The Time Skippers
By Craig L Seymour
Copyright 2015 Craig Seymour
Kindle Edition
For Cherie
Life #7
Chapter 1
July 17, 1993 – Xianghe County, China
Clad from head to toe in black, the killer waited in the shadows of a small wooded area on the outskirts of an upscale neighborhood. His usually steady heart raced a little. He had been preparing for this particular kill for a long time, much longer than he typically spent on one of his missions. It was no small feat, getting into the heart of communist China right under the noses of the authorities. And he had done so complete with all the tools of his trade. Now he watched in fevered anticipation as a plan that was years in the making neared fruition.
The house he was watching was fairly extravagant, by Chinese standards. The owner had clearly found a way to be more than equal in this egalitarian land. It was funny how it always seemed to work that way in those countries which professed to have Marxist values. For the killer this was only significant in that it meant he required a more sizable explosion to complete the demolition.
He counted as each of the guests arrived, then waited for a while after the anticipated number had entered. There was little possibility that someone else could join their little gathering, but, he would not let impatience cost him the opportunity to kill one more bird with this same stone. Finally, satisfied that no more were coming, he delivered his package.
Scanning the area with his night vision binoculars, the killer made sure no bystanders were in the vicinity. He was not particularly worried about collateral damage. He wasn’t even worried about witnesses. His only concern was with interference. The last thing he needed was a hero getting in his way. Satisfied that no one else was lurking around the house, he dashed for the front entrance. He left a plain brown box, addressed only with the name of the owner of this less than humble abode, at the door. He gave the door a single loud rap, and then retreated quickly.
He returned to his position, a short, but safe, distance away, and watched from the tree line as someone retrieved the package. Should someone tear into the package straight away, they would find a more decorative gift box inside the plain brown outer one. The gift box was rigged with a pair of triggers. The explosive charge would be set off by attempting to remove the inner box from its container, or, by cutting the ribbon that secured its lid and opening the “gift” where it lay. However, the killer would not leave the ultimate delivery of the contents of his package to chance that way. He would not risk having the box set aside for later, when some or all of the guests had departed. In his hand he held a small black box with a switch and a button. He flipped the switch and an indicator light illuminated. The button was now ready to control a powerful radio transmitter.
A bead of sweat ran down his face as he prepared for what was to come. It was not the imminent explosion that unnerved him. Nor was it any sort of hesitation at committing the murders. That was something he had come to terms with long ago. It was the imminent aftermath. He would be suffering an unpleasant physical sensation, and he suspected it would be severe. Probably the worst he had ever experienced. It was something that was growing in him over time, and to say that he did not look forward to it would be a gross understatement. Nevertheless, he pressed the button.
The package was loaded with enough plastic explosives to ensure that no one in the sprawling house, regardless of their location, would survive. He would not be able to hang around and verify, so he had to be sure. Therefore, over kill was the operative phrase.
The massive explosion lit up the night. It would be only moments before the neighbors emerged from their own homes, and the stark darkness that had concealed his arrival was now broken. He moved deeper into the wooded area where his motorcycle waited. Before he could mount it, he was overcome by the anticipated sensation. For the first time, it actually incapacitated him completely. Holding him there at the scene of the crime as he lost precious time needed to make good his escape. Leaning against a tree, he struggled to stay on his feet for what seemed like forever, but, was actually just a few minutes. Finally, he recovered and was able to reach his bike. Moments later he tore out of the other side of the woods and into an adjoining neighborhood. Clear of the trees, he accelerated, leaving the city, and the devastation, behind him.
August, 1993 – Boise National Forest, Idaho
The vigilante sat patiently in his black sedan. He had arrived shortly after sunset and parked under a broken street light. He had personally seen to the light a day earlier. From his vantage point he could clearly see the front entrance of the bar where his quarry now undoubtedly sat, drinking straight scotch whiskey. The vigilante had watched him walk through the front door only a few minutes earlier. The man would likely walk, or rather stumble, back out in two or three hours. For six days the vigilante had been observing the man’s ritual. Two nights ago the he sat at the end of that bar himself, watching the man pour drink after drink down his gullet. And he had watched the drunk precariously navigate the 30 some miles to his trailer in the woods a half dozen times now. It was amazing that the irresponsible ass had never killed himself, or anyone else, as he traversed the twisting mountain roads.
But, drunken driving had nothing to do with the vigilante’s interest in this man. It was the man’s fondness for a certain type of illegal magazine that brought the vigilante to his door. More precisely, it was the fact that this fondness was eventually going to lead to the abduction and murder of several young boys in that out of the way trailer. This was not something the vigilante suspected. It was something he knew, absolutely. And he wasn’t about to let that happen.
The drunk finally left the bar at a little before midnight. The vigilante followed a few moments later, keeping a healthy distance between their vehicles. He did so despite the fact that the inebriated driver was exceedingly unlikely to notice a tail. The vigilante was engaged in high stakes business, and he didn’t take unnecessary risks. He watched as the battered truck swerved into the oncoming lane a couple of times without consequence. At that late hour, in this little backwater town, there was no one else on the road. After a few minutes the drunk reached the edge of town and the vigilante pulled over. He didn’t have to worry about his target getting away. Not only did he already know exactly where the man was heading, but, there was no place for the man to go, even if he did have other ideas. He would be twisting through the hills for the next 25 miles with no exits or cross streets. In a very real sense, the vigilante had his target right where he wanted him.
After a couple of minutes of delay, the vigilante felt confident that no one would be following close behind. The short lead time was all he would need to complete his job. He took off, racing to catch the truck. He caught sight of it a few minutes later and pulled up close on its tail. It wouldn’t matter now if his quarry noticed him or not. There was no place to go.
The two vehicles arrived at just the right stretch of road, and he passed the man on the left and took up position a short ways ahead. They were approaching a sharp curve in the road which overlooked a steep drop off to a ravine. Following that curve, there was a little straight away. This was the place the vigilante was waiting for. He raced further ahead, taking the curve at a precarious pace. The distance afforded him a moment to be sure there was no oncoming traffic to interfere with, or witness, what was to come. Confident that he would endanger no innocents, nor be witnessed, he activated a small black box, not too dissimilar from that used by the killer in China. This triggered a signal from a directional antenna attached to his trunk lid.
A millisecond later a small explosion occurred in
the left front wheel well of the target’s truck, shredding the tire and causing the drunk to lose control. The truck tumbled over the edge of the road. It rolled several times before it settled, up side down, among a tangle of broken trees some 60 feet below the road.
Seeing the truck disappear, the vigilante eased to a stop, careful not to leave any suspicious skid marks near the accident site. He backed to the edge of the road and pressed a second button. This time the small explosion occurred in the engine compartment. Just as with the first device, the bomb case was virtually obliterated by the explosion. What remained of the container and receiver would be almost indistinguishable from the rest of the wreckage. Particularly after the fire it had just sparked did it’s work.
Certainly there were people, FBI and BATF experts, who would be able to spot the remains of the explosives. They could figure out pretty much exactly what had happened if they started looking. But, no one like that was going to be sniffing around this accident. His target was a known drunk. There would be no shortage of witnesses to his final night at the bar. There was every reason to believe that this was a drunken mishap, and no reason to suspect that it was an execution. Only the vigilante knew about the unspeakable crimes the man was going to commit. Others might find his collection of child pornography, but, there would as yet be no evidence of any overt actions by the would-be molester and murderer. And now there never would be.
Curtis Lovelle knew what this man was. He knew because he had lived this life before. Six times before, to be precise. And he had made a point of finding men like this and stopping them. Although this was the first time he had killed this particular predator, he had removed others several times over. That was how he had come to think of it, removal. It was hard to really consider it killing when they kept coming back. He was removing them from this timeline and nothing more. In a few years, time would skip back again. All the murderers and molesters he had removed from this seventh pass through time would be alive again, with no notion that they had ever been killed, and, fortunately, with no notion that they needed to be wary of a time traveling vigilante.
Of course, maybe someday they wouldn’t come back. Someday, maybe the world wouldn’t skip back from 2003 to 1985 like an old scratched up vinyl record. Maybe someone would finally smack the side of that old record player at just the right moment, and time would march on. He had no idea why time was skipping and really wouldn’t be all that surprised if suddenly it didn’t. That was why he was so careful about his target selection. He wouldn’t risk taking out the wrong man, lazily assuming that any mistake he made would be erased by the great cosmic “do-over”.
Lovelle had tried to smack that cosmic record player himself. He had made it his life's work to prevent the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. It had taken him a couple of tries, but he had succeeded in stopping that, and any other sort of major terrorist attack on the U.S., at least for the time period he was able to observe. Every 18 years he traveled to Sudan and assassinated Osama Bin Laden. And in each of those lives, Al Qaeda had never become a serious threat to America. Five times now he had removed that bastard, always hoping it would be the last.
He didn’t started work as a vigilante until after that first success, taking up what he now considered his calling in life number four. Inspiration for his crusade had struck late in his third life, affording him only a limited amount of time to select and vet his subjects. Several of his targets were now on their fourth removal, with many more on the third. That was when he'd really found his stride. He had become quite a skilled assassin by that time. And the target selection was really easy in the beginning. If you’re looking, there are an amazing number of really bad people who are more than happy to take credit for their evil deeds… once they’ve been caught. They want their 15 minutes of fame. Many of them seem to go out of there way to get publicity, even if that means getting themselves nabbed. It's an essential part of their particular mental illness. Still, Lovelle always vetted to make sure that they were actually guilty and not simply taking credit for their own twisted egotistical reason. He had learned not to assume anything about human behavior. In life four he had been more of a detective than an assassin. Since then, he had been a prodigious killer.
He continued to add to his target list, but, it wasn’t as easy now. The simple cases were long past, and his investigations had become more and more complex. And each new target he added to his agenda meant less time for vetting in the next life. He was removing dozens of bad guys in each life and it had become pretty much a full time job. Although his repeat kills were much easier, without all of the prepping, planning, and stalking, it was still a time consuming endeavor. He didn’t just line them all up like ducks in a row. Timing and other variables dictated a certain order to the jobs. One of the predators was active back in 1985 and needed to be dealt with as soon as possible. Others would begin their own criminal careers at various times during the 18 year span.
Lovelle wouldn’t allow innocents to suffer or die just because it would be more convenient for him. The monsters needed to be removed in some sort of order. And that order meant a lot of travel. They weren’t nicely concentrated in a small area. He was traveling all over the country, and even outside of it. Crossing borders added even more time to the process. It meant securing duplicate equipment and new bases of operation. That took both time and money. And that kind of money wasn’t simple to come by, even for someone who knew the future.
For obvious reasons, Lovelle lived a mostly underground life. He needed lots of cash, but, he didn’t need people knowing he had it. That meant no big stock market speculations, lottery windfalls, or fortunes won at the Las Vegas sports books. He used all of those methods, but, in moderation. That was at least part of why he lived in Las Vegas. He could spread his bets around among a large number of casinos and avoid any large payouts that would require notification of the tax collectors. So, between those sources, and a few horse tracks and illegal bookies, he was able to get what he needed without raising suspicion or leaving a trail. It simply took time.
Long ago he had realized the need to streamline. He no longer got creative with his killing. He had perfected a few methods that he could count on to look like accidents, and he stuck to those. It not only saved him both money and time in planning and procuring the tools of his trade, but it prevented errors. Utilizing tried and true methods meant flawless execution, which in turn meant that none of his targets survived, and that he remained undetected. And, for the moment, that efficiency was also allowing him time for some semblance of a personal life. It gave him time for things other than killing. But, he could see where this life was leading, and it scared him. Each name added to his list meant less time for the normal part of his life.
In each pass through these 18 years he was less connected to his friends and family. That was partly because he was away so much, but, he supposed it was also because his life experience was so different from theirs. Each time they experienced something it was new to them, while Lovelle had seen it or heard it over and over. That was why the only continuous members of his inner circle were his parents. He broke ties with everyone in his home town in suburban Detroit. He surrounded himself with a completely new circle of friends in each pass through time, purposely avoiding the people he had connected with in previous lives. He frequented new restaurants, lived in different houses, shopped at different stores. Any change he could make that was not directly related to his work, where change meant increased risk. But, with his work demanding a larger and larger share of his time, those variations were less and less effective in keeping him from becoming something of an automaton.
What Lovelle could see coming, if things continued going the way they were, was himself as nothing more than a killing machine. He feared he was losing his humanity. Becoming more and more cold and calculating. More remorseless. Yet he couldn’t imagine stopping. How could he let even one person fall prey to one of these maniacs when he had the power to save them? He didn’t s
ee that he had much of a choice.
Chapter 2
Besides pursuing his career in vigilantism, and what remained of his social life, Lovelle had one more hobby. He kept an eye on other Skippers. During his third life he had discovered that he wasn’t the only one skipping through time this way. Another Skipper had drawn his attention when the man had decided to become the new Bill Gates. Jordan Prescott’s computer operating system, Pages, had beat out Microsoft’s Windows as the dominant Personal Computer software platform. The remarkably advanced software bore a striking resemblance to a version of Windows that would have come out a few years later, if not for the emergence of Prescott. Hailed during that third life as the man who brought computing to the layman, the world had no idea it was worshiping a thief. They didn’t know that in life number two, after the first skip, Prescott, a low level programmer, had gone to work for the fledgling Microsoft. He had become one of the many millionaires created by its success. Then, not satisfied with a measly couple of million, when life three came around, Prescott used the knowledge he'd gained from Gates and his company to usurp his benefactor.
Lovelle had come home from the Army, exuberant over the recent success of his mission to Sudan. Bin Laden was dead, and Lovelle had convinced himself that he had accomplished what he had been sent back in time to do. He honestly believed that time would continue. Then, the discovery that he was not the lone Skipper sent him reeling. It shook his conviction that he had somehow been singled out to perform some task. That he was meant to reverse some past injustice. If he were not the lone Skipper, then it was unlikely that there was some individual task to be accomplished.
Lovelle tried to move on with his life. He married his fiancée, once more putting his faith in love to carry him through. But, this time it was different. Twice, time had robbed him not only of a wife, but, also a child whose life would not simply be reset with the next skip. While the rest of the world would exactly duplicate their past lives, giving life to all the same children, Lovelle could not. The Skippers alone could change their actions. By doing so, even inadvertently, their futures, and the future of those with whom they interacted, were changed. Unable to precisely duplicate the circumstances of their conception, his children were lost to him permanently. Yet, he had soldiered on, because he had hope. The discovery of the other Skippers had robbed him of that. His marriage to Charlene, a very good woman, was doomed from the start. His near obsession with Prescott, coupled with his depression, poisoned their relationship. Frequently physically unavailable due to his pursuit of Skippers and of answers, and emotionally unavailable when he was around, the two fell apart. For the second time, this man who did not believe in giving up on marriage, found himself divorced. And, unlike when a previous wife had cheated on him, this time the blame was all his own.
Time Skip (Book 2): The Time Skippers Page 1
