the bullet that was meant for him.”

  James closed his eyes. “I don’t think I want to hear any more.”

  “Oh, yes you do. Nothing is over until the plump lady screeches.”

  James opened his eyes again.

  “At first glance you might think she saved her grandfather’s life so that she may be born.”

  No, James hadn’t thought of that at all. The implications hadn’t even occurred to him. “What do you mean, at first glance?”

  “Meaning, saving Sam’s life wasn’t necessary, because Anne’s mother was already conceived and born. He didn’t need to be around for his daughter to meet and marry Robert, conceive Annabelle Hair who later became Anne Waring.”

  “So you think she experienced this at-first-glance thing as well and thought she had no choice but to save his life?”

  “Certainly not. She already knew about her mother being born. She was the one who told him. Anne was sharp. I think – actually we all think – she understood it perfectly. Even though at the age of twenty-four she had never met her grandfather, she knew quite a lot about him. She had stories from her mother, and photographs, which of course is how she recognized him.”

  “You mean she knew who he was all along?” James asked.

  “Heavens no. Sam believes it happened the morning after he captured her. That would be yesterday morning. He said he returned to the beach house from getting food and she took on an odd look. He remembered asking her several times if something was wrong and checking her handcuffs. It was after that, that she started telling him things about his family.

  “Anyway, back to the U-boat. When she saw the gun come out and the crew of the little rubber boat step away, she realized the intent was to kill Sam, and probably her as well. She also knew that he couldn’t die. The history she knew said he didn’t, so she did what she had to do to save his life.”

  “Gracy only said that maybe she was shot.”

  “There’s no doubt she was shot. There’s also no doubt she didn’t drown, that she made it ashore.”

  Chapter 72

  Sunday ~ November 14, 1943

  Anne moved her head to avoid sucking in sand and then focused on the pain to keep from passing out. Her heart was racing. She willed it to slow and wondered how much blood she had lost. And then she worried about which way the tide was moving. If she passed out and it was coming in, she could drown. She thought about that for a very long time, feeling each lap of the surf on her legs, judging where each one hit.

  It doesn’t make any difference, a voice inside her head finally told her. You can’t stay here. They may be looking for you.

  They who? she argued back. They, Bronson? He’s probably dead. They, the Germans? They probably think I’m dead. Why would they search for me anyway?

  Bronson can’
t be dead. You know that. He’ll come looking for you.

  So what should I do? Where do I go?

  Find the beach house. Find Bronson’s car. You still have a chance to get home.

  Anne thought about Elizabeth Anne and pulled herself to her knees. She waited for the pain to ease, and her head to clear. She could wiggle the fingers on her left hand but otherwise her arm was useless. She wished she had that coat now. If she hadn’t gotten rid of it, however, she certainly would have drowned. She remembered how much it hurt to get it off but it was taking everything she had to keep it from pulling her under. She couldn’t have swum in it. As it was, swimming without it was nearly impossible. She remembered alternating between the one-arm backstroke and the one-arm sidestroke, not thinking about which way she was going, just wanting to get away from the submarine and the men in the rubber boat. When she could no longer see them or hear them she began worrying about which way the beach was.

  Panic?

  The first step to death.

  Stay calm and think. Look at the horizon. What’s there?

  Nothing.

  Keep turning and looking.

  Nothing.

  Nothing!

  Nothing!

  A mound of deeper, blacker nothing. What does that mean? Land... the beach. Turn your back to it, lay back and kick.

  And here she was after hours and hours, she was sure, of kicking and sidestroking. She struggled to a one-knee position, felt the surf lapping around her ankle, and shivered.

  But hours and hours would mean daylight, and it was still dark.

  Before lifting herself to her feet she looked up and down the beach. Which way? Her sense was that the current carried her north. She would have to walk south until she came to the footprints in the sand where they hauled her onto the rubber boat. There was a drift-log there that she sat on. Should be easy to find. She pushed to her feet, shuffled enough to discover her ankle still hurt like hell, but she could put a little weight on it. She put one foot in front of the other and so began moving slowly, carefully.

  After only a few minutes she stopped and looked to her right, at the waves crawling up the sand. She wished she had a sling for her arm, wondered if the salt water cleaned the bullet wound and then suddenly realized the ocean was on the wrong side. It scared her that she successfully decided which way to go and then promptly went in the opposite direction.

  Delirious!

  Can’t let that happen. Focus! Think!

  She turned around, followed her own footprints until she reached where she had crawled onto the beach, and then kept going. Her guide was the plane of smooth, unbroken sand, disappearing into the black night.

  She came upon a chunk of driftwood, similar to the one on which she sat before being carried to the boat by the German sailors. She could have sworn it was the same one, but there were no other disturbances on the beach. She walked up to the dune, struggling in the softer sand, and looked for where she and Bronson walked. There was nothing. This wasn’t the place.

  She returned to the hard-packed sand, resisted the urge to rest on the log, and continued south.

  The tide seemed to be going out. Of course. The submarine would want high tide when they made their pickup. She was proud of herself for thinking of that. It meant her mind was still functioning, not totally gone.

  “I’m Anne Waring, and I’m moving south.”

  She focused hard at keeping each foot moving forward, repeating her mantra, over and over.

  “I’m Anne Waring, and I’m moving south.”

  And so she went on for another ten minutes, until it occurred to her that being so focused on walking without stopping, she might have actually walked right past the place. She looked back. It was just as dark and lonely as where she was going. She thought about going back a ways.

  Trust, the inner voice said. Trust you’re doing right. You can’t waste time limping back and forth. She leaned into the cold wind and continued.

  What are you going to do once you find the spot?

  Find the beach house.

  Then what?

  Find the keys to the car.

  You try to drive out of here and you’ll just kill yourself. You can’t even walk in a straight line.

  Anne stopped and looked back at her tracks. They zigzagged up and down the beach. No choice. Elizabeth needs me and I can still make it. “I’m Anne Waring, I’m moving south and Elizabeth needs me.”

  She kept on limping down the beach.

  She recalled watching the Boston Marathon on TV one time. The cameras settled on several runners who were on the verge of collapse within a mile of the finish line, pushing away help, determined to finish at any cost. She knew how they felt. At any cost. How far to the end of my marathon? But I’ll take help... any help... except the Germans. Can’t use their kind of help.

  She noticed where there must have been a beach party. Tracks all over. She wished she hadn’t missed them and then saw a log, a nice place to sit and rest. The soft sand was harder to walk through, but she managed to shuffle-limp, shuffle-limp over to the log and carefully settle herself.

  Nice spot. She liked this place, liked it before too, until they dragged her to the boat. “I can walk myself,” she remembered saying.

  Pay attention to what you’re thinking, woman.

  What?

  This is it... what you’ve been looking for. The beach house is right inside the trees.

  Anne looked around her. “Oh, yeah!” She took a deep painful breath and considered standing. “I’m Anne Waring and Elizabeth needs me.” She tried to lift her arm to see what time it was, felt the jolt of pain - like a red-hot dagger driven down from her back through her chest. When her vision cleared and she was able to see the surf and feel the cold breeze, she said, “I’m Anne Waring. I’m still alive and Elizabeth needs me.”

  Whatever time it is, it’s still dark. I have at least twelve hours to get there. Hell, I could walk that far. She leaned forward and struggled to an upright position and looked to where the tracks led up and over the dunes.

  But first I’ve got to climb over that.

  “I’m Anne Waring. I’m still alive and Elizabeth needs me.” She shuffle-limped through the sand. It was a small dune but she still had enough wits about her to know that in her state, it would be a challenge. No pain no gain, she thought and started up the slope.

  It really wasn’t much. She overestimated it and underestimated herself. What made her think it was going to be hard? And then her foot dragged too deep in the sand and she fell forward across the top. She turned her body so as to not hit on her left shoulder and succeeded in rolling into the dune grass. A dozen red-hot knives seemed to rip holes in her shoulder, neck, and chest, over-driving the pain in her ankle, and the one in her head. She gritted against the pain and then panted like a dog because it hurt to breathe deeply.

  The pain fogged her mind and then, for a very brief few seconds, she blacked out. When she became cognizant of her surroundings, she was only barely aware of where she was going. It took her several painful minutes to work herself to her knees, and then to her feet. She put her head down and followed the path through the trees to the beach house, unaware as yet of the first glow of morning light breaking across the horizon to her back.

  Several hundred yards further up the beach from where Anne came ashore, Bronson lay on his back, exhausted, trying to understand what went wrong, why they found it necessary to terminate him.

  Terminate? No! It was execute! His own people turned against him and ordered him executed. Did they think he turned traitor, the man who intercepted a bullet meant for Adolf Hitler? Why would they want to kill him?

  It made no difference anymore. He was now a man without his country. He knew he should get up and move, but where was there to go? So, still very sore from the confrontation with the Chinese Bayonet, he lay, cold, wet and sandy on a deserted South Carolina beach until he began feeling the warmth of the early morning sun.

  Chapter 73
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br />   Sunday ~ November 14, 1943

  Anne sat at the table with a jug of water, a tin cup, a stack of crackers, and the remaining pieces of dried meat. She had been way too long, but if they were going to come looking for her, they already would have, and if Bronson made it ashore he would already be here. He either swam in the wrong direction or was picked up. If they picked him up, they would kill him, so he is probably out there floating or swimming around. He’ll live at least another 44 years so no point worrying about him.

  How much longer will I live?

  The shoulder was blazing like fire and she saw from where she had lay on the bed that it was still bleeding. It looked like a lot of blood. Was it a couple pints or no more than a cup?

  She scanned the room once more, but could figure no place else to look for the car key. He probably still has it in his pocket.

  The only thing she could find for a sling was a length of rope, but there was no way to cut it, nor tie it into a knot if she could. And every time her eyes moved around the room they stopped at the bed. The amount of blood there bothered her but what bothered her more was the nearly overwhelming urge to go lay on it again. The first time she did it took everything she had to get back up, constantly having to bring up visions of Elizabeth Anne. She was truly afraid that if she allowed herself to lie down once more, she would never get back up; she would black out for good.

  She wanted water, but she didn’t want food. Her mind was still intact enough to know she needed both. She moved the crackers and meat into the right pocket of her jacket, forced herself to drink the remaining water in the tin cup, and then moved the empty cup to the same jacket pocket. It was hard to get it in but she couldn’t reach to the other pocket. The dress had no pockets. And then she became aware, for the first time, that it was daylight, not dark. She looked down at her watch attached to the useless arm in her lap, but she couldn’t see the time. She tried to roll the hand over but it wouldn’t respond. With her other hand, she pulled the wrist around until she could see the watch, wincing at the pain.