Kelly had arrived at the cabin with some comfy clothes, her computer and a portable printer, folders filled with scribbled ideas, copies of saved magazine articles and news items, and a stack of other authors' novels for diversion and inspiration. After two weeks of solitude, she had read half the books without being inspired but she was getting pretty good at playing scrabble against her computer.
This morning, like all the others, she started by skimming through her collection of papers. The clippings that had held some appeal were spread out on the table, where she kept hoping one of them would jump up and turn itself into a plot idea. So far though, they simply lay there.
One old case had rung a tiny bell of possibility when she'd first read it but a story failed to gel in her mind. Suddenly, as her gaze passed over that article again, dialogue from the dream came back to her. The names Jack and Ginger were from the news clipping that had originally tapped her attention. Nothing in it explained the intimacy of the dream scene but as she reread the sparse details, the tinkle of the possibility bell turned into a gong. Apparently her subconscious was telling her to give more thought to this one.
Since she couldn't always explain where some of her ideas came from, she remained open to the concept of invisible assistance from time to time. She looked upward and thanked her muse for the unusual delivery system that left her feeling so sated this morning.
Fifty-one years ago, a reporter named Jack Templeton was executed for the rape and murder of a young Charming woman named Ginger O'Neill. He was simultaneously convicted of a series of rapes in Dawson, Forsyth and Gwinnett Counties. The coincidence of the cabin being in that locale was what had made Kelly set the article aside. Then other things posed questions in her mind.
Though Templeton denied his guilt to the end, his trial was immediate and brief, no appeals were permitted and he was executed within six weeks of his arrest. Talk about speedy justice.
He had a probable motive for killing Ginger and he was found at the scene but Kelly read nothing in the clipping that supported his being the serial rapist. It almost seemed as though that was pinned on him as an afterthought. On the other hand, the article was focused more on the execution that had taken place that morning than on the case or trial. She would have to do a lot more research before she had a whole picture.
It occurred to her that the reason her dream man looked so familiar was that there was a small, grainy photo with the article. She was surprised that such a blurry image had triggered such distinct physical details of his appearance. Her mind must have registered them more clearly than her eyes could perceive them. She found her magnifying glass and studied the picture. Templeton was being led out of the courthouse by an entourage of police. His features weren't very sharp but he was definitely the man she had dreamed about. She also felt pretty sure the expression on his face was shock. That, combined with the exceptionally swift trial and execution, made her wonder if, in fact, he was innocent as he had claimed.
In those days, they couldn't check the DNA in semen or lift fingerprints from a victim's throat. If Templeton was caught under the same circumstances today, would he still be executed or would he be a free man? She'd have to change some things but a frame-up could lead to a revenge story.
Her thoughts went back to the dream. There was nothing in the article to explain all the nonphysical details she now recalled. Those had to have been supplied by her imagination, which meant she could use them to flesh out her fictional characters. As was her preferred method of creating, she grabbed a pen and pad and started to scribble the unsupported thoughts triggered by the dream.
Ginger has at least one big secret.
She double-underlined the word secret. Always a good plot tool.
She's young and, although she's had sex before, it wasn't good. However, she knew how to use her looks and sex to get what she wanted from a man. Did she truly love Jack or was she trying to get something from him? What could that something be?
Jack is self-confident, knows how to please a woman and is responsible enough not to have unprotected sex.
Those were aspects she regularly gave her heroes. What else did the dream tell her about him?
His speech suggested he lived in the north, unlike Ginger's drawl. His sexual performance seemed more driven by technique than passion. He was attracted to Ginger but wasn't madly in love with her, at least not at that time. There was nothing about him that felt lethal or even dangerous. He didn't seem to be someone who would commit murder, except maybe in self-defense.
She reread her notes and, though they could be a start to character development, they didn't make for a juicy plot. She wasn't even sure she could turn Ginger and Jack's relationship into a romance. Unless it's a ghost story, killing off the heroine does not work in a romance and without her murder, there is no suspense.
Kelly's gaze darted back to the date of the article and received another surprise. The execution had taken place on August 24th—today's date! Was this another coincidence, like the murder victim being from the nearby town, or was this a confirmation that she really was on the right track?
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that this was one of those times when her muse had taken matters into her own hands. Something was definitely nibbling away at her writer's block and she finally felt ready to help it along. She set down her pen, closed her eyes and visualized herself erasing all the extraneous stuff in her head.
The remaining thought had nothing to do with the crime or the characters. It was what happened at the execution.
"Spontaneous human combustion." Kelly said the words aloud, letting them settle into her mind through her ears, as though trying on a new dress to see how it fit. At least it was a unique idea. She reread the article from a new perspective.
As the switch for the electric chair was thrown, there was a power failure in the prison. When the lights came back on seconds later, Templeton had vanished. The room was thoroughly examined afterward and it was determined, without a doubt, that he could not have escaped.
What was left behind in the chair had people calling it spontaneous human combustion. Officially, Templeton's total incineration was regarded as an accident due to an unexplained surge of electrical power, probably due to lightning.
Perhaps she had been approaching her creative problem from the wrong angle. Instead of starting with a motivation for murder as she always had in the past, what if she started with an unusual means? It was quite obvious by now that her usual method of developing a story idea had not been working.
So, what if she started with a death that appeared to be caused by spontaneous human combustion but was actually murder? How could that be accomplished?
Kelly turned on her laptop computer and nearly shouted hallelujah when she got a strong enough signal to connect with the internet. She was a little surprised at how much information was available on spontaneous human combustion, which was apparently common enough to be referred to by only its initials, SHC.
Since the 1600s a number of fiery deaths had been attributed to SHC for lack of better explanation. Authors like Charles Dickens, Mark Twain and Herman Melville had used it to dispose of particularly unsavory characters. She figured if it was good enough for those guys, it was worth considering.
Abruptly, the connection failed, which was quite normal there, but it was the first time she felt frustrated by it. If she was going to use SHC as a method of murder, she would have to do a lot more research to find out how it could be imitated and she couldn't do that from where she was presently sitting.
Charming's old Town Hall doubled as a community center with a card room, minimal library that boasted a set of encyclopedias published in the last century, a pay phone and an antiquated desktop computer equipped to provide slow but stable internet access for a small fee. There only seemed to be one employee, Miss Prudence, who was proud to say she had held the position of Town Clerk for nearly forty years. That elderly lady was always so glad to see Kelly it
seemed as though no one besides her used any of the center's research amenities.
Though it was just after seven a.m., Kelly was certain Miss Prudence would be there to let her in. Miss Prudence always seemed to be there, regardless of the hour. The conviction that her dry spell had ended stirred Kelly to action. Minutes later, she had changed into a more presentable outfit of jeans and a loose, short-sleeved shirt, tucked her hair up under a baseball cap and was driving her year-old, black Camaro to Charming.
* * *
Jack slowly opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. Only one thing was certain. This could not be hell. But was it heaven? There were no fluffy white clouds or pearly gates or winged angels waiting to look up his name in The Great Book.
Actually, he could see a couple wispy spots in the light blue sky. Other than that and the fact it seemed to be a peaceful place, nothing else seemed very heavenly. On the contrary, his surroundings were quite Earthly, with dirt beneath his bare feet and trees and plants all around him. He even heard a bird chirping and felt warm sunlight sneaking through the branches. The light reminded him of the blinding pain followed by total darkness and wondered how long it had taken to get from there to here. At least the pain had been momentary.
He touched his face, his chest, his thighs. Why did he still have a physical body? And why was he naked? Shouldn't he have been issued a robe or something? And shouldn't someone have been here to greet him? At least to explain his rank or situation or rules of conduct? Should he stand there until someone came for him or go exploring on his own?
Suddenly his stomach growled, reminding him that it had been a long time since—He stopped his train of thought as he realized that he shouldn't be hungry. He shouldn't be anything. He was dead!
But not only did his stomach feel empty, his bladder felt incredibly full. Hoping he wasn't desecrating a holy place, he relieved himself of the last of the bottle of wine he'd consumed last night. As he stood there, trying to decide a course of action, he distinctly heard what sounded like a car engine. There was no path, so he simply began walking toward the source of the sound.
Some of the prickly plants along the way looked like poison ivy, not the sort one expected to find in heaven. He was eyeing the plants so cautiously, he stepped on a twig and got a splinter in his big toe. The sliver pulled out easily but he lost his balance in the process and ended up falling into the bushes he was trying so hard to avoid.
This place was beginning to seem more like hell every second.
Perhaps this was purgatory, an in-between kind of place where his fate was yet to be decided. Would he be tested then? Had the test already begun? He wondered if he'd already lost points for peeing on the ground.
A dozen more careful steps brought him to a wooden cabin. The screen-covered windows were open, suggesting habitation. "Hello? Is anyone here?"
No one answered. A peek inside confirmed that someone appeared to be residing there. He could see stacks of books, folders and papers spread out on a table. Some of the papers looked like newspaper clippings. Since he used to be a reporter, maybe they held a clue as to what he was supposed to do.
He went around the building and found a door but it was locked. Another test? With no other option being presented, he figured he must need to go inside but was reluctant to do so by force. Instead, he removed the screen on the window and climbed in, scraping his already bruised buttocks on the rough wooden frame.
The cabin consisted of a main room, cramped with furniture and clutter and a very minimal bathroom. One corner housed the basics of a kitchen. His attention was caught by a very long, very tangled extension cord running from a wall outlet in the kitchen area to a lamp on an end table. It was just one more thing that made no sense. He started toward the table covered with papers but was distracted again by some clothing on a chair.
Was this for him? Examining the items, he wasn't so sure. The cotton t-shirt was large enough to fit him but bore the strange phrase, I have PMS and a handgun—any questions? If that was a clue, he didn't get it. The elastic-waisted cotton shorts were very skimpy but at least they would offer some protection against scratchy plants and splintery wood. Though the outfit wasn't the ethereal robe he'd anticipated, it seemed more practical than going around nude.
As he pulled on the clothes, his gaze was drawn to the view outside the front window. What he saw made as little sense as everything else. The dirt driveway might not have seemed so strange but there were distinct tire tracks in it, as though a vehicle had recently been parked there. He had definitely heard a sound like a car engine. Whatever this place was, it had a motorized vehicle, which meant there was possibly a driver around somewhere.
His attention returned to the papers on the table. Although he was looking for a clue of some kind to explain his circumstances, he was still shocked to see a grainy photo of himself being led from the courthouse after he'd been sentenced. He quickly scanned everything on the table then read the article pertaining to him.
From personal experience, he surmised that he was looking at someone's criminal research files and that his case was one of those being reviewed. Some had later chronological dates, even one five decades in the future. He supposed time had no relevance where he now was. Several articles contained unfamiliar words, abbreviations and phrases. With each case file was a sheet of handwritten notes and questions—the kind he would make if he were writing an article.
Quite a while later—he had no idea how time was measured there—he was both more knowledgeable and more confused. According to these bits of information, his body had been incinerated to ashes, yet here he sat with flesh that could be injured by splinters.
What did all of this mean? Was he supposed to write something using the notes and articles? Compare homicide cases? Or were these the scribbles of a higher power sitting in judgment of him? But if that was the answer, why did that higher power need to do research? Wasn't He supposed to be all-knowing? Continuing along that line, why would a higher power need a motorized vehicle to get around?
Frustrated, he ran his hand through his hair and winced when he touched the burned spot on his scalp. That and the one on his calf verified that he had been in an electric chair the last time he was conscious. But if he had spontaneously combusted, as the article suggested, why wasn't his entire body covered with seared flesh instead of only two small areas? For that matter, why did he have a physical body at all? Suddenly he remembered seeing a drop of blood—bright red, oxygenated blood—trickle out when he pulled the splinter from his toe. From everything he knew about corpses, that wasn't right either.
His curiosity was further roused by the flattened-out typewriter keyboard with a small television screen attached to it. The instant his hand neared the keys, a bluish spark shot out from his fingers. As he jerked back, the television screen lit up. Rather than a TV program, however, a photograph of the ocean appeared with the words Welcome and Sign In. He tried to type out his name but every time he got near a letter there was a bright spark.
He was about to try using a pencil instead of his finger when he heard the engine sound again. It was clearly coming closer.
Jack's heart picked up its pace as he stood in the middle of the room, waiting for someone, or something, to enter. Through the window, he watched a sleek black car stop amidst a great cloud of dust. A figure emerged and headed for the front door but Jack had to wait for the key to turn in the lock and the door to open before he could start asking questions.
* * *
Kelly was so excited over the new idea, she bolted out of the car and ran for the cabin door. She had found a wealth of information on SHC and printed out the best of it. During the drive back, a plot had begun to percolate and she couldn't wait to get started on an outline.
But as she entered the cabin, there was a man standing between her and her work space.
"Oh!" she squeaked before realizing she might be in danger. Trying to hide her panic, she asked, "Who are you?" When he looked bewildered by her
question, her gaze darted around the room, particularly noticing his attire and the powered-on computer. "What do you want? Something in my files? Why are you wearing my clothes?"
The man seemed even more confused by that. "Your clothes? I... I didn't know. I mean, I wasn't given anything to wear and I thought..."
As he continued to stammer some nonsense about being naked and getting splinters, Kelly inched sideways to the end table by the sofa bed. The instant she was within reach, she set down her bag, yanked open the drawer and whipped out her Walther PPK. When he recognized the automatic pistol, his bewildered expression altered to shock.
That response and the lethal weapon gave her the courage to act braver than she felt. "Explain what you're doing here right now or I'll blow a hole between your eyes. And don't think I can't. I'm an expert markswoman." She clicked back the safety to emphasize her point.
"Hold on," he exclaimed, quickly raising his arms in a show of submission. "This is obviously a big misunderstanding. The problem is, I was hoping you could explain it to me."
There was something very familiar about his face. She lowered the gun barrel a few inches. "Explain what?"
He eased his arms back down to his sides. "Everything. Anything. Where I am. What I'm supposed to do here."
"Are you trying to tell me you have amnesia?"
He made a face. "No. I know who I am, or rather who I was. And I know where I was before I got here. I just don't know where here is or what's expected of me. My guess is, I must have gotten lost somehow. But I gather you're not an angel come to guide me the rest of the way to wherever I'm supposed to be."
Kelly would have laughed at that but he didn't seem to be joking. Her instincts told her he wasn't going to hurt her and he truly needed help. Perhaps he was mentally handicapped. "Look, why don't you tell me who you are and where you came from. Maybe I could help you get back there."
Out of Time (Lovers in Time Series, Book 1): Time Travel Romance Page 3
