Out of the Past (Heritage Time Travel Romance Series, Book 1 PG-13 All Iowa Edition) Read online

  Dave Cameron looked out the window from the backseat of the old Ford Fairlane sedan and he was very cognizant of the miles stretching out behind him and between him, and Torie who he had left back in Eddyville, very much against his will. Now he rode with a family that he had absolutely no knowledge of, other than what Torie had told him while at the store and the snatches of conversation that he was catching during this car ride, which wasn’t much. With the noise of the wind blowing in from all four of the wide-open car windows, it made any real conversation nearly impossible.

  They didn’t drive to Fremont which he had figured would have been their destination, but instead, the dad, Mark Thompson, took a turn to the right and onto Highway 63 as they headed out into Wapello County. Dave had no idea where these people lived or where they were headed and all he could do was sit, wait, and hope that he would wake up soon and be in his own bed.

  This particular warp was boring him because nothing really interested him about it except for a mild interest in the car details and this was a nice old car, he admitted to himself while rubbing the shiny chrome detail at the window, wondering briefly what model year it might be. Other than the car though, this was a bland warp, the kind that he didn’t really enjoy, plus when he’d had to leave Torie behind him at the store it had been almost physically painful. No, she hadn’t looked like his beautiful Torie, she’d been a young girl with stringy brown hair, and dark-sable eyes but when he had looked into those eyes, he had sensed the soul and the love of Torie and he was missing her now, very much. The best time travels were when they could be together and share everything.

  Dave glanced to the right as they drove past Ottumwa and merged onto Highway 34, because the house that he had recently remodeled was right along the main highway as they passed through. Weird, he thought as he studied it now, because it looked almost exactly as it did in the real world today and since his restoration of it. He had gotten all the important details just right. Good job, Cameron, he silently congratulated himself, giving himself a mental pat on the back.

  They took another right off onto gravel and drove a good two or three miles outside of the town of Agency until they pulled onto the road that serviced the campgrounds at Craton Lake outside of the Fox Hills Wildlife area. They continued on around the lake driving past Silver Streak campers and canvas tents as people were staking out their claims, for the July 4th holiday and gobbling up every available camp site.

  They pulled into the driveway of a large old cabin near the lake with a short dock jutting out over the water and Dave saw a small fishing boat was tied up and bobbing on the rippling waves caused by the wake of, at least, a half dozen brightly-colored speed boats zigzagging out in the distance. There was also a two-car garage and the dad, or Horn-Rims as Dave kept referring to him, (in the privacy of his own head), parked the car inside and Dave could see that the other spot on the left was occupied by an old pickup truck of some sort that had been decorated with red, white, and blue crape streamers. He wondered briefly just how long the family had been at this place and how they had managed to get the truck decorated. He felt as if he must have missed some earlier parts of this experience and that they had likely been staying here for at least a couple of days by the settled in look of the place.

  “Let’s get this car unpacked and then we can grab the backpacks and head out,” Horn-Rims said to him.

  “Umm, sure,” Dave replied and decided to take his time rolling up his car window and getting out. He wanted to give Horn-Rims and the others time to head inside so that he didn’t look lost, which he definitely was. He climbed out and the mother, Cindy, handed him a box filled with hot dogs and buns, chips, condiments, and a few fireworks which were sticking out of the top. He followed the girl called Suzanna inside and to the kitchen where he put the box down on the kitchen table and stood there watching as the mom came in and started unpacking the contents of the box, while the little kid Ricky tore open a bag of Lay’s potato chips and started stuffing his face in a business-like fashion.

  Dave heard a high-pitched whistle that made him jump and then Horn-Rims pounded on the wooden frame of the screen door and stood out on the porch landing as he shouted through the screen.

  “Tim, let’s go. Ricky, come on, now!” he ordered.

  Ricky wiped the potato chip grease from his hands onto his blue jeans and looked up at his mother, giving her what Dave conceded, was a pretty good impression of a pathetic puppy dog.

  “Mom, can’t I please stay home with you? Pleeease!” Ricky begged.

  Cindy looked at Dave and then back to Ricky, seeming very uncertain before she finally addressed Horn-Rims.

  “Mark, I need Ricky to stay and help me,” she said and then looked apologetically at Dave.

  “You go on, Tim, honey. Don’t make him wait.”

  When Dave obediently hurried out of the door and followed Horn-Rims down the steps, he saw that they were heading for what looked to be a 1950-ish black Buick sedan. He hadn’t noticed it when they had arrived, parked at the side of the driveway nor had he noticed the straight line of poplar trees that formed a border and living privacy fence along the north side of the cabin. They’ve definitely been here for some time, he decided silently. Having the truck and two cars here, it made him wonder if maybe they owned this cabin and lived here at least part-time each year or maybe full-time.

  Dave had never been a car guy; it wasn’t ever his thing but he could appreciate the fact that the Buick they were approaching was really old and he had never ridden in one and he was a little enthused at the prospect. He pulled on the passenger door handle and as the car door creaked open it felt as if it weighed a ton. This is a huge old sled, he thought in amazement as he climbed in.

  While Horn-Rims opened the trunk and started placing items inside, Dave closed the car door and began checking out the old radio and dashboard features. He opened the glove box and when he did, he saw something metal that glinted and he reached inside and pulled out what looked to be a police officer’s badge. He flipped the leather cover over, and under plastic, on the backside was a photo of Horn-Rims, without the horn-rims and below the picture it read Deputy Mark Thompson, Wapello County Sheriff’s Department. So he’s a police officer, Dave realized and then as the trunk slammed shut, he quickly put the badge back inside the glove box and closed it just as Mark climbed in.

  The engine chugged to life, and after Mark made a couple of adjustments to the mirrors, they were off, taking a right out of the driveway and heading south. The gravel blew out behind them and rattled like buckshot, pelting the inside of the wheel-wells as they fishtailed and left a cloud of dust behind them, heading for where—Dave didn’t know—one thing that he did know was that the dumbass was driving the car like some kind of fiend and certainly wasn’t behaving like an upstanding police officer.

  Chapter 36

  The Des Moines River had carved a path through the Wapello County countryside, leaving behind majestic bluffs which had been expanded upon by the state of Iowa, creating a hikers dream of steps, overlooks, and well-maintained hiking and nature trails that covers miles of terrain upstream of the Fox Hills wildlife area. As Thompson’s car pulled off Cemetery Road and splashed through the water that ran over the concrete throughway and came up to the tire rims, Dave could see that the river that ran close by was stirred up and cloudy, rushing pretty fast as they parked next to it and near a trailhead which cut up the side of a steep bluff.

  They climbed out as Horn-Rims began giving Dave his official decree with authority.

  “We’ll start here,” he announced and then pointed over Dave’s shoulder. “And that will be our goal.”

  Without further comment he handed Dave a backpack that he had pulled from the open trunk, as Dave turned around to see what he had been referring to. He could see that there was a bridge that was about two miles away and upstream from where they were now and he studied it while slipping the pack on over his shoulders and getting it settled comfortably in the center of his
back. By the time he turned back around, Horn-Rims had slammed the trunk and he was heading toward the stone stairs and then in an instant had disappeared behind a stone outcrop. Dave had to jog to catch up with him and in no time they were under the cover of the sprawling trees of the forest and heading up a hundred feet until they eventually reached a level and well-worn dirt hiking trail.

  Dave didn’t mind hiking but it had never been a passion of his. He enjoyed horseback riding over hiking but his brothers were hikers, just as they were fishermen and hunters. Dave had never enjoyed any of it, even as a kid himself. He had fished and hunted to fit in with his older brothers but it wasn’t anything that he missed or ever felt inclined to do again and he hadn’t been out hiking on foot for years.

  Whenever given the choice, as a kid, Dave had always chosen to be in the workshop out back behind the barn learning the secrets of woodworking and carpentry from his mother’s dad, Grandpa Joseph McFall, and in later years after he’d passed away, his father Mike Cameron had continued to teach him the secrets that were now his life’s work and passion.

  “Tim! Let’s move it. Get the lead out!” Horn-Rims ordered as sharply as any military drill sergeant dressing down new recruits. “What the hell is with you today, kid? Come on up here! You keep making me lag back to keep track of you and you’ll fucking regret it. Do you hear me?”

  Thompson stopped abruptly and swung around to find that Dave was right behind him, keeping up in even stride and Thompson blinked with obvious surprise. Dave thought that the guy seemed very disappointed that he wasn’t lagging behind, almost as though he was looking for an excuse to get pissed off and he was kinda weirded out by the guy’s language to his son, because if what Torie had said was right, then this boy was only sixteen. He couldn’t imagine that his own dad would have ever talked to him or his brothers in this manner, the disrespect and loathing in the tone of his voice was palpable, and Dave wasn’t doing anything to warrant this level of verbal abuse as far as he could tell. Apparently the guy had an extremely short fuse, Dave decided and judging by Horn-Rims anger level, perhaps he was expecting a much different attitude regarding this hiking shit than what Dave was giving him. Not really wanting to get into any big thing with him, Dave decided that he had better step up his performance and at least try to act the part. Maybe this kid Tim was an avid outdoorsman or something and so Dave smiled, apologized for whatever unknown offense he had committed and seeming satisfied with this, Horn-Rims then had turned back around as they had continued on with their quest.

  Sometime later, they stopped to take a drink from their canteens and both of them stepped off of the trail to take a piss and afterward, Dave was forced to wait patiently on Horn-Rims, as he paused to break off a branch from a nearby tree and then had proceeded to meticulously remove all signs of the leaves and twigs, making himself a sturdy walking stick.

  As he waited, Dave’s thoughts turned to Torie and he wondered what she might be doing right now. He sure hoped that she was doing something better than what he was stuck in the middle of. This goddamn warp just had to end soon he predicted, but without any real hope of his prediction coming true. He was definitely ready to get back home though, wrap Torie up in his arms and feel the warmth of her loving embrace.

  ***

  The warm breeze blew in through the open window above the kitchen sink, ruffling the gaudy curtains which were covered by a pattern of old-fashioned teapots and blue china cups filled with a steaming brew, while badly drawn silverware was scattered haphazardly across the remainder of the material. Really bad choice, Phyllis, I thought uncharitably and, in fact, if I were being brutally honest, I didn’t think much of Cousin Phyllis’s taste regarding most of the furnishings in this house or the materials that she had laboriously chosen while out shopping today, a process that had been as excruciating slow to watch, as if watching a sloth climb a tree.

  I had kept all of my opinions to myself throughout the day though and I was, at the moment, behaving as any meek and obedient twelve-year-old girl would behave, as I cleaned and cored apples over a metal colander bowl that was placed down inside the white porcelain-enamel kitchen sink, while Phyllis worked behind me on the opposite kitchen counter, rolling out the pie crusts. I kept checking the ridiculously huge sunburst wall clock as I peeled and it was currently 3:00 p.m.

  As I quietly worked, my mind was in a flurry, considering where Dave might be. Maybe he was back already and sleeping soundly beside me in Rose’s house right this moment. Maybe he was watching me sleep right now and just waiting for me to come back to him. I’m trying, Dave! I screamed silently inside my head, hoping that maybe telepathically he would get the message.

  I knew that there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that Dave was still here in the past though and that he might, right this second, be out hiking through the Iowa countryside out in remote Wapello County and along the Des Moines River, with Tim’s father, Mark Thompson. I know that it was what the two had done on this very day back in 1959. I had tons of articles at home about what had happened on this day. If only I could warp out of here, then I could go to the box downstairs in my living room closet and find them. If only…

  ***

  Dave closed the door, roaming around the unfamiliar bedroom and paused at the bureau, absently picking things up and putting them down. He was getting a little panicky because this guy Horn-Rims was an absolute lunatic. He had decided this as he had put up with hours of hiking with the asshole. The guy had kept talking about things that had made no frickin sense whatsoever, and he had called Dave different names all afternoon, first Wayne and then Fred, among others and Dave had thought it was just so bizarre. At first he had thought that maybe they were nicknames that the guy had used for his son Tim or something like that but it had been like the guy thought that he was completely different people. Also the weirdo had gotten angry and he’d had meltdowns about every hour for absolutely no reason that had made any kind of sense.

  During one of his fits, Horn-Rims had snapped the walking stick that he had made earlier, while in a frenzy, by bashing it against a tree as he had shrieked like a banshee and while Dave had stood back helpless and watching. He had intermittently, at other times, just started yelling for no reason, swearing and going off on tangents of foul language that Dave was shocked by, calling his son every dirty name in the book, from a little pussy, to a fag, and much, much worse. The man was a total nut job and he kept mumbling something under his breath over and over again about how it would all be handled soon.

  Then things had started getting scary. Horn-Rims had kept getting up into Tim’s face, acting like he was going to hit him just to make Tim flinch and then he had laughed at Dave when he had flinched. Then all at once he had grabbed Tim around the waist and had rushed toward the edge of a bluff, acting as though he was going to throw him off, about a hundred feet straight down into a rocky crevasse, and then he had laughed it off as though it had been a big joke, but Dave had known that the asshole wasn’t joking.

  Dave hadn’t known what Tim’s reaction would have been to this treatment but his reaction had been to glare the dipshit down until Horn-Rims, obviously feeling uncomfortable seeing the steely challenge in his son’s eyes had blinked first and looked away. This had been Dave’s one victory of the day. He was pretty sure that the asshole got some major jollies out of mentally abusing the poor kid that he now inhabited. Horn-Rims had about eight inches and least eighty pounds on Tim. Big man—intimidating a little kid like this, Dave had thought angrily. If this were 2012, the asshole would be in prison for child abuse.

  Dave paced back across the bedroom once more like a caged cat, feeling that he had more than paid his dues for this time warp and that he deserved to wake up but it seemed that now he was going to be treated to a night out in the town of Craton with the rest of the kids, at an arcade, whether he wanted to go or not. Horn-Rims had given the kids no choice, all of them were going—period—right after dinner, which Dave could smell now wafting through the
air and was likely going to be meatloaf.

  Dave took a glance at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the closet door, sizing himself up. He wasn’t six foot one like Dave Cameron, he was Tim, and he figured that he was probably about five nine—of slight build and thin. He seemed, to him, to be too short for basketball, but he had made it to the state tournaments so he must have had some pretty good skills on the court.

  He sank down onto the edge of his twin bed and continued to look into the mirror studying his image. He looked so young, he thought. He saw that he had the same light blond hair and green eyes as his dad and he definitely looked like all of his siblings. He rubbed his hand across the peach fuzz that covered his cheeks and just above his upper lip, feeling the odd sensation of a pubescent boy’s smooth face. Considering his fair skin he decided that they were likely from Norwegian blood and had inherited most of their features from Mark, because none of them resembled their mother.

  He stood up and opened the dresser at the foot of his twin bed as he looked for something to change into for the arcade. He pulled out a pair of clean jeans and yanked open what he assumed was his underwear drawer—it was. He pulled out a white tee, some clean tighty whities and a fresh rolled up pair of tube socks and next went to the closet, choosing a blue plaid, long-sleeved button down shirt and closed the door again after, so that he had the mirror available to check his appearance.

  As Dave pulled off his dirty, ripe and perspiration marked T-shirt, he glanced into the mirror at himself and then he froze.

  “Whoa! What the…” he hissed out loud.

  He approached the mirror and watched his reflection as he reached down to run his hand over the huge bruise that covered the right side of his ribcage. It was black, blue, purple, green and a ghastly shade of mustard yellow around the edges and covered an area about the size of a dinner plate. He turned to see how far it went around his torso and found that there were five more huge bruises across his back, perfectly straight and about six inches long. It looked as though he had been beaten severely with something pretty weighty. He reached around to touch his back and found that none of the bruises were real tender, which meant that they were fairly old injuries and he had a pretty good idea who had probably given them to him.