Time Travelers Never Die Page 13

  FINALLY, the worst of it seemed done. The more seriously injured patients had been hurried away. The others had returned to their homes or to whatever temporary shelters had been arranged. The Burwell Infirmary turned out to be a nursing home operated for forty years by Minnie B. Anderson. Prior to the day’s events, it had been jammed to overflowing, but they’d made room.

  Shel had had enough. This was a day that would change him forever. He had not believed human nature, on a mass scale, capable of such depravity. Not that he wasn’t aware that it had happened. But reading about things like this, and experiencing them—l iving through it—It had been a long time since he’d cried.

  There was no sign of Dave. Probably, when things got bad, he’d hit the trigger and jumped out of there. Gone home. He hoped so. He walked back toward Broad Street, looking for a place that was more or less empty. But there were people everywhere. Eventually, he decided the hell with it, turned onto Broad, saw two deputies approaching, walked into the entry of a clothing store—which was, since it was Sunday, closed—and hit the button. He didn’t think anyone had noticed.

  Didn’t really care anymore.

  HIS den had never looked, felt, safer.

  He had just begun to relax when a nimbus formed. Thank God. Dave was okay. He drew a deep breath, but then held it. The figure inside was not Dave.

  The light grew brighter, started to fade, and a puzzled, overweight little guy in a police sergeant’s uniform staggered out, grabbed hold of a chair arm, and looked around in a state of shock. He was holding the converter in his right hand. His eyes locked on Shel while his jaw dropped. “What the goddam hell happened?” he demanded. “Where am I?”

  “It’s okay, Sergeant,” Shel said.

  The cop was terrified. Where is this? What happened to the goddam jail? Then he took a second look at Shel. “I know you.”

  “I don’t think so. We’ve never met.”

  “You were out at the bridge. A little while ago.”

  “Yes. But I didn’t see you.”

  “Hell, you didn’t. You were staring at me.”

  “Take it easy, Sarge. I think you had a blackout.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have goddam blackouts. Where is this place? How’d I get here?”

  “This is what did it,” said Shel, pointing at the converter. He reached for it, tried to take it. But the sergeant snatched it back.

  “Tell me what’s happening, damn it.”

  “The converter. In your hand. It packs a wallop. An electrical charge.”

  “What?”

  “Electricity. I think it shocked you. Better put it down.” He flipped it like a hot rock. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”

  “Jay. Jay Taylor.”

  “Okay, Jay. My name’s Shel. Everything’s under control.”

  “So where the goddam hell are we?”

  “Listen.” Shel picked up the converter, pretending to handle it with great care. “Let me fix this. Then we can go out and get in the car, and I’ll take you back to the station.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “Just hang on a second while I make sure this thing can’t do any more damage.” He matched its setting to his own unit. When he was satisfied, he held it out to the sergeant.

  “No, thanks,” Taylor said.

  “It’s okay. I turned it off.”

  The guy was staring across the room at his computer. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “My TV.”

  “That’s not a TV.”

  “Listen, you want to get back, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” He opened the cover and held out the converter again. “Hold this while I get my car keys.”

  He took it. Reluctantly. Shel pressed the black button, and immediately did the same with his own unit.

  THEY were back on Broad Street. In the entry to the clothing store. The sergeant staggered, and Shel grabbed for the converter. But the policeman tried to hold on to it. “Malfunction, Jay!” Shel said. “Let go of it. Quick.”

  He did. Shel grabbed it. They drew the attention of a deputy about sixty feet away. He came running. “What the hell, Jay?” he said. “You okay?”

  “He’s not feeling well,” said Shel. “Jay, I think you had another blackout.” He turned to the deputy. “I’m glad to see you.”

  The deputy tried to take hold of the sergeant, but he shook free. Backed against a wall and faced Shel. “Goddam it,” he said. “Who are you, anyway? What’s goin’ on?”

  “I don’t know,” said Shel. “I was just trying to help.” And, to the deputy: “I think he needs medical help, Officer.”

  “Stay clear,” growled Jay. “I don’t need any help.”

  Shel backed away. “He’s had a hard day,” he told the deputy.

  Jay was enraged. He charged. Grabbed Shel by his jacket. “You’re going to have a hard day, you little son of a bitch, if you don’t start answering questions.”

  At that, the deputy also tried to get hold of Shel, who, being able to take a hint, pushed the button.

  BACK in his town house again, Shel took a minute to sit down. The fact that Jay had come into possession of the converter suggested Dave was in jail rather than a hospital. That was good news. The bad news was that it would be easier to get him out of a hospital room than a cell.

  Shel was getting better at manipulating the converter. He’d been able to lock in the precise location of the west side of the Pettis Bridge, and from that was able to calculate a decent estimate to get to the eastern side. If he could accomplish that, he’d be able to see precisely what did happen. And he needed to get there while the attack was still going on. Damn. The prospect of having to watch it all again did nothing for his state of mind.

  First, he needed to shower and change. It had been a long day. Literally. (He allowed himself a smile at that.) And he hoped that Dave hadn’t been hurt.

  He hurried through his shower. Haste made no difference, of course. He could take his time, but he couldn’t get past a sense of urgency. When he’d gotten into some fresh clothes, he did his calculations and reset the converter. There was a risk: His father claimed he could count on landing on a solid surface. (Shel knew the hard way that idea didn’t hold water.) Okay. He’d be arriving near the Alabama River. So he decided to take no chances and put his converter in a waterproof bag. He didn’t want to take a chance getting stuck in 1965.

  Rescuing David would be easy, of course, if the cops would allow him to carry two converters into the jail and hand one to their prisoner. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  He put David’s unit into a box, padded it with newspapers, closed the box, and taped it shut. Then he wrote the following instruction on the front:

  To: Adrian Shelborne

  U.S. Post Office

  Selma, Alabama

  To Be Kept Until Called For

  He clipped the other converter to his belt, put on a light jacket, and picked up the box.

  SHEL arrived immediately behind the state police just as the front of the line was passing the midway point of the bridge. Some of the troopers were on horses. They were backed up by a swarm of men not in uniform but clearly looking for a fight.

  The marchers kept coming. A deadly silence settled over the scene. Then John Cloud stepped forward and held up a hand. He looked like an ordinary guy. Shel wondered if he had a family. And that was what rendered this so chilling. Would Cloud order the unprovoked assault on the marchers, then go home and have dinner with his wife and kids?

  Lewis and Williams were, of course, in front. Cloud moved directly into their path. The marchers slowed. And stopped. He spotted Dave, just coming over the rise.

  “We don’t want any trouble here,” Cloud said. “You have two minutes to break this up and go back.”

  Jay and another sergeant were standing with the city cops. Jay was looking around, making sure his men were doing their duty, and he caught Shel looking at him. He stared back for a m
oment, then turned away.

  What had Jay said?

  “You were out at the bridge. You were staring at me.”

  The cops and their allies tightened their lines. Brandished weapons. He saw a few with tear-gas canisters. There must have been a signal, but Shel didn’t see it. Nevertheless, they moved forward as one and went after the front of the march, swinging nightsticks. The air filled with the sound of batons striking flesh and bone. The marchers broke before the onslaught, and the screaming started. Less than a minute had gone by since Cloud had issued his warning. By then more police had moved in, and the entire line of demonstrators was under attack.

  Shel backed away. The TV people shouted directions. Someone was talking into a microphone.

  SHEL lost sight of Dave during the attack, but when it was over he was lying in the roadway. He watched as two policemen hauled him to his feet and dragged him toward a waiting van. Shel tried to go to his aid, but again he was pushed back. “He’s hurt,” Shel told one of the officers. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “We’ll take care of him, sir,” the policeman said, with a warning stare.

  When the roadway was clear, ambulances began to arrive. They recovered the more seriously injured and pulled away.

  Shel set his converter to take him back two days. It deposited him again just outside the clothing store. On Friday. Twenty minutes later, he was at the post office. He gave them the package containing David’s converter, got a receipt, and returned to Sunday on the far side of the bridge.

  When he was sure he wasn’t being watched, he strode off US 80 and into the trees that lined the river. He found a patch in a remote location, removed his converter, put it into the plastic bag, and hid it in a thick cluster of bushes. He marked the spot with a couple of rocks to ensure he could find it again.

  He’d divided the units because if something went wrong and they disappeared, he and Dave would be stuck. This way, if either went missing, he could use the other to track it down and, he hoped, recover it.

  Caution was the watchword.

  HE flagged down a taxi. “The jail, please.”

  The driver, a beefy red-faced guy who smelled of beer, laughed. “They’re pretty busy down there today.”

  “Yeah. So I hear.”

  “You get a chance to whack any of ’em?”

  “No,” said Shel.

  They pulled away from the curb. “I wish I’d been there. But I had to work today.”

  “Pity. You know, I’d always thought that when everything else went to hell, we’d still have taxi drivers.”

  The driver turned sideways. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Forget it.”

  DESPITE the driver’s assertion, the police station was quiet. You would not have believed there was anything unusual going on in Selma. Shel looked around and was relieved that Jay wasn’t there.

  He needed somebody who was relatively unoccupied and settled on an officer with congenial eyes and a large bristly mustache. “Pardon me,” Shel told him, “my name’s Shelborne. I think you’ve arrested a friend of mine. I was wondering if I could see him?”

  The officer frowned. Studied him closely. “You’re not one of them, are you?”

  “No, no,” Shel said, reassuringly.

  “Okay. Look, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re a little tied up. Why don’t you come back in the morning?”

  Shel couldn’t see that anything much was going on. A couple of guys doing paperwork. That looked like about it. “Officer, I only need five minutes with him. I’ll make it worth your while if you can arrange something.” He showed him a fifty.

  The cop looked at the bill. Then at Shel. “Empty your pockets, please.”

  Shel complied. There wasn’t much. His wallet, a comb, and a handkerchief.

  The cop did a quick patdown to make sure he wasn’t carrying any weapons. Then he shrugged and took the fifty. “Okay, Mr. Shelborne, who did you want to see?”

  “David Dryden.”

  “White guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Arrested today?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the bridge.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked disgusted, but didn’t comment. “Over here, please.” He picked up a form and got Shel’s name, address, and phone number. Then he led him into a side room, divided down the middle by a screen. “Wait here.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  Within moments he was back. “He’ll be here in a minute,” he said, taking a position off to one side.

  “Thanks.”

  The opposite wall had a door. It opened, and Dave came in. He smiled sheepishly when he saw Shel.

  “You look terrible,” said Shel.

  “Yeah. I guess I kind of screwed things up, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. You okay?”

  “I think so. My ribs hurt.”

  “And you’ve got a black eye.”

  “It’s that noticeable, huh?”

  They were both conscious of the police officer, who showed no sign of going anywhere. “You look as if you need a doctor,” Shel said.

  “They’ve been telling me they’ll take care of it when they can.”

  Shel mouthed the words Arrange it.

  “How?”

  “You know,” he said, “every time you do something dumb like this, I get palpitations.”

  “They think I’m a communist, Shel. I’m going to be under guard for a while.”

  “They call in the FBI yet?”

  “That’s probably next.”

  Shel pressed his index finger against his jaw and used it to signal one. Without saying anything aloud, he formed the words One hour.

  Dave nodded. “I’d appreciate any help you can give.”

  The cop gave them another minute or two. Then he broke in: “We’re done, guys. Dryden, you can go back now.”

  THEY led Dave back to his cell. There was no clock anywhere, and they’d taken his watch, so he had no easy way to determine the passage of time. He eased himself back onto the cot, while the other prisoners laughed at him and told him what they’d do if they ever found him outside. It was a new experience. He’d never before attracted open hatred.

  He closed his eyes, and after a while the threats stopped. They began talking about him, rather than to him. And gradually the conversation shifted in other directions, notably the quality and performance of the ladies at a local service organization.

  He could hear occasional sounds from the booking area. Laughter. People talking. Doors banging. More laughter. They were in a good mood out there.

  He tried counting but got bored with that when he hit about two hundred. Time travel had its downside. Not going to do this again, he thought. If I get back home, I’m going to stay there.

  Nineteen sixty-five. The Vietnam War would be heating up. Lyndon Johnson was in the White House. John Wayne was still making movies. Neil Armstrong and the first moon landing were four years away. Computers were large pieces of hardware and came with punch cards.

  His ribs ached. Hurt every time he inhaled. Something probably broken.

  After a while, the jailer brought meals. Coffee, chicken, potatoes, and a vegetable, but God knew what the vegetable was, and the rest of it tasted like mush. He ate a little.

  When the guard came back and approached the cell, Dave bent his head, looked directly at the officer, and swallowed hard. “I need a doctor,” he said.

  The guard looked annoyed. “Sorry to hear it.”

  Dave clamped his teeth, pressed one hand to his chest, started to roll over, and screamed as if in sudden pain. “Bad heart.”

  “Yeah? You sure?” The guard retrieved the dish and cup.

  “Please.” Dave didn’t have to try hard to look as if he was seriously hurting. “I’m having a heart attack.” He was gasping for breath.

  The jailer delivered a string of epithets. “I’ll be back in a minute, Dryden,” he said. He went out and returned with t
he sheriff.

  The sheriff looked annoyed. Better things to do. “What’s the matter, Dryden?” he asked. “Something bothering you?”

  “Heart,” Dave said, clamping down on the word as if saying it was sheer agony. “Stroke. Last year.”

  The sheriff’s features softened. “Okay. Hang on a minute. We’ll get you some help.”

  CHAPTER 14

  At times, history and fate meet at a single time in a single place to shape a turning point in man’s unending search for freedom. So it was at Lexington and Concord. So it was a century ago at Appomat tox. So it was last week in Selma. . . .

  —LYNDON B. JOHNSON

  SHEL came out of the jail onto the street and approached the first policeman he saw. “Pardon me, Officer,” he said, “but my uncle Bob was picked up drunk last night. They tell me he got sick and they took him to the hospital. Which hospital would that have been?”

  Armed with the information, he flagged down a taxi, rode across the Pettis Bridge, asked the driver to wait, and retrieved his converter from the bushes along the Alabama. The cab then took him to the Selma post office.

  He used the converter to return to Saturday morning, and walked inside the building. “My name’s Shelborne,” he told the clerk. “You have a package for me.”

  With both units now in his possession, he returned to Sunday afternoon and caught another taxi to the hospital. He still had at least a half hour before Dave was likely to arrive.

  Time travelers wait for nobody. He thought about moving forward, say two minutes at a time, rather than hang around. But he wasn’t sure how many jumps the power pack would support before the red warning lamp came on. So he simply went inside to wait. The reception area was crowded. Not, apparently, by victims of the attack on the marchers, though. Everybody was white, and no one seemed to be bleeding. Shel went back out and began strolling around the hospital sidewalks.