Chapter 43
Six Days, Two Hours, Thirty-Four Minutes
"Ebdon!"
Striding unevenly in his dark grey bathroom and matching slippers, a smiling Ebdon Finkle walked through the opened airlock at the rear of Frank Parker's isolation chamber. His steps were purposeful and pronounced. He looked like a man who had seen the ravages of one's darkest hours – a firmly set brow under a greasy, sweat-lined forehead, the shallowness and reddening in the crevasses beneath and around the eyes, the drooped shoulders of ache and fatigue. His body had been severely wracked by some recent and terrible malady. But his eyes were twinkling, and the man approached without hesitation.
"Hello, Frank," the man said. His voice held no hint of resentment or bitterness but rather a healthy presence of human warmth.
Immediately, Parker glanced toward Talmadge ...
... who smiled with pure delight?
"Wait a minute!" the chrononaut tried, holding up his hands, commanding the man to halt in his tracks.
"What?"
"Ebdon, don't take this personal, but I need you to stop right where you are and stay there!"
"What did I do?"
"Don't come near me!" Parker demanded. "Don't come any closer! You shouldn't even be in here! There's a danger of ... there's the possibility of ... Bradley, help me out here! Can I talk about this? Does he have clearance?"
Keeping his smile, the director answered, "The man stood at Death's Door for you, Frank. I think he's allowed a bit of an explanation."
Quickly, Parker locked eyes with the robed man. "Ebdon, I don't know what they've told you, but there's a chance that I could contaminate you ..."
"Not any more, there isn't," Talmadge interrupted.
Uncertain as of what to do next, Parker stepped back. Should he run to the far side of an already small room? Should he pull the blanket from the bed and wrap himself under it for security? Should he hold his breath? He didn't want to endanger Finkle any longer. He didn't want to endanger anyone. He refused the risk. He couldn't do it.
"Bradley!" he shouted. "Is this some ... some sick joke? What the hell is going on here?"
"Oh, pipe down, son! You'll get yourself all knotted up inside!" Ebdon exclaimed, continued to step further into the sanitized chamber. "And stop worrying about doing me any harm. I won't hear another word of it. I've been close to dying in my life before – maybe never so close as I was an hour ago, thanks to you – but I beat the bug, Frank, and I beat it good."
Parker studied the man's triumphant expression. Could it have happened? Could everything Bradley and Mentnor and even Channing had told him been a lie? No. No one – in this world or any other – would be that cruel. The chrononaut refused to believe he'd be subject to that disturbing torture.
"How?"
"How what?"
"How can you be here, Ebdon? How can you be standing in here?"
He shrugged, and, for a brief moment, Parker thought the wise man looked like a small child. "They gave me a shot."
"A shot?"
"Some kind of vaccine," Ebdon explained. "You see, at first I thought they were giving me something to lessen the pain, you know? To ease my passing. But I'll be the tail end of a hound dog if the needle prick didn't end up doing the trick, Frank." Still grinning, the old man hopped in place one time, stamping his feet hard to the metal floor. "I'm fit as a fiddle, albeit an old one. An heirloom, you might say." He waved toward the director. "The doctors were going to tell you about it. Stubborn as I am, I insisted that I get the chance to be the first one to let you know. I wanted to see your face when you got the news. I may not read people the right way, but I had a feeling about you, Frank Parker, from the moment you trotted up to the porch of my restaurant." He leveled a slightly trembling finger at him. "You're good people. You didn't mean me – or any of my family or any of the people in my restaurant – any harm. I knew it, and I personally wanted you to know that I knew." He shrugged. "I guess I could tell that by the way you handled yourself when those soldiers showed up." Grimacing, he added, "Boy, those greenines sure made a mess of things."
"Greenies?" Parker asked.
"Yes, greenies," the man replied. "It's what we called the infantry in my day ... back in World War II. I was a greenie, though, back then, folks preferred to call me a 'darkie.'" He shook his head. "I never much cared for that, but times have changed, thank the Lord, but those greenies sure made their presence known at the restaurant." He snorted. "Hell, I'll be cleaning the entire place for weeks!"
Incredulous, Parker turned to the glass wall. "Bradley, please tell me that this is not a dream?"
"It's experimental vaccination, Frank," the director said. "Really, it's more of an antidote. Once a person has been exposed to temporal contamination, Chroniticin can be administered with the hope that it'll stabilize the host's metabolism until such a point that the immune system can produce enough white blood cells ... well, to be perfectly honest, I never was a chemist, so let's just say that – for now – it works. The CDC has been working on it – in conjunction with the efforts of our top medical personnel – for quite some time." Pointing at the old man, he said, "Mr. Finkle is our first successful test case."
"A vaccine?" the chrononaut asked. "But ... how is that possible?"
"You're looking at it," Talmadge replied, smiling. "Keep in mind that the vaccination is in extremely limited supply, Frank. It isn't as if we've had a wealth of opportunities to test the serum, but I think you'll agree that Mr. Finkle is living proof that, at least initially, we should all be very pleased with the results."
Numbly, Parker turned and walked over to the old man. Reaching out, he took his hand and grasped it firmly. "Ebdon," he began, his heart beating in his mouth, "I am so sorry for what could have happened to you."
"Son, you're wasting time on an apology that isn't necessary."
"Yes, it is," Frank insisted. He knew that the man's graciousness wouldn't allow for a full-blown apology, but he had to say it, if only for his own conscience. "Ebdon, I was ... careless." He didn't want to divulge too much about the BackStep Program, knowing full well that to do so would put the elderly man at even greater risk. "I didn't know that I was infected – that I could infect you – that I was contagious with anything – and I am so sorry for what could've been a terrible accident."
Lowering his head, Ebdon said, "Nothing terrible happened." He shrugged. "Besides, maybe you did me some good. My business will probably go through the roof now that the customers have something more to gossip about other than the food." He smiled and shook his head. "I'm alive, and I couldn't be happier to see you in great shape, too."
Parker couldn't believe what he was hearing. Throughout his leaps back in time, he had encountered the vicious. He had engaged the deadly. He had even resisting the tempestuous. Here was a man – a truly forgiving soul.
Weakly, he tried, "I don't know what to say, Ebdon."
The old man nodded. "Well, this young doctor friend of yours told me that you were the person who stopped that airliner from crashing into the World Trade Center back on September 11th," he explained. "So, the way I see things, there are an awful lot of folks who owe you a more than a small debt of their gratitude, son." Gripping his fingers more tightly around Frank's palm, he added, "I have to say that it does me proud to shake the hand of a patriot like you."
"Doctor?"
He had remained so focused on Ebdon and Talmadge that he had failed to see the CDC-suited figure – a familiar silhouette – that had walked through the airlock behind the old man. She moved gracefully, even under all of the protective layers and despite the clumsy headgear, but Frank Parker recognized the dark, sensuous, caring eyes when they met.
"Olga," was all he could say.
"Hello, Frank," was all she could reply.
He smiled at her, trusting that – by the tone of her voice, the glimmer in her eyes – she felt something inside that neither of them ever had to put into words. It was attraction. It was anger. It was delight. It was frustration. It was a whole gamut of emotions – the entire spectrum of human possibility – but her professionalism and his antagonism always kept them from calling it what it probably, arguably, and inevitably was:
Love.
Still grinning, he offered, "I thought you were going to call me 'Mr. Parker.'"
Smiling back at him, she nodded her head. "There will be plenty of time for that later."
Stepping forward, they hugged one another. Parker's heart swelled at the sensation that rose quickly in him. Damn this temporal contamination! He wanted so badly to feel the brush of her skin against his, to rustle his fingers in her luscious auburn hair, to feel the tickle of her breath on his neck, but the suit prevented the two of them from making any physical contact. He had been locked in the isolation chamber only for a matter of hours, but, deprived as he was, he longed for real contact, and he knew how much a touch – any touch – with Olga would've made him feel so much better. Still, he felt as she willingly sank into his arms for a brief moment – pressing all of herself against him – before growing taut, stowing her emotions, and pulling away.
"It's good to see you ... again," she said, as they parted.
"I can't tell you ..." he tried, but then he stopped. He didn't know if this Olga – the one from this timeline – remotely felt the same for him as the Olga he knew – the one from his own timeline. Wouldn't she? Shouldn't she? He convinced himself – based on their momentary embrace – that she did. "I don't have the words. I never did. It's an entirely different timeline, and I don't know who's around and who isn't."
"You're here, and that's all that matters ... for now."
He studied her expression.
'She definitely feels something for me,' he thought.
"I know that today isn't your birthday, Mr. Parker, but, at Bradley's advice, I brought you a present," she explained.
On the floor behind her sat the silver case marked with the logo of the BackStep Program. Parker glanced down at it, noticing that the seals had been snapped away and the emergency panels cracked.
"Olga," he muttered, trying to embarrass her. "You shouldn't have ... but you had to go and open it, didn't you? You've spoiled the surprise! Half the fun in getting a present is tearing off the wrapping!"
Sounding like a nervous child, she giggled, and Ebdon Finkle laughed at her.
"I get the impression that the two of you know one another," he said.
Looking over at the old man, Parker winked. "How can you tell?"
"Call it an old man's intuition."
"I can live with that," he answered. Gesturing at the case, he called out to the director, "Hey, Bradley! What's in the box?"
The director tapped on the glass.
"If I'm going to let you out of your cage in order to play with the other children, I'll have to insist that you dress for the part, Frank." Talmadge nodded at Ebdon and Olga. "You, two. Back in the airlock. The man needs his privacy. He has a suit to try on." With a proper nod, he added, "Let's all keep our fingers crossed that it fits."
End of Chapter 43
Six Days, Two Hours, Thirty-Four Minutes
"Ebdon!"
Striding unevenly in his dark grey bathroom and matching slippers, a smiling Ebdon Finkle walked through the opened airlock at the rear of Frank Parker's isolation chamber. His steps were purposeful and pronounced. He looked like a man who had seen the ravages of one's darkest hours – a firmly set brow under a greasy, sweat-lined forehead, the shallowness and reddening in the crevasses beneath and around the eyes, the drooped shoulders of ache and fatigue. His body had been severely wracked by some recent and terrible malady. But his eyes were twinkling, and the man approached without hesitation.
"Hello, Frank," the man said. His voice held no hint of resentment or bitterness but rather a healthy presence of human warmth.
Immediately, Parker glanced toward Talmadge ...
... who smiled with pure delight?
"Wait a minute!" the chrononaut tried, holding up his hands, commanding the man to halt in his tracks.
"What?"
"Ebdon, don't take this personal, but I need you to stop right where you are and stay there!"
"What did I do?"
"Don't come near me!" Parker demanded. "Don't come any closer! You shouldn't even be in here! There's a danger of ... there's the possibility of ... Bradley, help me out here! Can I talk about this? Does he have clearance?"
Keeping his smile, the director answered, "The man stood at Death's Door for you, Frank. I think he's allowed a bit of an explanation."
Quickly, Parker locked eyes with the robed man. "Ebdon, I don't know what they've told you, but there's a chance that I could contaminate you ..."
"Not any more, there isn't," Talmadge interrupted.
Uncertain as of what to do next, Parker stepped back. Should he run to the far side of an already small room? Should he pull the blanket from the bed and wrap himself under it for security? Should he hold his breath? He didn't want to endanger Finkle any longer. He didn't want to endanger anyone. He refused the risk. He couldn't do it.
"Bradley!" he shouted. "Is this some ... some sick joke? What the hell is going on here?"
"Oh, pipe down, son! You'll get yourself all knotted up inside!" Ebdon exclaimed, continued to step further into the sanitized chamber. "And stop worrying about doing me any harm. I won't hear another word of it. I've been close to dying in my life before – maybe never so close as I was an hour ago, thanks to you – but I beat the bug, Frank, and I beat it good."
Parker studied the man's triumphant expression. Could it have happened? Could everything Bradley and Mentnor and even Channing had told him been a lie? No. No one – in this world or any other – would be that cruel. The chrononaut refused to believe he'd be subject to that disturbing torture.
"How?"
"How what?"
"How can you be here, Ebdon? How can you be standing in here?"
He shrugged, and, for a brief moment, Parker thought the wise man looked like a small child. "They gave me a shot."
"A shot?"
"Some kind of vaccine," Ebdon explained. "You see, at first I thought they were giving me something to lessen the pain, you know? To ease my passing. But I'll be the tail end of a hound dog if the needle prick didn't end up doing the trick, Frank." Still grinning, the old man hopped in place one time, stamping his feet hard to the metal floor. "I'm fit as a fiddle, albeit an old one. An heirloom, you might say." He waved toward the director. "The doctors were going to tell you about it. Stubborn as I am, I insisted that I get the chance to be the first one to let you know. I wanted to see your face when you got the news. I may not read people the right way, but I had a feeling about you, Frank Parker, from the moment you trotted up to the porch of my restaurant." He leveled a slightly trembling finger at him. "You're good people. You didn't mean me – or any of my family or any of the people in my restaurant – any harm. I knew it, and I personally wanted you to know that I knew." He shrugged. "I guess I could tell that by the way you handled yourself when those soldiers showed up." Grimacing, he added, "Boy, those greenines sure made a mess of things."
"Greenies?" Parker asked.
"Yes, greenies," the man replied. "It's what we called the infantry in my day ... back in World War II. I was a greenie, though, back then, folks preferred to call me a 'darkie.'" He shook his head. "I never much cared for that, but times have changed, thank the Lord, but those greenies sure made their presence known at the restaurant." He snorted. "Hell, I'll be cleaning the entire place for weeks!"
Incredulous, Parker turned to the glass wall. "Bradley, please tell me that this is not a dream?"
"It's experimental vaccination, Frank," the director said. "Really, it's more of an antidote. Once a person has been exposed to temporal contamination, Chroniticin can be administered with the hope that it'll stabilize the host's metabolism until such a point that the immune system can produce enough white blood cells ... well, to be perfectly honest, I never was a chemist, so let's just say that – for now – it works. The CDC has been working on it – in conjunction with the efforts of our top medical personnel – for quite some time." Pointing at the old man, he said, "Mr. Finkle is our first successful test case."
"A vaccine?" the chrononaut asked. "But ... how is that possible?"
"You're looking at it," Talmadge replied, smiling. "Keep in mind that the vaccination is in extremely limited supply, Frank. It isn't as if we've had a wealth of opportunities to test the serum, but I think you'll agree that Mr. Finkle is living proof that, at least initially, we should all be very pleased with the results."
Numbly, Parker turned and walked over to the old man. Reaching out, he took his hand and grasped it firmly. "Ebdon," he began, his heart beating in his mouth, "I am so sorry for what could have happened to you."
"Son, you're wasting time on an apology that isn't necessary."
"Yes, it is," Frank insisted. He knew that the man's graciousness wouldn't allow for a full-blown apology, but he had to say it, if only for his own conscience. "Ebdon, I was ... careless." He didn't want to divulge too much about the BackStep Program, knowing full well that to do so would put the elderly man at even greater risk. "I didn't know that I was infected – that I could infect you – that I was contagious with anything – and I am so sorry for what could've been a terrible accident."
Lowering his head, Ebdon said, "Nothing terrible happened." He shrugged. "Besides, maybe you did me some good. My business will probably go through the roof now that the customers have something more to gossip about other than the food." He smiled and shook his head. "I'm alive, and I couldn't be happier to see you in great shape, too."
Parker couldn't believe what he was hearing. Throughout his leaps back in time, he had encountered the vicious. He had engaged the deadly. He had even resisting the tempestuous. Here was a man – a truly forgiving soul.
Weakly, he tried, "I don't know what to say, Ebdon."
The old man nodded. "Well, this young doctor friend of yours told me that you were the person who stopped that airliner from crashing into the World Trade Center back on September 11th," he explained. "So, the way I see things, there are an awful lot of folks who owe you a more than a small debt of their gratitude, son." Gripping his fingers more tightly around Frank's palm, he added, "I have to say that it does me proud to shake the hand of a patriot like you."
"Doctor?"
He had remained so focused on Ebdon and Talmadge that he had failed to see the CDC-suited figure – a familiar silhouette – that had walked through the airlock behind the old man. She moved gracefully, even under all of the protective layers and despite the clumsy headgear, but Frank Parker recognized the dark, sensuous, caring eyes when they met.
"Olga," was all he could say.
"Hello, Frank," was all she could reply.
He smiled at her, trusting that – by the tone of her voice, the glimmer in her eyes – she felt something inside that neither of them ever had to put into words. It was attraction. It was anger. It was delight. It was frustration. It was a whole gamut of emotions – the entire spectrum of human possibility – but her professionalism and his antagonism always kept them from calling it what it probably, arguably, and inevitably was:
Love.
Still grinning, he offered, "I thought you were going to call me 'Mr. Parker.'"
Smiling back at him, she nodded her head. "There will be plenty of time for that later."
Stepping forward, they hugged one another. Parker's heart swelled at the sensation that rose quickly in him. Damn this temporal contamination! He wanted so badly to feel the brush of her skin against his, to rustle his fingers in her luscious auburn hair, to feel the tickle of her breath on his neck, but the suit prevented the two of them from making any physical contact. He had been locked in the isolation chamber only for a matter of hours, but, deprived as he was, he longed for real contact, and he knew how much a touch – any touch – with Olga would've made him feel so much better. Still, he felt as she willingly sank into his arms for a brief moment – pressing all of herself against him – before growing taut, stowing her emotions, and pulling away.
"It's good to see you ... again," she said, as they parted.
"I can't tell you ..." he tried, but then he stopped. He didn't know if this Olga – the one from this timeline – remotely felt the same for him as the Olga he knew – the one from his own timeline. Wouldn't she? Shouldn't she? He convinced himself – based on their momentary embrace – that she did. "I don't have the words. I never did. It's an entirely different timeline, and I don't know who's around and who isn't."
"You're here, and that's all that matters ... for now."
He studied her expression.
'She definitely feels something for me,' he thought.
"I know that today isn't your birthday, Mr. Parker, but, at Bradley's advice, I brought you a present," she explained.
On the floor behind her sat the silver case marked with the logo of the BackStep Program. Parker glanced down at it, noticing that the seals had been snapped away and the emergency panels cracked.
"Olga," he muttered, trying to embarrass her. "You shouldn't have ... but you had to go and open it, didn't you? You've spoiled the surprise! Half the fun in getting a present is tearing off the wrapping!"
Sounding like a nervous child, she giggled, and Ebdon Finkle laughed at her.
"I get the impression that the two of you know one another," he said.
Looking over at the old man, Parker winked. "How can you tell?"
"Call it an old man's intuition."
"I can live with that," he answered. Gesturing at the case, he called out to the director, "Hey, Bradley! What's in the box?"
The director tapped on the glass.
"If I'm going to let you out of your cage in order to play with the other children, I'll have to insist that you dress for the part, Frank." Talmadge nodded at Ebdon and Olga. "You, two. Back in the airlock. The man needs his privacy. He has a suit to try on." With a proper nod, he added, "Let's all keep our fingers crossed that it fits."
End of Chapter 43