The Time Change Trilogy-Complete Collection

by Alex Myers

  He couldn’t rest, though. He couldn’t stop thinking. Jack fired the machine back up and had only one more name to enter—his own.

  There was no entry for ‘Jack Riggs’. Only the ‘Jack Riggs’ that lived in the 1800s. There had to be something, but no reference to ‘Jack Riggs’ in the twenty-first century at all. He did a search on Tom Laundry High School, where he used to teach. His name wasn’t on the faculty list.

  Maybe ordinary people weren’t listed; he put in Victor Sams, his physical therapist. He got his age, address, phone numbers, several e-mail addresses, high school, college, and work histories. There was even a link to a personal page, and Jack went to that. A picture of Victor appeared wearing a Hawaiian shirt and holding a large cockatiel nearly as colorful as his shirt. Listed were his likes, dislikes, and what he was looking for in a woman.

  “Get two or three dates a month off that thing.”

  Jack looked up with a jolt. He was so engrossed with his search, he failed to hear Victor enter. He felt guilty, like he was spying on the man.

  “Find anything interesting, Mr. Riggs? Do my credentials checkout?” Victor asked, smiling.

  “I was just doing some browsing,” Jack said. “I just wanted to make sure I was doing it right. You were the first person I thought of.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to make excuses to the Vic-man. Did you see everything you wanted to see?”

  “To tell you the truth, no. I can’t find anything on myself.”

  “That’s an easy one. You’re, what, 37 years old, married—to a beautiful woman, I might add—no children, and run one of the largest charitable foundations in the world.”

  “Married? I’m married? Then where’s my wife?”

  “Separated.”

  “Nothing like breaking it to me gently, Victor.”

  “It was your idea. You broke things off right before your accident. You even had your new girlfriend in the car with you when it happened.”

  “Who’s my wife?”

  “Kim Kardashian.”

  “The socialite?”

  “I haven’t been keeping up. But you remember?”

  “That she was a reality show queen—sure. That we were married? Not at all. Is all this in my chart?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then how do you know so much about my personal life?”

  Victor just stared at him, looking a little embarrassed. You were quite the playboy… kind of a personal hero of mine.”

  Jack tried to soak this all in. All the discoveries of the past few days were hard to take. It was actually easier to deal with being back in the 1800s, he thought. At least there I knew what to expect. “Who was the woman in the car with me?”

  “I don’t really remember her name—Ashley somebody—she was a lawyer or something.”

  “What happened to her? Is she all right?”

  “No, I’m sorry, the paramedics didn’t make it there in time. They couldn’t save her, she was past the revive stage.”

  “Did I love her?”

  “Hey, I said I admired you, not worshiped you. I don’t really remember.” Victor rubbed his chin with a finger. “I think you said something about wanting to settle down with a normal woman, or… have a normal life, something like that.”

  Jack shook his head and looked at the wall, then said, “Why can’t I find any details about myself on the VITU?”

  “It all should be in there…”

  “I typed in ‘Jack Riggs’ and zippo, nothing shows up.”

  “Jack Riggs? Like the inventor Jack Riggs?” Victor looked confused.

  “What else would I put in?”

  “Your name is Johnny. Actually, you changed it right before your accident. Since then, you’ve been going by Jonathan.” Victor grabbed the electronic chart from the end of the bed and showed Jack the name: it said ‘Johnny’.

  If Jack would have been standing, he would have needed to sit. This isn’t me, this isn’t my life… hell, it’s not even my name.

  “Mr. Riggs,” Victor said, bringing Jack out of a fugue, “do you want me to come back later for your therapy?”

  “Ah, no—I’m fine. Let’s do it. It’s just all these gaps in my memory. It’s like I’m living someone else’s life.”

  In the exercise room, Jack did reps on an advanced Nautilus-type machine.

  “The range of movement really makes for a nice burn, doesn’t it?” Jack said. He was feeling stronger every day, or maybe more confident of his rejuvenated body.

  “There’s no cheating at the top or bottom, it’s a Phillips. There’s this guy out in Colorado named Bill Phillips, sort of an exercise guru. If you ask me, the guy could be President—everyone I know uses these.”

  “With nanotechnology, it seems like people wouldn’t care about working out.”

  “On the contrary, I don’t know anyone that doesn’t. It’s the thing that separates us from the machines. People still seem to fit it in, even putting in thirty-hour workweeks. Dr. Mizell is releasing you tomorrow, are you going to be able to handle it?”

  “She says I’m going to have about three hours a day’s worth of, I think she called it, ‘adjustment therapy’?”

  “It’s designed to ease you back into society. Job retraining, rebuilding your social support network, even a little physical therapy for the first couple of weeks.”

  “I didn’t even remember my name until you told me. I don’t even remember where I live. Do I have money? Do I have a car to drive myself home?”

  “I think she’ll go over some of that before you check out. I’m pretty sure you have money. As far as a car, not a whole lot of people have their own cars anymore, everybody uses public transportation.”

  “This is going to be an adventure,” Jack said, but in his mind he thought, I’m about sick of adventures. I need some normal.

  CHAPTER 41

  Monday, August 20, 2013

  Jack took the public rail system, called a ‘Levitron’, to an address given to him by Dr. Mizell, declining her offer to accompany him. The rail system had no rails, but instead the tram floated above a metal track using magnetics. When asked if he needed money, she smiled and took hold of his hand. “This bump here on the top of your hand is your ‘e-chip’. When you want to purchase something, a 4scanning device reads this, and your ‘e-credits’ are automatically deducted. The only people with money these days are numismatics.”

  The address was a 50-story building and he was greeted by the doorman. “Good afternoon, Mr. Riggs, it’s been a long time.” His gold-edged name tag said ‘Lou’.

  “Thank you—ah—Lou, it’s nice to be back. I think.”

  “Housekeeping has your place all ready for you.” He walked with Jack toward the elevators, crossing the large atrium. “The hospital called and said you were being released.”

  “Lou, I know this is going to sound strange, but I can’t remember my floor.”

  Lou smiled. “Your chip remembers.” He nodded toward Jack’s hand.

  The elevator had no floor buttons, only an emergency stop and firefighter overrides. The doors closed and he felt the quick ascent. A blur of numbers rolled by on a small display screen and stopped in unison with the elevator. It displayed ‘Penthouse’.

  The doors opened directly into what looked like a living room. Floor to ceiling windows surrounded the large area, which was flooded with late afternoon light. Everything was white; white leather furniture, white carpeting, and white tabletops. What wasn’t white was chrome, and the reflections of sunlight nearly blinded him. “It’s way too bright,” he said out loud, shielding his eyes. The audio command activated and the windows tinted a dark blue. Small ceiling accent lights came on.

  He spent nearly an hour exploring this person named ‘Johnny Riggs’s’ apartment. None of the paintings, none of the art, none of the clothing in his spacious closet seemed the least bit familiar. In the library, hundreds of books covered two walls and at least some of the titles were familiar, but most he had nev
er heard of. Perhaps the strangest room was a space with heavy metal doors and what looked to be a large hot tub inside. He entered and the doors closed behind him. He felt a little claustrophobic, because when the doors closed, he felt like he was in a vacuum. No sound, no outside light, not even the movement of air was perceived. Jack knelt to feel the water and found that it wasn’t water at all, it was heavier, perhaps an oil and water mixture. The tub looked like it could hold at least ten people.

  This whole room must be my VITU device, Jack thought. It smells like I’ve had some wild parties in here.

  Jack undressed, entered the VITU pool, and didn’t leave it until he had the answers to most of his questions.

  He also arranged for a trip to Fort Monroe.

  CHAPTER 42

  Thursday, August 23, 2013

  While many things had changed in this version of Jack’s world, he was happy to see that Fort Monroe was still the same. Closed as a military base long before, it was still maintained by the National Park Service as a historic site. He paid his e-credit admission charge at the gate by waving his hand near a scanning device and entered the grounds. The place looked as he remembered it as a boy, and more importantly, as he remembered from the 1850s. Jack walked along the nearly deserted, brick-laid streets and reveled in the midday sun shining through the large oaks.

  He opened the door to the Chapel. A man and woman, each with a camera around their neck, were leaving and greeted him with a quiet smile. He sat in the front pew, staring at the altar. It felt as though his veins were filled with lead instead of blood, and that the pew was a magnet, because every time he tried to get up, he couldn’t. Doubting his own sanity, a million things were running through his mind. Even with all the changes I’ve seen, was I really there? Am I crazy? Am I lying in a bed somewhere in a coma with tubes running into me and just dreaming all this—dreaming all that? He had to know. Breaking through his paralysis, he looked both ways to be sure he was alone, and walked to the wooden stairs leading to the front of the church. He bent and tapped where they made the false door on the stair’s riser. A small compartment opened, revealing a secret space behind.

  It was empty!

  Removing a LCD penlight from his pocket, he got down on his hands and knees and searched the space more thoroughly. He pounded the interior walls of the space, making sure there wasn’t another door hidden inside. If I really was there, how could Frances do this to me? I might not ever know the answers now.

  “Can I help you with something?” A plummy, deep, finely articulated voice echoed through the chapel.

  Jack quickly stood, and an elderly man dressed in a dark tweed jacket and wool pants approached him.

  “Can I help you with something, Mister?” he repeated. His voice had a hint of an English accent. The black man looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and had a kind, gentle face.

  There was something eerily familiar about the man that Jack couldn’t place. It was as if he had met him before, but where?

  “Ah… no, that’s okay, I was just leaving,” Jack said. He realized that if the man wouldn’t have interrupted him, he would have lost his composure right there in the chapel. Jack walked past the old man, making his way for the door. Then he hesitated, turned, and asked; “Have you worked here long?”

  “Why, yes I have, I might even be older than I look. I have had a little of that revive stuff done. I’m Brent Hopwood, the curator of the park.” He extended his hand to Jack. “I’ve worked here seventy-one years in one form or another, started working as a grounds keeper when I was fourteen.”

  “The name is Jack Riggs, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hopwood.” Jack paused, trying to figure out just what he wanted to say.

  “It’s actually Dr. Hopwood, but that’s all right, you can call me Brent. Why did you ask how long I’ve worked here?”

  “I was just wondering—“

  “What did you say your name was?” Doctor Hopwood sounded excited.

  “Jack Riggs, why?”

  “Found a letter about a month ago addressed to a Jack Riggs. The original Jack Riggs was the man who freed my great grandfather from Slavery—Hercules Hopwood was his name. My family owes a lot to this Mr. Riggs, he reunited us.”

  Of course it was Hercules’s grandson—time had that way of going around and coming back again. No wonder the man looked familiar, his manner was even familiar. If you would have shaved Hercules, put glasses and a little beret on him, this could be him. He could see the resemblance; same intelligent eyes and quick smile. Jack’s mind snapped back to the letter. “Do you know who it’s from?”

  “Know more than that, I’ve read it. It’s from Frances Riggs. Now, just about everyone knows that she was married to Jack Riggs, the inventor somewhere back around 1857, 1858, and she was there when he died—on their wedding day, as I recall. Nonetheless, this letter was written in 1932. She thought Jack Riggs would be coming here in the year 2013, and then here you are. A lot of coincidences, don’t you agree?”

  “Where did you find the letter?”

  “It’s kind of a long story, but the highlights are Frances Riggs left a rather large grant to the park service with the stipulation that we would keep the chapel exactly the way that it was. Sometime around 1960, I remember, they were repainting, and one of the workers discovered a strong box hidden in the altar steps. We moved the box into storage, meaning to deal with it later and we all just forgot about it. Some of my people were cleaning the storage room about a month ago, came across the box, and asked me what to do about it. I got a locksmith, opened the box, and found the letter. Did you come here for the letter?”

  “I didn’t know anything about a letter, but to be honest with you, I did come here for the contents of the box.”

  “The box was empty, it’s always been empty—except for the letter.”

  “There weren’t a whole slew of gold coins in there?”

  “No, not at all. I was working here when we first found it. It was locked, so we shook it and we couldn’t hear anything inside, so that’s why the box was put in storage, and, I guess, forgotten about. But, how did you know about the box?”

  “Listen, I might be able to come up with a plausible lie, but I really don’t have the energy to get that creative. I know about it because I’m the one that put it there.”

  “Nonsense. When we found it in 1960, the box looked like it had been there for 75, 100 years, definitely before you were even born.”

  “The box is black with silver trim with ‘Chicago Box Works’ written on the back in white letters. The lock is a ‘Scottie’ lock with the place for the key on the side verses the bottom…”

  “But, how can you know this?”

  “I told you, I was the one who put it there. I bought the box, and I bought the lock, and spent many nights pondering it.”

  “As have I lately.”

  “Why have you?” Jack asked.

  “Because of the disturbing things written in the letter.”

  “Like what?”

  “It gives a lot of family history, but the part that’s confusing is that she implies that Jack Riggs was a time traveler from 2013.”

  “Dr. Hopwood, it’s true.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Thursday, August 23, 2013

  After telling Doctor Hopwood the whole story in his office, he silently handed Jack the letter out of his top desk drawer.

  “I’ll be back,” Jack said. He held the letter as if it was made of glass.

  “I understand. Where will you go?”

  “The beach. I just need some fresh air, a little time alone.”

  “You know the beach starts here, right?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here many times. I’ve got a rental, can I leave it in the lot?”

  “As long as you’d like.” Dr. Hopwood said and watched Jack leave his office, the man’s face a knot of confusion.

  Jack wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be disturbed, so he walked to the n
earby beach. He looked down at the yellowed letter in his hands for the first time. It had his name on it in Frances’s handwriting. He put the letter into his pocket, unread, and sat on a breaker looking out over the Chesapeake. Jack couldn’t tell whether it had been one hour or four hours, or how many self-doubts crashed into the waves, but the aged envelope had been in his hands for a while. He looked at the writing on the letter until his eyes blurred, until the letters that formed the words ceased to have meaning. He saw his first and last name in the place where an address would normally be, and under it he saw the words “My Love”.

  In the upper right hand corner of the envelope, he saw the name “Frances Riggs” written in black ink in her unmistakable elegant handwriting.

  A part of him wanted to throw the letter into the bay, fearful of the hurt that the words might say, fearful of the confirmation from her of the fool that he had been, but he just had to know. With shaking hands, he tentatively opened the letter. His heart beat wildly. Careful not to rip a part of the envelope with her handwriting on it, he eased his finger in the tucked back flap and opened it.

  The first words he read caused a lump in his throat nearly big enough to cut off his flow of oxygen.

  Dear Jack,

  I write this letter to you as a very old woman who not once in the seventy-four years since you have been gone has ever stopped loving you. I have never remarried in hopes that one day you would return and we would pick up where we left off.

  I felt so cheated when God stole you away from me, when you traded your life for mine. There were so many things we still had not done, so many wonderful things yet to accomplish. There were so many words I was never able to say.

  When someone dies, there are always so many words you wished you would have said. You would sell your soul for the chance just to tell them one more time how much you cared. It is my hope that this letter finds its way to you someday, somehow.