Buchanan: The Case of Future Past

By G.J. Torok

When the beautiful Mrs. Jones hired him to find her missing husband, Buchanan had no idea a second Mrs. Jones would come looking for the same man. It was hard enough keeping the peace between the two wives, the wolves off his back, and to find out who is trying to kill him, but when he ends up over 100 years in the past, then suddenly finds himself in an unfriendly future, Buchanan must use all of his ex-cop experience to stay alive. However, he found one good thing about the future. It's a deadly, different place to fall in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483648545

G.J. Torok

Gabe Torok was born in Hungary, immigrating to Canada during the Hungarian revolution. His plans were altered from becoming an English teacher, ending up in electrical engineering. He wrote his first novel at age 16, and has been writing ever since. Having lived in a number of countries and travelling to dozens more, his background was further complicated as a professional photographer, associate editor of a magazine, VP of marketing for two separate corporations, and running his own computer wholesale business. His interest in science fiction was kindled in 1966, when he saw an unidentified flying object slowly move across the sky, just below the tops of the North Shore Mountains in Vancouver.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The crisp cool desert air whistled through his open window as he drove his brand new ’66 T-Bird homeward to Los Angeles. Las Vegas was great that weekend. He had managed not to lose all the winnings as was his usual style, and was returning home with more money than he came with. Smiling to himself, he whistled along with Perry Como on the radio. A glance at the dashboard clock showed him the time. Considering it was 3:47 in the early morning, Mark Jones felt wide awake.

He had been working on a system to beat roulette, and had made numerous weekend trips to test it. Somehow, the system never quite worked as well as it had this time. There were still some fine tuning to go through, but Jones figured he finally got unto the right track.

Sinatra followed Perry Como on the radio and he began to sing along at the top of his voice. Flanked by desert on both sides of the road, and being the only car within miles, he disturbed no one but a few scurrying lizards as he passed them. Directly behind him, he noted the light off the horizon as the Earth turned towards a new and most likely, very warm day.

Just as he glanced back in the rear view mirror, a bright light caught his eye. Slowing slightly, he looked for it again, but it was gone. Seconds later, the desert to his left lit up like daylight as a huge ball of brightly glowing fire descended fast at a shallow angle. There was screeching thunder as it hit the earth, the sounds of mutilated metal against rock. The impact was less than a quarter mile or so ahead of him.

Jones was elated. To see a meteor land, and to be the first one there was more than he had ever hoped for. He’ll have some stories to tell back in the office, especially if he had a piece of the meteor as proof. He gunned the engine and close to the impact site, drove off the highway into the desert. The T-Bird bottomed out several times as he closed in on the meteor, and parked the car a respectable distance away, shielding the car from the fire by parking behind a low rocky rise. The sage was burning still, so better be safe than sorry, he thought.

Jones stepped out of the car, never taking his eyes away from the scene, and stretched his lean six foot frame. With his right hand he brushed his straight dark brown hair back, and stepped forward. He could feel the heat emanating from the crash site, and wondered if there was a chance of radiation, or something. Curiosity won and his steps quickened.

There was a burnt groove in the sand about six feet wide and he guessed maybe one hundred feet long to the glowing mass at the end of it. Stepping into the groove, he followed it, noting that the angle of the trench was taking him below the desert floor. The sand around him was black, and he occasionally tripped on pieces of debris. The bright glow, now only about twenty feet in front of him, impeded his vision in the surrounding darkness. The debris had form, although twisted, and he disappointedly dropped the meteor theory in favour of an aircraft.

With great caution, he inched forward, the heat of the burning wreck searing the skin on his face. If anyone had been in the wreckage, there would be nothing left to identify him by, he thought and shuddered involuntarily. Stopping about twenty feet from the main body of twisted metal, he could no longer take the heat radiating from the burning debris.

Jones came to a critical decision. With a swift motion he was up on the edge of the groove which, at this point, was over five feet above the furrow floor. He looked down at the wreckage, trying to visualize the shape of the aircraft from the lack of projecting metal. No tail section had broken off, no wings or recognizable parts survived, at least, not at this site. The craft might have broken up in the air with only the fuselage crashing here, but then, what caused that tremendous fire that burned metal with a white flame like burning magnesium?

Off in the distance he heard sirens. It took several seconds to spot the headlights and flashing lights of the police cars across the desert. They were still far away, but there was no hurry. There were no survivors.

Still looking towards the approaching vehicles, Jones’ eye was drawn to a bluish glow not ten feet to his left. He walked over to it. It wasn’t hot. No heat came from it as he slowly tested the air around it with his hand. He touched it. The glow pulsed, but did not change. Jones picked up the rectangular, metallic box with a nearly five inch glowing dome, and without giving it a second thought, sprinted to his car.

The lights from the police cars were just turning off the highway in towards the site of the main fire as he closed his trunk on the curious object. Standing still, thankful for the small rise of the land and the shrubbery hiding him from view, he watched the police drive directly to the main attraction. He waited, unmoving until he could safely assume that no one noticed his presence. Slipping behind the wheel, he gently eased his car backwards out onto the highway, using his brakes as little as he could get away with. Without turning on his lights for several miles, he continued his homeward drive towards L.A.

CHAPTER 2

The blinding rays of the morning sun cut shafts of light carrying dancing dust mixed with cigarette smoke invading Buchanans office on the third floor of an old wood frame. Noise of the traffic outside barely filtered through the closed window as he sat at his desk, retrospective eyes resting on the photograph that held the place of honor on the only clean spot on the old wooden desk. Buchanans forefinger habitually smoothed down his bushy mustache as his mind carried him back in time, and he allowed the memory to take over.

Are you coming to bed? He had yelled down from the top of the stairs to the studio where Jenny was giving the finishing touches to the landscape she was painting.

Be up in a sec, hon! She packed up the tubes of paint, washed the brush in turpentine, surveyed her work with approving eyes then turned the lights off and went up the stairs.

How is it coming?

It’s finished. I hope it dries enough in time for the opening at the Gallery.

"Your work will be the talk of the town.

I hope so. Jenny stepped into the bathroom as the phone rang.

Yes, Buchanan answered on the third ring, listened for a moment, then added, Where? After another short pause, he said, I’m on my way. Getting out of bed, he was dressed by the time Jenny emerged from the bathroom wearing a flimsy baby-doll negligee.

What now? she asked as he tied his shoe laces.

Homicide. I’m sorry, precious, I have to go.

At this rate, perhaps we should consider getting me pregnant by osmosis. Never mind, hon, I knew it would be like this when I married you.

Criminals don’t work nine to five, just so they can make the life of a policeman difficult. When we catch this one, I’ll include in my statement to the press a request that all criminals please go on a five day work week. How’s that?

Very considerate. Now go get them, and be careful. I love you. She kissed him passionately then added, I still think you should grow a mustache.

I’ll work on it. I love you too.

His eyes were full, but there were no tears, as Buchanan snapped back to the present and wondered how long the door to his office had been open with the woman standing there, watching him.

How can I help you, Miss? Buchanan slid his size twelve feet off his littered desk. He moved slowly, gingerly. Every muscle in his upper torso ached, and the bandages on his forehead and neck pulled at the healing wounds as he moved. For a moment he forgot the arm in the sling and attempted to point the woman at the door towards a seat—winced from the sudden sharp pain—then leaned back in the chair, adding, Please, come in and have a seat.

She was tall and willowy, her straw colored strands loosely falling over her shoulders. She held her post at the door, staring at him defiantly. Buchanan appraised her with a practiced eye, deciding she was too skinny; probably every rib showing like a railway line under her pink silk blouse. The white leather skirt was too short, perhaps a remnant from the past decade when miniskirts were in fashion. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head into a silent question.

Without moving out of the safety of the door frame she said, Either you’re on a really rough case, Mr. Buchanan, or you’re not the investigator I’m looking for.

Don’t let my appearance fool you, Miss… Miss?

Mrs. Jones, Angela Jones.

Ah, Mrs. Jones. Yes, well, as I was saying, don’t let my present appearance put you off. There were six of them and all but one look worse than I do.

Some consolation! She stepped into his small, crowded office, selected one of the two vacant chairs, ran her hand along the seat as if wiping the dust off, then sat down, crossing her long, shapely legs. Buchanans face showed his appreciation.

He lit another cigarette while the woman settled in her chair.

I never liked violence, Mr. Buchanan, she said finally. Her eyes absorbed the room as she spoke, noting the haphazard arrangement of books in a dusty book case next to a sink that might never have seen a scouring pad. The collection of empty bottles in the waste basket next to the desk complemented the opposite corner along with a beat up filing cabinet. I see you like brandy, she said smiling for the first time since she arrived.

No, I like cognac. Brandy happens to be what I can afford.

I need you to find my husband. Her statement was flat and caught him totally off guard.

You’ll find Missing Persons at the police station, Mrs. Jones, he replied seriously, running his hand over the thinning hair on his head above the bandage.

I’ve been. They’ve given me the standard run around and lip service. That’s all.

Have they come up with anything?

They say he didn’t exist. I got the feeling they felt sorry for me and kept up the pretense of saying they’re looking.

Buchanan leaned forward, intrigued, but said nothing. She continued momentarily, her green eyes reflecting an inner sadness that touched an almost forgotten hidden emotional chord in him. The look reminded Buchanan when Jenny returned from the doctor with the news she wasn’t pregnant. She cried on his shoulder, her grief tearing his soul apart.

He’s been gone for over five weeks. It’s not like him. You do take missing persons cases, Mr. Buchanan?

Buchanan fondled the bandage on his forehead as he spoke. The last missing person I found did not wish to be found, least of all by the person who hired me to find him. In fact, he preferred to be missing so much, five of his goons took an old fashioned method to explain it to me. They used baseball bats with me as the ball.

I’m sorry, she said sympathetically.

Me too, Buchanan sighed, stubbing his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray.

Smoking is bad for you. You should quit, you know.

He recalled Jenny’s words in crystal clarity, You should stop smoking, hon. I don’t want to be happy for the next ten years, only to have you die on me and leave me alone for the rest of my life. He would have tried to quit, but she died before he set his mind to the task. After her death, he saw no reason to save himself for a long, lonely life without her. To the woman in front of him, he said nothing.

A moment of silence passed. Angela Jones eyed Buchanan expectantly as she asked finally, Will you find my husband?

He looked at her for a long moment, running his finger along his mustache. At last, he said, "It’s your