"Time Gods" - a novel by Wayne Boyd.

Projected Publication date: Feb 2009
Publisher: Atma Communications

For more information, email me.

Book One

1

Concealed tenebrously from the street lights by an overhanging tree, Lobe reached forward and pulled the trunk release button. He adjusted the visor with the lighted mirror. He had plump folds in his neck and wore an expensive silk suit and matching tie. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and moved his head slightly to the side to see the shimmering East River reflected behind.

"Are you ready for this?"

His passenger, a striking man with bright red hair who went by the name Von Krod, nodded.

Lobe turned off the headlights and the two men stepped from the Rolls Royce and walked to the rear of the vehicle. Lobe reached to open the trunk, but Von Krod placed a hand on his arm. The two carefully surveyed the empty lot. Satisfied the authorities had stayed away, Von Krod released Lobe's arm, and the trunk was opened.

Reaching in, they lifted a heavy body sack tied with ropes to a cinder block. Hoisting it over the guard rail, they dropped it into the river. There was a splash.

Returning to the golden Rolls, they quietly drove away.

Paul McPherson suddenly awoke and found himself in water, sinking rapidly. He struggled to free himself from the confines of the body sack, but could not. Panic overwhelmed him as the sack settled on the muddy bottom. He did not know how deep he was submerged, but he was trapped and could not swim to the top. The sack was tied and weighted, and he was running out of air rapidly.

His lungs screamed for him to breathe. He could no longer hold his breath. In one final gulp he felt the water enter his throat and he remembered nothing after that.

2

A few blocks from Flatbush Avenue and Atlantic in Brooklyn, New York, you will find the intersection of Schermerhorn Street and Nevins. Several shops, small apartments and offices occupy the surrounding buildings, including the law office of David Pierce, father and former husband to the mother of Mary Pierce, a young woman who lives across the East River in Manhattan. Below Mr. Pierce's law office and two doors down, situated directly on the corner, is a smoke shop owned and operated by Gabriel Caprone, the oldest son of Italian immigrants whose cousins are rumored to have ties to the mob.

Gabriel Caprone stores a nine millimeter revolver under the counter, just to the right of his cash register. The pistol had been a gift from his younger brother Lorenzo. Not that it had done him much good the last time he was robbed. Perhaps one day it would save his life. It is the best he can do to make an honest living to support his young Italian wife and two small children who live upstairs.

One hot summer day, Gabriel looked up from behind the cash register and saw a peculiar man enter his store. A monk, he assumed, dressed in flowing orange robes. This monk, Caprone noted, had a fairly good muscular build in his shoulders and arms. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties or early thirties and had a tuft of hair protruding from the back of his otherwise bald head. “Can I help you?” Caprone asked gruffly, yet politely.

“I need change for a phone call,” the man answered timidly.

“You buy sumthin' – you get change,” Caprone insisted as professionally as he could muster. He had long ago learned the art of extracting blood from a stone.

Nodding, the monk glanced around, picked up a New York Times and plopped it more confidently on the counter than Gabriel had expected. He handed over a one dollar bill. Gabriel accepted the bill, opened the cash register, and returned ninety cents. This seemed to confuse the monk, who carefully counted the change in his hand twice. Finally, he looked up and asked, “Is this right?”

“Is what right?” Crapone asked.

“You gave me ninety cents.”

“The paper cost a dime, and you gave me a dollar,” Caprone explained, but the monk continued to appear disoriented and ill at ease. “You okay, Mister?” Caprone asked.

“I'm fine,” the man in orange replied, and then counted the change a third time. “I don't understand why that door was locked.”

“My store is open, Mister. The door is not locked.”

“No, I mean just around the corner. 305 Schermerhorn Street. No one answers when I ring the bell. And those trees across the street. There should be a parking lot there. I know the man that works there. Jonathan Summerset.”

Caprone sighed. “Mister, what’s your name?”

“McPherson,” he said. “Why?”

“Because nobody lives at 305 Schermerhorn. That's the Odd Fellows Memorial. There’s also no car lot across the street, as you obviously know.”

The monk McPherson frowned dismissively, closed his wallet and a small business card fluttered to the floor.

Caprone cleared his throat and moved his eyes downward. “Dropped sumthin'.”

McPherson looked down and saw a business card at his feet. He picked it up and read the note scribbled on the face: “Meet me at the south-west corner of Central Park, 6 PM.”

“Isn’t mine,” he said.

“Fell from your wallet!” Caprone insisted.

The monk Paul McPherson glanced at it again then shrugged, crumpling the card. It’s nothing, he thought. Turning to leave he dropped it in a wastebasket near the door as he casually glanced at the date on top of the paper. “July 12, 1966.”

He took two more steps toward the door and then stopped abruptly, looking at the date on the paper again. Slowly raising his eyes, he noted a wall calendar by the door. A photograph of a woman in a one-piece swimsuit was visible above the date: July 1966.

“What's the big idea?” he asked aloud, turning to face Caprone standing behind the cash register. “Is this some kind of prank?”

“S'matter?” Caprone replied incredulously.

“Did you sell me a thirty year old newspaper?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean the date, both on the paper and the calendar on your wall.”

“What about it?” asked Caprone, but McPherson simply pointed at the top of the newspaper, as if it were self evident. Caprone looked at him with a tilted head. “Mister, that's the correct date.”

McPherson rolled his eyes and shrugged. No wonder the paper was only ten cents. Stupid practical joker. Tucking it under his arm, he turned and stepped outside the store.

3

“How many people have you and I killed over the years?” Agent Hilmore whispered as he picked up the large manila envelope from his chair and sat down beside his colleague. All the seats of the meeting room were now filled.

Caufield frowned and cleared his throat. He shook his head but said nothing.

“Okay. Lemme rephrase that. How many have we removed – taken out – eliminated for the sake of the government?”

“Don't know, don't care,” Caufield resigned. “More than I can remember. What's with you today?”

“For Christ’s sake, Caufield! Have you even looked at this thing?” They both glanced at the sealed envelopes on their laps.

“I’ve heard,” Caufield calmly replied. “Dale talked about it last night.”

Hilmore frowned and continued with a voice hinting at resignation. “A monk. A goddamn friggin monk.” He cast a glance back at Prateep Tripathy who sat two rows behind, wearing sunglasses over his pockmarked face. Tripathy, who had a small bandage on his forehead where he had been deliberately slammed into the back of a bus seat recently, nodded and twisted his lips into an unsettling smirk. He knew what a monk was, goddamn it, being from Orissa in South India. It was Tripathy that let them get away up in the Himalayas, wasn't it? That costly mistake was why they were all gathered here today. Just look at the sonuvabitch, smiling like that.

After a moment, a side door quietly opened and a stern-faced man wearing a fedora and a trench coat with a wide collar stepped into the room. Removing his coat, he placed it over a nearby chair and took his place behind the podium. Mounted on the wall behind him was the traditional round emblem with a bald eagle standing against a blue background. The eagle glared regally to the left as he stood proudly clutching a skeleton key in his claws, wearing a vest of stars and stripes.

At over six feet, this man had a square jaw and dark, probing eyes. His complexion was pale and expression firm. Adjusting his eyeglasses and removing his hat, he fastened the Bluetooth microphone to his ear. He tapped it gently and heard the boom from the speakers.

His eyes fell upon his chief hitmen, Agents Hilmore and Caufield, and then on Prateep Tripathy who filed yesterday's report. He noted the wound on Tripathy's forehead. An armed security guard stood at the entrance door, flanked on either side by men dressed in black suits, white shirts and wearing dark glasses. One of them held a black briefcase containing a 25 caliber Beretta and a silencer inside.

Taking a moment, the man at the podium removed his hat and tossed it on top of his coat. “Morning, everyone.” His voice was deep and deliberate. “Guess most of you follow the news, so there’s nothing much to say about the kidnapping. You already knew Professor Cali was working with us. Unfortunately, our reconnaissance agent, Mr. Tripathy here, almost had the matter in hand but they slipped away from him in India, and now it's up to the rest of us to get to them.” He again glanced at Tripathy, who returned the glare through his mirrored sunglasses.

“As you know, Professor Cali was working on an important government project, and to be blunt, it's the stolen goods that went missing with him that absolutely must be recovered. The Professor is expendable.”

He raised his right arm, hand open, gesturing toward the manila envelopes on their laps as he paused to take a sip of water and clear his throat. “So if you have any questions before we dismiss you to read the file, now’s the time to ask.”

A hand rose. He acknowledged a woman in the back.

“What about the drugs? Any of them missing as well?” she asked.

There had been concern in the press that some of the latest psychopathic drugs might have been stolen. These drugs, developed by the government to control the threat of terrorism via the latest revision of the Patriot Act, proved to be most effective when combined with electroshock therapy and hypnotism to bring an enemy completely under one’s control. They had first been reported in the Washington Post three years ago in a special exposé on government tactics to infiltrate terrorist cells around the world, water boarding long ago abandoned. The drugs were, however, still experimental in nature, and the exact dosage had yet to be determined. Administered incorrectly they merely rendered the subject catatonic.

“No,” the man at the podium lied. “The drugs are safe. What we’re concerned with is the missing prototype.”

Hilmore perked up in his seat. Prototype for what? he wondered. What the hell was he talking about?

The man at the podium looked to see if any other hands went up. They didn’t yet know about Paul, Mary or the little person. They would learn about all of that in the report, he knew.

“Just remember: you must refrain from either confirming or denying any knowledge of what you read, and you should notify Q43 of any attempted inquiry. Is that clear? Remember: this is Code B. You all know what that means.”

Hilmore glanced down at the manila package on his lap. Damn. Yeah. He knew what that meant. Another assassination. Since the collapse of the World Trade Center towers three quarters of a century ago, the United States had merged the FBI, CIA, FEMA and NSA under one central administrator, a woman who was now free from the scrutiny of Congress. What secret projects that had evolved since then was anyone's guess.

Picking up his hat, the man at the podium concluded: “Very well. This meeting is adjourned until tomorrow, same time. You have twenty-four hours to familiarize yourself with the case. After that, we get to work.”

With that, he placed his hat back on his head, and bent down for his coat that had slid to the floor.

Caufield rolled his eyes in disbelief as they rose from their chairs. “That's it?”

“Fine with me,” Hilmore commented dryly. “Hate the way that guy goes on sometimes.” The 20-member audience stood and moved toward the outer secured area.

Emerging from the meeting room, they passed through the lobby wherein another eagle emblem hung and proceeded down the hallway toward the elevator. Hilmore and Caufield parted amicably with a handshake and Hilmore headed for his office.

Once alone, he dropped into a comfortable chair and examined the hefty packet carefully. Turning it over, he saw TDC’s traditional wax seal with their triangular insignia on the back. Breaking the seal, he removed the report and read the cover page, containing a single quotation:

“One of Hawking’s arguments in the conjecture is that we are not awash in thousands of time travelers from the future, and therefore time travel is impossible. This argument I find very dubious, and it reminds me very much of the argument that there cannot be intelligences elsewhere in space, because otherwise the Earth would be awash in aliens. I can think half a dozen ways in which we could not be awash in time travelers, and still time travel is possible.”

--Astronomer and Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Carl Sagan

Hilmore flipped through the remaining pages and sighed. He didn’t like killing religious people, but he knew he’d do what was necessary. It didn’t help that Hilmore’s nephew was a Hare Krishna.

4

The twenty-five year old monk had stood scanning the towering mass of stone, metal and glass that soared from the sidewalk to the sky, one thousand, four hundred fifty-three feet above and then again at the address scribbled on the crumpled paper in his hand. It was late afternoon. The sky was clear and the weather was warm. A mild breeze from the south cooled the sweat from the top of his bald head.

The year was 1996. The dawn of the new century was in sight. People were already talking about something called the “Millennium Bug,” when all computers in the world would go haywire at the turn of the century. Bill Clinton was just beginning his second term as President of the United States. The Right Honorable John Major, MP, was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. His Government had recently announced that BSE - “mad cow disease” - could be transmitted to humans. Two years before, the Secretary of the Treasury announced that U.S. currency would be redesigned to incorporate a new series of counterfeit deterrents. The newly designed one hundred dollar bill had been introduced that year.

When the light turned green the monk followed the pedestrians across Fifth Avenue and walked a few yards down Thirty-Fourth Street. Passing through the revolving doors, he entered the lobby of the Empire State Building and searched for the appropriate elevator. He did not get far.

Two men approached him from behind. One, a tall man with red hair, grabbed his left arm firmly. The other, a shorter, stocky man with gray hair, firmly gripped his right arm. “Come with us. You're under arrest.” They placed his hands behind his back and locked them in place with police-issue metal hand-restraints. They did not bother to double-lock the cuffs.

Ushered roughly inside an elevator, the monk found himself confronted by a tall gentleman with gray skin, dressed in an expensive blue silk suit wearing a black cape with gold trim. Hanging on either of his arms were two women – one an attractive blonde with an hour-glass figure, the other a round faced woman with red, spiked hair.

“Hello, McPherson,” greeted the caped man as the two captors also entered and the elevator doors closed behind them. “Paul, isn't it?” One of the men punched a button on the wall, and the elevator started ascending.

“Listen here,” replied the monk, still struggling with his constrained hands behind him. “What's the meaning of this and how do you know my name?”

“Most people stay dead when they die,” replied the caped man with a slight accent. “Stay dead this time.”

“You're going to kill me?”

“Of course! No more trip for you. Your trip is canceled.”

“What trip?”

The monk never heard the reply. He woke up inside a body sack sinking to the bottom of the East River.

5

“Very hot, man, no?” Joel asked rhetorically.

Joel Tobin was born in Jamaica and had migrated to New York six years before. Technically unemployed, Joel made his living selling watches and cheap jewelry from a table on the corner of Schermerhorn and Bond Streets. One afternoon he was trying to sell a Timex to Jonathan Summerset, an African-American who had stopped by to check out his wares. Joel, along with others, often set up on Schermerhorn because of the location which drew in customers at various times of the day. The twin towers of the World Trade Center, still standing in those days, were clearly visible over the top of the buildings on the other side of Brooklyn Bridge Boulevard.

“Yeah, real hot,” Summerset replied, wondering if he was referring to the weather or the watch. Summerset worked as a car-park attendant in the lot across the street from the Hare Krishna temple further down Schermerhorn. “How much?”

“That be a good watch, man,” Joel assured him with his thick Jamaican accent. “I’ll sell it to you cheap.”

Filling the air was a cacophony of sounds: cars and trucks rumbling by, some of them with horns honking angrily; ghetto blasters blaring heavy metal, punk rock and rap; people talking, laughing and shouting, and feet drumming on the sidewalk. It was a typical day in the borough.

Summerset glanced down the street, away from Manhattan, at the red neon clock atop the Atlantic Clock Tower, the tallest building in Brooklyn, and then again at the watch to compare the time on each. “Look,” Summerset complained. “I just wanna know how much.”

Joel was about to reply when he was distracted by a beautiful, thirty-year-old gold Rolls-Royce with white walled tires. “I’ll give you the watch for fifteen bucks,” Joel replied, eyeing the Rolls pulling to the curb.

Summerset handed over a twenty-dollar bill to the watch vendor. “What’re you looking at?” he asked, and receiving his change, turned to look at the Rolls-Royce as well. “Wow!” he exclaimed.

Even the hubcaps were gold and the treads on the tires deep and clean. The dark, tinted windows concealed the occupants. A well known Atlantic City Casino logo was painted on the car door and it had New Jersey license plates.

Having parked at the curb, the driver stepped out of the incredible vehicle. He was a smooth-looking man with the sophisticated manners of the privileged business class. His face was slightly chubby, robust and cunning. His hair was gray, complexion ruddy and eyes sharp and calculating. He wore an expensive, exquisitely tailored charcoal-gray suit with a subdued blue tie and matching handkerchief protruding from his jacket pocket. An oyster perpetual cosmograph Daytona Rolex crafted in 18 karat gold decorated his wrist, shaming any timepiece Joel had to sell. The man had an air of authority and seductiveness about him, charismatic and attractive, yet dangerous in a subtle, indefinable way. As his glance passed over Joel and Jonathan Summerset, both of them felt strangely affected.

“Who is that guy?” Summerset half-whispered.

“Never seen him before,” Joel replied, paying little attention to anything else. A sly thought came unexpectedly to Joel’s mind that he should have charged much more for Summerset’s watch. Meanwhile, Summerset thought he had been charged too much for the watch, and wondered if visiting this particular vendor had been a good idea.

Absorbed in greed, which seemed to descend upon them like dark clouds before a storm, they watched as a thin man with a stern, swarthy-looking face and pointed chin emerged from the passenger side and onto the sidewalk. His hair was unnaturally red. His nose was as curved and sharp as a scimitar, and he moved in a trained, predatory manner that anyone could recognize as dangerous. In contrast to the driver, he wore a red suede jacket, red pinstriped pants, and black, metal tipped shoes with white tops. He flung the door shut so violently that the whole vehicle rocked.

He quickly gave up his display of anger, politely opening the rear door of the car. Joel and Jonathan both sensed this second man's behavior was dangerously unpredictable.

A strikingly beautiful woman emerged from the rear seat. She wore a tight red dress, which accentuated her full breasts, shapely hips and thin waist and which was both low-cut and short, highlighting her long graceful legs and bright red high heels. Her long, shiny blonde hair cascaded in loose curls down her bare back. Her oval face was extraordinarily enchanting, her nose perfectly shaped, and thick long eyelashes decorated with mascara framed her large, restless blue eyes. Her moist lips, bright red with lipstick, and perfectly manicured fingernails painted to match, glittered in the sun. Several diamond rings adorned her fingers, though none was placed on the fourth finger of her left hand. The rings matched the golden necklace set with diamonds that rested around her delicate neck. A subtle scent of jasmine mixed with roses pervaded the air in her vicinity. Her complexion was light and soft, and she had an almost mystic aura of innocent sensuality about her that captured the eyes and mind.

“Mother of Jesus,” Joel whispered, seeing the incredibly beautiful woman. She cast a quick sidelong glance at him, and he immediately felt drawn to her.

“Watch out for her,” Summerset cautioned. “Is she gorgeous or what?”

For hundreds of feet around, people stopped whatever they were doing to watch her. Across the street a deliveryman for UPS, who was unloading boxes from the back of his truck, was stunned upon seeing her. Several of the boxes tumbled to the ground as he stared, slack-jawed.

In effect, the woman brought the entire street to a standstill.

As she stood by the side of the thin man with red hair, the driver with the Rolex came around to join them. All three carefully watched the far sidewalk further down the block.

Soon they spotted a Hare Krishna monk who, in his saffron robes, could easily be seen within the crowd as he walked in their direction.

“That’s him,” the man with red hair snorted hoarsely.

As they watched, the Hare Krishna devotee passed by. His orange-colored robes swung freely in the summer breeze. He wore simple rubber flip-flops on his feet. A tuft of hair, known as a sikha, flowed from the back of his shaven head. His right hand was inserted into the opening of a small cloth bag, with his index finger protruding from a smaller opening on the other side. Within the bag he rolled a set of japa meditation beads, similar to rosary, which he held with with his thumb and middle finger. He could be heard murmuring a mantra softly as he walked along. He quietly disappeared down the stairs of the Hoyt-Schermerhorn subway station.

“You know, I'd still like to get that man in bed,” commented the blonde woman.

The man with red hair shot her an annoyed glare, and then turned back toward the subway entrance. “Let's follow him and do it right this time. No mistakes.”...