Valentines Day

by Bob Mayer

  The door near the desk swung open and two men dressed in black overcoats walked in, pausing just inside the garage, taking in the strange scene.

  “What’s going on, Jimmy?” one asked Clark. “Who are these people?”

  “Don’t know. They just showed up.”

  “What do you mean ‘just showed up’?” the same man asked.

  “Heyer, you know as much as I know, okay?” Clark said.

  That identified him as Adam Heyer, the bookkeeper for the Moran gang. A process of elimination and mug shot photos in the download, tabbed the other man as Reinhardt Schwimmer. Technically not a member of Moran’s gang, but more a hanger-on; a former optician who liked associating with gang members and was, in the download’s terms, a degenerate gambler.

  They were both supposed to die this morning.

  “Call Moran,” Clark ordered Goosey. “Tell him something really weird is going on.”

  “He’s probably already on the way,” Goosey argued.

  “Do it.”

  Goosey had just lifted the receiver on the phone on the wall next to the desk when the Gate opened once more.

  *****

  Moms wasn’t there, and then she was there, along with the bomb.

  “It’s live!” she yelled as it thudded to the floor and she landed on her knees next to it. She was so focused on the device, she didn’t notice anything else as the digital countdown clicked to:

  :05

  And stopped.

  Moms watched for a couple of seconds to ensure that the timer had halted, then her training kicked in and she rolled, underneath Clark’s gun, knocking it to the side with one arm while striking him directly in the groin with her other fist.

  As Clark doubled over she grabbed for his pistol.

  The bullet from Goosey’s gun hit her before she could get the weapon.

  *****

  Scout wasn’t there, but then she was there, still falling, just in time to see Moms shot. Then Scout hit the greasy floor of the garage with a solid thud that knocked the breath out of her.

  *****

  The Time Patrol was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully they wouldn’t be here afterward.

  But it wasn’t looking good at this moment in time.

  The Space Between

  “Ever think of putting together some sort of landing pad?” Lara asked as water dripped from her grey, Time Patrol issue coverall and the Gate closed behind her.

  “Valkyries come by here occasionally,” Amelia Earhart said. “Any sort of platform would draw attention. You don’t want them waiting to meet you.” On the sandy shoreline behind her, a half-dozen Samurai were arrayed, facing outward, providing security. Earhart appeared to have aged only slightly from the last photos taken of her before she disappeared on her round-the-world flight. In whatever timeline she came from.

  Lara wrinkled her nose at the thick, oily odor that permeated the air. “Still stinks.”

  “Nothing much changes here,” Earhart said.

  Lara had arrived through a Gate to a point offshore, just above the water. Splashed in and swam to shore. The large, dark lake in the center of the Space Between extended behind her as far as one could see. Overhead, a gray mist blocked whatever was above. The shore was composed of a black, sand-like substance.

  Within sight were over a dozen black columns extending from the surface of the water upward to the haze. Gates and Portals between worlds and times. The shoreline was dotted with ships and planes, vanished from their Earth timeline and stranded here.

  Lara asked the obvious question. “How did you know I was coming?”

  Earhart pointed clockwise along the beach. “We didn’t. That appeared not long ago. We’ve been observing it.”

  A column, rippling with gold and blue, flickered over the edge of the water a quarter mile away. It was just offshore of the Cyclops, a ship that had disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle in 1918.

  “Ever see a column like that before?” Lara asked.

  “No,” Earhart said. “Which is why we’ve been observing it. We don’t know what it means. But the fact you’re here indicates something strange is going on. Correct?”

  “Yeah,” Lara said, staring at the column. “No idea what it’s connecting? What worlds or times?”

  “No,” Earhart said. “We see flickers of gold or blue in Gate columns sometimes. But nothing this extensive.”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  The Mission Phase IV

  “I’m a kind person. I’m kind to everyone, but if you are unkind to me, then kindness is not what you will remember me for.”

  —Al Capone

  Chicago, 14 February 1929 A.D.

  Clark had his gun against Moms’ temple, finger twitching on the trigger. “I oughta kill you, bitch.” He was breathing hard from the brief fight and the blow to the balls.

  Blood was pooling underneath Moms’ right leg. She barely noticed the wound, taking in the rest of her team, minus Ivar, in the garage.

  “How’s Roland?” she asked Eagle.

  “Breathing,” Eagle said. “There’s a small dart in his chest. Looks like someone drugged him. No obvious damage.”

  Clark shoved the muzzle of his pistol against Moms’ temple. Hard. “I’m talking to you lady.”

  “I hear you,” Moms said.

  “I oughta—“ Clark began.

  “Please don’t,” Eagle called out. “We’ll tell you what’s going on.”

  Clark, Goosey and company, and the rest of the Time Patrol focused on Eagle, because they all wanted answers.

  “You’re going to die this morning,” Eagle said.

  Clark pulled the gun back from Moms’ head, but still kept it aimed at her. “What?”

  “Capone has put a hit out on Moran and his crew,” Eagle said. “This meeting is a set up.”

  “Capone’s in Florida,” Goosey said.

  “That don’t mean he can’t put a contract out,” Clark said. “Keep the other dame covered,” he ordered as Scout sat up, trying to get oriented.

  “Dame?” Scout muttered.

  “What is this?” Clark asked, indicating the bomb.

  “Can we care for her wound?” Eagle nodded toward Moms.

  Clark ignored Eagle for the moment. “You packing?” he asked Heyer and Schwimmer.

  “I do the books.” Heyer was shaking his head.

  Schwimmer pulled a snub nose revolver out of the pocket of his coat. “I got this.”

  With a look of disgust, Clark went to a locker and opened it. Inside were several double-barreled shotguns. “Grab a scattergun,” he yelled to the mechanic. “You guys too,” he indicated both Schwimmer and Heyer.

  “Hold on!” the mechanic protested. “I just fix the trucks and cars. I aint—“ he paused, regrouping. “I don’t get paid to hold a gun,” he ended weakly. He walked over and grabbed one of the shotguns.

  Schwimmer and Heyer also took a shotgun. While Goosey kept the Team covered, Clark made sure each of them had rounds in the chambers.

  “You just aim and pull the trigger,” he told them. “Any of them causes trouble, you give it to ‘em. Both barrels.”

  The trio didn’t look comfortable with the thought, but the glint in Clark’s eyes negated any thought of arguing.

  Moms pressed down on her leg to stop the bleeding. She was still sitting on the floor and twisted, pulling up her long skirt, looking for an exit wound to match the dark hole in the right front of her thigh.

  Clark turned his attention to the team. “You,” he said to Scout. “Get next to her.”

  Scout scooted over on the floor to Moms.

  “Who are you people?” Clark asked. “You all know each other?”

  “We’re friends,” Eagle said.

  “Shut up spook,” Clark said. “Who’s in charge? The big lug there?” he indicated Roland.

  “Not,” Scout said.

  “I am,” Moms said.

  “A dame?” Clark wasn’t buying it.
r />   Moms grimaced as she found the exit wound. “Clean through and through,” she updated Eagle. “Full metal jacket. No bone. No artery. Pretty lucky.” She began ripping strips off the hem of her dress.

  “You talk to me!” Clark yelled. “You people appear out of nowhere and tell us Capone’s put a hit on us for today. I’m gonna start shooting until I get some answers that make sense. And what is this thing?” he indicated the bomb once more.

  Moms stuffed a piece of cloth into the exit wound. She looped a strip around her leg and cinched it tight, a tremor the only sign of pain. “If you shoot us, then you have no one who can answer your questions.”

  “I can shoot one or two of you to get the others to answer,” Clark pointed out.

  “But you don’t know which of us have the answers you want,” Moms said.

  Clark indicated Roland. “He aint talking anyway, so we won’t miss him.” He walked over and stood above the big man, weapon pointed. “Someone gonna start talking?”

  “That thing is a bomb,” Moms said. “It has a timer that’s stopped at five seconds.”

  Clark frowned. “Never seen a bomb like that before.” He went over and looked at the display. “Yeah, it reads five.” He shifted his attention. “Why are those guys dressed up like sailors?” He indicated Roland and Eagle. Then Doc. “And the flyboy? And what’s with her?” he pointed at Scout, in her Roman rags.

  “You’re James Clark,” Moms said. “Your real name is Albert Kachellek. But you changed it so your mother wouldn’t be embarrassed because of your criminal lifestyle. You have the tattoo of a naked woman on your left forearm.”

  Clark was very still. “How do you know about that?”

  “It’s written in your autopsy report,” Moms said.

  “My what?”

  “The coroner noted it in his report,” Moms said. “He’ll be writing it tomorrow.”

  Clark was blinking fast, confused. “What?”

  “Where are the others?” Moms asked.

  Clark glanced at Goosey. “What others?”

  Moms lifted a bloodied hand. “You. You. You.” She indicated the mechanic, Heyer and Weinshank. “That’s five. Seven of you get killed in here today. Machinegunned by Capone’s people.”

  A voice called out from the back door to the garage. “But there’s ten of you in here. Plenty to kill.”

  Sam Giancana followed up his statement with a short burst from his Thompson, the roar of the gun echoing in the garage. The big .45 caliber bullets hit Goosey, sending him flying.

  “Drop it,” Accardo advised Clark, the muzzle of his Thompson emphasizing the order. He was shoulder-to-shoulder with Giancana, packing enough firepower to wipe everyone out.

  Clark looked at May, Heyer and Weinshank and their shotguns drooping toward the floor and the complete lack of determination in their eyes. He accepted the math of the weaponry and lowered his gun.

  Not good or fast enough as Giancana fired another quick burst, hitting May. The mechanic, who’d picked the wrong day to go to work, slammed against the brick wall and then slowly slid to the concrete floor, leaving a smear of blood. He was moaning in pain. He lifted a hand, searching for some succor. The German Shepherd tied to the bumper of the truck began barking.

  Strings, carrying a gun pressed up against the base of Ivar’s skull, entered the garage behind Giancana and Accardo.

  “Geez, Sam,” Strings said, briefly removing his pistol from the back of Ivar’s head and firing twice, stopping the moaning. Then he aimed at the dog.

  “Please don’t,” Scout said. “The dog hasn’t hurt anyone.”

  “And it’s supposed to live,” Moms added.

  Strings smiled. “So you know who lives and dies? Makes sense.”

  Clark was completely shaken, not just by the sudden reversal of fortune, but trying to process Moms’ words. “What’s going on?”

  “Where’s Moran?” Sam Giancana demanded, a few sentences behind.

  “Not here,” Moms said. She nodded at Ivar whose level of surprise at this turn of events was evident. “You all right?”

  “What are you doing here?” Ivar asked.

  Clark managed to regroup a little bit. He looked at Moms, then at the intruders. “You guys together? I knew it was a set up. Capone is a lying punk.”

  “What’s going on, Strings?” Giancana asked. “Who are these other people? Where’s Moran? Why’d you tell us he was here? Aint none of this making any sense.”

  Strings shoved Ivar towards Moms and Scout and took a step back, to a position to the side of Giancana and Accardo.

  Moms finished tying the bandage even tighter. “Finger here,” she asked Scout. She grimaced as she cinched the knot.

  “Okay,” Strings said. “Everyone is here.” He counted. “Two dead. Okay, that’s done.” He holstered his .45 and went over to the steel canister containing the bomb. He pressed down on a specific point on the surface and a panel slid to the side. He reached in and retrieved a small clacker. He held it up so everyone could see. “Dead man’s switch.” He squeezed and the bomb beeped. “It’s live. I let go of this switch, it finishes countdown and goes off. Kills everyone in here in five seconds. So nobody messes with me. Everybody got that?” He checked first with Giancana and Accardo. Both of the gangsters nodded, confused. Then Clark. Then the team.

  “Don’t you die too?” Accardo pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Strings agreed, “but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “Mutually assured destruction,” Eagle said.

  “Huh?” Giancana said.

  Giancana and Accardo were processing the situation, the muzzles of their Tommy-guns still pointed in the general direction of the team and Clark, Heyer and Weinshank.

  “Who is this guy?” Moms asked Ivar.

  “Supposedly the A-I-T,” Ivar said. “He’s the one who gets Lansky to write my letter. Later. But I think he’s working for the other side.”

  “Duh,” Scout muttered.

  “What did you do to the A-I-T?” Moms asked Strings.

  He threw his own question back at her. “Where’s the Possibility Palace?”

  “Don’t know,” Moms said. “None of us know.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Giancana demanded.

  “Shut up,” Strings said.

  A muscle twitched in anger on the side of Giancana’s face, but he shut up.

  Eagle spoke. “We don’t have a need to know, so we don’t know. You can understand that makes sense.”

  “How do you get to the Palace from the present?” Strings asked. “Your present? In your timeline? Where is the Gate?”

  Moms shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Then I’m going to start killing your people one by one until someone tells me,” Strings said. With his free hand, he drew his pistol. “Eenie, meenie, minie, mo,” he intoned as he moved the muzzle from Moms, to Scout, to Eagle, to Roland, to Doc, to Ivar and then back to Moms, “catch, a, tiger—“

  He paused as the door marked ‘Private’ opened.

  “-by the toe,” the waitress who’d warned Ivar finished. She was flanked on the left by Atropos in her white robe, long scissors in her arms and Clotho on the right in a black robe, leather-bound book in the crook of her arm.

  Strings wheeled, bringing the .45 to bear on the Fates. Giancana and Accardo targeted them with their Thompsons.

  Lachesis pulled a short, white rod out of the apron of her waitress uniform. “We will not be shot today.”

  And she wasn’t as their fingers twitched on the triggers but couldn’t pull.

  Clotho held a hand up, spreading the fingers wide. The air in the garage crackled with energy and the interior walls of the garage shimmered with energy. The field also spread around Giancana and Accardo, freezing them. She announced: “No one is coming in and no one is coming out of here until it is fulfilled as it should be.”

  “And what should be?” Moms asked, forcing herself to her feet, Scout assisting her. />
  “The scales must be balanced,” Lachesis said.

  “Seven must be dead for this to end,” Atropos confirmed.

  The Space Between

  Lara stood waist deep in the oily water of the lake, right next to the column rippled with blue and gold. Earhart was twenty feet away, on shore, her samurais deployed in a defensive semi-circle.

  “Don’t!” Earhart called out as Lara reached toward the shimmering surface of the column. “If it’s not your Gate, it will burn you.”

  Lara nodded, then stuck her hand into the surface. In an instant, the surface of the column expanded around her, putting her in a flickering gold and blue blister. The dark water that hit the blister hissed and steamed.

  *****

  There’s pain, but I know pain.

  And it’s darkness. Hello, my old friend.

  Crap, where did I get that tune in my head? Where do I get all this stuff in my head?

  She said I was made. Sarah. The sister who never existed. Who was she? She knew them. The ones who came for me. And my brother, the one I didn’t know, but did exist. He was dying, but did he?

  Pain. Here. Now.

  My hand is on fire. Strange. So much pain, but the flesh remains.

  There’s confusion. Overlapping chatter, arguing, voices from the past echoing into the future.

  The team.

  My team? They’re in trouble. What do I owe them? How far into the pain should I go? How much can I take?

  Everything is black.

  Just the pain.

  Forms and shapes. I know this place. I know this fear.

  Things are becoming clearer.

  I’m in the kitchen.

  This isn’t good. This isn’t where I want to be.

  I need to leave.

  I pull back, grab the thread back to the Space Between, the spirit of Amelia Earhart. Strong, brave, tangible.

  I pause.

  There is singing in the other room.

  Warren Zevon.

  Oh, I don’t want to go there.

  Really. Don’t. Want. To.