The Portal At The End Of The Storm (Quantum Touch Book 6) Read online

  The Portal

  at the End

  of the Storm

  Quantum Touch Book 6

  Michael R. Stern

  Copyright (C) 2018 Michael R. Stern

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2018 by Creativia

  Published 2018 by Creativia

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Epilogue

  Selected Bibliography for Quantum Touch

  Books by the Author

  For Linda

  With my gratitude and all my love

  Acknowledgements

  An author often thanks those who have helped create the final product. Rightly so. No story can be complete without the assistance of others. I want to thank my wife, Linda, for tolerating the ups and downs of creating in obscurity. I want to thank those who have read parts of my books and offered constructive suggestions to make the story clearer, and hopefully better. But at this point, I want to thank the fictitious persons who are my characters. We have lived with each other for half a dozen years now. I have enjoyed our time together.

  I want to once more thank Amy Davis of Riverfog Writing Group, who has patiently tolerated my extended learning curve. I am a better writer because of her teaching.

  Thanks to my publishing team at Creativia Publishing.

  Special thanks as always to the teachers who have inspired this book, Gilbert Ashley and Russell Fritz. My memories of them have made this creation fun, no funner.

  And as always, thank you so much, those of you who have read my work. I hope you feel your time was well spent. For those of you who have read the entire Quantum Touch series, I am deeply grateful.

  Chapter 1

  Fritz

  EIGHT YEARS. All that time, I've waited. When would that day come, the day they find me? A couple of times the cops must have seen the heels of my shoes on the way out. I've been lucky, so far. Working off the books, working hard and keeping my head down has kept me out of trouble, or the electric chair. The two men in the corner are paying too much attention.

  Not many students leave college with a back-up marketable skill, or a need to work to get through the four years. I did. The demand for short order cooks has kept me in a position to rabbit when the walls closed in. Still, I wonder what's happening in the real world, my real world.

  “Hey, Kraut, you got that order yet?”

  “Scotch-Irish on my mother's side, and hybrid English on my father's. And who are you calling a Kraut, Ms. Frankfurt.”

  “Hey, asshole. Does that work better?”

  “If it works for you.” Cindy Frankfurt has been a pain for the past year. But she pays me on time and other than regular insults, she knows, or rather suspects that I'm not on the up and up with her. Need to know, Cindy, and you don't.

  Eight years is a long time to be gone, from family and friends, from a comfortable life, a job teaching history that I looked forward to after I found the portal. In that life, I had a son. And in that life, the last thing my wife, Linda, said to me was “I don't love you anymore.” In that life, I even had a different name. I had a friend. Ashley. I'm sure Ash and Jane are married by now. Eight years is a long time for a time traveler to be stuck in one place, but I never thought I'd be stranded in an alternate dimension. Believe me when I say that time travel can be unpredictable.

  When my shift here ends, all I can look forward to is my dumpy efficiency apartment, and maybe a trip to the library. I don't buy books anymore. I don't buy much of anything. Thank God for car leases. At least, I'm not stuck with constant repairs anymore. Hiding and running has been a nuisance, but it's easier to hide in plain sight. Here, now, it's just me. I have no family, no roots to tap to give my life a sense of continuity. I have accepted my anonymity, both sadly and gratefully. I've even heard that the Feds are looking for me. Will I ever find a way back?

  I tapped the bell at the window to get Cindy's attention. “Number seventeen, up. Eggs over easy, home fries, bacon and toast. Times two.” The two suits in the corner look suspiciously like law men. I've had too many brushes with the type not to know. The back door is only a few feet away. I'll be keeping an eye open in more than one direction until they're gone. I haven't seen those two before. No extra pepper on the potatoes. No reason to make them mad.

  Cindy did her usual ballet of serving and bussing. I had to admit, she was good. A lot of banter, anything for a tip. She stopped for a moment at the window and told me they had complimented me on the perfect over-easy eggs. I glanced at the table. The guy on the far side kept his eye on me. I nodded to him and told her to tell him I said thanks and come again.

  “Tell them I make nice waffles, too.”

  She cleared the other empty tables and started the routine lunch prep. We had about an hour until the crowd would begin to trickle in. I unlocked the back door, but stayed
near the service window to see what they would do. When they had finally exited, Cindy waltzed into the kitchen, and told me I had a new fan.

  “When he left, he said again, 'My compliments to the chef.' Then he asked your name.” I must have blanched because she reacted swiftly. “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing. My stomach just grumbled.” I remember a phrase from my youth that has proven true—if you can't think big, think fast. Ashley had hit the proverbial nail on the head. I lied well, and I had had many situations where lying had come in handy. But it didn't always work out.

  “Uh-huh. And I have a bridge to sell. Those guys upset you. I saw. You hardly took your eyes off them. Who are they?”

  “Never saw them before. And I hope I don't again. No one even notices a chef in a place like this unless something's wrong. They're suspicious.”

  “You're paranoid.” I disagreed. Cautious, not paranoid, but I let it pass. They were cops, no doubt. In my old life, having a cop behind me at a red light gave me butterflies. Having them invade this world shifted my strategy for escape into high gear.

  She watched me go through the motions for lunch, but I could ignore her more easily than forget why I worried about two guys who just had breakfast. I worked faster than I needed to, and then told her I'd be out back having a smoke.

  I poked my head out into the alley and checked for unwanted guests. No one, nothing. I took a deep drag, then sat in the chair I'd salvaged from a dumpster ages ago. As alleys go, this one was pretty usual, except cleaner. The trash guys around here are careful. Never have seen that before. And I make a point of picking up the occasional flotsam and jetsam that drifts back here. Linda would appreciate how neat I've become.

  For eight years, I've avoided any contact with the people from my old life. On the bad days, I hold myself back because I've already messed up their lives, not just mine. And the damage to them is nothing compared to what I had set loose on the rest of the world. That's why I've expected that eventually I would be found. President McCain wants me strung up to the nearest tree. At least that's what he'd allowed his vice-president to say. She meant it, even if he didn't.

  After an uneventful lunch crowd, I finished up and went home, stopping at the ATM to grab the cash I'd need until the end of the week. I stashed the bills in my pants pocket, not in my wallet, ever. Over the years, I've learned some of the tricks of the street. Check to see if anyone's watching. Never have a lot of cash, but always have some.

  That's when I spotted them. As I walked to my car, the guy who watched me in the shop sat in the passenger's seat as they went past. His quick glance gave away his pretending not to notice. My chest tightened and my pulse raced. I watched until the car turned out of sight a few blocks down. By the time I reached home, my nerves had calmed, and I had my plan ready.

  Over the years, I have collected backpacks. In the car trunk, ready for escape, I had a few changes of clothes, extra toiletries, only the necessities. My small apartment didn't have room for me to be a hoarder, so packing the rest would require little time or effort. I hadn't planned to leave yet, but when I went to work in the morning, I could choose to vanish or not. Some of my old life had remained, like this lesson from Tom Andrews—always be prepared and always do the unexpected. Wow, Tom Andrews. I haven't thought of him in years. The head of the president's secret service detail, killed during a failed assassination attempt. That was a sad day.

  Caution has served me well, just not soon enough to have kept me from being here. I had originally planned to fix things and just go home. The portal had been my friend. Not this time. I've found it easier to blend in, chameleon-like, where I wouldn't be a curiosity. After a few years out west, I'd come back to where I pretended to be just another East Coast guy going to work, going home. Some days, I hoped to be caught just to end the monotony.

  We restocked on Saturdays since most customers worked nearby and spent the weekend at home. My job included ordering supplies for the next week, which allowed time to analyze my predicament. This world wasn't real, at least not for me. I had no relationships, no friends, not even an occasional one-nighter. “Solitary Man” ran through my head, a tune that would remain until a new one could replace it. Elections were over, Christmas just around the corner.

  After orders had been placed and my late breakfast crowd had departed for Saturdays unknown, Cindy dragged out her holiday decorations. I had been a minimalist when putting up lights meant extra unnecessary work. Linda and I had agreed that just the two of us didn't need it. I wonder if she'd decorate for TJ. This year, in that life, he had just had his first birthday. Or does he even exist, if I've been here all this time? I never have figured out the various permutations of time travel possibilities.

  “Are you gonna help?” Cindy called, as she pulled a big box from the storage room.

  “I hadn't planned on it.”

  “Change your plans.” I abandoned my to-do list and carried the box to the dining area and at her direction began untangling the multi-colored twinkle lights.

  “You know I have things to do, Cindy.”

  “Yeah, and one of them is helping me with the decorating.”

  “It's almost lunch time and I'm not set up.”

  “No one's here. You have time.”

  “This crowd won't care.”

  “I do. I love Christmas.” A smile, seldom seen by me from this hard-bitten, tough-talking woman, changed her face.

  “You should do that more often.”

  “What?”

  “Smile. It takes ten years off.”

  “Just do the lights.” But her smile returned.

  In the year plus I'd worked here, we hadn't talked much about anything personal. I certainly didn't want to share, that California concept I'd run away from years ago. I'd guessed her to be in her 50s, and probably not bad looking at a younger age. A little wrinkling, a little gray mixed into the brown. And being on her feet all day, a pretty nice figure held up by shapely legs. I guessed she'd had a rough time of it. But I'd never asked. That would have meant letting down my guard. Thanks, Tom. Caution. I know.

  She caught me staring as I unwound the tangles. “What are you looking at?”

  “Knots,” I lied. “You know, you can get new lights for three bucks per hundred at the market. This is stupid. Why don't I go get some new ones. And when you put them away, wind them and wrap them. You won't have this mess next year.”

  “Will you get them after lunch, then? We can decorate this afternoon.”

  I don't know what possessed me, but I told her I would. Maybe eight years was softening my resolve, or just my need for human contact. “Just no music.”

  Chapter 2

  Ashley

  NOVEMBER 27, 2016

  Jane said that I'd been hard on Linda. I was, and on her mother, Emily, for not telling us everything before this mess got completely out of hand. I told Jane that both her life and mine had been upside down for the past six months because of them.

  “You know that's not fair, Ash,” Jane said.

  “Maybe not entirely. But a lot. Jane, I love you. And I love Fritz and Linda like family. More. I can't believe I can't find him. Yesterday, I randomly followed each of the nine books to where he'd paperclipped. Today, only the ones I think he would have chosen. Tomorrow night, I want to go in the exact order he left the books on the desk.” Now that I can open the portal, the real weirdness of paperclips in a book on a desktop keeps running through my head. Although I knew it, it was one of those things that you don't really think about. Until you have to do it yourself.

  “Do you think you know where he went?”

  “My brain says he went to find Robert E. Lee. But inside the portal, that doesn't feel right. Like the portal is trying to tell me to look somewhere else. Classes are going to be relaxing compared to this.”

  That's how I felt. At first, I sensed Fritz's pain. I know what damage the months without Linda and TJ have done. He'd begun smoking again, up to a pack a day, and he had bought a who
le case of Jack to just get through the long nights. I tried to reason with him, then bully him. He's one stubborn cuss when he makes up his mind to be. Kind of like me.

  But right now, with Jane watching me, I'm angry, really angry, at Fritz. He took off into the portal. He had to know that I'd come after him, but if he wanted me to find him, he wouldn't have made it so hard. I'm angry because he took the easy way. And left me to sort out the chaos.

  “I'm going to try to talk to General Lee tomorrow. Maybe he can give me some advice like he gave Fritz way back when. Or maybe he's seen him. Jane, I hope I can find him soon. I want to marry you. I've waited for years and I'm tired of waiting.”

  She grinned at me. “Ash, we've only known each other a little more than a year.” Her dark eyes sparkled, like in a fairytale movie.

  “I've wanted to marry you for my whole life,” I said. “I just had to find you first.” I took her hand and squeezed. She did what came so naturally. She reached to the leather satchel hanging on the chair, and took out a yellow pad and pen. “So you're going to record all my romantic sayings?”

  “No.” She scowled, intending to make me laugh. “Those are recorded. You know I have the house bugged.” Then I did laugh. “Ash, I think we should have a record of as much detail as possible in case this takes longer than you think.”

  “Let me write it. As I go through, you can ask questions to get to the least important, most miniscule factoid you can conjure. You know, government at its best.”

  She jerked toward me and I sat back, dodging what I expected to be a right cross that never came. Shaking her head, she said, “While you're writing, I'll make dinner. But before you start, would you do my back? It's itching like the devil, enough that scratching it would feel good even if I opened the cuts. I could get bloody.” More than a month after her abduction and rescue from the barn, the wounds hadn't healed completely. A recurring image, finding her in the barn with those knife slices down her back, remained as palpable to me as I'm sure they were to her.

  “Sure,” I said, and followed her to the bedroom.

  By the time I started writing, I desperately needed a shower and food. But the shower could wait. While Jane reheated whatever we had in the fridge, I took the stack of books and made a list of titles in the order I visited Fritz's clipped selections.