Chased Through Time

By Daniel M Dorothy

In Chased Through Time - the thrilling conclusion to the Paul Millard’s Time Travel Chronicles Trilogy - Paul is forced to race through time to keep one step ahead of enemy assassins intent on keeping him from disrupting their plans to eliminate all remaining humans and take over earth.
War has arrived.
The end is closer than you think.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel M Dorothy
• Release date: Oct 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005928551

Daniel M Dorothy

Daniel M. Dorothy is a writer, newspaper editor and author of Mango Rains, an epic tale of a woman’s lifelong search for her missing daughter, and Paul Millard’s Time Travel Chronicles I, II, & III, one man’s journey through time on a quest to fund a shelter for abused women and children, and find his way home.He grew up in Harpswell Maine, USA, a lobster fishing community in Casco Bay. He also lived in Hawaii for several years before eventually emigrating to Thailand in 1991. He has worked with Pattaya Mail Publishing Co. Ltd. in Thailand since its inception in 1993, and in 1996 became Executive Editor, a position he still holds.Dan has been a Sci-Fi fan since the 1960s when, as a young lad at his grandparents’ house, he and his sister would sneak out of bed to watch Star Trek from the stairwell. The children would peer through the railings as the elders were mesmerized by their brand new RCA color console television below, allegedly unaware their young offspring were looking over their shoulders. Maybe they were just pretending not to notice.Dan began time traveling at birth and will stop when his time comes to do so.

Book preview

What just happened? The last thing I knew, all hell broke loose during our truce negotiations with the Tartokians. Why were lasers ripping through the peace summit when both sides had agreed we’d attend the unarmed?

Gorzac, in a murderous betrayal, assassinated Admiral Nestrognian and Mea’ono, then turned his guns on us. I lunged at Hu in a feeble attempt to protect him from Gorzac’s wrath, but he repaid me by throwing something hard at my stomach. The pain was intense, but now, lying here on the pavement in some strange place, my mental anguish had overtaken the physical discomfort.

Did Gorzac murder Hu as well as the admiral and her second? Did Bond and Herc manage to escape, or did they, too, succumb to Gorzac’s treachery?

I wanted to find out what had happened and take revenge on the deceitful Tartokian commander. I longed to go to my friends and new family and help them fight the menacing horde of vicious invaders.

But the fighting around me had stopped.

Was I dead?

As I slowly regained my abilities, I examined my surroundings and found myself leaning against an old automobile in the middle of a parking lot filled with classic cars. Once again, like every other time jump I’d gone through, I couldn’t move anything but my eyes and, slightly, my head. Everything around me was green as if seen through night goggles and a strange metallic peanut butter flavor dominated the inside of my mouth.

Where the hell was I? What happened? I had no recollection of anything after the moment Gorzac opened fire. Seemingly in the next instant, I was here, wherever here was, leaning against this old automobile. Until I began to regain some movement, I wasn’t sure if I had landed partially embedded in the old car, which is how it felt.

I hadn’t.

Two scruffy-looking characters in ragged clothes, each wearing a well-worn fedora, sat by my side. When they noticed me, they failed comically at trying their best to get away, clambering over each, stumbling, bumbling, and eventually stopping when they gave up and sat still, staring at me.

Did you see that, Jim? one of them asked the other.

No, and neither did you, Guy, came the reply.

Pass me the bottle, Jim said. He took several long swallows of the Old Crow Kentucky Bourbon, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on me, perhaps hoping I might disappear as quickly and magically as I arrived. When I didn’t, he took a long look at the bottle, back at me, back at the bottle, and roughly pushed the whiskey back to his friend.

Take this, he said. Whisky ain’t doing me no favors no more.

As my recovery gathered momentum, I heard the distant sounds of a cheering crowd. I couldn’t make out who or where they were, for my view was blocked by a white picket fence. A lone figure faced away from me, standing motionless near the paling about twenty feet away.

Dressed in a black suit and wearing a black fedora, he rested something long and straight over the railing, propped in place between two of the pickets. As I watched, he took off his hat, hung it on the fence and lowered his head to rest on the long object.

Before I managed to rise to my feet, two loud bangs rang out in the distance. At first I thought they must have been firecrackers, maybe as part of a celebration. Then one bang much louder and much closer. A small puff of white smoke, almost undetectable, appeared in front of the lone figure.

Two more loud bangs clapped from the other side of the barrier. Anguished screams echoed from the invisible crowd. Sirens blazed. Car horns sounded. Automobiles race away from the scene. Those bangs weren’t firecrackers; they were gunshots.

The lone figure waited a few moments, wrapped a towel around what I made out to be a scoped rifle, and began to walk away. He stopped after nearly tripping over the two tramps and me.

He began to unravel the towel, then apparently thought better. Perhaps he didn’t want any unwanted attention more gunshots would bring.

Seeing that two of the men in front of him were unshaven, clothed in rags, and appeared scared out of their wits, perhaps he surmised they were tramps on the run. He probably wasn’t sure about the third man, me, as I was much younger than the other two, strangely dressed, but also disheveled.

None of us appeared ready to give him any trouble. If we did, most likely we were drunken bums who no one would believe.

Silently, he raised his index finger to his lips. Shhh. He lowered his hand into a menacing pistol figure, pointed it in our direction and fake shot each of us, one at a time, Pop, pop, pop.

He turned, looked over his shoulder, and disappeared into the labyrinth of parked cars without saying another word.

Chapter 2

Guy and Jim sat in stunned silence, watching the strange man in the black suit walk away. Once he was out of sight, they turned to me, still without speaking. Both appeared as though they had seen a ghost. Perhaps they had.

What was that all about? I slurred. My head spun, making me nauseous.

Hey, he’s talking, Guy said, leaning ever so slightly away from me.

I can see that, Jim replied. He elbowed Guy and told him to Shush.

Shush yourself, Guy snapped. He’s looking at us and talking.

I’m sitting right here, guys. I can hear every word you’re saying, I said.

There he goes again, Jim.

Shush, Guy. What the hell? Jim studied his bottle of Old Crow. Where the hell did you find this?

What do ya mean? You were with me when we pinched it. Guy pointed behind him at nothing in particular.

It must’ve gone bad, Jim said. A minute ago we was runnin’ and hidin’ from the cops after that little boy told them he saw you puttin’ the bottle in your pants. We found a place to hide behind this shiny new Studebaker, figuring it was big enough to give us plenty of cover, and next thing ya know, this thing appears from thin air ridin’ strange lights and heatin’ up the place.

Lemme see that, Guy said and grabbed the bottle.

He took a long swallow and recoiled from its strength. He coughed, spit once, and announced, Nuttin wrong with the hooch. Gotta be something else.

Did you see that man shoot his rifle over the fence? I asked.

Wide-eyed, Guy and Jim gaped at each other, then back at me.

No, Jim said. And neither did you.

Yes, yes, I did, I said. Tell me you didn’t see that.

I din’t see nuttin, Guy said.

Look pal, you’ll live a lot longer if you keep your head down and your eyes and ears closed, Jim said.

Where am I?

Texas, Jim replied. Dallas, Texas. A lot of trouble ‘round here, so if you want to stay away from trouble, you don’t see shit like that.

Texas? I stared at the ground at my feet. How did I end up in Texas? What year is this?

I don’t know, Jim said and turned to Guy. Do you?

This boy is either crazy or drunker than we are, Guy replied. I reckon it’s, well it could be, then again ... Nope, I don’t know neither.

You don’t know what year it is? I asked.

No, and it’s a long time since I cared, Guy said.

1963, Jim blurted out. Or maybe 1962. Or one. Or maybe four. I lost count.

How strong are you? Guy asked.

I beg your pardon?

How strong are you? Guy repeated.

He wants to know how much money you have, Jim said. Got any?

I had to think. It had been quite a while since I needed any money. Now that I might, I realized I had none and more importantly, no backpack. Only this strange box Hu threw at me, which sat on the ground by my feet. I picked it up and slid it into my pocket. It barely fit.

No.

Got any White Mule? Guy asked.

Do you guys speak English? I asked.

Obviously, you don’t, Jim barked. He asked if you have any whiskey.

No whiskey either, I said.

Want some? Guy said, offering me the bottle.

No thanks. I need to find my bearings.

Jim scowled. Can’t trust a man with no money, don’t know where he is, and don’t drink.

That’s for damn sure, Guy said. Are you hot?

I sighed.

Are you wanted by the law? Jim asked. We don’t travel with hot people.

No, I’m not hot.

He’s got fancy clothes, Guy said. They might be a little roomy, but I bet we can wear ‘em.

I’ll take his shoes, Jim said. I need a new pair.

How we gonna do it? Guy said.

Go fetch that stick. We’ll knock him out with it.

OK, enough, I said. You know I’m sitting right here. I can hear you. Besides, even with that stick, you two couldn’t take these clothes off me in a million years. I came from a war zone and left a lot of friends behind. You know what? OK, give me that bottle. Listening to you two, I could use a stiff belt.

Just as I put the bottle to my lips, a crowd of people appeared from the grassy knoll and began pouring into the parking lot.

Guy and Jim immediately jumped to their feet and started running. Without giving it much thought, I gave chase, keeping up with them until we reached a tall brick building and found a dumpster to hide behind.

Along the way, we nearly bowled over a rather short man wearing a grey windbreaker, walking with purpose with his head down. He looked vaguely familiar.

What the hell’s going on? I asked.

Blind buck, Jim answered.

What? I asked.

No-eye-deer, he translated; well, sort of.

I heard car noises, so I peeked up to see where they were coming from and saw a highway relatively close behind. All around me had the makings of a typical summer day during an antique car weekend, except for all the excited, oddly dressed people running around. I also detected a railyard between us and the highway.

Don’t know, neither, Guy said. But you’d better stay low or you’ll give us all away.

I sat back down and began having strange feelings of déjà vu. I knew I’d never been here, but some things struck me as strangely recognizable as if I’d seen them in a movie or on TV.

What war were you fighting? Guy asked. Over in Korea?

No, it was, I stopped myself. How would I describe it? I wasn’t even sure where I’d been, or when. It was another one, I said.

If you say so, Guy replied, settling in.

After an hour or so of keeping quiet and waiting, Jim announced he thought it might be best to make a move. Head to the boxcars. We can wait inside one until the train pulls out.

Boxcars? I asked.

Yeah, boxcars, Jim said. We rode in on ‘em a couple hours ago from Santa Fe.

I wasn’t particularly enamored with the thought of hopping a train to who-knows-where with no money and a couple of vagabonds, but I didn’t have any better ideas.

Looking left and right, front and behind, our trio made our way over to the railyard undetected, where we found an empty boxcar and slipped inside.

Now what? I asked.

Now we wait, soldier, Jim replied.

You never done this before, have you? Guy said.

No, I haven’t.

You good at stealing stuff?

I don’t think so. I haven’t tried since I stole some bubblegum as a kid.

Well, if you’re gonna live this life, you better learn. Or starve. We ain’t gonna share everything with you, Jim said.

Hell, I don’t even share everything with him, Guy said, pointing to Jim.

You don’t? Jim came back at him. Why I ought-ta—

The two started batting each other around, tussling to the floor, banging into things and each other. I had to laugh.

What the hell you laughing at, soldier? Jim was steaming.

Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? I asked.

It is if you don’t share, Jim replied. He stood up and started towards me, fists clenched, when the boxcar door slid open.

A uniformed policeman un-holstered his pistol and aimed it a Jim, then Guy, and finally at me.

J.T., Billy-Bob, come quick. I found ‘em.

Two other officers arrived, guns at the ready. You three. Step down, Officer Billy-Bob demanded with a Texas drawl. Well done, Jeb.

What’s going on, Guy said as he climbed out of the boxcar.

Jim and I followed.

The President’s been shot, Billy-Bob told them. But I guess you don’t know anything about it, do you.

I gasped. Was this really happening? All five heard the gasp and turned toward me.

Do you have something you want to tell us? Billy-Bob said.

I opened my mouth and started to say I knew a lot about what was going on. I’d seen many conspiracy shows on TV that were still running decades into the future. But I decided I’d better keep my mouth shut.

No, officer. I have nothing to add. I’m shocked and dismayed to hear about the president. Is he alive?

We don’t know yet, Jeb said. It only just happened. He’s still at Parkland Hospital.

Enough, Billy-Bob stopped him. He glared at Jeb for freely giving away so much information.

Patrolman Jeb’s face shaded crimson.

We require you gentlemen to follow us, Billy-Bob said. We need you to answer some questions down at the station.

Do we have a choice? Jim asked. He received no reply.

Officer Billy-Bob Martin from the Dallas Police Department led us up the hill and away from the railyard. We walked in silence with our armed escorts past the Texas Book Depository and into the police station just a block away. The police didn’t seem overly worried. They kept a slow pace with their weapons carried loosely by their sides and allowed photographers to snap away.

Hardly any of the other officers took notice when we were brought into the station and led into a cellblock. The commotion brought on by the day’s events kept everyone inside trying to look busy.

I heard they got good food here, Guy said once the doors were locked.

Somehow, it seemed to cheer me up. Food did sound appealing right about now. I hadn’t eaten in what, two or three hundred years?

Chapter 3

The boys sat with me alone in the cells, their prize possessions confiscated, and none more prized for Guy and Jim than their bottle of whiskey. This alone made them ornerier than a rattlesnake with hives, as one officer described them. I was just plain hungry. Where was the ‘good jail food’ the tramps had promised?

It was a full four hours before a uniformed officer showed up and took us separately to private interrogation rooms. I sat alone for another thirty minutes before an older detective walked in. Dressed in a tan suit with a thin black tie held in place by a clip in the shape of Texas, and wearing a white cowboy hat, he barely seemed to notice me as he saddled into a chair across the table.

He shuffled through a few papers before lifting his head and looking me in the eye. He kept his stare for long enough to make me uncomfortable. Then, in a thick Texas drawl, he announced himself as Captain Will Fritz, lead investigator into the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

You don’t seem surprised, he said when his announcement didn’t elicit a response.

I’m in shock, I said, trying to recover. I felt as if in a dream. None of this could be real.

Captain Fritz looked back down at his paperwork, Your name is Paul Millard. Is that right?

Yes.

What were you doing in the parking lot behind the fence in Dealey Plaza?

‘Tough question,’ I thought. ‘How the hell am I going to answer?’ I scratched my head. I guess I fell asleep.

Why there?

I couldn’t tell you.

Captain Fritz shook his head. It wasn’t unusual for train tramps transiting the area to pass out drunk in public with no knowledge of where they were.

Did you see anything out of the ordinary when you woke up?

As a matter of fact, I did.

Go on.

There was a man with a rifle pointed over the fence. I was still in a fog, so I didn’t see him shoot. But it certainly sounded like he did.

What did he look like?

I didn’t get a good look. He dressed like almost everyone else I’ve seen here. Black suit, thin tie and wearing a black fedora.

Was he white? A Negro? Mexican?

White, maybe Mexican. I don’t think he knew we were there. Before he left, he started to bring out his gun to shoot us. But instead he told us to be quiet and pointed at us, pretending to shoot us with his finger.

You seem to remember a lot of details for someone who just woke up and didn’t get a good look at this mysterious man, Captain Fritz said.

Yeah, I guess I did. I felt dizzy, and the room began to spin. ‘Not now,’ I thought. ‘Not another one of my flashes.’

To my relief, a uniformed officer broke into the room and announced, We got him.

Who? Captain Fritz said.

We got the man who shot Officer Tippet. He was in the Texas Theatre. He put up a fight, but we got him.

All right, Captain Fritz said in his Texas drawl as he rose from the interrogation table. Take Mr. Millard back to the lockup. And for God’s sake, stay out of the way.

The officer grabbed me by the arm, Come on, up you go, he said and did his best to drag me out into the corridor.

The hallway was jam-packed with people. Those not wearing police uniforms jostled for position while clinging to bulky cameras with flashbulbs the size of dinner plates. Cigarette smoke filled the air.

When tall, stocky officers arrived with a small man in tow, flashbulbs went off like fireworks on the fourth of July. I noticed right away the prisoner had the same stature as the man we nearly knocked down hours earlier.

During all the commotion, the officer in charge of me stopped to take in the scene.

I don’t want to miss this, and neither do you, he whispered. The scuttlebutt is, that’s the man who shot the president.

Was I in a dream? My head started swimming again when the passing entourage pinned us to the wall.

I froze. There before me was none other than Lee Harvey Oswald. He was so close he bumped into me and was dragged across my torso as they shoved him into the same interrogation room I had left moments before.

What are you still doing here? Captain Fritz yelled at me.

Take him back to the cells right away, he scolded the officer.

Yes, sir. The officer tried to be rough as he pushed me through the crowd but he was too small to make an impact.

After finally being deposited in my cell, I sat in the corner, wondering what had gone wrong. For someone who made it one of my life’s missions never to do anything that would cause me to spend even one minute behind bars, this was the third time since my wayward journey began. At least this time the cells were a lot better than the death chamber where I was held back in Germany before my last time jump.

I felt like an idiot. How did I end up here?

A clanking of keys brought me out of my thoughts when the promised food finally arrived. Guy and Jim wolfed it down as if it were the first meal they’d had in days. Perhaps it was. For me, though, the beans and franks were less than appetizing, especially compared to the meals Misty cooked for me back in Binarianville before the war.

We had barely finished when the key rattling began again. This time the chief suspect was brought in and unceremoniously deposited in the cell next to mine.

I couldn’t help but stare.

What are you looking at? Oswald barked.

It is you, isn’t it, I replied with more of a statement than a question.

Do I know you? Oswald asked.

Nope, I replied.

Oswald returned the stare. I guess he was trying to figure out where he’d seen me before, and why the stare.

Did you act alone when you shot the president? I asked. I couldn’t help myself; I’d seen too many conspiracy theory TV shows. Could I find out the truth from the man himself?

I didn’t kill nobody, Oswald said. I’m just a patsy.

Right, I said. Who was the man I saw behind the picket fence on the grassy knoll? Was he shooting at you or the president?

Oswald’s eyes grew wide as if a secret was out, then narrowed. There I was, staring into the face of a cold-blooded assassin.

I didn’t kill nobody, Oswald repeated. I’m just a patsy.

He turned and sat on the other side of the cell, facing away.

Guy and Jim sat quietly, no doubt afraid to speak.

I tried to persist with my questioning, but from then on, Oswald had gone deaf.

* * * * *

Two days later, we were still being held in the Dallas jail when officers arrived with purpose and dragged Oswald away. On his way to a car that would transfer him from the city to county jail, Dallas nightclub owner Jack Ruby fatally shot Oswald in full view of live television cameras.

Chapter 4

Everything changed after Ruby murdered Oswald. Guy, Jim and I were left alone in the cells, no longer of any interest. Our only contact with the guards came at mealtime when they brought us food or took away our empty tins.

We never saw Jack Ruby. Not surprisingly, he was held and interrogated in another area.

Guy and Jim weren’t capable of being a part of any conspiracy to murder the president and didn’t act like they were trying to hide anything. They also had no information to offer. At least none worth repeating, so they were set free.

I, however, continued to insist I witnessed a man with a rifle. After the release of the other two, a uniformed officer brought me to see Captain Fritz one more time. Only this time, Captain Fritz interviewed me in his private office.

Does Alpha sixty-six mean anything to you? Captain Fritz asked.

No, why? Should it?

The man you say you saw, could he have been Cuban?

I don’t know. I suppose he could’ve been. Hard to tell.

Have you ever been to Harlandale Avenue? Captain Fritz continued.

No, I don’t think so. Where is Harlandale Avenue?

Have you ever been to Cuba? Captain Fritz persisted without acknowledging any of my answers.

No.

Captain Fritz’s steely eyes indicated he wasn’t so sure. I have some photos I’d like to show you.

He pulled out a binder, opened it, and slid it in front of me. Look closely at these faces and tell me if you recognize anyone.

I held Captain Fritz’s stare for a moment, then looked down at the open book. Can you tell me what this is all about?

One of our motorcycle patrolmen accidentally left his microphone on. He rode in the middle of the motorcade, and his radio transmitted back to headquarters during the entire event. We recorded all messages coming in from the field, including his. We believe his recording picked up the sound of at least four shots. Three came from the book depository behind him. We know this because we found the sniper’s nest on the sixth floor. The shooter left behind three spent shells and the murder weapon. We can’t figure out why a presidential assassin would be so careless to leave all this evidence for law enforcement to find, and now we may never know after the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald.

I sat staring at my interrogator, hardly moving a muscle. I’d seen all of this on TV, but now that I was in the middle of it, it felt like in a dream. Nothing seemed real.

You aren’t surprised by this information? Captain Fritz asked.

We heard the guards talking, I lied. When Oswald didn’t return to his cell, we figured either he’d been transferred or maybe what the guards were saying about him being shot was true.

I see, Captain Fritz said. The guards were talking.

I nodded.

We’ve listened to the tape repeatedly while trying to decide if the fourth sound is a gunshot or something else. Our investigation is inconclusive, but we suspect it is a gunshot and that it came from behind the grassy knoll, Captain Fritz speculated.

You think it might be the man I saw—we saw in the parking lot? I sat up in my chair.

That’s where we have a problem, Captain Fritz said. Your two friends claim there was no man there at all.

I don’t blame them, I said. The man threatened to kill us if we talked.

Look at the pictures in front of you. Do you recognize anyone?

Now that I knew what I was looking for, I gave my search extra effort, but, No, sorry.

Look again. Was one of these men the one you saw at the fence?

I studied the faces again and shook my head. None of the photos resembled what I remembered of the man at the fence.

Are you sure? Captain Fritz said. He reached out towards the spread of photos and began tapping his ring finger close to one. The gesture was so slight I couldn’t tell if he was trying to give me a hint or if it was the older captain’s unsteady hands.

I guess it could have been him, I said. But I can’t be sure.

Hmm, Captain Fritz hummed.

He was about to continue when the door opened and a black-suited man wearing too much Brylcreem walked in under a cloud of Old Spice. A uniformed officer tried to hold him back, but the man was persistent.

Sorry, boss, the uniform said. He’s a fed.

The man announced himself as Special Agent Ron Gould, the FBI’s chief liaison with the CIA’s CURO - Coordination of United Revolutionary Organizations.

He flashed an official-looking badge but spoke with a strange accent, Cuban or Russian, or a combination of the two.