Prologue (35 page)

Lewis felt a bit absurd in the white shirt, chinos, and dress shoes he had just purchased. His jeans, underwear, sport shirt, socks, and Reeboks–all he had come through the wormhole with-were safely stored in the Floyd’s bag stuffed inside a locker at the bus station located off the Carpenter’s lobby. Only what had come through the wormhole could return, and Lewis had no intention of appearing naked back at the lab.

He incessantly replayed the events of the last six hours. He was amazed at how normal everything seemed. He pressed his fingers tight on the steering wheel and concentrated on the sensation. Back in
Cambridge
he had often wondered what it would be like, what he would feel.

Ginter shifted into third gear. When he removed his left leg from the clutch he stretched it to the side until he felt the muscle in his lower back begin to pull.

“Damn Soviet artillery,” he muttered. “I’ve got an injury from a war that hasn’t been fought yet. If I can go back in time why doesn’t my back regenerate, too?” Then he realized that if his body regenerated, he would have come through the wormhole as a single cell, or even less, in 1963.

He was left with a sense of awe. When he had contemplated the possibilities in
Cambridge
he had thought that the experience might possess a movie-set-like quality. DeVere had mused that if the Accelechron propelled one through the wormhole, it was impossible to know what the experience would be.

At the eastern end of the bridge Lewis slowed and turned right under a blinking traffic light. He headed down
Canal Street
toward the Carpenter Hotel. The array of oncoming fifties, and early sixties models on the narrow road confirmed the reality. Along his right ran a double set of railroad tracks. Beyond, a canal formed a mile long border to the labyrinth of canals, train tracks, and mill buildings that stretched down to the river.

“A mill town,” Paul had recalled in his eleventh floor room at The Carpenter just hours earlier. According to Amanda, he remembered rightly. In its heyday, the Amoskeag Corporation had been the largest textile company in the world employing, at one point, over 17,000 workers. The corporation had run the town and to Lewis’ left stood the remnants of the company housing where the Amoskeag had been able to recover in rents much of the measly wages it paid its immigrant workers.

It had always been the story of the South, with its plantations and slavery, that revulsed Lewis, but the North too had its story.

The Corvette was humming perfectly, and Lewis slammed it into second to slow, waited for a 1958 Dodge to pass, and then swung left and accelerated up
Middle Street
toward the Carpenter. After his quick trip with Paul to Easler’s and Floyd’s clothing stores, he had talked Pamela into accompanying him on a walk to Resnik Motors. He had carefully examined the Corvette in front of a suspicious sales clerk before paying the $2,995.00 in cash. He was surprised that no title was involved. From there they drove to a place called Riley’s Gun Shop in Hooksett, and then made the short drive to
Concord
to register the car.

As he approached the stop sign opposite the porticoed entrance to the Carpenter he slammed on his brakes and jerked the ‘Vette hard into a parking space. Pamela roused and sat up.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, brushing back her bangs.

“Cops,” Lewis said.

Across the street three
Manchester
police officers stood outside the main entrance, talking to the desk clerk. Two cruisers sat parked across the street. A fifth man, heavyset, turned and ducked into the building with one of the officers.

Without taking his eyes off the group Ginter asked
, “
What does Collinson look like?”

“Huh? You mean Ralph?” Pamela pursed her lips.
“Older guy.
Mid-fifties.
White hair, balding.
Very pale.
Looks like everyone’s favorite uncle.”

“Heavy?” Ginter asked. Across the street the desk clerk remained huddled with the two officers.

“No, pretty thin.
Why?”

“A guy just went into the building with one of the cops
,“
Ginter said. “It wasn’t Pomeroy. I thought it might be Collinson. But he was heavy, and much younger.”

Lewis squinted at the group. “Look at the cop on the right,” he instructed. “Does he look familiar?”

Pamela raised her right hand and shielded her eyes. She studied the group and shrugged. “It’s not like I’d know anyone back here,” she answered.

“This morning, in the park, the two cops, wasn’t that one of them?” Ginter asked.

Pamela turned back to the group. The officer glanced up and looked directly at Ginter. He turned and said something to the other two men before crossing the street to one of the cruisers.

“It’s him,” Ginter muttered, and slammed the Corvette into first. He pulled out of the parking space and rolled up to the intersection. He turned right and threaded the sports car between the group and the cruisers without looking to either side. The desk clerk looked up and said something to the officer. At the corner Ginter turned left toward the city’s main thoroughfare, checking his mirror as he did so. A black Studebaker station wagon came up behind him. Behind it, the cruiser pulled out and turned up after him.

“Shit!” Ginter muttered.

Pamela turned and looked back.

“What
are were
going to do?” she asked, turning front again.

Ginter pondered. “We’ll circle around and try to get back into the hotel to check it out.”

The traffic light turned red and Ginter stopped the Corvette at
Elm Street
. He nonchalantly glanced back in his mirror again but the Studebaker blocked his view.

“See any ‘No Turn
On
Red’ sign?” Ginter asked.

Pamela shook her head.

“It’s O.K.,” she said.

Ginter looked to his left. Nothing was coming and Ginter turned right.

“We’ll circle back and park and approach the hotel on foot. We’ll go in the side entrance and up the stairs to their rooms,” he said.

Behind him the police cruiser whipped out around the Studebaker, turned right on
Elm Street
, and activated its red bubble light.

“He’s after us!” Pamela exclaimed. She turned to Lewis, her face pale. “I don’t have any identification on me.”

Lewis grimaced and checked the mirror again. The cruiser had closed to 100 feet.

“Buckle up,” he commanded.

Pamela reached back with both hands.

“There are none,” she said.

“Then hang on.”

Pamela grabbed the dashboard with her right hand and the edge of her seat with her left as Lewis turned the Corvette sharply to the right down
Pleasant Street
.

He accelerated down the steep hill only braking when he saw the road ending at
Canal Street
. Across the way were the railroad tracks and beyond, the array of mill buildings. Ginter shoved the ‘Vette into second and released the clutch. The car slowed and he turned left. Pamela twisted in her seat and stared back at the cruiser whose piercing siren could now be heard.

“The highway,” she called out to Ginter. “Get to the highway. You can outrun him there, like you did in
Cambridge
. You gotta’ go the other way.”

Ginter cranked the wheel hard right at the next intersection and the car jounced over triple railroad tracks and into the mill yard.

The cruiser slowed to take the same turn. Ginter turned the ‘Vette again, this time hard left, and accelerated along a cobblestone road between the train tracks and more brick housing.

“No highway,” he answered. “He’ll radio the State Police and they’ll put up a road block. We’ve gotta’ lose him in town. He can’t follow us in tight turns.”

Ginter twisted the wheel hard right and the car bumped down another cobblestone road between more brick housing. Laundry hung from porches. Ginter glanced back as the cruiser picked its way across the tracks before disappearing from view.

At the bottom of the hill the lower canal stretched before them and Ginter swung left. Directly ahead lay a main thoroughfare with heavy traffic. Beyond that to the left was a small railroad station.

“Shit!” Ginter said as he
braked
just before a sign that read, “
Granite Street
.” He nosed out into traffic and turned right as an approaching delivery driver slammed on his brakes and leaned on his horn. Ginter crossed over a small bridge above the lower canal before again swinging right onto
Commercial Street
and back into the mill yard.

“Watch for the cop,” he ordered and shoved the car up into third gear as he accelerated between two mill buildings. To his right was a low red brick building that blocked the view of the Corvette from the other side of the lower canal.

After several seconds Pamela said, “He turned with us.” The return of the siren’s wail confirmed her observation.

“Fuck!” Ginter exclaimed. “I thought he’d keep going across the river.”

“You weren’t far enough ahead. When he didn’t see you...” Pamela’s voice trailed off.

“I can fix that,” Ginter snarled as he popped the ‘Vette into fourth and raced up to sixty. The chassis vibrated violently over the cobblestones. Pamela turned forward and grabbed the dashboard with both hands.

Commercial Street was narrow with mill buildings close on both sides and Ginter wove the Corvette between parked vehicles and along a railroad spur that ran up the middle of the road. Startled workers quickly moved aside.

“Three more turns,” he chattered as the ‘Vette bounced over the cobblestones, “and that guy will be toast.” Behind them the siren began to fade.

They raced past a large horseshoe shaped building on the left with a “Habitant Soup” sign at the near end and a “Waumbec Mills” sign at the other. When the low building on their right ended Ginter jerked the ‘Vette hard right. The rear of the sports car slid out but Ginter cut the wheel back and the car skimmed past the building’s wall. He accelerated under an overhead walkway and across a steel bridge over the lower canal.
Straight ahead loomed another main roadway.
To their left lay the
Amoskeag
Bridge
and the highway entrance. Behind them the siren grew fainter.