Luke's Quest 01 - Prisoner Of Time (v5.0) Read online

  Luke’s Quest:

  Prisoner of Time

  K. C. and Al Collier

  Copyrighted 2006

  EBook copyrighted 2015 by K.C. Collier

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art work by Al Collier

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations,

  and events portrayed in this novel are either products of

  the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Books by K. C. & Al Collier:

  Luke’s Quest: Prisoner of Time

  Luke’s Quest: Rebirth

  Luke’s Quest: Time to Learn

  Hawk Shaman

  Dream Betrayal

  Summaries of these books are at the end of this book or visit: http://KCCollier.com

  ~~~~~~

  Chapter 1

  Saturday, April 24, 2004

  Blissville, Arkansas

  I shouldn’t have been browsing at Ellen Thompson's flea market. With less than $10 in my checking account, I certainly had no plans to buy anything. But when I saw it, some instinct told me I had to have it.

  "Look!" I called excitedly to Willie Thomas, my best friend, who had come into the flea market with me. "Look at this handwritten journal dated 1881!" I held it up almost reverently for him to see.

  "Luke," Willie scoffed as he continued picking through a box of outdoor sports magazines, "your home library is already full of old books just like that one. What do you want another one for?"

  "Those are historical books I need for research and might get me more clients," I remonstrated, tired of having to defend my self-employment as a historian and researcher to everyone in town and feeling somewhat defensive because I couldn’t logically justify the expense right now. "I use those books to find people and information just like what this man is writing about. This could be useful in other ways, too," I added.

  "And how are you going to pay for it?" Ellen asked me looking over her reading glasses. Ellen's round face was clearly too wide for such a small pair of glasses, but she would never admit to being overweight, even though townspeople joked she was wider than she was tall.

  “How much do you want for the box?" I asked her, holding my breath with hope.

  "I guess I could let you have it for $25," she answered immediately. “Although the man I bought them from did say they would be invaluable to the right researcher. I have his card somewhere, Nick Senzela or something like that.” She began rummaging through her files.

  Ellen must have heard me telling Willie how much I wanted the book. Surely she had doubled the price. I recalled the cut-off notice on my desk, and my heart sank. It would take more than I had just at present to keep the electric company from turning off my service in a few days.

  "He doesn't have that much, Ellen," Willie interjected. "Besides, we know you never expect to get the first price you ask for, anyway."

  "I have to try to get something for all the hours he browses here and never buys a thing," she fussed. "Really, Luke," she added, turning back to me, "that's just some foolishness about life in Jacksonport, Arkansas, back in 1881. Do you expect anybody to actually care about things that went on there 124 years ago?"

  Willie grinned at me. I knew he was right about her price, but no matter what the price, I knew I had to have the box. I opened the journal. On the title page was inscribed “Property of Paul C. Robertson.” Turning several pages at random, I read:

  My thoughts have been distracted as I recall one event at the saloon. I sat eating when two men began to argue over a horse that one rode. The first man claimed it was his brother's horse and saddle. The man on the horse said he found it and claimed it. Gunfire rang out. A total of three shots were fired. The man lying in the street had two bullets in him. The man on the horse bragged it had taken only one rifle shot to kill the brother. Judge Phillips will sort out whether or not it was a legal shooting. According to my other friend, Will Heard, the County Treasurer, most of the shootings in the street are ruled legal. It makes Deputy Jimmie West's job a little harder but the judge's job easier.

  While I was more concerned about poor health standards for food and my inability to enjoy a cool drink on a hot day, a man had been killed. The reality drives me crazy each day.

  "Willie," I said softly making sure Ellen couldn’t hear me, "this book has a first-hand, actual eyewitness account of a shooting over the ownership of a horse. I can write up a report about this."

  "It’s time for a cup of coffee," Willie announced, eyeing Ellen who was leaning to hear what I was saying. "Let's go to the diner."

  "All right," I conceded, begrudgingly returning the book to the box. I felt my hopes sinking, certain Ellen would put the box back for a customer who would be willing to pay more for it. I couldn’t blame her. If only I had the money!

  Willie had been my best friend all of his life. There is a special bond between us that I find hard to explain. I’m two years older, 27, yet at times he’s the more sensible one of us. He’s a local handyman and builder who owns his own business. His dark hair and dark eyes give him a handsome look, while all the hours outside in the sun and wind keep him a little more darkly tanned than most locals. Although he doesn’t seek hard work, he isn’t afraid of doing it, so his arms, chest and even his legs are muscular.

  I don't consider myself ugly by any means, but Willie is always the one who attracts women. At six foot, two inches and 170-pounds, I’m good-looking. Well, not bad, anyway. My blond hair looks dirty most of the time, but it’s just that dirty blond shade. Maybe that is the problem: I could pass for a surfer in California; however, Arkansas has no oceans and no surfers. My eyes seem to stay more bloodshot than blue these days from all the reading. Still, it’s hard for many people to believe that a big, semi-muscular guy like me is a nerd who prefers history and books on a Saturday night to having a date. Truthfully, I like women but had simply not met anyone I wanted to marry and saw no point in dating anyone casually.

  "What’s the lunch special today, Darlene?" Willie asked as she placed our coffee cups in front of us.

  "Meatloaf," she smiled, “as it’s every Saturday."

  "Bring me one," he told her.

  They both looked at me. "I’m not hungry," I told them as I played with the coffee cup to keep from looking at them.

  Neither said a word; they both knew I was broke. Darlene and my mother had been good friends since their youth. After my mother's death, Darlene made it a point to be a surrogate mother to me. The diner was often a safe haven when the well-intentioned but critical ladies of the town began to bother me or when I just needed a friendly ear to listen to me.

  Darlene has owned the diner for several years. It’s a one-story building on Main Street. The windows facing the street have gingham-checkered fabric for curtains, giving the place a cheerful, homey feeling. There are panels of red, green, yellow, and pink. She loves the gingham-checkered material no matter what the color.

  The diner had been in the middle of the block, but as buildings aged and wore out along Main Street, the ones that were from the diner to the north end of the block were demolished years ago. On the other side of the diner is Sarah Green's florist shop. Across the street is First Citizen's National Bank and James Green's grocery store; while just around the corner is the post office. The next block of Main Street includes City Hall and the public library. The diner is in a key location for the entire town's business people to gather there. Main Street is only three blocks long. The highway adds another five blocks to complete the downtown area. Ellen Thompson's auction and flea market is on the far end of Main Street from Darlene's Diner, but everything is still just a short walk.

/>   Most meals at Darlene's are interesting for many reasons. Since it is Blissville’s only eating establishment, it’s the social gathering point. Meals are a mixture of discussions among those sitting at the tables, some trying to have private conversations, and those at the counter just drinking coffee.

  Darlene has a look that has always reminded me of the country singer Reba McEntire. She wears jeans most days with either a T-shirt or western shirt. Her brown hair hangs just past her shoulders accentuating her hazel-green eyes.

  Once she had returned to the kitchen, Willie took a hard look at me before starting his carefully planned speech.

  "Luke," he said with genuine concern and feeling, "your history business isn’t making you a living. I know you have heard this from everyone in town, and I want you to succeed, but…"

  "But," I said with a sigh, "I’m a failure. No one else in town understands genealogy or the love of history that some people have. No one here can understand that my work is published in national magazines. If I can buy that book and write up a review about it, I can make some money. Then when others read the article, it brings me more business. It takes time to build a reputation as an expert in this field."

  "Is the book that important to you?" he asked.

  "If you needed a new saw," I told him, "you would find a way to buy it. When I get home I’ll see what I can sell or pawn Monday. I’ll raise the money somehow."

  “We both know I cost you that scholarship back in high school. It’s my fault you didn’t get the chance you deserved . . .”

  “Drop it,” I said sharper than I meant. “It was my fault. Besides I got the education I needed. Forget about it, will you?”

  Darlene placed two of the meatloaf specials in front of us. There was meatloaf, green peas, mashed potatoes and a small dinner salad.

  "I told you I wasn’t hungry," I protested.

  "It was the last serving," Darlene smiled. "I couldn't see tossing it out when you probably have been eating no more than just breakfast each day this week. Besides, Mrs. Abernathy was in earlier and mentioned she’s worried about your checking account."

  "I’m not overdrawn," I protested.

  "But," Willie interjected, "if you buy those books from Ellen you probably will be."

  "Why are they so important to you?" Darlene asked.

  "The box contains several journals and items from Jacksonport," I explained.

  "Luke," Willie tried again to discourage me, "Jacksonport isn’t even big enough to be called a town."

  "Back in 1881, when this journal was written, it was the county seat," I countered. "Several major events during the Civil War took place there. I might be able to make some money with that information."

  "Or just waste your time and money," Willie replied.

  "How much does she want?" Darlene asked me.

  "Her first quote was $25," I told her, "but you know how she haggles."

  "All too well," Darlene said with a wry smile as she walked away.

  "Luke," Willie began again between mouthfuls, "try thinking about the present and the future."

  We ate in silence. Darlene was right; oatmeal and tea twice a day had been my daily fare this week. The meatloaf was manna from heaven right now. As the door to the diner opened, the bells tied to the inside of the door jingled. I watched as Ellen placed a box on the checkout counter. Darlene took $5 from the register and handed it to her, along with a slice of homemade peach pie. Ellen smiled before darting back out the door, no doubt to return to the flea market.

  Darlene carried the familiar looking box to our table.

  "Here, Luke," she told me. "When you sell the article, I get half."

  "Thanks," I told her. "And thanks for lunch, as well. It’s great."

  She winked at me. "I’ve got some stuff I found I need to bring by your house after I close today," she told me.

  "I’ll be there," I told her.

  "What about the dance tonight?" Willie asked.

  "I don't have the money, and besides, I’ll be working on the information in this box," I replied cheerfully. Willie had taken the journal out of the box. He grinned at me. "I doubt you’re going to spend much time on this stuff."

  "Why not?" I questioned, glad Darlene had returned to the kitchen, leaving us alone.

  "Listen," Willie said as he read from the journal.

  August 20, 1881

  Jacksonport, Arkansas

  I find it ironic that I, a scientist, time traveler and historian, have been trapped by time — in effect, murdered before I was born — but that is precisely what has happened. My only hope is that someone from the 20th or 21st Century will read this prior to January 2005, will believe me and take action to save my life. Before assuming I’m mad or a trickster, please read this whole journal. I’ll offer you proof of my journey, and you will see that my words are based not on the ravings of a lunatic, but of a man who was betrayed and murdered.

  Working on a secret project in my own time of 2005, I returned with my time-travel partner, Lisa Collins, to northern Arkansas in 1881. As we were preparing to leave, I found someone had sabotaged my time-travel device, which prevented my return. My nemesis, whoever it’s knows where I’m. The fact that no one organized a rescue mission proves to me it was intentional, not accidental.

  After several weeks of living here in 1881, I now accept that I’ll have to remain here until my death, unless someone reads this and saves me. For a man of science and knowledge of the future to be trapped in the past is, indeed, a cruel and sinister act, as cruel as being given a slow working poison with no antidote.

  If I knew who cursed me to this death, I could take steps to change his family tree by killing his grandparents, or hers, if it’s a woman who sent me to this ignominious life. Yet as a time traveler, I know the dangers of changing the time stream, so I cannot do that, and you, an anonymous reader, remain my only hope.

  I can offer you some clues. I can give you some tidbits as to what I know and suspect, but the journey will be yours alone to take. Your only reward will be in knowing that you saved a man's life. There is no gold or treasure; only my gratitude can be gained by your actions.

  I stared at Willie in disbelief as I took the journal from him. I read what he had just read. He was right.

  "Luke, I may not know much about history, but even I know there is no such thing as time travel now or in 1881."

  Something didn’t add up. The book certainly appeared over a hundred years old, but the language was too modern. Instantly my curiosity was aroused, and I felt excited. I had a real mystery to solve!

  Chapter 2

  The leather-bound book with its yellowing pages and faded writing that held my undivided attention was just one of several items from the box. The well-defined but faded handwriting seemed out of place and out of time. It was either the greatest work of science fiction for its time, or it was truly the greatest mystery I had ever discovered. Or, I reluctantly admitted only to myself, it could be an elaborate hoax.

  The pages were barely holding to the binding. The manuscript was handwritten in ink. The writing was clear and legible other than a few places where the years had apparently taken their toll on the ink, yet the content made it seem as if it had been penned just yesterday, or maybe tomorrow. What first caught my eye was the very modern penmanship, which revealed an educated person, but it lacked the flourishes common to the 1880s style of penmanship.

  "Pay Darlene," I absentmindedly told Willie. "Don't say anything about the journal yet. Wait until I check it out."

  A few minutes later Willie and I were in my house. He went directly to the computer. Not owning a computer himself, he had an email account he accessed on mine. I took the contents from the box, spreading them out on the dining room table. I had taken the time to wash my hands all the way to the elbows and had donned cotton gloves so I would not damage the papers with my skin oils. Since I consider myself a professional researcher, nothing could stop me from exploring the book. A free-lance histori
cal researcher, a fancy name for the geek who loves to spend all of his free time reading reference books for money, I’ve developed a certain level of skills in verifying the authenticity of such journals.

  I owned and operated a small business, Luke’s Quest, Inc., out of my home and car. At first I worked for those people wanting to develop their family trees but quickly expanded to doing research for authors around the world. It’s easier for an author in Devizes, England, for instance, to hire me to dig for information and verify facts for his book than for him to travel to the United States. My reputation had allowed me to secure work with several government agencies to verify the backgrounds of deceased individuals. Most of the time it involved nothing more than verifying the old census, land records and making the occasional trip to a cemetery to photograph headstones, but, still, it paid the bills.