by Dan Alatorre
* * * * *
I jumped out of my chair and screeched at the TV. “That’s a lie!” Then I lowered myself back down and hunched my shoulders, checking to see if anybody in the Chick-Fil-A had called the cops. A few employees stared at me before returning to their duties.
“The documents are right here, Jonas,” Findlay said. Then, he went Hollywood “These log sheets prove that they stole the machine! And the stolen time machine is right up these steps! Follow me!”
Findlay turned and stormed up the steps to Barry’s apartment. The news cameras followed.
My heart was in my throat. Holy shit! They’ve got Barry dead to rights! It’s all over.
Findlay paused in front of Barry’s front door. Next to him, Jonas Brown straightened his jacket again. As the cameras moved into position, he whispered to Findlay. “We really should cut to a commercial and go in after the break for maximum viewer tease and a big draw on the reveal.”
Findlay stared back with a blank face.
The camera lights went on again. Jonas stood rigid as ever. “We are here, live, ready to go into the purported suspect’s apartment, where - ”
Findlay tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.
Jonas Brown interrupted himself. “Mr. Findlay, do we have permission - ”
Findlay ignored him. “Barry! Its Chris Findlay and Jonas Brown from channel 8! We’re coming in!”
He pushed open the door.
The TV camera refocused and zoomed in on Barry’s apartment, scanning the living room. We all looked around with it as it beamed the contents into houses all around the Tampa Bay area.
There stood Barry’s couch. His coffee table. And directly across from it was…
Nothing. The machine was gone.
Jonas was visibly dismayed. “What’s going on here Mr. Findlay?”
Undaunted, Findlay waved Jonas off. “Stay with me, JB. I know it’s in here.” He began to run around Barry’s apartment like a maniac, checking behind counters and in closets. “Barry!” Findlay yelled. “I know you’re in here! What did you do with the machine!”
Shaking his head, Jonas made the “cut” signal by waving his hand across his throat.
Just then, a thump came from the bathroom.
Findlay’s eyes widened. “He’s in the bathroom with it!” He charged ahead. “Come on!”
An ambitious cameraman knocked Jonas aside, sprinting across the apartment.
“You can’t go in there,” Jonas shouted. “It’s trespassing.”
The cameraman scurried after Findlay. “If I win a Pulitzer, I won’t care!”
Reaching the bathroom at the far side of the living room, Findlay stood ready, shrewdly waiting for the camera to catch up. “Barry!” he called with added dramatic flair. “Come on out. It’s all over!”
Findlay put his hand on the door knob and glanced at the cameraman. “Be sure to get this, camera one.”
He slowly turned the knob.
“Ready…
“Set…
“GO!”
Findlay threw open the door to reveal… Nothing. Again.
From Chick-Fil-A, I saw the toilet, the sink... and the shower curtain.
Findlay stared at it and hesitated for a moment.
The curtain flew back. Riff smiled as the cameras zoomed in. He pulled back his fist and punched Findlay right in the head.
Findlay fell to the floor in a heap.
Riff scowled at the cameraman. “Did you get that, camera one?”
“That’s the money shot, baby!” The cameraman backpedalled away from Riff and scampered out of the apartment.
Jonas Brown was not amused. “I need to apologize to our viewers at home.” He took a deep breath and adjusted his jacket. “I’m sorry. This appears to have all been an elaborate hoax.” Findlay groaned in the background. Jonas ignored it.
“I’m Jonas Brown for news channel 8. Back to you in the studio.”
* * * * *
“Aaand we’re done,” The producer lowered her headset microphone. “That’s it people, let’s go. Nothing to see here.”
“Except a breaking and entering charge for Chris Findlay!” Riff slammed the front door shut.
“Except for that.” The producer retreated down the stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
Findlay stayed motionless, pretending to be unconscious until he was sure Riff had left. He’d been seeing stars anyway, so it wasn’t hard to pretend, and there was no rush.
Despite the blood that had collected on his nose and cheeks and the pounding headache, he started right to work. He dug out his cell phone from his pocket.
The voice on the other end answered before it logged one full ring. “Findlay? How’d it go?”
“It went well enough. I’m in the apartment and we’re on to Plan B.”
“Ooh, plan B, huh? How bad was it?”
Findlay inspected himself in the mirror, watching a deep shade of purple form on his cheek. He laid a finger on the rising welt and winced. The lump at the back of his head—a result of where he’d met the floor—sent waves of pain through his throbbing skull. “Guess I’ll live. Now, walk me through this. Where do we start, at Barry’s computer?”
“Yeah. I’ll get you into that and then we’ll start encoding and downloading. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Findlay giggled a little as he strolled out to the living room and stared at Barry’s desk. “I’m ready now. The cocky SOB left his laptop right here for me.”
“Did you bring your stuff?”
“It’s in the car. I’ll go get it and call you right back.”
* * * * *
“Dean Anderson, it’s Ashby White, president of Florida Electric Company. How are you?”
Burt Anderson had been driving back to his office, wondering what to do about the mess that was unfolding before him. He considered not answering his phone, but whatever bad news it might be, he knew he’d feel worse if he didn’t know.
“Mr. White. Hello.”
What did a major donor want? Anderson didn’t want to talk, not even to a cash cow like Ashby White, but faculty members can’t exactly turn down a call like that.
“Please, call me Ashby. Dean, I’ve just heard some amazing things on the radio about USF and some sort of discovery. It might be just the sort of thing Florida Electric would be interested in. Very interested.”
“How so?” Anderson tried not to sound anxious.
“Well, you know, every once in a while some farmer builds a car that runs on pig manure or something, right? It’s kind of like that. A time machine probably uses some creative ways to get around, so to speak. Methods of powering itself that are useful for a power company to know about.”
Anderson felt a kind of calm settle his stomach. “Funny, I never hear about pig poop cars driving all over the place.”
“No, you don’t, do you? And with the proper legal paperwork, you never will. Lots of rich folks in the world like to keep things just the way they are – with themselves in control. Oil companies, kings in oil producing nations. Lots of folks. But that doesn’t mean the farmer went away empty handed. If this thing turns out to be what you think it is, I can foresee some very lucrative contracts coming your way. To the university, and maybe some consulting contracts for you and your young friend, Mr. Findlay.”
“Mr. White, with all due respect, I have a reputation to consider.”
“Oh, I know all about your reputation, dean. Why do you think I called you myself? I’ve heard that you’re a man of vision. One who can see down the road – if he is properly compensated. Now, this machine could be worth a lot of money. The finder’s fee alone could be millions – if the discovery is legit. Is it?”
Millions. No more shipping the big fossil finds off to the more prestigious schools. Anderson’s hands had been sweaty before from nerves; now they gripped the steering wheel with anticipation.
The dean cleared his throat. “Can I assume there would be other interested parties?”
“Yes, you could assume that, Dr. Anderson.” Ashby White chuckled. “You could also assume that other governments would be interested in such a machine and its power source, its technology. Think about it. A hostile foreign government using a time machine against the United States in a war. They’d know our every move in advance. The results could be devastating. Such a thing could never be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. It would ruin our American way of life. Why, it’s practically your patriotic duty to sell it to us. And to let us protect you.”
“Protect me? From what?”
“Well, I’m not the only person who watches TV. That news feed went out locally, but soon all sorts of people in other countries will be watching it on the internet. People who might wish to do the U.S. harm. How fast could they board a plane and get to Tampa to take it from you? A day? Two? And do you think they’d be nice enough to call you up and ask you about it like I’m doing, or do you think they’d just saw through your neck with a machete and take it? I’m sorry to be blunt, but there are bad people in the world. It took less than five minutes for my people to connect me to your cell phone. If we can track you down that fast, so can others.”
Anderson swallowed hard. “I hadn’t thought about all that.”
“And why should you? You’re a man of science. It’s your job to be scientific. It’s my job as the head of a big bad energy corporation to be aware of the uglier side of life. You sell the machine to us and we take care of everything. Then you can be safe. You and any of your partners.”
Images of beheadings had been in the news lately. Thoughts of himself being one were unsettling. “I’ll have to think about it,” Dean Anderson said, trying to sound confident.
“Of course. This is my direct line I’m calling you from. Call me back when you’ve made a decision. And, doctor…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t take too long.”
* * * * *
Sitting down at Barry’s computer, Findlay dialed his cell phone again. “Okay, I’m back with my little bag of tricks.”
“Okay. First, we want to install spyware. While that’s getting configured, we can do the other stuff. The most important one was the tracker, which is on your computer. How long do you think you have before these guys come back?”
Findlay glanced around. “If I were Barry, I wouldn’t come back at all. Riff, either. They probably talked, so…”
“Well, we’ll know in a few minutes. Find the skim recorder you planted the other night.”
“That’s right here.” Findlay pulled a band aid sized device off the bottom of Barry’s computer. The one he had attached the other morning while the others ate donuts and clucked over their discovery.
“Place the skim recorder onto the downloader and it will automatically replay any key strokes entered on that computer between now and when you put it on. If Barry accessed his computer, it will have recorded the username and password, plus maybe a little more. It’ll sift through and search for login information.”
Findlay pulled a rectangular device out of his duffel bag. He laid the skim recorder on it and waited. “Do I need to press a button or anything?”
“Nope. Give it a minute. When it finds the skimmer it will-”
The downloader beeped. A short list of words and letters appeared on the screen.
“Sounds like we got it. What’s it say?”
“It says the computer registration number and Barry’s login information. Unfuckingbelievable.” Findlay giggled as he typed it into Barry’s computer. The home screen appeared.
“Easy as that,” Findlay said. “You guys have the coolest shit.”
“What did you expect? We’re MIT, baby. We kicked Vegas’ ass in card counting, for God’s sake. This kind of stuff is what we do.”
Findlay inserted a thumb drive and downloaded the spyware. The progress bar indicated that it was downloading quickly. “Righteous props to Barry. His machine’s a beast. It’s blazing through this stuff.”
“All speed and no security, huh? That’s pretty cocky.”
“You have no idea.” Findlay tapped the desk, staring at the machine as it worked.
“Of course, who would think some rock digger has anything worth stealing off his computer anyway?”
Findlay nodded. “He didn’t. Not until he discovered a time machine.”
“Well, then his lack of security was his second mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trusting you was his first. You stuck a tracker onto the time machine, right?”
“Yeah.” Findlay leaned forward in the chair. “Hey, and I was completely trustworthy until he tried to deal me out.”
“Really? I seem to recall an urgent phone call about the need to steal passwords and hack cell phones and track movements of objects—and that was a few hours before you went back for your breakfast visit.”
“There’s a word for that.”
“Paranoid?”
“Smart.” Findlay rocked in the chair. “I figured those assholes might cut and run as soon as they got what they needed from me, and I was right. I think they even concocted a little fight just to make it look good.” The spyware download concluded. Findlay pulled the thumb drive out of the computer. “Now those dirt diggers won’t be able to sneeze electronically without me knowing about it.”
“Fin, you’re positively evil.”
“I prefer to think of myself as innovative.” He slid the thumb drive back into his bag. “How else do you think I was able to spend two years not showing up for a college class or exam and still get straight A’s?”
“Nice. So what happens now?”
Findlay leaned on the desk, arms folded, watching the computer screen. “Now, I see where they go, what they do, who they talk to. When the time is right, I’ll swoop down and scoop them up, one at a time. They’ll never know what hit them. But first, I’m getting into each of their computers and doing a little recon.”
“Why do I think you’ll also be looking for bikini selfies on the girl’s computer?”
Findlay smiled. “Well, if I find that, so much the better.”
“Don’t be a perv, Fin. Keep it business.”
“Hey, this is business. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”
“How’s that tie into crashing their credit cards?”
“Shutting off their cell phones and credit cards will force them into the open. Going through all their computers and records is the best way to find the time machine so I can get it back. Then I’ll be running things. It’s all strictly business.” He chuckled. “The fact that it fucks with them immensely is just a nice side benefit.”
* * * * *
At his desk, Dean Anderson typed a few words into his computer.
Curiosity nagged at him. He searched on Florida Electric quarterly earnings, OPEC annual revenues, oil prices. It was impressive. Billions and billions of dollars traded hands annually in power companies. It was something he always knew but didn’t really know. Now he could be a part of it. The money, anyway. And there was a lot of it in the power and energy business. Enough to make Ashby White’s opening offer seem very realistic.
While he pondered his next move, he did an image search on the French Riviera and private jets.
He resisted the urge to watch the latest beheading video.
* * * * *
Findlay stared in amazement at his iPad. The screen was displaying the movements of cell phones, laid out over a simple map.
They haven’t gone anywhere.
It appeared as though everybody had hunkered down in different locations. Maybe they were asleep. But the blip he was most interested in hadn’t come yet. It would, soon enough. It should be pinging away from the location of the other object he tagged during the donut meeting. The time machine.
In a simple motion, he’d stuck a small radio emitter onto the underside of it. As soon as it synched up with the receiver, it would let him know exactly where it was. The cell phone track
ers and credit card trolls used different software, but his MIT buddy had assured him that the transmitter would eventually sync up and ping him with its location. So far, it hadn’t.
But while we wait . . . let’s have a look at some phone records. Who’ve you been calling on your cell phone, Barry?
With a few keystrokes, he had the phone bill open on the computer. Barry had only called a few different numbers in the last few hours. Findlay clicked open a search engine and dropped the phone numbers into a reverse lookup to see who they belonged to. The first one was Melissa. Scanning the record, he could see that quite a few calls went to her, in a brief time span, but they were all pretty short in duration. Voicemails, probably.
He hadn’t reached her.
The second number showed as Tandy Corporation.
Radio Shack. What was he doing calling them? It might be worth a visit to find out.
He typed the last number into the reverse lookup.
Howard Jones subaccount. Somebody’s family plan, and not a cell phone, either. A land line.
Another quick search showed the main area code located in New York, but the sub account’s area code was 813.
Tampa.
Findlay scratched his chin. He hadn’t wanted to be in Barry’s apartment this long, but it was hard to walk away from this much information. Relaying it all to his own computer would slow things down.
Barry had the time machine last; Melissa probably doesn’t have it because he never reached her. Could Barry have passed it off to this Howard Jones guy? Maybe.
Who’s Howard Jones, Barry? Let’s find out.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
Findlay heard the purring of the phone in his ear. He also heard a land line phone ringing somewhere else. He pulled the cell phone away and listened. The phone next door was ringing. Jones; Jonesy. Howard Jones must be Denise Jones’s father. He walked a few feet to the wall separating the two apartments and leaned into it.
A voice came through Findlay’s cell phone. “Hi, this is Denise…”
He held his breath and leaned against the wall. The ringing had stopped. He thought he could hear a woman’s recorded voice asking him to leave a message at the beep.
