Quarter Past Five Where Time Is.....And Is Not

QUARTER PAST FIVE

Where Time Is….And Is Not!

By R. P. Ward

In collaboration with Roger Hull, Albert Seveir, Sal Sofia, and a host of incarcerated minds.

Self-Published at Smashwords with assistance from

MIDNIGHT EXPRESS BOOKS

QUARTER PAST FIVE Smashwords edition

Copyright © 2012 by R. P. Ward

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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 reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters are totally from the imagination of the author and depict no persons, living or dead; any similarity is totally coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Ramona Brewer elected to leave her fishing village town in the Bahamas for a safer, more secure area, when it became obvious the mafia was taking over control of the island sanctuary. She had turned thirty-one years old just two months ago and decided this small town in New Jersey offered what she was seeking.

An only child, Ramona was the offspring of a native-born mother and a Dutch immigrant fisherman father. For three weeks now, the dark-skinned beauty had prowled the city where its low crime rate, beautiful beaches, and attractive men offered women of her caliber a promise of romance and adventure.

This city held a secret, one that nobody knew about, and Ramona suddenly stumbled into the hands of a man on a mission, a sometimes killer, on the 1937 New Jersey shore where life or death was decided quickly—and quietly.

ONE – The Siren

The olive-skinned girl had been in Bringintine for three weeks now, hoping the journey to New Jersey would offer her the safety she could no longer find in the Bahama fishing town where she had lived her entire life. In addition, for three weeks, Ramona had kept her eye on the prize of the city: a big, husky, red-haired cop named Tim.

Tim was the local force in town who kept the criminal element from moving in. So far though, the big Irish detective had not given Ramona a second look. No, he had not acknowledged her presence at all despite the fact she had intentionally crossed his path at every opportunity every day since she had been here.

For a moment, Ramona considered the possibility that the manly hunk might only be interested in other men, but gossip in town did not support that theory. So why then had he not noticed her? Did he not know that he was missing out on a date not soon forgotten? A few years older than him perhaps, Ramona took pride in her appearance: jet black hair worn down to her waist; full pouty lips that spoke of invitation to mystery; almond shaped, dark brown eyes over high cheek bones lent to a sultry, sensuous look that most men would die for.

Ramona Brewer was her full given name. She had quickly found a suitable furnished apartment and a job at a local flower shop owned by an aging woman wanting to retire. Maybe today would be the day that she would capture the eye of the big detective.

Ramona had gone out early this morning, enjoying the cool moist air that permeated the shoreline along the Atlantic Ocean. Following the street where the town’s diner sat as a lighted sentinel at the edge of the beach, that was where she noticed a change in the smell of the air. She had never smelled this before. There was a buzzing noise like the sound of bacon frying in a skillet. She turned the corner just in time to witness the one thing that would seal her destiny: a man in what appeared to be a large blue bubble. She moved forward—then blackness. Ramona fell to the sand.

TWO – The Traveler

My name is Douglas Hardesty. Where and when I was born is information lost to me at the moment, but I know I was around before the big war. That was the war that pretty much ended life on the planet, at least life, as we understood it. Survivors included some hardy insects, germs, and viruses, of course, and those humans smart enough to prepare second homes—homes on the bottom of whatever ocean was at hand. Therefore, a planet that once boasted of its beautiful color from space now appeared to be just another dead world.

Me? I was born into a society of both brilliant and industrious people. People who knew how to survive, and not only survive, but they understood that given sufficient time, they would need to restore a broken world into its former glory. Our society built itself a sanctuary and a storage facility where they could make everything happen. We moved in as the war started. Let’s see, that would have been in the year 2080.

Our city was constructed in the shallow waters off the New Jersey coastline just short of the thermal flow of water at the ocean’s bottom. Deep enough to contain our city fully but not so deep to create problems for us. Technology advanced, then advanced again. Life was extended as well till most of us were living well over two hundred years, some over three hundred. Then time travel developed. There were hazards at first, you understand, but eventually we got all the bugs out. Now it is a convenient diversion from the routine boredom of everyday life.

Robotics were introduced, and nano-bots soon followed. Disease was eradicated, and those little robots injected into our bodies kept us alive much longer than we cared for. Death happened pretty much by accident, which is how I ended up on the New Jersey shore during 1937. I had a job to perform. It was the Fifth of May, 1937, on what was supposed to be a deserted stretch of sand. Something went wrong. The beach was not deserted, there was a girl there.

THREE - Ancestors

It was not the fault of Steven Holmes or Donald Watson that they were the offspring of two of Great Britain’s most famous detectives. Sherlock Holmes coupled with Doctor John Watson were ahead of their time in the area of elementary criminal science. Yet here in the United States were the two upstarts, here to assist, as if that were possible, a big stupid Irish cop by the name of Tim. Irish! Ugh! The Brits had never gotten along very well with anyone of that country, and Steven did not believe his attitude would change any time soon. The two up-and-coming inspectors had been handpicked to come here. They were to learn as much as possible of American crime fighting techniques. Steven and Donald wanted to show off their personal prowess in using science to solve crimes. Of course, they have not yet been introduced to Tim McCord.

As their story unfolds, our two English agents of Scotland Yard would acquire more surprises than anticipated, much more than they would care to write about in their reports. Steven and Donald, welcome to America.

FOUR – To Be a Wolfe

The Wolfe sisters, now in their twenties, came to New Jersey based on an invitation from a friend. The problem is that they cannot locate the friend who invited them. That is when the two decide to ask for assistance from the local police department. Wouldn’t you know it? The police detective they encounter is none other than our big Irish cop Tim McCord. In their roles, good news follows bad. It just goes to show that things are not always what they seem to be. When you think you have everything under control, the world turns upside down and everything changes—and not always for the better.

FIVE – A Dog’s World

Scattered around in the underwater world of Metropolis City in the year 2140 lies a puzzle of titanium parts from which I was constructed. I am the dream of a female scientist who has never seen anything of the world, let alone a real live dog. Powered by a set of rechargeable batteries meant to last for twenty years, they were an afterthought of a true genius. Truth is, I was never really intended to resemble an animal of any kind, that is a joke of my maker. However, from all the known species of animals that ever inhabited the planet, I most resemble a dog. I do not bark, growl, sleep, eat, or fart. My only true function is one of a communications center. I can even send messages that transcend the space-time continuum, which is how I ended up on the planet’s surface. Yes, that is correct, I can both send and/or receive messages through time—and space and can do so in microseconds.

Many consider me to be bizarre, even ugly, I suppose. Me? I think I am beautiful, and I am the only one that matters.

SIX – A Quarter Past Five

It is Tuesday, May 5, 1937, sometime after 5:00 a.m., in Bringintine, New Jersey. I am Tim McCord, local sergeant/detective on the police force. I have not been sleeping well for the past week or so, and the reason is this recurring dream—a nightmare really—has occupied my subconscious world night after night. For me, there is no escape.

In my dream is a girl. Not someone I know, yet somehow familiar, who is being stalked. In this city, MY city, that fact is a thorn in my side. For a man of my size, it takes a very big thorn to get my attention.

The stalker is a killer. He seems to be always in a shadow, which prevents his face from being seen. He is a wise man, a man who has killed before. He is a man who maybe enjoys his work a little too much and likes the feeling of power and control over women.

The dream causes me a great deal of distress and discomfort on two different levels. First, this is my town, and it is my responsibility to protect its citizens. I damn well do not appreciate some lunatic coming here to kill anyone. Second, why a woman? Because women are considered weak, helpless, and an easy target? Where is the justice? This is the act of a man who hated women, or maybe feared them. This is the act of a coward!

I tossed back and forth in my bed, a bead of sweat plastered across my forehead and above my upper lip. My sheets and blanket lay crumpled and dislodged across my bed. The killer closed the distance to his intended victim, but the scene in my dream world is unfolding in slow motion. I am unable to intercede. I cannot even yell at the woman to take cover or run away. All I could do was watch as the details played themselves out in my dream. I am trapped in a bad situation not of my own making. I am like a casual observer at a massacre.

I have tried diligently to maintain this town free of scum like this killer. I like the town free of crime and conversely, the citizens here appreciate the effort. The people who live here are my friends. I went to school with many of them.

That noise! What is that noise? It is familiar but so far away. My subconscious registers the sound, but I cannot grasp what it represents. Whatever it is, it has put my nightmare on hold for the moment while my conscious mind and subconscious brain fights over control, and I’m able to make sense of the intrusion.

There, it is that noise again! My dream world rapidly distorts, and figures begin to fade into oblivion for which I am somewhat grateful. Again, the noise screams for attention, and I continue to climb up from the netherworld into the land of the living. I am relieved from the traumatic insidious effect the dream was having on me.

Ring-ring! went the sound again, but now the noise was making sense. I throw away the last vestiges of sleep.

Ring-ring, rang my telephone again. What the hell, I exclaimed as I wiped the sweat away from my forehead. I am slightly annoyed yet grateful for the untimely distraction.

Who could be calling at this hour, I muttered, noticing it was still dark outside. I reached over to pull the curtains aside just to verify it was too early to be awake. I sensed that something was not right. I sensed also the dread in my bones, and I had a bad taste in my mouth that I knew toothpaste would not remove.

The phone rang again. I picked up the receiver, cleared my throat, and croaked, Tim McCord, into the mouthpiece.

This is the station dispatcher, sir, came the reply.

I shook off the last vestiges of sleep realizing who it was that had called. I figured this early in the morning, the call must be very important.

I’m here, dispatch. What’s so important that you would call me at home?

Sir, he answered, there’s a case for you, a dead girl.

That statement was like a slap in the face. I was yanked back to my nightmare temporarily and wondered if maybe I were dreaming now. That this was just some cruel joke, an extension of the same dream with a bizarre twist.

Are you there, Detective McCord, he asked.

I jammed the phone back in my ear. I’m still here, dispatch. Anything special about the dead girl? I asked.

Yeah, sort of, he answered. She’s just a short walk from your place, sir, in the sand, just past the diner.

What! I hollered. How can that be? Nothing ever happens in this neighborhood. It’s not tolerated—ever!!

Well, sir, replied the dispatcher, there is now. He added, There’s a witness!"

A, I paused, a witness? Did you just say there’s a witness, dispatch?

Yes, sir, he answered. He says he saw the whole thing. He is waiting at the diner for the police to show up. How soon can you be there, sir?

Uh—I’m not sure. What time is it now?

It’s a quarter past five, the dispatcher answered.

All right. Fifteen minutes should be good, I said. Give me fifteen minutes. I have to get dressed. Oh, this witness, does he have a name?

Yes, sir. His name is Hardesty. Mr. Douglas Hardesty. I’ll ring the diner to let him know you’re on the way, said the dispatcher.

Okay. I am on it. Thank you. Good-bye. I placed