Stolen Time

by Keith Hughes

  CHAPTER SIX: Grim Discoveries

  Tuesday, June 8, 2010, 5:37 p.m.

  What the hell is going on? In the seconds after being snatched from the street, Angie had fought a roiling flood of emotions. Panic and anger battled for dominance in her psyche, each magnified by the darkness. A hood had been slipped over her head, and the inability to see combined with the van’s motion disoriented her. Visions of dire circumstances resulting from her abduction danced in her mind’s eye, each a different horror that increased her terror exponentially. But with the fear came anger, and she clung to her rage as a port of safety against the storm of her emotions.

  Strong hands gripped her shoulders and lifted her from the floor. She struggled, but they held her easily, almost gently. Those hands pulled her arms behind her and placed restraints around her wrists, enough to fetter her but not so tight that her hands were starved for blood. She was led backward a step or two and placed in a seat.

  “Take the hood off.” The commanding voice held a thick German accent.

  The covering came off, and she glared at the abductor who stood before her, an older white male with salt-and-pepper hair and stoic gray eyes. An impressively large black man took off his ski mask and chuckled at her expression. In fact, she noticed both of her abductors looked alarmingly deadly, which caused her intestines to squirm.

  Angie tensed even more when the older man sat and pulled his gun from a shoulder holster, but he ignored her and stripped the gun into its component parts. After only a matter of seconds, he put it back together again. The sound of metal against metal was surprisingly loud in the small space.

  Another man stooped, stepping awkwardly from the front of the van to sit opposite her. The others made way for him, as if he exuded an aura of command. Angie made a point of trying to remember his features, intensely studying his short dark hair and silver goatee. His face and hands were scarred, and his green eyes held no warmth. Angie shuddered, comprehending that she was in the hands of merciless men.

  “Not too smart, showing your faces to me.”

  Uncertain why she had been taken, Angie chose to react with confident anger. Maybe it would make the men reconsider their plans. She had the sense that whatever they wanted, it involved something other than the average rape-and-dump scenario. Her captors appeared to be professionals, and she had no idea how she had drawn their interest. Angie prayed she could get out with her body and spirit intact.

  “We have no worries there.” The leader pronounced his W's like V's. He was the source of the German accent she had heard earlier. “You will not be, how do you say, 'getting away.'”

  He chuckled, and the black man joined in. The older captor watched the conversation dispassionately. Angie’s hopes collapsed into the pit of her stomach. She was going to die.

  Apparently, her fear registered on her face, or he had read her mind. “Oh, we will not kill you, at least not right away. The timing of your demise will be determined by your husband.”

  Angie's brow furrowed as she tried to grasp what Ness could have to do with it.

  “Yes, Ness has been a very bad boy.” The German’s chiding tone seemed more appropriate for a schoolroom. “He must be... punished.”

  The leader fished in his jacket pocket and retrieved a red tube. It looked like an EpiPen, something people with extreme allergies carried in case they had a reaction. He pulled a cap off one end and leaned forward to jab the other end, black-tipped with rubber, against her leg. She experienced the sting of a needle in her thigh followed by the burn of whatever the pen contained. After a few seconds, he pulled the pen away and sat back.

  “Your husband has told you about Intellisys, yes?”

  “Ness? No, he's never mentioned it.” Her confusion at the question faded in proportion to the growing pain in her body. The substance disseminated through her veins, the pain increasing as it spread out from her thigh. What did he inject me with?

  “A pity.” The leader put the pen back in his pocket. “Your husband has something we need. Something of ours. We want it back, and he will pay for his interference by serving us.”

  “He never mentioned you or your company. I can’t help you.” Angie clenched her teeth. The pain intensified, and sweat broke out on her forehead. “What do you need Ness for? Did he steal from you? Are you going to prosecute?”

  The German gave a short, humorless bark of a laugh. “No, there is no reason to get your pitiful system of justice involved.” He gave her a brief sardonic grin before turning serious again. “We need the device your husband has in his possession to forward our aims. You are the carrot to bend him to our will.”

  “And why the hell would he do anything for you?” She was panting, the agony making her toes and fingers curl involuntarily.

  “Because if he does not, he gets the stick, and no antidote for you.”

  Antidotes are only needed for... “You poisoned me?” The words left her lips as if driven out by the surge of fear that made her gut clench.

  “I'm afraid so.” The complete lack of remorse in his tone revealed the lie in his words.

  “And there's an antidote?”

  “Ja, Liebling, but it will not save you.”

  “What? Why not?” Her brief hope of a remedy faded into panic.

  “Perhaps I misspoke, yes?” He sneered. “English is not my first language, as I am sure you can tell. It is not so much an antidote as an...” He made a show of groping for the right word.

  “Inhibitor. Yes, this is the correct term. It only delays the inevitable.”

  I am going to die from this poison. As the realization washed over her, woe and terror battled for dominance. Her tormentor smirked again. Apparently, seeing her anguish pleased him.

  * * *

  All was right in Earnest Williams's world. As Karl made his way back to the front, their captive sat with her head bowed. She panted loudly and rapidly as she dealt with the pain caused by the crap Karl had injected into her.

  Earnest looked at the front, where Chris Harrison was sitting in the driver's seat. He had short brown hair hidden beneath a black baseball cap and was an avid weightlifter. The tight navy-blue T-shirt and pants he wore clearly showed his musculature, and the steering wheel looked small in his hands. Earnest looked through the windshield at the illuminated brake lights, an indication of rush-hour traffic.

  As big as Chris was, Earnest was taller and larger. Thick muscles rippled under his black shirt, which was barely darker than his skin. He was no stranger to the gym lately, but his strength had initially grown from an eat-or-be-eaten struggle for survival. His deep-brown eyes reflected the wariness of a scavenger, a jackal from the streets of Detroit, always keeping an eye out for larger predators.

  Metallic clacks issued from the back of the van as the older, graying man checked and rechecked his weapon for readiness. He extracted and examined the clip before slamming it into place again. Reed gave the movements an almost ritualistic significance, which Earnest found amusing.

  Earnest had his primary weapon, a Glock, secured in its shoulder holster. His emergency gun, a snub-nosed .38-caliber chrome model, was concealed in its ankle holster. It had been his first shooter from the days he had lived in the darkest part of Detroit's inner city.

  Having a revolver then had been like a teenager having a cell phone now — necessary equipment. The smaller gun had become almost a talisman to him, as it had saved his ass more than once. With it, he had taken the first of many lives. He did not share Reed’s need to verify that his weapons were in working order each time he had five minutes to spare.

  Earnest glanced at the woman again, but she remained focused on her personal hell. Her hands were still secured behind her back, which reminded him of something. Reed had been almost gentle with her as he led their captive to a seat and taken her hood off. Much more so than I would have been, he mused.

  “Do you like our captive, Tommy?” Earnest smirked. “You seem kinda soft on her.”

  Reed slapped a cartr
idge into his gun, pulled the slide back to chamber a round, then aimed right between Earnest's eyes and scowled over the barrel of his weapon. Earnest regretted opening his mouth, and a cold certainty told him he was not the biggest predator in the van.

  “My name is Thomas.” The words came out as a snarl.

  “What's wrong with a little nickname?” Earnest mocked. He had already stepped in it, so he might as well try to muddle through. He glanced over at Harrison, but the driver just shook his head. Pussy.

  Even with his almost instinctive reaction, a small voice in Earnest’s head told him the driver’s reluctance to prod Reed was the smarter move, and the insult remained in his mind.

  “Look, you can call me Ernie, and I'll call you Tommy,” he said, turning back to face the weapon poised to drill a round into his forehead. He felt an electrical tingling along his spine that he remembered from bleaker days on the streets of “The D,” a physical reaction to the presence of looming danger.

  Thomas Reed growled as he tightened his grip. He was holding the gun straight in military fashion, and the barrel did not waver. “Only one person has ever called me Tommy, and you sure as hell aren't her.” Reed’s teeth were clenched tight, and he forced his words past them. “Call me that again, and I'll shoot you right here.”

  Reed's implacable eyes bored into him, and the teasing smirk slid off Earnest’s face.

  “Sure, sure, whatever you say,” he said, still trying to sound confident. “Tomm...”

  Reed cocked the gun, his malevolent stare intensifying.

  “Er... Thomas,” Earnest finished lamely as a bead of sweat slid along the back of his bald head into his shirt.

  “Williams, Reed,” Karl chided. “Enough.”

  Thomas Reed slowly released the hammer on his gun before returning it to his shoulder holster concealed underneath a lightweight jacket.

  Looking toward the front, Earnest saw his boss glaring back at him. He had forgotten Karl was in the van. Working for him was a much different experience from when Glenn had led them. In some ways, he found himself more unnerved by the German. Karl obviously carried an undeniably brutal history. His cold eyes belonged to a man with few limits. Had Earnest remembered Karl was near, he would not have goaded Reed in his hearing. Such a stupid mistake could get him killed.

  He did not exactly understand the relationship between them, but Karl and Reed unmistakably shared common experiences and a mutual respect. Though Earnest did the same job as Reed, he had no doubt Reed stood higher in the pecking order as far as Karl was concerned. Never hurts to have an “in” with the boss. He frowned.

  Regardless of their apparent closeness, the German appeared to be reluctant to trust leadership of their little group to the older man. Earnest believed he deserved the role with his greater seniority, but Karl had either neglected or refused to name one of them the leader. This lack of a mandate from the vice president caused constant conflict, as each tried to wrest control of the small group from the other. Earnest suspected Karl enjoyed keeping them at each other's throats.

  He noticed the Relevont woman looking at him, a slight grin on her lips. She was amused at seeing him smacked down, and he responded with a dark scowl.

  Soon enough, I'll teach you to show some respect. Oh yes, I will. He grinned malevolently and basked in the sweet thrill of anticipation. Soon enough.

  * * *

  Ness had no philosophical problem with firearms, but the sniper rifle looked out of place on his sofa. Light reflected off it in odd ways, lending the weapon a sense of unreality. A little investigation revealed that the gun could separate into four parts: the body, the stock, the scope, and the barrel. He found compartments sewn into the coat that concealed the items perfectly. A quick check of the rest of the pockets produced a disturbing slip of paper. It was a kill order for a senator. According to the document, the legislator, one Shirley Bruce, would be in downtown Detroit in 2013 for a Labor Day parade. A small picture of her had been stapled to the paper. His orders were to shoot her in full view of news crews and spectators. How many of these missions has my future self done?

  Based on the state of his copy’s psyche, he must have performed several such tasks. Ness remembered the doppelganger saying he had done things that haunted him, and the long-term effects of those actions were obvious. How could Intellisys impel him to such cooperation? Yes, they have Angie now, but why would he work with them instead of contacting the authorities? Ness needed to know what would compel him to be even a reluctant accomplice in attaining John Fletcher's aims, for which he evinced disgust and determined opposition.

  He scanned the paper again and read the drop-off point, Woodward Avenue at Elizabeth Street in Detroit, along with the destination date and time of September 2, 2013, at 10:40 am. A long series of numbers were printed at the bottom of the sheet. He had no idea what most of them meant, but one sequence appeared to be a date and time: February 16, 2015, at 10:14 am. Perhaps that was when the orders were printed.

  Ness picked up the gun, pulled out the clip, and saw it was full. Presumably, his other self had not assassinated the senator. He had an idea about visiting 2015 to ascertain what John and Intellisys were doing, but who knew what kind of trouble would arise if his future counterpart had not made the hit.

  As Ness slid the pieces of the disassembled weapon into the various coat pockets, he thought about what his next step had to be. He would go to the hit and make a hopefully believable yet unsuccessful attempt to follow Fletcher’s orders.

  He went to his darkroom and came back with a roll of duct tape, which he put into a pocket of the worn parka. After changing into a shirt and jeans resembling what his older doppelganger had worn, he grabbed the laden coat and the keys to his car.

  The infiltration might not yield any useful information, but he had to follow up on his only lead. The worst case would be getting caught, causing either his or Angie’s death. Too late by far — Angie has already died once.

  If his other self could be believed, she would soon wish for such a trip to oblivion. But he needed to see for himself what he was up against and the cost to his wife’s well-being. Ness knew he would discover a horror he could never recover from, but he clung to his grim determination to see the cause of his future self’s madness. Since it appeared his double had eschewed his assigned mission to attack Angie, it fell to him to at least make it appear that the murder had been attempted. He had a deadly date to keep in Detroit.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Information and Ramifications

  Tuesday, June 8, 2010, 4:48 p.m.

  The cheerful tones of the landlady’s voice grated on Ness’s nerves. He couldn’t fault her joy, as he had led her to believe he might rent the small office overlooking Woodward Avenue. The amount of dust on the windowsills indicated it had been vacant for some time. Ness tried to act the part of the interested buyer, but it became harder to maintain the charade with each passing minute.

  In about half an hour, Angie would be shot or captured, a fact he was trying to ignore. His next trip back in time had less to do with saving his wife than it did with gathering intelligence. He was at the location indicated in the kill order and would have to attempt the job his future copy had spurned to assassinate his wife. To this end, he listened to the various features of the cramped office, many of which were pure fiction created by the happy landlady as she showed him around.

  Although clearly perplexed by the parka he was carrying, she was too polite to mention it. Ness looked out the window and saw the lights of Comerica Park, home of the Detroit Tigers, rising above the buildings across the street. Time for my trickiest bit of playacting.

  “I assume I can move in —” He interrupted himself to take his phone out of his pocket and held it up, peering at its screen and angling it away from the placid stare of his prospective landlady.

  “Sorry, I have an important call I have to take. Business, you understand. Could you give me a second?”

  “Of course,” she answered, beaming. Ness cou
ld practically see the dollar signs in her eyes. “I’ll be in the hall.”

  Alone, he switched the phone with the PDA and set it to jump to September 2, 2013, at 10:30 a.m. then tapped the launch button and soon arrived in the future. As expected, the office was empty on the holiday. The furniture had shifted a bit in the intervening years, but the placement of the door and the window guaranteed a relatively consistent floor plan.

  Ness retrieved the pieces of the gun from the coat and assembled it before slipping the clip in. It made soft clicking noises as he chambered a round. Keeping back to avoid notice, he peeked out of the window. People lined the street, and the parade was in the distance, approaching on the heavily patched pavement.

  He pulled the roll of duct tape out of his coat pocket along with two PDAs — Dr. Bertrand's device and an unmodified decoy, and he identified the actual time machine by the last five digits of its serial number, which he had memorized long ago. Next, he pulled off two long pieces of the tape and carefully applied them to the top and the bottom of the modified PDA, leaving the screen exposed. Loose flaps of tape hung off either side like a large bandage.

  Ness pulled off his shirt and held his left arm out. He carefully placed the PDA on the inside of his forearm and pressed the tape in place around his limb. Provided he was not thoroughly frisked, it would enable him to use the device yet keep it concealed. He pulled his shirt back on and buttoned it up. The decoy device he slid into a shirt pocket.

  Then Ness removed the scope from the gun and used it as a monocle, watching the progress of the parade. As with most such cavalcades, the political people were out front, including his target, Senator Bruce. She followed the route, waving and smiling at the crowds on either side. The senator was wearing a UAW T-shirt like almost everyone around her because of the warm temperature. He had to concentrate to keep her in sight.

  After he reattached the scope to the rifle, he opened the window a couple of inches and sat on the floor. An upturned wastebasket provided a perfect foundation for the rifle to rest on as he sighted through the scope and found the senator again. The thin black crosshairs briefly fell on her forehead before he slid his view to near her feet. He picked a spot of clear pavement a little in front of her and prepared to pull the trigger. His finger squeezed, then a young girl ran directly into his line of fire. The little head with ponytails filled his target area, and Ness barely managed to relax his finger in time.