Middle Falls Time Travel Series, Books 4-6 (Middle Falls Time Travel Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Shawn Inmon

  Nathaniel turned the key and slipped the Focus into Drive, then drove the streets of Middle Falls for ten minutes, back tracking, checking for a vehicle that might be following him, but he didn’t see anything. Nathaniel reached into his jacket pocket, pulled the small phone Thomas had given him out and dropped it on the seat. Thomas had called it a burner phone. For the moment, it would be the only way anyone could get in touch with him.

  He worked the back roads until he came to the entrance ramp to I-5 and got on heading south. The decoy group was almost an hour ahead of him, and they had pulled off at a prearranged truck stop just south of Albany. By the time Nathaniel arrived at the same truck stop, the earlier group had gone in, ordered and eaten, and departed, leaving one member behind—Violet Moon.

  She was standing at the door, anxiously looking for him when Nathaniel drove in. She didn’t wait for him to stop—she was out the door while he was still slowing down. She gestured to him to stay in the car, as she knew there were security cameras recording everything.

  She jumped into the passenger side, and said, “Oh, Nathaniel, I am so sorry. Why do I feel like this is all my fault?”

  “Because you like to take on guilt that isn’t yours. Let’s drive, and we can talk on the way. Where does the A-Team have me heading now?”

  “Thomas said he didn’t want to know where we were going. He was happy to play a part in getting you out of there. We’re on our own again, just like we were all those years ago, when we left Tubal.”

  “Life is a series of circles, isn’t it? Let’s just drive for a while then, and enjoy our freedom.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Cyrus Creech laid in a twin bed in his cramped bedroom. A TV tray sat beside the bed, loaded with different pill bottles. He looked out his window onto a muddy, postage stamp backyard, and the back of his rear neighbor’s house. A television played quietly at the foot of his bed. He was in his mid-seventies, but looked much older. Where he had once been thin, he was now emaciated. He had the look of a man with not many sunrises left in his lifetime.

  Cyrus was no longer the wealthy man he had once been. Despite the best efforts he and Byron could put forth, Creech Co. had fallen into a familiar death spiral. Decreasing revenues had caused them to cut back on both raw manufacturing materials and personnel, which led to more decreasing revenues, and more cutbacks. After doing that dance for five years and with their noses barely above water, the Great Recession of 2008 finished them off.

  Byron had gone to work for another company just so he could feed his family, and Cyrus had retired with his scant personal savings to a small home in a family neighborhood on the outskirts of Little Rock that he had once used as a rental. It was his only remaining asset, and he survived only by using a reverse mortgage to siphon his equity away, month by month.

  Cyrus had long since given up any hope of finding Nathaniel. He had stubbornly held onto his investigative team and continued writing checks to them even through the first round of cutbacks at the company, but even he now had to admit he had held onto that chase too long.

  Alice had left him a decade before, not because she was deserting the sinking financial ship, but because the older he got, the more dogmatic and pedantic he had become. Where once Cyrus had been a man of stalwart faith, it had continued to shrink and shrivel through the years until he had become bitter and judgmental. When Alice left him, she moved in with Byron, his wife, and their two children.

  The topper on Cyrus Creech’s misery cake came in early 2017, when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. A quick Google search had revealed his likely fate, and in the ensuing months, he had resigned himself to it.

  He was lying in bed, working on the project of thinking himself to death, when a strange scene on the television caught his eye. At first, he assumed it was a feed from the set of a movie, with the special effects already added in, because it showed a bomb exploding in the back of a truck while a man seemed to absorb the blast, then release it into the sky. The news program backed that portion of the tape up and played it, back and forth, several more times.

  The next video the news program showed had a close up of the man’s face. There are tremendous differences between the human face at age four and that same face at thirty-nine. Nonetheless, a name tumbled from Creech’s cracked lips: Nathaniel. He knew it was him with the same certainty he knew he was dying.

  He raised his head up off the pillow and clawed among the medicine bottles, looking for the television remote. He grabbed it and turned the volume up.

  “I have a hunch this is all anyone in America’s going to be talking about today,” the newscaster said in voiceover. “That, of course, is Nathaniel Moon, who many are calling The Middle Falls Messiah. What exactly are we seeing here? Is it the kind of miraculous act that hasn’t been seen since Biblical times, or is it all a giant hoax? Too soon to tell.” The replay of the bombing disappeared and the newscaster himself was smiling reassuredly at the camera. “Whatever it is, you know we’ll be right here to bring you the latest. Speaking of that, let’s take a look at our five day forecast with Jenny Miller. Jenny?”

  Creech switched the TV off and swung his skinny legs over the bed. He put his feet into his slippers and tottered toward the bathroom down the hall. Seeing Nathaniel, his great white whale, after so many years of searching had reinvigorated him. Yes, he was still dying, of course, but he felt more energy than he had in years.

  Cyrus didn’t have a cell phone anymore, so he got the house phone out and began making calls. Fifteen minutes later, he was pleased to know that he still had enough room on his one remaining credit card to book a one way ticket to Portland, Oregon, and to rent a car there.

  He went out into his cramped, one car garage, filled not with his automobile, but with the remaining souvenirs of his once-successful life. Boxes of pictures of Creech posing with a string of governors and state senators. More boxes filled with awards – crystal shapes that read “Businessman of the year, 1992,” and the like. Useless, most of it, but he knew what he wanted. He had been lying in bed envisioning exactly where it was that very morning.

  Cyrus stepped around several piles and went directly to a black case that sat alone on a shelf. He retrieved it and returned to his bedroom. He sat on the bed with a wheeze. He was energized, yes, but he was still a very sick man who hadn’t walked more than ten steps at a time in months.

  He unlatched the box and removed the Walther P99 9mm semi-automatic pistol. It wasn’t shiny black, but instead was a deep, dangerous green. He stroked the gun lovingly.

  “I had one job for you, but now I’ve got something new. Let’s see if the miracle maker can truly heal himself.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  After an hour’s drive, Nathaniel and Violet saw a billboard advertising “Clean and Cozy Rooms!” at the Standing Fir Inn, in Cottage Grove, just off the next exit.

  “Been a long day, Mom. Let’s pull off, and recharge a little.”

  They took the exit, turned right, and drove half a mile away from the freeway, before turning right down a tree-lined drive to a series of small cabins.

  “I’d say if someone finds us here, they deserve an interview,” Nathaniel said.

  She went inside the darkened office and rang a bell that undoubtedly woke up the proprietor, who appeared a few moments later and sleepily checked her in. If he recognized her last name, he gave no sign of it. At 3:00 am, he might not have recognized his own mother.

  Two minutes later, they were in the room, which, as advertised, was both clean and cozy. Cedar covered walls, the kind of generic paintings only found in inexpensive motels, and two relatively comfortable queen beds.

  Violet sat on one bed and said, “I know you didn’t have a choice. I don’t know where we go from here, but I’m proud of you. If you had to reveal yourself, you chose the best way to do it. Our Katie is safe at home tonight, along with hundreds of other kids, because of you. If there’s a price to be paid for that, whatever it is, it’s wort
h it.”

  Nathaniel sat opposite Violet. He reached out and took her hands in his.

  “From the time I was little—when I found out I could fix people—I knew this would come. I knew I would be faced with an impossible decision. When I was standing there today, and I looked into the eyes of that man, I knew it wasn’t impossible at all, though. It was easy. I’ve spent too much of my life trying to hide this part of who I am. Now, I have no idea what’s next, and that’s okay, too. That’s life, right?”

  Violet nodded. “Let’s get some rest, and we’ll come up with a plan in the morning, because I don’t have one now.”

  Nathaniel, who normally only slept two or three hours a night, laid down on the bed, closed his eyes, and didn’t move for nearly eight hours.

  THE NEXT MORNING, NATHANIEL awoke to find Violet already up and out of the room. He took a shower, then was just facing the prospect of putting the same clothes back on, when Violet returned with two cups of coffee and a big shopping bag.

  “Here. Coffee. We’re on the run again, but we can still be human beings.”

  “It’s got to be better than what they were pretending was coffee at the police station last night.”

  She smiled, then reached into the bag and threw Nathaniel a plastic bag with underwear, another with socks, a pair of jeans, and a powder blue t-shirt that read, in large, block letters, COME AT ME, BRO. “Here, you can change out of your towel. Sorry about the t-shirt. They didn’t have much of a selection. It was either this, or one that said, I’m with Stupid, and I wasn’t going to be seen with you in that.”

  “God forbid. Thanks, Mom. Hang on, and you can have the bathroom. I’m going to put on my nifty new clothes first.”

  Quick as a flash, he was back out, looking very un-Nathaniel like in his stiff new jeans and tight t-shirt.

  “Oh, my,” Violet said, almost able to stifle a giggle. “I believe I am fired from all future clothes shopping for you. And I used to do such a good job of it when you were a little boy.”

  “I used to rock those Transformers t-shirts.”

  Nathaniel retrieved his belt from his other jeans, then slipped the well-loved flannel shirt he’d had on the day before over the t-shirt and almost looked like himself again. While Violet was in the bathroom, he sat on the edge of the bed and turned the TV on. One of the network morning shows was on, and the first thing he saw was a video of the bomb blast.

  Nathaniel leaned forward, interested in how it looked from an objective perspective. It was a wide angle shot of the scene. Across the bottom of the screen, a graphic was displayed—Middle Falls Miracle. The scene played out just as he had remembered it, but Nathaniel had to admit it was interesting to see it from above. The dropped detonator, the brief pause, then the incredible destructive energy of the blast. The network slowed the video down at that point, and Nathaniel saw the beginning of the destruction, before it all turned toward him, like steel shavings rushing toward a magnet.

  In the video, Nathaniel watched himself stand completely still, gathering the force of it to him. I thought maybe it staggered me, but no. Interesting.

  The focus of the video tightened, so that Nathaniel filled the frame. When he reached for the sky, the camera zoomed tighter yet. His face was alight as he released the energy.

  The news show immediately began playing the clip again with expert commentary from someone who said they were a demolitions expert, but Nathaniel flipped away. The second and third channels were showing exactly the same thing.

  Nathaniel switched again. It was a local station, and a pretty, middle-aged blonde woman was sitting across from an older woman. Nathaniel turned the sound up a bit. The blonde woman was obviously the interviewer, as she asked a series of thoughtful questions of the woman beside her.

  “And what do you do with the funds you’ve raised?”

  The older woman answered, “We are doing our best to diversify our efforts. So, in addition to buying books for youth groups and the like, we have also bought and refurbished an old bus that we can use as a bookmobile to serve areas that don’t have easy access to a library.”

  Hmm. An interview segment dedicated to improving literacy among kids in a society filled with more screens than pages? Not your typical local news fare.

  The blonde woman turned and looked directly into the camera. “That’s all the time we have today. My thanks to Anna Hendricks for taking the time to come by the studio to talk about your literacy program. It’s a worthy cause, and one I know our viewers will support. Thank you for tuning in, and be sure to stay tuned for the Thursday morning movie, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Hope I got the proper number of ‘Mads’ in there. I hope we’ll see you again tomorrow. I’m Laura Hall.” The camera panned out on a low-tech set. A hand-painted sign over her left shoulder read, “Good Morning, Eugene.” A scroll ran across the bottom of the screen that read, Would you like to be a guest on Good Morning Eugene? Call us! followed by a telephone number.

  Nathaniel turned the TV off, just as Victoria came out of the bathroom, toweling her wet hair. She was also dressed in stiff new jeans. Nathaniel noted her t-shirt was plain, however.

  “Okay. I think I’ve got our next move planned out,” Nathaniel said. “I’ve got to make a few phone calls, then I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  Victoria pointed at the small digital clock between the beds.

  “Ah. Okay, I’ll buy you lunch.”

  He picked the cell phone that Thomas had provided him, dialed the number he had seen on TV and waited. A woman answered, “KUET television, how may I direct your call?”

  “Laura Hall, please.”

  A moment later, a young-sounding man answered, “This is Scott, can I help you?”

  “Can I speak to Laura Hall, please?”

  “This is Scott Neal. I’m Laura’s producer. She’s tied up right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Sure. My name is Nathaniel Moon. I was just watching an interview Laura did with a woman about her literacy program. At the end, there was a graphic that said if I wanted to be on your show, I should call, so here I am. I’d like to do an interview with Laura.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Nathaniel clicked the “End” icon on his phone and turned to Violet. “Well, there we go. At first, he told me that it would take them three months to get me on the interview calendar, but then I heard someone whispering to him, and now we’re on for this afternoon. They said they couldn’t afford to pay me anything for the interview. Do people usually charge reporters to talk to them?”

  “When they’re the most sought-after interview in the world, yes, they do. Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

  “I’m not sure about much, right at the moment,” Nathaniel said as he thumbed the television back on. As he ran through the channels, he was the topic of conversation on more than half of them. “But I think the horse is out of the barn on keeping a lid on this, Mom.” He reached out and put an arm around her shoulder. “I know that humans don’t like change, but it’s the one inevitable thing in our lives. We need to learn to embrace it.”

  “I can handle change, like when the coffee shops stop serving Pumpkin Spice lattes. I don’t like it so much when our whole life get tossed in a blender and someone hits ‘puree.’”

  “It’s going to be fine. I want to do this interview. I’ve got a few things I’d like to say, while I have the chance.” He glanced down at his shirt. “Maybe we can try to find a different store on the way, though?”

  THE KUET STUDIOS WERE a modest affair, a smallish building in the middle of an industrial area. A sign in front read, “KUET, We Bring Life to Eugene!” Violet looked at the building and said, “My one chance to meet Anderson Cooper, and you choose this little place. C’mon, let’s go in.”

  Inside the lobby, there was only one young man there to greet them. He looked to be in his early twenties and was tall and thin with an excess of nervous energy. “Mr. Moon? I’m Scott Neal. We spoke on the phone. It
’s an honor to have you here.”

  “Is this place always so quiet?” Nathaniel asked, looking around at the empty and darkened offices.

  “No, but Mr. Wagner, that’s the Station Manager, wanted it to be as quiet in here as possible when you arrived. He said nothing this big has ever happened to this station. Not even when we had a cameraman up by Mount St. Helens when she blew.”

  “That’s very kind. Where are we going to do the interview?”

  “In our studio. Laura’s in there waiting for us. She’s been prepping all afternoon. I know she’s anxious to meet you. We’re lucky to have her here. She had her own talk show up in Seattle, but once her daughter was born, she wanted to find a smaller town to raise her in and she settled here. Seattle’s loss is definitely Eugene’s gain.” Scott led them through the building and through a door that opened into the same set that Nathaniel had seen that morning.

  Laura Hall was sitting in one of the brown swivel chairs and jotting some notes into a notebook, but looked up when the door opened.

  “Mr. Moon, please, come in. I’m Laura Hall. I’m so pleased you’re here.”

  “I saw your interview with Mrs. Hendricks this morning about her literacy program. I thought it was very well done.” Nathaniel fished his wallet out of his back pocket and plucked out two twenties and a ten. “Would you be able to pass this on to her? I’d like to support what she is doing.”

  Laura looked a little flustered, but accepted the bills and turned to Scott. “Will you see that Mrs. Hendricks gets this? Please, sit down,” she said, indicating the other swivel chair, “and let’s go over the ground rules.”

  “Great. What are the ground rules?”

  Laura laughed. “No, I assumed you would have some ground rules for me. Subjects or topics that are off-limits, areas that are sensitive for you, that sort of thing.”