The Spaces in Between

by Chase Henderson

  One of the men in black suit’s hands grazed the back of Warren’s coat. An infant could cover more ground than Warren. The man in the black suit made another mad grab for Warren, but he saw through his peripheral vision that the Walk Sign was lit. Without thinking he evaded the man’s grasp by darting across the street.

  Just how unnoticeable are they?

  Warren glanced over his shoulder once he was on the other side of the street and saw the three men change direction to charge him. He instead focused on the streetlight hanging over the intersection that kept the Baltimore traffic at bay, but only for a short time. Green light. The light suddenly changed to green and the Baltimore traffic poured through the intersection. He wanted to look away, but he had to be sure they wouldn’t follow him anymore. They didn’t. Well, couldn’t.

  Warren lingered no longer and lost none of his pace. His legs pumped and carried him to the Mental Hospital, but so many of his tendons twanged like burst fans belts under the strain. He stopped for a moment. His lungs burned and screamed for oxygen. His leg wobbled like Jell-o. He leaned against the door of the building, and his cell phone rang.

  Once again it was Janet’s number.

  “I…swear! If you hurt a hair on her head! I’ll-”

  “I’ll tear every hair out of her body if you don’t cut the clichés and I mean every hair. Now it’s five ‘til, and if you aren’t here I’m going to cut off a finger for each second you’re late. Starting with the one with this cheap ass bauble. Then her toes. Then I’ll put out her eyes. I’d go further, and if I have to I will, but I’m wasting your very precious time.”

  The call disconnected. Wherever this man was he must not have noticed that Warren was standing at the front door to the old Mental Institution. Could whatever hid the men in black still be hiding him?

  He tried the door, which he was not surprised was unlocked. Inside the first floor was musty and dark. What little light came into the building illuminated the graffiti on the wall. An old building like this was probably party central or at least a hobo junction.

  Maybe it was just the exhaustion or maybe belief is like a muscle. A strange thought bubbled to the surface of Warren’s mind. What would Cameron do? He pulled out his cell phone and saw that he had four minutes left.

  He shut it off and stared at the black screen for a second. Then a mental image came to Warren. Sonar bouncing off cellular signal waves. He saw a wall of a man with ginger hair watching the door with a revolver drawn. Sitting across from him at the table was Janet bound, gagged, and both hands cuffed to the armrests – but unharmed. Warren noticed another door leading into the room. One that the Irishman didn’t bother to watch.

  He walked through that door in his mind and followed his mind’s eye down the stairs until it came back to him. Warren opened his eyes, took his shoes off, and climbed the stairs sometimes having to lift his legs with his hand. It took a couple of minutes, but he made it up. The door was padlocked.

  Did the Irishman put this lock here?

  No, but he knows about it. That’s why he’s not watching this door. Warren pulled on the padlock, but it stayed true. There was not enough time for him to go back downstairs, but maybe if he beat on the door the man will let him in. There goes the element of surprise.

  Warren noticed the brand on the locks. He had a routine for this when he saw a client using one of the Masterlock combination locks to guard the servers. He gently pulled on the lock while turning the dial. He made a quick note of each number that caught on his note pad. He knew how Masterlock calculated these combinations and like all things worthwhile it could be solved with math.

  It would only take him one or two minutes tops.

  10

  The Irishman’s hand pinned her wrist down. She could barely move her hands that were cuffed to the arms of the wooden captain’s chair anyway.

  “Struggling will just ensure that I have to take a second swing,” the Irishman had said. “Now if you feel the need to hold a grudge take it up with your beau. This is all his doing.”

  He raised a hammer claw first over his head.

  For God sake’s Warren of all the things you’re late for…

  Her heart pounded, but her mind was not racing. She watched the Irishman’s green eyes dart from the door to the clock in almost perfect unison with the second hand. Janet was resigned to the fact that as soon as the minute hand landed on the three she would be missing a ring finger. The Irishman was like clockwork. Every movement had a purpose. Waste not, want not.

  When they got to the building he pulled a pocketknife from his coat and forced the lock on the door with just one flick of the wrist. While he said that if she moved he might not get her finger off in one shot, Janet was sure that if the Irishman wanted to he could take that finger in one swing if she was running as fast as she could. She watched the claws of the hammer and waited for them to descend. She didn’t need to look at the clock. The Irishman’s wrath is a far more reliable timepiece.

  She steeled herself for the strike and felt that it was 10:15.

  In a cruel streak the Irishman actually stalled by twirling the hammer in his hand once. She jumped in her seat and flinched at this sudden change.

  “Stop skulking in the shadows and come out Warren,” the Irishman said, “I see you there. You almost got the drop on me by coming in that way. I don’t know how the hell you did, but that doesn’t matter none. What does matter is if you don’t drop that bag and come into the light with those hands in the air then I’m taking her fingers. And I can guarantee that it will take more than one strike.”

  Warren did as he was told and stepped out of the shadowy doorway on the other side of the room. His eyes stayed on the floor. Seeing that the fight was out of Warren, not that he expected there to be any at all, the Irishman put the hammer into the carpenter’s loop in his jeans and pulled out his revolver.

  Warren noticed the square bulge in the Irishman’s front pocket. I bet that’s Janet’s cell phone. Warren slipped into an almost fantasy. He saw the phone malfunction and the lithium battery burst to deliver its payload into the Irishman’s thigh. The third eye inside his mind as atrophied as it was opened without thinking about it. There was a flash of light and the Irishman cried out.

  He summoned more speed than he had ever used before and far more than he could ever coax out of his torn tendons and ligaments. He picked up his laptop bag and struck the Irishman across the face with it, and then pulled the bag into a downswing. The Irishman’s hand was smashed, and the Smith and Wesson skittered across the floor. He let go of the laptop bag and its contents shattered on the floor. Warren grabbed the collar of the Irishman’s denim jacket and gave him not one but three good knees to the groin.

  The Irishman went to the ground with a grunt, and Warren made a dive for his gun. He lined the Irishman’s fallen form into the sights and squeezed the trigger. Neither the trigger nor the hammer would budge. He looked down and clicked the safety off with his thumb. The Irishman got back up, and a wicked smile stretched across his face.

  Warren pulled the trigger and there was nothing but a click. The Irishman gingerly walked over and gave Warren enough time to go through the cylinder twice. When the Irishman towered over him, Warren got up to brain the Irishman with his own gun. The Irishman’s hand leapt forward and engulfed the pistol, and a quick hit to Warren’s teeth with one of his Doc Martens wretched it free.

  Janet thrashed in her chair and cursed herself for being brought here at the point of an empty gun. He glanced at her for a moment to remind her he’s just as dangerous without the gun. He emptied the shell casings from the cylinder into a coat pocket, and loaded five more with an autoloader. The gun was pointed at Warren long before he was aware of his surroundings again.

  He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the Irishman’s smile.

  “That was feckin’ brilliant!” the Irishman almost cheered, “You had your moment and you took it. Don’t feel too bad how could you have known that my gun
wasn’t loaded? No one would blame you for that, and I’m not going to hold it against you – this time. Hell, I’m impressed I would have never pegged you as the type that would have it in you.” His expression darkened. The Irishman pulled a pair of handcuffs from the duffel bag on the table. He locked Warren’s right arm to his dead arm behind his back.

  “I don’t know what my employer has in store for you, but you’re going there nonetheless.”

  11

  The next ten hours were excruciating. Not because anything horrible was done to them, except for nothing. The worst part was the Irishman forcing them into the back of his PT Cruiser at gunpoint, and how no one in the neighborhood seemed to care. Didn’t want to get involved. Warren wasn’t even convinced that they’d call the police once they got home.

  In the hatchback of the car Warren could barely notice the features of the city around him. Not that he knew the city that great – it scared the shit out of him. He had every reason to be afraid of it since this was the city that produced the Irishman. It was a den of monsters. Warren wasn’t sure where they had gone, but the Irishman had driven far. Or at least he drove around the block several times to disorient them. There was even a pit stop at Wendy’s, and the Irishman ordered while scowling at them through the rear view window. Warren was barely able to see the woman at the window. She was seventeen, tops. If she notices you the bitch’ll be killed over some Biggie Fries, do you want that on your conscience?

  A dagger of shame slipped into his gut. He was ashamed in himself that he was this utterly defeated by the Irishman. They were lead into a room where he left them there for the remaining eight hours still cuffed. The room connected into a restroom, but they’d rather die than to be caught with their pants down. There were two Frostys on the table for them and a black and white TV set to channel three. The room was bare, but for its wood paneling.

  Is this his apartment? They must be waiting for someone really important, because this action of the Irishman seemed so amateur. He grabbed them as quickly and efficiently as possible, but had nothing to do with them until whoever shows up. Who the hell would want us so badly? The men in black suits were somehow related, but something in Warren’s gut told him that they weren’t in cahoots with the Irishman.

  Could this have something to do with Cameron? Warren immediately pushed that train of thought back down into the stem of his brain. They watched the door in silence to pass the time. They never once spoke, made eye contact, or tried their Frostys.

  The monotony parted when they heard the door open in the next room.

  “Have the case? Then right this way.”

  The door opened and the man in white stood in the doorway with the Irishman. The man in white shielded his eyes with his forearm against the single halogen hanging from the ceiling.

  “He’s worse for wear,” the Irishman said, “but you couldn’t really say he was Grade A beef before.”

  “He’ll do,” the man in white said. “Good job, but why get the woman?”

  “He wasn’t home when I came by so I had to get her to lure him out.”

  “I’ll take him then be on my way.”

  “Now wait just a second.” The Irishman sidestepped into the man in white’s way. “You said that you’d cover my expenses. She’s an expense, but considering the price for him an extra fifty grand won’t mean much to you.” Janet gulped and bit her lip to hold back the tears. They were cattle to be bartered.

  “I don’t want the woman,” the man in white said. “Just kill her.”

  “That’d cost more than taking him.”

  “I’m not taking the woman, and I’m not giving you a red cent extra.”

  “Then we’ve got a major problem,” the Irishman towered over the man in white. “You’re not leaving here without taking both of them, and then we drop by the bank or wherever the hell you get this cash. There you give me the extra fifty grand for my trouble.”

  A sixth sense flared in his mind, and the Irishman went for the revolver in his jacket pocket. The man in white did not so much as strike the Irishman as his arm seemed to extend into a whip that slashed the Irishman across the face. Blood and teeth splattered across the wall followed by the Irishman’s crumpled body. The man in white glided across the floor towards them.

  Janet cried out and Warren’s mind went through every scenario with such speed he couldn’t see any of them. He skimmed his mind and in short they were fucked. The wires began to whisper, and Warren tried to ignore it. A screaming came from the light bulb. Wait! He hates me! And if you just give me the word I’ll give him hell even if it kills me.

  “O-okay.” Warren told the voice in his head. He would have felt far saner if he had kept his end of the conversation in there too. The light flared like a spotlight on the man in white. He hissed and swatted at the light. A cat chasing after a laser pointer. The light fixture was torn from the ceiling followed by a spray of sparks. Once his vision adjusted Warren leapt form his seat and rammed the man in white with his shoulder. He might have as well just run into a marble statue. The man in white didn’t give like a person, but remained stiff and rigid.

  Warren cried out when he landed backwards unto his bound wrists. The man in white grinned like a snake and his fingers slithered around Janet’s neck. There was a snap followed by another. The man in white staggered backwards. Blood splattered against the wall and Janet. The Irishman stood up again and smoke billowed from his Smith and Wesson. His intentions were palpable and left a copper taste in Warren’s mouth. Warren could barely see him in the darkness – what little was left of his face to see.

  His right eye had swollen shut and his nose was knocked completely askew. He spat something that sounded like a glob of jelly filled with marbles when it hit the ground. Then the Irishman began to breath, heavily, from his mouth. The man in white looked up and two bloodless holes went across his face. The man in white was healing right before their eyes and his bullet wounds were already perfect holes in his face. His right temple exploded after a flash of light and a bang.

  The man in white was fazed, but still standing. The Irishman removed the hammer from his pants, swooped across the room, and planted the claws of the hammer into the base of the man in white’s brain. He went limp and slumped, but he was still held on the hammer.

  “Healed around it then?” the Irishman said. Using the hammer as a handle Irishman dragged the man in white to the door. “Well our contract is void so I’ve got no beef with you guys unless you go to the police. Then we’ve got a huge problem. Mention this to anyone and I’ll kill the both of you. No force can stop me when I put my mind to something, y’see? Keys to the cuffs are on the dining room table. I guess this is one of his flats, but feel free to help yourselves to that suitcase. For your troubles…”

  Warren and Janet were silent.

  “I’m leaving. Don’t follow, and don’t try to leave until I’m gone. But don’t dally too long, because I’m sure someone called the cops. In a half hour or so they might actually come out here. It’ll look pretty incriminating. Even though the blood’s gone…” Warren’s eyes scanned the room. The Irishman was right it was like the man in white’s blood had already evaporated.

  Warren turned around but the Irishman had already gone into the living room.

  “You ever read Anne Rice?” the Irishman asked the limp man in white before stepping out of the apartment.

  12

  Zzzzrrtt! Zzzzrrrtt!

  Warren woke up with a start and rolled over to pick up his phone that was vibrating on the nightstand beside him. It was Unknown.

  “Hello.”

  Heavy breathing.

  “I don’t want to be found anymore.” Warren whispered to the phone. The call disconnected, and he returned the Motorola to the nightstand. But once again he couldn’t make himself fall asleep. He sure as hell wasn’t going to wake Janet up. They barely said anything to each other and after today he wouldn’t really blame her if she left.

  He dragged himself ov
er to the bathroom and washed his hands. The soap stung the wounds on his wrists from the handcuffs. He sat on the couch and picked up a Radisson notepad. It was unlikely that they would ever go back to their apartment or even stay in this den of monsters for too long. But would we be any safer anywhere else? Was the world a den of monsters? No, but the Astral is. This was the Dread Pirate Cameron’s voice.

  Warren sighed and twirled a Radisson pen. It wobbled and went off course. He looked at the brand on his hand. He took in every detail of the sigil, and sure enough the mists of Fae filled their hotel room.

  “So what does this all cost me?” Warren said. “Let’s go ahead and get this over with, but if you want to kill me please make it so she won’t find my body in the morning.”

  “It might, but not anytime soon,” Teftin said. “I want you to write a story about what happened today.”

  “What about the Irishman? What if he sees it?”

  “Change all the names if you must except mine, but do you really think this would be up his literary alley?”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  13

  Elsewhere the Dread Pirate Cameron finished his drink and slammed the glass on the table. Lam was gone for now. Lam was confused, because he had hurt it. Lam withdrew from the Physical, from Cameron, and those knowing him. Until it can heal, regroup, anyway.

  His red left eye watched the thing scurrying in the darkness of the room. The dreadful thing he called to drive Lam away. A thing beyond the spheres that was not entirely under his control, but greater than the Old Ones. He was safe inside the double circle, but not because of its power, the Watcher did so out of respect for the covenant. It was a grudging respect at that. The ship was silent and completely dark. All walks of life subjugated themselves before the Watcher.