Jake Kincannon, Pi: Across the Sea of Time

Jake Kincannon, PI

Across the Sea of Time

Copyright © 2015 Jw Grodt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4550-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-5390-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4549-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 08/20/2015

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 My Gal Friday

Chapter 2 My New Boss

Chapter 3 The Werewolf Case

Chapter 4 Years of Lean

Chapter 5 Reflection Time

Chapter 6 A Very Strange Meeting

Chapter 7 Contemplation

Chapter 8 The Night Before

Chapter 9 Back in Time

Chapter 10 Julie, Sheila, and Crystal

Chapter 11 Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Chapter 12 More Traveling through Time

Chapter 13 A Visit with an Old Friend

Chapter 14 Florida Bound

Chapter 15 Unintended Consequences

Chapter 16 My Last Hurrah

Chapter 17 Mission Impossible

Chapter 18 Something’s Wrong

Chapter 19 On the Other Side of Time

Chapter 20 The Shores of Home

Chapter 21 Disaster Strikes

Chapter 22 Strange Visitors

Prologue

1977

I was in search of a murder weapon used to brutally kill several young women in Wyoming. I was convinced I knew the location of the murder weapon and the murderer. I waited until dark and drove over to the location where I was sure I would find it. I parked across the road from the Farley farm and walked stealthily down the long driveway toward the house. I stopped near a large oak to conceal myself as I took time to survey the terrain. I was roughly three hundred feet from Rick Farley’s shop, and I was concerned about dogs; they could give me away—or worse. So I waited and listened for a moment. I saw lights only on the second floor of the white-frame farmhouse, but Farley’s shop was dark, and there were no dogs around that I could see or hear. Since the wind was at my back, if there had been dogs on the premises, they should have picked up my scent and begun barking by now.

After about ten minutes, the lights on the second floor went out, and all was quiet. I waited for another ten minutes or so to be sure that the coast was clear, and then I carefully and quietly moved toward the shop. I was surprised and pleased that the shop door wasn’t locked. Once inside, I pulled a small flashlight from my pocket to search for the murder weapon I was certain was there. It didn’t take long before I found it wrapped in a towel and hidden in a large wooden box under a tractor tire. I was fascinated by it. What an ingenious killing tool, a set of modified hedge trimmers. The formerly useful, very common hand tool had been converted into something with one intention: brutal and heinous murder. Someone, most likely Farley, had taken a pair of hedge trimmers, broken off the points of the blades, and then heated and twisted the tips 90 degrees from their original position. Then this madman, the creator of this weapon, had taken two steel straps, each one and a half inches wide, and bent each into a U-shape. He had then cut pieces of steel dowel rods, milled one end of each piece to a softly rounded point, and then welded the other end to the two steel straps like teeth. He even made them so they would fit together when closed, like the teeth and jaws of an animal. I was amazed by the ingenuity and skill that had gone into fashioning such a deadly and cruel weapon. Guns and hammers had uses other than taking human life, but this tool had only one purpose. That sole purpose was to kill people. I knew at that instant I had solved the identity of the Werewolf Killer.

It even had the one missing tooth. I held the piece of metal that had been found in the latest victim’s neck up to it, and it was a perfect match. The coroner was one of this small town’s two doctors and not very experienced in this role. However, the town had little use for a coroner, and he hadn’t thought it was related to the crime; that’s how I was able to get it. There was no doubt that this was the murder weapon. No question about it. These choppers went from chopping hedges to chopping people. My plan was to place this weapon of horror back where I found it, bring the police back with a warrant to search the premises, and find the weapon. The police would arrest Rick Farley, and a blood test would likely seal his fate. I would have solved the crime and would collect my reward as promised. Julie and I would return to Chicago with plenty of money to fund our agency for quite some time. Little did I know that everything I had been thinking was about to go terribly wrong.

As I was ready to leave and notify the police, I suddenly felt a sharp, horrible pain in the back of my skull. Someone—I didn’t know who at that particular moment—hit me with something from behind, not hard enough to turn out the lights but damn near. I dropped the weapon and stumbled forward as I tried to keep myself upright. Gravity won out, however, and I dropped to my knees and turned my head in time to see it was Farley coming at me again with a short club in his hand. He swung wildly, catching me on the shoulder and knocking me down again. I struggled to get to my feet. He spotted and grabbed his killing weapon and began to growl loudly like a dog or wolf as he lunged at me again. The snapping of the metallic jaws of his weapon grew closer before I could get to my feet. When he was close enough, I used my legs to kick him in the gut, and he slammed back into the opposite wall.

I quickly got to my feet, fear pumping through my body, adrenaline rushing. I grabbed the closest thing I could find—a short club beside me—and I went for him with it. He ducked to the side and swung his closed weapon, hitting my hands and causing me to drop the club. He quickly opened the jaws and went for my face. I raised my arm quickly and felt the cold steel teeth rip into the flesh of my forearm. Blood soaked through my sleeve, and pain shot through my body. Anger swelled in me, and I hit him square between the eyes with my right fist.

Blood poured from my left arm as he stumbled backward, trying to catch his balance before his feet went out from under him. He fell, striking his head on a post, rendering him unconscious. I looked around quickly, flipped on the light switch, grabbed a short hunk of rope from the workbench, and used my right hand and teeth to tie a tourniquet around my arm above my wound. While I struggled to stop the bleeding, I didn’t notice him come to and sneak up behind me, the weapon in his hands. At the last second, I saw his shadow on the wall and moved quickly to my right. I moved quickly enough to save my life but not fast enough to avoid another vicious wound. This time, my upper chest felt the steel. Fortunately my jacket kept the weapon from sinking deep enough to inflict a fatal wound. He was quick, and before I could punch him again, he opened the homemade jaws, revealing its many teeth, and lunged for my throat again. My reflexes caused me to once again raise my left arm in a defensive movement, and that’s when he clamped the weapon around the inside of my upper arm. I felt pain as the steel sunk slightly into my flesh again, but he stopped to a holding position. I froze and stood motionless. If he squeezed the handles together or I tried to pull away, this time he would tear the brachial artery running down the inside of my arm, and I would bleed out in seconds. I had never felt so helpless in my life as he stared into my eyes, his gaze darting back and forth from one of my eyes to the other as if he was searching for something. He said nothing, just continued softly growling, much like a dog when it tries to stare you down. His nose wrinkled up, and he bared his teeth. He almost looked like a werewolf, save the lack of a hairy face and huge canine teeth, but he had teeth all right—man-made and deadly—and now they were buried in my flesh, rendering me unable to move without risking certain death. What could save me now?

However, a waitress I met in 1937 saved me—momentarily at least from a horrific and most real memory.

Now look what I’ve done; I have confused you terribly. You’re probably wondering how I captured a killer in 1977 and was rescued by this waitress I met in 1937? Let me take you back to where it all began, and you’ll see why the answer to this riddle makes this case the most bizarre adventure and one that only a suicidal idiot would have accepted.

Chapter 1

My Gal Friday

1977

I’m Jake Kincannon, and I was, and still am, a private investigator. This is my story, and while the case of the Werewolf Killer, as the media dubbed it, was incredible, it was far from the strangest case I would ever work to date. This case and what happened to me, you’ll likely find unbelievable. But I can assure you it did happen.

A part of my story involves the age-old struggle between the sexes, as do most stories. I suppose all stories worth repeating do, down through the ages—like Adam and Eve, Samson and Delilah, Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, Bonnie and Clyde, Frankie and Johnny, and countless more. More stories than there are stars in the heavens. From great love stories that have brought a tear to one’s eye and end in romantic bliss, to the love tragedies and triangles that all too often end with someone’s divorce or demise, and those of missed opportunities and unrequited love. My story isn’t so different in that regard, except this is a story that had a twist I won’t ever forget, and I suspect that after you hear my tale, neither will you.

The bicentennial year for the US of A was over. It was a beautiful summer in Chicago as the United States entered its third century as a country. Compared to other nations, we were relatively young. It was also the beginning of my private practice and is the beginning of my story.

I remember that it was a Friday, just past lunchtime, and I was sitting at the large mahogany desk in the reception area of my new office suite. The combined smell of the fresh paint on the walls and doors and the freshly refinished, blond hardwood floors still hung in the air. A man had just finished lettering one side of the solid glass, double-door entry to my suite, so they were propped open. The lettered sign on the glass read:

Jake Kincannon, PI

Private Investigations

Specializing in the Paranormal

I’d had to open all the windows in order not to pass out from the fumes, thus allowing the noise of cars and commuter trains from the busy Chicago streets below to infiltrate my brain. These sounds were so familiar to me that they were not the least bit distracting. The pictures that I had purchased earlier were resting on the floor in the locations below where I thought they would eventually be hung. The hardwood floors glistened in the sunlight that streamed through the open windows and danced across them, adding to the newness of my humble establishment. I was making a list of needed office supplies when I heard a slight tap on the jamb of my open doors. I looked up as she walked toward me on the red rosin paper left by the floor finishers to protect the curing finish.

Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Mr. Kincannon?

Yes, that would be me. How may I help you, miss? I wondered if this could possibly be my first client. But she seemed too young to need my services.

I’ve come in response to your newspaper advertisement for the girl Friday position.

Yes, I know. Perhaps not a politically correct job title, but it does encompass all the usual position titles in a larger company—receptionist, secretary, office manager, bookkeeper, errand girl, and lunch fetcher—all rolled into one person, a girl Friday. Seems folks are carrying that politically correct stuff a bit too far for my taste.

I remember looking up and thinking, somewhat jokingly, Wow. If she’s half as smart as she is gorgeous, she’s hired. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful; there was something about her that struck me instantaneously, something special, an aura if you will. I was only beginning to get some inkling of just how special all her qualities were. My detective’s brain quickly compiled her physical structure: five foot seven; midtwenties; blonde hair; blue eyes; flawless, silky, milky-white skin; an hourglass figure; well-developed calves, perhaps a dancer or athlete. Her hose were called Nude, just enough color in them to make those beautiful legs look ever so slightly tanned. She wore her hair up, but I could tell it was long. Her nails were a muted shade of red that matched her lipstick. Her makeup was applied lightly, and it almost appeared as though she didn’t wear any.

Why yes, come in and have a seat, I said, trying to sound and act employerish. Her walk appeared to be one of confidence, not arrogance or conceit. Her clothes were tasteful yet conservative. Her black skirt was just long enough that when she sat down, it completely covered her knees. She sat with her knees and ankles together and her legs tilted slightly to her left. She held her head up and her back straight, and she clutched the leather folder in her lap with both hands.

She smiled, retrieved a paper from her folder, and handed it to me. Sir, here’s my résumé. I know I’m short on experience, but I learn fast, I’m organized, and I want to show someone that I can do a good job. Frankly, I’ve only applied for jobs I knew I could do well. I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have, sir.

She folded her hands in her lap after handing me the résumé and sat quietly without fidgeting.

Give me just a moment to read this, Miss … Miss Carson, is it?

Yes, sir. Julie Carson.

I peeked up periodically and watched her glance around the room as I read the résumé. It said she could type and take dictation, and I could hear that her voice was certainly pleasant to the ear and her grammar was that of an English teacher. Her résumé was well written and easy to read, as it had very little on it. She continued to sit there almost motionless, save the slight turning of her head and eyes to observe my office layout. She was obviously schooled in appropriate behavior and dress. As she said, though, she was definitely short on experience.

Miss Carson, you are short on experience, I see, and as you stated.

Yes, sir. That seems to be all I hear. She hung her head.

It seemed to me that she might be a good fit for me, and she wasn’t asking for too much in salary. So I said, But then how does one get experience if no one will give that person a chance?

Her head came up with a smile. Oh, Mr. Kincannon, I’m not afraid of hard work, and I’m willing to work overtime if needed, and—

Miss Carson, when are you available to start … should you be offered the position, I mean.

She took a deep breath and replied, Why, I could start Monday.

Oh dear, I’m sorry. I’m afraid that won’t work for me. No, not at all … I faked a look of disappointment and watched her smile depart again. Then a puzzled look came across her pretty face until I said, I need someone today!

Her smile quickly returned. Oh, sir, that’s not a problem. I’m ready, and I would gladly start today, right this second if you wish!

I wish. I stood, extended my hand, and said, Miss Julie Carson, welcome aboard.

Oh, thank you, sir!

With that, she jumped up and shook my outstretched hand quite vigorously. It made me chuckle inside. I felt quite fortunate, as my instincts told me I had found someone special right away. I thought that perhaps this was even an omen of good fortune. However, I had no idea at that particular moment just how special!

Now, you did say right this second, didn’t you?

Oh, yes, sir, yes, sir!

I moved out from behind the desk and gestured for her to sit. Welcome to your desk. May you be together for a very long time.

Once seated, she held up her crumpled employment section of the paper. Sir, would you like me to call the newspaper and cancel this help-wanted advertisement?

Julie, I think that would be an excellent idea. Also, I finished a list of office supplies, and you may go down to the stationary store on the corner and pick them up.

Yes, sir.

Oh, and when you return, could you see if you can do something with those pictures?

Absolutely, sir.

"Hmm … by the way, if you want to keep this job, you’ll drop all that sir business and call me Jake, except in front of clients, of course." I sent her a smile and a wink at the end of my statement to let her know I was playing.

Oh, of course … Jake. She returned the smile as if to acknowledge my meaning, and I headed for my desk while she jumped right into her tasks.

Julie was obviously my first and only girl Friday, and I suspect it will stay that way as long as I can keep the doors open or someone from stealing her away from me. The interesting thing is that it was a Friday, and just like Robinson Crusoe found his man on a Friday and then so named him, so was it for me. When I started to talk about that story with Julie, she informed me that she had to read that book for a report in high school. I would occasionally call her that in a somewhat tongue-in-cheek manner.

Chapter 2

My New Boss

Julie Carson—that’s what it read on the mailbox door, my mailbox door. One of several hundred mailboxes located in the alcove at the rear of the lobby and to the left of the elevators. It was Friday evening around seven when I walked into the lobby of my apartment building and to my mailbox. I liked seeing my name on it, Julie Carson. It made me feel independent, like an adult, like I had my own identity, not just somebody’s daughter. I opened it with pride and retrieved my one piece of mail, hopped on the