

Lost Friday by   
Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To Peter, who hatched the idea
PROLOGUE

His headlights reflected off a cloud of cold predawn dew hovering over the landscape. The days were definitely getting shorter, thought Roy, noting that the sun seemed to be having trouble getting up this morning. Before long, the vacation bungalows would be shut up tight, and even on weekends there would be nary a tanned tourist in sight. He pulled into the Wawa and went inside, plunking down a buck for his twenty-ounce morning decaf. For everyone else a twenty-ounce coffee was a buck-sixteen, but he and the store's owner had been fishing buddies since grade school and Norm always cut him a sixteen-cent break on the coffee. Ah, the many perks of being Chief of Police.

"Mornin', Norm. How are the stripers running?"

"Heard they brought in a forty-pounder off the surf yesterday."

Roy took a moment. A forty-pounder was worth checking into. "Where'd it come in?"

"Southern tip of the park, somewhere around mile marker fifteen, I think. You working tomorrow?"

Roy knew exactly what Norm was thinking. "Nope. Got the weekend off. You?"

Indicating the elegant surroundings of his convenience store, Norm said, "Hey, I'm an independent businessman. I can take off whenever I want. You wanna give it a whirl?"

"Wouldn't mind a bit," Roy said. "I haven't cast a line since spring. Just need to clear it with the missus in case I made other plans."

Norm smiled. "Tell the old ball-and-chain I said hello." With that, he hoisted a bundle of newspapers to the counter. He cut the plastic tie and pulled one out, opening it to the fishing page in the sports section. "Let's see, says here high tide is just before seven. We'll have to get there early."

"Not a problem," Roy said, suddenly aware that he was the only one in the store. He looked at his watch. It was almost six, and, knowing that on most days it seemed as if every construction worker on the Jersey Shore stopped by Norm's convenience store for his morning coffee and pork roll sandwich, he asked, "Kind of slow this morning, ain't it?"

"I was just thinking the same thing," Norm replied. "Something special happening around town?"

Roy shot a gaze through the plate glass windows, noting that the sun was finally peeking over the tree line and burning a gray-blue streak on the horizon. "Not that I know of," he said just as a couple of pickups pulled up. "Here they come now, Norm. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Gimme a buzz on the cell phone," Norm said, putting the newspaper back on the stack. "I'll be out and about." Roy stepped away from the counter just as Norm added, "That's strange."

"What's strange?"

"They got a misprint in the paper. See the date? It's for tomorrow." Norm's eyes floated up to meet Roy's. "Today is Friday, isn't it?"

"As far as I know." Roy checked the date on his watch. Coincidently, it read _25_ , the date for Saturday, September 25th, not Friday, September 24th. Odd, he thought. His watch was wrong too. "I'll call you later," he said abruptly, realizing now that he needed to get to the station.

"Call me on the cell phone," Norm yelled again as Roy pushed through the door.

Roy ticked off a backhanded wave and fired up his old F-150 pickup. Clanking along Ocean Avenue, he thought: a forty-pounder. That must have been some battle, especially off the surf. Wonder what they caught it on. Clam snouts, probably. Couldn't go wrong with clam snouts. He hung a left onto Center Street, which was also Route 9, noting that the blue-gray streak on the horizon was turning into an orange glow. Looked like it might turn into a hot one for late September. He pushed on the accelerator and popped through the light where Center Street crossed over the Garden State Parkway. Two minutes later, he pulled in to his private parking spot behind the Boro of Sea Beach Police Station, the building that had been his home-away-from-home for the last thirty years. Roy moved quickly, knowing that Johnson would want to hightail it home to Tuckerton before his wife left for work. Newlyweds were like that. Sure enough, Johnson was just putting the finishing touches on his shift log as Roy walked in.

"Mornin', Chief. Thought I heard you pull in. Mind if I skedaddle?"

"No, you go ahead. Collins will probably be his usual fifteen minutes late. Everything all right?"

"Everything is fine. We haven't had a call all night. Amazing how quiet it gets with all the summer folks gone."

"Peace and quiet," Roy said. "Just the way I like it." He set down his coffee, woke up his computer, and immediately dipped into his email. "What time are the state boys due in?"

"What state boys?" Johnson replied as he shrugged into his windbreaker.

Roy looked up. "The state boys, you know: the prisoner transfer? Hello?" Roy shot a thumb over his shoulder at the thick steel door that opened to the holding cells.

Johnson's eyebrows knitted themselves into a tight line. "What prisoner transfer, Chief? We don't have anybody back there."

Roy felt a chill up his spine. "What do you mean, we don't have anybody back there?"

"I don't mean to be a smart-ass, Chief, but what the heck are you talking about?"

Roy's chill turned colder as he bolted from his chair. Putting his nose to the viewing window, he observed quite clearly that Johnson wasn't yanking his chain. "There were three prisoners in there when I went home last night, Johnson. Where'd they go?" Johnson was looking at him sideways.

"Chief, there ain't nobody been back there since I came in. You can ask DiNardo if you like. He should be coming in off patrol any minute."

Maybe he'd lost it, thought Roy. He took a seat and actually pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. There were three prisoners back there, all of them being trucked up from somewhere in the Carolinas to stand trial in Jersey City. "Johnson, who was here when you reported in last night?"

"O'Malley was on dispatch when I came in."

Roy shot a glance at the duty roster posted on the large whiteboard on the wall. "O'Malley wasn't on last night. O'Malley is on tonight."

"I know what O'Malley looks like, Chief. She was on last night, and she didn't brief me on no prisoner transfer."

His anxiety sizzling, Roy walked up to the duty roster and pounded a thick index finger onto O'Malley's name. "O'Malley is scheduled for tonight, Johnson. Keller should have been on dispatch last night, and I want to know why he didn't brief you on the prisoner transfer. Hell, I want to know what happened to those goddamned prisoners!"

"Chief, Keller was on dispatch Thursday night. Last night was Friday, and O'Malley was on, just like the schedule says."

Friday? Roy looked at his watch again, noting the date once more. The newspaper: he remembered Norm's comment about the misprint. "Johnson? What day is it?"

Johnson dropped a look that needed no explanation. "Today is Saturday, Chief, September 25th. Are you okay, Chief?"

Knees rubbery, Roy walked back to his desk. He checked the date on his computer. It read Saturday the 25th. What happened to Friday the 24th, and what happened to the three prisoners who were in those holding cells?

* * * * *

Bank president Ben McDermott whistled out the door, singing, "I'm late, I'm late—for a very important date." Dropping his travel mug into the cup holder, he wheeled his Dodge minivan out of the driveway, and pulled in to the employee parking area outside the Sea Beach Community Bank with two minutes to spare. He prided himself on being the example of punctuality at the bank. Inside, still singing, "I'm late, I'm late—for a very important date," he stopped dead in his tracks as his branch manager rushed towards him, her features twisted in distress.

"Mister McDermott, I see you got my message. This way."

Hesitating, noticing Louise's two tellers standing nervously _outside_ the tellers' cages, "What message?" McDermott asked.

"Well, I know you normally don't come in on Saturday, so I called your house. Your wife said you were already on your way in, and I asked her to call you on your cell phone with the news."

McDermott touched his hip, realizing that, in his rush, he'd forgotten his cell phone. Suddenly, the words hit him. "Today is Friday, Louise, and what news?"

Louise's hands were shaking, and her gaze caught him flush on. "Today is Saturday, Mister McDermott, and the back vault is completely empty. You need to come with me."

* * * * *

Must be a hell of a traffic jam somewhere, Coach Lucas thought as he pulled into his parking space. Only about half the teachers' spaces were occupied. Tucking his playbook under his arm, he grabbed his lunch bag and trotted across the lot to the teachers' entrance adjacent to the gym. Vice Principal Morgantheau was already moving down the corridor toward him, her large body quivering as her heels pounded the gleaming tile floor outside his office.

"Brian, I was just coming to see you."

"Margaret, you look upset. Is everything all right?"

"Upset doesn't even come close, Coach. Over half the teachers haven't come in, and we haven't heard a word from any of them. We're canceling all the phys-ed classes this morning, and I need you to cover one of the home rooms and a couple of study halls until we figure out what this is all about."

"Sure, no problem. I noticed all the empty parking spaces. Is anybody calling to see what the hell is going on?"

"We just started," Morgantheau responded. Just then, the walkie-talkie on her hip went off. "Yes," she snapped.

Lucas listened attentively. "Ms. Morgantheau, this is Freeda in admin. Have you been to your office yet?"

Raising her eyes, Morgantheau said, "No, why?"

Lucas shook his head, indicating he hadn't made it to his office either, which was only a few feet away.

"We just switched the phones off night mode, and there must be a hundred messages here asking about yesterday."

"What about yesterday?" Morgantheau shot back. "Did we miss a teachers' conference or something?" Her face softened and she made a waving motion.

Ah, Lucas surmised along with her. That was it: another screw up, but he didn't recall there being any teachers' conference scheduled yesterday, or today either.

"No, nothing like that," Freeda crackled back. "Evidently the school was closed yesterday."

"The school wasn't closed. I was here. You were here too. What are you talking about, Freeda?"

"I'm only relaying what the messages say," Freeda replied. "They say none of the students showed up, Mrs. Morgantheau, and none of the teachers who live in town showed up either. I'm starting to think I'm crazy."

Morgantheau said, "This has to be some sort of prank."

Lucas flashed a time-out sign and asked, "Does that mean that the teachers who live _outside_ Sea Beach showed up?"

Morgantheau posed the question, and added, "Freeda, the teachers who are here today, do they live in town, or out of town?"

Freeda paused. "Now that you mention it, I think that everyone who's here today lives in town."

Morgantheau clicked off. "Coach, can I use your computer?"

"Of course," Lucas replied, pulling his keys. Inside, the locker room smelled like liniment, and rolls of athletic tape littered the floor. He kicked the tape aside, and pulled up a chair for Morgantheau in his office. Pushing a button on his computer, he said, "It'll be a minute. This machine is as slow as molasses."

"Don't let me hold you up from anything you need to do to get ready for that homeroom coverage, Coach. There's bound to be an explanation for all this in my e-mail."

Lucas gave her a weak smile as he set down his play book and picked up his laminated cheat-sheet, as he called it: his double-sided list of plays, highlighted in various colors. He figured he could map out the game plan for tonight's game against Barnegat while he was covering the study halls. He noted his message light blinking and figured he'd check his voice mail while Morgantheau tried to figure things out. There had to be a rational explanation. He punched up the first message, and the blood drained from his face.

Seeing his expression, Morgantheau said, "Is everything all right, Coach?"

Lucas felt like his veins were buzzing. "I'm not sure yet," he said, catching Morgantheau's look. "Am I dreaming too, or were we supposed to play Barnegat tonight?"

"Of course, Coach. We have a pep rally scheduled for this afternoon."

"From what I just heard, the game was last night—and we forfeited."

"Forfeited? How could we have forfeited?"

"Evidently, we never showed up."

Chapter 1... Lost Friday

I opened my eyes, and the light stabbed through like a rusty sword. Damn, I thought, I hadn't felt that bad since my college days. I staggered into the bathroom and took one look at myself, figuring I must have had one hell of a time. I vaguely remembered stuffing a dollar bill into a g-string that was way smaller than the dollar; I also remembered it might have been my last dollar until payday. Yessiree, that was some bachelor party we threw for old Murph. I wondered how he'd feel at the wedding. The wedding! I needed to pick up my tuxedo by noon. What the hell time was it?

I re-staggered into the bedroom and saw that I had plenty of time. Thank God for small favors, my mother always said. The wedding was an evening affair, with the ceremony around five, and the reception about forty minutes away on Long Beach Island. I had some time to recuperate. I laid back down and closed my eyes, pleased that I'd had to foresight to know I'd be feeling like crap after the bachelor party, and, as such, had arranged to go in late to work. I didn't have any deadlines and, to my editor's delight, all my features were in on time for a change. Basically, I figured I'd mosey in and jack around with my e-mail for a while, then leave early to make up for going in late.

I was just lying there waiting for the swirlies to go away, when I thought about the time again. The clock showed that it was just after eight, which meant I'd only gotten about four hours sleep, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that the digital readout, which showed the day-and-date along with the time, read _SAT_ for Saturday, not _FRI_ for Friday, and the date read _25_ , not _24_. I knew I was probably not entirely sober yet, but I didn't think I was still so buzzed that I couldn't read the freakin' clock correctly. Painfully, I swung another look. Right: _SAT_ and _25,_ not _FRI_ and _24_. Okay, someone was screwing with me. Somehow, some way, one of those jackass friends of mine had gotten in to my apartment and messed around with the clock just to frost my doo-dads. Well it worked. I closed my eyes again and tried to catch a few z's, but the time thing gnawed on me, and when something gnaws on me I've got to get to the bottom of it. It's what makes me such a damned good reporter—which my editor would never admit, of course. Anyway, I knew the z's would evade me until I solved this little conundrum. I turned—damn, my head hurt—and grabbed the remote off the nightstand, flipping on the little fourteen-inch TV I'd had since my college days. Cartoons. Since when did they run cartoons on a network station on a Friday morning? Where were Matt and Meredith? Inside my brain, I went, "Oh-oh."

I stood up and scratched said doo-dads, denying there was any possibility that I'd slept through an entire day and completely missed the wedding. The pain in my head suddenly took a back seat to the pain in my heart, which had sunk into my stomach and lay there like a manhole cover. I was supposed to have been Murph's best man. There had to be some other explanation. I shuffled to the front door and opened it. Sure enough, there lay a copy of the _Asbury Park Press_ , along with a copy of the _New York Times_. I got the _Asbury Park Press_ because I worked there and it was free. I got the _Times_ because I wanted to keep up on what the no-talent hacks there were writing. I almost didn't dare to pick up either of them. When I did, I compared the date on both papers, and they were the same: _Saturday_ , September _25_ th. Wait a minute. My story on the new Pinelands antidevelopment regulations was supposed to run on Saturday. I quickly turned to page two in the _Press_ and there it was: _Is Zero Development Really The Answer_? by Johnny Pappas. Jesus H. Christ, I thought. I'd been asleep for an entire day, and I had completely missed the wedding? Really? Murph was gonna be pissed.

* * * * *

I got over the urge to crawl into a corner and die, and decided to go down to the diner and get something into my stomach. I didn't take my cell phone with me, figuring any calls about my well-being would quickly deteriorate into attacks on my character once the caller found out I wasn't dead. I couldn't blame anyone, really. I was even down on myself.

Sea Beach wasn't much of a town in the off-season, and the end of September was definitely approaching that time. The seasonal residents came in mostly on weekends now, probably because they owned a place and felt obligated to use it, but also because it was so peaceful, a distinct difference from the height of summer when the boardwalk bars rocked every night of the week with Jersey Shore partiers. I pulled into the parking lot behind the diner, surprised that I had trouble finding a parking space. I actually had to wait in line outside for a few minutes, which gave me an opportunity to get some oxygen into my system. It was as foggy there outside the diner as it was inside my head, and the air was damp and cool going into my lungs. It felt like I was inhaling a piece of the ocean itself. The owner came out with some menus and spotted me at the end of the line. The owner was my first cousin on my father's side, Demetrius Manos.

"You by yourself, Johnny? I got a spot at the counter, if you want it."

I said, "Thanks Demetrius, that would be fine." I smiled and nodded at a couple of people whose face I recognized, but whose name I didn't remember—I'm terrible with names, a bad trait for a reporter—and took a seat on the counter.

Demetrius laid down a menu and a coffee at the same time. "You look like you could use this."

"Thanks a lot," I said smartly, and I shoveled some sugar into the cup. The coffee looked like motor oil, and it was perfect. If this didn't get me going.... I caught my reflection in the stainless-steel panel behind the plate racks. I'm no Greek god, mind you, but I'm no Cyclops either. Normally, my tight, jet-black hair stays where it's supposed to, and if I comb it right it gives me another inch, which means I'm able to tell the summer honeys on the boardwalk that I'm six-one and get away with it. This morning, it looked kind of spiked out, and my face looked like it was covered with ants, seeing as I hadn't shaved in a while. I looked like a terrorist, and I hoped it was just the reflection. I stopped worrying about my appearance, and I started worrying about how I was going to explain my absence at the wedding to Murph. Surprisingly, I hadn't gotten any messages from anyone on my cell phone or my regular phone cursing me out for not being there.

I ordered some pancakes and got a refill, when I started to tune in to my surroundings. Why was the place so busy? Sea Beach wasn't but three thousand people in the off-season, and it looked like every single one of them was inside the diner.

"Demetrius," I said, waving him over. "What's up with all the people?"

Demetrius gave me a strange look, but it was clear that it wasn't about my hair. "Lost Friday," he said. "I'm surprised you're not writing about it."

It didn't register. "Demetrius, what's Lost Friday?"

Demetrius just turned and went to the cash register. He was back a second later with a legal pad and a pencil. "Over there," he said, nodding toward the dining room area of the diner. "You're going to need to take some notes."

I looked over to where Demetrius had indicated, noticing that a crowd had gathered around one of the tables. A couple of people had cameras, and one of them looked like a professional photographer. As I sat there, a news van actually pulled up outside the diner with _WTFX Philadelphia, Fox News 29_ painted on the side.

"You better get over there before you get shut out," Demetrius said.

I slurped down some coffee and squeezed my way over to the still-gathering crowd, flashing the press badge I kept in my wallet as I fought my way in. Once there, I wedged into the wall of bodies that took up an entire corner of the dining room, elbowing my way to the front. I'm good at that. When I finally got to where I could concentrate on something besides avoiding all the bad breath in the air, I was surprised to see Chief of Police Roy Mulroney sitting there, handling questions as if he were conducting a presidential press conference. I've known Roy for a long time—hell, he used to escort me home when drinking a couple of beers in the Pinelands with your friends wasn't a capital offense—and I know Roy would rather have gotten a tooth pulled than sit in front of a group of reporters. It looked like he didn't have much choice, however.

Spotting me, he said, "Mornin', Johnny. Where have you been?"

A camera clicked somewhere behind my left ear, and I said, "I don't know, Roy. Where have we all been?"

Chapter 2... Feeding Frenzy

"Chief, are you saying the entire town is missing a day?"

The microphone almost hit Roy in the face as the reporter from WTFX actually turned and smiled for the camera. I mean, was this something to smile about? I don't think that schmuck reporter believed a word of what was being said, but he knew he had an exclusive, seeing as there were no other TV guys there—yet. He was milking the opportunity for all it was worth, and he looked at all us newspaper guys like we were second stringers.

Roy held up his hands as if to push back the buzzing throng. "As far as we can tell, yes, that's the case. It seems that anyone who lives inside the town's boundaries has no recollection at all about yesterday."

"That would be Friday, September twenty-fourth. Is that correct?"

Roy looked at the reporter the way he'd look at a mosquito that just landed on his arm. "That's correct."

"Really, Chief, how is that possible?"

Roy was pretty down-to-Earth, and had about as much patience for sanctimonious people as he would the mosquito. He hauled his six-foot-four frame out of the chair and hulked over the reporter. Giving the mosquito a mental swat, he said, "I don't know how it's possible, _son_ , but it happened." With that, Roy pushed through the crowd, and, surprisingly, shot a finger at me as he passed by. "Outside," he said lowly.

It took a while for Roy to make it out of the diner, so I waited next to his truck while he took time to calm some of the townspeople who stepped into his path. Roy was a hell of a guy, Vietnam War hero, the whole nine yards, and people looked up to him. The mayor was only a part-time position in the boro, so for all intents and purposes, Roy was _the man_ in town. I heard he once took two bullets in the back during a bank hold up and still managed to chase down two bad guys, one of whom somehow ended up with a broken neck. Roy has always maintained that he has no idea how that happened. I waited patiently until he patted everyone's back and shook everyone's hand, leaving each concerned citizen with a, "Don't worry, I'll get to the bottom of this." They believed him, and I did too.

Reaching me, he speared me with a look I'd never seen before. "I want you to be my spokesman on this, Johnny. The shit's gonna start flying pretty soon, and this town is going to turn into a zoo. I need someone to handle all the media crap so I can concentrate on figuring out what the hell happened."

The way he said it, I don't know if I really had a choice. "On one condition," I said, bluffing my way along.

"What's that?"

"That I get the inside track on this thing."

Roy nodded slowly, and drawled, "I think I can handle that. Let's go to my office."

I hopped into my Corvette and followed his battered truck through the streets, noting there was barely a soul out there. All the bungalows were shuttered up tight, and the boardwalk looked as deserted as if everyone had been abducted by aliens. Perhaps it was so, I thought weirdly. Even the tackle shops were barren, and there were always a couple of four-wheelers parked there during striper season.

At the police station, Roy gave my 'Vette the eyeball and said, "What do you do when you have to carry a suitcase?"

Poor Roy. He just didn't understand the importance of having a 'Vette. "I take the Escalade when I have to carry anything bigger than my ego," I said comically.

Roy chuckled. "You'd need a dump truck to carry that." He turned toward the station and questioned over his shoulder, "Do you really have an Escalade?"

I didn't, of course. Hell, I'd bought the 'Vette used, and I could barely afford the payments on that, but I didn't say anything. I found that in my line of work it was better to keep people guessing.

Inside, things were humming. During the summer, the population of Sea Beach went from about three thousand to forty thousand, and Roy employed a lot of part-time cops, using a lot of school teachers, grad students, and the like, guys and gals who basically baby-sat the out-of-towners and made sure they got back to their bungalows at night without running anybody over. The force expanded from its permanent eight officers to about thirty. As a result, there were a few empty desks inside the station, and the phones were ringing on every single one of them. The two officers on duty both had a regular phone and a cell phone in each ear, and both were talking a blue streak.

Roy ignored the hubbub, and headed straight to his office. "I want you to hold a press conference right away," he said, taking a seat behind his desk.

Like I said before, I know Roy, and there was no way he'd do that in order to call attention to the situation. Being the cunning reporter that I am, and, knowing that I needed to get my thoughts on the situation squared away pretty soon, I said, "What do you want to accomplish with another press conference?"

"Control," he said. "It's already turning into a feeding frenzy out there..." He thumbed somewhere through the wall. "... and I don't want the people in this town portrayed as a bunch of loonies. By the end of the day, we'll have news crews here from every TV and radio station within driving distance, and by tomorrow the networks will be on this like stink-on-a-skunk. I need you to put a proper spin on this, Johnny."

I understood completely, but I had no clue on how I was going to accomplish that. I mean, damn! From the sound of it, the population of an entire town—but only the town—had lost all memory of an entire day! Who wouldn't think we were all a bunch of loonies? I needed a foothold, and Roy was as good a place to start as any. I'd taken a notepad with me from the car, and I flipped it open.

"What about you, Roy? What was the last thing you remember before this morning?"

Roy drilled me with a look that told me he was weighing how much he could trust me. Probably about as much as he would trust an angry rattlesnake, I figured. He folded his hands over his full belly, and said, "For me, Thursday night was pretty much like any other night. Went home to the missus, grilled a steak, watched some football on ESPN."

"Nothing beyond that?"

"Nothing, but what does any of that have to do with—"

I held up a hand. "Bear with me, Chief, just for a minute." Roy held his tongue. "Nothing beyond that?" I repeated.

"Nothing. Checked in with the station, and went to bed around eleven."

"Do you usually check in with the station?"

"Not always, but we were holding three prisoners on transfer up to Jersey City and I just wanted to make sure everything was all right."

"And, was it?"

"According to Keller, it was. Sometimes we put a TV back in the cell area, and Keller did. It gives the prisoners something to do besides scratching their initials on the walls. They were probably watching the same football game I was."

"When was the prisoner transfer supposed to take place?" I asked, putting a string of thoughts together.

Roy shifted uncomfortably, and I noticed his bushy eyebrows had formed a line beneath his United States Marines baseball cap. "It was supposed to happen on Friday—which I thought was today," he went on. "I haven't had time to check."

"So, you don't know if it actually happened."

"No, I don't," he said testily.

I'm sure Roy was thinking the same thing I was, which was that he couldn't account for three prisoners that could have been axe murderers, for all we knew. Just then, there was a knock on the door, and one of the officers from outside poked his head through the crack.

"What is it, Kaplan?"

"I saw you fly in, Chief, and I know you got your hands full, but...." Kaplan came in and slid a form across the desk. Roy looked up. "When did this come in?"

"About ten minutes ago. I've got DiNardo on the way over there now."

Roy looked at the report again. "Did you call the FBI office in Atlantic City?"

"I was about to do that now," Kaplan answered. "I think we might want to call in some of the part-timers if they're available. Sounds like we're going to be pretty busy."

Roy nodded in agreement. "And everyone else who's off shift. We need to show a presence on the streets."

This was really getting serious, I thought. "What is that?" I asked, indicating the report.

Even though he'd asked for my help, Roy clearly didn't know how far to go with me. "We just got a call from Ben McDermott down at the bank."

"I know Ben," I said, seeing Roy hesitate.

"Seems that the bank vault is empty."

The words hit me like a freight train, and my brain went into overdrive. A thousand questions immediately stacked up inside my head, but I didn't get to ask any of them. Roy bolted upright, and bellowed for Kaplan to come back in.

"Call my wife," he ordered. "Tell her I can't take her to the doctor." Roy looked at me and said, "You got any plans for today?"

"I didn't," I said sincerely.

"Well you do now. This is spinning out of control in a hurry. I want you to organize that press conference yesterday, and start working to get the right questions prepared. I'll answer any and all of them, but I don't want those reporter maggots firing them at me at a mile-a-minute. You got me?"

I bristled at the _maggot_ comment, but I knew where Roy was coming from.

I nodded, and Roy said, "Good. After the press conference, you need to get back here right away so I can get something into the media that I know is the truth." Looking at Kaplan, "Why are you still here?" he snapped.

"There's something else," Kaplan replied, holding another piece of paper.

"What is it now?"

"I don't know if I should bother you with this yet, Chief. I mean, the phones are ringing off the hook and—"

"C'mon, Kaplan, what the hell?"

"David Robelle's parents called."

"David Robelle—as in the quarterback?"

Kaplan nodded. "They can't find him."

Three prisoners couldn't be accounted for, the bank vault had been cleaned out, and the captain of the high school football team was missing. I think I found my foothold.

Chapter 3... The Words

"Who the hell are you?"

I looked down and spat out in a tone that indicated my displeasure, "My name is Johnny Pappas. And you are?"

"Irene O'Connor, WABC, New York."

It rang a bell as soon as she identified herself. I'd seen her on TV many times, talking into the camera with that long red hair and those full frosted lips of hers. She was one of my favorite news bunnies, which meant she had nice ta-tas.

"What's going on?" she called up from the floor when I didn't answer right away. "I don't have much time."

"Who else can we talk to?" another reporter called out.

"Yeah, where's Sheriff Mulroney?"

Roy was right. It was going to be like maggots on bad meat, and I didn't know if I was a maggot, or the meat. I held up my hands like I'd actually been through this before.

" _Chief_ Mulroney," I said, glaring at the dink who'd called him Sheriff, "will be here in about half an hour. In the meantime, I'll try and answer any questions."

"Are you the same Johnny Pappas who writes for the _Asbury Park Press_?" someone hollered from the back.

Someone had actually heard of me. "Yes, I am," I answered. A collective groan erupted, and my self-esteem deflated like a spent airbag.

"What are you doing up there, Johnny? Trying to snake the juicy stuff for yourself?"

The question came from the left, and I spotted the source—a screamer with a greasy beard that I recognized from one of the cable channels, the same cable channel that carried the Jerry Springer Show, I remembered for some reason.

"Is that camera running?" I asked aggressively.

"Yeah. What about it?"

I motioned for quiet. "I live here, people, and Chief Mulroney asked me to get this press conference organized. Now, that's exactly what I'm going to do, and anyone who doesn't like it can take their freedom-of-the-press ass outside. And that goes double for you, smart mouth." I pointed directly at mister greasy-beard, and glanced at the two officers stationed at the back of the town hall hearing room. One of them smiled and flashed me a three-fingered okay sign, indicating that all I had to do was say the word. "I'll answer any questions I can. Those I can't answer we'll save for the chief, and he'll answer them in the order that they're asked. We're looking to get the information out, everyone. You bombard him, and this news conference will be over. Now—"

"Is it true that three prisoners have disappeared from the local jail?" Irene O'Connor asked promptly.

"There were three prisoners in the lockup on transfer up to Jersey City. As we speak, the chief is checking to see if the prisoner delivery was actually completed. Next question."

"About the bank robbery, has a CSI team been called in?"

"I know the FBI has been called. I assume they'll handle that part of it." These guys had done their homework, I thought. I looked at my watch. It was only one in the afternoon, and the news had obviously spread like a brushfire. As if I knew something more than I did, I followed up with, "I don't think anyone from the FBI has arrived yet, however. Next question, please."

Three reporters started in at the same time, but only one question made it through. "What about the unusual tracks found out by the reservoir?"

"I... I don't know anything about those," I stammered.

"Are there any reports of anyone outside the town getting caught up in this?"

"I think you might know more about that than anyone in the chief's office. However, I urge you to substantiate any information before you report it." Of course, I knew that was like asking a starving man not to eat a steak.

"Have there been any reports of a cult invasion?"

"Has anything been detected in the water? Some people are saying something about nerve gas."

"There are reports that this is the result of some special government experiment. Do you know anything about that?"

"What about terrorists?"

I answered the questions as best I could, which means I hardly answered any of them, and instead of calming things, I think I whipped them into a lather. There were just too many loose ends. Finally, after about forty-five minutes of torture, the chief pushed his way to the podium. "One at a time," he called forcefully.

"Has anyone been examined by a doctor?"

"Has anyone's memory loss become permanent?"

"Have other towns in the area been affected in the same way?"

The questions went on, and on. Like me, however, Roy didn't impress anyone with his grasp of the situation. Fifty minutes and probably a hundred questions later, the chief held up his hands. "That's all for now," he said, and he left.

Reflecting, I thought: cult invasion, nerve gas, CIA experiment—it had all come out during the news conference, and I figured most of it would turn out to be bullshit. One thing didn't come out, however, and that was about our missing quarterback, David Robelle.

* * * * *

"My name is Johnny Pappas. May I come in?" I showed my _Press_ ID.

Chuck Robelle was a big guy, early to mid-forties, looked like he could've been a quarterback himself, no problem. The mom, Jenna, looked a couple of years younger, and would've had no problem being a homecoming queen in her younger days. Young David had good genes, I determined quickly. I'd tried to weasel some information about the Robelles from Roy before coming out. He knew everyone, and I figured it was as good a background check as I could get. He didn't say much, however, and my instincts told me that his sparse responses were rather calculated. I managed to find out that Chuck and Jenna had been high school sweethearts, had married early, and both had gone on to make something of themselves. Chuck was a partner in a small law firm. Jenna was an associate professor at the community college. Jenna served some coffee, and sat down next to Chuck at the kitchen table. I noticed a picture of three kids on the console table in the family room.

"How did you manage to find out about this?" Chuck probed.

"I was at the station when the call came in," I replied. Chuck had a visual grip on me, and I was almost afraid to make a move. Clearly, he didn't feel like being Mister Social, but he was hardly the picture of anguish I had expected. Neither was Jenna, and that wasn't at all the way a mom would act. I decided this was no time to beat around the bush and I looked Chuck straight in the eye. "Are you going to answer my questions, or am I wasting my time?"

Chuck measured his response. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On what you already know."

I thought: was it me, or was something strange happening? If I didn't know better, I would have thought they were trying to suppress the fact that their son was missing. It dawned on me that I hadn't heard the words _amber alert_ at all that day, and I suddenly wondered why Roy didn't publicize the situation at the press conference. It would certainly have gotten the word out and people looking for David almost instantly. As a matter of fact, outside of the initial report, I hadn't heard a single word to the effect that David was missing.

"All I know is what I heard when I was in Chief Mulroney's office. I assume it was one of you who made that call." Chuck and Jenna looked at each other and held each other's gaze. Something was definitely up. "Was it?" I pressed.

"I was the one who called," Jenna replied, "but that was before—"

"Honey," Chuck shot tersely.

Jenna never completed her sentence and Chuck slapped me with another stare. "We don't want to jump to any conclusions, Mister Pappas. Perhaps there's an explanation for this."

I wasn't used to people calling me Mister Pappas, and it threw me a little. With me, it was more like dickhead, especially when I was drilling down on something my interviewee didn't want me to drill into. The day's events flashed through my mind like a slide show, and I deemed that if I hadn't lived through it, I wouldn't have believed it myself. It was all too weird, and so was this interview. I decided to come at it from another angle. "What was Thursday night like? Did anything unusual happen?" I assumed they'd gotten caught up in the Lost Friday experience just like everyone else.

"It was just a normal night," Chuck said, verifying my hunch. "I got home from work a little late, and Jenna was teaching a night class so she wasn't home when I came in."

"When was that?" I said quickly, trying to keep him rolling.

"Around eight. David was doing his homework, and the twins were parked in front of the TV."

"We have a pair of fraternal twins," Jenna interjected, seeing me glance at the picture again. "A boy and a girl."

"I'll bet they keep you busy," I said. She smiled, but said nothing. I shifted my attention back to Chuck, and decided to stop pussyfooting. "Why don't you want the fact that your son is missing to be publicized?" Chuck didn't even flinch. He did look at Jenna, however, whose eyes were welling up. "This is bound to get out," I said boldly. "There are probably thirty news teams camped out in Sea Beach by now, and they're all tripping over each other trying to put a different slant on this. If one of them gets hold of the fact that David is missing, who knows how they'll play it?" I hesitated, and added, "I'm one of you. I live here. I've watched your son play football." And I had. "Obviously, there's something you want to say or you wouldn't have let me in here when I identified myself as a reporter. Why don't you let me help you?"

Jenna took Chuck's hand, and said, "We've got to say something, Chuck. We've got to find out what it is."

It, I thought instantly. What was _it_? My heart fluttered. Chuck sighed deeply, sliding the peppershaker from one hand to the other. I could see him wrestling with his emotions.

Abruptly, he said, "The first we knew that David was missing was this morning when his coach called for him."

"Go on."

"I thought it was kind of strange for the coach to be calling here when David should already have been at school, but I figured maybe David didn't feel well, or something. I mean, I hadn't actually seen David yet. I thought maybe he was still in bed. Jenna happened to come down from upstairs just then, and I covered the phone and asked her if David had stayed home sick."

I looked at Jenna.

"I hadn't seen him either," she said. "David often just grabs a breakfast bar and dashes off to the bus stop before I'm even out of the bathroom."

I nodded. "They start school pretty early, don't they?"

"He normally catches his bus about 7:15. Before I came down I'd noticed that the lights in his bedroom were off, and I figured he'd already left."

"Anyway," Chuck went on, "I told the coach that as far as we knew, David was at school."

"It sounds like you didn't know about this Lost Friday thing at that point."

"I didn't," Chuck said. "I mean, we didn't. To us, it was Friday morning, just like any other morning."

"When did you find out about Lost Friday?"

"Right then," Chuck explained. "The coach surmised that I didn't know, and he said something about it. To tell you the truth, I thought maybe the coach had hit the bottle early, or something. I hung up the phone and said to myself, 'What the hell was that?'"

"What did you do then?"

Chuck hesitated, a major breather. "That's when we went upstairs."

That's it? That was hardly something gut-wrenching—unless there was something upstairs that caused it to be so. "And David wasn't up there, was he?"

"No, he wasn't, but there was a ransom note."

Hello. My insides started tingling the way they do when I know I've bitten into a story. Not that Lost Friday wasn't a story, mind you, but there were already scores of reporters on top of it, and I was going to be a tag-along unless I covered it from a different perspective. I'd thought about that only briefly during the day, as I'd been kind of busy with the press conference and all, but I knew I needed to come up with something unique, and so did my editor. We'd talked about it over the phone—also briefly—and my thought was that I would cover the story from a personal perspective, seeing as I lived in the town and I was probably the only reporter who could write about it from personal experience. The thing was, as an investigative reporter I hadn't even taken the time to investigate myself, or what happened to me. Hell, I still didn't know if Murph's wedding had actually taken place. Also, from the sound of the questions at the press conference, it sounded like some of the other reporters had already uncovered events that I hadn't even heard about. I was already behind the 8-ball, the clock was ticking, and I didn't have a single word down on paper.

"Well, it wasn't really a note," Jenna interjected while I was tingling away.

What did that mean? Either it was a note, or it wasn't. "Can I see it?" I asked.

Again, Jenna and Chuck exchanged telling looks. "It's bound to get out," Jenna said, and she burst into tears. "I just want my son back."

Chuck put an arm around her, and pointed a finger at me like it was a gun. "You have to promise me you won't make this into a freak show," he said. Tears were welled up in his eyes also. "All we want is our son back."

Something terrible moved over me. Here were two people whose son had been taken from them, and the most important aspect of that occurrence seemed to be how the incident was going to be reported. The Robelles were reasonable people, it seemed, and for them to be concerned with anything except their son's return made no sense. This was more than an abduction, my instincts told me, much more. I suddenly went from tingly to jittery.

"I won't do anything that would jeopardize David's safety," I said, "including talking to the police, or the FBI."

I guess Chuck believed me because he got up and said, "This way." Jenna trailed along as I followed Chuck upstairs to one of the bedrooms—David's bedroom, I assumed.

Chuck turned before opening the door. "You need to prepare yourself."

The energy was pumping through my body, and I could actually feel the adrenalin starting to ooze into my bloodstream. "Go ahead," I said, guessing I was as prepared as I was going to be, but... for what? Chuck swung the door open, and I instantly understood Jenna's comment about the note not really being a note. The best way to describe it is that the words were there, hanging there, sort of, except that they weren't printed on anything. The first thing I did was look into the corners of the room, but Chuck anticipated my action.

"There are no projectors or lasers in this room," he said with certainty. "And nothing is coming in from outside." He pointed to the windows, over which the shades were drawn. "I don't think this is a projection or a hologram of any sort."

I looked at the words, which were just hanging in the middle of the room. I tried to walk around them, but no matter where I went the words appeared exactly the same way, right in front of my eyes, no matter the background or the angle from which I viewed them. I'd never seen anything like it. It was like I was viewing them from inside my own head. I approached the words, but they didn't get bigger, or smaller, as my perspective changed, and, they remained seemingly within reach. I went ahead and tried to touch them, but my hand couldn't seem to reach them, or slide behind them, or cover them. They seemed two-dimensional, as if they were on paper, but they weren't. They were just there, illusory but visible, unchanging, as if part of the air itself. I took a small pillow from a chair and tossed it towards the words, but again they remained unchanged, and I couldn't tell if the pillow flew in front of them, or behind them. I went to David's desk and picked up a baseball bat that was leaning against the wall there. I took the bat and positioned it horizontally above my head, lowering it in front of my face. The words remained before my eyes, uninterrupted by the descending bat. I looked around, noting that everything else in the room looked normal. I understood now. A kidnapping was bad enough, but this was more, much more. I took out my notepad and turned to Chuck.

"Do you mind if I write this down?"

Chuck said, "Go ahead, if you think it will help."

"I don't know what to think," I said truthfully. I glanced at Jenna, and said, "Would you please call Chief Mulroney and tell him I'm here, and that he needs to get here right away? And tell him it needs to be him personally, not one of his men."

Jenna said, "Sure. I'll use the phone in our bedroom."

"Thanks," I said, and I started writing the first line of what was in front of me: _Your son is with us in the year 2194...._

Chapter 4... Big Ice

Roy went through the same drill I'd gone through earlier and tried to reach into the words. "I've never heard of any technology that can do this," he said, finally satisfied that it was no illusion.

Roy was hardly the picture of a man in control, and if there was one thing about Roy that stood out, it was just that—the type of guy you'd turn to if the hordes were charging. His cell phone went off, which was good because for a second I thought he'd turned into a statue.

"Well it only took them six damned hours to get here, and I'm tied up right now," he carped into the phone. "Just tell them to have a seat and shut up for a while." Seeing my questioning look, he said, "The FBI boys finally made it."

Chuck Robelle said, "You're not going to bring them in on this, are you? You've read the demands."

Roy put a hand on Chuck's shoulder. "I'm not doing anything right now, but I've got to think on this. I'll be back, okay?" Chuck and Jenna both nodded, and Roy turned to me. "Johnny, you ride with me so we can talk about this and everything else that happened today."

I looked at my watch. It was 4:05 and I needed to get a story in by 6:00. The paper was going to lead with it, and plowing out two thousand words in less than two hours was going to be challenging, to say the least, especially when I recalled my editor's warning.

"There are going to be a thousand stories out there tomorrow, and this is happening in our own back yard. Make it good, Pappas, and don't come to me with the same shit everyone else is going to shovel."

Well, that was clear. I needed something good, something unique, and something on time. So far, I had none of that.

"Are you coming?" Roy barked as I stood there wondering how I was going to accomplish the impossible.

Outside, I hopped into Roy's truck and we chugged back to the station in silence. I thought Roy had wanted to talk, but his eyes seemed kind of glazed over and focused on something far away. I took the opportunity to try and come up with some brilliant insights on what had happened during the day, and I pulled out my notepad. Roy's truck bounced and rattled so much, however, that I could barely read what few notes I'd taken. It didn't matter though; the story—or lack of one—was in my head. Breathing in the smell of fish and cigars from inside the truck, I suddenly realized that what I was holding was possibly the biggest story since... what? The ascension of Christ? This was far beyond wars and invasions. This was far beyond medical breakthroughs. As far as I knew, this was beyond anything anyone had ever experienced. I reread the words from David Robelle's room, which I'd transcribed onto my notepad:

Your son is with us in the year 2194. He is

safe, and will continue to be on the condition

that you do not report, or repeat, anything

about what you see here. We will return

David unharmed once he has fulfilled

his obligation to our cause. If you violate

this demand, you will never see him again.

The note was unsigned.

I turned to Roy, who was still staring intently through the windshield. "You're not going to let me write about this, are you?"

"I figured you'd get around to that sooner or later," he said.

* * * * *

Back at the station, I commandeered a computer while Roy busied himself with the FBI pukes, as he called them. All the while, my mind kept focusing on the enormity of what I couldn't reveal. Time travel: was it possible? What was the _cause_ mentioned in the note, and why would David be important to something that was happening 190 years from now? Listening to the activity around me, the questions were stacked like bricks inside my head. Normally, when I had a grip on a story, the keyboard strokes were a symphony in my ears. Now, my fingers may have well been those of a dead man.

I got up and went to the water cooler, hoping a lightning bolt of inspiration would blast through the roof and strike me. As I filled my cup, I noticed the door to the holding cells in the back of the station. There were three cells, I knew, and my eyes settled there as I drank. I poured myself another cup of water, and I remembered what Roy had said earlier in the day, that one of his officers had put a TV back there on Thursday to let the prisoners watch a football game. I wondered if it was still there. I peeked in; it was. I walked in, noting a bouquet in the air somewhere between piss and Pine Sol, and I switched on the TV. The very first image was Irene O'Connor—damn her, she was everywhere—and I noticed a couple of pictures superimposed on the screen behind her. One of them was the governor. I punched up the sound.

"We go now to ABC News correspondent Scott Crowder at the statehouse in Trenton, where Governor McKenzie has already begun addressing the matter."

He has? I thought, noting that Scott Crowder was a network guy. Crowder's face filled the screen.

"Behind me, Governor McKenzie is issuing a statement regarding the phenomenon which has come to be known as Lost Friday," Crowder said. The governor's image appeared next.

"We've already requested assistance from the FBI, ATF, the Department of Homeland Security, and possibly the CIA," the governor said. "We've also requested assistance from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta to test the water supply, and we're monitoring the air quality for toxic substances."

"Why would Sea Beach, New Jersey be a terrorist target?" someone called out.

"We don't know that it is," the governor replied. "But we don't want to take any chances. We won't rest until we're assured that everyone in that town is safe, and accounted for."

"Have there been any injuries?"

"None that we're aware of." Then, the governor held up his hands. "Thank you for coming," he called out. "We'll release more information as it becomes available."

That was his way of saying that he and his staff didn't know squat, and neither did I. The networks were already jumping on the story, and I still hadn't written a single word. One thing was certain, however, the news of David's disappearance couldn't be kept secret forever. Soon, the situation would turn into one huge cluster-fuck, and people with badges would be snooping into anything, and everything, if only for the sake of justifying their presence.

I looked at my watch and saw that I was down to an hour-and-a-half until deadline. I guess my thoughts must have been telepathic because my cell phone went off. I knew who it was before I pushed the talk button.

"How's it coming?" my editor blurted, sounding like he was in a tunnel, which meant I was on speaker.

My editor's name was Paul Romano, and he was one of those guys who never came at you head-on, so you never knew what he was thinking. He fired a guy once by telling him what a great job he was doing, and for his own benefit he might be better off doing it outside the organization. I know that, because the guy was me. As such, the question, " _How's it coming_?" meant something else.

"It's coming along fine," I said, lying through my teeth.

"We're planning the lead for tomorrow morning. Tell me what you've got," Romano responded, which meant: _I haven't heard from you all fucking day, and I don't think you have shit._

Outside, I noticed a state police car pull up to the station, lights flashing, with three black, shiny, low-slung Crown Victorias right behind it. A platoon of suits barged in, and two state troopers took a stand outside the entrance, while two of the suits did the same inside. One of the suits was carrying a large aluminum attaché case that looked like one of those courier spy things you see in the movies.

"Pappas, are you there?" Romano barked into my ear.

"Hold on, boss. Something's coming down here." I could tell from the looks on the suits' faces that my story might have just arrived.

"Where is here?" Romano asked.

"I'm back at the police station. Sit tight," I ordered.

The suit with the case stepped forward, and said to no one in particular, "I'm Special Agent Pierce, NSA. This is Special Agent Gordon. Those two over there are Agents Banks and Cor...."

"Corvissi," one of the other guys said, flashing an ID. "NASA."

I said to myself: NSA _and_ NASA? No shit.

On the phone, Romano shouted. "Pappas, what the hell is going on there?"

"Boss?" I said lowly.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up a minute." I hoped I wouldn't pay for that later.

"Where's Chief Mulroney?" Agent Pierce demanded.

Just then, Roy popped out of his office with the two FBI pukes. "Who the hell are all of you?" he asked impatiently. After another round of introductions, he pointed at the case, and said, "What the hell is that?"

Agent Pierce opened it and pulled out a bunch of manila envelopes, inside of which were a series of pictures, all of them looking pretty much the same.

Roy craned his neck from one side to the other, and asked, "What am I looking at?"

Pierce replied, "Aerial photos."

"Of what?"

"Ice."

Roy was clearly confused, as was I, and everyone else in the room. He looked at Pierce, and said, "So?"

The NASA guy named Corvissi stepped forward. "This is no ordinary ice, Chief. Right now, the blocks are about half-a-mile off the coast of Island Beach State Park. They're being pulled out by the tide, and they are dissipating rapidly. These photos were taken from two thousand feet up, and we estimate there are several hundred individual blocks of ice here, each of them about the size of a large suitcase."

My head was swimming. First it was Lost Friday, then the ransom note, and now this. Roy looked like he'd been hit in the face with a shovel.

Incredulous, he said, "An ice flow? Off the coast of Island Beach State Park? In September? What next? Space aliens?"

A couple of people chuckled, but Corvissi didn't. He looked Roy straight in the eye, and I got a little chill just standing there.

Roy took in Corvissi's intensity, and looked at the photos again. "What's all this?" he asked pointing at areas of white surrounding some of the cubes.

Corvissi said, "That's where the ocean has frozen around the blocks. Those rings you're looking at are a couple of feet thick, frozen solid."

Roy seemed to connect with what Corvissi was saying about the same time I did. He looked up, his face kind of blank, and said, "We don't have glaciers in New Jersey, and ocean water down here doesn't freeze—ever," he added. Then, his voice got kind of shaky. "What are we looking at?"

Corvissi looked around the room, noting that everyone's eyes were glued to him. "Frozen helium, Chief. The temperature inside those blocks is somewhere around minus 460 degrees Fahrenheit."

My cell phone was connected with Romano the whole time. I stepped away and croaked lowly into the phone, "Boss?"

"What the hell is going on, Pappas?"

"I'm not going to get a story to you by six o'clock. You need to lead with something from the wires."

"Pappas!" Romano shouted, but I didn't hear anything else as I ended the phone call and ambled over to Roy and Corvissi, notepad in hand.

Chapter 5... The Story

"Johnny, my office." Roy just pointed, and everyone in the room wondered why I was so important all of a sudden. Inside, he said, "I knew this was going to get sensationalized."

Roy had popped a thick five o'clock shadow, and was turning a little surly. "Chief, this _is_ sensational. It doesn't need any help from anyone."

"I didn't want to turn this town into a sideshow, Johnny. That's why I brought you in on this."

"This is too big, Roy. The best thing any of us can do is to give the facts, and nothing more."

Roy took that in. "What are the other reporters saying?"

"I have no clue. I've been tied up with you all day, and I haven't even been able to put my own story together."

Roy picked up the phone, punched a couple of buttons, and said, "Johnson, would you find that portable TV for me?" Johnson was there a minute later, and Roy asked him to gather up the rest of the officers. Soon, the room was full, and smelling like frayed nerves. Roy flipped a few channels, and the phrases jumped from the TV: _invaded by aliens; North Pole disintegrating; memory gas; Earth struck by a comet._ There was no mention of David Robelle's disappearance, or the ransom note. So far, it seemed that the only people who knew about that were the Robelles, the chief, and me. I wondered how Lost Friday, David's kidnapping, and several hundred blocks of frozen helium in the Atlantic were related, not to mention the empty bank vault, and the missing prisoners—who had never made it to their final destination, I found out. Not knowing how it was all tied together gave me the feeling that any of us could be plucked off the face of the Earth any second.

I mentally reviewed the conversations I'd heard a few minutes earlier. Agent Corvissi wasn't an agent at all, it turned out, but a scientist, and the reason he'd been sent was because one of the main known applications for frozen helium was for things like fuel cells for space vehicles, and also for rocket propulsion systems. As he explained it, theoretically—theoretically because what he was explaining hadn't even been invented yet—inside a rocket engine, frozen helium could go from minus 459 degrees Fahrenheit to an unbelievable plus 3,140 degrees, just by going through the process of going from a solid to a gas and recombining with other atoms. It sounded impossible, but the process could happen in a millisecond, and the resulting conversion would cause the helium to vaporize and shoot out of an engine with enough force to propel a rocket.

This didn't explain the helium ice blocks off Island Beach State Park, but it was the only scientific tie-in with frozen helium anyone knew about, Corvissi explained. I, on the other hand, having seen the ransom note in David Robelle's room, would have said it was the only scientific tie-in anyone knew about _today_. What made Corvissi's explanation really interesting was the fact that current scientists hadn't found a way to completely freeze helium yet. That, obviously, led to another question, which was: so where the fuck did it come from? In an effort to provide a perhaps more plausible explanation, Corvissi put forth another theory that had to do with comets. Simplifying it for us dummies, he said that comets are basically nothing but huge snowballs. Instead of being made solely of water, however, they are made up of other frozen gases, helium being one of the primary components. Hence, I concluded, the theory we'd just heard on TV about the Earth being struck by a comet. Whatever the situation, tons of frozen helium boded something extraterrestrial, at best, demonic, at worst, and either situation would be enough to cause a shitload of panic if any available information wasn't controlled properly. I was suddenly almost overcome with the power of the information I was hiding, and I asked Roy if I could speak with him privately in his office.

Roy was a minute behind me, and I took the opportunity to use his private bathroom and splash some cold water on my face. I caught my reflection in the mirror, noting that the bags under my eyes were big enough to carry groceries. Roy came in and closed the door. He didn't look much better.

"Do you know what we're sitting on?" I asked candidly. "You, and I, and the Robelles are the only ones who know we've been visited by someone, or some thing, from the future."

Roy looked at me and I thought he was going to say something like, "You can't prove that," but he didn't. I guess the evidence was just too overwhelming for him to argue otherwise. "We've got to go public with this, Roy. It's bound to get out anyway; wouldn't it be best if we managed how the story was put out there?" I could see that Roy didn't want to hear it. "No matter what we do, this is going to get dicey. The best way to control any possible panic is to go out there and be the picture of sanity this town needs."

"What kinds of organizations kidnap people, and have causes?" Roy asked, apparently changing the subject.

"Terrorists," I answered quickly.

"Are there good terrorists and bad terrorists?"

"Terrorists deal in death. Is there such a thing as a good terrorist?"

"What if these supposed terrorists are on our side?"

I thought about that for a second, and tried to figure out where Roy was going. "Then why would they be threatening to not return David unless we complied with their demand of silence?"

Roy took a stand at the window and stared at the small army of cars that crowded the parking area behind the station. "Because we still have something they want," he said calmly.

The sun was going down, and it was as if the room was cooling off along with the outside temperature. "How do we know what that is?" I asked. "We have no way to communicate with them."

"But we do," Roy said, turning away from the window. "Simply by not giving in to their demands."

My stomach started churning, but it wasn't because I hadn't eaten anything since morning. Sure, Roy was worried about the townspeople, but soon the whole country—no, the whole world—would crush us with attention. People would hunker down to protect themselves—from what nobody knew yet—but they'd take action. They'd also demand protection, and it would come in the form of... what? The National Guard? I suddenly visualized tanks rolling into the streets of Sea Beach to keep us prisoners in our own homes. The question would be asked a million times: If they could take one person against his or her will—and here I assumed that David Robelle didn't leave of his own accord—what was to prevent our invaders from doing it to anyone else? Who was going to stop them? And what about Lost Friday? The entire town had been affected against its collective will, what next? This could go much further than Sea Beach, and Roy was trying to keep it contained.

I said, "It's all connected, you know. Lost Friday, David, the helium ice blocks—all of it."

Roy nodded but said nothing, as he was distracted by some headlights that flashed through the window. A parade of black Suburbans, a couple more low-slung Crown Victorias, and a Humvee all pulled up across from the station. Doors swung open simultaneously and several big men stepped out, all of them wearing sunglasses despite the fact that the sun was almost down. Wearing a black trench coat, one of them covered up an automatic weapon hanging from a sling at his side. Out of the corner of his mouth, Roy said, "Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Get your notepad and take some notes. We're going public with this, and you're going to write a story. Then, I'm going home and eat a steak before I go in front of the cameras and let the world know what's going on. After that, let the Robelles know their house is going to be turned into a crime scene."

Roy went outside to greet the goons with the sunglasses, and I called Romano right away and told him to hold the presses.

* * * * *

Chuck Robelle looked like he was going to eat someone. After dinner, Roy had called him and asked him to come down to the station, and Chuck was there in fifteen minutes. He too had beard stubble that looked like black wire, and he was dressed in only a t-shirt and jeans, his chest looking like the front of a Mack truck.

"I'm going public with David's disappearance," Roy said directly, not even giving Chuck a chance to sit down.

I expected Chuck to get in Roy's face, and they actually squared off for a second, but Chuck was a cool customer. Good thing, because I was caught in the middle and they could have squashed me like a Greek bug. In fact, Chuck looked at me as if I was an ant crawling up his arm, but I was getting used to it, having tagged along behind Roy like a puppy dog all day.

Roy saw Chuck's poison gaze land on me, and said, "He's here because he's going to release the truth about what's going on, Chuck. I don't want your family, or anyone in this town, being portrayed like a bunch of whackos. The second that happens, the feds will be in here like blues on baitfish, and the whole situation will spin out of control. If that happens, David's disappearance will undoubtedly be discovered, and it'll be out of our hands. Hell, there's already a chance that someone knows. It's better that we keep control of this thing."

Chuck absorbed that for a moment, and said, "Coach Lucas has already called for him twice today. Seems he's lining up an extra practice tomorrow before they make up the lost game against Barnegat, and he wanted David to come in a little early to review some new plays. I told him David was sick in bed, and the coach asked if he was too sick to come to the phone. It's only a matter of time before he calls back."

"There you go," Roy responded.

"What about the ransom demand?"

"Look, I don't know who took David, or why, but I do know one thing, and that is that kidnappers can't be trusted. I hate to say this, and I know the truth hurts, Chuck, but we have no idea if David is even still alive. Violating that ransom demand is our only way of finding that out. We have to force their hand, find out what they're really after."

Chuck nodded, and said, "You'll have to explain this to my wife."

Roy nodded back. "I'll be there with you."

Chuck shifted his attention back to me. "What are you going to write?"

Standing there, I suddenly realized that what I was about to say was going to change my professional life, and quite possibly my personal life, forever. The story was in my head, and it was so vivid it was as if I was reading it off the front page itself. I turned toward Chuck and said, "The headline is going to read: _Sea Beach Attacked By Futuristic Terrorists._ "

Chapter 6... The Future Is Now

My phone rang at 4:37 a.m., waking me from an already restless night. It was Romano, and he didn't bother to ask how I'd slept. He said, "I have the _Times_ , _The Daily News_ , _Newsday_ , and _USA Today_. It looks like we've scooped them all."

I thought: we?

"Good job, Pappas. Your dad would have been proud."

My dad had been a beat reporter for the _New York Daily News_ for thirty-seven years, one of the best, people said, and I guess the two Pulitzers hanging over the mantle in my mother's living room proved it. I'd been trying to get out from under my father's shadow ever since I'd stumbled out of Rutgers, which is why I started at the bottom of the totem pole at the _Asbury Park Press_ instead of letting him pull strings to get me into the _Daily News_ , but even at the _Press_ I was constantly being compared to him. After thirty-seven years, his shadow was still pretty big. He died of cancer at the tender age of sixty-seven, cranking out five thousand words a day until the very end. Romano knew I was trying to carve out my own legacy, but legacies come with experience, and Romano didn't hide the fact that he thought I was still quite damp behind the ears. Yeah, well, screw him, I would have thought normally, but it felt good knowing I'd come across with a national exclusive.

I trudged into the bathroom and took a piss while I listened to Romano go on about how _we_ had really _hit in on the head_ with this one. Yawning, I said, "You need to take it down a thousand, boss. Every newsman in the country is going to jump on this. Our scoop isn't going to last long."

"That's exactly why you need to stay ahead of this thing," Romano said, true-to-form.

I'd thought of that myself while I was writing the stories—I'd written two—but I hadn't come up with another angle yet. What happened next, however, alleviated the need for that.

"Do you have the TV on?" Romano asked.

"No."

"Turn it on. CNN's lead story is about your story."

I thought: no shit? I looked at the clock. The paper couldn't have been on the street for more than a few minutes, and the networks had already jumped on it. I searched for the remote, but was immediately distracted by some thunderous pounding on my front door. I had barely stepped toward it when it sounded again.

"Hold on!" I shouted, wondering who could be such an asshole at 4:30 in the f'ing morning. I opened the door, recognizing one of the FBI agents from the previous day.

All business, he said, "Mister Pappas?"

"Good guess, J. Edgar. What's up?"

"I'm Special Agent Cormier. This is Special Agent Donnelly. You need to come with us. We've heard from the kidnappers."

I know Romano said something as I put the phone down, but I don't remember what it was.

* * * * *

Cormier and Donnelly whisked me across town to the Robelles' house, where about a dozen cars were already parked outside. The first rays of sun hadn't even begun to bend over the horizon, but it may as well have been daylight with all headlights blasting away from every direction. The blipping blue and red lights made the scene surreal, like strobes on a dance floor, painting flashes of movement in alternate colors. Inside, Roy was standing in the living room with three suits, all of which I again recognized from the day before. He was jabbing a finger in the air at all of them, and I heard the words, "When pigs fly."

Officer Johnson came over and whispered, "The Chief wants you to hang tight until he gets to you."

With that, Johnson put on his guard-dog look and took a position. Clearly, I wasn't going anywhere. The first floor of the house was full of more suits and Sea Beach police officers, with everyone grouped in clusters, seemingly waiting for something to happen. "What's going on?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

Johnson said, "I think this is turning into a giant pissing contest, and the Chief is about to throw everyone's ass the hell out of town."

"Can he do that?"

Johnson glanced at Roy, who at that very moment was jabbing his fat finger toward the Robelles' front door instead of the suits' noses. Even from across the room I could see a vein popping in his forehead. Johnson said, "I don't know if he can or not, but I wouldn't want to mess with him right now."

The three suits Roy was arguing with all started moving, but one of them jabbed a finger back at Roy and said angrily, "We'll let a judge decide."

Roy said, "Tell me if I need to be there. I'll be sure to wear a nice shirt."

The suits and their comrades filed out the door, and, from what I could tell, only Roy, his men, and me were left in the house. Roy ambled over, and said, "Did they ask you any questions on the way over?"

He meant Cormier and Donnelly. I just shook my head.

"Did they ask you to do anything?"

Wondering why Roy was being such a control freak, I said, "All I know is what they told me, which is that we heard from the kidnappers. Where are the Robelles?"

He stabbed me with a look that told me instantly that he didn't know how much to reveal. After a thousand interviews with people who didn't want you to know something, you learn how to smell it, and I'd smelled it from Roy a couple of times now. "The Robelles took the kids and left."

"Left for where? I thought we heard from the kidnappers."

"We did. They're outside the boro limits."

"The kidnappers?"

Roy shook his head. "No, Sherlock, the Robelles."

I couldn't put two-and-two together. Roy was acting squirrelly, too squirrelly for a man with his normally cool head. "Okay, Roy, what's going on here?"

Roy gave me the eyeball. "They've been here, Johnny. They've been back."

A little tingle raced up my spine. There was something he wasn't telling me. Surely he knew that having the resources and manpower of the FBI, CIA, NSA, ATF, freaking NASA, and any other federal agency with initials, had to be more effective than conducting this investigation literally on his own, but he'd just gotten done throwing all out of those guys out of the house. Roy wasn't that stupid.

Tapping the side of my nose, I said, "The nose knows, Roy, and there are too many other noses nosing around this thing. One of them is bound to smell that you're hiding something. They have jurisdiction here, and you're going to get yourself relieved of command—or worse—if you keep fucking with these guys."

Roy nodded solemnly. "Come with me," he said lowly. "I can explain everything."

* * * * *

Inside Roy's F-150, I wondered again why I was such an important element in his thinking. He didn't say much, just drove, and I watched the sun come up over the horizon. We pulled up to a house a few minutes later—Roy's house, it turned out—and I could tell his mind was whirring away at about a hundred miles an hour. Inside, Mrs. Mulroney greeted us promptly, dressed in a fuzzy blue bathrobe. She kissed Roy on the cheek and turned to me.

"Bacon and eggs?" she asked without even asking who I was.

I said, "Yes ma'am. That would be fine." She turned away, dropping a mug of steaming coffee in front of me without asking if I wanted any. Her demure smile told me what kind of person she was, and I knew Roy had done well in life.

Roy poured himself some coffee. "Have you seen today's _Asbury Park Press_?"

I remembered that the paper hadn't even been delivered yet when I'd left my house with Cormier and Donnelly. "No."

Roy dropped a newspaper on the kitchen table, and Mrs. Mulroney stopped what she was doing and turned my way. I took the hint and sat down. The first thing I noticed was that the paper was thin, very thin, like a Tuesday edition and not at all like a Sunday edition, which is what it should have been. I figured maybe this was only part of the paper, and I started scanning the headlines looking for my stories. As I said, I'd written two, the first being where I revealed that we'd been visited by what I'd coined _futuristic terrorists_. The second story focused specifically on David Robelle's disappearance. Both of them were leads, and should have been plastered all over the front page. One of my stories was there, all right, at least it had my byline, but I don't know where the headline came from, nor did I remember writing it.

Roy's eyes, as well as Mrs. Mulroney's, were glued to me. "Check the date," Roy said.

I did, and a queasy feeling came over me again, a feeling that was becoming all too regular an occurrence. It read _Wednesday, November 3_ rd _._ "This date is a month from now," I observed, a fact of which Roy was very aware.

"I think they're trying to warn us," he said.

Mrs. Mulroney dropped a plate on the table as I read the story I'd supposedly written—or would write, is probably a more accurate way of expressing it. Roy was at the counter, waiting patiently for me to finish reading. "This is supposedly what happens?" I asked.

He shrugged. "If you wrote it, I guess it is."

It was an odd response. I wasn't sure how to take it.

I picked at the eggs and nibbled on a warm biscuit, pushing aside what could have been a very delicious breakfast had my stomach not been churning like a washing machine. I reread the article, while Roy gazed woodenly at the ocean breaking about fifty yards off his back porch. The writing certainly had my style; it certainly could have been mine. I put the paper down. "So this hasn't happened yet," I concluded.

Eyeing me sharply, "And I don't intend to let it," Roy said.

Chapter 7... The Doodle

Romano said, "I don't remember reading or editing any of this."

Roy's eyes were stones. "Maybe it's a fake. You know, one of those gag newspapers."

I didn't think so, and, giving the pages a scrupulous once over, Romano said, "I don't know. Everything in here looks pretty legit."

"You say none of these articles are in your databank?"

"We're still checking our network," Romano replied, "but so far, zilch."

We were in Romano's office at the _Press_ headquarters in Neptune. Roy was wearing jeans and the same flannel overshirt he'd been wearing since the day before; Romano sported baggy sweatpants, and some weekend stubble. Outside, the newsroom was buzzing despite the fact that it was eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. Reporters from other Gannett newspapers were helping themselves to any open desks until our own people checked back in on Monday. Thinking of the article I'd supposedly written, I wondered if any of them wouldn't return.

Romano got up and walked to the coffeemaker, dropping the newspaper that hadn't been printed yet on his desk. From a distance, I read the headline again: _Teachers Missing!_ Mentally, I found myself alternating between a state of fear and sense of fascination. According to my story, two teachers from Sea Beach Regional High School, Scott Reemer and Allison Kovar, had turned up missing, both reappearing a day later with no recollection whatsoever of where they'd been—sort of individual Lost Fridays, if you will. I picked up the paper and scanned my article again: lots of words, but nothing that couldn't have been summarized in two sentences. Reporters did that: taking a story where there weren't a lot of details, then saying the same thing thirty different ways. It meant there weren't many facts to relate, and, as such, there wasn't a lot of depth to the piece. Usually, I tried not to write that kind of story. Indeed, Romano usually busted balls if a story like that crossed his desk, but he must have had inches to fill. Now, looking back on something I hadn't written yet, I said, "Do you think there's a possibility that the two teachers—"

"Are David's teachers?" Romano shot in, anticipating my question. "Goddamn man, let's find out." He moved so fast it was like a wind blew through the room. Ten minutes later we had our answer as one of the weekend guys poked his head in, and said, "It's confirmed, boss. Both of them have David Robelle in their class."

Sure, it was all related, but I wondered if the teachers' disappearance and David's disappearance were directly connected.

From his spot in the corner of the office Roy said, "If they can access the newspaper, they already know we've violated their ransom demand."

That meant we could never see David again, but neither Romano nor I said anything.

Roy came over, and held the paper in his hand. "They're trying to tell us something through the newspaper."

"Why?" I asked.

"That's what we need to find out."

* * * * *

"There are a couple of things I don't understand," I said as I nibbled on my second breakfast of the morning. Romano had sent out for breakfast sandwiches, one of which he was inhaling, but my stomach didn't feel much better than it did at Roy's house. Deep in thought, Roy was wearing a trail in Romano's carpet, ignoring me. I gave him his space, noticing how everyone outside the office was stealing glances at us and then looking away. I figured I had that terrorist look again.

"I said..." I said in a loud voice this time, to get Roy's attention, "... there are a couple of things I don't understand." That got his attention all right, but I was getting a little concerned with Roy acting like a one-man task force. I mean, I was still wondering why he'd thrown all those federal agents out of the Robelles' house. And why were the Robelles themselves outside the town limits? So I asked him.

"Because as far as we know, the only people who've been abducted are from within the town's borders. I don't know if putting the Robelles outside those borders would prevent them from being plucked away again, but I figure it's worth a shot. We need them here."

"Don't you think we need some help?" I asked boldly. "I mean, we don't have the resources of the federal government. They have—" Roy put up his hand, stopping me. I expected Romano to jump in, but one thing I'd discovered about Romano was that, as big a pain in the ass as he was, he had great instincts and knew when to shut the fuck up and let something happen. I guess this was one of those times.

"C'mon, Roy. You're asking me to put my faith in you, but I don't understand what you're trying to do. I'm surprised the feds haven't taken over already."

He'd heard that from me before, and it still rankled him, which was fine because that was exactly my intent. I noted that Romano had slyly picked up a handheld tape recorder.

Romano said, "We're under no obligation here, Chief. You want Johnny to continue as your spokesman, you're gonna have to bring us in on whatever you're thinking. Otherwise, we're gonna need to talk about the other side of this. You don't think those agents are talking, and that your lack of cooperation isn't already being questioned? This is my back yard, Chief. I'm not gonna get scooped on this."

Bang. Lid down, nails in the coffin. Romano hammered it home for me. Big, hairy cojones, I thought.

Roy took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. "The paper?" he said, pointing to it on Romano's desk.

I nodded, urging him on.

"It didn't go to the Robelles. It came to me, at three o'clock this morning while I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. I heard it land on my doorstep."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Those two FBI agents were at my door an hour-and-a-half later, and they already knew we'd heard from the kidnappers. Did that come from you?"

Roy said, "Not a chance," but I could see he wanted to say more.

"What are you trying to tell me, Chief?"

"The FBI guys had been tipped, and probably all the other federal people had been as well. That's why they were already at the Robelles' house when you got there."

I simply assumed that the paper had appeared at the Robelles' house. "Tipped by whom?" I pressed.

Roy answered in a steely voice, "All I know is those agents got a call from someone claiming to be one of the kidnappers, stating further that they were at the Robelles' residence."

"But, why?"

"My house was being watched, and whoever delivered this paper had to get those FBI pukes out of the way so they could drop this paper on my doorstep."

"The FBI was watching _you_? How do you know?"

Roy just made a face. "Gimme some credit, Johnny. Besides, that's what these guys do."

"So, the FBI doesn't know about the paper."

"Not unless they heard it from the caller—which I doubt. The only people who know about it are in this room."

Roy's implication was clear: he didn't want us to blab about it. "And how did you end up at the Robelles' house?" I asked.

"The agents called me when they got there and found out the house was empty. They didn't know the Robelles were somewhere else and thought they'd been kidnapped too."

Having sat there listening patiently, "That means the bad guys are among us," Romano concluded.

"At least one of them is," Roy responded.

I slumped into a chair, and said, "Fuck."

Romano said, "It could be anyone."

"And that's why I want this town shut down," Roy went on. "We need to know who belongs here, and who doesn't. With all these strangers in town, we could never find that out."

Now it made some sense. "You said the kidnappers are trying to tell us something," I said, hanging it out there for him.

Roy pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was just a plain old piece of paper, legal pad yellow, with a lot of notes and doodles all over it. "Sometimes, when I can't figure things out, I write things down. It helps me put things in order."

"That's probably true about a lot of people," I responded as I watched Romano pick up another sandwich.

"Sometimes I doodle," Roy went on.

"Uh-huh," I said. Sometimes I doodled too.

"So last night after dinner, I was making some notes and doodling in front of the TV. Look at this doodle over here."

I did, and a fire alarm went off inside my head. I reached into my jacket, which I'd flung across a chair, and extracted my notepad, the notepad I carried with me everywhere I went. Flipping furiously, I stopped at about the eighth page. It had doodles on it. I compared my doodle to Roy's doodle, and it was virtually the same.

Chewing loudly, Romano said, "Well I'll be damned."

The color drained from Roy's face. He looked at me with narrow eyes, and said, "It looks like you're in on this, too."

"In on what?" Romano asked.

Roy pointed to the paper. "Turn to page nine."

I did, noting nothing in particular except that a month from now some new freeholders would be elected in Ocean County. There were several ads on the page, I noticed, thinking suddenly that I might want to take note of the lottery numbers that came out that day.

Roy said, "Check out the dentist's ad on the bottom right."

I did, and there sat our doodles, inside the ad as part of the logo.

Romano said, "Well, fuck me sideways. I think we need to talk to..." Romano looked at the ad. "... Doctor Behari."

Roy looked at my notepad. "Has anyone else seen that?"

"Not that I know of," I replied.

"I think we should talk to the teachers as well," Roy added. "We need to find out how they fit in to all this."

Romano said, "Get on it, Pappas. And get something in by four o'clock. We'll have the presses waiting."

Chapter 8... The Intervention

Dumbfounded as to what happened to an entire day of his life, Doctor Behari readily agreed to see me when I identified myself on the phone and told him I was investigating Lost Friday for the _Press_. He seemed normal enough, mid to late thirties, or so; had broken away from a large megapractice outside Atlantic City and moved into town about a year ago; wanted the quiet life; hung his own shingle. He lived in a small but fashionable two-bedroom bungalow on the swanky side of town. His wife greeted me at the door. She was tall and slender, with a glowing olive complexion and a long, elegant nose. Unexpected green eyes smoldered in their sockets. She could have been a model, I thought, no problem. I waited in the living room while she got coffee. Doctor Behari came in, mopping himself with a towel.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, shaking my hand. "I thought I had time to take a run before you got here."

Behari was wearing nylon jogging pants and a t-shirt, and was obviously in good shape. We talked about Lost Friday a bit, and I could see that he wasn't at all comfortable with the subject.

"I'm much like my patients," he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "At first, I didn't know what to make of it, but when I found out it was for real, the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I mean, what right do these... whatever-they-are... have, coming in here and taking us against our will?"

Behari spoke with a slight British accent, and I had the feeling he'd attended some schools where the tuition was close to the budget of a small country.

"I can tell you that my patients are scared, Mister Pappas. More than a few of them said they're arming themselves." He looked at me seriously. "It could be dangerous out there."

A chill moved through me. I guess I'd been so close to Roy and the goings-on from that point of view that I hadn't realized the psychological effect Lost Friday must have had on the general population. I suddenly pictured people hunkered down in their bungalows with assault weapons slung to their shoulders.

"What made you decide to single me out?" Behari went on. "There are many other people who've had the same experience."

"Maybe not," I said, hoping to intrigue him. I hadn't said anything on the phone earlier about my real reason for wanting to talk to him. "As odd as it may sound," I began, "I want to talk to you about your advertising?"

"Advertising? I thought you were a reporter, Mister Pappas."

"I am a reporter, and call me Johnny." I thought my smile would put Behari at ease, but it didn't. "I want to talk to you about the ads you're running in the _Asbury Park Press_. I'd like to know where you got your logo."

"What logo?" Behari asked. "I've been thinking about running some ads, but I haven't started yet."

He seemed to be telling the truth. I had the page with his ad from the not-yet-printed newspaper tucked away in my folder.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, seeing me ponder.

I pulled the page and unfolded it carefully. I pointed to the logo of four diamonds within a diamond, the words _honest, affordable, convenient_ , and _professional_ printed within each diamond. "Have you ever seen this before?"

Eyes narrow, Behari looked at it with interest. "That's got my name on it all right, but I've never seen that ad before in my life."

"Are you using an advertising agency?"

Behari smiled at that. "My wife is my advertising agency."

With that, his wife appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three cups of coffee. "Did I just hear someone talking about me?" she asked lightly.

Behari showed her the ad, and her eyes darted over the page. "This paper is dated a month from now," she noted, a fact that Behari had failed to pick up.

I nodded. "Have you ever seen that logo before?"

Without responding, she walked to an English-style writing desk nearby, and retrieved a manila folder. Inside was a hand-drawn ad layout incorporating the logo almost exactly as it was shown in the newspaper. "I started designing it yesterday," she said not so casually.

* * * * *

It was lunchtime by the time I got through with Doctor and Mrs. Behari—Robert and Anne—and I thought I'd stop by the diner and get some of Demetrius's motor oil coffee and maybe some real food. I was already exhausted, and I'd barely eaten anything substantial in three days. The wedding, I thought once again as I took some time to catch up with myself. I hadn't heard from Murph, and I imagined it might be because he was extraordinarily ticked off at me. Or, he could simply have been on his honeymoon with something else on his mind—or his face, hopefully. I wondered briefly if he'd heard about Lost Friday, but suddenly I didn't have time to worry about it.

As I headed toward the diner, I took a left onto Center Street and almost wet my pants as a parade of camouflaged Humvees approached on the other side of the street. There must have been twenty of them, some sporting machine guns on the back. Freaking machine guns! In Sea Beach! I pulled over and watched as they thundered past, noticing in my rearview that they went in opposite directions at the next intersection. I put the 'Vette into gear and continued down Center Street, noticing even more Humvees and groups of fully armed soldiers on every other street corner. Several of the news vans that had been so prominent around town for the last couple of days looked like they were leaving. I wondered if this was Roy's handiwork.

I stopped at the next intersection, and almost ran into a soldier who'd managed to sneak in front of the 'Vette. Startled, I saw his eyes drop as he gave the car a once over. Slowly, he made his way to my window, and I noticed that his finger was resting on the trigger of the meanest-looking motherfucker of a gun I'd ever seen in my life. He motioned for me to lower the window.

"Are you Johnny Pappas?" he asked, his voice Rambo-like.

I was almost afraid to tell the truth. "Yeah."

"Sir, you need to come with me." His finger stayed tight against the trigger. "Leave the car where it is."

"No way. I'm not leaving this car—"

"Sir, leave the car where it is. We'll make sure it stays safe." He held out his hand for the keys.

His tone made my blood cold. I'd barely opened the door when a Humvee rolled up with two soldiers in front, and one on the back manning what I think was an antiaircraft gun, or something. The damned thing looked like it could have blasted a space ship out of the sky. The soldiers made room for me, and we got underway without so much as a, "Hey, how about those Red Sox?" who were fighting for the American League pennant. In the distance, I noticed formations of black helicopters above the horizon line. We tooled down Center Street and pulled up in front of the old, white-clapboard town hall, which was across the street from the police station. It too was surrounded by armed Humvees, and I thought: this was some serious shit happening.

The soldiers escorted me to the front doors, and I was turned over to a couple of lunkers that looked like linebackers stuffed into J.C. Penney suits. Both of them sported earpieces and sunglasses. They also didn't bother to ask if I was hungry, or how I was feeling, or anything. I was shoved along until we reached the hearing room where we'd held the press conference the day before. The door closed behind me, and I spotted Roy sitting alone and to one side, not looking like a happy camper. I heard someone say, "Mister President, he's here."

Guess how I felt when the president of the United States turned to me, and said, "Hello, Johnny."

* * * * *

Now I'm pretty skilled at weaseling information from people who have no idea I'm even doing it, but in this case, I was the weaselee instead of the weaseler, and it wasn't so subtle. This was one of those times when I wondered, first, how my dad would have handled the situation, and, second, what would have come out on paper afterwards that would leave readers mesmerized and wanting to read more. It was the mark of a great reporter that people would come back to his byline, and if I had any doubts as to my ability to put a story together that way, they certainly surfaced as I sat there next to Roy while the president was busy leading the country.

It reoccurred to me that this was probably the biggest story of my life—hell, the thought was nagging at me—and I couldn't settle on the structure of how I would relay the events. Sure, I would be able to tell _who, what, where, when,_ and possibly _how_ , but I had my doubts as to whether I'd be able to tell _why_. Relaying the _why_ question in a news story was the mark of a great story: a word here, a phrase there, unobtrusive, yet all-descriptive as to the emotions, motivations, and determination of the main protagonists in the story. Writing a good story was almost like writing fiction, and a good writer was able to move outside the events themselves, and make a story a _story_ so that it flowed and took the reader with it. I thought of the Pulitzers hanging over my mom's fireplace.

While I was waiting for the president, I answered a lot of questions from some dork with bad breath, and Roy didn't say a word the whole time. I figured he'd already been through the drill. I answered everything honestly, getting no indication from Roy to do otherwise—no winks, no headshakes, nothing; the man was a stone. I figured: if the leader of the free world was here, it was no time to worry about how Roy wanted to handle the situation. I understood that in the beginning he'd wanted to keep things low key and under control in order to prevent panic, but the Humvees and machine guns had pretty much demolished that perspective. Speaking for myself, this was just getting bigger, and bigger, and each bigger was bigger than I could have possibly imagined. It was time to join the cluster-fuck. After about fifteen minutes of watching the president huddle with various people, some in uniform, some not, I saw him look our way and point somewhere through the walls of the hearing room. All the suits and uniforms scattered like leaves in the breeze, and suddenly we were alone in the room: me, Roy, and the president of the freakin' United States.

President Richardson turned to us and said, "We've been contacted by futuristic terrorists."

Hello? I wrote the story. Not trying to be at all snotty, I glanced at Roy, and said, "We know that, Mister President."

"Yes, I suppose you do, but what you don't know is that two of our brightest scientists at NASA were abducted last week."

I about choked. This certainly changed my whole perspective, as if the first perspective wasn't serious enough. I saw Roy's eyes come up, and he stirred in his seat.

"Have they communicated with you?" he asked.

"Several times," the president answered. "But there's been no dialogue. So far, all we've received are demands, similar in format to the ones you found in David Robelle's room. We've not found a way to communicate in return."

Roy cut right to the chase. He sat up and gave the president the eyeball as if he were grilling some high school kid for stealing a street sign. "Why are you here, Mister President? Whatever we're talking about right now could be conveyed by a lot of people. It doesn't take the president of the United States to find out what we know."

The president seemed to appreciate the opportunity to talk turkey. "Those scientists have been missing since last week. We thought we had the situation under wraps, but now it's out and we need to avoid widespread panic."

Gee, I thought. That sounded exactly like Roy twenty-four hours ago.

The president continued. "We don't know why the people who've been abducted were chosen, and we don't know if they will be returned. We don't even know if they are still alive. Your entire town was taken somewhere for a day, and no one seems to have the slightest recollection of where they went, or what they did. The magnitude of that power is mind-boggling, gentlemen, physical and psychological control. Hostage-taking is something we can't condone, and while there have been no threats beyond requiring our cooperation, terrorists are terrorists and we have to assume that, sooner or later, they'll up the ante and people will turn up dead. We can't take that chance. What's to prevent them from doing the same thing to any of us, or all of us? I'm here because I'm going on TV from this little town to try and be honest with the American people. This is a threat to our way of life, no different than airplanes flying into the World Trade Center. We can't let that happen. We need to cooperate with their demands."

Cooperate? With a threat to our very way of life? I thought: what the fuck was that?

"We're at a bit of a disadvantage," Roy rebutted. "We can't negotiate with people we can't talk to, or can't see."

"Can you see any terrorist attack coming?" the president shot back. "David Robelle's parents may never see David again. That's worse than knowing he's dead. What kind of physical and mental pain is he going through? We have to assume the worst, gentlemen. They took our people without asking, somehow stripping them of all memory of the experience. How can that be good? We might as well be slaves."

"Do you think they're among us?" Roy asked.

"We don't know," the president responded calmly. "We do know when they've been here, though. The frozen helium?"

Roy and I both nodded.

"We've come across it before, but we never knew what it was."

"Aren't you taking a chance coming here?" I asked, wondering if it would be bad form if I whipped out my notepad.

"If they wanted to take me, they would have already done it. Besides, I'm the president. I can't hide like a sniveling coward." The president looked at Roy, and said, "Screw 'em."

Normally, Roy would have appreciated such candor, but I knew body language and I could tell he was wary. I, too, thought it sounded contrived, like a planned sound bite. Something wasn't sitting right with this little chat.

Roy said, "And we're here because...?"

"Whoever these people are—we're still assuming they're people—they've not revealed their objective. I don't want to risk any more lives until we find out what that objective is."

I thought: what lives was he talking about? So far, I hadn't heard of anyone dying. And, what was with the cooperation angle? Like, were we going to invite them in for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres?

There was a knock on the big double doors to the hearing room. Some blonde chick poked her head in, and said, "Mister President, it's almost time for your address to the nation."

"I'll be there in a minute." Turning back to us, he said, "Chief Mulroney, we're going to shut down this town, and conduct interviews with everyone who was abducted. I need your cooperation in making that happen." Roy just sat there stoically, and the president went on. "We know you were trying to get a grip on things, but we're past that. The people of this town will cooperate with us if you lead the way."

Roy said, "Do I have a choice?"

"Not if you want a say in what's going to happen anyway."

That was the president flexing his muscles. He turned to me and said, "As for you.... One of the things they like to do is drop issues of future newspapers on us, just to let us know they're aware of how things will turn out. We think it's to scare us into a course of action. In other words, do what we say, or else. We can't afford to get to _or else_."

Like Roy, I just sat there listening.

"We'd like you to not write anything inflammatory."

"How am I going to do that?" I asked sincerely. "And what about the other reporters and media people? They're all over the place."

"Don't worry about them," the president responded. "We're good at putting a spin on things." Roy chuckled sarcastically, and the president's eyebrows arched instantly. Turning back to me, he said, "I want you to put something out there that will make them think we're cooperating. If you have any questions about that, you can talk to my press secretary directly. Right now, gentlemen, I have a country to put at ease."

After the president left the room, I looked at Roy and asked, "What do you think is going on here?"

Roy didn't answer the question. Instead, he said, "They don't know about the last newspaper. So far, the only people who know about that are still only you, me, and Doctor Behari."

I reminded Roy that Paul Romano was also a member of our elite club, and I went on to describe that it wasn't Robert Behari that came up with the doodle, but his wife. "Except that, in her case, it wasn't a doodle," I said. "It's a shape for an advertising logo."

"It still came from in here," Roy said, tapping his head. "I'm no psychologist, but the fact that three of us drew essentially the same thing tells me it's no coincidence."

Roy looked haggard, to say the least. I figured he hadn't gotten much sleep over the last couple of days. "Any ideas?"

Roy's eyes narrowed, and the crow's feet at his temples deepened into troughs. "The entire population of Sea Beach was abducted for a day, and no one has any recollection whatsoever of what happened. Obviously, the memory of that event was wiped out in some way."

I wondered where Roy was going. "We've already covered that."

"What do you remember about the doodle?"

"Remember? About a doodle? I was just doodling, Roy. I had no thought about it whatsoever. It just came out."

Roy grinned. "That's right, same with me. It just came out. What about with Mrs. Behari?"

"She was putting together an advertising concept for her husband's dental practice, and, I don't know, I guess it just came out as well. What are you driving at?"

"Think about it," he said. "What _just came out_?"

Roy was leading me somewhere. He wanted me to see it rather than just telling me. "I don't know, something we'd seen."

Roy grinned wider, and tapped his head again. "Right. Something that was still up here."

_Ding-dong!_ "Something that didn't erase!" I called out.

Roy got up and paced the length of the hearing room. "You hungry?" he asked.

"I could eat a horse."

"Meet me at the diner. The president wants you to put something out there, and I have an idea of what it should be."

I did too, and it wouldn't take long to write.

We Know!

Chapter 9... End Around

It was about one in the afternoon, and again the place was packed. Demetrius must have been raking it in.

"I don't have time to talk to you," he called as he walked by with a coffee pot and a stack of plates up one arm.

I looked around. If the soldiers were here to keep things calm, they weren't doing a very good job of it. I mean, the inside of the diner sounded like tribesmen preparing for battle. I spotted Robert and Anne Behari at one of the window booths. I poked Roy in the ribs, and said, "The Beharis are here."

Roy looked over his shoulder. "So they are." Taking a gulp of coffee, he slid off his stool and started to make his way over to them. I tagged along behind as, once again, it took a while for Roy to make it through the crowd. Some of the townspeople were downright angry. Gee, I wonder why. First, they're kidnapped against their will, and then their own government comes in and locks down their town. You'd think they'd be more understanding.

"We're all in this together," Roy said evenly.

Even with the president of the United States in town, Roy was The Gipper in Sea Beach, and he had spoken. Temporarily, at least, everyone settled down and went back to their seats to grumble about the government and slurp some more coffee. Roy meandered over to the Beharis' booth. "You folks mind of we sit down?"

Surprised, Robert simply nodded, and Roy and I took a seat.

Not wasting any time, Roy politely removed his battered U.S. Marines baseball cap and folded his beefy hands on the table. "You folks are new in town, right?" His tone was even and polite, but all business.

"We've been here about six months," Robert answered.

"Normally, I'd say _welcome to Sea Beach_ , but right now I'm not sure you'd agree."

Robert forced a smile, and that was the end of the small talk. Roy pulled out the same piece of yellow paper he'd shown me earlier that morning in Romano's office—which seemed like a week ago now. He elbowed me in the ribs, and asked, "Did you show them yours?"

I pulled out my notepad and put my doodle next to Roy's.

Looking at Anne, Roy said, "I understand you came up with the logo for your advertisement."

Anne was sharp. She knew exactly where Roy was going. "We all remember something important, don't we?"

"And we need to find out what that is."

* * * * *

The Beharis left, and I showed Roy my _We Know_ idea. He responded with a sour look, and said, "We need to keep them guessing."

Okay, shot down on that one. "What did you have in mind?"

"I think you should make something up," he said, not looking at me. "We need to force them to make a move."

I thought: hmmm. That sounded like lying to me, I guess because Roy had just used the words _make something up_. I was having a little trouble with that, but Roy's motivation was way different than mine. I guess that's why Roy did what he did, and I did what I did—which, just as it was twenty-four hours earlier, wasn't much at this point in the day, despite my looming deadline. I needed to get something in to Romano soon, and while simply handing him the four diamonds with a _We Know_ headline was hardly enough, I didn't think I could just outright fabricate a story. I knew that every swinging richard in the country was reporting on Lost Friday by now, and I knew Romano wanted to be out there with some heavy copy, viewpoints from the inside, scoops that the other papers or other media wouldn't be able to get because they weren't close enough to the situation. To make it even more complex, Romano himself was probably ass-deep in alligators by now, undoubtedly having to defend anything we published to the higher-ups at Gannett who were more than likely already thinking the _P_ -word.

I said, "I need to bring in some big game here, Roy. Romano isn't looking for some squirrels, or a few chipmunks. I need to bring in an elk, and lay the bloody thing on his desk by four o'clock this afternoon."

Roy clearly didn't give a rat's ass about any of that. He wanted to use me, and the paper, to set a trap, but I wasn't about to make that call on my own, especially under my byline. I was caught between the proverbial rock and hard place. "The president wants me to write something that will make them think we're cooperating," I said.

Roy shifted his distant gaze back to me and looked me square in the eye. "Fuck that," he said unapologetically.

That, I understood. "At this point, there are six people who know about that future newspaper," I said, thinking out loud.

Roy ticked off the names on one hand. "Who's the sixth?"

"Your wife."

"My wife is me. She'd go to her grave with it if I told her to. What are you driving at, Johnny?"

"If more than two people know something, you might as well assume the whole world knows it. I have a responsibility to the paper, Roy, and not only are you asking me to suppress something that will somehow be revealed anyway, now you're asking me to lie. That cuts pretty close to the bone for a reporter."

"I'm asking you to help facilitate this investigation."

"And I'm sure the president and the other thirty government agencies that are in on this have their own idea on how to do that."

"Yeah, by _cooperating_. That's enough to make me sick."

I shook my head. "This is all getting so complicated that I don't know whether I'm scoring, or just jerking off. If I don't get something to Romano with some teeth in it, he'll take me off this story and stick some asshole handed down from corporate in my place. Is that what you want? I'll work with you Roy, but I'm not going to put my integrity, and the integrity of the paper, on the line, not unless I get the go-ahead from the higher-ups." I wondered if that's what my dad would have done.

Roy gave me a gaze that held me frozen for several moments. Finally, he said, "Write it all."

"Huh?"

"Write it all, Johnny, as in everything—the future newspaper, the fact that this has been going on for weeks, the fact that our government has kept this from us—the whole enchilada, including the doodle. That a big enough scoop for you?"

Stunned, I said, "Are you feeling okay?" Then I saw a little twinkle in Roy's eye, so I waited.

"You're right," he said, prompted by my silence. "You've already spilled the news anyway. Your piece about David's abduction was quite good, by the way."

"Thanks."

"I mean, what the hell. Lost Friday is already a phenomenon. It's going where it's going as far as a news story is concerned, especially now that it's been revealed that it's also happened outside Sea Beach. I can't control it, Johnny. Break it all. I've seen the light."

Which was still twinkling in his eye. Okay, I felt my strings being pulled. "Let me get this straight. Instead of doing a set-up piece in the spirit of cooperation like the president wants—"

"I want you to report everything, including our meeting with him—every word of it."

"I think some of what he told us was in confidence, especially the part about the scientists."

"Did he ask you specifically not to report it?"

"No."

"Did he say the words _off the record_?"

"No."

"So? What's the problem? Isn't this the elk you've been hunting for?"

It was, of course, but I didn't understand Roy's sudden change of heart. "What about the cooperation angle?"

"You just write the story, and let the people make up their own minds. I'll tell you one thing, though, if I was John Q. Public, I wouldn't bend over for these bastards, not one bit."

Okay, there it was. Roy knew a story like that would be like dynamite. The people would be up in arms, and he knew it.

Demetrius came by and slapped down our cheeseburgers without so much as acknowledging our presence. I'd completely forgotten that we'd ordered food. I mean, my head was spinning. Roy grabbed his burger with both hands and took a huge bite, while once again my appetite disappeared. I looked at my watch and saw that it was going on two o'clock, which meant that if I was going to _write it all_ as Roy had said, I needed to get moving. The words were barely contained, just inside my head and threatening to explode it if I didn't get them down on paper soon. I thought of the magnitude of the story, or stories, for there were multiples here, and about how Romano would react to exclusives on the government abductions, the frozen helium, the three-way doodle coincidence—there could be more on that, but we wouldn't know until we published it. All of these were huge revelations in what was already the hugest story in American newspaper history. To top it all off, my source was the president of the United States himself, and I was about to write something that could cause him great political pain. But, this wasn't a political issue; this was a security issue, black and white, defend ourselves, or not. Surely, the president saw that. There had to be another agenda. I thought: _fuckin' A_. I could even let Lost Friday go to the other hacks; I didn't need it. Could it get any bigger for me?

"You know, the shit is really gonna hit the fan if what I just said is true, the part about our conversation with the president not being for public knowledge, I mean."

"Let it," Roy said as he munched some fries. "It'll keep everyone distracted." He grinned, and the crow's feet around his eyes deepened into thick folds.

Hey, you don't have to hit me in the head with a baseball bat to get me to see the point—normally, that is. Roy had hooked me as if I was a striped bass, luring me into thinking the situation was beyond his sphere of influence. Right.

My face must have displayed my _I'm-a-doofus_ look because he said, "Write your ass off, Johnny, then give it away."

"Give it away, like, how?"

Roy squeezed some ketchup on his plate. "Tell Romano the story is too big for one man. Tell him you need help."

Okay, I thought. That much was true, but Roy was working an angle. I tried a bite of my cheeseburger and put it back down disgustedly.

"You gonna eat that pickle?" Roy asked.

I slid the whole plate toward him. "Why would I want to write the story of my life, and then give it away to someone else? That takes away the very meaning of investigative reporting."

"Because all of it will be meaningless. When people learn that the scientists have been abducted, it'll send government, the media, the whole fucking country into a total tizzy. Everyone will be so busy defending themselves, or chasing after information, they'll be spinning like a top."

All right, there was a point in there somewhere. "It'll certainly keep them occupied," I said.

"Especially if the terrorists respond," Roy replied. "You gonna eat the rest of that burger?"

"Take it," I said. "This spot on my lip is just a cold sore."

Roy took it and started wolfing down again. "Precisely, my young friend," he said, spitting out bits of food as he talked. "And while everyone in the country is chasing their own all-important tail, you and I will be concentrating on the heart of the matter."

I looked at Roy. "You sly devil." Pausing, "What's the heart of the matter?" I added. I mean, now I was really confused.

Wiping some mustard off his fingers, Roy asked, "Why would Scott Reemer and Allison Kovar be abducted? What are they?"

"What do you mean, what are they? They're teachers."

"Whose teachers?"

"David Robelle's," I said.

Roy nodded. "Go with that. What did they teach?"

I started putting it all together. Abductions, scientists, David Robelle, Scott Reemer—a science teacher—and Allison Kovar—a math teacher. Mentally, it was clear that Roy had already been down this road. "Was David any good in math and science?"

"The people to ask are probably home right now, and I doubt either of them knows they're going to be abducted again. They might help us if we let them know that little tidbit."

I finally figured out where Roy was going. "Break it all and turn it over, you say."

Roy smiled and took another bite. "Now you've got it."

I looked at my watch and I saw that I needed to get to work. "Do you think you could send a couple of officers around to see if Reemer and Kovar have some time for us?"

"I'll go myself," Roy said. "And then, I'll stop by the Beharis' place and see if they can talk about that doodle some more. In the meantime, get into a quiet space so you can meet your deadline. Put something good out there, Johnny. Make those terrorists want to talk to us."

I nodded, already feeling the keyboard on my fingertips.

"You got anybody in mind to help you out?" Roy asked as he got up from the counter. "If you don't ask, Romano will probably assign someone, and this might be too important to let him screw with it."

I did have someone in mind, actually, and she had legs all the way up to her ass.

Chapter 10... Kelli Remington

Romano was beaming. He was holding a copy of the Monday morning _Asbury Park Press_ and walking around the newsroom as if he was showing off pictures of a new baby. That baffled me because, from my point of view, I expected someone to walk in and haul my sorry ass off to journalism jail, or something. You see, I'd reported it all, just as Roy had told me to do—the part about the future newspaper, the NASA scientists, the doodle, the conversation with the president, I mean _everything_ , but Roy and Romano were two-peas-in-a-pod on this one.

"Did anyone, including the president, say _off the record_?"

"No."

"Did you hide the fact that you were a reporter, or make any indication that you wouldn't print anything you heard?"

"No."

"Well then, what's the BFD, Pappas? The people have a right to know what's going on. Hell, if the government is going to hide the fact that someone is plucking people off the face of the Earth, then screw 'em. My guess is that people might want to protect themselves." Romano looked at me after that, and said, "This is brilliant."

Now, Romano had never, ever associated the word _brilliant_ with anything I'd ever written. He'd used words like garbage, or swill, or bullcrap to describe my work, but the closest I'd ever gotten to _brilliant_ was, "It doesn't suck." Funny thing was, I'd just reported the facts straight on this time, extraordinarily cognizant of the fact that anything, and everything, I wrote could be challenged by some government shit-bags who would accuse me, and the _Press_ , of sensationalizing the situation for the sake of selling papers. Luckily, I had Roy as a witness to virtually everything I'd written, so I didn't have much to worry about as far as backup was concerned. Screw 'em, I thought, certainly on that point, and the more I reread the story, the more Romano's point about the public's right to know, and the peoples' right to defend themselves made sense. I also tried to throw in a couple of unique points of view to make the facts a little more intriguing. I don't know, maybe it came across. I wondered how long it would take for the political shit to hit the political fan with regards to the issue of cooperating with kidnappers.

I basked in the glow for a few moments, thinking about how I was going to get around to asking for help, when Kelli-with-an-i Remington walked by and cast a couple of sideways glances at me and Romano as we walked toward his office. That had been happening a lot during the morning—the glances, I mean—as anyone who wasn't aware of the fact that the _Press_ had scooped every daily rag in the country was becoming painfully aware of that fact due to Romano's boisterous gloating.

"We need to stay ahead of this," Romano said as he put his arm around my shoulders.

I thought: what the hell was this? Most days Romano had a hard time remembering my name; a couple of scoops, and I was his best friend? The man was a journalistic slut. Like I said before, Romano always had another angle. "We need to say ahead of this," therefore, meant one of two things: either, "Don't fuck this up," or, "You need help," which was perfect.

"I've been thinking about that," I said as I watched Remington walking away from us, an exercise of which I never tired. Kelli Remington—what a great byline name that was—had been with the _Press_ for about a year, fresh from undergrad at Columbia and grad school at Northwestern, two of the best journalism curriculums in the country. She was the WASPiest of WASPs, with that California-girl strawberry-blonde hair, and perfect, WASP teeth, and, as I've mentioned previously, legs that went all the way up to a rather well-toned derrière. I'd asked her out probably about sixty times over the last six months, and the closest I got to a _yes_ was something between a sneer and a snicker, with a look that said: _I don't date Greek boys._ I did notice, however, that she could write. Too bad her talent was being wasted in the local section writing about beach erosion.

"What were you thinking?" Romano asked.

I could tell that several people were listening because they gave the subtle hint of leaning back in their chairs and folding their hands behind their head, waiting for my answer. "Can we go into your office?" I said, wishing now that Romano would take his arm off my shoulder. Inside, Romano sat down and crossed his feet on top of his desk. If it wasn't a smoke-free building, I swear he would have lit up a cigar.

"This story is too big for one reporter," I said, coming right to the point.

To my relief, Romano said, "You might be right. Who did you have in mind?"

Thinking quickly, I said, "I need someone who'll take assignments, and not go off on their own agenda. I don't want one of those crusty old fossils out there who will come in thinking they need to teach me something. I'm not in the mood."

Romano's eyes narrowed. "I think I know where you're going with this."

"How about Remington? I think I can work with her."

Romano chuckled. "You can work with her, all right—with your weenie. Are you sure you're not thinking with it, as well?"

Romano was a total pig, which means it had taken him only two seconds to understand my motivation. I guess I had to respect that because I was a pig too. "Of course not," I said.

"Right." Romano took his feet off his desk, and looked me straight in the eye. "The girl can write, you know."

"I'm well aware of that. That's why I want her."

"She might be a better writer than you."

That took me by surprise. "I don't think so," I responded, turning toward him so he'd see what big balls I had.

"What about Morgan, or someone from the news service? They would have a lot more experience."

"No way," I said, feeling now that I needed to dip-stick my declining confidence level.

"I think you should—"

"Hey," I said, taking the paper off his desk. "These are my words, and my sources. I want Remington because I think she'd do what I asked her to do, and then spit it out with some style. I don't want some over-the-hill know-it-all who is going write pages of clichés and call it investigative reporting. You gonna free her up for me, or not? This is... my... fucking... story— _boss_." I stood my ground.

Romano seared me with a stare, but said nothing. Then, he picked up the phone and punched in three numbers. "It's your ass, Pappas. I hope you know what you're asking for."

* * * * *

Remington took a seat and crossed her legs. High heels and skinny jeans: I loved that look. Romano coughed, getting my attention.

"I'm assigning you to Pappas," he said to Remington right off, which I didn't expect.

She sat there a moment, her straight blonde hair falling over the shoulders of her crisply starched, incredibly white, cotton shirt. She looked at me, and said, "I don't get coffee, and I'm not going to bed with you."

I saw Romano shove his fist into his mouth. I didn't blink an eye. "Can I call you Kelli?"

"And, I want my own byline."

"Of course."

"And editorial control." Romano cleared his throat, maybe because his fist got stuck. Remington said, "I meant apart from your input, of course, Mister Romano."

With the way she said _mister_ , I was ready to gag on my own fist. "But you take assignments from me," I said with authority. "You interview who I tell you to interview, and you keep me posted on everything."

"I'm not going to snake your sources, Pappas."

All right, I could see where this was going. "Let's get something straight. This is my story. I live in that town, I was part of Lost Friday, and I have a stake in how the story is handled. This is the biggest media event since an asteroid killed the dinosaurs...." I looked at Romano.

"Huh? Yeah, it's pretty big, all right."

" _Thanks_ , boss." I turned back to Remington. "And, I'm not going to get beat on this. There are twenty other reporters out there who'll be happy to take this assignment. You want in, or not?" Like I did with Romano, I showed her my balls, but she didn't look at them. She knew I was right, of course.

"Why me?"

"I don't think they have the energy for it," I said, jagging my chin at the newsroom. "And—you can write." That got a smile out of her, but barely. "Can you handle it?"

"Don't worry about me, Pappas. I'm the Ever-Ready bunny; I'll still be going when you're dozing over your keyboard—and I'm still not going to bed with you."

"Is that a yes?"

"Hey, you're sharp. It's a yes."

She held out her hand. I shook it.

"Give me what you're working on so I can reassign it," Romano said.

She said, "Will do," and turned toward the door.

"Remington, one more thing," Romano called out. "This is only temporary until I see what comes of it."

She got the message, and went back to the newsroom.

Romano and I both watched that spectacular ass of hers as she left. "I think you can forget about her going to bed with you," he said.

* * * * *

"I need to bring you up to speed."

Remington was sitting in my chair and had seemingly memorized every word of my last story, along with every other story in the six papers strewn across my desk. Shoving one end of a giant Jersey Mike's sub into her yap, she bit off a huge piece and chewed it like a Rottweiler.

"Do you always eat like you're gnawing off someone's leg?"

"Only when I'm nervous."

Funny, when I was nervous, I hardly ate anything. "What are you nervous about?"

"Most of this stuff is bullshit," she said, ignoring my question.

"I wrote that," I said, thinking she could be a tad more diplomatic. Insulting one's work like that could get one bitch-slapped, or something.

She caught my tone, and indicated, "Not your stuff, Pappas. I meant all this other crap. No way is all of it for real."

I reread some of the headlines in front of her, which were upside down to me. "I especially like the one about the polar ice caps drifting down to New Jersey," I said. "Who do you think the source was on that one, Frosty The Snowman?"

Her sandwich was dripping. "Which makes my point," she said. "How is a reader supposed to tell the difference between the legitimate stuff, and the drivel? Look at this: sources close to the investigation; what sources? Little, tiny moon-men? We need to stand out."

"I guess the words _as reported by the president_ don't clarify it," I said sarcastically.

"Been there, yesterday's news, heard it before," she said just as sarcastically. "Now, for our next trick...."

I thought: okay little Miss Smarty Pants. "Not _our_ next trick, Remington, _your_ next trick." Her sandwich was still dripping, right onto the _New York Post_.

"What's that supposed to mean, Pappas?" She took another two-handed mouthful.

I'm not sure I liked the way she said _Pappas_. It didn't quite ring with respect. "I want you to follow up on that end of the story."

"Which end is that? The shit end?"

Now I knew what Romano meant by getting what I asked for. "So, having the president of the United States as your source, and investigating the abduction of two scientists from NASA is a shit assignment? What, isn't the source reliable enough for you?"

She kept chewing, not even bothering to look up as she scanned another newspaper. This chick had some big, honkin' gonads, all right, thinking everyone else's stuff smelled, but hers didn't. I was thinking about going back in to Romano and telling him I'd changed my mind on Remington before we got too far into it. I mean, he was entirely right when he implied that I was thinking with my own gonads when I'd asked for her to be assigned to me. Suddenly, she put down her sandwich, right on the drippy spot in the middle of the _New York Post_.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"About what?" I snapped, not thinking too clearly since my mind was cruising into pissed-off overdrive.

"The president, scientists... what?" Her face kind of lost its color so that her eyes were like blue dots on a bed sheet.

"I want you to follow up and handle that end of the story. I want you to find out who those scientists were, what they were working on, and anything else that might give us some insight into their abductions. I'm talking right down to their favorite color, Remington. If you get any resistance about it being classified, I want you to find a way to get to our source and let him know that you need the truth on what happened. Otherwise, given the fact that the story is already out, who knows what kind of conjecture those other rags will print?" I pointed to the newspapers underneath her sandwich.

"Our source is the president of the United States," she said, seeming to suddenly realize that I was in the same room with her.

"Hello? Is there a problem with that?"

"I think I'm going to puke." She sat back in the chair, and started sucking down air. "Our source is the president of the United States," she repeated, looking up at the ceiling.

I was suddenly enjoying myself immensely. "He's _your_ source, Remington, not mine."

"Oh, God!" she said, getting up and running toward the restroom.

Okay then, I felt much better. I got up and wrapped her sandwich in the rest of the _New York Post_ , and threw it into the trash. That's all that rag was good for anyway.

Chapter 11... Gone For A Ride

Monday, September 27th, was almost into the history books. I didn't get home until after ten that night, and I thought I heard something as I walked through my front door. Oh, I thought as I looked back, it was just my ass dragging behind me. I mean, I was just dead, beat, worn-out tired. I suddenly realized I was hungry, and I wondered if I had anything in the fridge that I wouldn't have to shave before eating. I looked in and saw some leftover pizza that looked a little parched. Trying to remember how old it was, I said, "What the hell," and I unglued it from the box. I popped it into the microwave, and went into the bathroom to throw some cold water on my face. My eyes looked like road maps. I went for another splash when, suddenly, I thought I saw something behind me. I wheeled around, flinging water droplets off my face like a salad spinner, but there was nothing there. The first thought that popped into my head was that another reporter had broken into my apartment to steal my story notes. Talk about being wrapped into a story... how sick was that? Anyway, I didn't own a gun, so I grabbed biggest thing within reach, which was the toilet brush. Armed to the teeth now, I tippy-toed out of the bathroom, toilet brush at the ready to spread toilet germs and cause instant death. Nothing. My place wasn't that big—four rooms that made up the back of a double bungalow on Warren Street—so it didn't take long to go through it. I rented the place, the owners being weekend people from Philly that I hadn't seen since Labor Day. Perhaps it was one of them, I figured, but I remembered that there weren't any cars in the driveway when I pulled in.

The microwave beeped, and, satisfied that I was seeing things, I put the killer toilet brush back, making sure to take another tour of the place before I got my pizza. Again, I found nothing. My stomach settled and I grabbed the pizza, parking myself on the couch so I could vegetate in front of the TV while I ate. I mean, what a day: dealing with Romano, and Kelli-with-an-i Remington, plus talking to seemingly every newspaper and TV station in the country all day; my mind was mush. I took a bite of pizza and got up for something to drink, remembering that I had some imported brewskis on the second shelf in the fridge. I snagged one, drinking half of it in one pull as soon as I popped the cap. I stepped out of the kitchen and stopped dead in my tracks. A woman I'd never seen before was sitting in the leather chair next to my couch. I actually closed my eyes and opened them, figuring I was having bathroom hallucinations again, but this time it was for real.

"Hello, Mister Pappas," she said huskily.

My eyes narrowed and I looked around, wondering where she'd come from. "Who are you?" I asked, forgetting about my pizza.

"I'm a reporter," she replied.

I thought: my instincts were accurate once again. I detected a monotone quality to her voice, but she'd only said three words. Still, something about her wasn't right. Sitting with her legs crossed, she was dressed in a leotard, or something, but I don't think it was meant to be a sexy thing; it was more like a leotard uniform. Even in her seated position, however, I could see that she had quite the hefty rack on her. I'm sure that got her in the door for her share of interviews, then I thought: what kind of news organization puts their reporters in a uniform? In skin-tight leotards, no less? It had to be one of those semi-porno news rags from London that always have pictures of bare-breasted women on page three. Or, Mexican maybe. They liked hot tamales. I was going to ask how she got in, but a boy scout with a penknife and some sharp fingernails could have broken into my place. "Who do you write for?" I asked in my manliest tone.

"I'm not that kind of reporter. It is simply my function."

That was an interesting way of putting it. Again, the voice. "Well, it's my function too, lady, and I don't appreciate you coming in here like this. I ought to call the cops on you."

"Do as you wish. I will be gone by the time they arrive."

That much was true, unless I felt like stopping her. I gave her another once over, and even though she was sitting down, I realized: this chick was huge, six-two at least. "Where were you, under the bed?" It was the only place I hadn't looked, and I had the odd thought that with that body it must have been one hell of a tight fit.

"I have been here the entire time, Mister Pappas."

I thought, where? I looked away for a second, thinking I wasn't entirely crazy in that I had seen something in the mirror after all, but, how did she evade my search? I looked back—and she was gone, as in _ffffhhhttt!_ I mean, I looked away just long enough to put down my beer. I suddenly felt something on my neck, like someone breathing on it, and I whirled. Nothing. I turned back, and there she was again, right in front of me. She was every inch of six-two, and those big chacka-nackas were staring me right in the face. The rest of her was rail thin, and the leotard thing had to have been baked on.

She must have seen where my eyes were focused, and she said, "Our research indicates that both men and women in this time period are obsessed with large breasts. We have been bred to be attractive to you."

Bred? I froze as I started to put it all together: the invisible act, the monotone voice, the humongous air bags, the space-age jumpsuit. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"On the contrary, we were cultured and programmed only ninety miles from here."

Again, it was _we_. I looked around. Were there more of them? "But 190 years from now. Isn't that right?"

She smiled and said, "That is correct, Mister Pappas."

I suddenly felt myself getting very angry. I walked up to her and eyeballed her face at close range. I didn't see single blemish, or mark, of any kind, sort of like one of those perfect apples you see in the supermarket. I touched her skin, and it felt like skin. "Is this real?" I asked.

"I am of human origin, Mister Pappas."

I wondered what mom looked like. "Do you have a name?"

"You may call me anything you like."

"How about Barbie?" I asked, thinking if there ever was a grown-up Barbie doll....

"As you wish."

"What is your mission here?" I asked, my anxiety mounting as I remembered the scientists' abductions.

"As I explained, I am a reporter. My function is to observe and report my findings to my project manager."

I suddenly had a million questions, but I didn't get to ask any of them as her hand clamped down on my arm. Suddenly, she was gone, and I was gone with her.

* * * * *

My alarm went off at its usual time the next morning, and I got up feeling like I'd been asleep for years. I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I'd even rolled over the entire night. Walking into the kitchen, I put on some water for the single mug of instant coffee I drank every morning to hold me over until I got to the Wawa for some of the real stuff. That's when I spotted the half-empty bottle of beer sitting on my kitchen counter. When did I put that there? It wasn't like me to waste good beer like that. I must have been pretty tired. I looked for the remote so I cold flip on CNN, and I spotted the two slices of pizza sitting on a plate on the coffee table. One of them had a bite out of it. Jesus, I must have been _really_ tired. I ss&s'd quickly, finding it odd as I took my shower that I couldn't remember my assignment. I mean, maybe I was getting senile, or something. Usually, my brain was burning rubber first thing in the morning, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what I was supposed to be working on that day.

Once in the car, I turned the radio on, totally flabbergasted by the fact that every single station I turned to was talking about something called Lost Friday. Even the wise-ass DJs on the classic rock station were talking about it. Once again, I figured I was brain dead because I had no clue as to what they, or their callers, were talking about. I stopped at the Wawa as I usually did, almost afraid to walk over to the newspaper rack and look at the headlines. Preoccupied, I hadn't bothered to look at the papers sitting outside my door earlier, and I almost choked when I saw the lead story with my byline beneath four-inch headlines.

"Hey, Johnny," the owner of the Wawa, Norm, called over to me. "Can't get enough of your own work?"

I gave Norm a lame smile, and turned back to the paper. Well, now I knew what I was working on, but I didn't remember writing a single word of what was in front of me. The story next to mine was Kelli Remington's, with yet another piece about Lost Friday. Kelli Remington? With a lead byline? When did she come out from behind the local desk?

I paid for my coffee, and immediately dialed Romano's direct number when I got back in the car. He answered on the first ring, as if he was waiting for my call.

"This better be good," he said without so much as a good-fucking-morning-to-you-asshole. "Where the fuck are you?"

"I'm... I'm on my way in, boss."

Romano went off like a rocket, but there was nothing I could do to avoid it. When he was done, hoping I hadn't caused him to burst a blood vessel, I said, "Boss?"

"Yeah?" he screamed.

"I think something is really wrong."

* * * * *

Romano said, "Let's go to the conference room."

I was about to say, "We could talk right here," but I didn't, seeing as he got up and blew past me like I had a disease. I followed, catching glances, and in some cases sneers, from everyone in the newsroom. Someone said, "Great story, Johnny," and I smiled weakly, thinking the praise would mean more if I knew what it was for.

Romano pushed into to the conference room and I stepped in behind him, surprised to see a room full of people. I was curious as to why Roy Mulroney was at one end of the table, with six other people, three men and three women, sitting around it. I was clueless as to who any of them were.

Romano announced, "There's been a development."

Chief Mulroney looked at me, and said, "Are you okay, son?"

Romano went on to describe my apparent space cadet demeanor. I found out that the people I didn't know were Scott Reemer and Allison Kovar, both teachers from the high school, along with two married couples, Chuck and Jenna Robelle, and Robert and Anne Behari. In the middle of the conference table was a large sheet of easel paper, on which was drawn a diamond made up of four other diamonds. I looked at it, and somehow I knew.

"That's not exactly right," I said.

Suddenly, it was so quiet you could actually hear people breathing. Everyone's eyes were pressing on me, and I could sense a thousand unasked questions lurking behind them. I motioned toward the diamond, and said, "It needs to be on a sea of red." I went to a white board and redrew it.

When I was done, Roy Mulroney said, "Okay, I know what the symbol represents, but what's with the red background?"

I looked at Roy, and said, "It's blood."

Chapter 12... Jogging For Memory

Romano said, "What do you mean, you don't remember? You're a reporter, Pappas, you're supposed to remember everything." He turned away, muttering something obscene under his breath.

Romano could have the temper from hell, and when he was sufficiently pissed off it was like the inside of his brain filled with white light. However, rather than bench my miserable ass and assign me to covering the local school board meetings—which, for him, would have been the easy way out—he kept pounding on me. I think the only reason he hadn't been decked sometime during his years as managing editor is because his instincts were razor sharp and he could smell a story from behind a brick wall. When his smeller kicked in, he used his anger like a club, beating the story out of you when you didn't even know you had it in you. This was like that.

"Think, Pappas, or is that hair of yours keeping everything trapped inside?"

Remington snickered, and I thought: what the hell was wrong with my hair? I had good hair, nice, thick, black Greek hair. Oh, maybe that's what he meant. "I am thinking boss, but I can't remember, I'm telling you."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Not even the president?"

"What president?"

"Of the United States."

"What about him?"

Romano waved his arms like a wounded pigeon. "I don't believe this."

From the other side of the table, Roy asked, "You don't remember talking to President Richardson on Sunday, with me?"

"Sorry, Chief."

Romano threw down the last three copies of the _Asbury Park Press_. "Do you remember writing any of this?"

All the papers led with my byline. I scanned the articles, picking out some pretty fantastic sounding stuff. "I wrote this?"

Romano said, "Check your notes."

My notes. Of course. "Let me go to my desk." A reporter's notepad went everywhere he went; I mean, on vacation, on a date, to the strip joint, everywhere, short of the shower. If I had written the stories, I would have notes on them. I found my most recent notepad still in my jacket, and I hustled back to the conference room like a little chipmunk.

Romano said, "Well?"

I began shuffling through the pages and sure enough, I found notes on each of the stories. Man, had I been through the meat grinder, or what? My nerves buzzing now, I said, "Sorry, boss, I'm still coming up blank."

"So, how do you know this is a swastika on a field of blood?" Roy asked, pointing to the middle of the conference table.

Anne Behari said, "I'd like to know that, too."

I felt my face flush with embarrassment, although I wasn't sure what I was embarrassed about. I kept flipping pages feverishly, scanning each page while nine sets of eyes burned into me like branding irons. I came to the last page, and stopped abruptly as I found a cryptic diamond drawn on the page. Next to it was written _b6l9orogd_. I deciphered it immediately, but like everything else in the notepad, I had no clue as to when I'd written it. I looked at Roy, noting that this last page of notes wasn't reflected in any of the stories spread out before me. I must have written it afterwards, but where?

"This answers Roy's question," I said, tossing my notepad on the table. "The word next to the diamond is _blood_."

Romano swooped down on it like a barn owl after a mouse. The word _blood_ was written in a simple code I used when I didn't want anyone to know what I'd written. I kept everything in lower case, and simply inserted another letter, or a number, between each letter of the word. I looked at Romano. "It's a code I use when I write something about you." That got a chuckle out of everyone, but Romano didn't laugh and I could see his neck starting to turn red.

He gave me a sideways look, and said, "What about this?"

I looked at another note, which was: _b3ahrnb6ibe_. "Barbie," I said. "Who's Barbie?" Romano asked. "And why were you using code?" "I don't know to both questions, boss." "What about this, Einstein?" I looked again: _j5u9rdy_. "Jury." Romano repeated the words several times. "Barbie, jury; Barbie, jury.... And this?" he asked, pointing again. This time the letters were all capitalized, which meant they were numbers. Lower case code is for words, upper case code is for numbers. That's the code. Upper case was in CUMBERLAND code: C equals 1, U equals 2, and so forth, each letter representing a number. My father taught it to me, and I think he got it from a Hasidic Jew in the jewelry business who juggled his books. It was written: N-MD-UCRB. "Looks like a date," I said. "9-30-2194, September thirtieth, twenty-one ninety-four." No one asked anything further about the codes, but the fact that I'd used them obviously indicated that I didn't want anyone to know what I'd written. I also figured I probably wasn't supposed to be taking notes when I took them. "Blood, Barbie, jury, date," Romano said questioningly. "Maybe the teachers aren't the only ones who revisited the future," Roy said. I felt my heart skip a beat, and I gave him a look. "What else would explain the memory loss?" he went on. "Maybe they tried to wipe out your hard drive again." Everyone was staring at me, and I thought Remington was going to say, " _Eeeuuw!"_ Romano said, "I wonder what it all means."

* * * * *

That night—it was Tuesday, September 28th, four days after Lost Friday—I got home and went for a run on the beach. I ran regularly, but I ran on the beach when my brain was particularly clogged for some reason. Running through the sand was strenuous, especially in the dark, and I considered sweating a form of pushing out the old, and bringing in the new. My eyes adjusted to the moonlight reflecting off the toast-colored Jersey sand, and I trudged along like a plow horse, my face pointed into a cold mist of rain and sea spray. I pushed myself to the point of pain, if only for the reason that I thought I might be dreaming. You see, it had all been explained to me that afternoon—the Lost Friday thing, I mean—and, listening to it, I don't know if I believed it, or not. I think that between Romano, Roy Mulroney, and all the other people in the room, I was pretty much up to speed on the whole phenomenon, but it all sounded too fantastic. My notes filled in any blanks, and by the end of the session I think my natural curiosity was back and my innate reporter's instinct was to find answers to the open questions, which were many. It also didn't break my heart to discover that I was working with Kelli Remington. I think the group rehash of the events served to clarify some of the occurrences for some of the other people as well. Take the notion that Lost Friday had occurred only within the boro limits, for instance. That was somewhat inaccurate in light of the scientists' abductions. Given that, no one knew if the future abductions of Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer could be avoided, but the fact that I had reported them being returned unharmed in the article I hadn't written yet, indicated that, increasingly, Lost Friday revolved around the missing scientists and David Robelle. Like the teachers, everyone else from Sea Beach who was abducted, or would be abducted, had been, or would be, returned unharmed, but with no recall of the event, like me. For some reason, however, the memory loss regarding Lost Friday wasn't complete with me, and it wasn't complete with Anne Behari or Roy Mulroney, either. That conclusion came about based on my observation that the diamond doodle wasn't a doodle at all, but a symbol. Each of us had subconsciously regurgitated it, yet none of us recalled how it came to be lodged in our brain cells. The speculation was that, just like Lost Friday, we were not meant to remember it. When we delved further into the situation, it was Robert Behari who revealed that Anne had a photographic memory. Me? I was a reporter. I was paid to remember stuff, and I was damned good at it, although Romano, that prick, wouldn't admit it at the table. Anyway, Roy had that type of mind as well—a memory like an elephant, he said—could remember license plate numbers on stolen car reports for months, could recite crime scene facts in the minutest detail from memory, and he never wrote a damned thing down. Who knew? But, in thinking about it, I recognized that Roy seemed to know everything, about anyone, in Sea Beach. I mean, first names, occupations, what year they graduated high school, jobs, kids' names, middle names, phone numbers, everything and anything about everybody, probably including shoe sizes and favorite colors. That's why it seemed like he was everyone's best friend. Who knew it was simply because he was a walking memory stick? The speculation was that the three of us, Anne Behari, Roy, and me, had seen the symbol somewhere in the future, and the memory erase we'd been put through when we were returned didn't work exactly as intended. It was only me that recognized it as a swastika, however. Speaking of the swastika, there were some interesting facts about that, as well. I passed my first mile marker and my feet were starting to feel like cement blocks. Good, I thought. Push out the old, bring in the new. I pressed on, the mist like needles on my cheeks. About the swastika. Originally, when I revealed what it was, everyone in the room assumed it was an evil symbol, especially after having seen the ransom note in David Robelle's room. The note revealed that David was taken by someone who had a _cause_ , and the speculation was that one type of organization that had a _cause_ was terrorists. That tied in with the swastika symbol quite neatly. However, it was Kelli Remington who popped out of the room and came back with some interesting information. "The swastika is an ancient symbol that goes back three thousand years—way beyond its association with the Nazis and World War II," she revealed. "The word _swastika_ comes from the Sanskrit _svastika_ — _su_ meaning _good_ , _asti_ meaning _to be_ , and _ka_ as a suffix. Even early in the twentieth century, the swastika had positive connotations. The Germans began using the symbol in the mid to late 1800s because it had a long Germanic/Aryan history, and they wanted to portray themselves as an established culture despite the fact that Germany was not a unified country until 1871. By the twentieth century, it had become a symbol of German nationalism, and in 1920 Hitler adopted the symbol for the Nazi flag as a representation of the German struggle toward unity. It was soon thereafter that the swastika became a symbol of hate, anti-Semitism, and violence, but for three thousand years it had represented life, peace, laughter, and good luck. Go figure." "Where did you get this?" I'd asked Remington. "Off the internet." You gotta love the internet. This raised some other questions. My side started to ache as I continued my run, and my legs were weakening. Push on, I said to myself, and I plodded on to the second mile marker and turned around. The ocean was to my right now, sounding like a monster in the dark, and my heart was pounding as hard as the cold surf. The other questions focused on several other aspects of Lost Friday. One was why the abductors attempted to delete the collective memory of the entire town with regards to the event. No one offered any ideas about that, except that there would have been no such attempt if there wasn't something to hide. Another point of discussion was why David Robelle had not been returned, and that came back around to the ransom note:

Your son is with us in the year 2194. He is

safe, and will continue to be on the condition

that you do not report, or repeat, anything

about what you see here. We will return

David unharmed once he has fulfilled

his obligation to our cause. If you violate

this demand, you will never see him again.

Why didn't David's abductors want anyone to know why he was taken, or, more precisely, that he was taken at all? And what about his _obligation_? What was that all about?

Roy offered the notion that my stories worked just as he'd predicted they would. He'd told me to "print it all," under the assumption that revealing things the abductors didn't want revealed would force them to make another move—and they did. They hijacked my skinny butt a second time, and Roy's theory was that I was taken to redo my memory cleanse to stop me from exposing more information. No one disagreed with that, seeing as the ransom demand insisted on keeping David's disappearance a secret, but my stories pretty much blew that to kingdom come. With the Robelles at the table, no one speculated on whether the kidnappers would abide by the terms of the ransom note and never return David, but the fact that they hadn't given us the futuristic finger regarding his return only went to confirm Roy's theory that, while the threat couldn't be ignored, kidnappers were kidnappers, and anything they said couldn't be interpreted as their final word. They wanted something, and therefore there was always negotiation; it was simply a matter of how to do it. Their own ransom note dictated that, giving us only one card to play to force their hand. It seemed to have worked—as far as we could tell—but one huge question still remained: why David?

That's where Scott Reemer and Allison Kovar came into the picture. As you might imagine, they were both pretty nervous, facing a situation they couldn't control, knowing they were going to be abducted again, and knowing that there was no way we could stop it from happening. David was quite brilliant, they revealed, a scientific and mathematical whiz kid, so much so that Princeton, MIT, and several other top-notch schools had already lined up with full rides for him academically. It wasn't clear why the teachers were—excuse me, would be—abducted and returned, except, perhaps, to offer information on David's scholastic passions, those being math, science, and football. And music, Jenna Robelle volunteered. It seems David was quite proficient with several instruments without ever having taken a lesson in his entire life.

"Science, math, music, and athletics are all connected in the brain," Allison Kovar said. "David's skills in all these areas indicate that he has the basis for being a scientist of the highest caliber." Scott Reemer agreed.

"What kind of scientist?" Romano asked.

"Anything he wants," Kovar replied. "But, more than likely he would gravitate to physics and engineering."

As I was listening to her, my mind drifted back to the coded notes in my notepad. I tried to make the mental connections. I watched Allison Kovar, sitting in her chair, back straight, answering questions like she was giving testimony. That's when I heard the _DING!_ go off inside my brain and I started to put it all together. The other people who'd been abducted were scientists, too. What could they have in common? David was a scientific genius. Could he, or would he, be important in this field? Hmmm. I thought again of the notes I'd written in code in my notepad: _blood, jury, Barbie_ , and the date _September 30, 2194_. _Blood_ , I think, was understandable: terrorists, blood, there was a tie-in there. _Jury_ was more obscure, but the question came up; what do juries do? They listen to testimony, is what they do. And where? At trials. Again, _DING!_ The word _testimony_ had already crossed my mind.

As I passed my third mile mark, I thought through the searing sting in my lungs that I needed to trust my instincts on this. I mean, I was in a zone. Usually, when I got like that and I listened to someone else, I screwed up. That wasn't to say that I didn't screw up on my own—I had, and plenty of times—but no one else could feel the facts the way I did. The elements lined up inside my brain once again: _blood, terrorists, jury, trial, testimony, September 30, 2194_ —someone was on trial, and David Robelle, the scientists, and the entire town of Sea Beach were part of it. And, it had something to do with science, or physics, or both. Plus, it was important enough that the people who'd taken David didn't want anyone in this time period to know what it was.

I collapsed into a heap as I completed my run, and thought that the bastards who'd taken me weren't as smart as they thought they were. Their technology didn't work. I still remembered something, as did Anne Behari and Roy Mulroney, and I figured the next step for me would be to get us back together, and search the nooks and crannies of our brains and bring out whatever was hiding in there.

I didn't know who the fuck Barbie was, and I wondered if that was important.

Chapter 13... More To Come

The phone rang. It was Romano. "Where are you?" I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

"At the office."

I looked at the clock and saw that it was 5:30 in the f'ing morning.

Romano said, "When are you coming in?"

"You, me, and Remington have a meeting scheduled for 7:30, remember?"

"Forget it. She's gone. I sent her to D.C. last night," Romano admitted.

"You did what? I thought I was in charge of her assignments."

"Yeah, well, write a letter."

"Who's she going to see?"

"The president."

I whipped off the covers, feeling the effects of my nighttime run on the beach. I didn't mind, however, figuring I wouldn't feel sore if I'd wakened up 190 years into the future. "How'd she wangle that?"

"She called the White House and told someone down there that if the president didn't agree to see her immediately and set things straight, she publish the truth about his visit to Sea Beach without his input. Someone called her back right away.

"What truth was she talking about?"

"I don't know; she was bluffing. I need you to come in as soon as possible," Romano went on.

"Why?"

"Because Roy Mulroney and I are waiting for you. We have Krispy Kremes."

Roy was there too? Nerves were fraying, I figured. I was getting sick of this early morning shit. "Do you have any of those glazed jelly ones?"

"Just for you." Romano hung up.

Bribing me with Krispy Kremes? Good move.

* * * * *

I walked into the conference room and the TV was on. Romano slid a box of donuts across the table and said, "Shut up and listen." CNN was on, and some morning news chippie that I hadn't seen before was rattling on about Lost Friday, saying nothing that we didn't already know. As predicted, however, my _write it all_ story had ignited a media firestorm. There were three reports. The first was from NASA headquarters, and had to do with what was already being touted as "helium byproduct." The second was from the Pentagon, and the third was from the White House. That was the most accusatory, and I knew some poor government schmuck who knew nothing about it would end up explaining why the abductions of the NASA scientists had been squelched. There were all kinds of speculation on what the doodle meant, but none of it had to do with a swastika on a field of blood.

Normally, Romano was about as emotional as a block of ice, but he was sitting there proud as a peacock with a hard-on. For the last four days, the _Press_ had scooped every paper in the country, on the biggest story in the country, and perhaps the world. As I sat there contemplating the situation, I thought: funny, my name was never mentioned in any of this, and I was the one who broke all these stories. Not only that, these so-called _reporters_ on CNN were regurgitating my stuff as if they'd scooped it themselves—the bastards. I figured that, at minimum, I warranted an on-camera interview with Paula Zahn, or something.

Roy looked at me, and said, "It worked. We've got everybody running around looking for smoke signals."

"That's just peachy," I said sourly. "We're not getting credit for any of this." Usually, Romano put me in my place when I used that snotty tone of voice, but he didn't. Looking at his expression, I think he saw my point. Therefore, I got even snottier. "And what's with the National Guard checkpoints?"

"We're still being overrun by media people, souvenir collectors, and pain-in-the-ass whack-jobs who have nothing better to do," Roy replied. "Not only that, at least one of those terrorists is among us, and I need to find out who that is. I still need to protect this town, and I figure limiting access across the borders might be a good way to do it."

"Can you do that?" I asked. "I mean, legally?"

Roy's gesture made his answer abundantly clear. Looking at the TV, I knew he was right once again. Unfortunately, it also limited CNN's ability to interview me and tell me how great my stories were. "It should be us on that TV screen," I said.

"That's not important," Roy went on. He tossed the future newspaper on the table. I'd almost forgotten about that. "We need to get back to why David Robelle is so important, and how the teachers tie into this. Johnny, you're going to write another story."

I heard Romano grunt and figured he'd just had an orgasm.

* * * * *

Allison Kovar was nervous, and Scott Reemer was wary. I'd thought about interviewing them separately, but concluded the synergy of having them together might be helpful in discovering how David Robelle tied in to Lost Friday. Funny, before our session I started writing questions about their solo excursions into the future, but then I remembered that they hadn't even happened yet. I was getting so confused with the time thing that I couldn't remember if I was coming, or going, or doing both at the same time. "Do you think there's any way to avoid being taken again?" Allison Kovar asked, the revelations of the day before clearly weighing heavily on her. "I'll go and live with my sister up in Long Branch if I have to." That wasn't a bad thought, but I said, "Given the abductions of the NASA scientists, it seems unlikely that locating outside the town limits would prevent it. Besides, unless you stopped teaching, you'd be in town most of the time anyway." That unsettled her even more. Allison Kovar was a small, wiry woman, late fifties maybe, never married, I'd discovered. She'd been teaching math for thirty-four years, nineteen of them at Southern Shore Regional High School since its inception. Her eyes were quick, and bright, and she was the type of woman who could be sharp as a tack well into her nineties. Not teaching math was out of the question for Allison Kovar. Scott Reemer was nothing like her. Big and hulking, he came across like a big teddy bear, but he displayed a passion that seemed to glow behind soft, chocolate-colored eyes. I figured in another life he'd been a Labrador retriever. Scott Reemer had been at Southern for three years. "Let's talk about David Robelle," I said, ignoring the apprehension that hung in the room like smog. "What would make him so important to the people who abducted him?" "Futuristic terrorists," Reemer spat belligerently. "Let's call them what they are. Doing otherwise makes them more noble than they deserve to be." Anger flared in his eyes. We'd commandeered an empty classroom, and both teachers had arranged to take lunch at the same time. Only Scott was eating, however, perhaps more a nervous reaction than hunger. I proceeded cautiously, not only because I didn't want anyone's thought process to lock up—I need creative thinking here—but also because I was still in the process of rediscovering Lost Friday, and all its implications, for myself. I must have reread my stories and reexamined my notes a hundred times since my follow up visit to the year 2194, and I had a sense of what the teachers were feeling. I mean, I'd come back relatively unharmed, and I didn't feel all that rosy about it; for them, well, I figured they were in constant upchuck mode. Still, I was hot-to-trot on the story again, and I had to find out what was so important about David Robelle. "David has the quickest mind I've ever come across," Allison Kovar volunteered. "Ever?" I questioned. "How long have you been teaching?" "Not just in teaching," Kovar responded. "I mean, forever as I know it. My advanced senior class in differential calculus?" I nodded. "He's teaching it." "What do you mean, he's teaching it?" "Just that. I arranged for him to take the class even though he's only a junior, and three weeks into it he's got the text memorized, and asks if he could teach a couple of the classes." I thought, differential calculus, _eeyouza!_ I would rather have gotten a tooth drilled. Scott Reemer said, "Did you know he scored 180 on an IQ test last year?" "That's pretty high, isn't it?" "David's intelligence is probably in the top one-half-of-one-percent of the world's population, possibly higher." Higher than one-half-of-one-percent? In the world? "Who has IQs like that?" "Just to put it in perspective, Einstein's IQ was about 160." "You know a lot about this IQ stuff?" "I've had some training. I'm also a guidance counselor, and I have to know how intelligence measures work." "So if Einstein is at 160, who's at 180?" I asked, really interested in hearing this. Reemer said, "Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci." "No shit—I mean, no kidding," I corrected for Kovar's benefit. "David Robelle is up there with them?" "And Galileo." Hello. I looked at the notes I'd just written: destined for great things, research scientists, intelligence in the top one percent. "Does David have any hobbies?" I asked.

* * * * *

"When were the teachers abducted?" "You mean, when will they be abducted?" Roy said, "Yeah, that's what I meant." Time was a blur for him too. "According to the article I haven't written yet..." I don't know why, but I smiled at that. "... Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer were abducted together." "Do you mean actually together, or in the same time frame?" I looked at the article, although I didn't need to. "I wrote that they were abducted on the same day. I don't know, I mean, I didn't know—" "You mean you won't know." "Right... any more than that. I suppose it's possible that they could have been taken from separate locations." "And when is that going to be?" "The second of October." "That's only three days from now." I saw the twinkle in Roy's eye, and took a moment. I'd been with him so much the last five days that I'd learned to recognize his idiosyncrasies. "What?" I said. "I didn't say anything." "You don't have to." I shifted away, as much from the fact that Roy was starting to get a little gamey as anything else. He'd started with Romano before dawn, and he probably hadn't showered since the day before. Now, in his office, the whole room smelled Roy-like. I yawned, and reached for a Styrofoam cup of Demetrius's motor oil coffee. After my interviews with the teachers, I'd stopped at the diner and got a couple of them to-go. Unlike the previous days, the diner was nowhere near as full, and I figured the National Guard checkpoints were having their effect. Demetrius said that most people were actually relieved the checkpoints were there, and, for the most part, everyone was going about their normal business. Sitting there, waiting for the coffee, I must have zoned out. I reflected, oddly, that in times of great danger, or great horror, people did that—they went about their business. In my own mind, I traveled back in time, observing people during the Holocaust, or Vietnam, both times I'd never experienced, and I saw people performing the menial tasks of everyday life, waiting for the unspeakable to descend down upon them. That's what it was like in Sea Beach, and it was no way to live. I asked Demetrius to put the coffees on my tab, and figured I'd head to the station to touch base with Roy one more time before my deadline. That's when I saw her. If you think Kelli Remington had legs, you should have seen this fine specimen of babehood. She came up to pay her check just as I turned to leave. She took her change from Demetrius—who was drooling all over the counter—and she did one of those stretch moves as she put on her jacket. It must have been a religious jacket, because I immediately thought: _Jesus Christ_! At minimum, she was Victoria's Secret material, and she gave me a little smile as she sidestepped my tongue, which had inexplicably unfurled itself and was flopping around on the floor in front of her. "Who is _that_?" I asked. Demetrius said, "She must be new in town. She's only been in a couple of times." "Reporter?" "I don't think so. She's nothing like you. Besides, she wouldn't be able to get through the security checkpoints if she didn't live in town, right?" I said, "Right," and reeled my tongue back in; a chick like that was probably married to some rich dude with a big **schnitzengruben** **,** who ate skinny Greek reporters for lunch. I got to the police station around two, and filled Roy in on my session with the teachers. "I already know all that," he said when I told him that David was a genius. "You do?" "It's my job. I was hoping you'd come up with something new." So much for investigative reporting. I looked out the window and sulked for a minute, watching the wind gusts off the ocean suck up debris and whirl up the street. Christ, I thought, I might as well just hang around Roy all day and simply report on that. All of my feeds had come from him anyway, and I had the feeling that if I won a Pulitzer for any of this, it would have his name on it. Roy sensed my frustration. "What are you all pissed off about?" "If you already knew about David, why the hell did you send me out there? Between you and Romano, I wonder who's in charge of this story." "Don't get your undies in a bunch, son. It was you who figured out the doodle; it was you who came up with the date; and it was you who came up with the idea of a jury." Yeah, it was, wasn't it? I felt a little better. "I've been trying to tie it all together," Roy went on. Okay, now my juices were flowing again. "What's a jury?" I asked. "Why are we going over that again? You know what a jury is." "I mean what's its function?" "To hear evidence and give a verdict." "Right answer. And to hear testimony." "All right," Roy said. He leaned back in his desk chair, making it creak with pain, and laced his fingers behind his head. "So there's a jury and a trial going on in the year 2194, and—" "Not necessarily," I interrupted. His eyes met mine. "So, what is it then?" "Think about it. The date." Roy took a sip of coffee, and grimaced. "What about it?" "If the date has anything to do with the jury, or a trial, what would it be? Once a trial starts, you can't predict the exact day it will end, or the exact day a jury will hand down a verdict. You can, however, designate the day a trial will start." A smile actually found its way to Roy's face. I hadn't seen much of that lately. He glanced at his desk calendar. "If this were the year 2194, that would mean that the trial would be starting...." He looked up at me. "Tomorrow." You know how it is when you're playing computer solitaire, and the cards start falling, one-after-the-next? That's how it was right then. I turned and spoke into the window. "Roy?" "Yeah?" "What happens before a trial starts?" "You have to select the jury." I whirled. "And where does the jury come from?" Roy's eyes got as big as saucers. "A jury of one's peers! Holy Jesus! David Robelle is on trial, and the residents of Sea Beach were taken for the jury selection. That's why they had to live within the town's borders." "Could it be Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer were taken, I mean, will be taken, two days after the start of the trial to give testimony?" Not able to sit still now, Roy started pacing. Me? My heart was beating so hard I felt it pounding in my ears. "What about the NASA scientists?" Roy scratched his head. "I don't know. Maybe they're on trial too." It made sense. All of them were on trial—for something—but we needed to know what it was, and why people from this time period were being tried 190 years from now. I needed to know those scientists' identities, and what they were working on. I suddenly knew Remington's next assignment. I watched Roy pace, and said, "If the trial starts tomorrow, that means that twelve more people are going to disappear from Sea Beach today." Roy just looked at me, and he had this real blank look on his face.

Chapter 14... Dinner At Roy's

This time, I wrote the story the way I wanted to write it, not worrying about instructions or approvals from anyone. Of course, Romano had some suggestions, but I said, "I'm not rewriting one single, solitary, goddamned word." He smiled momentarily, and said, "Okay, print it." Now, rereading the headline, I got all goose-bumply. _KIDNAPPERS NEED BOY GENIUS_. The story was basically a profile of David Robelle, and laced with innuendo. I didn't actually write anything about a trial because all of that was speculation and I didn't have a source, except myself, but I wasn't ready to write about my own abduction—yet. I'd do that when I knew all the facts. Still, I knew that the story would create another buzz, and I called the Robelles to let them know it was coming. I reviewed the story with Jenna—Chuck was putting in some time at work; the guy was steady as a rock—and rather than objecting, which is what I expected, she said, "At this point, it doesn't matter. With all of the other garbage in the news about David, at least I know whatever you write will be the truth, Mister Pappas." "I'm curious," I said, seeing my opening. "Were you aware of David's talent? I mean, that he's as brilliant as he is?" I tried not to use the past tense. "Of course. We figured he'd catch up with his own ability when he got to college. In the meantime, we just wanted David to lead a normal life. You only get to be a kid once." That, I understood. "Do you have any idea why he'd be taken? "You must be the tenth person who's asked us that. Do you want to search his room, too?" Huh? "Who else has asked you that question?" "Reporters are calling from all over the country. I'm already using my caller ID to screen calls." I felt it creeping in through my pores, _it_ being a gnawing feeling that I'd missed something. "And they want to search his room?" "They've asked, but we're under orders not to go in there." Huh? In her own house? My gnawing feeling turned into an aching throb. "Under orders from whom?" Jenna hesitated, and my antenna went up another notch. Even over the phone I could tell she'd just caught herself in something. "Mrs. Robelle?" "I might as well tell you," she blurted. "You're going to find out anyway. Some people from the government called and said they were sending someone to search David's room. It seems they found some evidence that David was exchanging information on the internet with those NASA scientists who were taken." _Wham! Pow! Thunk!_ "Do they have a warrant?" "I... I guess they do. I really don't know." "Some people, you said. Do you know who they were, what agency they're from?" I couldn't get the words out fast enough. "Not really. Chuck took the call. He's going to meet them when they get here." I went for it. "When is that going to be?" "They're coming all the way from D.C. Chuck said they probably wouldn't get here until after dinner." "Thanks, Mrs. Robelle. Would you mind if Chief Mulroney and I came over and joined the party?"

* * * * *

I hustled to the 'Vette and called the police station on my cell phone, finding out that Roy had gone home for dinner. I called him there and filled him in on the situation, saying, "I figured I'd pick you up and we'd head on over." A pause. "Have you eaten yet?" "Uh, no. Don't you think we need to get over there ASAP?" "Johnny, take a breath. We've got time. I've got Chuck's work number, as well as his cell number. I'll track him down and tell him to stall these government people until we get there. He'll do it. Meanwhile, I'll have the missus set an extra place for you at the table." That sounded pretty good, actually. I pulled up to Roy's and the door was open before I even got out of the car. Mrs. Mulroney—Mary, she said to call her—said, "He's out on the back porch getting the grill ready. It's such a nice night I figured we'd eat out there. Is that all right with you?" It was a nice night, warm for the end of September, still had to be close to seventy degrees with not a stir in the air. I made my way through the house, thinking that grilled anything sounded pretty good right about now, seeing as all I'd had to eat was donuts for both breakfast and lunch. Without even turning around, Roy said, "Help yourself." He was pointing to a small cooler atop an old teak table, inside of which were a couple of beers and a couple of sodas. Roy was having beer. I had one too. "I have some ideas," Roy said, his back still turned as he ran a wire brush along the smoking grill grates. I took one of two weathered Adirondack chairs that faced the water, the sun flush and warm on my face. I swigged on the beer. "Shoot," I said. "Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer are going to be taken somewhere three days from now. Do you think there's any way to avoid that?" The smell of Old Spice was hovering in the air, and I noticed that Roy was wearing different clothes. Beyond him, the water was calm, waves lapping gently on the powdery Jersey sand. "Unless someone, or some thing, steps in to alter history, I think probably not," I answered. "That is, if what I wrote in the future paper is true, which I assume it is if it's under my byline." "What makes you say that?" "I told you before that I don't write bullshit, Roy. That's for the _Enquirer_." "I'm not talking about you writing bullshit. I meant the part about altering history." The words hung there, begging for attention. "What? Do you think it's possible?" Mary came out and handed Roy a plate of fresh tuna steaks. He dropped them on the hot grill, and columns of fragrant smoke curled into the air. When Mary was back in the house, he said, "The people who kidnapped David have a mission, and their symbol is a swastika on a field of blood. I'd say there's a pretty good chance that they're trying to do just that." It took a second for the enormity of what Roy had just said to hit me. Mary came back out carrying two bowls. "Potato salad and corn on the cob okay with you, Johnny?"

* * * * *

"Altering history? Go on." Roy was stuffed into the passenger seat, and he gave me a sideways glance as I backed out of his driveway. He hadn't pursued the conversation at dinner, but he got back to it as soon as he got in the car. "Do you remember when John Hinckley tried to assassinate Ronald Reagan?" he asked. "I was just a kid then, but, yeah, I remember." Where was he going with this? I wondered. "When Hinckley took those shots, while all the attention was focused on him, do you think a second assassin could have taken out the president?" I swung the 'Vette onto Ocean Avenue and headed toward the inlet bridge; the Robelles lived on the other side of it. I remembered that my dad had reported on that story in some manner, and I remembered the TV pictures clear as day. I replayed the scene in my head, picturing Ronald Reagan heading toward his limo, the shots ringing out, the Secret Service men pouncing on Hinckley and the president simultaneously. "I suppose someone could have taken another shot or two." "Or five." "All right, or five. I suppose another killer could have taken advantage of the situation and positioned himself, knowing that Hinckley was going to pop off at the president." "Especially after having studied the video and knowing every move that was going to take place on the sidewalk that day." "Right." I looked at Roy, who was staring at the orange ball that was the setting sun. A band of light leaked through the visor, cutting his face in half. "So you're saying, what? That if Ronald Reagan were actually killed that day, it would have changed the course of history?" "Something would have changed, wouldn't you think? Maybe the Berlin Wall wouldn't have come down. Maybe the Cold War wouldn't have ended the way it did." I downshifted as I neared the bridge. "Hell Roy, with enough information, and enough study, you could go back in time and affect all kinds of things: events, elections, you name it; not to mention getting rich by knowing to buy Microsoft when it first came out." Roy didn't respond right away, and I thought about the concept. "Going back in time to affect history should be illegal," I said. Roy finally averted his eyes, and the band of light slashed across his cheek. "Maybe it is," he said.

* * * * *

We pulled up to the Robelles' house. The only car in the driveway looked to be the family SUV, which meant that the dudes from D.C. hadn't arrived yet. It gave us time to play out the possible scenario. "We may never get a look at what David and the NASA scientists were talking about," Roy said. "Really?" I hadn't even considered that. "It could be classified, and you know how these government monkeys are. We'd need to get clearance from God first." "But it could give us some insight as to what David was into, maybe even some idea of why the teachers are going to be abducted." "Just keep in mind that no one knows about that, unless you've spilled the beans." That reminded me once again that only a few people knew about the future newspaper. "You know," I said, changing the subject, "if something goes wrong, and the teachers aren't returned safely, you could be in a heap of trouble. Are you sure you want to sit on this?" "But you reported that they'd be returned safely." "And you're banking on that?" "What other choice do I have? Look, Johnny, for me this is still about Sea Beach and its residents, and how to protect them. The government people have other priorities. Do you think the scientists were the only ones abducted?" "There no way for us to know otherwise." "Precisely. And it was hidden from us in the beginning. What's to make you think they're leveling with us now?" I hadn't thought about that. "Let them worry about their end of it, and I'll worry about this town." Roy turned away, and added, "I wouldn't want the first dead body to turn up to be one of ours." If that wasn't a dose of reality.... "Do you really think that could happen?" "Terrorists deal in death. Do you think they'd wipe out our memory banks if we'd gone to the year 2194 to have tea and cucumber sandwiches?" Getting back to the original point, I said, "What if we don't get a look at David's computer?" Roy looked at me, and said, "Then we have to prepare Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer for their trip to the future."

Chapter 15... Remington Returns

Roy and I did get a look at David's computer that night, but to no avail. The correspondence that had been detected took place via an online instant message program, and perhaps in a chat room for sci-fi nuts, which we found out David was into. As such, there were no residual files in his Outlook program. "David talked to people all over the world," Chuck had revealed as he pointed to the volumes of sci-fi books on David's bookshelf. "I figured it was just people in his club. Who knew it was something real?" Also interesting were the pages of mathematical formulas that were found in one of David's spiraled school notebooks. We all thought it was homework, until one of the government guys—there were three of them, two from the National Security Agency, and Paul Corvissi, the guy from NASA we'd met the day after Lost Friday—got a look at the formulas. "This didn't come from any high school textbook," Corvissi said. Chuck and Jenna looked at each other and shrugged, and that's when one of the twins, who'd been listening outside the door, popped into the room and said, "It has to do with rocket stuff. Sometimes I can hear him through the wall talking about it." Softly, Corvissi said, "Who's he talking to, honey?" "No one. He just talks to himself. Sometimes he talks to his girlfriend too, but not about this stuff." Corvissi smiled, then turned some of the pages in the notebook, and stopped smiling. Ten minutes later, he and his two associates were suddenly in a hurry to leave, computer and notebook in hand. "We'll get back to you," he said. Roy looked at Chuck, and said, "Don't hold your breath." We talked to the Robelles for a while. Neither of them knew what was in the notebook. "I don't understand any of that math stuff," Chuck admitted. "There'd be no reason for David to share that with me." "That would be a one-way conversation with me too," Jenna concurred. "Like Chuck said, we knew he was talking to people all over the world in his science fiction club; I guess some of it was more science than fiction." Roy and I left shortly thereafter, not really discussing much more of the situation as both of us were pretty whipped. We did make plans to hook up the next day—that was September 30th, the one-week anniversary of Lost Friday, and two days before Kovar and Reemer were scheduled for their second excursion into the future. I had the morning to catch up with Kelli Remington, who was due back from her D.C. assignment. I got to the office shortly after seven, which seemed like noon to me given the last few days, and she was already waiting for me. Fresh hair, fresh makeup: for a second I forgot that I was supposed to be pissed at her, and I almost asked her to dinner for the sixty-first time in what was now six months, three weeks, and nine days. Now, there was a reason for it, and I figured I had a shot this time. Not only that, I'd had a decent night's sleep, and, knowing that I was to hook up with her this morning, I made sure my hair could have been that of a Greek god. She must have sensed my annoyance, however, what with her traipsing down to D.C. on Romano's order and not even checking with me, because she put a Starbucks coffee on my desk, and said, "You know, Romano sent me to D.C. just to get me out of his hair. I thought you were going to give me my assignments." This girl was sharp, I thought, disarming me before I even had a chance to get into it. "Was it worthwhile?" She smiled, and plopped a stack of papers four inches thick on my desk. "I'd say so." I eyed the stack. "And that is?" "What the scientists were working on." I looked at her, and said, "Good girl."

* * * * *

Romano came in around eight and gave us a quick, "I'll catch up with you in an hour," but it never happened. He went from one meeting, to another, to another, which was fine with me, but Remington was on a high. She wanted to put a story together so badly that she just couldn't sit still. I tried to stay professional, only looking down her blouse once when she bent over my desk to go over the material she'd dug up. "How'd you get this stuff?" "They're called boobs, Ed," she said, quoting the line from the movie _Erin Brockovich._ "The same ones you've been looking at for the last hour-and-a-half." "Don't flatter yourself," I quipped, feeling my face heat up. I didn't look up, however, fearing that if I looked her in the eye, I'd turn to stone. I came to the last page of the material, and asked, "Is any of this off the record?" "Most of it," she answered, not hiding anything. "Then what good is it?" "Gee, let me think. Maybe it'll help us find David Robelle?" I knew what she was trying to do, but I didn't fall for it. If most of it was off the record, the best we could do was print it and say it was from a _reliable source high in the government_. We'd sound like we were sensationalizing rather than reporting, and, knowing Romano, he wouldn't let anything off the record get that far. "Did you have a chance to check out the veracity of any of this?" "No." Her eyes got kind of steely right then because I think she realized where I was going. "And what about the president? I don't see any quotes from him in here." "There aren't. I got stonewalled." "So he saw through your bluff—or someone did." Her eyes softened, and I felt myself empathizing with her. I'd been in that position a hundred times, but I'd never been in a position to reject what was clearly very good work. "If you're going to strong-arm your sources, you have to be able to back it up." "We're talking the president of the United States," she shot testily. "Isn't it enough that I got what I got?" "No," I snapped. "Off the record means off the record. If you go with this now, you'll burn up your sources. You're not ready to go to press with this yet. Go back and get some more." "But—" "No buts, Remington. I said you're not ready." I could almost smell what she was thinking, so I added, "And if you're thinking about going to Romano, I'd advise that doing so would be a big mistake." Glaring, "What are you going to do with this," she asked, pointing to the pile of documents. Good question. What she'd brought back were the identities of two NASA scientists, along with the dates of their disappearances, which weren't the same after all. She'd also done an admirable job of researching their backgrounds and establishing their areas of expertise. That was only the bread and the mayonnaise of the sandwich, however. The meat was the name of the project they were working on. "That was classified," she said. "I couldn't get anywhere near it." "So, you're basically giving me their resumes," I said. The documents indicated the scientists were doing advanced work on rocket propulsion systems, but that was hardly big news. She'd established her own Deep Throat, but she needed to work the source harder. "We need the name of the project. Clearly the Pentagon is involved; see if there are any congressional ties. Also, I'd assume NASA has people working on rocket propulsion systems all the time; find out what made these guys so important. Otherwise, all we got is scientists doing research, and that's no story. Oh, and find out if they were married. The wives may be the best place to start. I'll sit on the rest of this until you come back." Standing now, she stabbed the air with her pen. Everyone could see that we were having a bit of a tiff, but now they looked away as our discussion was clearly cruising toward ugly. "But what if someone gets this first?" she hollered. Suddenly, all the lessons from all the editors I'd ever worked with came back to me there in my chair. "What if they do?" I shot back. "Our angle is how this relates to David Robelle. If it's any help, last night I found out that David was exchanging information with these guys." I filled her in on the visit from Corvissi and the two guys from the NSA, along with the discovery of David's notebook. "David's little sister said the notebook had something to do with rocket stuff, too." "That's a connection," she said. "Where's the notebook now?" "Corvissi took it, along with David's computer." "There's no copy?" "Didn't get a chance." Pacing now, Remington took a moment. Investigative reporting was a lot like climbing a mountain, and this story was no casual climb up a grassy meadow; this mother was like climbing a sheer cliff, and she'd managed to wedge her fingernails into a crack in the rock. She turned, the look of discovery washing over her. "This is why I hooked the president. He thinks I know what they were working on." I smiled. "Could be, but he slipped away into deeper water. Now you need to find out if he's still on the line." Romano came out of his meeting and headed straight for my desk. "Well?" He wasn't in a good mood, and his face was all rosy-colored. "We're not ready," I said. "Remington has to go back and squeeze her source." Romano looked at her and said, "Until he bleeds. I want a buffalo on my desk by tomorrow night." With that, he wheeled toward his office, and I thought I saw bullet holes in his flat ass. I jagged my head and said, "The brass must have drilled him a new one." "Wonder why." "Not our problem right now. Get yourself an expense voucher and get back to D.C. The faster the better." Rather than leaving, however, Remington collapsed into the chair next to my desk. "What?" I asked, feeling her gaze. "Where do I start?" Did I detect just a hint of insecurity there? Why, I think I did. "Corvissi looked pretty nervous when he got a look at that notebook. I'd suggest you start there. Then, I'd revisit your bluff. You've got the scientists' names; if Corvissi gives you anything at all, call the White House and play it out. What was it you'd said? If the president didn't set things straight, you'd publish the truth about his visit to Sea Beach? I'm sure Romano has some connections with the White House press office if you can't get anyone to listen to you." Remington nodded blankly, twirling her pen between pink-nailed fingers. "If the president is spooked by that, then there's another motive here besides getting those scientists back and keeping things calm. Find a way to get to it." "How the hell do I do that?" " _They're called boobs, Ed_." She smiled now. "If you can get it out of Corvissi, see if David's formulas have anything to do with what the scientists were working on, and find out what makes the project so classified that the president of the United States is spending time covering for it." "And, I'm supposed to do all that in one day? You heard Romano." "Don't worry about him. I think I've got that covered." "You do? How?" "If I'm right, twelve more people are going to disappear from Sea Beach today. I just don't know who they are yet."

Chapter 16... Caesar's

Roy said, "I think it's started." I knew exactly what he meant. "Are you sure?" "Four calls last night, and four this morning. There's frozen helium all over town." Roy looked pained, as if he'd just swallowed a corkscrew. I said, "There's no way you could have prevented it, Roy. What about the remaining four? A jury needs twelve people." "No information yet. If others have been taken, it could be people living alone, and it may take a day or two for anyone to realize they're missing. And it might be more than four if they take alternate jurors. You know Norm Simpson, runs the Wawa near the parkway?" "You're kidding." "Went out last night to take out the garbage, never came back in. His wife called me when she saw the block of helium in the back yard." Roy looked up, his eyes glazed. "I've known Norm since grammar school." I said, "He's not dead, Roy," but it sounded weak. Outside Roy's office, the two officers there were picking up one call after another. I had the feeling none of it was good. Sure enough, one of them came in while we were sitting there. "Two more reports, Chief. You want me to send Johnson and DiNardo over when they're done where they're at?" Under his breath Roy said, "That makes ten." He looked at the officer and asked, "Who are they?" "Bob Fisher and Joanne Gilbert. Both calls came in after they didn't show up for work and there was no answer on their home phones or cell phones." "Bob works over at Viking Yachts, and Joanne over at Little Tykes Day Care." Roy looked at me. "They're both single." Just as he'd predicted. My stomach suddenly felt like it had a fury animal inside trying to claw its way out. For Roy, it must have been like having his children disappear. He sat there, and to an outsider it may have looked like he was daydreaming, but I knew better. Moments later, he smashed a thick finger into his phone intercom, and bellowed, "What about the teachers?" "They're still at school, Chief. Both of them refused our offer for escorts again; said there was probably nothing we could to anyway." "Amen to that," Roy mumbled. "Call those numbers the government folks gave us. Let them know what's happening." "All the numbers, Chief?" "All of them. I don't want it to look like we're not doing everything possible. Oh, and one more thing." "What's that, Chief?" "As soon as they get free, have Kaplan and O'Malley cruise around to all the National Guard checkpoints and find out if there were any incidents last night—nonresidents trying to get into town, any oddball occurrences, whatever. You got it?" "Got it, Chief." With that, Roy grabbed his hat, and said, "Let's go Johnny. We don't have much time." I wondered what that meant.

* * * * *

I didn't say a word as we bounced along in Roy's truck. The weather had turned gloomy, and the warmth of the previous day had been swept away by a damp gale off the water, which often signaled the onset of a nor'easter. As we passed the marina, I noted the boats bumping hard on the dock tires as the ocean swelled and subsided beneath them. "This morning?" Roy said when I thought neither one of us was going to say a word until we reached our destination, wherever that was. "I met with Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer." "You did?" Roy nodded vacantly, his features tightly knit. "Where?" "At the school. I figured I'd catch them before classes. I started thinking this whole thing through, especially after seeing those formulas in David's notebook last night." Roy obviously wanted me to know something, otherwise he wouldn't have started the conversation. He seemed reluctant to talk, however. I figured I'd give him a chance to come at it from another angle. "How were they holding up?" I asked. "As good as could be expected. Neither of them thought there was any place to hide." Okay, Roy was acting squirrelly now. His eyes kept darting at me, his head not turning. "Uh-huh." "They figured that if your story was true, and they were going to be returned unharmed, they might as well go about their normal business." We already knew that. He was stalling. Edgy. Not like Roy. "And that's why you had to get up with the chickens and meet them before school?" "Not exactly." "Okay.... How not exactly?" He didn't answer right away, looking both ways at the stop sign. Twice. Looked like we were heading for the parkway. "Well, I sort of planted some information on them." We took the ramp, and I jabbed Roy with a stare. I know he felt it, but he still didn't look at me. "What information?" I said, my tone hardening. Something didn't feel right. "Well...." "Well, what, _Roy?_ " "You know how we talked about how maybe the kidnappers were using the newspaper to communicate?" "We talked about it, yeah." "Well, we really don't know if that's the case. I mean, they haven't responded to any of your stories directly...." "Except for kidnapping me again." "Well, now that you mention it...." "What are you trying to say, _Roy?_ " "Well, I sort of told the teachers that, if they have the chance, and if their memory isn't affected when they get there...." "There being 2194?" "Right... to tell their abductors that the memory erase on your last trip didn't take, that you remembered everything." I didn't know if that was good, or bad. "So?" "So, as a result, we're trying to discover the identity of the great, great, great grandfathers of the terrorist leaders." "Why would we do that?" "So we can stop them from having any more offspring." I looked at Roy in total amazement. "You mean kill them." "Not necessarily. They could be sterilized." "Wait a minute. If the terrorists think that's true, won't they come back and try to kill me?" "But, it's not true." " _Fuckin' A_ , Roy, they don't know that!" "Yeah, I kind of thought of that." Fuming, I said, "I can't believe you'd set me up like that." "As of now, I haven't done anything. The teachers haven't been abducted yet. All I have to do is make a couple of phone calls if you don't go along with it." "Go along with it! You gotta be fucking crazy." "You sound upset." I looked at the passing trees, and felt my jaw muscles working. "No, Roy. I'm perfectly fine. Why not? It's only a few futuristic terrorists—terrorists whose symbol is a swastika on a field of blood. What's to worry about?" "We can protect you." I laughed. "Just like you could have protected the ten people who were snatched from right under your nose last night; or how you're protecting any others who might be taken while we're going for a ride in the country. Where the hell are we going, anyway?" Roy didn't move a muscle, just sat there with his wrist hooked over the steering wheel. Low voiced, he said, "We didn't know who the people were going to be, Johnny. You just admitted that. If we did, we could have done something." "You couldn't have done shit, Roy. Hell, the fucking feds are in this up to their eyeballs, and they can't do shit either. What makes you think you can do better?" He didn't answer, and I could tell I'd hurt his feelings. Yeah, well, screw him. It was my ass on the line. We sat in silence for some time. Roy wanted to use me as bait to do... what? Capture one or more of the terrorists if they came back and actually did try to kill me, or hijack me? It wasn't a bad idea actually, but he didn't need me to accomplish that. "You can use the teachers," I said. "You know when they're going to be taken; you simply need to be there when it happens." "I've already thought of that," Roy responded as he pulled off the parkway onto the Atlantic City Expressway. "You can back out if you want. I was just trying to avoid putting that kind of burden on them." Roy looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and I said, "You bastard." "Me?" "You think that by my visualizing frail little Allison Kovar, sitting on her threadbare Victorian sofa, waiting to be taken away by futuristic thugs in jack boots, I'll feel shamed into letting you use me as bait." Roy rolled down his window and threw a couple of quarters into the toll baskets just outside Atlantic City. "I would never do anything like that without asking you first," he said, sounding as sincere as any priest. "The fact that both Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer have decided to stand tall in the face of danger rather than run and hide, has nothing to do with you. Don't let it affect you." "You bastard," I said again, knowing he was working me, and, worse yet, knowing it was working. "I want a gun, no, two guns—big, ugly, black guns, so I can shoot their balls off when I see them coming. And I want you there, too. If I'm going down, you're going down with me." Roy just frowned, and said, "We'll talk." Damn that Roy. How do I get myself into these things? "You never answered my question," I said. Roy rolled into downtown Atlantic City toward Caesar's. "You ask a lot of questions. Which one are you talking about?" "I asked you where we were going." "If I tell you, I'll have to kill you," Roy joked. "Get in line," I responded, figuring I'd find out soon enough.

* * * * *

" _You are hereby charged with crimes against humanity."_ The defendant leaped from his chair, the humdrum activity of the courtroom interrupted by his outburst. "This is insane!" he shouted, knocking over his chair despite the restraints binding his hands behind him. "You are the criminals here! How many people have you murdered just today?" With the words echoing off gray block walls—no need for fancy trappings here—the defense lawyer stood and restrained his client. " _Order!" the judge shouted. "Counselor, control your client, or you'll take your place beside him." Bang! The sound of the gavel cracked like lightning. Bang! Bang! "Sit down now, or I'll have the prosecution proceed without your presence."_ " _What's the difference?" the defendant screamed. "You're all murderers; kill me now!" He turned and spat at his defense attorney._ The attorney lunged now, grabbing his client violently. Being of the same race, he needed to control his client or he risked losing his own status. If that happened, his name would appear on the next docket along with all the others. Two burly bailiffs came over, both of them wearing the same insignia on their sleeves as was displayed on the flag draped behind the judge's chair: a swastika on a field of red. Tired, and not wanting to waste any more of the court's time with this holier-than-thou nonsense, one of the bailiffs cracked the defendant behind the right knee with a baton. The defendant crumbled in agony, and the bailiffs propped him in his chair. Expecting the judge to issue the sentence for contempt of court—which was death—along with instructions to carry it out immediately and thereby saving the time and expense of proceeding with the trial, one of the bailiffs pulled a DNA-controlled brain stem disintegrator, and pressed it to the back of the defendant's neck. Surprisingly, the judge waved the bailiff off, and the bailiff clipped the disintegrator back onto his belt, there being no chance that anyone with different DNA could operate the device. Its presence in the courtroom was perfectly safe. The prosecution having just rested, the judge asked if the defense had any evidence to present. " _None, your honor. The defendant does not wish to dispute the charges. He is of lower race, as accused."_ " _Fine," the judge responded. "Then this case shall go to the jury for immediate deliberation." The judge turned to the jury. "Your charge is the same as it has been in the previous cases you've heard today. Is there any need for me to repeat the instructions?"_ The foreman looked to either side. "No, your honor, we are clear on the charge. In the interest of time, we would like to take our vote here, without further deliberation." The judge scanned the jurors, and asked, "Are there any objections to the foreman's request?" There were none. "So be it," the judge noted. "How do you vote?" The foreman stood, and called, "Guilty?" Twelve hands went up. " _So be it," the judge declared. "The sentence is death, to be carried out immediately."_ The immediacy was justified publicly as a merciful tactic on the part of the justice system to avoid mental anguish for the guilty. In reality, the cost of executions was high, and, seeing as there was no need for additional tax dollars to be spent housing future infidel corpses, the executions were carried out upon sentencing. Justice had become routine. The defendant, having had his fair trial before an impartial judge and jury just as the law allowed, the bailiffs came forward and carried the hobbled, and now convicted, defendant to the execution chamber. The chamber flanked the courtroom, and was designed so that executions could take place within view of the court if, for some reason, such was desired, or ordered, by the judge. In this case, the jurors did not witness the executions, as they'd all seen them several times before, and, despite the routine nature of the event, most jurors preferred to not lose their appetite if there was no need to do so. Saying nothing, his eyes glistening, the defendant was outfitted with a securely-fastened, external diaper, and strapped into place, his death a foregone conclusion as it had been with hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of his kind over the last generation; no one knew the real number. Behind the chamber, an executioner came forward and slid open a moveable panel, pressing another brain stem disintegrator to the back of the defendant's neck and activating the device. The body went limp immediately as the spinal cord was instantly severed with no invasive procedure. What was good for the modern surgeon in the year 2194 was also good for the modern executioner. In this case, rather than cauterizing a few thousand cancerous cells from a functioning organ, the microwaves concentrated their power on an inch-thick core of tissue at the base of the skull. The procedure was quick, and painless, supposedly, save perhaps for the microsecond when the spinal cord actually melted away. Outside the execution chamber, the jurors looked at their watches, having sat through the procedure for the twentieth time that day, about one every fifteen minutes. It was almost time to go. The straps were undone, and the body was wheeled off to a waiting vehicle beneath the building that would take the corpse to a processing plant. There, it would be processed and turned into a protein-rich nutrient. The nutrient would then be scattered over the oceans to feed the stocks of fish needed to feed the ever-growing world population, which stood at forty-seven billion and was still growing, despite all efforts in this country and around the world to curb the numbers. The limp corpse joined the other nineteen from this courtroom, and approximately an equal number from each of the other seven courtrooms in the facility. Justice was administered efficiently, bloodlessly, and painlessly, and tomorrow another twelve jurors would perform their civic duty and sit through another series of convictions, as they did about once every other year in every major city in the region. The work was never-ending, but needed to be done in order to thin the numbers and keep the more deserving fed. "Mister Pappas, you may open your eyes now." "Oh, my God." "Johnny?" I felt someone's hand on my shoulder. "Would you like some water?" I looked around; everything blurry. "Where am I?" Roy's face. My eyes adjusted. He was staring at me. So were the other two people, both women. One of them looked familiar. I remembered now. "Are we in Caesar's?" I asked shakily. "He'll come out of it," the woman I didn't recognize, said. "Give him time." The inside of my head felt like it had turned to molasses. Eyes clearer now. Had I just awakened from another life? "I... I must have been having a nightmare." I looked around, the drapes open, sunny outside. Hotel room? Yes, I remembered. Caesar's. "Roy?" "Jesus, son." He turned to the woman I didn't recognize. "I thought you said everything would be normal." The woman shrugged nonchalantly. "Sometimes this happens. Who's next?" Roy helped me from the chair, and Anne Behari—that was the other woman, I remembered now—took my place. I leaned back, feeling my senses slowly rejoining me. Roy gave me a pat on the back. "Good job, son." Behari was groomed, her shiny, black hair drawn back so as to accentuate her flawless cheekbones. The other woman looked like a relic from the sixties in her faded peasant dress; legs crossed; sneakers. Roy sat on the other side of the table, wearing his usual flannel shirt and baseball-style cap, this one with a marlin sewn on its crest. The woman in the peasant dress said, "Pick a spot on the wall, and concentrate." Behari found a spot, and fixed her eyes to it. The wall was one big mural: ancient Roman fountains, the Coliseum, scenes of Roman peasants leading Roman donkeys, loaded with Roman fruit. "Concentrate," the woman said. "Don't take your eyes from that spot. Breathe deeply. Let your eyes become part of the scene. Relax. Do you want to remove your shoes?" Behari said, "Yes," and slipped them off. Breathing deeply.... "Now close your eyes, and listen to my voice. Breathe deeply. Relax. Listen to my voice. Breathe deeply...." I must have closed my eyes as well, because I don't remember anything after that.

Chapter 17... Road Kill

Roy pocketed his cell phone. "Two more blocks of frozen helium have been discovered since we've been here." I knew what he meant, but the Beharis were quite mystified. Join the club, I thought. We were surrounded by the constant cacophony of the casino, whirring, ringing, pulsing sounds that, over time, could make one go completely batty. Catatonic except for their arms, slot players had coin sex with their machines, the occasional jackpot orgasm adding to the dissonance. Scantily clad cocktail waitresses pranced to and fro, immune to stares from ogling rednecks who gawked at their cleavage. A couple walked by with the woman, businesslike in spandex and high heels, leading a paunchy suit three inches shorter than her to their rendezvous, where in all likelihood she'd give him a quick around-the-world for a couple of c-notes. Off to one side, another couple argued at the bar, both of them drunk off their asses. Organized debauchery, I thought, and it paled in comparison to the mental excursion I'd just taken in room 914. "They always say everything will be normal when you come out of hypnosis," I carped. "Do you remember anything?" Anne asked. Fingers intertwined with husband Robert, she was sitting across from me inside one of the many lounges at Caesar's. With her, as with Roy, the hypnosis had shed no light on how the three of us had managed to regurgitate the swastika symbol on a field of red. I was the only one who remembered it as such, and I was the only one having one of those dreams. You know those dreams, like when you're falling off a skyscraper and you wake up just before you turn into a puddle of red oatmeal. That's exactly how I felt—impending doom—and my heart seemed as if it had lodged itself in my throat. The back of my neck was soaked with sweat, and Anne, Robert, and Roy were all staring at me, waiting for me to either pass out, or answer Anne's question. "I remember a smell," I said finally. Roy sipped his beer. "What kind of smell?" I looked at my drink and thought suddenly it was coming from there. "Like road kill," I said disgustedly. "Now when have you been close enough to road kill to smell it?" Roy asked. "I haven't. But it can't be any worse." Road kill was probably the last thing on their minds when they decided to attend this little soirée that Roy had put together, and Anne and Robert seemed to retreat in their seats. The hypnotist, it turns out, was somebody famous, having been used many times by the police to uncover information that had been buried away in victims' psyches in their attempts to escape some personal terror. Roy knew her of course, was on a first name basis with her; the guy never ceased to amaze me. As if he knew what he was talking about, Robert said, "The subconscious mind is very complex. Sometimes people bury things for decades. All we need is a trigger to pop them out." Just great, I thought. Someday, someone snaps their fingers, and I start seeing ghosts. I looked at my watch and noted that it was almost six o'clock. I said to Roy, "We need to get back. I've got twelve interviews to do, and a story to write."

* * * * *

I only had time for one interview by the time we got back—or so I thought—and that was only because Roy stopped by the home of his old fishing buddy, Norm, to try and console Norm's wife. She greeted us at the door with watery eyes; there were two full-grown boys standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room when we came in. It was a typical Jersey Shore house, bungalow type, cramped but comfortable, huge, stuffed striper with mouth agape over the fireplace. Maggie was a tall woman, trim, denim shirt and jeans, looked like she didn't bother much with makeup. The boys came over and gave Roy a hug. "Hi, Uncle Roy." Roy hugged them back and did the "How's school?" and the "How's the new job?" thing, then turned to Norm's wife. "It'll be okay, Maggie. I promise." I didn't know how Roy did it, but there was something about how he talked to people that washed the anxiety right out of them. Maybe he'd learned something after breaking bad news to people for thirty years, but when he said, "I promise," it felt like he was the only one on Earth who could say that. Maggie swallowed hard. "If you say so, Roy." He put his finger under her chin, forcing her eyes to his. "I have a plan, Maggie, and I'm going to get him back." I thought: he does? And he is? "If you want, you can stay with me and Mary for a few days." Maggie squared her chin. "No need. I have the boys." She turned and smiled a Mrs. Cleaver smile at both of them. She seemed to notice me for the first time. Introducing me, Roy said, "This is Johnny Pappas, the reporter." The tenderness she exuded suddenly turned to something else. Her eyes sparked, and she made the tiniest of moves backward, a lioness shielding her cubs. "I don't want you writing about my Norman, Mister Pappas. Use something else to sell your papers." Maybe my face had a look on it, but Roy stepped between us as if to protect me. "It's okay, Maggie. Johnny was taken by them too, just like Norm." I mean, I hadn't said a word. Her features softened. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that.... Do you want some coffee?" she said, her distrust waning a bit. I guess that was about as close to an apology as I was going to get. Thankfully, Roy said, "We have to get going, Maggie. I just stopped in to make sure you're all right. If it's any help, everyone who's been taken has been returned unharmed." Her eyes caught Roy head on. "I guess you're forgetting about David Robelle." "I meant—" "I know what you meant, Roy. I'll talk to you later, okay?" So dismissed, we left quickly. Back in the truck Roy said, " _That_ was pleasant. We cheered her right up." Inside the house, I'd felt my cell phone vibrating, but I didn't answer it, hoping, like I said, that I'd be able to use the visit with Maggie as part of my story. Well, that wasn't going to happen, and I had to think of another angle on the twelve disappearances. I checked my phone and saw that it was Romano who'd called. It was just past seven o'clock. Maybe he was still at the office. I dialed the number. "Where _the fuck_ have you been all day?" Hearing Romano's gracious greeting, Roy chuckled lowly. "I went to a hypnotist. In Atlantic City. With Roy." I waited for the follow-up eruption, and it wasn't a long wait. "A hypnotist? What the fuck for? I heard another dozen people were beamed up. How the fuck am I gonna cover that with you... hypnotized? Goddamn it, Pappas. You're not, like, hypnotized _now_ , are you?" "No, I'm not," I said, glancing at Roy and suddenly remembering Robert Behari's statement about a trigger. "Good. I need something on these disappearances." "Gimme the phone," Roy ordered. I pushed the speakerphone button before handing it over. "Paul, this is Roy." "Where are you taking him this time, Roy? He's got a story to write." "You can't use the story, Paul." Romano paused and said, "You know Roy, for a second there, I thought you said I couldn't use the story." "Don't play games, Paul. I promised these people their names wouldn't be plastered all over the media." "What the fuck, Roy? Who do you think you're talking to, Jerry Springer? The public has a right to know about this." "Not on this one. How'd you find out, anyway? I told my men not to release any names until I've had a chance to talk to the families." "I don't have names, Roy! That's what I need Pappas for." "Then your story is unsubstantiated. I don't want anything in the papers until I've had a chance to investigate. There could be evidence, something that will give us a better handle on what's going on." Roy hesitated. "Johnny's had the inside track on this all along, Paul. I need your help here." Silence, then, "You owe me big, Roy. I want an exclusive on these disappearances once you've had a chance to investigate. Just make sure those security checkpoints do their jobs and keep the riff-raff out of town." "By riff-raff, you mean other reporters?" "Hey, you're sharp. I'll hold off—for now." Roy looked at me from across the truck, and said, "Don't worry, Paul. I've got something good for you." "Lemme talk to Pappas." Roy handed me the phone. "Yeah." "You got anything at all? I've got a hole on page one waiting for fill." "Not a thing. The hypnosis got nothing from any of us." "Any of us being you, Roy, and that Anne Behari broad." Ah, Romano. Such a delicate creature. "Right. Got nothing, boss." A picture of a prisoner waiting to be executed flashed in my mind. It was gone in an instant. "You'll have to go with something else for page one." "Fine. It's time for me to go home and kick the dog anyhow. Will I see you in the morning?" "As far as I know," I said, thinking that the phone was starting to smell like road kill again. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Just an expression, boss." I ended the call, and turned to Roy. "Okay, what are you going to give him?" Roy swung the truck off Center Street onto Shore Avenue; looked like we were heading for his house. "I'm going to give him whoever is kidnapping these people." I felt a little jolt in my pulse rate. "Okay. How?" "Let's go to my house and talk about it over dinner. I'm sure the missus has got something stewing on the stove." I wasn't sure if I wanted to do dinner at Roy's again, but I said, "Okay," anyway. I just didn't think I could eat much with that damned road kill smell in my nose.

Chapter 18... Not TGIF

Dinner at Roy's had pretty much amounted to me watching him eat while I nursed a gurgling stomach. The sense that I was on the edge of something awful stayed with me all night. I don't know, maybe it was the hypnosis, but it was like coming down the escalator at an airport and seeing an old guy in a black robe holding a sign with your name on it. Roy said, "Aren't you gonna eat?" The Missus, as Roy called her, had cooked up what was "probably the best damned pot roast in six states," and I knew if I took one bite I'd hork it up into my napkin. Something from that session with the hypnotist was sitting just below my skin, eating at me. I decided to change the subject. "About what you said to Romano...." Roy cut off a huge chunk of pot roast, slathered in brown gravy. "Yeah?" he said, shoving it into his cheek. I had to look away. "How are you going to give me the kidnappers? You don't even know who they are." Working that roast, Roy said, "Not yet, but I will within the next day or two." "Wait a minute. That's the timetable for the teachers' abductions." He pointed his knife at me, and said, "Badda-bing." I went home after that and slept fitfully, dreaming about something I didn't remember. Probably that damned skyscraper dream again, or maybe the one where I'm standing in front of a firing squad. I think that one has something to do with Romano. I looked at the clock, noting that I still had forty-five minutes before the alarm went off. With any luck, I could grab some morning z's, the most restful kind after a tough night in the sack. No such luck. I heard a knock and thought: what the hell... again? At 5:30 on a Friday morning? If it was Romano.... I got up, and, scratching my nuts on the way, decided to go to the bathroom before I answered the door. Whoever it was would have to wait. _Knock, knock, knock_. Up yours. I got to the door when I was good and ready, and, glancing through one of the little four-inch windows at the top, I expected to see either Romano, or Roy, in that order. It was neither. There were two guys out there looking up and down Warren Street as if they were afraid someone would see them. I was still in my boxers, about which I didn't really give a shit, and I yanked the door open. "I hope to hell you're not selling Avon," I shot sarcastically. One guy was older, late forties, shiny dome, veins traversing it like river tributaries on a map. The younger guy could have been a Navy Seal, all chest, buzz cut, sinewy neck. Both were wearing dark suits. Skin Head held up an ID. "Secret Service." You know, I just wasn't in the mood. "So?" Bull Neck glanced up the street again. "May we come in?" "What for?" "We have a message from the president." Good reason. I stepped aside, and said, "Try not to mess anything up." The SS guys—odd acronym, I thought, seeing as a swastika was a regular vision in my thoughts lately—stepped past me and did a check-out dance in the middle of my living room. Bull Neck looked like he was smelling bad feet, while Skin Head turned to me and said, "Nice place." Fucking smart-ass. "The president is going on television today to defend his original decision to keep the NASA abductions a secret." Like I knew what this gorilla was talking about. "What does that have to do with me?" "The president wants you to know that breaking that story the way you did put him in a very compromising position." Okay, now I was getting it. I thought suddenly that I'd feel more in control if I had some pants on. "At no time did the president indicate he was off the record, _and_ , he was aware of my being a reporter. I have a witness to that entire conversation if you want to verify that." "No need," Skin Head replied. "Freedom of the press, and all that. The president simply wanted us to let you know how important it is that this be controlled properly, _and_ that we get your cooperation. We don't want to create any mass hysteria, or anything.... Do we?" There was that _cooperation_ word again. Something was wrong with this whole presidential involvement thing—on any level. "We need to be honest with the American people," President Richardson had said. "This is a threat to our very way of life." Why did he reveal the information about the scientists' abductions to a reporter if he didn't want the general public to know? Was it already out, and was he simply covering his ass? And, what about that, " _we need to cooperate_ ," bullshit? I mean, did I look like a complete dope? And that stuff about the frozen helium—was that a classified bone to make me feel important? Now, I had these two morons in my living room telling me that I'd put the president in a compromising situation. It didn't jive. Something had backfired on the old boy, and now Skin Head and Bull Neck were trying to intimidate me. I made a note to get hold of Remington as soon as I got to the office to tell her to forget the scientists; the president was the story here. But, the scientists were the connection to David Robelle. Damn. We needed more bodies on this story. My mind was going about a hundred miles an hour. "So what are you telling me, that I should have checked with the president before I broke the story?" Skin Head let go with a smarmy little smile, like one gives a toddler for asking for candy too many times. "It's not my fault that he put his foot in his mouth. The public has a right to know." Speaking for the first time, Bull Neck said, "Of course it does." At least now I knew he could talk. He stepped over and towered over me. "But we know that you're a good American, first and foremost." I thought, wasn't this some shit? "Are we done? I gotta take a shower and get to work." Skin Head said, "Have a good day, Mister Pappas. We'll see you around." He smiled and headed for the door. That couldn't have been less subtle. Big Brother was on me. They left, and I felt like I needed to punch something. Wait until Romano heard about this. Then, I took it down a notch. The president knew damned well what I would do. Was I being set up for a second time? And, why me? I was a pipsqueak reporter at a regional newspaper. Surely there were some national guys writing about Lost Friday who could put more pressure on the president than I could. I headed for the shower and figured I'd call Romano right away, then I remembered this was the day Roy and I were supposed to stake out the teachers. Man, when it hit the fan, it really hit the fan.

* * * * *

"Why are you yelling into the phone?" "I'm not yelling. "What's the matter, Remington? Are we a little hung over this morning?" Pause. "Sort of." "Was it worth it?" "I don't know yet. After last night, I think I've got Corvissi pretty softened up. I'll find out this morning." "By that you mean you're meeting with him again?" "If he shows." "Where are you supposed to meet him?" "At a Ramada off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway." "A Ramada. Uh-huh." "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means: did you pack your knee pads?" "He's not a pig like you, Pappas. Besides, he's married. Showed me pictures of his kids and everything." "Uh-huh." "Did you call just to bust my chops?" I filled Remington in on the visit from Skin Head and Bull Neck, glancing into my rearview mirror every few seconds to see if they were following me. The air was cool this morning, with more than a hint of fall in the air, but the sun was glorious; looked like it was going to be a perfect day for teacher-watching. I had the top down on the 'Vette, on my way to the high school to meet up with Roy and some of his men. If someone, or some thing, from the year 2194 was going to pay a visit to Allison Kovar or Scott Reemer today, Roy was determined to get a look a look at it. I'd already talked to Romano, who agreed that the visit from the two Secret Service guys sounded strange, but he didn't see it the same way I did. "Politicians step on their dicks all the time," he'd said. "Maybe these guys were just doing damage control." But Romano hadn't seen Skin Head and Bull Neck. I wish I'd gotten their names. Didn't think of it in the heat of the moment. That was pretty inexcusable for a reporter, and Romano didn't fail to remind me of that. "No way!" Remington said when I finished telling her about the incident. "Yes, way, at 5:30 this morning." "But, why would the president do that? Wouldn't it look bad for him if it ever got out that he ordered a couple of Secret Service goons to intimidate you? Hell, if you hadn't reported the story, someone else would have." "Looking bad is putting it mildly. Romano doesn't think—" "Screw Romano. What do you think?" I had to chuckle. I mean, Remington was into it. "I think the president is trying to cover something up, all right." "Iran Contra and Watergate all over again." "Do you think Corvissi knows enough to point us in the right direction on this?" "I don't know," Remington replied. "His knowledge might be pretty limited. I'm working on him, but he's pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing, or he just doesn't know any more than what he's telling me." "Booze and sex didn't work?" "I didn't offer him sex—yet," she added with a distinct upturn in her voice. "You want me to work him on this Secret Service cover up angle, see if I can get lucky?" "Yeah, but don't spend too much time on this with Corvissi. I think you might have to wiggle your way back to the White House. There's something there. You have to find out who knows something about any possible cover-up, and get under his skin. You might wanna call Romano and ask him to work some of his connections. Maybe he knows someone who knows someone, who might be able to get you a few minutes with the press secretary himself. If you get that far, I'd hit him right between the eyes with it. If he so much as coughs the wrong way, you'll know something's cooking inside the hallowed walls." Remington said, "Got it. Where you gonna be today?" I told her about the teacher stakeouts. "Good luck," she said before coming back with, "Pappas?" "Yeah?" "You really think we're onto something?" I let a couple of beats go by, and said, "I think we're onto the biggest thing since the discovery of fire." She went silent for a few seconds, and said, "I'll catch up to you later, Pappas. I'm running late." She sounded tight as a piano string, and I needed her to be loose and nimble, able to think on her feet. Trying to lighten the mood—okay, and fantasizing at the same time—I said, "Hey Remington." "What?" "What are you wearing?" She caught on, and said, "Nothing but high heels and a smile, Pappas. Just look into the phone." And I did.

* * * * *

The school was a typical rambling brick-and-stucco structure. If viewed from the air, it would look like a triple-H on a pad of black asphalt. I spotted Roy's truck right away, parked illegally in a fire lane and sandwiched by two of Sea Beach's five police cruisers. I located Roy a few minutes later, camped out in Coach Lucas's office near the gymnasium. The two of them were hunched over the coach's desk whispering back and forth like they were telling dirty jokes. Roy got up as soon as I came in. "Just in time." "For what?" He held up a couple of key rings and said, "Hide-and-seek." Oooo...kay. About face, out of there. "I thought we were supposed to stake out the teachers," I said, wondering if I should tell Roy about the visit from Skin Head and Bull Neck. I decided to hold off seeing as, for the time being at least, it seemed like newspaper business and none of Roy's business. "Is that still the plan? I mean, they aren't supposed to be abducted until tomorrow." "I know that," he said, "but I've got two men in plain clothes stationed outside their classrooms today, just in case. My guess is that it won't happen here, however." I nodded. "Makes sense. If I were a kidnapper, I wouldn't be doing it in front of dozens of people." "My men will escort them home after school, and that's where we'll be waiting. I figured we'd check out the houses beforehand." We walked into the sunshine as Roy continued. "I've said all along that one of those futuristic bastards has been among us the whole time. This might be the opportunity to get a look at him." "They just took twelve more people, Roy. There could be more than one." Roy nodded. "Could be, and we're gonna have eyes on those teachers twenty-four-seven until something happens," he said as we hopped into his smelly truck. Roy was determined to make his plan work. Having kept the future newspaper a secret had prevented the predictable three-ring enforcement agency circus that would have resulted had its existence been revealed, but I had no clue as to whether Roy and his men by themselves had a chance of stopping anything that was destined to happen. Hell, the government knew about the NASA abductions—and possibly a shitload more, for all we knew—and they hadn't done a damned thing to avoid Lost Friday, or the twelve other abductions that had just taken place. Of course, the assumption was that they would have tried to prevent the abductions if they could have. Maybe that was a big assumption. Roy zigged and zagged through the streets, hitting a huge pothole as he turned onto Nassau Street, which was out by the water tower on the north side of town. One of Roy's big striper lures dropped down off the visor in front of me as we hit the pothole, its razor-sharp hooks snagging on my pants and digging into the skin beneath. "Oow! Shit!" Ignoring me, Roy said absently, "I just wish I had a better story to plant with those teachers when they go bye-bye." "I thought you had a handle on that?" I said as I yanked the hook from my thigh. A blood spot immediately began soaking through my khakis. "Damn it, this was a perfectly good pair of pants." I chewed on Roy's last comment for a moment, and said, "I might have something for you. I know it would get my attention if I were one of the bad guys." "What?" Roy asked as we pulled into a driveway. Given the blue birdbath, I figured it was Allison Kovar's house. "Tell Kovar and Reemer to tell the kidnappers that we know about the president." Roy turned. "What about the president?" "Nothing. Just trying to figure out a way to mess with their heads." Right, I thought as Roy got out of the truck and pulled Kovar's keys from his front pocket.

* * * * *

The check of Allison Kovar's house was uneventful. The house was clean, simple, and functional, the most memorable part being her office where an entire wall was covered with snapshots of her with students. There had to be hundreds of pictures there. Clearly, to Allison Kovar teaching math was more than just a job. Roy called the station and said to get someone out there right away to sit on the scene. Then, he said to have another officer meet him at Reemer's house to do the same thing there. It was an all-hands-on-deck situation for Roy's guys, and I imagine they told their loved ones not to expect them home for dinner for a few days. "Kovar and Reemer must be on pins-and-needles," I said as we headed over to Reemer's house. "I think telling them about that future newspaper was a mistake," Roy responded. "Putting them through that kind of anxiety, and all. Then again, not warning them wouldn't have been good either." Roy looked at me. "What do you think?" "I think if you knew, and you didn't tell me, I'd be kind of pissed," I said, wondering about my own solo abduction five days earlier. Is it possible that Roy knew about that as well? I checked him out, trying to detect what was behind his eyes. "What are you looking at?" I was annoying him. I turned away, and that's when I saw her. I mean, I'm sure it was her—the babe from the diner, that is, the real live Barbie doll with the religious jacket. I read somewhere that if Barbie were a real live woman, her measurements would be 38-18-34, and this chick.... Wait a minute. Duh! My notes. One of the entries I'd put there in code was _Barbie_. Could it be? That would shoot the theory that I'd been abducted into the future all to hell—or would it? Roy felt certain that one or more of the terrorists was among us; could she be the one who dropped the future newspaper on Roy's doorstep? Could this set of tits-on-a-stick be from the future? I watched as she jogged toward us on the opposite side of the road. She was wearing spandex—not all that unusual for a serious runner—and from the looks of her lower body, it wasn't difficult to imagine that this chick had some greyhound in her. Up top, she was wearing a loose-fitting windbreaker, but despite the loose fit she was still nipples-to-the-wind with those big guns of hers forging ahead like heat-seeking missiles. "Check this out," I said, motioning toward her. Roy had been focused on me, wondering why I'd been eyeballing him, I guess. We were just coming up on her now, about thirty yards away. "I don't remember anyone new moving into town," he said. Roy would have known if a stray cat had wandered across the boro limits during the last six days. "Maybe she's visiting someone," I said as she jogged by. I noticed that she kept her eyes on us as we passed. Roy let off the gas, and the truck's engine burbled as we coasted. "None of the checkpoint logs showed any visitors being escorted through by residents." He stepped on the brake and the old truck squealed to a stop. "Where is she?" he asked, craning to get a different angle on his driver's side mirror. I mean, we'd just passed her. I turned and scoped out the landscape through the back window. She was gone—as in _ffffhhhttt!_ Where the hell did she go? "Maybe she ducked into the woods," I said, answering my own question. Roy yanked the wheel and did a quick three-point turn. "No way," he said, indicating the thick brush and the four-foot-deep drainage ditch that bordered the road. "Only a rabbit could penetrate brush like that." Roy was right. It was like she saw us, and vaporized. "How far are we from Reemer's house?" The thought must have dawned on Roy at the same time. "No more than a mile up the road," he said, yanking the wheel again. We were in an undeveloped corner of Sea Beach, off the water, where what was once ocean floor was now a tangled forest of wild blueberry bushes and scruffy pine trees. "Do you think it's possible?" I asked. "I know every other house along here. I don't imagine she was visiting any of those families." I knew exactly what he meant. The odds of a chick like that having anything to do with some of the poor old-timers who lived in this part of the boro—the ones who'd been living in the three-room shacks along the old state roads for forty years, the ones who thought teeth were optional equipment—those odds were way below slim. As such, the supposition that she'd just come from Reemer's place wasn't much of a stretch. Roy eased the truck back onto the roadway, and that's when I saw it, it being what looked to be a large, white rock right in the middle of the drainage ditch we'd just passed. What the...? It turned out not to be a rock at all, however. Getting out of the truck, Roy and I both approached, seeing the cloud that came off it like gas on dry ice. It kind of hissed at us as we approached. I touched Roy on the shoulder. "Frozen helium?" "I can feel the cold radiating off it from here," Roy commented, still several yards away. There was no doubt now. We both hightailed it back to the truck, and Roy swerved through the sandy curves toward Reemer's house, which we knew was a small custom-built A-frame purposely located in this isolated part of town. On the way, he used his radio to call the station to see if the officers he'd dispatched to Kovar's house had gotten there yet. Evidently not. "Find them," he barked loudly, "and tell them to call me yesterday." He clicked off. "I don't know what we're gonna find when we get there," he hollered, gunning the old F-150 for all it was worth, "but she sure-as-shit was one of them. Can you give me a detailed description, Johnny? I only saw her for a couple of seconds." I could, of course, but I never got to give it to him, and we never made it to Reemer's house. At least I didn't. I don't know what the fuck happened to Roy.

Chapter 19... New Friends

They were across the room, facing the other way, and they were talking real low the way people talk inside a funeral parlor. One of them turned, and I closed my eyes and played dead. The last thing I remembered was bouncing down a back road inside Roy's musty truck, headed toward Scott Reemer's house. Wait, and the block of frozen helium: I remembered that, too, and I said, "Shit." I had a feeling I knew where I was. They must have heard me because, even with my eyes closed, I sensed them coming up to me. "Can you hear me, Mister Pappas?" My eyes boinged open, and I found myself looking up at two dark and bottomless stares. "Take your time, Mister Pappas. We'll wait for you." The guy doing the talking was on the small side, stubble like black wire covering a thin jaw, his skin taught so that I could see jaw muscles rippling beneath it. The other guy had a dark complexion, more than olive, less than African, Indian I'd say, maybe Pakistani, straight hair. "Where am I?" I asked for lack of a better question. The dark-skinned one said, "You are in Sea Beach, Mister Pappas. The same place you've always been." "But I'm 190 years older, aren't I?" "In a way, yes." The way my body felt, it was like I'd been sleeping on a board that whole 190 years. The two guys hovered over me, and, strangely, I wondered why I was so important that two of them had to call me Mister Pappas and wait for me to wake up. Both their accents were off center, more British than American, hints of English being a second language. The one with the razor jaw asked, "Are you coherent?" I took a second, or maybe I took a week; I don't know, this time thing was freaking me out. "Why do I keep falling asleep?" I asked, not really with it. I looked around, noting that I was in what looked to be a hotel room, or something. I mean, it looked normal enough, except that I'd never seen chairs shaped like that before. And the dresser—I guess it was a dresser—looked like it was just drawer fronts built right into the wall. I didn't see any windows, so for all I know I could have been inside a mountain. The dark one replied, "Sometimes it takes a while for one to regain consciousness due to the oxygen deprivation during teleportation. It has to do with the helium, you see." I guess he saw my confusion because he went on, "The way the time travel device works is that it creates a conduit across time dimensions by freezing atoms inside a designated pathway, a tunnel, if you will. Everything inside the conduit is frozen and condensed, creating an absolute vacuum. Even the air is frozen." "You mean there is no air." "Correct, Mister Pappas. There is nothing, and where there is nothing, there is only time." I thought I understood. "Hence, the blocks of frozen helium where people have been sucked away," I croaked. I wondered if my notepad was nearby. Both men smiled. "Helium is only the freezing agent," the dark-skinned one said. "When you are looking at one of those blocks, you are looking at frozen history, air that perhaps Alexander The Great could have been breathing." No wonder I smelled camel shit, I thought sarcastically. "What's that odor?" "Just as we are bothered by the smell of burning fossil fuels that hang in the air in your time, so, too, are you bothered by the ever-present smell of our food production plants. We do not notice it, you see." No, I didn't see. I got into a sitting position, and suddenly I had a million questions. I started with, "Who the hell are you guys?" The smaller guy must not have liked my tone because his jaw muscles started working again. Yeah, well, I didn't like getting snatched off the face of the Earth, I mean, snatched off the face of... whatever... without anyone asking me if I wanted to go, so fuck him. "My name is Vishal," the dark-skinned one said. "Vishal Rawan. This is Aryeh Caleb." I noticed that Vishal had a hand on Aryeh's arm as if he was holding him back. I took a second to determine if I wanted to continue being an asshole with these guys, then I locked eyes with Aryeh. Not. "So are you guys, like, travel agents or something?" I couldn't help it. I have this wise-ass gene that kicks in whenever I get really pissed off. "We are government agents," Vishal replied. "Like, what, CIA?" Aryeh let out a disdainful little snort and took a seat, content to let Vishal deal with me, apparently. "I am with the ICTO. Aryeh is Mossad." Mossad, I knew. Nasty little fuckers. I think their motto was: _Fuck with us, and die._ Then, I did the math. If the year was indeed 2194, they'd been nasty little fuckers for well over two hundred years now. I swung my eyes away from Aryeh, who was giving me the heebie-jeebies. "ICTO. What is that, American?" "ICTO is not affiliated with any particular government, Mister Pappas. It is the outgrowth of what was in your United States the Department of Homeland Security. You see, late in the twenty-first century, virtually paralyzed by bureaucratic in-fighting, the entire intelligence and security functions of the United States were reorganized into two agencies: the CIA, which retained its name, but changed its function, and the ICTO, International Counter Terrorist Organization." "U-h-h-h-h-huh," I said. "The CIA continued to exist, but strictly as a technical organization, doing exactly what its name implied: gathering and analyzing intelligence. The ICTO did everything else." I took _everything else_ to mean reducing the population of the planet. I got off the bed, finding that I had some trouble maintaining my balance. "Why international?" I asked as I walked around slowly. Vishal seemed to struggle with the thought. "We rented out," he finally said. "Rented out, as in to other governments?" "Precisely. You see, by the end of the twenty-first century, the countries of the world could barely manage with simply keeping their populations fed. Luxuries like armies were for the wealthy countries, and, as such, those countries discovered they could outsource their services to raise money and help with their own population pressures. Now, almost at the end of the twenty-second century, the pressure is even worse. For most nations, the social costs of population maintenance such as food production, education, health care, and entertainment are so burdensome that many governmental and security functions have to be obtained from one of the six security organizations around the world." Several thoughts were banging around inside my head. "Entertainment?" "A massive expense. Since most mundane tasks are automated, not everyone works, Mister Pappas. In many countries, almost half the population is unemployed. Something has to be done to keep the people occupied." "What exactly is the population?" I asked. Aryeh was fidgeting, like he had an execution to go to, or something. "Of the world, approximately forty-seven billion, and it is increasing at the rate of about one billion per year despite our best efforts at controlling the numbers." I stopped in my tracks, which wasn't difficult seeing as my feet never broke contact with the floor. Forty-seven billion? Geez. What was it back in my time? Six billion? And more than two billion of that was in China and India. "I don't understand. How can—" "Several reasons," Vishal replied, anticipating my question. "Primarily, people are simply living longer. The average life span is now well over one hundred years." "Even in the underdeveloped countries?" "There are no underdeveloped countries. Technology is instantaneous. Information spreads at an incredible rate. There are people in every country capable of understanding it, and using it, almost as soon as discoveries are made. Combined with even a controlled birth rate, our numbers continue to increase at a staggering pace. The physical, social, and economic strain on the planet is enormous." "What about, like, colonizing other planets, or something." Vishal chuckled, and I wondered if I'd said something funny. "An obvious solution, but not an easy one. There are several interplanetary colonies, but those can accommodate only about a hundred million people, nowhere near enough to relieve the pressure on the planet." Okay, so the future was no bed of roses, but I started thinking about what all that had to do with David Robelle, the scientists, _me_ , and all the other poor slobs who were joining this futuristic party without having RSVP'd. So, I asked. Trying to answer my question, Vishal said, "Perhaps the name of our organization has escaped you." _That_ was condescending. "No, _Vishal_ , it hasn't. I simply haven't gotten around to asking about it yet." "You're a spirited fellow, aren't you?" That was one way of putting it. I could see Aryeh still wasn't buying my act. Yeah, well, they invited me to this shindig, which meant they wanted something. "You said something about security organizations. What is that, like rent-a-cop, or something?" Aryeh let out another scornful huff, and I figured I was getting to the end of my rope with him. Vishal said, "You should not insult the capability of these forces until you know something about them, Mister Pappas." In other words: _shut-the-fuck-up before Aryeh eats you_. I continued, "So, essentially you're talking about six armies that hire themselves out—" "As needed," Vishal interjected. "They maintain constant overt and covert intelligence, protection, and combat units that can be brought in when called for by the client nation, enabling most governments on the planet to concentrate on their food and population issues." Outsourced armies whose employees killed each other off? Hmmm. I guessed it could work. All I know is that the taxes that came out of my paycheck on a regular basis were enough to choke a horse, and unemployment was, what? Six percent, as opposed to fifty percent? Fathoming the cost of maintaining order and social welfare costs for forty-seven billion was not a concept that came to me right then. "What's the population of the United States?" I asked. "Which part?" "What do you mean, which part? You know, the fifty states." "There are fifty-seven states now, but to answer your question, there are a little over eleven billion people in the United States." Eleven _billion?_ Holy.... "How many people live in Sea Beach?" I asked tentatively, wondering if Vishal actually knew. Vishal walked to a panel on the wall that turned into a computer screen as he approached. There was no keyboard, or touch pad, of any sort. He simply spoke to the thing, and the answer appeared instantaneously, just like the words from David Robelle's ransom note: 247,184. I noticed that the last digit changed to a 5 as he stood there. I about choked. In Sea Beach? Not possible. I mean, you could walk from one end of town to the other in less than an hour. "How many people live in Manhattan?" I asked. Answer: 22,985,221. In Manhattan alone? "How about all of New York City?" Vishal was only too happy to amuse me. Answer: 63,999,044. I sat down. There were almost sixty-four million people living in New York City. Goddamn. I bet the subways were really crowded. Vishal said, "It looks like you're starting to get the picture." Indeed, I was. To say that the implications were enormous would be like saying... what? I couldn't even think of a comparison. "Okay boys," I said, "Let's cut to the chase. Why am I here? And no bullshit, okay? I'm good at bullshit." Vishal cut a look at Aryeh, who decided to rejoin the conversation. He had to be almost a foot shorter than Vishal, but if he and Vishal were two dogs in a dogfight, my money would have been on him. Aryeh said, "My name is Aryeh Caleb. I am Mossad." "Get to the point, Sparky." "I am a terrorist killer, Mister Pappas, and I want you to be a terrorist killer, too." All of a sudden, I wasn't such a wise-ass. "David Robelle and the scientists who were abducted from your time are being held by the Red Diamond." Hello, I thought. "The Red Diamond is one of the six security forces Vishal has described, but they go much further than protection." Aryeh paused for a second, trying to see what was in my eyes. "Go on," I said, hoping there wasn't anything there besides curiosity. If I had a B.S. in detecting b-s, this guy must have had a Ph.D. "Part of their service is population control." "Population control, how?" Aryeh's eyes narrowed. "They don't do it by prevention." I think I was starting to get the picture. The swastika and a field of red—a Red Diamond. _Ding-dong!_ "Genocide?" "In a big way, Mister Pappas. Millions and millions of people, most of them decreed to be of lesser social value." "Decreed by whom?" "By them. They consider themselves superior." Now I understood the Mossad connection. "What does that have to do with David Robelle and the others, or me?" "The ultimate goal of the Red Diamond is domination. In essence, the Red Diamond has taken over their client countries and is governing their affairs beyond the scope of law and order and national defense." Okay, now I was hooked. "So?" Aryeh glanced at Vishal, who nodded. "Some time ago, the Red Diamond managed to steal one of our ITDs." "What's an ITD?" "Intertime Device, the very device that brought you here." My eyebrows knitted. "A time machine." "It's not a machine, exactly, but that's not important now. The point is that the Red Diamond managed to get hold of one of the devices, and has been using it to go back in time and affect history." Aryeh let that sit for a second. "Going back in time and affecting history has been declared illegal, Mister Pappas, specifically for the reason that the Red Diamond is doing it. By intervening in past events, the course of history can be changed, much like changing the course of a river by putting up a dam, or destroying a dam, if you follow my meaning." "But, you still use the devices," I concluded. "In the past, we used them to control aggression. For many years in the middle of this century, we sent operatives back in time to spoil the efforts of despots and dictators around the world. We soon put a stop to that practice, however." "You're talking about assassination," I said bluntly. Again, Aryeh's eyes narrowed, and he bristled at what I said. I wasn't good with this guy. "It wasn't what you're suggesting, Mister Pappas. Most often, we attempted to affect the early influences in a dictator's life: teachers, schooling, friends, things that could have affected an outcome. It was seldom about death." "You said you stopped. Why was that?" "Because the linkages were too hard to control. We had situations where entire generations disappeared from the present, where bloodlines ceased to exist. Sometimes situations were altered so that new situations appeared, situations we were totally unprepared to deal with so that we had to go back and try to re-affect history again. The lines between democracy and totalitarianism became blurred, and we had a hard time discerning which side of the line we were on. We discovered that history is a complicated phenomenon, one better left to develop on its own. Once tampered with, it is almost impossible to restore, and just as impossible to predict." "So, you never controlled your enemies." "Oh, many times we did, but new enemies were created. That lesson cost millions of lives, both in terms of current lives lost, or lives eliminated before even having had a chance to spawn. It's a mistake we can't let happen again." Aryeh certainly seemed passionate, but that was no surprise. As an organization, Mossad was known for its fervor, even in my time. The way he'd just described things, the Holocaust was pep rally compared to what was happening now. "But you continued to hold on to the devices," I surmised. "We felt we had to," Vishal responded, getting back into the conversation. "It was too important a capability to destroy forever, and, properly controlled, we felt it could help prevent some catastrophic situation that could someday befall us." "Can you go forward in time?" I asked curiously. "We haven't yet, but we could if we had a DNA sample from the future to lock-on to. The devices are DNA-controlled and targeted, you see, as are many devices in this time. We lock-on to a preprogrammed DNA chip that we create from someone's body, and reassemble that person's atoms at the other end of the wormhole. If our targeted DNA—the person—was holding on to another person, both could travel the wormhole at the same time. We've had as many as a dozen people travel in one chain event." "So, someone held on to me?" I asked, getting an impression of what happened during one of my previous trips. "Someone did," Vishal answered, "although now you are equipped with a DNA chip that we can lock-on to." Equipped? Like, equipped where? Probably somewhere where no one would find it, which meant that it was probably on my pecker, or something. I shot Vishal an angry glare, but it didn't seem to bother him. Getting back to the Red Diamond, I said, "So these Red Diamond dudes snatched one of your time machines, and now they want to go back in time and screw around with history so they can, what, take over the world?" Vishal and Aryeh both smiled. "In a nutshell, yes," said Vishal. "You have a way with words, Mister Pappas." Yeah, tell that to Romano, I thought. "Why don't these Red Diamond guys dismantle the one machine they have, and duplicate the technology?" "The ITDs are programmed to self-destruct if someone tampers with them," Vishal answered. "That's done specifically to prevent what we're talking about. The Red Diamond abducted David Robelle and the scientists in order to gain the technology in that manner, without risking their only device." "You mean, David Robelle invented time travel?" I asked incredulously. "David Robelle is the physicist who created the mathematical formulas that proved time travel was possible. Those proofs eventually led to other inventions, which in turn led to the invention of ITDs, but, in essence, it started with David Robelle and those scientists." "Wait a minute," I said, thinking the phrase suddenly had new meaning to me. "David and the scientists were taken by the Red Diamond, and you guys.... What's the name of your club again?" "The ICTO." "Right. Do you have, like, a secret handshake or anything?" They didn't laugh. "Anyway, you guys took me. Who took 3,000 people on Lost Friday?" "Actually, it's 2,880," Vishal replied, "and that was us, as well. It was quite a large operation, but one that we had to execute. Our mission was to do a memory scan on everyone to see if they knew of David's work, or, if they knew about the Red Diamond. If anyone did, that would be the person we were looking for. You see, we were searching for the Red Diamond operative who we knew was among you planning to kidnap David." Right. The scientists had been taken before that, I remembered. "I assume by the fact that you returned everyone, that you didn't find your man." "Almost everyone," Vishal replied. "The brain scans revealed psychopathic tendencies on three individuals that we didn't return. In our time, it's against the law to return individuals to society once homicidal memories are discovered." The three missing prisoners, I concluded immediately. "So, they're still here." "We're holding them until we can figure out what to do with them," Vishal answered. "And, no, we didn't find our woman. The Red Diamond infiltrator is female." "What about the twelve other people who were taken again just the other day." "They were taken by the Red Diamond." "A jury, right? They are a jury of some type." "Very good, Mister Pappas." I smiled. I was a genius. "Who's on trial?" I asked. Vishal said, "David Robelle. He's not cooperating, and he's about to be tried and convicted by a jury of his peers." "On what charges?" "The Red Diamond is calling it crimes against humanity, but it doesn't really matter. They're trumped up charges, a practice the Red Diamond uses regularly to detain or eliminate individuals who won't cooperate with them. It's all a sham, of course, but in its own eyes it gives the Red Diamond a façade of legitimacy." "What if the jury doesn't convict him?" "That won't happen. Jurors that don't cooperate have been known to disappear after their trials have concluded." I thought, _fuckin' A_. This was all too unreal. But I still needed to know what this had to do with me. "You ask a lot of questions," Vishal said when I asked. "Yeah, well, that's my job." "Get some sleep, if you can. We will talk again in the morning." One question I didn't ask was what that Red Diamond operative looked like. I bet I could describe her pretty well.

Chapter 20... Through The Front Door

I was already awake when Vishal came for me. "For you," he said, handing me a tray. It was eggs and toast. I took the fork—interesting, I thought, something that hadn't changed in hundreds of years—and poked at the eggs. I decided to try the coffee first. Hmmm, not bad. "Real eggs?" I said. "I didn't think you'd like our normal breakfast chow." Breakfast chow? I wondered if Vishal was pulling my leg on that. I ate, and went into the bathroom for the first time, wondering, oddly, if anything would be different there. There was no toothpaste, I discovered, and Vishal had to explain how to put this probe thing into my mouth. "It loosens plaque with ultra sound," he informed me. Okay. The shower was automatic and clicked off before I was finished washing my johnson. Admittedly, I spend a lot of time doing that in the shower, but hey, washing something that big takes some time. I dressed in my same clothes, and Vishal escorted me into what was Sea Beach, New Jersey, October 2nd, 2194. I remembered it was the same day Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer were supposed to show up. In this Sea Beach, there were no weather-beaten bungalows, no sleepy restaurants, or cluttered tackle shops, just building after building dominating the street I was on, which was... what? I didn't see a sign. To say everything looked institutional would be putting it mildly, but how else could you jam a quarter-of-a-million people into a town the size of Sea Beach? Surprisingly, though, there weren't many of them on the street, which didn't look much like a street in the context of what I knew one to look like. The buildings had almost no windows, and the exteriors were some kind of gray composite stuff. I spotted a few vehicles, and they didn't have any wheels, but skids, like those on a helicopter. There weren't many of them either, considering the number of people that had to get around. I found out why a second later, when, from around the corner, a chain of other, much larger vehicles _zoomed_ down the middle of the street, floating about six inches off the ground. "Magnetic force fields," Vishal explained, sensing my curiosity. "One force field comes from the vehicle, the other from a track buried in the street. One track repels, and the other attracts in the opposite direction, keeping the vehicles from veering off line." I guess that made sense. The train stopped, and what seemed like a thousand people got out and scooted into the buildings, while another thousand scooted out from the buildings and took their place. A second later the doors closed and, _zoom_ , the train hauled off without a sound. "How come there are so few people out there?" I asked. "And why did everyone move so fast to and from the buildings." Vishal pointed at the sky. "We have hardly any ozone layer. It can be very dangerous some days, and people move quickly to and from their living spaces unless they are protected. On days where we have some protection from the clouds, the hurried pace is mostly out of habit. No ozone layer: that also explained the lack of windows on the buildings. "I hope you don't sunburn easily," Vishal said. "I grew up on the Jersey Shore when it was really a shore. Suntan is my middle name." "You should still be careful," Vishal warned. "People have been known to end up in the hospital after only an hour of direct sunlight." He went on to explain that transportation was provided free of charge by the government, and trains like the one I'd just seen ran constantly and connected to literally everywhere. In some places, they traveled hundreds of miles per hour, he said, along what had been the interstate highways of the twentieth century. Private vehicles like the one sitting nearby were for government officials, security, or law enforcement personnel. "Don't people get run over with these trains moving so fast?" "Other force fields act as barriers and keep people away from the track," Vishal explained. "Shall we?" He indicated our waiting ride. "The dome will filter any ultraviolet rays." Moments later, we floated towards the middle of the street and waited until an on-board readout indicated an opening in the force field that guarded the magnetic track. We eased through the unseen opening, and, once positioned, the vehicle accelerated at an amazing pace. We sailed along, tilting to accommodate the centrifugal force, and Vishal described how all the buildings I was looking at were sealed residence buildings, where air and water were manufactured inside. Such was the case in most buildings; even the old ones were retrofitted. "Is there still a boardwalk?" I asked. I'd spent plenty of days under the sun and nights under the stars there, and what was such a simple pleasure suddenly became a nostalgic memory. Vishal said, "I will take you there." We pulled off the track and made our way down a side street named Beach Street, a name I didn't recognize from 190 years ago. It was hardly an apt description, however, because the beach was just another building—a food processing plant, which sucked in rivers of ocean water and plucked out sea life to be processed into protein for the masses. The oceans had been turned in to massive fish farms, I learned, with processed organic material—including human bodies—going in as fish food to support the stocks of fish needed to feed the incredible number of people that occupied the Earth. There was virtually no boardwalk, and not much of a beach, either. There was no use for one. Between the ozone problem, and the need to occupy every inch of open space with shelter, or a food production plant, humans got their leisure indoors through programmed simulators, the experience from which supposedly couldn't be discerned from actually having lived the event, I was told. The air next to the processing plant stunk, and I felt sad.

* * * * *

"Let me get this straight. You have intelligence equipment that lets you know everything that's going on, and you can't stop them?" "The Red Diamond is very powerful. Thus far, we've not been able to convince any of the other five security organizations to take on the job of resisting them." "Why not?" "It would bankrupt them." This, I thought to myself, was hard to believe, as was the supposed ICTO division headquarters I was looking at. I mean, it was one room, and a couple of guys. "This is it?" I said. Vishal took my incredulity in stride. "Computers do most of the intelligence gathering and analysis. We have dozens of outposts like this one around the world that monitor the activities of the other five security agencies." "Dozens? And that's enough to tell you what _everyone_ is doing?" "It is, but they are aware of our activities as well. All communications are eventually traced in this time, Mister Pappas. Remaining small is the only way we can stay ahead of them." "They know you're spying on them?" "Of course, but we have detection programs as well. Once we detect that their detection programs have detected us, we put another surveillance station online and destroy the one that's been detected." "So you're like a bunny rabbit running from a grizzly." Vishal shook his head. "What is a bunny rabbit?" I was starting to get the picture. No one could do anything without the other side, or sides, knowing all about it, so no one did anything. That, and morality had turned into a business, evidently. "What about the genocide thing?" "As awful as that is, no one is willing to sacrifice billions of lives to save a few million." Well, _that_ hadn't changed. I remembered plenty of situations where oppressive governments killed off a few thousand at a time and no one did a damned thing to stop it except when George W. put his nuts on the line and took out Saddam, and even that was motivated by a lot more than simple humanitarianism. That move as well almost bankrupted the country, just like what Vishal was describing now, but the numbers were incredibly different. I still hadn't found out what all this had to do with me, however. I mean, being kidnapped against my will, and getting zapped 190 years into the future wasn't on my agenda, and I really didn't like people fucking with my head. Just ask Romano. "How do you plan on stopping the Red Diamond?" I asked bluntly. "Ah. That's where you come in."

* * * * *

"Let me make sure I understand. You want _me_ to go back to destroy the Red Diamond." Vishal said, "Precisely." All right, I was starting to get more than a little spooked out now. A week ago I was dreaming about the stripper from Murph's bachelor party. Now, I had a futuristic James Bond trying to convince me to stop an army of millions, or possibly billions, of genocidal terrorists, and it was no dream. At least I didn't think it was. I pinched myself to make sure. I said, "I think I could use some of Demetrius's motor oil coffee." "Let's go, then," Vishal responded. "It's not far from here." I thought: the diner is still here? We walked from the ICTO office into what was a combination of the Mall of America and Bourbon Street. The streets had gone underground, evidently, the buildings above ground connected to walkways that ran beneath them. Down here, the milling throngs more than made up for the people I'd not seen earlier. It was Sea Beach in July, with Jersey Shore party animals running wild. I mean, there were people everywhere, coming and going in endless groups, made up of every conceivable racial configuration. I saw black people with slanted eyes, white people that had to be seven feet tall, tiny Mexican-looking people with arms that hung down to their knees—and Barbies, all over the place, 38-18-34 Amazons whose boobs reached their destination a minute before the rest of their bodies did. I said, "This looks like the bar scene in _Star Wars_." Vishal said, " _Star Wars_?" I just shook my head. "Why is everyone looking at me?" I asked as we traipsed along. I mean, I was really getting the evil eye. A couple of hairy albino-looking motherfuckers looked especially menacing. "It's your clothes." Undeniably, khaki pants and a button-down shirt in this environment might as well have been from Mars. I retracted the thought, thinking it probably wasn't all that farfetched. "Hungry looking bastards," I said to Vishal, wondering why I traveled through time with my clothes on as opposed to being naked. "You have good instincts, Mister Pappas. Street people, dangerous and aggressive; don't get caught alone with them." That's the first time I noticed what was on Vishal's hip when he made a show of parting his loose-fitting jacket and letting the grown-up white mice get a good look. "Is that a Glock?" I asked lowly as we passed a trio of young Barbies who looked like they were growing into their bras. "Indeed it is," Vishal answered. "The actual weapon is only slightly more advanced than in your time; the difference is in the ammunition. It can fire anything from nerve bullets, to stun tablets, to rounds that can pierce an armored vehicle." He indicated the albinos. "They now know you're with me." I took that to mean that getting Mirandized in this day and age meant: _You have the right to remain the fuck away from me—or else._ We came to a sleazy side street and took a left, moving along with the action on what could have been a street in any major city in America. Seedy shops lined the street, interspersed by stinky doorways that led to places I didn't want to think about. I would never have imagined that the streets of Sea Beach at the end of the twenty-second century would smell like the bathrooms at the Vince Lombardi rest stop on the Jersey turnpike after a Giants game. Suddenly, it was there: Demetrius's Diner. The similarity was only in the name, however—until we ordered the coffee. It still came in a big, heavy mug that looked like it had gotten caught in a sandstorm, and it could still make your pecker shrivel. "Living in the year 2194 sounds kind of dangerous," I said, grimacing as I swallowed some bitter brew. "It can be," Vishal replied. "A third of the people you saw out there have no regular home. With so many idle hands, you can imagine the crime rate." "Drugs?" "A massive problem. The walled cities are overflowing." "Walled cities?" "Drug users are sent there to fend for themselves. It's usually a short stay." I didn't think I needed to know any more about the walled cities right then. Vishal stared blankly as he sipped his coffee. He detected my gaze, and said, "Life isn't worth much here, Mister Pappas. It's gotten to the point where many people feel sadness when a child is born because they know it will lead a long and miserable life." He looked at me through glassy eyes, and added, "But there has to be a better way than genocide." That brought me back to where we'd started the conversation. "If you need to stop the Red Diamond, why don't you go back in time and do it yourself?" "As we explained, one reason is that it's illegal. Another is that the Red Diamond has marked both Aryeh and myself for deletion. If we step outside Sea Beach, there's a strong probability that we won't come back. However, there's another, more important reason why we think you'll help us." I sipped more coffee, and said, "I'm a reporter, not a terrorist fighter." "Exactly, and it was two months to the day after Lost Friday that you broke the story that disgraced the government of the United States, and led to your own death." Okay. That got my attention. "We figured you'd work with us if we could help you avoid that piece of history."

Chapter 21... A Second Chance At Life

I put down my mug, and said, "You're not kidding, are you?" Two months to the day, would have made it the day after Thanksgiving. "I must have broken one hell of a story." "You revealed that officials of your own government were collaborating with the Red Diamond to alter historical events." Somehow, I wasn't surprised. "When did I... you know." "You met your demise less than a month later." _Demise_ : what an ugly fucking word. "I need some air." Outside, I mean, back in the underground, I found a bench, and tried a couple of deep breaths. I might as well have been sucking in flames. _Klong... klong... klong_ : my heart was beating like a death knell at a funeral march. I tried to think things through, not weighing my options, but wondering if I had any. "How did it happen?" I asked as Vishal sat next to me. "The records show that you were coming back from a gathering sponsored by your work establishment...." Christmas party, I thought instantly. "... when your vehicle veered from its path and plummeted into deep water. Two of your associates perished with you." Two of my associates. "That wouldn't have been Paul Romano and Kelli Remington, would it?" "Yes, I believe it was," Vishal verified. I stood and tried to ease the swirling sensation that had suddenly taken me over. "I assume it was no accident?" "Hardly. Your deaths were eventually traced to two government security agents." _Fuckin' A_. Bull Neck and Skin Head suddenly appeared in my mind's eye. "They confessed to the crime, as well as revealing who gave the order to carry it out." I could feel my fingers turning into icicles. "Dirty government agents confessing? What was that all about?" "I thought you'd ask," Vishal replied. "The historical information shows that a police officer named Mulroney was instrumental in obtaining the confessions after your investigation incriminated certain government officials for cooperating with the Red Diamond. Those officials included the president himself, who eventually committed suicide before going on trial for having knowledge of the plan for your elimination, and doing nothing to stop it. Although it was never stated directly, the implication from other testimony, and other historical reports, are that the president may have issued the order himself. The visual played like a movie inside my head, and I pictured Roy in a dark room mashing fingers with a hammer until he got his confession. "Why did the president want me dead?" "As I said, you and your associates discovered that he'd been compromised, and he was trying to stop the story that implicated him from coming out." _Fuckin' A_. I could only imagine the headline. "How was he compromised?" "In exchange for making certain decisions, and allowing the Red Diamond to meddle in historical occurrences, the Red Diamond agreed to perpetuate his term of office." "But, legally he could only be president for eight years." "Unless the law was amended for special circumstances. It was part of the plan." "How could that happen? Didn't you say the Red Diamond only had one of those time travel things?" Vishal's eyes darted past me and captured something there. He got up, and indicated we should walk as we talked. "You're quite astute, Mister Pappas. Undeniably, one operative could not go back and have access to the highest office in the world, but one operative could certainly make the president aware of historical events before they happened." Copies of future newspapers, I thought instantly. It was all starting to fall into place. "Surely, you can see the political, and economic, advantages of such knowledge," Vishal added. "You mean like getting rid of political rivals before they had a chance to make their mark." "Precisely." Suddenly, Vishal took my arm and pulled me into a doorway. "It is not safe on the street, Mister Pappas. The Red Diamond is everywhere."

* * * * *

I took me some time to collect my thoughts. "So, if I stop the invention of time travel from happening, what happens to David Robelle, the scientists, and all the other people who've already been abducted?" We were back inside ICTO headquarters, in an office this time—Vishal's office, I assumed—which really didn't look much different than any other office I'd ever seen, except that things like computers, and printers, and other office paraphernalia simply weren't present. Control panels were built into the walls, and the only use for furniture was for sitting, and not as a place to put paper. There was no paper, or pencils, or pens, anywhere. Written information just appeared, like David Robelle's ransom note, and then disappeared when no longer needed. Cool technology, I thought, except that newspapers had obviously seen their day. Reporters' jobs in the year 2194 were probably way different, I thought. Vishal weighed his answer carefully. "That depends on whether you stop the invention before, or after, the abductions. If it happens before, they'll never get here. If it happens afterwards, we won't have the ability to return them." "Because you will no longer have the technology." "Correct. We have the same risk at this end. Anyone who has traveled into the past could get caught there." By comparison, that would be like me getting caught in revolutionary era America and wiping my ass with corncobs. Ugh. That meant that any intervention had to happen pre-September 24th if David was to stay in twenty-first century Sea Beach, and even before that in order to avoid the scientists from being trapped in the future. Thing was, we had no idea how far back the abductions went, unless Remington had zeroed in on it, which, _hello_ , she had! She'd told me that. I also remembered, now, that she was supposed to have met with Corvissi yesterday—I mean, yesterday minus 190 years—but, knowing what I knew now, I needed to move her off that assignment, just as I'd anticipated. The story had always been the president, just like my instincts told me from the very beginning when he tried to soft-sell Roy and me into cooperating with the kidnappers. But how was I going to prove he was dirty? And what about David Robelle? Clearly, the easiest way to stop David from making his discovery was to prevent him from ever being born, but, ethically, I saw Vishal's point. There was a certain morality that went along with the ability to travel through time, and going back and preventing an existing life from happening could easily be construed as a form of murder. God, how complicated things could become; I mean, _had_ become; I mean, _would_ become. Shit! "I need to get back to my own time," I said. "I've got a lot to do." "I assume you're going to help us." "What choice do I have, if I want to stay alive?" "You could not break the story about President Richardson." Right. "The only way I'd not break that story is if I forgot about it," I said. "Speaking of which, is the same thing going to happen this time as did the first two times I came here, forgetting everything when I return, I mean?" Vishal speared me with a stare. "What do you mean, the first _two_ times? The only previous time you were here was the day you're calling Lost Friday." Uh-oh. That didn't sound right. "So much for your intelligence," I said to Vishal. I described the event of my second visit, my coded notes, my recollection of the swastika on a field of blood, and how Anne Behari and Roy Mulroney had regurgitated similar recollections through their doodles. Vishal took a seat and seemed to deflate, running his hands through his long, jet-black hair. "What's the problem," I asked, being the astute analyzer of body language that I am. "All of you have been exposed to the Red Diamond, and all of you are in great peril. The deletion of particular items from your memories is done for protection." "How does erasing our memory protect us?" "It doesn't protect you. It protects us, and the Red Diamond, unfortunately, from any temptation on your part to interfere with historical events. If you don't remember what happened in the future, you would have no reason to tamper with events once you returned to your own time. At least that's the idea, and it works most of the time." I thought: this just gets more better at every turn. "Most of the time," I repeated for effect. "Sometimes the memory erases aren't completely effective." "How not completely?" I suddenly felt like the accountants who audited Enron's books. "How do they work?" "The memory cleanses came out of the Alzheimer's research of the last century. Treatments were developed that helped people pinpoint and remember certain things. Reversing the process, you can help people forget certain things as well." Vishal stood now. "The memory is a strange entity," he went on. "About one-in-a-thousand adults are eidetikers in some form." I was already spooked, and Vishal's nervous energy was giving me a case of the yips. "What the hell is an eidetiker?" "Such people are able to recall certain things in unusual or advanced ways. Sometimes it's visual, sometimes it's sensory, but they are able to see them in their mind as if they were looking at an image." "So you're talking about a photographic memory?" "Correct. There are degrees of recall, but, in general, it is a very bad trait for you to have in conjunction with having visited the Red Diamond. I am certain they would not want anyone in your time to have knowledge of their existence. History can be manipulated to harm them as well, you see." "So now, not only do I have to worry about my own president sending someone to kill me, I have to worry about the Red Diamond finding out that that their memory erase didn't take." "For you, knowing about the Red Diamond probably makes little difference. You were slated to die within three months anyway." "Thanks for reminding me." "For your friends, however, it could certainly hasten their departure from the planet." Just great. "You never answered my question. Are you going to do one of those memory erase things on me, or not?" "If we do a memory erase, you can't help us," Vishal said. I thought: man, could I get a story out of this, or what? "Maybe you could send your Mossad friend back to protect us," I said, suddenly wondering where old Aryeh was at. "Unfortunately communication is not possible through the time dimension. You must find him when you return." "He's already there?" "He is," Vishal confirmed. "Trying to find the Red Diamond operative." "I might be able to help you with that," I said. "I think I know who she is."

Chapter 22... Backfire

"What day is it?" "It is Sunday afternoon, October 3rd, 2194." "Just checking." Forty-seven billion people on the planet, and the only one I'd talked to for the last two days was Vishal. I was getting tired of looking at him. "What time is it?" Vishal said, "Time please," and a set of hanging numbers appeared: 3:27 p.m. "Thank you," and they were gone. "Do you need nourishment?" I'd been given something to help me sleep, which was probably a good idea, but I'd slept away most of the day. I recalled yesterday's eggs and toast, which was the only thing I'd eaten since I'd arrived. Nervous stomach or not, I needed something. Vishal walked over to a control panel, said, "Breakfast please," and poked at some pictures that appeared on the automatic screen. He turned. "Are you prepared?" I noticed that Vishal was wearing different clothes, a uniform perhaps, consisting of a light tunic over a body-hugging t-shirt thing, all in black, shimmering fabric. I hadn't thought of him as muscular before. "As prepared as I'm going to be," I said. "I need to ask you some questions before I go." The control panel dinged from across the room, and Vishal came back with something that looked like pancakes, and something else that looked more like a picture of bacon than bacon itself. I sniffed and ate, not wanting to know anything further about what I was putting into my body. The juice, however, was delicious. "Do you remember yesterday when we talked about the twelve jurors?" "I do." "I think there were two other people taken besides them." "You're referring to the teachers." "You know about them?" "Our intelligence indicates they've been brought here to provide testimony about David Robelle's intellectual capability, specifically whether he was capable of devising the mathematical concepts that led to the invention of time travel." "They're testifying for the prosecution? They'd never do that." "If they don't, they'll never be returned to their own time. Similarly, the jurors will never be returned if they do not find David guilty. The only way to help any of them is to prevent them from being brought here in the first place." I didn't like the sound of that. "There's something I still don't understand. You said the charges against David have been fabricated. What exactly is he being charged with?" "Murder." "That's impossible. How could the David Robelle of 190 years ago commit murder now?" "This isn't the first time David and the scientists have been contacted from the future, Mister Pappas. They were fully aware of the possible detrimental uses of time travel well before the actual invention of the ITD device, one of those uses being the prevention of certain people from even being born." "Which has been classified as a form of murder by the Red Diamond," I concluded. "If it's one of their own, and depending on the morality of the moment, yes," Vishal concurred. "While flimsy, they're using it as leverage. If David gives them ITD capability, they go back and expunge the law from the books. If he doesn't, he's convicted and executed. His lawyer and the jury are strictly for appearances." "I assume the people targeted to be unborn are members of the Red Diamond, and I assume further that is some of your handiwork." Vishal didn't respond, and I think he was getting tired of explaining things. It was what it was in the year 2194, and if I didn't help him and the ICTO, I'd be just one more casualty in their struggle and he'd move on without so much as a blink. "Can't you find out where David and the scientists are being held?" I asked. "We know where they are, but we could never physically penetrate that deeply into the Red Diamond's facilities. You're their only hope, Mister Pappas." "What if I told you the teachers could cause us some problems, as well?" Vishal drew down on me with a stare. "How do you mean?" "What if I told you they've been instructed to tell their captors that the last memory cleanse on me didn't take—and that I know who their leader is." The stare deepened into a scowl. "Why would they say such a thing, even if it were true?" "Well, _ahem_ , you see, I have this friend, Roy Mulroney—" "The policeman." "Right. Well, you see, he gets kind of gung-ho sometimes, and well, _ahem_ , he figured that if he could get the teachers to tell this little white lie, it would force the abductors to come back for me." "For what purpose?" A shiver ran up my spine as I said, "To kill me, I think." "And why would they want to kill you now, Mister Pappas? They've already had the opportunity." "Well, _ahem_ , you see, part of the little white lie is that by my knowing who their leader is, we'd track down the proper ancestor on the old family tree and cut off that branch, if you get my drift. You see, Roy is using me as bait. He figures he'll be there waiting when they come back for me." Vishal just said, "I see." "This is all Roy's doing. He set this up with the teachers without my knowing about it." It dawned on me as soon as I said it that Roy and Vishal weren't too far apart in the use-and-abuse-Johnny Pappas category. "And the teachers were prepared to go through with this?" "Uh-huh. By the way, is it _were_ prepared, or _are_ prepared?" Vishal didn't answer, and he didn't look happy. "There are some problems with the logic," he said. "The first problem is that if the Red Diamond has your DNA pattern—and I assume they do—they don't need to send anyone back to abduct you. They can simply scan, lock-on, and take you. Mister Mulroney probably isn't aware of that." That didn't sound good. "Another problem is that the Red Diamond has many leaders now, so many that it might be impossible to trace back to the one ancestor responsible for its creation. That might be the only thing that would save your life." Vishal stood, indicating breakfast was over. "Let's discuss your return." "Wait a minute. How am I going to stop David Robelle from making his discovery?" "You should probably discuss that with your friend Mister Mulroney. He seems to have everything else figured out." I think Vishal was a little pissed.

Chapter 23... Death On The Boardwalk

"So, I'm going back to Wednesday, September 22nd, two days before Lost Friday. Right?" "That is correct." Okay, this was much worse than waiting for the first dip on some big roller coaster. "Are you sure Aryeh can't meet me?" "As I've already explained, we can't communicate through time, but he knows the general plan. I assume you'll be able to recognize him." "Not a problem." His image was tattooed on my brain. "And you're positive that's the best day to go back?" "We've gone over this twice." "Just make sure I don't reappear on the Garden State Parkway, or something." "We have a secure location that we've used before. If you have no other questions, we need to go there now. Please note the time. There could be some variance when you return, but it's usually within two hours." I looked at my watch. It was just after eight o'clock on Sunday evening, October 3rd, 2194, and I was getting ready to go back 190 years, and eleven days. "It's usually safer for new travelers to do this under cover of darkness," Vishal said, which sounded like an oxymoron to me, but I didn't question it, seeing as I didn't know what the heck he was talking about anyway. "It's imperative that you find Aryeh as soon as possible. History marches on, Mister Pappas." I didn't quite know what he meant by that either, but I said, "Okay, let's roll." To my surprise, Vishal took me to the beach, a stretch that wasn't covered with a food processing plant or a residence dwelling. I recognized it immediately despite the looming darkness. It was at the edge of Sea Beach proper, where the boardwalk ended and the beach curved around to where Island Beach State Park began—or used to begin. I'd walked on that sand many times over the years, usually after having lured some tanned goddess off the boardwalk for some Johnny-ecstasy under the stars. With the sun going down, people were streaming onto the sand—what there was of it—enjoying themselves without having to wear SPF-2 billion, or something. Anyway, a small structure had been set up, and the sides came away so that it looked like a portable, hard-sided tent, of sorts, that could be loaded onto a vehicle and carted from one place to another. It was large enough to accommodate something about the size of a car, and beneath it sat a contraption about half that size. Stone-faced guards in uniforms like the one Vishal was wearing surrounded the tent. "An ITD, I assume." "Correct, Mister Pappas. You only get one lesson, so please pay attention." I panicked slightly. "Wait a minute. You mean I'm doing this by myself? What if I screw up?" Vishal looked at me really seriously, and said, "Don't." _Thank you Paul Romano,_ I almost said. I looked at the ITD, which, to me, looked distinctly like an MRI machine, which I remember because I hurt my shoulder playing football once and I had to go to one of those places that zap you with MRIs. "Okay, how's it work?" I asked, figuring I could get one hell of a follow-up story out of it—if I lived to write about it. "The device works by teleportation." "What's that?" "It's a process by which matter is dematerialized at one point, and recreated at another." I didn't like the sound of that. "What exactly do you mean by _dematerialized_?" "The general idea is that the atoms in your body are scanned, and the information is transmitted through frozen wormholes in the time continuum at speeds beyond the speed of light. The information accumulates at the other end of the wormhole, and your body is reconstructed so as to form an exact replica of the original, made up of exactly the same kinds of atoms, and arranged in exactly the same pattern." "Whoa, Nellie. Let's just wait one cotton-pickin' minute here. Do you mean to tell me that I'm about to be sent back in time by a big, freaking fax machine? And what do you mean replica? I ain't no fucking replica." Vishal's expression indicated that maybe I was overreacting. "There's no need to worry, Mister Pappas. The device—" "Don't tell me what's worth worrying or not worrying about. I mean, what if I come out the other end, like, missing a testicle or something?" "The technology has been perfected." "Right. And that's why you don't know why people fall asleep sometimes. It can't get perfect enough for me, Vishal baby. I mean, accidents do happen, right? Even in the year 2194." I stepped back, and my next thought slapped me upside the head. "Wait a minute," I said. "I've traveled back and forth...." I ticked off the number of one-way trips I'd made to-and-from the year 2194 on my fingers. "... five times now." Vishal smiled, and said, "If you say so." I looked down at myself. I was a fucking replica? "Where's the original Johnny Pappas?" I asked lamely. Vishal came up and put a hand on my shoulder, which I shoved away. "The original gets dismantled in the process of being scanned," he said, pointing to the ITD. "The original atoms get disseminated into the atmosphere." I suddenly felt the picture of bacon I'd eaten bubble up inside my stomach. It was always the stomach with me, but I had reason to be upset. I mean, I was no longer Johnny Pappas. I was a copy of Johnny Pappas, and the more copies you made of the original, the worse the quality became. I had visions of myself looking like Rodney Dangerfield, and I touched my hair. Vishal took my shoulder again. "If it's any comfort, I've been teleported many times." I touched a place on my back. I was the only person on Earth who knew I had a mole there, and I could feel it through my clothes. Okay, the damned thing was accurate, but I still didn't like the word _replica_ , unless I could take one of Kelli Remington with me. As a sort of consolation, I looked Vishal in the eye, and said, "I get to remember all of this, right? That's the deal." I could tell Vishal knew what I was thinking, but he cornered me by saying, "Your story brought down the president of the United States, Mister Pappas, and you died because of it. I would think you'd want to get back as soon as possible and try to change the series of events that led up to that moment." He was right. Remembering any, or all of this, would do me no good if I was dead. "Does that thing have air conditioning?" "First, we need to create the wormhole," Vishal said, ignoring me. I'd heard the word _wormhole_ before, of course, probably on _Star Trek_ or something, but I didn't really understand the concept. Vishal explained that, "Time exists in totality, as opposed to points that pass a stationary measure in analog form. As such, there is simultaneity of events, and wormholes connect these events in the time continuum." "Time continuum?" I questioned. "The points at which events occur. Time is a function of the rotation of the Earth, you see. The Earth rotates once, a day passes. If you were to physically travel in the opposite direction at a speed faster than the rotation itself, relative time would eventually stop advancing. You could actually go back along the continuum, if you traveled fast enough." I tried to grasp the concept. "What's relative time?" Vishal was trying to be patient with me. "It means you would no longer be advancing along the continuum. In absolute terms, you would continue to age, but in relative terms you would not. Consider it this way: you are a very young man in the year 2194 for having been born when you were." I think I understood that. "So you're saying history happens all at the same time." "That is correct. While you are here, at this point on the continuum, something else is happening at other points simultaneously. For instance, the stars you see now...." Vishal pointed upwards where a couple of twinkling points in the sky were just beginning to become visible. "That light emanated from those stars millions of years ago. It simply took that long for it to reach us. Yet we are observing it now. In essence, you are observing history from your vantage point on the continuum." "And that thing sends me back faster than the speed of light?" I asked, looking skeptically at the ITD. "It sends information back. Essentially, it is a transmitter that sends a digital record of your body from one end of the wormhole to the other, along the continuum. In a physical sense, you don't actually move." I nodded. "So that's why you're doing this on the beach." "As opposed to letting you rematerialize in a dangerous or unpredictable place, yes. That's why we try to use remote locations." "And the helium?" Vishal shrugged. "Merely a device for gathering any unwanted material inside the wormhole. We freeze it, gather it, and deposit it to keep any stray atoms from interfering with the rematerialization." I stepped toward the ITD, and wondered if I could watch myself disappear.

* * * * *

I rematerialized a couple of hundred yards down from where the boardwalk ended. A cold wind whipped off the water, and the beach was totally deserted. Instinctively, I felt between my legs, pleased that I'd arrived per the original recipe. So far, so good, I thought. I trudged toward the glow of the boardwalk lights, wondering how much time I had before the vendors called it quits for the night. Not much, I soon discovered. It was just after 10 p.m., while my watch read 8:40. Amazing. I'd just traveled 190 years, and was only off by an hour-and-a-half. Pleased that I still had my wallet, I bought a half-price slice just as the gates were coming down at Vero's Pizza. Munching and walking, walking and munching, I tried to spot anything out of the ordinary, but it was just the usual: a group of teenaged, zit-faced weenies pushing each other around and trying to annoy the living shit out of anyone within fifty feet; Hispanic guy with a tattoo on his neck, squeezing his girlfriend's jiggly butt as they walked; juke box blaring from an almost deserted bar while a few end-of-season hard-cores weaved over cups of Wednesday night dollar drafts. Just as I stepped from the boardwalk and headed toward the parking areas, I stopped dead in my tracks as I came upon the _Asbury Park Press_ plastered behind the glass of a newspaper dispenser. I remembered one of the headlines as if it were yesterday, the story being my last one before Murph's bachelor party, which now was scheduled for tomorrow night, I suddenly calculated. To say I was getting used to reliving time I'd already lived through would hardly be accurate, but I wondered if I'd have time to lay a bet on the Giants-Redskins game coming up on Sunday, which the Redskins would win by two. I remembered that because I'd lost twenty on the game the first time around, but even if I won I'd have to be around to collect. Right now, that seemed totally out of the question. Okay, so now what? My car could be anywhere, I determined as I tried to think of where I was the night before Murph's bachelor party. I'd worked till around nine that night, knowing I had a couple of stories to get in for the weekend editions, knowing further that I was going to blow Friday off as a workday due to my impending hangover. The 'Vette, therefore, was probably at my place, which was about a half-hour walk away. My first objective, I remembered, was to hook up with Aryeh, but I had no clue as to how to do that. Aryeh! I remembered Aryeh, and Vishal, and ITDs, and everything! _Fuckin' A_. They hadn't lied to me after all. I needed to get my thoughts down on paper, and quickly, if only for the reason that if I could document what was about to happen—meaning Lost Friday—I had a better chance of people not thinking I was some kind of whack-job. Wait, but they'd think that anyway, until it happened, but by then it would be too late, because David Robelle would be gone again. Shit. I needed to get someone to believe me, and the only person who'd be able to help me in any way was Roy. I was about the same distance from Roy's place as I was from my own, and I started walking. Aryeh knew we were supposed to hook up upon my return, and I wondered if the Red Diamond operative he was supposed to find had sidetracked him with a bullet, or something. Ugh. I tossed my half-eaten slice into a trashcan. Like the boardwalk, the parking areas were almost deserted, and I couldn't remember them ever being so gloomy. The cold wind cut right through my clothes, which were the same blue shirt and blood-stained khakis I'd been wearing since my trip to Atlantic City with Roy—which wouldn't happen for another seven days now. The time thing was really confusing me. I hung a left onto Ocean Avenue and headed toward Roy's house, the wind and mist coming directly at me. Five minutes into my trek, I decided the less time I had to endure this crap the better, so I proceeded onward at a light jog, figuring I'd cut down the time to Roy's by half. I was wrong. The first shot whistled by so close to my ear that I thought I'd run into a wayward hummingbird, or something, but hummingbirds didn't buzz around on cold, misty nights in late September. The second shot clued me in that someone was firing at me because a headlight on one of the parked cars exploded, and the car literally rocked with the impact of the bullet. I never heard a thing, and it was only when I turned that I spotted a couple of running Barbies motoring down on me at a rapid clip. What the...? One of the Barbies stopped running, and I spotted a laser dot slashing across my chest. I dropped like a stone, and I could feel the bullet's impact right through the sidewalk as it ripped a two-inch gully into the concrete only inches from my head. I thought: if I didn't get the hell out of there, I'd never make it to the company Christmas party so that Skin Head and Bull Neck could kill me. Thinking this would be a good time for someone to be driving by to see what was happening, I rolled toward the street, hoping to find cover behind a parked car. There was no one on the street, however, which was just as well, seeing as that might have resulted in two dead Sea Beachers instead of one. Not only that, my path was blocked by two six-foot Ken Dolls, both with shoulders as wide as train tracks. With the Ken Dolls in front of me, and the Barbies in back of me, I figured this was it, history was wrong, my time had come at the hands of some futuristic Aryans to whom the expression _swimming with the fishes_ was a nutritional term. Angry now, not worrying about the lives of millions of people but just overwhelmingly pissed, I struck a pose that must have looked as stupid as the bird pose from _The Karate Kid_ , but I wasn't going down like a coward. I mean, screw them. That's when I actually heard a shot, and the first Ken Doll fell at my feet. The second one turned, and the front side of his forehead blew off as another shot rang out, followed by two more in rapid succession. The shots came from behind me, and, not finding myself dead, I turned and spotted the two Barbies lying on the sidewalk, the already-forming pools of blood beneath their skulls oozing like black molasses beneath the streetlights on Ocean Avenue. Aryeh came out of the shadows near one of the buildings, and said, "They knew you were coming." Amazingly, I could already hear a police siren, and I guessed the local boardwalk patrol must have heard the shots. A cruiser screamed up half a minute later, and twenty minutes after that Roy stepped from his old Ford F-150 and came toward me as I concentrated on preventing myself from having an anxiety attack. Roy looked at the bodies, and said, "You have anything to do with this, Johnny?" "Sort of," I croaked. I looked around and noticed that Aryeh had vanished.

* * * * *

"The entire town? You expect me to believe that?" I mean, Roy must have thought I'd popped some major acid, or something, but, putting myself in his shoes, I would have thought the same thing. There were a couple of things that gave him reason to listen, however. The first was that the four dead people—the two Barbies and the two Ken Dolls—looked like two sets of twins, and while Roy gave no consideration to my explanation that they were specially bred, genetically engineered human slaves, the odds on other plausible explanations seemed just as long. Looking at me sideways, he said, "We'll see if the DNA report supports your theory, but even if that were true, they're still human, they're still dead, and someone killed all four of them. If you know who that is, Johnny, I suggest you come up with a name. And don't give me any crap about protecting a source." "All I can tell you right now is that they were trying to kill me." "We'll verify that when the crime scene people get here. There's got to be a bullet inside that car, and when we find it we'll see if it matches up with any weapons found at the scene." "You won't be able to test fire their weapons," I informed him. "They're probably DNA-activated. If I'm right, they can only be fired by their owners, who are now dead." Roy's eyes narrowed, and he walked over to one of the Barbie bodies. He'd already walked the scene and made his initial notes—mentally, of course, because now I knew that Roy was an eidetiker and never wrote anything down—but he hadn't touched the weapons because the crime scene hadn't been processed yet. He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and gingerly lifted one of the weapons off the ground with two fingers, turning it slowly in the beam of his flashlight. While it looked pretty much like a twenty-first century Glock to the inexperienced eye, it took Roy two whole seconds to turn to me and say, "I ain't never seen no gun like this before." I just waited for him to draw his own conclusion. He set the handgun down just as he'd found it, and yelled toward the perimeter of the crime scene tape, "I want this dusted for prints before anything else. You got it?" The officer waved acknowledgement, and Roy turned back to me. "You wanna go over that story of yours one more time?" After I told Roy about Lost Friday again, I said, "Two days from now, you're going to lose three prisoners who are being transported up from the Carolinas to Jersey City. They're going to be part of Lost Friday, but they're not going to be returned like the rest of the population." And I told him why. "I got that call today," Roy said, his eyes boring a hole right through me. "How'd you know about that?" He took a step back and looked me up and down, expecting that maybe he'd spot a portable surveillance system sticking out of my pocket, or something. What he did spot was the circle of blood on my trousers that got there as a result of his fishing lure falling from the visor in his truck during our trip to see his hypnotist friend. "That your blood?" he asked. "Yeah," I said, telling him how it got there. Roy's face went from florid to pale in a millisecond. "That lure is always coming loose. You ain't never been in my truck before, have you Johnny?" Again, my silence couldn't have been louder. "How'd you know about that lure?" he said again. "I already told you Roy. I've lived through this before." An Ocean County crime scene van pulled up, momentarily distracting Roy. Coming back after giving his instructions to the CSIs, he said, "You know Johnny, I may look like I don't know my ass from my elbow, but this isn't my first county fair. I want to know what you know about these people, and I want to know now. Nobody comes into my town and turns it into the OK Corral and just walks away from it like it nothing ever happened." Bewildered by Roy's sudden reversal, I said, "Are you charging me with something?" "I won't know that until this crime scene is thoroughly investigated. What I do know is that you're my only witness, and you're not going anywhere for a while." "But—" "No buts, Johnny. You might wanna call somebody to come down here with a change of clothes for you. We're gonna need to analyze that blood." "How long is this gonna take?" I asked, thinking I needed to get to Romano and Remington as quickly as possible. "It's gonna take what it's gonna take." I sat down on the curb and tried to think. I thought I had Roy convinced, but like any good cop he was going to wait and see what the evidence told him. Despite the fact that I'd now discovered that there was so much of it, time seemed particularly scarce right then. "I have a friend I'd like you to talk to," I said. "Does he know anything about all this?" "Oh yeah." "Does this friend have a name?" "Yeah. His name is Aryeh." "Aryeh what?" "Aryeh Caleb. He's a Mossad agent." Roy's eyes got real big. "And how do we find Mister Caleb?" "Not sure. More than likely he'll find me. Maybe you should be around when he does." "I think that would be a good idea."

Chapter 24... Story By Noon

I'd never spent a night in jail before, and I woke up with a start as if I'd just awakened from the grave. Okay, bad choice of words, but it was seldom that I had no recollection about anything that happened during the night. I mean, usually I had a dream, or took a tinkle, or flogged my mule; this night: bupkis. I fell asleep somewhere around two, and the last thing I remembered besides being grilled by Roy for the umpteenth time, was talking to Romano. I mean for me, it was one big jumble of events all tangled together in my head, despite the fact that some of them were 190 years apart. Romano and Roy both thought I'd been into the mushrooms. "It's two in the fucking morning," Romano had bellowed over the phone. "Don't tell me you're not going to have that story ready by tomorrow, Pappas. How many times did we go over this deadline?" "That's not why I called, boss. I need Kelli Remington's home number. Do you have it?" "Remington? What the hell do you need her for?" He had no clue, and, as with Roy, convincing him of what was about to happen—meaning Lost Friday—was probably akin to convincing the apostles that Jesus was going to rise from the tomb before it happened. There I go with that grave thing again. Maybe I was preoccupied. Anyway, I had to think fast. "I get it," Romano went on. "She can't bail you out of this one, Pappas. She's covering the jazz festival up in Red Bank tomorrow. I need your story by noon, you got me?" "It's not the story, boss. It's... ah... personal." "Still trying to get her to polish your rocket, eh Pappas? Calling her at this hour isn't going to score any points for you, though. She probably already thinks you're a stalker." "The number, boss. I know you have it." "All right, big guy, but it's your funeral." Again with the death reference, but he gave it to me. "I need that story by noon, Pappas. Not a minute later." I hung up in his ear thinking: _eat me_. I got Remington's answering machine, and wondered where the hell she could have been at that hour. Either she was out getting her g-spot tickled, or she was screening her calls. I figured it couldn't have been the latter because she definitely would have picked up had she seen an incoming call from the Sea Beach police department, which is where I was calling from. I had no idea, at that point, where my cell phone was, so I left a message for her to call me at the station. Finally, around six a.m., one of Roy's men came in with a cordless phone. Now, up to the point where I'd gotten Remington assigned to me—which was post-Lost Friday—the only interaction I'd had with her at the _Press_ was me trying to snuggle into her undies, and she quite successfully keeping me out of them. As such, I imagined that my frantic call to her in the middle of the night must have sounded like just another lame attempt to accomplish my usual objective. "Jail?" she said, her voice sounding quite raspy. "For my own protection," I said, thinking her voice had this Tina Turner thing going on. I found myself getting a little stoked over it. "Where the hell have you been all night?" The Tina Turner thing suddenly disappeared. "If it's any of your business, I... no wait. It is _none_ of your business. This better have something to do with work, Pappas." She paused. "What do you mean, for your own protection?" "Someone tried to kill me." She paused again. "Too bad they weren't successful. Who?" "Maybe you should come down here and find out." A third pause, tiptoeing through the conversation. "Why would I want to do that?" "Two reasons. First, because there's a story in it. Second, they're going to try again, and next time you and Romano are going down with me." "Where exactly are you?" I told her and hung up, then yelled to one of the officers outside, "You guys got a mirror in here?"

* * * * *

I looked at my reflection and scared myself. I hitched a ride home with one of Roy's men to take a shower, getting the message that I wasn't to leave town or Roy was going to lock my ass up and throw away the key. "He can't do that," I said. "He knew you'd say that," Officer Kaplan answered, "and he said, 'Sue me.'" The 'Vette was parked in my driveway, just as it was the first time I'd lived through the Thursday before Lost Friday, and I remembered once again that Murph's bachelor party was scheduled for tonight. On the streets, people seemed to be going about their normal business, completely oblivious to the fact that within hours they were going to be kidnapped 190 years into the future. There was nothing I could do to prevent it, nor was there anything I could do to alert them. I mean, who would believe me? Hence, preventing David Robelle from being abducted by the Red Diamond became even more relevant. I also understood why today was picked as the day to do that, as opposed to going back further in time and preventing David from getting involved with his formulas in the first place. My guess was that by today, he'd already discovered that the scientists were missing, and knew he had to protect his work, or possibly even destroy it, so it wouldn't fall into the wrong hands. In turn, that meant that he'd already been in contact with the Red Diamond, and the ICTO boys knew that. Sly devils, those ICTO boys. They didn't want to stop the invention of time travel—because they had it. What they wanted was to control it, and prevent the Red Diamond from having it. The reasons for that could go from altruistic to evil, and suddenly I didn't know what to believe. For all I knew, the ICTO was another genocidal, geo-political force, and I was being manipulated like a marionette. Someone knocked on my door as I stepped from the shower. I wrapped a towel around my waist, and hesitated before opening it. I mean, I'd already been shot at, and the notion of standing naked in my living room without police protection was less than comforting. Remington took one look at me when I opened the door, and said, "Could you go and put some damned clothes on?" I noticed, however, that her eyes lingered before she looked away. I came back in a pair of jeans, but shirtless, drying my hair with a towel. She came right to the point. "You said someone tried to kill you." "Four of them." I think she was eyeing my chest. I'd never seen Remington that early in the morning, and certainly not without makeup, but seeing her standing there in her Northwestern sweatshirt, I couldn't help but tingle at the fact that we were just a few feet from my bedroom, and a couple of layers of fabric away from Naked Land. "Them who?" she asked, distracting me from my prurient thoughts. She had this tousled, thrown-together groove happening, which was making me as nuts as the Tina Turner thing. I kind of flexed as I dragged the towel across my head, hoping the replica of myself that I was, was as good as the original. "I think it's the Red Diamond." "Okay, Pappas. If this was some ruse just to get me here...." I moved closer and met her eyes, those deep, blue, icy eyes. "This is no ruse, Remington. Four people tried to kill me last night, and...." I stopped. Like everyone else, I knew she'd never believe me. "Maybe it's better if you just come with me. I'll explain everything on the way." I suddenly heard a commotion outside my back door, then a crash, which meant someone probably knocked over my barbeque grill, but I wasn't taking any chances. Quickly, I pushed Remington to the floor, wishing I had more in the house to protect myself than a can of bug spray. "Johnny! Are you up there?" It sounded like Roy. What the...? I ran to the back door and looked down into the patio area, as my place was on the second floor. There, face down and spread out like a squashed bug, was Aryeh. Roy was on top of him, one knee in Aryeh's back, and his pistol in Aryeh's ear. "You know this guy?" Roy asked as I hustled down the stairs. Aryeh grimaced in pain, his arm twisted so far up his back that his shoulder had to be unhinged. "That's Aryeh," I said, actually surprised that the tables weren't turned and Aryeh wasn't on top of Roy. That Roy never ceased to amaze me. Keeping Aryeh's elbow wedged on his shoulder blade, Roy reached into his back and came up with a pair of handcuffs. "Then what's he doing snooping around like a goddamned burglar?" "I'll answer that when you tell me why you're doing the same thing," I said to Roy. I looked back up at Remington, who'd made it to the landing. I couldn't tell if she was scared, or not, but she certainly had that slapped-in-the-face-with-a-shovel look. Yanking a now handcuffed Aryeh up like a rag doll, Roy said, "I was coming to get you and saw this guy nosing around when I drove up. The four dead people?" "Yeah?" I said, looking at Remington again and seeing that she was paying attention. "I got their DNA tests pushed through." "And?" "Outside of being male and female, all four of them have the same DNA." Abruptly, in a flash of movement, Roy was on the ground and Aryeh was whipping around like a circus acrobat, the chain on his handcuffs suddenly around Roy's neck. "I could have told you that," Aryeh growled, squeezing so hard that Roy's eyes were bugging out of his head. I couldn't help but notice that Aryeh's arms were laced with sinews. "Please put the gun down," Aryeh said. Roy lowered his weapon, and Aryeh released his grip. Both men got up and stared at each other, seething as they worked to get their bodies back to normal. "So you're Aryeh," Roy said, rubbing his neck. Aryeh said, "Yes, I am." Roy belted him in the head and Aryeh went down like a stone. "Welcome to Sea Beach."

* * * * *

Looking at the four bodies, I now questioned my observations in the week following the original Lost Friday. My coded _Barbie_ note following my second abduction made sense in that I'd obviously seen one during that episode, but I realized now that it may not have been the same one who'd broken into my apartment. Likewise, the one I'd observed at Demetrius's diner, and the one who'd jogged past Roy and me on our trip to Scott Reemer's house, may not have been the same person, which, looking back on those situations, is what I had assumed. Now, putting those occurrences in perspective with the two dead Barbies in front of me, it seemed pretty clear that we'd been infiltrated by a number of them. Looking at the two dead Ken Dolls, the same was probably true of them as well. Of course, to me, a live Barbie with a tiny ass and knockers out to there was a lot more noticeable than an Aryan-looking Ken Doll, of which a thousand could have walked past me in the days surrounding Lost Friday and I wouldn't have picked up on it. Hence, the question was: how many of them were there? "A super race of genetically-engineered and mentally-brainwashed human slaves," I said aloud. We were in the county morgue in Toms River, we being me, Roy, Remington, and Aryeh, the four of us a rag-tag bunch that could easily have come off as hung over trailer-park trash. There wasn't a clear eye in the bunch. "Super race indeed," Aryeh scoffed. I'd explained about Aryeh to Roy and Remington on the ride over. Of course, that necessitated explaining Lost Friday again, and while Roy barely said anything, I could tell by the look on Remington's face that she thought maybe I'd been smoking crack. Both of them had reason to pause, however. One reason was the fact that the four bodies in front of us had the exact same DNA. Sure, one explanation was that we could have been looking at two sets of identical twins, but we weren't. "Then how else do you explain it?" Roy asked. Not missing a beat, Aryeh said, "Each model comes from engineered eggs and sperm of human origin, synthetically reproduced, fertilized, and incubated. The Red Diamond is raising its own race of super-humans, while simultaneously exterminating those thought to be of lesser value." Looking at Roy's expression, I figured he was having a hard time with that. One thing he did admit, however, was that he was totally mystified about the weapons found at the crime scene the previous night. The same went for the ammunition. We'd ridden over in one of the boro squad cars, and on the way Roy had gotten a call informing him that none of the weapons could be fired. He also revealed that his research with the state police, the gun manufacturer, the FBI, and ATF turned up nothing except snide, disbelieving comments that the technology he and his men were asking about simply didn't exist. Standing there, I surmised there was no way of telling how many Red Diamond operatives had been sent back, despite the supposed fact that they only had one ITD. Certainly, if the ITD worked off specific DNA, which I was told by Vishal that it did, having multiple operatives with the same DNA could multiply its effectiveness. Many more of them could be used to accomplish the mission, which was to kidnap David Robelle so he could give them the ITD technology, which we were now here to prevent. Talk about your merry-go-round. After a while, I could tell that Roy was getting closer to believing that the unbelievable was happening. He didn't say much, but, hey, I'm a reporter, and if there's anything I knew, it was how to read people. With Roy, I was reading that he wanted a more rational explanation, but Roy was a cop, and cops went where the evidence pointed. For Remington, on the other hand, it was a different story. I mean, if I couldn't get her to believe this—this being Lost Friday and all its related happenings—she was like lips on a chicken to me, as in useless. "I don't know what to think," she verified, "and I still don't know what I'm doing here." I put on my sincerest face and put my hand on her shoulder, hoping she wouldn't think it was just another come-on. "You're here because you and I partner up on this story after Lost Friday takes place. I know it sounds a little fantastic—" "More than a little," she interjected. "Okay, more than a little, but your part of the story is even more fantastic." "More fantastic than futuristic terrorists traveling back through time?" she said doubtfully. I hesitated, but figured I had nothing to lose by telling her everything. The worst that could happen here would be that Aryeh and I would have to zap ourselves back another day or two, or perhaps another decade or two, and come at this from another angle. If that happened, this conversation would be meaningless. "Your part in this is that you broke the story that the president is one of them." "Them?" "The Red Diamond. In exchange for allowing them to come back and alter history, they alter it in his favor. He stays in power, and they sow the political seeds that lead to the formation of their organization." She stepped back and glanced at Roy and Aryeh, who were caught up in their own muted conversation across the room. "I broke that story?" "You did, and as a result, you, me, and Romano all drown on the night of the company Christmas party." "How...? I mean, why...?" Mouth open, she couldn't get the rest out. "The president put a hit on us, and our car is forced off a bridge by a couple of Secret Service agents. I'm not b-s'ing you on this, Remington. It's your story that eventually brings down the president." There, I'd just given the story away, but none of this would matter because if I was successful in doing what Vishal and Aryeh wanted me to do—which was getting David Robelle to _not_ make his discoveries—none of this would happen. "If you want to prevent that car from going off that bridge, you'll work with me here." If that didn't cement it, nothing would. "This is for real?" she asked/concluded. "It is, and Lost Friday is about to happen all over again." "What do you want me to do?" "Romano needs a story by noon. Here's what I want you to write."

Chapter 25... Violating History

I knew something was wrong as soon as she answered the phone. "So what did Romano say about the story?" I asked tentatively. "I'll tell you what he said, Pappas. First, he cursed a blue streak, then he told me to stay home and think about what else I wanted to be when I grew up because being a reporter might not work out for me." Uh-oh. That didn't sound good. "He suspended me, Pappas. Two days for going off my assignment." "Uuuhhh...." "Save it, okay? I've heard enough bullshit today." All I could think of was that I was already changing history. Every minute that I was breathing air I'd already breathed was changing the linkage of events as they'd occurred the first time around. The only way to ensure that what had happened before, would happen again, was to repeat those events as closely as possible to how they had originally transpired. For all I knew, not buying a pack of gum could set off a bankruptcy filing on the part of the gum company, which would cause a bank to fail, which would spur an economic downturn, which would lead to a depression, causing our military to weaken, which would invite an invasion, our eventual takeover, and the subjugation of our entire population to slavery. No pressure. "I don't think you're far behind," Remington went on. "Romano's pretty pissed. Says he's been calling your cell phone for hours." Could be, I thought. I still had no idea where my cell phone was, and, knowing Romano, he was probably so livid that he was vibrating with each unanswered ring. "But what about the story?" I asked again. "He said the _Press_ wasn't the _National Enquirer_ , and it wasn't in the business of making unsubstantiated accusations about the president being controlled by aliens." "Not aliens," I defended. "Terrorists from the future." "Who cares? All that nonsense about bringing down the president.... You screwed me over, Pappas. I can't believe I fell for that crap." "Wait," I begged before she hung up. Without Remington, the story might never come out. I mean, as far as I knew, I had three months until I bought the farm off that bridge with her and Romano, but that was hardly a lock. It could happen sooner—the dead Barbies and Ken Dolls proved that—much sooner if the Red Diamond knew where I was, and what I was up to, especially with Roy having planted that little white lie with Allison Kovar and Scott Reemer about me knowing who their leader was. I couldn't risk it. I needed things back the way they were, and Remington back on the story as soon as possible. Then, I thought: I was jumping the gun. Remington didn't get on the story until three days _after_ the original Lost Friday, which meant I had time to correct things. "About the story, do you still have it on your computer?" "And on CD back up, Pappas. Normal procedure." "Good. With the original save date, right?" "I guess so." "Then don't change a thing, or overwrite it. I need you to leave that CD on my desk." "Why?" "I'll explain later. Meanwhile, what are you doing tonight?" Hesitation on the line. "Same thing as last night." "Which was none of my business, as I recall." She was hiding something. "That's right, Pappas, and you'll keep it that way if you know what's good for you." Right. "Are you really going to walk away from this story, or are you just pissed off at Romano?" More hesitation. "You're such a jerk." "Now what?" "Four dead Aryans with identical DNA, weapons that can't be fired because the technology that created them hasn't been invented yet, futuristic terrorists coming back to kidnap an entire town—sure, I'm going to walk away from all that. "A simple _no_ would have sufficed." "You better not be jerking me around, Pappas. If it doesn't happen the way you say, I'm taking you down with me." I could think of worse things than going down with Kelli Remington.

* * * * *

I tried to think of what my dad would have done. I mean, it's easy to think you're as good as anyone, or that others were just lucky in their journalistic careers. Take Watergate, for instance. Woodward and Bernstein stumbled onto that story, and while going forward with it was an act of faith, it wasn't in the realm of the parting of the Red Sea. The events that comprised that piece of history were traceable to tangible occurrences, and as such it came down to one basic question, one that Woodward and Bernstein must have asked themselves a thousand times: _Do we trust our source_? Lost Friday was different, much more like the parting of the Red Sea in that the event was observed but not understood, and, as such, fraught with distrust and conjecture. Then, there was the writing itself. I had to ask: Am I good enough to take on this story? Do my words and images spring to life the way Woodward's and Bernstein's did, so that my readers live through the story rather than just read it? If I had to answer all those questions honestly, I'd say that with regards to trusting my sources, well, how do you trust the unbelievable? The incentive for forging ahead on Lost Friday was based more on the lack of a better explanation than trust, and I think my dad would have said to trust no one, and to move forward cautiously. So, that's what I decided to do. Aryeh and Vishal had an agenda, I concluded, and while their motives seemed noble, I determined that I shouldn't trust them further than I could spit. Roy, however, I could trust. He was rock solid, and I knew his agenda, but it was exactly his steadfastness that could prevent him from thinking on another level. That's what it was going to take to prevent the Red Diamond from cutting a scar on our piece of history. With regards to whether I was a good enough writer, I knew in my heart I was as good as anyone out there. Watergate was the last story that took down a president; mine could be the next. My dad would have said: go with your gut—and pray. For me, it had all started at Murph's bachelor party. Having just experienced the effects that even a minor disruption of events could cause—that being Remington's suspension, as well as my own, possibly, for something as inconsequential as not submitting a story about a jazz festival—I decided that I should go Murph's party, just as I had the first time around. Everything happens for a reason, right? I decided to take one little detour before heading out to the bar where the shindig was slated to start. Despite her supposed suspension, I knew Remington was still at the _Press_ building in Neptune, and I decided to find out why she was so hell-bent on hiding what she'd been up to the previous night, and again this night, wondering what possible correlation that could have with the linkage of events. I hopped in the 'Vette and finally found my cell phone there, noting the four messages from Romano and the three other calls where he didn't leave one. I was in deep shit, and I knew that I'd better have something damned good for him if I was to have any chance of him not firing me the next time I talked to him. I decided to call Remington to make sure I didn't go all the way to Neptune for nothing. She answered on the first ring. "Did you convince Romano to let you work on the story?" "I did. The four bodies with the exact same DNA did the trick. I told him you were working on the story around the clock—and that we had an exclusive." Which we did. "Good thinking," I said. "But that means we need something juicy." "You got that right," she said. "Maybe you should give him a call. I think I've covered your miserable ass as much as I can." I made a note to do just that, and I knew I needed to thank Remington. She could have buried me as easily as not, but I still didn't know if I could trust her. I mean, she was going along on the thinnest of evidentiary threads, and I don't know if I would have even trusted myself in that situation. I looked at the dashboard clock and noted that it was just past 4:30 in the afternoon. "I want you to do something before you leave for the day," I said. "All right." She made no objection, voice tempered, wait and see. "I want you to call an Anthony V. Corvissi at NASA headquarters in D.C. Tell him you know about David Robelle, and that you know the names of the two scientists who've been abducted and what they were working on. Tell him we also know that the president himself has been in contact with the Red Diamond, and that he was aware that the scientists were going to be kidnapped before it actually happened." We didn't know what the scientists were working on, of course, and it was one of the things Remington was working on the first time around. She didn't need to know that now, however, and if she was ever confronted on it, well, we'd see how fast she could think, wouldn't we? "Who is David Robelle?" she asked. "I'll fill you in on that if Corvissi agrees to see you." "What if I don't get him on the phone?" Good question. "Just make sure you use the words _missing scientists_. If that fails, get his e-mail address and send him the piece on Lost Friday you just wrote. That'll get his attention, all right, but it may take up more time, and that's time we don't have." "But it might get his attention like it got Romano's attention. He might think I'm a fruitcake, which, quite honestly, might be what I'd think if I were in his shoes." I was losing her. "Four dead people with the exact same DNA, Remington. Guns that haven't been invented yet. Do you, or does anyone else, have a better explanation?" Hesitantly, "What was that name again, David what?"

* * * * *

Top down on the 'Vette, I cruised up the parkway toward _Press_ headquarters. I decided to call Romano and get it over with. He started with, "What the hell do you think you're doing with Remington?" You know, I just wasn't in the mood, but I had no choice but to let him go on, and on, and on, which he did, threatening to hang me up by my nutsack the whole time if what I'd told Remington to write didn't come true. "Are you finished?" I asked when I thought he had no more breath left in his body. "Oh, so now you decide—" I interrupted, figuring he'd just wind himself up again and I'd say something I'd really regret. "This story is going to bring you a Pulitzer, Romano. You keep screwing with me, and I'll quit now and take it somewhere else. Your call." The line went silent just as I pulled in to the parking lot behind the _Press_ building. "Can you substantiate your sources?" Romano finally asked. "If by that you mean: will I reveal them, the answer is no. But, if Remington's story can't be verified by nine o'clock Saturday morning, you can have both our resignations." "Except by then this Lost Friday thing will have already taken place, and there's no telling if we'll be first to break the story, or not. If it's true, a story like this comes along once in a lifetime," he added without further prompting. "How's it feel, boss?" "If you mean getting my nuts squeezed, you got until Saturday, nine o'clock, Pappas. Not a minute more. We'll talk about the consequences later if it doesn't work out." I don't know who had whom by the short hairs, but I knew I could deliver if Lost Friday happened the way it did the first time. Okay, that was out of the way. "Fine," I said, thinking my dad would have been proud of me. "Remington is going to need an expense voucher and a car to get to D.C. tonight." I could almost hear Romano's teeth grinding over the phone. "I just saw her leave," he said. "She didn't say anything about going to D.C." I was looking at Remington's car in the parking lot, so she must have just left the newsroom. "She doesn't know it yet. Have someone get everything ready and leave it on her desk. She'll be back." I hung up just as she came out the back door. The breeze blew into her, pasting her shirt tight to her chest as her long legs carried her effortlessly on open-toed Ferragamos. Once at her car—a neon-blue Mitsubishi Eclipse—she donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses and tooled out of the lot as if she had someplace to be. I wasn't far behind, wondering why she was so hot-to-trot. That answer came half an hour later when she pulled in behind a place called Centerfolds _._ She slammed the door and trotted from the car, slinging a backpack over her shoulder as she blew through the front door. I noticed she had her cell phone to her ear. Well, well, well, little Miss Kelli-with-an-i Remington was serving up lap dances to help pay the rent, evidently. I felt a smirk crawl across my face, and I swung the wheel to pull out of the lot when my cell phone rang. It was Remington, and I heard music in the background. "I just heard from Corvissi," she said quickly. "He wants to see me right away, and in person—no phones, he said." Now, why was I not surprised? "Then you better get your butt down to D.C. I had Romano arrange an expense voucher and a car for you just in case this happened. I told him to have someone leave the stuff on your desk." "I can't leave right now," she said hesitantly. "And why not?" I said real snotty-like. You haven't even had time to change into your g-string, I thought, but didn't say. "I'm on another story," she replied. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. "And what story is that?" I asked, again real snotty-like. "Listen Pappas, what I'm about to tell you...." Then she just blurted it. "I pick up a few extra bucks doing freelance stuff, okay? Right now I'm...." Major pause. "Go on," I urged. I couldn't wait to hear this. "I'm doing a piece for _Strutt_ magazine on girls who work their way through school by working in strip clubs. I'm at one now, and I'll be done with my interview in about an hour." A sense of relief settled on me. Remington didn't know I'd followed her, and she could have easily come up with some bullshit lie, but she decided to tell me the truth. I could trust her after all, I thought, but I also felt a sense of disappointment in that my fantasy of her in a g-string and high heels suddenly vanished. "An hour is fine," I said, my tone softening. "I won't say anything to Romano about you moonlighting." That was against _Press_ policy for reporters. "Thanks, Pappas. I owe you one—but I'm not going to bed with you," she added quickly, and hung up. Some things never changed. I tooled back to the _Press_ building to pick up my laptop and the CD with Remington's story on it, and an hour later I was walking past the horseshoe bar inside the Silver Penguin, the boardwalk bar where Murph's bachelor party entourage was gathering before heading out to other nefarious destinations for a night of drink and debauchery. I still wondered about the wisdom of going through with this party with so much about to happen. No one knew about any of it except me, of course, and halfway into my first beer, Nick Niccolucci, whom I'd known since junior high school, clinked my bottle and said, "Why the long face, Johnny?" I thought about the consequences of violating another seemingly unimportant historical occurrence like this party, but I was having trouble determining what was important, and what wasn't. If nothing else, however, this party was important to Murph. "Just thinking about work again," I said, hoisting the bottle for a drink. "Hey, screw it for one night, okay Johnny? It'll still be there tomorrow." Nick's grin was infectious. "I'll buy if you fly," he said, smacking a twenty into my palm. "It'll give you a chance to get a look at the rack on that bartender over there. Nice butt too." I slapped Nick on the back, and went to fetch another round. Leaning on the horseshoe bar, I noted that the bartender was putting down a couple of blue somethings at the other end. So far, Nick was right, I thought as I ogled a bare midriff and a couple of tight cheeks from behind. I waited for her to turn my way, which she did, and I waved to get her attention. Coming over, smiling widely, "What'll ya have?" she asked, obviously used to guys talking into her chest. _Fuckin' A_ , I thought, and alarms went off in my head. I was looking at a Barbie, which meant the Red Diamond was already in town. I yanked my cell phone off my hip and dialed the Sea Beach police station, the number for which was burned into my brain cells by this time. "Sea Beach police. Officer Nash here." "This is Johnny Pappas. I need to talk to Chief Mulroney... _now_." Roy picked up right away. "Is Aryeh still with you?" I blurted quickly. "Wouldn't let him out of my sight." "There's been a change in plans. We need to get to the Robelles' house right away." "I thought we had until tomorrow." "Not anymore. Make sure Aryeh is ready." Roy said, "I think that guy was born ready."

Chapter 26... David Explains

The first time around, I never made it to Murph's wedding; now, it looked like I was going to miss his bachelor party. I gave Nick his twenty bucks back, and asked him to tell Murph, who hadn't arrived yet, that I was sorry, but I had to leave. Some best man I was turning out to be. I jumped into the 'Vette and ten minutes later I was roaring across the inlet bridge like Dale Earnhardt, rocketing toward the orange ball that was the setting sun. I glanced at the dashboard clock, noting that it was almost seven o'clock. Darkness wasn't far away, and I wondered what kind of futuristic villains the night would hide. As I screamed toward Route 37, I tried to sneak a glance at places where people usually hung out: bus stops, gas stations, parking lots, anyplace where a newly arrived Barbie or Ken Doll would stand out like horse at a dog show. I spotted none, but my heightened awareness told me they were out there, camouflaged by the ordinariness that was Sea Beach. I spotted Roy's truck just up the street from the Robelles' house. Aryeh tried to take charge as soon as he and Roy stepped from the truck. "Our mission is to stop David Robelle from being kidnapped," he said as soon as I walked up. "Hold on, Kimosabe," Roy said as he focused on me. "Johnny, you wanna tell me how this goes down?" The smell of someone's dinner wafted past my nose and almost made me sick. "Aryeh's right," I said. "We don't have time for a lot of discussion. Do we know for sure if David is in there?" "I haven't seen him, but I know that football practice at the high school ends around five. One of the lighted windows on the second floor might be his room." Roy turned away from the house, and said, "Are you sure about this, Johnny? Aryeh thought this was supposed to happen tomorrow, too." Obviously, they'd been talking. I didn't care about how much Roy knew, but how much he believed. I mean, he could easily have locked Aryeh away until he could come up with explanations for why four dead people had the same DNA, or why their weapon technology didn't exist, but he was giving the situation the benefit of the doubt. I sensed, however, that he needed more convincing that the unbelievable was happening. "Have you seen any strangers in town lately?" I asked. Roy's eyes froze, and I knew there was a mental slide show going on in his head with that amazing memory of his capturing his day down to the smallest detail. "Now that you mention it...." "What did they look like?" His eyes bore into me. "A lot like the four in the morgue." "Focus, Roy. How many of them did you see, and when?" "Several," he said, "and I think they've been here for a while." He reached into his truck and came out with his Sam Browne belt. "Bastards came into my town right under my nose, and I didn't even know it." Just like the first time, I wanted to say, but that wouldn't have been fair. For Roy, this was the first time. "We've got to get David out of there." I looked around. "Where's Aryeh?" Roy never answered my question. Instead, he checked his silver .357 and put it back in his holster, leaving the safety off, I noticed. Jaw set, he turned toward the Robelles' house. "They're not going to believe any of this," he said. "I'm having a hard time with it myself." "Don't go there, Roy. This is true, and I can prove it." "How?" "It's on my laptop, in the car." "Then bring it with you, Johnny. I'm sure the Robelles would like to see it too."

* * * * *

Jenna Robelle cleared the dinner dishes quickly. Chuck was looking at me across the kitchen table as if I had two heads, and Roy was looking at his shoes. I was on my own. "That article doesn't mean a thing," Chuck said, pointing at my laptop. I'd just showed him Remington's piece on Lost Friday, and realized that indeed it wouldn't mean anything until the day after tomorrow. The save date would become pertinent then, and all hell would break loose over how she knew what was going to happen before-the-fact. Okay, wrong tactic. I was losing Roy, and now I was losing the Robelles, who I never had to begin with. "Besides," Chuck went on, "what does any of this have to do with David?" I remembered that after my first Lost Friday experience, Chuck and Jenna had been completely surprised at both David's correspondence with the NASA scientists and the notebook of mathematical formulas. "I'd like David to read it," I said. "Once you see the look on his face, you'll know what this has to do with him." Roy was fidgeting, and I could tell we were starting to wear out our welcome. We'd been there over an hour, tiptoeing around David's imminent kidnapping. I figured it would be easier coming from David. "Please," I said. "David could be in danger." I knew that if the Robelles refused to let me talk to David, I'd be hiding behind trees with Aryeh trying to prevent a repeat of the original events. Speaking of Aryeh, I wondered again where he'd gone; probably outside imitating a bat, I figured. Reluctantly, the Robelles acquiesced and Jenna called David down from his room. Funny how one's expectations often don't match up to the real thing. David had been in my consciousness seemingly forever, and I figured he'd be a knockoff of the old man. He was on the small side actually, considering he was the starting quarterback on the football team; definitely took after his mom. His eyes, however, were quick as lightning and seemed to take in everything at the same time. He slipped on a pair of heavy-framed glasses and read Remington's article off my laptop in what seemed like thirty seconds. He took his glasses off, and said, "It's happening again." Chuck and Jenna nearly came out of their chairs—and Roy did. Me? I think my heart stopped for a second. David looked at me and said, "Last time they put me on trial." I thought, _fuckin' A_. I was talking to a replica.

* * * * *

David explained the whole thing—Lost Friday, I mean— _exactly_ as Remington had described in her article, but in much greater detail. There were—and were going to be—two forces present in Sea Beach during Lost Friday. The first consisted of about a thousand ICTO operatives who were going to sweep into town in the wee hours of the morning in three separate waves. Their mission was to root out Red Diamond counter-operatives who were already posing as part of the general population, and whose ultimate mission was to kidnap David himself. Both operations were well planned, he explained. The Red Diamond operatives had been present in the boro for some time, waiting for word to execute David's kidnapping. That was pending his completion of certain mathematical formulas, and the substantiation of those formulas by the NASA scientists. The reason he hadn't been abducted before then was the Red Diamond's assumption was that he'd simply stop working on the formulas if that happened. Evidently, David had learned much during his previous excursions into the future. The ICTO had taken advantage of David's discoveries, and had built the first Intertime Devices, or ITDs, about fifty years after his death in the year 2081. It took some years to perfect the technology so that it could be used on humans with no ill effects such as incomplete or inaccurate rematerialization. Needless to say, such effects caused some severe problems, but, once perfected, the ICTO used this powerful weapon for several decades to selectively transform the course of historical events to its advantage. The ICTO being an outgrowth of the United States Department of Homeland Security, it was all done in the name of democracy, but it became apparent that even well-intended twists in the historical series of events had unforeseen effects in the course of human development, some of it quite disastrous. As such, the ICTO discontinued its policy of controlling the present by affecting the past, and stopped using ITDs as a military/political weapon. However, the power of the weapon was enormous, and the ICTO guarded its stockpile of ITDs much like governments of the past guarded their stockpiles of nuclear weapons. The Red Diamond, having been the target of some of the ICTO's historical tampering, had been trying unsuccessfully for many years to steal the ITD technology, which was ultimately based on David's research. That is, until they managed to steal one of the actual ITDs. "So they do indeed have only one ITD?" I questioned, interrupting David's history lesson about the future. "So says the ICTO," he replied skeptically. "Even if it is only one, however, they can send back many operatives over time. The devices don't really wear out, you see. It's not like they have moving parts or anything." "So both organizations want ultimate control over the technology," I concluded. "Of course," David replied. "It's the most powerful weapon the world has ever known, but even though the Red Diamond knows how to use it, they can't make it. It's like a third world country that buys war planes. They have them, and they can fly them, but they can't make them. It's the same sort of thing." "When did you learn that your formulas proved that time travel was possible?" I asked. I noticed that Roy and the Robelles were dead quiet as they listened. "After my first abduction," David replied. "How many times have you been—" "This would be the third time they've tried to kidnap me," David said, anticipating my question. Jenna nearly fainted. "And you remember the first two?" "If you're referring to the memory cleanses, I don't think they work very well on me." Probably a result of a 180 IQ, I figured. The questions were stacked in my brain like playing cards, as was probably the case with Chuck and Roy, both of whom were a couple of pretty cool customers. At least I thought so until Chuck got up from the table, and said, "Let 'em try and get into this house." "Won't do you any good to stop them," David said calmly. "They'll just come back another time, and next time there'll be more of them, and then more after that." "Then I'll take them all out," Chuck said angrily, and Jenna sucked in some air. "It doesn't matter, Dad. The Synthetics don't mean anything to the Red Diamond. And if they run out of Synthetics, they'll send back real people that they consider to be of lower race, people with real families. The Red Diamond doesn't care if they die." "The Synthetics are the Barbies and Ken Dolls, right?" I asked, trying to clarify David's terminology. David nodded. "They're human clones," I explained to Chuck. "As I understand it, they've been bred from master sets of genes of human origin. They even have different models bred from specific genes that are intended for specific purposes." Chuck said, "You mean a master race?" Roy said, "That explains the same DNA thing." "They produce Synthetics by the millions, while at the same time killing off millions of others they consider to be lesser quality human beings," David explained. "It's awful." I turned back to David. "I assume there are Red Diamond operatives who've already been sent back through history?" "I know that's the eventual goal. They want to send back thousands of Synthetics, tens of thousands even. Can you imagine what they could do if they had the capability of manufacturing their own ITDs? They could send Synthetic troops into certain turning point battles in history, they could affect elections, they could affect history in any number of ways, all of it to their benefit." Such as controlling the president of the United States, I thought. David said, "The only way to stop the Red Diamond is to stop the invention of time travel itself." "Then why don't you simply destroy the formulas?" I asked. "Because today is too late. I've already corresponded with the scientists, and the Red Diamond has already kidnapped them. If we manage to prevent ITDs from being invented while the scientists are still in the future, they'll be trapped there." "Are the formulas complete?" David scratched his head, and said, "Probably not, but with enough study, and enough time, it's possible that someone could continue the work." "Do the scientists know the formulas?" "No, not completely, and certainly not from memory. As of our last correspondence, they were using their computers at NASA to verify some of the larger calculations. In my opinion, the only way to prevent all this is to go back further in time and destroy the proofs before I've even had a chance to talk with those scientists." "But that means that any Red Diamond operatives who aren't in their proper time and place will be trapped," I concluded. "Red Diamond operatives who may not know to abandon their missions." "I'd go back myself," David said, "but I don't know how I'd get there from here. Plus, I can't go back and visit myself. A person can only exist at one point on the continuum." "But I thought you were in 2194 standing trial?" "As of tomorrow I will be, not today." Speaking for the first time, Jenna said, "You're not going anywhere," and that was the end of that. No one in that room was gonna challenge that statement. I didn't quite understand. "If you're here, and someone goes back to talk to you about these formulas, how can they do that if you're not there?" "Ah, but I will be there because when that someone goes back, they'd be talking to me at that point on the continuum and today hasn't happened yet. Now you're edging into the substance of my proofs." Okay, now I was in over my head, and I figured that if David said it was a certain way, then that's the way it was. "How far do we need to go back?" "I'm not sure, but it has to be before I started sharing information in that chat room. You know about the chat room, don't you?" "I do, but they don't," I said, indicating Roy and David's parents. David looked at Jenna and said, "I'll explain it to you later, Mom." He turned back to me. "You'll need one thing if you're going to go through with this plan." "What's that?" David got up and said, "I'll be back in a minute." Roy bounced up and said, "Where are you going?" "To my room." "Not alone, you're not." David just looked Roy in the eye and said, "This way, Chief." Cool as a cucumber, that David. You could almost feel his energy settle on you. He and Roy were back in less than a minute, but it was long enough for the Robelles to spear me with stares as if this was all my fault. "You'll need this." David handed me his notebook, the one we found in his room first time around with Corvissi. "These are a couple of the proofs." I flipped through the notebook. A couple? There had to be a hundred pages there, all filled with numbers and symbols that I didn't even try to comprehend. "How many proofs are there in total?" I asked. "I don't know yet," David answered. "But these are the ones everyone is after now." "Tell me something," I said. "If this is going to be the third time the Red Diamond has tried to snatch you, what happened the first two times?" "I refused to provide them with the formulas, so they sent me back to this point with full knowledge of my upcoming trial." I shook my head. "Why?" "Because if I don't come across with what they want, you'll never see Ms. Kovar, Mister Reemer, those scientists, or the jury of my supposed peers, again." "And they wanted you to know that this time around." David just nodded. Looking at his parents, he said, "I guess you want to hear about that chat room now," but now never came. The first shot ripped through the dining room window and couldn't have missed Chuck's head by more than an inch. Roy seemed to know what it was immediately, even though we hadn't heard a thing except for the breaking glass. Another shot tore through a wall and blasted a doorframe into splinters as Roy wrapped his big arms around David and dove to the floor. "Everybody down!" he screamed. Chuck grabbed Jenna in his big arms and was on the floor in a second. I didn't have anyone's big arms around me, but I hauled my skinny Greek ass to the floor as if I was going to burrow into it. For some inexplicable reason, however, the thought came to me that a shot coming through the wall didn't necessarily mean that we—we being any of the people in that room—were the targets. I mean, why? Someone wanted to kidnap David, not kill him. Suddenly, all was quiet. I saw Roy, still down, calling for help on his cell phone. A second later he said, "Chuck, do you own a firearm?" "Just an old goose gun I got when Jenna's dad passed away." "You got ammo?" "Yeah." "Get it, load it, and get everyone into your basement." I could hear sirens in the distance. Roy looked at me but said nothing, and I guess he figured I was a big boy and would go into the basement if I felt like it. With his silver .357 in one hand, and his cell phone in the other, he made another call and gave the situation. "Don't move until we get an all clear," he instructed. Like, where was I gonna go? Two minutes later, the sirens were in the Robelles' front yard and blue and red blips of light dotted everything in sight. I started breathing again as one of Roy's men came through the front door and yelled, "Chief?" Roy got up and said, "The Robelles are in the basement. Stay with them till I give you the all-clear." "Got it, Chief. You might wanna take a look outside." Roy had planned to, of course, but the comment certainly got my attention. I followed Roy into the front yard. "Chief, over here," someone called. I followed Roy to the edge of the yard where a stand of pines swayed in the ever-present breeze off the ocean. There, atop a bed of pine needles were two dark lumps, both of them still as death. Roy barely had a chance to shine a flashlight on them when another call came from the other side of the yard. There, two more lumps were lying face down just outside Chuck's lawn shed. Bending over one of the bodies and shining his light on one of them, Roy said, "His neck has been broken." He went over to the other one. "This one too." Suddenly, from beyond the shed, something that sounded like a groan penetrated the night, a groan that sounded distinctly like, "Mister Pappas." Roy heard it too, and signaled for me to stay where I was. I ignored him as soon as he turned his head, of course. He inched forward until another lump came into view. This lump I recognized. It was Aryeh. I was beside Roy in a second as he passed his flashlight over Aryeh's body, illuminating two distinct spots where the flesh looked like bloody ground beef. Wheezing, Aryeh motioned for both of us to get closer. "You need to get David out of town," he said with a ragged breath, and his head lolled over. Roy checked for a pulse, but I knew he was already dead.

Chapter 27... History Repeats

I said to myself, "Oh, shit," but it wasn't _Oh, shit_ like I'd broken off a cork in a wine bottle, it was _Oh, shit_ like I was skydiving and my parachute didn't open. What the hell were we going to do now? I mean, Aryeh had come back to stop what he thought was a single Red Diamond operative. Now, I was looking at four more on top of the four he'd already blasted on the boardwalk. Roy seemed frozen in his shoes. I mean, eight dead operatives with the same DNA, futuristic crime fighters, changing the course of history; it was a lot to handle. I had to get him off the dime. "They were here to take David," I said. "There could be more on the way." That seemed to click in. "Or already here," he responded. I wondered how we were going to communicate to Vishal that Aryeh was dead. I figured that had to be important, but I still had this gnawing uncertainty about their motives. I tapped Roy on the shoulder, and pointed at Aryeh's body a few yards away. "You two spent a few hours together. Do you think you could have trusted him?" Roy hesitated before taking off his hat and scratching behind his ear. "Why are you asking?" "Humor me. Do you think Aryeh was telling you everything?" Roy put his hat back on, and said, "I think talking to him was like talking to one of you." "You mean reporters." "Right. You never know how what you say is going to be interpreted." That wasn't exactly a compliment, but I knew what Roy meant. Trust no one and move forward cautiously, my dad would have told me. In essence, Roy had just told me the same thing. "Speaking of which," Roy said, "I'd like to know how you're going to report this story." "Huh?" "I assume you're going to write about this." A story. I still worked for the _Press_ ; I was still on the job. How could I not submit a story about eight dead Synthetics and one dead Mossad agent from the year 2194? This was huge, especially considering the fact that Lost Friday hadn't happened yet. It would also back up Remington's piece with Romano. I hadn't even thought about writing a story. Geez, talk about your density factor. "I guess I should make some notes," I said, realizing I didn't have anything to write on besides David's notebook. I certainly wasn't going to write on those pages. I saw that Roy had a notepad where he was supposedly writing down details about the crime scene. "Can I borrow some paper?" He said, "Sure," and handed me the whole pad. I wasn't surprised to see that Roy had written almost nothing. As a matter of fact, the first page read: milk, eggs, dog food, OJ. I guess there were some things he didn't remember. I flipped the page and saw a rough sketch of how the bodies were laid out at the scene, the position of each marked by a small filled-in diamond shape on the page. Hmmm. Okay. I flipped again, expecting to find a blank page. Instead, on the left, were more diamonds, perhaps ten of them, all strung together down the side. I said, "Well I'll be a sum'bitch. You've already been taken." "Something wrong, Johnny?" I said, "What's with the diamonds?" Roy looked at me oddly. "I dunno. Mean something?" That's when I realized the whole thing was happening _exactly_ as it had the first time around. While the rest of the town was taken on Lost Friday and came back remembering nothing, Roy, Anne Behari, and I all came back to regurgitate the Red Diamond symbol in our own ways, and here it was again. It also verified that there'd been several Red Diamond operatives in Sea Beach on the first Lost Friday, just as there were now. History was repeating itself, and we didn't have a prayer of stopping anything that was about to happen.

* * * * *

Roy said, "Who the hell is Anne Behari?" "There's a new dentist that moved into town about six months ago. She's his wife." "Okay, now I know who you're talking about. So?" "So she remembered the Red Diamond symbol. Don't you see? She was taken too." I had poor Roy tied in knots. I looked at my watch and saw that it was getting close to midnight. "Ya know, I'd love to stay and chat, but it's important that I find her as soon as possible." The Robelles' back yard was awash in lights from the ambulances and police cars that littered the area, and the smell of nervous sweat penetrated my senses. I mean, four killings on the boardwalk the previous night had been a damned scary scenario for Sea Beach; five more tonight made it a war zone. The fact that the bodies were being treated like dead robots instead of human beings made the situation even more unnatural for those close to the action. "I'll need one of your men to go with me, Roy. I don't want her thinking I'm some kind of crackpot." "No can do, Johnny. I need everyone on the scene." I pointed to Aryeh's body, which was being zipped into a body bag. "That man's blood is real, Roy, and there will be more of it if you don't do what I want." Roy's eyes froze, and you could tell he wasn't used to anyone talking to him like that. "I'll give you some rope, Johnny, but not much. You don't go out of my man's sight. You got that?" "Not a problem, but I want your word that you and David will meet me outside the boro limits when I'm done." "Where outside the boro limits?" "Outside the entrance gates to Island Beach State Park in an hour-and-a-half. Which one of your men can I take with me?"

* * * * *

The nametag read DiNardo. "The chief said I should drive." "Fine," I said, getting into the back seat. I dropped David's notebook on the seat next to me, but instead of making notes on my own story—that story was in my head and crystal clear—I wondered how Remington was doing. I wrote down some thoughts and managed to raise her on her cell phone. "I was just thinking about you," she said. "I get that from a lot of women." "Sure you do. Listen, I'm on my way to meet Corvissi." I thought: at this hour? She must have hooked him but good. "What if he asks me about the project the scientists were working on, which I supposedly know?" "You'll need play that on your own." "That's it? That's the best you can do?" "Tell him five more people from the year 2194 were killed today, four of them with the same DNA, again." There was a long pause, after which Remington said, "Damn." "After you tell him that, have him read your piece on Lost Friday. Make sure he sees the save date on your computer." "Why?" "Once he realizes that you wrote it before the occurrence, he'll do anything you want, including getting you access to the president." "Does he have the pull to do that?" "Jesus, Remington, I don't know. I've given you all the pieces; it's up to you to put the puzzle together." "Then what about David Robelle?" she asked. "You were supposed to tell me how he fits in to all this." "David Robelle turns out to be the physicist who proves that time travel is possible." I remembered how Corvissi reacted the first time around when he confiscated David's computer and notebook. "Tell Corvissi you have the actual mathematical proofs in David's own handwriting. If he has any idea of those scientists being involved, he'll know exactly what you're talking about, and he'll do anything to keep those proofs secret, especially if he understands the repercussions of being able to travel through time to affect historical events. Once you lay all this on him, the fact that you don't know anything about the project won't mean shit. Hell, _he_ will probably tell _you_ at that point in order to protect himself in case the whole thing goes south. The last thing he wants is to be fingered as the guy who could have prevented all this from happening, something he could have done if he'd known that David and the scientists were working together." "Except that I don't have the proofs," Remington said calmly. "I do, Remington, which means you do." I could sense her anxiety. It was a lot to absorb, especially for a rookie. I checked the time and noted it was past midnight. We were into Lost Friday time. "How are you holding up?" I asked, trying to, like, empathize and shit. "Running on fumes, but I'll make it." "Where are you?" "On the Washington beltway. I should be hooking up with Corvissi in about half an hour." "Who picked the spot?" "He did." "Do you have his cell number?" "Yeah." "Then call him and change the location, then find a way to check him out beforehand to be sure he isn't being followed. Of course, that won't mean anything if he's wired, so be careful." "Why don't I just frisk him?" "If you've got the stones, but he might want to frisk you back. His butt is on the line here, and he's going to be just as wary as you are." "I can handle it." I looked up and noticed that DiNardo was looking at me in the rearview. I finished up with Remington, and said, "What?"

* * * * *

If anyone knocked on my door at 12:40 in the morning and told me I was about to be kidnapped, I figured I'd want an explanation. Well, Anne Behari did too, as did husband Robert. Trusting people, the Beharis; they let me in right away. Of course, having DiNardo there in uniform probably had a lot to do with that, but I don't know if I would have been as cordial. Dressed in a classy silk robe and blue satin pajamas, Anne actually asked if I wanted some tea. "Really, Mister Pappas. Why would anyone want to kidnap me?" "Not just you.... May I call you Anne?" "Of course." "... Anne. The whole town is about to be taken." They both gave me a look, which is what I expected, so I cut right to the chase. "Nine people have been killed in the boro in the last two days, and eight of them have the same DNA." "That's not possible," said Robert. I looked at DiNardo, who looked pretty spooked as well. Rather than talk about genetically engineered human clones, therefore, I recited a few facts that would mean something to them. "Robert, you broke away from a large dental practice in Atlantic City and put out your own shingle about six months ago. You've been thinking about running some ads in the _Asbury Park Press_ , and Anne is helping you by putting together a logo and some advertising concepts. Anne, you just started toying with the idea, and you've gone so far as to put together a sample ad, which you've sketched out in pencil and put in a manila envelope inside that writing desk over there. You haven't shown it to Robert yet, but you think you need a logo that will accommodate the words _honest, affordable, convenient_ , and _professional_." I stopped and looked Anne, who could have been made of ice. "You also have a photographic memory," I added, "and the logo you're going to come up with will be an adaptation of the symbol for a terrorist group called the Red Diamond." "How do you know all this?" she asked. If I told her the truth, she would think I was nuts. As it turns out, however, I didn't need to answer her at all because she disappeared, as in _ffffhhhttt!_ A second later, I did too.

Chapter 28... Who's Who?

"I am Vontz." I looked at him, and hated him instantly. "Of course you are, you big Synthetic hump." Why couldn't I have gotten a Barbie with big maracas? "Where is my friend?" "I do not have that information." "Then go tell your master that whatever you want with me, you can forget it until I see her. Can you remember that, I-am-Vontz?" "I will relay your message." "Good. Now fuck off." I mean, this getting snatched thing was getting old. Vontz left and I had a chance to examine my surroundings. I knew I'd been teleported again, and I checked myself out to make sure I was in one piece. I wasn't in any private room with a manufactured atmosphere this time; I was in a cell so small I could almost touch the opposing walls at the same time. The smell was one only a maggot could stand. Thankfully, I didn't see any maggots, but roaches that looked as big as Snickers bars scooted about and disappeared into the walls. Finding myself instantly sick, I stumbled toward the toilet and made the immediate decision that I'd rather explode than get near it. I heaved, but luckily nothing came up; I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. Light-headed, I straightened up just as the cell door clanged open. Vontz reappeared with some other dude who clearly wasn't just another Synthetic Aryan messenger boy. Heavy shoulders, scruffy gray beard, his features were deeply carved into a craggy face, especially the sinister-looking eyes. This guy looked like he'd been around the block. "You will come with us," said Vontz. "What, time for punch and cookies already?" I mean, my wise-ass gene was kicking in big time. I noticed they were wearing the same jumpsuit type uniform made of a gray, metallic-looking material that even covered their shoes. I guessed it to be something indestructible that twenty-second century military guys wore around the house. They were also wearing side arms that looked like the same dull black DNA-controlled weapons used by the four Synthetics that Aryeh had gunned down on the boardwalk. I also noticed the insignia on their left sleeve.

* * * * *

Some things looked as if they'd changed tremendously in 190 years, while others seemed to have hardly changed at all. Besides cockroaches, one thing that hadn't changed was human nature. I'd made a living reading people, and it was clear that Vontz's friend was no moron. His eyes were quick, his name was Roarke, and Aryeh looked like a Boy Scout next to this guy. I figured I was in for a bad time. Through lips so thin they were almost nonexistent, Roarke said, "Your sense of humor does not amuse me." "It gets me through," I said, not trying to be funny now. Reading him was like reading a brick. "You will come with us," he said, repeating Vontz's words, and I had the feeling that one repetition of instructions was about his limit. Vontz led the way and Roarke fell in behind me, making a Johnny Pappas sandwich of me. The air outside the cell was cold and dank, as if I were deep underground. In fact, I could have been, for there were no windows anywhere, but dozens of metal doors spaced at regular intervals along stained, concrete walls. The only light came from intermittently spaced panels in an otherwise naked ceiling, and it looked like it was shining through gray Jell-O. My feet were freezing. Vontz's footsteps plodded in front of me, while Roarke's snapped out an echo behind me, making it sound as if I were being pursued. I could feel other eyes following my path, but at no time did I hear a sound except for the wheeze of raspy breathing, or perhaps it was choking, I couldn't tell. All I know is that the smell of something awful hung in the air, much like the smell of something you discovered in your refrigerator after a month-long vacation. I found it hard to swallow, and when I did I wished I hadn't. Ugh. After some minutes of trudging along this seemingly endless corridor, Vontz took a left and disappeared. This left me with Roarke, who ushered me into a nearby room that, from the outside, was totally indistinguishable from any other room, or cell, in this facility, which was looking more and more like a prison to me. Roarke sat me at a small table and positioned himself somewhere behind me, setting off a motorized panel in the wall that opened to reveal what looked to be a one-way observation window, like one you'd see in police interrogation rooms. On the other side of that glass, however, interrogation was hardly what was taking place. It was a processing plant—for dead humans. After watching a team of Synthetics take newly-arrived corpses and load them onto a conveyer, I turned away, only to have Roarke step up from the back of the room and drop a bag of pea-sized pellets on the table in front of me. "Your destiny," he said coldly, "and that of your friends, if you don't cooperate." He indicated two other observation windows where Anne Behari and Roy were staring back at me. The Red Diamond had taken us all, again. "Where did you put those formulas?" Roarke growled. "Fuck off," I said, turning away. My eyes fell on the bag of pellets, and I noted the label: _Purina Fish Chow_.

* * * * *

I had no sense of time, no idea of when I'd last eaten—not that I wanted to—and no idea of when I'd last slept. Although I vowed not to touch anything inside my cell—I'd stand in one spot for the rest of my life if I had to—I eventually found myself lying on the miserable piece of equipment that was the bed, having no idea how I'd even gotten into that position. Water. I needed water. I looked around, my eyelids heavy as bags of sand and just a gritty on the inside. I spotted what looked to be a bottle of water and a bowl on a drop-down shelf on the cell door. How long had I been out? Was I even in the same century? The last thing I remembered was standing horrified in front of an observation window while hundreds of naked human bodies, men, women, and children of every race and color, were being whisked along a conveyer into a _processing_ chamber to be turned into human ooze. The shock value of that scene was indescribable. The light inside the cell was constant so that I had no idea if it was day or night. A couple of weeks of this and I knew it would be over for me, if not physically then mentally for sure. I mean, my brain was already shutting down. But how long had it been? Hours? Days? My God, could it have been longer and I just didn't know it? Months even? Could my memory be gone? I needed water. I needed to rehydrate what was left of my brain. My wits were all I had in life. They were what enabled me to be such a damned good reporter. I remembered that! Water. I struggled off the cot and stumbled to the door, hoping my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. There was indeed a bottle of water there, along with a bowl of pellets. People chow: how inhumane. I took the bottle and dashed the bowl into the wall, spilling pellets everywhere. I took a long drink, took a breath, and drank again, throwing the last splash on my face. As I stood there dripping, taking in the smell of my own body, a voice said, "The pellets were meant to nourish humans, not cockroaches." I turned, surprised, but not surprised as the same time—the unexpected was becoming the norm lately—that I wasn't alone. It was Vishal. "Aryeh's dead," I said. Vishal came over and reached out to me. "I know. Take my hand. It will only be thirty seconds before I am discovered, and we need to get you out of here." I took his hand, and we were gone.

* * * * *

"How did you find out Aryeh was dead?" "No one is scheduled to stay in the past indefinitely, Mister Pappas, due to the fact that we have yet to find a way to communicate through worm holes. We found out when we brought him back for his regular mission update briefing." "So he's no longer in the Ocean County morgue," I noted. "He's here," Vishal responded, pointing to a door. "He's being stored cryogenically in the event that we might be able to bring him back if we succeed with our mission." I looked around. "Are we still in Sea Beach?" I asked, seeing that I was in yet another strange environment, this one much like a huge laboratory. "You have been in Sea Beach the whole time." "Then what day is it?" "September 24th." "It's Lost Friday." "It is, although we might try to abort the mission since we know David Robelle is already in the hands of the Red Diamond." I shook my head. "What do you mean, try?" "Stopping Lost Friday is another historical alteration at this point, and, as you know, history can be stubborn. It tries to fulfill itself despite all efforts to change it." I suddenly felt like a hamster on a running wheel. "How did you know where I was?" "When Aryeh showed up dead, we scanned for your DNA." "Then, why didn't you simply lock-on if you wanted to get me out of there? I mean, you took one hell of a chance coming to get me... didn't you?" Vishal was looking at me strangely. "What's wrong?" I asked. Abruptly, he said, "I would like to do a memory scan on you." He wasn't taking his eyes off me, and with all the subtlety of a snarling pit bull, he pulled his DNA-controlled sidearm off his hip and laid it on the table in front of him. He knew I couldn't fire it, and it was obvious that he wanted it where he could reach it in, like, a billionth of a second. I said, "What's up... Vishal?" Without answering, he motioned toward the door and two goons came in, both of whom could easily have been Synthetics. I didn't know where I was, but I started to get the feeling that there were no good guys in this movie. One of them stepped up, holding a contraption that, to me, looked like a beer-bong hat, except that there was no place for the beer cans. "Let me try a thirty-eight long to go with that," I said, but the goon seemed to go cross-eyed. I hate it when some perfectly good sarcasm gets wasted. Without so much as a _fuck you asshole_ , he put this headset-looking thing on my head. Two pads came to rest at each temple, a third directly on the top of my head, and a final pad was positioned on the back of my neck at the base of my skull. A moment later, my head was hot, and I could feel pressure behind my eyes. Just when I thought my skull was, like, inflating, the sensation went away, and Vishal was looking at a readout on one of those hidden wall panels that I was coming to hate. I mean, you couldn't tell when big brother was on you, or not, but I had the feeling someone would know if I wiped my ass with the wrong hand. Apparently satisfied, Vishal holstered his weapon, and I surmised that it wasn't my day to die. "So, do I get a Get-Out-Of-Jail card?" I asked, but, once again, the remark went unappreciated. It wasn't that funny anyway. "Your DNA has been duplicated," Vishal informed me. "I had no choice but to verify your identity." Maybe it was me, but he suddenly took on a darker visage, and seemed much more like Roarke than not. That aside, his last statement abruptly slapped me upside the head. "What do you mean, my DNA has been duplicated?" "When we scanned for your DNA, we came upon two readings." "Are you telling me what I think you're telling me?" I was suddenly kind of pissed. "One of you is a Synthetic." "I'm the real thing, Vishal. Where's the Synthetic? "We don't know." I thought: fuck that. That wasn't gonna work.

Chapter 29... The Merry-Go-Round

"Where are you going?" Vishal called after me. "I don't know... out!" I headed for the door. "You can't. They're looking for you now." "Well you sure-as-shit aren't doing much to protect me. Those Red Diamond bastards took me from right under your nose yesterday. And did you really think Aryeh was enough to do the job? For all you know, they could have sent back a hundred Synthetics, a thousand even, and all you had was him to stop them." "We knew what we were doing." "Yeah, right." "It doesn't always take an army of operatives to change the course of an event. We've done it many times, Mister Pappas, and our plan called for only one person to go back with you for that part of the mission. It makes us harder to detect." "Oh, like Lost Friday." "That was different. It was complicated, and we had no choice but to conduct the mission the way we did. Perhaps next time we will do it differently." Next time? I was starting to feel like a chess piece. "A lot of good that does David Robelle and the eighteen other people who've been snatched, and now you tell me there's another one of me running around? How the hell did _that_ happen?" Vishal looked away. "We were trying to avoid that." Well, if you think I was already angry.... In as controlled a voice as I could muster, I said, "You knew?" Vishal didn't respond, and if there's one thing I'd learned in my years of interviewing people, it was when to sense guilt: not _something-looked-a-little-fishy-but-I-didn't-do-anything_ guilt, but _I-got-caught-red-handed-with-a-naked-woman-and-my-dick-out_ guilt. This was like that. Seething, I walked up and situated my nose about an inch from Vishal's. I mean, it just didn't make sense anymore. Either these ICTO guys could stop the Red Diamond, or they couldn't. Me? I wanted out. This wasn't my fight. "Let's get to the point. You need me, for some reason; I know it, and you know it. Either level with me, or you can kiss my ass gone and you can handle this mess on your own." Vishal was probably one hell of a poker player, but just for an instant he let the uncertainty show in his eyes. "Without me you'll be dead within ninety days." I gave him my best smirk, the one I used when bluffing a bluffer. "Without me...." I stopped. I stared at his face for a moment, and stepped back. Up close, without the framework of his long dark hair, without the distraction of his muscular build, I recognized the eyes. They were green, not brown or black as one would expect with someone of his complexion. I'd seen those eyes before—and they belonged to Anne Behari. I took another step back, and I saw the same long, elegant nose I'd noticed on her the first time I saw her. Well, well, well. Could it be? Could it carry through... how many generations? I was starting to get a picture, but a picture of what? "How many branches down is Anne Behari on your family tree?" I asked, waiting to see his reaction. He blinked. It wasn't much, but it was enough for me to know he was itchy about something. Rather than denying it, he said, "She was my grandfather's great grandmother. If she's pregnant this time around, she'll die." Hello. I paced from one side of the lab room to the other, feeling Vishal's eyes on me the whole time. He wasn't about to let me out of his sight, literally, and my guess was that it had to do with a Red Diamond ITD locking on to my DNA and zapping me out of there. I didn't know what he could do about it, but I'm sure there was a lot more about ITDs and DNA scans that I didn't know. Indeed, everything I'd found out about ITDs and all the other aspects of Lost Friday had been revealed in tidbits, little burps of information that didn't provide a complete picture of the events. Watching Vishal's eyes as they tracked me, I suddenly felt that tickle I get when I think there's a lot more happening right under my nose than I'm seeing. Hell, if the president of the United States was implicated in this, it certainly didn't happen in a vacuum. Well, a lot of little burps can add up to one big puke, and I went for the whole stinking mess. "Tell me, Vishal, why are you having to go back almost two hundred years to stop the Red Diamond from having ITDs? Surely there have been opportunities between my time and your time to accomplish that." I wondered what Vishal's time really was. I mean, for all I knew he could have been from beyond 2194 and had been sent back himself. He blinked again, and I could sense the gears turning inside his head. Somehow, I'd just cornered him. "There have been many," he said, "but each time we made progress, they've gone back further in the linkage of events to undo our missions." Again, everything could be undone. That's why Aryeh was being stored. He could be brought back to life, or perhaps never killed to begin with. I thought: this could go on forever. So how far back did they have to go? Nazi Germany? Before then? And the further back they went, wouldn't the effects of any change in events flow out like ripples on a pond so that they got greater and greater as the linkages to the event expanded? I suddenly felt like going over and choking Vishal. I mean, millions and millions of lives could be affected, with perhaps millions more over time prevented from even being born to begin with. What arrogance! What gave anyone the right to play God like that? ICTO, Red Diamond, it didn't fucking matter. Both were evil beyond comprehension. Choking Vishal wouldn't accomplish much besides making me feel better, however, and I had to find a way to chain down my impulses and keep my head on straight. "You said about Anne Behari, 'If she's pregnant this time around, she'll die.' What did you mean by that?" I really wanted to hear the answer to that question, but just then the goon who'd done my memory scan blew through the door. Again, he gave me about as much regard as he would a twenty-second century dog turd on his shoe. He whispered something to Vishal. Vishal turned to me, like, really serious-looking. "This isn't the first time Anne Behari has been abducted by the Red Diamond, as it hasn't been with you or your police officer friend. That's partly why their symbol has seeped from your respective memories. Even with memory erases, things surface over time if there's been enough exposure to them." So Anne Behari's, Roy's, and my recollection of the Red Diamond symbol didn't have as much to do with us being eidetikers as it had to do with the fact that we'd been through this repeatedly. I guess that made sense. "What about her pregnancy?" I leaned on a lab table, and waited. "There have been several attempts to prevent that from happening. The details aren't important right now, but the bottom line is that if she is found pregnant this time around, the Red Diamond will execute her—tomorrow." Back and forth, back and forth, trying to prevent dominoes from falling. "And that's how the ICTO and the Red Diamond know everything about each other, isn't it? It isn't your damned intelligence; it's the fact that you've screwed around with history so many times that you know where all the players are located." "That's only partly true. The one aspect of all this that perhaps you haven't absorbed is that if Anne Behari dies tomorrow, I cease to exist." And if he ceased to exist, I was up shit's creek without a paddle. Damn! I realized now that he had me by the short hairs as well, and I had no choice but to play his game if I didn't want to leave them in the twenty-second century. I hate having no options; it makes bullshitting your way through a situation much less viable. "As much personality as I've got to spread around, I don't like the idea of another Johnny Pappas out there snaking my dates. You still haven't told me how it happened." Vishal took a deep breath, and said, "He's a Synthetic." "Yeah, got that. How'd it happen?" "The Red Diamond had your DNA. They genetically engineered one of their Synthetics—and they raised him." "As in real time?" "Yes. They raised him, and sent him back." Okay, I got the picture. It was like: what was, is, and what will be, can be created. I bet the odds makers in Vegas probably wouldn't like ITDs very much. I was about to ask another question, but Vishal held up a hand. "Nothing you could ask now will change the situation, Mister Pappas. You and I have been in this room too many times, and the time for questions has run out." I didn't like the sound of that. "What if I don't cooperate?" "Oh, you'll cooperate. Goodbye for now, Mister Pappas. You'll find your instructions at the other end of the wormhole."

Chapter 30... Heeeeeere...'s Johnny!

The first two things I did were to check the time, and look outside my front door. It was 7:16 a.m. exactly, and, as usual, both the _Times_ and the _Press_ were lying on my doormat. Both showed the same date of Wednesday, September 15th, nine days before Lost Friday. I didn't know much about this teleportation stuff, and I wondered how I could have rematerialized inside my own apartment. I gave myself a mental eye roll, thinking, _fuckin' A_ , the Red Diamond bastards had sent two Barbies in here, but there was no telling how many times I'd really gone through this. I figured my place was probably on, like, teleportation speed dial by now, and I was having a hard time remembering what day it was in relation to the Lost Friday date of September 24th. I couldn't help but recall what Vishal had told me about history happening all at the same time along the continuum, and I think I was getting closer to understanding the concept. I also remembered Roarke, and Vontz, and the human processing plant, and it wasn't pleasant. I put the thought aside, not wanting to concentrate on anything except what I was supposed to do. On any normal day, I would have been stumbling out of the shower about this time, and I wondered if I'd gotten any sleep anywhere along the way. I mean, I actually couldn't remember. I didn't feel tired, though, and as far as I could tell, my memory was intact. I figured I might as well get on with the mission, which was... what? Vishal's last words to me were, "You'll find your instructions at the other end of the wormhole." Okay, so where were they? I didn't feel much like playing find-the-instructions, but I had no other choice. Maybe they would take the form of another of those hanging text messages, and I checked all the rooms just to be sure. Nothing. Ah, those sly bastards: the newspapers! Nothing doing there either, however. I checked every page in both papers, actually recognizing some of the stories inside the _Press_ , which led me off onto another tangent, which was: what was I supposed to be working on? I looked around for my notepad, comfortable with the fact that I found it right where I normally put it next to the phone. I flipped through it, seeing lots of notes on a three-part story about commercial development in the Pinelands. I remembered working on that: dull, boring shit, no clues there. I started wondering why Vishal had sent me back to this specific day, and that's when I remembered that there was another Johnny Pappas running around somewhere. Ah. Maybe he'd been sent back to this date too. But where? Maybe the cocksucker—wait, even in that context I didn't want to think of myself like that—maybe the bastard was at the _Press_ , going through my stuff. I mean, if I was a Synthetic and I'd been sent back to take my place, that's where I'd be. Suddenly, I knew where I had to go.

* * * * *

Everything seemed normal along the way. The 'Vette was parked right where I always parked it, Norm was at the Wawa, and I recognized all the recent calls, both incoming and outgoing, on my cell phone. I blew through the doors into the newsroom, and did a visual sweep before going to my desk. I mean, what if I was already there? Romano shuffled past me carrying a cup of coffee. "What are you, standing there like that? A new superhero? Super Greek. No, wait a minute. Super Geek. Yeah, that's it. I like that better. Super Geek. Hah!" Romano moved off, chuckling and muttering, "Super Geek," under his breath. Bite me, Romano. I made my way to my desk, sneaking peeks at every corner of the newsroom as I did so. I took my chair and fired up my computer, my mind ablaze with a thousand thoughts. I don't know why, but I thought maybe the instructions I was looking for were in my e-mail. I clicked into my Outlook and noticed that I had sixteen unopened e-mails. Eight were spam, six were interoffice bullshit, one a message from my car dealer telling me it was time to change the oil on the 'Vette, and one porno that exploded into half-a-dozen pop-ups as soon as I clicked on it. "Nice," someone said behind me as they passed my cubicle. It was Remington. I'd completely forgotten about her. "Wait," I called out. "Not a chance, Pappas. Been there, done that." I realized she was talking about the porno. Looking at the computer, I thought: _really_? I scrambled from my chair before she got too far away. "I need your help," I said, touching her elbow from behind. God, she looked hot, like she'd just come from doing a shampoo commercial, or something. Despite everything else that was on my mind, I felt the blood drain from my brain and flow down to you-know-where. She looked at my hand on her elbow and kind of snarled. "What? Need someone to do some research on the upcoming oil wrestling championships?" "No," I said, seeing by her expression that I was facing pre-Lost Friday Remington. She had no clue about it, and anything I said now would be construed as just another attempt to get her to touch my pee-pee. "This is gonna sound strange," I said. "You've already asked me if I was double-jointed." Ignoring her, I said, "I want you to let me know if I show up here again."

* * * * *

Instructions or no instructions, I had to figure out what I was up to. Remington treated my request as she did everything else about me—with contempt—but I think I got her attention when I gave her the keys to the 'Vette, and said, "Do me a favor. If another guy shows up here who looks like me, find out how he got here because he didn't use this." I held up my big, fat, obnoxious Corvette key ring, with the big, fat, obnoxious Corvette logo that I really liked, and dropped it into her hand. "I need you to drive my car." "What do you mean, drive your car? Like, where?" "Anywhere. It just needs it to be visible." Now, anyone who knows me also knows that I'd rather give up a kidney than let anyone near my 'Vette, so my giving her the keys and asking her to drive it was like, whoa! She didn't exactly acknowledge that I was trying to be honest and upfront with her, and not trying to get her to eat a banana in front of me, but she didn't walk off all huffy and disgusted with me either. "You want to tell me what this is about?" "Someone is trying to impersonate me." "Now why the hell would someone want to impersonate... _you_?" I didn't really like the sound of that, but I also didn't really have time to go over the upcoming Lost Friday events _again_ , so I said, "It's a new identity theft scam that uses look-alikes. I don't know exactly how they do it yet, but it rips people off big time." Remington shifted her weight to one leg, and gave me an x-ray eye. "How'd you get into this mess?" I figured an arrogant offense was the best defense, so I gave off some severe attitude. "I don't have time to explain every little detail. All you need to know is that I've been working on this story for three months, and they think I'm worth millions." I paused, like, really dramatically. "I'll give you a piece of this story if you help me out here, but, hey, if you don't want in, that's okay. I'll ask Pritchard. He works the local beat, too, doesn't he? Give me the keys." She smelled a story, and hesitated. Good reporter. "And how does driving your car have anything to do with the story?" "Anyone who knows me also knows that me and that car are inseparable. If someone is trying to impersonate me, they need that car to pull it off. I'm hoping you can lure them into the open, and find out who it is." That was weak, and I knew it, but it was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. I hoped it was enough to keep her engaged. So far, I had her by the thinnest of strings, which meant that she could have dropped my car keys into the nearest trash can and walked away any second. As with any greedy reporter, however, the possibility of glomming onto a big story proved to be just a little too intriguing to not sniff around the edges of it. She mulled for a second. "I'd have to clear it with Romano." "What, just so he can say no? You know how Romano is. He doesn't even know I'm working on this. I need your help, specifically." "Why me?" I said, "I need someone with connections with the local PDs. You got any pull with the county crime labs in Toms River or Freehold?" "I can probably get a favor or two out of either of them." I pulled an envelope off the shelf of the nearest empty cubicle. I licked it, and sealed it, and give it to her. "If you can get close to whoever is trying to impersonate me, or if someone who looks like my twin brother shows up here, find a way to get a DNA sample from him, and have one of your connections run it and compare it to this. Just remember I'm an only child. There are no other Johnny Pappases running around out there." "Thank God for that," she said sarcastically, but she didn't walk away. I still had her. Identity theft using look-alikes," she said curiously. "A look-alike with a driver's license could clear out bank accounts, establish credit cards, do all kinds of things. How do they do it? The likeness would have to be pretty exact in order for something like that to work. Plastic surgery? Do they kidnap the victims beforehand?" She was asking too many questions. "I told you, I don't have all the details yet. Does this mean you're in?" She hesitated. "Then what, I mean after I run the DNA?" "I told you, call me." I held up my cell phone. "I'll find out where the imposter leads us from there." Remington gave me a skeptical eye and moved off, which was fine because she held onto the keys rather than telling me to kiss off. I walked into Romano's office and told him my car was in the parking lot with a dead battery, and I needed to sign out one of the _Press_ vans in order to work on my assignment. "Aren't you doing a wrap-up on that fascinating Pinelands development story?" "Uuhhh, yeah, but I crossed paths with the word _payoff_ , and I want to check a couple of things out, just in case. You never know." "Don't take all fucking day," Romano responded. "I'd like to meet today's deadline without scrambling for it." "Got it, boss." I was out the door, but to where? I sat behind the wheel of one of the _Press_ news vans, and tried to think of my next move. If I were a Johnny Pappas Synthetic, and I'd been sent back to this time, where would I be, and what would I be doing? What was the reason for sending back my twin? Obviously, it would be to take my place, but why? I found out when I went to adjust the rearview mirror and saw myself sitting in the back seat.

Chapter 31... Darlon

"Did she believe your story this time?" I turned so quickly that I nearly unscrewed my neck from my shoulders. _Fuckin' A_ : dark eyes, thick tangled hair, wiry stubble; I was looking at myself. The first thing I noticed, besides the incredibly good looks, was one of those now all-too-familiar DNA-controlled Glocks aimed at the back of my seat. Remembering that the weapon fired a variety of ammunition, I figured it was loaded with something that would turn me into hamburger. I met his eyes with mine, and saw that they were soulless. "What story?" I asked. "Stop playing dumb, Skippy. We've been through this before." I thought: we have? Confusion must have crossed my face, and he caught it. This guy was sharp. Then again, he was me. No wonder he was such a fucking wise-ass. "How many times?" "Several." "I guess that means this is the furthest you've been sent back to undo your previous fuck-ups." He caught me in a glare. "I'm sure I'll be successful on this attempt." I took a page out of Romano's book and tried to piss him off to see how he did under pressure. "Yeah, right," I said. "So, ah, what should I call you besides dip-shit?" Well, that had the desired effect. His face hardened, and I wondered if that's what I looked like when I got angry. It wasn't a good look. "You can call me Darlon." "Darlon? What is that, like, the name of a prescription drug, or something?" He didn't think it was funny. "You know, I just don't understand why you clowns can't get it right. I mean, you know what's going to happen, and you still screw it up. If you're going to risk certain execution, one would think you'd figure it out."

Darlon chuckled contemptuously. "We're not the only ones sending back operatives, _Johnny_. Do you think your ICTO friends are as honest and socially conscious as they're portraying themselves to be, and that they're not running their own operations aimed at undoing our work? They'll stop at nothing to maintain their monopoly on ITD technology. They've killed millions."

Old Darlon verified what I'd suspected all along: there were no white hats in this gunfight. "Don't play holier-than-thou," I shot back. "I've seen the slaughter." "Every one of those people was convicted of a crime, _Johnny._ " "You know, I really don't like the way you say that." I could feel my neck muscles turning to ropes. " _Touché_. They were all given a fair trial." "Right. Just like David Robelle was given a fair trial." "David Robelle and those scientists were aware of the fact that their work was going to be used to prevent certain people from being born. That's a form of murder in the year 2194, yet just like the people you're talking about, they chose to ignore the warnings. They knew they were breaking our laws, but somehow they felt they weren't subject to them." "Your laws weren't their laws." "We're talking about time travel, _Johnny_. They were subject to the laws of any time or place to which they were able to travel. In your time, aren't people who come to your country from other places subject to your laws?" Old Darlon had me there, but I tried to evade the point. "And what about the people I saw being turned into fish food?" "Those people were convicted of breaking laws they knew were in existence well before having taken residence within our client countries. If they didn't like the laws, they should never have agreed to live under them." "You make it sound like they had a choice." "Of course they did. They were also given the opportunity to relocate, and they chose not to. We were the ones with no choice." "There had to be other choices besides killing them." "They were aware of the circumstances," Darlon defended. "Our client nations have fifteen billion people to provide for. They don't have the time, or the money, to tolerate social criticism. It leads to insurrection and terrorism, a fact that has been proven many times throughout history." Darlon took a breath, but the Glock never moved. "You probably don't know that death is the common penalty for many crimes in our time, some of which you might classify as minor. A society of that magnitude can't function with the endless nonsense that comprises your social justice system. It would bankrupt the system, and there would be utter chaos. And then what, _Johnny_? Sometimes worrying about the few is detrimental to the many; in this case, tens of billions would die because a few malcontents refused to abide by the rules set up by their own society. We are simply facilitating their wish to not be part of it." While it sounded good on the surface, I was able to see the holes in Darlon's argument. If there was ever a formula for fascism, this was it. However, I could tell Darlon believed every word he said. "And simply being born of a particular race is a crime worthy of death?" "I don't have time to explain all the lessons history has taught us." I bet most of those _lessons_ involved mass graves. "Some people are natural enemies," Darlon went on, as if he felt the need to explain further, "and have been for hundreds of years." I thought: what was this, a clone with a conscience? "So?" "What's to make us think we can control their hatred after all that time? The easiest way to maintain order is to separate them. Those who refused to be relocated were in violation of the laws of our client countries. We provide the law enforcement functions for those countries, and we had no choice but to carry them out. Those people were given every opportunity." "So, it's off with their heads, no middle ground." Darlon was losing his patience. "Don't make those people martyrs for their stupidity. With fifteen billion people to protect, our clients do not have the ability, or the willingness, to compromise with insurgents. It's for the greater good." I understood his point, in a warped way. There wouldn't be a lot of social unrest if you could be put to death for giving someone the finger, but it sounded way wrong. "And you've been sent back for the umpteenth time to defend this paradise." "I've been sent back to stop the ICTO from taking us over, or forcing us to merge with one of our other competitors. They've tried several times, but we've managed to ward off their attempts by going back further and further in time and foiling their efforts." I thought, _fuckin' A_. This sounded like a hostile takeover battle. Could it be? I wondered how long the Red Diamond and the ICTO had been trying to steal _clients_ from each other. For all I knew, in the year 2194 countries could switch security agencies like switching phone companies. For the Red Diamond, the ICTO, and their competitors, world domination came down to bringing in enough customers. I figured it was like McDonald's. "ITDs are power, _Johnny_. The ability to travel through time and affect history is the most powerful weapon ever created. It is better to have the technology and control it rather than be a victim of its abuse. It would enable us to provide more service to our clients." So, it all came down to money. I didn't doubt Darlon's point that many governments would want the technology, and would pay dearly for it. For some, it could be the difference between existence and nonexistence. "Hopefully, this will be the last time we carry out this mission," Darlon continued. "We think we're finally at the source." The source: I understood instantly. I looked at Darlon. He looked like me, but he wasn't me, and could never be me on a long-term basis. However, there had to be a hell of a good reason for the Red Diamond to engineer a Synthetic in my likeness, take thirty-one years to grow him, and then send him back. Being the source of this mess could certainly be it. Suddenly nervous, I almost went tinkie in my pants as I realized what he was inferring. "Are you trying to tell me this whole thing revolves around me?" "You're the key to the entire development and existence of ITDs," Darlon said calmly. "That's why I've been sent back to take your place." "You couldn't even crap like I could," I said smartly. "And besides, I thought David Robelle and those scientists were the key to your treasured ITDs." "The scientists are useless," Darlon volunteered. "The records indicated they were the primary authors of the formulas, but we realized they weren't as soon as we did brain scans on them. That's why I've come back. Who would have thought a seventeen-year-old was responsible for proving that time travel was possible?" So David gets screwed in the end, I thought to myself, not even getting credit for his own work. I wondered if he would really care about that, given what his findings led to in the century after his death. "So what are you going to do with the scientists, kill them too?" "We don't have to do anything with them. They haven't been taken yet." Oh, right. I got the picture. Today, September 15th, was before the scientists' abductions, before Lost Friday, before everything, and Darlon came back, looking like me, to do what? Hello. To kidnap David Robelle? They'd already done that, which probably meant that course of action didn't work, or Darlon wouldn't be here. "So tell me, Darlon, old pal, what's up? You didn't come back here to take a vacation." Darlon repositioned the Glock so that it was no longer pointing into the back seat, but at my head. "I think you know where those formulas are." Ah. That answered the question of how I managed to become the honored guest at this party. I didn't think I could laugh at someone who was holding a gun to my head, but I did. "What, you're going to kill me? I won't do you much good dead, will I? What then?" Keeping the Glock trained on me, Darlon climbed into the front seat of the news van. I noticed he was wearing a blue button-down shirt, Dockers, and moccasin loafers. Someone had done his or her homework. Answering my question, he said, "We could go back further and try again, but you can be sure that if we don't find those formulas, you'll never be alive again beyond this point in time." First, it was off a bridge with Remington and Romano, and now I was about to take one in the ear. I knew what he was saying, all right, which was that the chances of history being changed to make me un-dead were somewhere around none. I figured the next copy of the _Press_ would have my obituary in it if I didn't cooperate. But, they knew that David had those formulas. Why didn't they just go to his house—again? "There's something I don't understand." "I can't wait," said Darlon. What a sense of humor. I hated to admit that the bastard was more like me than I thought. "You already have an ITD...." "Actually, we have three of them." "Really. The ICTO boys think you only have one." "It'll be our little secret." "I don't understand why those formulas are so damned important to you. If you have three ITDs, surely you can find a way to tear one down and duplicate the technology." Suddenly, my cell phone went off, but just as I looked at the incoming number Darlon took it from me and clipped it to his belt. "Actually, we're in the process of doing that," he said, "but it's not that easy. Aside from the fact that ITDs are programmed to self-destruct if someone tampers with them, David Robelle was another Einstein and coming up with his exact calculations by working backward from an end product might require years of experimentation, not to mention loss of life." "Loss of life? How's that?" "We've figured out teleportation when the subject is present and able to be scanned. Getting that subject back from the initial teleportation isn't so easy without the actual formulas. That's why the Red Diamond has only experimented with Synthetics. You see, no one gives a crap if we never come back." "So why are you doing this, Sherlock?" "I have no choice, _Sherlock_. It's this, or the fish food factory. What would you do?" Sarcasm and righteous indignation; for a second, I thought I could actually grow to like this guy. "So you need the formulas to get the teleportation thing right, right?" "More precisely, we need the formulas to prevent the ICTO from getting ITDs." I shook my head. "But the ICTO already has them." "Think," said Darlon, tapping my head with the barrel of the Glock. His eyes narrowed. I mentally reviewed what I knew about the formulas, which wasn't much. I'd crossed paths with them a couple of times. The first time was at the Robelles' house with Corvissi; the second time was after I'd been sent back by Vishal, and I was living through the Thursday before Lost Friday for the second time. That's when David actually gave me the notebook. I recalled that David had indicated that the notebook contained only a couple of the proofs, and that he hadn't even completed the work yet. As such, there had to be more stuff out there than what was in that one notebook. I wondered if Darlon knew that. I wondered if Darlon even knew there was a notebook. With all the historical tampering that had probably taken place in the 190 years between Lost Friday and 2194, who knew how, or where, David's work ended up being disseminated? I recalled that the last time I saw that notebook it was inside Officer DiNardo's squad car about a week from now. Obviously, however, time meant nothing, and I knew I would have to prevent Darlon from finding it. I looked at Darlon one more time. He was me, all right, and I just hoped that I could outfox myself.

Chapter 32... BLAM!

To say that I was still having trouble figuring how several pieces of this puzzle fit together would be accurate. To say I was cruising toward a _I-was-totally-fucked-up_ rating in the logic department would be more accurate. Vishal had provided the answer to how Anne Behari fit in, but what about husband Robert? I mean, if the Red Diamond was trying to prevent Vishal from being conceived, why did they have to go back seven generations to do it? Couldn't they have started with Vishal's mother and/or father? It did take two to tango, after all. But maybe they did indeed try to undo Vishal from both his maternal and paternal sides all the way back to the Behari's. Or maybe Anne liked the UPS man and Vishal's bloodline didn't emanate from old Robert. Interesting. And if they did go back seven generations, did that mean the Red Diamond had tried to undo Vishal six previous times with each attempt having been reversed by the ICTO? That question served up several others. What about Roy? How did he fit into this whole thing? I remembered Vishal telling me that Roy had a hand in uncovering the plot that led me, Remington, and Romano to take our Christmas party plunge, but what did Roy have to do with foiling the Red Diamond's attempts to obtain David's formulas? And what about the teachers? And the twelve jurors that were taken for David's _fair_ trial? None of those actions made any sense to me. I wondered if somewhere along the way they'd become products of some historical meddling that no one had bothered to correct as the Red Diamond and the ICTO moved further and further back in time to undo each other's deeds. Maybe they were like some sort of leftover historical chum caught up in the wake of ITDs blasting through time. If that was the case, I'd never figure it out, but maybe I didn't need to. Today was September 15th, and none of the events I was remembering had occurred yet. Talk about screwed up: how do you remember something that hasn't happened yet? Anyway, I needed to come up with a plan quickly, or the whole chain of events would start happening again. Then, if things didn't work out to everyone's approval—and how could they?—either the Red Diamond, or the ICTO, or both, would hippety-hop even further back in time and jack around with the events, and peoples' lives, even more. I thought: what an f'ing mess. It could be endless, and I had visions of myself being dead one day, and undead the next, never knowing the whole time if I got to take a sponge bath with Kelli Remington. Well _that_ wasn't sitting quite right with me, and I'm sure Darlon wouldn't have blinked an eye at making me dead as opposed to undead, so I decided that I had to manipulate some of my own history, especially since the _instructions_ I was supposed to find, according to Vishal, had yet to materialize. I figured those also could have been intercepted, or altered, in some way, but I didn't know if that was good, or bad. I mean, Vishal himself could have teleported his hairy ass back in time and tried to take care of this mess; why didn't he? Hmmm. Now, there was no Vishal, and no Aryeh, and possibly no instructions either, and Vishal, that four-eyed futuristic bastard, was using me somehow, instead of risking his own neck. I suddenly had the feeling that I was on my own and that I couldn't plan on anyone showing up from God-knows-where to help me out of this little conundrum. Talk about your dirty job. "Give me your identification," Darlon ordered. "I'm guessing the plan is for you to take my place," I said as I handed Darlon my wallet and my _Press_ ID badge. Darlon said, "Come now, _Johnny_. Why else would I look like _this_?" You know, I was _really_ getting annoyed with the way he said things. "You could never swing it." "I don't have to _swing_ anything, whatever that means. All I have to do is take something that is important to you if you don't do what I want." I laughed. "What? My car? Get real. I was thinking about getting a new one anyway. I like those new Mustangs. What do you think?" Darlon's face got real serious. "Don't take me for a fool, _Johnny_. There's something much more valuable to you than that." "Yeah? Like what?" "Like Kelli Remington." Shit. Why couldn't he have picked Romano? He must have sensed that I was thinking about her. "Let me tell you something about Kelli Remington. You couldn't get within ten feet of her without her knowing you're not me." Darlon's eyes dropped to the Glock. "I don't need to." Wait a minute. The Glock. If Darlon's DNA was engineered to be the same as mine, didn't that mean I could fire that weapon? I had to get my hands on that gun. "What if I tell you I know where some of those formulas are?" That got Darlon's attention all right, and I suddenly saw my intense look staring back at me. I figured I had to control my own expression, otherwise he'd know what I was thinking. "Some of them?" Darlon questioned. "I know David kept a spiral notebook where he compiled his formulas. He calls them proofs. I also know they're not finished." Darlon got even more intense. "That's all I know about them." "Where are they?" "Not so fast, numb-nuts." Darlon's eyes narrowed. "If I lead you to those formulas, does that mean everything would go back to normal, and we'd never see or hear from you assholes again?" I mean, I was setting him up but I didn't want to be obvious about it. I figured insulting him would be a good distraction. He smiled. "Of course." Right. Now he was setting me up, but he sucked at it. I guess all those years of worming my way through canned press conferences, reading between the lines on press releases, and asking questions that kept subjects off balance, was paying off for me. I figured as soon as he had those formulas, David and I would both be dead. "I need to take you to them," I said, knowing Darlon's instincts were probably pretty sharp. I wasn't wrong. He smelled a rat and put the Glock to my head, saying in a voice that let me know it, "We're only doing this once, so don't try to deceive me. I can always go back to another time and try this again, but you'll always be dead from this point forward." I swallowed real hard, and said, "Fine." "Where are we going?" Not bluffing, I said, "Take that thing away from my head or we're not moving." Darlon lowered the Glock. "You must think I'm as big an idiot as you are. If I tell you where we're going, what do you need me for?" Darlon looked at the dashboard, and said, "Please operate this vehicle." _Please operate this vehicle_? I thought: what the hell was that? A normal person would have said, " _Drive_." He didn't know the terminology, so I figured he probably didn't know how to drive. Okay, maybe that's what he needed me for. I surmised that he probably didn't know anything about twenty-first century vehicles, except that they were an antiquated form of transportation. I fired up the news van and slowly backed out of the parking space. As I notched it into drive, having no clue about what I was saying and just trying to keep his mind occupied with something besides me, I said, "You know, we may have to take those formulas by force." Darlon waved the Glock, and said, "Not a problem." "No, but two of us showing up could be a huge problem. How are we going to explain that?" "We'll worry about that when the time comes." Well, there was a real plan. "Listen, Sparky, why don't you let me handle it if there's any talking to do, okay? You may look like me, but you come off like a dork and heaven knows that could never be me." "A dork?" "Never mind. Just let me take care of it." Darlon didn't say anything, but I knew that if he was anything at all like me, there was no way he was going to just back off and wait for me to bring him the formulas. I cruised onto Route 66 in Neptune toward the parkway with the Glock still pointed at me, but now it was pointed at my stomach. I debated going for it, and Darlon must have seen my eyes wander because he said, "Don't even think about it." Okay, that I understood. I shifted my gaze back to the roadway, but not before noticing that old Darlon wasn't wearing his seatbelt. Gee, I was. I came off the traffic circle where Route 66 crossed Route 35, and I punched the van toward the ramp to the parkway. Now, this particular van was one of those Econoline models that could carry cargo, or a whole bunch of passengers. It was used if for all kinds of things, and while it wasn't, like, from NASCAR or anything, it had a V-8 in it, and with its high center of gravity you could really get it to rock and roll if you put the pedal to the metal, especially on a circular on-ramp. So, that's what I did. I hit the base of the ramp doing about sixty, and wheeled that thing so that it had to be on two wheels going around that ramp. Problem was, the centrifugal force propelled Darlon toward me, and that's not what I wanted to accomplish. What I wanted to accomplish was to splatter him all over the windshield. "Please operate with less force," Darlon ordered, once again raising the Glock and putting it an inch from my head. "Yeah, operate _this_ ," I hollered over the roar of the engine. Darlon's eyes shifted between the roadway and me as I tore in and out between cars. Horns and middle fingers were going off all over the place. "Go ahead, shoot," I hollered. "Then we'll both be dead." "Reduce your speed!" he ordered. "Okay!" I put it to the floor and looked at the speedometer needle, which was eating up numbers. I swerved in front of an old Camaro and blasted around a couple of SUVs as I hit the rumble strip at the edge of the emergency lane. It was like a machine gun going off inside the van, and Darlon must have realized what I was about to do because he tried to steady himself by wrapping his arm around his seat. He still didn't go for his seatbelt, which was fine with me. I spotted a tree that looked like it would do the job, and I swung the van onto the median strip, heading right for it. Grass and mud flying, I braced myself for impact, knowing my airbag would knock the shit out of me as soon as we hit. Darlon had an airbag too, but he didn't know it, and it was much further away from his body, it being situated in the dash as opposed to the steering wheel. He was sitting sideways in his seat, and I could see him panicking. I figured, or, more accurately, I hoped, that the exploding airbag would hit him with enough force to break his arm and maybe knock him out. In any case, I couldn't afford to let myself go unconscious, and I planned on putting both arms up in front of my face just before impact. He cocked the hammer on the Glock and screamed something I don't remember, probably because I was concentrating on hitting that tree with the passenger side of the van, which— _BLAM_ _!_ —I did.

Chapter 33... Baklava

Well, that worked better than I thought because, (a) I didn't kill myself, and (b) Darlon actually broke a couple of bones—in his neck. I had, in fact, managed to cross my arms in front of me just before impact; he didn't. I was alive; he was fish food. The putz just couldn't think as fast as the original, I guess. It seems he actually fired off a round from the Glock because there was a hole in the top of the van about the size of a freakin' melon. Talk about literally dodging a bullet; I don't even want to think about what it would have done to my head. In any case, I don't think I ever went unconscious. I mean, I'd definitely gotten my bell rung, but I managed to regain my senses well enough to determine that Darlon's neck had snapped sideways, probably because of the way he was sitting. Like, his head was just dangling off the end of his neck. I found the Glock on the dashboard where I presume it landed after flying out of his hand and smashing into the windshield. I grabbed it just as I heard voices outside the van. I don't know how I did it, but I had the cognizance to shove the weapon into the small of my back and squeeze between the seats into the back of the van. I scrunched down low behind the middle row of seats, and I worked desperately to catch my breath and calm myself. Luckily for me, everyone who'd seen the crash and stopped maintained their distance, and only a couple of people had the fortitude to look into the front seat. I saw several people on cell phones as I peeked through back window. I figured they were calling 9-1-1. "There's only one person in the van," I heard someone shout back to the people grouped near the roadway. "Looks like he wasn't wearing a seatbelt." I knew I didn't have much time. Luckily, one side of the van was facing away from the assembled gawkers, and I popped the side door and slid it back just enough that I could slither a few feet into the bushes. The median strip was pretty wide at that point, and I noticed that more cars were coming to a stop on the other side of the parkway. A couple of guys in plaid shirts hopped out of a pickup and jogged toward the wreck, their big stomachs bouncing like beach balls as they ran. I looked down and didn't see any blood on me, and I ran my hands over my head and face to check there as well. Not finding any, I tried to stop my hands from shaking, and, as best I could, I just walked out of the bushes like I belonged there. "Hell of a crash," I called shakily just as they came up on me. "I was just driving down the road when that jackass blew past me and lost control. Sonofabitch almost hit me. My hands are still shaking." I held out my hand for them to see. "The guy was flying." Gomer and Jethro glanced past me and wrinkled their faces as their eyes settled on the van. One of them said, "Jesus." "My cell phone is on the blink," I said, pointing over my shoulder as if my car was behind me. "Mind if I use yours? I'm sure someone over there has already called 9-1-1, but I'd like to call that newspaper and report this to them." I pointed to the van which had _Asbury Park Press_ printed on its side. "I just might sue the bastards." "Cell phone's in the truck," said Jethro. "Help yourself." Perfect. I walked over to their truck, which was still running, hopped in, and took off.

* * * * *

It was very kind of Gomer and Jethro to leave their cell phone in the truck for me, charging itself on a dashboard charger no less. I headed north on the parkway as a couple of state police cruisers headed the other way, lights blazing, speeding toward the crash. With all the cell phones present on the scene, I'm sure Gomer and Jethro probably asked to borrow one to call 9-1-1 again, this time to report a stolen truck. From my experience at the paper, however, I knew that a stolen vehicle call wasn't normally something that was communicated immediately to cops on the street unless it was something critical like a robbery or a life-threatening situation. Usually, a report had to be filed, and the information would then become part of the normal briefings that jurisdictions conducted on a daily basis. That meant that I had some time—maybe—and I figured I'd be better off on the local roads as opposed to the parkway. I pulled off onto Route 70 in Brick Township and found a shady spot near a Wal-Mart where I tried to figure out my next move. I checked the time and saw that it was coming up on noon, discovering that I was actually hungry. Must have been the adrenalin. I spotted a pizza joint, and figured that getting away from that truck might not be a bad idea. I always carry my money in a money clip, so luckily I didn't lose it when I gave Darlon my wallet. I got myself a slice and a Coke, and took a booth, putting the Glock on the seat next to me. I munched my pizza and decided to call Romano first, Remington second, and Roy Mulroney third.

* * * * *

Romano said, "Is this some kind of sick fucking joke?" I said, "What are you talking about, boss?" "I just got a call from the state police about an accident on the parkway." I could almost see Romano's neck turning red on the other end of the line. "Listen, boss, I can explain." "You can explain a dead guy in a company vehicle, who looks just like you and has your ID? Who is this?" "Boss, it's Pappas. Doesn't it sound like me?" Silence. "Who's the source at the statehouse who gave us DiBenedetto?" I knew exactly what Romano was doing. DiBenedetto was a state senator from Monmouth County who got caught up in a gay sex-for-money scandal about a year earlier. Our source gave us his lover, who agreed to wear a wire during a romantic interlude with the good senator in exchange for his own name staying out of the paper. Romano and I had both worked the source, and he knew I was the only person in the world besides himself who knew the answer to that question. I said, "Paul McMillan." "Goddamn it, Pappas. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but this is some serious shit here. Do you know what kind of liability you've opened us up to? Where the fuck are you?" I looked at the placemat underneath my pizza crust. "I'm at 47 Chambers Bridge Road in Brick Township, Antonio's Pizza." "Don't you dare move from there, Pappas. I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

* * * * *

"Why aren't you answering your damned phone?" "Because my damned phone is on a dead guy on the parkway." "Well I've been trying to call you for over an hour, and.... A dead guy? Is that why I'm calling you?" "I don't know, Remington, and actually, I called you." "Oh. Who's Earl Harrison?" "How the hell should I know?" "That's the name that came up on my caller ID." "Oh. I'm using someone else's cell phone, but I can explain about that later. What's got you all hot-to-trot?" "I ran it." "It... what?" "Your DNA, brainiac. Don't you remember?" "No shit." My voice must have carried because the guy behind the counter cut a look at me. I indicated the paper plate in front of me and ordered another slice. Remington said, "I got a sample of the guy's DNA just like you said to do, and—" "Wait a minute. He showed up there, in the newsroom?" "Well, no, not exactly. While you were inside brown-nosing with Romano—" "I wasn't brown-nosing. I was getting his autho to sign out a van." "Whatever. I had to go to my car to get some notes I'd left there. Anyway, who's poking around the parking lot but guess who. Jesus, Pappas, it was creepy. He even dressed like you." "Yeah, but he really wasn't as good looking as me, right?" She ignored me. She was good at that. "I'll tell you what," she said. "If these guys could get some false IDs, they could really clean out some bank accounts." Remington was still thinking she was dealing with an identity theft ring. "Was he looking for the 'Vette?" I asked. "I don't know, maybe. I think I almost scared him off." "What'd you do, take the bag off your head?" In my mind's eye, I could see her giving me an eye roll. "Are you finished?" "You're lucky you're not a two-bagger, Remington. Have I ever told you what a two-bagger is?" Total... fucking... silence. "Okay, I'm finished. How did you almost scare him off?" "Well, I just walked up to him and said, 'Hey Johnny, wanna go out for a couple of drinks after work?' Being the horny toad that you are, you'd have been all over that like hot gravy." I could just imagine old Darlon standing there like he was caught in the headlights while Remington played a mind game on him. It had to be sad. "So what happened?" "He just stood there with his mouth open." Told you. "I've never seen you at a loss for words, Pappas. I knew it wasn't you." I guess that was a compliment. "So how'd you get his DNA?" I could almost hear Remington smile on the other end of the line. "I took him to my car and gave him a hand job." Now, she was playing a mind game on me. "No really, how'd you get his DNA?" "I told you. Got enough stuff to.... Well, never mind." "C'mon Remington. Stop pulling my shish kabob." "What, you don't believe me?" I paused. "Listen, this isn't exactly an identity theft story." She paused. "Then what is it?" "Find Romano. He's coming to meet me. I'll explain when you get here." _Click._ The bitch. She knew exactly what she was doing to me.

* * * * *

I had to remember that the day I was reliving was before Lost Friday, and, to Roy, I was still just Johnny Pappas who worked at the _Press_. Luckily, he was at the station when I called. I didn't have to wait long. "Who is this?" he asked when he picked up. "Johnny Pappas. I work up at the _Asbury Park Press_." Long silence. "I know who you are. How's your mom?" he asked, tiptoeing into the conversation. My mom? "She's fine, Chief." "Good, good, glad to hear it. Good woman, your mom. Does she still make that real sweet, what's it called... baklava?" "Yeah, she does." What the...? "Good, good. Real good stuff that baklava. Sweet though. Makes me think about going to the dentist whenever I eat it." The dentist. "Yeah, Chief. It's sweet, all right. Listen, Chief, I need to—" "Well that's what you get when you use real ingredients, and I'm sure your mom uses real ingredients, none of that synthetic stuff, right Johnny?" Synthetic stuff. "Right, Chief. Only the real thing." Pause. "Good, good. That synthetic stuff will kill you." I don't know, was it just me, or was I picking up on something? I said, "One thing about that baklava, though. It keeps coming back on you, you know what I mean, Chief?" "I sure do, Johnny. Some things are like that; they repeat themselves over and over again." Huh. "Do you have trouble with that, Chief? Things coming back on you and repeating themselves?" "Sure do," said Roy. "Thing is, I always end up eating the baklava, no matter what. It's like destiny, you know what I mean, Johnny?" I dug a little deeper. "When was the last time you ate baklava, Chief?" There was a long, long pause on the other end of the line. "You know, my memory isn't what it used to be, Johnny." Huh. I watched a Brick Township police car out in the parking lot pull up and park a couple of rows away from Gomer's-and-Jethro's truck, facing it. I could see the lone police officer inside doing that head down thing they all do when they're playing with their cop toys, but I had no idea if it had anything to do with the truck, or not. Talk about coming back on you: it was like the slice of pizza I'd just eaten caught fire inside my stomach. I struggled to concentrate on the conversation. I knew Roy's memory was a steel trap; what he said didn't jive. What was he trying to say that I would know, and an impostor would not? "Are you saying you don't remember the last time you ate baklava?" I questioned. "This week, last week, next week, who can remember?" He ate baklava next week? "Was it good baklava, Chief?" "It was stale baklava, Johnny, real stale. Could have been a couple of hundred years old for all I know." Roy didn't say another word, and I knew he wouldn't until I came back with something he was looking for. "Chief? What if I had some fresh baklava, just made today? Would you like that?" "I would," said Roy, "but it had better be the real thing and not some of that synthetic stuff. You get my meaning, Johnny?" I gave Roy the location of the pizza joint, and told him to get there in half an hour. As I fingered the Glock next to me in the booth, I said, "Chief?" "Yeah?" "I've seen a lot of synthetic baklava lately, so much of it that I've had to get rid of some of it. You know what I'm saying, Chief?" "You should stay away from that synthetic stuff, Johnny." "I've heard that before, Chief. I don't like wasting baklava like that, but I'll do it again if I have to." I ended the call and noticed the guy behind the counter looking at me. "I don't sell baklava," he said.

* * * * *

Remington and Romano walked in at quarter-to-one and we moved to a booth in the back, the last in the row of ten or so that lined one wall. As expected, Romano looked pissed, and he didn't waste any time. "You wanna explain a dead guy in a company van, with your ID, and your phone?" "Who looks like your clone," Remington added for good measure. "He is," I said, giving Remington a look. This was going to be hard enough to explain to Romano; I didn't need her flapping her gums and piling on. Romano looked at me sideways. "He is... what? Your clone?" "Actually, they call them Synthetics." "They who?" Romano was his usual extraordinarily impatient self, but I was saved from another incredibly long explanation as, behind him, I saw Roy enter the pizza joint and zero in on me as if he had radar. Like a wild animal anticipating trouble, his eyes never left mine, and even at a distance I could feel his intensity. There were several other customers in the pizza joint now, most of them in line placing their orders. Oblivious to them, Roy walked down the row of booths with his right hand an inch from the bulge beneath his trademark flannel shirt, which he wore as an over-shirt. One wrong move, and I was toast. Under his left arm was a thick wad of folded up newspapers. Romano and Remington were seated opposite me in the booth, and, seeing my distraction, they turned just as Roy came up on us. He ignored them, and his eyes narrowed so that I expected laser beams to zap out from them at any second. Roy brushed the flannel shirt away to reveal the .357 on his hip; I made sure I kept my hands on the table. "Are you going to shoot me?" I asked calmly while Romano and Remington tried to become part of the booth. "I might," he said. "Until I know for sure which one of you was killed inside that van." I said, "Your wife makes potato salad with pickles in it." Roy must have figured that was something no Synthetic would know, and he sat down next to me. Romano being Romano, he said, "Who the hell is this?" I remembered that up to the point of Lost Friday, as far as I knew Romano and Roy had never met. Roy showed Romano his badge, which was just enough distraction for me to take the DNA Glock that was sitting next to my left thigh and shove it into Roy's side. "At this range, I figure this thing will pretty much cut you in two." Roy flinched as I jammed it further into his ribs. "And don't think I won't. I've already wasted one Synthetic today, two won't make any difference to me." Keeping his hands on the table, Roy looked at the Glock, and said, "We both know you can't fire that." "This belonged to my friend in the van. You want to take that chance?" I could tell by the look on his face that he didn't. "Last time I saw you, you were watching corpses being turned into fish food 190 years from now. How do I know you're not another Synthetic? How do I know you haven't been one all along?" Roy shoved the Glock aside and gave me a look that said, W _hat the hell do you think you're doing, boy?_ It was a look that no Synthetic could possibly imitate. Okay, then. That was good enough for me. He caught Remington in his sights. "Are you Kelli Remington?" Having never seen Remington at a loss for words, I thought she'd swallowed her tongue. True to form, however, she copped an attitude and asked a question. "Actually, I'm the queen of England," she said, catching Roy's stare head-on without so much as a blink. "And who the fuck are you?" I didn't say it was a good question, but it was effective. Damn, she was good. Roy looked at me before taking the wad of rolled up newspapers from under his arm and spreading the first one on the table in front of Remington. Even upside down, it only took me a second to make out the headline: _PRESIDENT KNEW ABOUT KIDNAPPINGS!_ I thought, _fuckin' A_! These were the stories that took down President Richardson! Roy said, "They almost took over the country last time. This time, we can't let them get that close."

Chapter 34... Roger?

Remington and Romano were, like, _duh_. Roy had spread out several issues of the _Asbury Park Press_ , all of them with the byline Kelli Remington under huge headlines. There were some other good ones like _FUTURISTIC TERRORISTS INVADE,_ and _PRESIDENT TAKES BRIBE._ My favorite one was _BETRAYED!_ I said, "Where did you get these?" Roy grinned slyly. "I stole them." I didn't bother asking from where. I did ask how he got there, however, seeing as the last time I saw him he was 190 years hence. Roy answered, "Vishal," and I said, "Ah." The guy got around. I took a couple of the editions and paged through the A-sections, noting story after story on President Richardson and his complicity with the Red Diamond. If these were examples of what Remington wrote between Lost Friday and the night she took a dive off that bridge with me and Romano, it was a barrage that made Woodward's and Bernstein's pieces on Watergate look like a neighborhood newsletter. I mean, she had names, dates, sources, the whole enchilada. Talk about getting tattooed by the press; the president must have felt like he'd gotten caught in front of a steamroller with Remington driving. The media firestorm that must have taken place as a result of her exposé had to be bigger than Watergate, Iran Contra, and Monica Lewinsky combined. I mean, getting a hum job in the Oval Office was nothing; proving we were visited by futuristic terrorists was huge; implicating the president in their plot to reshape historical events was almost incomprehensible. I noted that my byline was all over the place as well, most of the stories having to do with the terrorists, David's abduction, and what it took to get him back. It dawned on me that, according to the stories, we must have gotten him back at least once, but here we were again, further back in time, trying to undo that event and foil yet another Red Diamond attempt to obtain David's formulas. And around-and-around-and-around she goes. As I watched Remington and Romano drooling over the papers—they had to realize that what they were reading was way beyond Pulitzer material; hell, it was in the realm of getting books written about you—I couldn't help but feel their disappointment when they realized it would never happen. Not if we were successful, that is. The way I saw it, we were in a position to end this time travel conundrum once and for all, meaning that neither the Red Diamond, nor the ICTO, would have ITD technology if we could get David to destroy his formulas and persuade him to never rewrite them. Sure, time travel seemed important, but the technology was being abused and was causing more harm than good. Damn, I thought. Talk about being in a position to alter the course of mankind: had it really come down to _me_ to be the one to make this call? Me? _Johnny Pappas_? Go fucking figure. Romano finally zeroed in on the future dates. "Okay, what's the gag? These papers haven't even been printed yet." Roy looked at me, and said, "I've explained this so many times I've about got it memorized." "How many times has it been?" I asked curiously. "That I can remember? This would be my sixth." Six! "This has to be the last time," I said. "No problem there," Roy replied. "Vishal can only spring me from that Red Diamond jail so many times." "That explains why Vishal has to stay in the future." Looking at us through narrow eyes, Romano said, "What the hell are you two talking about?" "Yeah," Remington added. "I'd like to know that too." Roy looked at me. "You want to do this, or should I?" "You go ahead," I said. "If I explain it, she'll probably think I'm trying to get her to go to bed with me." "Not on your life," Remington shot back. I looked at her seriously, and said, "It's both our lives, Remington."

* * * * *

When Roy was done explaining, Remington said, "No way," but I think Romano wanted it to really happen. I mean, for Romano the stories were better than sex. That's when I asked him if he thought they were worth his own skin, and I explained how he could be swimming with the fishes after the company Christmas party. I don't think he would have believed me if Roy hadn't verified the whole thing. I mean, how could you not believe Roy? Romano certainly changed his attitude as soon as he found that, for him too, now it was personal. "So the president knew about the scientists' abductions beforehand," Remington concluded. To me, this was getting to be old news, but I had to go through it for her benefit. I went through the whole thing. When I got to Corvissi, I said, "He was your Deep Throat. He knew the scientists had proven that David's proofs held true mathematically, and he tried to keep a lid on it because he knew what it meant. Smart guy, that Corvissi." Remington said, "Did Corvissi know the president was complicit?" "No, just that he knew about the project. But something smelled when the president urged cooperation with the kidnappers, and that's when he leaked the project to you." Romano was just sitting there with his mouth open. He turned to Roy, and asked, "Were the scientists' abductions the only ones President Richardson knew about beforehand?" "I'm not sure," Roy answered, his eyes darting about the pizza joint. He pulled his baseball cap lower on his head. "Most of the other abductions were the result of previous jaunts back in time by both the Red Diamond and the ICTO to change, unchange, or otherwise screw around with events." Just as I'd thought, I thought to myself. "Once an event is altered, the ripple effect is huge," Roy went on. "Even if both the ICTO and the Red Diamond were meticulous about restoring situations once they'd altered them—and I doubt they were—it would be impossible to catch them all. My guess is that after a while they simply didn't bother to restore anything." Remington looked angry. "So the jurors, the teachers...." "All unfortunate victims of many different historical alterations," Roy explained. "Almost impossible to track, and even more impossible to restore. There's no telling what happened to the people who got caught outside their own time." "Fish food," I said. Roy nodded. "Quite possibly, unfortunately." His eyes lingered on something near the entrance. Remington's anger continued to bubble. "We can't just sit here and let this happen." "But these stories...." Romano indicated. We all looked at him, and he said, "What?" Roy scooped up the papers and tucked them under his arm. "Johnny, do you know for sure if you can fire that Glock?" Remington speared me with a stare. "I'm not sure," I said. Roy said, "Let's hope so."

* * * * *

I'd locked the keys and cell phone back inside Gomer-and-Jethro's truck, and Roy called in that he'd spotted it outside the pizza joint none the worse for wear. Now, we were parked down the street from the Robelles' house, Roy and I in his truck, Romano and Remington behind us in Romano's Beemer. I'd been in this position several times now, and none of them had turned out well. The weather was clear and cool, with a salty September breeze coming off the water. Everything on the streets of Sea Beach had seemed normal as we drove over, but to me it felt as if I was waiting for the surprise ending in some weird play. Ending: perhaps I could have used a better word. "You know, David is dead if the Red Diamond gets hold of those formulas," I said. Squinting through spears of sunlight cutting through the trees, Roy said, "Which David do you think is in there? The one who knows about the Red Diamond, or the one who doesn't?" "No way to know," I said, "but regardless of which it is, I don't think he's home." I tapped my watch. "He's probably at football practice. As a matter of fact, the house could be empty. I know both parents work, and the twins are too young to be home alone after school. They're probably in day care." The only sound was the whistle of the ever-present sea breeze as it found the crevices in Roy's truck. "Depending on which David it is," Roy said, "those formulas may or may not be in the house. I'd sure like to know that before I go and commit felony breaking-and-entering." I saw Roy's point. "Okay, we know he kept the formulas in his room. Do you know where exactly?" "Sure do. He kept them at the bottom of his right-side desk drawer." I let out an anxious sigh. "What if someone else committed that felony instead of you?" Roy took a moment and jagged his head toward Romano's Beemer. "Take one of them with you. And be careful. I'll stay here and keep watch." Wondering if Roy had lived through this specific piece of history before, it only took me a second to decide who would to go with me. Sea Beach being Sea Beach, I figured there wouldn't be much in the way of security to hinder us, and I was right. One of the garage windows slid open easily. Problem was, it was on the street side of the house, and even though the neighborhood was pretty spread out, any neighbor who happened to glance outside could easily determine that we were breaking into the home. With my heart racing, I formed a cradle boost with my fingers and said to Remington, "Okay, alley-oop!" Her look suggested: _you've got to be kidding._ "I'm wearing heels," she said, indicating a pair of girly wrap-arounds protruding from beneath some rather expensive-looking tailored trousers. "So take them off," I said, meaning the shoes, of course. She let go with a dramatic sigh, and nestled a stocking-clad foot into my cradle. I boosted her into the open window, pushing up on that stupendous ass of hers once she hooked her leg into the opening. "Did you just squeeze my butt?" she growled at me from above. To which I replied, "Of course not." She shot me a sarcastic snarl, and swung her attention to the inside of the garage. "Nothing unusual," she said. "You want me to look for a stepladder, or something?" "Why don't you just unlock the door?" "Oh." I was inside a second later, noting a typical messy garage full of family gear: bikes, lawn mower, coolers, stuff. As if I knew what I was doing, I climbed the three steps to the entrance door to the house and pressed my ear to it, hearing nothing except Remington's ragged breathing and the beat of my own heart. I turned to her and put a finger to my lips. She nodded, and I turned the doorknob. The door opened easily, and the sound of the gunshot that went off nearly scared me to death. I dove back off the three steps, catching Remington full on with my shoulder and landing on her so that she went " _Uummmpppphhh!"_ I mean, I knocked the crap out of her. Scrambling to my feet, yelling, "Let's get the hell out of here," I grabbed her by the wrist, but she just laid there like a really good-looking bag of sand. Another shot rang out, different from the first one, and splinters rained down on me like whirlybird seeds from a maple tree. I looked at Remington, seeing no sign of life. What to do. I tapped her on the cheek. "Remington, wake up. Wake up, damn it!" Nothing. Another blast boomed out, just like the second one but further away, still enough to make my teeth rattle. Remington was limp as a dishrag, her lips blue. Shit. I put my hands on her chest, and under any other circumstance would have been, like, _boing_ , but I didn't feel a thing. What to do, what to do. Blue lips, no chest motion... CPR! I squeezed her cheeks and covered her mouth with mine, exhaling so hard that I could have inflated the Goodyear blimp. Her chest heaved just as something crashed inside the house, or into the house, it was that big. I gave her another shot of air and her chest heaved again as I put a finger on her neck, thinking that's what they did on all the CSI shows when they were looking for a pulse. I prepared to give her another blast of air when, suddenly, I found her arms around my neck. She wasn't having any trouble breathing either, unless it was due to the fact that she almost sucked my tongue down her throat. I mean, she had a lip lock on me like I couldn't believe. I actually tried to get away when, _schwomp_ , her left hand clamped onto Mister Chubby as if she was going to hammer a nail with it. I managed to put some space between her lips and mine, saving my molars from being sucked out of my mouth. "Oh, Roger," she moaned, her hot breath searing my left ear. "Let's do it."

I thought: Roger? Who the fuck was Roger?

Chapter 35... The Welcoming Committee

"Jesus. Get a room." It was Romano, standing in the doorway. "How long have you been standing there?" I called as Remington continued to grapple with me. "Long enough." "I think there's something wrong with her." "Gee, looks like everything's working pretty well to me. How's your wanger?" Roy walked up just as Remington stopped trying to rip my pecker off. She'd suddenly gone completely limp, and her skin was the color of paste. "What the hell happened in there?" I asked, deciding she could wait a minute. His silver .357 at his side, Roy said, "We had a welcoming committee." Synthetics, I figured. "How could they know we'd be here?" "Maybe they were looking for the same thing we were." Romano said, "And that's a bad thing, right?" If that wasn't the ultimate understatement.... If the Synthetics found those formulas, the world order for the next 190 years and beyond would be changed quite possibly forever. I felt the heebie-jeebies as I looked through the garage door window. "They're out there, aren't they? Looking for us." Roy picked up Darlon's DNA-controlled Glock, which had skittered across the garage floor when I'd tackled Remington. "Let's go," he said. "Where are we going?" "First, to see if those formulas are upstairs." "And if they're not?" "Then we go to plan B." "What's plan B?" Romano asked for me, his forehead beading with sweat. "I haven't figured that out yet," Roy replied. Nodding at Remington's prone body, he added, "Paul, I need you wake her up and find David. Find him, hide him where no one would ever think to look for him, and don't let him out of your sight. I don't care what happens. Can you handle it?" "Not like her," Romano said as he covered his crotch. "Just for chuckles, do you want us to ask the kid where those formulas are?" "You can try, but depending on which David you encounter, you may not get that out of him." Roy handed me Darlon's Glock. "Don't wait for them to shoot first," he said. "That only happens in the movies."

* * * * *

It was a typical kid's room, except for the fact that the previous Sunday's _Asbury Park Press_ crossword was sitting on David's desk, completed, in pen. I thought, _yikes!_ I mean, being a reporter, I thought I was pretty good with words, but, _in pen_? I heard sirens in the distance, and they were closing in quickly. I guess one of the neighbors must have called 9-1-1, which made me think that any Synthetics that were present had to know the lay of the land, seeing as they'd gone totally undetected by the stay-at-home moms and busy-bodies in the neighborhood. Then again, for all I knew they could have been teleported directly into the house. Roy had his .357 raised and ready. As if I knew what I was doing, I decided to do the same with the Glock. "You said David kept the formulas in his desk." "They were in a plain spiral notebook, the kind kids use in school, red cardboard cover." I remembered that too. I walked to the desk, opened the right side drawer, and pawed around in there: nothing. With the sirens now overwhelming any other sound, I said, "Do you think the Synthetics found them?" Roy said, "If David was a replica, he may have known enough to move them." Suddenly, I heard voices, and then footfalls clunking up the stairs. I expected Roy's men to blow through the door any second, but I was wrong. What blew through the door were a Barbie and two Ken Dolls right behind. While I had to admit that the Barbie filled out the uniform better than the butterballs on Roy's staff, it wouldn't have bothered me a bit if he'd popped her one right then and there. I guess it was the three Glocks pointed at our heads that prevented him from doing that. "The formulas," the Barbie said. Raising his hands slowly, Roy said, "They're not here." The Barbie stepped closer and pushed her Glock into Roy's cheek as she took his weapon. "Would it help if I said please?" She pulled the hammer back and nodded at the two Ken Dolls. One of them stepped toward me, his expression just as threatening as the Barbie's. I figured there was no way we were going to get out of that room alive. I had Darlon's Glock in my hand, down low, behind me, and I pointed it directly at the oncoming Ken Doll, who smiled, the prick. I guess he recognized it as a DNA-specific weapon and figured I couldn't fire it. He found out he was wrong when I blew a hole the size of a grapefruit through his ribcage. The second Ken Doll went down like a box of bricks right after that, and I still can't remember how it happened. Shaking like a leaf, I started to look around for Roy and the Barbie, but I vanished before I could locate either of them.

* * * * *

Vishal was checking me out. I was lying down, not on any bed this time, but on something that felt as hard as a rock—because it was. "What?" I asked, wondering where the hell I was this time. I was really getting to hate this waking-up-not-knowing-where-I-was crap. It looked like someplace where Batman would hang out. "Are you gonna say something?" I asked testily—testily like I was going to bite Vishal's head off. "Did you find the formulas?" "No." "They were supposed to be there." "Right, just like the instructions that were supposed to be waiting for me at the other end of the wormhole." "They weren't there either?" "The only thing waiting for me was Darlon." "Who's Darlon?" "Jesus, Vishal. He's my clone, remember? I take it you didn't know he'd be there." Vishal actually said, "Shit." That was the first time I'd seen him upset, and let me tell you, it didn't make me feel very warm and fuzzy. I mean, the frustration was oozing out of him, and it made me think there weren't many chances left for historical alterations during my little blip in the continuum. I figured Vishal and his ICTO boys would have to go back further in time and leave me, Roy, and anyone else who got caught up in this thing, stuck in whatever pickle we were in until someone figured out how to unfuck things up. "Remember how you showed me how to operate one of those ITD things?" I asked, knowing I had to take control of my own destiny. Vishal nodded. "Get me one. I know where those formulas are, and I think I'm the only one who does." "We'll arrange for you to—" "You aren't going to arrange anything, Vishal. If you want my help from this point forward, you'll do this my way." Vishal walked over to a stone wall and one of those invisible panels suddenly materialized. He gave the order and informed me that I didn't have much time. Then, he looked at Darlon's Glock, which had made it through the teleportation with me and was still in my hand.

* * * * *

Now you might figure that I'd zap myself right back to the last time I'd seen those formulas, which was the night Aryeh was killed, the same night of Murph's bachelor party, and the night before Lost Friday second time around. Uh-uh. No way José. Fo'getabou'dit. First of all, I wasn't about to teleport my Greek ass anywhere where I didn't know what was waiting for me. Been there, done that, didn't like it. Second of all, I didn't think I had the time, or the patience, to convince people of what was happening—meaning Lost Friday—all over again. I mean, how many times had I been through that? I needed to insert myself right where I'd come from, where I knew the important players were present and aware of what was happening. And that's what I did, about two hours before Remington tried to detach my weenie. When I got back, Remington and Romano were, like, _duh_. There were several issues of the _Asbury Park Press_ spread out on the table, all of them with the byline Kelli Remington under huge headlines. There were some good ones like _FUTURISTIC TERRORISTS INVADE,_ and _PRESIDENT TAKES BRIBE._ My favorite one was _BETRAYED!_ Last time, at this exact moment, I asked, "Where did you get these, Roy?" This time, I said, "In about two hours, we're going to be ambushed by a squad of Synthetics inside David Robelle's house, and it's possible that some of us might not make it out of there." Roy's eyes, which had been darting to every corner of the pizza joint for the last ten minutes, settled on mine. "They're here too," he said, indicating the entrance. "I can see them outside checking out the truck." "We have to get the hell out of here now. Everyone hold hands," I ordered. Roy took my hand, staring at me through narrow eyes. "Are you in a teleportonic state?" I showed him my teleportation remote, and said, "I have an ITD locked on to me now." I then took Romano's hand and told him to hold on to Remington. "Why are we doing this?" Romano asked. "I know where those formulas are." Romano put Remington's hand in mine. "You guys go," he said. "One of us has to stay here and write this story." Well, that was Romano for you. I took Remington's hand and pushed the activation button on the remote, knowing that I didn't have time to argue with Romano. The last thing I remembered before we were all turned into another replica was that Remington's skin felt silky soft in my hand, which was causing something else inside my pants to get hard as a rock.

Chapter 36... Third Time's A Charm

One thing I found out about teleportation was that it was tricky. Entering the wrong coordinates could rematerialize you in some very precarious situations. Take rematerializing in the middle of the ocean, for instance. That could prove to be quite annoying, as in being annoyed to death. I also found out that not entering coordinates at all would rematerialize you in exactly the same spot you started from, which could also prove hazardous to one's health if the spot you started from had become occupied by something like a car crusher. I didn't know how to enter coordinates, however, so the location was indeed going to be where I started from, which was the pizza joint. I programmed the target date and time into the remote, which brought us back to September 23rd, the night before Lost Friday, _again_. I woke up to Roy slapping me on the cheek. "C'mon Johnny, wake up. We don't have much time." _Slap, slap, slap._ "Stop that, goddamn it." I shoved his hand away. "How come I pass out when I get beamed somewhere, and you don't?" "It helps if you hold your breath to keep your brain supplied with as much oxygen as possible." Now I find out. "Where's Remington?" "Over there." There were a few customers in the pizza joint, all of them watching us and looking quite stunned. Remington was laid out in one of the booths. Stumbling over, I immediately started fantasizing again when I saw that she'd fallen asleep with her mouth open. Okay, I'm a pig. I admit it. But you know, when a DNA lock-on can zap you to the fish food factory any second, your brain gets a little wacky. Okay, it wasn't wacky, it was just me suffering from deadly semen backup, but I felt better blaming it on something besides my perverse fascination with Kelli-with-an-i Remington, which seemed to be getting more intense as I edged closer to battle. And I knew there would be another battle; I could sense it, and I think Roy did too. I managed to prop Remington up and bring her back to coherence, sort of. "What time is it?" I asked. Roy glanced at a pepperoni pizza clock up on the wall. "7:22. Mean something?" "Yeah. It means Aryeh isn't dead yet."

* * * * *

It was three peas in a pod, me, Roy, and Remington in Roy's truck, bouncing like popcorn kernels in hot oil every time we hit a bump. Roy had the old girl smoking as we barreled down the parkway back toward Sea Beach; any faster and she'd have thrown a piston right through the hood. The rushing air was September cool, but humid, fragrant with the salt smell of the Atlantic only a mile or so to our left. Remington wasn't wearing a seat belt, and she held on to my left arm to avoid being tossed around like a rag doll. This calmed me considerably, seeing as her right boobie was making friends with my elbow. Halfway there, a state trooper ran up behind us, lights flashing, and Roy waved him forward. The trooper pulled up alongside doing about eighty, and Roy pointed through the windshield as if the trooper would know our destination. The trooper must have recognized Roy because instead of pulling us over, he waved back and blasted down the parkway ahead of us, plowing a path into the night all the way to Sea Beach. That Roy never ceased to amaze me. He flashed his high beams at the trooper and we pulled off the parkway into the parking lot of Norm's WaWa, which was only about a mile from the Robelles' house. "What time is it?" Roy asked as the truck _tick-tick-ticked_ away heat. "Almost 8:30," I replied, knowing what he was driving at. "Last time around, we were inside the Robelles' house dodging bullets about now." "So Aryeh should still be out there hunting Synthetics," Roy concluded. Remington just sat there looking confused, her head swinging back and forth like a bobblehead doll. I adjusted the lump digging into the small of my back, which was Darlon's Glock, and said, "Last time, Aryeh showed up at the house with you, Roy. The events are different this time. He could be anywhere." "Why do you want to find him?" Remington asked, having ridden in almost complete silence the entire time. "Doesn't he have to die in order for you to get hold of that notebook?" I reviewed the events as they'd previously transpired: we visit David and his parents; all hell breaks loose, and Aryeh and four Synthetics bite the dust; I drop the notebook in the back seat of DiNardo's squad car before I get snatched away for my visit with Roarke. "Shit," I said. Roy's eyes cut to mine and he pulled on the brim of his skipper's hat. "What's up, Johnny?" "If we wait until that notebook is in DiNardo's car, it'll be too late. I'll get snatched by a DNA lock-on to see Roarke, and the whole series of events will start all over again." "Doesn't that mean you have to find that notebook, like, _now?"_ Remington asked, lobbing another logic grenade at us. Looking at her, but talking to Roy, I said, "We need to haul ass, Roy. Step on it."

* * * * *

Roy slammed the gearshift into park, and said, "Without Aryeh we could be sitting ducks." Just peachy. This was my third time around at this jamboree, and I had about as much confidence about what would happen next as I did predicting the path of a hurricane. In a tone that masked my insecurity, I said, "It's quarter-to-nine—show time." Roy pulled the keys so as to avoid the _ding-ding-ding_ of the ignition, and dropped them into the cup holder. He got out of the truck without saying a word, his .357 glinting in the foggy haze beneath the streetlights. "Where the hell are you going?" I asked as if I had some say in the matter. Roy pinned his eyes on the Robelles' house up the street. "I'm going to get those formulas." "But we don't know who's out there, Roy." "Neither do they." He checked the tumbler on his revolver, and disappeared into the shadows beneath the giant oaks that dominated the neighborhood. A moment later, the first bullet rocked into the truck, but I never heard the shot. I yelled, "Damn!" just as the back windshield of Roy's truck exploded into a million flying cubes of jagged glass. I put an arm around Remington and literally dove into the floorboards, slithering us both out the passenger side and nearly pulling her shirt off in the process. Normally, I would have taken pause to admire my work, but the ground around us erupted as bullets as big a role of nickels thudded into the dirt. The dome light in Roy's truck was lit and I tried to close the door, noting that the seat back where we'd just been sitting was splayed in half a dozen places and the truck had a new ventilation system. We couldn't have missed the barrage by more than a second, and I suddenly felt very, very sick. The shots had to have come from behind the truck, so I dragged Remington around to the front. Futuristic Glocks fired a variety of ammunition, I recalled, and I guessed that what they were firing at us was meant to take down an asteroid, or something. I pulled Darlon's Glock from the small of my back and remembered Roy's advice about not waiting for anyone to shoot first. Unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to take the offense, and I didn't know how many rounds I had left. More rounds thudded nearby as Remington and I tried to burrow into the asphalt. Again, I didn't even hear the shots, and I figured maybe the shooters had silencers. I suddenly found myself incredibly angry, and a myriad of thoughts tore through my brain. Where was Roy? Was he still alive? How about the Robelles? Did they know what was happening outside their house? _And where the fuck was Aryeh?_ More thuds, exploding dirt, bullets plinking off the sidewalk right next to us. Would any of this be happening if the formulas had already been found? I felt my ears heating up with rage blood. "Goddamn it," I cursed, grabbing onto the bumper. "We have to get the hell out of here." Remington pulled me back to the pavement. "You're not going anywhere, Pappas." It was more of a command than a statement, and I knew why as soon as I looked down. Something had ripped through the meaty part of my calf, but with all the tumbling around on the pavement and all, I'd never felt a thing. There was some damage there, however. My Dockers were soaked, and the blood was pooling on the asphalt. My extreme rage suddenly gave way to extreme panic. I mean, the blood was pouring out of me. Remington reached over and undid my belt, slashing it from my midsection with one pull. She quickly wrapped it around my calf, cinching it with a yank. "Make sure this stays tight," she said rather calmly, given the circumstances. With that, she took the Glock from my hand. "Where the hell are you going?" I asked desperately as she took off her shoes. "Just sit tight. I'm going to get help." Where? I thought, but Remington launched herself into the night before I could say another word, her legs whipping the air as quick steps turned into long, loping strides. She sliced through the shadows at a right angle to where the shots had come from, her feet barely touching the ground as she disappeared into the darkness. I mean, it was like she was running on air. Everything was suddenly quiet, and I didn't dare move, fearing I'd be like a squirrel that changes its mind halfway across the road and then, _splat_! I felt my heart pounding, _ca-thump, ca-thump,_ as it threatened to explode in my chest. Alone now, I visualized Synthetics in the darkness drawing a bead on me as if I was in front of a firing squad, and that's not how I wanted to die. I ducked down beneath the truck and peered down the dark street toward where the barrage had come from. Nothing, quiet as a mouse. Whoever had fired at us had become part of the night. In front of me, however, in the distance, I spotted a platoon of Synthetics snaking between the trees, their backs to me, pushing forward in waves of three like a military operation toward the Robelles' house. They'd been through this before, I concluded, otherwise they'd just barge in and grab the formulas. Not only that, there were way more of them than before, which meant they'd learned something. There wasn't much time. Last time, Roy and I were caught inside the house when everything hit the fan. This time, I had no clue where Roy was, but I had Synthetics on both sides of me, and I needed to do something besides sit there and bleed my own ketchup. I cinched the belt tighter, wrapping it around a couple of times and tucking it into itself. My hand came away sticky, which was good. It meant the blood was clotting. Oddly, I thought: great, I save myself—or, more appropriately, Remington saves me—from bleeding to death so that I can take a howitzer shell to the chest as soon as those Synthetic bastards find out I'm not dead. I may have escaped their attention for the moment, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they were back onto me. I tried to think. Aryeh, Roy, and Remington were all out there, all armed and all dangerous—well, except for Remington, but she continued to surprise me regularly—and I tried to think of what would keep this small army of Synthetics from getting to those formulas. Everything was so still now that I could almost hear the blood oozing from my leg. The situation had turned into a waiting game, and I figured it was better to be on the proactive side of this equation than not. I tested my leg by getting into a squat position, suddenly feeling the pain zig-zag through my body like a lightning bolt. Funny, I hadn't felt a thing when I'd been hit, and now my skin was on fire. Nothing felt broken, however, but where I was wasn't the place to be if I was going to force the Synthetics to play their hand. With any luck, Aryeh and Roy were hunkered somewhere waiting for the bastards to reveal themselves. I really had no clue as to whether I was thinking straight, or not, but I had no choice but to try and get away from that truck. I peeked beneath it one more time, and, once again, I saw shadows snaking through the trees toward the house. I recalled that when Aryeh bit the big one the first time around, Jenna Robelle had just cleared the dinner dishes, while Roy and I were screwing around with Remington's laptop trying to convince David that Lost Friday was about to happen, and that he was about to be kidnapped by the Red Diamond—which he already knew. By inference, that meant that if David was inside that house _again_ , he _knew_ what was about to happen, and if he _knew_ what was about to happen, he wasn't about to sit there and wait. I figured anyone with a 180 IQ would have something up his sleeve—but what? If it was a trap, the Synthetics were walking right into it, but unlike the first time around—or maybe it was the second time; I was so confused—there were a lot more Synthetics out there now than the four that were taken out by Aryeh. Maybe it was a reverse trap; maybe there was a whole fucking army of Synthetics; maybe I didn't know what the fuck I was talking about, but I didn't get the chance to find out. I heard the hammer on the Glock ratchet back before I even turned around. When I did, I spotted a six-foot-four Ken Doll standing there with this shit-eating grin plastered to his face like he'd just found a c-note on an escalator. Fucking bastard had probably been sneaking up on me the whole time. His big, black Glock was pointed right at my head, but the joke was on him because, behind him, not ten feet away, Remington was standing there barefoot, legs apart, with both hands wrapped around Darlon's Glock, which she had pointed at the Ken Doll's head. The thought zipped through my head that my life depended on who was going to fire first, but it evaporated like mist on a hot pan because Remington couldn't fire Darlon's Glock, I remembered; it was DNA-specific. The Ken Doll must have seen my eyes darting because he turned—his head, that is, the Glock stayed on me—and Remington pressed the trigger, but nothing happened. She tried again, and the Ken Doll knew he'd gotten lucky, smiling one of those evil little sneers that make you want to say, "Fuck you, asshole." I made a move and proceeded to collapse immediately as my leg gave way, which only served to heighten the Ken Doll's amusement. I guess he figured I wasn't going anywhere—and I wasn't—and he turned fully toward Remington, his ugly Glock trained on the middle of her chest. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't just lie there and let Remington get blown apart, so I screamed and lunged, coming nowhere near the Ken Doll's legs. It was enough to distract him for a split second, however, which was enough time for what I saw next. Pirouetting with arms tucked, Remington whirled and moved forward at the same time, covering the ten feet between her and the Ken Doll in a split second. Lashing out with a reverse Kung Fu thing, she planted her heel smack into the side of the Ken Doll's temple, almost knocking his head off his shoulders. As it was, he was unconscious before he hit the pavement, and he piled on to himself in a tangle of limbs. Like, where the fuck did that come from? Remington calmly walked over to the Ken Doll's big, ugly Glock which had clunked onto the asphalt, picked it up, and tossed it to me. "We can probably use whatever he's got inside that thing," she said, referring to the ammunition, and she handed me Darlon's Glock. I looked at the Ken Doll. I mean, he was lights out. I wanted to tell Remington to search him for more ammunition, but I was speechless.

Chapter 37... The Real Aryeh

It was just past ten p.m., well before David's formulas found their way into Officer DiNardo's car, which meant they were still in the house. If we didn't get hold of that notebook, the townspeople would go through Lost Friday, again, while several more of us would end up getting snatched by Roarke, again. I knew Roarke couldn't communicate with his Synthetics through the continuum, however, which meant they probably had a limited time window in which to complete their mission, and that we had to get to those formulas ASAP. If we didn't, I got the overwhelming impression we'd never see Sea Beach again—in either time period, which made me wonder if I had another DNA lock on me. Okay, it was time to concentrate. My leg was still oozing, and I knew I wouldn't be my normal nimble self if I raced the Synthetics to the Robelles' house. Remington, however, was standing right in front of me, chest heaving, and wired to the max. God, she was hot. "I didn't know you knew karate," I said, not knowing what else to say. I guess I could have said thanks. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me," she snarled, her eyes dropping to the prostrate Synthetic. "What _the fuck_ did you get me into, Pappas?" There was gratitude for you. "Just think Pulitzer," I said. That managed to put a glint in her eye, all right, but the Synthetics had to be near the house. "We have to find Roy." "No kidding. And how do you propose we do that?" She glanced at my bleeding leg while a drop of sweat tracked down into her cleavage. How _did_ I propose we do that? I mean, I had no clue where he was, or even if he was still alive. "Do you want to use the truck?" she asked. "Huh?" "The truck. It's this big thing right here." I figured it was worth a shot, the alternative being to sit there and eventually become targets again. Given the truck's condition, my guess was that the Synthetics figured we were dead. I mean, the thing was like a block of Swiss cheese, and I could only speculate as to whether it still worked. I hobbled around to the driver side and opened the door. "Not us... him," Remington croaked. "Help me get him inside." I stuffed Darlon's Glock into the small of my back. The big lunker of a Synthetic wasn't even moving, and I thought: geez, how hard did Remington hit this lug? It was like hoisting a bag of rocks, but somehow we managed to get him behind the wheel. I watched as Remington wedged his foot against the accelerator. "Where are the keys?" she asked. From the passenger side, I fished the keys from the cup holder and jammed the one with the Ford logo into the ignition, regretting it immediately as the _ding-ding-ding_ Roy had been so careful to avoid earlier chimed into the night. The bells of Saint Patrick's wouldn't have sounded that loud, and it reminded me to check the cell phone still clipped to my belt to make sure it was set on vibrate. Remington reached across the Ken Doll's body and turned the key. The F-150's motor roared to life, and I figured we were done for. Certainly, if the Synthetics thought we were dead, we'd just announced that we weren't, but luckily another barrage didn't rock into the truck. I mean, we were right there on the street, our only cover being the truck itself. We should have gotten at least a howdy-do out of them. I watched as Remington scurried around and found some bungee cords in the cargo bed. I knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to wrap one of them around the gearshift lever and yank the thing into drive from outside the truck, launching it down the street toward the Robelles' house with the Ken Doll behind the wheel. To what end I didn't know, except to create a distraction, but a distraction wasn't what we needed. I reached up and turned off the engine. "What the hell did you do that for?" she shot angrily. Funny, where most women would have been scared to death, Remington seemed to be aching for a fight. "Something's wrong," I said. The only sound was a hiss coming from the engine, the smell of unburned fuel thick in the perfectly still air. "What, you'd rather have them shooting at us?" "That would be normal," I responded. "Where'd everybody go?" "Most of them are dead," a voice said from behind me. I turned. It was Aryeh, with one forearm wrapped around David Robelle's neck, holding what I recognized as David's notebook in the same hand. His other hand was holding a big, black DNA Glock to David's head. "Those that aren't dead won't fire as long I have him in this position." Aryeh's eyes indicated David's head. "You see, they either need the notebook, or David alive, and I have both. They won't risk losing either as long as the formulas are intact." I understood immediately. Until those formulas were destroyed, the Red Diamond could always travel back to another time to obtain them. Barring that, they needed David alive because the formulas were in his head. I also understood that last time around, when Aryeh was shot, he wasn't out hunting Synthetics, he was hunting David; he just never got there. "I suppose Vishal is waiting for you," I said. "Vishal is a fool," Aryeh responded. "He can't comprehend the reality of the situation." So, Aryeh was going to double-cross Vishal and the ICTO. "The reality being that you could take the ITD technology and use it for yourself." As he pushed David toward the truck, Aryeh said, "It doesn't take you long to figure things out, does it, Mister Pappas?" Yeah, I was a real fucking genius. My eyes darted, meeting David's. His eyes were confident and, as with every event now, I figured he'd been through this before. Suddenly, his eyes shifted to the notebook in Aryeh's hand. Was he trying to communicate with me? His eyes shifted again, and I knew that Aryeh couldn't see them. What was David trying to tell me? "You'll never get out of here...." I was going to say _alive_ , but I stopped short and I don't think Aryeh picked up on it. History was stubborn, I remembered, and last time Aryeh got an F in staying alive. "I'll go anywhere I want as long as I have these," Aryeh responded, indicating the formulas. _Ding-dong_. That was it. That's what David was trying to tell me: d _estroy the formulas now!_ Synthetics started slinking out of the trees. There were four of them, just like last time, all Ken Dolls, all pointing futuristic Glocks at Aryeh. "Don't come any closer," he called out. He jammed his weapon into David's skull and I saw David wince, but his eyes held steady. The Synthetics stopped, aware of the fact that the slightest flinch of Aryeh's finger could cause David's head to explode. The notebook contained the basis for David's theories, but seeing as ITDs wouldn't actually be invented until the next century, David would be developing those theories throughout his lifetime. No David meant no ITDs, but I surmised that the notebook was still extremely valuable in that others could try to develop the theories if David wasn't around. That is, if there was anything of value in there at all. I took a gamble. "How do you know that notebook is the real thing?" Aryeh actually smiled. "Don't take me for a fool, Mister Pappas. Where this notebook goes, David goes—and so do I." So much for that idea. David was Aryeh's ticket, and, looking around at the Ken Dolls, they knew it too. They continued to inch toward us, spreading out as they approached. "Don't come any closer," Aryeh warned again, louder this time. I figured it was the last time we'd hear it. I glanced at Remington, who was slightly behind me. She glanced back, or, more specifically, she glanced at the small of my back where Darlon's Glock was digging into my tailbone. Only a couple of steps away, she turned in place as if to get a look at the Synthetics surrounding us, but as she did she made up some real estate and ended up closer to me and to my right, a sly little move indeed. I wondered what was going through her head, but the thought was pushed aside as I speculated whether Aryeh knew that he died last time around. Maybe he didn't. Could it be possible? If it was, he was the only one who didn't know that he had nothing to lose. I wondered if I could check my watch and not give anything away. Last time, Aryeh got it before midnight. I remembered that because it was just after midnight that Anne Behari, Roy, and I all got teleported away to see Roarke. I figured it was still before midnight now, which meant that I had to string this out long enough for history to repeat. If it did, Aryeh would be out of the picture, but the Ken Dolls would be on David and that notebook like stink on poop, and Roarke would have what he wanted. I had to do something to affect the next couple of hours, but unlike last time, some of the events were different. Last time, Remington had been on her way to meet with Corvissi. This time she was here, and I wondered what had happened along the way to make that so. Also, David's notebook was in my grubby little hands last time. He'd given it to me so I could figure out a way to go back to a point in time before he'd begun communicating with the NASA scientists, and destroy the formulas. That's when I decided to visit Anne Behari and dig into her connection with the Red Diamond, and that's how I ended up putting the notebook in DiNardo's car. I didn't think that situation was going to repeat itself, so what did it all mean?

Chapter 38... Remington's Ruse

My eyes stayed focused on David as Aryeh took a step toward the truck. "Get into the vehicle," he commanded. "Whatever you're planning, you'll never get away with it." "I don't have to," he responded. "The natural course of events will take care of everything." What did he know that I didn't? Maybe the natural course of events didn't include Aryeh buying the farm this time. Probably not, I figured, but maybe Aryeh was the cat with nine lives. That probably wasn't true about David, however. I could see him grimacing as Aryeh kept grinding the weapon into his skull. I didn't know much about things like this, but my guess was that even if someone took Aryeh out with a perfect head shot, the odds of David not getting his head blown off would be fifty-fifty. Just a twitch of Aryeh's finger would be all it took. Meanwhile, I noticed the Synthetics had come a step closer—to me. Okay, were they after Aryeh, or David, or the formulas, or me? If it was me, why didn't they just fire away as they'd done earlier? Had something changed in the time between the barrage on the truck, and now? Nothing made sense. I could see the Synthetics flashing signals to each other like some sort of freakin' swat team. I'm sure Aryeh saw it too, but he didn't seem at all bothered by it. "To the vehicle, Mister Pappas," he said coolly. The Synthetics came a step closer, and David shouted, "Don't do it Johnny, no matter what." Behind me, I heard Remington's foot scrape on the asphalt, and I suddenly felt her hand on my butt. More specifically, it was edging up my butt toward Darlon's Glock, which was wedged into my waistband. "Into the vehicle, now!" Aryeh shouted. He was getting more desperate. "Or what?" I called out. "You're going to kill David? I know better." Aryeh needed David alive, just as the Synthetics did. As a matter of fact, David was probably the safest one here. As for me—and Remington now that she was standing right behind me—there had to be a reason why we were both still alive, but I had a feeling that our time was running out. The Synthetics were only yards away now. Remington's hand inched up my butt as Aryeh kept dragging David toward the truck. What was it about that damned truck? I held up the keys and jingled them in my hand. "You won't go anywhere without these." "Lose them!" David shouted. "Throw them into the bushes!" Aryeh tightened his hold on David's neck, choking him. "You do, and you're both dead," he threatened, meaning me and Remington. Speaking for the first time, Remington called, "You're the one who's dead the second you move that gun from David's head." It was true. It would have to be a good shot, but hey, we were talking twenty-second century weapons here. Surely one of the Synthetics had his sights centered on Aryeh's forehead, but then I remembered that I'd dodged death more than once after being fired at with these same twenty-second-century weapons. Was that just luck, or destiny? The question only served to confuse me more than ever. Remington's hand was under my shirttail now. I didn't know what she was planning, but anything was better than just standing there. Aryeh was almost to the truck. The Synthetics were almost to the truck. Aryeh's weapon was still jammed against David's skull. My hands were up and visible, one of them holding the seemingly most important object of everyone's attention besides David's notebook, the key to Roy's truck. These thoughts ripped through my brain in a split second, along with the thought that, no matter what happened, there was no way I could take out four Synthetics, and Aryeh, and not get Remington and myself blown to smithereens. I stood there transfixed, waiting to see what would happen next. Remington must have sensed my paralysis. "Just remember," she whispered. "It was Aryeh and the Synthetics who got it last time." Her hand was now on Darlon's Glock under my shirttail. Impulsively, I threw the keys into the darkness and dove to the ground, taking Remington with me. We hit the pavement hard, and, expecting gunfire to erupt around us, I rolled toward the truck while Remington scampered like a chipmunk on all fours in the same direction. The air erupted in a symphony of explosions, and a couple of massive slugs pinged off the sidewalk, missing my flailing arms and legs by a hair. The concrete seemed to grow teeth as I rolled over it, biting skin off my chin, my elbows, and any other piece of my body that touched the ground. Just for added drama, my leg wound either sprouted another leak, or one of the errant slugs wasn't so errant. Pain knifed through my body as I rolled recklessly toward the truck for no other reason than to get something besides air between me and Aryeh. I rolled for what seemed an eternity, making like a mole to get under that truck. Lucky for me that Roy liked surfcasting and needed something with high ground clearance to travel the dunes on the beach. "Remington! Where are you?" I screamed, clanging my head against the undercarriage as I looked around. I felt the warmth of my own blood and tasted its salty tang. Wedged face down, I twisted myself like a pretzel as I tried to get a better view of what was happening around me. Meanwhile, the sound of gunfire blasted from every angle, loud, powerful pops that smacked my eardrums like cold slaps in the face. The loud, powerful pops were suddenly interrupted by a couple of deep, resonant booms, and I nearly choked on my own heart as it jumped into my throat. On the pavement right in front of me, a body dropped as if it fell from the sky, the face smashing into the curb and coming to rest with its eyes open. It was one of the Synthetics, and some of his head was gone. Muffling a scream, I rolled away and wedged myself into what I thought was part of the truck. Instead, it was Remington, who obviously had scurried under there herself to escape the crossfire that was happening around us. Another set of deep, resonant booms rang out, followed by a volley of deliberate and powerful blasts, five of them, which came from the direction of the Robelles' house. I suddenly knew what was happening. As the Synthetics fell to the ground, I managed to spot Roy and Chuck Robelle emerging from behind the trees that dotted the Robelles' front lawn. I caught the sparkle of Roy's silver .357 as it flung off a couple of glints from the Robelles' porch light, while Chuck shouldered the ancient goose gun he'd taken into the basement the last time he'd lived through this night. The four Synthetics were down again—different circumstances, but just like last time. I could see them from beneath the truck: dark, lifeless forms that dotted the landscape. The dead one on the curb was still staring at me, and I realized that his body was shielding us. Beyond him, in the visual space between his body and the truck frame, I was able to make out two sets of legs that belonged to Aryeh and David, obviously. As my eyes traveled the length of that sliver of space, I was also able to make out Roy and Chuck Robelle creep-walking toward Aryeh, Roy with his .357 aimed high, Chuck with his long, double-barreled goose gun shouldered tight against his cheek. Even in the darkness and at that distance, I could tell that the only way either of them was going to be stopped was if someone put a bullet in them. "Drop your weapon," Roy called out. "Bring me another vehicle," Aryeh called back. First the truck, now another vehicle. Clearly Aryeh wanted to go somewhere and he wanted to take David with him. Roy and Chuck kept creep-walking. "Bring me another vehicle now, or he dies," Aryeh called out again. "I have nothing to lose." I heard a muffled scream. I could only see Aryeh's and David's lower torsos, so I didn't observe what Aryeh did to make David scream like that. It couldn't have been pretty because Roy and Chuck stopped in their tracks. I heard them murmuring, low voices, and I supposed they were debating their options, which weren't many. Given the situation, even I knew that Chuck's goose gun was of no use. One blast might take out Aryeh, all right, but it would also hit David. Chuck wasn't about to fire, and if I knew it, perhaps Aryeh knew it, provided he knew what type of weapon Chuck was holding—I didn't suppose there were many goose guns around in the year 2194. I had no clue as to whether Roy would fire, or not, but I remembered hearing five similar blasts when the Synthetics went down. If those came from his weapon, I figured he would only have one round left. Another scream pierced the night, this one coming from the Robelles' house. It was David's mother, Jenna, screaming, "David!" over and over again. It hurt to listen to it. I felt Remington's hand on my butt again, but she wasn't searching for Darlon's Glock this time, but pulling herself close to me. Putting one arm around me so that we were spooning almost, she pressed the Glock tight to my chest. I spit out a mouthful of blood, and took it. "You're the only one who can fire this," she whispered. "Do it the second I say _now_. Don't let me down," she added, and she was gone. A moment later I heard Aryeh say, "Stay where you are." I saw Remington's legs as she stepped away from the truck, drawing Aryeh's attention to her and away from everything else. This woman had some real balls, I thought. "Or what, you're going to kill him?" she called back. "You've already played that card, but we both know it doesn't end here for David. For you, on the other hand...." "And for you, the next step will be your last." Roy and Chuck started creep-walking again. What the hell was Remington doing? I could see her lower torso along with Aryeh's and David's, but it was off to the side, allowing me a clear field of vision—or a clear line of fire—at Aryeh's legs. Which pair of legs was Aryeh's? I asked myself. The pair behind the first pair, stupid. Aryeh couldn't be holding David from any other position. "Let me tell you exactly what I'm going to do," Remington called out. "I'm going to take three running steps, and then I'm going to launch a reverse spin kick that's going to knock that weapon right out of your hand. Then, one of those men over there is going to shoot you." I thought: could she do that? And why would she tell him what she was going to do? I saw Aryeh take a step back, while Roy and Chuck took another step forward. I suddenly knew what Remington was doing. She was bluffing, or gambling, or both. The bluff might be the spin kick—might be because after what I'd seen earlier, I had the notion that she could probably do it. The gamble was that Aryeh would pull his weapon away from David's head and aim it at her. That would allow an opening, a split second where Roy could fire and take Aryeh out. But that wasn't really her plan. Her plan was for me to take the shot, and the anxiety washed over me as I realized I wasn't ready. The light from the Robelles' porch barely penetrated to where we were, and, as I looked through the sights on Darlon's Glock, I figured it would be easier looking through Ray Charles's sunglasses. "Okay, here I come." Jesus, it was really happening. Was she crazy? Aryeh could blow her to bits. I used the dead Synthetic's body to prop the Glock. Dragging David with him, Aryeh took a couple of steps back into the shadows and more of his body, and David's, was revealed to me. That wasn't good, however. My target was getting smaller. Remington was supposed to say, " _Now,_ " but _now_ never came. Aryeh took yet another step back. He was retreating. Shit! Remington's ploy wasn't working. I couldn't wait. I took aim. I fired. I don't know what it was loaded with, but that Glock kicked like a fucking cannon, and I think I blew someone's leg right off his body. "Please let it be Aryeh's," I said to myself.

Chapter 39... Not Finished

Looking at the body I thought: dead again. As far as I knew, Aryeh was 0-for-2, and I wondered if he'd ever have the opportunity to live through this day again. Light headed, I sank to the ground, and tried clumsily to tighten the belt around my oozing wound. Remington said, "Let me do that. It looks like you've lost a lot of blood." Indeed, my leg was soaked, and it was everywhere, my blood, Aryeh's blood, the Synthetics' blood; I could smell it, and it almost made me vomit. " _You_ are one crazy woman," I said as she tightened the belt. "It was either distract him, or he was getting into that truck. Then where would we be?" She wiped her bloody fingers on the cold grass. Ugh. "About that flying drop kick thing you did, I had no idea you could—" "It was a reverse spin kick, and I told you before, Pappas, there are a lot of things you don't know about me." Indeed. I smiled so that she wouldn't think I was a complete pig. "Then maybe I should get to know you a little better." "Christ, Pappas. Don't you ever stop?" "Wait a minute. I didn't mean...." She just waved her hand and walked off. "What if I missed?" I called after her. "Then I figured he wouldn't." She was talking about Roy, who was walking toward us. Just like last time, I heard sirens in the distance. "You really have a way with her," Roy said as he came up to me. He looked down at Aryeh's body. "I never would have gotten a shot off if you hadn't fired." I guess I was getting used to seeing bodies with huge gaping wounds in them because the fact that Aryeh's corpse was missing his left foot—my doing—and his neck looked like a tiger had taken a bite out of it—Roy's doing—didn't seem to bother me. It was clearly him, or David, or me. "Double-crossing, low-down, no good, dirty rat fink fuck." Okay, got that out of my system. "Where's David?" I asked. "Over there with his folks." "And the formulas?" "He's still got them. Won't let go of them." "We've got to destroy those formulas, Roy. We've got to get them, burn them, and make sure there's no copy of them anywhere." "We can't burn what's in his head, Johnny." "Then he can reveal their existence some other time, in the proper scientific environment, not on an Internet chat room." "Maybe you can convince him to hand them over." Roy caught sight of his truck and I swear I saw a tear form in his eye. He walked over to it, and said, "Looks like it might be the end of the line, old girl." The truck popped a hiss as if in response. It was sad. While Roy was lamenting his loss, I hobbled over to the Robelles who were all huddled around Chuck like he was Rambo and he'd just saved the village. I looked at the notebook. David smiled a sinister little smile, which I thought was odd until he handed it to me. "They're fake," he said. I wasn't really surprised, as I figured all along that David had something up his sleeve. Still, I wish I'd known that we were risking life and limb for a worthless notebook. Taking David by the shoulders, Chuck said, "Where are the real formulas, David? We've got to destroy them." "We can't, Dad. There are people already trapped in the future. If we destroy them now, they'll never come back." I thought: Oh yeah, I forgot about that. My cell phone buzzed and I figured it was Romano, who I needed right now like I needed a toothache. Not even bothering to look at the incoming number, I said, "You'll have your damned story when I get to it." "Johnny, it's Demetrius. Where the hell have you been?" "Demetrius. Ah, I'm kinda busy right now." "Listen, there's something you need to know." "I told you, I'm—" "Johnny, shut up and listen for a change. Earlier tonight, in the diner, a bunch of guys came in. Normally, I wouldn't have paid any attention to them, you know, I thought maybe just a bunch of hoo-hahs looking for some shore nookie." "Demetrius, get to the point." "Yeah, okay. So anyway, there were four of them." "So?" "So they all looked like twins." "You mean quadruplets." "Whatever. I thought it was kinda strange, so I go over, you know, just to satisfy my curiosity." "Right, Demetrius. Listen, I don't have much time." "You need to make time for this, Johnny. It's about you." That rang my bell. "Go on." "So as I'm going up to them, I hear one of them say, 'Supposedly this reporter knows about the president. Our mission is to find him, and bring him to Roarke.'" I thought, _fuckin' A_. That's why I wasn't gunned down like a rabid dog. That, and the only place the information could have come from was Allison Kovar or Scott Reemer. Roy's tactic must have worked. I suddenly had a million questions. "You say there were four of them?" "It didn't sound good, Johnny." "Tell me, have you seen any new ladies in the diner lately?" "What's that got to do with anything?" "Humor me." "Yeah, sure. What kind of ladies?" "Barbies. You know, tall, thin, blonde, big dolmades." "Johnny, it's a little late in the season, but half the chicks on the Jersey Shore look like that this time of year." "Is that a yes?" "Now that you mention it...." "When, Demetrius, when? Was it about the same time as you saw the four twins?" "Maybe a half-hour before that, actually. Didn't think much of it, though. Is that important?" "Did the four twins say anything else?" "About what?" "Jesus, Demetrius, the weather." "Hey, I'm trying to help you here." I took a deep breath, thinking: patience, Johnny, patience. "C'mon Demetrius, I know you listen in on peoples' conversations." "That's low, Johnny. I'm just trying to catch an occasional stock tip, or something." Right. "So what was it?" "They kept talking about the kid." "How so?" "I just heard the kid this, the kid that, nothing specific.... Oh, except that another squad would take care of it, whatever that meant. I don't know what you've got yourself tangled up in this time, Johnny, but you better watch it. These guys didn't look friendly." I said, "Thanks, Demetrius. I owe you one." I walked over to Roy, who was still grieving over his truck. "It's me." "What's you?" he asked without looking over. "Your idea of planting information with the teachers looks like it paid off. These guys were after me, not David." His eyes shifted. "Last time too?" "Probably. We were reading this all wrong. A whole other team of Synthetics was coming after David." "Was?" "Was, is, what's the difference? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Remington running toward us. "All the lawns on the next street?" she said breathlessly. "Yeah?" "They all have blocks of helium on them." I said, "Lost Friday: it's starting all over again." We all turned when Jenna made a noise that sounded like she'd sucked a bird out of the air. "Chuck, look!" she said, pointing back toward their house. Inside, intruders were plainly visible through the windows. Roy said, "We need a vehicle." The sirens were still sounding in the distance, too far off to be of any help. I held out my hand. Roy smiled as he took the keys. "I thought you heaved these into the next county." "Those were the keys to my 'Vette. I knew Aryeh would never know the difference." Everyone moved toward the truck but stopped when David said, "Uh-oh." "What's uh-oh?" I asked, not liking the sound of that. "The real formulas are still inside the house." Roy, Chuck, Remington, and I all said, "Shit," at the same time.

* * * * *

"How many rounds are left in that thing?" Roy popped the clip. "I'm not quite sure what they are, but there are seven." He checked the breach, and added, "Plus one in the hole." Having seen the damage that ammunition could render, all I wanted to know was how many chances I had left to use it. I took Darlon's Glock, and said, "Get these nice folks out of town, Roy. I'm going to get those formulas." I turned to David. "Where are they son?" David looked at his dad, who in turn looked at Roy. "We don't have time to debate this, people. How many times have you been through this?" I asked David sternly. "This... this is my fourth," he replied, and Jenna tried to suck another bird from the sky. "But there are people trapped in the future—" he began. "I promise I won't leave anyone behind," I said, cutting him off. "We don't have much time." David swallowed hard and looked at his dad. "It's okay, son. Tell him." "I... I tore the pages out of the notebook and split them up. That way, even if they found the formulas they'd have no way of knowing they were incomplete. Half the pages are in the twins' room, taped to the back of the mirror on their dresser. The rest are stuffed into Mom's Chinese cookbook with the red cover." My eyes met Roy's. "You think this old girl of yours has enough left in her to go two miles to the town line?" He held my gaze. "I'll meet up with you later," I said unwaveringly. "You can't be in two places at the same time, and we need to make sure this David stays in this time period." Roy didn't say anything. "He's a lot more important in this thing that I am," I said, trying to get him to see the light. Roy glanced at the Robelles' house. "Everybody into the truck," he called finally. Jenna and the twins took the front with Roy, while David and Chuck climbed into the cargo bed. Remington didn't move. "You think you're going somewhere without me?" she said indignantly as she recovered her shoes from under the truck. "Do I have to spell it out for you?" I shot back. "You're going with them." "The hell I am. There's no way I'm going to let you scoop me on this story, Pappas. Not after what I've been through. If there's a Pulitzer coming out of this, my name better be on it."

Chapter 40... Where's Roarke?

The truck rolled off, coughing and sputtering as if the next second would be its last. I knew Roy would think of something if it didn't make it to the town line, but what mattered now was that Remington and I found those formulas and figured out how to get further back on the continuum to _before_ the scientists' abductions. How we were going to do that I didn't quite know yet, but once there we could safely destroy the formulas without having anyone trapped in the future. Of course, Remington and I would be trapped in the past, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that there were some distinct opportunities that could arise out of such an arrangement. "When did David first start talking to the scientists in that chat room?" I asked. Remington dropped a look on me. If she knew what I was thinking, she didn't seem to waver. "Wasn't it about six months ago?" I detected a couple of raindrops as I tried to see past the treetops, but the night sky was so dark that I could have been looking into a black hole from which even light couldn't escape. The breeze was steady off the ocean, bending the oncoming mist into a stream of tiny, cold needles. Remington and I were still in our usual office attire, she in skinny jeans, unsensible shoes, and man-tailored blouse, me in blood-soaked khakis and a button-down shirt. We were already injured, wet, and miserable, and we were about to get more so. I flipped open my cell phone and checked the time. It was almost one o'clock in the morning, past the time when I'd been previously hijacked away to see Roarke. Roy too, I assumed, had escaped another sojourn through time; about Anne Behari I had no clue. Wondering if the Synthetics inside the house were the only ones left that we had to worry about, I pulled Darlon's Glock, and said, "I hope this is enough." Remington put her hand on mine in an unusually caring way. "Why don't we just wait for them to leave?" "Huh?" "You heard David. He separated the pages from the notebook." "So?" "So, maybe they don't know that." "We can't count on that." "We can't count on anything except the fact that if we go in there now, there's a good chance we'd never come out. We don't know how many of them there are, Pappas. That's not a risk I want to take." Indeed, even with the possibility that we'd somehow become undead at some other point on the continuum, it wasn't a risk I wanted to take either. "Okay," I said. "We'll wait it out." Remington wrapped her arms around herself, and said, "Let's try to get out of this rain." I noticed that the sirens had stopped.

* * * * *

"Roy must have run into his men," I said as I spread a firewood tarp over us, "which means he should be able to get David and his family to the town line." Remington and I had made our way to the edge of the Robelles' back yard, and were huddled behind a four-foot-high wall of split firewood. Inside the house, we could see three Synthetics gathered in the dining room, but one of them didn't look like any Ken Doll. Big, bearded, and ugly, it was Roarke, and he was doing all the talking. Moments later, they all scattered. It didn't take long before they were back in the dining room, all smiles. Remington picked up on it too. "They've got the formulas," she said. "They sure are acting like it, but I didn't actually see anything like pages from a notebook. Did you?" Remington said, "Shit," and crawled from beneath the tarp. "Where the hell are you going?" I said, reaching out for her and literally grabbing a piece of ass. "Sit tight," she whispered. "I'm going to take a look." Like there was anything I could do to stop her. I watched as she hunched down low and played sneak attack across the yard. It wasn't until she was within about twenty feet of the house that a thunderous blast rang out and I saw someone running toward her at full gallop. I pulled Darlon's Glock, noting instantly that Remington was like a deer in the headlights, frozen in place and awash in light coming from the windows. Instinctively, I put my finger on the trigger when, framed in light reflecting off the falling mist, I saw a motionless lump on the ground near her. Everything was happening in microseconds now, bursts of time exploding like fireworks inside my brain. I recognized the runner; it was Roy. I don't know why this particular thought entered my head right then, but I figured Roy had indeed run into his men and David was beyond the town line and inside DiNardo's car this time around instead of the formulas. Otherwise, Roy would still be there, and he wouldn't have made his way back to the Robelle's house. He tackled Remington just as another different-sounding blast rang out, this one much like the ones that accompanied the deadly explosions in the dirt that Remington and I had dodged earlier. The downed body had to be a Synthetic, I figured, and Roy had saved Remington's rather nice bacon. Now, seeing him lying helpless on the ground, his arms wrapped around her like a protective shield, I knew one hit from one of those massive slugs would kill them both. I looked into the Robelles' dining room. The Synthetics were gone. I thought I'd seen three of them, but that didn't mean a damned thing. The one lying on the ground thirty feet away could have been one of the three, or one of sixty that could have been surrounding me at this very moment. I knew I had no choice if I was going to save Roy and Remington, and quite possibly myself. I guess I was getting used to facing death every time I turned around because my _hesitation-caused-by-fear_ instinct gave way to my _its-either-they-die-or-we-die_ instinct. I mean, I knew what I had to do. I crawled from beneath the tarp and propped Darlon's Glock atop the stack of firewood, not knowing from which direction any additional Synthetics would come, but come they would. That much I knew. Roy and Remington were making like moles, and I saw something out of the corner of my eye. All I know is that it was big, dark, and anyone who was important to me had no reason to be there. Not giving it a second thought, I fired, and a huge splash of red flashed in the window light. The body went down like a stone. Either I was turning into a pretty good shot, or I was damned lucky, just as I'd been earlier when I'd managed to hit Aryeh instead of David. "Please be a Synthetic," I prayed, hoping I hadn't just popped one of the good guys. A massive dose of adrenaline surged through my body, and I knew I had to stay mobile despite my throbbing leg. I sprang from behind the woodpile and joined Roy and Remington, both of whom had crawled to a little prefab tool shed behind the garage that housed, well, tools, I guess. In the weak light, I could see that they were both slicked with mud and the front of Remington's shirt was soaked, making it look like she was smuggling gumdrops. Without so much as a thanks-a-lot, Roy turned to me and asked kind of urgently, "Do you know if there were more than three of them inside?" "That's all I saw," I replied as the mist started falling harder and tracked down my face. "One of them was Roarke." I saw Roy's eyes widen. "Are you sure about that?" "Absolutely." "Who's Roarke?" Remington asked. "Someone you don't want to know." "So this time he's coming to us," Roy muttered. I thought about that. The same people were meeting up as this piece of history played out again, meaning it was just a different version of the event. "He's probably still here, Roy, especially if he has to wait for a teleportation time." "How many rounds do you have left?" he croaked. "Only six," I said. "But they're like howitzer shells. If I hit anything, it's going down." Roy pulled his .357 into plain sight. "If anything comes at you besides me, kill it." "And where the hell are you going?" "To find Roarke," Roy replied, and he was gone. I knew Roy well enough to know that if he wanted me along, he would have said so, but I didn't feel good about just sitting there. Maybe he knew where Roarke was—and maybe I had my head up my ass. I mean, I trusted that Roy would never intentionally put me or Remington in harm's way, but a hundred previous interventions could have affected this event. I could only rely on one person's judgment right now, and that person was me. I turned to Remington, who looked like a wet rat. "Did you ever have dreams about this?" Her eyes centered on mine. "What the hell are you talking about, Pappas? We're on the verge of getting wiped out and—" I grabbed her arm roughly. "Listen to me. If we've been through this before, there's a chance the memory would manifest itself, even if we'd been put through a memory cleanse." I let go of her arm, but held her attention. "If we haven't been through this, there's a good chance Roarke, and whoever else is out there, doesn't know we're here. Don't you see? Even if Roarke has half the formulas, we know where the rest of them are. If we can get to him, there's a chance we could undo everything." "What do you mean, undo everything?" Her teeth were chattering. "Everything, Remington, terrorists coming back from the future, people being snatched, the whole stinking mess." "Including the president's participation?" she asked with a note of regret. "Well, yeah, that too." She paused, seemingly weighing her opportunity to break the story on the president against saving her own skin. "So we get hold of the formulas... then what?" "Then we wait for Lost Friday to catch up with us, but instead of being hijacked by Roarke, we make sure we're taken by the ICTO guys." "What's the difference?" Legitimate question. "I'm not sure what will happen if those formulas end up with the ICTO," I answered honestly, "but I know exactly what will happen if Roarke takes off with them." Remington was clearly exhausted. Eyelids drooping, she was dulling out on me, and I didn't have time to bring her around. While I had no doubt that Roarke and the Red Diamond would use ITD technology to go back and try to reshape every historical event that could be of any benefit to them, I could only speculate whether the ICTO's motives were more altruistic. It was one side or the other, however, and I sure as hell didn't think any organization that turned people into fish food was the one to team up with. Besides, I just didn't like people jacking around with me. I looked around the side of the tool shed and asked Remington again, "Do you remember any of this in any way, dream, memory, fantasy, or otherwise? Have you ever heard the name Roarke before?" Droplets were hitting the leaves, making a background drone that covered any other sound. Both of us were thoroughly soaked and chilled to the marrow. Remington was shivering, weakening quickly. I wasn't doing much better. "Remington?" She managed to shake her head no. Okay, it was what it was, and I had no choice but to ignore Roy and go after Roarke and those formulas. So, I thought, if I was Roarke, and I had a bundle of papers that I believed held the key to world domination, where the hell would I be?

Chapter 41... The Last Lost Friday

Driving down the road in the Robelles' SUV, I finally figured out how the ICTO did it. What gave it away were the dogs. I had no idea that as many people would be out walking their dogs past midnight, but I'd seen seven dogs so far, all of them with leashes dragging while they searched aimlessly for their owners. Each time, I saw a hissing block of frozen helium nearby. As I thought about it, I concluded that the first wave of operatives was responsible for getting people off the streets, which indeed were completely barren. I figured the next group would approach specific addresses. To avoid any 9-1-1 calls, they'd start with houses with lights burning and catch any night-birds watching infomercials in the middle of the night. After that, they'd complete the sweep. They'd knock, or even just enter—probably half the houses in Sea Beach wouldn't be locked anyway—and gather the residents, forcing everyone in the house to hold hands for a while and then, _zap!_ Atom by atom, the residents would be teleported away, never to remember their sojourns into the continuum. What were there, maybe a thousand houses in Sea Beach? A few hundred ICTO operatives could accomplish the mission in a couple of hours. I knew the invasion was relegated to within the boro limits, and it provided me with a logical course of action. There was no doubt, now, that I had to get Remington outside the boro. "Not on your life," she said. "Do you still think I'm in this for the story?" I shot back angrily. I was way past that. Roarke and these Synthetics were after me, not just me in the sense that I lived in Sea Beach, but me personally. If I didn't stop him now, I knew that someday I could be walking down the street one minute, and teleported out of my shoes the next. That, or I could disappear off the face of the Earth by never even being born. Nothing doing. I just wasn't quite sure where to start. "Listen, Princess, in case you don't remember, that was me that saved your ass back there. If I wanted the story that bad, I'd have—" "You're kidding me, right? In case _you_ don't remember, it was also you who got me into that mess, and that was after I saved your skinny, worthless neck first. What am I supposed to think? There's no way I'm coming off this assignment." "This is more than an assignment, Remington. This is about saving...." Jesus, did I dare say it? "What? Life as we know it? Get off your high horse, Pappas. This is about stopping a thug, and that's how we need to think about it." You know, I really didn't have time to argue. I turned left onto Ocean Avenue, and for the first time I saw some of the ICTO operatives. There looked to be about eight of them, all hanging on the corner of Ocean Avenue and Sand Dune Lane, dressed in the color of night in the same ICTO uniform as I remembered Vishal having worn. My headlights seemed to catch them by surprise. One of them stepped into the street, actually smiling so as to not alarm a couple of Sea Beach residents they happened to miss on their initial sweep. I knew exactly what was coming. If I stopped, Remington and I would be forced from the truck and probably handcuffed, then forced to play hold-my-hand with one of these bozos until the next wave of teleportations was scheduled to happen. Yeah, well, hold this, I thought, and I floored the SUV, almost running the bastard over. I saw clusters of helium blocks all over the place as I barreled past the bungalows. From the looks of things, the operatives had the process down pat. I needed to avoid these ICTO guys until I got hold of the formulas, but I wasn't as downright contemptuous of them as I was of the Synthetics. I realized that if the technology worked as I thought it did, these operatives had specific, individual DNA, which meant they were real humans. The Synthetics were human too, and I'm sure they felt pain the same way, and had their own emotions and all the other crap that went along with being human, but to me, a manufactured, test tube human clone wasn't quite the same. That could have been a raging debate in the year 2194, but it wasn't one I wanted to philosophize about right now. All I knew was: real humans, good—maybe; Synthetic humans, bad—definitely. That's when it came to me. I turned to Remington who was perched forward in her seat, shivering. "They have the same DNA," I said. "Who does?" "The Synthetics. They've all been bred from a set a master genes." "Yeah, so?" "So if you were the ICTO, and you were planning Lost Friday, would you do it knowing there'd be Synthetics on the scene?" After some pause, Remington said, "No. I'd make sure they were out of there." "And how would you do that?" "I guess somewhere along the way I'd figure out how to obtain some Synthetic DNA. Then, when I was planning something—" "They call them interventions." "Okay, I'd do, like, a sweep or something, and I'd beam out anyone, or anything, with that DNA." It took her a second, but she added, "Does that mean that if Lost Friday is under way, there's a chance the Synthetics are gone?" I smiled as I took a left onto Route 37 toward the bridge. "You're smarter than you look," I said. "Which, by the way...." "Don't say it," she said, not amused. "Where are we headed?" I adjusted the rearview mirror, and said, "I think I know where Roarke is."

* * * * *

Typical two-bedroom bungalow with the porch light on, well maintained flowerbed, Mercedes E-series in the concrete driveway behind a Honda CRV. "Looks like they're home," I said as I looked at my watch. Like, where else would they be at 2:10 in the morning? The lights were out. Remington said, "Where are we?" I did a visual sweep of the neighborhood. This was the ritzy side of town, the lawns bordered with white rock and white picket fences, manicured even in the off season when their owners were miles away grinding out the mortgage payments. Sea Beach didn't have many street lights, but there were a couple on this street, no doubt the result of a little arm-twisting by home owners who wanted something more for their $10K a year in property taxes besides beer can recycling. "This is where the Beharis live," I said, answering Remington's question. "And this is where Roarke is." I gazed through the windshield. It was calm, too calm considering Lost Friday was in full swing. There should have been ICTO operatives in the vicinity, but the only things moving were the miniature red maples that dotted some of the yards. Remington asked, "What makes you so sure he's here?" "Because he has some unfinished business." "Which is? I thought he was after the formulas." "That's only part of it." Remington just sat there with her wet rat groove going on, waiting for me to continue. "Vishal Rawan is the leader of the ICTO." "What's that got to do with why we're here?" "The formulas can provide Roarke and the Red Diamond with ITD technology. However, the ICTO already has the technology, and can use it to travel back in time again and again to undo whatever Roarke accomplishes here now, or any other time." Remington nodded, and said, "Okay, and the Beharis?" "Anne Behari is one of Vishal's ancestors." "Ah-hah. And no Anne Behari means no Vishal, and with him out of the picture there's no ICTO to get in Roarke's way. He and the Red Diamond can do whatever they want, to whomever they want, whenever they want, even now." "And the girl in the muddy shirt wins a prize," I said. I don't know, maybe it was just me, but the stillness was starting to bug me. The constant breeze off the ocean suddenly wasn't so constant, causing the red maples to droop as if they were dead. Sweat bubbles started to pop on my forehead. I guess I'd seen too many movies because I was trying to determine how I could sneak up to the bungalow without being seen, the truth being that if Roarke was nearby and watching, he'd already be aware of my presence. Still, I had to know where he was. I popped the door on the SUV, nearly giving myself a heart attack as I inadvertently squeezed the lock button on the key remote and caused the lights to flash and the horn to _bweep_. Remington looked over and said, "Smooth move, Ex-Lax." I just gave her a look and motioned for her to get out quietly and come around to my side so we couldn't be seen from the bungalow. I'm sure she got all that from the single clumsy wave of my hand. I whispered, "How do you want to do this?" "Do what?" "Sneak up to the bungalow." She looked up and down the street, and said, "Why don't we just walk up to it?" "Oh. Okay." And we did. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again. Nothing again. "Nobody home?" I whispered. Remington shook her head and thumbed at the two cars in the driveway. I turned the doorknob and the door came open. I wasn't surprised. I was surprised, however, when I heard Roy's voice. "Johnny! Turn around! Go ba...." In the darkness, I heard something that sounded like an egg cracking, and Roy never finished his sentence. I turned just as Remington found the light switch, but it was already too late. My eyes adjusted quickly to Roarke's ugly mug, which was between me and the door. He'd already grabbed Remington, one arm around her throat, and an object I didn't recognize pressed to her head. "What's that?" I asked, indicating the weapon. Roarke just smiled, exposing an ugly set of teeth. I heard the egg cracking sound again, and Remington collapsed like a rag doll. "My interest is not in them," he said. "My interest is in them... and you." The second _them_ was the Beharis, who were handcuffed together on their sofa. Roy was only a few feet away, but in a bungalow that size everything was only a few feet away, including Roarke. I wondered if I could charge him, or something, but I decided against it seeing as I didn't have any plan beyond that. Besides, my gut was twisting itself into a knot as I eyed Remington's prone body not knowing if she and Roy were dead or just unconscious. "The Glock," said Roarke. "Put it down on the table." "What Glock?" I said, playing dumb. "Stop screwing around, Pappas. You know we've been through this before." I thought: shit, this too? Pointing his Taser-like thing at me, Roarke said, "I could very easily put you in the same condition as your friends." "I thought you wanted me for something. What good would it do for you to kill me?" Roarke grinned. "They're not dead, Mister Pappas, but that is an option if you don't do as I say." Hearing that, I felt a wave of relief, but it evaporated quickly as I pulled Darlon's Glock from the small of my back and put it down. "You know you're alone, don't you?" I said, thinking back to my earlier conversation about the Synthetics being gone. Roarke eyes were menacing. "This is the first time you've figured that out. Now get over there and do as I tell you." I wondered how many times I'd been through this. I didn't remember any of it, but Roarke sure seemed to know what was coming down. It was like I was living in some bizarro world where my life was being played and replayed as if it were on some self-rewinding tape. I took a seat next to Robert, who looked very confused. Anne, on the other hand, didn't look confused at all. Neither said a word as Roarke came over and pointed his zapper at Robert, who collapsed immediately. "Now, undo the handcuffs, take his place, and redo them," Roarke ordered, tossing the key next to my feet. "We don't want a repeat of what happened last time." "What happened last time?" I asked, actually thinking about diving for the Glock and doing a Tom Cruise- _Mission Impossible_ thing. "You killed him," Anne announced boldly. "You shot him with that gun and killed him, but his _people_ came back and undid everything." Obviously, she meant something by the way she said _people_ , my guess being that she considered Synthetics to be less than human. Roarke took the Glock and removed the ammunition, making the weapon useless. "And this time I have the formulas," he added. His eyes cut to mine. "You're annoying me, Mister Pappas. I was going to wait until we got back to 2194 before I killed you, but I could just as easily do it now. It would only be a minor inconvenience. Put those handcuffs on now." Okay, for the time being, and for whatever reason, he needed me alive, but it wasn't particularly comforting. I glanced at his weapon, which looked more like a remote control than anything else. I didn't see any electrical arcs when he'd zapped Robert, so I knew it wasn't a Taser, which is what I'd originally thought. However, the complete stillness of the bodies indicated the thing could do some serious damage. "Now," he barked menacingly. Picking up the key, I thought it quite amazing that handcuffs had hardly changed in 190 years, then I realized they were Roy's. "What are we waiting for?" I asked Anne openly, figuring she knew exactly how this episode turned out last time. "We're waiting for the teleportation cue." "When is that?" I probed. "Last time it was about fifteen minutes from now." She did a head nod toward a clock on the mantel across the room. It was almost quarter-to-three. I had fifteen minutes to make something happen, but how? I clicked the cuffs around my wrist. "On the floor," Roarke commanded. "I'm not leaving my husband," Anne called back defiantly. Roarke pointed the zapper at her, and out came the now nauseating egg-cracking sound again. Anne went limp as a noodle. "That leaves only you," he said. Like people who say they'd like to die in their sleep, it would certainly have been easier to face the fish food factory in an unconscious state. However, that wouldn't have given me much opportunity to avoid it. I eased Anne's limp body to the floor and laid next to her per Roarke's instructions, face down. Taking my free arm and twisting it up behind me, Roarke said, "Hold her hand." He put a knee in my back and held me in that position until I started to see stars. "What are you going to do with her when we get to the other end?" I croaked. "What do you think?" Roarke replied. "You've both already caused too many problems for me." Funny how Roarke classified my killing him as a _problem_. "Why her?" I asked, stalling. "You know perfectly well that with Vishal Rawan out of the picture, there would be nothing to stand in my way." That much I knew. "Why not do it now?" I asked. "Why take us 190 years into the future to commit murder?" Roarke let out a little chuckle. "My but you have an inquisitive mind." His knee was digging into my back, and my leg felt as if it was on fire. I tried to sneak a glance at the clock, but it was too far behind me. I'd probably been on the floor over five minutes, maybe even ten, but it was difficult to estimate time passing when you had so little of it left. Trying to distract him, I said, "I'm a reporter. I'm paid to have an inquisitive mind." "And it would cause me even more problems should you and your associate stay in this time period," Roarke revealed, my associate being Remington. "You're worried about us revealing that the president is involved," I shot back, not really knowing, but it turned out to be a pretty good guess. "Once his involvement is discovered, it sets off another whole chain of events, doesn't it? A chain of events that affects the ultimate existence, or lack thereof, of the Red Diamond as an organization." Like all psychopathic egomaniacs, Roarke couldn't resist talking about his own exploits. "And none of that will take place with you gone, Mister Pappas. You see, I'm insuring the eventual creation of the Red Diamond, and the eventual uncreation of the ICTO in one tactical operation. And, by doing it in my own time, I'll accomplish two more things that are very important to me. I'll see Vishal Rawan disappear before my eyes, and I'll be able to take care of both you and Mrs. Behari in a way that will leave no traceable records; no witnesses, no teleportation logs, nothing. No one will be able to come back and tamper with the event—ever." So Roarke was going to do a Jimmy Hoffa on me. Time was burning away. "That's quite the comprehensive plan," I said as pain knifed through every part of my body. "There's only one problem with it." His full weight on my back now, Roarke used his free leg to step on the spot where my handcuffed right arm touched Anne's left arm. He wasn't taking any chances that I'd break skin contact with her. "And what is that, Mister Pappas?" "Those pages containing the formulas? They're fake. You don't have them, Roarke, and you never will. I've already made sure of that." Roarke jammed his knee into my spinal column even harder. Clearly, I'd gotten a reaction. "Nice try, Mister Pappas, but your reporter tricks won't work on me. I've been through this before." "So have I, asshole. That's why I convinced David to hide the real formulas and plant the fake ones. You see, neither Aryeh, nor you idiots could know the difference. He and I are the only ones on the planet who know where the real formulas are located." I was gasping now. "Why do you think David isn't here to protect his work? Your formulas are worthless, Roarke." Suddenly, he eased up on my arm. I'd gotten Roarke's attention, all right, but now what? One wrong move, a single statement that didn't make sense, and I was off to the fish food factory for sure. I heard a moan from Anne. At least she was alive. Then I glanced around quickly, taking in as much as my position and limited scope of vision would allow. It was enough for me to see that Roy, Robert, and Remington weren't breathing, and a sudden wave of rage coursed through me. "What did you do to them, you bastard?" "They have no importance in this series of events," Roarke responded as if he had zapped some stray cats instead of human beings. He pointed his zapper at me. "Tell me where those formulas are located." Whatever he threatened, Roarke needed Anne and I alive; that much I knew. I also knew I couldn't believe a single word he said. "You might as well kill me now, Roarke. Your teleportation time will be here in two minutes, and you're gonna look pretty stupid showing up with formulas for the chemical reaction for cake batter. Not only that, once David realizes I'm gone, he'll destroy the real formulas." "They're too valuable," Roarke growled, wrenching my arm again. "You're an idiot," I shot back, tears of pain rolling down my cheeks. "David has been through this before too, Roarke, and the memory cleanses don't work on him. He knows how this is going to turn out, and he knows that if I go, and more importantly, if Anne goes, Vishal Rawan will never exist." Roarke pointed his zapper at Anne. "I could kill her right now," he threatened. "Then you're a bigger idiot than I thought. If Vishal suddenly disappears from the year 2194, the ICTO could run another hundred interventions further back in the continuum and prevent Anne from dying. You see, you need to actually see Vishal disappear right before your eyes. It'll be the only way you can be sure you've taken care of him without having other interventions reverse the event. It has to happen in your own time, Roarke. That's why you need her alive." "And why do I need you alive?" "I just explained it, shit-for-brains. Besides David, I'm the only one who knows where those formulas are. If you don't believe me, just stay where you are and the three of us will take a little 190-year trip into the future. Once that happens, David will destroy the formulas, and my guess is you'll be the one who disappears off the face of the Earth. You see, just like you managed to find out who Vishal's ancestor is, he knows several of yours. The only thing that's prevented him from not killing one or more of them is this silly code of ethics the ICTO has. It seems they don't like murdering innocent people, but of course that's something you'd know nothing about. But, you know what? When it comes right down to it, when it comes to survival, things can change, can't they Roarke? Vishal also knows you'll never destroy the formulas because you need them to produce your own ITDs, which means that as long those formulas are intact, the ICTO will be able to bounce around the continuum and restore every event you fuck up. You're caught between a rock and a hard place, Roarke. Just remember, if I leave this time period, you still won't have the formulas—and you're a dead man. What do we have, thirty seconds? Let's count it down now: ten, nine, eight...." Roarke suddenly broke contact with me. Through the excruciating pain, I managed a glance at the clock. There were still a couple of minutes before it struck three. The formulas: Roarke had them on him probably, but I didn't know if he had all the pages. If I asked about them, or made any move to wrestle them away from him, it would invalidate everything I'd just said. It was all bullshit, of course, but Roarke had no clue. Indicating the bodies nearby, I said, "If they're dead, you're dead. I'll see to it personally, Roarke." He smiled a sinister smile. "Not in this lifetime, Mister Pappas." He took Anne's limp arm and they were gone moments later, along with whatever formulas he had, perhaps all of them, his body replaced by a block of frozen helium. There was only one way to stop him and the Red Diamond now, and I laid back and closed my eyes. Lost Friday was still happening, and someone would be around soon.

Chapter 42... Only One Way To Go

I couldn't bear to even look at the bodies, let alone check for a pulse. I just laid there with a lump in my throat and a hole in my heart, praying that they come to. Roarke, that bastard. He zapped them all with no regard whatsoever that they were real people, with real lives, not that I knew that much about them really, but I couldn't even imagine breaking the news to Roy's wife if he was actually dead. I suddenly realized that I knew very little about Remington outside the bounds of my own fantasies about her, and I felt shallow. I vowed that if I ever got the chance to see her alive again, I wouldn't act like a lecherous dog around her and would make every effort to know her as a person. Then I thought: suck it in, Pappas, and figure out a way to find Roarke again. While not totally replacing my sorrow-slash-guilt trip, my anger was back, and I decided to get off my ass and find some of the ICTO operatives I'd seen earlier. It didn't take long. First, I used the Beharis' phone to call Romano and give him the story; then, I limped up to one of the operatives only two blocks from the bungalow, and said, "Take me to Vishal."

* * * * *

The teleportation cues were on the half hour, so I had a few minutes to think about the conversation I'd just had with Romano. Normally, waking him at almost four in the morning would have earned me a ration of shit, but perhaps not so incredibly, he was already awake. "I had a premonition," he said skeptically. "I had this dream that you were dead." He took a beat. "Are you okay?" The lump in my throat swelled like a balloon. "Sort of," I said, not mentioning the gaping wound in my leg, "but Remington's not." "What's the matter with her?" I didn't answer. It was all I could do to keep my back turned away from her body. I just didn't want to believe that she could possibly be dead. "I'll explain later," I said. "I'm calling in my story." Like me, Romano didn't say a word, and it was like his instincts were colliding with mine. "Whatever is wrong, Pappas, can you fix it?" I finally looked at Remington. "I have to," I replied. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her." After some pause, Romano said, "Give me your story, Pappas. If we're lucky, it'll never go to print." "By Johnny Pappas," I said, starting with the byline as I normally did when calling one in, then I said, "Wait boss, make that by Kelli Remington." The story had Pulitzer written all over it.

* * * * *

I held my breath as Roy had once told me to do, and it still didn't work. I woke up at the other end of the wormhole, gazing up at a young ICTO geek who told me his name was Landon. He couldn't have been more than twenty. He started to put a beer-bong hat on me to do a memory scan, and I grabbed his wrist. "Do you know Vishal Rawan?" He perked up immediately, as I'm sure not a lot of people from the twenty-first century knew who Vishal Rawan was. "I have heard of him," he replied cautiously. Great. I was dealing with the bottom of the food chain. I pulled him real close so he couldn't mistake what was in my eyes. "Find him, Landon, or find someone who can communicate with him, and tell him Johnny Pappas wants to see him." I saw Landon hesitate, and I pulled him closer yet. "Tell Vishal that Roarke has the formulas." It didn't take long. Vishal sauntered in minutes later, his casual body language a show for the troops. Behind the eyes, I sensed the man was a train wreck. "I received your message." I looked around, wondering where I was, but the room gave me no clue. "Am I still in Sea Beach?" I asked. Vishal nodded, and I held my tongue. He was eyeing me in return, his hand close to his weapon. Neither of us was willing to take the chance that we weren't what we seemed to be. The seconds ticked by, tension laden. "Roarke has the formulas," I said. Vishal's eyes narrowed. "We will have to go back again and prevent that from happening." I couldn't help but think that Lost Friday was beyond control. "I don't think you're going anywhere," I said, and Vishal's eyes narrowed even more. "I don't think you're in any position to—" "It gets worse," I said, not really interested in anything he could possible say. "Roarke's got Anne Behari." I waited for a reaction; there was none. Vishal pulled his weapon and aimed it right between my eyes. "Tell me where he is," he spat venomously, "or you die now." Well there was some gratitude for you. I walked right up to him. "Here, I'll make it easy for you. Go ahead, then we all lose." He put his weapon thingy to the base of my neck. I waited. If this was my time, well then, this was my time, but I could sense that he wasn't going to zap me. "You're safe until you walk into the open," I said as he held there. "As soon as Roarke has a visual on you, Anne Behari is dead and you'll disappear off the face of the Earth." Again, I waited for a reaction, and again there was none. Vishal was still waiting for some clue, some inkling of whether or not I was a Synthetic. "That tactic is risky for them," he said calmly. "Depending on the linkages, it does not always work." Evidently it had been tried before. "Are you willing to take that chance?" I saw a twitch at the corner of his eye. "How about we go for a walk?" "Stay where you are," he said, putting a hand in my chest. I slapped it away. "If I was one of them, I would have already killed Anne and we wouldn't be having this conversation. At this point, my interest is in her; you I couldn't care less about. She's probably safe as long as you stay out of sight, but the second Roarke sees you, he'll kill her, you'll evaporate, and he'll take the formulas to his scientists so they can finalize the ITD technology you've tried so desperately to keep from them. You see, Vishal baby, you zap me and you lose all the way around." Vishal took a moment. "How do you know he has the formulas?" "I saw him take them. Whether he has all of them or not, I'm not sure. David split up...." I stopped there, thinking perhaps I'd already said too much. I mean, I really didn't know who I was talking to either, right? "If she dies and you don't, then you're an accomplice to murder," I went on. "In this day and age, one more murder will go totally unnoticed," Vishal replied smartly. "Oh, so no one will mind if it turns out to be you. I have a plan, Vishal. You want to listen to it?"

* * * * *

What did David tell me once about existing on only one point on the continuum? He said that when someone goes back, the future hasn't happened yet. I remembered that as I found my way to my apartment where I took a shower and bandaged up my oozing leg with a towel and some duct tape. I stopped by Norm's WaWa and bought a copy of the _Asbury Park Press_ just to be sure of the date: March 24th, six months to the day before Lost Friday. "Is Norm here?" I asked as I remembered Norm being one of the jurors taken for David's trial. "He left about an hour ago," the plump cashier replied as she gave me my change. "Can I give him a message?" "That's okay. I'll catch up to him later." How prophetic, I thought. Everything seemed pretty normal, and I hopped back into the 'Vette, choking down some emotion when Roy's old F-150 pulled up three parking spaces over. Roy slid out, paying me no mind, and was in and out of the WaWa in less than a minute with a container of milk. I checked the time: 6:35, time for dinner. I speculated that it was probably time for dinner at the Robelles' house too, which is where I was headed. My plan was to find David and force him to destroy the formulas, but there was one more stop I had to make. I mean, I just had to know. I fired up the 'Vette and tooled onto the parkway. Luckily, everything was where I thought it was at that point on the continuum, which meant that I now had my cell phone as well as my car. I speed dialed the _Press_ and punched in Remington's extension, which she didn't answer. I redialed and had the same result on Romano's extension, so I dialed his cell phone. "Yeah?" he answered gruffly. "Have you seen Remington?" I asked quickly. I looked down, seeing that I was doing over eighty. Like I gave a shit. I held steady on the accelerator. "Remington? Why do you need—" "Listen boss, I don't have time to play twenty questions. Just tell me if you've seen her in the last hour or two." "Yeah, I've seen her. What's wrong?" he asked warily. The man had incredible instincts. "Nothing's wrong. It's, ah... personal. You gonna tell me where she is, or not?" "Personal, huh? You know, Pappas, I swear we've had this conversation before." I waited. "She's on her way to Toms River." "Where in Toms River?" Toms River wasn't far away. "Try a place called Cool Beans. She's doing restaurant reviews for some Jersey Shore tourist mag that I'm not supposed to know about." So Romano knew she was moonlighting. Even in the past the man continued to impress me. Romano told me the place was on Main Street, and I pulled up in front twenty minutes later, spotting Remington through the window. I hobbled in. "Is this seat taken?" She looked up from her notepad, and said, "What the hell happened to you?" And I thought I cleaned up good. I just stood there not knowing what to say, but knowing that I had to see she was all right. I mean, I didn't even have a wisecrack at the ready. "I just wanted to tell you that you're a great reporter," I said. Those blue eyes of hers were holding me captive. "And now what?" she asked. "Are you going to ask to use my thong to floss your teeth?" I smiled and made this kind of weird wave at her. I turned to go. "Hey Pappas," she called out when I was almost to the door. "Supposedly this place has the best Irish coffee around. Want some?" I couldn't tell if the electric sparkle I saw was coming from those mesmerizing eyes of hers, or that perfect smile. I repeated the awkward wave, and said, "Gotta go save the world, Remington. I'll take a rain check." She just watched me leave, and I'm sure she was thinking what a nimrod I was, but at least I knew she was all right. I headed back to the 'Vette to resume my original plan and find David. I'd parked about a block away, and halfway there I stopped cold in my tracks. I sensed that someone was watching me, and I immediately scanned the landscape looking for Barbie boobs or Ken Doll hair. Did I really think I could just waltz right back in time and stop the whole phenomenon of Lost Friday from happening again? Did I really think that with forty-seven billion people on the planet, I was the only one who would think of this course of action? What an idiot I was. Who knew who, or what, was out there? I couldn't trust anyone, or anything, Vishal included, despite the fact that he'd supplied me with an ITD to get back to this date. He'd proven his loyalty when he was on the verge of melting my brain stem. He and Roarke were one in the same to me now, and to either of them I was only as valuable as my last piece of information. The term _dead meat_ suddenly had new meaning to me. I wheeled quickly and headed away from the 'Vette, making quick work of weaving between the old buildings of downtown Toms River until I found an alleyway that led me back to Cool Beans. I popped in the back door and blew through the kitchen where some spike-haired chick with black lipstick was making goo-goo eyes at the bus boy, and found Remington still in her seat. She was making notes and the look on her face told me Cool Beans wasn't getting a good review. She looked up, perplexed at my reappearance. "Can we trade cars?" I asked, holding out the keys to the 'Vette. God, it was déjà vu all over again... and again... and again. Did anything ever change? She said, "You want _me_ to drive _your_ car? Why?" "Actually, _I_ want to drive _your_ car." "Again, why?" "Ah, I think someone is following me." "Who?" Damn it, I really didn't have time for this... again, but if history was this stubborn, well then.... "I'm working on the biggest story of the century and I need some help. You want a piece of it or not? I need to know now." I waited through the, "You're so full of shit," comment, looked at my watch while she intimated that this was somehow another ploy for me to see her naked, and shifted my weight from foot to foot while she went on and on about how she was Summa Cum Laude at Columbia and was destined for better things than writing restaurant reviews. All I said was, "You'll have your own byline," and she was on me like a rash. The woman was a story hound—which I respected immensely—and ten minutes later we were blasting down the parkway in her blue Mitsubishi Eclipse, headed for the Robelles' house. God, she smelled good.

* * * * *

This house was trouble, and my leg ached just thinking about it. Using her cell phone instead of mine, I had Remington call the house. "Is David there?" she asked. She had the phone on speaker. "Yes, who's calling?" David's mother asked. I pointed to myself and Remington got the hint. "Tell him Johnny Pappas is calling." We could hear Jenna cup the phone and yell for David in the background. He picked up on another extension only a second later, but said nothing. I knew instantly. "You're a replica, aren't you?" I asked. David said, "If you can see the house, you're in trouble." "So now what?" "Meet me in half an hour." "Where?" "Chief Mulroney's house."

* * * * *

I took one look at Roy, and said, "I thought maybe you were dead." "We all die sometime, Johnny." Which brought me back to the point of only being able to exist on one point on the continuum: did the fact that Roy, David, Remington, and I were all present together in the same room mean that we did not exist anywhere else in said continuum? "What if I went back, or forward, for that matter, to another point in time? Would any of us be there?" The question was not aimed at anyone in particular, but clearly David was the only one who could answer it. "We're _replicas_ ," he said simply. "Just think about it for a second." Remington, who had hardly said a word, said, "Wait a minute. Are you all telling me that you've traveled through time?" She looked from face to face. "Funny, none of you look like you'd be on PCP." Ignoring her, I thought: replicas. "That's it," I said. "When you said a person can't go into the continuum and visit himself, you were talking about originals, right?" David nodded, and I detected a twinkle in his eye. "Johnny, what the hell are you talking about?" Roy asked, to which Remington added, "Yeah, Pappas." I looked at Remington, and said, "Just note the events. I'll explain what it all means later." Then I turned to David. "If there is a later. You want to explain it?" David took a deep breath. "An original can't exist in the presence of itself due to the fact that it has been dismantled in the teleportation process. Hence, one can't go back and visit oneself as an original. Once teleportation takes place, the original is gone and all the history that passes with the replica's presence is altered... I think." I think? That wasn't exactly convincing. "Altered how?" I asked. "The replica is another being, and although it is made up of exactly the same kinds of atoms, in exactly the same configuration, has the same DNA, and the same memory, the history that passes during its existence can be different than the history that would have passed had the existence of the original not been terminated and the replica created." "Or recreated," I added. "We can take the original's place, but there can't be two of same present because in actuality two can't be present. It's physically impossible." "You're talking in circles," Roy said. "No, he's not," David replied. "Somehow, I think he understands it quite well." David's use of the word _somehow_ could have been meant as a put down, but I didn't think so. "So what's it all mean?" I asked. "It means that your plan of coming back here in order to get me to destroy the formulas won't work. That piece of history has already been written and rewritten so many times that the linkages are too big and too convoluted to control—and that includes going into the future to do away with Roarke. There would be countless others that would need to be terminated, or prevented from being born. You'd be just be making another attempt at something that's been tried many times." I don't know if anyone else saw the logic, but I certainly did. David suddenly got real serious-looking. "There are only two ways to prevent any of this from ever happening. The first is for one or all of you to go back and terminate the original David, before I became a replica." "Right. Like that's going to happen," I said, noting Roy's agreeing nod. "What's the second way?" "By preventing my original from ever being born." David looked at all three of us and said, "I would much rather you take that route. It would be much easier on my parents." It was all getting too real, too close to home. "David, you know we can't do that, and even if we could, we wouldn't. There has to be another way." "I'm afraid there isn't, but before you ask the question, let me give you an answer." "What answer?" "This is not the same as doing away with ancestors." "How is it not?" "Just take my word for it. It has to do with the fact that an ancestor is part of the natural linkage of events. Being a replica is not. Besides, the atoms of the ancestor are not the same as those of the replica." "Okay, I'm totally confused, but... so?" So, once a replica is created, I'm not sure if it goes away if its original is somehow prevented. The replica's atoms still exist on the continuum, you see. They are simply located somewhere else." Roy, Remington, and I all looked at each other. "Sure," I said. "Simple for you."

* * * * *

There was no choice, really, plus the fact that if David said that's the way it was, who was going to argue with him? David wasn't going to do this, so who was? And how? As soon as we decided that, David determined that he was going to go home and tell his parents what was happening in case he suddenly, like, went _poof_ , or something. Not even David knew the probability of that happening. Roy was a possibility, but although he was a replica several times over, he'd never operated an ITD, which was a convenient excuse for determining that Roy was most valuable where he was. I agreed with that. Sea Beach needed Roy, and there were many other lives at stake besides our own that Roy needed to protect. To make a long story short, after some discussion it came down to me as being the primary candidate, and I thought about the prospect of reliving eighteen years of my life. Going back that far would put me at about the same chronological age as Romano. Maybe I could be him. Maybe I could become the managing editor at the _Press_ instead. Then, I thought, why bother? There were plenty of other things I could accomplish—because I knew a lot of what was going to happen. Would that be fair? I thought inexplicably, but before I could answer the question, I thought about my mom. What would it do to her, now, as well as then, or before, or however I termed it? "Johnny?" Roy said, seeing my consternation. Bleary eyed, I looked up. "Yeah?" "If it makes it any easier, just remember you only have eight-and-a-half months left here." "What the hell does that mean?" Remington blurted. I knew exactly what Roy was referring to. I was still scheduled to go off a bridge with her and Romano in December. Could I change that? Probably not, according to what David was saying. Remington had no clue about her upcoming demise, but Remington aside, I quickly calculated that my mom would be better off dealing with the phenomenon of my sudden aging by eighteen years than with the phenomenon of my suddenly being dead. Well, that certainly put it in perspective, and I determined that if I was going to go through with this, I was going to make myself one rich dude in the process.

Chapter 43... The Original

David was a Christmas baby, I'd found out. If his time in the oven was exactly nine months, nine months back from that was March 25th. David had no clue as to whether he'd popped out early, but I figured in order to make a brain that big he had to cook for the full term. Hoping I wouldn't rematerialize on top of a roller coaster, I teleported back exactly seventeen years and one day, which put me in Sea Beach as I knew it when I was fifteen. From the entrance to the boardwalk, I could see Gil's Bait and Tackle shop, which looked as if a flake of paint hadn't changed on it during that entire stretch of time. I could see the sign to the diner glowing up the street—it was Tootie's Diner back then—and the arched metal scrollwork under which I was standing looked freshly painted. Everything was where it should have been, except for my 'Vette. I had no car, and no cell phone, not that it would have done me any good back then, and I had no idea of how to find Chuck and Jenna Robelle, let alone how to stop them from conceiving David. Hell, I didn't even know if they lived in Sea Beach when they did the deed. And what was I supposed to do if and when I found them, convince Jenna to give old Chuck a hummer instead of playing hide-the-salami? Maybe I was already too late. Okay, I decided my mental whining wasn't doing me any good, but I knew I was dead in the water unless I had a car. Where was I going to get that? The only thing I could think of was that we got a second car when the family moved to Sea Beach from North Jersey; it was my mom's car, a big, honkin' 1981 Buick Electra station wagon that was already several years old when we got it. Dad said it was a cream puff. Mom said it was a tank. I remembered she had a habit of putting the keys up on the visor when it was parked in the driveway. I mean, cars didn't get stolen in Sea Beach, although I think she secretly wished it would happen with this huge bucket of bolts. Maybe I was going to fulfill that wish. The house I grew up in—and where my mom still lived—was a fifteen-minute walk from the boardwalk. I was there in thirteen by way of the beach, at the spot where my street, Ocean View Terrace, dead-ended into the beach road that ran along the ocean all the way to Island Beach State Park. I waited. The teleportation was definitely off by a couple of hours, as I knew it could be, because it was earlier in the day than before I'd teleported, just before dusk as opposed to into the evening hours. I sat on the dunes, taking in the cool breeze as I waited for the sun to go down. The last thing I wanted was for someone to see me. I thought about some weird things sitting there on that sand, one of them being how I'd explain my sudden aging by almost eighteen years when this was all over. I mean, I wasn't going anywhere if I was successful in my mission. What would my mom think? And my dad? He was alive in this time period, churning out special assignments for the _Daily News_ by the ton. I remembered that he wasn't home much during this time, but it was the special assignment duties that enabled us to move down from Jersey City, which had turned into a rat's nest. Would he ever believe that I was on an assignment of my own? How would I prove it? And if I could, would I ever get to write about it? I turned a mental page and thought about having to relive eighteen years of my life. Like everyone, there were things I would have liked to change, but I had to admit that, for the most part, I was really pretty happy with my life. I mean, the _Press_ wasn't the _Daily News_ , and romantically I was nowhere, but I made enough money to drive a 'Vette, and people thought being a reporter was a cool job. I figured: ya' know, I was doing all right. Maybe that was a little shallow, but it wasn't like I was going relive the same life again; I wasn't. I was at a completely different stage than when I was fifteen, and although I'd be living over the same time span on the continuum, the events would be different for me. I didn't want to lose whatever sense of accomplishment I'd developed, regardless of how others may have viewed it, so I wondered: would I be able to predict historical events because I'd know what was coming, or would the events be different and would I make a complete fool of myself? Would I turn into a circus freak? Would I even continue to be a reporter? Who knew? Now, one thing was for sure, however. Kelli Remington was not going to go to bed with me.

* * * * *

It was finally getting dark, and I needed a jacket. Thinking about where I was going to find that, I ultimately concluded that I needed someone to help me out. Only one person came to mind, the only person who I felt had a chance in hell of believing me, and that was my cousin Demetrius. Demetrius's mom was my father's sister, and it was one of the reasons we moved to Sea Beach: family. I was an only child, and Demetrius was the only son in his family, and he and I were always told that it was up to us to carry on the family traditions as if we were the only Greek families left on the planet. We were only a year apart, and I could always get Demetrius to do anything I wanted. I guess that's why he was always in trouble. Demetrius lived in the part of Sea Beach that was called The Fishes because all the streets were named after fish; he lived on Dolphin Street. The lights were on downstairs, but not in Demetrius's room, and I wondered if he was home. Demetrius's dad owned a diner—a Greek, owning a diner, in New Jersey; go figure—out on Route 9 toward Tuckerton, and Demetrius spent a lot of time there, it being the family business and all. He could have been at either place, so I figured maybe I should call. Amazingly, I remembered the number, but that didn't do me any good because I didn't have a phone. I actually had to find a phone booth—how prehistoric—and I backtracked toward the beach road and Mooney's gas station. I picked up the phone—it was disgusting—and shoved a quarter into the slot, keeping my back turned so no one would recognize me. Breathing in the aromatic bouquet inside the booth, I punched in Demetrius's number, and his mom answered on the first ring. I was almost speechless. "Ah... hi Aunt Trina, this is Johnny. Is Demetrius there?" "Does your mother know you're calling here again? I thought we were clear on this, Johnny." I thought: oh shit. What did I do now? "Sorry Aunt Trina, but I need to talk to Demetrius. It's important. Is he there?" "And what's so important? Did you run out of toilets to blow up?" _Fuckin' A_. I remembered that. Demetrius and I—well, I actually; Demetrius just happened to be there—shoved a couple of M-80s under a Port-A-Potty once, just to see if we could launch it. What a mess that was. "C'mon, Aunt Trina, I already said I was sorry. Can I talk to Demetrius, please?" Pause. "You can talk to him, but that's it. He's not leaving this house, Johnny. He has homework to do and he hasn't opened a book the whole weekend. And I'm going to tell your mother that you've already violated the agreement." "Okay," I said. I had no idea about any agreement. It couldn't have been one I wanted to make. Homework, weekend: sounded like it was a Sunday night. Demetrius came on the line. "Do you have, like, a death wish or something?" he asked tersely. "You know the agreement." Again with the agreement. "Demetrius, forget that. I have to see you." I could hear him cupping the phone. "I'm grounded," he growled. "Thanks to you. I thought you were grounded too. Where are you calling from?" "I'm at the phone booth at Mooney's gas station." "How did you get out of the house?" Once again I thought: what the hell did I do? "Never mind that. Can you get out?" "No way. If I leave now, I may never see daylight again." "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bring me a jacket, will you?"

* * * * *

He looked at me funny. "Johnny?" "Demetrius, it's me." I stood there while he walked around me and checked me out. Putting his nose an inch from my face, eyeing the thick black stubble on my chin, he said, "What is that?" "It's a beard." He put his finger near my chin. "May I?" he asked. "Go ahead." He ran his finger down my jawbone, yanking it away quickly. "It's real," he said. "Of course it's real, Demetrius. It's me, Johnny." Once again, his eyes were an inch from my chin. "Drop your pants," he said. I eyeballed him back. "Drop your pants," he repeated. "You know." I did know. He wanted to see the scar, the one I got when I was nine and we were doing some ramp jumping on the causeway over Barnegat Sound. We made a bike ramp out of some scrap lumber that had washed up on shore after a storm, but it wasn't a very good ramp. It collapsed on my first try, and I landed on a two-by-four with three nails sticking out of it, putting an three-inch gash in my ass that took thirty—that's right, _thirty_ —stitches to close up. I'd lost enough blood to make me pass out. If I was the real thing, Demetrius knew I'd have that scar on my ass and he wanted to see it—the scar, that is, not my ass. I dropped trou right there in front of Mooney's garage, which luckily was closed with it being a Sunday night, and Demetrius checked out my butt. He looked up, not knowing what to make of it. "Johnny?" "I told you, it's me." "What the hell happened to you?" It took me close to an hour to explain the whole thing, during which Demetrius maintained a steady hit-between-the-eyes-with-a-tire-iron look. "So you're... how old?" he asked when I was done. "Thirty-three," I answered, and Demetrius said, " _Fuckin' A_ , Johnny. Here's your jacket."

* * * * *

"But I just saw you yesterday." It didn't make sense to me either, and despite my mission, I just had to know. It wasn't like we were going out of the way, or anything. It took us almost half-an-hour to hike it to Ocean View Terrace, and we were looking at my mom's banana boat of a car sitting in our driveway. I could see through the living room windows, and noted the flicker of the TV in the muted light. I choked up as I pictured my father sitting there half asleep in his recliner, newspapers spread out all over the coffee table beside him, reading and watching TV at the same time. Sunday night: I figured _Sixty Minutes_ was over and he was watching one of the Sunday night movies through his eyelids. Suddenly, I saw the light to my room come on, upper left corner of the house, two windows over the roof on the screened-in deck. I elbowed Demetrius in the ribs. "I saw it," he whispered back. "I thought—" "Ssshhh," I said. We were in the trees only about twenty yards from the Sweeneys' house. The Sweeneys were our neighbors, and they had a chocolate beagle dog that would howl at the slightest disturbance in the neighborhood. "C'mon," I said, and I slithered down. We made it to the deck, and I asked Demetrius for a boost. I got a foothold on top of the railing, next step was the outside sill on the bathroom window, shift my grip, step onto support cross beam, and, _badda-bing_ , I was on the roof over the deck. It was a maneuver I'd used regularly to sneak in and out of the house whenever I was grounded, which was often, so I was practiced at it. I didn't make a sound, and it only took seconds. I felt my heart beat faster. I was only a few feet from myself, and I knew then and there that David's theory about not being able to visit oneself needed some work. David said the original ceased to exist at the point the replica is created, but this was before my replica—meaning me—was created. Maybe David meant.... Well, whatever. All I knew is that I was about to meet myself eighteen years earlier, and I hoped that I wasn't about to scare myself to death, or interrupt myself while I was spanking my kielbasa, or something. I think I did that a lot when I was fifteen. Anyway, I crawled toward that window, and, sure enough, halfway there the Sweeney's beagle started howling. Fucking dog. It didn't last long, however. Demetrius scooted over to the fence and soon the dog was wagging its tail and licking Demetrius's fingers, which I figured smelled permanently like salami from him working at the diner every day. I resumed my crawl, but froze immediately as the window popped open and I suddenly faced myself in the window light. Johnny looked at me, and said, "Demetrius, what the hell are you doing out there?" Then he looked closer. "Wait a minute. You're not Demetrius. Who the fuck are you?" Fucking little wise-ass. "Look closer, kid. It'll come to you." Johnny squinted at me, and he—was it _he_ , or _I_? I guess it was _he_ because _I_ was a replica—made a move that I knew exactly what it was. "You don't need the bat," I said, referring to the autographed Cal Ripken baseball bat my dad had brought back for me from one of his trips. "And you won't need to call Demetrius. He's here." I jagged my head downward, and he spotted Demetrius who was having a grand old time with the Sweeney's hound. I scooted forward about a foot so that the window light washed over my face. Johnny's eyes went from slits to saucers. "Wait!" I croaked as he jumped back from the window, holding the aforementioned bat. "Please, don't call Dad. I'm not going to hurt you." Johnny edged back to the window, and said, "How did you know I was going to call Dad?" "I know everything about you, kid. I'm you. I'll explain everything if you let me through this window." "You must have me confused with Demetrius," Johnny shot back. "I don't swallow bullshit. Now fuck off before I really do call my dad and have him come up here and kick your ass." What a fucking trash mouth I was. "Listen up, dipshit. You have a scar on the left side of your ass that you got trying to be Evel Knievel on your bike, you have a crush on your math teacher but, _duh_ , you just found out she's married, and you have a _Playboy_ under your dresser that you look at under a flashlight at night. How am I doing so far?" "How... do you know all this?" "I told you, kid. I'm you. I have the exact same scar on my butt, and I had a crush on the same math teacher. I don't need the _Playboy_ , though. I get plenty of the real thing." I didn't know if it was right to talk to a fifteen-year-old like that, but hey, this was me I was talking to, and I knew what I was like. I smiled, and Johnny smiled back. I figured he was amused at the last comment, which was exactly my intention. I was getting there. "Come closer," he said, gripping the bat with both hands. The roof didn't have much pitch to it, and I slid up right to the window so that I was almost inside. I recognized the posters of R.E.M. and U2, two of my favorite bands during that time. I sat there, hardly making a move. Still gripping that bat, Johnny came closer and unexpectedly handed me the phone. "Make a call," he said. This kid was sharp. "Who do you want me to call?" "I want you to call Mom." "Isn't she downstairs?" "She's over at Aunt Trina's house." "Okay. Why am I calling her?" "Any reason you want. Just call." "Just call?" "Just call. If it's not me, she'll know in two seconds."

Chapter 44... Visiting Johnny

I passed the test, although Mom did say my voice sounded gravely and I must be coming down with a cold. She also said she'd be home in an hour, which didn't give me much time to lay out the situation with Johnny. I'd already decided to use him—or use myself, depending on how you wanted to look at it—to help me track down Chuck and Jenna and prevent them from doing the _doo-wop-diddy_ that made David. I actually felt much better about things now that I knew an original and a replica were somehow different. It seemed that my feelings and sensations were different than Johnny's, the original me, so, knowing that the David Robelle of Lost Friday time was already a replica, I figured he could go on doing his thing even if the original David was altered, or, in this case, prevented. This is what I took some time to explain to Johnny, who looked at me the whole time as if I'd come from Pluto. There was one thing, however, that finally convinced him I was telling the truth. Like I did with Demetrius, I asked him if there was anything so private that he'd never, ever, told anyone about it, not even Demetrius. Johnny took a left turn on me. "Maybe you can predict something for me," he said slyly. "And what might that be?" I asked just as slyly. "Well, ah, there's this girl. Her name is Tiffany." I knew instantly. It was Tiffany Luster. What a great byline name, I suddenly thought, much like Kelli Remington. "Go on," I urged tactfully. "Well, I kind of have this date with her...." Ah, young love. I remembered that date. Tiffany had great squeezies, and I'd always wanted to touch them in the worst way. "I was wondering if you could tell me, if, ah, well, you know, I mean, do she and I ever, ah.... How do I say this?" "Get to suck face with each other?" "Yeah, okay, I guess." "Sorry kid. You crash and burn. She'll be the first of many that will never give you the time of day." "That bad?" "It's horrible, kid. It's like that scene in _Top Gun_ where Maverick gets totally blown off at the bar by the lady flight instructor." _Top Gun_ was my favorite movie at that time. I knew Johnny would know the scene exactly. "It's actually quite embarrassing for you." "Embarrassing, like how?" "Well, she, ah, how do I say this?" "Just say it. What does she do?" "She discovers that you're still a virgin. You see, it's her rather than you that's been around the block, and she laughs at you, big guy, really puts you down. If it's any consolation, you end up in a much better situation when you finally pop your cherry." Johnny just stood there gazing at me, and I could tell he was weighing what I'd just told him. Finally, he said, "I've already had that date." Uh-oh—the sneaky little shit. "And?" "And you're right, but I've told no one, and I mean no one, about that." He looked at me through narrow eyes. "You're not bullshitting me about any of this, are you?" "No way, José. Listen, if I said the history of the planet would be changed by what I'm here to do, you have to believe me. I don't have time to explain how, or why, things got the way they are, but you're destined for great things, kid. All you have to do is follow my lead." I looked at him pleadingly. "Help me out here. You're the only one I can trust." Johnny sat on the bed and swallowed real hard. "What do I have to do?"

* * * * *

"Prevent them from having sex? This is a history-changing event? You're a real James Bond, aren't you?" "Listen, dink, I'll lay it out for you again. Try to pay attention this time, okay?" I went through it again, during which Mom came home, which meant Demetrius had to haul ass back home before Aunt Trina discovered he'd left the house. When I was done, Johnny asked, "So how do we know the actual time of conception?" "We don't." "I see you've really nailed this down. Then how do we prevent it?" "I'm not sure. Let's think this thing through." "Maybe I should do the thinking." There was a knock at the door and my heart nearly jumped from my chest. I froze. "Johnny, who are you talking to?" Mom asked through the door. "Ah, I'm on the phone Mom. I'll be off in a couple of minutes." "See that you do, okay. And finish your homework before you go to bed." "Sure Mom, no problem. Okie dokie." She left. I scowled. "Okie dokei?" "She bought it, didn't she? Now," he whispered, "here's what I think we need to do. First...." Johnny went on while I looked out the window. As I did, everything he said suddenly became totally inconsequential because over by the fence to the Sweeney's yard sat two blocks of hissing, steaming, frozen helium. It was suddenly a brand new ballgame. Knowing the look on my face intimately, Johnny stopped and said, "Oh-oh. What's wrong?" "They've been here." "Who's been here?" "The Synthetics. We've been through this before." I assumed there were more than two of them, and if they saw me, or Johnny—who, to them, was still me—either or both of us could be dead meat. I'd said nothing about Synthetics to Johnny previously, and I took a minute to do so. Johnny said, "This just gets better and better. How dangerous are they?" I really didn't want to answer that. "I've had to kill several of them," I said. "It was either that, or they were going to kill me." Johnny grabbed my shirt. "You really expect me to risk my life over this?" I understood completely. I mean, an hour ago his biggest worry in the world was whether his favorite jeans were clean, but I still needed him to maintain some cool here. My instincts and the frozen helium told me we didn't have a lot of time. "Listen," I said, "I know you must think I'm some kind whacko waltzing in here and dragging all this with me, but this is what your life turns out to be. You can change history, kid, and, trust me, the world isn't such a rosy place two hundred years from now. People live like ants, there's legalized genocide, and they turn people into fish food, for Christ's sake." I paused. "And it gets worse from there." "No one I know will even be alive two hundred years from now. Why should I give a shit about any of this?" he shot back. "It's not my problem." It was a legitimate question. I had a legitimate answer. "Listen, just like they gave me the ability to travel back in time to alter a piece of history, those Synthetics out there might have come back in time to alter another event." I paused again. "That event could be you, kid, and now it is your problem." Johnny let go of my shirt as the smell of vanilla coffee wafted past my nose. Mom was brewing a pot. Soon, she'd yell up the stairs asking if I wanted some with a slice of cake. It was one of her favorite things, and it was all I could do to keep myself together. "Mom and Dad might be in danger as well," I added for good measure. "There's no telling how these Synthetics plan on altering this event." I'd assumed all along that there were only Synthetics out there when in my mind's eye I saw Roarke's sinister eyes looking back at me. "Are you with me on this, or not?" I asked softly. "I need to know." I decided to give Johnny a minute and I walked to the window to close it. Imagine my surprise when I saw Kelli Remington and Roy Mulroney standing in the back yard. Johnny said, "You know I'll be in deep shit as soon as Mom finds out I'm not in my room." "Get your coat," I said. "We have friends outside."

* * * * *

I started to ask, but I didn't. There was nothing I could do about it anyway, it being why Remington and Roy were there. The last time I'd seen Remington was at the Cool Beans place, which was before she'd been shot at, scraped, and battered by the Synthetics at the Robelles' house, which was before Lost Friday in continuum time, but after Lost Friday in chronological time—I think. "The last time I saw you, you said you were staying behind," I said to Roy. "I did," Roy replied. "I didn't come here from that night. A lot of things happened after that, and I came here from six months after that." Translation: shit happened. I really didn't have the energy to figure it out anymore. Johnny nudged me and asked none too subtly, "Who's the babe?" Remington wheeled in her tracks. "Listen, twerp, the next time you address me, you...." She stopped. Her eyes jumped from Johnny to me, and back again. "Oh, my God. There are two of you?" She held up her hands and said disgustedly, "I don't even want to know." However, she gave Johnny a closer once over. "I hope you're not as big a cretin as he is." "Don't pay her any mind," I said. "She gets bitchy when she hasn't had any in a while." "She must be bitchy a lot," Johnny snapped back, and even Roy thought it was funny. I brought us back to the situation at hand. We were on the boardwalk now, outside the arcade near the Whack-A-Mole. Addressing Roy and Remington, I said, "Are you two here to undo an event, enhance an event, or create an event?" "We're here to help you with your mission," Roy answered. "We think it comes down to this." I took a moment. Roy looked exactly the same as any other time I'd ever seen him. As for Remington.... "What are you looking at?" she snapped at me. "How do I know you're not a Synthetic?" I snapped back. She walked up to me, real close, so close that I could smell the faint aroma of leftover perfume. It was a scent I'd smelled on her a hundred times before. "Because a Synthetic would do anything it took to win your confidence," she said loudly enough to embarrass the shit out of me, "and I mean _anything_. As for me, I'm never, _ever_ , going to bed with you, Pappas, not in a thousand years. I'm here for the story." Okay then, I guess we worked that out. I waited for Roy and Johnny to wipe the smirks off their faces, and said, "You know there are Synthetics present, right? I think two of them teleported back for reconnaissance purposes." "That's exactly the idea," Roy responded. "What is?" Remington looked at me and said, "Duh!" "We want to use them," Roy went on. "Use them, like, how? They're here to stop us, folks, not leave a trail of breadcrumbs to the Robelles." Johnny said, "Why would they want to stop us if our plan didn't have a chance of working? If that were the case, there would be nothing to stop." I said, "That would mean a version of this event has already taken place." Johnny said, "Wow. You're a real deductive genius." Remington actually said, "I could grow to like you, kid." "It would also mean these Synthetics would know where these Robelle people are located, and quite possibly the time and place of the humpty-dumpty in question," Johnny went on. Roy made like he was preparing to leave. "Where are you going?" I asked. "I have to find the present Roy and keep him and his men away from the location. They could throw a monkey wrench into this whole thing." I looked around as a salty mist picked up off the water. This was it? Me, Remington, and a skinny kid with wire hair were going to change the course of history for the next two hundred or more years? Jesus. "So what do these Synthetics look like?" Johnny asked over his shoulder as he shuffled over to Vero's for a slice. I said, "They're nothing like Remington, kid. Just look for tall blondes with big boobs." She didn't think it was funny.

* * * * *

I kept reminding myself of the date, Sunday, March 23rd, and I watched the big clock on the boardwalk click past 9:30 p.m. It actually wasn't bad out for late March, foggy and on the warm side, but the sporadic mist off the water was just enough to be annoying. "So how do we do this?" Johnny asked as he munched his pizza. Seeing Remington eyeing him, he shoved the huge slice toward her. "You want some?" "Not after you've bitten into it," she replied, shoving it back. "Gross." Johnny looked at me and said, "You can do better." "The plan?" Remington moaned. I said, "The first step is to find the Synthetics." Johnny tapped me on the shoulder. "Is what you said really true? I mean, do the women really look like grown up Barbie dolls." "A lot of them, yes." "Then check this out." There were three of them, walking down the middle of the boardwalk. Probably no one would have noticed if this had been the middle of the summer, but the three of them together stood out like limes in a bowl of lemons. Indeed, all the Mexican guys with their mamacitas gave them the once over, as did a couple of brotha's hip-hoppin' up toward them from the opposite direction. Even the Chinese guys selling egg rolls were yucking it up with Chinese yucks. The Barbies had made a weak attempt at dressing the way twenty-first century—excuse me, _twentieth_ century—Jersey girls dressed, but they missed the makeup nuances and big hair of the late eighties. It just didn't come off. "That's them," I said. "No doubt about it." Johnny said, "Nice," to which Remington responded, "Oh, _puh...lll...ease_." "We can't let them see us," I said urgently. "If they do, a dozen others will swarm down on us in no time." Johnny said, "We can get behind them if we hop the fence and run back up the beach toward the Tilt-A-Whirl." I knew exactly where he was talking about. It was a section of chain link fence that kept the beach goers and little kids from getting too close to amusement rides, which could be dangerous. The fence veered off the edge of the boardwalk and snaked back along the sand until it met up with another section of our H-shaped boardwalk about fifty yards away. It had to be six feet high, maybe seven. "Remington?" I said. "Do you think you can make it over that fence without being noticed?" "Piece of cake," she said, although I knew it wasn't. "Okay then, let's get over it as soon as they're past us, and meet up by the Ferris wheel. Let's see where they lead us." "Okay," they both said, and we turned only to face four of the biggest, ugliest Ken Dolls ever made.

* * * * *

Roarke said, "To say you've been extraordinarily troublesome would be putting mildly." We'd been escorted off the boardwalk and into one of the bungalows near the access road to Island Beach State Park. I remembered that stretch of beach still existed in the year 2194, which meant I'd now discovered the point of teleportation for Roarke and his crew. From the looks of the bungalow, they'd broken in and we were standing in someone's living room. Playing off my attitude, Johnny said, "Who's this jerk?" "Shut up," I said. "You have no idea what's going on." I turned to Roarke, wondering what specific date he'd come from. As I'd just discovered with Roy, teleportation wasn't a chronological event, and this Roarke replica wasn't necessarily armed with the same information as the last Roarke replica. Then again, he could have been armed with more. Didn't much matter, though. He was still a murderous dick, and I knew that me, being my own replica, being in the same spot with Johnny, my own original, could spell the end of the line for me—forfuckingever. "Sorry I messed up your plans. I'm all broken up over it," I said, brimming with fake bravado. I wondered if Johnny could sense it. "You have no idea how prophetic that statement is," Roarke replied. He pointed a DNA-controlled Glock at me, and said, "Take their hands." I thought: here we go again. We were going to be teleported via a DNA lock-on, on me. "Nothing doing," I said. Roarke wagged his Glock and three Ken Doll goons dressed in jean jackets came over and bound our wrists together with some duct tape they must have found inside the bungalow. For a second I thought we were being manhandled by a Swedish rock group. "You know that whatever you do will be reversed by another intervention." "Not this time," Roarke replied. Okay, we'd been through this before too. "What makes this time so special?" I asked as I tested the bindings. I was between Johnny and Remington, and there was no way I could free either of my arms. Roarke ran a finger along Remington's cheek. "Perhaps we could come to some agreement," he said to her. "I could use someone who is capable at all points on the continuum." "Forget it, handsome. You could never afford me." Roarke stepped back, and you could tell he was pissed. "Your arrogance is going to cost you your lives," he said to all of us. He motioned us to the couch, and looked out the window as if he was searching for something. He stepped outside a moment later, leaving us with one of the Synthetics posted just inside the door. I figured it was getting close to teleportation time. I glanced at Johnny, and, despite his own outward bravado, I sensed his anxiety. I guess I was who I was, no matter the age. I swung the other way, wondering which Remington I had: the one before the sidewalk confrontation with Aryeh, or after. I tried to communicate silently with her. Nothing doing. He eyes were full of anger, bouncing all over the room. With Johnny, however, I knew I could communicate, for I'd be communicating with myself. Sure enough, his eyes were already on mine, questioning. What's next? they were asking. Like Remington, I started looking for anything that would help us get out of this mess. If we were teleported, I had to think we'd never come back. I glanced at Johnny again, and his eyes were pleading. C'mon, they were saying, you got me into this; you have to get me out. That's when it came to me. There was no DNA lock on me. If there was, I could be snatched away at any time as long as my location had been determined. But it hadn't been determined because Roarke had no way of communicating through the continuum that he'd found me. No, the DNA lock had to be on him, and we were waiting for a prearranged teleportation time when we'd all traipse out to the sand together. I started looking for a clock, and that's when the second realization came to me. As I looked from nook to cranny around the tiny bungalow, my eyes landed on a gun, not a pistol, or one of the Synthetics' DNA-controlled Glocks, but a long, double-barreled shotgun—a goose gun, the one that belonged to Jenna Robelle's dad. It was hanging over the mantle on the fireplace. I'd crossed paths with that gun twice before. We were in the Robelle's house again, I now realized, but it was a different house, one they must have had before the larger one on the outskirts of town. What was Roarke doing here? The answer came quickly. The date was exactly nine months from David's birth date, but I had no guarantee that this was the exact night of David's conception when I'd teleported back to this day. My plan had been no plan. I was simply going to find the Robelles and do whatever I needed to do to prevent them from engaging in said conception, that being on the basis that it hadn't already taken place. My plan was a total gamble, but I knew that Roarke's presence was no gamble. He was here to stop me. I couldn't help but imagine how many events were tied into this one, how the ripples on the continuum never ended, like the waves of the ocean pounding down on the sand until the grains eroded into nothingness. That's how I felt, like a grain of sand, and I was about to disappear. I felt a tug, breaking me from my funk. "Are you going to get us out of this?" Remington whispered as if getting out of this was like flipping a light switch. "I'm thinking, okay?" "We're doomed," she said sarcastically, to which the Synthetic at the door smiled. Shit, I thought, we couldn't even whisper. Then I thought: we didn't need to. Johnny would know exactly what I was thinking because it was what he'd be thinking, and that moron of a Synthetic across the room would never know. It had to be true. Okay, what was I thinking? There had to be a way out of this, and it had to be fast. I didn't even look at Johnny. My eyes bounced from object to object, from window to door, and settled on the goose gun over the mantle. I felt my pulse start to pound, so much so that I felt it clean down to where my wrist was bound with Remington's. I didn't even look at her, but I knew she had her eyes on me. Chill out, girl. I'll take care of this. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm my nerves. I flexed my fingers and hardened the muscles in my legs. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi.... At three-Mississippi, I screamed, " _NOW!_ " We blasted forward off that couch in unison—well, Johnny and I were in unison; Remington simply managed to stay on her feet. Rather than rushing the Synthetic, however, we headed for the kitchen. What happened next was like we'd rehearsed it a thousand times. The Synthetic probably had no idea that the kitchen to every twentieth-century beach bungalow would have a drain board next to the sink, but Johnny did. In the time it took for the Synthetic to get from the front door to the kitchen—three seconds, maybe—Johnny grabbed a steak knife and slit the duct tape binding his left wrist to my right wrist. He handed me the knife, and I immediately slit the tape on my other arm. The Synthetic was there by that time, DNA-controlled Glock at the ready. It only took a second after that. In a move reminiscent of a Ron Guidry fastball, Johnny hurled a second knife at the Synthetic with everything he had. He missed him completely, but it was enough to force the Synthetic to raise his arms instinctively to protect himself, and that was enough for me. I hurled myself toward the Synthetic, praying to God that I hadn't been dreaming back in the living room and Johnny had my back. The Glock, I was thinking, _get the Glock!_ I hit the Synthetic's midsection with my head and he went down like marshmallow. I got up with my bell ringing, thinking: what a fucking pussy, when I discovered that the ringing wasn't my head, but a cast iron frying pan that Remington was holding. She'd clocked the Synthetic but good. Oh, that's why we went down so easily. I took the Glock, which no one except the Synthetic could fire anyway, and put it in the refrigerator where no one would think to look for it. Evidently Roarke and the other three Synthetics hadn't heard the scuffle, but it was only a matter of time before they showed up again. "It won't work," Johnny said to me. "How do you know it won't?" "Because, it won't, that's why. It's probably not even loaded." He was referring to the goose gun, which is what I was thinking about. Good point, I thought, and we certainly didn't have time to look for the ammunition. Remington said, "What the hell are you two talking about?" "You got a another idea?" I said to Johnny, ignoring her. "I'm thinking." "We don't have time for that," Remington said as she picked up the phone. "No you don't," came a voice from behind us. It was Roarke. Two of the other three Synthetics walked up and tied our hands behind us again, not using duct tape this time, but some kind of magnetic tape that bound itself around our wrists. I figured we'd need bolt cutters to get it off. The third Synthetic appeared in the archway to the living room and did the same thing to Remington, but not before she put the phone down on the counter. She didn't hang it up, I noticed as they shoved me back into the living room.

Chapter 45... Battle In The Bungalow

Forty minutes later we were still sitting on the floor in the living room with our hands bound behind us. Again, Roarke was somewhere else doing whatever he was doing, but this time he left two Synthetics behind to guard us, one of them at the front door like before, and one at the back door that led from the kitchen to the elevated deck. "I wonder where they got these handy little handcuffs," Johnny said as he squirmed about uselessly. "Quiet!" the Synthetic at the front door called out. Not surprisingly, I was thinking the same thing. My wrists were bound so tightly that I could barely feel my fingers. "Something's wrong," I whispered so the Synthetic wouldn't hear me. "I think they missed a teleportation time." "Is that good or bad?" Johnny whispered back. "I'm not sure. I think their friends at the other end must have sent more Ken Dolls back to see what was happening. That's probably where they got these damned cuffs." The Ken Doll from the front came over and aimed a zapper at me, the same type Roarke had once used on Remington, Roy, and Robert Behari. That seemed like another lifetime now. I took the hint and shut my trap. Remington didn't, however. "Hey, hot stuff," she called out at her bitchiest, most arrogant best. "I have to pee." The Synthetic shifted the zapper to her. "You just went to the bathroom." "I drink _nine_ bottles of water a day, and I've only gone to the bathroom _one_ time. If I sit here much longer I'm gonna have _one_ big puddle underneath me. You want to clean that up?" Johnny caught on to it too. As the Synthetic reluctantly pulled Remington to her feet and led her to the bathroom, Johnny nudged me and mouthed the words: _nine, one, one_. I just nodded as the Ken Doll at the back door was keeping an evil eye on us. "I can't go with my hands tied behind my back," Remington said loudly enough for her voice to carry into the living room, which meant it was also loud enough to carry to the phone. It was one of those old-fashioned phones, from before the time when cordless phones became the norm. Almost every house had one in the kitchen back then—which was now—its long stretchy cord always twisting and tangling as if it was alive. Remington had put the handset down, but we'd never heard that loud beeping sound that indicated a phone was off the hook. The line was still open, which meant someone could be listening, someone like Roy. But which Roy would it be? I had my answer a minute later when his voice pealed through the walls of the bungalow. "This is the police. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up." How eighties, I thought. That had to be the original Roy. I mean, after everything he'd been through, I figured the replica would have come in shooting first and would have asked questions later—if he bothered to ask questions at all. So, where was replica Roy? As I recalled, his plan had been to use the Synthetics to lead us to Chuck and Jenna Robelle so that David's conception could be prevented. As part of that plan, he'd gone off to find original Roy to keep him and his men away from this very bungalow so that said prevention of conception could be accomplished. Well, _that_ didn't happen, but if original Roy was out there blowing into that bullhorn, replica Roy had to be close by. The question was: had replica Roy been through this event before? The question swam inside my head, along with several other related thoughts. As a reporter, I tried to tie them together in a neat little mental bundle: the many occurrences of Lost Friday itself, I don't know how many trips to 2194, replicas all over the place, Synthetics coming back to alter events; I was lost in a swirl of time that was as if a drain had been unplugged at the bottom of the ocean itself. Sitting there with my hands tied behind my back, I felt like I was being sucked into it. I knew then, as always, that I had to rely on my instincts and no one else's to make something happen and get myself out of this mess. Remington was setting something up. Roy was lurking and waiting. Johnny was waiting to make a move. I looked into his eyes. "You ready?" "As ready as I'll ever be," he replied nervously. I'm sure he didn't know what he was ready for, but he was putting his trust in me. Okay, replica Roy, don't fail me now. "On three," I called out so that my voice would carry to the phone. The Ken Doll at the back door focused on us immediately. The one who'd escorted Remington to the bathroom bounded in right away as well, his eyes and his DNA-controlled Glock pointed in my direction. I made no move of any kind. "One...." The Synthetic from the back retreated to his position and looked out the window. Again, Roy's voice came over via bullhorn. "Come out with your hands up. We don't want anyone to get hurt." The Synthetic pulled his Glock. I could see the confusion plastered all over his face. "Two...." I called out loudly. "Shut-up," the Synthetic hollered. "Three!" Nothing happened. "I'm done," Remington said as she came back in from the bathroom. "What's with all the yelling?" The Synthetic who'd been guarding her immediately bound her wrists behind her again. "Quiet!" he ordered, forcing her to the floor to her original position, which was back-to-back with me. "There will be no more movement." To his partner at the back door, he asked, "Where is Commander Roarke?" "Completing this part of the mission," the partner replied, indicating somewhere outside. "He'll never get close to Chief Mulroney," Johnny spat out. The Synthetic zapped him, and Johnny almost came off the floor. "I said quiet!" the Synthetic ordered again. Remington elbowed me as I realized that Johnny had just hit it on the head. There was more to this event, and Roarke was here reshaping it. That's when I also figured out why replica Roy had really separated from us. He said he was going to keep original Roy away from the scene, but why? The only reason I could think of was that perhaps something awful had happened, or was about to happen, to original Roy, or his men. Replica Roy was trying to reshape this event as well, and while his motivation was clear, I wondered what Roarke was trying to prevent. His own death, perhaps? Was that the _other part of the mission_ the Synthetic had just mentioned? Remington was still nudging me as Roy's voice pealed through the night. "You are completely surrounded. Put down your weapons and—" I never heard the rest as an immense blast from a DNA Glock drowned out his words. I'd become familiar with that sound, and I knew it had to come from Roarke, or one of who-knew-how-many other Synthetics that were sent back to reshape this night. But why this night? I didn't have time to think about it as the air ignited in a deafening symphony of gunfire. This situation was happening all too often—what was it, three, four times now?—and I knew that sooner or later, any of us could become a victim of the crossfire. This time, we were totally defenseless, and it seemed like we were on the receiving end of the instant onslaught. Remington and I pressed ourselves into a single, shivering mass, while Johnny was laid out next to me, still moaning from having been zapped. I remember being scared during the previous episodes of being shot at, thinking that I could never be more frightened. Not. The first thing that happened was that the Synthetic at the back door went down when a bullet tore right through the wall and his upper thigh like it was pudding. Remington and I tried to burrow into the floor as he lay there screaming. "Must have cut an artery," she said as blood gushed from the wound. I mean, it was spurting out of the poor slob, and as much as I hate to admit it, listening to his screams I realized that Synthetics were human. "Stay down!" I hollered as bullets ripped through the house and zinged through the air above us. The Synthetic who'd zapped Johnny dove to the floor and, keeping his eye on us the whole time, slithered over to try and pull his partner out of harm's way. Big mistake. Bullets were pinging and whistling all over the damned place, and Remington and I cringed with every report. "My pants," Remington screamed as several booming DNA-Glock blasts obliterated any other sound. Roarke and the Synthetics were returning fire. "What about your pants?" I yelled above the pandemonium. "Put your hand down my pants!" she shouted. A slug thudded nearby. "What? Now?" "I have a pair of scissors stuffed down my pants... from the bathroom. C'mon Pappas. Do it now!" "Where down your pants?" The Synthetic made it to the back door and started firing through the shattered window. The blasts were huge, awful-sounding, and deafening. "Jesus, Pappas, right here down my pants, okay? Put your hand down there before I end up cutting myself open." I looked at her pants: they were jeans, which were what she usually wore, and tight. Somehow, I had to get into position to get my hands, which were cinched behind me, down there. Did I say her jeans were tight? Anyway, she wiggled around and managed to prop her elbows behind her, her flat stomach and belt line an offering to me. The Synthetic clipped off two more rounds that sounded like cannon fire. Temporarily, we were the least of his worries. I found myself looking into Remington's crotch only a foot away. "C'mon, Pappas. Get in there!" Of all the times to have her beg for me to get into her pants.... I scooted around so that my hands were in position just as a bullet whistled past my nose and exploded into the TV across the room. I expected to feel denim when I felt fingers instead, Johnny's fingers, who was already in position and had her pants undone. I turned as another bullet splintered a doorjamb only a few feet away. "What the hell are you doing, kid?" "She said, 'C'mon Pappas.' I thought she was talking to me." "Hey, snot-nose, this isn't buried treasure!" Remington shouted, and suddenly they were there, in Johnny's hand, a small pair of cuticle scissors, but scissors nonetheless. "Can you get your fingers in the handles?" I said to Johnny as footfalls pounded up the outside stairs. What sounded like a shotgun blast ripped through the back door, and the other Synthetic went down, blood oozing from buckshot spray in his neck. I could hear voices from outside now, Roarke's unmistakable voice among them, screaming orders in between bursts of gunfire. "I think I have it," Johnny called amid the clamor. I looked. He did have it, his long, thin fingers gripping the cuticle scissors. My first thought was that the scissors wouldn't be strong enough to cut through the metallic tape around our wrists, but it was our only hope of freeing ourselves before Roarke and his men crashed through the front door. In my mind, there were only two possibilities if that happened: the first was teleportation back to Red Diamond territory, which meant we'd be fish food; the second was that he'd kill us now in order to abort our mission. I turned and shoved my wrists at those cuticle scissors until I felt them gouge my arm. "Cut!" I called out, and I felt the small blades clamp onto the magnetic tape. "Cut, cut, cut!" I yelled again, and Johnny kept pushing on those handles. "Nothing is happening," he called out, and Remington scooted around to take a look. "No, you have it," she yelled. "Do it harder." Johnny renewed his effort and kept squeezing the handles. I could feel the blades working on the magnetic tape, when suddenly I felt a surge of power bolt through my body. I was being zapped, electrically, as if I'd shoved my finger into a light socket. Johnny recoiled and dropped the scissors as a similar bolt of energy knifed through his body. The smell of burnt skin instantly filled my nostrils, and pain suddenly flooded through me. Johnny lay there moaning as if he'd just been punched in the head. Remington went for the scissors, and said, "Let me try." "No!" I called out. "If the same thing happens to you, none of us will get free." Roarke's voice was more prominent, just outside the door. "Johnny," I said. "Get up." Nothing doing. He could barely move. More shots rang out, rapid pops, off in the distance, and I felt the floor vibrate as more bullets crashed into the house somewhere. "We've got to do something," Remington cried out. Normally I would have said something like, "Gee, thanks for the update," but I didn't have time to be a smart-ass. I knew wholeheartedly that if Roarke made it back inside, it could be curtains for us. I looked around. Maybe we could crawl out the back door, and indeed Remington and I probably could, but I wasn't about to leave Johnny behind. Neither of the Synthetics was moving now, their blood mingling together in a huge puddle on the kitchen floor. Remington kicked me in the back. "Magnets," she shouted. "On the refrigerator." I turned. I saw them. "So?" "Have you ever heard the word _electromagnetic_?" I had, of course, but I didn't know a damned thing about it. I also didn't have a better idea, and I didn't have time to object. I crawled to the fridge and looked at the assortment of magnets stuck there pinning messages, shopping lists, coupons, all kinds of crap, to the refrigerator. Standing, I picked one shaped like an apple that I could remove with my teeth, noticing as I did that the piece of paper beneath it had today's date on it, _Saturday, March 25_ th, with the words _anniversary suite, Bally's, $250_. I thought: the Robelles weren't even here. They were celebrating their anniversary in Atlantic City. _Fuckin' A_. All of this was for nothing. But wait. Roarke was here reshaping this event, so certainly he knew the Robelles were off doing what he needed them to do, which was conceiving David. So what event was he reshaping? I heard a cough and turned to see Johnny crawling toward me. His eyes latched onto mine, and even from a distance I knew he could sense my uncertainty. As if he was inside my head, he called, "If Roarke is here to reshape an event, he wouldn't be here reshaping one that worked to his advantage. He's here to stop you, which means that he must know how this event has turned out before." I stayed focused on Johnny as he kept coming. He was me, and I was him, and I knew that what he'd just said was true. I'd been here before, and, somehow, I must have been successful. It made sense. That's why Roarke was so focused on me throughout this whole ordeal. But why didn't I remember any of this? The answer to that came instantly. The only way I wouldn't remember this would be if it had been wiped from my memory, which meant I'd gone through a memory cleanse. Vishal, that bastard; he was using me. As Johnny crawled up to me, I said, "If he wants to stop me, that means he wants to stop you as well. You know that, don't you?" Johnny didn't respond as Roy's voice resonated through the bullhorn once again. "Throw down your weapons. We have you...." Another blast covered up any other words. "Pappas!" Remington screamed from the living room. I took the hint and bit onto the apple magnet. I tried to mumble _get up_ to Johnny, but he was already in place next to me. I dropped to my knees, magnet wedged between my teeth, and I approached the magnetic manacles around Johnny's wrist. "Brace yourself," I tried to mumble just in case another man-made lightning bolt stabbed through his body, but the words were just a slur. "Just do it," Johnny said. I moved closer, feeling the pain from the blistered skin on my wrists and knowing that another zap like that might blind me. I moved closer, and closer still, six inches, three inches, one, I touched the magnetic tape with the magnet and, miraculously, it fell off, just like that, a little piece of metallic ribbon that could have gone onto a Christmas package. God bless Remington for thinking on her feet, so to speak. Johnny turned in a flash, took the magnet from between my teeth, and I was free a moment later. I looked at my wrists. The skin was charred black, and the pain was excruciating. "Go," I said, motioning toward the back door. "But—" "No, Johnny. Go, now. If you can't find Chief Mulroney, then find a spot where no one in the world could ever find you, and hide there. I'll come and get you when this is all over." He hesitated, and I answered his unasked question. "Believe me, I'll know where you are." Johnny took a last look at me, and swung around to face Remington who was sitting on the floor nearby, chest heaving, waiting for me to come to her with the magnet. He grinned and said, "Let me know how it turns out with you two," and then he was gone, hopping over the prone Synthetics, out the kitchen door, and into the darkness beyond. I started toward Remington, but stopped when Roarke appeared in the doorway behind her. "Going somewhere?" he said. "Yeah, I'm on my way to a funeral... yours." Evidently, he didn't think it was funny. Roarke pulled Remington to her feet, and said, "Sit down, Mister Pappas. It's obvious that there's only one life in this entire fiasco that's important to you, and now she's mine." Instead of pointing his DNA-controlled Glock at me, he put it to Remington's head. "If you're planning on using her to chicken-shit your way out of this, it won't work Roarke. No one gives a crap about her." A flash of resentment sparked in Remington's eyes. "Except you," he said, motioning with the Glock. "Now do as I say and sit down, right where you are. Trust me, her life means nothing to me." "I wouldn't trust you if I were the one holding that gun." "A wise assessment indeed," Roarke replied, "but you have no choice. Now turn around and lie down on that floor, face down. Spread your hands so that I can see them." He was right. I had no choice if I wanted to keep Remington alive. As for myself, there had to be a reason Roarke was keeping me alive. I just didn't know what it was. I guess that was reassuring, in a strange sort of way, but there was no way I was going to sacrifice Remington's life for mine. Besides, I had to believe I was toast once the teleportation took place, for clearly that's what Roarke was waiting for. The time and the place to stop Roarke from stopping me, was here, and now. "Lay down next to him," I heard him say, and I could hear Remington stumble across the floor and fall down next to me. "Turn around and face the other way," he said to Remington, to which she responded with a fabulous, "Fuck you, asshole." That only got her a kick in the ribs. "Keep fighting," I whispered, hoping she could hear me above her own sobbing. "Screw you, Pappas. I'm done listening to your brilliant ideas." I looked up and saw that my hand was covered in blood, blood that had oozed from the bodies of the two dead Synthetics only a few feet away. "Remington," I whispered, "You need to—" My words were cut off when Roarke's boot crashed into my ribs, breaking more than one of them. "What are you going to do with us?" Remington sobbed. "You'll know in exactly four minutes and nine seconds," Roarke replied. "Prepare for teleportation. You know the drill. Skin touching, please." I could barely breathe, the pain in my side overwhelming. I coughed, spitting up gobs of blood, and knew that my lung was punctured. "Water," I croaked. "I need water, please." I coughed. More blood. I started to crawl toward the refrigerator. "Please," I begged. Blood was pouring out my nose. Coming over and sitting me upright so that I wouldn't drown in my own juices, Roarke propped me against the fridge. "Water," I said, pawing the refrigerator door. "I need water." Roarke looked at his timepiece rather anxiously. "Drink your water, Mister Pappas, but if you're not in teleportation position in one minute, I'll kill you both, and there won't be anyone coming back to reshape this event. Do you understand?" I don't think Roarke was bluffing, and I nodded as I spit more blood and opened the refrigerator door. Slowly, calmly, I pulled out a jug of iced tea that just happened to be there, and took a long swallow. Slowly, calmly, I put the cap back on and reached into the fridge to put it back, back with the same hand that was covered in blood, Synthetic blood, blood with the DNA that would fire the Glock I had put in there earlier. My hand came out holding that DNA-controlled Glock, and when Roarke was done looking at his timepiece, I fired.

Chapter 46... The Road To Normal

Romano didn't live in Sea Beach, had not been part of Lost Friday, and had ever been teleported. He looked at us rather uneasily, and asked, "Are you're sure it has to be me?" "We think so," Roy said tentatively. "Think? That's the best you can do?" "The rest of us are replicas, Paul. We don't think it will work unless an original goes back." Romano shot a plainly unfriendly stare at Vishal. "How do I know I can trust that one?" Vishal bristled coolly and nodded to his traveling companion, who dropped a future edition of the _Asbury Park Press_ on Romano's desk. It was a ploy we'd all grown to hate, but it was effective. "I'll remind you of the events," he said. I was behind Romano, and had no trouble seeing the _Press_ 's own account of the tragic accidental deaths of one of its editors and two of its reporters. I got nauseous just standing there. "You really have nothing to lose," Vishal went on dispassionately, "unless you plan on changing the course of history within the next eight weeks." He smiled at his own cleverness, knowing that Romano really could change the course of history by going along with what we were proposing. You see, after I shot Roarke that night in the Robelles' bungalow, I managed to stop shaking long enough to wonder if the body I was looking at was the same Roarke who'd been with me in another event, that being the one where he took the formulas David had torn out of his notebook. I mean, I was making stops on the continuum as if I were riding a continuum bus, why couldn't it have been the same for Roarke? I asked myself: if I were Roarke, and I'd just discovered the formulas to ITD technology—which I'd been searching for forever, and considered to be the key to world domination—what would I do with them? I would hang on to them, is what I'd do with them. I'd have them on me, and I wouldn't trust another person in the entire universe to take them from me. So, I searched the body and, _voila_ , there they were, folded up in two separate bundles, no less. Roarke did indeed have all the formulas, and now I had them, which meant it was no longer necessary to prevent David's parents from making David. I was probably too late anyway, I found out later. Roy had actually gone and found them at their honeymoon suite at Bally's, and somehow found out that Jenna was in her cycle and they'd been trying to get pregnant for the last week. That only confused me more as to how Roarke was trying to reshape the last event, but that was all water under the bridge now. Our objective now was to not go off that bridge after the Christmas party. Seemingly trying to talk himself into it, Romano said, "So, I go back previous to when the scientists were abducted, you're telling me." "Previous to when David even started corresponding with them," I corrected. I mean, I was on top of this sequence of events like nobody's business. "Right," said Romano. "And when was that?" "About six months before Lost Friday. I'd send you back eight months just to be safe." I could see that Romano wasn't pleased with that statement, but, hey, like I could care, right? Romano rubbed the back of his neck, making sure he was clear on what we were asking him to do. "That would make it the end of January." He looked up as if he'd just made some grand discovery. "That means I'd have to relive the last eight months of my life." "Is that so bad?" Remington actually had the nerve to ask. "I mean, in view of the alternative?" She meant Romano's December dive into the Manasquan River, of course, and her voice went up as she asked the question, a clear sign that she knew her future depended on Romano's decision, as did mine. I didn't say anything, though; I could sense that Romano was negotiating with himself, hopefully trying to talk himself into the deal. "Won't there be two of me?" he asked. "How would that work?" Okay, a legitimate question. Normally, all eyes would have turned to David for the answer, but he was nowhere to be found. Until the formulas were destroyed, the Robelles decided that David and Chuck would disappear, not even telling Jenna where they'd gone. The idea was that if David fell victim to a DNA lock-on, he wasn't going anywhere without Chuck. I pictured them in a Canadian wilderness somewhere, fishing for salmon. "There is a solution," Vishal interjected. Everyone's eyes turned to him in unison with an unspoken _O...o...ooo...kay_. "We have your DNA," he went on, plucking a hair off Romano's head. "We could put a DNA lock on you in that time period." Romano got the message right away. "And do what with him... I mean me?" "That's for you to decide." It only took Romano a second. "We're only talking eight months difference, right? Maybe we could trade places. I could even set it up with him... me... us—together. We'd have to set it up together." "It could be done," Vishal confirmed, "but it would all have to take place before the formulas were destroyed. Everyone, including me, would have to be back in their original time periods—or the time periods of their choosing—before that happened." "What if there were Red Diamond operatives scattered on the continuum when the formulas are destroyed?" I asked. "What if there were some there, in that time period?" "They'd be no different," Vishal replied. "If the formulas are destroyed and ITDs ceased to exist, the operatives would be trapped in whatever particular time period to which they'd been teleported. There'd be no escape, unless we warned them." Vishal's tone indicated that was out of the question. After a while, I guess the Red Diamond operatives would just assimilate into their surrounding society, but I got chills just thinking about it, knowing they were out there like those Japanese soldiers who were still fighting World War II thirty years after it was over because no one had told them it had ended. "Wouldn't it be possible that they'd cease to exist?" I asked. "After all, couldn't their creation in the first place be a direct linkage to the creation of the formulas?" "It's possible," Vishal answered, "but at this point it's almost impossible to determine if that would be the case, or not." Romano got up from behind his desk and started pacing. We were in his office, shades drawn. The day: Wednesday, September 15th, nine days before Lost Friday, the last date during which Romano had been touched by a Lost Friday event, although it was not the last chronological calendar date. My thoughts drifted as he pondered his options, and I remembered that all kinds of things were scheduled to take place today, including Darlon trying to kill me. I wondered how the events were going to twist and turn as they tried to play themselves out with all of us hunkered down in Romano's office. "So," Romano said, bringing us back to the discussion at hand, "First, I'd have to go back and convince myself that I wasn't a total nut job. Then, I'd have to convince myself to travel through time trade places with myself." He dropped a look on me, and added, "You've got to be kidding." "Join the club," I said. "Now you know how I feel." That caused a bit of a stir, seeing as we were trying to convince Romano to basically change his life as he knew it, but I was getting a little torqued off with the whole thing. I mean, I never volunteered to have my furry ass teleported back and forth like a freaking Greek ping-pong ball, and I was the one who had someone lined up to kill me later in the day. Romano needed to just suck it up and deal with it. I thought I'd paint a rosier picture for him. "Just think of it, boss, the stories: time travel, futuristic terrorists, a compromised president of the United States. Think Pulitzer. No, make that _Pulitzers_ , with an _s_. Hell, even if you zap back eight months, there's a good chance the Red Diamond has already contacted President Richardson, and you'd know what was coming. Just think of the investigative series you could launch on that. You'd have more than an inside track, boss, you'd be the only person on the planet outside the Oval Office who'd know the truth. You wouldn't have enough reporters to go around." That would mean some juicy assignments for me too, I thought briefly. I waited for all of it to sink in. I knew Romano had recently separated, so I added, "You might even find a way to patch things up with your wife." Romano just stood there, mulling. Eventually, he said to Vishal, "Can we bring me from there to here, first?" "Of course," Vishal replied, "but we shouldn't take too long to decide if we're going to do this today. The events for this date are already in motion, and once we get caught up in them it may not be possible to complete this mission as we intend now." Romano responded with, "I still don't understand why it has to be an original that destroys the formulas. Won't I be a replica as soon as I go back?" Good question. I didn't get that one myself. Vishal said, "You will be, but we think that one teleportation back in time won't be prevented or overturned by the linkage of events." Seeing some confusion, Vishal explained further. "Many events may lead to a replica being created from another replica, and the more often that happens, the more events have transpired during those recreations, hundreds, even thousands of them, all over the continuum. If the linkages get too far out, there is no guarantee that any events that occurred as a consequence of the formulas themselves being created in the first place, will happen again. The linkages could lose their strength. Depending on how far out they go from the epicenter event, the events could cease to happen entirely merely because a single link may have changed in the many links that lead to every event." I think I understood that, maybe. It was the same logic he'd just used in explaining why any Synthetics present might or might not cease to exist. "So it's still no guarantee," Romano concluded quickly. "For any of us," Vishal replied. "All of us who are multiple replicas are in this together. There's a possibility that we could all cease to exist once the formulas are destroyed. It's a very tiny possibility, of course, otherwise we would not be recommending this course of action, but the possibility exists nonetheless." Romano took a moment to review his instructions, which were quite simple. The scientists from NASA were the first to be abducted; we knew that. As such, Romano was to go back, make sure the scientists were present at that point on the continuum, and destroy the formulas. We all figured that burning the formulas was the way to go. Then, Romano was to find David, fill him in on what happens in the future as a result of his creating those formulas, and convince him to not commit to paper what was undoubtedly already in his head. We figured that should take, what, a day, maybe two at the most? If after that length of time, if Vishal did not reappear before our eyes, we'd know that ITDs ceased to exist, and time travel was no longer possible. If Vishal came back to us after forty-eight hours, we'd know that Romano had failed, and we'd have to try again with a different original. We had no idea who that could be, so we were really counting on Romano to come across. I know I was, and, looking at Remington, I think she was too. I think she certainly felt some anxiety. She'd been looking over her shoulder the whole morning, knowing that if Romano failed, she'd be taking an ice bath in the Manasquan. Looking at her, I thought, yessiree Bob, she was a replica all right, but all the equipment was to original specs, no substandard parts on that chassis. "And all these?" Romano asked, indicating copies of other future newspapers lying on his desk, the ones with the headlines _FUTURISTIC TERRORISTS INVADE,_ _PRESIDENT TAKES BRIBE,_ and _BETRAYED!_ "Boss," I said sorrowfully. "These all go away unless you can recreate them with some other angle at the other end." I glanced at Remington, knowing it was her byline on those pieces. Oh well, more assignments for me, I thought again. "Shame," Romano muttered as he shifted his gaze to her. "You're a good writer, kid, something I'll be sure to remember when I go back." Remington lit up, her smoky blue eyes glistening. "Thanks boss. I appreciate it." I thought: what the fuck was that? What about me? Then, I thought: Oh, I get it. Romano was going to go back and try to score some strange from Remington! You know, there's always a freakin' angle. With Romano knowing what he knew now, I figured he'd go back and take her off the local news desk, promote her, and probably move me over to do the fishing report. The bastard. There was some gratitude for you. "Forget it, boss," I said. "She'll never go to bed with you, not even in your dreams." A collective groan filled the room, and everyone looked at their shoes. "What?" I said. "Are you guys all blind? Don't tell me you don't see what's going on here." Romano turned to me, and said, "You know, Pappas, I'd bet I could still get pissed off at you eight months ago."

