The Split Second (13 page)

“Doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing.” The man shut the door behind him and tossed the wood on the floor. “But that’s exactly what she looked like on the day we met.”

The man noticed Becker take a few steps back from him, probably due to what he was still holding in his right hand. With a throaty chuckle, he hung the ax upon the wall, next to an old two-handed saw.

“Who are you?” asked Becker, cautiously watching the man sit down and pull off his snow-covered boots. Though “Tom” seemed friendly enough, the Fixer couldn’t resist scanning about for weapons or avenues of escape.

“How are those hands and feet?” The man tossed his wet boots over by the front door. “A couple more minutes out there and you would have been a Popsicle.”

Whoever he was, Becker couldn’t place his accent. It wasn’t quite English—maybe Gaelic or Scottish—but despite its coarseness, there was also a warmth that began to put him at ease.

“They don’t seem so bad,” Becker said, holding up his mummified hands. “But I’m afraid to look underneath.”

“I warn you, they’re a little worse for the wear—but I have a good bit of experience with frostbite, and I think I got to them in time.”

That was a relief. There was already a No-Hands Phil, and Fixer #37 had no desire to become No-Hands Becker.

“Can I offer you anything?” Tom padded into the rustic kitchen, where the only sign of modern convenience, a stainless-steel fridge, was packed with food and drink. “Water? Or something to eat?”

“Got any Mountain Dew?” asked Becker.

“No, but you can have one of these . . .” He reached in and pulled out two brown, unlabeled bottles. “I call it Tom’s Homebrew.”

Becker had been in the presence of alcohol many times before—his dad liked to drink a beer while watching Mets/Jets/ Nets/Rutgers games and his mom enjoyed the occasional glass of Merlot—but he had never tasted anything stronger than a Shirley Temple.
¹⁶

“I don’t know. Maybe just that glass of wat—”

“Don’t worry, kid. It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

Becker had a hunch that this was the “peer pressure” that all the teachers and TV advertisements were referring to, but when he popped the top of the bottle, the joke was on him.

“Is that root beer?”

“Birch.”

In fact, it was the best birch beer Becker had ever tasted in his life—red and not too bubbly, with just the right hints of juniper and clove.

“Excellent.”

“I’m glad you like it. My children say it’s too minty, but I say if it doesn’t have a little bite, then what’s the point?” While they talked, the man sifted through a wooden chest that looked like it had been salvaged from a shipwreck or something. “What kind of name is Becker, anyway?”

“My real first name is actually Ferdinand—which is why I go by my middle name.”

“I see what you mean.”

As the man continued to dig around in the chest, something about him seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t the beard, and it wasn’t the shaggy brown hair either, which was still dripping with snow. It was more just his body language, and the way he carried himself . . .

“You know, it was sheer luck I found you out there.” Tom pulled a well-worn passport and an old rugby ball out of the chest and laid them on the floor to get them out of the way.
“
It was only because I couldn’t catch a single bloody fish that I happened to look up and see something glinting in the sun.”

He motioned to the mantel, where a small black box otherwise known as a Blinker sat beside an orange telephone Receiver.

“It must have been those,” said Tom, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah that’s my . . . my pager.”

“You decided to bring a pager to Greenland but not a jacket or gloves?”

Uh. That was a good question and Becker didn’t have a good answer. Thankfully, the owner of the house seemed too preoccupied with his search to press the matter further.

“Ah! There you are.” Whatever he had found, it brought a nostalgic twinge to his voice. “Long time, no see.”

When Becker saw what Tom had pulled from the chest, a chill shot down his spine, and all at once he knew why this man seemed so familiar.

In Tom’s calloused hands—dusty and crumpled from being at the bottom of the pile—was a sheepskin bomber’s jacket and a leather aviator helmet. And though it looked like they hadn’t been worn in years, they were just as unforgettable as when Becker had first seen them—on photographs in his instructor’s office or in the simulation of a fateful Mission known as the Day That Time Stood Still.

“You’re . . . you’re Tom Jackal.”

“One and the same.”

“But . . . how?”

Tom fell into in a well-worn recliner and a wry grin moved across his face.

“The Plan works in mysterious ways.”

When Shan Mei-Lin watched Fixer Drane cut the Connective Tissue and leave the waiting room behind, she knew instinctively it was a bad idea. Trying to bury her uneasiness, she examined the white streaks in her hair, which she had to admit looked pleasantly punk. But it wasn’t long before the wobbly sensation came again, the floor cracked apart, and Shan was falling through the Moment-filled stew.

As she bounced from experience to experience, stopping only long enough to witness a buzzer-beating jump shot or the birth of a child, the one thought that repeated itself in her mind was, “How could I have lost another?” If there was one responsibility that Briefers had above all things, it was to stand by their Fixers through thick and thin—especially when a Fixer was under extreme duress. Though a little voice inside her head whispered, “It was
their
fault, not yours!” a much louder voice shouted, “You blew it!”

The only consolation Shan could muster was the fact that each time she entered another Moment, the path of the Split Second was clear. Be it the shag carpet in a family’s basement or the shattered tiles at the bottom of an empty pool, the telltale burned and perfect circle was easily located and the way the short hairs on her neck were raising, she knew she was getting closer . . .

“If I can just Fix the Split Second on my own,” Shan resolved, “then maybe I can save face and The World at the same time.”

But her search was picking up. When she finally caught a foothold in a Chilean apple orchard, the Briefer barely had time to smell the Jonagolds when the Moment fell apart. Shan once again had the distinct sensation of tumbling down a mighty waterfall, and though she didn’t have the protection of a barrel, at least she was cloaked in her trusty Sleeve. It was a good thing too, for without the protective fabric, she may have been torn asunder by the rough edges of other people’s lives.

Further and further she fell, no longer even stopping in the Moments anymore. She lost all touch with any sensation but the feeling of falling itself, until finally—

Splash!

Two long minutes later, Shan clawed her way to the surface and gasped to fill her lungs with air. The din of rushing water pounded in her ears and the pool she swam in churned with foam, forcing the Briefer to deploy a pair of Water Wings™ to keep herself afloat. Flapping desperately, she raised herself a few inches above the water and flew to the shore.

It was only when Shan allowed her bruised body to plop onto the black sand that she could see why she’d nearly drowned: there was indeed a waterfall that cascaded down from somewhere above and collected in a pool of swirling experiences. But where exactly she had landed was a mystery . . .

Shan knew she was no longer
in
a Frozen Moment, for this place lacked the heightened sense of reality and gauzy, romanticized glow. It was colder, bleaker, and only darkness was visible beyond the mist that surrounded the falls. The Briefer pulled the hair from her goggles, rolled down the soaked facemask of her Sleeve, and pondered the sheltered cove that perhaps had never seen a human visitor.

Except for the one whose footsteps were leading off through the sand.

Seemsian history is full of many myths and legends, but the tale of Tom Jackal holds a unique place. The Welsh-born Fixer came to prominence when he caught the Time Bandits on the “Night They Robbed the Memory Bank,” and was one of three Roster members chosen to participate in “Hope Springs Eternal”—the classified Mission where he, Lisa Simms, and Jelani Blaque were sent to the Middle of Nowhere to bring back Hope for The World. But nearly eleven years ago to the day, his career had come to an unceremonious end.

“Ever face a Glitch, Drane?”

Fixers Drane and Jackal sat before the dwindling fire, while outside the snow that had once been flurries was getting heavier.

“In the Department of Sleep, actually,” Becker confessed. “On my very first Mission as a Fixer.”

“Tough way to get your feet wet.”

“Tell me about it.”

Jackal lit himself a corn-cob pipe and deeply inhaled.

“On my last Mission, I faced the mother of all Glitches . . . and it didn’t go so well.” Jackal exhaled a thick plume of smoke, then leaned back in his chair. “They’re probably using it at the IFR as the perfect example of what
not
to do on a Mission.”

Becker flushed red, which only betrayed the truth.

“You’re not serious?” Jackal seemed far more amused than annoyed. “Who came up with
that
lesson?”

“Fixer Blaque.”

“Jelani Blaque?” Jackal burst into good-hearted laughter. His friendship with the IFR’s head instructor was also the stuff of legend. “I can’t believe the old lion sold me out.”

Becker laughed too, glad to see that Jackal wasn’t taking it personally.

“He claims that the reason things went wrong that day was that you didn’t have a Mission Inside your Mission . . .”

“Jelani knows me well.” An unmistakable shadow passed over Jackal’s face. “He always did.”

“It turned out okay, though.” Becker tried to cheer Jackal up. “A backup Fixer figured a way to get things on schedule, and nobody in The World even realized what had happened.”

“Good. That’s good. I’ve often wondered what . . .” But Jackal’s voice trailed off, and for the first time since Becker met him, his eyes grew sad and tired. “Toss a few more logs on there, will ya?”

“No problem.”

Becker gingerly pushed aside the screen and used the brass tongs to rebuild the pile. The two Fixers were quiet for a time, listening to the crackle of burning wood, the tinkling of snowflakes against the windows. But #37 couldn’t remain silent for long.

“What happened to you, Tom? I mean, the Powers That Be authorized a search party to go into the melted Moments and bring you back, but they never found a thing.” Jackal’s only response was to stare even deeper into the flames, so Becker kept pushing. “Eventually, the decision was made to refreeze them and put them back in Daylight Savings. They declared you Lost in Time.”

“Not PIA
¹⁷
?”

Becker shook his head. “In fact, you’re still #7 on the Duty Roster.”

If this honor brought Jackal any belated sense of pride, his face didn’t show it.

“When I first fell into the pool, I thought I was drowning,” Jackal said, finally coming out of his daze. “But then suddenly I found myself on solid ground. This scientist in a laboratory was about to make the discovery of a lifetime, but before I could see what it was, the Moment fell apart. And me with it . . .”

“That’s exactly how it happened with us.” A sick feeling wormed its way into Becker’s gut, as for the first time since he ended up at Jackal’s cabin he remembered Shan Mei-Lin. “Every time a Frozen Moment was about to peak, the reality of the situation collapsed and we got kicked into another.”

Becker wanted to ask Jackal why he thought
this
Moment had not similarly collapsed, but something told him this was not the proper time.

“I don’t know how long I was falling. Months—maybe even years—felt as if I might be going mad. But then . . .” Jackal’s eyes slowly rose to the picture above the fireplace. “I ended up here.”

Becker’s eyes followed Jackal’s up to the painting.

“Who is she?”

“My wife.”

Almost on cue, Becker heard the sound of voices outside the house and footsteps crunching in the snow. Seconds later, the door was thrust open and into the den piled a blur of fur, giggles, and toboggans. Two children—a boy of nine and a girl about seven—were trying to tell their father about how he’d never believe the run they had on “Dead Man’s Fjord” but stopped short when they saw company in the den.

“Sander, Katia, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.” Jackal pulled his two suddenly shy children over by his chair. “This is Becker Drane.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Becker was only a few years older than them, but it felt like a lot more.

“Go on, it’s okay.” At the urging of their father, the kids dutifully shook Becker’s bandaged hand. Sander looked just like his dad, right down to the square jaw and crystal blue eyes, but Katia was no doubt her mother’s daughter, with the same dark hair and beauty. “Where’s your mother and the Mistake?”

“They’re wondering why someone forgot to put out the recyclables,” said a woman’s voice by the door.

Outside of the fact that there was a rosy-cheeked toddler in her arms, it looked as if Tom Jackal’s wife had literally stepped from the painting above the fire. She was still wearing the same wool sweater and hat, and her hair was untouched by gray.

“More importantly,” she placed the child in a highchair by the dining room table, “they’re wondering what we’re having for dinner?”

If there was any difference between a Frozen Moment and the real World, Becker could not figure out what it was. The food Jackal laid on the table—a mix of venison, lamb, and three types of fish—was as good as (if not better than) any Becker had ever tasted, the homebrew just as cold (if not colder), and the company just as lively (if not livelier). As the laughter and good cheer filled the room, Becker couldn’t help but think that for someone Lost in Time, Tom Jackal had done pretty well for himself.

The entire family had been there the previous day when Tom returned from his fishing trip bearing a nearly frozen boy, and wanted to know all the juicy details. Since Becker wasn’t sure what his fellow Fixer had told them about The Seems, if anything, he quickly crafted an off-white lie about how he’d been hiking with his tour group from the United States and wandered off the path to explore what he thought were some ancient Viking ruins. The kids were intrigued by this, of course, telling Becker all about the old shack in the woods where Eric the Red was supposed to have summered, which only forced the Fixer deeper into his own tall tale.