The sight ahead, on the other hand, conjured images of the past and Old West movies. Two shiny black locomotives, complete with cowcatchers and coupling rods, belched steam out their sides as they prepared to pull strings of wooden passenger cars in opposite directions.
Justin shook his head when the bearded engineer of the northbound train blew his deafening whistle, waved to onlookers through an open window, and slowly pulled out of the station. He was watching history in real time.
"This is insane, Dad. This is all just insane."
Chuck laughed.
"Yeah. I suppose it is."
Justin watched closely as passengers moved along the platform and began slowly boarding the southbound train, which, for all practical purposes, was an eastbound train that would soon take them to other large cities brimming with activity on the cusp of a new century.
Justin didn't know which of these places they would visit first or call their temporary home, but he didn't much care. He knew his father wouldn't squander this incredible opportunity by taking him to some rural backwater.
Chuck Townsend would look at this trip as more than an adventure. He would view it as the reporting assignment of a lifetime and look for answers in cities like Chicago, New York, and St. Louis – and not Carrizozo, North Platte, or Paducah.
"I see a lot of people are getting on," Justin said. "Should we join them?"
"We might as well. We're not accomplishing much standing here."
Chuck reached into his vest pocket and pulled out two train tickets. He gave one to Justin, picked up his suitcase, and scanned a string of eight passenger cars, which stretched more than half the distance of the impossibly long shed.
"Which car do we board?"
"I don't think it matters," Chuck said. He pointed to a nearby coach. "Let's try that one over there. We can ask the porter to set us straight if we get it wrong."
Justin picked up his bag and followed his father toward the end of the car, where a middle-aged black man cheerfully helped passengers board the train. Just the sight of the attendant in the visor cap, bow tie, and crisp blue jacket was enough to remind Justin that this was a very different time.
"Is this the right car?" Chuck asked as he showed the porter his ticket.
"It is today, sir. Please watch your step."
Justin watched his father nod at the porter and then step into the car. He started to do the same but stopped when he reached the porter. He wanted to take one last look around the station.
This was real, he reminded himself. It was as real as his ticket. The sights and sounds around him were not part of a theme park or a movie set. They were part of a distinct historical period that had already played out once and would play out again with eager new participants.
A few minutes later, Justin followed a second porter and Chuck through the plush, crowded coach to a private compartment in back. He expected a dorm room. He got a hotel suite.
Justin smiled and shook his head. Professor Bell had done more than provide two tickets to El Paso. He had ensured that the Townsends would travel in comfort and style.
Justin removed his jacket, hung it on a hook, and placed his suitcase on the floor. He plopped in one of two lounge chairs, rubbed its upholstered side, and glanced at his father.
"He thought of everything, didn't he?" Justin asked.
Chuck laughed.
"He sure did."
Justin looked out a large window as the Sunset Limited started to move. He gazed intently at twenty or so smartly dressed men, women, and children as they smiled and waved at departing passengers. He wondered what they were thinking and what they had planned for the day.
It didn't matter, he finally decided. Like the other people he had seen since emerging from Professor Bell's magic tunnel, they would soon be in his figurative rear-view mirror. He would never meet them or talk to them or influence their lives in any way, shape, or form. Whether that was true with the people he would meet in the days to come remained to be seen.
CHAPTER 11: CHUCK
Doña Ana County, New Mexico Territory – Friday, April 20, 1900
Chuck stared blankly out the window of his private compartment as the train pulled slowly out of another whistle stop. He had taken notes on many of the places the first day but stopped when it became clear that most of the towns on the Southern Pacific's Sunset route were variations on the same theme – desolate, dusty, and wooden.
The people in the towns, however, more than made up for the endless blur of depots, telegraph poles, and rickety buildings with false fronts. Chuck smiled and shook his head when he thought of the scene in Yuma, where a company of U.S. Cavalry followed the train out of town, and in Cochise, where men wearing thick mustaches, sombreros, and bandoliers waited for the train next to women and girls in long, restrictive dresses and plumed hats.
Chuck couldn't deny that 1900 was an interesting year. Even from the back of a Pullman sleeping car, he could see that he and Justin had made the right selection from Professor Bell's time-travel menu. Turn-of-the-last-century America was not just a different kind of place. It was a treat for the senses – one the reporter wanted to enjoy for as long as he could.
There was never a doubt that the Townsends would spend as much time as possible in the past. What was the point of going to Disneyland, Justin had argued, if you didn't spend every minute from dawn to dusk riding the rides and seeing the sights? Chuck agreed. Bell had offered them the opportunity of a lifetime. It would be a crime not to make the most of it.
Even visitors to Disneyland, however, couldn't see and do everything – at least in a limited amount of time. They had to make choices and live with those choices. They had to plunge ahead knowing that they would inevitably miss something.
Chuck thought about choices as he opened the Number 10 envelope he had brought on the trip and pulled out five letter-size photocopies. He had brought them along because he had wanted the flexibility to depart from Bell's 1900 script. Why simply have fun, he thought, when he could also make a difference?
Chuck examined the first sheet, a copy of a letter to his great-great-grandfather, and then glanced at the upper sleeping berth, where Justin snoozed away. He felt guilty about keeping his son in the dark about a possible change in plans but not guilty enough to say anything. He wanted to make sure that he himself was ready to follow through before dragging Justin into a side trip that may not appeal to him.
The reporter set the letter to the side and scanned the remaining copies, taken from newspaper microfilm. He had made them in haste the day before the visit to Bell's mansion. Chuck knew just having them in his possession was dangerous. News articles reporting disasters to come could be used for all sorts of nefarious purposes.
Had he considered taking the side trip earlier, he would have memorized the details of the calamity and carried them in his head. Chuck Townsend had an encyclopedic memory that was the envy of the Bay Area media, but even journalists with encyclopedic memories needed time to absorb facts. A day simply wasn't enough time to take in all he needed to know. So he made a quick trip to the university library's microfilm collection and printed out the bare essentials.
He put the papers away when he heard Justin stir. One of the things Chuck had learned since reconnecting with his son was that he was a heavy sleeper. Even on a train with a nineteenth-century suspension system, Justin had slept soundly for eight hours. Were it not for the rapidly encroaching morning light, he might have slept for nine or ten.
"Good morning, Sunshine," Chuck said.
"What time is it?" Justin asked groggily.
"It's six fifteen if you can believe my cell-phone clock."
Justin rolled over and stared at his father.
"You brought your cell phone?"
"I did," Chuck said. "I wanted a timepiece until I picked up something more in tune with the times. I also wanted to have a camera along."
"I thought we weren't supposed to pack things like modern inventions. The professor was pr
etty clear about that."
"The professor also asked me to record the people, places, and things of 1900. What better way to record them than to take pictures of them?"
Justin sat up.
"I guess you're right. Just don't let anyone see it."
"I don't plan to," Chuck said.
"Do they serve breakfast on this train?" Justin asked.
"I'm sure they do. Get dressed and we'll find out."
Chuck started to get up from his lounge chair but stopped when he heard a knock on the door. He laughed and smiled at Justin.
"Room service must have heard your stomach grumble," Chuck said. "I'll get it."
Chuck opened the door and saw the same porter who had checked their tickets in Los Angeles. He noticed that the man had an apologetic look on his face.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm sorry for the disturbance, sir, but I wanted to let you know that we're approaching El Paso," the porter said. "We'll be at the station in twenty minutes."
"Thank you for the reminder, Mister …"
"It's Mr. Clay, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Clay. We were just about to get dressed and get some breakfast," Chuck said. "May I ask how long this train will remain in El Paso?"
"Of course you may. We'll stop at the station for twenty-five minutes."
"Twenty-five minutes?"
"Yes, sir. This train leaves for points east at seven sharp."
"Thanks for the information, Mr. Clay. We'll see you on our way out."
"You're welcome, sir. Please let me know if you need any assistance."
"We will," Chuck said.
The porter nodded respectfully at each of the Townsends and then took his leave.
When the door closed, Chuck turned to face his son and saw that he had followed the exchange closely. Justin sat on the edge of the sleeping berth and stared at his dad.
"Why do you care how long the train stays in El Paso?" Justin asked. "I thought we were getting off at El Paso?"
"We are," Chuck said. "We're going to get off the train when it stops, buy two tickets, and then get back on."
Justin looked at Chuck with puzzled eyes.
"Get back on? Why? I thought we had to change trains to get to Chicago."
Chuck sighed.
"We do. But we're not going to Chicago – at least not just yet."
"Dad, what are we doing?"
Chuck smiled.
"We're going to take a little side trip to meet one of our relatives."
"You have something up your sleeve," Justin said.
"I have a lot of things, actually. I'll explain them a bit later," Chuck said. "In the meantime, start thinking about how happy you'll be when you get to spend some quality time on a beach."
"A beach?"
"Yes, a beach. We're going to spend at least a couple of weeks in a place that has a pretty nice one, in fact. Texas will be our home the rest of the month, Justin. We're going east, not north. We're going to Galveston."
CHAPTER 12: JUSTIN
Val Verde County, Texas
As a longtime patron of California theme parks, Justin Townsend knew thrilling rides on rails. He had ridden everything from the X2 and the Viper at Six Flags Magic Mountain to the classic wooden coaster at Knott's Berry Farm. But until he crossed the Pecos High Bridge on a train pulled by a steam locomotive, he had never known fear.
"I can't see the ground, Dad. I'm not enjoying this."
Justin could feel the sweat build on his palms as he clutched the richly upholstered seat in the lounge car. He wondered if the engineering and safety standards of 1900 were as exacting as those of the twenty-first century.
"You should," Chuck said as he broke into a smile. "You're riding over a bridge that hasn't existed for sixty-seven years. How many people can say that?"
Justin gave his father a death stare and then returned his attention to the window. He could see brown, scrubby hills in the distance but nothing that gave him comfort. The illusion of flying over a gorge at six miles an hour was extraordinarily disconcerting.
"I suppose you know how high we are," Justin said.
"I do. We're three hundred and twenty-one feet above the river," Chuck said. He laughed. "I did a little homework on the bridge too."
Justin froze when the train stopped in the middle of the viaduct-style bridge and didn't relax until it started moving again. He allowed himself a nervous smile a moment later when he was convinced the train would safely cross the span.
"It looks like you did a little homework on a lot of things," Justin said. He glanced at his old man, who sat in a facing seat. "What's this all about, anyway?"
Chuck reached into his jacket and pulled out a standard business envelope.
"It's about this."
Chuck handed the envelope to his son.
Justin examined both sides of the object and then lifted his eyes.
"What's this?"
"It's the reason for our detour," Chuck said. "Go ahead. Take a look at the contents. Then you'll know everything I know."
Justin opened the envelope and pulled out five pieces of paper, including a fax of a handwritten letter. He looked at the letter first.
Written in 1926 by a man named Robert to a man named Benjamin, the letter contained references to a sensational trial, a deathbed confession, and a grave injustice. When Justin finished reading the text, he stared at Chuck.
"This is interesting, Dad, but what does it have to do with us?"
"It has a lot to do with us – if we're interested in righting a wrong," Chuck said. "Benjamin Townsend was my great-great-grandfather. Robert Zimmerman was his friend and a Houston attorney. This letter is a reply to one Benjamin wrote a few days before he died. It seems Benjamin learned of a confession that would have absolved his brother for a murder he apparently didn't commit. He wanted Mr. Zimmerman to investigate the matter and clear the man's name, if possible."
"How did you get this?"
"My attorney pulled it from a file I set up after Grandpa died and faxed it to me. I've had the letter for years but never gave it much thought until now."
"OK. I get that part," Justin said. "But what can we really do for this guy? This letter was written in 1926. We're in 1900, in case you haven't noticed. I don't know much about the law, but I suspect this won't hold up in court."
Chuck smiled.
"I see you haven't lost your sense of humor," Chuck said. "You're right. That letter is worthless as a legal document. But it is potentially priceless as a guide. When we get to Galveston, we're going to do some digging and see if there is any merit to Benjamin's belief that an innocent man was hanged in 1900. If we're lucky, we'll be able to prevent an injustice."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean Benjamin's brother is still alive. He was arrested in August, shortly after the murder. Today is April 20. We have four months to learn whether Wyatt Fitzpatrick is a killing kind of man and perhaps prevent the homicide from happening in the first place."
"Isn't that crossing a line?" Justin asked. "I hate injustice as much as you do, Dad, but I'm pretty sure Professor Bell wouldn't approve."
"I'm sure he wouldn't, which is why we're not going to tell him about this. If we can save a life or two, we'll do it. If we can't, we won't. We'll pack our bags, proceed to Chicago or New York, and have that adventure the professor wanted us to have."
Justin put the letter down and gazed out his window at a pronghorn that grazed the meager offerings of the West Texas scrubland. He didn't want to mess with the past, but he understood his father's interest in keeping an innocent man – a relative, no less – from the gallows.
He gave the matter another moment and then returned his eyes to the remaining sheets. They were copies made from newspaper microfilm.
"What about these articles?" Justin asked. "Why did you bring them?"
"I brought them because I wanted to know more about an even bigger event that happened in Galveston in 1900," Chuck said. "If you learn nothing el
se about that town, learn about this."
Justin scanned the four newspaper articles. All pertained to a hurricane that slammed into Galveston in September and killed more than six thousand residents.
"So there's a hurricane coming," Justin said. "Are you planning to warn people?"
"I haven't decided what to do with that information, to tell you the truth. I just know I don't want to be anywhere near the city when that storm hits. Whatever we do for Wyatt Fitzpatrick or anyone else, we'll have to do it before September 8."
Justin glanced at Chuck and then returned to the newspaper articles. They included an overview of the disaster, survivor accounts, a story about the storm's impact on business, and lists of the living, the missing, and the dead.
Authorities in Galveston had found it impossible to keep accurate lists. Most victims could not be positively identified. Several people reported as dead one day had turned up alive the next. Casualty counts fluctuated between five hundred and twelve thousand.
Justin found the survivor stories particularly riveting. Many residents rode out the hurricane and a storm surge that swept over the island by clinging to debris or finding refuge in sturdy buildings like the Tremont Hotel and the Ursuline Academy.
Justin also noted adjacent articles on non-storm-related topics, such as the Boxer Rebellion in China and the Boer War in South Africa. Conspicuously absent were any stories about a man who was tried, convicted, and executed for murder in the fall of 1900.
"Did you bring any more articles?" Justin asked.
"No. I had more articles. I made copies of at least three or four on the storm's aftermath, but I forgot to bring them. I must have left them in the car."
Justin nodded.
"How come you didn't bring any stories on Wyatt Fitzpatrick?"
"I couldn't find any," Chuck said. "The library didn't have microfilm of any Texas papers from that era. What you see are articles published in California papers. The Fitzpatrick trial was a big story in Galveston and Houston but apparently nowhere else. The hurricane, on the other hand, made headlines around the world."
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