“No, your honor.”
“I'm not dismissing. That was the wrong answer.”
“What about bail?”
“Your honor,” said Wellesley, “this is a capital case. The people request you deny bail.”
“The guy's a fruitcake, not a murderer, your honor.”
“If he's a time traveler, Mr. Corcoran, he's a flight risk,” The judge said, holding in his amusement. “No bail. We'll have him see a shrink. I'm setting a trial date for the end of March.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Thank you for seeing our position, sir,” said the prosecutor.
I hadn't noticed the young man with the notebook until he headed out after the details made the record official.
“Who's he?” I pointed as the man reached the door.
“A reporter,” Mickey said. “He's got a scoop. The police have arrested a time traveler.” Then he laughed.
“What's so funny?”
“We got what we wanted. You stay here. The judge will keep the Feds away. You just need to be patient for a few months.”
“Are they going to put me somewhere else?”
“Probably. You'll be safer with people around. I'll arrange, or rather Flynn will, for a comfortable environment, with people watching out for you. And I'll be there to see you regularly. The prosecution doesn't have a case, so you behave, and you'll be fine. By March, they'll have other things to do.”
“Can I have visitors?”
“You mean will Kate come see you? I'll have to talk to Flynn.”
They moved me that afternoon from the local lockup to a small county jail, with about a hundred prisoners and a cell to myself. When the powers that be learned of my background, I found myself assigned to the kitchen, where I quickly made friends among the prisoners and the guards. In only two days, they asked if I would make waffles for the guards.
“Get me what I need and sure, no problem.”
The jail population, my roommates, had been subjected to institutionalized crap for breakfast. After a few days of waffles, I convinced the guards to let me improve everyone's mood. So instead of oatmeal and runny eggs, I revised the menu, enhanced the oatmeal, added French toast and cooked-to-order eggs. I spotted a handful of potential helpers, guys who knew their way around a kitchen, and cooked and taught my way through the meals. Breakfast became the best meal of the day.
When the warden showed up on the sixth day, he invited me to join him. A nice gesture, I thought. When I sat down, he said, “I hear good things about you, but you're killing my budget. So I'm moving you out of here.”
“If I may, sir, I can show you a way to make the costs go down. If you look at how much food ends up in the trash at night, because it's lousy, that's where your budget can be tightened. I'll bet you have less trouble with the prisoners during the day already. A good meal to start the day, and something to look forward to at night, that'll keep things calm. That's what you really want, isn't it? Look, I've begun training five guys at breakfast who will be able to find real work outside when I'm done. That's got to be a good reflection on how you run this place.”
He put his hands together, his fingertips touching. He licked his lips, while I waited for his answer. He lifted his right eyebrow, creasing his forehead. Until that moment, I hadn't noticed how quiet the hall had become. Two guards sat next to me, two on either side of him. A short glance around revealed that all eyes were on me. Only a few men were even eating.
“Your waffle's getting cold. Would you like another?”
“You're an enigma, Mr. Furst. I'm usually able to tell when one of you is BSing me.”
“I'm not.” I surprised him when I turned to the kitchen and pointed to the warden's plate. One of my helpers nodded and in moments, a new plate, with small pitchers of melted butter and syrup were placed in front of him.
“I don't like my cooking to go in the bin. So what do you say? Do we have a deal?”
“I'll give you two weeks. I want a full accounting of costs, man-hours, and what goes to waste.”
“Can I keep my guys and get some more?”
“I'll talk to Mr. Roscum. Don't know if you've met him. He's the supervisor of guards. He'll come see you.” He grinned in a way that reminded me of Shawshank, and I wasn't sure I liked what he said. “And I want to give my wife you're recipe.”
I returned his grin with a subtle snarl. “If everything goes as I expect, I'll give you the recipe when I leave. But you can eat one anytime. Just let me know.”
“You think you're negotiating? With me?”
“No sir. I'm making promises.” I stuck my hand out. He stared at it, glanced at me, and then shook it. I hoped I could get my guys a better life. “Anyone else want a waffle?” The four guards looked at the warden. With an almost undetectable nod from him, all four said they did. I lifted my arm, and drew a circle in the air with my index finger. The clank of plates and silverware, and four waffles emerged within seconds. The guards even said thank you. I was as close to home as I could get.
I met with the warden twice in the following two weeks. The first time, I showed him my training program plan. By adding men to the kitchen, I had the help I needed, and the jail had fewer men with idle hands. I gave him a list of price differences from the food suppliers. The vendors told him that they were told to sell better quality goods at a lower price. I didn't tell him that Flynn had visited each company. I hadn't asked how he had persuaded them.
At the second meeting, I showed him a detailed report of everything that I'd accomplished. I handed him a letter from Mr. Roscum, who mentioned that his labor costs had decreased, with less overtime and fewer absences.
“What happens when you leave?”
“Each day, you get newbies. Give them all to me for a couple of days, and let me sort them out. Warden, most of these guys are kids, and minorities. Have you looked at the kitchen lately?”
“No.”
“They start each meal in clean whites. The guys in the laundry want them looking good, so the food stays good. The place has probably never been as clean, or polished. I have an assistant in charge of each meal. They all know you're watching–I keep telling them.”
“And?”
“And most of them haven't eaten this well in their lives. Good taste, good nutrition, variety. They're working as a team, helping each other. They've bought in. None of them want a newcomer to screw it up. And I keep reminding them to check computers for short order cooks and chefs. They see the money they can make outside. No one's ever tried to guide them before.”
“And you think this will continue when you're gone? I doubt it.”
“This is a transient population. Some of these kids are headed for hard time. I'll do the best I can to keep them moving along. But you could help too. Help them in the courts with good reports. Help them get jobs. Get the schooling and skills they need when they're out of here.”
“You're a dreamer. This is supposed to be punishment.”
“It can be rehabilitation. Turn them now, make them productive. Give them a reason not to want to be back here.”
“You really are an alien.”
I'd been working seven days a week, from 5:30 in the morning to 9:30 at night. Only the new guys didn't know me, and pretty soon, everyone did. Even the toughest, hardest characters would give me a nod or a wave when we passed. As the population turned over, I even got hugs, guy hugs, from my crew as they left. I asked them all to let me know where they landed. And I asked Mickey to help where he could.
Winter had been long, and spring took its time getting here. We had a new president, and one of my crew even got a job in the White House kitchen, thanks to a letter one of my guys had sent to his cousin. But my time here had an expiration date.
The first rumble of thunder and a lightning flash brought me back to that day two years earlier by the calendar, when Ash and I were playing hoops. For me, almost nine years had passed. I drove those days out of my head. I'd been so busy, so absorbed that
even Mickey's visits went on with him talking and me thinking about my work. When he arrived with a suit, a white shirt and accessories, I began to worry about leaving. I'd had no visitors, not even Flynn. Just Mickey.
The suit didn't fit as it had in December. My exercising had put muscles back, and my waist must have shrunk. I didn't remember when I last needed my belt on the last hole. The jacket pulled tight in the arms and across the back.
“You look good, Russ. Jail agrees with you.”
“Not funny.” But he had a point. I hadn't left yet, but I would miss the guys, and the routine.
“Let's see if we can end this nonsense today. The Feds are drooling to get their hands on you.”
“Still?”
“Apparently, the new president is interested in time travel.”
Chapter 33
Ashley
I SENSED THAT I'd nearly reached the top of a high hill, about to see into the distance, to know how my journey would continue. Or end. School slipped into familiar routine that made waiting tolerable. I had succeeded in changing my new world to suit my worldview. If I were truly and forever stuck here, life wouldn't be so bad, except that a possible abrupt end still lingered. The girls had proven to be assets, as well as great organizers. It occurred to me that possibly some traits were ingrained, no matter what universe people lived in. Even George remarked how the atmosphere had changed.
Despite record-setting snowfalls, winter loosened its grip. The poet said, “Can Spring be far behind?” And the day came when the hint of green arrived, replacing the no-longer-welcome snow. My focus each morning became the weather, not the news. Two problems continued at the forefront. Finding Fritz came first, which undoubtedly would bring new issues. The other, Natalie, who had remained steadfast in her support and her lack of demands. I couldn't argue, even with myself, that she had been a welcome partner in almost all our daily routines. Only nighttime pushed my resolve, often to outer limits.
By mid-March, the weather began to turn in our favor, everywhere else, but not in Riverboro. Evening or weekend storms provided the only safe entry, but only for short periods. At last, on the day before Saint Patrick's Day, we had a chance to try it out.
As soon as night cleared the streets, Nat and I headed for school. By the time we reached the parking lot, the skies had opened full throttle. No way to avoid a soaking, we ran across the lot and waved to the police car. Nat had called Brian Shaw, telling him we were coming and that he should keep the parking lot secure. He said he'd take care of it himself.
Satisfied that all the talking, reading and analyzing led to one conclusion, I put Koppler's book on my desk, checked the paperclip to be sure it took me into deep foliage, and I tapped the doorknob. Nothing.
“Did you do everything?” Nat asked.
I looked through the window. My keys glinted at me from the desktop. “No. Keys.” With the one last step complete, I tried again, and a weak buzz tingled my fingers. Used to a bigger zap, I worried that the connection wouldn't last. I explained that I would inch inside and look around.
As soon as I crossed the threshold, a pulse ran through my body. I was in the right place. The three men who had been shot were standing less than fifty feet away. I double-checked the portal. The fluorescence glowed weaker than any I'd seen, but I knew Fritz had to be near.
“Fritz, where are you?” A rustle of bushes to my left led me to an answer. What I saw made me want to run in the opposite direction. A translucent figure, Fritz's ghost, moved toward me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I know you intend to shoot them, but if you do, you change history across dimensions.”
“I know. You're looking at me in my past, like a memory, in a different universe.”
“I came to get you out.”
“You can't do it here. Not now. I don't know how you found the bridge between universes, but that's the only way you could have found me. You need to come to my present.”
“You can see your timeline?”
“From here I can. If you get stuck now, everything will change again. You need to move the paperclip. March 2017. Look for newspapers in Washington DC. A story about arresting a time traveler named Russell Furst. Now get out of here. Now! Go!”
“Good to see you, Fritz. Hopefully soon again.”
My abrupt arrival in the hallway, my face pale, started questions. Chief Shaw had joined Nat, so I asked them to give me a chance to think about what had happened.
“You found him, didn't you?” Nat asked, sitting in a chair in my classroom.
“Yes and no. This is going to be more complicated than we thought.” I closed my eyes and related my trip, as close to word-for-word as I could. When I finished, a click from Nat's hand turned off her recorder. Having a record made telling the story easier. “I think we need Tony's hookup to keep the portal live once it's open. The storm makes the turbulence to replace the planes, but once I'm inside, I think we can keep it open if we keep it electrified.”
Rumbling in the distance told me I might have a chance to go again. We needed to figure out where. I thumbed through the book. At the time of publication, the Koppler brothers were alive. Fritz knew where to go, but where in the book would the paperclip need to be placed? I told Nat and Brian that the next step might take a few tries. And the storms were still far away.
“It's still early, Ash. We can wait. The weather system has rows of storms all night, according to the radar. We need to get to the next step.”
“I hope Fritz knows what to do. I found him in a different dimension, or universe, and I don't know where he needs to be in order to change things back. What makes this harder is that everything is moving. The planet, the solar system, the universe. And time.”
“What did he mean about 'bridges'?”
“A theory speculates that bridges exist from one universe to another. You have to be exact to cross them. I don't know if they stay in one place or move. There's no description of them, or any instructions on how to find them.”
“That's helpful,” Brian said.
“I found one, from here to there. I need to do it again. Precisely. I have no idea how I found it. So let's start thinking of what we need.”
Nat made a list of everything we'd done, including forgetting my keys. She noted the Doppler as the storms slid around us. While we waited, I checked my computer for anything unusual in March, 2017. Natalie asked if I needed to be specific now. She suggested that any Washington Post report would get me to the right place, and if I could get a newspaper, we could check for stories. I said that might work, if I went to the proper universe. We discussed how I would know if I had found the right place. She said we would look for stories about the new president. A story about anyone other than the first woman president would be the right place. A female president in the other dimension would require more investigating.
“Good idea, Nat. You really are smarter than me. I'm glad I don't have to figure this out alone. Thanks.” So, with my trusty computer, we looked for Washington Post editions for around the time Fritz had said. I found a story about gentrification in the District, apartments converting to condos, and printed the picture. I don't know why that sounded right, but it did.
After two hours, I said we were wasting our time and we started for the car. In the parking lot, a flash right above us and a downpour forced us back inside. I put everything in place again, and when I tapped the doorknob, a spark jumped into my hand. I pulled the door and stepped through. I found myself on a sidewalk in a quiet urban neighborhood, filled with old apartment buildings and street level businesses. Which universe I'd stepped in, I had no clue. As long as the portal glow remained strong, I would be fine. So first, find a landmark and then a newspaper. Not wanting to go far, I took a few steps toward the street, both sides lined with parked cars. Nat and Chief Shaw watched me through the open door. “Keep the door open. I'm going down the street. There's a bar. Maybe they'll have a paper.”
I walk
ed into a local pub. St. Patrick's Day decorations covered everything—Irish, of course. I asked the lady bartender if she had a newspaper.
“What are you looking for?”
“The story about the time traveler. He's on trial soon.”
She lifted a newspaper to the bar, and pointed to a story at the bottom of the front page. “Next week. Are you a friend of his?”
“Yeah. We go back a lot of years.”
She looked at me, suspicious of my comment. “You've known Russ for a lot of years? You should stick around. A few people might want to talk to you.”
“I wish I could. I'm only here for a short time, but maybe I'll get back again.” I asked if I could keep the paper. When she said I could, I said, “Thanks for your help. What's your name?”
“Jane. What's yours?”
“Ashley Gilbert.” I waved as I headed for the door, but a cell phone was at her ear. As I walked to the portal, two men ran out of the bar, chasing me.
“Hey, Mr. Gilbert. Come back.”
“Sorry. I'm late,” I shouted over my shoulder, as they closed the distance. I looked at them, a mere glimpse, and stepped through.
“What happened?”
“Let me catch my breath.” I needed to process what had just happened.
“So, they know Fritz? And were chasing you? Why?”
“I didn't stop to find out. But I need to get back here in a week, in their time.”
“Do you know what their time is?” asked the Chief.
“I got a paper, and the bar was decorated for St. Patrick's Day.”
“Ash, were they like ghosts, too? From here, everything seemed a little blurry.”
“No, as solid as you are.”
“Does that mean you found another bridge?”
“Or made one?” the chief added.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe where the paperclip takes you isn't random,” Shaw said. “Maybe you follow some kind of stream in time.”
I didn't know, but I needed time to examine the clues. But now I had a newspaper.
The Portal At The End Of The Storm (Quantum Touch Book 6) Page 21
