Hold My Heart (12 page)

Holy shit.

The landscape gradually changes from farmland to a more populated area of homes, and finally to a paved road with businesses. I’m in downtown Bloomingfield, driving by the same buildings I passed on my way to the scene that October morning. However, this time instead of McDonald’s and Starbucks, there’s a bank and a hardware store. The big corner building that was a bank is now an F. W. Woolworth! Huge gold-colored letters adorn the marquee, while children’s clothing and antiquated radios are on display in the storefront window. Big, round cardboard signs are stuck to the windows, advertising prices. Is that
cents?

Trying to keep myself in check, I peel my eyes away from the storefronts—which are brand new, right out of some 1940s history book—to realize that every car on the road is also true to the period, and so are the people on the sidewalks. Everyone seems dressed up, complete with hats, even the women. Some wear overcoats even though it’s late spring. The moms are pushing carriages with big, bike-looking wheels, while the men wear hats like Jimmy Stewart and Humphrey Bogart in the movies, which they remove or tilt in greeting as they pass each other. If this is a setup…who would go through all this trouble?

Dread creeps up my spine straight to my brainstem. Blinking rapidly, I search for a logical explanation. If this is a ruse, how far does it extend? We’ve traveled eastbound close to twenty miles and there wasn’t any sign of containment or perimeter that I could see. The landscape matches my location in Bloomingfield, but I’ve yet to spot a cell phone tower. The architecture matches also, except the stores are true to the time they claim this is. If this is, in fact, a setup, what’s the point of isolating me here, given the financial cost and manpower?
Unless…

My breathing becomes shallow and I rub my palms down my dress. Averting my face away from William, I try to control my breathing. My heart pounds as if it’s trying to burst out of my chest. Swallowing the rising panic threatening to overtake me, I prepare myself to face facts and accept that maybe, just maybe, they are all telling the truth.

I’m actually in 1944.

Chapter 12

William finally pulls over next to a Victorian house at the end of Main Street. “Dr. Albert Simmons” is painted in big white letters on the front window. As William shuts the engine off, Doctor Simmons appears in the doorway and greets us from his porch. William exits the car, but before he reaches me, I’m already out the door. My fist rests on my chest, massaging my breastbone as I try to calm my racing heart. Maybe I’m having some kind of anxiety attack.
Keep it together, Ileana. Stay frosty.

“Billy the kid!” Doc shouts, meeting William halfway down the porch steps, trapping him in a bear hug. “How are you, son?”

“Good, Doc,” William replies uncomfortably. “This is Lily.”

Outdoors, I’m able to examine Dr. Simmons closely. His hair is indeed salt-and-pepper, and so is his mustache. Laugh lines frame his lips as well as his kind, brown eyes, visible even with his eyeglasses. He’s wearing pleated slacks and a baggy shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s even wearing suspenders. Letting go of William, he approaches me and extends his hand in greeting.

“Well, hello there, young lady. I’m Albert, but everyone calls me ‘Doc,’ you might not remember me but I tended to you.”

“I remember you from Mrs. Shaw’s farm. Nice to see you again.” Accepting his hand, I shake it, behaving casually, giving nothing away. “Billy?” I ask, letting a smile sneak across my lips while doing a quick scan around the neighborhood, and landing on William’s face.

William rolls his eyes in response.

“He’s a junior, see? His daddy was Bill Senior,” Doc clarifies, and I nod in acknowledgment. “His dad used to call him Billy as a kid,” he says, addressing me. “Since when is it wrong to call you Billy the kid?” He turns to William, and the sound of reprimand coming through doesn’t escape me.

William seems embarrassed to be called that in front of me.

I break out in a grin; maybe I have the same effect on him that he has on me.

قلب

My training to identify al-Qaeda and spot the truth behind lies taught me that nonverbals speak volumes. I see the looks Doc and William are giving each other. They’re not telling me something. While making small talk, I scan the home. The living and dining room are neat and tidy, with only essential pieces of furniture. No female touches like frilly curtains adorning the windows. There are no creaking floors, telling me there isn’t anyone else in the house. This means he’s not working today and most likely lives alone. I’m led to the other side of the house, which has a downstairs bedroom acting as a makeshift office, and leads to two small exam rooms down the hall.

Summoning me here under the pretense of helping, all the doctor has done is ask me about the day William found me. He checked my vitals and asked me to re-hash my story—all the while exchanging glances with William. After my examination is finished, I’m shown into the small office. I take a seat across from Doc’s desk, and he sits in the chair next to me. William remains standing, leaning against the windowsill, his arms crossed over his broad chest. I'm ready to snap. Finally, William comes clean, or close to.

“Was there anything missing out of your belongings, anything you remember having with you?” There it is. There is no doubt in my mind they have my belongings. I had my cuffs, my Glock, badge, and phone, not to mention my other clothing items, when I collapsed on that road. They want to play, I’ll play.

But I’m not leaving without my weapon.

“Like what?”

“You tell us,” Doc replies, giving William a sideways glance.

“I don't know what you mean.” I’m not showing my cards first. If this is poker, I’m calling their bluff.

“All right, young lady, you seem like an intelligent girl,” Doc gets to the point, “we found—”

“Doc!” William is caught off guard and seems surprised. “Doc, I thought—”

“Do you want to get to the bottom of this?” Doc asks William and then looks at me. “Let's cut to the chase. We found these items on your person when Will brought you in.”

Doc gets up from the chair and walks around to his desk. He opens the bottom drawer then lays my badge, phone, cuffs, and weapon on his desk. I sit there, attention glued on my things. I stay impassive. I need to remain rational and get my hands on my weapon, most of all.

“We need the truth, miss, if you want us to help you.” Doc sits behind his desk across from me, elbows resting on the desk, a deep frown marring his face.

The room suddenly feels small, and all I can think about is William. I'm worried what he might think of me. His family took me in. He exposed me to his loved ones. I can only begin to imagine what is going through his mind. He's standing next to Doc's desk, and I chance a glance his way. He won't look at me. He stares at the ground, his big arms still crossed, dread and apprehension forming an aura around him.

As William waits for me to respond, seemingly afraid of what I’m going to say, something comes over me; I can't explain it. I have this sudden overwhelming need to confide in him. I want him to see me for who I am. I don’t know where it’s coming from, just that I want to assure him his loved ones are safe with me. Without a second thought of the repercussions, I take a deep breath, and I tell them all I remember.

قلب

When I finish my story, William doesn’t move. He does nothing but watch me, trying to digest all I’ve revealed. Doc stares at me, shocked and surprised. Of all the things they imagined, I’m sure this was not what they expected to come out of my mouth. They seemed to want the truth, but after what they just heard, they only stare at me in disbelief. I don’t blame them.

I told them almost everything—almost. I left out the details of the case I’m investigating in 2013. I did tell them my name, my job, and how I came to be here: after losing our suspect, my partner and I went back to the location where the suspect disappeared. Next thing I knew, my vision went black, and I woke up in the field. I walked as long as possible before passing out from dehydration, exhaustion, or both. Then William found me. The rest they already know.

“Well, that is quite a story. Is there any further information you can offer to prove you’re telling the truth? Besides, how can we be sure these are your belongings,” he motions to my things, “and not someone else’s? They’re very interesting, by the way,” Doc says, leaning back in his chair and clutching his fingers together in triumph.

He’s patronizing me. I’m sick of him talking to me like some school principal scolding a student. I guess some things never change. William’s face is still impassive, as he waits for me to answer.

They want proof. Fine.
Breathe, Harper.
“If you’ll allow me, I can show you.” Mustering the last of my self-control, I raise my hands in a placating gesture and point at my weapon.

Doc and Will exchange a quick glance. Doc nods in my direction, giving me the go-ahead.

Without another word, I reach for my Glock, removing it from its holster. In one swift, continuous motion, I drop the magazine, check the chamber for a round, unlock the slide, pull the trigger, and remove the slide. I pop the spring and barrel out, taking the entire weapon apart in six seconds—all while neatly placing the parts on top of the desk. Both men are frozen on their spots.

“There.” I sit back in my chair, hands up in surrender.

Both men gawk at me. Methodically, I pick up each piece and reassemble my weapon. Putting the spring and barrel back in the slide, I replace the slide, check it and test the trigger. Finally, I replace my magazine, then return the gun back to its holster and place it in front of Doc.

Both men eye me like I just turned myself inside out or something. Doc’s jaw is open in shock, and William’s posture exudes dread; it hangs on him like an invisible cloak.

But I’m not done.

Next, I reach for my iPhone. Emphasizing my every movement, I turn it back on, unlock it, and check for a signal. Nothing. Even though the battery is low, I open the camera feature. Pointing my iPhone in Doc’s direction, I snap a picture and show it to him.

“That’s impossible!” Doc exclaims as he sees his own image and springs up in his chair, making the sign of the cross. He covers his mouth with his hand, staring wide-eyed toward William. I turn the iPhone to William and show him the picture.

“It’s a camera, and much more. And it’s mine.”

I look through my pictures while both men get their bearings back. I find a picture of me. It shows me frowning at the camera. I remember this picture. Tommy took it one night when we were out with the guys after work. He loves messing with my phone. Repeating the gesture, I show my picture to Doc, then to Will. They’re still stunned, eying me as if I’m an alien creature.

Crap. I was afraid of this. If this is all real, I can’t be messing with the future and screwing up stuff. At least that’s what I’ve seen in movies. Who the hell knows how this works, but I couldn’t take their attitude anymore. I need to find a way back and don’t appreciate being patronized. I move to gather my belongings off the desk, starting with my weapon, when Doc’s voice stops me.

“You can’t have them.”

Stopping cold without moving my hand away from my holstered Glock, I slowly raise my eyes and stare at him from under my lashes. Maybe I misheard him. Did he just tell me I couldn’t have my own weapon?

These are nice people
, I remind myself. They’re men. If this is in fact 1944 as it appears to be, maybe things are different between men and women.
Women got the right to vote already, right?
This might explain how Will’s word is law when it comes to his sisters and mother. In my peripheral, Will is absolutely still. His arms are down, his fists clenched, and his sights are on me. I weigh my options. I can gain their compliance, or eliminate the threat.

Will took a big chance bringing me here. He could have turned me into the authorities, taken me to the hospital, or killed me. But he didn’t. First, he took me home to his family to be cared for and brought me to a doctor. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have done so already.

Compliance it is.

Gradually, I straighten without taking my eyes off Doc, slowly removing my hand from my weapon. Doc’s eyes are determined until he chances a quick glance at Will; then, his eyes morph from certainty to doubt, betraying his air of confidence as his resolve falters.

He clears his throat. “Your display was very impressive, but it doesn’t prove they come from the future.” His eyes dart to William and back at me. “What I mean to say is, you must know things from the future. Can you offer proof?” Doc’s voice is less supercilious.

Cocking up my eyebrow, I take a deep breath and quickly go over my options. I need to tread carefully.
Compliance, Ileana.
Bargaining it is.

“What do you want to know?” Answer a question with a question. Deflection is thy name.

Doc and William exchange another look. “Well, for starters, about the war—”

“Sorry, Doctor, I can’t talk about that. I mean, I don’t know if I’m supposed to.”

He looks offended. “Well, young lady, as Americans we have a duty to help any way we can. Any information you can share—”

That’s it. I’ve humored them long enough.

“Doctor Simmons, listen. From what I remember about history, women are working because men are off fighting correct?” I look at both questioningly. They look at each other, wondering where this is going. “What I’m saying is, even if I told you who wins or where Hitler is or whatever, who’s going to listen to me? Think about it. Should I go up to the president and…what? Say, hi I’m from the future and this is what’s going to happen?” I can see my words are sinking in, so I press on. “However, I understand you need some kind of proof.”

“There are a lot of things you would know, miss.”

“You asked about the war, right? Today is May twenty-ninth, correct?”

“Yes,” Doc answers, his brow furrowing.

William remains quiet, just watching and listening. I take a deep breath, because what I'm about to reveal will be like dropping a bomb on them. “On June sixth, our troops are going to land on the beaches of Normandy. D-Day. That’s what it will be known as. We’ll invade along with Canadian and British forces, in order to liberate France. Americans will be landing on Omaha beach that day. It will change history. It will be the most brutal battle of this war. Over a hundred and fifty thousand men will lose their lives.”

Both men’s expressions are frozen in horror, my words packing such a punch they have lost all color from their faces. I remain silent as the impact of my words sinks in, the realization that those men are now alive. This hasn’t happened yet. Could I stop such an act? Suddenly, I feel small, insignificant, and worst of all, helpless. I hate feeling this way.

“I’m really sorry.” I wish I hadn’t said anything. “But it’s true. June sixth. I know this because it’s a big part of our history. The United States, I mean.”

Doc just sits, visibly shaken, rubbing his forehead in preoccupation. William leans against the windowsill to support his weight.

“So, that’s it. All we can do is wait. It will happen.
When
it does, you’ll know I’m telling the truth. If it doesn’t, then you can cut me loose or turn me into the police if you like.” They’re still mulling it over, so I play one last card as a sign of good faith. “In the meantime, I’ll let you hang on to my magazine, and once I prove it to you, I want it back. Deal?”