My First Novel: Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Leaving the fiery chaos that was Physics Lab #7 behind, Mike made his way to a dark street just a few blocks from the Cal Tech campus. San Pasqual was a quiet, lane in a tranquil, upscale part of town. Fire truck sirens wailed in the distance, but they aroused no evident concern in this peaceful neighborhood. Mike called Andy to pick him up — and within an hour he arrived on the spot.

Mike put the bin full of Nazi gear in the back of Andy’s van, then got in the passenger seat. The van was fixed so Andy could drive while still seated in his wheelchair. He noticed that Mike was staring at the modifications.

“Cool rig, right? It’s got a ramp that lets me roll up in my chair and get behind the wheel. And I can drive the damn thing using only my hands.”

Andy started driving away. “So, mind if I ask who got whacked back there?”

“You won’t believe it.”

“At this point, I’ll believe anything.”

“Huber, Horst – and Himmler and Goebbels and Adolph Hitler himself!’’

“No shit! That’s nuts.”

“Tell me about it. But ya gotta wonder, Andy. How’s this gonna change history? Does it change history?”

“Who knows? Think about it, Mike. All those big Nazi assholes killed themselves right around the time our troops reached Berlin. So, if Hitler and his boys went off the grid a few months earlier, does it really matter? They’d already lost the war. And none of those creeps were in the dock at Nuremberg anyway. So, there’s no point in wondering about it.”

As they turned right off San Pasqual onto Hill Avenue, bound for the 134 Freeway, Andy jerked a thumb toward the back of the van. “What’s in the bin, Mike? Souvenirs?”

“Nazi stuff. Their uniforms, medals, sidearms, and everything else.”

“No shit! That’s a goddamn treasure trove, buddy. Those right-wing militia freaks would pay beaucoup bucks for big time Nazi shit like that. You could make a mint.”

“It’s not for sale, Andy, but it could be bait. I’ve got some ideas brewing about next steps. But what I want to know right now is how’s Gloria? Is she okay? Can I see her?”

“She’s home, Mike. She’s fine. They discharged her two days ago. The bullet passed through her arm. No broken bones. She lost lots of blood, but she was using an improvised tourniquet when the paramedics found her. Was that you, Mike?’

“I used my tie.”

“Good call, buddy. You probably saved her life.”

“Take me to her, Andy.”

“Will do.”

Andy turned the van onto the northbound ramp of the 134 Freeway. They were passing through Glendale when Mike broke a period of anxious silence.

“So, Andy. What’s the latest on that footage I shot at Murphy’s Ranch? What do your guys at the FBI think? Are they taking any action?”

“I don’t know, Mike. They stopped talking to me.”

“They what…?

“They’re polite when I call, but they say they can’t talk. The higher-ups must’ve gotten spooked. Maybe they’re worried the video’s a fake. All that excitement and now? Nada.”

“Goddammit! I almost got killed shooting that stuff.”

“Yeah, and so did a cop.”

“What about that whole damn Rustic Canyon Shootout? The cops killed some of those militia bastards, right? Doesn’t that confirm what’s on the footage?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mike. They’re stonewalling me.”

“They’re fucking this up, Andy. That’s what they’re doing. They’ve got no idea what they’re dealing with. Our democracy is on the line. This is a neo-Nazi, fascist wet dream. I’m not shitting you, Andy, we’re looking at civil war!”

“Aw, c’mon, Mike…”

“Listen! This is no bullshit. Maybe I just cut off the head of the snake, but the rest of it is alive and growing — all across the country. And I’m the only asshole who knows exactly what’s going on. That means I’m probably the only one who might be able to stop it.”

“So,” Andy asked, “What’s your plan?”

“I’m working on it, pal. I’m working on it. But first, I gotta see Gloria.”

Nearly an hour later, Andy dropped Mike off at Gloria’s Malibu beach house. Dressed in Andy’s police uniform, Mike looked like shit, and smelled like gasoline. How would she receive him? He’d only been gone for a week or so – time being totally fucked up at this point. But it felt like ages to him. What had it been like for her? She took a bullet for him, and he left her behind, wounded, as he ran off after Horst. Was she still going to be okay with that?

Mike knocked on Gloria’s door like a nervous high school boy picking up his freshman prom date. It felt like forever before she spoke through the screen door.

“Is that you, Mike Delaney?”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s me.”

“Any reason why I should open this door and let you in?”

“I was the guy who gave you that tourniquet?”

“Weren’t you the asshole who got me shot?”

“Guilty as charged. But…”

“But what?”

“I love you, Gloria.”

“You do?”

“I just traveled sixty-three years to get back to you.”

“Big deal. Did you get shot?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Gloria opened the door, her arm in a sling. “Kiss me, asshole. And mind my wounded wing.”

Two hours later, after several drinks and the whole, mad story, Mike and Gloria lay in bed, sexually spent — and way too tired to think.

After Gloria fell asleep, her head resting on his shoulder, Mike turned on the television in time for a report on the latest racist mass murder — this time in the American heartland. Fifty-seven Hispanic farm workers and family members gunned down in rural southern Ohio. Masked men in combat gear attacked a local community center, run by a Catholic church, that provided support to immigrant farm laborers. They were having a fiesta to celebrate the upcoming Christmas holiday.

In the days since Mike had stalked Dr. Huber into the past, the race war had spread across the country. The news anchor ran down a list of mass shootings in the past week. There were dozens of them. The fifty-seven dead in Ohio was the highest toll, but more than five hundred innocent people had lost their lives so far. Most of the dead were minorities. The southern states were hit hardest. Texas was the worst.

So far, none of the shooters were in custody.

A former FBI profiler came on TV to emphasize that this wasn’t a series of “lone wolf” attacks. Unlike most mass shooters looking to go out in a blaze of glory, none of these perps killed themselves – or left any kind of manifesto. And they always worked in teams. Witnesses reported anywhere from three to five shooters at each scene: all masked and equipped for war. On the few occasions that police arrived in time to confront the attackers, the cops were outgunned by what appeared to be AR-15s. Fifteen responding lawmen had been killed so far.

Just as the anchor was reporting that the governors of California, Oregon and New Mexico were preparing to call up the National Guard, Mike switched off the television.

“I’m not done, Gloria. I’m not done.”

She heard him. She’d only appeared to be sleeping. Much as she wanted Mike to be safe – to be hers — she knew it was coming.

“I’ve got to take these guys down. And I think I know how to do it.”

“Why is this your job, Mike? You’ve already done enough. Give whatever information you’ve got to Andy, and he can feed it to the FBI or the CIA or whoever…”

“Look, babe,” Mike said, holding Gloria close and gazing into her eyes with all the longing a woman could ever dream of, “I want to be here with you more than anything. But I’m the only guy in the world who really knows what the hell is going on.”

“So, tell Andy everything you know – and he can pass it on to the cops!”

Mike squeezed Gloria harder, maybe too hard. “Baby. Think about it. They’d wonder where Andy got all that information. He’s just an old, retired desk jockey. They’d think he was nuts.”

“But Andy gave them the video you shot at Murphy’s Ranch, right? He said that when they saw that video their hair was on fire, remember? So, the FBI already knows about these militia guys and all the guns. Anybody who saw that video could connect the dots.”

“Maybe they did connect them, baby. Maybe my video is helping. I don’t know. But Andy says nobody at the Bureau is talking to him now. They might’ve gotten cold feet. It was an insane scene after all. Crazy Nazis talking about leading a race war in America.”

“But what can you do on your own? What can any one man do?’

“I can do things the cops can’t do. Things they’d never imagine. Things you don’t need to know.”

“You’re scaring me, Mike.”

“Baby, listen. If I can’t throw a wrench in this crazy militia shit, you and I can never truly be happy. We’d just be fucking our way through the apocalypse.”

“What a way to go, right?”

“Amen, baby.”

Mike kissed Gloria with all the passion he could muster in his weary, time-traveling state. She wiped away a tear. “Mike Delaney. You’re an impossible person. You shouldn’t even exist. But you know more than anyone else how all this craziness started. So, it’s just my luck that my long-lost lover boy is the only guy who can bring it to an end.”

Gloria was sending her beloved knight on a righteous crusade — and he’d prove himself worthy of her favor.

“Gina asks about you, Mike. She wonders who you are and what the deal is between us. I tell her you’re an old friend, but she asks how old. Should I tell her the truth? Can she deal with the fact that her grandmother’s boyfriend is really eighty-six years old? It’s weird as hell.”

“And getting weirder.” Mike kissed Gloria’s hand. “Weirder every damned day.”

“So, go solve this fascist Armageddon shit, Mike. Then we’ll sort out the personal stuff. Now, let’s get to sleep. You need some rest for whatever comes next.”

Mike woke up the next morning, still exhausted. Gloria teased that he was suffering from “time travel lag.” She thought it was funny, but Mike didn’t get the joke. “Time travel lag, honey,” she said, a bit miffed that he didn’t appreciate her wit. “You know, like jet lag.”

“Jet lag?”

“You never heard of jet lag?”

After a beat, Gloria realized. “Oh, that’s right. No passenger jets in 1951. Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re a dinosaur. Would you like some eggs?”

“About a hundred of ‘em. Us dinosaurs have to maintain our enormous weight.”

Mike wrapped his arms around Gloria’s waist while she fried up breakfast. She shook him off, pretending to be annoyed. He wished it could go on like this with her: cracking jokes around the house, sharing lost time, living in the moment, and loving each other for as long as it could possibly last. But not a chance.

The phone rang and Gloria picked it up. She handed it to Mike. “It’s Andy. He’s got news.”

“Hey, Mike. How’re you feeling this morning?”

“I’m okay, Andy. As okay as I can be right now. Just about to have some breakfast. So, what’ve you got?”

“Have you been watching the news?”

“I just woke up, buddy. I don’t know shit. I killed a bunch of Nazis and blew up Cal Tech yesterday. Did anybody notice?”

“Very funny, pal. Local TV is covering the fire at Cal Tech, but they don’t know much at all. They certainly haven’t connected it to all these shootings. The fire ran through most of the building. They say it appeared to have started somewhere on the first floor. No students were hurt. But they obviously don’t know what we know.”

“Don’t know or aren’t saying?”

“Who can tell?” Andy continued. “I talked to an old surfing pal in the Pasadena FD. Nobody’ll go on the record, but he says there were a bunch of bodies found at the scene. As many as seven. Burned to a crisp. Two looked like they were dressed in body armor. A pile of bodies in the lab didn’t look like they were wearing anything at all. My guy got the scoop from one of the first responders. Then word from the top came to shut the fuck up! So now, nobody’s talking. Either they don’t know what Physics Lab #7 was all about — or they’re covering up.”  

“Have they ID’d any of the bodies?”

“Are you nuts, Mike? They were nothing but ashes.”

Mike knew they’d probably identify Horst – and maybe the militia guys — from dental records, but what about the other charred bodies? Will they search dental records all the way back to ‘45? From fucking Berlin? Mike suddenly felt very good about taking all their Nazi uniforms and shit.

“Don’t ask too many questions, Andy, but keep the lines of communication open.”

“Right, Mike. I’m just a curious old ex-cop, trying to stay ahead of the TV news.”

“That’s right, pal.”

Gloria chimed in. “They might think Horst was just a Nobel Prize winning genius who went crazy and destroyed his work.”

Mike smiled. Gloria was beautiful and brilliant. “True, my love. But what about the four Nazis who died with him?”

“Potential investors?” Gloria turned back to the stove. “You’re breakfast’s almost ready.”

Mike continued with Andy. “Do you have that box of Nazi stuff I left in your van?”

“No. I donated it to Goodwill. Are you kidding? I’ve been on eBay all morning. Nazi fan boys will pay big time money for vintage Third Reich uniforms and stuff. Even if that shit wasn’t worn by the actual real-life motherfuckers, it’s worth tens of thousands. Maybe millions. Mint condition Nazi paraphernalia really sells.”

“No doubt, Andy. That’s why I need it. It’s bait. Big-time bait.

“I’ve got ‘em whenever you need ‘em.”

“You still fixed for explosives?”

“Still got plenty of dynamite and C-4. Why? What’s the plan?”

“I’m still working on it. But I’ll see you later.”

“How much later?”

“After I’ve had my breakfast. I don’t want to disappoint my beautiful cook.”

“I swim at the gym until 10:00 – we can meet after that.”

“Okay. Noon. Your place.”

Mike hung up the phone. Gloria gave him a loving look — both sad and very, very proud.

“Eat your breakfast, Lancelot. Then go out and slay me some dragons.”