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

by Shawn Inmon

  The outcome of the trial was never in doubt. Two dozen cameras had recorded the multiple murders, and there were hundreds of witnesses willing to testify to what they saw, including many of the reporters and TV people who were there. Cyrus Creech pled “Not guilty by reason of insanity,” but the jury rejected that. They found him to be of sound mind and body.

  In the end, the court sentenced Creech to life in prison with no chance of parole. In the case of a man who had been given a new lease on life, that meant a very long time stretched ahead of him, all of it spent behind bars.

  As it turned out, Nathaniel had not only taken away only Cyrus’s illness and granted him long life. Just as he had done for so many he had touched, Nathaniel had also taken the bitterness and anger away from him. Cyrus Creech was a model prisoner, and dedicated his life to assisting others who were incarcerated. He became not only the longest-serving prisoner in United States history, but also among its most beloved.

  Jon and Melissa West, and eventually Katie, were Nathaniel Moon’s strongest advocates. They guarded his name, words, and images carefully, giving it freely to causes they thought were worthy, and fighting those they did not. That, along with caring for a dog who never seemed to age, became their life’s work.

  As the recipients of all of Nathaniel’s worldly goods, they established a trust in his name and turned his small house on the edge of the foothills into an artist’s retreat where writers, sculptors, painters, and poets spent three months at a time creating their art. The stays were granted with no strings attached, with one exception: Nathaniel’s music played in the house all day. A few of the more radical artists even came to like it.

  Two years after Nathaniel perished, Jon published a book: My Life with Nathaniel Moon, the Reluctant Messiah. The book told the story of their friendship, but long sections were dedicated to the life lessons Nathaniel had shared with him. It became a bestseller and was widely accepted as the gospel of Nathaniel Moon.

  Inevitably, different factions sprang up that worshipped at the feet of the Middle Falls Messiah, but none of those ever got any oxygen from Jon or Melissa, as they knew the idea was anathema to Nathaniel.

  As the years and news cycles passed, new stories came with them—the kidnapping of judge, a Hollywood scandal, an airplane disappearing off the face of the Earth. With each new story, Nathaniel slipped further and further into the past, until eventually, he was consigned to history.

  Nothing would have made him happier.

  Epilogue Two

  The moment Nathaniel Moon died, he opened his eyes in surprise. He was not in the dark stream where he had frolicked from life to life so many times before. Instead, he was in a dazzlingly white room, filled with white benches. A lovely woman with long, sandy hair and bangs sat beside him as though she had been expecting him.

  She nodded at him, half-acknowledgement and half-bow. “Hello, Nathaniel.”

  “Carrie?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t let anyone else come and welcome you.”

  He reached for her and hugged her close. He inhaled deeply, she smelled of sandalwood and fresh air. She was dressed in a long robe the color of pale moonlight on freshly fallen snow.

  Nathaniel glanced down at himself and noticed he was wearing the same.

  “You look wonderful, and it is so good to see you again. I remembered so much last life, but I had forgotten you. You’ve been so many things to me,” Nathaniel said.

  “I know it felt like you remembered much, but you were clever when you decided to bring some memories into this final life with you. You still forgot enough that you could learn what this life held for you.”

  Nathaniel took a moment to reflect back on his most recent life and saw the truth in Carrie’s words. “You said, ‘final life.’ Does that mean I’m not going back?”

  “Only if you want.”

  Again, Nathaniel paused to think. He shook his head. “No, I think I won’t. There is so much beauty there, both in the place and the people, but I don’t think so.”

  “I made the same choice. I understand.”

  “What do you do here, then?”

  “I oversee those who watch the souls on earth, the Watchers, who feed the Machine.” She blushed a little, looking almost shy. “I brought about a change here, so now I feel like I have to stay and see it through.”

  Nathaniel laughed a little, nodding in appreciation. “You always were a rabble rouser, in your own quiet way. So, what’s next for me?”

  Carrie held out her hand, palm up. A tiny ball of pure, iridescent light sat there. She held it out to him. “A gift. This will take you wherever you want. The universe stretches out before you.”

  For my sisters

  Chapter One

  February 2018

  Veronica McAllister was ready to die.

  She peered into the deep blue eyes of the hospital janitor, then closed her own eyes for the final time in that life. His last words to her—“Know that you are safe. That you are loved. That you are perfect. That no harm can ever come to you.”—echoed in her ears.

  Exactly the kind of gooey-hooey I always hated. And yet. Coming from him, it felt different. As though he knew. Doesn’t matter at this point. The die is cast. Soon, I’ll know the answers to every question I’ve ever asked. No more uncertainty. Everything will be clear. Or completely dark. That’s more likely, isn’t it? An eternity of nothingness? And that’s okay too.

  Less than five minutes before, she had swallowed a deadly dose of secobarbitol and pentobarbitol, administered by her physician. She lay in the Critical Care wing of the Middle Falls Hospital, in Middle Falls, Oregon.

  Her doctor hadn’t been happy she had chosen to end her life, but she had invoked Oregon’s Death with Dignity act. Her body was riddled with cancer, and there were only long days, weeks, and months of pain ahead of her, with the ending predetermined. As she looked back over her life, that description fit the last sixty years, as well.

  I have been a failure in this life. I can’t say I am sorry to see it go.

  That was her final thought.

  VERONICA MCALLISTER opened her eyes with a start. A book which had been sitting open on her lap, fell to the floor. She looked around in a panic.

  Where am I? Wait. I’m dead, right?

  She reached her hand out and felt the fabric she was sitting on. It was textured and felt completely real, not like a dream or hallucination at all. She looked around in a semi-panic. She was in a nice, middle-class living room in a nice, middle-class home she did not recognize. She sat on an orange, low-slung couch, with a matching chair beside her. An antique television sat between two matching wooden bookcases filled with knick-knacks and Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.

  Veronica put her hand against her chest. Her heart was beating a staccato rhythm against her ribs. She stood up and looked down at unfamiliar clothing. She was wearing a long, pleated skirt that went well past her knees, a gray sweater, and saddle shoes.

  Did I fall into a costume party, and I came as a fifties girl?

  Veronica picked up the book that had fallen. Lolita, by Viktor Nabokov. I read that when I was a teenager. I remember I had to hide it from Mom. She reached down and smoothed the skirt, then walked in a daze from the strange living room to a strange dining room, and then an equally strange kitchen.

  I need to get a hold of myself. I died. Then, I open my eyes here, in a house straight out of a museum, but I have no idea where I am.

  She stopped in the middle of the kitchen. The cabinets were painted butter yellow, and the flat surfaces were pastel blue.

  “Oh my God. It looks like the Easter Bunny threw up in here. Who has a kitchen that looks like this?” Veronica leaned against the metal-rimmed countertop. She hadn’t realized she was speaking out loud. “Okay, let’s work this out. A minute ago, I was in a hospital bed. I closed my eyes, then opened them here, in some odd retro museum. But,” she said, looking again at her soft sweater and long skirt, “why am I dressed like I’m pa
rt of it?”

  She looked at a clock on the wall. 12:32. She glanced at the darkness outside the kitchen window.

  It’s either noon, and I’m trapped underground somewhere, or it’s half past midnight.

  With a shock, she noticed her hands. Her fingers were long and slim, with neutral polish on the nails. Her skin, which had been paper thin, with blue veins mapping a route across her hands, was clear and smooth. Her fingers flew to her face. The sagginess of her jowls and cheeks, the bags under her eyes, were gone.

  She fled from the kitchen and found a small bathroom. The pastel blue from the kitchen had spread to this room. All the fixtures—the sink, toilet, and tub—were the same shade of blue. She thrust her face over the sink and looked into the mirror.

  Veronica goggled. Her hands flew to her face again, tracing an arc over her high cheekbones, her full lips, her plucked eyebrows.

  “I’m ... young.” Her hands traced the curve of her waist, her small, firm bust. She sat down hard on the blue toilet. “How is this ... what happened to me?” She stood and examined her face again. She raised her eyebrows as she examined her image in the mirror. “I thought I was ugly. What was wrong with me?”

  She stepped out of the bathroom, still trying to get her bearings. The front door opened and a tall man in a jacket and tie entered, smiling, fresh off an evening out. He was followed by an attractive woman wearing a jacket over a floral dress. The man was tanned, with a good face and a quick smile. When the woman doffed her jacket, Veronica saw she was pregnant, with a cute little belly bump.

  “Well,” the man said, “how was he?”

  “Wh—what? Who?” Veronica stammered.

  “Zack. Was he a monster, like usual?” The man wasn’t listening, but was instead walking around the house, inspecting for broken lamps or windows. He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and seemed to be taking inventory.

  I don’t know who these people are, but they see I’m in their house, and they don’t care. They think I belong here. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, dear,” the woman said, removing her jacket. “James, can you pay Veronica and give her a ride home, while I check on Zack?”

  “Yes, dear.” Vince reached in his wallet and pulled out a dollar bill. “Let’s see, twenty-five cents an hour, plus fifty cents an hour after midnight, so that’s ... “ He looked up and to the left, calculating. “A dollar and seventy five cents. Let’s round it up to two, shall we? Good babysitters are hard to find.” He plucked out another dollar bill, and held both out to Veronica.

  Automatically, she reached out and accepted them.

  James noticed the book sitting on the floor in front of the couch and picked it up. He read the cover. “Lolita? I’ve heard about this. Pretty advanced stuff, huh?” He was smiling, but Veronica thought he might be looking at her differently.

  What are you going to do? Tell my Mom? Oh my God, that might be exactly what he is planning! Is that where I am? Back in Middle Falls in, what, 1957? ’58? That’s not possible, is it?

  James handed the book over to Veronica, which she accepted as numbly as she had the two dollars. “Did you have a jacket?”

  Did I? I have no earthly idea.

  James glanced at her blank face, then said, “Of course you did. It’s still chilly in the evenings. Spring is here, but not after the sun goes down, right? I’ll get it for you.” He stepped to a coat closet by the front door and retrieved a tan jacket. “Here you go.”

  Veronica slipped it on, still in a daze.

  James stepped to the staircase and said, “Anne? I’ll be right back.” He paused for a moment for an answer, but none was forthcoming. He shrugged, jingled his keys for a moment, then opened the door and walked toward the car. After a few steps outside, he noticed Veronica wasn’t following. “Coming?”

  “Umm. Of course. Yes.” What else am I going to do? I am a cork bobbing in an ocean I do not understand. I guess I’ll move with the tide.

  Veronica walked out into a cool spring evening. There were still damp spots on the sidewalk from an earlier rain, and the air tasted cool, clean and fresh.

  James opened the driver’s side door of a large four door car. It looked new, in a way restored cars from the fifties never quite mustered. Veronica walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger door. She scooted in on the wide bench seat and automatically reached behind her for a shoulder belt, which was nowhere in evidence. She did find a lap belt though, and clicked it in place.

  Guess no one is writing tickets for not wearing a seat belt, are they?

  “Good girl,” James said approvingly. “You can never be too safe.”

  Veronica glanced over and saw James hadn’t bothered to buckle his.

  As he pulled out of the driveway, she saw the name written on the mailbox: Weaver.

  I swear, I don’t know that name from Adam. I’m so confused. Veronica swiveled her head left, then right, then left again. Everything looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  The AM radio began playing Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White by Perez Prado. James Weaver hummed along as he drove down the quiet, tree-lined street. He looked at Veronica and said, “Oh, I’m sure you don’t listen to this stuff, do you? Here.” He punched a button beneath the radio, and Buddy Holly’s That’ll be the Day played. “That’s what you kids listen to, right?”

  Veronica had a hard time finding her voice, but nodded, and said, “Mmm-hmm.”

  Buddy Holly faded out and the announcer said, “This is Sudden Sammy Michaels, playing all the songs you want to hear on a Friday night on Middle Falls’ own KMFR.” A cheery jingle played—KMFR!—then Sam Cooke’s You Send Me started, and Veronica recognized where she was.

  That’s Whitfield Park. When I was a little girl, Ruthie and I rode our bikes over there and ... and what? What exactly did we do? I can’t remember.

  A few blocks later, James turned right onto Garfield Street.

  No doubt about it. This is Middle Falls. But, it doesn’t look anything like the town I left yesterday.

  A moment later, James pulled smoothly to the curb and said, “This is right, isn’t it?”

  Veronica stared at her childhood home with her mouth ajar. Who says you can’t go home again?

  Chapter Two

  Veronica managed a polite smile and unbuckled her seat belt, opened the heavy door, and stepped out onto the curb.

  “Thanks again,” James said.

  Veronica shut the door and turned to stare at her house. In a neighborhood that mostly consisted of ramblers, the McAllister house was a proud two story. White, with brick accents at the front, and a two-car garage instead of a single.

  “Nicest house on the block,” as her father had loved to say.

  She walked up the walk and took the single step to the tasteful red door, then suffered a moment of panic.

  A key. I have no key. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I have no way to get inside. She thrust her hands deep into her jacket pockets, looking desperately for a key, but came up empty. She reached one tentative hand out and touched the door knob. Saying a small prayer, she turned it. The door swung open.

  Didn’t we even lock our doors at night? Or, did we only leave them unlocked when a daughter is out late babysitting?

  She stepped inside and stopped cold. That smell. Pledge, mixed with the faint smell of her father’s pipe that wouldn’t be eradicated, no matter how her mother tried. The smell of home she had forgotten many years before. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. No way to fake that. This is home.

  The small entry way opened to a sitting room on the right. It was filled with lovely but uncomfortable-looking furniture that rarely knew the touch of a human posterior. Straight ahead, a staircase led up to the second story. A short hallway went ahead to the kitchen on the right and the den on the left.

  Bad feng-shui, to have the staircase leading directly to your door. Any Asian designer will tell you all
your money escapes that way. For the first time since she opened her eyes here, Veronica allowed herself a small smile. We weren’t too worried about Asian esthetics in small-town America in the 1950s, I guess.

  She wandered back toward the kitchen. No matchy-matchy pastel colors, here. Just the solid, spic ‘n span kitchen of her childhood. Signs of her mother were everywhere—the polished silver teapot that had once belonged to her great-grandmother, displayed in a place of honor in the china hutch. The perfectly alphabetized spices in the spice rack. Not nearly as many spices as you would have had in another fifty years, but organized. Oh, yes. Organized.

  A tiny desk was built into one corner of the kitchen. The desk’s surface was clear, except for one piece of paper—the beginning of a shopping list. Above the desk was a calendar with a picture of blooming daffodils. The page was turned to April, 1958.

  Veronica stepped into the dining room. A five-light chandelier hung low over the oak table. Six chairs were tucked neatly into it. One for Mom, Dad, Johnny, me, Barb, and one for company. She ran her hand along the smooth, polished surface.

  “Veronica?” A woman’s voice.

  “Eeep!” Veronica said, jumping guiltily, though she had been doing nothing at all.

  “What are you doing?” The source of the voice, Doris McAllister, came around the corner of the kitchen. She was wearing a blue bathrobe over her night clothes. Her hair was in curlers. She raised her eyebrows at Veronica when she didn’t get an immediate answer.

  “M-m-mom?”

  “Yes, of course. Who else? Mamie Eisenhower? What are you doing in here?” Doris glanced at the smudge Veronica had put on the table, sighed, and rubbed at it with the cuff of her robe until it disappeared.

  Oh my God. I thought you were old, but you weren’t. You were young.