Time Risk: A Time Travel Novel, page 18
After the taxi drove away, she removed her hat, walked to the street, and found another cab waiting at the curb. She took this one to Club Rainbow on the Kamehameha Highway, speaking to the driver in a forced British accent.
At Club Rainbow, to further alter her appearance, in case the police questioned the cab drivers, which Rachel was certain they would, Rachel changed tops in the women’s restroom. Now, also wearing a yellow and green scarf tied around her head, she entered a third cab near the Club’s entrance and spoke to the driver in a passable Spanish accent.
This cab took her inland toward Wahiawa, where she asked the driver to drop her at Bud’s Quick Lunch Grill. When the cab drove away, Rachel asked one of the local women if she knew of a good place to stay for a couple of days.
“Bungalow Court. Half a mile or so from here,” the woman answered.
Rachel booked a room at the Bungalow Court, which was only about two miles from Wheeler Field, where David Whitlock was stationed.
She registered as Anne Fowler from Lincoln, Nebraska, paid in advance for two nights, and found her bungalow nestled among palms and exotic tropical plants. The room had a single bed, a sloping, old brown linoleum floor, and a writing desk in front of a garden-facing window. The place was clean, with a snug bathroom, including a narrow tub with a rusty drain, and a pedestal sink, where the faucet sputtered and spit only cold water.
Hanging lopsided on the wall was a 1941 calendar featuring Hawaiian sunsets, hula dancers and rows of sun-bright, delicious-looking pineapples.
Hungry, she found a food shack nearby, where service men hovered and ate. She ordered manapua, baked buns filled with barbecue pork, and Spam musubi, a popular snack, so she was told by the Japanese cook. It was prepared with a slice of grilled Spam on top of a block of rice, wrapped together with seaweed. She sat alone on a wooden bench under palm trees and began to eat, surprised how hungry she was, and how tasty the food was. She washed it down with cold Kona coffee.
Hovering nearby were a couple of yellow-beaked mynah birds and several nervous sparrows, pecking about. A graying, gruff-looking man sat alone on a small bench. He puffed on a cigarette and snapped out a newspaper, making little grunting sounds while he blew smoke, as if the news was giving him indigestion.
Just then, a serviceman approached Rachel, holding a carton filled with food he’d just bought. From her research, Rachel recognized him as a First Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps. The single silver bar on the epaulets of his light tan shirt confirmed his rank, while the winged propeller insignia on his collar identified his branch of service. The aviator wings above his left breast pocket marked him as a pilot, and his neatly tied four-in-hand knot completed the look.
He gestured toward her bench with his chin. “Hello, Ma’am, would you mind if I join you? All the other benches are taken, and I hate eating standing up. My mother used to say, ‘Only a horse should eat standing.’”
Rachel scooted to her right, allowing plenty of room. “Yes, of course. Have a seat.”
Before he sat, he offered a little bow. “Pardon me, Ma’am, I’m First Lieutenant Zach Reynolds.”
“And with that accent, I’d guess you’re from the South?”
“Oh, yes, Ma’am, I’m from Oneida, Tennessee.”
Zach was a slender, attractive man in his middle twenties, with a chiseled jawline, high cheekbones and a patrician nose. His smile was wide and genuine, revealing perfectly aligned teeth.
“Well, I’m Anne Fowler, from Nebraska,” she lied, keeping the name she’d registered with at the bungalow. “It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Join me.”
“You can call me Zach, Ma’am,” he said, easing down beside her, glancing over at her dinner. “How is your food?”
“It’s good. I’ve never had any like it.”
“Me either. This is only the second time I’ve eaten here. I got the afternoon off, so I left Wheeler and came into town. I’m supposed to meet a buddy later. What brings you to this little outpost all the way from Nebraska?”
“I’m just a tourist, traveling around.”
“All by yourself? No girlfriend or husband?”
“All by myself. I’m a big girl, you know,” she said with a grin.
Zach’s laughter was more of a chuckle. “And what do you do back in Nebraska?” he asked, spooning some of his food and taking a bite.
“I’m a secretary at Gold’s Department Store.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“I see you’re a pilot,” Rachel said. “What do you fly?”
“I’m a flight instructor, involved in both operational missions and training activities. I’m sure you’d find it boring.”
“No, actually, I don’t. What airplanes do you fly when you teach?” Rachel asked.
“Well, mostly the Stearman PT-17, the P-36 Hawk and the B-18 Bolo.”
“Impressive… Do you ever fly the P-40?”
He glanced at her, surprised. “So, you know about airplanes?”
“I have a friend who knows a pilot. I think he might be here at Wheeler.”
Zach angled his body to face her. “Really? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”
“David Whitlock.”
Zach’s face opened in recognition. “Yeah, I know Whitlock. I was his instructor on the P-36. He’s flying the P-40 now. He’s a good pilot. Is that why you’re here? To see him?”
Rachel drew back. “Oh, no. We’ve never met or anything. I’m just staying tonight and then I’ll head up north for a couple of days.”
And then Zach was struck with a notion. “Say, I’ve just had a thought. My girl, Angie, was supposed to come for a visit this week, but she took sick, so she’s still in San Francisco. I know this is short notice and all, but would you like to join me at a dance tomorrow night at the Officer’s Club? I’m sure you’d have a swell time. There’ll be a twelve-piece band, an open bar and lots of food, and you’ll meet a lot of swell guys and gals. What do you say, Anne? And you’ll meet David. He’s going to be there with his wife, Lorraine.”
Rachel thought, What are the odds that I would end up at a food shack, meeting a pilot who invites me to the same dance where David Whitlock will be? What are the friggin’ odds?
It was almost as if the universe was throwing her a 90-mile-an-hour fast ball right down the middle of the plate saying, “Go ahead, Rachel, swing for the fences. I’ve got your back.”
It was a great opportunity. It was an awful idea. If only the cops and Naval Intelligence weren’t looking for her, it would have been awesome.
Zach was staring at her, waiting for her answer.
Then Rachel reconsidered. On the other hand, perhaps it could work. She might be able to disguise herself with hair and makeup well enough, so that no one who’d seen her would recognize her in a crowded room. Besides, who would expect Rachel Hunt to be hanging on the arm of a First Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps? Most importantly, she would finally get to meet David Whitlock.
As she considered it, there were two additional issues. First, she lacked a suitable dress for the occasion. Second, she couldn’t dance—at least not the way these people did. She had observed the dancers at the Halekulani Hotel and watched old videos of couples from the 1930s and 1940s gliding and twirling across the dance floor, perfectly in sync with the lively swing rhythms. They executed smooth, flowing steps, breaking into spirited spins and dips. She definitely couldn’t do that. No, absolutely not.
“So, what do you say, Rachel?” Zach asked, hope in his blue eyes.
Rachel lowered the carton of half-eaten food to her lap. “It’s so nice of you to ask, Zach, but I didn’t really pack the right kind of dress for a dance like that.”
“Ah, shucks, Rachel. That doesn’t matter. Gals wear all kinds of outfits to these things. We’re not so formal at Wheeler. Some gals get all dolled up, yes, but others go casual, and nobody cares about it. We’re all just out for a good time, that’s all. It’ll be good fun. What do you say? I hate to miss it, and I definitely do not want to go with a pal of mine who doesn’t have a date. We’ll look like dopes. And, anyway, he’s a second lieutenant. You don’t want me to look like a dope, do you? And, hey, Rachel, you’re a swell-looking girl. So, how about it?”
CHAPTER 36
Later, back in her room, as darkness descended, Rachel collapsed onto the bed, utterly exhausted. She quickly drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep. She awoke with a jolt in the darkness, reached for the dim table lamp with its heavy brown shade, and flicked it on, reorienting herself to her surroundings.
After thumping her pillow, she propped it behind her and sat up. Her sleepy eyes fluttered, but she forced them open. It was time to prepare for what was to come.
Staring into the shadows of the room, hearing rain drum on the roof, Rachel’s thoughts drifted, and instead of preparing for the next 24 hours, her thoughts pondered the mystery of life, death, and time travel. She thought about her past, about her sister, about her father and mother, none of them even born in 1941, of course. Despite all her preparations in 2024, the fact that she was here, alive and functioning, was still a mind-tangling thought that made her feel small, insignificant and bewildered.
Rachel gazed into the future—the world she’d left behind—and the longer she pondered, the more the world of 1941 replaced her vision of 2024 as a solid, tangible reality. The twenty-first century now seemed like a dream—just as surreal as the world she had just awoken from, where she was back in Cleveland, walking the chilly night streets with her old partner, Jose Sanchez.
The memories of her childhood and of her sister, Sarah, seemed like airy fantasies that Rachel had dreamed about, or had read in a novel, or seen in a movie.
And her troubled cop father was one of the characters in that story. As a girl and a young woman, she’d both feared and admired him—a big man with a big, complicated personality. He’d leap from brooding conversation one minute, straight to rage, and then on to a bursting smile. With a whiskey in one hand and a beer in the other, he’d tell her how smart she was, how pretty she was, and how cold she was.
“You’ll have a hard time finding a man with your ice-cold moods, Rachel. Men don’t like ice-cold. They like warmth, heat and respect. That’s all I’ve ever asked for from my wife, and it’s all I never got. All I ever asked for from God, whoever he is, was for my girls to grow up and be happy. Grow up, find the right guy, have some kids, and be happy. And now, Sarah has vanished… Gone, and nobody cares. Time has covered her up and nobody cares. No man. No woman. No God.”
Sarah’s death had struck him down. Struck him like an angry slap from above.
Alone in her small bungalow, with raindrops lashing the windows, Rachel relaxed into an unfamiliar peace. For the first time in her life, the loud voices of the past that had haunted her were small and quiet. Her family hadn’t been born, and those experiences had not happened.
Freed from the loss of her sister and father, freed from her guilt-ridden mother, freed from Jose Sanchez’s death, and freed from her own failures and struggles, her breath came a little easier. Her mind loosened and relaxed, and her emotions settled into a rare calm.
Now she could fully concentrate on her mission. Now she could plan without the background noise of her past.
Rachel’s mind sharpened on Victoria Gilbert. She’d believed Rachel’s truth, that the Japanese were going to attack. But what would Victoria do? Would she tell someone? Who would she trust enough to tell?
Rachel left the squeaky bed and paced the room, her mind coming alive with ideas and memories of the documents in David Whitlock’s file. In 2024, Rachel had read and memorized David Whitlock’s final 1941 note, the one he’d hastily scribbled to his wife during the attack. Afterward, he and fellow pilot Billy Day sped from Wheeler Field to Haleiwa Field, where David quickly boarded his P-40 fighter and took off to engage the Japanese planes—and was killed.
But it was the note he’d written to his wife, Lorraine, that kept rising to the forefront of Rachel’s mind. She’d memorized it, word for word.
Dearest Lorraine:
War has just begun! The Japs are attacking by air. Machine gun fire raking the field. Airplane hangars blowing up. Explosions everywhere. Chaos. Our planes here at Wheeler, destroyed. I’m off north to Haleiwa. We have planes there. I’m going to fight, and I know you’ll be proud. I love you, Lorraine, and I’ll see you soon! Don’t worry. Give Andrew a kiss and tell him I love him with all I’ve got in me.
Got to go. Kisses,
David
Rachel went to the front door, opened it, and listened to the falling rain. She smelled it, and she felt the cool mist of it on her face. Yes, she would save David Whitlock. She knew it now. She would complete her mission, and Andrew would grow up with a father, and Lorraine would have her husband and her family.
But out there somewhere in the rainy night, the cops and MPs were looking for her.
PHASE 3
CHAPTER 37
On Saturday morning, December 6, Victoria Gilbert was escorted into Lieutenant Commander T. J. Rowe’s office by Ensign Charles Weeks. The Lieutenant Commander greeted her with a crisp smile and a brief handshake. When Victoria accepted his offer of coffee, Rowe ordered a pot along with raisin scones from the ensign, then invited Victoria to sit in the chair before his desk.
After she was seated, Rowe opened his silver cigarette case and offered her a cigarette. She accepted, and he lit hers with his lighter before lighting his own and then sitting behind his desk.
“Thank you for seeing me on short notice and on a Saturday morning,” Victoria said, blowing a stream of smoke toward the windows.
Lieutenant Commander Rowe took in Victoria’s appearance with interest, her dress obviously chosen to replicate some kind of uniform: a tailored, navy blue, knee-length dress with a high neck, trimmed in white, and a row of golden buttons down the front. There was a fitted waistline emphasized by a slim belt, slightly padded shoulders, and three-quarter sleeves. He particularly found her stylish small-brimmed hat, with a lone, black feather, to be quite fetching, and her one-inch heels, made of fine polished leather, pleased his militaristic sense of precision.
In his mind, he summed Victoria up as a posture-erect, confident, attractive and intelligent woman, whose sharp mind reveled in its own power.
“Well, I am intrigued, Miss Gilbert, by your request,” Rowe answered. “Over the telephone, you said it was urgent. I’m also curious as to who referred you to me.”
Victoria’s smile came and went. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I keep that a secret. A reporter needs her sources, especially at times like these, and many of my sources like to keep to the shadows.”
He rested his cigarette in the ashtray, made a pyramid of his hands and held them at his chin. “I presume that also includes Miss Rachel Hunt?”
Victoria didn’t flinch. “Rachel is not a source, as such. She’s a woman running from an abusive husband, and for obvious reasons, she doesn’t want to get caught up in something that doesn’t concern her, with the possible chance that her photo might appear in the newspaper.”
“Then should I be calling her Mrs. Rachel Hunt?”
“She prefers Miss.”
“And you know for sure that Rachel Hunt is not ‘caught up in something that doesn’t concern her’?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander Rowe. I do. She and Greg Stone had just met. They went to dinner. It didn’t go so well because Greg got tight after too many Scotches, as I have seen him do many times, and then Rachel left. I don’t blame her. I left him a few times as well, and I told him, more than once, that he needed to pull himself together and quit the booze.”
“And do you know where Miss Hunt might have gone after she left Mr. Stone at the Halekulani Hotel?”
“Back to her hotel, I presume.”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“If she did, I don’t recall.”
“But you and she were together. You went to the Alexander Young Hotel to retrieve her suitcase, and then there was an altercation with a couple of low-class hoods. Isn’t that true?”
“True.”
“And, according to eyewitnesses, Miss Hunt was involved in a fight. The police learned from one of those men—who is still in the hospital, by the way—that their intention was to, well, let’s say, take Rachel Hunt and hold her for a reward, which they hoped to obtain from the police.”
“It seems to me that was a rather asinine caper, to say the least,” Victoria said. “I don’t think the Honolulu Police Department would offer any kind of reward to two sad sacks like that.”
“It would happen behind the curtain, as they say, Miss Gilbert. It has happened before in this town. One of those men is a snitch for the cops… a reliable snitch. My personal belief is that the police would indeed have paid a ransom for Miss Rachel Hunt.”
Victoria took a drag on her cigarette and let the smoke curl from her nose. “Well, I suppose you would know more about that kind of thing than I.”
The Lieutenant Commander stared at her with speculation, ready to gauge her reaction to what he was about to say. “The partner of the man in the hospital is dead. It seems his car was run off the road and it slammed into a tree. There was a bullet hole in the front windshield and two slugs in the right front tire.”
Victoria glanced away. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
Rowe continued. “Perhaps those two thugs believed that Rachel Hunt was wanted for the murder of Greg Stone?”
Victoria sat up. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Surely you must have thought it was possible, Miss Gilbert? A seasoned newspaper woman as yourself?”
Victoria didn’t answer.
Rowe continued. “An eyewitness, another small-time hood who picks pockets, snatches purses and cheats at cards, came forward this morning, wanting the reward, even before the reward was offered. He said he was standing in the shadows waiting for his next drunken man to come stumbling out of the Pearl City Tavern, when Greg Stone appeared, staggering out the door with a woman hanging on his arm.”
