Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series

by McWilson, Randy

  Crisis.

  Red lights, warning siren.

  Get to the Manual Release Lever! I’ll do it for Jasmine!

  It all flooded back to him, just not in a coherent manner. It was mere flashes of events at first rather than the actual events themselves. Colors, odors, and emotion. His face contorted as he pieced it all together, eyes squeezed shut.

  Ellen spoke softly. “You saved us all, Denver.”

  The Chief smiled. “And then, to pay you back, Ms. Finegan saved you.”

  She blushed and slapped McCloud’s shoulder.

  Denver squinted. “I do remember. I pulled a lever. But, uh, on the way back—”

  “On the way back there was an accidental electrical discharge,” Ellen added.

  “A spark?”

  She grinned. “Yes, a spark. It was quite a show actually.”

  The Chief laughed. “Yeah, quite a show, I’ll say! And when the light show was all said and done, the star of the show was lyin’ dead on center stage.”

  Denver blinked several times and gave Ellen a hard stare. “But, I don’t understand. I’m, I’m here, right? I’m not dead?”

  Ellen started to answer, but McCloud interrupted, “Well, you’re not dead now, but you were dead. I’m a cop, and as the Chief of Police here in Normal, I’m also the Coroner from time to time, Mr. Collins. I know dead when I see dead.”

  Denver was lost. The Chief plowed on. “No pulse. No breath. You were casket filler, my friend. Well, that is, until Dr. Fraulenstein here decided to zap you back to life.”

  Ellen dismissed the Chief’s hyper-simplified account. “I was just practicing medicine, Chief McCloud, and sometimes in healthcare we have to resort to desperate means for desperate cases.”

  She gazed down at Denver and lowered her soft hands onto his chest. “Let me guess, you’re pretty sore right about…here?” He winced and jumped a little.

  The Chief roared, “Ha, you jumped a lot higher‘n that a few days ago!” Ellen looked over at McCloud, horrified, but the Chief wasn’t deterred in the slightest. “Just like jumpin’ a dang car battery! Woo boy!”

  Ellen offered more dignified version of the story. “The explosion put you into full cardiac arrest. I tried CPR over and over, but it didn’t help. Then, I used some electrical leads from a capacitor and—”

  “And shocked the heck outta your ticker, pal! Boom baby!” McCloud couldn’t seem to contain himself.

  Denver probed his sore chest. The medical salve seeped through the gauze.

  “I finally got a cardiac rhythm established,“ Ellen said. “You coughed a few times, opened your eyes once, and then fell into a coma. It was all wait and see.”

  “And that, my friend,” the Chief interjected, “was three days ago. You've been Siberia ever since. Out cold.”

  Denver tapped Ellen on the arm. “Thank you...thanks for not...giving up on me.”

  Her cheeks flushed and she drew near to his rough face, placing a light fingertip on his nose. “Hey, it was the only noble excuse I could come up with to tear your shirt off and kiss you repeatedly.”

  McCloud jumped up out of his chair. “Oh, for the luvva Pete! Get a room! Get a room, folks!”

  Ellen winked at Denver and sauntered away. “Hey Chief,“ she said, “this is my room.”

  Denver called out to her. “No offense, but I can't seem to remember any of it. I'm sure it was great.”

  “Oh it was,” she said as she disappeared into the next room. “It was.”

  The Chief lowered his voice. “Flirtin’ Finegan, that’s what we always call her.” He cupped a hand beside his mouth and whispered, “Now you see why I keep her locked up in a basement with a couple of harmless geriatrics.”

  A less-than-enthused voice from the next room called out, “I heard that.”

  Denver took a deep breath as he struggled to sit up. The Chief bent over to help. “There ya go! Now, that's the spirit! You'll be good as new in no time flat. No hurry.”

  Denver grimaced. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of me hurrying anytime soon, Chief.” They worked together and McCloud stuffed some pillows behind him.

  “Now, ease on back…there ya go. You’re on your butt now, and before you know it, you’ll be on your feet.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Really.”

  Ellen returned with something piping hot in a cup. “Even in the year 2014, I doubt they have any medicine better than my chicken noodle soup.” She paused for a moment. “Well, actually it’s Martha's chicken noodle soup, with just a little Finegan family finesse thrown in. But drink it slowly. Your system needs to, what is it that Doc always says… oh yeah, reboot.”

  The Chief cleared the way as Ellen handed Denver her concoction. He took a cautious sip or two when the Chief headed for the door. “When you feel a little stronger, I'll have to bring over a lil' of my family's special recipe,” McCloud offered. “If ya know what I mean.”

  Ellen shot him a disgusted look. “Alcohol is a natural depressant, Chief. The last thing his shocked system needs right now.”

  McCloud chuckled, “Whatever you say, Nurse Finegan. Anywho, I'm headed over to meet with Miss Betty Larson. Said it was important. But you, Mr. Collins, you need to heal up and get ready.”

  Denver looked up from another hot and delicious sip, as his appetite returned with a vengeance. “Ready? Ready for what?”

  The Chief reached the door, and spun about. “School, Mr. Collins.”

  “You need to get ready for school, son.”

  Journal entry number 165

  Wednesday, May 14, 1947

  It has been over 3 days since we have seen Grant Forrester. I don’t know what’s worse, (a) the guilt that arises from the feeling that we somehow failed him, or (b) the fear of what he may do knowing what he knows.

  He knows everything about us, about X, about our plans and research. He knows where we are, when we are from, our names: everything. I guess I had this fear of someone leaving the group stuck in the back of my mind, but I never entertained it seriously. It was an unthinkable contingency, but once again denial must ultimately bow to reality.

  A million thoughts race through your mind:

  Maybe we should move.

  Maybe we should change our names.

  Maybe we should focus on finding Grant.

  Hire a private investigator.

  Maybe we should prepare for the worst.

  What if he sells us out?

  How long can he stay under the radar?

  What if he doesn’t want to stay under the radar?

  What if he exploits his knowledge and alters the future?

  In a way I feel hurt, betrayed, unappreciated. We have worked really hard to lay a foundation for Jumpers-to-be. Out of four, one has now departed. Is this the percentage, the ratio that we will face? A 25% drop-out rate? Is this acceptable? Is this to be expected?

  Tough questions, no easy answers.

  CHAPTER 30

  Police Chief James McCloud was certainly no stranger to private conferences with the town’s aggressive newspaper editor. Truth be known, since she took the throne just over three years ago, he actually crossed paths with Betty Larson with surprising regularity. Typically, he walked into her office with his hat in his hand, encouraging her to delay a story here, or to please avoid this or that piece of information.

  But she had called the meeting this time.

  For various reasons, the Chief avoided dealing with the reporting staff at The Pantagraph, an older, bigger rag printed down in Bloomington. It dwarfed the Journal in almost every respect, but Betty’s daily competitor seemed to ignore their newspaper neighbor to the north. Most of the time.

  But in a small town the size of Normal, any incidents, whether mountain or mole hill, involving Chief McCloud or Deputy O’Connell were at worst, page two. Their relationship had stayed civil and professional, or as much as could be hoped for in the tenuous coexistence of law enforcement and media. Both provided a necessary public service, but tha
t’s often where their similarity ended.

  In its very essence, police work functioned better in the dark, but the press lived for the opportunity to let its little light shine. Nature may abhor a vacuum, but the press abhorred all-things hidden.

  Betty attempted to keep one ear open to the concerns of law enforcement. But McCloud couldn’t deny that even recently she had plowed forward with stories he had privately pressured her to at least delay, if not disregard altogether.

  She didn’t do either.

  During such times he was tempted to give her a nice thank-you-card parking citation, or repay her kindness with any number of trumped up moving violations.

  He never did.

  But, he did think about it.

  A lot.

  Actually, Betty was a vast improvement. McCloud had to endure about sixteen months of misery with the former editor, Gil “the pill” Taylor, following McCloud’s appointment as police chief in March of 1952.

  Gil was twice as stubborn as he was sanctimonious. He fancied himself a champion of liberty, but most considered him a bastion of ego. After McCloud’s second or third unpleasant go-around with Gil Taylor, the editor smirked, “Sometimes the truth hurts.”

  The Chief fired back. “I guess that explains why you’re such a pain in the ass!”

  In an exercise requiring great persistence and restraint, Phil Nelson had reminded the Chief to bite his tongue concerning Taylor, and it bled deeply on many occasions. Phil worried, and rightly so, that the tenacious tabloid editor might set his investigative urges upon Nelson Manufacturing, or Chief McCloud, or even Phil himself. It was a distracting source of tension between the Chief and Phil. Shep’s penchant for conflict didn’t help matters much.

  But that was over three years ago.

  McCloud let off the gas as he turned onto the rough gravel road just west of Normal. The sun was high and hot, and rolling his window down offered only a token of relief for the chunky policeman as he bounced along the rutted lane.

  What does Betty want today? Her phone call sounded…different.

  He drew alongside a small creek and threw the car into park. Why outside of town? We’ve never met way out here. She didn’t sound scared, or threatened, or urgent…just different.

  He bent down and fished around inside the glove box. He pulled out a hand-sized flask and took a quick sip. The Chief wasn’t proud of his current irregular crutch, but compared to the wasted cesspool he had voluntarily drank himself down into during the early 1990s, he was making a miraculous comeback.

  Hiding his habit was a dangerous and tricky juggling act. Officially, Normal was a dry community. But just a few blocks to the south, once you crossed Division Street, there were no such prohibitions in Bloomington. He had always felt a bit hypocritical arresting people for booze, so most of them got away with a stern warning. He stashed his own vice and wiped his mouth.

  Betty was resting against the wooden rail of a small footbridge as he got out and strolled up. McCloud glanced at the water and back at her. “Working on a front page expose 'bout fish poaching, Miss Larson?”

  She put on a wicked grin and turned toward him. “Is that a tacit admission about an on-going investigation, Chief?”

  He smiled and leaned on the rail next to her. “Now, you know I can't comment ‘bout current police business. But if and when I land a big fish, you are usually the first one to know about it. Sometimes even before I want you to.” He looked away. “Small talk aside, Miss Larson, what brings the Chief of Police way out here on a sweltering Monday afternoon?”

  She rolled to the side and gazed off into the distance. “Honestly?” She paused. “I wish I knew.”

  McCloud wrinkled his brow and glanced towards her. “Look. O'Connell took the day off, Betty, so I'm afraid I don't have much time for a guessing game.” He gazed down at their reflection in the rippling water below. The Chief knew her well enough to know she would talk when she was good and ready. He could wait.

  It didn’t take long.

  Her voice cracked, “There’s... there’s something, or at least, I suspect that there’s something going on in Normal, or around Normal.”

  He was a bit disappointed with the empty revelation. The Chief spoke with just a hint of laughter. “Well, now, there's always somethin' going on, Betty. That's just normal for Normal...normally.”

  She didn’t appear to be amused as he was and continued to stare. He waited once again.

  “As the only full-time reporter in the area, I see and hear a lot of things,” she started. “But not just the big things, like car wrecks or birth announcements...no, I also run across other, uh, stories, or things, I, uh...”

  She hesitated again and McCloud frowned. “I've interrogated drunk people that made more sense 'n you. Spit it out, Betty. What’s goin’ on?”

  She rubbed her hands together. “I have, at the Journal, a, uh, a collection. A collection of items...items that are unusual...highly unusual.”

  His interest level went from mild to piqued instantaneously. He masked his concerned enthusiasm. “Oh, what kind of items, exactly?”

  She leaned back and began strolling across the bridge. The Chief wasn’t quite prepared for the next sentence that came out of her mouth. “I don't really know how to explain it. Unusual, almost, futuristic.”

  He donned his best policeman’s poker face. “I'm sorry, Betty,” he offered. “I guess I'm still not following you.”

  She stopped and spun around. ”And I'm not following me either!” she lamented. “But I am telling you. These things are almost, like, impossible. Like top secret research prototypes or something. I know I must sound crazy.”

  McCloud took a few steps towards her. “No, not crazy, just confused. Well, I'd be glad to take a look at—”

  “No,” she blurted. “I mean, not now. I'm torn. I feel like reporting it to the authorities—”

  The Chief drew closer and shrugged. “Well, I'm not exactly the president, Betty, but I am Chief of Police—”

  “Oh, listen—no offense, Chief. But I think this needs to go higher, a lot higher.”

  He looked back at the creek, searching his mind for options. “I understand, at least I think I do. Uh…I know people,” he offered casually. “I know some Feds that could help, maybe help shed some light perhaps on what you should do. I could make some calls.”

  She peered into his confident eyes and nodded. “Thanks, Chief. Look, I'm sorry to have bothered you, I just—”

  “Hey, no apologies necessary, but, who else knows about your little...collection?”

  She pointed at the quiet brook. “As of right now just you, me, and the fish.”

  He walked up and put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “Now listen. Listen to me good. Don't do anything until I get word back from my contacts. I promise, they'll know what to do. They’re top-shelf kinda guys. Top-shelf.” He grinned.

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so. But are the...uh...items safe?”

  She took a few steps back across the bridge.

  “Oh, yeah, they’re safe. Literally safe.”

  Journal entry number 173

  Sunday, June 8, 1947

  It’s almost been a month since Grant bailed on us. His departure has had a significant impact on the morale, on the attitude of the group as a whole. Chalk it up to guilt or concern, or a little bit of both, makes no difference. Ken has really taken it hard. He and Grant had a lot in common.

  We’ve needed something positive to rally around ever since. Well, yesterday X may have given us that rallying point. As we work through the dilemmas of physics and the barriers of language, it appears that he is confident that we have reached a major breakthrough.

  As best as I can make out, our biggest problem now is power. The potential temporal device he is constructing will require almost unimaginable amounts of energy. A nuclear power plant small enough to fit in half of my garage might do it, but I’ve looked in all the stores, and even the Sears Roebuck Catalog and I c
an’t find one.

  Aside from nukes and the sun, the only source of power that can deliver what we need is lightning. Lightning has a lot going for it.

  Think about it:

  1. It’s pretty common. I think I read somewhere that it strikes the Earth about 100 times per second!

  2. It’s FREE

  3. Extremely powerful

  Sounds great. Come to think of it, lightning and earthquakes share many of the same characteristics: pretty common, very powerful, and absolutely free, but there is one major problem:

  YOU CAN’T PREDICT THEM ACCURATELY.

  There’s the rub.

  But there is a key difference between earthquakes and lightning: you can’t attract an earthquake. But Ben Franklin demonstrated that you can attract electricity in the atmosphere. There are no “earthquake rods,” but there are lightning rods. In the movie Dune the natives used thumping rods to attract the giant worms and then harnessed their great power. Maybe we can use rods to harness nature’s big bolts as well. I will probably have to buy a large pickup truck to haul the equipment.

  It’s the right time of the year—we have about 6 more weeks of thunderstorm weather in the Great Plains. I always wanted to be a storm chaser, but that was out of pure curiosity, now I may have to be one out of cruel necessity.

  CHAPTER 31

  Surreal.

  That’s how a still-recovering Denver Collins described the scene to Leah a few days later.

  He surveyed the large conference room at Nelson Manufacturing, taking mental inventory of all twelve of his fellow time Jumpers gathered around a spacious table, with the exception of Chief McCloud. A few of them he had never met, period, and this was certainly the first time he had seen all of them gathered together in one, safe place.

  A few of them couldn’t help but gawk at Denver as they took long drags on their cigarettes. First off, he was the newest Jumper. Secondly, he was still sporting quite a few bandages and visible injuries. He was the biggest freak in the freak show.