Time Risk: A Time Travel Novel, page 13
On Friday morning, Rachel awoke at 6:20, urgency pumping through her veins. She sat up and reacquainted herself with the Haven Bungalow wood-paneled walls, the linoleum floors and the fraying wicker furniture. The ceiling fan squeaked, the faucet in the bathroom dripped into a rusty basin, and the room smelled of mold and stale cigarette smoke.
But, on the positive side, it was cheap, the sheets and towels were clean, and, at least for the night, she’d felt relatively safe.
After washing her hair under a tepid shower with a jerky stream, careful to keep her left bandaged arm dry, Rachel applied makeup and brushed her teeth. She towel-dried her hair and reached for the culottes she’d worn the night before. She also slipped into the same Hawaiian blouse.
Inside the right pocket, she fished out the Temporal Beeper and stared at the thing as if it could be a winning lottery ticket. “Come on… work. Connect me,” Rachel said aloud.
With a thumb, she pressed the small blue button and held her breath. Nothing. No three flashing red lights. She cursed, replacing the beeper in her culottes pocket.
“I’m stuck,” she said aloud. Stuck like Greg in a ticking time bomb. If I’m killed, no one in 2024 will even know.
She stood before the wall mirror and studied herself. She’d slept fitfully, and her eyes were small and vague, her mouth sagging, and her complexion somewhat sallow, even with the makeup. No doubt she was one of the few people in Hawaii who didn’t have a tan, and even with a hat pulled low over her forehead, she’d stand out as a brand-new tourist.
As she packed, her thoughts kept circling around last night’s shocking dinner with Greg and his declaration. By now, he had no doubt finished writing his story, and it was going to press. How would the world respond?
After Rachel closed and latched the suitcase, she carried it to the door and set it down. She didn’t know when the afternoon papers would hit the stands, but she would find a newsstand and quickly snap up a copy. That story might change the world forever.
Rachel stared at the bungalow door. Outside, a dangerous world on the brink of World War II awaited her, but she still had a job to do. Whether Greg’s story was believed, she had to be ready to spring into action just in case, so she was determined to follow her plan.
Rachel placed the room key on the table next to a lamp, opened the door, grabbed her suitcase, and exited the bungalow. Having paid for the room the night before, she was free to set off in search of some place to have breakfast.
The morning air was sweet and cool, the sky crystal blue clear. Her nervous eyes shifted left and right, looking for anyone suspicious. To her left were palm trees and a stone walkway leading to the front office. To her right was an identical bungalow to hers, with an empty straw hammock stretched between two palms. Under the hammock crouched a gray tabby cat, its pink tongue washing gray and black paws.
Rachel would have to keep a low profile and never contact Greg Stone again. After breakfast, she’d focus her energies on her original mission and take a taxi to David Whitlock’s apartment near Hickam Field.
At a small rickety table inside the bustling Mainland Café, Rachel ate pineapple, papaya, mango, and banana slices, along with eggs, sausage, and toast. She drank Kona coffee, a variety grown on the slopes of Hualalai. No one glanced her way. Evidently, no one had tracked her down, at least not yet. She was relieved enough to enjoy her breakfast.
Rachel hailed a cab outside the café, tossed her suitcase into the backseat, and slid in beside it. She closed the door and instructed the driver to take her to 16th Street near Hickam Field, close to the Pearl Harbor Navy Base.
When she arrived, she told the driver to wait for her. He was an older man, with a thin white mustache, thin gray hair and an affable manner. He nodded, stuck a Camel cigarette between his lips and lit it with a match, blowing smoke out the window. His unexpected burp was loud in the quiet morning air.
Rachel stepped outside, surveying her surroundings, working to bring the map and photos she had studied in 2024 into the reality of 1941. She faced a row of newly constructed houses, built for service members and their families. Across 16th Street, in an open courtyard, she spotted what seemed to be a bomb shelter. Off to the side, there was a small flower garden, someone’s attempt to create something beautiful next to a construction site. More houses were being built.
David Whitlock, his wife, Lorraine, and their baby, Andrew, were supposed to live in House Three, a two-story building within a C-shaped complex. Downstairs were a kitchen, dining room and living room; upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom.
Rachel turned, looking toward Pearl Harbor. From her research, she knew that the distance from the apartment to the mooring base of the USS Arizona was about a mile and a half. On Sunday morning, Japanese torpedo bombers from the first wave would pass overhead, lining up for their devastating attack.
As she faced Porter Avenue, which ran perpendicular to 16th St., she saw the Marine barracks in the near distance. She’d read that on the morning of the attack, marines shot at the Japanese planes with their service revolvers.
Nearby was a 48-star American flag, snapping in the wind. Hawaii and Alaska were not yet states.
Rachel returned her attention to the house. As she had rehearsed in her mind many times, she started across the walkway of House Three, mounted the two stairs to the narrow porch and pressed the doorbell. It made a soft buzzing sound, like a cat’s purr. She glanced at her watch. It was 9:15. Would David be home? She had no idea. All she knew for certain was that on Sunday morning, he’d be at Wheeler Field, and her task was to stop him from flying.
CHAPTER 25
A pretty, auburn-haired woman in her twenties stood in the doorway, cradling a baby in her arm. It was dressed in a diaper and a Mickey Mouse top. Rachel felt a little quiver as she gazed at the baby’s pudgy face making spitting sounds. Was this baby Andrew Whitlock?
The woman was dressed in a flowing, summer print dress and flat pumps. Her lovely hair was styled in soft waves, and she wore a rose-patterned headband and light makeup.
Rachel offered her friendliest smile. “Hello. I’m Rachel, and I was wondering if you can help me. I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Ed Wilson,” Rachel lied.
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know them.” And then the woman noticed Rachel’s bandaged arm.
Rachel glanced down at it with a quick grin. “Oh, it’s nothing. I fell on some rocks playing tourist. It looks worse than it is.”
The woman said, “Some families are just moving in, but I haven’t heard of anyone named Wilson.”
“Oh… well, I’m a friend from Cleveland, and their last letter said they’d probably be living here by the time I arrived, but I guess they haven’t arrived yet.”
“Have you called them?”
“They didn’t have a phone, and I didn’t see them listed in the phonebook. Ed’s a pilot, stationed at Hickam.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know them. There are four families so far, and we’ve only been here for about a month. My husband, David, is a pilot, too, but he’s not home right now. He’s at Wheeler Field, a few miles inland from here.”
Rachel smiled and reached a hand toward the baby. “What a cutie. Girl? Boy?”
“Boy. His name is Andrew,” the woman said, smiling, staring at him, her eyes holding love. “He is the sweetest little thing. Hardly cries at all. But he misses his daddy, don’t you, Andrew?”
“I bet he does,” Rachel said. “Will he be coming home tonight?”
“No, not tonight. They’re doing some kind of target practice and night flying.”
And then the woman held out her free hand to shake, and the women did so. “By the way, my name is Lorraine Whitlock. Would you like to come in for coffee or something?”
Rachel had purposefully lingered, hoping for the invitation. She glanced toward the waiting cab. “Well, I have a taxi waiting and…”
Lorraine broke in. “We can call another later. Please come in. It gets kind of lonely with David gone and not so many people around. And you must be tired if you’ve been traveling.”
Rachel brightened. “Thank you. Yes, I am a bit tired.”
Minutes later, Rachel had grabbed her suitcase and paid the driver, and was standing in the living room, watching Lorraine bounce Andrew and kiss his nose. “This is Rachel, Andrew. She’s our guest. Say hello.”
Lorraine took one of his fat hands and waved it at Rachel as she spoke the words for him. “Hello, Rachel. We’re so glad you came by. Let’s go into the kitchen and get some coffee and a donut.”
Rachel left her suitcase in the living room and followed Lorraine into the cheerful, white and yellow kitchen, complete with cabinets, a refrigerator and stove, and ample counter space.
“Isn’t it peachy?” Lorraine asked. “We were so darn lucky to get it. One of David’s flight instructors took a shine to him and put a word in for us.”
Rachel’s gaze ranged around the room. “Yes, it’s larger than it looks from the outside, and it smells new.”
“Sit down, Rachel. I’ll pour you some coffee and then I’ll put Andrew in his crib and be right back.” To Andrew, Lorraine said, “This is your nap time, isn’t it, little fella?” She kissed his forehead. “And we do not want you to get grumpy, do we?”
“I can help myself, Lorraine. You go ahead.”
“Well, okay. The cups are in that second cabinet, and the coffee pot’s right there, and the donuts are on the table near the newspaper. The coffee’s fresh. I only made it about ten minutes ago. I was trying to read the paper, but Andrew wants all my attention, don’t you, mister?”
Andrew sneezed.
“Hey, there, little boy,” Lorraine said, “what’s that sneeze for?”
After Lorraine left the room, Rachel reached for the percolator, poured herself a cup of coffee, and then sat down at the Formica table. She noticed the newspaper Lorraine had been reading and reached for it, turning it around to read the headlines.
When she saw a photo positioned on the right column of the newspaper’s front page, adjacent to the main headline, her heart seized. It was Greg Stone’s photo! Her eyes enlarged on it.
Mystery Shrouds Death of
Renowned Reporter in Honolulu
By: Kanoa Mālama, Staff Writer
Honolulu Star-Bulletin, December 5, 1941
HONOLULU–The city woke to shocking news this morning after Greg Stone, an internationally acclaimed journalist and Pulitzer Prize winner, was found dead in the back parking lot of The Pearl City Tavern on the Kamehameha Highway. Stone, known for his fearless reporting and incisive critiques of military preparedness amidst the looming Pacific conflict, was discovered with a severe head wound, police confirmed. According to sources, he had been drinking, which raises questions about the circumstances leading to his untimely death.
Stone, 43, gained international renown through his gritty, hard-hitting articles that often held a mirror to society’s most pressing issues. His two best-selling non-fiction books, “Steel City Struggles: Chicago’s Journey through the Great Depression” and “Echoes of Conflict: The Gathering Storm in the Pacific,” cemented his reputation as a formidable voice in journalism.
The police have initiated a comprehensive investigation into the circumstances surrounding Stone’s death, considering all possibilities. Authorities are especially interested in finding a woman named Rachel, who was reportedly seen dining with Mr. Stone at the esteemed Halekulani Hotel the previous evening. “We are following all leads and urge anyone with information to come forward,” said Detective Sergeant Joe Kawai, the lead investigator on the case.
Eyewitnesses recall seeing Stone and Rachel during their dinner, but what transpired afterward remains a mystery. “They seemed to be having a good time, but they were talking intensely,” said a waiter at the Halekulani Hotel, who wished to remain anonymous. “She left before he did,” the waiter concluded. “When he left… well, he had been drinking quite a bit.”
Stone’s recent articles had stirred considerable controversy, particularly his scathing critiques of the military’s readiness in the face of rising tensions with Japan. Friends and colleagues described him as a man driven by a relentless pursuit of truth, unafraid to challenge the status quo. “Greg was a fearless journalist, always digging deeper, always asking the tough questions,” said fellow journalist and friend, Victoria Gilbert. “His death is a profound loss to the field of journalism and to the public he served.”
The Honolulu Police Department urges anyone with information about Rachel, or any details pertaining to Mr. Stone’s last hours, to contact them immediately.
Greg Stone’s editor at the CHICAGO TRIBUNE reported no known next of kin.
Rachel’s gaze froze on the page, her stomach twisting with nausea. If Greg had died the night before, then surely, he hadn’t had time to finish and submit the Pearl Harbor story. But now, the police were looking for her.
Before her thoughts could spiral out of control, she forced herself to refocus, enlisting all her experience and discipline to think clearly, assess the situation, and plan her next move.
CHAPTER 26
Rachel sat at Lorraine Whitlock’s kitchen table, drumming her fingers on the newspaper article detailing Greg’s death.
What were her options? Run and hide, or turn herself in? When the police are searching for you, it’s usually wise to surrender. Running only deepens suspicion.
But this case was different. Detective Sergeant Joe Kawai would interview her, but so would military intelligence, and they could detain her until they got the answers they wanted. She’d never be able to give them those answers because she didn’t exist in 1941. That would add even more suspicion, and as she knew all too well—having been a cop—cops of any kind, military or otherwise, don’t like suspicion.
It was Friday. If they locked her up over the weekend, she wouldn’t be able to prevent David Whitlock’s death on Sunday morning during the attack on Pearl Harbor, the reason she’d time traveled.
Rachel took a sip of the coffee, noticing her hand trembled; noticing her insides trembled. She’d have to play the cards she had. She’d have to make a decision, and soon.
And then there were the unsettling questions. Had destiny intervened to prevent Greg from publishing his story? Could that even be possible? Was destiny a force—some kind of divine power tasked with preventing time travelers from altering the course of history? And if destiny had stopped Greg, would it also stop her from saving David Whitlock?
How was it that out of everyone in the world in 1941, she had crossed paths with Greg Stone, another time traveler from the same twenty-first-century lab? Coincidence? That seemed too far-fetched. What else could it be? Had the time travel lab set it up without telling her? Did they contact Greg and inform him when and where she would arrive?
But Greg hadn’t recognized her, and he had traveled back to 1930. As weird as it was, Greg had lived from 1930 to 1941—eleven years—yet only seven months had passed in 2024, according to Dr. Elsden.
All right then. Was the same force of destiny that killed Greg warning her that if she tried to save David Whitlock, she could face the same fate as Greg?
She’d never entertained such “far-out-there” thoughts before meeting Andrew Whitlock, Donald Elsden, and the time travel team. Time traveling had opened her eyes to possibilities—and dangers—she hadn’t fully grasped back in 2024. Time travel wasn’t just about visiting the past; it was about the ripple effects, the unforeseen forces and consequences of even the smallest actions.
As these thoughts weighed on her, Rachel began to question in a deeper way not just the mission but her own role in it. What if the changes she made, even with the best intentions, would lead to something far worse? What if, by trying to save one person, she was dooming others? And if she continued down this path, how much of herself would she lose along the way? Like Greg Stone, would she be killed before she could save David’s life?
Lorraine entered the kitchen all sunny smiles and said, “Andrew went right to sleep. He’s such a sweetheart of a boy. David hates it when he has to be away from him for more than a night or two.”
After Lorraine poured her cup full, she sat opposite Rachel, a gentle smile on her lips. “I’m so lucky, Rachel. I have a good man who loves me, and my sweet little Andrew. I thank God every day for my life. And here we are in Hawaii, one of the most beautiful places on Earth. All my friends back home are so jealous, and they want to come for a visit.”
Rachel forced a tense smile, her thoughts in disarray. She glanced at the newspaper, wondering if Lorraine had seen the article about Greg’s death. If she had, would she realize that Rachel had the same name as the woman mentioned? As Rachel observed Lorraine, she doubted it, but how many Rachels could there be on Oahu in 1941?
Rachel forced a casual tone. “How did you and your husband meet?” she said, making small talk to help settle her thoughts.
“At a dance. I fell in love with him that very night. He said he fell in love with me at first sight. He said, ‘It was a first-sight love, and I don’t care if anybody believes me.’”
Rachel lowered her eyes to the newspaper and Greg Stone’s photo. “Yes, Lorraine, you are fortunate.”
“And I’m going to meet him at the Officers’ Club dance at Wheeler Field on Saturday night. I’m so excited. It’s my first dance since I got here, and David said it’s going to be a really swell affair. He said that he’d heard the Pacific Fleet Commander, Admiral Kimmel, might stop by. I bought a dress just for the occasion two days ago. Thank goodness I found a babysitter for Andrew.”
Rachel’s head was down, her eyes focused on nothing. She knew from David’s file that he would be at Wheeler Field the morning of December 7, and not at home, so she suspected that Lorraine would not make it to that dance.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Rachel. I’m just talking on and on like a silly goose. Are you married? Do you have children?”
Rachel kept her eyes on Greg’s photo. His expression was stern and aloof—the image of a man projecting dramatic strength, a naked steely glint in his eyes, and something else: something to prove. In those eyes, Rachel also saw a man haunted by demons, which she had witnessed the night before when he’d gotten drunk. Undoubtedly, those demons had fueled his ambition and helped to define him. Hadn’t Dr. Elsden and the time travel team discovered that when they vetted him?
