Chapter 10

Mark's flight from town when things got bad is coming back to haunt him in this chapter.

E4, Chapter 10

“So, you sank the rustmobile in Mill Road Swamp?” Jeff asked.

Mark thought with regret about the oxidized orange Karmann Ghia that had transported him everywhere since high school and sighed.

“Yeah, she’s gone, man,” Mark told his old friend as they flipped through their menus. “That swamp just ate her up. Thanks for letting me wash up in your shower, by the way. It’s the only option I have since Mom and Dad left town.”

“Oh, no problem,” Jeff said absently.

Mark was worried about his friend’s appearance. Jeff was a couple years older than him, but looked like he had gone forty years without sleep. Perhaps it was the light, but it looked like there were some white specks in Jeff’s black mop of hair. He had put on some weight, too, and was sucking down Menthols like they were being recalled. Mark wasn’t about to tell him about his recent adventures lest it turn his hair color completely.

Jeff had not seemed surprised to see Mark when he knocked on his door. He hadn’t even said much; the two just slipped into their old routine of getting a meal at the Lone Penguin Diner. Mark liked how no matter how long he and Jeff were away from each other, their friendship picked up from where it left off.

There was only one sore spot in their friendship and Mark knew he had to dig for more information on Samantha’s murder at some point. In the meantime, he was more concerned for his living friend.

Jeff folded up his menu and Mark wondered why he even bothered looking. Jeff always ordered the Chicken Parm.

“I thought you might never come home again,” Jeff, said, reclining in his chair. “It’s been three years. What brings you back now?”

Mark folded his arms. “As much as a place changes,” he admitted, glancing out the window, “it’s still home. I mean, Carolina is nice, warm, and the people are...nice.” Mark realized he was staring at his fork and forced himself to look into Jeff’s bloodshot eyes. His friend looked to be patiently disbelieving him.

“The phone call from my mother had nothing to do with it?” asked Jeff.

Mark sighed and lowered his voice. “She said that you’d been really down.”

“She was telling people I was going to drown myself in alcohol,’” Jeff calmly corrected. “And worse.”

Mark frowned. “Alright, she did. But you’ve never been the kind to...I just didn’t believe it. I know she meant well by calling.” Jeff began to retort, but Mark rushed his defense. “I knew you’d be pissed that I was coming back to check on you. And that you were frustrated that I hadn’t visited since the trial. But damn, man, I had to see how you were doing. You tell me nothing over the phone or online, but did you ever, really?” It was true; Mark was only able to have a decent conversation with Jeff in person. “I feel bad,” admitted Mark. “It’s no excuse, but coming home hasn’t been the easiest thing.”

Jeff shrugged. “I know what you mean.”

The waitress, a brunette one, brought water and Mark rested his hand against the condensation on his glass. “We both do,” he muttered after the waitress left. “Things aren’t the same now that she’s gone.” They both were lost into reflection for a few moments.

“So, tell me,” Mark asked in an attempt to change the subject, “What have you been up to?” He took a sip of his water.

Jeff frowned. “I’m still teaching, even if the occasional parent doesn’t want her kid in my class. Other than that, I’m getting by. How was the season?”

Mark shrugged. “For the team, we did okay. They’re talking about giving me some time in the majors, though.”

Jeff raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that’s great. Way to go, Mark.”

Mark politely nodded. “Thank you.” He tapped his fingers against the table and leaned in. “But you know...Remember that game we had back in the summer, years ago, when I batted that tennis ball across the horse field and right through Ms. McCafferey’s shed window? Or the evening we ended up starting a bonfire in the trash barrels and playing on into the night in those abandoned corn fields across the street?”

“Yeah,” said Jeff, thinking back to many nights that were like those and would never come again. He had a rare laugh.

Mark pointed a finger toward the past and sadly grinned, the glint of a jukebox refracting off of his eyes. “It’s nothing like that.”

Jeff nodded. “So, it’s like a job.”

Mark reclined. “Something like that.” He paused, giving himself a mental stab of courage before asking the next question. “Be straight with me, Jeff. Why did your mother call me?”

Jeff recoiled and looked ready to squirm from his chair, but the waitress returned for the save. Mark, annoyed at the break in pace, quickly ordered an omelet. Jeff ordered, to Mark’s hurt surprise, a burger. Things weren’t right.

“I’m just tired and unhappy,” Jeff brusquely explained after she left. “I don’t know what I want. There used to be a plan. Back when Samantha was still…here,” Jeff trailed off.

God, how Mark wanted to tell him that he might be able to change things. Mark decided he had to ask. “Jeff,” he stammered, with a mixture of curtailed enthusiasm and fear to talk, “I know we never talked about the day she died…But if you can tell me anything you might not have said, I might have a way of figuring out what happened to her.”

Jeff shrunk back and Mark realized there was no smooth way of bringing this up with Jeff. He opened his mouth to rephrase the question but noticed a pair of frosty blue eyes glaring at them from a nearby booth. Mark recognized them as belonging to Hugh O’Connor, a fiery, argumentative jerk that he had graduated with. Hugh had been sitting alone, a half-finished plate of roast beef and potatoes in front of him. Maybe Hugh wasn’t a horrible person, but he had once made the mistake of trying to win the love of Jeff’s life away from him. With his dishonest charm, he had almost succeeded.

“Ah, geez,” Mark groaned as he saw Hugh, dressed in denim with a baseball cap covering his red curls, rise from his booth and swagger over to them. “Hugh O’Connor’s coming over here.” Jeff fixed his eyes on the table upon hearing the name and didn’t bother looking behind him.

“Hey, Marcus Vox,” spat Hugh, using his full name, which Mark loathed. “I thought you had split town for good.” Hugh stepped closer and leaned over Jeff.

Mark eyed Hugh defiantly, but decided to remain civil for the moment. With some years between them, he held hope that Hugh had grown up. So far, it wasn’t looking swell. “Hey, Hugh,” said Mark. “I was just telling Jeff I have to come home sometimes. How are you?”

Hugh bit one of his thin lips and disregarded the last question. “What are you doing with the killer?” he asked, pressing a thumb into Jeff’s shoulder. “It’s bad enough you saved his ass on the stand.”

Mark sat up. “Hugh, Jeff was hanging out with me on the night she was killed. I swore to it then and I swear to it now.”

“Nah,” said Hugh, shaking his head. “The evidence led right to him. You missed something. Or were lying.”

Mark wanted to slug Hugh, but maintained his composure. Jeff stayed silent, staring at the table.

“We all miss her,” Mark said. “Jeff didn’t kill Sam.” Mark wanted to believe, and almost did, that Hugh was angry because he missed her, too.

Hugh snickered. “I just want to see this bastard brought to justice. Samantha? Slut had it coming to her.”

Mark’s calm expression snapped, his eyes glazed, and he rose from his seat. He stepped closer and stared down Hugh, not giving one damn that the obnoxious son-of-a-bitch was bigger than he. “What was that?” he hissed.

“Mark,” muttered Jeff, without looking up. “Let it go. I hear it all the time.”

Mark ignored Jeff and felt his rage swelling. Not much set him off, but the slander, the arrogance, was spiraling him into overwhelming anger. His top lip recoiled. “Hugh, not another word.”

Hugh grinned at Mark, mocking him with his expression.

“That’s it,” Mark growled, “you piece of-”

Hugh immediately reacted at Mark’s daring to return his insults. He grabbed a hold of Mark’s baseball shirt and spat words into his face. “You talking about me, punk? Huh?! I’ll kick another hole in your ass right now!”

Mark had enough. His initial blast of anger receding, Mark thought coolly about how to get Hugh to remove his hands and went with his first idea. He swung a free arm at the table, grabbed his fork and plunged it into one of Hugh’s beefy hands. Jeff’s eyes went wide when he saw this. As the fork fell, Hugh grabbed his hand and howled like a coyote whose paw had been run over by a train. Mark shoved him away and pointed a finger at the door. “Get lost, Hugh!”

Hugh, still yelling curses and holding his hand, retreated out of the diner’s main door. Mark looked around at the stunned patrons and waitresses. He had forgotten their existence for a few moments. “Man,” he said to Jeff, running his fingers through his hair. “Do you believe that guy? No one talks about her like that.”

Jeff turned and stared in silence at the door Hugh had exited.

Hugh suddenly burst back through, enraged. “I’ll take down both of you!” he yelled. “And you, Jeff, just sitting there knowing what a sick fuck you are! Everyone in Tempest knows you killed her! Why don’t you take your ass somewhere else?!”

Mark began to yell at Hugh to lay off, but stopped as a blur erupted from his table and slammed into Hugh. Jeff’s motionless demeanor had cracked. He knocked Hugh to the floor and slammed a fist against his ear. “You never let it go. You never let me be!” Jeff growled. He repeated it into incoherency as he shoved Hugh’s jaw to the floor. Hugh struggled to get Jeff off of his back and kept punching backwards at his ribs, but it had no effect.

The other patrons gathered around, but no one was jumping in to stop the scuffle. Mark, who had been stunned for a moment, overheard one of the waitresses tell another to call the police.

“Hey, hold on!” Mark hollered to the waitress, desperately wanting to keep the police out of this. She paused and he rushed forward, wrapping his arms around Jeff. “Ease off, Jeff, ease off!” he grunted. Jeff struggled to shake him, and was doing pretty well since he was larger. Mark was strong, though, and bodily pulled Jeff away from Hugh.

“Dammit, Mark!” Jeff hissed. Mark lugged Jeff back and dropped him into a booth. Jeff was ready to pounce away, but Mark blocked his friend. “Hey,” he said to Jeff, who was still eyeing Hugh. “I said, ‘Hey,’” repeated Mark. Jeff grudgingly looked at him. “You made your point,” Mark assured him. “Don’t get arrested.”

“Fuckin’ murderer!” shouted Hugh.

Mark angrily turned toward him. “Shut up, Hugh!”

Hugh picked himself off of the floor and brushed off his butt. “I’ll see you two later. Watch your back,” he warned and barged through the diner’s rear exit. Mark made an obscene gesture at Hugh as he left, slamming his right elbow against his left hand.

Jeff was thankfully starting to settle down. Whew, Mark though, disaster averted. Then he heard the same waitress from before whisper to the other one to call the cops.

Mark leapt at the older waitress, waving his hands. She looked petrified. “Wait a minute,” he demanded. “The situation is over; I took care of it. Just let it be at that.”

“No,” stated the waitress, “I think we need to call the police.”

Mark’s expression went dark as he looked into her defiant eyes. “I said there’s no need,” he hissed. “Now get off your god-damned authority trip and go back to carrying trays.” Seeing the worried expression that formed on her face, Mark realized that he needed to calm down and be diplomatic. “Okay,” he apologized, “I’m sorry we disrupted things here. For what it’s worth, Hugh started it.”

The waitress crossed her varicose arms and remained cold. “Just get out, the both of you. Now.”

Mark raised his hands to the side and acquiesced. “Okay,” he agreed, moving back and pointing to Jeff. “Let me just get my friend and we’ll leave.” As the waitress glared, he urged Jeff toward the front entrance and out to the main parking lot.

Outside, Jeff walked away from Mark and stared for a few minutes at a lamppost. Mark stood behind him, frustrated as hell that he didn’t know what to say. “Jeff,” he eventually began, deciding that awkward talk was worse than silence, “they were going to call the police. And Lord knows you don’t need that. I know Hugh has always been an a-hole, but has he been messing with you lately?”

Jeff nodded his head and looked at the gravel driveway of the diner. “It’s not just him. With Samantha’s murder being unsolved, everybody wants to blame somebody. And after I was the strongest suspect, they just assumed that I got away with it. It’s a small town, Mark, with small opinions.”

Mark put his hands in his pockets. “Why don’t you leave, Jeff?”

Jeff turned around, shaking his head with disapproval. “You mean like you did?” Mark frowned. He knew his leaving wasn’t the same, but he wasn’t going to say anything at that moment.

“No, this is my home. I’m not going to run,” stated Jeff. “They’re always going to think I killed her if I leave. I stay and it proves to them that I loved her.”

Mark stepped closer to Jeff. “Sometimes I think you’d be happier elsewhere,” he said, “but I guess I know what you mean. There’s a lot of nostalgia here.” He looked up at the diner, at its aluminum walls and the scarfed penguin on its sign. “Take this place, for example,” he said. Jeff was listening, but Mark couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“Do you remember that blonde waitress, Cassie, that worked here?” he reminisced. “I thought she was the cutest thing but I never had the balls to ask her out for some reason. It didn’t stop you from constantly prodding me, though.” Mark laughed. “Does she still work here?”

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Jeff responded.

Mark scratched his ear for a second and thought of telling Jeff about what had been happening over the last few days. “You know, I actually did get a chance to talk with her not so long ago,” he began.

Jeff snorted. “You know, Mark, you keep doing that.”

“Keep doing what?”

“You keep referring to this in the past, to that in the past,” Jeff said, frustrated. “Since you left, everything for you is a fond memory that you want to go back to.” Jeff waved dismissively at the diner. “I’ve been here, Mark. It’s not so great. The reality of all those times we had was that they were in a petty town filled with judgmental people.”

Mark flinched. Whatever happened recently, their youth had been pretty good. “You’ve only felt that way since Samantha died.” He saw Jeff’s eyes flare and Mark immediately regretted saying that.

“That’s why I needed to ask you about her,” Mark desperately began.

“No, no, maybe you’re right,” Jeff hotly stated, bulldozing over Mark’s attempt to ask about Samantha. “Maybe I do need this town behind me. And maybe I should start with you.” He stared at Mark, who was too hurt to know what to say, and stormed off into his gray pick-up truck without a further word. He tossed Mark his bookbag and bat out the window and sped out of the diner parking lot before Mark could even attempt an apology.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, stared at the ground and hissed. “Damn!” He and Jeff, in all their years of friendship, had never had a confrontation like that. With them being like brothers, the thought of losing Jeff as a friend was unthinkable. Mark sighed and tapped his bat against the lamppost.

Behind him, he heard the diner’s front door open and a man say, “No, there’s no need to call more police, ma’m. I’m enough to take care of it.” Mark groaned as the door closed and the man that had been talking walked up behind him. Mark didn’t realize there had been an officer within the diner. The footsteps halted right behind him and he heard the man issue a snide chuckle.

“That’s women for ya,” said the man. “They’ll come between friends. Even the dead ones.”

Mark turned around angrily and stopped in shock when he saw who was before him - Detective Harry Shot.

Chapter 9

Another short chapter that I probably need to expand, although without revealing too much. I like that it shows another side of Lenara. I'd like to have her think back to her past and do more in this chapter.

E4, Chapter 9

Lenara was a far way from the ice and cold of Russia. Compared to that, Tempest in the fall was feeling pretty balmy to her.

She leaned forward from a pillar of the Antebellum porch she was sitting upon and squirmed her arms out of her white jacket. A calm, brisk gale immediately embraced the flesh of her stomach and arms that her bronze-colored tank-top left exposed. Lenara stretched out her taut arms in front of her and watched the dragon tattoo on her left shoulder dance as she flexed the muscle underneath. It was a temporary fixation. She leaned back against the chipped pillar and dropped her hands between her thighs. Looking up at the starry vacuum above from between the locks on her face, Lenara let out a sigh. She was alone out there and she wasn't sure how it felt. The sky that evening made a formless, blue mesh with the fields around her and it looked vacant. Lenara gently closed her eyes and a faint tune came to her lips, one she hadn't heard hummed in a long time.

"Hey," interjected a teenage voice from behind her. Lenara shot up like a bolt and reprimanded herself for not hearing the girl's approach. Jen was not one to be concerned about, though. In fact, Lenara's expression warmed into a smile at seeing her.

"Did I startle you?" asked the girl. Jen was almost 20, but her petite size and nervous, quiet voice subtracted a few years, perceptionally. She wore her black hair in a ponytail most of the time and had wide, blue eyes. She reminded Lenara of her younger sister. Jen was cautiously toeing the division between the mansion's front doorway and the porch.

"Nah," said Lenara, sleepily and shrugging. "I heard you coming."

Jen laughed as she walked forward and perched herself on the porch next to Lenara. "Oh yeah,” Jen said, “I forgot that you're trained in that kind of thing."

"Yeah," Lenara said guiltily, looking away. "Where's your father?" she asked, changing the subject.

Jen pulled her oversized sweatshirt over her hands and folded her arms in against herself. "The Colonel's in the barn, still trying to fix the Echelon. He's been there for hours."

"Has he made any progress with her?" Lenara inquired.

"If his curses are any judge, I'd say no," Jen said, and they shared a smile.

"She just won't fly," Lenara mused regretfully.

Jen nodded. "So, what were you thinking about out here?"

Lenara averted her gaze. "Nothing."

"Oh," said Jen, turning downcast. Lenara felt bad about Jen's reaction and met her eyes.

"Home, Jen, I was thinking about home," she quietly confided.

Jen nodded with understanding. "You want to go back?"

Lenara cracked a grin. "The funny thing is, not much at all. It's more like a feeling I'm missing."

"Huh?" said Jen, looking apologetic. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I'm not sure either," Lenara admitted. The two giggled and Lenara thought back again to times with her two sisters, singing childhood nursery songs, long before things became like they were at the present.

Chapter 8

What I want to show through the chapters in the past is that Mark has been reinvigorated by the impossible circumstance he's in, compared to the more sullen Mark from earlier chapters.

E4, Chapter 8

When Mark came to, he was on his knees in the middle of the street. He blinked and stared at the pavement, wondering what in the hell had happened.

His whole mind was suddenly blown by a loud, repeated explosion of noise and he realized after a bit that it was coming from the car stopped directly in front of him.

“Hey,” shouted a gruff voice from the car’s window, “move it or lose it, fella.” The driver honked the horn again.

The barrage of noise sent slivers of prismatic colors creeping back along the corners of Mark’s eyes. He felt like he was glued to the blacktop. His knees were bent tight like they were composed of broken and rusted sprockets but thankfully that feeling was quickly fading. Mark grabbed the car’s bumper and hoisted himself up. He couldn’t make out the driver’s face through the car’s tinted windshield, but he could see that he was tapping thin fingers on the steering wheel. Probably thinks I’m the town drunk, Mark thought. He made a quick “Thanks for not running me over” gesture and stumbled back onto a sidewalk. The car jumped forward as its driver kicked the accelerator and Mark noted as it went that it looked like a modified blue dune buggy. He shook his head and looked around.

The last thing Mark remembered, it was night and he was falling backwards off a bench in front of the Lone Penguin Diner. That was three years before the day he was supposed to be in, chronologically. As opposed to chrono-illogically like things had become.

At the present, Mark was standing in a one-storied, cubic business district on a slate blue afternoon in what was undoubtedly the onset of fall. He recognized the road as Main Street Boulevard in his hometown and he was standing in front of Fabruzzi’s, the worst and only pizza place in Tempest, N.J. The diner was a mile down the road.

“The date, I need the date,” Mark told himself, picking his baseball bat up from where it had rolled against the curb. He touched his right shoulder and felt that his backpack was still on.

Mark turned to Fabruzzi’s, its large windows covered with faded, outdated menus and ads for lost dogs. Mark hoped they were not connected. He marched forward, swung open the door of the greasy pizza place and headed right for the cash register. Absently, he cut in front of the first person in a short line, although he remembered to excuse himself.

“Hey,” Mark asked the tan, mustached guy behind the faux wood counter, “What day is this?”

The man wrinkled his brow and pointed at Mark. “You in line?” he barked.

“No,” Mark said, “I don’t want any pizza.”

“Okay,” said the man gruffly, and hollered, “Next!” The mousey man behind Mark squeezed by him and began to rattle off an order consisting of items from the kids’ menu and cheeseless pizza. The burly man behind the counter began furiously scribbling it on a receipt book and hollered the order in Spanish to the chef behind him.

“Hey, wait,” Mark calmly interrupted. He leaned in towards the man behind the counter and tapped the register. “What day did you say it was? I just need to know-”

“I’m taking order,” warned the man, waving Mark away. “Now quiet!” He pointed to the mousey man and asked, “Anything else?”

“Dude,” Mark pleaded, refusing to budge.

The pizza guy’s face was becoming as red as his tomato sauce. He bent over, grunting, and snatched something from under the counter. As he did this, Mark took notice of the digital clock duct-taped to the lime green paint on the back wall. “Here!” the man shouted, tossing a newspaper at Mark. “Now get out unless you want to order a pie!”

“Hey, thanks,” Mark told the steaming mad pizza guy. He stepped back from the line and examined the paper. When he found the date and day, he smiled.

“Back again,” he muttered happily. “This is all starting to make sense. Sort of.” Mark realized he needed a pen and looked over at the guy behind the counter. He then thought better of asking him for it and stretched his right arm around to the backpack’s outer pocket. Mark undid the zipper so he could pull out a red Sharpie, bit the cap off and began making marks on the newspaper. Crudely, he scribbled a math problem on top of a front page photo of a kid smearing pumpkin pie on his face. He tried not to use his fingers, as he completely sucked at math.

“The difference is once again the same as last time minus about two hours,” he figured out loud, thinking about the time on the clock. Mark had been completely freaked, excited and confused when he had first woken up in another year. A few day’s worth of blipping back and forth between his past and his present had given him a chance to calm down, however, and figure out that there was a pattern to the madness. Each time he appeared in another year, the duration of his time there was cut by two hours. This meant that he had about 20 hours in the present this time before he returned to the past. It seemed to be counting down to something. Mark was pleased that it would give him enough time to take care of what had become his personal mission since he realized he was being given a chance to correct something. He felt there was a purpose to the X-File he was living, and considered it a blessing, no matter the how nor why. Fate was favoring him.

“Very good,” Mark said, satisfied. He absently tossed the newspaper on the floor and left the pizzeria, content to be back where he belonged for a bit. Grand time traveling goals aside, his guiding desire now that his mind had settled down was to finally address the matter of a friend in need. And to take a shower.

Chapter 7

I like how Cassie comes across here. I started the book thinking she was going to be a more shallow or immature character, but she didn't come out that way. She's intended to be the character in the book that's the most grounded in reality.

E4, Chapter 7

Mark anxiously waited for someone to pick up on the other end of the line and almost dropped the pay phone receiver when they did.

“Hey? Hello?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Mark?”

“Is Samantha there, Mrs. Cohen?” Mark rushed out.

“No,” said Mrs. Cohen, sounding confused. “She’ll be in Cancun until tomorrow. Didn’t I tell you that yesterday, Mark?” She laughed awkwardly.

“Uh, you might have,” replied Mark. “I’ve got my days a little mixed up. I just needed to talk to her. Sorry, I’ll call back.” Mrs. Cohen said goodbye and Mark set down the phone hard.

“Damn,” he hissed, “I’m running out of time.” Then he looked at his watch and laughed at the irony of that statement.

Cassie Brighton closed the Pelican Diner’s front door and pulled her thin, leather jacket tighter around her. For a summer night, it was breezier than normal.

She walked down the stairs and began heading towards the street, for her apartment was a ten-minute walk away and she really wanted to get home and collapse into bed. Thankfully, yet another long shift was over.

“Hey,” said a voice from behind her.

Cassie slowly turned around, holding tightly to her purse. Marcus Vox was sitting on a bench, his arms hung behind it. Under the low light from the parking lot, his eyes were in shadow and his cheekbones stood out. Underneath was a crooked smile. His normally tanned skin looked pale. Behind Mark, the Pelican Diner’s aluminum exterior had taken on an eerie purple glow from the fluorescent lighting along the establishment’s windows.

Cassie hugged her arms against her. “Were you waiting for me?”

Mark shrugged. “Kind of.” He sat forward and his face looked nicer in fuller light. “But not exactly,” he added.

Cassie thought about leaving, but he made her curious just like earlier in the day. “I thought you got arrested,” she blurted.

Mark shook his head. “The Detective is playing a weird game. He didn’t arrest me. I told you I didn’t do anything.” He sounded somewhat reassuring, but this was the same guy who earlier had told her he was stuck three years in the past. Even if he did leave a 380 percent tip, his behavior was questionable.

Cassie reached into her purse and pulled out the baseball card he had been about to show her before the detective showed up. “You left this.”

Mark nodded. “Yeah. Did you take a good look?”

Cassie frowned. Did he really expect her to have been bedazzled by it? “Yeah,” she said. “Whoever made this did a good job. You went through a lot of trouble to make people believe that story of yours.”

Mark sighed. “I didn’t go through any trouble. It is what it is.” He sat back again and looked away. “It’s all right. I didn’t expect you to believe it. I don’t even know why I told you.”

Cassie felt bad and stepped closer. “Maybe it just seems real to you. Is it possible you’re just interpreting things wrong?”

Mark sneered at her. “I’m not one of your patients, Doctor.” He swung himself fully onto the bench and crossed his legs on one of the armrests. “And the main reason I came back here is because I don’t have a place to go. This bench isn’t half bad to sleep on.”

Cassie looked at him sadly. “You don’t have a place to stay? Do you live near here?”

“Yes, but I can’t go there,” he explained, putting his biceps behind his head.

“Why?”

Mark laughed and glanced at her. “Oh, it only involves another story you wouldn’t believe.” He gave her that enticing gaze again.

Cassie shrugged. Okay, she wanted to know. God help her. “Try me.” She was getting this strong vibe from him, like there might be some truth to what he said, or at least that he believed it.

Mark sat up and rose to his feet. It was hard to see under the available light, but he was pale and faintly sweating like he had the flu. Cassie tried to get a closer look but he stepped back into the shadows slightly when she moved forward.

“Okay,” he said, “I thought about going to my parents’ house. Three years ago, though, or today rather, I was living at home before me senior year of college started. If I were to go home now, I’d run into...uh, myself.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding?”

Mark threw up his arms. “Yeah, see, I know you’d think it was nuts.” He paused and rubbed his neck, regarding her with a glimmering smile. “But I’ll prove it to you if you want.”

Cassie raised a hand, because she didn’t think going off with him to his house to look for himself was something she could convince herself to do. “Mark, I’ve got to be heading home.” She just didn’t know what else to say.

Mark shrugged and sat back down. “Hey, whatever.”

Cassie paused and looked at the sidewalk. Patrons came in and told her all kinds of things. The guys often flirted, even the girls sometimes. But this guy, he was cute in a spazzy sort of way that she liked, well, would like if she wasn’t in a relationship. And he was nice and talking with him felt like talking to a friend or a classmate. But...baseball cards from the future? “How do you respond to a story like that, Mark?” she asked without looking up. “Stuff like time travel just doesn’t happen.”

“I didn’t think so either,” Mark admitted. “But there’s a purpose, you see. I’m here in the past and I’ve been given a chance to fix things. Miracles happen, don’t they?” He sounded winded and was trailing off.

Cassie looked at him with concern. The story, likely delusion that it was, was getting deeper and she could see that he was sweating, the white part of his shirt clinging to his defined chest and his red sleeves sagging off his arms. “Are you feeling okay?’’ she asked. “You look like you’re coming down with something.”

Mark brushed it off. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. I have to be.” He braced himself against the bench. “But it is getting time...Maybe you should head home? It’s getting late. I’d offer you a ride, but...”

Cassie almost asked him if he needed somewhere to stay, but logic stepped in. It wouldn’t look good to have another guy staying there and she just didn’t need the argument. And he didn’t seem threatening, but would bringing him home even be safe? “Okay,” she simply said. “Goodnight, Mark. Hey, I’ll see you around.” Mark waved at her and Cassie turned away to walk home. She felt guilty leaving him there. Not only did he look sick but it really did seem he was giving her what he felt was the truth. She was drawn to the honesty.

Behind her, Mark mumbled, “...like my body being pulled softly through my pores...”

Cassie spun around to see what he meant, but Mark was gone.

Chapter 6

The comments I've been receiving have been extremely helpful. However, it makes me want to see where discussion goes on the remaining chapters I already have written before I write more. I think I basically have to start a new draft. I want to fix the major problems that exist before I go forward, in order to have a more solid vision in my mind when I write further chapters. I have been thinking a lot about how I want to redo things, and I feel pretty good about it. But I'm more embarrassed about what I have done, lol. As it is, I feel like the book is more of a mess than I thought it was. Granted, with the way it jumps around and all the different, odd characters, that might be no surprise.

Chapter 6 is one that I'm thinking I might to place later, probably in extended form. As it is, it's more of a vignette and I'm not sure if what it reveals should be revealed so soon. And I want to develop Shot a little better.

E4, Chapter 6

Detective Shot stormed clear across the town of Tempest. He didn’t like small, former farming communities where everything was tra-la-la friendly and all the shops were closed by eight o’clock. Sure, that wretched tin diner was open 24 hours, but that was because the yahoos in Tempest needed their fill of bacon fat and gristle at all hours of the everloving night. And he didn’t like New Jersey. He was from Vegas, baby, where the lights never go out and the hookers never sleep.

There was no going back to Vegas. Shot acknowledged with consternation that it was indeed his own fault that he was in Tempest, New Jersey. He had volunteered for this investigation, after all. You do what you have to.

At least he liked messing with Vox. And he got to march right out of the stinking hellhole for a few blessed minutes to accomplish his current task.

Shot stopped when he reached the edge of a dilapidated weed-field and assessed his surroundings. He was on the highest hill in town, on the corner of a property that housed nothing but a burned-out barn. The trees were sparse. Looking down, Shot saw the road to Tempest winding away. Good. He was as far as he was going to get in reasonable walking distance from the town’s electrical gizmos and powerlines.

Shot slid a gloved hand into the dark insides of his heavy, leather trenchcoat. He tapped around the various pockets, passing over his badge and the heavy metal lump of the sidearm hanging from his right shoulder. His lithe fingers found the object he needed and pulled out a triangular box that had lots of white buttons on its ebony surface and a purple LED screen. Shot rubbed his head through his hat as he tried to remember the code he needed to key in.

The callbox was needlessly complex, - a nice cell phone set-up would have done just fine. Shot typed in the 18 digit code, raised a telescoping antenna from the box’s center and waited impatiently for a response.

“We read you, Shot,” came a firm but warbling male voice over speakers on each side of the device. Shot thought he could detect a hint of sarcasm there from Derringer. Ass.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just calling in with your daily update, my captain,” Shot said with a bastardly inflection. “I’ve talked with Mark Vox. I still believe he’s at the center of this. I had a little chat with him and he was yapping about stopping some murder. I’m going to investigate further to see what exactly he’s talking about. Might be a lead into this insanity. Derringer, respond with any further instructions if you’ve got ‘em.”

Shot clicked a button on the device and waited. And waited. The callbox didn’t quite work on real time and the delays really pissed him off. Derringer might not even respond at all, but he had to wait and see. He tapped his boots against the ground. He tossed the callbox lightly into the air above his hands a few times and caught it. He whistled a tune that he quickly realized was from some bad lounge act he had been dragged to and quickly stopped. Just when he was about to start lighting fires with the weeds and a book of matches from The Century casino, the callbox buzzed and Shot pressed the play button.

“Research Vox but don’t focus solely on him,” Derringer instructed. “Derringer out.”

Shot looked disdainfully at the box in his hands and thought about the message he had been waiting for. “I already knew that, Derringer. I am competent,” he said out loud, though no one would hear him. “Ass.”

Shot shoved the callbox back into his coat and trudged back to Tempest.