The Paradox

PROLOGUE

This is NBC News with a breaking news update. The coronal mass ejection or CME that is on target to hit Earth has more than doubled in speed and intensity in the last few hours and NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Space Weather Prediction Center, now projects that it will arrive in two days instead of the five. NOAA scientists are baffled. According to one spokesperson, the solar flares and CME measured out last week to be moderate. A geomagnetic storm of this level shouldn’t be possible, the spokesperson told NBC.

Satellites will soon be disrupted, affecting GPS and wireless communication systems. All aircraft have been grounded. We have been told that officials fear that a geomagnetic storm of this magnitude may also cause extensive damage to fragile electrical grids. Blackouts are expected across much of the Northern Hemisphere. People are advised to have flashlights on hand and enough food and water for at least 72 hours. Emergency crews will be patrolling the streets to provide aid, and police and the National Guard will be on the alert for looting and criminal acts. We will continue to keep you updated as reports come in.

Amos Hamel snapped off the television, greatly disturbed, and paced the floor as he debated what to do. He couldn’t risk calling his friend and colleague. Every spoken word these days was monitored in one way or another, and he was certain that he was being watched. It was just a matter of time until they came for him.

The physicist sat down at his desk and took out pen and paper. He laboriously wrote out everything he knew, what he suspected, and what he feared. Using the computer was out of the question. A good forensic tech could reconstruct enough from a hard drive after the fact, no matter how badly it was damaged.

When he finished, the physicist hesitated for a moment before sealing the papers in an envelope. He would be placing his friend in jeopardy, but someone had to know the truth of this. The physicist addressed and stamped the envelope with a renewed sense of determination and purpose and covertly placed it in the outgoing mail slot of his apartment complex. Even if the solar event delays the mail, eventually it will arrive and he can’t risk using email for fear of discovery.

Across the country, an old woman was suddenly awakened from her sleep feeling anxious, unsettled, unbalanced. Something wasn’t right. She had no idea what it was, but she knew that something had happened to upset the equilibrium.

CHAPTER ONE

A RANDOM DISCOVERY

Fairfield, Pennsylvania, two days later

As Kip Stevens drove the two-lane country road from Addison to Fairfield, he wondered again what had possessed him to come this way. Habit certainly wouldn’t have dictated it. It wasn’t a route he normally took. He liked to feel connected to the outside world. Radio and cell phone reception in this area was spotty at best at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains. And, he liked the conveniences of gas stations and fast-food restaurants.

Today, however, he couldn’t argue that point. Everything was closed. The entire area was feeling the effects of a major solar storm not experienced in modern times. Satellites and electricity had been down for several hours and officials weren’t speculating on how much longer. Still, Kip had to wonder at his internal compass for directing him this way. He finally decided that it was because, time-wise, this was the shorter route with all the traffic signals being out on the major roadways.

Twilight was falling. He looked in the rear-view mirror. The road was completely deserted, making the situation seem even more surreal. It would appear people were heeding the advice of the mayor and the governor to wait out the storm at home. Why not? Traffic lights weren’t working; there was no voltage to run machines or electronics; no Internet or phones to conduct business. If things didn’t get back to normal pretty soon, thought Kip, he would have to type up his story on a manual typewriter. Idly, he wondered if any still existed. He hadn’t seen one in 20 years.

As he rounded the bend, his eye caught sight of something several feet off the side of the road. It looked like a pile of clothes in the grass. Peering closely through the windshield, Kip slowed down as he approached the spot.

What the—holy shit! he exclaimed, jamming on the breaks so hard the car rocked.

He threw the gearshift into park, jumped out of the car, and ran over to a man lying doubled up on the ground. Kip bent down and slowly rolled him over. The man looked as though he had been in a fight. He had cuts and bruises on his face and one eye was swollen shut. He didn’t move or say anything. Blood covered much of his shirt-front, and Stevens saw that the man had been shot. He felt for a pulse. It was thready at best. Just then, the man moaned and his eyes flickered open.

What is your name? asked Kip. What happened to you?

The man stared up at him blankly, and Kip could see that he was in shock.

I can’t call for an ambulance on my phone. There is no reception because of the solar storm. I’ll have to take you to the hospital in my car.

When the man remained unresponsive, Kip carefully hoisted him to his feet and half carried him to the car. The man groaned and lost consciousness again as Stevens lay him on the back seat. The guy looked to be in pretty bad shape, and Kip didn’t hold out much hope that he would survive. They were still 20 miles from Fairfield, and the hospital was on the other side of town.

Kip drove as fast as he could on the back road. When he entered town, he sped through the streets, heartened to find that the only traffic he encountered were emergency vehicles patrolling the downtown and neighborhoods. The town was eerily quiet and dark now, except for the light from flashlights and candles winking in the windows. A few people had generators.

Kip pulled up at the hospital emergency room entrance and ran inside. I need help! he shouted.

CHAPTER TWO

A MYSTERY PATIENT

Kip sat slumped in a chair in the dimly lit waiting room of Fairfield Memorial Hospital waiting for word from the doctor. It was nearly eight o’clock at night when police detective Hank Gillespie walked in.

Trouble seems to follow you, Stevens. What the hell have you stumbled into this time? the stocky detective asked gruffly. Why can’t you stay home like everyone else?

Kip shrugged. As the saying goes, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night—

I don’t think that was meant to apply to pain-in-the-ass reporters. What were you doing out there?

My job, responded Kip. Where have you been? I thought the donut shop was closed. I expected to see you long before this.

Funny, Stevens. The communications system is down at the station. The hospital just sent someone over to notify us. What’s the word on this guy’s condition?

I don’t know. He’s probably still in surgery, replied Kip. The doctor hasn’t come out yet.

Give me the details.

I had been out covering the effects of the storm on the area and was on my way home from Addison by way of the back road. I found the poor guy lying off the side of the road about 20 miles from Fairfield. I couldn’t call for an ambulance, so I put him in the car and brought him here myself. That’s it, said Kip. I don’t know anything more than that.

Did you get a name?

No.

I thought you were a crack reporter.

The guy was in bad shape, Gillespie. He wasn’t conscious long enough to say anything.

The doctor walked into the waiting room then, still in his scrubs and looking fatigued.

Kip stood up. What’s the word, Doc?

Gillespie glared at the young reporter. I’m asking the questions here. He looked at the doctor. What can you tell me, Chet?

Not much, Hank. Someone gave him a hell of a beating before shooting him. We removed the bullet without complications. Luckily, it didn’t hit any organs, but he lost a lot of blood. He should make a full recovery, barring unexpected consequences. Whoever did this must have left him for dead. If Kip hadn’t come along when he did, we might be having this conversation in the morgue. Beyond that… the doctor shrugged. I have nothing for you until he wakes up from the surgery.

What about a description?

He’s about 5’ 10 tall, medium build, brown hair, mustache with that close-cropped goatee young men like to sport these days."

Age?

I would put him in his mid-twenties, replied the doctor.

Didn’t he tell you his name?

He never regained consciousness and was rushed into surgery as soon as Kip brought him in.

Any I.D.?

None.

The detective gave a snort of exasperation. Stevens, did you see a wallet anywhere on the ground where you found him?

Kip shook his head. No, but I wasn’t looking. I was a bit distracted at the time.

Detective Gillespie snapped shut his notepad. I’ll get a man out there to search the area. When can I talk to this guy?

I would rather you waited until morning, said the doctor. He is heavily sedated, and I would like to see his vitals more stabilized.

I’ll need that bullet and his clothes. We don’t know what this fellow might have been into.

The doctor nodded. I’ll have the nurse get them for you.

CHAPTER THREE

NO MEMORY

The next morning, the detective returned to the hospital and found the doctor at the nurse’s station updating a file.

Is he awake, Doc?

The doctor looked up. Didn’t expect to see you this early, Hank. Yeah, he’s awake, but I don’t think he’s going to be of much help to you.

Why not? asked Kip, coming up behind the detective.

Gillespie turned in annoyance. What are you doing here?

I saved the guy’s life. I have a natural interest in who he is, said Kip.

The detective snorted. Who are you kidding? You just want a story. Go on, Chet. What were you saying?

I was called away on an emergency and didn’t have much time to talk to him, but the young man appears to have amnesia, reported the doctor. He doesn’t remember anything—not even his name or where he’s from.

Do you believe him? asked the detective, skeptical. Pretending amnesia is a good way for him to avoid answering questions if he was involved in a criminal act.

The doctor shrugged. He was pretty disoriented. Of course, it could be the painkillers and the effects of the anesthesia.

If he does have amnesia, how long until he gets his memory back?

Can’t say at this point, Hank. I’ve scheduled him for an EEG to rule out injury to the brain.

Which room is he in?

I’ll take you there.

As Stevens started to follow after them, Gillespie stopped and turned to him. Where do you think you are going? This is police business. Can’t have you compromising my investigation.

What investigation? challenged Kip. Are you charging the guy with anything? Is he a person of interest in any case?

I won’t know until I investigate now, will I? A man isn’t beaten, dumped on the side of the road, and a bullet pumped into him for no reason.

C’mon, Gillespie. If he has amnesia, an article about him on the front page might bring someone forward with information.

He’s right, said the doctor.

Gillespie hesitated. All right, but don’t get in the way. And if I tell you something is off the record, it’s off the record, he warned with the wag of his pen.

As the three men filed into the room, the stranger turned his head. His jaw was swollen, he had a black eye, and there was a nasty bruise on his cheek.

This is Detective Gillespie, said the doctor. "He needs to ask you a few questions. And this is Kip Stevens, a reporter for the Fairfield Gazette. It was Mr. Stevens who found you."

The man continued to stare at them vacantly.

The doc says you don’t remember much. What do you remember? asked the detective.

The man didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said: This isn’t right. His voice was weak and hoarse, his words a bit garbled from his swollen jaw, and there was a high degree of anxiety in his tone.

What isn’t right? asked the detective.

These machines, your clothes…none of this is right. I do not understand—

How isn’t it right? pressed the detective.

Nothing should look this way, said the man, growing visibly upset.

Why? What’s it supposed to look like?

Not like this.

Mind if I ask a question? asked Kip.

I thought I told you to be quiet, said Gillespie.

Just one question.

Gillespie gave a snort of annoyance. Make it quick.

Kip approached the bed. What year is this?

The man looked around him, obviously confused. I—I don’t know.

What year do you think it should be?

1903, the man readily responded.

Gillespie’s jaw dropped, and there was a look of astonishment on the doctor’s face.

I think this is enough for now, said the doctor, ushering Gillespie and Kip out of the room.

I didn’t see that one coming, remarked the detective. I’ve heard of people losing a few years to amnesia but never over a hundred. That’s a new one. What’s going on, Doc?

The doctor’s brow was furrowed in concern. I don’t know yet. Brain injuries can be tricky.

Gillespie turned to Kip. How did you know to ask that question?

Kip shrugged. I don’t know. It just seemed logical the way he was reacting to his surroundings.

Gillespie regarded Kip with suspicion. You’re sure you’re not holding out on me?

I don’t know anything more than you do, Kip assured him.

The detective turned around to the doctor. I’ll be sending someone over from the precinct this afternoon to take his fingerprints and snap a picture.

Don’t you need a court order for that since you don’t have anything to charge him with? asked Kip.

Gillespie glared at the reporter. Don’t you have some place to be, Stevens? If this guy really wants to know who he is, he won’t object.

CHAPTER FOUR

MRS. THURSTON

Stevens strolled into the police station three days later and greeted the guys with a box of donuts.

Is Gillespie in? he asked a patrolman.

He’s at his desk, but he isn’t in a good mood.

He’s never in a good mood, interjected another officer, helping himself to a donut.

Kip laughed. Don’t let him hear you say that. He walked upstairs to the detective division on the second floor. Hey, Gillespie, any word yet on the John Doe fingerprints?

The detective looked up from his desk, a pained expression on his face. Geez, Stevens, don’t you have any other assignments?

The reporter grinned. Not as interesting as this one. Did you find anything?

Give me a chance already. We’re still backed up from the solar storm.

Gillespie stood up and went to put a file in the cabinet. From what we can tell, your guy isn’t in any database that we have. There’s nothing in missing persons or in the cold case files. We circulated his picture to police departments around the country, but nothing has come back.

If his fingerprints aren’t in the system, he hasn’t committed a crime—

That we know of, interjected Gillespie.

He wasn’t in the military or worked any kind of a job requiring a security clearance? questioned Stevens.

Gillespie shook his head. We got zip.

What about his clothes?

Peg said there was nothing to indicate who he is or where he’s from. She called the clothes vintage. You know…from another time…old fashioned. Peg said the vest, shirt, and pants were from a New York store that went out of business in 1934. She figured he probably bought the clothes in one of those retro stores.

For what reason? And why does he think this is 1903? Kip wondered aloud.

Gillespie shrugged. Maybe he’s in the theater and got his years crossed when the assailants scrambled his brains…the clothes were just a costume for a play.

The playhouses around here are closed for the season, said Kip.

Then maybe the guy is just offbeat. Hell, Peg wears those crazy clothes from the hippie era. The detective nodded toward a middle-aged woman sitting across the room. Why don’t you ask her?

Who is she?

You know the five-year-old kid that went missing two days ago?

Yeah. The family was on a camping trip, and he wandered off.

The woman is supposed to be some kind of psychic. The parents insisted on bringing her in.

A psychic! Kip chuckled. Chief Simpson must be getting desperate.

It seems she has worked with other police departments across the country over the years, said Gillespie.

Is she for real?

You tell me. They found the kid a half hour ago—right where she said he’d be.

You’re kidding me.

Gillespie raised his hands. Swear to God. She just touched the kid’s sweater that the search team found and told them they were looking in the wrong place. She told them to look in the south quadrant. Nobody thought the kid could roam that far. I thought you would have been all over this story, Stevens.

Anderson caught the assignment.

Dittmore must be pissed off at you.

He’s not real happy with me at the moment, admitted Kip. I blew a deadline working on a lead I thought I had about John Doe’s identity.

The guy still isn’t remembering anything?

Not as far as I know. The hospital isn’t allowing him visitors right now. The doctor brought in a psychiatrist, and they’re running more tests.

Well, let me know when you get something. I can’t close the case until I’m sure he wasn’t involved in something he shouldn’t have been.

Hey, Gillespie, said Kip, as the detective started to walk off, what’s the psychic’s name?

Mrs. Thurston.

Do you still have John’s clothes?

Yeah. Talk to Peg.

Kip rushed to the lab on the third floor and got what he needed. He was returning to the detectives’ squad room as the psychic was leaving. Mrs. Thurston, wait, he called out to her.

The woman stopped and turned to him. Do you need another statement?

No. I’m not a cop, Mrs. Thurston. I’m a reporter with the local paper. I heard how you were responsible for finding the little boy. Have you always had this ability?

"Yes. My great grandmother, grandmother and mother all carried the gift of clairvoyance, though I regret to say my grandmother and mother considered