The Third Day

but either I go or I’ll shut this place down.”

Bryson didn’t speak, but she finally nodded her assent. After all, he had the ability to do just that.

“Then I’m going, too,” said Sharon. “I’ve studied the Bible my entire life. There’s simply no way I can pass up the opportunity to see what it describes for real.”

“No!” said Lavon.

Though his forcefulness surprised me, I agreed with Lavon’s thinking. However intelligent and capable she might be, Sharon didn’t strike me as a person who had ever experienced anything going completely and horribly wrong.

I could imagine many things happening to such a woman in the first century — none of them good.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” she said. “My family has provided ninety percent of your funding for the last three years.”

“I’m not saying you can’t go,” said Lavon. “I’m saying you shouldn’t. It’s simply too dangerous.”

Like my client’s son, though, logic could not dissuade her.

They bickered for several minutes before the archaeologist shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

He glanced over to me, looking for support, but this time he found none. I’ll admit it; while the others argued, I caught the bug, too. Markowitz was right: Whatever happened, we’d figure out a way to deal with it.

Finally, Lavon recognized the inevitable and admitted defeat.

“All right,” he said. “I need to round up some provisions. We’ll meet back here in a few days after you’ve all had a chance to get your affairs in order.”

Like Markowitz and Bergfeld, I neglected to consider the usual meaning of that phrase.

Chapter 9

Three days later, Lavon wheeled in four large boxes and stacked them in an unoccupied corner of the conference room. One of his old colleagues had recently left an Israeli dig to open a Biblical study center in rural Georgia, where he had meticulously recreated a first century Palestinian village. Lavon had gone there to borrow clothing and replica artifacts.

He could see that none of us had changed our minds, though he did have an unanswered question.

“Juliet, you never explained how can we signal this, um, device to return?”

She didn’t immediately respond, which we all found disconcerting.

“We can signal it to come back, can’t we?” he asked.

“Yes,” she finally said, “you should be able to initiate a transfer on your end.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out four thin plastic wafers that resembled the flash memory cards in digital cameras.

“The system is programmed to return you to the present time automatically after a pre-set interval, but if you run into a more urgent situation, squeeze this for ten seconds, and you’ll bring back all mammalian life forms within a two meter radius.”

Unless we got tangled up with rabid dogs, that sounded easy enough; too easy, in fact.

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

“The catch is that the transport process requires a tremendous electrical surge. If we schedule your arrival in advance, we can have the capacitors charged ahead of time. But we can keep them in that state for only one hour. After that, we must shift to a stand-by function.”

“How long does it take to go from standby to fully operational?” asked Markowitz.

“We’ve narrowed the time required to thirty minutes.”

“I see. So if we end up running for our lives?”

“You’ll have to keep running for half an hour. I’m sorry. It’s the best we’ve been able to do.”

***

The others grew quiet as they considered this, but in the end, they didn’t lose any of their determination to proceed. Still, one more issue nagged at me.

“Juliet, given that all new technology goes through a gestation period, so to speak, where the kinks are worked out, I assume you tested this before Henry ventured back?”

She nodded.

“Once we developed the capability to transmit three dimensional objects, we conducted a number of experiments using dogs. The automatic recall apparatus proved successful, and more importantly, we could detect no ill effects on the animals’ biological systems, either at the time or several weeks later.”

Bryson opened a cabinet under the credenza to her right, pulled out a remote control, and pressed a button to lower a screen from the conference room’s ceiling.

“For the first human trial, Henry simply went back to the previous hour. Once we confirmed that success, we decided to run a second experiment, to a place and time where he could easily survive and earn a living in case he could not, for some unexpected reason, return to the present.”

“Makes sense,” nodded Markowitz. “Where did he go?”

“Dallas; November 1963. Had he been trapped there, his scientific talents would have proven useful. I doubt he would have had trouble finding employment, and as you’re already aware, he would know exactly where to invest any money he happened to earn.”

Markowitz chuckled. “Don’t tell me he was a conspiracy theorist!”

She shook her head. “Not at all. He considered them unbalanced souls with overly active imaginations and too much time on their hands.”

“So why that particular moment?”

She smiled. “If we were going to perform a test anyway, why not clear up some other mystery while we were at it?”

She opened a cabinet and removed a DVD. Then, she dimmed the lights, dropped the disk into the machine and pressed ‘play.’ For a brief moment, the screen remained blue, with only the date and time stamp showing at the bottom right-hand corner. 1963 11 22 12:27:31.

“Two minutes,” she said.

The image that came to light was that of a long, narrow grass-covered slope about thirty yards long and bounded at the top by a low wooden stockade-style fence and a concrete pergola.

A few people walked quickly by, heading toward the east where the President’s motorcade was turning onto Houston Street, but the others — I counted nine — seemed content to remain where they were. One even had a movie camera.

“OK. Here we go.”

Five seconds later, three shots rang out — audible, though not obvious in the midst of the crowd noise. Then came the screams. Still, the camera did not move, but remained focused on the fence and the trees marking the edge of the slope.

Despite the chaos nearby, the camera recorded nothing of consequence.

“The Grassy Knoll?” asked Bergfeld.

“Nothing but grass,” said Bryson. “No hidden gunmen at all. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

She didn’t reply. Like most natives of Dallas, Sharon felt the faster that memories of Kennedy’s assassination faded, the better — something that was easy for her anyway, since she had been born over a decade after the event.

“So who did it?” asked Markowitz.

“How would I know?” Bryson replied. “You’ve read the books; you’ve seen the web sites. There are dozens of those nutty theories. This only disproved one of them.”

“Why didn’t he try to stop it?” asked Sharon. “He could have called the police.”

Juliet shook her head.

“Suppose he had made that call. Suppose he found a pay phone earlier that morning: There’s