The Traveler's Quest (The Traveler Series 2)

by L. Eira

  “He had the fingerprints changed,” said Younger Ellie. “There’s only one reason to do that.”

  “That’s true,” said Older Ellie. “Before Alexandra visited us all last night, I couldn’t sleep. So I started to think about William and Doug. We know Doug drove up from town and parked near where William was hiding out in the woods. How did Doug find him?”

  “I figured Doug followed Valerie’s iPhone signal,” said Brent.

  “OK,” said Younger Ellie, nodding.

  “I hacked into the police’s computer system and found out that Detective Sparks declared that he confiscated the iPhone from William,” said Older Ellie. “No surprise, right? It belonged to a dead girl. A death Sparks is investigating and trying to pin on all of you kids.”

  “That’s right,” said Younger Ellie.

  “Even though the iPhone is described as being part of the evidence collected from William the first time Sparks had you in custody, William had to have the phone on him. If not, Doug couldn’t have found him in the woods. Sparks lied about collecting the phone.”

  “OK,” said Brent, his curiosity piqued.

  “I think Sparks allowed William to keep the iPhone against protocol so he would be able to follow him. I think Sparks found Doug alive. He killed him and took the iPhone with him. But guess what? Valerie’s iPhone was identical to Doug’s. Sparks took the wrong one. Doug’s iPhone is in Valerie’s evidence bag and Valerie’s iPhone is in Doug’s evidence bag.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Ellie from the present.

  “The miracle of technology in the mid-twenty-first century.” Older Ellie smirked. “I can read the serial numbers on the devices.”

  “That sounds like a bit of good police tactics on Sparks’s part, rather than evidence that he killed Doug,” said Brent.

  “If that was the case, he would have written that on the initial police report. But he didn’t.”

  “So, now what do we do?” asked Brent.

  Older Ellie got up and smiled. “I have an idea.” She removed her handheld computer from her pocket and started scheming.

  Mackenzie was sitting on a park bench near the pond. The water was serene. Wild ducks, geese, and a couple of white herons searched for food. Despite the full meal she consumed in her sleep the night before, the sting of hunger was again upon her. For the first time, she realized the wonders of eating in your dreams and waking up satisfied. Nourishment while you slumber. She smiled.

  She didn’t know what her mission was in this backward, ancient era of 2013, but if she was going to stay awhile, she needed to figure out food, clothing, accommodations, and so forth. The cave floor was getting a bit old, as were the shirt and pants she was wearing. She needed a job. If only I knew what my role was, maybe I could get a job in an advantageous position, she mused. Whatever I’m supposed to do, I’m sure it has to involve present-day William, Brent, or Ellie and maybe Future Ellie. Maybe something to do with Zack? Or Future William. Dad! She bowed her head. Dad, why did you go and invent something as horrible as the pulverizer for destructive purposes? You’re such a brilliant man. But the opposite of brilliant is abominable. And monstrous! She looked into the skies. Mom, how do I change young William to become the dad I remember and not the retched individual he becomes in this new timeline? She stood up. I have to get Dad to become the brilliant scientist he’s supposed to become and not the criminal genius who leads Earth to annihilation. William August Baten must not become friends with Harvey Homer and invent the pulverizer for military reasons.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Zack looked into William’s eyes and saw his father. But the dad he knew was kind and forgiving. He was brilliant, having spent a lifetime helping humankind. Together with his mother, they invented several cures for serious conditions, including heart attacks, strokes, and cancer. He conceived and devised the pulverizer but went through great lengths to ascertain that it was only used for good. He concocted fail-safe methods for the device to operate only on objects, not flesh; on a small scale, not large; and help folks, not obliterate them.

  But the William sitting across the table from Zack now was not that man. He looked like him. He talked like him. He shared mannerisms and quirks. But this William was evil. And all that pent-up malevolence was palpable in the room.

  “I thought a lot about what you told me yesterday, Zack. I find no logical or scientific way to even come close to explaining your contentions.” William sipped from his tea. “For one, time travel is impossible. For another thing, if in your lifetime you remember me as a different person, married to Valerie, a happy life as a family, inventing medical tools to fight diseases, why don’t I remember that? I remember spending my life in jail for a crime I didn’t commit, all along fighting to not be put to death. How do you explain the discrepancy?”

  “There’s an albino girl that can—”

  William looked deep into Zack’s eyes, his jaw clenched, his fists tight. He slammed both his fists on the tabletop, the sound reverberating loudly throughout the room. “Not the albino little girl again.” He stood up. “Do you realize how silly that story really is? What is she, God? An alien from outer space? Come off it, Zack. I’m trying to spare your life. General Homer wants you dead.” William took a deep breath and sat back down. “Unmistakably, you do share my genes and those of Valerie Rovine. I rechecked the data after I was able to get her DNA sequence. So that part of your story is true. But I remember vividly, like it was yesterday. Valerie Rovine died the day I met her. She died in my arms in the back of a car. We did not have a child together.” He sipped from the teacup. “Somebody must have obtained my DNA and Valerie’s and cloned you and your twin sister. I know this type of research is being done now—but not twenty-two years ago. So why do you exist?”

  “Dad, it’s possible somebody clones me as you say and changed my memories to what I perceive to have been my life, but—”

  “I want you to know, Zack,” said William, “that the only reason why you’re still alive is because of the riddle you pose. I’m a scientist. I need answers. I want to study you further and figure this out. I may need to reexamine your DNA, your cellular structure and—”

  “A lab rat?”

  “You can say that.” William took a deep breath. “For now, I’ve convinced General Homer to let you train as a soldier. You will be watched closely. Whatever you do, don’t try to escape. The troops have orders to shoot you on sight, no questions asked, if they think you’re leaving the camp.”

  Ellie and Brent searched the inside of the cave. Ellie insisted on combing the cavern for more flat rocks containing her own handwriting, script she couldn’t remember composing but that had undeniably been inscribed by her own hand. The darkness inside the cave made the search problematic.

  “This is a huge clue,” she said. “I feel it in my bones. Bring the light over here.”

  Brent directed the flashlight to where she was looking.

  “Earth to moon,” mumbled Ellie. “One hundred and thirty-eight and one hundred and eighty-four. All these numbers presumably indicating number of years.” She lifted up another flat stone. “What could that mean?” Her voice was exasperated and weary. “Why would I write that? What do these messages—”

  “Hey, here’s another one,” said Brent, his flashlight now pointing a couple of feet to the left. The two walked over, and Ellie brushed off the bushes, leaves, and rocks that concealed the message.

  “Same thing,” said Ellie.

  “It’s definitely your handwriting. This was hidden pretty good.”

  Ellie touched the etching with her fingertips as she read the inscription. “Earth. Moon. Forty-six years.”

  “I wish I knew what this means. I know it’s driving you bananas!” said Brent.

  “I’ll find out what these messages mean if it kills me,” said Younger Ellie. “And yes, I believe if we learn what these messages mean, we’ll be well on our way to figuring out how to save the planet from destruction.”


  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The two FBI agents escorted Detective Sparks to the conference room. One of the men knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” said the woman. The men entered the office. “You remember me, don’t you, Detective?”

  There was a long oval-shaped table, cushioned chairs all around. The old ditsy broad Sparks was looking for sat at the head of the table, but this time, she was wearing a professional suit and a badge: Misty Shores, FBI, director, operations and procedures.

  “Yeah, I remember you.”

  He sat down when Misty gestured for him to do so.

  “I’ve been given the task of assessing procedures here in town. Now, yesterday you gave the key evidence in the murder of…” She looked at her stack of papers. “Douglas Payner”—her eyes returned to face Sparks’s gaze—“to a woman you didn’t know. That woman, of course, was me. I had a made-up badge and a borrowed CSI jacket, and you fell for it, Detective Sparks.”

  “What is this?” said Sparks. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to follow proper procedures in your investigations and—”

  “This is all bullshit. I don’t need this—”

  “This is precisely what you do need, Detective Sparks,” she said. “Unless you want to do without a job and without your pension. And there may be some jail time for you too if you’re not careful.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I’ll come right down to it, Detective Sparks. I know you’re a slacker. The fingerprints on the gun are out the window, thanks to your sloppy work. But something else I found bothers me to no end.” She got up and slowly sauntered toward the detective. “I’d like to know why Mr. Payner’s iPhone is in Ms. Valerie Rovine’s evidence bag and vice versa.” Misty looked right into Sparks’s eyes. “How do you explain that?”

  “Let me ask you something,” said Sparks, now on his feet. “You had a fake badge before. How do I know you don’t have a fake badge now?”

  “See, now you’re thinking like a real detective, Detective Sparks. Go check me out. Then get your ass back in here. We need to straighten this mess up. As of right now, I’m recommending you get fired from your job with no benefits. To tell you the truth, I even think you had something to do with Payner’s death. So you may just end up with twenty-five to life, if not the chair. You have thirty minutes. Go!”

  Sparks left the room infuriated. Two large men wearing blue suits and dark glasses followed him from a few feet behind him. He marched into his office, steaming mad. He first called the local FBI office.

  “Yes, the national director of operations and procedures herself is in town from DC. She’s investigating a matter about a detective. I’m unable to disclose any details at this time,” the woman said in response to his inquiry.

  He got online and typed “Misty Shores” in the Google search bar. A multitude of entries about the woman appeared, spanning several pages: “Misty Shores’s exceptional record elevates her from field agent to supervisor”; “Misty Shores’s impeccable reputation as an FBI profiler gets her promoted to regional chief”; “Misty Shores is the first woman to rise to the level of director of a division within the FBI. She is transferred to Washington, DC, at the request of the president to create and head up a much-needed office to improve law enforcement procedures and protocols all over the country.”

  Sparks was disgusted. He repeatedly pounded his fist on the desk. But his anger quickly morphed into anguish as he realized he had to face that woman again.

  One of the FBI goons accompanying him entered the office. “It’s time.”

  The agents escorted Sparks into the room where the director was waiting.

  “So can you explain to me why Valerie Rovine’s iPhone and Doug Payner’s iPhone are interchanged?” Misty said.

  “They must have been swapped at the scene,” said Sparks.

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” said Misty. “But Valerie’s iPhone was placed in evidence, by you, much earlier. How did it leave the evidence room and end up at the scene of the Payner murder?”

  “Even though I endorsed it as being in evidence, I gave it back to William,” said Sparks. “I wanted to be able to track his movements.”

  “If that’s the case, why not report it as such?” said Misty. She bit her lower lip. “Soon after Payner left, you realized he was following the iPhone’s GPS signal. And you followed Doug right to William.”

  Sparks remained still, the fear spreading from his eyes throughout his face.

  Misty allowed the silence to linger a moment.

  “Detective Sparks,” she said, “you hid the gun in a tree trunk after you shot Doug. You wiped your fingerprints off the weapon, but not from a rock you moved to get to the hole. I found your fingerprints on the rock inside the sycamore. Now sit your ass on this chair right here and tell me all about it, and I promise I will be lenient with you.”

  Sparks began to tell the story.

  He stopped his car several yards away from the cloud of debris that still hovered over the Camaro. He exited his vehicle, and closed the door softly to avoid being heard. He walked by the Camaro. No one was in it. He felt the hood. Hotter than hell!

  Sparks removed his sidearm and carefully walked into the woods, hiding behind large tree trunks.

  He heard voices from deep inside the forest.

  “Come on, Doug,” yelled one of the derelicts.

  William Baten, Sparks thought.

  “I don’t have all goddamn day. Do it!” Sparks heard.

  “I can’t do it,” said the other boy. This teen’s voice was weak. Spent. “Not like this.”

  Sparks approached the sounds, slowly. He heard grunts and a yelp. By now he could barely see the two boys through the many intervening tree trunks and bushes. William snatched the handgun from Doug, who took a retreating step, slipped, and fell backward.

  “It’s so easy,” said William now towering over Doug. “Let me show you how.”

  William aimed the gun at Doug’s head and prepared to pull the trigger.

  Sparks’s heart thumped hard, and adrenaline discharged into his bloodstream. Holy shit, he’s really going to shoot him. He gripped his gun hard and took two steps forward. He was about to shout, “Police! Stop!” when William threw the weapon down and walked away briskly.

  “You’re not worth the bullet, Doug,” said William as he disappeared into the woods, away from Sparks. “Don’t ever call me. I better never, ever see your face again.”

  Sparks heard the metallic sound of the gun hitting the ground. He sat down on a rock and heaved a euphoric sigh of relief. He was perspiring bullets, although his body began to relax. He stood up, his legs still shaking. With his gun drawn and ready to fire, Sparks walked over to the boy.

  “Douglas Payner,” he said, “this is—” Sparks cut his words short as he realized what was happening.

  Doug, perched on a log, introduced the barrel of the Beretta into his own mouth, tears streaming down his face. He pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed. He tried again. The weapon failed him again.

  Dirt in the barrel, postulated Sparks.

  Doug looked at the gun, hit its side, and placed the barrel in his mouth for a second time. He pulled on the trigger again and again. No shot. Sparks threw down his own gun and reflexively rushed to help the boy.

  “No, Doug, don’t do it,” he yelled.

  Doug tried to pull the trigger again, but by then Sparks’s hands had engulfed his. Sparks yanked hard, disengaging the weapon’s barrel from the kid’s mouth. The struggle was very much in Doug’s favor. His endurance and strength were far superior to the old detective’s. A shot missed Doug’s temple by inches.

  Doug shoved Sparks off him, causing him to fall backward. He landed hard on his coccyx, sending excruciating pain shooting up his spine. Sparks tried to get up.

  Hurriedly, Doug put the gun to his head.

  It all looked like slo-mo to Sparks. Brain matter and blood spewed from the other side of Doug’s skull
as his body slumped to the ground. He lay on a bed of fallen autumn leaves, a pool of blood expanding by his head. Sparks averted his eyes and turned his head away, the sight too much to bear.

  “I had him in my custody just an hour earlier,” confessed Sparks, his eyes moist with unshed tears. “I let him go so that I could follow him and see what happened between him and the awful kids who have been menacing our town. I wanted to catch them doing something dirty so I could put them in jail once and for all.”

  Older Ellie just listened attentively. Then she interrupted the pause. “Detective, so then what happened?”

  “I hid the Beretta in a tree trunk.”

  “What about the fingerprints?”

  “I wiped the fingerprints clean,” said Sparks. He bowed his head for a long moment, and then his gaze found Ellie’s. “I wanted to confess. The weight of it all was too much to live with.” He took a deep breath. “Thank you, Director Shores.”

  “How did the boy’s fingerprints appear on the Beretta?”

  “Kirk Kigler,” said Sparks. “I made him falsify the fingerprint evidence to incriminate one of the teenagers. William Baten.”

  Without a word, Ellie got up from her chair and walked to the door. She opened it and talked to the two FBI agents standing right outside. “Kirk Kigler, a CSI tech. Get him!” She started to close the door. “Oh, get the district attorney in here after that. We need to talk about two innocent kids in jail. William Baten and Homer Harvey.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Mackenzie was sure of what she had to do next. She relied on her e-way app and walked to the prison building on the outskirts of the city. The place was huge, occupying four square city blocks, and a tall fence, barbed wire on its crest, surrounded it on the three sides she could see.

  “Computer, scan this place. What is the best way to get inside without being noticed?”

  “Scanning,” said the small gadget hidden in her hand. “On the south side of the edifice, there is an employee door that is opened by a historical electronic key fob. When in closer proximity, I am able to determine the frequency range required to gain access.”