A Man Out of Time

By Bill Walker

All he wanted was a chance to prove himself as a journalist. He didn't bargain for losing the love of his life.

It is Halloween, 1959, and Josh Hardin wants nothing more than to be an investigative reporter. Instead, he spends his days writing obituaries for The Village Voice. But today his editor gives him two tickets and an opportunity to review the Back to the Future Rock and Roll Revue, a one-night show at the old Village Theatre. Josh jumps at the chance and takes along his aspiring photographer girlfriend, Audrey Whitman.

The show is nothing short of astounding. Bands from the future: The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Black Sabbath, and Green Day—musuc that blows their eardrums and their minds, as Josh's girlfriend clicks off six rolls of dynamite. And in a freak accident on their way home, she is run down and killed by a hit and run driver. Overcome with grief, Josh is driven to find out who put on this anachronistic show and why Audrey had to die for it. His investigation leads him The Time Tunnel project, where he's given the chance of a lifetime—to go back and save Audrey from a gruesome death—amd bring back those six rolls of film.

Will Josh be able to get the film, save Audrey, and put time back to rights, or will the clock run out on him?

A MAN OUT OF TIME is a tense, standalone novella. If you like taut suspense, head-banging rock and roll, and the mysteries of fourth dimension, then you'll love Bill Walker's gripping tale.

Download A MAN OUT OF TIME to Rock Out today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Walker
• Release date: Jan 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393608103

Book preview

Chapter 1

October 31, 1959—a date which would live in infamy. I know, I should come up with something more original, but it fits. And it’s what I would come to think of that day in the days and weeks ahead. At the moment I was gazing out the Voice’s rain-smeared windows onto the urban quagmire that was Cooper Square. It was early evening and the street was crowded with bobbing umbrellas carried by men and women dashing off to their evening destinations. I was envious of those umbrellas, as I imagined their owners living lives far more exciting than mine.

Halloween…

When I was younger, that was the one day I could be anything but the little snot-nosed kid I used to be. I relished that feeling of getting dressed up as a cowboy or a robot or Frankenstein’s monster, hiding in plain sight from the bullies who made my childhood a living hell. Nowadays, friends tell me that with my pomaded hair and Wayfarer glasses, I could go as Buddy Holly, no costume required. Halloween was a day of power for me. That date also marked the end of my first year at the Village Voice, a year that had started with such promise. I wanted to cover crime and politics as an investigative reporter, but my lack of experience straight out of Columbia’s School of Journalism meant I would be writing fillers and obituaries, something my editor, John Wilcock, said would put hair on my chest. I was still hairless, and the half-written obit now rolled around the platen in my battered Remington portable marked number three hundred.

Yes, I was counting. I had to feel some sense of accomplishment, no matter how fleeting.

It all changed in a heartbeat.

Joshua?

I turned from the window to see Wilcock staring at me over his Ben Franklin glasses, his shock of iron-gray hair looking as if it were caught in a whirlpool.

Daydreaming? the older man asked, the hint of an avuncular smile on his lined patrician face.

I liked Wilcock. He was what people called a straight shooter, something at odds with his proper British demeanor.

Yes, of a life not yet lived, I replied

You’re too cynical for one so young, my boy.

I leaned back in my chair, which screeched like fingers on a chalkboard. Wilcock winced. We’ll have to get that oiled.

I pointed to the can of 3-in-1 oil in permanent residence at the corner of my desk. I tried that, John.

The older man waved it off and pulled up a chair. I felt a rush of apprehension, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

As you know, Linda’s on vacation, Wilcock said, puffing on his ever-present Pall Mall.

I frowned, and Wilcock held up his hand.

Don’t look so distraught. This is good.

I waited and let him continue.

Something’s popped up. There’s a show—one night only—at the Village Theatre, something I think you’d be a good match for a review.

My expression must have been priceless, as Wilcock cracked a gap-toothed grin.

You thought I was going to fire you, didn’t you?

It did cross my mind…

Wilcock took another drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke over my head.

You do great work, Joshua, and the best thing is you don’t complain.

I smiled in spite of my mood and shrugged. Guess I’m just a glutton for punishment.

"Quite. But as I said, this is good. You’ll stand in for Linda and you’ll get a byline."

That made me sit up straighter. Bylines were guarded like Fort Knox.

Won’t Linda have a problem with that?

Linda Solomon covered the club scene, and a mention in her Riffs column could make or break a new