Darren Johnson - Arnesto Modesto - The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler

When they reached the house forty minutes later, Arnesto felt relieved to be back home and able to spend some quality time with his dad. It was something he took for granted in his first life, and he knew there weren’t going to be many more opportunities like this.

“I’m sure you’re going to be awake a while yet, but it’s past my bedtime,” Karl said. “I have plans Monday and Tuesday during the day, but otherwise I’m free. You know where your bedroom is and where the remotes are, though I have no idea what’s on these days. Oh, Monday’s the Boston Marathon, so that’s something to watch.”

“Yes, I’ve actually been waiting for the marathon for some time.”

Boston, Massachusetts

Monday, April 15, 2013

10:15 a.m.

Beantown. Home to some of the country’s most irate drivers and the country’s oldest marathon. April 15, 2013. Patriot’s Day, aka Marathon Monday. Arnesto pushed his way through the crowd near the finish line.

He tried to look excited in order to blend in, but being jostled around by a mob wasn’t his idea of fun even when there weren’t bombs present.

As was often the case when he couldn’t remember a niggling little detail like the exact time of the explosions, he had arrived way early. Now he had nothing to do but wait. Wait and try not to look suspicious. He lingered toward the back of the crowd, able to keep an eye out for the suspects while appearing to watch the race. He also took note of the police nearby.

Once the initial anxiety began to wear off a little, he almost started to enjoy himself. It was exciting. He was right near the end of a 26.2 mile course that many had trained for months to attend. It was something he himself would never attempt, of course. He was starting to feel the effects of middle age and besides, he liked his joints too much.

Then he remembered why he was there. He vividly remembered the recording looking back from just beyond the finish line. It showed runners finishing then all of a sudden, BOOM, an explosion on the right side from behind the stockade which was itself behind a line of national flags.

Not this time. Not if he could help it.

He hung out in one spot for a while, then moved further down Boylston Street and back. He moved whenever he felt he had been in one place too long or when he found himself too close to someone smoking or shaking a cowbell. The hours crawled by. He spent more time watching the marathon than some of the runners spent running it. And with time came his old enemy, self-doubt.

Did he have the right marathon? It was definitely the right city. Like it did to so many other Bostonians, this attack felt personal. Was it the right year? Yeah, it had to be. Right event, right place, right date. The only unknown was when exactly it would happen. Shouldn’t it have happened by now? Maybe something had changed. Maybe somehow he had prevented this. After all, it wasn’t far from where he, the epicenter of alternate timelines, had grown up.

Right, wishful thinking. Either way, he couldn’t leave. Just in case.

He began walking even further west down the street when he caught a glimpse of exactly what he was waiting for.

A white hat.

He couldn’t see the wearer yet but could tell he was heading his way.

Arnesto quickly found a place to stop and observe. Mere seconds later, his view of White Hat became unobstructed. He fought off a chill as he immediately recognized the young man’s face as he had remembered it from Rolling Stone . The magazine had put White Hat on the cover after he was caught, creating much controversy. As nonchalantly as he could, Arnesto dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, this call is being recorded, what city?” the responder asked.

“Boston.”

“One moment.”

After a few seconds, another responder answered. “Hi, what’s the emergency?”

“Hi, can you patch me through to Officer Maris?” Arnesto asked, recalling the name of an officer he had taken note of earlier. “He’s working at the finish line of the Boston Marathon right now. This is an emergency.”

“What’s happening? Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I can only talk to Maris, Officer Maris, can you put me through?” Arnesto realized he sounded strained. Maybe that was a good thing. The clock was ticking.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, but I can give you the number of his station.”

“Uh, sure.” Arnesto got the number and hung up. He then dialed the station. The person who answered asked how they could direct his call.

“I need to talk to Officer Maris, who is at the Boston Marathon finish line, right now. It’s an emergency.”

“One moment.”

Finally, he was getting somewhere.

The phone rang a couple times before answering. “You have reached the voicemail of—”

“Fuck!” Arnesto mumbled to himself as he hung up. He paused for a moment then dialed 911 again. He didn’t have a choice; there was nothing he could do on his own. They answered with the same response; Arnesto cringed on the word, “recorded.”

White Hat passed his location, following a guy in a black hat with a similar backpack. Arnesto suddenly remembered. It wasn’t a “he;” it was a “they.” Of course, White Hat’s older brother.

“What’s the emergency?”

“There are two young men in black and white ball caps carrying bombs in backpacks walking east down Boylston toward the finish line of the marathon. They’re crossing Fairfield now.”

“Did you say, ‘bombs?’”

“That is correct.”

“And how do you know this, Sir?”

Seriously? “I overheard them talking a minute ago. One of them said, ‘Drop the backpack in the crowd, walk away, then we’ll set them off.’ Oh, and something about, ‘Allahu Ackbar?’” None of this was true, but it wasn’t crying wolf if there actually were wolves — Islamic extremist wolves with bombs no less. “One’s going to explode about fifty yards down, by Marathon Sports, the other, about a block west. Black ball cap with shades, white ball cap, backward, hair sticking out. Hurry, I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“Sir, you need to stay on the li—”

Arnesto hung up. He went to break his phone under his sweatshirt but realized it might still be useful. It had taken the FBI several days and countless man-hours to catch the murderers, who had killed another cop during that time. Maybe Arnesto could take pictures of the murderers and tip off the feds, speeding up their investigation and saving an officer’s life. He decided to pursue.

When the brothers split up, Arnesto stayed with White Hat. Easier to follow, and there were a lot more police officers at the finish line where Black Hat was going.

White Hat stopped and joined the crowd, while Arnesto found a spot away from the street where he could keep an eye on him. He didn’t like being so close to explosives, but he tried to take solace in the fact that this wasn’t a suicide mission for the brothers.

White Hat began talking on his phone with someone. Who was he talking to? Was it his brother changing their plans? Arnesto had no idea if this was supposed to happen. The call ended and the suspect appeared to be dipping down. He was sliding off his backpack!

Instinctively, Arnesto walked straight toward him. What am I doing?! No, I’m safe as long as I stay with him. I’ve got to help. I’ve got to try.

Arnesto got a few feet away when the first bomb went off down the street. Like everyone else, he turned in shock and horror. Well, almost everyone else. When he turned back, he saw White Hat pushing his way through the crowd.

Arnesto grabbed the backpack. “Hey, you forgot your…” he shouted, putting on a show as he opened it up. One quick peek inside at the pressure cooker bomb was all he needed. When the FBI examined all the videos later, he would hopefully look like he was trying to do the right thing.