Re-Runners First Life: A Time Travel Suspense Series (2 page)

Dylan March

25 July 2007

McNelly’s Bistro & Bar

Sydney, Australia

‘Hey Dylan,’ came a shout from the corner of the bar. ‘Over here.’

As he entered
McNelly’s
, Dylan March paused briefly to cast his gaze around the room to see who else was present. It had become a habit to check out the movers and shakers in a room and to always gravitate towards them ... and he hated himself for it.

The barman placed a coaster in front of the stockbroker before asking, ‘The usual?’

Dylan nodded and turned his back on the crowd. Just another Friday night of drinking with work colleagues.
I don’t enjoy it, so why do I bother?
The thought was quickly replaced with the obvious answer. ‘Because it’s better than going home,’ he mumbled into the whiskey glass Barney had placed in front of him.

‘Did you say something?’

Dylan threw back the alcohol in a few large gulps before putting the empty glass down and signaling for a re-fill. ‘Do you ever wonder if it’s all worth it, Barney?’

‘Had a bad day Mr March? I hear you’re in line for one of the top jobs soon – a senior partner of Baker Townsend. Shouldn’t you be celebrating?’

Dylan looked over his shoulder at the group of suited men at the corner table. Like him, they were all junior partners in the city’s most prestigious stockbroking firm – Baker Townsend and Associates, but the senior partnership was his, following the retirement of his father-in-law John Townsend. He looked back to Barney who watched him quietly as he polished an already sparkling glass. ‘Do you like your job Barney? Do you like what you do?’

Barney stopped and looked at the executive, taking in his haggard face. He liked Dylan March. He’d been a regular at
McNelly’s
for many years. Barney had known him in the early days when he’d started his own stockbroking firm. He was happy then; fit and healthy. If he came in for a drink it was more often a soda and lime. But Barney had watched with sadness the changes in Dylan since he sold his business and joined Baker Townsend. The fit young man had disappeared and an overworked, hard drinking and bitter person now stood in his place. ‘As a matter of fact Mr March, I love my job.’

A sad smile creased Dylan’s face. ‘Then you are indeed a fortunate man, Barney.’ He sighed and nodded for another re-fill before making his way over to the men in the corner.

His colleagues’ congratulations were genuine enough. A stark contrast to when he’d first come to work at Baker Townsend ten years ago. Then, he’d been looked upon as an opportunist. Moving into a plum position at his wife’s behest and as the son-in-law of one of the senior partners, it took some years and hard work before Dylan felt he had finally proved himself to his peers. That he was now respected and admired by them didn’t matter anymore. He hated his life.

Dylan stayed as long as he could stand it. Putting on a face of false enthusiasm for his new position was more than he could handle tonight and he said his goodbyes early. With three whiskeys under his belt, the last a double; Dylan knew he was over the limit. But the sleek Mercedes Sports seemed to know its own way home to the harbourside mansion in Vaucluse. It was cold, damn cold, but he lowered the window and let the bitter wind blast his face anyway.

He thought about what waited for him at home. The cold shoulder of his wife Phillipa.
At least that’s better than one of her screaming rants.

He prayed she’d already retired to her private suite of rooms, because tonight he knew he couldn’t face another argument.
Had it always been like this?

For a moment Dylan thought back to his university days and the beginning of his romance with Phillipa. No, he’d loved her then, but now he could see how she’d begun to manipulate and mould him into her idea of the perfect husband, right from the start.
And I let her do it.

He’d followed her plans for him, like the naive kid he was. He’d given up his family name, his own business and eventually even the chance to become a father. Phillipa kept delaying having a baby with one reason or another and now it was too late. They hadn’t slept together in years and the marriage was a farce. He’d threatened to leave but she’d threatened and attempted suicide and so he stayed.... and worked.... and earned the money she needed. But it was never enough. The mansion in Vaucluse, the holiday homes, the cars, the boat, the trips... never enough. Even with his inflated income as a junior partner and investor, he was struggling to keep them afloat.

The strain was starting to show in his grey face and bloated body. Too much drinking, too much working, too much brown-nosing self-important people. He gripped the leather wheel in sudden frustration.

Slow it, Marchioni. You’ve made your bed...

The wrought iron gates of his home slid silently open at the touch of a button and Dylan drove towards his open garage door. Pulling on the hand brake he leaned forward to turn off the ignition when a crushing pain hit him. Clutching his chest he tried to suck in air, but the band of pressure tightened as he pulled helplessly at his shirt buttons.

Dylan March, age 45 years was dead of a massive heart attack at 9.32pm.

Christian Turner

25 July 2007

Los Angeles USA

Christian checked his profile in the small bathroom mirror and smiled. He reached up to smooth his hair and then examined his fingernails and cuticles for any signs of blood.

He had showered and dressed in the fresh change of clothes he had brought with him. Running a manicured finger around the shower drain, he made sure any stray hairs had been completely removed before he again splashed the carefully scrubbed walls, handles and floor of the shower recess with a bottle of bleach. The empty bottle joined his bloody clothes, latex gloves, mini vacuum machine and used bath towels in a plastic garbage bag he had brought for that purpose. His weapons of choice; the thin, fine blade perfect for inscribing in soft flesh and a small hacksaw for cutting through bone, were wrapped in a hand towel belonging to his victim, which he also dropped into the plastic bag.

He looked around the room with satisfaction and exited without touching anything else.

Pausing at the door of the master bedroom he felt the blossoming of lust that always accompanied a good and artistic kill.

The bloodied body of a young woman was arranged in the middle of the double bed. Aside from the neat slice from ear to ear that created the cascade of red which covered her breasts and shoulders, her hands had been severed and placed over her eyes and face. Of her head, only her long blond hair, now sticky with drying blood, was visible. Her feet had been taped before being separated from her long, shapely legs by two strong blows from his chopping blade. Into the soft skin of her stomach Christian had carved a heart, in the centre of which was the girl’s severed finger encircled by a colorful plastic ring.

He had done this with all of the twenty-nine women he had murdered on US soil. It was his way of saying thank you to them for not only giving him pleasure in their pain, but also for fulfilling the need he craved. Without them, he felt he would surely go mad.... and so he was grateful.

He blew her a kiss as he turned and silently made his way downstairs.
The next will be number forty,
Christian thought
. Quite a milestone. Perhaps something extra special will be in order
.

Christian’s body count was in fact forty-one, but he didn’t regard the do-gooders who had taken him in and adopted him as a small child worthy of his tally. Their death had been a financial necessity and he didn’t include them in his list of
Lovelies, as he liked to call his victims.

Although to be fair, as an eighteen year old, holding a pillow over his adopted parent’s faces and incinerating them in the family home had shown him the true thrill that killing another human being could bring.

His happy memories were interrupted suddenly by a shout. ‘Drop the bag Turner and put your hands in the air.’

Christian did as he was told.

‘I have to say Detectives Sutton and Perez, I underestimated you.’ Christian laughed. ‘Who would have thought two dumb cops such as you would finally catch up with me? How long have I been on your personal radar? Fifteen years?’

‘Sixteen years, you piece of scum,’ growled Marc Perez. He and his partner Pete Sutton kept their firearms centered on the notorious serial killer. ‘But I guess all good things come to an end.’

‘Ah yes,’ answered Christian with a sigh. ‘I suppose they must.’ He slowly lowered his right hand and reached inside his windbreaker.

‘STOP,’ yelled Sutton. ‘I’ll shoot.’

Christian smiled as his other hand quickly pulled at the zipper. The sound of gunshots rang out in the quiet neighborhood. Christian never carried a gun. But he never planned on being taken alive either.

Christian Turner age 49, murderer with thirty-nine (correction, forty-one) kills to his name, died in a hail of bullets at 4.32am (9.32pm in Australia) on July 25, 2007.

Chapter 1

1975

Brentwood, LA

‘Hey freak.’ Christian ignored the taunt as he always did. High School was a necessary evil to Christian. He was biding his time and putting his plans in place. Occasionally, the anger escaped and he had to ease the tension with his own form of release – killing.

‘Hey freak, I’m talkin’ to you.’ The voice was directly behind him now. Christian turned slowly and fixed his pale blue eyes on the football jock in front of him. Chuck was the very definition of big and brawny, but he was light on brains.

Christian was just as tall, but slim with pale skin and fair hair. He lifted the corner of his mouth in a parody of a smile and stared without fear into the eyes of his abuser. ‘Yes? Is there something I can do for you?’

Chuck faltered for a second. He was used to a different response from his victims; more fear. He mentally shook himself and came back with, ‘Yea freak, you can get out of my space. You annoy me.’

Christian tipped his head to one side, never breaking the chilly contact of those ice blue eyes. ‘I believe it is you who has entered my space.’

‘Huh?’ the larger boy frowned. ‘You got a death wish or somethin’?’

‘Do
you
?’ Christian answered. ‘Remember, there are worse things than a dead cat.’ With that, he turned his back on Chuck and continued along the sidewalk.

A cold shiver hit the footballer. What did the freak know about their family cat? It had been found dead and dissected on the front door mat of their home only this morning. His mother had been hysterical and his father furious. The police were called. It had been a circus.

He watched Christian’s relaxed stride as he walked away.
The freak? No way. Not a wimp like him
.

The things that had been done to his childhood pet had been revolting. Innards displayed in gross patterns and limbs severed and rearranged. No, not even the freak could do that. It was a real sicko, someone demented. The freak might be weird, but he was smart.

It was why Chuck targeted him. A part of him recognized Christian’s intellectual superiority and he was intimidated. He fought back the only way he knew how - bullying.

No, the freak couldn’t do the things that were done to that cat. But just in case, Chuck decided to steer clear of him in future. There were plenty of other weaklings to torment.

ooooo

Christian entered the house, went upstairs to his bedroom and shut the door. His mother Doris heard him come in, but she knew better than to disturb Christian when his door was closed.

Doris and Albert Turner had adopted Christian as a two year old. He’d always been distant and unresponsive to their efforts to nurture and care for him. They had waited so long for a child and they loved him the best they could, but Christian was a hard child to love. They tried everything to break through his shell; spoiled him with toys and holidays, arranged parties he refused to attend. He had no need of friends and as he grew older, he appeared to have no need of parents.

Albert had given up on the child years ago and barely spoke to him. That suited Christian just fine. Doris still tried, every day she tried; but she saw the contempt he had for them shining from those pale blue eyes. And she had to admit, he frightened her. Not because of his occasional bouts of rage. They were short lived. It was his silent scrutiny that scared her the most.

At least he’d grown out of hurting things. The dead birds and rodents she found when he was still a small child had signs of torture. She had hidden them from Albert and hoped Christian would stop. Eventually he did, or perhaps he just got better at hiding them. Doris didn’t want to think about that.

ooooo

Christian stood at his bedroom window and looked out over the spacious front lawn of their suburban house. It was a nice house. It would be a shame to lose it, but it had to be so. He glanced at the calendar above the study desk. Only five days until his eighteenth birthday.

His plans were in place.
How wonderful it will be to be free.
He had thoroughly researched everything he needed. He knew his rights and entitlements and looked forward to a bright future.