Time Skip (Book 2): The Time Skippers

by Craig L. Seymour

  Lovelle wasn’t acting when he grimaced, dropped his head and waved his hand, indicating that he didn’t want to hear any more. The officer grinned a little to himself, having established his own superiority over the civilian, “Sorry, too much information. Why don’t you go ahead and get on home.” He instructed in a condescending tone.

  Lovelle nodded his head and proceeded back the way he had come. He entered the apartment complex at the next entrance, walking through the vestibule and out the rear door into the night.

  ***

  Lovelle experienced a wave of grief that was almost unfamiliar to him. He hadn’t lost anyone, at least not anyone who wouldn’t be back with the next time skip, since the end of the second life. That was when he had lost, for the second time, a child who could never be born again, because Lovelle, unlike everyone around him, could never precisely recreate the circumstances that led to her arrival. Since that time he had been scrupulously careful not to bring into the world another child who would be destined to live only until the end of one short 18 year span.

  They say that time heals all wounds, and time was something Lovelle had plenty of. The many years since those losses had dimmed his memories of his lost children. He couldn’t even conjure a picture of them in his mind anymore. Mostly, when he thought of them it was more the dull pain of something long ago lost, and mostly forgotten, than of anything acute. And he had supposed that was a good thing. That was the psyche’s way of coping. Of making it possible to continue living.

  But, as he walked the streets of Laughlin that night, the once familiar feeling of loss flooded back. And the pain was anything but dull. It was more like a hot stick poking in his eye. That feeling of helplessness which was so antithetical to who he was and how he lived his life. And the anger rose in him. Anger like he had felt that first skip, when he had realized that his son was really gone. When he had punched his windshield and broken his hand.

  Only that time, there had been no one to focus his anger on. There had been only the situation. The mere fact that time had skipped back, with no one to blame. Something for which he still had no explanation. But, this time… this time he had a point on which to focus his anger. The observer.

  ***

  Lovelle abandoned the Mark Ridge identity entirely. Not only did he not want to deal with the police in the aftermath of Maria’s death, but, he assumed the observer would be on to him. He did not bother to return to the apartment again. Other than fingerprints, he and Maria did not keep anything there to point to their alter egos. No photos, no documents, no references to those names in any way. He had never been fingerprinted as Curtis Lovelle, so that would be a dead end. From the abandoned car, they would figure out that the officer had actually encountered Ridge, but, they would only have his low light description of a largely unremarkable face from which to make a suspect sketch. With nothing else to go on, Lovelle was certain he would never be linked to the case.

  There would surely be a manhunt. It wouldn’t take long for the police to figure out that Mark Ridge and Carlota Nueve both died as children. That should pique their interest. He wondered briefly whether the heavy scrutiny would lead the authorities to tie Ridge to the vigilante. That could be confusing for them, assuming he was ever willing and able to continue that work.

  ***

  Lovelle only had to take a bus back to Vegas to reassume his own identity. He could not only pick up his ID from the safe deposit box, but, he had both maintained the rental house and kept it stocked with a wardrobe, car, and even a few of the tools of his trade. For all intents and purposes, it was where Curtis Lovelle had resided the entire time the Ridges were in Laughlin. The house was as clean of traces of Mark Ridge as the Laughlin apartment had been of Lovelle’s real identity.

  He had to assume the observer knew about this place as well, so Lovelle was taking a risk just by being there. He arrived after dark and on foot and only stayed long enough to clean the place out. He worked by flashlight, transferring everything into the car in the attached garage. If the observer was watching, Lovelle hoped he would be too off guard as the garage door popped open to do anything about it. He slumped down in his seat until he could barely see over the steering wheel and peeled out. Nothing occurred and he was soon on his way.

  He thought about staking out one or both of his homes himself, waiting for his adversary to come looking for him. But Laughlin was not a place he felt to be safe. Whatever the quality of the officer’s description, if he were going to be recognized anywhere it was likely to be there. And he wasn’t at all sure that his target would bother with either house. His observer knew what kind of person he was dealing with, and would surely know that he was as likely walking into a trap as successfully setting one. Plus, the Mark Ridge trail would lead to fake addresses in Las Vegas and eventually to Detroit, where Lovelle had secured the duplicate birth certificate. Waiting around in either place hoping to catch a break seemed like a poor bet to him. Besides, he thought he might have a good idea of where the killer would show up, once he realized Lovelle wasn’t going to re-emerge in Nevada. Lovelle was off to Canada, by way of Arkansas. He had left his van and his gear there when he had rushed to be with Maria in Arizona.

  Chapter 17

  Hardy arrived in Laughlin the same day as Lovelle shoved up in Quebec. Both men had a date with disappointment. Hardy found the apartment still under 24 hour watch, and the door still blocked by crime scene tape. Lovelle discovered a distraught family grieving over the loss of a loved one who had come to a violent end just a day earlier. Hardy swore under his breath, realizing that it had been too much to hope for that Lovelle would simply be waiting for him in ignorance of the imminent danger.

  Lovelle swore more vociferously as he realized the chance he had just squandered. He had been right about the observer’s next move, but, had been too slow in acting. Thinking that the killer would hang around looking for him for a time, he had not believed he needed to rush. Choosing to pick up his van and gear on the way had been a fatal mistake for the Canadian Skipper, and possibly, for himself. Had he arrived on the first flight from Vegas, he could have been lying in wait when the observer arrived. He might have even enlisted the Canadian’s help in setting a trap. It may well have been the best chance he would get to turn the tables on his would be killer. Because it had not been his focus, he was at a disadvantage in identifying any of the observer’s future targets. There were exactly three more Skippers that Lovelle knew of. But, he had little hope that they remained alive. There was a man in Peru, another from Germany, whom he hadn’t seen nor heard from Maria about in the last two lives. And, there was a woman in France who had come over for the occasional 7/17 club meeting. The last Lovelle knew, she was living at the foot of the French Alps, which is where he would be going. He would begin with her because, like the Canadian, she was in regular enough contact with the club that news of her death might well have alerted Baker to the danger they all faced. Lovelle hoped that her death had been delayed and that he might yet intervene.

  Lovelle wondered about the pattern of the killing. The observer was clearly a Caucasian, and it seemed unlikely he was from somewhere in Asia. So why had he done his killing over there first? Was he saving his home turf for last? Was he European and working his way home by way of the U.S.? Lovelle’s father hadn’t reported an accent in his description, but, he didn’t suspect his father would take note of anyone doing even a poor imitation. Or had the killer already dispensed with the European Skippers? Should he be going to Peru instead? Or was he right to think that the threat posed by the club had affected the order and timing making the Peruvian an easier target? He had to seriously consider the possibility that he was the last one. However, he wondered , if the Europeans hadn’t yet been targeted, would they be spared indefinitely so long as he remained alive?

  Lovelle needed to understand the ground rules of this game of cat and mouse, so he would fly over just as soon as he took care of one important piece of business. It was sort of on the wa
y, and a necessary delay. He had to go home to Detroit. Not only did he need to tell his parents that their daughter-in-law was dead, but, he had to see them for what could well be the last time. For so many decades now he had taken for granted that, no matter what, he would always skip back to their house. But, he was on a path to a showdown with someone who just might be able to make him dead… really dead!

  ***

  “Curtis!” Lovelle’s mother exclaimed joyfully when she opened the door and found her son unexpectedly on the front porch. She threw open the door and invited him in, giving him a big hug. Lovelle hugged back and kissed her cheek. He said quietly in her ear.

  “I missed you Mom.”

  “I missed you too honey. You should have told us you were coming. Your father is about to leave on a business trip.” She looked him over then looked around him as if something were missing. “Hey, where’s Maria?”

  Lovelle’s face grew grim, “She’s dead.” He said flatly then began to cry. It was something he hadn’t done yet. He had screamed, cursed, pounded his fists, and swore for vengeance, but, he had not cried. Now the tears poured from him.

  “Oh, Dear, oh…” His mother said and then embraced him. “You poor thing.” She said gently. They stood like that for a long time, tears streaming down both of their faces. Finally his father walked into the room from the hallway.

  He had started to speak before he could actually see what was happening, “Who was tha…?” Unsure if he had simply walked in on a tearful reunion or a tragedy, he just stood there waiting. Lovelle looked up, let go of his mother, and wiped his face on his sleeve.

  “Hey, Dad.” He said and extended his hand. His father took it. He could see now that these were no happy tears.

  “What’s wrong son?”

  Lovelle told his parents how his wife was killed. The basic facts he gave them were the truth, only the setting was Costa Rica instead of Nevada, and the assassin was a mystery instead of his new adversary. He told them he didn’t know if he’d even be able to bring her body home under the circumstances. Then he said he only came to tell them the news and that he was flying back down the next day. “I’ve still got to take care of some things, but, I couldn’t just tell you this over the phone.”

  His mother made up the spare bed for him and he stayed the night in the room where he’d grown up. Again he couldn’t help wondering if it would be for the last time. They all rose early and had breakfast together. Then he declined his father’s offer of a ride, claiming that he needed to return his van to the rental lot. His dad would certainly want to see him to the gate, and he would have a hard time explaining his Air France flight to Paris as a connector to Costa Rica.

  During the long flight Lovelle had time to brood. He was feeling simultaneously guilty at leaving his parents so abruptly and at taking time to visit them at all when time might be of the essence in getting to France. He had desperately wanted to stay. He wanted to savor their company like no time since he had realized that they would be resurrected with each new time skip. He had taken them for granted for a long time, and now he was afraid that he had wasted so much opportunity. But, as much as he wanted to be with them, he wanted to confront Maria’s killer even more. He couldn’t even say for sure if it was out of a desire for self-preservation, revenge, or simply because he wanted to secure the lives of the remaining Skippers, if there were any. Whatever the reason, he felt he needed to get ahead of the man if possible, or at least stay out of his sights while he figured out who he was.

  Going to see his parents might turn out to be another fatal error, as in his delay in traveling to Canada. But, he knew he was chasing real danger now, and he not only wanted to see them, but, also felt he owed it to them. Although they would never know it, he had been the source of much misery and anxiety for them. If he too disappeared, along with their daughter-in-law, they would be torn apart.

  ***

  After another quick flight Lovelle arrived in Bern, Switzerland and set right to work. For several lives he had been setting up a base of operations in Bern. In this largely mind-your-own-business place, he knew right where to purchase the tools of his trade and where to rent a place to store them. Had the observer not intervened, Lovelle would have wound up here in the normal course of his work. This time, he did not bother with much of the gear, but, he did secure his customary .45 auto 1911 and a 4-wheel drive vehicle for his trip through the mountains.

  He arrived at the Frenchwoman’s home a day later and once again found himself too late. This time, however, it was no close call. He found that there was a new family in the chalet, and they informed him they had purchased from the estate of the previous owner months earlier. Further investigation uncovered what he feared, that she had been killed before the club bombing. This in turn led to the confounding conclusion that the killer had probably finished his work outside of North America before starting on the 7/17 club. It was entirely possible that he and the killer were the last Skippers alive. He would make his trips to Germany, and Peru, but he was getting that sense of hopelessness that he had felt when he first learned of the existence of other Skippers in the third life.

  ***

  While Lovelle was busy working in France, Hardy was doing his part to bring the affair to a close. He managed to gain access to both of Lovelle’s Nevada homes, and had found nothing useful there. Lovelle and Maria were adamant about not keeping anything incriminating where they lived. They always maintained storage outside of the home. They had a safety deposit box, a small storage unit, and they each had a gym membership, complete with an assigned locker, where they kept backup ID and cash for emergency purposes. Hardy hadn’t been fortunate enough to catch Maria at any of those locations, so he had only one option for where to go next.

  Lovelle had disappeared as he had expected, and Hardy had no illusions that he could track the man if he chose to go underground. The only place he could hope to reacquire his target was in Detroit. If Lovelle had ties outside of his immediate family, Hardy had no way of knowing. This was where Baker and his resources would have come in handy. But, he could only have tapped those resources by informing him of the vigilante’s identity. If Hardy hadn’t been set on the vigilante as his other half in the final pair of time travelers, this would all be so much easier. Still, even of Hardy did know who Lovelle kept in his inner circle, there was no reason to think that he would surface for any of them. But, his parents would have to be a draw. Of course, Hardy was working under the premise that Lovelle still believed that all would be reset with the next time shift. Therefore his quarry would likely operate as if all he had to do was bide his time and he could get back everything that he had lost. Patience would be his only requirement. And men who had lived as long as they, could be very patient.

  But now that the end of things was so near, Hardy felt a sense of urgency himself that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He had no desire to wait for the next shift, hoping he could get to Detroit for a showdown before Lovelle disappeared again. Besides, that sort of ambush was not the end he hoped to have. Lovelle was the only person left alive who could understand what he had been doing for so many years. He not only wanted Lovelle to know, he needed him to know. Should things not go Hardy’s way, Lovelle needed to know what it meant to be the sole survivor.

  Hardy took up residence in an apartment complex in the Detroit suburb where Lovelle’s parents lived. Although he could find no place with a direct view of their house, their little subdivision was an oversized court, with a single street that curved around so as too provide two points of entry off the main road. His apartment afforded him a clear view of each of these. It wasn’t an optimal situation, but it would do for a starting point.

  After a few days of observation, Hardy discovered that one of the Lovelles’ neighbors was a middle aged man who lived alone. His house was a few doors down and across the street, with a beautiful view of the elder Lovelles’ house. Taking a page from Lovelle’s own playbook, Hardy let himself in one day while the
man was away. He lay in wait for the man to come home from work. Quietly he lurked in a walk-in pantry. He stood there, silently smelling all the dry goods on the shelves, getting hungrier by the moment. Eventually the man settled in, and began preparing his dinner. Hardy waited, crow bar in hand, for the man to open the pantry door. Instead, he prepared a frozen dinner and sat down at the kitchen table to eat.

  Hardy tried to open the pantry door without alerting his victim, but the hinges squeaked and gave him away. He rushed the man as soon as he realized his secret was out and struck him on the head with the crow bar. He then snapped the man’s neck and tossed his body down the stairs. This, he hoped, would get this prime piece of real estate on the market.

  ***

  After a significant delay, Hardy’s arrival in Detroit was eventually followed by Lovelle’s. His excursions to Europe and South America turning up nothing, he too had decided that the most likely place to find his adversary was the one place they both knew he had ties. But, he wasn’t planning on simply making a target of himself. Surveillance was on his agenda as well.

  Before he could get started in earnest, he needed to do something about his appearance. Although he had always benefited in his work from the fact that he did not stand out in a crowd, he was in his hometown now and might easily run into someone who knew him. He had stopped shaving before he had left Europe, and his hair, which he normally wore quite short, was now something of a mop. He had never been able to really grow his hair out. It was something he had worked on as a teenage fan of 80’s hair bands. The mop was something he always had to contend with at the beginning of each skip. Now here he was with the unruly mess again.

  He leaned over the sink of his hotel room and scratched at the coarse hair irritating his face. He had groan a beard only once before in all his lives and had found it so hard to get used to as to have never tried again. Laid out on the counter before him were the contents of a bleached blonde hair coloring kit. He proceeded to strip the color from the hair on both his head and face. That accomplished, he did something he never imagined he would do. From the grocery bag on the counter he extracted a home permanent. With that he turned his unkempt mop of hair into a curly unkempt mop. It wasn’t pretty, but it would serve.