In Times Like These (9 page)

“That’s not what I was investigating.”

“No? What’s your little beepy thing you got there?”

He scowls. “It’s a temporal spectrometer, not a beepy thing.”

“My apologies. What’re you doing with your spectral beepy thing?”

“None of your business,” he says.

“You’re prowling in our yard in the middle of the night. Want me to let the dog go again?”

Spartacus has stopped growling now and I can see him eyeing a stick on the ground. I know he’s no longer a threat to Malcolm, but Malcolm still flinches.

“Fine. I’m researching temporal anomalies in the area for Dr. Quickly,” he says. “One of the temporal anomalies was here. It turned out to be you.”

“What’s a temporal anomaly?”

“It’s a frequency shift,” he replies. “The change is evidence of matter that is out of sync with the timestream it’s in. Usually the frequency changes are related to time travelers. This locates the anomalies.” He holds up the device in his hand. It’s a small, black box about six inches wide, with a handle. A screen on the top is glowing, and a couple of lights are illuminated.

“How big is the range on that thing?” I say.

“Depending on how it is tuned, it will pick up anomalies within a few miles. Some we already know about. This house was one we hadn’t cataloged yet. Now I know why.”

“You have more anomalies around town?” I ask.

“This past week we’ve had a rash of them. I’ve been working around the clock, trying to get them all logged, before the traces fade or the objects move too much. Now that I’ve found you, I can get you to help me answer some questions. Perhaps you will come with me and see if you can shed some light on a few things.”

“A little late for investigating, don’t you think?”

“If you really want Dr. Quickly’s help, it would make a good show of faith if you assist me.”

Spartacus has rolled upside down in the grass and is gnawing on the stick he found, so I know that threats will get no more answers from Malcolm.
“Fine. I’ll wake my friends.”

“I only have transport for one,” Malcolm says. “You will come alone.”

I consider the man before me. I still don’t know if I can trust him.
I think I could definitely take him in a fight if things got violent somehow.

“Okay
. Let me put the dog inside, and grab some shoes.”

I coerce Spartacus back indoors, and briefly consider waking Blake or Carson, but settle for leaving a note on the roll top desk. I join Malcolm back in the yard and he leads me out to the street. I walk to the passenger side of
a small, silver Plymouth that’s parked a door down from the house.

“No, not that one.
” Malcolm points ahead of the car to a sun-faded scooter parked on the sidewalk.

“This is your ‘transport?’” I say.

“Yes.”

“Is it pink?”

“It’s red,” Malcolm says with indignation.

“Looks kinda pink.”

Malcolm dons a white half helmet and gestures for me to climb on behind him.

“You do realize I am 6’3” and almost two hundred pounds
, right?” I ask. “Is this thing going to hold me?”

“I’ve had bigger people ride it,” Malcolm says.

I climb on behind him and hold on to the side of the seat. It reminds me of a weed whacker as it fires up, but once we get rolling, it moves pretty fast. I squint my eyes in the wind as Malcolm navigates us through the mostly deserted city streets.
I should have grabbed a jacket.

Our stop turns out to be along a mostly industrial street. Malcolm guides the scooter onto a dirt drive that leads to a fenced lot. The scooter stops and I slip off the back and wait for Malcolm to park it under a tree. He gestures to me to follow him and walks to a portion of the fence that has a gap in it. He pulls back the corrugat
ed sheet metal far enough to squeeze through, and I follow behind, careful not to gouge myself on the metal’s rough edges.
I know where we are now.

Malcolm
leads the way past piles of stacked cars into a cleared area where a white van is parked among a row of sedans. “Do you know what this is?” he asks.

I look at the brand markings on the van and note the paperwork taped to the driver side window that has the St. Petersburg police logo on it. “My guess is that it’s a GMC Savannah prisoner transfer van from about 2009, Malcolm.”

Malcolm is taken aback. He reaches his hand into his bag as if to pull something out.
Does he have a gun?

“How do you know that?” h
e asks.

“We’ve been doing some research too.”

Malcolm considers me a moment, and then instead of pulling a gun, pulls the spectrometer back out. He points the box at the van and it blinks and beeps. He then points the box at me and the unit gives the same response. “You have the same temporal frequency as this van,” Malcolm says. “What do you have to say about that?”

“I don’t know. Wait, are you suggesting that my friends and I arrived in this van? You think we’re escaped convicts?”

“Do you have any proof that you’re not?” Malcolm says.

“This is my first time ever seeing this van in person. I heard about the murders in the newspapers, but that doesn’t mean we were involved. We’re not murderers.”

“The guards in this van traveled through time,” Malcolm says. “They arrived around the same time as you, but they’re dead and you aren’t. It would be a large coincidence if these events were unconnected.”

“
We didn’t murder anybody. We arrived at a softball field,” I say.

“We haven’t noted any temporal anomalies at any softball fields
.” He consults a list from his bag.

“Add it to your to-do list then,” I say. “You also might want to be on the lookout for a guy named Elton Stenger. He was in our city the day we left and might be a candidate for your murderer. He was a serial arsonist and murderer in our time. If he’s here, he could be a handful for the police.”

Malcolm is still eyeing me suspiciously but takes the time to jot a few notes in his notepad.

He
doesn’t take the same route leaving the impound lot, but rather steers us downtown. The ride back is even colder. By the time we stop at the first stoplight I have goose bumps on my arms. We are sitting waiting for the green light when a fire truck passes us, slowing slightly for the red light but then blaring his horn and passing through. I plug my ears as I see additional emergency vehicles behind it. When the light turns green, we only make it a couple of blocks before we crest a small hill and come upon a sea of lights and emergency vehicles blocking our path. A uniformed officer is directing traffic around the debris scattered in the road.

Fire crews are spraying a small office building to our left. We are directed to turn before we can get a good view of the building, but as we make a right,
my attention is caught by a wooden sign imbedded in a car window across the street from the smoking building. The sign is still smoking as well. In the light of a police car’s headlights I can read, “The Law Offices of Waters and Kramer.” Malcolm zips up to the next street before I can see any more.

“Stay around where I can find you the next few days,” Malcolm says, as I climb off the scooter onto the sidewalk at
the house. “I may need you to assist in more investigations.”

“I don’t know if you’re going to get a second date, Malcolm,” I say. “You didn’t even buy me dinner.”

Malcolm glares at me and cinches his helmet a little tighter. “Just don’t do anything stupid, and tell your friends to keep a low profile. I’ll tell Dr. Quickly what you said about the field. If it checks out, maybe he will still want to help you.” He revs the scooter to a high-pitched whine and lurches off in what I assume to be a reassertion of his masculinity. I smile and head back into the house.

Chapter 6

“One nice thing about being a time traveler is that no matter how long your movie date takes getting ready, you can still make it to the theater on time. And if one of the previews looks better than the movie you’ve come to see, you just skip ahead a few months and watch that one.”

-Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly
, 1988

My alarm clock comes in the form of Spartacus’s wet nose in my ear for the fourth time in as many days. I blearily stumble into the kitchen and find Robbie already there. “What time is it? I mumble.

“I don’t know. Nine-ish I think,” Robbie replies.

“What day is it today?”

“Thursday.” Robbie holds up the morning newspaper. The front page reads Thursday
, Jan. 2, 1986.

“Thursday? I
thought it was Wednesday at least a couple days ago.”

“No. It was Wednesday when we left 2009 but we got here on a Sunday. We’ve been here four days, so that makes today Thursday. Yesterday was New Year
’s remember?

“This is messing with my brain.” I head for the refrigerator. “Is anybody else up?”

“Yeah, Blake was gone before I got up this morning. He told Grandpa something about going for a walk. Carson and Francesca are still asleep, but Grandpa is out in the tool shed doing something.”

“How’s it going, getting to know him again?” I pull a carton of orange juice out of the fridge and root through the cupboards for a cup.

“It’s really cool actually. We got to talk a good bit this morning and it seems like he really likes having me here. I think it’s helping him get his mind off things. It’s nice to see him. I’m realizing how much I missed out, not having him around. He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“Yeah, it seems like it.”

“I know he’s sad about my grandma, but I imagine he needs the company. There was an odd thing though. A couple of days ago, I overheard him talking on the phone and I think it was my Dad. He was telling him that he didn’t want him to come over. I’m not sure what that was all about.”

“Do you think it has to do with us?” I ask.

“I thought that at first, but from what he said to my dad, I think it was just because he feels bad having to be reminded all the time that she’s gone, and being around my family just makes it harder,” Robbie explains.

“Wow, yeah, that is tough. Maybe he’s a
ll right around us because we don’t really know what she was like.”

“Could be. I don’t really know.” Robbie shakes his head. “I’m glad we’re here in any case. I don’t want him to be alone through this.”

I pick up part of the paper and flip through it.

“There’s a good story about the explosion from the other night. Turns out that’s what all those cops and firefighters you saw were about.” Robbie tries to hand the front section of the paper to me, but I’m
already engrossed in an article. “What do you see there?” he asks.

“More explosions actually.” I trade pages with Robbie.

“Where were you reading?” Robbie inquires, looking over the page and not seeing the article.

“The bottom one.”

“What,
Education Meets the Next Frontier
?” Robbie asks, confused.

“Yeah. See the name of the teacher? That’s about Christa McAuliffe, the one w
ho is going to be on board the Challenger shuttle.”

“Oh holy crap. Really? When does that happen?” Robbie asks.

“This month,” I say. “I don’t remember the exact day it was, but it happens during the next launch.” Robbie stares at the photo of Christa McAuliffe smiling with her mission helmet alongside her back-up crew member and an American Flag. When he looks up, I meet his eyes. “We could save them.”

“We’r
e close enough.” Robbie nods. “But should we be trying to change history? I’m sure we’ve already changed a few things, meeting my grandpa and all, but that’s small time compared to this. Everybody knows about the Challenger. It’s a huge deal.”

“I remember it,” I say. “I remember my first grade teacher was having us watch it because it was first thing in the morning out west. I don’t think I really und
erstood what was going on. I just remember her crying. The thing is, what kind of people are we if we know something bad is going to happen and we do nothing to stop it?”

“Are we al
lowed to alter the future?” Robbie asks. “Are we going to destroy the earth or something?”

“Well, like you said, we’ve changed things already just by being here. Shouldn’t we at least change something for the better?”

“Makes sense to me.” Robbie looks at the photo again.

“We’ll do some thinking about it.” I say. “Do me a favor and don’t tell the others just yet. I don’t want to freak them out.”

“All right.”

A car door slams and I walk to the kitchen window that looks out over the
backyard. A woman with short, dark hair, wearing a knee-length gray skirt and a white blouse, has just entered the backyard, followed closely by a young boy of about four. “Hey, who do you think this is?” I ask Robbie.

Robbie joins me at the window. “O
h my God, that’s my mom!” he blurts out. “Shit!” What do we do?”