In the Neck of Time

Mary stepped down from her jeep outside the General Store. The weather was pleasant, with a touch of fall in the air. The sky was light blue with a perfect spread of puffy white clouds. She took a deep breath, glad for fresh scents of nature after years of city life. There just weren't days like this in the city. If there were, everyone missed them.

Few cars parked were along the road, nothing moved. Beeville was in Southwestern Wisconsin, where the Mississippi River formed the border between Wisconsin and Illinois on the east, and Iowa and Minnesota on the west. This area hadn't been crushed flat by the glaciers millions of years ago, and the gentle hills was a stark contrast to the cityscape.

Mary got out of the road and onto the sidewalk. She only moved into the area the month before, and had settled into a routine of shopping for supplies, visiting, and writing. Writing was the point, why she had come out here. Frustrating then how the words didn't flow as in the coffee shops back home. Mary sighed. Moving had been a good plan. There had been too many memories, too much history, too much everything back in the city. She just needed more time to adjust.

The sound of another car, no a truck, made her turn to look back at the road. It was actually a huge black pick up truck, with twin exhausts sticking straight up through the bed behind the cab. It rolled slowly past her, the driver looking right at her. No, not just looking, staring at her. Mary flushed, looking away, then looked back. Long years in the city had taught her not to fear eye contact. Don't look like prey she'd learned, be confident.

The driver was young, in his mid-twenties. He had spiky black hair, pale skin and high cheekbones. The driver's left arm stretched across the top of the steering wheel, a plaid flannel sleeve rolled up to show a white sleeve underneath. It didn't hide the lean muscles of his arm. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but his head followed her as the truck rolled past. Mary knew her face stayed flushed, but she didn't look away until he did. Once his head turned forward, the truck's engine roared louder, and it sped away.

Mary stood for a moment. She realized her heart was racing, her palms were clammy, and she was breathing as if she had run around the block. Jeez, she thought, get a grip already. She turned from the road. She had to pick up a few things, food mainly, and then she would head back to her cabin to hide for a few days and get some work done.

Little silver bells jingled when Mary pushed open the General Store's glass door. The inside was something from the 1920s, with wooden shelves free from graffiti, neat rows of items without a hint of dust, misuse or disorder. Rosalyn was seated, as always, at the checkout counter next to the enormous brass cash register with a cheap romance book opened half way through. Rosalyn was older, frumpy and a bit overweight. She always wore a floral patterned dress, a brown knit sweater and half moon glasses on a gold chain around her neck These were perched on the tip of her nose as she turned the page of her book.

The General Store wasn't a true grocery store. There was a larger town, further away, that had one of those. Instead it was something of a convenience store on steroids, without the overpricing found in normal convenience stores. If Milk was $2.50 a gallon in the grocery store, than it was $2.50 a gallon here too. Mary was sure that brought in more business, it certainly brought in hers. She picked up a basket, and gathered a few items - fruit, milk, a frozen pizza that caught her eye - then headed to the counter.

Rosalyn stood from her stool, closing the book and tucking it away. "And how are you doing today, Ms Meredith?" Since seeing it on her driver's license Rosalyn always called Mary by her full name. She also insisted on being called 'Rosalyn,' rather than Rose or Lynn.

Mary set her basket down. Rosalyn started looking through it. "I'm fine, and what will it take to get you to call me just Mary again?"

"Names are important," Rosalyn answered, working large mechanical buttons and levers on the register, "you shouldn't be in such a hurry when you use them."

Mary sighed. It was the same answer, word for word, Rosalyn gave last time. She let her eyes trace the metal work of the register. The thing looked like it was one hundred years old and weighted five hundred pounds. "Do you know who the young man in the big black truck is?" She asked in idly. A moment ago she hadn't meant to ask. Then she looked up. The clanking register had stopped.

Rosalyn was looking at her. The glasses dangled from the chain around her neck. Mary noticed for the first time how bright Rosalyn's eyes were.

"What young man in the black truck, dear?" Her voice sounded normal, pleasant, conversational. But those eyes, why was she staring?

"He...he just drove past," Mary pointed vaguely towards the door. "I hadn't seen him before and wondered if you knew who he was."

Rosalyn continued to stare, and Mary began to wonder if she had stepped on some local forbidden topic. The village bad boy perhaps, or perhaps he had gotten drunk and beaten someone to death. Finally, slowly, Rosalyn reached under the counter and pulled out a paper bag, placing Mary's things into it. "It's not much to go on." she said. "Boy in a black truck. Can't say for sure who it might have been. Probably someone just passing through. Get a lot of that." Mary paid, took her bag and walked out, sneaking a peek back as she opened the door to leave. Rosalyn was still staring at her. Don't know who it was like hell. Who was that man?

She drove out of town, passing a massive old Gothic church, bigger than any other building in the area. It also had a massive graveyard, which had tombstones dating back to the 1790s. And then she saw the shiny black truck, parked next to a side door. Mary found herself pulling over to the side of the road, getting ready to turn around before she stopped herself. She shook her head, then looked at her reflection in the rear view mirror.

He's probably 18 years old with four girlfriends and five kids, she thought. And no way he's going to be interested in a thirty-something urban transplant. She knew she didn't look bad, still in good shape thanks to yoga and jogging, no gray and nothing giving in to gravity yet, but this guy had been something else.

"Dammit." She said, cranking on the steering wheel, turning the jeep around, and parking in front of the building. Maybe she could pretend she was looking to start attending. What if he's the priest? That would be a shame, but surely Rosalyn would have said something.

Mary got out of the jeep, regretting she hadn't put on make up or done anything with her hair, then feeling foolish. She wasn't in high school anymore. The building had once been cream colored, decades of grime turned them shades of gray, brown and black. Vines worked their ways up some of the walls, none reached very high. Gargoyles looked down at her from ledges and arches. The more she looked, the more out of place it looked. The church belonged in Chicago, or New York, or maybe Europe, not a small Midwestern town that had peaked at a thousand residents, maybe. The steps leading up to the doors were of the same dingy, cream colored stone, and were wider at the base than the top. Funneling all the parishioners inside, though there could never have been enough parishioners to warrant the grandeur.

Mary climbed the steps. They were smooth, worn uneven in places. The wooden doors themselves were taller than her, perhaps ten feet high. They had been painted white once, but were faded and chipped. Each had massive bronze hinges stretching across their scarred surface. Craved works stretched above the doors, but time had faded them beyond reading. Mary wasn't sure they were in English. German, perhaps? There was no sign showing hours, no knocker, just a handle on each door. Well, it is a church, she reached out and pulled. The door swung outward silently. She walked inside, leaving the door open. She could see pews in the dimness. There were two regular sized doors, one each to her left and right, each closed. The floor was faded tile, and mosaics and artful woodworking covered the walls.

The chapel was dimly lit, seeming to increase it's size and majesty. Mary felt she was seeing the church as it had been designed and intended Just candles and light through stained glass visions of saints and Christ. The vaulted ceiling disappeared above her, dark wood deepened the shadowed alcoves. Straight ahead, the altar, with the cross enormous behind it, actually took her breath away. The man on the cross might have still been alive, the blood glistened on his skin and the wood of the cross.

"Excuse me, may I help you?" The voice from behind her, caused her to jump and spin. Mary faced a small man, frail and ancient. He wore a rough brown robe tied with a white rope. His head was pale, bald and with blotches, his arms, which had been folded in his sleeves, came out, palms down in a soothing gesture. "Peace, daughter, I did not mean to startle you."

"No, I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't just be wandering around." Mary put her hand to her chest, her heart was pounding.

"Don't be foolish daughter, this is exactly where you should 'just be wandering around.'" He said with a smile. "I am Father Samuel. I will admit to some surprise at seeing you here. Do you require confession?"

"No, well, no thanks." She wasn't catholic, but this probably wasn't the time to point that out. "I just...I saw that black truck parked outside and, well..." As she spoke she saw Father Samuel's face change. There was a flash of something, disapproval perhaps. It was gone again in a moment.

"Yes, I see." He pursed his lips for a moment, then stepped to one side. "He is below, down the stairs and then to the left. He is doing some repairs below."

"Thank you." Mary said. "I'm new in the area, and, well...can you tell me anything about him?"

This earned her another set of pursed lips, but Father Samuel answered. "His name is Richard Hanley, he passes through now and then. At times I've let him stay here in the church. But," He held up one finger to stop her next question, then folded his arms back into his sleeves "everything else you want to know you will have to ask him. He will tell you, I think, if you ask. Now, if you will excuse me." He actually paused, waiting for her thanks before giving her a "God bless you, and keep you safe," and walking towards the alter.

Mary didn't watch him go far before heading down the stairs. There was only one hallway, and a musty, damp smell in the air. The walls were rough stone, and there were heavy wooden doors at irregular intervals. Bare light bulbs hung too low from the ceiling. She wondered which door she was supposed to open when she reached the end of the corridor. She stepped into a large open space. This room had more light, most of it was focused on a small area.

Richard, she had learned his name, was stripped to the waist. His pale skin glistened in the light. He was on a ladder, high off the ground, but moved without fear, going up on his toes to reach further into a large metal box, connected to other things with pipes and hoses. There was a clang, and he pulled his head out, tipping it back. Then he froze, turning to look down at her.

He wasn't wearing his sunglasses. His eyes looked right into her, through her. He wasn't close, all the way across the room and so high on the ladder she wasn't sure she could touch him without climbing up it herself. But he felt so close, as if she could reach out, pick him off the ladder with her hand and carry him like a doll. She realized she wasn't breathing, feeling suddenly dizzy. She drew in a shuddering breath, taking a half staggering step forward.

He was there. He caught her in his arms, and she leaned into him gratefully. His skin wasn't wet, but it did shine in the light. His eyes were all iris, black surrounded by white. His lips were slightly parted, and she felt his quick breathing.

"Sorry, I must have tripped." It was a lame thing to say. Why couldn't she think straight? "Sorry," she said again, more firmly, and straightened. Leaving his arms was almost physically painful. "My name is Mary. I, we, saw each other in town." It sounded terrible to her ears. I saw you, and tracked you down and went into the creepy basement of this church. God, I'm a loser.

"Mary, yeah I remember." His voice was rich. It seemed to have harmony in it. "Um, maybe we should go somewhere else? Let me get my shirt."

"No," Mary said, feeling her nerves. "If you're working we can talk later, its okay."

"It's fine. These haven't worked in twenty years, I just told Father Samuel I would take a look at them. They will still be here later. Let me get my shirt."

Mary watched him walk back to the base of the ladder. He turned off most of the lights, then put on the long sleeved white undershirt he had been wearing. The flannel he left off, which was fine with her. The undershirt stretched across his chest and shoulders, hinting at the muscle she had definitely noticed. If I don't stop thinking like that I will need confession. Mary turned and led the two of them back to the church. She was intensely aware of the motion of her arms, legs, and hips as he followed her. She tried to relax, walk confidently and with a bit of a sexy roll, but she felt like a little girl in grown up shoes.

Back upstairs, Mary moved so Richard could pass her. She looked toward the alter, but if Father Samuel was there she didn't see him. Richard didn't pause, going out into the sunlight. Mary followed him.

Richard was about half way down the stairs, looking at her jeep.

"Nice." He said, looking back at her with a smile. His face had the same glistening look to it, though it was subtler here in better light, and was only a few shades darker than pure white. It looked odd with the black hair. He had his sunglasses on, and Mary wished he'd left them off so she could spend some more time looking into those eyes.

She realized he was looking at her, a small smile on his lips, and she was staring at him. Like an addled school girl. What had he said, oh the jeep "Yeah, I got it years ago. Runs like a tank."

He turned back, walking to the far side. "Looks in pretty good shape." He said, looking at her. Mary blushed, walking down and around the jeep to lean casually against the hood.

"I work to keep it in good shape." She said, trying for a coy sound in her voice and keeping her eyes on him.

He took a step forward, then another. He was very close, she could see a touch of a five o'clock shadow, the frayed threads on the collar of his white shirt. She could feel her heart pounding as he took another, smaller, half step, leaning closer...

He froze, then started to turn away as a car, actually a large cargo van, hit him. Richard was thrown through the air, crashing into the ground and tumbling to a stop 50 or 60 feet away. The violence of the impact knocked Mary to her hands and knees, facing where Richard was already trying to get up. How can he still be alive? Mary thought it with a surge of hope. Then the back doors of the van opened and two men leaned out with machine they swung towards Richard. Even as he started to get his feet under him, a net shot from the van, entangling him completely. He fell back to the ground with a roar of rage and pain, thrashing against the net.

Every noise was crystal clear to Mary. She heard the driver's door open, and someone get out, the foot steps on the pavement, the sound of the van's motor, the sounds Richard made as he struggled, the mutters of the two men as they dragged the..it had to be some sort of gun...back inside the van, more steps from the driver as he came into view. He paused, then he reached into the van and pulled out the end small hose, dragging it with him as walked over to where Richard still struggled, guttural sounds that might have been words coming from his mouth while he tried to work free. The driver leaned down, connected to hose to the net, then walked back to the van. Richard began to struggle even more, the net was cutting lines into his skin, the blood seeping out more pink than red. Mary noticed the net was made out of something that glittered. Metal, and something else?

The driver reached the back of the van, and turned to look at Mary. For the first time her shock let her see him. He was dressed in a long coat, made from patches of fur sown together badly. He wore a wide brimmed tan hat, sweat stained and dirty. His face had one long scar, running from his chin, touching the left edge of his mouth, passing through one eye, which was milky white, finally disappearing under the hat. His hair was long, lank, and streaked with gray. One of the men in the back of the van lifted something onto his back, and the driver slipped his arms through it's straps without taking his eyes off Mary. Then he walked over to her, stopping far enough away she couldn't reach him.

"Ah'm doing you a favor, though you will likely never know it. Ah hope so anyway." His voice was course, scratchy, with a long southern drawl. The scar turned the side of his mouth down into a scowl and didn't move as he spoke. It slurred his words, but Mary could still understand. "But for the pain you will know, Ah am sorry." He turned away, unhooking a tube from the pack on his back, and nodded towards the van.

One of the men nodded back, and with a sudden loud hiss the net around Richard snapped tighter. He screamed, a sound so loud Mary had to cover her ears. She didn't understand what was happening. Then, with a sudden pop, the net was sucked down the hose into the van. Her heart climbed into her throat, was he free? No, not free. Oh god...

The retracting net had cut him into...bits. Red, gory and bloody bits. Mary realized the pile of gore was still moving...No, just a trick of the light. It has to be, The driver walked over, flame shooting from the end of his tube, and passed the fire back and forth over the mass until they were burned completely. Then he walked back to the van, put the flamethrower back inside, gave her one last look, then walked to the driver's door, got in and drove away.

Mary found she could stand again. She could still taste bile in her mouth, and had a hard time looking away from the smoldering pile. She looked up at the church to find Father Samuel, looking down at her. He made the sign of the cross towards her, a blessing? He just watched a murder and hadn't done or said anything! He turned and went into the church, closing the door.

Mary leaned against her jeep. She felt dizzy and sick, and still wasn't sure what had happened. She lowered her head, eyes closed, and took several deep breaths. Richard had been so alive, and now...what had just happened? She opened her eyes. Next to the wheel of the jeep was a finger. It was pale, and shone slightly in the sun. As Mary watched, it started to wiggle.