Time Risk: A Time Travel Novel, page 19
Victoria felt a little storm brewing in her gut. “And I suppose he described this woman?”
“He did. She was rather tall, and rather attractive.”
“Not very specific, Lieutenant Commander. That type is everywhere in this town,” Victoria said, rising, crushing her cigarette out in the desk ashtray. “And who’s going to believe a two-bit sap when all he’s after is the reward?”
“He was one of Greg Stone’s sources, and that was confirmed by yet another reliable source. The witness saw Greg and the woman leave for the back parking lot, and when the woman returned and reentered the bar alone, the witness got curious. He walked back to the lot and found Mr. Stone dead, money gone, gold watch gone, diamond pinky ring gone.”
“And I suppose this rat didn’t take them and hide them somewhere? Come on, there is no chance that Rachel Hunt had anything to do with Greg’s death.”
“Tell Detective Sergeant Kawai that. Oh, and by the way, the detective mentioned that your car had what appeared to be fresh scrape marks on the right side. Would you know anything about that?”
“Sure, I got sideswiped leaving the Aloha Tower parking lot yesterday, and I’m not too happy about it. It’s going to cost me a pretty penny to get it fixed.”
The door opened, and Ensign Weeks entered, carrying a silver tray with a coffee pot, saucers, cups, and two brown-crusted scones on gold-rimmed dessert plates. After serving the coffee and placing the scones on the Lieutenant Commander’s desk, the ensign quietly withdrew, shutting the door behind him. Victoria returned to her seat.
Lieutenant Commander Rowe blew the steam from the top of his cup and said, “Detective Sergeant Kawai contacted me just before you arrived. He said he visited you at your bungalow yesterday, and that Rachel had taken your car and left.”
Victoria tipped a small pitcher of milk into her cup, stirring it with a spoon provided, watching the coffee turn a rich brown color. “Yes… that’s right, and I’m sure he filled you in on all the particulars.”
“Yes, he did. And to be blunt, I want to know where Rachel Hunt is, and I think you know where she is.”
CHAPTER 38
Lieutenant Commander Rowe and Victoria Gilbert faced each other squarely. “Do you know where Rachel Hunt is, Miss Gilbert?”
Victoria took a sip of her coffee and then looked at him frankly. “No, Lieutenant Commander, I don’t. And as I’m sure the detective mentioned, Rachel left my car at the Aloha Tower, and I picked it up last evening. That’s all I know about it. I haven’t seen her, she has not contacted me, and she didn’t tell me where she was going. I would imagine that, by now, she has left the island.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because I’d suggested it,” Victoria said.
Rowe stared solemnly into his coffee. “Rachel Hunt is now a suspect in a murder investigation, and I don’t need to tell you that Mr. Stone’s colleagues, friends and publisher want the murderer brought to justice sooner than later.”
Victoria turned and gazed thoughtfully into the distance, far beyond Pearl Harbor, outside the Lieutenant Commander’s windows. What had her minister father said when she’d first told him she was going to be a reporter and travel the world? “You’re a first-born adventurer, Vicky girl. You go out there and show the world what you’re made of. Make a positive difference in this world, Kiddo, so that your mother and me and God will be proud of you.”
And then Victoria recalled Rachel’s shocking revelation—and she’d seen the truth of it in Rachel’s bold eyes. Another world war was about to begin. Victoria couldn’t pull her gaze from the windows, and for a time, she watched cottony clouds drift by in ever-changing shapes: a fish, a bird, and an old man with a beard. It was as if she were staring into another future, another possibility, and another world.
“Miss Gilbert?” Rowe asked, leaning forward, in an effort to bring her back to the present.
“Expectation,” Victoria said, in a near whisper.
Rowe arched an eyebrow. “What was that?”
She slowly returned her gaze to his. “Expectation… We all have expectations, don’t we, Lieutenant Commander?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you're referring to, Miss Gilbert.”
“Lieutenant Commander Rowe, tomorrow morning we expect to wake up. We expect it will be Sunday, and we expect the world to be much the same as it was last Sunday. Maybe you’ll go to church, or maybe you’re not the religious type and you will sleep in. Maybe you’ll have breakfast with a lady friend, or stay home and read the Sunday paper. By the way, I’ve written an article that will appear in the paper tomorrow morning.”
Rowe narrowed his eyes, trying to understand where she was going with the conversation.
“I’ll quote the headline and the first paragraph of the article, just in case you don’t read it. The title is The Edge of Change: A World on the Verge of No Return. I rewrote the first paragraph so many times I have memorized it.
“As I sit here on the sun-drenched shores of Diamond Head, a place where the rhythmic lull of the waves feels eternal, I can’t help but ponder the precariousness of our present moment. The world stands on the edge of a precipice, where, in the blink of an eye, everything we know could be irrevocably altered. In that singular flash, a cataclysm could unfold, reshaping nations, lives, and destinies in ways we can scarcely fathom. The peaceful paradise we inhabit today may be but a memory, as the shadow of war looms ever closer, threatening to cast its dark veil over every corner of the globe.”
Rowe didn’t stir, but his mouth twitched. “Why did you want to see me, Miss Gilbert?”
She set her coffee cup on the edge of his desk, inhaled a little breath, and lifted her chin. “I have a source—a reliable source—who believes with near certainty, that a fleet of Japanese aircraft carriers will soon launch two waves of high-altitude bombers, dive bombers, torpedo planes and fighter planes. They believe the attack will begin around eight o’clock in the morning. The Japanese will strike Pearl Harbor and destroy much of the Pacific fleet. In the process, they will kill more than two thousand people, both military and civilians. Many more will be injured.”
Rowe watched her carefully, but he didn’t speak.
Victoria continued. “I didn’t want to come here, and I can well imagine what you’re thinking, but, as I said, I strongly believe in my source, so I had to come. I had to tell someone. I couldn’t keep this to myself.”
Lieutenant Commander Rowe pursed his lips and lowered his gaze. They heard the drone of airplanes overhead. They heard the growling engine of a boat passing. After he gently slid his coffee cup aside, he rose, placing his hands behind his back, and he looked at her with studied indifference.
“Miss Gilbert… For the last eight months, I have heard every kind of rumor you can imagine, and many you cannot. We are constantly sifting through mounds of intelligence: from the Japanese, the Filipinos, the Germans, and many others. Seaplanes are constantly conducting scouting missions. There are frequent drills on all our battleships, and destroyers and submarines are frequently on patrol. The Commander-in-Chief of the United States Pacific Fleet, Admiral Kimmel, commands more than a hundred warships, hundreds of warplanes and thousands upon thousands of men. He is highly experienced, more than capable, and the best man for the job.”
Victoria wanted to counter his boilerplate patter. She knew from her own sources and from Greg Stone that the Hawaiian Islands were not being shielded round-the-clock by groups of searchers on the sea and in the skies. And as Greg had written last July in an article that had angered the military, “Military aircraft are not flying reconnaissance circles a thousand miles wide around Oahu, as the military is reporting.”
But Victoria chose not to mention that. It would get her nowhere. So, she listened politely.
Rowe continued. “I can assure you, Miss Gilbert, that if the Japanese are foolish and reckless enough to launch such an attack, they will be met, repulsed, and destroyed. So, you can rest your mind, and you can inform your… source… that we are well prepared for every contingency.”
Victoria rose, grasping her purse, her cool gaze fixed on him. “Lieutenant Commander Rowe, in 1936, I interviewed Winston Churchill. He repeated a quote to me that I will never forget. He said, ‘“Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.’”
She moved toward the door, paused, then turned back to Rowe with a faint smile, her face softening in concern. “Enjoy your Sunday morning, Lieutenant Commander. I hope you will be exhilarated.”
After Victoria left, Rowe clasped his hands together, placed them on the desktop, and pondered everything she had said.
Minutes later, he reached into a wire basket for a memo he had recently received from one of his senior intelligence officers. He read the last paragraph for the fourth time.
“In my last meeting with Admiral Kimmel, based on reliable recent intelligence, I recommended that we execute an appropriate defensive employment.”
Rowe lifted his eyes from the page. “Defensive employment” was not a standard term in the Navy, but to him, it was plain English: Pacific forces should be strategically spread out to guard against a possible enemy attack.
Lieutenant Commander Rowe reached for his telephone.
CHAPTER 39
On Saturday morning, Rachel awoke at twenty minutes after eight, swung her feet out of bed and padded barefoot across the cool linoleum floor to the window. She pulled the cord so that the shafts of the blinds bent the morning light away from her eyes, and the yellow planks hit the floor. It was a sparkling morning—just as tomorrow morning—December 7, would be.
Pushing through the screen door, she stepped onto the narrow wooden porch and then descended another step onto a wide pavement stone, still damp from last night’s rain, a soaking rain that had perfumed the air with the most exotic scents Rachel had ever smelled.
Finding a shaft of sun, she presented her face to it, feeling the warmth of it, and the grace of it, and a caressing morning breeze. She thought of religion on a morning like this, the religion of peace and beauty.
Inside Rachel’s culottes pocket was the Temporal Beeper. She removed it, staring down at it in hopeful wonder. How could such a small device communicate between 1941 and 2024, eighty-three years apart? And then she thought of people in this time, who could never imagine twenty-first century technology. How would they understand the wireless capability of a cellphone making real-time video calls from across continents, or the concepts of texting and video streaming?
Rachel enclosed the beeper in her hand and strolled to the rear of the bungalow, where she found some rocks. Stooping down, she overturned a one-foot-sized rock, exposing the rich, dark earth beneath. The soil, a mix of volcanic ash, pumice, and other volcanic materials, had a loose, granular texture.
As tiny creatures scurried away from the shock of sunlight, she scooped out a small trough in the soil and placed the beeper inside, carefully covering it with the rock. She worried that burying the beeper under a rock might prevent its solar panel from charging in the sun, but Donald Elsden had assured her that it could hold its charge for months, if not years.
Taking it with her to the dance was too much of a risk, and leaving it in the room was an even greater risk, especially since the police were searching for her.
When the time came, and if all went according to plan, she’d return in a few days, remove the rock, scoop up the beeper and hope and pray it would take her home to 2024.
Back in the bungalow, Rachel stood before the wall mirror by the small desk, gazing at her reflection with stark self-awareness. Tomorrow was the day she had trained and traveled through time for. If she succeeded, it would mark the beginning of a new world—a future forever altered. If she succeeded. If she survived.
For breakfast, Rachel visited the same food shack as the day before and ordered the breakfast special: slices of locally popular Portuguese sausage called linguiça, served with scrambled eggs, rice, and coffee.
Although attending the Officers’ Club dance had not been part of her original plan, and there was some risk involved, she’d decided to go.
From the stout lady who ran the bungalows, Rachel learned there was a ladies’ shop in Wahiawa, so after breakfast, she walked into town. Inside the small, square shop, Rachel browsed through the meager selection of dresses and skirts, unable to make a decision and growing weary and dispirited. A local young woman with flawless skin, a radiant smile, and a helpful demeanor approached, holding up a dress she had taken from a back rack.
“This dress is from Honolulu. An officer’s wife bought it there, from one of our other shops, but she returned it here. She said her husband wanted something more... well... He wanted more of her top to show. As you can see, this dress is modest, but elegant.”
Rachel stepped back and took it in, leaning her head this way and that. It was a lovely ankle-length evening dress made of luxurious emerald-green silk. The dress featured a fitted bodice with a sweetheart neckline and delicate three-quarter sleeves that would cover her wound. It was snug at the waist and would complement Rachel’s flat stomach.
Rachel tried the dress on, and it was a perfect fit. To complete the outfit, she bought a small black evening bag, a pair of stylish peep-toe pumps with a two-inch heel, and an elegant hat with a brim, adorned with feathers. The hat could be worn down on her forehead—to add mystery, and to keep her face partially hidden.
It was the salesperson who suggested she also purchase a pair of short, wrist-length satin gloves, and by that time, Rachel was having fun, so she tossed them in.
As Rachel was leaving town, shopping bags in hand, she prepared to turn right onto a dirt path that led back to her bungalow. She passed a grocery store and caught a glimpse of the newspaper stand outside on the porch. She stopped short, her eyes seized by the bold headlines of the Honolulu Advertiser.
AMERICA EXPECTED TO REJECT
JAPAN’S REPLY ON INDO-CHINA
In the far-left column, the headline read:
Prize-Winning Journalist Greg Stone’s Death Ruled Murder!
Stunned, Rachel glanced about to see if anyone was watching. They weren’t. She grabbed a copy from the newsstand, paid inside, and returned to the path. When she was clearly alone under the shade of palms, she set her shopping bags down and opened the newspaper, her eyes moving across the page.
Journalist Greg Stone, renowned for his prize-winning investigative reporting, was discovered dead on Thursday night, December 4, from a single blow to the head, in the back lot of The Pearl City Tavern on Kamehameha Highway. The Honolulu Police have launched an intense investigation into what they now classify as a murder, focusing on his last known companion, Rachel Hunt. Stone was last seen with Hunt at the Halekulani Hotel, and authorities have now labeled her a person of interest in the case. The police are actively searching for Miss Hunt, hoping she can provide crucial information about the events leading up to Mr. Stone’s tragic death.
Rachel closed the newspaper, tucked it under her arm, grabbed her bags and hurried off. Back in her bungalow, she paced, reconsidering her decision to attend the dance. But without any photograph of her, only Victoria, the desk clerk at the Edgewater Hotel, and a few servers at the Halekulani Hotel could positively identify her. Confident she had covered her tracks, Rachel felt reassured that, even if the police eventually traced her to her bungalow in Wahiawa, it likely wouldn’t happen for a few days.
It was Saturday, meaning that at nightfall, the bars, dance halls, and tattoo parlors would be packed. Pickpockets and prostitutes would be out in full force, keeping the police occupied. By tomorrow morning, December 7, and for the foreseeable future, Greg Stone’s death wouldn’t even warrant a column in the newspapers.
It was time she donned her complete outfit and checked herself out in the small, tarnished mirror. First Lieutenant Zach Reynolds was picking her up at seven sharp, and finally she was going to meet the man she’d come all the way from the future to meet, the man she hoped to save from being killed tomorrow morning, Second Lieutenant David Whitlock.
CHAPTER 40
Detective Tony Pukui left his car on Merchant Street and ascended the stairs of the Honolulu Police Station. The building was constructed in the 1930s, designed in the Classical Revival architectural style, featuring a formal façade with symmetrical windows and impressive Ionic columns.
Pukui pushed through the large wooden doors and stepped inside the station’s lobby. It was spacious and echoing, with a polished white and brown marble floor, scattered cigarette butts, overhead ceiling fans, and sad looking floor palms.
Detective Pukui, a wiry man with a hawk-like face, made his way to Detective Kawai’s office, situated towards the rear, close to the interrogation rooms, holding cells, and conference rooms.
The place was filled with the scents of floor wax, vanilla furniture polish, and, like every interior in public and private buildings, the lingering odors of cigarettes and cigars. Detective Pukui approached the sergeant’s heavy oak desk and waved at the Hawaiian officer—a broad-faced man with a thick neck and an expression that clearly said, “Don’t bother me.”
Pukui asked, “Is Kawai in his office?”
“Yep,” said the sergeant.
Pukui jerked a nod and glanced to his right at a long wooden bench against the wall. A tattered, slouched man with dirty, gapped teeth sat smoking, one foot in a sandal, the other bare, with the missing sandal two feet away. His glassy eyes found Detective Pukui, and he grinned, a sinister expression. Two well-dressed Hawaiian women in their twenties sat whispering, clearly troubled, and positioned as far away from the smelly man as possible.
Pukui left the front desk, moved briskly across the lobby, turned right and walked down a short hallway, stopping at a wooden door on his left. The rectangular brass nameplate, polished to a muted shine, read DETECTIVE SERGEANT JOE KAWAI.
