Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (19 page)

Wednesday, November 12, 1947

Martha is doing better by degrees. She shakes a bit, but I’m not sure if maybe she was like that before she jumped. Her appetite is getting better (she can’t afford to lose much weight!). She was very leery of X at first, but that is also on the mend. Her maiden name was Wallingford, and she grew up on a huge farm in Eastern Tennessee (old money).

The one PLUS with Mrs. Tomlin (I feel strange calling her by her first name, she is almost like a grandmother, a matriarchal figure) is that she has already lived through the 1950s. She was born in the 1920s. She won’t require too much cultural and temporal orientation. Heck—she could probably teach me a thing or two.

We just achieved a significant anniversary—X has been with us/me for one year now. I’m still shocked that he didn’t leave after the Roswell incident.

Another unforeseen difficulty (at least unforeseen at first) arising from the loss of Ken Miller is our sport’s gambling income. Without Ken’s extensive knowledge of sports, the ability to raise large sums of money quickly is currently stalled. We have plenty, but we have had to replace ALL of the equipment lost in the Roswell explosion. Mrs. Tomlin will gradually move into Ken’s place eventually, but there will be more Jumpers needing homes. Expenses, expenses.

I have made some safe investments, but the stock market is not a quick-turnaround profit center. We will have to be wise.

I did tell Mrs. Tomlin that there have been other Jumpers, but I haven’t told Mrs. Tomlin about Ken and Larry’s deaths. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

Ever.

SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

FOR: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

FROM: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

SUBJECT: Roswell Event

Per your concern and at my specific direction, the Roswell Event materials at Los Alamos have been quarantined under additional security. No one will have access to the materials until your arrival or per your authorization.

I have taken your new facility draft proposals to HST. I feel confident that I was successful in convincing the White House of the utmost necessity of this expenditure. I anticipate a green light by week's end, more than likely the Groom Lake, NV site. Moving forward, the designation will be Dreamland.

Submit an estimate of lab, office, and staff spaces, as well as equipment and vehicle requirements. Include a layout for a long-term incarceration center and an airfield diagram.

I understand your concern about debriefing of military and law enforcement, but do not neglect the greater pursuit of temporally displaced individuals. As we move forward in time, the leads generated by the Roswell Event will grow, of necessity, exponentially colder.

You have authorization regarding Nurse Pamela Hendrickson, including termination.
END

DCI/PS

It may have only been a few ounces of metal.

But it wasn’t just any badge. Some men struggled for decades to gain the privilege of even carrying the iconic symbol of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

But not this man.

In fact, once he left Chicago, he had every intention of flipping the concave piece of gold-plated copper-alloy and turning it into an expensive ashtray.

Howard Ross lingered just outside the noisy auditorium as several suits navigated around him, rushing inside. They were oblivious of the true identity and power of the man they had just brushed past like a homeless stranger.

He glanced down at his fabricated FBI badge, and though it served a useful intelligence purpose in disguising his identity, it mainly served to infuriate him.

It was difficult for an ego-driven leader like Ross to flourish within the invisible confines of the world’s most secretive of agencies. For a CIA operative, it was critical that few outsiders knew who you were, and yet the power you wielded oftentimes demanded just the opposite. The psychological contradiction weeded out lesser men, but Ross endured.

He inched up to the door and peered through the window. He hated three things in life and at least two of them were crowds. Through the thick layer of cigarette and cigar smoke that was suspended just overhead, Ross looked with disdain at the hundreds of bureau agents and police officers milling about.

Where is Schaeffer?

He checked his pocket watch. It was show time.

“There you are!” Neal exclaimed, jogging up to him.

“Where have you been?”

Neal smiled. “Uh, looking for
you
, Chief. The stage door is that way.” Neal pointed to their far left and handed him a folder. “Come on, let’s get you through this. I know how much you just love putting on a spectacle.”

Neal escorted his unenthused boss toward the platform entrance. “We’ve obtained some intelligence on the wallet,” Neal offered discreetly.

“Bout damn time.”

“Apparently it was turned in by a Greyhound bus driver.”

Ross slowed down. “And just why aren’t we talking to him right now instead of this—
circus
?”

“Patience, great one. Patience. We haven’t located the route or the driver just yet, but we’re close. And right now, your adoring fans await.”

Neal opened the door for him in military fashion. “After you, FBI Special Agent Ross.”

Howard held up the folder as he passed through and flipped Neal off privately. Schaeffer just winked at him. “Go get ‘em, Boss. I’m right behind you.”

Ross ascended the platform in a dignified gait, and approached the podium. He tapped the microphone a few times, and the room began to settle down to a manageable roar. He leaned in and set the folder down. “Good morning, gentlemen.” A quick squeal of feedback made him lean away.

He restarted, “Good morning.” The chatter evaporated. “I am Special Agent Ross. The urgency of the operation and the immediacy of our window of opportunity has brought us together today. We are looking for this man.” Ross nodded and a huge image of a bearded face filled the portable screen on the opposite end of the stage.

“Due to matters of extreme sensitivity related to the national security interests of the United States, we are seeking this man,” he paused for effect. “
Denver Wayne Collins
.”

Ross may not have liked crowds, but he sure knew how to work one. He glanced back at Schaeffer, who was tucked just behind the main curtain. Neal was nodding and smiling. Ross continued with a grave stare. “This fugitive is considered extremely dangerous, and possibly armed with advanced weapons.” He hesitated again. “But you may not, under any circumstances, use deadly force. He must be taken alive.”

He glanced down at the officer sitting next to the slide projector. The image changed to a detailed composite sketch.

“This is a possible rendering of Mr. Collins clean shaven. Once identified, Denver Collins, and all known associates, are to be immediately taken into protective and solitary custody.” He stepped back and coughed. “He is not to be questioned, interrogated, photographed, or recorded by any person at any time until I arrive with my team.”

He motioned with his hand. A map of Northern Illinois filled the screen with a red line, reminiscent of a bulls-eye, encircling Chicago. Ross took a sip of water (Neal had added just a splash of lemon, the way Ross liked it).

“You will sweep every city, every town, within a hundred-fifty-mile radius of the Chicago city limits. Notify and recruit all local law enforcement and distribute copies of his photograph and physical description. However, do not alert the press.” He glared out across the auditorium and spoke with firm precision. “No press. Any leaks will be...
career ending
. I hope I am clear.”

Ross pulled the microphone out of its holder and stepped out from behind the safety of the large podium, trailing the cable behind. He looked down for a moment, always the showman. “I cannot overemphasize the value of his capture to the safety and security of the United States of America.”

He nodded once more and the face of Denver reappeared, far larger than life. Ross sauntered over to it, his distinct shadow falling upon the screen.

Neal laughed as he mumbled under his breath, “Just had to get yourself on that screen somehow, eh, Chief?”

Ross continued, “When you eat, I want you to see the face of Denver Collins in your soup bowl. When you sleep, I want you to dream about him all night long. When you make love to your wife, I want you to see the face of Denver Wayne Collins staring back at you.”

A low, disgusted rumble rippled through the all-male crowd.

“I want your every desire, your every waking thought to be the arrest of Denver Wayne Collins.”

Thursday, November 13, 1947

I was re-reading yesterday’s journal entry about Martha Tomlin. I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me earlier. The ramifications and implications are mind numbing, migraine-inducing. Huge.

Mrs. Tomlin was born in 1925. That means that there are TWO Martha Tomlin’s living in the world right now! There is (1) my Martha here in Normal, Illinois, and (2) her younger self in Eastern Tennessee, or rather, wherever she was/is in 1947.

How can this be? What does this mean?

Is it possible that she could MEET HERSELF?

Is that safe? What would happen?

How could anyone know for sure?

What would that do to the time-stream if your non-Jumper self met your Jumper-self?

I haven’t said anything to her about it. Maybe she has already thought about it. This could happen again; we could have more Jumpers arrive who have younger versions of themselves somewhere out there. It is so strange to think that I, Phillip Allen Nelson, will be born in about 18 months. What would it be like to see yourself through the hospital nursery window? To attend your own actual birth day?

It is perhaps dangerous enough to go anywhere near your own parents or grandparents, but to go near yourself…wow. Interesting but potentially disastrous. I need to formulate a new ACCORD to prevent a time-catastrophe.

The First Accord: Walk Without Footprints

The Second Accord: Filter the Future

The Third Accord: Prevent Personal Profit

The Fourth Accord: Avoid Meeting Yourself

I am planning to put together a comprehensive Jumper training program eventually. There is so much information that needs to be categorized and sequenced.

SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

SUBJECT: Roswell Situation Report

We have correlated a Ford truck that was seen leaving the ranch near the site of the Event with a Ford truck that had been at a motel in Roswell the evening of 3 July, 1947. The motel owner said there were four men in the truck, and that the back of the vehicle had something large covered with a tarp. Our ranch witness (William Woody) affirmed that there were only two men fleeing in the front of the truck on 4 July, 1947.

In this possible scenario, the two specimens recovered are the other two men. The motel room was paid for by a male, dark-haired, medium build, late thirties with an unusual birthmark on his neck. A thorough sweep of the room revealed no compelling physical leads.

According to the autopsy report, one of the specimens had blond hair, and the other was nearly bald. No birthmark on the neck of either specimen.

The room was signed for by one Phillip Nelson.

END

DCI/PS

“The tricky part is the timing,” Shep said as he studied a calendar spread out in the middle of the table. Several Jumpers studied him with interest as he rolled up his sleeves, and rubbed his hand across a full-day’s stubble. “If we steal it too soon, it will obviously turn Betty’s suspicion to you, McCloud, since she said that you were the only one who knew about it.”

The Chief agreed without hesitation, but a different issue was troubling him. He leaned in and tapped several times on the table. “Actually there’s two
tricky parts.” He stared over at Shep. “You're absolutely right—one’s the timing, but the other—the other’s motive deception.”

“I'm not following you, Jim,” Ellen admitted. A more recovered Denver looked over at her and shrugged.

McCloud sank into his chair, ideas and plans stirring within him. “We gotta steal her collection, yes, but it has to look like we weren't tryin'
to steal her collection.” He gazed around the room, wide-eyed. “It has to look like somethin’ else.”

Ellen jumped in. “Okay, gotcha, like a regular burglary that, that just happened to get the other goodies.”

McCloud pointed at her. “
Bingo
. If we can do that, then we got it made in the shade. Now we just need the actual burglars.”

Officer O’Connell piped up. “Hey, if you're looking for volunteers, Chief, you know I'm on board. Count me in.”

Shep seized the opportunity to unload on him. “Are you crazy, O'Connell? Can you imagine what would happen if this ever got linked back to you? A
police officer
? Might as well just call the Feds right now!”

Frazier added insult to injury. “Dumb idea, Billy. Really lame.”

The Chief advanced toward the enthusiastic but inexperienced officer. “Shep's right, Billy. No way, it's way too risky. It needs to be Jumpers that have the least amount to lose and the least amount of ties back to this group.”

McCloud’s recommendation left little to the imagination.

Denver’s two eyes met five other pairs. “Wait a minute,” he chuckled. “Are you honestly suggesting that I break into the local newspaper and rob it?”

McCloud stepped towards him. “Not suggesting, Mr. Collins.
Volunteering
. You're perfect for the job! You're practically unknown in these parts, and your knowledge of us and our group is—is not much.”

“But that doesn't mean that I'm an experienced thief,” he protested, “even if it is for a worthy cause. And the new name's
Jackson
, not Collins. Didn’t everyone get the memo? Remember me—lost wallet boy?”

Denver turned to Ellen, his voice expressing his desperation. “Ellen, tell them—I’m still recovering from death. That takes a while, right?”

She angled in her seat and stared him up and down. “I think you’re fine, both medically, and personally. And I do mean
fine
.”

The Chief stepped between them. “Don't worry. You won't be alone, Mr.
Jackson
. How's the recon going, Mr. Frazier?”

Garrett stood and towered above the table. “I can tell you how many seconds it takes for our beloved reporter to go from her desk to her sedan, including the time it takes for her to lock the office door, and she always checks it twice.”

Several people traded confused glances as McCloud explained. “I asked Frazier to start monitoring Betty's movements since our big meetin' a few days ago.”

Denver put his head in his hands. “Well, I sure hope you know what you're doing, Frazier, 'cause I'm a bit new to the whole breaking-and-entering thing.” Denver sat up. “We did our fair share of searches in the war, but that was house to house, three guys, big guns, and we didn’t care who knew about it.”

The Chief smiled broadly. “Oh, don't worry, Mr. Jackson, you're gonna get plenty of practice.”

Ellen started laughing and leaned back. “Oh, this
I gotta see!”

“And
see
you will, Miss Finegan.” McCloud put a firm hand on her shoulder. “You're gonna be one of their first victims!”

Ellen spun about. “Whoa, I may spend too much time with a short French physicist, but
excuse moi
?”

McCloud strolled back to his chair. “Well, it would be too obvious if only the
Normal Journal
was robbed in an isolated criminal event.” He pointed at the two would-be-thieves. “Denver and Frazier are going to do a whole string of small breakins. Motive deception is the name o' the game.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Denver said as he articulated the absurdity of the proposal. “The
Chief of Police
, the man charged with the safety and security of the entire community, he is planning a whole series of robberies, right in his own home town, which includes breaking into the homes of some of his
closest
friends, using two time travelers, in order to confuse a newspaper editor and abscond with a mysterious box of goodies?” Denver took a much needed breath and surveyed the room. “That…
that
is your plan?”

The Chief rocked back on his heels and smiled like a proud father of triplets. “
Yep
.”