A Captive in Time

by Sarah Dreher

  If you overlooked the appalling absence of video tapes for rent, Hayes’ Emporium of Tabor, Colorado, seemed equipped for Nuclear Winter.

  A group of three middle-aged women, in long cotton dresses, knitted shawls, gloves, and dusty hats clustered together near the sewing supplies. They stared at her and set to gossiping shamelessly, their whispered voices rustling like the sound of mice behind a plaster wall.

  “How do, stranger,” said a man’s voice from the shadows. “Something I can do for you?” He came into the light, a skinny, oily-looking weasel of a man.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Well, you just take your time, young man. Look around. Give a hollar if you need help. Hayes is the name, Joseph Hayes.”

  Stoner felt herself bristle, and had to stifle an impulse to whip open her shirt and flash him a breast. She didn’t need trouble, just food. “Thank you,” she said tightly. “McTavish here. Stoner McTavish.”

  Something like recognition crawled across the man’s face. He looked closer, looked her up and down, evaluated her hair and clothes, then zeroed in on her chest. “Say,” he said, a little too heartily, “you’re a gal!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, hell, don’t that beat the devil? You must be one of them Bloomer girls.”

  Bloomer girls? As in Amelia Bloomer? As in Suffragist?

  “No,” she said. “This is how I dress.”

  “Well,” said Hayes again, and went behind the counter where he could keep his eye on his cash box.

  She wandered past the shelves, trying to decide what would be light enough to be portable but substantial enough to stave off hunger if she couldn’t get a ride and had to walk to the next town down the line. There were jars of tomatoes, with labels she didn’t recognize—no Sweet Life or Libby’s or Contadina for the good citizens of Tabor, no ma’am. Wouldn’t be authentic.

  Dried apricots and apples were promising. And nuts. If they’d take a traveler’s check, she could maybe get a canteen. There was bottled soda, but she didn’t relish lugging glass bottles across the prairie, although, from the looks of them, they’d bring a fortune in a flea market back home.

  She examined a collection of disgusting-looking strips of something that must be meat but really resembled left-over special effects from a slice-and-dice movie. They hung on strings from a sisal rope, swaying in the air currents, collecting dust and (in season) flies.

  She was gradually working her way toward the Tabor Biddies’ Society. Their disapproval hung in the air like storm clouds.

  “Morning,” she said pleasantly, with a nod and a smile.

  The ladies found something fascinating to examine on the counter, much too fascinating to pass the time of day with her.

  It made her angry. She wondered what offended them most: her clothing? Haircut? Lifestyle? Presence?

  She was about to challenge them when she imagined what Gwen would say. “Dearest, there really are some battles you don’t have to fight.”

  “Nice day,” she said instead.

  They ignored her.

  “Nice town.”

  Silence.

  “Friendly place.”

  One of the women glanced at her. Her face was pale and stiff, nose thin and hooked, her mouth turned downward in an inverted moon. She looked as if she might have digestive problems.

  Stoner held out her hand. “Name’s Stoner McTavish. From Boston.”

  The woman looked down at her hand with dread and loathing.

  Stoner held her ground.

  Slowly, good manners fighting disgust all the way, the woman extended her own hand. She touched her fingertips briefly to Stoner’s and withdrew like a shot. “I,” she said loftily, “am Mrs. Caroline Parnell. My husband is the Reverend Mr. Henry Parnell.”

  “Well, I certainly am thrilled and delighted to meet you,” Stoner said, hoping her enthusiasm sounded as forced as it felt.

  “McTavish,” Mrs. Caroline Parnell said. “A Scottish name?”

  “On my father’s side, yes.”

  “I am English,” said Caroline Parnell, as if that explained something and deserved some sort of respect.

  “Hey,” Stoner said. “And the rest of you ladies are...?”

  Biddie number two stepped forward as though called to the guillotine. “Mrs. Emma Underwood.”

  “Emma Underwood,” Stoner said. “And your husband is...?”

  “Mr. Underwood,” said Emma Underwood, and turned abruptly away.

  Cool.

  She turned her attention to Biddie number three.

  The woman blushed and studied the tips of Stoner’s boots.

  “Hannah Reinhardt,” said Mrs. Caroline Parnell. “An immigrant.”

  Silence descended. Immigrant status was apparently Hannah’s only claim to fame.

  “I can’t tell you,” Stoner said, “what a very great pleasure it’s been to visit in your fair city. ”

  The ladies cut her off by turning away.

  She decided to make her selections and get out.

  The Biddies returned to their whispery, papery gossiping.

  Another middle-aged woman entered the store from a back room. Her face was round and angry-looking. She nodded to the Biddies.

  The Biddies nodded in return.

  Mrs. Caroline Parnell said, “Arabella” in a curt kind of way.

  “They’ll be here on Saturday,” Arabella said, her voice defiant.

  “That’s your business, Arabella, and I want nothing to do with it,” said Mrs. Emma Underwood.

  “Here,” Arabella repeated. “In the store.” She went to join Joseph, who was apparently her husband, behind the counter. He flashed her a quizzical glance and turned his attention to his account books.

  Stoner longed to transport the Four Queens of Tabor onto the streets of New York—Forty-second Street, preferably, with the sleaze traps and porn houses open for business—at ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

  The sleigh bells jingled. A gust of air raced across the floor and wrapped around her ankles.

  Billy walked in.

  Stoner tossed him a smile.

  Conversation stopped.

  Arabella Hayes whispered something to her husband.

  He stepped forward. “What do you think you’re doing in here?” he asked.

  The boy looked up, apprehension and determination tightening the muscles around his jaw. “Lookin’ for...”

  “There’s nothing for you in this store,” Joseph Hayes corrected.

  “Yeah, I…”

  Stoner saw Hayes’ hand move toward a riding crop that lay just out of sight on the counter, and called out, “Billy!”

  The boy ignored her. “Look,” he said defiantly to Joseph Hayes, “I ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

  “Ain’t you, now?” the man mocked. His hand closed over the handle of the whip and brought it to his side.

  The other women in the store looked on approvingly. Their eyes shone with tiny silvery, hungry lights. Stoner could have sworn one of them licked her lips.

  “I could buy stuff here if I wanted.” Billy said. “I got money. Just as good as anyone’s.”

  “Is that a fact?” Hayes said with a grin. “And just where’d you get all this wonderful money?”

  “Workin’.”

  “Aaaaah!” the man crooned. “The little bastard works.” He glanced around at his approving audience.

  Billy bristled. “You know durn well I work. And I ain’t a bastard! My Pa died in the War.”

  “His Pa died in the War,” said Joseph Hayes in a phony-sad voice. “Now, ain’t that just a cryin’ shame.” He narrowed his eyes and focused hard on the boy. “You get your bastard ass out of my store.”

  “I ain’t...” The boy began.

  Hayes’ arm shot out faster than a diamondback rattlesnake. The leather hit the boy’s cheek with a wet “pop”.

  Stunned, Billy stared at him.

  The man started his backswing.

  Stoner m
anaged to cross the distance between them in two strides. She planted herself between the boy and Hayes, and grabbed the man’s wrist. “Hold it right there,” she said.

  Hayes tried to shake her off. “This ain’t none of your business.”

  “The word is ‘isn’t’, and I’m making it my business,” Stoner said, while the lightning and critical part of her mind wondered how many mediocre TV shows she had gotten that line from. “Billy, get out of here,” she said over her shoulder.

  Hayes yanked his wrist from her grip.

  “Get out,” she ordered the boy. “Before you get us both killed.”

  The door bells jangled as he ran.

  Hayes glared at her.

  “Congratulations,” Stoner said to him. “You’ve just bought yourself a few years in the slammer.”

  “What the hell’s your problem?” He tipped a bow toward the Biddies. “Excuse me, ladies.” He turned back to Stoner. “It’s a free country, and it seems like this here’s my store.”

  “Child abuse is against the law, even in this arm-pit of a town. I’ll be back with the police.” She turned to the other women. “You’re all witnesses to what went on here. I suggest you make yourselves available, Mrs. Reinhardt, Mrs. Underwood, Mrs. Reverend Henry Parnell. And especially you, Mrs. Hayes.” She stomped out of the store and slammed the door hard enough to crack the glass.

  She caught up with Billy halfway down the street. “Hey,” she said, and placed a hand gently on his shoulder, “are you okay?”

  He pulled away, but not before she could see the angry red welt on his cheek, the tears that streamed down his face.

  “Come on, Billy, talk to me.”

  “I ain’t no baby,” he said in a broken voice. “And I ain’t no bastard.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She pulled him to her and wrapped her arms around him.

  He was stiff as a log for a moment, then everything seemed to let go at once. His body went soft. He buried his face in her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her waist and hung on.

  She stroked the back of his neck. “What’s his problem?”

  He snuffled a little. “Folks don’t like me ’cause I ain’t got no Pa.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” But she knew it wasn’t ridiculous. People could be this bad back home, though they got a little more subtle as they got older. “I’ll bet, if Dot heard about this, she’d go somewhere else to shop.”

  “Ain’t nowhere else to shop.”

  “But if Hayes feels that way about you simply because you don’t have a father, how can he justify doing business with Dot?”

  The minute she had asked the question, she knew the answer. Dot’s Gulch probably brought in more business than all the other Tabor establishments combined. Stoner sighed. “This is no place for you, Billy.”

  He reached up and straightened his hat, knocking her hand away. “No worse than any other,” he said.

  “It is worse. If you don’t have anywhere to go, come back to Boston with me. We’ll find a way to...”

  He pushed her away roughly, almost angrily. “I don’t need no pity.”

  “Billy.”

  “An’ I don’t need you. I don’t even think I like you.”

  Stoner sighed, exasperated. “Honest to God,” she said. “There’s nothing more frustrating than trying to talk to an adolescent boy.”

  That settled him down. He stared at the ground and traced a crooked circle with the toe of his boot. “Sorry.”

  “Let me see your face.” She took the boy’s chin in her hand and tilted his head back. He closed his eyes. His cheek looked sore, but there was no blood. “I guess you’ll live.”

  “Guess so.” He opened his eyes in a squint and looked at her. “You fixin’ to stay in Tabor?”

  Stoner laughed. “No, I am definitely not fixin’ to stay in Tabor. What I am fixin’ to do is go out and find that place where you picked me up last night. Then I will find my car. Then I will find the State Police or the nearest civilized—and when I say ‘civilized’ I definitely do not include Tabor—town. Then I will get my car repaired, at the end of which time I will bust out of this puke hole known as eastern Colorado. If I’ve offended your sense of civic pride, I apologize, but if your civic pride is offended, your civic pride is seriously misplaced.”

  “You know what?” Billy said.

  “No, what?”

  “You talk funny.”

  Stoner took him by the shoulders and shook him affectionately. His hat fell off, revealing a head of full, straight brown hair. It looked as if he had cut it himself, with a hedge trimmer.

  He made a dive for his hat and slammed it on his head, then glanced up shyly at her. “I’m peculiar about my hat,” he said.

  Stoner smiled at him. “Adolescent boys are like that.”

  “I can give you a ride,” he said. “I got the wagon.”

  “Don’t you have to get something for Dot?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I only went in that old place ’cause I seen you through the window.” He planted his hands on his hips. “You want a ride, or not?”

  Without food, or water, with the sun already on the down side of day? Yes, she wanted a ride. “Sure, if it’s no trouble.”

  Billy snorted. “Trouble. Hell, I was born to trouble.”

  “Well, all right, then.” Forget about provisions for the trip. She wanted to get out of Tabor, and get out fast.

  The boy hesitated. “There’s somethin’ I want ya’ to know, though, ‘fore you go.”

  “What’s that?”

  He shuffled around in the dust uncomfortably. “I didn’t do it. Some folks think I did, but I didn’t.”

  “Did what?”

  “Set the fires.” He risked a glance up at her. “Do you believe me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hurts my feelin’s when they think that.”

  She touched his shoulder. “I know. People will believe what they want to believe, Billy. You can only do your best.”

  Hesitantly, he reached out and took her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks. You’re a good lady.”

  She squeezed back. “So can we get out of here?”

  He trotted off toward the alley that led behind Dot’s Gulch.

  Stoner followed.

  Now she really wanted to leave. Before she started caring about him more than she already did.

  Chapter Five

  The Sanctified Man straightened his tie and examined his reflection in the livery stable window.

  So. That was the one they’d been talking about down at the saloon. And consorting with the Bastard.

  The Bastard. He smiled to himself. That was what he called It, anyway, in his talks with Hayes. Someday, maybe even someday soon, he’d tell Hayes who the Bastard really was. But not yet. Not until Hayes had proved his understanding.

  Now the Stranger was here. The one he’d been waiting for. The woman in man’s clothes. The one the Witch’s Book told about. The one the Witch’s Book called “The Fool.”

  “The Fool.” The Sanctified Man chuckled to himself. The Witch thought she was clever, wrapping her Book in silk to hide its nature, placing it deep in the box by her bed. But he’d seen. He’d seen, peeking through her window in the darkest of night. And when she was away gathering her putrid herbs under the full moon, he’d crept in and taken it from its hiding place and stolen it away. It told him all he needed to know.

  He wanted to act now. To strike at the Beast and its lackey and tear them apart, there, in the sunlight, the whole town gathering to watch. They’d know who he was then, the gawkers and gigglers, the children who ran behind him on the streets and mimicked his jerky, scarecrow stride. The women who pretended respect to his face, and made nasty gossip when they were alone. The whore Lolly who had laughed at his impotence—too stupid to understand that it was her own filth that had left his member weak and unmoved. All of them. They’d all know, and praise and fear him as they should.

  He spat in the dust.

&nbs
p; Once he had destroyed the Beast and the Stranger, the Witch would be simple. Without her Master, her Power would be nothing compared to his.

  Even a fool could see what they were up to, the Witch and all her sister Witches, with all their talk of Equality and Voting Rights for Women. Get themselves into the Government, then use their Magic to overthrow the Christ and install their Satan-God. Turn decent, Christian men and women into cattle. Beasts of burden. Animals fit only to crawl and grovel and beg for scraps while the Witches feasted on the fat of the land.

  His own wife knew the Truth. Soon all the rest would know.

  Soon.

  The Sanctified Man slipped his hand into his pocket and fingered his knife. He could slip up behind It and thrust the icy blade between Its ribs, into the kidney area where the pain would be greatest. Just to hear It scream. To see the look of terror as It realized It had been found out at last.

  Then, before It could gather up Its Unholy strength, a second blow with the knife, deep into Its heart. And again, again, again. Until It was finished.

  Once the Beast was dead, the Stranger would melt like butter under summer sun.

  The Sanctified Man swallowed and licked his lips. He would hang the Thing on a high pole, stripped of Its Earthly disguise, in all Its hideous nakedness for all the world to see.

  He was ready. Yes, he was ready. Ready to begin the fasting and the purification Ceremonies. Just the way God had told him.

  He’d been smart to set those random fires. Now, when he began the Holy Burnings, the ignorant townspeople wouldn’t guess these fires were sacred. He couldn’t take the chance of others becoming curious, wanting to join him. Too many people, and something might go wrong.

  When they realized how he’d saved them, they’d know his Power. He was certain of that. Not only Tabor, but all those fools back there in Kansas.

  Kansas. He spat into the dust.