by W. Green
Ethan fidgeted in his chair. “So that’s clear. What does Cain look like?”
“He—wait, I’ll show you.” Quinn got up, went back to his desk and retrieved something from his files. He returned with a news photo. They studied the photo. It showed two Chicago policemen exiting a building. “He’s the one on the right,” said Quinn.
Ethan looked at the man. Square jaw. Solid looking. Not tall. “Does he ever wear glasses?” he asked.
Quinn thought. “Yeah. I think he does now. I saw him at a press conference about a month ago. With the peepers.”
“Black-framed?” asked Ethan.
“Right. Like Jack Benny wears. Or like Ogilvie for that matter. Did you see him?” Quinn looked concerned.
“Not really. But he might have stopped by our hotel last night to see us,” answered Ethan somewhat tentatively. “We’re not worried though.” Ethan looked at Emma. She looked worried.
“You should be,” said Quinn.
LOG of Zak Newman
November 1, 1963: 9:32(Day 4 of time travel)
Since Dr. Currant does not understand sign language, we can’t have a conversation. So, as we ride, I scribble in my journal. At this moment, I’m also eating another five-cent candy bar—called a ‘Seven Up’—seven different flavor bites in one bar—all for a nickel. I can’t get over how cheap they are. We're traveling north on Lake Shore Drive heading for Vallee’s apartment. A.C. is busy talking shop with our cab driver—World Series baseball—surprisingly Dr. Currant seems to be a baseball buff. Somehow, he knows that the Dodgers beat the Yankees in a four game sweep. Somebody named Cofax really did well, or so it would seem from their enthusiastic banter.
We’ve been in 1963 Chicago just a short time, but already I am more relaxed than ever. Things are different here. People think, act and move about without concern for what they say or do. Sure they're generally polite and well behaved, but they also exude the essence of freedom. They’re happy with life. There’s a built-in logic to their existence, that’s missing in our 2028 lives. They work together to accomplish the goal of getting though the day, the week, the year and the rest of their lives with a clear measure of pride and sensibility. It's obvious they have no pervasive fears of doing or saying the ‘wrong thing’. How I envy them. Normal street conversation includes the weather, sports, and politics—talk filled with prejudice, titillation, scandal, and personal philosophies. It seems like everyone has at least one opinion that they are happy to share on a regular basis. All this is quite a contrast to our lives in 2028. Normal conversation in most every circumstance is monitored by MOM’s watching, listening and mind-sucking devices. Just thinking the wrong thought can result in an electronic brain massage from MOM. She doesn’t appreciate independent thinking—not conducive to a well-managed society.
Most of our people in 2028 live in tightly-contained, highly-populated, ‘clean-water’ cities like Detroit with its 15 million people, or Chicago for that matter with its 22 millions. There are no suburbs or exurbs. Our cities are almost like the walled towns of medieval times, except the walls are electronic now. People don’t venture out of the city. That would be dangerous. This point is reinforced by constant media coverage of those who attempt to leave. They are usually found dead, and sometimes dismembered by the gangs of ‘evildoers’ who roam the countryside. Our cities may be boring, but they are safe and virtually crime-free. Of course people do disappear on occasion. We assume MOM removes these folks because they are not good citizens.
There are people outside the big cities other than the criminals—like the people of our hometown. Mystic Heights is not very big. Maybe 50,000 people. It’s an isolated college town. Such places exist as almost monastic enclaves for the researchers, and for the intellectual elite who learn and teach—trade schools for MOM’s busybody brigade. The Twins and I are supposed to join ‘the team’ in a couple of years. But I doubt that.
Also, a small number of people maintain the food and industrial processes located outside the big cities. Natural food production is efficient. Government owned robotic machines handle the entire growing, harvesting and distribution of grain, corn, and soybeans. Asian Carp and other fast-growing commodity fish are collected in programmed mass kills in the Great Lakes. Algae harvesting, oil shale mining, and the Gulf of Mexico oil bonanza has finally eliminated the Mid-East domination of the world’s energy. This production technology runs by itself, with very few people involved. It’s mostly machines working with other machines—connected to pipelines—connected to cities. People do travel about, but few can afford it. Such travel is always by secured air transport. Trains only haul freight. Automobiles are tiny—built for in-city transit only, and all electric with limited range. You couldn’t escape the city if you wanted to. Petroleum-powered ground vehicles in cities were phased out completely in the early 20’s. Walking, electric bicycles, scooters, and micro-cars are the transportation modes of 2028. Not like this big, yellow, gasoline sucker I’m riding in now. STOP—we are here.
End 11-01-63
-Chapter 9-
A Crowded Rendezvous
Currant directed the cab driver to drive past Vallee’s apartment slowly and continue down the street. Vallee was not in sight. Nobody suspicious appeared in the area. A trip around the block placed them in front of the diner. They entered the eatery and purchased a couple cups of coffee and donuts, and sat in the same booth that Currant used the night before. It offered a clear view of Vallee’s building. A.C. looked around the diner. A few people sat at the counter, indifferent to the time travelers. He looked back at Zak.
“Hear anything?” asked Currant.
Zak shook his head side to side quickly.
“OK well let’s just sit here for a while and wait. I don’t hear anything either. Maybe he’s out.” A.C. positioned the listening device earpiece he wore to make sure he was getting a signal. Momentarily plugging his other ear with his finger enabled him to hear the hum of refrigerator cooling Vallee’s beer in the apartment across the street. “It’s working.”
Zak nodded and pulled out a comic book that he had purchased at the hotel. He thumbed through the pages slowly. Currant observed he focused on the ads for novelties—phony beer and foaming sugar tablets, bird whistles, and disappearing ball tricks. Just like he did when he was young. Zak was lost in his reading as they chewed through the donuts over the next ten minutes. Currant ordered replacements and another round of coffee. He made a couple of trips from the counter to the booth delivering their order and sat again.
Currant whispered, “We’ll wait a few more minutes and then go somewhere else. I don’t want to appear to be killing time.”
Then he did something that he knew would get Zak’s attention. He pulled out a pack of Tarrington cigarettes and proceeded to light one. Inhaling the smoke into his lungs, he fought back the urge to cough, and seconds later; he battled a more serious feeling of nausea. That’s enough, he thought. No inhaling. Just pretend to smoke for effect. He glanced at Zak beyond the smoke cloud. His young friend chuckled. Currant was not amused. He was intent upon fitting in with the small group of diners almost all of whom, if not eating, were smoking. This was what men did in 1963, he thought, and damn it, he was going to look like one of them even if he turned green.
Donuts eaten and cigarettes smoked, they went outside and sat on a bus stop bench. This location, a few feet from the arterial street, was upfront but inconspicuous. Just then Currant noticed a large, dark gray Chevy making a left turn onto the adjacent side street. It parked almost directly in front of the entrance to Vallee’s building. Two burly men dressed in business suits exited the car and hurriedly crossed the street. A.C. glanced back at them. They could be cops, he thought. He leaned over to Zak, “We’ve got company. I don’t think Vallee is in. Listen up.” Currant listened intently trying to block out the nearby sounds of traffic. Thirty seconds passed. He thought he could hear footsteps. Then there was a sound of knocking at Vallee’s door. More seconds passed—no answer.
The bug was working perfectly. He could hear someone inserting keys into the lock, then sound of a door opening and closing. He looked over to Zak for confirmation. Zak nodded.
“Not exactly the Taj Mahal.” Currant detected an East coast accent in that voice. Maybe New Jersey, he thought.
“Let’s get to it,” said another voice. Midwestern twang, thought Currant. He could hear someone opening and closing cabinets doors and drawers.
“You know, this could be a lot of nothing Sam.”
“Could be. But things are happening. We got those two skinny Latins locked up. We got an FBI flash about teams of shooters. We got tips on this guy 'Vallee' up the wazoo.” He paused. “Something’s going on.”
“Yeah. And we got one day to find out what,” said the Ed voice.
Sound of another door opening—Currant thought that something may have hit the floor.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Look at this.” Currant heard a low whistle.
“Jesus.”
“Well, what do we have here?” asked the Ed voice. Seconds passed. “Check it out. But don’t touch.”
“Someone’s ready for the next war—M1 Sniper,” quipped the Sam voice.
“And a carbine.”
“And six boxes of ammo.”
“Close it up and let’s get out of here.”
“Right.”
A.C. looked over to Zak who made a face. If Currant had to guess, he would say his young friend was upset. They heard the men leaving the apartment. A.C. looked over his shoulder. Soon, the two men exited the building, and quickly returned to their car. They did a three-point turn, and headed back toward the time travelers. As they passed, the driver glanced at them, his gaze lingering. Just then a green and white city bus pulled up. A.C. got up quickly and Zak followed as he got onto the bus. Standing before the bus driver, they looked out the windshield. The cops made a right turn and headed east.
“Fares…” said the bus driver talking at the windshield.
Currant and Zak looked at him. The bus pulled out into the traffic lane. Currant looked back at the diner. A short dark-skinned, dark-haired man wearing a short black leather jacket popped out of the building and stared at him. There was quick eye contact between them.
“Fares,” said the driver dryly.
Currant and Zak looked at each other with vacant stares. A.C. couldn’t even guess at the amount of the fare. He looked about the bus. Passengers studied them. He waved a dollar in front of the driver who grabbed it without looking, called out the next stop, clicked out four quarters from his changer and handed them to Currant. Taking a shot, he tossed two quarters into the fare box, and they moved on. The driver appeared unconcerned and Currant flicked his head back at Zak as if to say ‘get going’. They cautiously walked to the back of the moving bus, and took the last seat. The other passengers seemed to take no special interest in them. “I think we’re OK,” said the older man. “At least we’re heading in the right direction, but I think we should get off at the next big street and get a cab.”
Zak raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
They rode for few minutes, and then exited the bus along with a crowd of other passengers heading into the L station.
Currant scoped out the area. Traffic was heavy—but no cabs. Then a big, light blue Ford passed. He noticed the driver was the same man he saw leaving the diner. Again the two made eye contact. This time the contact unnerved Currant. He searched again for a cab and he was relieved to find one waiting at the stoplight. Quickly, they were on their way back downtown. As they headed toward the lake, A.C. looked out the rear window. Then he turned and talked softly to Zak. “I saw a guy—when we got on the bus. He came out of the diner. He had a look about him. Like he was checking us out.”
Zak ran his finger across his throat in a slicing motion.
“Right." Currant leaned back in his seat. “He drove by when we stopped to get the cab and looked right at us. I don’t see him now. Maybe it’s nothing. I hope not.”
The cab made a turn onto Lake Shore Drive, and A.C. relaxed. Maybe he was being too cautious. Sometimes one can breathe life into a thought pattern and give it meaning it doesn’t deserve. One man. Two locations. Eye contact. You’re nervous. You’re frightening the kid. Relax.
“You fellows from out of town?” The cabbie viewed them in his rear view mirror.
Currant took a better look. He was a black man. Maybe fifty. Large. He wore a thick, matted, pullover sweater that had adapted to his shape like nubby body paint. The collar of his shirt was worn, but clean. His big hands gripped the steering wheel delicately. He was at one with his vehicle and his passengers.
“Right. How did you guess?” asked A.C.
The driver smiled. “Lot of rubber neckin’. Nothin’ wrong with it. I see you checkin’ out the sights.”
“I guess we are. First time back in a while.”
“How long?”
A.C. thought. He was going to say about 50 years, but then he thought again. “It’s been a few years.”
“Where ya’ all from?”
“East coast. Small town called Springfield Heights. Just here for a visit. I’m a school teacher and I’m taking a few of my students on a field trip to visit the big city.”
“Good for you,” said the driver. “Enjoy it while ya’ can.” He laughed.
They cruised along in the right lane. To his left, Lake Michigan was a cool blue backdrop for the parkway trees, and on the right small boats huddled in Diversey Harbor, one of the many small boat enclaves that dotted the lakefront.
“Say…” said the driver. “You fellows know the president’s comin’ to town tomorrow. Big football game at Soldier Field. You could see the motorcade...HEY!” he shouted.
A.C. looked up quickly. What was happening?
The cab driver focused on the scene in his side mirror. “Shit!” he said.
Currant sensed something was coming, but he couldn’t react. He didn’t move.
The cabby turned his head forward. He moaned like a cat in heat.
Currant’s eyes filtered a time-lapse image of reality. A random glint of sunlight reflected off a sailboat mast. He squinted. His vision returned. The cab driver’s fat fingers squeezed hard on the wheel. Neatly clipped nails. A big gold and onyx ring. Little black hairs stood tall on his whitening knuckles. Currant blinked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blue metal outside—a car rushed at them—collision next. He froze. The other car filled the window—he saw the driver—the same guy—dark—mean—demonic. “Hang on!” he shouted as he braced for the inevitable.
The contact was swift and effective. The right front fender of the attacker smashed violently into the cab. Without seatbelts, Zak, A.C. and the driver bounced around viciously. Currant focused on what lay ahead. Out of control, the cab swung sharply to the right jumping a low curb, and onto the grass headed for the lagoon. It smashed through bushes and small trees. The driver jammed on the brakes. Barely slowing, the cab skidded at high speed across the lawn. A boy riding a bicycle popped into view. Wide-eyed and about to be run down, he reacted to the careening cab, twisted the handlebars and drove his bike into the ground. He flew off. Seconds later, the cab struck the bike and blasted it skyward—a fleeting glance of the boy's fear-filled face. Currant knew they were going into the drink. He braced his hands on the seat back in front. Impact—the car hit the steel railing—swatted it down flat —a sickening sound of metal scraping metal—their heads hit the roof—Currant's body took off—they were airborne. A railing part smashed the windshield. A split second later the cab hit the water and flipped over. It sank. A flood poured into open windows. Zak and Currant were now upside down in the back seat, their heads jammed onto the roof. A.C. was stunned. He felt nothing but icy wetness closing in. In panic, he breathed in the liquid—his lungs burned. He struggled and fought to remain conscious. Absolute silence—the water-filled metal coffin rocked gently on lagoon bottom. Fifteen feet
of Lake Michigan crushed down. Time expanded—every second an hour. Death was certain. Currant's world shrank into darkness. Then he felt Zak’s powerful grasp turning his body right side up. He reached for Zak—outstretched fingers found his belt. He hung on weakly. Zak moved and pulled him along. The door was caught on the muddy bottom. It was immovable. Zak reached back and grabbed A.C.’s wrist. Currant was almost at the blackout point when he glimpsed Zak maneuvering out the open window. Seconds later, he felt the young man's amazingly powerful grip pull him through and out. Again he grabbed Zak’s belt. Conjoined, they shot to the surface. A.C. popped out of the water. He sucked air and coughed painfully— Zak’s face inches from his. In a fog, Currant watched Zak take a deep breath, turn his body and dive. Dimly A.C. heard someone shouting. He looked up straining to find the source. Finally two men on the deck of a powerboat came into focus.
“Grab it!” One shouted as he tossed a rope.
The rope swatted him in the face momentarily stunning him. Somehow he caught it and hung on. They dragged him toward the boat. A small platform projected off the stern. One man jumped down and took hold of him. The other joined in. Together they flopped him over onto the platform. In great pain, he lay on his side sputtering, coughing, and choking. Fluid bubbled out of his mouth.
Just then Zak broke the surface gasping for air. He held the cab driver’s head above the water. The man was breathing. Zak was smiling. Currant could only lift his head long enough to look and understand the situation. Then relieved, but totally exhausted, he let it go and it banged hard on the deck. The blue car and the driver’s face jumped into his mind—a killer, he thought. Someone wanted them out of the way—permanently. He took a deep, painful breath. He coughed again—a tiny smile—he was alive.
