by W. Green
“Springfield Heights,” answered Emma. “A small college town out east.”
“You a budding beatnik or just dressing up for Halloween?”
“I’m sorry? Emma replied, feigning distress.
Quinn laughed again. “Nothing.” He turned to Zak. “What about you, pretty boy? You dying to join the ranks of city reporters?” Zak appeared to rankle a bit with this comment. He shifted his feet, trying to find a place of mental comfort.
“Sorry, Mr. Quinn. Our friend Zak can’t talk. But I’m Emma Callan-Wright and this is my twin brother, Ethan.”
Quinn stared at the two. “Twins?” he asked.
“I hate to admit it,” answered Emma, “but this is my fraternal twin. Unlike Zak, he talks too much.”
“OK.” The reporter shook his head. “Never heard of a reporter who couldn’t talk. Can’t shut most of them up. Oh well, it’s a new world.” His gaze returned to Emma. “Why me?”
She smiled and quickly answered, “We saw that old movie The Front Page and we really enjoyed it. That’s what got us interested in your newspaper. Scoop after scoop—that’s what Chicago’s American is known for—you people are real reporters. This is where the action is.”
Quinn smiled. “Pat O’Brien. My Irish bother. Did a good job in that movie. Talked real fast. Some people say I look like him. But Front Page is about the good old days. I guess even now, we’ve got a reputation for getting stories—no matter what. Say, what’s with the Callan-Wright. You born in England or something?”
Ethan smiled back. “Right. Our father is English. Old family name.”
Quinn massaged his chin with his free hand. “Come to think of it, I’ve never met any kids with names like yours. Pretty fancy monikers. We’re used to “John” and “Mary” here in the Midwest. Maybe we’re old-fashioned. Not like your elite Eastern Establishment. Maybe you should visit the New York Times.” Quinn laughed.
Ethan smiled. “If we’re going to be reporters, we need all the guidance we can get, Mr. Quinn.” He looked around the newsroom. “This is a real newspaper. And Chicago’s a real newspaper town. We could use your help.”
“OK, shoot. Whatdaya want to know?”
“We saw your article in today’s paper about Kennedy coming to town. We thought it was particularly well written. We were wondering about the map. Whether it’s something that you have to get permission to print. I mean from a security angle. Know what I mean?”
The reporter dropped his backside onto the edge of the desk, exhaled a cloud of smoke and nodded. “Well, maybe you cubs could get off the bench. You’re right. It’s an issue, but in this town we spill the beans on the entire route because Mayor Daley wants a big turnout. He wants them lining the streets. And he don’t want ’em guessing, so everyone has the same scorecard. Every news hawk’s going to pop in the map. Just good politics.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?” asked Emma.
Quinn thought for a moment before replying, “It’s a dangerous world, little lady.”
“But. He’s the president,” she said.
“Hey, JFK can take care of himself. The Japs couldn’t kill him. He’s gonna be fine. Don’t you worry.” He flicked an ash onto the floor and lifted himself off the desk. “Sorry. I have to get back and sling few words. OK? Nice of you to stop by. Look around if you want.”
Ethan looked at the others, then back at Quinn. “Can we have one of your cards?”
“Sure, kid.” The reporter dug around behind his cigarette pack and retrieved one. He handed the crumpled business card to Ethan. “Say, you look like you might play a little football yourself. You on the Springfield Knights team?”
“Springfield Heights. And I do,” Ethan lied. “We love our football.”
“Right. Whatdya play? Wait, let me guess. Big guy like you, 6-foot-3, maybe 230. Look like you can run—fullback?”
Ethan paused and glanced over at Zak, who knew something about the game. Zak nodded. “Yes. I do fullback.”
Quinn gave him a bit of a look.
Sensing a possible faux pas, Ethan changed the subject and held the man’s card up high, wiggling it in front of his face. “Thanks much for the card. One last thing. Maybe we should mention this, Emma.” He looked at her for agreement, then back at Quinn. “Have you heard about a man named Thomas Arthur Vallee?”
The reporter looked puzzled. He paused. “Maybe I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know where. Why? Who’s he? One of your teachers?”
Ethan smiled. “No, he lives here in town. He’s a former Marine. We thought maybe you would have heard something about him from the Secret Service or the police.”
The reporter moved closer to Ethan and looked up into his face. He lost his fatherly look. “Now why would I be talking to the Secret Service? They don’t do interviews, sonny. And I don’t like where you’re going. Do you know something I should know? You got something on this fellow Valley?”
“Vallee,” said Ethan. “Sounds French. Not like ‘Death Valley’—V-A-L-L-E-E.”
“So?”
Emma vamped. “Our teacher, Dr. Currant, he knew him in the Korean War. He talked with him today and he, well…”
“He what?”
“He made some negative comments about the president. Frankly, Mr. Quinn, what he said made us nervous. Maybe not a threat, but Dr. Currant said he seemed very agitated. So we’re just telling you. There might be a story here. Vallee lives on the north side—Uptown area. Maybe you want to check into him. We’re just kids, but you know. Trying to do our reporter job. Anyway, we have to go. Right, guys?” The others nodded and gave a quick wave to the reporter.
“Right—maybe I will,” said Quinn, his words stretching out to become a question. “Say. You have my card. What about you? In case I want to get back to you.”
“We’re staying at the Plaza House,” said Ethan. “We’re in town for the game. Emma’s going write an article in The Shout. Our school newspaper. You know. JFK loves his football. Loves Chicago. The pageantry, Soldier Field, the gridiron battlefield—like ancient Rome.”
“OK. Wish you luck.” He looked over at Zak. “You too, Valentino.”
Zak appeared puzzled by the comment.
“It’s a compliment, Zak,” said Emma.
“Got that right, young lady,” said Quinn. With a wave of his hand, the reporter turned and headed for his desk.
LOG of Zak Webster
October 31, 1963: 15:23 (Day 3 of time travel)
Happily our little visit to the Chicago’s American offices seemed to go well. Ethan assured us that our only job had been to ask questions and plant ideas. He remains determined to somehow avert the horrible reality that will arrive in less than two days. Emma may be buying into the possibility of saving JFK. However, she's still very concerned about changing history. “How do we know that things will change for the better if somehow we do save JFK?” That's a good question. When we first planned the trip, I thought we could study the event, maybe find holes in the official story, and explore those holes on our return. Instead, with Ethan’s recent gambit, we may alter history. For all we know, Humpty Dumpty may be lying cracked and broken at the base of the wall of history, or for the moment, he may still be teetering back and forth buffeted by the winds of time that we have stirred. Time will tell.
Dr. Currant volunteered to scout out Vallee’s place. I think he jumped on that idea to keep Ethan from getting near Vallee. Too dangerous for Ethan, and too dangerous for history. Currant is a very strange individual. Very charismatic. Very smart. His invention, the TimeTravelle, is a story in itself. Originally, the site up on the hill overlooking Smuggler's Cove was a secret underground air raid shelter, built by the City of Mystic Heights at the same time as the World War II memorial above it. The shelter was stocked with food and water. It had a separate ventilation system, a direct underground electrical hook-up to the grid, a large back-up generator, and state-of-the-art post-war electronic devices to communicate with the outside world—that is, if there
was anyone left alive on the planet. It was built at the beginning of the Cold War with Soviets. Fear of atomic attack was in the air. People thought bombs would be raining down at any moment. Air raid drills in elementary schools had students ducking under their desks and covering their heads to save them from nuclear destruction. Dr. Currant told us that the air-raid shelter was really not intended for the use of all the town people, but rather was only for the mayor and other “special” people lucky enough to be invited. Very few knew of its existence. Everyone thought the subterranean construction was just part of the War Memorial above. In time, the Cold War fears quieted, and the embarrassing shelter was sealed and forgotten. Many years later, a young physics student at Cordwell University named A.C. Currant took a summer job helping to build the concrete chessboard in the middle of the War Memorial. On his own, secretly, he discovered the sealed bomb shelter below. Time passed and as head of the physics department, he secured government grants, which enabled him to develop the theories, and practices that perfected time travel. Ultimately, the entire program was taken over by the military and his involvement ended—above ground that is. But over the next decade, he secretly occupied the underground bunker and constructed his own machine—the TimeTravelle, and we are its first official users. I keep asking myself, why us? I think the answer lies in Currant’s relationship to Mr. Wright. He always seems to disparage the Twin’s father, but there’s some kind of odd connection between them. Otherwise, I can't explain why Mr. Wright would have his only children and me venture into time and danger with this weird wizard of Mystic Heights.
End 10-31-63
-Chapter 6-
Meeting the Assassin
A.C. Currant had no trouble locating the aging North side apartment building that provided shelter for Thomas Arthur Vallee. Small studio apartments created from the leftovers of a defunct hotel, provided minimal domiciles for the residents. Currant suspected more comfortable and expensive accommodations were not the first priority of Vallee. From his research, he knew the 30-year-old man, was somewhat down on his luck. As an apprentice printer working in the “assassin’s lair” building on Jackson Boulevard, he made just enough money to survive. But this was not his only source of income. Sometime in his second tour of military duty, he had been classified as an extreme paranoid schizophrenic, and therefore he received disability funding from the Veteran’s Administration. A high school dropout, he was a loner who lied about his age to join the Marines. He had been wounded in a mortar attack in the war, and was at one time billeted at a U-2 base in Japan. He had a gun collection and no shortage of ammo. Someone reported he made threatening comments about President Kennedy before the assassination. In short, there was no doubt that he was the man who shot JFK—a “lone nut”, with a grudge and a gun. After he killed the president, police killed him in a quick, one-sided gun battle—case closed. Had he died from his encounter with a mortar shell in the Korea War, he would have been an American hero. But as it happened, he became the most hated man in the country.
Currant’s cab had dropped him off at the diner across the street from Vallee's place. After a quick cup of coffee, and a view of the building and its surroundings, he was confident that the area was clear. As he crossed the street, he carried a recently purchased hard black briefcase. He looked official. He entered the building, climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, and knocked on the ex-Marine's door. There was no answer. He waited a minute, and then placed a phony Veteran’s Administration business card in the doorjamb. On it he had written the note: See me about your payments. It was early evening, and he anticipated Vallee would be returning home from work shortly. He was not disappointed. Back on the street, he saw a man approaching in a car. Vallee’s car was a surprise. It was a 1962 Ford Falcon. Currant remembered this car—one of the first compact cars. Almost new, it bespoke of someone who was on his way up in the world. It didn’t fit with the rest of the picture.
The physicist dropped his head as he neared the car, pretending he hadn’t seen him pull up. But when he glanced over to Vallee, the man was eyeing him and the dark blue suit he wore. Maybe Vallee tagged him as a cop. He stopped walking. “Are you by any chance Thomas Vallee?”
“I am,” said the man.
He wore a gray, tradesman shirt under his lightweight jacket. Of medium height and medium build, his somewhat receding blond-brown hairline defined a typical Chicago face. Not a mean face, thought Currant, maybe tortured, but not mean. “I’m John Reynard, Mr. Vallee. I’m with the Veteran’s Administration. Stopped by your place. No one answered, so I left my card. It’s good that I ran into you. It will save us both some time.”
Vallee looked wary. He appeared to be debating what his next words might be. He made humming sound while he thought for a moment before speaking. “Something wrong? I’m getting my checks.”
A.C. looked up and down the street and then at Vallee. “Can we discuss this in your apartment?”
He nodded and the two made their way into the building and up the stairs. Vallee grabbed the card out of the doorjamb, scanned it quickly and stuffed it into his pants pocket. They entered the apartment. It was a box and nothing more—Murphy bed in the wall, one sofa, one chair, an old round-screen television, a phone, closet, bath and a Pullman kitchen. The one bare window over-looked an alley view of utility poles and wires. Vallee took off his jacket, and tossed it on the sofa. He offered the beat-up bentwood chair to Currant. He sat on the sofa.
They faced each other. Neither spoke. Currant feigned a cough, and then another. He sounded somewhat distressed as he asked for a drink of water. When Vallee got up, Currant removed a small button-like device from his pocket and carefully and unobtrusively attached it under the bottom of his chair.
“Thank you. Dry throat. Part of getting older.” He sipped the water. “Much better now. Vallee. That’s French right?” asked Currant. “I'm part French also.”
No reaction
Currant pushed on. “Well, let me get down to business. I know it’s getting late and no doubt you’ve had a long day.” He pulled out a small notepad and fountain pen from his coat pocket. He looked hard into Vallee’s eyes. “We’re checking on people. I read where you took a hit in Korea. Later, after your discharge you got into a bad auto accident. Is that right?”
Vallee nodded.
“Nice car by the way. Had it long?” Vallee twisted his body as he digested this question.
“It belongs to a friend of mine. On loan until I get on my feet financially."
“I see. Well that explains it. Now the records show that your war wounds alone were not enough to secure a complete disability rating for you. Is that correct?”
Vallee now crossed his legs and brushed back his hair. He exhaled a sigh, which sounded almost painful to Currant. “I wasn’t able to complete my time. The accident slowed me down, and the mortar shell. I got a Purple Heart you know.”
“Yes, yes. That, we know.” A.C. looked around the room. “You live alone?”
The man nodded.
“How about friends. You must have some. Like the person who loaned you the car. Do you have many friends?”
This seemed to agitate Vallee. He got up and paced the room now talking in mumbled bites. “Right. I have a few friends. Look. I’m a Vet. I was wounded.”
“You’re a printer now—apprentice. What did you do before that?”
Vallee’s eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat emitting that humming sound again. “Is there a problem Mr. Reynard? Am I—should I not be on the disabled list. Is that what you are thinking? Well forget it. I didn’t ask for it. They gave it to me. And I’m taking it. I need everything I can get. Times are tough. Somebody who does somethin’ good for his country always gets the shaft. And the pretty boy politicians suck up all the money. I don’t need you government guys looking up my rear. It’s clean. I’m clean. I love this country. I…”
“You keep a weapon?”
Vallee glared.
“Just asking. You know wit
h your record of instability you could be a danger to yourself. I’ll bet you still have your service weapon.”
“If I did Mr. Reynard, I wouldn’t tell you, would I?” By this time, he had raised his voice far above the mumbles. He looked out the window talking away from Currant. “I told you I have friends. My friends will tell you that I’m an OK guy. I got friends in your world too. I’m not totally alone. I’m still a dependable guy even with my troubles. As far as I know, I can work. I can get my government money. It’s all good. Isn’t that right?” He sniffled and extracted a rumpled handkerchief from his pants pocket. He snorted into the rag. “I need that money,” he said softly.
Obviously Vallee was upset. Currant noticed the beginnings of tears in the corners of his otherwise expressionless eyes. He arose from his chair. “Sorry to upset you Mr. Vallee, but you know we have to check up on good patriots like you. Some are not so patriotic. But you, I can tell, are a man of integrity.”
Vallee had quieted down. “I am a good citizen. I am. You check on me and you’ll find out.”
Currant packed his pen and pad away and offered his outstretched hand, which Vallee accepted. “I may be back again.” He turned and exited leaving the assassin standing in the doorway. Once outside, he quickly walked away from the building. Vallee had not followed him down the stairs, and the apartment had no street-facing windows. He crossed the street and returned to the diner certain he had not been seen.
“Hello friend,” greeted the hash slinger across the counter, “another cup of java?”
“Yep. You make a mean cup my friend.” Currant paid the man and took a window seat facing Vallee’s building. He sipped, listened and waited. Hidden in his right ear was a small radio receiver ear bud. Currant sipped and waited. About a half-a-cup of coffee later, he heard the old rotary wall phone being dialed. He knew his recording equipment was the most sophisticated non-military device available in 2028, but still, he wondered if he would be able to hear both sides of the conversation. No matter how the phone was positioned, the device he had hidden under the chair in the apartment was supposed to detect, interpret and transmit any sound vibrations emanating from the phone’s earpiece or Vallee’s jawbone. In fact, it worked perfectly.
