Kill Them Wherever You Find Them (13 page)

Shots could be heard nearby. A couple of
times Jeff heard the hum of lead balls flying past them,
uncomfortably close. The nurse seemed to trust him, or at least not
be sufficiently coherent as to offer tangible resistance. They were
making good distance from what seemed to be the center of fighting
when she fell to the ground, face first.

From under the headdress that nurses of that
time wore - reminding him of pre-Vatican II era Roman Catholic nuns
- blood blossomed, rapidly spreading into the surrounding cloth.
Raising her head slightly, he pressed his fingers into the carotid
artery on her neck. The pulse felt weak and slowing. Within moments
- but what seemed an eternity to him - the blood slowed, finally
completing its macabre pattern in the cloth as her heart concluded
its struggle with mortality.

Training and experience kicking in, Jeff
gently laid her head to rest on the ground, then without hesitation
or looking back resumed his retreat from the area. He had neither
the emotional energy nor currency in time to spend on the dead.

Jeff had three mortal enemies now: First the
doctor, who must have realized from even a rudimentary medical
examination that his strange patient did not exactly belong. Second
the Union Army in advance while he wore a Confederate soldier’s
uniform. Third, the very real possibility of reopening his wound
while in flight with added potential for infection.

As the sun set the sounds of war receded
distantly behind him. By nightfall they had slowed and then stopped
altogether. In his time it would be rare for nightfall to signal a
complete cessation of violence. Jeff was grateful for the lack of
night vision goggles and heat-seeking weaponry in the hands of the
advancing army. As horrific as the Civil War was in both American
and world history, at least one could depend on a degree of respite
in the evening hours. Hours that Dr. Stauffenberg would have to use
to his benefit if only to survive another day and to continue these
nascent steps of genuine history revision.

If a very minor change to the timeline of the
descendants of one family, a "white supremacy" family of which the
world would be better off eradicated from the annals of history
could be altered without changing the course of history in
important already-transpired aspects; it would be entirely possible
to alter the course of his time.

The
now
to which Jeff belonged was a
time in which World War III was quickly taking shape. Such a war
would guarantee the deaths of hundreds of millions resulting in the
decimation of civilization with the implosion of governments,
global finances, markets, food and medical distribution networks,
everything vital to any form of civilized, collective human
living.

Should civilization collapse, radical
pseudo-military groups would most likely take over to dominate
surviving pockets of humanity with an iron fist until opposing
groups grew strong, independent enough to unite with other such
groups.

The Project
, in the future and now
inserted into the past, would be the best - and likely
only
- hope to avoid the upcoming holocaust and subsequent descent into
global chaos.

Table of Contents

9. Removed From Time

"Time is free, but it's priceless. You can't
own it, but you can use it. You can't keep it, but you can spend
it. Once you've lost it you can never get it back."
- Harvey
MacKay

Roanoke, Virginia, United States
of America, 1864

Winding through back trails,
Jeff
Stauffenberg made his way to his objective: the farm of Martin J.
McGlothlin. Not just a slave owner but also a brutal sadist who
savored the beatings of servant and family member alike. Women were
subject to much worse than the frequently administered
beatings.

Jeff always tried to see the best in others,
trying to understand the emotional void in a person's life that
would steer them into making poor life choices. While his theology
taught that we are all literal sons and daughters of a common
Heavenly Father, thus born into this world innately good, he knew
that there were those in history who stood out as examples of a
pure personification of evil: Hitler, Pol Pot, and Caligula to name
just a few. For Jeff this had previously been something more
intellectual than personal. McGlothlin made it deeply personal.

Strenuous physical and psychological
training, first in the United States then Israel, would be to his
advantage but nothing could have fully prepared him for this
encounter with Martin McGlothlin. Had Martin lived in the time of
Hitler – still decades ahead of his current time – he would have
gladly volunteered to join the S.S.

Hidden from view just inside the woods that
bordered the McGlothlin farm to reconnoiter for a couple of days to
observe Martin's schedule and habits, Jeff was a personal witness
to the very worst of humanity. Even then it had been limited to
what he saw outside and heard issuing from within the main house.
Still loathing what he had to do, at least these observations added
an increase of steel to his resolve.

It was little wonder that this man's son and
several of his great-great-grandchildren became what they were. One
would prove to be even worse than Martin.

Though family members were brought to trial
more than once over the generations, there was never a conviction
because the jury of each of the accused – including three of the
McGlothlin women - were too fearful of retaliation up to and
including the forfeiture of their lives.

Jeff reached the decision to wait until the
following night to remove Martin and his sons from the annals of
history. Two daughters had already been born. The two sons, the
eldest of whom would spawn at least three more generations of
unbridled hate and terror, were yet to be conceived.

From what Jeff had already mentally cataloged
Martin nightly went to one of the slave shacks on the periphery of
the farm to have his way with two females, while the husband/father
could only look on helplessly – afterward reduced to tears of shame
and anger.

Nobody in the main house or the other slave
shacks dared to step outside or even go to a window during this
time. Should there arise any loud noise, even threats or shouts,
all ears would turn a deaf ear out of self-preservation. Yes, this
would be the ideal time to strike decidedly and swiftly. While Jeff
did not like the thought of killing a man in cold blood he knew
McGlothlin's blood was nothing more than ice coursing through his
veins.

Jeff's specialized military training gave him
the ability to "turn off" his emotions while engaged in fighting.
He knew he would be easily able to do so tonight. Turning off his
emotions to the plight of the people around him proved much more
difficult, if not impossible.

Doing research on his own family tree he
learned that some of his own ancestors were slave owners, a
knowledge which deeply shamed him. Telling himself he wasn't
responsible for the actions, ignorance and ultimate greed of those
who preceded him, shame welled up in his chest nonetheless. Night
could not come soon enough. Given that this was mid-June, it would
not come soon as quickly as he would have liked.

Jeff must forever remain a witness to the
great shame that was his beloved country's dark chapter of history
unfolding all around him. He regretted that returning to his own
time would not erase from his memory the atrocities he witnessed.
History will soon blot out this man and his absolute malevolence,
but Jeff's mind never could. Perhaps the memory loss that too often
accompanies old age, a prospect he loathed, might prove to be a
kindness after all should he live long enough to be thus
afflicted.

Still suffering from his wound and subsequent
surgery, Jeff welcomed the intervening hours to rest, gather
strength for what lay ahead. He retired more deeply into the woods,
drifting into an uneasy slumber almost as soon as he settled down.
His head and back rested uneasily against a large tree that also
provided additional cool shade in a woodland already somewhat
darkened by the sheer density and number of trees.

At length darkness fell, bringing with it a
soothing cool breeze that carried the nocturnal sounds of forest
fauna. Stauffenberg knew that all too soon the breeze would also
carry the sounds of women's terror.

In his
borrowed
uniform was a piece of
paper and a short, whittled down to the nub, pencil. On the
crumpled paper Jeff wrote, "This here is my vengeance for the lying
horse thief. May Martin McGlothlin's soul rot in Hell. - D.H." It
was important that any suspicion which might be cast on any of the
slaves or wife for his murder be allayed. Given their condition,
Jeff had no doubt but what they were unable to read or print, much
less write in cursive. Considering the character and reputation of
McGlothlin the message on the letter would be believable, if not
provable. Town residents would doubtlessly wonder for quite some
time exactly who "D.H." was, being grateful to the stranger all the
same.

Checking the pocket watch, also in the
uniform of the man-boy who must have come from a family of means,
given the quality and exquisite etched details on the watch cover,
Jeff decided to start moving toward the farm.

~ ~ ~

Martin was nothing if not a creature of
habit.

After dinner he went to the wrap-around porch
to sit in his favorite rocking chair, smoke his favorite tabaccy in
his favorite pipe. He'd flip a coin, heads meaning he'd get some
vanilla dessert that evening - another flip would determine if it
be his wife or daughter. In the event of vanilla he hoped the coin
would dictate it be his daughter, he easily tired of his wisp of a
wife. Tails would mean chocolate - another flip to determine mother
or her young daughter. He smiled as he thought on the
possibilities, his enduring descriptions of flavors and types of
dessert, terms in which he thought of people pretty much all of his
adult life.

His mind went back to his first week of
marriage. Some eight years passed, moren or lessen. His
father-in-law was a kindred spirit, didn't have much use for the
women folk other than cookin' and pleasure for himself and a few of
his kin when they paid a visit. Reckin' that's why Belle didn't
have much spit in her.

A few romps in the hay with minor bruises and
cuts, were Martin's way of celebrating the first week of gettin'
hitched.

Belle's Ma died when she was knee high to a
grasshopper. She pretty much took over raisin' the youngins at
home, within a year assuming wifely duties to her Pa 'til he got
himself another woman. Not that her Pa completely let her alone
after gettin' hitched again, but she had some nights of fitful
sleep alone. Even such nights the slightest noise, a creak of the
stairs or tree hitting the house on a windy night would awaken
Belle as surely as a slap on the face.

For Belle, marriage would be no better – or
worse – than living with her Pa. Just different, having to very
quickly get used to the demands and personality of a different man.
She had seen Martin many times over the years, mostly in town. He
was fine-lookin', to be sure, but those coal-dark eyes seemed to
conceal something brooding just under the surface. Menacing or
mysterious, just getting away from Pa . . . Belle could only
imagine.

A flirt here, sometimes a shy sideways glance
there, assured that Martin took a shine to her. When he came to
call on Belle's Pa she was surprised at how readily Pa agreed, no
objections. She felt so sure that he would never set her free.
'Course, going out to the church picnic wasn't 'xactly settin' her
free, but it was the first glimpse of hope and the possibility of
one day being happy.

They didn't go to the picnic. Belle returned
home with a soiled dress, dried tear stains on her face, hair
rumpled, and bits of leaves still embedded in the disheveled curls.
Pa gave Martin a stern look, asked him if anybody seen him. Assured
that there were prying eyes nowhere near, Pa smiled, slapped Martin
on the back, sending him on his way. Nothing more said, nothing
more done, other than to ask Martin to thank his Pappy for the fine
horse he received as a gift last week. Belle knew her fate was
sealed.

The first week of marriage Belle found Martin
to be no better than Pa; even worse 'cause Pa at least never beat
her. She couldn't run away, 'specially with the war and danger from
Yankees all around. Belle was strong enough to know that killing
herself would just condemn somebody else to eventually take her
place in Martin's home. If she killed Martin and played the
grieving widow convincingly, she figured she'd have a home and be
free of him with the means to never have to return home to Pa. With
a very limited education and no thought of matters such as a Last
Will & Testament, she weighed her options.

Most women would have been so worn down
emotionally and mentally broken by a life such as hers that any
plan of escape would never have even started to form, let alone be
seriously considered.

Still young at just fifteen and made of
stronger stuff – possessed of a certain pride and dignity she saw
her Ma carry in spite of her own tragic life – Belle hoped that
there might still be something more for her if she acted quickly
enough.

There were a couple different poisons at the
farm, given all the critters what were eatin' the crops in the
ground and tabaccy hanging on the racks to dry. This seemed to
Belle the best option. A tall, barrel-chested man, petite Belle
could never hope to gain the upper hand in a physical match against
Martin. She'd be no match even when he was in the throws of his
worst drunken stupor of which there were many; starting with their
nuptials night. That night included disgusting perversions her new
husband forced on her followed by her first beating as Mrs.
McGlothlin.