At every crossroads he's encountered in life, Sean Brody has made the save choice. In the year 2046, at the age of ninety-three, Sean is given one final opportunity to deal with his greatest regret. Sean is the only person Marshall Grissom and Mata Hamilton can find who might be able to save Sheila Schuler, their friend and fellow traveler lost in the distant reaches of time. If he accepts the task of traveling to his childhood in a parallel universe--with no guarantee that any aspect of the past can be changed, Sean must also accept his death in the only world he knows.
At every crossroads he's encountered in life, Sean Brody has made the save choice. In the year 2046, at the age of ninety-three, Sean is given one final opportunity to deal with his greatest regret. Sean is the only person Marshall Grissom and Mata Hamilton can find who might be able to save Sheila Schuler, their friend and fellow traveler lost in the distant reaches of time. If he accepts the task of traveling to his childhood in a parallel universe--with no guarantee that any aspect of the past can be changed, Sean must also accept his death in the only world he knows.
Sean Brody had long ceased worrying that strangers ringing his doorbell might be psychopaths determined to club him to death during Wheel of Fortune. He assumed the front desk folks at Brookhaven Assisted Care screened out psychopaths. And sure enough, Marshall Grissom was not a psychopath.
Marshall, Sean would eventually decide, only suffered from some milder form of insanity.
* * *
April 1, 2046
Brookhaven Assisted Care
North Phoenix
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Sean rocked back and forth a couple of times to escape a chair that had become the de facto center of his life. This gentle rocking built momentum so prosthetic knees could propel him to a standing position and drive those first stiff steps toward his front door.
The doorbellâs single hollow ding caught Sean snoring as he again tried making headway reading Atlas Shrugged. Ayn Randâs preachy, interminable soliloquies were the most effective sleep aids heâd ever encountered.
Sean, who didnât expect a caller, took a quick mental inventory. He hadnât forgotten a doctorsâ visit, he was sure. Liam hadnât said anything about stopping by. Probably just the Jehovahâs Witnesses at it again. Even though proselytÂizÂers were not allowed through the main entrance, the more persistent Witnesses sometimes sneaked through a side door. And seen through the distorting lens of Seanâs peephole, this hallway stranger certainly looked goofy enough to be a religious zealot.
The peephole revealed Seanâs visitor as not just tall but towering. The manâs frame appeared so thin he might not tolerate a strong wind. He had a full head of black hair and wore a light sport coat thatâeven on an April Phoenix morningâhe should be glad to shed. His tie was knotted a bit off center. The peepholeâs fisheye lens converted his pointy nose to a bulging prominence dwarfing other facial features as he leaned to punch the doorbell again.
Sean smiled. He enjoyed messing with the Witnesses.
He jerked open the door. Before the stranger could begin his spiel, Sean thrust Randâs fat paperback at him. âYou ever read this book?â
The man, whose unmagnified nose still looked a little outsized for his face, jumped back. âUm . . . Mr. Brody?â
âYou ever read this book?â Sean demanded again, waving the volume in the manâs face.
His visitor seemed lost.
âAtlas Shrugged. Supposed to be a classic. Dry as dirt, though.â
The man offered his own helpless shrug.
âCome on. Ayn Rand? The Fountainhead?â
Sean snapped his fingers and tapped one foot in a sloppy rhythm while reciting,
âI been Ayn Randed, nearly branded. . .â
The odd-looking man brightened. Grinning and, stompÂing out the same rhythm, he replied,
â. . .Communist, âcause Iâm left-handed . . .â
Sean laughed and slapped the manâs shoulder.
âPaul Simon, right?â the man asked.
âCorrect,â Sean said. âA Simple Desultory Philippic (Or How I Was Robert McNamaraâd Into Submission). Decades before your time, though.â
âWe had a bunch of old records in our attic when I was a kid. I listened to the ones I thought were funny,â the man said. âBut Iâm sorry, I havenât read your book.â
âJust as well. A friend gave it to me months ago. Said itâs one of those books everyone should read. Iâve been trying ever since.â
âWell . . . okay.â
An awkward moment of silence intervenedâfilled only by the glow of Seanâs muted television setâbefore Seanâs guest said, âWow. Wheel of Fortune. I watched that as a kid. I didnât know it was still on.â
âWell, it is,â Sean said. âPat Sajak is even stiffer than he used to be. I canât decide if heâs had one of those Cyborg implant things, or if his continued role as MC is the result of some really clever taxidermy.â
âTaxidermy?â Marshall said, appearing a little startled. âWell, I donât they couldâââ
âYeah,â Sean said. âI donât know how theyâd make his arm mobile enough to spin the wheel.â
âUm . . . Iâm sorry to intrude, Mr. Brody, and I know this will seem strange. My name is Marshall Grissom, and I hope youâll have a few minutes to talk with me.â
Sean found himself liking this fellow, and he certainly had a few minutes. At his age, visitors were rare enough that he welcomed an opportunity to talk with pretty much anyone, even the Witnesses. Oh, sure, his sons came by when they could. James and Russel lived out of town, though. Liam had his own life and children with which to deal.
Sean stood aside and, with a sweep of his hand, invited Marshall in.
Two chairs formed the focal points of Seanâs living-room. A big chairâthe one his sons had bought when they moved him to his one-bedroom apartment at a north Phoenix assisted living facilityâreclined, rocked, and rotated through a full three hundred and sixty degrees. A comfortable clutter of magazines, bills and junk mail spilled off a small table onto the floor. An old fixed-screen laptop computer sat dark beneath a table lamp.
Sean directed Marshall to a worn recliner that swallowed Marshall in its failing springs.
Sean dropped into his own seat. âSo . . . Mr. Grissom, is it? What flavor are you?â
âFlavor?â Marshall asked.
âDenomination. If you want me to attend your church, I need to know what my ultimate destination will be. I have no interest in reincarnation. Too much of a crap shoot concerning what youâll end up with. And if you want a contribution, well, Iâm afraidâââ
âOh . . . No. This isnât about church, or religion. I just wanted to . . . I need to ask you some questions.â
âAsk away. Iâll warn you, though, I wonât confess to the murder.â
âMurder?â Marshall asked displaying an expression of shock.
âI was joking.â
âUm . . . okay. Well, howâs your health?â
âGood. And howâs yours?â
âIâm fine,â Marshall said. âSo, youâre . . . well?â
âConsidering nowadays they can pretty much replace your parts and keep you going until you just get bored with it all, yes. I suppose I am. But Iâm ninety-three years old, you know. Another ten or fifteen years and Iâll be done.â
Sean thought Marshall seemed a bit apprehensive as his visitor asked, âDo . . . do you have many of those . . . replaceÂment parts?â
Sean gave a little snort at the question. He often pondered the contrast between himself as a robust, athletic young man, and a person marked with the afflictions of ageâhis height compromised by a stoop declaring onset of osteoporosis, thick dark hair reduced to sparse wisps of white, age spots spattering his arms and hands, a face gaunt from his inability to maintain weight. Not to mention a missing hunk of ear sacrificed to careless years of unheeded sunshine. He hoped casual observers would not yet describe him as frail, and that his eyes retained their spark of fascination with the world around him.
âKnees. A heart regulation systemâone of those little plastic and metal things they stick right in your heart to keep everything steady. And I got those new visual implants. My surgeon installed a control pad here,â he displayed his left wrist. âLets me adjust the focal length, so I donât need glasses to read or see at a distance. Which is great, because I love to read in bed, and you canât lie on your side wearing glasses.â
Now, Seanâs guest seemed clearly dismayed.
âIs this what you do for fun?â Sean asked. âVisit strangers and ask about their infirmities? Are you selling some kind of insurance?â
âNo. Iâm not selling anything. I asked because . . . because Iâand some friends of mineâneed a favor.â
âWho are your friends?â Sean asked.
Marshall appeared disheartened, the wind spilled from his sails. Sean raised his eyebrows as encouragement for Marshall to continue.
âMarta, Elvin, Gillis . . .â Marshall said absently. âAnd some others. Marta runs things now . . .â
âDo I know these people? And this Marta, why didnât she come herself?â
âWhat? Oh . . . the thing about Marta is . . . while sheâs this really great lady, sheâs, well, sheâs Marta. And I guess she thought asking about this favor is the sort of thing that requires some degree of, I donât know, charming? Marta really doesnât do charming.â
Marshall sighed and seemed a little more lost.
âHave I disappointed you somehow?â Sean asked.
âOh . . . no . . . itâs just that, well, implants . . . knees and heart systems . . . never mind.â
A nagging spark of familiarity picked at the back of Seanâs brain. âDo I know you from somewhere?â
âThatâs a difficult question to answer. I think a more appropriate question would be âdo you know me from some time?â And the answer, technically, would be yes, although it doesnât do us any good right now.â
Uh, oh, Sean thought.
âI do know a few things about you, though,â Marshall continued a little more brightly. âFor example, you and I are both alumni of New Mexico State University. Go Aggies?â
âOkay. My health. Where I went to school. Itâs time to tell me what this is about.â
âAs I said, we need your help. We need assistance from someone who lived in or around Portales, New Mexico, during the late 1960s. Someone who might still be willing to take a risk . . .â Marshall paused and adopted a somber tone. â. . . a bigger risk than weâd hoped, Iâm afraid.â
Sean had lived in that desolate Eastern New Mexico community from the year of his birth, 1953, until his graduation from Portales High School with the class of 1971. So, he fit that part of Marshallâs profile. The thing about taking a risk, though . . . Seanâs greatest regret was that heâd burrowed too deeply into his comfort zones too often and hadnât been willing to make a few critical choices that might have steered his life on a different course.
He rose, walked to a set of sliding glass doors overlookÂing a compact patio where he enjoyed sitting in the cool of early morning and tossing seed to birds eager to greet him.
âIâm afraid my risk-taking days are behind me.â
âNot . . . not necessarily,â Marshall said. âYour days, I mean.â
Sean turned from the glass panels and studied Marshall with renewed intensity. âI donât mean to offend you, Mr. Grissom, but you are an odd man.â
âUm . . . Iâm really not.â
âI worked as a newspaper reporter for many years, and I know something about intruding on strangers, trying to convince them they should answer my questions. What I usually said was, âIâm a reporter with the Chronicle,â or the Herald-Republic or the Sun-News. I didnât begin like that, though, when I knew theyâd kick me outâonce they learned I was a reporterâif I didnât soften them up a little first. In those cases, Iâd be somewhat vague or deceptive before we got to the truth. You havenât told me a thing about who you represent, Mr. Grissom. You, sir, are trying to soften me up. Why donât you just say what you want?â
âOh, trust me, Mr. Brody, youâre not anywhere near soft enough for that yet. Um . . . would you mind telling me about Portales? Iâve never visited Eastern New Mexico.â
Sean retraced his steps, sat again, and considered for a moment cutting off this inquiry. Sending this character on his way. He felt intrigued, though, concerning whatever Marshall might be after.
âOkay, Portales. Itâs a town of about twelve thousand people, thirty miles or so from the Texas Panhandle.â
âYour family is from there?â
âYou want the history, huh? Well, Iâll warn you, old men like to talk about where and who they came from.â
Marshall grinned.
Sean rocked out of his chair, walked across the room, and picked up a photograph displaying a frowning, hollow-cheeked man with slicked-down hair, holding a wide-brimmed straw hat at his side. A small, weary-eyed woman sporting a bonnet sat in a chair beside her husband.
âThese are my fatherâs parents, circa 1920 or so. My mom and dad were children of homesteaders, who lived hard-scrabble lives during the Great Depression. Eastern New Mexico and West Texas are located at the heart of a plain called the Llano Estacado, where trees are nearly as scarce as rain. On the rare occasion anyone finds a tree, they install a picnic table and call it a park.â
Marshal chuckled at this image. Sean felt encouraged to continue.
âMesquite bushes, tumbleweeds, a few hearty grasses and the occasional prickly pear cactus are the only things that volunteer to grow there. Farmers trick peanuts, sweet potatoes and some cotton to grow with irrigation from deep wells.â
âIâm from Eastern Arizona,â Marshall said. âI know about the desert.â
Sean dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
âSon, your Sonoran Desert is a garden compared to the high plains. At times, Iâm tempted to feel sorry for my forebears . . .â pointing at more ancestral photos lined along the bookshelf. â. . . for all the sacrifice it took to domesticate that hard place.â
He shook his head, feigning sympathy. Then amended regret with accusation as a spark of mischief lit his hazel eyes.
âThen, I always conclude it was their own damn fault. They were homesteaders, for Godâs sake! A few more weeks, and they would have made it to Arizona or at least southern New Mexico and the Rio Grande Valley. If you were stopping someplace, why would you choose a place without water and a population of tumbleweeds?â
âSounds pretty bleak.â
âOh, Eastern New Mexico has its beauty if you squint a little bit and know where to look. The locals seem to like it. Youâve never smelled air so sweet when it finally does rain. On the best summer days, cumulous clouds pile up in the distant western sky with these tongues of lightningâwell, itâs close to indescribable.â
âTimes were tough? Economically, I mean?â Marshall asked.
âNo, not for me. For my parents, thoughâtake that dry dusty homestead, drop the Great Depression in the middle of it, now thereâs some tough times. The amazing thing, both my folks spit in the eye of poverty and got college degrees. Then they went off and whipped Hitler.â
âWhat did your parents do for a living?â Marshall asked.
âMy dad worked for the Soil Conservation Service. My mom was a teacher.â
Marshall leaned forward and studied the row of photographs. He pointed to a picture of three grade-school-aged boys, arms draped over each otherâs shoulders, grinning before a background of 60âs era automobiles.
âIs this you? You look like you were pretty happy.â
âI experienced all the advantages and handicaps of a small-town childhood.â Sean stared a little wistfully at the picture. âMy folks saddled me with a solid work ethic and enough ambition to be frustrated when my life failed to attain the grand heights for which I imagined myself destined. Not that I have anything to complain about.â
âYou didnât stay?â
âShoot, within two weeks of graduating high school, I left for good, though of course I returned to visit. I got my degree from New Mexico State and then chased newspaper jobs into the Pacific Northwest where thereâs lots of water and mountains on every horizon.â
âAre you . . . are you close to your sons?â Marshall asked, sinking back into his chair.
Sean sensed the hesitation in Marshallâs question. Again, he considered feeling uncomfortable concerning the personal nature of this line of inquiry from a stranger. The clear sincerity of Marshallâs interest, though, convinced Sean to continue.
âClose enough. Like I said, my two oldest, James and Russel, are in the Pacific Northwest. Liam lives here. They visit when they can.â
âDid you enjoy being a newspaper reporter?â
âIt was a job, like any job. Parts good. Parts bad. I was okay at it, not . . . great. I wish Iâd have worked harder at a few things. You get old enough, you can admit those sorts of things to yourself. I got out before the newspaper industry collapsed. They pushed a lot of us into early retirement. The timing wasnât good. A few months after I left, Wall Street hammered my investments. So, I kept writingâfreelance work, some short stories, a couple of abortive attempts at a novel.â He pointed to a fat stack of paper next to his computer.
âYou were divorced?â Marshall asked.
âYeah, I visited my kids with that particular affliction, like so many of us Boomers.â
Again, Sean considered taking umbrage at the personal nature of these questions, but something about the concern with which Marshall asked them encouraged his cooperation.
âWhy didnât you remarry?â
âYouâre kind of nosey, arenât you?â Sean observed, though he softened the statement with a smile.
Marshallâs face wore an apology.
âI came closeâthree times.â Sean added a little wave to indicate he hadnât taken offense. âI met a younger woman who needed children of her own. My kids were still young themselves, though. My conscience wouldnât let me divide my attention that way. Not that I was a great father. Mercifully, I dodged the second bullet, which had misery written all over it. The third one . . . letâs just say I would like to have seen how . . .â
His voice trailed off. He studied the pale blue carpeting at his feet. Sean required a moment, even after all these years, to compose himself when thinking of Maggie Stanfield.
He inhaled deeply, then met Marshallâs eyes. âEnough memories. Tell me whatâs on your mind. Why the questions about my hometown? And who recommended me for whatÂever scheme youâve got cooking here?â
âCecil.â
Sean waited for a last name. When Marshall didnât supply one, Sean drifted to the early 1980s, a cramped dark space in what was then a seedy section of downtown Spokane, Washington, across from the old Greyhound Bus Station. The building consisted of an unkempt storeÂfrontâa heavy glass door set in an ornate oak frame recessed between two wide plate-glass windows so grimy, light barely escaped a trifling reception area just inside. The shop shared abutting walls with two turn-of-the-century hotels that had become the province of pimps, hookers, Ronald Reaganâs displaced mental patients, and a few elderly folks whose residency extended to a time of neighborÂhood respectability, and whose only economic choice was to remain.
Sean could still smell mingling odors of printersâ ink and pipe tobacco welcoming those who ventured through the door of Cecilâs Margin Service.
âYou donât mean Cecil from Spokane . . . ?â
âWell, he presently lives on a sailboat in the Caribbean.â
âWait a minute. How could you know him? I mean, I donât know how old he was, but certainly several years older than me, and that would make him . . .â
âHeâs 106. Iâll leave you a number, but the closest phone is at a marina shack and a kid named Baptiste has to walk all the way down the dock to get him.â
âMy God.â Seanâs mind spilled over memories like water over rocks in a stream. âAfter all these years . . . please. Tell me more. How can I help you?â
Marshall hesitated. Once again, Sean saw a man struggling with a decision.
âUm . . . I was just . . . we needed information about the town. And youâve been very helpful . . .â
âWhile I may be old, Mr. Grissom, Iâm not addled,â Sean said. âYou didnât track me down to ask questions about weather in Portales. Something Iâve said here made you change your mind about me.â
Again, Marshall paused.
âWell, no . . . there are complications I hadnât counted on . . . And youâre right. I didnât come to talk about the weather. I came because you are one of a very few people left in the world who might be able to . . . to help a friend who is . . .â
Marshall closed his eyes, taking a deep breath like a man jumping into cold water.
âPlease be forewarned, what Iâm about to say will sound completely crazy. At the very least, though, Iâll promise you itâs a good story. More entertaining than anything youâll find on television this afternoon.â
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I'm so glad I decided to stick with the Physics, Lust and Greed series by Mike Murphey as it has become available via Reedsy Discovery. The first book in the series, Taking Time, was a solid time travel sci-fi novel and its successor, Wasting Time, was a good follow up. Of those two, I definitely preferred the second book. The elements I enjoyed became stronger and what I didn't care for as much were minimized in comparison. As for this newest third volume of the series, it is easily my favorite of all three. It has certainly earned all four of the five stars it has been awarded. For me the series has really just begun to hit its stride and stand out from the pack. This time around Murphey's world pulled me in, held my attention, and let me speed right along from beginning to end. Â
You may think that three books into a series is a little too long to stay with a series that hasn't quite hooked you as much as you would prefer when keeping up with a series. Normally, that would be the case with me, but there have been enough overall positives that kept me coming back for more. Luckily, those positives pay off here in a big way. I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: I can't resist a good time travel story. It's complex and just chaotic enough so you can't look away. The author really did a great job with his cast of characters. As much as I enjoy everything about time travel, his cast really hold the novel together. Sean himself was my favorite to follow this time around. Everyone is quite well-drawn and it seems like the more often I see them, the more attached I become to them.
Overall, Killing Time (Physics, Lust and Greed #3) by Mike Murphey is the high point of the series thus far. The time travel elements, the characters, and the world-building have all come together really well here for the first time during my reading experience. I'm definitely looking forward to seeing what this author will do next in the future. Thanks again for this opportunity, Reedsy Discovery.