A Man Out of Time

By Bill Runyan

Private dick, Ace Anvil, while investigating the murder of a physicist, has found a machine that sends messages back in time. Naturally he wants to use it to play the ponies, but instead, he finds himself on a collision course with philosopher assassins, homicidal artists, fanatical vegans, murderous skateboarders, mercenary Baptists and lethal librarians. A lesser man would give up, but Ace can't; a dick is all he knows how to be. Besides, his girlfriend needs new shoes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Runyan
• Release date: Jan 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463006931

Bill Runyan

Bill Runyan (1952 - not dead yet) was born in Boston, MA. He was subsequently moved to Delmar, New York. At the age of eight he was forcibly removed by his parents and transported to Memphis, TN where he has remained more or less ever since. He was educated in the sciences, obtaining a Bachelors in Biology and a Masters in Invertebrate Zoology. Then, of course, he was unemployed, so he became a computer programmer, whose programs often included jokes that were unappreciated. After an early retirement, he took up creative writing. His first collection of short stories "Animals with Issues" has made him a literary legend in his own min

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Prologue

It was an unseasonably cold day in March. Worse than cold, it was insulting, the kind of day where the sky spits sleet in your face. Dr. Fred Willis, professor of physics at Framus University, didn’t care. He always took a walk in the morning and this day wasn’t going to be any different. The exercise helped him think, and he had a lot on his mind. He had invented something. Something that could make him rich or, might bring about the downfall of Western civilization plus some other civilizations he didn’t particularly care about. So, he needed to move and he needed to reflect on the implications of what he’d created.

As he walked farther, it grew colder, and the wind picked up. Ice crystals stung his skin like he’d been slapped by a jilted lover. Then the wind gusted and it felt like the bitch was wearing brass knuckles. He pulled his scarf around his face and forged ahead into the gale. Maybe if he weren't so preoccupied with the future of civilization and the sleet bitch slapping his face, he would have noticed the black Toyota Prius following him. If he had, he might have observed the man in the passenger seat tightening a silencer on a Beretta.

In spite of the wind, he heard his phone beep. He ignored it. It beeped again.

Now what? Leave me alone. I’m thinking.

It beeped once more. Since his musings had been so rudely interrupted, he decided to interrupt his walk as well and reluctantly checked his phone. Now the sleet was coming down so hard that he could barely see, but he managed to identify the word:

Run!

He stared at the message and immediately his mind filled with questions.

Run? Run what? An experiment, but which experiment? Maybe it’s not an experiment. Maybe I’m supposed to run somewhere, but where am I supposed to run? And why?

His questions were answered in the next second as a bullet whizzed past his ear and hit a jogger. The man’s body dropped to the pavement.

Shit! Willis stared at the body in disbelief.

Three more shots passed him and ricocheted off a building before he recovered enough from the shock to respond. He started zigzagging down the sidewalk, weaving between pedestrians and slipping on the ice. Two more people caught a bullet and went down before Willis could turn a corner. Completely panicked, Willis ran into a donut shop. A barrage of bullets emerged from the Prius, shattering the front picture window and taking out a customer along with several innocent donuts and the cashier. Willis heard the squeal of tires as it sped away. Though he was in shock, his mind searched for answers.

Who wanted to kill me? Why? What kind of reprobates would care enough about the environment to drive a Prius, but have so little respect for pastry?

Then he felt a sharp pain in his side and realized he was bleeding. Profusely. His mind faded to black.

Chapter 1

Officer David Shea was feeling sorry for himself. He had recently been demoted from the illustrious job of being Officer Friendly and was now assigned to the traffic division. He was forced to sit in his patrol car all day and wait for someone to violate some trivial traffic edict. It was boring. Besides, he liked being Officer Friendly. He liked talking to kids and telling them about all the great things the department was doing and how nice police were when they weren’t busting you for marijuana possession. But then those nasty rumors had started. It had come to light that he had shot nine people while on patrol. Well, yeah, he had, but not all on the same day. And he’d had reasons, good reasons. He couldn’t remember what they were, but they had been good enough to keep him on the force. At least so far.

People were saying that he was unstable and had anger management issues. He had to take some stupid class twice. It was even said that he got into fights and might not be the best person to be around children. They even said he had once been in a fight with a horse. That was true, but the horse had deliberately stepped on his foot. He’d had to hit him with a two by four. Barnyard animals would bully you if you let them, but these city folks wouldn’t know about that, now, would they? They hadn’t grown up on a farm.

David was still sulking when he got the call: Two people in a black Toyota Prius had shot up a donut shop and sped away. They were coming toward him. David was aghast.

What was this world coming to? What kind of sickos would shoot donuts?

Then he saw it. Barely visible through the sleet, a black Toyota Prius was coming in fast, swerving on the slick street. Well, that was no way to conserve gas driving like that. David could have used radar, but he preferred to go with his gut, and his gut told him they were speeding. The only people who would do that would be the kind of people who shot donuts before fleeing the scene of the crime. Here was his chance to get back in the good graces of the department. David put his car in gear, turned on his lights and siren and gave chase.

The Prius pulled over to the side of the road. Nothing out of the ordinary so far, but still, David was suspicious. Something didn’t feel right, but then again, he was always suspicious of anyone driving a foreign car. It wasn’t patriotic. David turned on his loudspeaker.

Get out of the car, one at a time, with your hands up!

Unfortunately, it just came out as static. Broken again. Budget cuts.

Screw it!

David threw down the radio microphone, got out of his car and drew his service revolver. He slowly approached the Prius. The passengers were white, middle-aged and well-dressed. At least they seemed to be white. David looked again.

Wait a minute. They’re not white; they’re Asian. They look Japanese. Well, that would explain the car. Maybe they’re foreign Japanese tourists. Maybe they’re foreign Japanese tourist terrorists, the kind of terrorists who would stop and take photos right before shooting up an innocent crowd of carbohydrate consumers. I’d better be careful.

Now they’re fidgeting. Why are they so agitated? They keep staring at my gun. Haven’t they ever seen a gun before? Oh yeah, that’s what they want me to think, that they are sooo innocent that they don’t even know what a gun is.

The driver rolled down the window. David was determined to be Officer Friendly, but he held his gun on them just in case.

Good afternoon. Do you know how fast you were going?

The driver and the passenger started yelling unintelligible gibberish. Well, that was enough for David. Given that they were driving a Toyota Prius at breakneck speed, couldn’t speak English and seemed inexplicably nervous at the sight of his gun, he drew the only logical conclusion he could: Maybe they were tourists, but they were definitely terrorists. Probably from some country whose name he couldn’t pronounce. His little town of Framus wasn’t so desperate for tourist dollars that it had to cater to terrorists. He was going to take them in. He was going to be a hero. In his mind, he already was.

A little later another black Toyota Prius drove by. The driver slowed momentarily to survey the scene, then moved on. David was too busy taking a selfie with his prisoners to notice.

* * *

Private Detective Ace Anvil was tired. Barely forty, he felt old beyond his years and more beat up than his trench coat. He had been up most of the night working a case, following a lead that had led nowhere. He had tried his usual tactic of going to a bar and drinking heavily to get his creative juices flowing. That hadn’t worked. He just ended up yacking with some guy in the restroom who claimed he was a detective as well. Complete waste of time.

The booze had been bad too. It had messed up his mind. The world hadn’t seemed the same since he left The Stellar Door. He needed to go to classier bars and he definitely needed to drink a better brand of whiskey.

The sun was coming up, but he was too strung out to sleep. He wandered around aimlessly for a while, then like a homing pigeon, somehow ended up back at his office, conveniently situated in one of Framus’ more upscale slums. He grabbed a coffee pot filled with four day old coffee, sat at his desk, fished out the mold growing on top his leftover brew and poured himself a cup. Too strong. He added some whiskey to dilute it. That was better. He looked around idly as he sipped his morning brew. He tried to tell himself that furnishing your office with furniture people left out on the street gave one’s place a rustic look. Like his suit.

Who am I kidding? I need to cater to a richer clientele.

He added more whiskey and stared at the floor. He was on his second cup when he heard a knock on the door.

Go away; I’m busy.

The door opened, and Ace heard a voice like liquid butter.

Mr. Anvil, I presume?

His gaze rose slowly from the floor, following a pair of long legs past the curves of a figure-hugging black dress. His eyes lingered lovingly on two magnificent protruding orbs seeking emancipation from the restrictive fabric of a bodice before focusing on the face of an angel. He picked his jaw up off the floor and gave her his most winning smile. At least he thought it was a winning smile. It always worked on his mother.

Ohhhh yes, that’s me. You can call me Ace.

I heard you say you were busy, but I thought I would take the chance of intruding. I hope that you can spare me a minute of your valuable time. However, if that’s not convenient, I could come back later…

I can always make time for a client. Being a dick is a twenty-four hour a day job.

Oh, I’m so glad to hear that. My name is Betty Willis, and I need your help.

I’m listening.

May I sit down?

Please do.

Betty sat down in a chair to the side of his desk and crossed her legs. He swiveled around to enjoy the view better. He was immediately impressed by her upright posture and steady breathing.

Did you hear about the shooting at Harold’s Donuts last week?

No, I’ve been working. Too busy to keep up with the news.

The cops think that it was a hit from a competing donut shop. Do you believe it?

Might be true. This is a rough town, particularly during spring break.

My father, Fred Willis, was in that donut shop. I have reason to believe that he was the real target and that the donuts were just collateral damage.

Why is that? Ace asked.

Because my father didn’t eat donuts. He must have ducked in there trying to escape his assailants.

You sure?

He observed a low carbohydrate diet.

Why would anyone want to kill him?

My father was a famous physicist at Framus University.

And?

He discovered the famous Framus effect.

"Oh, yes, of course, that famous physicist." Ace tried not to sound clueless.

Anyway, he was able to use that effect to invent something. Something that could change the world. When you do something like that, you’re bound to attract enemies.

That’s one something per sentence. That’s a lot of somethings this early in the morning. What sort of something are we talking about?

I don’t know what sort of something, only that my husband said it was big.

A big something. That doesn’t give me much to go on.

Then Ace did a double take.

Wait a minute. I thought you said he was your father.

Yes, I suppose I did. I’ve been so distraught since his death that I got confused. My husband was older, and we were very close. He was like a father to me.

O-kay.

Something didn’t seem right about that, but Ace was still too enamored with her breathing to put his finger on exactly what it was. She leaned forward and touched his knee.

Mr. Anvil, I want you to find out who killed my father, I mean husband, and why.

Ace was totally smitten, but he managed to pull it together enough to discuss fees. Business was not going well, and he had bills to pay. He stretched his money in creative ways like giving his landlady French lessons instead of rent. But it was only a matter of time before she figured out that the only French he spoke involved his tongue in a way that had nothing to do with talking. Then he’d have to pony up some real money.

Mrs. Willis, I’d be happy to help, but I don’t come cheap.

Neither do I and call me Betty.

She pulled a small parcel wrapped in paper from her purse and laid it on his desk.

Will this get you started?

Ace unwrapped the package. It was a stack of twenties. There must have been a thousand dollars there.

Ace’s eyes bugged out of his skull. Yeah, this will work. So, you’ll be paying in cash?

Yes, I’m quite the old-fashioned girl. I don’t believe in banks.

Okay, I’ll draw up a standard contract, and you can come in and sign it at your convenience.

She touched his knee again.

I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Anvil—

Ace.

Yes, of course, Ace. I trust you. I felt I could trust you as soon as I came in the door. A girl just knows these things.

Ace looked into her eyes. They were tearing up. He could tell she was still in shock from the untimely death of her father or husband or whoever he was.

I’ll find the killers, Betty. You can count on me.

Oh, I know I can.

Betty got up and kissed him on the cheek. As she headed for the door, she turned back for a moment.

"One more thing, Mr. Anvil, I mean Ace. While you’re at it, please recover my husband’s invention. It’s a rectangular metal doohickey about the size of a suitcase. I wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands if it hasn’t already.

Anything else that would help me identify it? Ace queried.

It’s shiny. I like shiny things. Besides, it has sentimental value. Please find it for me.

Betty blew him another kiss and sashayed out. Ace was wide awake now and determined to bring her husband’s killers to justice. And her father’s too

Chapter 2

Ace put his pistol in his holster and set out for Framus University. The day was chilly but clear; so, he decided to walk. Walking would help shake the cobwebs out of his head. He hadn’t gone far when he spotted a black car tailing him. He pretended not to notice, but put his hand on his gun as a precaution. After a few seconds, it sped away. He relaxed his grip and noticed its emblem and the word Prius as it sped away.

Hmmm... Don’t remember seeing one of those around here. Must be a new make.

A little later, he made it to the university and found a campus map. He looked up the physics building, reached it after a short walk and sauntered in. Not knowing where to go, he just popped into the first office he saw. He was in luck. There was a secretary. Ace knew he’d get answers. He had a way with dames.

Good morning, may I help you? the secretary cooed. Ace was captivated.

I’m Ace Anvil. I have a private dick. I mean, I am a private dick. I mean, I’m a detective. I’m here to ask a few questions about the late Dr. Willis and his work. Is there anyone here who knew him? I’d like to have a conversation.

Before she answered, she pushed her chair back and crossed her legs. The view was good. She leaned forward. The view was better. Ace had to remind himself he was here on business.

Yes, Dr. Ferguson worked closely with Dr. Willis. I’m sure he would be able to help you. He’s just down the hall. His lab is the second door on the left.

Ace strolled down the hall and knocked on the door. The door opened and Ace was greeted by a short man in a bow tie and a lab coat.

Dr. Ferguson?

Yes.

Ace Anvil, private investigator. I’m here about Dr. Willis.

I’m afraid you’re too late. He’s passed on and you’ve also missed the funeral.

Yes, I know, I’m just here to ask a few questions.

Very well. I’ll see if I can help.

Ferguson let him into his lab. Tables were covered with equipment featuring blinking lights. It looked like the set of a science fiction movie. Ace was certain he was in the right place.

What would you like to know, Mr. Anvil?

Well, what was he working on before he bit it? Ace picked up a small rectangular object. This, for instance. The design looks rather advanced. Perhaps a rival lab found out about it, figured Willis was going to beat them to the patent and had him bumped off.

Well, that’s our coffee maker. So probably not.

Ah, yeah, I knew that. Ace put it back on the lab bench.

Well then, exactly what was he working on?

Have you heard of the Framus Effect? Dr. Ferguson asked.

Who could forget the famous Framus Effect? But tell me, what was he doing with it? Go ahead, Doc, spill it.

"Well, since you have heard of the Framus Effect, doubtless you’ve heard of a plasma wakefield accelerator."

Doubtless, but refresh my memory. Ace made himself comfortable sitting on a table.

As you probably already know, Dr. Willis was a particle physicist. We particle physicists like to slam sub-atomic particles together so we can measure the debris. This allows us to study their composition.

Sounds like fun, Ace said.

Most physicists employ a big accelerator like the Large Hadron Collider. However, that is not necessary. A plasma wakefield accelerator uses laser pulses instead of radio waves for particle acceleration. It is one thousand times more powerful than a conventional accelerator.

Where would I see one of those?

You’re practically sitting on one.

Ace slid off the table and tried to look nonchalant. Dr. Ferguson noticed his blank look.

The series of devices you see taking up the table comprise the accelerator.

Yes, of course. So how does the Framus Effect come into play?

Dr. Willis invented a miniaturized plasma wakefield accelerator. One that could fit into a briefcase, making it easily portable. Not only smaller, but more powerful than any existing accelerator. Besides being miniaturized, it did what no other accelerator has ever done.

Yeah, what’s that? Ace was unimpressed.

It generated tachyons.

Tacky who?

Tachyons. From the Greek, meaning ‘rapid.' Tachyons are particles that travel faster than light. Dr. Willis’s accelerator generated so much energy that tachyons would spontaneously appear. Since he developed it here, he called it the Framus effect, in honor of this institution.

That’s fascinating, Doc, but I’m trying to figure the angle and I don’t see how that invention would get him plugged.

Tachyons have an unusual property. They travel backward in time.

Well, good for them. Ace looked blank.

Don’t you see, Mr. Anvil? If these particles travel backward in time and you could detect them, a tachyon transmitter would let you send messages to the past.

It took a minute for Ace to realize the potential consequences of this.

So, if I knew how a horse race turned out, I could send a message to myself before the race, bet on the right horse and make a heap of dough.

Exactly, Mr. Anvil; now you’re getting it.

So, where is his doo-dad now?

We don’t know. It disappeared about the time he died.

Well, can you make a new one? The races are coming up Saturday and I’d sure like to know how to bet. I’d cut you in for half.

Mr. Anvil, if I knew how to make one, do you really think I’d do it to participate in horse racing?

Not necessarily; you might prefer dog races. I’d cut you in on those too. We could make a mint and I could quit teaching French to my landlady.

Mr. Anvil, I don’t know how to make one, but if I ever do, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.

Anvil knew that Ferguson was giving him the brush off and was certain there was more to it than he was telling, but he thought he’d let it go for now.

Okay, Doc, whatever you say.

Ace left the lab in a happy mood. It had been a good morning. He’d talked to two swell broads and gotten paid by one of them. He had found a motive for murder. And he had even found a suspect. A lesser detective might not have caught it, but Doc Ferguson had ratted himself out. Ace was certain that anyone who said he wouldn’t play the ponies when he had a sure thing was lying. And liars were often murderers. So, he’d be watching old Fergie. You could take that one to the bank.

* * *

David was humiliated. The terrorists he’d brought in had turned out to be tourists. Now they had taken him off the streets altogether and given him a desk job. Specifically, he was supposed to cold call people and solicit donations for the local lodge of The Fraternal Order of Police. He sighed. There was nothing to do but get started. He looked at his call sheet, closed his eyes and randomly put his finger on a number. He punched it in the phone without thinking. An old lady answered. Normally, David would have recognized the voice, but he was to depressed to pay attention.

Hello.

Good morning, I’m calling for the Fraternal Order of Police.

Who?

The Fraternal Order of Police. We are the voice of those who dedicate their lives to serving our community.

I can’t hear your voice. Speak up.

We protect and serve, David said more loudly.

Who are you serving?

The community.

You’re serving a commune? I don’t like hippies.

I didn’t say commune; I said community.

What is it you want?

We want money.

Then why don’t you hippies get a job?

We’re not hippies! We work for the government.

And the government pays you so little; you have to beg senior citizens for money?

I’m not begging.

Sounds like it.

I’m soliciting; there’s a difference, David insisted.

What’s the difference?

Uh, it’s spelled differently and solicitation is done over the phone.

So, it’s permissible to pester poor pensioners for money as long as you do it over the phone?

Uh, yes. No. I don’t know. What are you, a lawyer?

I used to be; I retired and I don’t have any spare money to give to hippies.

I told you; we’re not hippies! David was livid. He hated hippies.

Then prove it. Do some work if you want my money. If you mow my lawn and wash my car, I’ll give you a dollar.

I’m not going to mow your lawn and wash your car for a dollar! David screamed.

You don’t have to yell.

Well, since you can’t hear me, I think I do have to yell, you miserable old bat!

There was a moment’s silence.

David, is that you?

A sinking feeling came over him.

Hi, Mom.

I’m glad you finally called me, after all this time, but you shouldn’t yell at your mother. Have you been taking your medication?

Sort of.

What do you mean ‘sort of’?

I take it sometimes.

Now you know you are supposed to take it every day. You’re not nice when you don’t take it every day. Promise me you’ll take it every day.

Silence.

David, promise me.

Yes, Mom.

That’s a good boy. Now, why is it that you called? I forgot.

Oh nothing, never mind.

Okay David, now you have a good day and behave yourself and call me again soon.

Yes, Mom.

Goodbye, David.

Goodbye, Mom.

A bunch of his fellow officers peered at him over the top of the cubicle. David scowled at them.

What?!

They all scurried back to their desks.

Don’t they have anything better to do than spy on me?

David was losing it. He hated soliciting money. It wouldn’t do him any good anyway. They never invited him to lodge meetings. They said he was disruptive. So, to hell with them. Still, he wanted to be thought of as a good cop. He had to do something, anything to redeem himself. There was only one thing to do. He had to find the miserable miscreants that had shot up Harold’s Donuts. And if that meant hunting down every last Prius in Framus, then so be it.

But how? They had given him a desk job. He was confined to a cubicle, literally stuck in a box. He had to think outside the box if he ever wanted to get out. Then a brilliant idea struck him; he had a lot of sick leave left. He would call in sick. He dialed Chief Harvey’s number.

Chief, this is David Shea.

Hello, David.

Look, I gotta go home. I’m not feeling well.

What’s wrong, David?

David hadn’t thought that through, so he said the first thing that came to mind.

I think I’ve got Ebola.

The chief coughed. Well, David, I certainly wouldn’t want you at work with Ebola. We’d all feel much safer if you weren’t here. Go home, take all the time you need to get well and then take a vacation. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. You need it.

Thanks, Chief Harvey, I knew you’d understand.

Now David was free. Free to roam the streets and deliver his own brand of justice. It would be tough, but he knew just the man who could help him: Ace Anvil, private eye.

Chapter 3

Ace went back to his office to consider his next move. He poured himself some whiskey and threw back a shot. Whiskey helped him figure the angles, and this case had more angles than a six-pointed star. He had a motive and a suspect, but wasn’t sure what to do next. Seeking inspiration, he drank another shot. Then another and another after that. After a while, the mental strain was too much for him and he passed out on the couch.

* * *

As dawn streamed through the threadbare curtains, Ace was jarred awake by a loud banging. He grabbed his .45 and fired a few rounds towards the source of the racket. It ceased. Then he heard a thud outside his office. He staggered off the couch and opened his bullet-ridden door. There was his old pal, David Shea, taking a siesta on his door mat. Luckily, there was no blood. That was a relief. He never could get out those stains. He could, however, fix the holes in the door. That’s why he always kept duct tape handy.

Hi, David. Long time, no see. Glad I didn’t plug you. Ace holstered his piece.

Just a little bruised David groaned.

David, you look like you’re hurting. Are you sure you weren’t hit?

Yeah, I decided to wear my Kevlar before I came over.

I thought you only wore that in church.

There, and other potentially dangerous situations. This being one of them.

You should have called.

I thought of that, but the last time I did you shot your phone.

Sorry, I’ve been a little jumpy lately.

Yeah, what’s lately? David asked as he picked himself up off the floor.

Since that incident in summer camp.

That was twenty five years ago, Ace.

I’m scarred for life. Ace helped David into his office.

Have a seat, David. Try not to bleed on anything.

I’m only bruised, really, David groaned as he sat down.

You were never one to gripe about getting shot. I’ve always admired that about you. Most guys, if they catch a bullet, you never hear the end of it.

Ace poured David some whiskey and sat down.

So, what tears you away from patrolling the streets and brings you to my side of town?

Guess you heard about the shooting at Harold’s Donuts? David asked.

Funny you should mention that. I just got hired to track down the killers.

Ace, let me in on this. I want to help. I nearly got them. I saw a Prius, I thought it was them, but I got the wrong Prius. They turned out to be tourists, not terrorists. Now the department thinks I’m a joke. They had me on a desk job, harassing people for money. I’ve got to find the terrorists. I’ve got to restore my good name.

I never knew you had a good name.

Come on Ace, give me a break.

Ace hated to see his old chum in a funk. He might even be useful. Why not?

"Sure, David, anything for a pal. Besides who could blame you for stopping that car? Anybody