Jarvis tracked his target across the folds of time.  Constantly searching, his mind disconnected from enjoying the moment, with all concentrative activities on the pursuit and capture of Monns Turntine, his elusive quarry.  Other bounty hunters would have gotten lost along the way, caught up in the bizzare atmospheres of the past, sucked into Turntine's odd world of rock and roll reverie.  But Jarvis was no ordinary bounty hunter, otherwise they never would have sent him to bring back the felon jumper.

The roar of the crowd was fervent and draining, almost an oppressive force threatening to tap his energy as he pushed his way through throngs of hysterical young girls.  After a thorough search of all the men's rest rooms, Jarvis ducked into a stall, removed his coat, and rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal the biopad embedded in his wrist.  He set the controls for enhanced vision, just in case Turntine might be in disguise as a Caucasian.  25,000 gathered in the historic ballpark, mostly teenagers, with 20,000 no-shows.  Jarvis knew he was close.  Pulling the small, rectangular slipkey from his coat pocket, he scanned for booked portals within a few miles radius.  There were three scheduled within the next few hours, two of which were out in the ocean.  The other was right along the 101 North freeway outside of Candlestick.  Turntine's pattern was erratic, but the clues he left behind in Germany and The Ed Sullivan Show had Jarvis fine-tuned to his quarry's wave of thought.  He never cared much for music, especially historic rock and roll, but after closing in Turntine's trail for the last seven time jumps, the noisy stuff was kind of growing on him. 

He made his way back into the aisles while the last of the opening acts played on the field, their music cranking out into the raw San Francisco night.  Of those in attendance, eighty percent were female, the rest were either cops, vendors, or jealous young men looking to punch John Lennon in the face.  Jarvis noted that the infamous wind known as 'The Hawk' was beginning to stir, sending fierce gusts into the ballpark, their velocity strong enough to interfere with his energy level.  Yet even with the adverse weather conditions, Jarvis recognized the higher vibrations.  It was this multi-layered form of unclassified energy that his quarry relished. 

When Jarvis let control over his super-sensory mechanisms tune in to the flow, it was easy to see why Turntine was hooked. His skin tingled with life, his spine warmed, and neurons of euphoria danced across his temporal lobe.  Being perhaps the only person besides his quarry in the ballpark who knew this was the last live Beatles performance only made the energy more powerful.  A group of young girls laughed at him as they walked by, making Jarvis aware that he was grinning like an idiot.  He quickly shook himself, and returned all brain activity to the hunt.  It proved difficult to ignore, and for the first time, he thought maybe Turntine was not that insane after all, just hopelessly hooked on rare forms of energy.  Whereas self-absorbed energy abuse was not against the law, unlicensed time travel made you Public Enemy #1.  Either way, Jarvis thought as he headed down a tunnel leading to the field, Turntine needed to be apprehended right here, right now.

"Hey pal, where do you think you're going?"

Jarvis turned to find the owner of the voice.  A burly, red-haired cop was giving him the eye.  Jarvis wore pants, loafers, and an overcoat in correspondence with the current style, so he was puzzled about why the man singled him out.  Maybe it was his lack of a hat, as most men his age seemed to be wearing one.  The man scanned Jarvis' eyes, stepping in front of him in an authoritative stance.

"Sir?"

"I asked where it is you think you're going," the big man said.  "This area's restricted."

Jarvis could see the intensity in the man's eyes, the hope of confrontation.  1966, tense times all over the world, and people had not yet learned to harness their emotions.  Hate and violence was always a short fuse away.

"I'm sorry," Jarvis surrendered, "I just had to get away from the stands and go for a walk.  The noise was getting to me."

The burly cop relaxed a bit, then said, "There's a patio lounge behind the concession stands at the main gates, that's where you'll find all the fellows like you who can't take the racket."  He contemplated the scene for a minute, glancing out the tunnel, then added, "You ask me, those Brits are a big nuisance these days.  And after they said that crap about them being bigger than Christ, well, I say to hell with 'em."

"As if you fellas didn't have enough security problems to worry about, huh?"

"That's right, buddy," he grumbled, checking his watch.  "They're even bringing 'em out in a goddamned armored car!  Can you believe it?"

"Yes," Jarvis said, starting to depart, but the cop was already moving away from him, busy thwarting a group of youths trying to sneak onto the field.  Jarvis slid back into the flow of people rushing to their seats.  He walked up to the upper deck, his eyes alert for Turntine.

The wind grew more vicious, tugging and nipping as he viewed the field.  He'd seen the footage many times before.  The small stage with the six-foot fence around it, the screaming fans, but being there in person some 340 years before his birth made everything take on a dream-like quality. 

The crowd came to life when the Beatles took the stage.  Ringo stumbled on his way out of the armored car.  Kids rushed into the aisles as Jarvis scanned for his prey.  The band addressed the crowd, then broke into a warm rendition of Chuck Berry's "Rock n' Roll Music."

Jarvis turned off his auditory receptors and went to work.  As the concert went on, the Beatles played through their set as the wind picked up and the crowd's antics grew more distracting.  Several kids tried to rush the stage only to be gang-tackled by security.  There were almost as many MD's as cops, frantically tending to all the girls suffering from hyperventilation.  Chaos tainted the air, sending waves of disordered stimuli to Jarvis' brain.  He wondered how Turntine could stand it, let alone desire it. 

When the last set ended, Jarvis finally spotted his quarry.

Monns Turntine was cleverly dressed as a program vendor right down to his fake employee I.D. and carrying tray.  Though over a hundred yards separated them, Jarvis could see the elated smile on Turntine's face.  The felon was energy tapping, swimming in nirvana, and Jarvis kept him in view as he slithered through the crowd.  The Beatles bowed in unison for the last time, and he noticed Turntine twitched, his body glowing above normal perception levels.  It reminded Jarvis of a man standing before an altar, receiving a religious experience.

He needed to get down to the field.  Turntine was almost directly below him now as he moved along the upper deck guardrail.  Jarvis took a deep breath, pressed the auto-shield button on his Biopad, and jumped over the side.  He heard a few gasps and shrieks after making the drop but landed as graceful as a cat, the shock absorbed in a quick, rippled flash the moment his feet hit the ground.  Turntine whirled around, recognizing the technology.  Their eyes met through an ocean of exited people, and Turntine smiled.

"Gun!" He shouted, instantly getting the attention of a dozen nearby cops.  Jarvis shoved two of them out of his way and started weaving through the crowd, closing the gap.

"Look out!"  Turntine cried again, pointing at Jarvis, "that man has a gun!"

People screamed now in fear and confusion, running in all directions.  Out of the corner of his eye, Jarvis saw a young girl get trampled.  His brain automatically recorded the troubling scene.  Another infraction to be added to Turntine's criminal record.

The cops crashed through people like a blue wall, surrounding Jarvis, their billy clubs drawn and swinging.  The clubs cracked against his arms and skull.  The force shield dulled the blows, making the clubs feel like hard foam.  He shoved one cop into another, jumped clear of four more, yet kept an eye on Turntine, who had shed his vendor gear and bolted for the exit.  Like Jarvis, Turntine was equipped with his own set of sensory and organic enhancements, and he ducked and weaved through the muddled crowd like an insect.

Cops seemed to pour onto the field from everywhere.  He lost sight of Turntine disappearing down a tunnel.  Even plain-clothed citizens were joining the fray now, and Jarvis had to be careful.  If he seriously hurt anyone, even he could be cited on tampering charges.  The last thing he wanted was to alter history, never knowing if that man you just socked in the kidney was one of your ancestors.

"Stop him!"

There were too many of them now.  Cops, guards, dads, and soda jerks, they all wanted to be heroes and pummel on Jarvis.  As they surrounded him, Jarvis glanced up quickly.  He dodged three cops trying to grab him from behind, and ran into a barrage of fists and clubs.  Ignoring the vicious blows, Jarvis bent down and tweaked the buttons on his wrist before they could pin him to the ground.  Suddenly he launched straight up in the air, snagged the bottom rail, and pulled himself over.  The people witnessing below were too stunned to shout.

Jarvis ran to the top of the upper deck to a spot where he could scan the parking lot, using a playback of Turntine's outfit and stature.  Like a magnet, his eyes found their mark.   

Measuring the drop, Jarvis calculated it at over fifty feet, give or take.  The force shield was not strong enough to protect his feet and legs at such distance, so he dove head first, turning his body on its side.

He was getting used to such things.  The screams while he fell.  The people below scrambling to get out of his way.  Most of all, the timeless bliss of falling itself, watching the ground zoom in like an unavoidable wall of reality.  Unconsciously, his body went limp before impact.

Jarvis took the brunt of the fall on his shoulder and back, letting his legs slap down second.  He winced in pain; the burned-out force shield allowed his fatal plummet only a few nasty bruises.      

Turntine heard the thud of flesh hitting asphalt.  He spun around and saw Jarvis getting to his feet while onlookers gasped with dumbstruck faces.  The snide grin left Turntine's face.

"Damn you, Jarvis," he muttered, then resumed his sprint, zipping around people and cars with his legs stuck on fast forward.  He never looked back after crossing the main gate.  Jarvis could not keep up with him this time, and he had authorities on his own tail to worry about.   

***

One of many of Monns Turntine's quirks was his choice of fake names.  Jarvis found him registered in a small hotel in Salisbury, under the name of a famous 23rd century musician.  Jarvis took it as taunting, since this was 1969 and the name carried no weight to anyone else on the planet.  It was almost as if Turntine was intentionally throwing in the towel.

He drove a rental out to Wiltshire from Salisbury, having a pretty strong idea about the whereabouts of Turntine's destination after he checked out of the hotel earlier that morning. 

Not too many people were visiting Stonehenge save for a few tourists lingering in the gift shop.  It rained during his entire drive, and when he arrived at the historical monument the late afternoon clouds continued to spread a heavy drizzle over the green hills.  He paid for his ticket, and with one hand in his coat pocket he slowly walked up the path towards the ancient megaliths.

The site was still years away from roping off tourists from actually walking up to the stones.  A family of four passed him, heading back to the gift shop as the moisture in the air thickened.  Jarvis saw Monns Turntine standing in the inner circle facing one of the trilithons, hidden behind a dark umbrella.  A warm flow of adrenaline coursed through Jarvis' body, and he knew if he switched viewing frequencies, Turntine would be glowing with silver and white streams.

He crept up behind his quarry, letting his own receptors re-direct the omnipotent energy into the purest state of awareness.  Like a ghost riding the winter wind, Jarvis was beside him.

Turntine came out of his trance with a calm, knowing smile. His dark eyes glossed at the air in front of his face.

"Just in time, Jarvis," he said, his voice sounding a millennium away.

Jarvis quickly produced the binders and cuffed Turntine's left wrist to his own right. 

"You going to make me shut down now?"

Jarvis thought about it, then said, "Eventually, but I don't need you collapsing on me from the come-down right this minute."

Both men stood silent for a moment, allowing their receptors to even out the conscious flow.  After the humming simmered down, Turntine spoke.

"It's tempting isn't it?  To tell these starved folks what this sacrosanct area is capable of, what its true function is."

"All in due time," Jarvis warned him.  "For now, at least they are aware of its importance."

"Is that going to be enough to save it from the developers seventy years from now?"

Jarvis didn't feel like arguing.  He looked hard into Turntine's eyes. 

"You and I both know what happens seventy years from now, so just leave it at that."

"Whoa, easy there, Jarvis.  I'm just jerking with you, Mr. Bounty Hunter.  Have I committed any major alterations during the time you've been tracking me?  By the way, what happened to Minkler?"

Jarvis gazed at the sky, watching the advancing rain clouds.  "Minkler was pulled off after you gave him the slip at the Chuck Berry gig.  The company brought me in as a freelancer when I agreed to their contract."

"I'm flattered."

Jarvis pulled Turntine's wrist up with the binders, exposing the biopad.  Using his slipkey to over-ride Turntine's control, he adjusted the frequencies to slowly wean Turntine's bioelectric activity from the steady vibrations surrounding Stonehenge. 

"So they gave you a master key, huh?"  Turntine said as he ogled the small device.  Jarvis nodded, then took Turntine's stolen slipkey and put both in his jacket pocket.  "Must be nice,"  Turntine crooned.  "Ahhh, the things I could do with one of those.  Unlimited possibilities."

"So why'd you do it?"  Jarvis said, suddenly straightening.  He took the umbrella and held it over both of them as the rain grew heavy.

"Man, you really have to ask?  The music, brother.  I did it for the music."

"Not that.  What I'd like to know is why'd you turn yourself in without a fight?  Why'd you give up?"

Turntine looked past Jarvis.  He stared at the altar stone and sighed.  "Let's just say I accomplished nearly everything, I witnessed the events I always wanted to see.  It's hard to explain to a guy like you, Jarvis, but rock and roll is in my blood.  I need it.  The energy from music coupled with historical significance and timing, well, that's a mighty wonderful thing."

"I know," Jarvis said, reluctant to reveal his newfound musical appreciation, but Turntine must have seen it in his eyes.  Thunder rolled overhead and the rain poured around them, stifling the conditions for receiving the powerful vibrations.  Jarvis checked his watch, then pulled out the slipkey Turntine had taken from the company lab.  Turtine had booked a portal in Bath that was only a two week jump forward. 

"London," Jarvis read aloud, "Thursday, 10:03 A.M., January 30th, 1969?  Is this what you meant by 'nearly everything?'"

Turntine grinned, "Apple Studios on 3 Savile Row, the real last Beatles concert."

"But I thought Candlestick…"

"Heh-heh, if you had done your homework, Jarvis, you'd know about the famous 'rooftop session.'"

"And you think there'll be strong vibrations there?"

With a grave look on his face, Turntine stared out beyond the circle of stones and whispered, "Guess I'll never know, will I?”

***

Call it an act of compassion.  Call it a breach of contract.  Whatever it was, Jarvis and Turntine made the unsanctioned jump to London.  Turntine was thrilled like a child, and made no attempts to escape when Jarvis released the binders.  He knew just where to go, choosing an adjacent apartment building right next to Apple and leading Jarvis to its roof. 

When they arrived around noon, the band was already warming up with "Get Back."  It was a cold, overcast day, and all the Beatles wore thick coats, Ringo's bright red windbreaker receiving the most attention.  The crowds began to gather on the streets below, people leaned out of their windows, and more onlookers gathered on other rooftops.  Turntine was in heaven, only separated from his favorite band by a few yards.  Even with his receptors turned down to the point of normal perception he still seemed to be soaking in the energy.  He sang along, moving to the rhythms he knew by heart.      

As the band played, Jarvis noticed a growing police presence. 

"Uh-oh, looks like the cops are gonna shut things down," he told Turntine, glancing at his watch.  Turntine just smiled. 

"Yeah.  Typical, isn't it?  Say man, you can wipe that perma-grin from your face at any time, you know."

"Maybe I'll let it linger for awhile," Jarvis said, turning his attention to Lennon's passionate voice belting out "Don't Let Me Down."  For one odd moment during the lyric, Lennon turned and seemed to look right at Turntine.  Jarvis noticed Turntine was weeping, shaking his head, as if telling Lennon he was sorry.

By the time the band began jamming "Get Back" again, Jarvis and Turntine were just a couple of music fans, letting the melody and lyrics speak to them on personal levels.  When McCartney sang about getting back to where you once belonged, Jarvis felt a tingle over his spine.  For the first time he truly identified with the music as a whole, letting the energy envelop him.

The police appeared on the studio roof in their goofy Bobby hats as the song wound to a close.  Jarvis and Turntine booed the authorities with jolly abandon.  When they finally made it back down on the street, their heads were still in the clouds.

"You look different," Turntine told him as Jarvis placed the binders back on and they ducked down an empty alley. 

"Do I?"

Turntine's brown eyes scanned him.  "Yeah, more relaxed.  Happy, even."

"As if the Beatles needed another fan," Jarvis said, setting the coordinates on the master slipkey. 

"There's one other thing you should know," Turntine said, his voice dropping to serious sincerity.

"What's that?"

"The last place I intended to go before my journey was over.  However, your act of kindness today makes me glad I changed my mind."

Jarvis waited patiently for Turntine to continue.

"New York, December 8th, 1980.  To stop an armed schizo named Chapman."

"Oh," Jarvis said, recalling the relevance of the name and date.  "That would have been a very bad thing to do, no matter how right it may seem."

"I know," Turntine said, lowering his head.  "Now that I've experienced several slices of the magic firsthand, there's no desire to go through with it."

Jarvis finally understood.  In a rare gesture of sympathy he placed his hand on Turntine's shoulder, then pressed the button on the slipkey.  The portal drew open in front of them with silent brilliance.  Together, they stepped into it without another word.

Eric Hermanson "discovered" the Beatles while in high school, from an old musician friend who put it to him simply; 'listen to this entire album.  If you don't think the Beatles are the best band of all time, then you really don't understand music.'  He then handed him The White Album.  It blew him away, to say the least, and he's been an avid fan ever since.  

His stories and poetry have appeared in several publications such as Talebones, Black Satellite, and The Online Reader.  X'd Out, his science fiction/suspense novel is available from New Leaf Books; its sequel, A-List, is due out this winter.  He still resides in his hometown of San Diego.

Tell Eric Hermanson what you thought of his story!