He inched up to the door and peered through the window. He hated three things in life and at least two of them were crowds. Through the thick layer of cigarette and cigar smoke that was suspended just overhead, Ross looked with disdain at the hundreds of bureau agents and police officers milling about.
Where is Schaeffer?
He checked his pocket watch. It was show time.
“There you are!” Neal exclaimed, jogging up to him.
“Where have you been?”
Neal smiled. “Uh, looking for you, Chief. The stage door is that way.” Neal pointed to their far left and handed him a folder. “Come on, let’s get you through this. I know how much you just love putting on a spectacle.”
Neal escorted his unenthused boss toward the platform entrance. “We’ve obtained some intelligence on the wallet,” Neal offered discreetly.
“Bout damn time.”
“Apparently it was turned in by a Greyhound bus driver.”
Ross slowed down. “And just why aren’t we talking to him right now instead of this—circus?”
“Patience, great one. Patience. We haven’t located the route or the driver just yet, but we’re close. And right now, your adoring fans await.”
Neal opened the door for him in military fashion. “After you, FBI Special Agent Ross.”
Howard held up the folder as he passed through and flipped Neal off privately. Schaeffer just winked at him. “Go get ‘em, Boss. I’m right behind you.”
Ross ascended the platform in a dignified gait, and approached the podium. He tapped the microphone a few times, and the room began to settle down to a manageable roar. He leaned in and set the folder down. “Good morning, gentlemen.” A quick squeal of feedback made him lean away.
He restarted, “Good morning.” The chatter evaporated. “I am Special Agent Ross. The urgency of the operation and the immediacy of our window of opportunity has brought us together today. We are looking for this man.” Ross nodded and a huge image of a bearded face filled the portable screen on the opposite end of the stage.
“Due to matters of extreme sensitivity related to the national security interests of the United States, we are seeking this man,” he paused for effect. “Denver Wayne Collins.”
Ross may not have liked crowds, but he sure knew how to work one. He glanced back at Schaeffer, who was tucked just behind the main curtain. Neal was nodding and smiling. Ross continued with a grave stare. “This fugitive is considered extremely dangerous, and possibly armed with advanced weapons.” He hesitated again. “But you may not, under any circumstances, use deadly force. He must be taken alive.”
He glanced down at the officer sitting next to the slide projector. The image changed to a detailed composite sketch.
“This is a possible rendering of Mr. Collins clean shaven. Once identified, Denver Collins, and all known associates, are to be immediately taken into protective and solitary custody.” He stepped back and coughed. “He is not to be questioned, interrogated, photographed, or recorded by any person at any time until I arrive with my team.”
He motioned with his hand. A map of Northern Illinois filled the screen with a red line, reminiscent of a bulls-eye, encircling Chicago. Ross took a sip of water (Neal had added just a splash of lemon, the way Ross liked it).
“You will sweep every city, every town, within a hundred-fifty-mile radius of the Chicago city limits. Notify and recruit all local law enforcement and distribute copies of his photograph and physical description. However, do not alert the press.” He glared out across the auditorium and spoke with firm precision. “No press. Any leaks will be...career ending. I hope I am clear.”
Ross pulled the microphone out of its holder and stepped out from behind the safety of the large podium, trailing the cable behind. He looked down for a moment, always the showman. “I cannot overemphasize the value of his capture to the safety and security of the United States of America.”
He nodded once more and the face of Denver reappeared, far larger than life. Ross sauntered over to it, his distinct shadow falling upon the screen.
Neal laughed as he mumbled under his breath, “Just had to get yourself on that screen somehow, eh, Chief?”
Ross continued, “When you eat, I want you to see the face of Denver Collins in your soup bowl. When you sleep, I want you to dream about him all night long. When you make love to your wife, I want you to see the face of Denver Wayne Collins staring back at you.”
A low, disgusted rumble rippled through the all-male crowd.
“I want your every desire, your every waking thought to be the arrest of Denver Wayne Collins.”
Journal entry number 208
Thursday, November 13, 1947
I was re-reading yesterday’s journal entry about Martha Tomlin. I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me earlier. The ramifications and implications are mind numbing, migraine-inducing. Huge.
Mrs. Tomlin was born in 1925. That means that there are TWO Martha Tomlin’s living in the world right now! There is (1) my Martha here in Normal, Illinois, and (2) her younger self in Eastern Tennessee, or rather, wherever she was/is in 1947.
How can this be? What does this mean?
Is it possible that she could MEET HERSELF?
Is that safe? What would happen?
How could anyone know for sure?
What would that do to the time-stream if your non-Jumper self met your Jumper-self?
I haven’t said anything to her about it. Maybe she has already thought about it. This could happen again; we could have more Jumpers arrive who have younger versions of themselves somewhere out there. It is so strange to think that I, Phillip Allen Nelson, will be born in about 18 months. What would it be like to see yourself through the hospital nursery window? To attend your own actual birth day?
It is perhaps dangerous enough to go anywhere near your own parents or grandparents, but to go near yourself…wow. Interesting but potentially disastrous. I need to formulate a new ACCORD to prevent a time-catastrophe.
The First Accord: Walk Without Footprints
The Second Accord: Filter the Future
The Third Accord: Prevent Personal Profit
The Fourth Accord: Avoid Meeting Yourself
I am planning to put together a comprehensive Jumper training program eventually. There is so much information that needs to be categorized and sequenced.
MEMO July 15, 1947
SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET
FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence
FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN
SUBJECT: Roswell Situation Report
We have correlated a Ford truck that was seen leaving the ranch near the site of the Event with a Ford truck that had been at a motel in Roswell the evening of 3 July, 1947. The motel owner said there were four men in the truck, and that the back of the vehicle had something large covered with a tarp. Our ranch witness (William Woody) affirmed that there were only two men fleeing in the front of the truck on 4 July, 1947.
In this possible scenario, the two specimens recovered are the other two men. The motel room was paid for by a male, dark-haired, medium build, late thirties with an unusual birthmark on his neck. A thorough sweep of the room revealed no compelling physical leads.
According to the autopsy report, one of the specimens had blond hair, and the other was nearly bald. No birthmark on the neck of either specimen.
The room was signed for by one Phillip Nelson.
END
DCI/PS
CHAPTER 36
“The tricky part is the timing,” Shep said as he studied a calendar spread out in the middle of the table. Several Jumpers studied him with interest as he rolled up his sleeves, and rubbed his hand across a full-day’s stubble. “If we steal it too soon, it will obviously turn Betty’s suspicion to you, McCloud, since she said that you were the only one who knew about it.”
The Chief agreed without hesitation, but a different issue was troubling him. He l
eaned in and tapped several times on the table. “Actually there’s two tricky parts.” He stared over at Shep. “You're absolutely right—one’s the timing, but the other—the other’s motive deception.”
“I'm not following you, Jim,” Ellen admitted. A more recovered Denver looked over at her and shrugged.
McCloud sank into his chair, ideas and plans stirring within him. “We gotta steal her collection, yes, but it has to look like we weren't tryin' to steal her collection.” He gazed around the room, wide-eyed. “It has to look like somethin’ else.”
Ellen jumped in. “Okay, gotcha, like a regular burglary that, that just happened to get the other goodies.”
McCloud pointed at her. “Bingo. If we can do that, then we got it made in the shade. Now we just need the actual burglars.”
Officer O’Connell piped up. “Hey, if you're looking for volunteers, Chief, you know I'm on board. Count me in.”
Shep seized the opportunity to unload on him. “Are you crazy, O'Connell? Can you imagine what would happen if this ever got linked back to you? A police officer? Might as well just call the Feds right now!”
Frazier added insult to injury. “Dumb idea, Billy. Really lame.”
The Chief advanced toward the enthusiastic but inexperienced officer. “Shep's right, Billy. No way, it's way too risky. It needs to be Jumpers that have the least amount to lose and the least amount of ties back to this group.”
McCloud’s recommendation left little to the imagination.
Denver’s two eyes met five other pairs. “Wait a minute,” he chuckled. “Are you honestly suggesting that I break into the local newspaper and rob it?”
McCloud stepped towards him. “Not suggesting, Mr. Collins. Volunteering. You're perfect for the job! You're practically unknown in these parts, and your knowledge of us and our group is—is not much.”
“But that doesn't mean that I'm an experienced thief,” he protested, “even if it is for a worthy cause. And the new name's Jackson, not Collins. Didn’t everyone get the memo? Remember me—lost wallet boy?”
Denver turned to Ellen, his voice expressing his desperation. “Ellen, tell them—I’m still recovering from death. That takes a while, right?”
She angled in her seat and stared him up and down. “I think you’re fine, both medically, and personally. And I do mean fine.”
The Chief stepped between them. “Don't worry. You won't be alone, Mr. Jackson. How's the recon going, Mr. Frazier?”
Garrett stood and towered above the table. “I can tell you how many seconds it takes for our beloved reporter to go from her desk to her sedan, including the time it takes for her to lock the office door, and she always checks it twice.”
Several people traded confused glances as McCloud explained. “I asked Frazier to start monitoring Betty's movements since our big meetin' a few days ago.”
Denver put his head in his hands. “Well, I sure hope you know what you're doing, Frazier, 'cause I'm a bit new to the whole breaking-and-entering thing.” Denver sat up. “We did our fair share of searches in the war, but that was house to house, three guys, big guns, and we didn’t care who knew about it.”
The Chief smiled broadly. “Oh, don't worry, Mr. Jackson, you're gonna get plenty of practice.”
Ellen started laughing and leaned back. “Oh, this I gotta see!”
“And see you will, Miss Finegan.” McCloud put a firm hand on her shoulder. “You're gonna be one of their first victims!”
Ellen spun about. “Whoa, I may spend too much time with a short French physicist, but excuse moi?”
McCloud strolled back to his chair. “Well, it would be too obvious if only the Normal Journal was robbed in an isolated criminal event.” He pointed at the two would-be-thieves. “Denver and Frazier are going to do a whole string of small breakins. Motive deception is the name o' the game.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Denver said as he articulated the absurdity of the proposal. “The Chief of Police, the man charged with the safety and security of the entire community, he is planning a whole series of robberies, right in his own home town, which includes breaking into the homes of some of his closest friends, using two time travelers, in order to confuse a newspaper editor and abscond with a mysterious box of goodies?” Denver took a much needed breath and surveyed the room. “That…that is your plan?”
The Chief rocked back on his heels and smiled like a proud father of triplets. “Yep.”
Journal entry number 229
Thursday, January 15, 1948
Jumper Number 6 blasted into our lives yesterday, and I do mean blasted. The lightning flash and shockwaves of thunder put all the rest of the FLaTs to shame. He was another late night/early morning apocalyptic arrival. Michael Ritenour went from June of 2006 (wow—the next millennium!) to January of 1948 in less than one second, at 1:30 a.m. on Wednesday, January 14th.
His grand entrance unintentionally created the perfect diversion. When I threw on a bathrobe and walked outside, I could see every light on in Normal. Ten minutes later, as I drove around town, there were still dozens of people out and about. He was just one among many.
In this culture of near-Cold War anxiety, I imagine most people assumed that we were under attack by the Commies. I’m afraid that the distrust that will be fomented by a McCarthy-type “Red” paranoia could hurt us Jumpers. I don’t think that Senator McCarthy will start his witch hunt for another year or so, but after that—watch out. People will start to worry about all “newcomers.” Average folks will see Communists behind every tree, and Russian-sympathizers under every rock.
Back to Michael. To make a long story short, I played a hunch that I’ve been harboring for a while now. If I found myself suddenly transported to a strange town, with no idea what happened, I would probably seek out law enforcement. So, after driving around and realizing that the number of people outside was going to make this impossible, I parked in front of the Normal police station. Sure enough, about 45 minutes later, Michael Ritenour sauntered up to the (locked) door, with a small electronic device in his hand. I walked up and said, “Let me guess, this ain’t the right WHERE, and this ain’t the right WHEN?” It took a bit, but I won him over, at least enough to head to the house.
He is tall, dark headed, and 29 years old. He is divorced, with two kids, and jumped from a suburb of Boston. He has a manufacturing background. It’s still a bit early to judge (every time-traveler has to get through some degree of what I call “Jump Shock” or “Time Trauma”), but he is somewhat guarded in his personality. More of a closed book than me, for sure. Hard to read. But I’ve only known him for less than 2 days.
Mrs. Tomlin, on the other hand, has begun to relax a little and open up. We have sat and talked for hours about her experiences growing up, especially in this time period. She was the one who first brought up the “two Marthas” problem. She said that her 22 year-old other self is living in Ohio right now with her husband Calvin. She can’t talk about him or her daughter Caroline without misting up quite a bit.
She longs to go see her husband, even from a distance, but she also knows the real and abiding dangers of that game of emotional and temporal roulette. Until we know differently, the Fourth Accord must be enforced with all our might.
Oh, I almost forgot (after re-reading this)—the device in Michael’s hand is called a cellphone. It’s like a portable telephone, a glorified walkie-talkie. I wanted to know more, but even I must follow the Second Accord.
MEMO July 22, 1947
SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET
FOR: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN
FROM: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence
SUBJECT: Project SATURN
I just received authorization from HST regarding the Dreamland facility at Groom Lake, NV. Construction will commence on or about August 4. Temporary housing and storage will be installed in Phase I and Roswell Event materials should be relocated from Los Alamos immediately thereafter.
We
are compiling a master list of all US residents matching the name of Phillip Nelson in the age range specified. You are authorized to utilize the FBI in the dragnet, but all interrogations must come through your department. Project SATURN personnel have been issued cover credentials through the Criminal Investigative Division of the Bureau.
END
DCI/PS
CHAPTER 37
I really miss power steering.
And a good CD player.
And air conditioning.
Denver brought the dark red coupe to a jolting stop and signaled a couple of muddy kids waiting to get to the other side. He could make out a pair of grateful smiles through the crusty dirt. They wasted no time crossing. Denver glanced into the rear view mirror and examined the one remaining bandage on his forehead.
Leah pointed ahead. “Quit looking at yourself. You look fine, pretty boy. Now, make a left at the next street.”
“Hey, don’t get onto me. I’ve seen plenty of gals putting on lipstick while talking on their cellphones, and all while driving. A few of them might’ve even been smoking.”
Leah looked over at him. “Talking on their what?”
“Ms. Swan, you are so 1991. I’m trying to enforce the Second Accord.” He slowed and turned left. “I meant to ask earlier…where is Tori today?”
“Oh, I took her over to Martha's place. Go straight,” she said. “Martha is just great with her.”
Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series Page 18
