by Zack Mason
Still, somehow, this time felt different.
Mark was nervous — very nervous. He had no good explanation for Ty's death certificate existing two years in the future from now. Both he and Hardy had always been close by. If something had happened to Ty, they should have jumped in to reverse it right away. Why hadn't that happened? Where was he? Where was Hardy? Mark could find no death certificates for either one of them, just Ty.
Butterflies floated spasmodically in his stomach. He felt nausea. Palpable fear that this might be one of those unchangeable events, like his children, lurked in the corner of his heart.
Ty was walking up the sidewalk now. His friend strolled at a casual pace, entering and exiting the yellow pools of light cast down by the street lamps overhead.
It was Ty all right, but not quite the same Ty he knew. This Ty had a lot of gray peppering his hair. He looked to be 25 to 30 years older than the Ty of Mark's time, yet 2027 was only 15 years in the future. Maybe he hadn't aged well.
As Ty drew closer, Mark caught a glimpse of movement behind some bushes lining the sidewalk and understood what was going to happen.
A dark form rose from the shadows as Ty reached a spot in front of a large shrub. The pistol in the hand of the shadowy figure bore a silencer. From this distance, there was no sound to be heard, just the image of Ty falling limply to the sidewalk.
Mark felt sick.
He was about to shift out of the nightmarish scene when he remembered he hadn't identified the killer yet. He waited while the dark form emerged from the shadows behind the bushes. The man entered the glow of the streetlight, glaring down at his fallen victim.
A scream of rage almost escaped Mark's lungs, stopped only by sheer determination to not give himself away. He knew that face. It was the face of a killer he would never forget. If Mark had any enemy on earth it was this man.
Alexander Rialto.
He vomited onto the ground, shaking with fury. The stench of his regurgitated lunch strangely calmed his nerves and strengthened his resolve. This would not stay this way. It could not. It would not. He would make sure of it.
***
May 5th 2014, Boston, MA, ChronoShift Headquarters
"The two of you look like someone stole your Girl Scout cookies," Hardy laughed.
It was Monday morning, time for their regularly scheduled debrief, but Hardy was the only one smiling today.
Mark and Ty were both sullen. Mark was staring at the table with his arms crossed. He was clearly in no mood for jokes. Ty had his elbows on the table looking pensive, chin resting on folded hands, eyes turned down. Mentally, he was somewhere else and hadn't even heard Hardy.
Mark still reeled from his weekend trip to the future where he'd witnessed Ty's murder. He stole a glance Ty's way. He hadn't told his friend what he'd seen yet, and he probably wouldn't. He needed to try and resolve it on his own first. If he couldn't, then he'd decide whether to tell Ty or not. In the meantime, Mark would bear this burden, this weighty knowledge, by himself.
Maybe they'd subconsciously avoided visiting the future until now for this very reason. The past was the past. They already knew what had happened in the past. When they traveled back to the past, mentally, they were still living in their present, not knowing their future. But if they traveled to the future, that future was not only the world's future, but their future as well. Once that Pandora's box was open, how did you close it again? How do you resist peeking at what's going to happen, and then how do you forget what you learned if you don't like what you saw?
"I know what's bothering me, but I ain't got a clue about Ty," Mark said.
Ty looked up, his mind landing back on earth upon hearing his name.
"Sorry, what?"
"What's up with you, man? What's the matter?"
"I've got to go kill a friend."
"What?"
"Whoa. What do you mean?"
"You know I've been traveling back to ’Nam now and then, saving my buds during the Tet?"
They both nodded.
"I got curious to see what they did with their lives after that, after the war, so I researched them. In the original version of history, all of these guys died — along with me, of course. I wanted to see if any of them had done something good, you know, something really good.
"A couple got killed again in later phases of the war, so I went and saved them again, but most made it back to the US and just led normal lives. You know, working hard, raising families. One guy became a neurosurgeon, another became a missionary. A few did some other remarkably good things. One guy saved a couple of kids from getting killed in a car accident."
"That's great!"
"Yeah, but it wasn't all good."
Ty's eyes welled with tears.
"One guy...this one guy...he...uh...he became a child molester," Ty finally spat out. "At least four different children were victimized, and he even killed one of them." A tear fell down his cheek, and he wiped it away.
Mark and Hardy both cringed. It was clear why this was eating at him. That kind of thing was one of their worst nightmares.
"Man, you can't control what these guys do with the life you save," Hardy argued.
Ty slammed his fist onto the table. "It's my fault!" He exclaimed. "I did it. If I hadn't saved the guy, those kids would be fine!"
There was nothing to say. Logically, he was right. Morally, philosophically, who could judge?
Ty placed his hands on the table resolutely. "I've got to go back and snipe this guy while he's still in ’Nam. I've got to look the guy in the eye and kill him."
"This is unreal," Hardy said.
"You know what's worse? John was my bud, not like a brother or anything, but we looked out for each other. I swear to you, there was no sign he was like that when I knew him back in ’Nam." Ty's eyes were pleading for affirmation that he'd done no wrong.
"I'm not sure what I'd do in your shoes," Mark said, "You weren't wrong to save him. You couldn't know."
"So, you'd just let him wander the streets, hurting more children."
"Absolutely not. What do we do every day? We take out guys like this several times a week. I just meant...its gotta be a hard thing."
"You want one of us to do it for you?" Hardy offered.
Ty sighed, "It's my mess, I'll clean it up."
After the meeting adjourned, Ty pulled Mark aside.
"Mark, what if I can't do this?"
"You mean you think you won't be able to pull the trigger?"
"No. I mean, are we justified assassinating someone who hasn't committed any crimes yet." Ty rubbed the top of his close-cropped hair with one hand.
"Could you stomach letting him molest a child before you felt ’justified'?" Mark asked scornfully.
"Of course not."
"What's the difference between this case and when we take out some gang banger right before he whacks somebody? Neither's committed the crime yet, but we know they're going to."
"I don't know."
"I don't either, but I do know I'd rather take the risk of becoming a murderer than I would letting a child get molested."
"Good point."
"Good luck."
"C'mon," Ty laughed for the first time that day, slapping Mark on the back. "You know I don't believe in luck."
February 7th 1968, Vietnam
Ty squinted through the rain as it drizzled down his wet brow in rivulets. He was trying to catch a glimpse of his target through the dense foliage without giving his own position away.
He'd lain in this jungle the entire night, soaked to the bone, which brought back memories of his time here, back when he'd still been a jarhead. His prey's patrol would leave camp before daylight. Around dawn, they'd be ambushed by VC. Instead of shifting in to strike, he'd spent the night exposed to the elements because he wanted to be in place without having to scramble at the last minute. He didn't want the VC to catch sight of him either. The Marines on patrol would be on high alert, expecting an attack from any side, and t
hey'd be armed to the teeth. One stray noise or accidental movement on his part might invite a shoot-first, ask-questions-later situation.
He dreaded what he was about to do. Ty had not fully reconciled himself to the idea of executing a man years before he committed a crime, though he had to admit Mark's logic in this case was pretty good. What was worse, this man was a friend...had been a friend, at least. John was a United States Marine... a fellow Marine for goodness sake. Ty was about to do the unconscionable, murder a fellow Marine in cold blood.
God had seen fit to take John's life once before already. It had been Ty who'd intervened, saving him. Ty had been the interloper, butting in, usurping God's sovereignty. That fact alone brought Ty some level of comfort in his decision to do this.
Then, there was no more time to think. The ambush had begun, and his target appeared in his sights. Marines were scrambling for cover behind trees and in gullies. There would be a small window of opportunity for Ty to complete his mission before John reached shelter. Ty would have one shot, then he'd have to shift out immediately since the kill could draw return fire from either side.
He settled himself, placing his eye on the rifle scope. Thick raindrops co-mingled with a tear of frustration. He squeezed the trigger, applying even pressure as he'd been trained.
A dry click softly echoed — then nothing. The rifle had misfired. A jolt of sudden joy rushed through him. Should he try again?
His moment of hesitation had allowed John to make it safely to cover behind a tree, but it didn't matter. Ty understood. He packed his stuff and shifted out.
***
"What happened?"
"Rifle misfired."
"You've got to be kidding."
"Nope. God intervened, so I called the snipe off."
"Just because your gun misfires doesn't mean God intervened," Mark snapped.
"It did in the past...for you," Ty rebutted.
"That was different. I tried a lot harder before giving up. Not just one shot."
"I felt it."
"What do you mean you ’felt it'?"
"I mean, I sensed it. I understood that God was telling me not to do it."
Mark clenched his fists. "So, you're just gonna let those kids get hurt?"
"Didn't say that. I didn't say I felt God say ’never'. It was more like a ’wait'."
"I swear, you and this God stuff. I'm about sick of it."
Ty shrugged, which reminded Mark of Hardy in their early days together, so the gesture irritated him even more.
"When then? How can you be sure you'll get to him before he hurts the first kid?"
"The trial was public record. I'll get the time frame out of the transcript."
"How do you know there wasn't another child who never came forward?"
"I'll make sure of it."
***
Golden light layered the street in a warm, late afternoon glow. The sun would be down in about an hour and children up and down the block were trying their best to squeeze in a few last moments of play as mothers began calling them in to dinner.
Higher end town homes lined one side of the street, their beige, stuccoed facades butting up against one another like a residential sentry line. The other side of the street was a large grassy field, which, for the time being, was still empty of development of any kind.
The BMW didn't look overly pretentious, being an older model, but Ty knew his prey well enough by now to know the man wished it was this year's model. He'd watched his habits for several days in a row. He had no children of his own, thank goodness. The wife would not greet him at the door. She'd be waiting inside. Ty didn't get the impression their marriage was the best of matrimonies anyway.
He waited till the vehicle had parked and his former friend had stepped out onto the pavement before emerging from around the corner.
"Hello, John."
The ex-Marine spun, clearly startled by the unexpected voice. His eyes narrowed, then widened in surprise.
"Ty? My gosh, I haven't seen you since ’Nam. What are you doing here?"
"Can you do me a favor?"
"Sure, bud. What's up," he asked is a hushed tone. "Anything for another grunt."
"I need to talk to you." Ty beckoned with his hand.
John walked closer to him, clearly puzzled by the whole thing.
As soon as he was in range, Ty grabbed the collar of his shirt, twisting it roughly. He slammed his forearm into the ex-Marine's throat, throwing him back against the garage door.
"Ty," he gurgled, straining against the unexpected attack, "What's the matter with you? What's going on?"
Ty's tone was as serious as he'd ever been in his life, flat and deadly in its directness.
"John, you don't know this, but I saved your life back in ’Nam. Just believe me when I say that with absolute certainty. You'd be dead if it weren't for me."
"Uh...okay..."
"Shut up! Your life depends on you now. I know what's going on in your mind."
"What do you mean?"
Ty slammed his head against the garage door. Withdrawing his arm, he rammed his fist into the side of John's head, dazing the man. "Shut up, I said. I know what you're thinking about doing with certain children."
The man paled visibly.
"I should kill you right now, I really should. But," he grimaced through gritted teeth, "I'm going to give you one chance. I will know if you molest anybody. Believe me, I will know. Be assured of that. And if you do, I will kill you. I will come back and kill you. This is your only chance. I won't warn you again. Do you understand me?"
John nodded weakly, blood dripping from his nose and lip.
"I hope you do."
"John? Are you out there?" A woman's voice called.
His wife hadn't seen them yet.
John stared at Ty with lifeless eyes. His expression was a mixture of shame, disbelief, hurt, and anger.
Ty stepped back several feet and made a showing of the shifter on his wrist until he was sure John saw it. Then, he shifted out. He hoped the image of him disappearing in front of the man's eyes with a magic watch would be sufficiently strange to intimidate him into good behavior.
Like we ain't scared and our boots ain't muddy, but no one laughs,
'Cause there ain't nothing funny when a soldier cries.
"Letters from Home"
~ John Michael Montgomery
It wasn't.
The warning had given John an extra six months of life as the guy waited that much longer before succumbing to the evil in his heart.
So, Ty borrowed the corporate jet. He intercepted John after work one evening, put a hood over his head, knocked him out and shoved him into a van. Then, they drove to the local airstrip where Ty shuffled him into the back of the jet. The pilot flew them to Vietnam, but he would never see John, nor even know he was on the plane.
The man's wife would never see him again. They would find his car abandoned in the parking garage where he'd left it. Ty was actually blessing this man in a way. Now, he would be remembered as the husband who'd never come home from work, the Marine who'd fought bravely in Vietnam for his country. There would be no lives ruined, no memories of an evil child molester to taint his legacy and haunt his wife's regrets.
Once back in ’Nam, Ty transported him unconscious to a very specific location. It was an isolated place, a place where he knew the bullets would be flying back in ’68.
Ty yanked the hood from his head and woke his former friend with a few lights slaps and some smelling salts under the nose.
John blinked repeatedly, eyes hurting from the sudden brightness of the sunlight. For the first time, he saw the face of his abductor, but no surprise registered.
Ty stood John at attention. His hands were still tied behind his back, and his feet were bound together. Ty sat down on a rock limply, gun in hand.
"You wanna say anything?" Ty asked.
"I didn't do anything!" John declared.
"You will."
"You can
't know that," he pled.
"Yes, I do. Do you want to pray?"
John nodded. The resoluteness in Ty's eyes evaporated any hope he might have had. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. His lips moved fervently. After a moment, he lifted his head again.
"I don't want to do this, John, but you've left me no choice. You were supposed to die in ’Nam and now you will. Are you ready?"
John nodded.
Ty lay flat on his belly at John's feet. His former friend remained standing. Ty gripped John's ankle with his shifter hand and then moved them both back to ’68.
The bullets were flying indeed. Ty had shifted them into the middle of a huge firefight between VC and regular U.S. Army. He would wait until he was sure the job was done.
A stray bullet struck Ty in the back of the calf, but it was only a flesh wound. After about four or five seconds, though it seemed an eternity, a bullet finally slammed into John's chest and he staggered. A second bullet slammed his head back, and his lifeless body collapsed to the ground.
Ty shifted out and cried.
***
Mark lay on his stomach in the cool grass letting the night breeze blow softly across his back, forehead resting on his forearm, oblivious to the stars in the clear sky above and the lights of Boston all around. He was just listening to the night sounds of the park, feeling the wind on his skin and in his hair. He'd been this way for a good thirty minutes.
Rialto was below him, at the bottom of the hill Mark was on. His enemy waited with murderous intent and soon he'd carry out his evil plot.
After a long while, Mark finally sat up and checked the weapons he'd brought, which were a sniper rifle, a pistol, and a grenade. He tried to swallow a lump in his throat as he went through the motions of making sure each gun was clear of obstacles and fully loaded.
A basic mistrust of God had developed within him. He had no hope this would work. Images of his children raced through his mind, which he batted away as fast as they came to him, but their effect was deep. He hadn't been able to save them. God had become capricious and cruel to him, giving him the shifter, a tremendous and miraculous gift which could be used to change the past, but never allowing Mark to use it to save his own kids. He didn't believe he would be able to save Ty now either.
