Kill Them Wherever You Find Them (14 page)

Hesitantly but with steadily growing resolve
Belle licked a finger, slowly lowering it inside a jar of poison, a
powder sprinkled in areas where mice were found. Removing the
finger to taste it she grimaced with disgust, dry heaving. Any
varmint stupid enough to actually eat this vile-tasting stuff
deserved to die.

Her only other option was the jug of some
liquid kept in the barn. Belle couldn't read the words but the
skull-and-crossbones on the label told her all she needed to know.
She tipped some liquid onto the top of her index finger. It did
have a slightly odd taste but nothing that would be overt if
properly mixed into a big breakfast. Martin could be counted on to
nearly breathe in his food taking little, if any, notice of taste.
This was 'specially true of breakfast: grits, eggs, even coffee
when they could rassle up some.

When coffee wasn't available, generally the
case during this dreadful war, adults settled for something a
little "stronger" to get some fire in their bellies with a long day
of work ahead. Men and children not engaged in war had to work
double hard to make up for the lack of hands in the fields, not
counting slaves.

Belle endured the pain and shame of her
fourth day and night with Martin knowing that everything would
change the next morning. She even hummed very quietly, almost
imperceptibly. Martin liked everything to go as he demanded, with
precision, without the slightest deviation.

Belle never hummed before, she damn sure had
no reason to now; not with a swollen, bruised eye and torn ear
lobes. She had the nerve to wear the most disgraceful earrings
Martin had ever seen. He would not tolerate a Jezebel under his
roof. Rather than tell her, he felt it best to be the man of his
house, ripping them from her ears with his hands.

How could he marry somebody so stupid, so
deserving of almost constant punishment and discipline? Martin
didn't feel like humming, last night was anything but enjoyable for
him. So why should she? He kept a watchful eye on her always but
more intently this morning.

Stirring the grits he saw her take something
from her apron pocket, pouring it in as she removed the pan from
the fire. Enraged he flew at her, pinning her scrawny neck against
the wall while yelling so uncontrollably that his saliva peppered
her face.

Breaking down like the coward he knew she
was, Belle admitted her poor judgment pleading with God and Martin
to forgive her. Martin threw her to the ground, stomping on her
chest until he felt ribs break; the cracking sound so sweet to his
ears. Then he grabbed the frying pan from the potbelly stove,
throwing the contents, still steaming, on her face.

Broken sobs and whimpering, Belle turned over
on her side in a futile attempt to protect her face and head from
his wrath. After a few more kicks he stormed from the house,
furious with indignation and rage, making his way to the shack of
one of his slaves. His wife wouldn't be any good for his
gratification in her current state.

If Belle ever tried to do anything like that
again, she'd find herself buried deep in the woods, next to two
other white women who stupidly chose to not be compliant. Such was
the case with a slave girl, maybe eleven years of age, who was
buried by her Pappy in the black cemetery. Others joined her over
the years. How was it that females just didn't know their
place?

Yes, such memories caused a slight grin to
cross Martin's face as he sat rocking slowly, smoking his pipe.
What added to this moment of pleasure was the knowledge that his
wife and oldest daughter were trembling just now, quiet as the mice
that they were. Martin knew they would stay as still as possible
now that the dishes were washed, dried, and put properly away. They
sat there, trembling, just waiting to hear the fall of his
footsteps. Would the coin toss bring him back into their home, or
over to the slave shacks?

He thought on so many personal pleasures,
past and just moments away, the twilight time of day being his
favorite.

His mind went wandered to his childhood. His
Pappy brought home a puppy for his birthday. The mutt couldn't have
been more than knee-high to a grasshopper. The puppy was kinda fun
but by the end of the day too needy. When not napping or eating it
would not leave Martin's side no matter how many times he kicked it
away.

At the creek where Martin would go to catch
crawdads, Mama made the best crawdad pie, he also liked to shoot at
'coons and squirrels with his slingshot. Sometimes he'd hit them.
Coons he learned quick 'nuf to leave be when injured, they could be
mean rascals. Their bites were something vicious. Martin respected
coons. Squirrels had a bite something vicious too, but were a lot
easier to handle as they were lighter. Made for good eatin' too.
Martin loved knocking squirrels out of trees, seeing how many times
it would take to throw rocks at them 'afore they finally died. It
interested him to watch their large eyes, black as they were, you
could see life in them. When they died you could see the life sorta
leak
out of their eyes. A dozen or so squirrels later Martin
still could not quite pinpoint what it is about death and the eyes,
but
something
was there. Would this limited to
squirrels?

Pleased that Pappy got him a puppy, it was
rare Pappy even acknowledged his existence, he was very annoyed by
how much of his time the dog seemed to need. When it was awake, the
darn varmint just wouldn't leave him alone. Wonder if he could see
life leave a dog's eyes too? The stupid dog happily followed him
down to the creek, bounding over the smallest twigs and rocks.
Stupid and small.

At the creek, he took off his britches,
wading deeper into the creek with the puppy cradled securely in his
arms. The fool mutt looked happy, panting with his tongue hanging
out, eyes darting everywhere anticipating whatever adventures to
which puppies are drawn.

Quickly lowered into the cool water, he
enjoyed seeing the dog kick its overgrown paws in a feeble,
pathetic attempt at escape for a breath of air. While Martin was
amused, he wasn't happy. Nothing made him happy, or sad for that
matter. Slight amusement at seeing the dog struggle for life at
least gave him some sense of finally, though fleetingly, feeling
alive and connected to the world. It brought back the memory of his
first up-close squirrel kill.

Eventually the puppy's eyes fixed on
Martin's, through the slight rippling of water. Shore 'nuf, as the
life left, his small body with overlarge ears and paws going limp
then totally still, there was something in the eyes that gave away
the fact that death held full sway. Curious about those he felt
were sub-humans, he would recreate this same experiment with one of
Pappy's slave girls.

~ ~ ~

Reminiscing has its place but his pocket
watch showed it time to toss the coin. Standing up, something he
knew sent his wife and daughter into a fright, he tossed it into
the air. Damn, one of the slaves for the third night in a row. He
hoped for young vanilla dessert this time. "Well now," Martin
mused, "time honored tradition must be followed." Maybe just this
once he'd slightly break with tradition and take a few steps toward
his own door. Hearing two slight cries Martin smiled, did an
about-face pivot on the heel of one boot, briskly walking down the
steps of the porch toward the slave shack. He'd have to keep 'em
guessing more often!

Though he certainly didn't need to cloak
anything he did under the cover of darkness he appreciated the
cooler time of nightfall which allowed him greater energy to
satiate his unbridled passions.

In no less than the shake of a lamb's tail
from the time Martin entered the run-down wooden shack he ripped
the rags-for-a-dress of one of the cowering slave girls. Her pleas
for him to spare her daughter tonight covered the slight sound of
the door, wide leather straps for hinges, opening quickly again.
Another white man stepped into the tiny living area that served as
kitchen, living, and sleeping quarters. Modern-day jail cells for
the worst murderers were more luxurious, Jeff thought, than what
served as a home for this family.

Before Martin's brain fully registered not
fright but the presence of surprise in the eyes of his plaything,
his neck was cleanly broken.

As his body slumped to the dirt floor Jeff
threw the note he wrote on Martin's still exhaling chest yelling
"Rot in hell 'ya dang thief" in the direction of the main
house.

Jeff made a hasty, well-planned exit back
into the woods after first looking to make sure that the women in
the main house, as well as all of the people in other slave huts,
came out to get a good look at him. In this darkness, with nothing
but a few candles and what little lantern light spilled out the
open door of one of the shacks, they would be able to see that he
was a white man in the uniform of the Confederacy, nothing more.
This description, supported with the note left with the body, would
be enough to exonerate both family and slaves of the murder.

Jeff hoped that when he returned to his own
time that there would be something noted in the annals of written
history on this family so he could know for himself how they
faired. Though he really had no logical responsibility for Martin's
family or the slaves at all, nonetheless he felt responsible much
in the same vein that an old proverb held that if one saved a life
one was responsible for the welfare of that life. He remembered a
teaching in the Talmud, "When you save a soul, you save the entire
world."

Maybe it was the terrors he witnessed in
their lives these last couple of days that made Jeff feel a kind of
closeness to these people. As difficult as taking a life was, even
one as reprehensible as the late Martin McGlothlin, he felt a
certain peace about it knowing that this devil incarnate would
never again hurt another person.

Jeff wondered what Martin's wife and
daughters would do once they realized he was permanently out of
their lives and they were beyond his grasp. He hoped that things
were in order so that his wife would keep the house where her
daughters could grow up in relative safety. Perhaps they would have
to flee as the Union Army encroached, then again perhaps not. A
comfortable house it nonetheless wasn't large enough to quarter
more than five or six soldiers, certainly not large enough to
confiscate for any other military purpose.

Then there was the matter of nature versus
nurture, a hotly debated topic in his time. With father and husband
gone would the daughters' lives be improved sufficiently for them
to grow up happy and strong or had the damage already been done?
Would his wife have to remarry so she could have the money to keep
her house and food on the table? In this time, especially in the
South, it was almost certain she would. Jeff hoped that in such a
case a good man would be in her future.

Such musings helped to pass the time as Jeff
quickly, but not so much so as to arouse the suspicions of any
observer, made his way back to the
landing
area. The
scientists didn't believe it necessary to return to the physical
place where he
landed
in order to initiate the return
sequence but having come so far why take a needless risk now?
Besides, he buried the small device at the base of a large tree
rather than risk carrying it on his person. It proved a decision
that served him well. Without a doubt it spared his life when
captured by the Confederate soldiers.

Checking his surroundings carefully,
confirming himself to be alone, Jeff retrieved the device from
where he buried it. Activating it, he once again stepped through
space-time.

Table of Contents

10. Stick in a River

"I must govern the clock, not
be governed by it."
- Golda Meir

Near Rishon L'Tzion, State Of
Israel

Dr. No'am Abrams was
deep in thought about
the history that was about to be made, and re-made. For how long
have humans postulated the possibility of travel through time,
either as strict observers or as now as those who would
intentionally tamper with past events?

He recalled heated arguments among his peers
and professors in the world of academia, those happy days of theory
construction and inevitable scholarly deconstruction. Endless
postulating. While each theory was discussed and morphed into new
theories, it all came down to, "Can it be done, and if so, how?
Additionally what are the consequences to current and future events
and peoples?"

He remembered one teacher lecturing on time
as a river. No, not the old theory of Dr. Einstein about a man
standing at a river as a metaphor for the passage of time – seeing
past, present and future depending on how the river was situated,
rather the 'Stick in the River' argument. This argument, really any
theory being little more than an argument until proven or refuted,
stated that minor changes in time would be like a stick floating
down a river. Odds are that the stick would float merrily on its
way until it settled on a bank. It is possible that the stick might
lodge onto something else, then other items accumulate one-by-one
until a dam was created to truly distort the path of the river.
This was unlikely because, theoretically anyway, time is a strong
and fast moving river, therefore throwing a stick into it shouldn't
have any substantially negative outcome.

No'am and his team, Lt. General Ashkelon, the
Prime Minister, and a few guests from the other two Project
facilities would witness the first stick in the river and whatever
effects, if any, said stick had in the downstream waters of their
own time and circumstances.

A round-the-clock team monitored surveillance
cameras in the area, awaiting Jeff's return. Not knowing exactly
where he would
land
but believing it should be at the very
departure point if the GPS on both ends functioned as they should,
with the GPS on Jeff's device activating once it entered the
current time stream and connected to the requisite satellites.
Nervous anticipation grew as this mission was expected to require
just a few days, maybe a week at most. More than two weeks had
passed.