Con could almost swear he heard them in the distance.Had heard them since Rita had walked up to him in Roswell.She’d asked for his help and he’d put her right in the line of fire aimed at them.
It would be nice to know how he’d done that so he didn’t do it again.
At least now that it was mostly dark—he had a small light so he could find his way in the dark—it was a relief.Ever since he’d started flying through or into different times, he’d had that weird waviness at the edges of his sight.It hadn’t interfered with his ability to fly, thank goodness, but he didn’t like it.
And he really didn’t like the shadows of something or someone moving in that waviness.They were like bad photographs shifting in and out of view.It was just creepy.
Chapter10
John studied the stream of data.One of the advantages of the future was the ability to closely examine the past with the microscope of future technology.
Advanced facial recognition, massive databases of information culled from newspapers, magazines, books, all the versions of the internet, memoirs, random brochures.They had collected anything and everything that might be useful and reduced it to dashes and dots.
Everything always ended up as dashes and dots.
The trick in finding what you wanted—or who you wanted—was figuring out what parameters to use for the search.It was always better if the target had a name.That John couldn’t find a name was annoying.
The ripples in time had made it impossible to trace the flight of the bi-plane after it left Roswell.Briefly, his men had been in the same ripple of time.It was a lucky break that they’d seen the plane the plane at all.
Stinks.What a name for a plane, but it had made a path to a type of plane.A Pitts Special.
That should have helped, but a lot of the early Pitts had been hand built, so they weren’t registered anywhere official.
The pilots of that time probably knew each other, knew who had what plane.They would have operated in a world of rustic airfields leftover from World War II.A world of cash transactions and unrecorded connections.
They did have one other clue.His pilot insisted the guy must have been a stunt pilot at some time.They’d have got the Pitts if not for the ripples in time.But they’d lasted longer than they should have.
It was a long shot, but he’d had his people looking at pilots who owned or flew Pitts Specials.They were smart people and managed to reduce the parameters of their search grid.
And the one grainy photograph they’d been using for their facial recognition searches got a hit.
On a dead pilot.
With time travel in the mix, dead wasn’t always final, but there’d been no sign of Hayes after his death—unless he didn’t count the image from Roswell.
John counted everything, so he counted that.He just couldn’t see what it gained him.
There was a knock, then a geek poked his head in.
“Sir, I might have an idea.”
His “might” was better than most others certainties, so he waved him in.
He needed an idea, even a bad one.Maybe, he thought, I’m getting too old for this.He did an inner eye roll.Did he even know how old he was anymore?
Rita woke early, when the light found its way to her face through a small, and somewhat grimy window.After taking care of her physical needs in the tiny bathroom, she explored the contents of the refrigerator, settling for an apple and a glass of milk.
A little more searching unearthed a note pad and a pencil.She sat down and studied the blank page as she munched on the apple and drank her milk.
Despite the room’s down-hearted appearance, it didn’t smell down-hearted.She suspected the sad stuff was mostly for show.The sheets had been clean and crisp, and the mattress not bad at all.No stuffy smell to the pillow either—unlike Joe’s spare room pillow.
If she hadn’t arrived here on a wing and a prayer, she might have bought it.But she was who and what she was, and they were—not what they seemed either.
Her vague idea of what she needed them to know coalesced and she began to write, slowly at first, then faster as her thoughts cleared.It happened like this for her.Sleep would bring a clarity she couldn’t summon while awake.At the edges of her sight, time simmered gently, almost approvingly.
Whatever her fears might have been, her instincts, her gut, and time approved.But would the others believe her?She couldn’t prove she meant them no harm so how did she convince them to let her help them?
It was possible this was all they’d allow her.She wrote faster.
