Objet D'art: Memorabilia Trilogy, #2

By Kyle R. Fisher

Sean, an ex-police officer turned pawn shop owner, sits parked at a gas station with photographic evidence of time travel in his hands. Someone on the other side of the station is approaching his car. The identity of the stranger shocks him more than the content of the photographs. Keeping a step ahead of the Secret Service and the local police, Sean finds himself stranded in Paris in 1944, as the Germans are retreating from the city. An emotionless killer named Sands that Sean faced before needs one more priceless work of art to retire comfortably. He has his eye on a Rembrandt that disappeared from Paris during World War II and he'll kill anyone that gets in his way. Sean must race against Sands to find the Rembrandt first. The search lands Sean in the miles of tunnels under Paris without a map or a flashlight. Even with the help of some unlikely allies, Sean may not make it out of 1944 Paris alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kyle R. Fisher
• Release date: Nov 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005547356

Kyle R. Fisher

Kyle R. Fisher enjoys writing in multiple genres including science fiction, historical fiction, and thrillers. His work shifts from a trilogy about time travel to the true story of Judith of Flanders to a spy thriller about ancestors of German Nazis attempting to overthrow the US government. He populates his books with unusual but realistic characters, quirky humor, and unexpected twists. Kyle is an engineer and independent author living in Ohio. He is a project engineer for an injection molding company that makes large parts for many different industries. His wife works in a candy factory and he believes she is the sweetest thing in the building. His oldest daughter is an Ohio University graduate who works and raises three children. His younger daughter graduated from both the Ohio State University and the University of Northern Colorado, and works in the mental health care field. He couldn't be prouder of them. An avid reader his whole life, his first attempt at writing was on a red, toy typewriter at the age of nine or ten. It was a horror story about giant ants, which he never completed. As an adult, Kyle's interest in writing didn't ignite until after his second trip through college, where a tough composition professor gave him the encouragement he needed. In 2010, his first completed manuscript, Turbulent Reentry, won the San Diego Mensa 2010 Creative uRGe award for Best Unpublished Novel. He hasn't stopped writing since.

Book preview

Objet D’art

Book 2 of the Memorabilia Trilogy

(ôb″zhĕ där′)

French. An object of artistic merit.

by

Kyle R. Fisher

Objet D’art

Kyle R Fisher

Smashwords Edition

Text copyright © 2022 Kyle R. Fisher

ISBN: 9781005547356

Cover artwork by Kyle R Fisher

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Though numerous characters, places, and incidents are based on the historical record, the work as a whole is a product of the author’s imagination. All other names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchase for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgement

Thank you to my aunt, Gloria Gilcher, and her friend, Courtney Earhart, who told me they enjoyed Memorabilia, (the first book in the series before it was a series) but wanted me to finish it.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

Other Titles by the Author

ONE

Sean Barrick could not pull his eyes from the smart phone in his hand even as his primal instinct for nutrition knotted and rumbled at the center of his stomach. He had just watched video evidence proving his claim all along; he was not the mastermind behind the attempted theft of stolen jewels three years before during the Hurricane Sandy tragedy. This video evidence was indisputable; his rookie partner, Officer Dale Kalb, attempted to steal jewels freshly stolen minutes before from a jewelry store with its security system powered down from the storm. Had this video evidence existed at the time, Sean would still be a law enforcement officer. That’s not the way it played out. This video didn’t exist until recently. The woman he’d come to know as Elyse had traveled back in time to film it for him.

If this wasn’t personally world-shattering enough for Sean, in his lap sat another conundrum: a stack of photographs that simply could not exist. They showed impossible events featuring people who could not have been present at the time. Here was photographic evidence that time travel was not only possible, but occurred on a frequent basis. These were pictures of his grandfather, Paul, and Elyse during historic moments in time. Elyse and Paul at the failed Reagan assassination attempt in 1981. Elyse filming the 1963 assassination of President Kennedy at Dealey Plaza in the now-iconic guise of the Babushka Lady. Pictures of Elyse out of scenes described in Paul’s World War II journal. Sean just saw her forty-five minutes before, and she appeared no different in any of these photos.

These were both life-altering discoveries, not only for him, but for every person drawing a breath on the planet. But his main concern right now seemed to be hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything since roughly four-o-clock that day while waiting for darkness to cover their unlawful entry into the Louisiana Memorial Pavilion of the World War II Museum in New Orleans. It had only been two sugar-filled protein bars and a water from a Time Saver convenience store, like the one he saw outside the passenger window of Allie’s car. That meal—if you could call it that—had quit on him an hour before, and his body was escalating the demand for more.

He looked around again, the fourth or fifth time he’d checked his surroundings in the last ten minutes. Was it his police training; that ever-present tickle of paranoia in the back of his mind? Was it just a nervous release of energy after the last few hours of mainlining adrenaline? Was it low blood sugar? He contemplated buying food in the Time Saver but he didn’t want to leave these truth bombs in the car alone. Maybe he should find a drive-through?

Above him, sprouting from a tall pole, a single high-intensity sodium lamp burned, casting a dingy, yellow light into his borrowed car. The chirp of countless crickets and the recurrent Doppler-altered hum of large trucks hurtling past on nearby Interstate 10 rode atop the muggy air entering through the open driver’s side window, but no sirens yet. Thirty feet away, a young kid driving a four-door coupe filled his gas tank while he scrolled on his smart phone. On the far bank of pumps, a large pickup truck sat with oversize tires and a pie plate-sized exhaust stack poking through the bed. Sean couldn’t see the driver, but that would be a poor choice of undercover vehicles if someone were watching him. A four-door sedan sat empty in one of the parking spots at the front of the store. He couldn’t see inside but it was likely another hungry traveler, although the common, nonspecific car set off alarm bells.

Finally, a sliver of logical thought tumbled through the noise of his self-induced paranoid psyche. The police would likely canvass convenience stores like this one on the outskirts of the city near large highways and someone might remember a nervous-looking guy in a white Honda parked nearby. He needed distance. He would push himself another fifty or sixty miles to the next cluster of restaurants and gas stations on Interstate 10, and then perhaps take the photos and this cell phone with him in the backpack. He still had the Glock .40 caliber in a holster at his side that he would have to conceal before entering a public place.

He dragged his attention back to the cell phone in his hand. The screen was blank, having entered sleep mode to save battery power. Did it only contain the video that proved his innocence of the jewelry heist or were there other clues on it he missed? He decided to look again at the next stop. He began to set it down on the seat beside him when a piercing ring split the relative silence and caused him nearly to drop the phone. The screen lit up with a generic unknown caller screen, daring him to answer it. Was it Elyse calling him? Nobody else would have this number, he thought. It had to be her. Another ring screamed at him before he stabbed the green dot with his finger and held the phone to his ear.

Hello, he said, quietly, almost reverently, as if a long-lost elderly relative was at the other end. At first, he only heard his own racing heartbeat thudding in his ears, but then a voice came from the small speaker.

Hello, we’ve been trying to reach you regarding your car’s extended warranty. You should have received something in the mail—

Sean swore as he jerked the phone from his ear and tapped the connection closed. I’m being foolish, he thought, Elyse isn’t going to call. Besides, she could just call me on the burner phone we bought, why call on this one?

It was time to go. He reached for the keys dangling in the ignition and looked out the windshield. Something new met his gaze that wasn’t present just moments before, pausing his arm in mid-reach. A shadowy figure stood sixty feet away near a stretch of trees and thick brush on the other side of the gas pumps. Perhaps it was his current state of mind but the figure appeared to stare directly at him. Sean stared back. The figure began walking toward the car. As Sean’s heartbeat began to accelerate, his hand slowly moved away from the ignition and toward the holster at his side.

Elyse was his first thought. Had she slipped away from her partner, Sands? Had she somehow checked the historical record to see where he would stop for a look at the photos? As he scrutinized the figure walking closer to him, he realized it was not Elyse. It was likely not a woman at all. He’d watched Elyse walk before, with her shorter strides and swaying hips; this person did not fit that pattern. These were long strides with exaggerated arm and shoulder movements; no, this was a man. Sean removed the pistol fully from his holster and rested it on his lap, muzzle pointing toward his door.

The man continued walking closer, angling his approach toward the car’s driver side. Sean could tell he wore a hat, possibly an eight-point patrolman’s cap like he used to wear as a police officer in Philly. Had his premonition about leaving come seconds too late? Had the police found him already? In the coarse yellow light of the sodium lamp, Sean began to make out the finer details of the man’s clothing. It wasn’t a police officer’s uniform. He appeared to be wearing bib overalls like you would use for working outside in the cold.

As the man drew near the front of the car, Sean saw that they were not bib overalls. They were just overly baggy trousers that came up aggressively high on his waist. His hat was not a police officer’s cap, but instead a fedora, like gangsters wore in the 1930s. The shirt looked like a bowling alley button-down special with a wide-collar and thick brown and tan vertical stripes. It fit right in with the fedora. And were those shoes two-tone Oxfords? Had this man just come from a costume party?

With the window already down and the mugginess of the Louisiana night still billowing in, Sean waited for the costumed man to reach him. His gait slowed as he neared the open window of the car. He held his hands away from his body in an obvious gesture of nonaggression. The overhead light cast long shadows on the man’s face, but Sean picked out the generic details of a police description. Caucasian, medium athletic build, short brown hair, earnest face. Also, there was a hint of familiarity. He didn’t ever remember meeting this man but felt like he knew him. He looked like… like… well, quite a bit like…

You probably don’t want to shoot me, the man said, that might not be good for either one of us.

Sean knew that voice, or at least he knew an older version of it. The version from his memory carried a slightly higher pitch and a sandpapery quality due to thinning of the vocal cords, a natural result of the aging process. The last time he heard his grandfather speak, the words bore an underlying quiver, the aural equivalent to the mild tremors in an octogenarian’s outstretched hand. This man’s voice carried no such tremor; it was rich and deep, bursting with the vigor of youth. Despite these obvious differences, Sean knew this voice well; beyond doubt.

Gramps?

This was the voice of his grandfather, Paul Barrick. The man looked just like the picture on his grandparents’ mantel of Paul wearing his Army uniform from World War II. It looked like the same man from the Kodachrome color photo he’d just seen of his thirty-something grandfather standing next to Elyse with London’s Big Ben in the background. But this wasn’t possible. This man standing before him in the fedora was easily sixty years younger than his grandfather, who, in the ultimate closing-argument case-winning mic-drop, had just died less than two weeks before.

Maybe you should call me Paul from here on out.

Hunger finally forgotten, Sean nodded, unsure what to do or say next.

His grandfather’s lookalike waited a beat, then continued, Do you mind if I come around to the passenger side and get in. This might look a little odd to the folks pumping gas.

Uh, yeah, of course, Sean nodded and aimed a weak pointer finger toward the opposite door. While Paul worked his way around the front of the car, Sean couldn’t stop tracking the man with his eyes. As Paul opened the door, flooding the interior with light, Sean noticed the objects on the seat. He quickly grabbed the photo envelope and cell phone with an awkward reach of his left hand, maintaining his grip on the gun with his right. Paul sat and in the momentary brightness of the car’s interior, the man’s features came into focus. He had to admit, Elyse was correct; under the brim of that fedora, he and Paul really did look alike, at least at this age. In the last vestiges of light before the door thudded closed, Sean realized he was staring at him, but Paul was staring right back with the same look of astonished skepticism.

They didn’t tell me I had such a handsome grandson, Paul said, an almost imperceptible smirk pulling up one corner of his mouth.

Sean couldn’t stop the chuckle from rising out of his throat. That’s funny, because we look alike. That’s something I would say.

Well, it looks like you got my sense of humor, too. He glanced down at the envelope in Sean’s hand. I see you found the photographs.

Sean nodded as his mind ratcheted past the shock of this new reality to the explanation. Time travel! First, without any substantial proof to speak of, Elyse had convinced him it was real. Chalk that up to feminine wiles, he thought. Then, just an hour ago, Gabriel Sands easily and smugly shot holes in her story with the obvious truth that any ten-year-old kid could have digitally doctored a photograph to make time travel look real. He still remembered the sting of feeling like an idiot. He didn’t want to believe Sands but that explanation had logic on its side. It brought believability and a rational explanation to this fiasco from a broad, overall perspective. However, once he began looking at the pictures in this envelope, his doubts again fell away, and this time without the benefit of Elyse’s captivating smile or alluring figure. Unless all the photographs in the envelope were fake, which seemed unlikely, time travel was indeed a reality and now, irrefutable proof was sitting in the seat next to him.

Yeah, uh, right there at the bottom of your footlocker where you hid them.

I left clues, but I wasn’t certain who I was leaving them for.

At some point you must have decided it was me. You gave me subtle hints over the years that sounded like lessons in photography and life. In the thin light of the security pole outside, Sean saw a satisfied smile touch the corners of Paul’s mouth. And actually, Sean continued, these aren’t all the pictures; just the ones Elyse left for me.

Is that what she calls herself now?

Realizing he was still holding the gun, Sean slid it back into the holster and nodded. Yeah, Elyse Somerville.

That’s a new one.

Sean’s stare was beginning to feel awkward, but he couldn’t pull it away. Are you really Paul Barrick?

Paul laughed and nodded. I really am. I don’t have any proof. They frown on us bringing identification on these trips.

Sean shook his head. "Not necessary. I know it’s you, I can see it and I can hear it. I just can’t believe it. It feels like it’s you and a totally separate person at the same time. It’s hard to square in my mind."

Well, this is new for me, too. They tell me you’re my grandson and I can see the resemblance but I don’t even have a wife yet.

Sean thought about his grandmother, Dee, a girl Paul dated before the war, and wondered if Paul even knew he would marry her. Do you know anything about your future?

Paul shook his head, a little too vigorously. No, and don’t tell me anything. I don’t know the implications of insider information.

Yeah, this time travel thing is bizarre.

Paul nodded. It takes some getting used to but after a while, it becomes almost routine. It’s just like taking a trip to a foreign country. Many things are different and you have to remember where you are and what you’re doing at all times.

With an index finger and thumb, Sean forcefully massaged a spot between his eyes over the bridge of his nose. You’d think with all the science fiction movies about time travel I watched as a kid I’d be less shocked than I am right now. His arm dropped back down and he refocused on Paul, hoping to assure himself he wasn’t hallucinating. So, what are you doing here?

Can we talk about it while you drive?

Sean gave him a quick shrug and said, Sure, where are we going? He reached toward the ignition to start the engine.

The World War II Museum.

Once again, Sean’s arm paused midway to the keys. He looked at Paul but the sight of his grandfather as a young man made his thoughts wander from their conversation. Instead, he cranked his head back and looked at the wooded strip of land where Paul appeared. That’s not happening. I just left there and the New Orleans PD will be crawling all over that place.

Paul turned in his seat and put a hand on Sean’s shoulder. Sean reluctantly turned to look at him. Son, Paul said, a name he often called Sean in his youth when the subject mattered, Kiva, I mean… what did you say her current name was?

Elyse.

Right, Elyse, is in trouble. I need you to go with me to help her.

Again, the visual confusion of seeing Paul kicked in, so he looked away. Where is she?

Paris.

Sean didn’t say anything but slowly turned his head again to look at Paul. Each time it was the same. He saw a familiar face staring back at him; one that he met in the mirror every morning. The same eyes, the same jawline, it was close enough they might have passed for twins, almost. "And… when is she?"

August 25, 1944.

Sean voiced his reply slowly, adding a full stop between each word. You have got to be kidding.

Paul shook his head. I’m not kidding.

You want me to go to 1944? As in back in time?

Do you want to help Elyse or not?

Sean studied his grandfather’s face. If not for the similarity, he might not have believed any of this, despite the photographs. But after everything he and Elyse went through, he felt a bond with her. Perhaps it was that one night of drunken passion, but a bond is a bond.

How is us getting thrown in jail going to help Elyse?

Paul chuckled. We’re not going to jail tonight. Trust me. The smart people at the Bureau have worked this all out.

The Bureau?

A flash of concern swept Paul’s face, then the easy smile returned. I think I can say that. It’s just what we call it.

The time travel… Sean struggled for a word to complete his sentence, but Paul saved him.

Thing. Yeah, that, uh, group of people. I’d tell you the entire name but it sounds a little odd.

Sean hesitated as the moments ticked by. He had to admit, going back in time piqued his curiosity. How many people could say they traveled back in time, although, he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone, even if it were true. His previous experiences with Elyse taught him that. And in 1944 the war was almost over, wasn’t it? How dangerous could it be?

Okay, how can I say no? His hand resumed its journey to the keys but he stopped short of starting the engine. But first, you’re going to have to change out of those clothes into something modern and lose the hat.

Paul looked down at his baggy, high-waisted pants and striped shirt and said, No problem. This wasn’t the greatest era for fashion. Do you have any extra clothes or do we need to buy some?

The thought of Paul wearing the Show me your kitties! shirt that Allie bought for Elyse gave him a brief smile before he pointed a thumb at the rear of the car and said, I have some stuff that will probably fit you in that gray duffel back there. You can change in the Time Saver bathroom.

Okay, Paul said. Do you have any money? I need to buy something.

Sean pulled his wallet out and handed him a twenty. Buy a couple waters and a big bag of trail mix while you’re at it.

TWO

After tearing open the bag of trail mix and shoving a handful into his mouth, Sean pulled out of the Time Saver parking lot. He found his way back to Interstate 10, this time heading southwest toward the bridge across Lake Pontchartrain and, consequently, back toward the World War II Museum in New Orleans. Next to him sat Paul wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt. A closer look at the shirt showed a bright green four-leaf clover over his left breast and the words The Irish Pub in a green-lettered curve below it. Sean had been to this bar in Atlantic City once or twice. The shirt and pants—purchased by Allie for Sean—fit Paul almost as well as his own; actually, better than the baggy, high-waisted pants from the 1940s. Sean didn’t have an extra pair of shoes so there was a slight chance that Paul’s two-tone Oxfords might help revive a decades-old fashion trend.

Maybe no one will pay attention to your feet, Sean told him, after swallowing a mouthful of trail mix.

Paul glanced down at them, barely visible by the car’s dash lights. Too late. The guy in the Time Saver said he liked them.

Yeah, they’re groovy. He held out the bag of trail mix over the car’s center console.

Paul shook his head. No thanks, not hungry just now.

As he drove, Sean cracked open the bottle of water and took a long pull to wash down the salty trail mix. He soon noticed Paul’s arm reaching toward him with a small object in his hand.

Want one? Paul asked.

His opened hand revealed a small, white piece of candy wrapped in cellophane.

Sean smiled. His grandfather always had mints around like it was a religion. Sure, thanks.

Don’t thank me, you paid for them.

Sean nodded in agreement. This situation was still surreal and the words were just not coming. He was enjoying a mint with his grandfather, like he’d done a thousand times before as a young boy, but now his grandfather wasn’t much older than him. In fact, in Paul’s timeline, Sean’s father Tony hadn’t yet been born. It was nearly too much for his mind to absorb. Maybe, he thought, I need more background for it to make sense.

Paul, Sean began, speaking slowly. So strange to be calling you Paul. I know you can’t tell me much, but I have a few questions.

Fire away.

How did you know to come to the Time Saver? How did you know I’d be there?

Paul remained quiet for long moments, leaving Sean wondering if he would get any answers at all. For the vast amount of information it should be able to provide about the past, time travel sure kept a tight lid on all its secrets.

I just got out of the hospital yesterday—my yesterday—and the next day was at the bus station in Baltimore, Maryland when a guy about my age approached me.

The Baltimore VA hospital, right?

Paul nodded. Combat fatigue, they called it. No, it was punishment from the Bureau for going rogue. Give us the photos or you can die a slow death in this hellhole. A bastard named Gabriel Sands did everything short of a lobotomy to find out where I hid them.

Yeah, I met the guy. Plus, I read your medical file. Pretty ghastly.

Paul swiveled a glance at Sean with wide eyes. How in the world did you get my medical file? I’m surprised it’s even still around.

It’s a long story and yours is more important right now.

Paul snorted a laugh and continued. "So, this guy comes up to me in the train station and says he works for the Bureau. Thinking it was some sort of test from Sands, I told him I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. He offered to buy me a cup of coffee and hear him out. Then, if I didn’t want to help him, we could go our separate ways. I had a few hours before my train left so I decided I could use a cup of coffee.

It took some convincing, but eventually I believed everything he told me. He knew more about the Bureau than I did and he didn’t like Sands, which was a plus in my book. He said Kiva was in trouble. Sands forced her to go to Paris 1944 to steal a valuable piece of artwork and her life was in danger. He told me my grandson, Sean, would be sitting in a parked car outside that Time Saver on this day in 2015 and that I needed your help. He made me memorize some other information in case of trouble—standard Bureau procedures—and then he placed me on the other side of those bushes. You were parked right where he said you’d be.

Sean accelerated onto the Pontchartrain Causeway as the yellow glow of Slidell faded into the darkness behind them. Aside from a necklace of streetlights stretching the first two hundred feet along both sides, the road ahead was as dark as the brackish water surrounding them. Who was this guy?

Paul stared ahead into the blackness. I didn’t get a name. He was my age, maybe a little older. Good-looking, tall, muscular guy, Caucasian, blue eyes, black hair that stood up high on his head like he used a lot of Vitalis.

Sean smiled at the mention of Vitalis—more commonly used back in Paul’s day—but let it go. "Did he say why you needed me? What am I going to be able to do?"

I’m getting there. He found a Shuttle and took me to Control. You need a Shuttle to go—

Sean finished for him, When you want to go forward in time.

Paul offered a subtle nod. Elyse must have given you the basic lecture.

"Yeah, but she never mentioned why you need a Shuttle to go forward."

I’m not for sure; something about safety. Apparently, a few early time travelers died before they figured that out.

She also never mentioned the word Control.

Control is essentially their headquarters: Mission Control, more or less. It’s living quarters and mission prep all in one. He was in such a hurry that I didn’t have time to change clothes.

He knew where I’d be. Maybe he knew I had clothing you could wear.

Paul gave a halfhearted shrug, which was lost to Sean, who focused on the road. Maybe, but I got the impression he didn’t want anyone at Control to see me. Then he brought me here with his handheld, or Tube, as Kiva likes to call it.

Sean nodded. Yeah, like the Tube in London because it only goes one direction. She told me that.

That’s one way to tell the Brits and the Americans apart at the Bureau. He spit out a brief chuckle and continued. This guy couldn’t leave his handheld with me because he needed it so he gave me instructions on where to find another one. Apparently, it takes two people to get it so that’s where you come in.

So, you’re not taking me to 1945 with you? Sean shouldered aside an unexpected disappointment at the thought of not going into the past and focused on whatever relief he convinced himself to feel for avoiding the madness of it.

Paul nodded vigorously. Well, it’s actually 1944 but yes, he said you needed to be there.

The disappointment drained off like an overturned coffee mug, leaving Sean with a truth he had to admit; he wanted to go on this crazy adventure. I have mixed emotions about it. Not sure I want to be lurching about time like a drunken sailor.

You sound like her, Paul said, his tone tumbling into a subdued sadness.

That’s because she just said that to me yesterday, or maybe the day before. It’s hard to tell lately. You really loved her, huh?

Paul nodded again in the darkness. Still do.

Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that. I, uh, read your war journal and that fact became quickly obvious.

"Ah,