A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  “Help.” A second Warren lay on the deck, writhing and clutching his stomach. He was wearing a strange pair of pajamas, but Tanner recognized the haircut he had given him.

  The hooded Warren pointed the gun at Tanner. “Don’t move.”

  The wounded Warren said, “Help.”

  Tanner said, “Warren? Is that you? Which one is you? What the f—”

  “Shut up and get on the ground.”

  Something warm ran from Tanner’s scar, and he put his hand on his forehead. He looked at his fingers. Blood.

  Tanner ran. A bullet whirred past his ear, and he kept running. He rounded the bend in Melody lane, and another bullet broke the night, shattering a branch inches from his face, and sending splinters of wood into his hair.

  “Get back here.”

  Tanner didn’t look back. He ran fast, kicking dirt up. He ran until he came to the old shack, put his hands on his knees, bent over, and gasped for air.

  Darkness filled the shack. He sat against the back wall and forced a crazy smile onto his face, but it didn't stick. His glint was gone. An old man had killed his brother, and one Warren had shot another. He twisted his mind around what he'd seen. How long had he been out? Had it been seconds, or hours? Had enough time passed for someone to drag Nathan away, go get Warren’s hoodie from upstairs, and shoot…Warren? Two Warrens? Had he hallucinated the whole thing? What had Brenda put in those brownies?

  His head ached. He was alone. At first, he wanted to know what happened, but the longer he sat in the shack, the less he cared. He drifted in and out of sleep. Every time he woke up, he relived the nightmare. He missed Nathan. No matter what had happened, Nathan was dead. Old thoughts crept into his scarred head and took up residence where his love for life had lived. He forgot his vows.

  Rays of sunlight broke into the shack through cracks in the silvery wood. Tanner sat on the edge of catatonia next to a stick in the shape of a “Y.”

  Why?

  Why was this happening? All he had wanted to do was get high and fly, but it had rained instead. The lightning had set the forest on fire, and he’d run home. He remembered taking a shortcut past the Hi-Way chapel and slowing down to read a sign. Maybe, if he hadn’t slowed down, everything would have been different. The sign had read TIRED OF DARKNESS? FOLLOW THE SON.

  Tanner stared at the morning sunlight gleaming off the stick. He followed it across the dirt floor and up the back wall of the shack. A rope hung from a hook, and Tanner asked himself, Why not?

  He stood up, took the rope off the hook, and left—more monster than wizard.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Lighting His Chest on Fire

  “Thanks for opening up early.” Seth put his hands on the bar. “I really need a drink.”

  “No problem, buddy,” Jack said. “Glad you called. Sorry to hear what happened.”

  The morning sun couldn’t get in through the windows of the Lumberman’s Club, and Seth liked it that way. He ran his finger around one of the silver dollars sealed into the bar, making the same motion over and over. How much money would he have saved if he’d quit drinking after Cameron’s death? He had made a promise to Cassie. He would quit drinking if Cameron lived. Logically, when Cameron died, it became okay to drink.

  Two hours ago, sitting next to Cassie in the hospital, Seth wept and made another promise. He would quit drinking if she lived. When he had walked out of the hospital, he’d intended to go home and sleep, but it occurred to him that she might not die. He needed to get drunk while he still could.

  “Rough night, huh?” Jack said.

  Seth raised his eyes and stopped circling the silver dollar. “The roughest.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s not good. They operated on her all night, and now she’s in a coma.”

  “Did they say anything about her condition?”

  Seth’s face twisted. “They didn’t say anything worth anything. You know how doctors are…they’re either covering their butts or acting like gods. They’re a bunch of liars.”

  Jack stood behind the bar with hands on his hips. His eyes left Seth, and he gazed out the tinted window.

  “What is it?” Seth said.

  “Looks like there’s an ambulance over at the chapel. I hope Father Sardino’s okay.”

  Great. More ambulances. That’s all I need.

  Jack put his attention back on Seth. “Sorry you’re going through this, buddy. You and Cassie have been through the ringer, that's for sure.” He glanced at the bar. “I don’t know how you’ve kept going after everything that’s happened.”

  Did I keep going? Yeah, I guess I did. I got through that. I’m getting through this. I need a drink.

  Jack said, “Hope it’s okay, I called Hank. Thought you might want more company than just me.”

  “Sure. I need all the help I can get.” Seth put his hand in his pocket, found two empty shooters, and one full one.

  I’d better save this for an emergency.

  He had drunk four other shooters at the hospital and thrown them away. One of the nurses might find his little plastic bottles, but he doubted it. He had dropped them in a bag marked TOXIC WASTE as he passed by a cart on his way to the bar. Seth grimaced. They didn’t have any right to judge him. What if they did find his bottles? He was bereaved. Those nurses would drink too if they had been through his hell. They were all high on pain pills anyway.

  Jack said, “Hank saw your boy outside his apartment a couple days ago.”

  “Oh yeah…” Seth’s eyes wandered over to the tap handles. The first two, one red and one white, led to some watered-down, mass produced sludge. The next handle, made of wood, led to a stronger microbrew of some sort. “Hey, can I get one of those?”

  Seth didn’t want a beer. He wanted a shot of vodka, something that would burn his throat, but he had to play it cool. He didn’t want to give Jack the wrong impression.

  Jack pulled an empty mug out of the wash basin and put it under the tap. “How long has Warren been missing?”

  “He took off two days ago, but he’s okay. He showed up last night right before that moron shot Cass.” Seth made a fist. “I’m never going to forgive Toothpick for that.”

  Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. Seth licked his lips and stared at the empty mug. The schnapps he’d had at the hospital were wearing off, and Jack just stood there. By starting out with a beer, it would take at least half an hour before Seth could move on to vodka without Jack thinking he was an alcoholic. Maybe he could get Jack to take a shot with him. He was bereaved. It was going to take at least three shots to get numb enough for the hospital, and by then, it would be noon. Time was running out.

  Jack said, “Is Warren at home or the hospital?”

  “Neither. He ran away when Toothpick shot his mom. I didn’t get to see him.” Seth wrung his hands together.

  Jack might move faster if he felt sorry for me.

  Seth pushed some sadness into his eyes. “I never get to see him.”

  Jack frowned. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, I’m really busy with work. You know that song about never having time to spend with your kids?” Jack nodded. “I think about that song a lot.” Seth gazed at the window and began to hum.

  “Working all the time, huh?” Jack said.

  “No, not all the time. Warren and I do some things together.” He ran his finger over the silver dollar. “I’m just so busy.” The empty mug sparkled beneath the tap.

  “You got to make time for your kids,” Jack said.

  “There just isn't any these days.”

  Jack lowered his tone. “They won’t remember the time you spent with them. They’ll only remember the time you didn’t. You should think about that.”

  Seth opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Hank walked into the club and slapped him on the back. “How’re you holding up, buddy?”

  Thank God, it's Hank.

  Seth loved Hank. Unlike those nurses, doctors, liquor store owners, and n
ow, bartenders, Hank didn’t judge. Hank couldn’t judge without becoming a hypocrite.

  Seth said, “I’ve been better. Man, am I happy to see you.” He turned to Jack. “Get Hank here whatever he wants, on me.”

  Jack didn’t move. His eyes focused on Hank. “Took you long enough. I thought I might have to pour him one just to buy some time.”

  Hank sat down on a stool, rested his elbows on the bar, and stared straight down.

  Seth said, “What’s going on?”

  Jack’s face flattened.

  Hank swiveled toward Seth. “Well, Jack and I…well…we think you ought to sit this one out.”

  Jack shot Hank a look and put his hand on Seth’s shoulder. “No. We think you ought to sit all of them out.”

  A shiver formed at the center of Seth’s sternum and ran out over his ribs, lighting his chest on fire and filling his heart with dread. They weren’t going to let him drink. Today of all days, they weren’t going to let him drink. He hadn’t done anything wrong. His wife was dying for God’s sake. He needed a drink.

  Seth said, “Hank, aren’t you going to have one?”

  “Not this morning, buddy. It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

  Jack smiled. “It’s bad for business not to serve you, Seth, but we’re worried. It seems like you're drunk all the time and—”

  Seth’s face burned, and he pulled away from Jack. “Is this an intervention? In a bar? Are you guys kidding me? Cass is dying and I can’t find my son. What the—”

  “Exactly.” Jack's face turned red and the muscles in his arms tensed. “Your wife is dying, your son is missing, and your plan is to sit in here on your butt and get drunk.” He picked the empty mug up from the tap and slammed it on the bar. “Go look in the mirror. You’re empty…like this mug.”

  Hank stared at the bar and tapped the tips of his fingers together. He shook his head back and forth. Hank was judgment. Everything was judgment. The bills pinned to the post, the mugs in the sink, the silver dollars in the bar, the floor beneath his feet, the walls—all judgment. Everything closed in on Seth. He put his hands on his head.

  Hank said, “You need to stop drinking.”

  Seth swung around and knocked the mug off the bar. “That’s it. I’m out of here.” He turned toward the door.

  Hank grabbed Seth’s arm.

  Seth pulled away and glared at him.

  Traitor.

  Hank said, “We’re only trying to help yo—”

  “Ahh, let him go.” Jack waved toward the door.

  Yeah, let me go. That’s just great. First, try to save me, then give up on me. Great. I’ll show you guys. I’m never coming back.

  Seth glanced at the row of liquor bottles behind Jack.

  Look away, then, walk away.

  He stepped outside and squinted. A sharp pain ran into his eyes, split his brain, and splatted against the back of his skull. The sun fed off Hank’s betrayal, and Seth resented it.

  Across the street, paramedics pulled the back doors of an ambulance shut. The signboard in front of the chapel read TIRED OF DARKNESS? FOLLOW THE SON. Seth squinted at the sun and shielded his eyes. The ambulance started up, and he winced. He raised his hands to his ears, but the sirens didn’t blare.

  He got into his car. The face of a middle-aged drunk with watery, bloodshot eyes stared at him in the rearview mirror. He wanted to rip it off and throw it on the floor. Instead, he adjusted it, and a cop car came around the corner. Adrenaline dumped over his chest and ran to the tips of his fingers. His hands shook, and he couldn’t make them stop. As many times as he had gotten away with it, Seth had never gotten used to the fear of getting arrested for drinking and driving. He held his breath.

  Please pass by, please.

  The cop car moved slow, and the police officer turned his head toward the chapel. A teenager in a blue sweater sat in the backseat.

  Warren?

  Seth blinked and wiped his eyes. The car passed by and continued north on Main Street. Seth exhaled and shook his head.

  That couldn’t have been Warren. He never goes anywhere without his disgusting hoodie.

  The cop stopped at Pigeon Street. Over the years, Seth had developed a list of guidelines for driving drunk. If you’re sitting in a car at a liquor store or a bar, don’t go anywhere if you can see a cop. Always wait until they’re out of sight. Seth watched, and he waited. The cop sat at the empty intersection for an eternity. He expected to see the cop car go straight toward the police station down on Robin Street, but instead, it turned right, and headed toward the hospital.

  Seth took a deep breath. He gazed at the club. Jack wouldn’t serve him, and no other bar or liquor store in Tamarack opened this early. He needed to get back to the hospital and play the part of the worried husband, and he was worried, but he also needed a drink. He put his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes. His instincts told him to avoid the hospital because of the cop. Pine Creek had a liquor store that opened early. It wouldn't take that long. He'd be back by noon. All he needed was a good lie in case someone asked him where he'd been. The back of his neck throbbed, and he sat up straight.

  Why is life so hard?

  He checked the mirror, started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot. The sign at the edge of town read PINE CREEK 24 MILES. Seth stopped and got out. The road made a “Y.” One way led to Pine Creek, and the other led back to Tamarack.

  That cop car went toward the hospital. If I try to go see Cass then he might see me.

  Seth paced.

  What am I doing? I could be half way to Pine Creek by now, but that would mean taking the highway. I’d have to drive fast to avoid attracting attention, and if I messed up…

  Seth stared at the two roads, and the sadness of his reality hit him.

  I can’t stop. I can’t stop drinking. Maybe if I crashed my car and got arrested, then they would make me stop—for a little while at least.

  He got into his car and started the engine.

  I must be insane. Cass is dying in the hospital, the liquor store is opening in Pine Creek, and I’m eventually getting caught no matter what I do because—he slammed his hands on the steering wheel—I can’t stop.

  He stared at the two roads, and he was sorry he couldn’t take them both. Because he’d go to jail either way, there was no reason not to take the road to Pine Creek—to the liquor store. In his entire life, he had never taken a road that didn’t lead to a liquor store.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Gold at the End of a Rainbow

  Sunlight, cut by the curve of the culvert pipe, crossed over Warren’s face, and penetrated his eyelids. He awoke from a dead sleep. No dreams hung in his head. Instead, the nightmarish realities of the night before crowded his mind like bats trapped in a collapsed mine shaft. He shook off the bats, crawled out of the culvert, and greeted the day with a smile. The sun had risen well above the horizon, and Warren had risen to begin his new life in Nirvana. The time had come to meet up with Cameron and go find Tanner.

  He picked up his backpack and unzipped the outer pocket.

  “Warren. Don’t run.” Paul Maxwell stood on top of the embankment. Dirt covered his otherwise flawless, police issued pant legs. He held his hands out and spoke in an easy tone. “Don’t run. It’s okay. I’m not here to—”

  Warren zipped the pocket shut and ran.

  Someone with a thick Spanish accent said, “Stop right there güey, or I’ll shoot.”

  Feet skittered down the embankment behind Warren. He ran into the field of cattails, dodging patches of weed-ridden, green muck. He glanced back and saw an officer standing above the culvert with a gun. Paul’s boots came splashing after him.

  Warren imagined Coach Chaney saying, Come on Renner, are you going to let Maxwell beat you?

  Paul’s stick-thin little brother had outrun Warren the day before, yet Warren thought he could outrun the older, stronger Maxwell now. He didn’t think he could outrun the stronger Maxwell, he knew he could. He sped up.<
br />
  The other officer said, “Stop. Get on the ground. Maxwell, move. You’re blocking my shot.”

  Warren stopped, and he was amazed. His legs felt fine, and he wasn’t out of breath.

  Paul said, “Raise your hands. Do it, do it now.” Warren put his hands up. “I’ve got my gun on you, so don’t try anything. Nod if you heard me.” Warren nodded.

  The other policeman said, “I’ve got you covered. You’re good to cuff him.”

  Paul put his hand on Warren’s backpack and pulled. Warren resisted. One by one, Paul pulled Warren’s hands down and placed them in a pair of zip-tie handcuffs. The plastic ridges of the cuffs scraped his skin, and his hands swelled. Paul spun him around and marched him toward the road.

  “Wait,” Warren said. “My backpack.”

  “You’ll get it back.”

  A tow-truck made a series of high pitched beeps as it backed up to Nathan’s pickup truck. The tow operator jumped out, grabbed the tow hook, and glared at Warren.

  Warren twisted toward Paul. “Are you going to tell me why I’m being arrested?” Paul looked at him like he was a stranger, like they hadn’t played together as kids.

  The other policeman approached, and Paul shoved Warren forward. “You broke curfew. You were truant. You may have committed arson. You may have committed murder. Should I continue?”

  Warren lowered his head and trudged through the mud. “No.”

  The other policeman’s badge read ESPINOZA. He picked up Warren’s backpack and stepped behind Paul. “What do you think he’s got in the bag?”

  Paul said, “That's for the guys downtown to worry about.”

  The tow operator finished hooking up the truck and pulled on a lever. A winch whined and reeled the truck in. The operator was young enough to have gone to school with Paul, but had a beer belly large enough to make him middle-aged. With his hand on the lever, he glowered at Warren. “Kill him Toothpick, I won’t say nothing.” He turned his back to the arrest party. “There. Now I can’t see nothing either. Go ahead and shoot him.” The truck's back tires rose off the ground.