“Did Mulroy mention that I’m not crazy? Or would you know the difference? I wouldn’t stay for a million bucks, Doc,” said Dwayne as he made for the door.
“What about ten million?”
Dwayne let the screen door swing closed. “We talking before or after taxes?” Dwayne said.
“We’re talking cash. What you tell Uncle Sam is on your conscience.”
“Break it down for me,” Dwayne said. “The events leading up to the last time you saw them.”
Tauber was nursing the same beer at the table in the kitchenette. A one-beer guy at most.
“It was just a trial run, or that’s what it was supposed to be. Caroline, Phillip Worth, and Dr. Kemp would go first. They didn’t carry much equipment other than the wave transmitter and some calibration gear. No recording devices or cameras. There were no weapons because they didn’t expect that kind of encounter. They wore the same clothing I can supply you with: organic, decomposable materials that would leave no trace for archeologists should something go wrong.”
“No prehistoric Izod labels, right?” Dwayne said.
“Right. We adjusted the power levels for the time period we wanted. The Tube takes forty-eight hours to create the desired field, which we can hold open for thirty minutes or less. The three of them walked down the tube, and within minutes, they were transmitting text back to me.”
“What kind of messages?”
“Just that they had made it through the field safely and to confirm that they were in the target era.”
“How could they know that, Doc?” said Dwayne.
“The plant life. The topography and, most accurately, the position of the stars.”
“It was night when they arrived?”
“Sometime after midnight. August 11th, 104,987 BC. I calculated that with a program from Caltech using the position of Orion relayed through the transmissions. The last messages were about the climate and then a long period of silence. Just before the field closed, I received this text message. That’s the last contact I had with them.”
Tauber held up a sheet of hand-printed notes. The line at the bottom of the page read:
HNTGHRNS MST HDE
“What does it mean?” Dwayne said.
“I have no idea. It could be a panicked typo or someone’s hand on the transmitter when they moved it.”
“How many days ago was this?”
“Seven days. But for Caroline and the others, only a few hours will have passed if I can send a second team through. I thought of going myself, but I’m the only one who can run the programs for the Tube. If I went through, I would be dooming all of us to remaining in the past forever.”
“What about your Iranian friends?” Dwayne asked. The sounds from the other room had turned from digital tennis to muffled exchanges of dialogue from a television. The boys were watching their shows.
“They’re here only to maintain the reactor. They weren’t part of the theory work. They have no real interest in the core goals we were working toward. This was a closely held project. Very secret. You can understand.”
“You said you can open the field to just hours after their first arrival,” Dwayne said. “Why not open it to before they get there?”
“There are reasons not to do this. Involved, hard-to-explain, dangerous reasons. But, trust me, attempting to overlap openings past our initial arrival point would be unbelievably bad.”
“So, bottom line,” Dwayne said. “What do you need from me?”
“I need you to go through the Tube, kick any ass you have to, and bring my sister back alive. And Phillip and Miles, of course.”
“I might need some help to do that. Get me back to Vegas. I have some people to see.”
“Would a cash advance help?” Tauber asked.
“That would go a long way, Doc.”
2
Chaz Raleigh
The pull order said 2011 Cadillac. But it was an Escalade that sat in the driveway roundabout in front of the Florida-ugly mini-mansion. Tinted glass. Spinners. Vanity plate, G8TRS.
“I do not like Escalades,” Chaz said with a sigh. He threw the clipboard up on the dash of the tow truck. Chaz was sitting shotgun.
Fat Paolo Diaz was driving and peered from the clipboard to the black SUV across the street.
“Most brothers dig Escalades,” Paolo said. “Well, not this brother,” Chaz said. “This black man has honor. That ride is for pimps and middle-aged real estate agents.”
“Tags match the order. Don’t see no club on her,” he said. “She’s a driveaway, not a tow.”
“Escalade,” Chaz said. “A car for agnostics. People who can’t make up their mind. Do I want a pimpmobile or a whoopie war machine? Oh, I’ll get both. An SUV all pussied up with wood-grain dash and seat warmers and more cupholders than a multiplex. Shit.”
“Uh-huh,” Paolo said. He yawned and covered his mouth with a chubby hand.
“And the house,” Chaz said. “Bet this clown bought at the top of the market. Now he’s underwater and can’t make the nut. Car’s in the drive ’cause the garage is full of the jet skis and a fan boat and all the other shit he bought with equity loans.”
“You good, then?” Paolo said.
“Yeah. You shove off. Krispy Kreme ain’t heard from you in an hour, and they’re getting worried,” Chaz said. He climbed out of the airconditioned cab into the wet Tampa heat with the paperwork and a master key in hand.
“Fuck you too,” Paolo said and put the tow in gear and pulled away.
The key slid into the driver’s door lock, and when Chaz turned it, something went woop woop woop under the hood and a recorded voice (it sounded like Lee Majors) said, “You are not authorized to enter this vehicle.” The wooping continued between cautious reminders from the bionic man as Chaz slid his weightlifter bulk behind the wheel. Tight fit. The owner must be a damn midget. And there was no adjusting the seat until the engine turned over. He couldn’t even get the door closed and rested a Timberline on the chrome step
