by Greg Enslen
Ellis glanced up and saw that the room around him was beginning to fade. He saw Tina, his beautiful little girl. She smiled at him, then turned and stationed herself between her father and the doors. She had a machine gun now and was firing back into the smoke that was drifting in from the front rooms of the warehouse. Terry was manning the control panel, operating it with one arm, the other limp at his side. He was watching the temporal fold form around Don. It looked like he was trying to ignore everything going on around him.
The air cracked and Ellis turned to look at the group of people near the door. The security guards, two of the mob guys he had hired, and several from Trish’s group of interns were holding off the rioters. He watched the casings from one intern’s gun fall slowly to the ground, a metallic shower that bounced on the concrete. To Ellis, the bullet casings looked like they were moving in slow motion and—
Part Three
3.1
Medical Attention
—suddenly he was sitting on the floor of an empty warehouse.
The room swam around him, the floor tilting like a carnival ride. Ellis held onto the bag, gripping it tightly, until the room stopped spinning.
Slowly, he tried to stand. When he couldn’t, he looked down and saw that the bullet had grazed his thigh—he was still bleeding. Some part of his mind noted that the blood on the concrete around him formed a perfect circle—everything, including the blood on the concrete, had traveled back with him. It looked like a halo in red.
He looked down at the box that Tina had thrown him—only moments and 12 years ago—and saw that it was a first aid kit.
Don smiled and looked around at the empty space and suddenly he felt the weight of it all on him. He realized that he was alone again, alone in this new place, with only the things he had brought with him. He didn’t know if he had the energy to start over, to try again.
He looked up at the closed doors across the floor. Schrödinger’s Cat was calling him.
Would they be there? Surely they would. But losing everyone like that in the last timeline, causing all those deaths—had it been worth it? He hadn’t stopped the disaster—in fact, many more people had died. He was trying to make it better, not worse. Should he try again, or leave it alone and let it all happen?
Don didn’t know what to do.
He looked down at this leg; he needed to tend to the wound before he bled to death. Ellis knew he also needed to figure out what he was going to do. But there was something he had to do first.
Ellis began crawling across the concrete floor. It hurt to move. Leaving his bag, Don slowly crept across the floor of the warehouse, leaving a long trail of smeared blood. Finally, he reached the loading doors.
He put his hands up to open them and stopped.
“What if it’s not there?” he asked himself. His voice echoed in the empty building. Don wanted to know. He shook his head and pushed at the doors, which seemed heavier than they ever had been before. With a loud grunt, he pushed the doors open.
The sky was bright outside, impossibly bright. He squinted at the city.
The World Trade Center was there.
No fires, no smoke. The buildings stood, shiny and proud in the summer air.
He glanced upriver and saw the U.N. building, still standing. Or standing all over again, depending on your perspective.
The streets were no longer filled with rioters, or never would be. A dark pall of smoke didn’t hang over the city.
Dr. Donald Ellis leaned heavily against the open doorway, his spirit buoyed. He noticed he’d left bloody handprints on the doors.
The buildings were there, so everything had been worth it. But should he get involved again? Or should he just let things work themselves out? He could save the Ellis that was here, and build another machine, but that would take time and money. And in his frustration and his longing to solve a seemingly-unsolvable problem, Don wondered if it was even worth the trouble.
He looked around for the first aid kit. He’d dragged it across the floor with him without even realizing it. Ellis pulled it to him and opened it.
Inside, resting on a bed of bandages and tape, he found the weird bluish gun that Tina had been firing. He lifted it out and examined it—the gun was much heavier than it appeared. Beneath the gun was a hastily-scribbled Post-it note. It was similar to the ones he’d sent through time to himself. Now, he was getting a note from his grown-up daughter.
“Good luck Dad,” was all it said.
He smiled. He had managed to save her, and their family, and it had ended up being the deciding factor in his ability to escape. She had been smart and pleasant, a joy to be around. At least he’d saved her.
Don set the note and gun on the concrete and began looking through the rest of the first aid kit. He got out the bandages and other items he would need to clean the wound and bandage his leg.
3.2
A Breakfast Meeting
Three years later, on the morning of January 23, 1997, President Clinton jogged through the early-morning streets of Washington, D.C. The weather was warmer than usual for late January, and Clinton took advantage of the sunshine to get out. It was his routine to run outside as much as he could during the warmer months, but winter weather usually forced him to run in the small White House gym.
It was nice to get out.
Of course, the Secret Service hated it—they went on and on about the security risks. Usually he had six or seven guys with him, but a few years ago the Secret Service had added two more agents on bicycles. Clinton hated all the hassle—he just wanted to run. It helped him think, and it got him out of the White House for a few precious minutes.
Today, he and the agents ran south out of the White House compound and west, through Foggy Bottom and down to the waterfront and Lincoln Memorial. He loved the memorials along the mall, incorporating them into his runs as often as possible.
Following him were five jogging Secret Service agents and a military aide. A block behind, a bullet-proof Chevy Suburban with blacked-out windows, another part of the presidential detail, followed to provide assistance or as an option for a quick evacuation—just in case.
Clinton continued up Independence Avenue and across the Kutz Bridge to the Washington Monument, surrounded by a ring of American flags. At 14th Street, he turned south, running past the new Holocaust Museum and past the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. There was a small crowd of tourists out front, lined up to take the ever-popular tour to see the nation’s money being printed, and he waved at them—a few yelled and waved back when they realized who he was, and several of the tourists snapped hurried pictures.
The agents on their bicycles continued south on 14th, heading for the bridge over to the Jefferson Memorial, but Clinton turned suddenly and took D Street, heading east. The runners kept up with him, but the bikers were already across the bridge and would have to turn around.
Clinton smiled. He loved to keep these agents on their toes. Besides, his mood was buoyant—he’d just won reelection, something no sitting Democrat had done since F.D.R. Now, he was back from the campaign trail, working on his State of the Union address, to be given in two weeks.
And he was back to running regularly---and back to keeping these Secret Service guys on their toes.
Clinton suddenly remembered a great bakery in the area, east of the U.S. Mint. He tried to get down here at least once a month, but he’d not been able to visit since last summer. He remembered their excellent crullers.
The agents should be happy—at least he wasn’t running to the McDonald’s over on 13th Street and New York again. He loved the looks on the people’s faces when he ran in there—it was always precious, that look of utter surprise. Often, William Jefferson Clinton felt like this is what a president was supposed to be doing, popping in on regular folks and seeing how they were doing. Presidents who stayed safely tucked away behind the fences at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—how were they supposed to know how people were really doing? Read it in some report, or he
ar about it fifth-hand from the Secretary of Commerce?
Clinton continued east on D Street, passing the huge buildings where tens of thousands of federal workers reported for duty every day. It was amazing to think just how much of the population of Washington, D.C., worked for the federal government. Turning south on 7th, he passed the HUD building and their strange collection of UFO-looking canopies that floated above the grassy seating areas and an entrance to the Metro. He turned east again, waving at the people he saw—two deliverymen gave him a wave. Taking a side alley, he made two more quick turns—he wasn’t actually trying to lose the Secret Service agents, but it was fun to keep them guessing.
He sped up, jogging up 3rd Avenue, and finally saw the bakery up ahead. He ducked inside, knowing the agents would be along momentarily.
Once inside, Clinton saw, out of the corner of his eye, a man standing right next to the door, waiting just out of sight. Turning, Clinton saw the tall man move quickly, stepping to the door and flipping the deadbolt.
“You’re a difficult person to get to, Mr. President,” the man said, his hands at his sides, relaxed. One hand held a thick ring of keys.
Clinton smiled and glanced around—it appeared there was no one else in the bakery.
“That’s all part of the plan, friend,” the president said, nodded at the door behind him. “You know, you have about five seconds before those men begin shooting into that door.”
The tall man nodded.
“You mix up your route daily—how did I know you were coming?” The man smiled and gently tossed the ring of keys to Clinton.
“Lucky guess,” Clinton said, shrugging. “Or you happened to be here—maybe you’re just taking advantage of an opportunity,” Clinton said, his blue eyes never leaving the man.
“That’s true,” the tall man said, smiling. “In my line of work, it is all about taking advantage of opportunities.”
Outside, the Secret Service agents arrived at the door and tried to open it. They found it locked and began pounding on it loudly.
The tall man slid away from the door, keeping an eye on the president. Clinton noted how calm the man seemed to be, even though the man was currently committing a felony and would soon be in the hands of furious Secret Service agents.
“What is your line of work, friend? Assassin?” the president asked, jingling the keys and stepping to the door.
“No, Mr. President,” Ellis said quietly. “I know many things, but little about killing people. I know that you have that important trade mission on your schedule for tomorrow, and you’re trying to choose a new Supreme Court justice.”
The man waited a beat.
“And I know about Monica.”
Clinton was sliding the key into the lock when he stopped.
“What?” the president asked.
“I know about Monica Lewinsky, Mr. President.”
Clinton turned. The agents pounded again on the door, but he ignored it.
“Sorry, friend. Not sure what you’re getting at—”
“You know who I’m talking about, Mr. President,” the tall man said. “White House intern.” he said slowly. “A close, close friend.”
Clinton looked at him, ignoring the shouting agents outside.
“I know how you feel about her,” the tall man said quietly. “You’ve had several dalliances with her over the past twenty months and you consider the affair to be over, but you’ll reconnect with her later this year.”
Clinton didn’t know what to say. Everything with Monica was over—
“I also know that Impeachment proceedings will be brought against you,” the tall man continued, sitting down in one of the empty booths. Clinton noticed that there was a small stack of papers on the booth table. “After the scandal breaks next January, you’ll be forced to lie and cover up the relationship, and it will be a cloud over the remainder of your presidency. After Impeachment charges are brought, you’ll give grand jury testimony. The meaning of the word ‘intern’ will be changed forever. You’ll beat the scandal and remain president.”
The president was silent.
“I know many things, sir,” the man in the booth said quietly. “I’m simply asking you for five minutes of your time. Or ten, if you find what I have to say interesting. I think you will. If not, the Secret Service can drag me away to wherever they take people who kidnap the president.”
From outside, the agents shouted that they were going to open fire.
“Hold your fire!” the president yelled loudly. He turned, unlocking the door.
The Secret Service agents burst inside.
Several agents grabbed the seated man from the booth, pushing him to the dirty floor of the restaurant. The lead agent grabbed Clinton, roughly pushing him toward the door. Outside, a black Suburban raced up and squealed to a stop.
“Enough,” Clinton shouted, pushing the agent off. “Stop it!”
Three agents were on top of the man, and another stood back, his gun trained on them.
From beneath the agents, Clinton heard the tall man calmly talking. “My name is Dr. Donald Ellis.”
One of the agents was working to get his handcuffs out of his jogging shorts to cuff the man.
“Stop that!” Clinton yelled, pulling them off. “Get off of him,” he said as the scuffle ended. He looked at the agents.
“Give us a few minutes, men. Someone scare us up some coffee—and a couple of those donuts,” he said, nodding at the counter.
The agents looked around, confused.
Clinton smiled and slapped the lead agent hard on the back, then walked over and sat back down at the booth the man had earlier occupied. The man, rubbing his arms, followed, his limp noticeable.
“Thank you. I know many things, and I hope to help you.” the man said, sitting. Clinton nodded, and, from the back of the bakery, Clinton heard a commotion—he turned to see that the agents had gone into the back and released the cook and a waitress. A waitress began shrieking as soon as she walked out from the back room.
“This man came in here and locked us in—that’s him!” the waitress yelled, pointing at the man seated with Clinton. She started to walk over, but the agents held her back and began talking to her. After a moment, she calmed down.
“I know things, too, Dr. Ellis,” Clinton said, looking at Ellis after the waitress left. “I know too many things. Nothing surprises me anymore. Except you, friend.”
The waitress reappeared, bringing them coffee and a small plate of donuts.
“And I know you know many things, sir,” Ellis said, adding cream and sugar to his coffee from the containers on the table. “That is true. But you don’t know what I know. Did you ever see the TV show Early Edition?”
Clinton looked up at him, a donut halfway to his mouth.
“I don’t think so.”
“It was a science fiction show about a man who lived in Chicago,” Ellis explained. “He was a normal person—except he got the Chicago Sun-Times a day early.”
Ellis opened the folder on the table between them and tapped the newspaper on top of a stack of papers. The headline of the USA Today paper read, “Bush Beats Gore in Florida Showdown.”
“On the TV show,” Ellis began, tapping at the paper, “the man was always trying to do good, but he only had one day’s notice, so it was difficult. The show mostly consisted of him catching children falling out of trees or preventing car accidents.”
Clinton pulled the paper closer, looking at the date.
“It says it’s from December 4, 2000.”
“And I assure you, it’s genuine,” Ellis said, leaning forward. “Gore will be beaten in the 2000 election, but it will come down to Florida. Those electoral votes will be up in the air, and there will be a lot of discussion of recounts and hanging chads—those pieces of paper that come out of a tabulated vote.”
“Is this real?” Clinton asked, tapping the paper.
Ellis nodded. “As real as the fact that you and Ms. Lewinsky will be exposed in th
e press. January, to be exact.”
Clinton shook his head. “Everything is over between us. I ended it in March of last year, and now she works at the Pentagon.”
Ellis nodded.
“I know. But you’ll have two more encounters, and then she’ll begin confiding in a friend at the Pentagon. What Monica doesn’t know is that her friend will tape their conversations and turn them over to Ken Starr, who is running the Paula Jones case.”
Clinton didn’t even want to consider what might happen if the whole thing became public knowledge. What he did behind closed doors was his business….
“The scandal will cloud the remaining years of your presidency,” Ellis began again, his voice low. “But worse, it will cast a pall over Gore’s candidacy in the 2000 election. It will cost him the presidency. After January 1997 and the events that follow, the voters won’t trust you. And, by association, they won’t trust Mr. Gore.”
Clinton shook his head, staring out the window. “It’s too hard to believe, Dr. Ellis, if that’s your real name. How could you possibly know this? Where did you get this paper?”
Ellis shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you. But my name is Dr. Donald Ellis, and I’m Dean of Physics at the University of New York. Or I used to be, some years back.”
Clinton looked at him and saw a strange, sad smile on the man’s face.
“Bush will make a strong showing in the polls,” Ellis began again. “Though, at first, it will appear that McCain has enough support to make it interesting. Bush wins the nomination, and it’s a close race. Too close—the Supreme Court eventually steps in and invalidates a last-minute recount petition by Gore’s primary counsel. As the votes could not be legally recounted, Bush was declared the victor.”
Clinton shook his head and sipped at his coffee. “No, it can’t be. I… there is no way that my relationship with Monica could cause this, even if it were exposed...”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Ellis said, shaking his head. “It’s all trivial.”
