The Split Second (29 page)

There was only one way to find out.

Dunhuang, China

The city of Dunhuang was in ancient times the hub of the Silk Road, and was often referred to by the travelers who came through it as “
Sha Zhou
,” or “beautiful desert oasis.” The traveler who cautiously emerged from a nondescript door behind the Dinzi Lu bus station knew these facts, of course, for she had spent the first seven years of her life in this out-of-the-way place. The date on the local newsstands said it had taken her twelve more years to come back, but to Shan Mei-Lin, it seemed a whole lot more like twenty-five.

After she’d been debriefed by Central Command, the Briefer was given a complete physical by the Department of Health, which determined that she indeed had been transformed into a thirty-two-year old woman by the Essence of Time. But instead of being depressed or weighed down by the loss of her youth, Shan felt lighter than she had in years. Younger, even. Because no longer was she moving forward in her life to escape where she’d come from. No longer did she feel the need to run away.

The afternoon heat forced Shan to remove her denim coat as she made her way though the streets by memory. It was all coming back to her now—the grocery store where she would help her Ye Ye pick out vegetables, the vacant lot where she and Bohai would climb the mound of sand and dirt and declare everything they could see their kingdom, and most of all, the ramshackle three-bedroom house at the end of Lanzhou Street.

It only took Shan one look at the front lawn to confirm that her family still lived there, her brother included—for alongside her mother’s favorite crumbly statue of the Buddha and her father’s muddy work boots was the same beat-up dirt bike that Bohai bought for himself on his fourteenth birthday, the last the siblings shared together. Now it was she who was the older of the two, and Shan felt one last pang of anxiety, worrying how her family would react when they saw her hair, her hands, her age.

But then she remembered what Mr. Chiappa had said to her, right before they parted ways in Customs. The Fixer confessed that he too had heard a voice in Meanwhile that had guided him toward a light both inside and out. It had left the old English teacher with the feeling that perhaps what had always been interpreted as a warning in “the Manual” was, in actuality, a promise. One that should be savored, for, in regard to both of them, it had undoubtedly been kept.

“Those who enter Meanwhile are never seen again.”

Shan Mei-Lin knocked on the door, and when her brother, Bohai, opened it, she was completely unprepared for the smile upon his face.

The Bronx, New York

“No offense, kid.” The pretzel vender who worked Macomb’s Dam Park rolled his steel cart onto the edge of the grass and threw a few more twists onto the coals. “I’m really not into Hare Krishna.”

The bald, barefoot, and red-gi-wearing stranger held up a finger, pleading with the man to hear (or see) him out, and began to splay out a series of ancient tiles on the ground.

“Seriously, buddy—the game’s starting in two hours and I don’t want you scarin’ off my customers.”

When he first emerged through the Door into New York City, the Initiate had dreamed of rescuing the Mission in a blaze of glory. But before he could even hail a cab, the shiverings and quiverings that had racked his body mysteriously stopped. Part of him feared that perhaps Li Po was right—that he was not ready to put his newly minted 7
^th
Sense to the test—until his Blinker had flashed the good news: “Split Second Fixed.” But even though The World had been saved and his friend Becker Drane had been the one to save it, the lanky Seemsian had to admit he was a little depressed about showing up late.

The Initiate had proceeded to wander the streets of New York for fourteen straight hours, stopping at coffee shops, warming his hands over a fire in the Bowery, even standing behind the glass at a twenty-four-hour car wash and watching the shiny rides go through. Yet again, his hopes of becoming the first one in his family to make it to Fixer would have to wait. To make matters worse, the subway ride he thought would take him back to Central Park had dropped him off here—and his Vow of Silence made it nearly impossible to ask for directions.

“If you wanna play Scrabble, be my guest.” The pretzel guy angrily lifted up his cart and began to look for a new place to set up shop. “Some of us gotta make a living!”

As the vendor disappeared into the New York afternoon, the Initiate slumped his shoulders and sat silently on the curb. For six months he had yet to say a single word, but now, feeling more like a failure than he ever had in life, he couldn’t take it anymore. He picked up his Receiver and dialed “Crestview 1-2-2.”

“Hello?”

“Grandpa, it’s me!”

“Simly?”
Milton Frye was arguably the greatest Briefer who ever lived, but he’d been retired for many years now and didn’t hear as well as he used to—which is why he was shouting into his grandson’s ear.
“What’s wrong?”

“I’m lost, Grandpa!” Briefer #356, also known as Simly Alomonus Frye, may have been dejected, but he couldn’t believe how good it felt to use his vocal chords again. “I’m somewhere in New York City.”

“I thought you were at that yoga retreat.”

“I am. I mean, I was. I mean, I need your help!”

In a flurry of words, Simly related how a terrible premonition had led him literally across The World to the corner of East 161st Street and Ruppert Place. But by the time he was done, he was practically in tears.

“Easy, Simly, take it easy . . .”
His grandfather’s raspy voice had always been a source of comfort to Briefer Frye.
“I want
you to turn around.”

“Okay.”

“Do you see a big building in front of you?”

“Yeah! It says ‘Yankee Stadium’ on the front and there’s all these people going in.”

“Good. Now go up to the ticket window and ask for Jimmy the
Usher. Tell him you’re Milton Frye’s grandkid and you need two
front-row tickets for tonight’s game.”

Simly’s face lit up—he had always dreamed of seeing the fabled New York Yankees play in person. His grandpa had met Mickey Mantle once, even watched The Babe play, and when he wasn’t Briefing on historic Missions, he spent many a day perusing box-scores or sneaking off through the In-Between to catch a matinee.

“But, Grandpa, why two tickets? Who else is coming with me?”

“Who do you think’s coming, ya numbskull?”

Though they often spoke on the phone, the two hadn’t seen each other in forever, because the retired Briefer rarely left his house anymore. But Milton wasn’t going to miss his only daughter’s only son’s first baseball game . . .

“And make sure you get me a bag of peanuts and a Coke!”

Cape Cod, Massachusetts

Five hours to the north of Yankee Stadium, straight up Interstate 95 and across the Bourne Rotary, Becker and Benjamin Drane were walking down a stretch of white sand beach. The Fixer had snuck into Shanty Town under the cover of darkness, and since his bedroom was stashed away in the basement, it was an easy trick to swap places with his Me-2. But getting back in good graces with his little brother was another story.

“So, Me told me you were feeling a little bummed out while I was gone?”

Benjamin’s only response was a half-hearted shrug.

“Listen, I know that we haven’t spent that much QT together, and it sucked to find out that a lot of the times when you thought you were doing something with me, it was actually Me-2. But I hope you realize how much you mean to me . . .”

Benjamin continued punishing him with the silent treatment.

“It’s why I told you all those stories about The Seems— stories I never told anyone but you—and it’s why I got permission to do something that’s only been done a handful of times in the history of The World.”

That at least got the boy to turn away from the ocean and look in Becker’s direction.

“You know how you always said you wanted to be a Sunset Painter?” Benjamin nodded, and Becker pointed about a hundred yards in front of them where a man with a smock and a plastic beak on his nose quietly painted on an easel not ten feet from the shore. “Well, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

A soon as they approached, the stranger with the thin handlebar mustache was full of smiles.

“Zere he is. Ze man, ze myth, ze legend.” The Maestro was truly thrilled to see his young friend again, and bent down to talk to the younger of the boys. “You know, your brother is a great man!”

Benjamin shyly smiled, as if to say, “Yeah, right.”

“Figarro Mastrioni, Master of the Sunset Strip . . .” Becker said “Sunset Strip” with extra emphasis, because he knew the Maestro was a bit of a showman. “I would like you to meet my brother and aspiring artist, Benjamin T. Drane.”

As soon as Benjamin realized he was meeting a real Sunset Painter and not another Bob Ross knockoff like the kinds he’d seen in the Catskills, his own vow of silence dissipated in a flash.

“Cool.”

“Maestro, I know you don’t normally give lessons. But I want you to show Benjamin everything.”

Figarro bowed and, judging by the glorious Sunset over the Atlantic Ocean that was already half-completed on the canvas in front of them, Benjamin could tell he’d been left in good hands.

“Okay, dude. I guess I forgive you.” The little boy extended a hand, and his older brother shook it. “But don’t let it happen again.”

With Benjamin getting his first taste of real Impressionism, Becker finally had a few minutes to be alone, and what better place to have them. He took a few deep breaths and the ocean air filled his lungs. To his left was a salt-water taffy shop with kids who loitered out front, eating cotton candy and popping wheelies on their dirt bikes. He was jealous that they didn’t have to grow up ahead of time, while he felt like he’d aged twice his own thirteen years in one day. Much like the Briefer who had served so valiantly by his side.

Fixer #37 pulled a fresh Slim Jim from his back pocket and reflected upon what was by far the roughest Mission of his career. He knew that even though it had come to a successful conclusion, there would be a lot to answer for. Which is why he’d left a letter in the office of his former instructor before making his way back to Cape Cod.

Dear Fixer Blaque,

I’m sure you’ll be getting a memo from Central Command, but I wanted you to hear it from me first: I broke the Golden Rule again tonight . . . and maybe some others. I take full responsibility for my actions and apologize if this has caused any embarrassment. I also look forward to telling you my side of the story . . .

Yours Truly,
F. Becker Drane (#37)

P.S. Tom would have wanted you to have this.

He had included the old photograph of the Jackal family, because he knew how close the two legends had been. Fixer Blaque would undoubtedly take the second death of his best friend just as hard as the first, and Becker hoped the sight of Tom in such a happy place would ease the sadness. His own emotions were another matter.

As the waves splashed over his bare feet, Becker thought back to his conversation with Sully at the café. The Keeper of the Records had insisted that something was behind the Plan, but he had never said what it was. And after the crazy path this day had taken—from the disaster in Time Square to reuniting with Amy Lannin to Thibadeau Freck being shipped off to Seemsberia—it was hard to tell whether those A’s, B’s, and C’s had led to D’s, E’s, and F’s, if anywhere at all . . .

The one thing he did know was what happened in Alton Forest, and the simple memory of it brought a big smile to his face. He wasn’t about to put it on his Post-Mission Report, but he was pretty sure that back in the Department of Time, a cube had recently arrived in the slush fund of the Daylight Savings Bank. It was no doubt already in his private tray, to be withdrawn and savored sometime in the future. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t savor it now . . .

Fixer Drane had been way too much of a wimp to make the first move with Jennifer Kaley, but thankfully she wasn’t. His (and her) first kiss didn’t last very long, maybe a second or two, but as Sophie Temporale had so aptly put it, “Time is relative.” As Becker bent over and picked up an old seashell, he played over the memory again, and again, and again . . . and it only got better. Whatever the consequences of his actions on this Mission, he would think about that tomorrow. Today, he was just happy to be alive, and he chucked the shell into the ocean with a shout.

It skipped three times, then fell beneath the waves.

Epilogue

Thought Track #3, The End of the Line

“Last stop, End of the Line!”

The Conductor of the Trans-Seemsberian Express hopped off the train and into the cloud of steam that was forming around its giant steel wheels. Only seconds ago his brakeman had pulled the lever that made those wheels screech, bringing the locomotive to a halt in the remotest destination in The Seems. But much to the Conductor’s surprise, not a single passenger was getting off.

“Last stop! End of the Line!”

The man in the blue hat and red tie scanned the platform one last time, then pulled a pocketwatch from inside his blazer. “24:59.” Oh well. Time to turn the old girl around . . .