A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  “You don’t remember because I never told you. I was sitting up there, feeling sorry for myself, because everybody at school was calling me Scarhead. They were all saying I’d be better off dead, and I believed them.”

  Staying in a ball, Warren leaned to his left until he fell onto his side.

  Tanner said, “Darren and two of his buddies came by before you did and saw me sitting in the fort. They chanted, ‘Tanner…Scarhead. Dumb as the rock that should have made him dead.’”

  Warren muttered, “I always hated it when they called you that.”

  “I know man, me too. They took turns beating the pieces of wood off the tree trunk until I had no way down. They annihilated that ladder. I sat up there by myself until you came looking for me.”

  “I suck. I wasn’t looking for you, I just wanted your helmet.”

  “It's cool, man. My point is, I didn’t care about the ladder. I wasn’t planning on coming down.”

  Warren sat up and pulled the hoodie off his head. “You weren’t?”

  “No. I wasn’t.” Tanner climbed out of the hot tub.

  “What were you doing?”

  Tanner took the towel off his baby bear hook and dried himself. “I was going to…” He pulled on his pants and picked up his T-shirt. Written in orange letters over a yellow sun, his shirt read LIFE’S BETTER IN HAWAII.

  Warren raised his hands. “You were going to…”

  “You wouldn’t leave me alone. You stopped asking for my helmet and started looking for a way to get me down. I yelled at you to leave, but you wouldn’t do it. I kept telling you to leave me alone, but you wouldn’t. Do you remember what you did?”

  “No.”

  “You piled up a bunch of rocks and sticks, and you stayed there until I came down.”

  “Oh.” Warren thought for a moment. “If you hadn’t come down, what were you going to do?”

  Tanner clasped his hands together. He squeezed them until his knuckles turned white. “I was going to hang myself.”

  Tanner’s stupid T-shirt flapped in the wind, and a chill skipped across Warren’s back.

  “All I wanted to do was end it, but you wouldn’t leave me alone.” Tanner’s voice deepened and sounded stressed as if he was forcing his words through a brick wall. “Never ask me to leave you alone Warren. I won’t do it.”

  Warren couldn’t remember when he had seen Tanner this angry—more monster than wizard. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. Tanner sat next to him and did the same.

  A cool wind wiggled the needles on the pines and blew a few onto the deck. They skittered across the wood planks and piled up under the bench. Time passed, and, as his mom had predicted, rain clouds moved in above Tamarack. The Sphinx Pollack sat next to the shadows in Lake Forest, and Tanner sat next to Warren.

  Without warning, Tanner stood up and threw off the clouds. “Hey, man. Let’s go.” The crazy glint in his eyes had returned. “I’ve got the cigarettes, you got the bong?”

  “It’s not a bong, it’s a—” Tanner’s eyes worked their magic on Warren, and he relented. “Yeah, I still got it.”

  Warren attempted to sling his backpack over his shoulder and failed. It was full of bricks, or his arms had turned into rubber, or both. The urn made the outer pocket bulge, and he briefly put his hand over it. He heaved harder, and this time, his backpack slid into place.

  Tanner said, “Let’s get high and fly, man.” He bounced down the steps and waved at Warren—more wizard than monster. Together, they walked around the bend in Melody Lane and headed for the Tenoco.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Deathcheaters Never See It Coming

  Doc said, “Shut your ijit mouth.” He wrapped his arm around Dasha’s waist and slung her over his shoulder. She kicked. She screamed. Doc’s boot crushed a mound of dirt at the edge of the yard.

  “Hoppy’s Place,” she said. “Poppa—”

  Doc cupped his hand over her face. “You got to shut your ijit mouth, purty.”

  Dasha’s spit, snot, and tears slimed between Doc’s fingers. He carried her away from the road down the neighbor's driveway. A metal shed sat at the end of the drive next to the backyard. Earlier, Doc had found a wooden kitchen chair with a sign that read FREE along the road. He had picked it up, packed it to the shed, and ran rope through its legs. The chair was made of real wood, and he hated that he’d have to ruin it.

  Dasha bit him. “Ow. Goldurnit.”

  “Poppa…Darren…Help.”

  Doc kicked the door of the shed shut behind him and slung her onto the chair. Her little body made the chair tip, but Doc caught it and set it upright. He wrapped the rope around her waist, and she pushed against the seat. With one hand, he pushed on her shoulders, and slammed her butt against the wood. He looped the rope across her chest and slapped her face.

  Doc’s eyes flared. “I said, shut up ijit.”

  The longer this took, the longer he would have to wait before getting back to the Broken Pearl, and his Old Hawk whiskey. If he’d had his druthers, he would have quit by now. Other than the occasional chance to have some fun, like going boating, the only thing that made this job okay was knowing none of it mattered. He didn’t even care which Dasha he had, or if there was another one. Sure, torture motivated him, but over time, even that kind of motivation can wear thin. At least this one was easy. He laughed to himself.

  Deathcheaters never see it coming.

  “Popp—”

  Doc put a strip of gray duct tape over her mouth and wrapped it around her head…twice. He hadn’t intended to do it that way, but he couldn’t stand the yelping. He looped the rope around her legs and brought a strand up behind the chair. With one end coming across her chest, he made a slipknot and tightened the rope. Her chest flexed, she exhaled into the tape, and he pulled the rope tighter.

  “Aw, there there, purty. What you got to say now?”

  Tears streamed from Dasha’s pale blue eyes.

  Doc pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Let’s see now, I got to make sure you’re the right one. I guess it don't matter though. If I got to go to the other Tamarack and do this again, I will.”

  He compared the color photo on the paper to the face of the sobbing little girl. “Yep, your eyes match, and I saw the number 629 on your house over yonder. Don't you live in a trailer in the other Tamarack? Stupid ijit. You’re the right one though.”

  He re-read the name before shoving the paper back into his pocket. “Sredo. Hmm.” He put his face close to Dasha’s. “If you’re thinking about your stupid brother coming to get you, don’t. We’re going to be done here way before school lets out.”

  He opened the shed door and peered out. “Looks like we’re good to go, purty.” He grabbed the chair by the top rail and dragged her to the backyard.

  (Dasha watched the chair legs carve two little highways in the dirt.)

  Doc propped the chair up by a wood pile. Earlier, he had parked the neighbor’s ATV on the opposite end of the backyard. He got on the ATV and started the engine. Dasha was a mental patient writhing in a strait jacket. Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her muddy dress. Doc pulled on the clutch lever, revved the engine, and mashed his cracked teeth. This was going to be fun. He tapped the transmission into gear, let go of the clutch, and hit the gas.

  The front crossbar broke the frame of the chair into six pieces. Dasha's bones shattered. The knobby tires smashed her hips and crushed her ribcage. Doc swerved and missed the wood pile by inches. He wanted to whoop and holler, but contained himself. He put the ATV in reverse and backed over Dasha’s leg.

  “You’re pathetic. You’re a pathetic mess.” The tip of a rib poked through a bloody tear in her dress. “You’re a stupid ijit too. How many times did you think you could get away with not being run over?”

  He parked the ATV in the shed and found a white laundry bag hanging on the wall. He took it. Kneeling by Dasha’s body, he put pieces of the chair into the bag. He shook a liver, or a spleen, or
something—Doc wasn’t a doctor, so he didn’t know—off the wooden seat. Whatever it was, a fleshy tube connected it to the rest of her guts, and this made him happy. He could drag everything to the road in one trip.

  Once he had the wood picked up, he threw the rope and tape into the bag, and cinched it shut. He left the bag next to Dasha and walked to the end of the driveway. Doc glanced up the hill toward Lake Forest and saw no one. He looked the other way and grimaced. A boy stood two blocks away at the intersection of Acorn Row and Sparrow Street.

  Scratching his head, the boy looked lost, or pathetic—or both. He walked part way down Sparrow Street, stopped, and stared at the sky. A moment later, he turned toward Doc and headed up Acorn Row.

  Doc could play it cool and wait for the boy to pass, or he could hurry and drag Dasha’s body now. He squinted at the boy. The unmistakable caveman brow of a Sredo sloped out beneath a shock of blond hair with orange spots.

  “Goldurnit.” Doc ran back down the driveway. “Goldurnit to hell.”

  Dasha was known for dodging cars, not for getting kidnapped. Her lying dead in the backyard of the neighbor’s wouldn't look like an accident. Rule #2 was stupid. He already had to break rule #5—carry out what you carry in, leave what you find. Those stupid ghosty guys and their rules. He’d gotten away with breaking rule #5 before by saying, “How can I make it look like an accident if I leave behind a bunch of evidence?” He didn’t have a good argument for breaking rule #2 though, and he didn’t want to go back to Dryland.

  “Come on purty.” He scooped up Dasha’s twisted remains. “We’re going to have to step it up a bit.”

  He leaned over, careful not to drop her, and grabbed the laundry bag’s drawstring with his right hand. His peapod biceps strained to carry the load. His grit kicked in, and he mustered the will to make it. He ran to the end of the driveway and paid no mind to the organs dangling at his knees. Five stumbling steps brought him across the end, and he spied a bare spot of ground. It was perfect for Dasha’s body.

  What had that youngin yelped? Hoppy’s Place?

  Doc tripped and fell on the ground. He came face to face with Dasha, and his eyes narrowed on the tape over her mouth. No hit-and-run driver Doc had ever heard of would hit, tape somebody’s mouth shut, and run. Then again, maybe they would if they’d heard her god-awful yelping. Doc peeled part of the tape back, stood up, and pulled on it. The tape went schlect and stopped halfway around her head. He started jerking on it, and her head yo-yoed up and down, smacking the dirt.

  Doc glanced up and saw the Sredo boy walking across Blue Jay Street.

  He put his left boot on Dasha’s face and pulled. Her head spun with exorcistic abandon. The tape came free, and Doc back-pedaled into the street. Dasha’s head twisted a half-turn and fell face down on her chest. He hunched over and turned his head. The Sredo boy stared at the ground and kept walking. Doc didn’t know what kind of music could play in a person’s head to make them so oblivious. The boy must have had an oompah band in there with him.

  Doc slung the bloody bag of wood over his shoulder and walked the other way. At the top of the hill, Acorn Row intersected with Meadow Lark Street, and he turned around. Stibnite sprawled north and east, forming a crossword puzzle of beauty in the middle of a pinewood paradox. He loved it here, but he had to get back to the Broken Pearl. He had an inkling that his bosses wanted to see him.

  Doc turned his back on Stibnite and walked onto a narrow trail. Within a few steps, he had disappeared from civilization into Lake Forest. The sudden seclusion he found in the shadows surrounded him in safety. He stepped off the edge of the trail and—

  Everything went black, then white.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Oh, How He Hated the Rules

  The door to the Broken Pearl opened with a swoosh, and Doc sauntered inside.

  Jackson’s eyes lit up. “Hello Sir. May I ask what you have in the bag?”

  “It’s nothing.” Doc shot a quick glance at Jackson and walked to the lockers on the other side of the bar. “Just some rope and stuff from my last job.” He put the rope and the duct tape in a locker. He took a piece of wood out of the bag and held it up to the light. A trickle of blood ran down the wood and fell on the floor. “Hey Jackson. Is the dumpster out back full?”

  “No sir. The dumpster is quite empty.”

  “Just like your head, eh Jackson?”

  Jackson made a mechanical smile, and Doc shrugged it off. Jackson never got riled. Doc supposed it was in some people’s nature to be happy, but with Jackson, it seemed more like it was in his programming.

  “Do you have something you would like me to take out for you, sir?”

  Doc shoved the piece of wood into the bag and cinched it shut.

  A twinge shot up under both Doc’s shoulder blades. He grabbed his left elbow and stretched before the cramp took hold. “Yeah, Jackson, I do. That’d be kind of you.”

  “I am happy to do that for you. Will you be requiring a drink sir?” Jackson’s smile widened. “I have plenty of Old Hawk in stock.”

  “Nah. I’d like to, but I can’t. They give me an emergency job to do. I just barely finished on that deathcheater and they give me another one. I guess business is picking up.” Doc handed the bag to Jackson. “They said I had to do it now because this new temcor is on his way to becoming one of every kind, maybe even a preempter.” Doc gazed at the half empty bottle of whiskey on the bar. “It's going to be a lot of work.”

  “Very exciting for you sir.” Doc rolled his eyes and sighed. Jackson raised the bag above the bar. “Now sir, there isn’t anything in here I should know about, is there?”

  “Well, I reckon there may be a little something exciting in there. What if I told you this bag had a violation five in it?”

  “Ha, ha, ha. You make me laugh sir.” Jackson stowed the bag behind the bar. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  Yes, I would.

  “Please, tell me though, your new assignment, he might be one of everything? Even a skipper?”

  “Yep. If I don’t get this one soon, there’ll be a world of hurt for me.”

  “Of that sir, I have no doubt.” Jackson grabbed a pristine towel and wiped the bar. The shine he brought to the surface glistened off his proud eyes. “Of that sir, I have no doubt.”

  Doc walked out of the Broken Pearl and glowered at the sunlight. He pulled the job paper out of his back pocket. “Okay, let me see here…” When he unfolded the paper, his thumb smeared the profile picture. “Goldurnit.” He squinted and held the paper within inches of his face. “Ah well, no matter.”

  Doc preferred to hunt temcors based on their name alone. Even though he had spent the last twenty years sitting in a dim bar, he knew a lot of names. Mostly, if he had a name, then he could conjure up a face from recollection. It wasn’t like the Lumberman’s Club didn’t have windows. Youngins, though, gave Doc fits. Temcors so young that Doc had never seen them—like in Dasha’s case—or ones that had grown up since he’d seen them, forced him to read the description and study their profile picture. Doc straightened his arms and read his job paper.

  Says here he’s fifteen years old. I ain’t seen this pup since he was no more than five. Where does the time go?

  A sickening chuckle stirred in his gut. Time. How had he put up with this job for nine years? He’d never lasted anywhere more than a month or two. Sure, his bosses tortured him for the first of those nine years, but that wasn’t his reason for staying. This job gave him something more. Doc stared at the red horizon, scratched his head, and wondered which way Pine Creek was, up or down.

  At the time when a hip-shaker from Mississippi started a rocking and a rolling, or maybe it was when those Brits came to America with no haircuts and heaps of hippie music, Doc had worked in a box factory up in Pine Creek. Box factory work hadn’t had the glamour of being on the radio, but it had paid okay.

  Doc had worked for a fat man who thought he ran the world. The fat man had always reminded Doc of the carnival
shows he’d seen as a kid, but instead of saying, “Step right up folks and listen to me. You’ve got try Herman’s magic elixir. Take one drink and never feel pain again,” the fat man would say, “Marion, go stack them boxes and stack them away from the door. Not like that. Put them with the handles out, all on the same side. No, this side. Do like this. If you don’t do like this, then the boxes won’t look good to the customers. Are you stupid or something?”

  Doc fumed. The fat man had always called him by his real name—Marion. He remembered wrapping his hand around his box knife and glaring at his boss. He had moved the knife up and down inside his overalls, but back then, he hadn't used it the way he’d wanted. He had wanted to slash.

  Tell me what to do, I’ll slash your arm. Tell me how to do it, I’ll slash your face. Call me stupid, and I’ll slit your throat, you pathetic saphead.

  Doc never cut that boss, or any boss. He never cut anyone when he was still alive. Instead, he always forced himself to look away until his nerves settled, then, he would walk away. He would find the nearest bar, plunk down on a stool, and drink whiskey until nothing mattered.

  Some men might have gone home and cried in their wife’s arms—my boss was mean to me. He told me what to do, and how to do it. Boo hoo—but not Doc.

  He still had that box knife. He took out and held it in his hand.

  What kind of control do they have over me?

  His current bosses had tortured him for years, and he didn’t want any more of that, but something else held him here. He supposed he had developed an affinity. He kind of liked it. He got to spend time sitting in the Broken Pearl, and he got to kill people. He hadn’t always liked killing, but it didn’t count against him, and he had found ways to make it enjoyable. Someday, he hoped to have a former boss assigned to him. Even better, one of his current bosses could send him to kill the other. Crazier things had happened. Problem was, neither of his bosses were ever in his territory. They were always hovering in the red horizon around the Broken Pearl.