Time Risk: A Time Travel Novel, page 9
His eyes slowly lifted and found her, widening slightly in obvious pleasure at the sight. Rachel noticed that his light brown trousers were worn and faded, suggesting they were his favorite pair, frequently exposed to the Hawaiian sun. His blue Hawaiian shirt, with its pattern of palm trees, set off his eyes, and his scuffed brown shoes, were in dire need of a good polish.
Under his arm, he carried a black leather, diary-sized pad, and he had a pen tucked behind his ear. His smile was merry and flirtatious. Rachel didn’t smile back. In her gut, a little alarm went off, but she had no idea why. As a cop, she’d learned to trust that alarm; it had seldom been wrong.
But then again, maybe her molecules and atoms were still flying around, and she wasn’t entirely glued back together? She was also hungry, glancing around for some place to grab a bite on the run.
She spotted a market stall that featured fruit, bread and rolls, and the man on the bench saw the ravenous look in her eyes.
“Go ahead,” he said. “You’ve got time.”
Ignoring him, she hurried over, grabbed a roll and handed her first silver dollar to the no-nonsense Hawaiian woman, who examined it carefully before giving her change. Rachel pocketed the coins without counting them and devoured the roll on the spot, grateful to have something in her stomach.
Ten minutes later, the bus approached, sunlight dancing off its windshield. It glided to a stop near the shelter, and Rachel saw Honolulu Rapid Transit Company inscribed on its side.
Handsome man stood up and stretched. He was tall, and he stared at Rachel, while the Hawaiian woman climbed up into the coach.
Rachel hesitated, wondering if she should board or let the man and the bus leave without her and wait for the next one, which was scheduled to arrive at six o’clock that evening. Too late. Time was ticking away, and she had a job to do. It was already December 4.
CHAPTER 17
Once the driver stored Rachel’s suitcase under the bus, she gave him the fare, which was thirty-five cents. As she approached the three steel steps leading into the coach, the handsome man stood by, smiling and gesturing. “After you, Miss.”
She averted her eyes as she climbed aboard, walked down the aisle to an empty double seat about halfway back, and sat down on the aisle seat, leaving the window seat available, hoping to discourage the man from sitting next to her.
The bus was nearly full with locals and a few tourists, some engrossed in newspapers, others gazing out the windows. The absence of air conditioning meant open windows and smoking passengers, something Rachel would need to adjust to.
She wasn’t surprised when the man walked up to her and halted, gesturing toward the unoccupied window seat. There were at least three other empty seats available nearby, but what could she say when he asked if he could sit? She pushed up and let him in, and he sat.
Rachel wished she had her cellphone. With her earbuds in, she could have launched her playlist and tuned him out. But she had nothing but her purse, her waist belt, and her hidden pockets where the Temporal Beeper lay, anxiously waiting for her to contact the lab in 2024. So, she shut her eyes, leaned back, and hoped the man wouldn’t start jabbering. Maybe if she smelled as bad as she feared she did, he’d ignore her.
The bus engine whined to life, the driver cranked the thing into gear, and the bus lurched ahead and gathered speed. About five minutes later, the man said something to her that snapped her eyes open.
“So, I guess you’ve come a long way?”
She glanced at him, eyeing him carefully, his leather notebook on his lap. She didn’t respond, so he continued. “Most tourists have come a long way to get here.”
There was a glint of dark pleasure in his blue eyes, reinforcing Rachel’s initial impression of him.
Rachel stayed silent. He didn’t. “And where have you come from?”
Rachel didn’t like his demeanor or his question. “Where are you from?” she countered.
His grin irritated her. “From here and there. You? I asked you first.”
“I asked you second,” she said, with a grin that quickly came and went. “Here and there is anywhere, nowhere and everywhere.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you the perceptive, very attractive woman with the interesting dress?”
That caught her off-guard. She glanced down at it, suddenly defensive. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’d say it’s swell, and it looks quite… well, quite right on you.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes on him. “Right? What do you mean, right?”
“Well, it’s just that it’s very midwestern U.S., not so much Hawaiian, and I have observed, in the time I have been on this fair island, that most women, upon arriving, or even before arriving in Hawaii, purchase the latest Hawaiian fashion and are anxious to show it off.”
Rachel took offense, yet she managed to hide her reaction. Although she hadn’t selected her 1940s wardrobe, she was certain it would have been a complete disaster if she had. “Okay, well, maybe I’ll purchase the latest fashion when I arrive in Honolulu.”
He smiled broadly, pleased with himself. “I’m sure you will. And I’m sure you’ll discard those leather oxford shoes and those socks for the latest footwear and nylons.”
He was trying to provoke her, and he was succeeding. She felt the pink rise to her cheeks. Her voice turned edgy. “Maybe I don’t give a damn what you think.”
He lifted a hand, a flag of surrender. “Whoa… I didn’t mean to criticize or insult you, Miss… Miss?”
“Yes, you did. Don’t bullshit me.”
He leaned his head back, surprised. “Well, aren’t you a firecracker.”
She glared at him, her mouth pressed tightly together, not about to tell him what her name was.
“I’ve upset you, and I apologize.”
Rachel went on the offensive. “Since we’re speaking of fashion, your shoes could stand polishing, and those pants are faded and a bit frayed at the cuffs. Oh, and that shirt…”
He cut her off. “…You don’t like my shirt?” he asked, looking down at it. “Oh, come on, now. Please don’t tell me you don’t like this shirt. It’s one of my favorites.”
Rachel gave him a long, considered look, then turned her head away from him. “Actually, I do like your shirt.”
“Well, I’m delighted. I only bought it two days ago, and I think blue is a good color on me, don’t you?”
Rachel ignored him.
He extended a hand. “By the way, my name is Greg Stone.”
She didn’t take his hand. She didn’t even look at it.
He lowered it. “You haven’t heard of me?”
“No.”
“Greg Stone, as in the international reporter for the Chicago Tribune? I’m syndicated in over two hundred newspapers.”
Rachel shook her head. “Good for you. Never heard of you.”
“Do you read newspapers?” he countered.
She hadn’t read a hard-copy newspaper in months, maybe years. But she lied. “Yes, of course, I do.”
He twisted around to face her. “I don’t mean to boast, but I will anyway. I won the Pulitzer Prize for my series of articles on the Spanish Civil War in 1938. My work was praised for its depth and insight. They said I brought significant attention to the war’s complexities and brutal realities, influencing public opinion and enhancing the broader understanding of the events unfolding in Spain.”
“Congratulations. You’ve obviously memorized the review.”
“And I’ve published two books, Steel City Struggles: Chicago’s Journey through the Great Depression, and Echoes of Conflict: The Gathering Storm in the Pacific. And that’s why I’m here now, to follow-up on that book, with a series of articles about the U.S. military’s preparation—or lack thereof—for a Japanese offensive.”
He squinted his eyebrows together. “So, whatever your name is, are you impressed? I hope so. I want you to be.”
She stared at him blandly and shrugged. “I’d say you lack something, Mr. Stone.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Lack something? And what would that be?”
“Confidence,” she said with a small, mocking grin. “How will you ever make it in life with that meek and mild ego of yours?”
His face fell. “Well, you were obviously the sassiest girl on the playground.”
“And you were surely the smartest smartass in school, even if you failed every class. And all the girls swooned, and all the guys were jealous, and all your teachers thought you were a friggin’ bigmouth.”
He stared at her for a moment, astounded by her comment, before his laughter filled the cab. “You kill me. I’ve got to say, I’ve never met a woman quite like you. You have got to tell me your name, and where you’re staying in Honolulu. We have to go to dinner. We have to dance. We have to go to the beach, and don’t say no, or I’ll be so sad and lonely and depressed that I’ll throw myself off Nuʻuanu Pali and become a tragic suicide.”
Rachel hated to admit it, but his grin was sexy, and she was growing to like his rugged face, the face of a confident, worldly traveler.
“I’m sure you have plenty of girls to keep you from being sad and lonely,” Rachel responded.
“But next to you, they’re boring. Please tell me your name—just your first name. Please.”
“It’s Rachel.”
“Rachel! I love it. You look like a Rachel.”
“And how does a Rachel look?”
“Like you. Exactly like you, Rachel.”
Rachel grinned in spite of herself. She glanced out the window. “We’re coming into Wahiawa.”
Greg sat up. “How about I dash out and get us a couple of 7-Ups and two Moon Pies? How does that sound?”
“Yes, I’m thirsty and hungry, and I haven’t had a 7-Up in years.”
“Better yet, why don’t we stop here and have a late breakfast or early lunch at Allen’s Café? Then we can hit the Hi-way Tavern. It’s a hot spot with the locals and the servicemen. We could get to know each other over a beer. There’s a jukebox that plays big band music. And then we can play tourist, take a cab about five miles out of town and see Kaʻala, the highest peak on Oahu. It’s about 4,000 feet. How about that, Rachel?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get to Honolulu.”
Greg’s shoulders lowered and his mouth sagged in disappointment. “You have a boyfriend, don’t you? Please don’t say you have a husband.”
“Maybe, and maybe not.”
The bus pulled into a Shell gas station, came to a squeaky stop, and the driver twisted around and called out, “Wahiawa. This stop, Wahiawa.”
“I’ll definitely take that 7-Up and Moon Pie,” Rachel said, standing up and moving into the aisle to let Greg out.
“All right, Rachel, I’ll be right back,” he said, tucking his notebook under his arm. “Don’t let that driver leave without me.”
“You’re afraid I’ll read your journal?”
His grin was crooked. “You bet I am. I never go anywhere without this notebook.”
Rachel sat down in the window seat and watched as Greg passed the front of the bus and came back into view. He waved at her and started for Bud’s Quick Lunch Grill, not far from the gas station, near a shady alley.
Rachel saw two men approach Greg and block his way. There was a dangerous energy about them. One was big and heavy. One was thinner, but well-built. They nudged him away from the street into an alley, out of her sight. It didn’t look good.
Rachel slid out of her seat, purse in hand, and started down the aisle. To the bus driver, she said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t leave without me.”
He wore a blue uniformed cap, blue trousers and a white shirt with a black bow tie. He narrowed his eyes on her as he checked her out. “Don’t be all day about it.”
Rachel descended the bus stairs and started toward the alley. Across the street, she noticed two jeeps parked near the Hi-Way Tavern, with sailors and Army personnel spilling out, beers in hand. She heard whistles and some catcalls, and she thought of Wheeler Field, which was close by. It was possible that David Whitlock might be inside the Tavern, having a beer. As she looked up, two single-engine airplanes flew overhead, and she considered that he could even be one of the pilots.
A minute later, she turned into the alley and stopped. She saw empty pineapple crates. She saw garbage cans near a weed-choked lot. She saw Greg being shoved back against a wall, the two men leaning into his face, their expressions dark and threatening. One man ripped pages from Greg’s notebook and tossed it away, while the other pinned Greg against the wall, his hand clenched around his neck. When they saw her, they shot her a burning glance.
Rachel smiled, using twenty-first century slang. “Hey, there. Wassup?” she asked. “Greg, what’s going on?”
Greg was a good-sized man, but the two men Rachel saw were also large, and they had the look of professional goons. She’d seen their type countless times, and she’d dealt with that type more than once.
“You’d better go, Rachel,” Greg said in a shaky voice. “Go on… Get back on the bus and go.”
Rachel took a step forward. “I want my 7-Up and my Moon Pie. No, I think I’ll stay.”
The big, hulking man looked native Hawaiian. He barked at her. “Get out of here, you dumb broad! Go! Now!”
CHAPTER 18
Rachel didn’t move. “Do you owe them money, Greg? Gambling debts?”
“No… They’re no doubt working for Navy Intel. They’re going to give me a little lesson for the last few articles I’ve written.”
The thinner, taller man looked like a fighter. He had a raw-boned ugly face, long arms, and good lean muscles under his white t-shirt. He glared at her with hate, as if she was just the sort of enemy he’d been looking for. “Git! Now, sister.”
Rachel didn’t want to fight them. She didn’t want to get involved with anything that might jeopardize her mission. Especially something like this. But she wasn’t going to leave Greg. They might kill him and then make it look like a robbery.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go,” she said, holding her sweet smile. “I’ll go if you let him come with me.”
The big man, with a missing front tooth, left Greg and took two threatening steps toward her. “I said, go! I don’t mind punching a girl.”
Rachel stiffened, heat rising to the surface of her skin. She shrugged. “Isn’t that funny… because I don’t mind punching a big boy,” she said, her voice calm, but edgy, her eyes hard.
The big man laughed, a deep, fierce, guttural sound. “Okay, sister, you’re going to get yours.”
Rachel focused her senses, attuning to every movement around her. She flung her purse toward some empty pineapple crates and stood her ground, waiting for the attack.
The large man marched aggressively in her direction. He planted his big feet, and with a massive fist, he swung at her. Rachel sidestepped the punch, her feet light and swift. With lightning speed, she spun about and jammed a sharp elbow into his ribs, and then drove her right fist hard into the side of his face. He stumbled, grunting in stunned pain.
Ugly guy, with the raw-boned face and high-arched nose, shoved Greg free, his lips set in a snarl. He pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open, the blade a steel gleam.
He gave her a hard squint of a challenge, and then he started for her. Rachel judged distance and strategy. He attacked, slashing at her with surprising speed. Rachel deflected the blade with her left forearm, feeling the sting of a cut, and the blood came.
The wound brought sharp focus and pumping adrenaline. Rachel whirled into action. She spun low, came up fast and kicked ugly guy in the right kneecap. As he shrieked in pain, she danced toward him, swung and chopped him hard on the back of his neck. He dropped to his knees in agony, the knife skittering away, out of his reach. She chopped him again, and he dropped flat to the ground, the breath bursting from his mouth.
With wide eyes, Greg watched Rachel’s agile, acrobatic moves with astonishment. He pushed away from the wall to throw himself into the fight, but Rachel’s voice stopped him. “Stay back!”
Big Hawaiian man recovered, and he came at her again with a wild and powerful swing. Rachel ducked under it and countered with a hard chop into his flabby gut that bent him over. She followed with a sharp uppercut and a smashing blow to his nose, blood squirting.
He staggered back in shock and fury. Before he could regain his composure, Rachel was on him, delivering a series of rapid punches, whipping his head left and right that sent him backstepping. As he reeled, struggling to recover, she leaped high, with a scissoring drop-kick to the chest. He shot backwards, crashing to the ground, and his head bounced off the asphalt.
Ugly guy was back on his feet, his face pinched in pain. He staggered ahead on his bad knee and tried to tackle her, but he was all clumsy legs and arms. Rachel, anticipating his move, used his momentum against him. She jumped away, spun and kicked him hard in the ass, sending him sprawling, hands reaching, face stretched in shock. He hit the ground hard, in a grunt of pain, sliding on his belly, his head slamming into a metal garbage can.
Big man was back on his feet, his gapped teeth clenched. He breathed hard, like a wounded, wild animal. He grabbed a wooden plank from a stack of wood, holding it like a war club. “Okay, sister, I’m going to kill you.”
Rachel took a balanced stance, waiting. He charged, swinging the plank at her with all his strength. She ducked away, feeling the rush of air over her head. She swerved right, regained her balance, aimed and kicked him in the balls. He bent over, grabbing his groin, screaming, dropping the plank.
Rachel snatched up the plank. With cold eyes and a hard face, she delivered a final blow to the side of his massive head that sent him sprawling sideways into a stack of crates that shattered into splintering wood. He was out cold. Mouth open, body twitching.
Ugly, slender guy lay on his stomach, mumbling, his arms splayed out, head turned sideways, blood oozing from his nose and mouth. He wasn’t going anywhere.
