Time-traveling private investigator Imogen Oliver returns with even more ups and downs and escapades out of time in The Yesterday Girl, the exciting sequel to The Time tourists!
Through a series of unexpected encounters and bittersweet reunions Imogen must once again navigate her complicated life—past and present—sometimes learning the hard way that the past can be as dangerous and unpredictable as the present.
Along with the impulsive beau, who tagged along with her from 1913, Imogen tries to help Simon adjust to life 100 years in his future. Add to the mix, his budding friendship with her ex, a meddlesome neighbor, shocking revelations about her missing parents, and a super-secret society that has been covertly monitoring her every move.
If that weren't enough, her extraordinary ability to time travel through a photograph and her investigative occupation leads her to a hiking excursion to Mount St. Helens—pre-eruption 1971; 1946 Kansas where curiosity tragically gets the best of her; a mysterious “uninhabited” island; and to a New Year’s eve bash where she learns a hard lesson in the perils of partying in 1920s New York City.
2 August 2019/30 November 1971
Breathing in and out slowly, evenly, she closed her eyes and waited for it. A swirling kaleidoscope of sunsets and landscapes. Kittens and puppies. Spring blooms. Fall foliage and pumpkin patches, flora and fauna and forests and snow angels. Summer magic. A memory box of humanity rushing past, followed by a flash of brilliant light, juxtaposed by a composition as dark as pitch—spinning and spiraling and vanishing as she began the stealth descent through the deepest and most disconcerting part of the journey—plunging headlong through the lens that would momentarily deposit her, unceremoniously, into the light and time at the end of it.
Once her feet were planted securely on terra firma, Imogen opened her eyes and looked around at her surroundings. A clear, blue sky and the sun, directly above her, beat down hot against her bare face and arms. Luckily, she was dressed appropriately for the elements in jeans and a cool cotton T-shirt. Although it seemed uncharacteristically warm for late November, when she bent down and began rummaging through her backpack, it was deeply reassuring to find a warm down parka, a flannel shirt, and an extra pair of heavy wool socks packed inside. Although it was warm now, she’d surely need it tonight when the temperature would likely dip into the teens.
Part of prepping for any trip through time required that she assemble the 21st century versions of items she might need, to which they transformed into the period-specific articles apropos to where she was going. How this worked never ceased to fill her with wonder and amazement—one minute you’re staring into a completely still, inanimate, two-dimensional photograph and the next thing you know you’ve been magically transported inside the moving, vibrant, three-dimensional reality depicted in the picture.
Imogen rose from her kneeling position, and noting a stand of old growth Douglas firs bordering the trail and majestic Mount St. Helens looming in the distance, she breathed in the rich pungent scent of the forest and trees. Although the area where she had arrived was now clear of anyone, farther down the trail she could hear detached voices and laughter echoing up from other hikers, and presumably whomever had taken the picture she had just entered. The date stamped on the photo was November 30, 1971. And on the back, the caption read: “Spirit Lake trailhead near Mount St. Helens in Washington State.” It was the area Adam Curry had last been seen before completely disappearing off the map.
In her research, Imogen had read that for many years prior to the volcanic eruption in 1980, Spirit Lake was a popular tourist destination. There were six camps on the shore of the lake as well as a number of resorts that catered to visitors, including Mount St. Helens Lodge, which was occupied by Harry R. Truman, who would become one of the volcano’s most vocal victims, famously saying, “If the mountain goes, I’m going with it!”
Her client, Sean Curry, vaguely remembered his mom showing him an old photograph once of the man he believed to be his father, standing outside of a rustic grocery store, flashing a smile and a peace sign, his large backpack on the porch at his feet. But over a course of many moves, the picture had long disappeared. And when his mother died last year, most of Sean’s remembrances of his dad died along with her. However, he did recall that the lost photo had a date stamp printed on it, which had allowed Imogen to find a similar photo with a date close to the original.
Imogen lifted the heavy pack, foisted it up and onto her thin shoulders, and headed down the trail toward the cabins and camps by the lake to see what information she could gather and to pick up a few more provisions, well, probably goodies, for the upcoming hike. As she rounded the final turn, a magnificent, crystal-clear mountain lake came into view. But clear was an understatement, its luminous turquoise color seemed surreal and unworldly, like it couldn’t possibly be real.
Up ahead, a gathering of people mingled outside a sturdy, log-built structure, likely the community store. Although it possibly wasn’t nearly as busy as during the summer months, there were still quite a few people milling about on the porch drinking sodas and eating candy bars, perhaps squeezing in one last hike in the warm weather before the rain and snow returned. Like many of these types of camp stores, a large community message board attached to the front featured layers of fliers and paper plates and scraps of papers with messages for so-and-so to meet Jason at cabin #4 or where to meet a hiking party at a certain time for a rendezvous. Imogen scanned the board looking for any messages or notices for or about Adam Curry, but seeing none, headed up the steps, leaned her backpack against the wall—one of several others already there, and entered the store through the squeaky screen door.
Taking a basket and hanging the handles over her arm, Imogen browsed the shelves, picking out a few extra provisions for the trail—disposable salt and pepper shakers, candy bars, a couple bags of chips, a bottle of rum to fill up the flask she’d noticed in her pack. After making her purchases, she returned to the porch and struck up a conversation with a couple—a young woman about Imogen’s age wearing overalls and hiking boots with a red bandanna tied around her hair—and her scruffy bearded partner.
“Where you headed?” the girl asked as Imogen began stowing the stuff she’d purchased inside her pack.
“Not sure yet,” Imogen said. “I’m looking for someone who passed through here recently, but I don’t know which direction he was headed.”
“What’s his name?” the bearded guy asked.
“Curry, Adam Curry,” Imogen said. She wished she had a description of him, but Sean’s recollection of him from the photograph was hazy at best.
The girl cocked her head to one side. “Hmmm, doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. Her partner nodded agreement, but then added, “there might be someone who can help you though.”
Interested, Imogen stopped what she was doing to ask, “Who might that be?” she inquired.
“His name is Gil. He’s the boat rental guy. Seems like he always knows who’s coming through, not the day hikers so much, but the ones that are packing in. You might ask him.”
“I’ll do that,” Imogen said. “Where can I find him?”
The guy pointed to a small, shabby looking shop/house with peeling paint, just beyond the store next to the docks. Imogen thanked them both and finished packing up. She filled her flask with rum, for the cold nights, she rationalized.
As Imogen approached, she observed an elderly gentleman sitting on the porch. His wardrobe comprised faded coveralls and a pair of well-worn boots; and on his head, one of those iconic yellow fisherman hats like you’d see in a Gorton’s Seafood commercial. She also noticed his aged hands, creased permanently by many years of boat oil and grease, she surmised, as he whittled away at something resembling a fish from a small piece of wood.
“You must be Gil?” Imogen asked in a chirpy manner, extending her hand to the man.
“That I am,” Gil said, taking her hand for a quick shake before releasing it to spit chew out one corner of his mouth. “What kin I do for ye?” he asked in a grumpy sort of gravelly, old timer voice one completely expected to hear coming from him.
“I’m looking for a hiker that came this way recently,” Imogen said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know exactly when, but his name is Adam Curry.”
The old man stopped cutting into the wood, leaned back in his chair and stared across the water, seemingly lost in cavernous thought. He sat that way for a good minute or so before leaning forward again and pronouncing, “Nope, never heard of him.”
Imogen was surprised. It had sure taken him a while to come up with an answer. “Well all right then, thanks for your time,” she said. As she turned and began to walk away, she heard him say,
“Not many hikers leavin’ out for the backcountry this late in the year, but I did see one about a week ago; don’t know if his name was Adam Curry or not, but he was headin’ up the direction of Windy Ridge. That’s all I know.” When she stopped and turned back around, Gil was looking down, fully engrossed in his whittling as if he hadn’t spoken to her at all.
“Thanks,” Imogen called out.
Well, good, she thought. It was a start, and at least she could be confident that when she began this trek, at least she would be heading in the right direction. After getting everything properly stowed, she was ready to get going, and leaving the store and the lake and Gil behind, she headed up the sloped trail toward Windy Ridge.
She had to admit that she had been looking forward to some alone time to escape with her own thoughts. Even with the heavy pack she felt light in step, unburdened. So much had happened recently. During an investigation that had taken her back to the turn of the 20th century, she met Simon and fell in love. But someone was trying hard to keep them apart. That person turned out to be another time traveler from her own time named Teddy Diamond, who had kidnapped Simon’s mother against her will and cruelly abandoned her in 1884, alone and pregnant with his son. When they figured out who Teddy was and Imogen was preparing to chase him back to the 21st century to confront him, Simon impulsively grabbed ahold of her at the very last minute. Without knowing whether or not a person from the past could survive time travel, astonishingly Simon was pulled through intact from 1913 to the present, they could only assume, because he had been conceived in the future.
That was three months ago. It hadn’t been easy for Simon to adjust to so many new things and ideas that had changed or come about in the century between his previous life and this one. There were the inventions: the microwave oven, hair dryers, airplanes, television, radio, computers, batteries, cell phones, video games, vacuum cleaners, aerosol cans, movie cameras, medicine, to name only a few—and historical events and movements and revolutions and wars and beliefs about civil rights, a women’s right to vote, abortion; two world wars, the atomic bomb, Vietnam, Albert Einstein, the Great Depression, feminism, Black Panthers, Mohammad Ali, prohibition, the holocaust, Marxism, Communism, Hitler, hippies, LSD, the Beatles, landing on the moon, 9/11—he had a lot of catching up to do.
And when the thoughts and questions became too overwhelming for him, Simon had taken up gardening and building miniature furniture. He read a lot. Imogen wasn’t surprised that he was confused. She couldn’t imagine how it must feel to not know about any of these things—having skipped right past all of it and landing somewhere on the other side of the century. Still, it was exhausting for her as well and she wearied of answering his endless stream of questions about everything.
Imogen had taken time off from her private investigation business to assist him in acclimating to his new life, but he was needy and clingy, so unlike the self-assured man she’d met in 1913. She tried to show him how to use the mouse to search on the computer for information on his own, but he was frustrated by the technology. “It’s too soon,” he had said, tossing his arms in the air in frustration and knocking the chair away from the desk. “I can’t process all of this and learn how to operate your confounding machines at the same time!”
Eventually, she had gone out to the local thrift shop and purchased a set of dusty encyclopedias, a stack of old LIFE magazines, and various other ephemera that he could pore over and catch up on at his own speed. And then, if that wasn’t enough to deal with, there was also the unsettling knowledge of the circumstances surrounding his birth—that his biological father had abandoned his mother in the past, but also dealing with Teddy’s mother, Simon’s grandmother, Mimi Pinky. About a month ago, Mimi had come by the house when Imogen was out and had spoken to Simon. During their conversation, she alluded to a ghastly unnatural mother/son bond she and Teddy evidently shared. When Imogen arrived home, Simon was visibly upset. It was too much for anyone to have to go through.
And yet, as much as she wanted to help Simon, getting away, although it seemed selfi sh, was exactly what Imogen needed to get centered and tend to her own neglected mental well-being. As she walked along the trail, she had ample time to not only revisit the disclosures that affected Simon, but also mull over the sur-prises Teddy had dropped on her as well. Before he had vanished into a photograph of Bikini Atoll—an island where the US was testing nuclear bombs in the 1950s, and a beach he was unlikely to ever return from—he confessed that to prevent Imogen’s parents from revealing his secrets he was the one responsible for destroying their photographic portals and imprisoning them in the past. And though it was semi-satisfying to finally learn the “why” of her parents’ disappearance, she still had no clue where or when her father was. Teddy had tossed out a small crumb of information about her mother’s whereabouts—San Francisco—the burning question again was when? When was she in San Francisco? Pinpointing it was analogous to searching for a needle in a haystack.
Imogen was still a good distance from reaching the ridge when the sun began to set. Without the warmth of the sun, the temperature began to drop, and it was getting colder by the minute. It was time to stop and make camp before dark. Glancing around at her surroundings, Imogen spied a nice semi-flat area just off the trail there, tucked away between a pair of trees. Although modern hiking gear from REI would have been fancier, probably lighter too, and a bit more manageable, Imogen discovered that surprisingly she didn’t mind going old school. She had everything she needed—a bedroll, a cook kit with a metal pot, a cup and spoon, a flint for fire-starting, a buck knife and little red axe, a pup tent that tied up nicely between the two trees, a few odds and ends, as well as some basic foodstuff. When it was all said and done, it really was all about getting back into nature again, walking through a magical forest gate and leaving the busy behind, basking in the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, her boots kicking up trail dust and pine needles as she hiked, breathing in that unmistakable damp mossy forest smell that she loved so much, and listening to the screeches and warbles of hawks and blue jays and other birds from high in the canopy of trees above.
After setting up the tent and using the flint to build a fire, Imogen cooked up some hearty beans and stew, which she ate all of, washing it down with a nice cup of hot chocolate. Her belly full, she felt spectacularly calm and relaxed, but also super tired from the all-day trek. Leaning against the tree she stared up at a magnificent sky filled with a billion bright stars. In the mountains, far away from the light pollution of the city it was like being inside an enormous planetarium, but better. As she allowed her mind to free float across the night sky, Imogen didn’t hear the sound of someone shuffling up the trail until the person was standing practically in front of her. Startled, she lurched forward, spilling hot chocolate on her parka. A man, who appeared to be in his mid-forties had stopped in front of her and was staring directly into the fire without speaking. Imogen slowly grasped the handle of the axe hidden behind her although noting that despite the heavy pack on his back, he seemed lost and out of place in his black, lightweight raincoat, loafers, dark suit, and pressed white-collar shirt.
“Pardon me,” he said as politely as if they were meeting for a bourbon and soda at some fancy restaurant rather than on some shadowy, dusty trail. “May I join you?”
Imogen felt like maybe she should be afraid. Something about his close-set, piercing eyes and weird attire screamed serial killer, but at the same time, his body language was that of just another weary hiker, looking to warm up beside a nice fire.
“Sure,” Imogen said, her hand still holding onto the axe tightly but flashing him her best, most confident, I-am-not-afraid-of-you-just-because-I’m-a-woman-alone smile. The man nodded without speaking, unhooked his pack and leaned it against an adjacent tree, plopped down cross-legged opposite Imogen, and immediately thrust his hands directly over the fire and began rubbing them together to get warm. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dented pack of cigarettes. “You mind?” he asked.
Imogen shook her head no. Fumbling around in his pant’s pocket he withdrew a book of matches, which he used to light his cigarette before bringing it to his lips and taking a long drag. “Oh dear, where are my manners?” he spoke, half to himself, half to Imogen. “Would you like a smoke?” He held the pack out to Imogen. She didn’t smoke . . . well that wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes she did have a smoke socially when she was drinking at a party or something. She thought about saying no, but then, on impulse, decided that it might not be such a bad idea to bond a little with this stranger over a cigarette.
“Okay,” she said, reaching out and taking one from the pack. She leaned in toward the fire, intending to light it, but the man quickly struck another match from the book and lit it for her. If anything, he was well-mannered, Imogen thought. They sat smoking in silence for a bit and she watched with fascination as he took another drag from the cigarette and blew out a couple of perfectly symmetrical smoke rings. Imogen was impressed. In high school when she used to smoke with her boyfriend Dylan he could blow rings, but she could never quite master the technique, cool as it was. They were both mesmerized by the swirling rings, watching them swirl and float until they lost their shape and dissipated into the air when he blurted, “People are going to remember my name.”
Imogen forced herself not to laugh. What a perfectly peculiar thing to say. But okay, she’d play along.
“So, what’s your name?” she asked him.
“Cooper, D.B.,” he said confidently, thrusting his hand out for her to shake. Imogen was tempted to say something, but that wasn’t what she was here for. Instead, she smiled and shook the man’s hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cooper.”
“Call me D.B.,” he said, grinning back.
14 sharleen nelson
There were benefits to being from the future. She knew the story, no, the legend of D.B. Cooper, the man who had hijacked a Boeing 727, extorted $200,000 in ransom money, and parachuted to an uncertain fate. From the accounts she’d read, it explained his calm and courteous comportment. But more importantly, she could relax now with the knowledge that he was no serial killer.
“So D.B., can you teach me how to blow those smoke rings?” she asked.
“Only if you have some bourbon stashed in your camp gear?” he said laughing.
“Well, it’s not bourbon, but I packed in a flask of rum,” she said, “for the cold nights.”
D.B.’s eye’s widened with delight and he smiled broadly. “That’ll do sister!”
As the night deepened, the flask passing back and forth between them, they talked about Vietnam, deconstructed Watergate and Nixon, smoked cigarettes, and Imogen finally blew her first mostly successful smoke ring. At some point, she had fallen asleep and when she awoke the next morning, a low bank of fog had rolled in, the fire had become a few dying embers, and D.B. Cooper was gone. She unzipped her sleeping bag and as much as she dreaded it, wriggled out from inside the warm depths. Brrr, it was chilly, but she had to pee. On the way to the bushes behind the tent, she stumbled, stubbing her big toe on a rock that she hadn’t remember being there before. “Oww, damn it!” she yelped, hopping on one foot while she pulled her toe up to see if it was injured. It wasn’t. Stupid rock. When she looked down though, she noticed something that looked like green paper sticking out from beneath it. Leaning down she pushed the rock aside revealing five, crisp $100-dollar bills. She took a deep, knowing breath and shrugged. D.B. Cooper’s money would be worth a fortune in her time. Too bad she couldn’t take it with her. She unrolled the bills and tucked inside was an empty matchbook with the handwritten words: FOR THE RUM. Happy Trails Imogen Oliver, D.B. Cooper.
After a strong cup of black coffee, a hard-boiled egg, and a couple of bacon strips, Imogen broke camp, and with her pack securely cinched, she was back on the trail in no time. She wondered if she’d catch up with D.B., but as morning turned into afternoon, so far, she had seen no sign of him, or anyone else for that matter. Around 12:30 she decided it might be a good idea to break for lunch before starting up the incline. She’d need some energy. Windy Ridge was the perfect place. True to its name, it was windy as hell, but the 360-degree panoramic view of Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, Mount Rainier, Mount Hood, and Spirit Lake below was beyond spectacular. Gil had indicated that someone, hopefully Adam Curry was heading in this direction about a week ago. She hoped that by staying on this trail she’d have the good fortune of catching up to him eventually. She had enough provisions to last about a week, but if she couldn’t locate him before then, she’d have no choice but to abandon her search.
As she ate her bologna and cheese sandwich and took in the spectacular vista, a thought popped into her head, what if something horrible happened down there while she was safely up here? Clearly, she had been watching too many apocalyptic graphic novel-based TV shows lately. She would have to live off the land, certainly, but she would be safe because everyone knew zombies can’t climb. Simon had been less than impressed by the whole zombie genre. “Scientifically speaking,” he had said, “It makes no plausible sense. If they are dead, how can their brains continue to function, and why in the world would they be hungry?” He was right, of course, but it was still great fun to watch and imagine. He was far more impressed by literature and art that had outlived its creators. He was amazed that The Phantom of the Opera and Bram Stoker’s Dracula had withstood the test of time and continued to be sources of endless theatrical productions and movie remakes; that some of his favorite books, which were newly published when he had read them, were still entertaining audiences today. In a way, he said, it gave him a sense of renewed hope for humanity.
Hope, or at the very least, information about his dad, was something Imogen wanted to bring back to Sean Curry. Sean had contacted her about a month ago. Having exhausted all traditional efforts to find his dad, he was ready to give up on the search entirely, but after running across an ad for an investigative service called Dead Relatives, Inc., he decided to give it one more shot. “I’m not quite sure why, but it spoke to me,” he had said to Imogen. Hearing Sean say that Imogen could scarcely contain her delight. She knew the name would pay off! She had chosen the name Dead Relatives because it sounded unusual and intriguing, but specifically because it encapsulated the kind of detective work she did, although her clients weren’t privy to her unconventional methods. Although she also employed traditional detective processes—internet research, databases, and the like—having the ability to walk directly into a photograph and become part of the scene, completely equipped by the universe with period-specific attire, was not something your average private detective could do. It was still a big fat mystery why or how she could do this but combining two of her passions—photography and history with helping people—it wasn’t a terrible way to make a living.
In his mid-forties and wearing a suit and tie, Sean was handsome, fit, and projected a youthful vibe. In fact, with his clean-shaven face, chiseled jaw, impeccably coiffed head of hair, and expensive Italian loafers he looked like he’d walked straight out of GQ magazine. Imogen wasn’t accustomed to seeing men so well turned out. Simon would love him! Simon adored that dapper look. In fact, it was like pulling teeth to get him out of his beloved trousers and vest and into some comfortable shorts and a T-shirt; at least when he was out getting dirty in the garden.
When Sean introduced himself as the CAO of a software company, it made complete sense to her then—he was an accountant! After some gentle nudging from Imogen about how she would need to know the full story before she looked into finding his father, he loosened his tie, leaned back in his chair, and slowly began to relax and open up a bit.
“From the stories my mom told me about my father, along with the fact that he’d walked out on her the day I was born, I decided very early on that I wanted to be everything he was not,” Sean began. “He had long hair, he smoked pot, he couldn’t hold a job, he was in a band, he wrote poetry. I decided I wanted none of that. I followed the straight and narrow. I was a good student.” He paused, taking a deep breath in, before talking about his mom.
“My mother raised me herself,” he said, “and she worked very hard to put me through college. I worked at accounting jobs for a few years, did people’s taxes, but when I was asked by a friend to come on board with his startup company, my career took off. All of a sudden, I was making tons of money. I met Margaret and we got married. Everything was perfect.”
He paused again and Imogen took the opportunity to jump in with a question. “Kids?” she asked.
“No, he said. “Maggie couldn’t conceive, but it was okay, my life felt full and complete with only her.”
“And then what happened?” Imogen probed.
“When I turned 40 something happened,” he said, “my thinking . . . I don’t know how to explain it; but it began to shift.”
“Shift?” Imogen asked, “How so?”
“I guess if I’m honest it was the stirrings of a full-blown midlife crisis. I thought I, of all people, would be immune to that sort of thing, but I couldn’t stop having these completely uncharacteristic thoughts about wanting to escape; to quit my job and get lost somewhere, like he had, like Adam, dad. I felt reckless and out of control and I had an affair and Maggie left me.”
“I’m sorry,” Imogen said. “That must have been devastating for you.”
Sean seemed on the verge of tears then, but he held it together, likely out of force of habit, Imogen surmised. She waited for him to gather his thoughts without pressure until he was ready to continue.
“After the divorce, I decided to take a trip to Brazil. I needed to clear my head. I went on a long hike, sort of like walkabout, I guess you could say,” he said, snickering softly.
“And it helped?” Imogen asked him.
Sean nodded. “Yeah, sure, it did help some. I did a lot of soul searching about myself and about my father. My mother had once noted that behind the veneer of lies, there was a genuine sweetness about him; a truth that he wanted to live, but for some reason couldn’t. I thought about who I was, wondered if I was just like him. Was it nature vs. nurture? I wasn’t sure, but I realized that I needed to find him somehow, see if he had some answers. If only I knew where to start. After about six months of roaming around, I fi gured it was time to come home and deal with things.” Sean snickered again before continuing, “The irony in all this was that apparently he had done the exact same thing I was doing. He went on an extended walkabout too, only he never came back.” Sean’s mother had received one letter from Adam, dated November 24, 1971 with the photo of him standing in front of the Spirit Lake store. He had written that he was sorry for leaving, and that maybe someday he’d want to come back, but he needed to find something first. He didn’t say what that something was. After jotting down the details about when and where his dad had last been seen, Imogen promised Sean she would do her best to come back with answers—perhaps not the answers he wanted, perhaps even with news that he wasn’t alive—either way, she’d do her level best to help him come to terms with a loss he’d been grieving over, literally, since the day he was born.
Sean had been correct about hiking and thinking, they went hand in hand. Walking the trail, you fell into a certain rhythmic pace, and lulled by the steady movement of your feet on the ground it put you into an almost meditative state, allowing your mind to wander off in different directions. Walking today gave Imogen ample time to think as well, which at times was a good thing, other times, not so much.
As she walked, she cogitated on a lot of stuff. It was a curse to be a woman who thinks too much. But being alone like this gave her permission, and time, to let the thoughts flow without distraction, specifically interruptions from Simon. She loved him, and Imogen would never, ever tell anyone this, but there were times when she missed Fletcher, a lot. Before Simon, they had been lovers, but also good friends. After these past exhausting months with Simon, she sometimes yearned for the stress-free company that Fletcher afforded. Theirs was a comfortable relationship. There were no awkward silences between them. They could hike or read together or watch TV in silence. With the sexual tension removed from the mix they were able to simply enjoy one another’s company without pretense. It was something that she had taken for granted at the time, but now sorely missed.
Geez, what was wrong with her anyway? Imogen wondered. She wasn’t some fickle female, or was she? There was something to be said for finding someone you were comfortable with though; someone that you didn’t have to pretend with. And after the red-hot passion faded, what were you left with anyhow if not compatibility and somebody you could talk to and have fun with? With everything that had transpired over the last few months with Simon, there had been little time for either passion or stimulating conversation between them. It had been all about his adjusting to this time, and while she understood the circumstances, it felt a little like everything was always all about him. Granted, he came from a time when a man’s concerns far outweighed those of a woman’s, but it made it difficult for Imogen, and infuriating. She felt like all of her feelings and concerns had been relegated to the back burner. It didn’t seem fair, and as much as she loved and adored Simon, she was feeling quite put upon. Her patience was wearing thin. She could do this for a while, she figured, but for how long? A lifetime? She didn’t know.
Fletcher, on the other hand, being a progressive-minded man, understood that it didn’t have to and shouldn’t always be about him. There was an equal balance that seemed to be lacking in her relationship with Simon. Of course, she would never say anything. And besides, Fletcher was no longer in the picture anyhow. A month or so after she’d come back with Simon, he’d decided to return to Idaho, and for all Imogen knew, had reunited with his former fiancé. And if he had found her or somebody new, good for him, she thought. He deserved better. He deserved someone who could love him absolutely.
As Imogen walked and allowed her mind to wander, the afternoon flew by. Since Windy Ridge, the trail had switched back a few times as the climb was becoming steeper. Imogen was feeling fatigued. It would be getting dark soon. This was it though. She would camp one more night, and if she found no sign of Curry by about noon tomorrow, she was heading home. The trail here was quite open and exposed but she noticed a stand of trees up ahead in the distance. She’d find a more secluded spot there.
Hoisting the pack back onto her shoulders after a 15-minute break, she resumed her uphill trudge. As she rounded the curve, a pillar of white, billowing smoke came into view and with it a whiff of burning fir. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it was visible here in the clearing. She continued on for another two-tenths of a mile or so until she came to a fork that veered off to the left of the trail. It appeared that the smoke was coming from that direction. She realized now that she had a decision to make. Should she stick to the trail or follow the smoke? And where there was smoke there was fire and where there was fire there were likely people. Potentially, it could be her friend D.B.; it could be Adam Curry, or the other possibility, that it could be someone dangerous, was cause for hesitation.
Well, she’d have to stop soon anyway and make camp, she thought, which would require starting her own fire for warmth, so whoever was up there would certainly take notice of her one way or the other. The best course of action that she could see was to simply follow the smoke and see where it led; she’d deal with the consequences when she got there. She had her knife and axe in her pack. It was reassuring to know that she could always get back through her photo portal if she was in any real danger, but as she got closer to the source of the fire, she’d be ready, just in case.
This trail led deeper into a forest of old growth trees. Large threads of dense moss hung down in clumps from the tree branches like spooky lime-green spider webs, and the canopy of large trees had nearly squeezed out any light from the sky above.
The smoky smell of the fire became more pronounced as Imogen walked cautiously along, wary of making any noise. Just up ahead she saw something large and dark looming in a clearing—a miner’s shack maybe? Quietly, she slid her backpack from her shoulders and leaned it up against a tree, pulling from it her buck knife and the axe. Leaving her pack, she stealthily moved toward the direction of the light. As she drew closer, the clearing opened up wide and she could see the source of the smoke. It was pouring out of the stone chimney of a small wooden cabin perched on top of a bluff overlooking what looked like the end of the world. And then BOOM, just like that, out went the lights.
Imogen opened her eyes. Everything was blurry, and the back of her head hurt like hell. Gradually, the small room she was inhabiting came into view. The only light source was a fi re burning in the fireplace, the rest of the room was hidden in shadows. Despite the dimness, she could barely make out the shape of another per-
son sitting across the room from her, tied to a chair. That’s when she realized that she was also tied to a chair. “What the? . . .” she started to say when the other person cut her off. “Be quiet,” the voice whispered, “He’s outside. He’ll hear you.”
“He who?” she whispered back, squinting hard to make out who had spoken to her. When he turned his head, a fl icker of light from the fire revealed his face.
“D.B.? Is that you?” Imogen asked, confused.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he responded.
“What’s going on here?” she whispered.
Before he could answer, the door of the cabin swung open flooding the entire space with light as a man in a muddy jacket and jeans entered. His face was concealed by a mass of wild tangled brown hair, and he was carrying a bundle of smallish logs in his arms.
“Oh, I see you’re awake now,” he said to Imogen as he barreled across the room and deposited the logs onto the floor next to the fireplace.
“We’ve been waiting for you to come around,” he said as he approached her. Imogen flinched, unsure if he was reaching out to untie her or harm her. She could abandon the mission, disappear right now, but she’d come this far.
“Wait, are you Adam Curry?” she asked.
“You KNOW this guy?” D.B. piped up, incredulous. “This lunatic tossed a handful of my cash into the fire!”
“Shut up,” the man shouted back at D.B. “I had to feed the fire, it was getting cold.” He glanced back over at Imogen and explained in a calmer, almost apologetic tone, “I couldn’t go out for kindling. I had to keep an eye on him,” he said motioning at D.B.
“And besides,” he said, “I’m the one asking the questions here.” He glanced back and forth at both of them. “What do you want? Why are you here? Nobody comes up here this late in the year unless they’re looking for something, or someone. And this guy, all that money . . . I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to be left alone.”
Imogen waited for him to stop ranting and as calmly as she could, stated, “I’m here because of Jaz.”
Adam blinked and looked away. Bingo. His expression gave him away. She’d found him. She considered that she might have to come clean about who she was and where she came from. She also didn’t want to have to reveal that his son had hired her. Sean was still an infant right now, in this time, but it might be the only way to diffuse the situation if she wanted to stick around.
But Adam seemed to calm down after Imogen mentioned Jaz, a name he clearly recognized. “How do you know Jaz?” he asked.
“Untie us and I’ll tell you,” Imogen suggested.
Adam hesitated for a moment before sighing heavily. “Okay, but let’s smoke some dope,” he said, pulling a baggy and pipe from the mantle. Surprised and clearly delighted at this remarkable turn of events, Imogen glanced over at D.B.
“I’m all for that!” D.B. said grinning broadly.
After he’d untied them and Adam had packed the pipe, D.B. offered him a book of matches, identical to the one he had used to light Imogen’s cigarette, but this time, she noticed the Northwest Orient airline logo printed on the cover.
“Thanks man,” Adam said as he took a deep pull from the pipe and held it in. “ere,” he said, passing it over to D.B. who also took a large hit. Imogen was next. D.B. passed it to her and she took a turn. It was okay stuff, not quite the low-quality ragweed of the 70s, but also not the primo strains from her time, which by the way, was also legal. That bit of information would surely blow both of their minds if she told them.
Adam was the first to break the silence after they’d all smoked. “Well, I gather you know who I am, Adam Curry, but I don’t know who either of you are,” he said.
“I’m Imogen Oliver,” Imogen said. She extended her hand and they greeted one another with a handshake. D.B. extended his, adding, “D.B. Cooper.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Adam said amid self-deprecating laughter. “It wasn’t the friendliest welcome, I know.”
D.B. smiled. “No misunderstanding that can’t be settled over a friendly bowl,” he said, winking. Imogen smiled and shook her head. Nothing she’d read ever about D.B. Cooper had indicated that he was a stoner, but hey, maybe he was just very good at making the best of an awkward situation.
“Please tell me about Jaz?” Adam said.
Imogen began slowly. “What I’m about to tell you is going to be difficult for you to believe, but bear with me.” She hadn’t planned on telling him anything but the words were out before she could take them back—she had been hired to find him, and she knew about his leaving on the day of the birth of his child because his son had told her.
Adam audibly gasped. “Wait? What? How can that be?” he asked, “it’s only been six months since I left.” Imogen looked over at D.B., who had leaned in to hear more of this crazy girl’s far-fetched story.
“Next thing you’re going to tell us you’re from the future, right?” Adam said, his tone unconvinced. Imogen squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. Maybe it was the dope; maybe it was the knowledge that the mountain they were sitting on was going to blow, but for whatever reason, Imogen had blurted out everything she knew.
“Well, actually yes, that is exactly what I’m going to tell you.” D.B.’s head shot up, his eyes widening. This was getting really interesting. Knowing full well how crazy it sounded, Imogen launched into her condensed backstory, about how she had established Dead Relatives, Inc. when she had discovered that she had this special gift. When she had finished, D.B. was the first to speak.
“So Imogen, how does one do this traveling through photographs, and can you take things with you, like say, money?” D.B. asked, obviously contemplating how he might learn the secret to accomplishing this trick himself. Imogen explained that one of the rules was that you could take anything with you, but you couldn’t bring anything back that you didn’t originally bring. While D.B. considered that bit of information, Adam was more interested in knowing about his son. “What does he look like, Sean . . . my son? How did he turn out?” he inquired.
“He’s an accountant, a wealthy one even.”
Adam threw back his head and laughed loudly at that. “An accountant, huh? Well, I’m sure he didn’t get that from me, must have been his mother. She was always good at math.”
He had more questions about Jaz: Had she remarried? Why did his son want to find him?
She felt terrible having to tell him that no, Jaz had died last year, which Adam took rather hard. Imogen waited a while for him to compose himself before resuming the conversation and explaining to him that Sean had grown up without his father, so naturally he was curious. He was going through a difficult time in his life—a divorce, and was searching for meaning that he felt he couldn’t find on his own. She concluded with a warning.
“I have to tell you something else though, and you should know this too, D.B.,” she said, turning to him and gesturing in the direction of the peak, “about nine years from now, this whole mountain is going to explode.” She made an explosion-like noise accompanied by a blowing up motion with her hands. “Mount St. Helens is a volcano, and it’s going to blow.”
Their jaws both dropped a bit as Adam and Sean contemplated that impending scenario.
“One more thing, Adam,” Imogen continued. “Obviously, if you were able to go back, Sean wouldn’t have hired me and I wouldn’t be here today, but if you choose, there is a way for you to contact your son . . . in the future.” Imogen explained that Adam could write a letter to Sean and send it to a post office box that she owned. “When I return to my time, I’ll pick it up and deliver it to him, and at that point, if you so desire, and he agrees, we can arrange for the two of you to meet.”
Imogen noticed that Adam’s demeanor had changed. His face was strained, jaws clenched, shoulders sagging like an old mattress. It seemed clear he did not want to talk about it any longer, even changing the subject by suggesting that they smoke one more bowl before hitting the sack. They could talk more in the morning.
Between the pot and the warm and toasty fire, Imogen slept comfortably inside her bedroll, and the next thing she knew, light was streaming in through the gaps in the cabin’s log walls. Imogen rolled over, sat up, and looked around. D.B. was still asleep. She could hear him lightly snoring from across the room inside his own bedroll. But she didn’t see Adam anywhere. Imogen got up, slipped on her boots and parka, and went outside. There was no fog this morning. She put her hand up to her face to shield her eyes from the bright sunshine and looked around, calling out, “Adam, where are you?” She walked the perimeter of the cabin and even headed up the trail a bit, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Giving up, she trudged back to the cabin and waited for D.B. to wake up. When he did, she told him that she couldn’t find Adam. His pot and pipe were gone from the mantle as well as his hiking gear, and she suspected he’d packed up and gone.
They built a small fire, brewed up some coffee and ate breakfast together, and waited around to see if he might return. He didn’t. Imogen couldn’t help wondering if the news that his son was doing so well might have been the reason he’d left. Maybe he thought he’d screw things up and didn’t want that to happen. Only time would tell.
Imogen and D.B. talked while they ate, and the conversation came back around to time travel. D.B. was more than a little curious.
“So Imogen, how does it work exactly?” he asked.
“You aren’t thinking about disappearing now, are you D.B.?” she teased.
“Hmmm,” he said between bites, “it may have crossed my mind, yes.”
Imogen wasn’t sure what would become of D.B., nobody would know for sure. Maybe Imogen happened, she figured as she expounded on the intricacies and rules and how-to of time traveling through a photograph. Essentially, she told him, “The three main rules of time travel are: you can’t bring back anything from the past with you; you can’t run into yourself, and you can’t alter established history.”
D.B. wasn’t interested in bringing anything back because, of course, wherever he ended up going, he planned to stay there, in this time or some other. What he was most especially enthusiastic about was the prospect of his money being worth much more in the past than it was now, if he could figure out how to do it, that is.
“Guess, I need to get off this mountain, find me some old pictures, and put my powers of introspection to work,” he said, flashing a grin, as they finished off the last bit of coffee.
“Here,” Imogen said, handing D.B. the flask that she’d refilled with the remaining rum from the bottle. “For the long, cold nights ahead,” she said.
“You won’t need it?” he asked.
“Nope,” Imogen said as she stood up and strapped her pack on her shoulders. “I need to go,” she said. “It doesn’t look like Adam’s coming back and I have to get home and see his son.”
D.B. stood up, too and they walked outside the shack together. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Imogen Oliver,” he said.
Imogen winked at D.B. “I’ll keep your secret if you’ll keep mine.”
D.B. shook her hand. “You betcha!”
Imogen turned and started down the trail. D.B. Cooper watched in stunned disbelief as the girl named Imogen began to slowly fade away, leaving behind only a puff of trail dust that, like a smoke ring, hovered above the place where she had been for an instant before dissolving all together.