Time & Space: Chapter 7

Three hours had passed since Doc Thompson had dug the embedded slug out of Mac’s shoulder blade and Mac was beginning to doubt that he was dead. The buzz from the brown liquor they had given him to dull his senses was still lingering, but its effects had worn off slowly from the bottom up, and the hole remaining in his back was now on fire. Mac couldn’t believe that he would be able to feel so much pain in the afterlife.

He sat up, wound screaming at him from the effort, and looked around the rudimentary jail cell they had locked him in. The sun was setting now, casting long, angled shadows of the cell bars across the brick wall to his right. He sat on a wooden bench that was bolted into the stone bricks behind him and padded with a dingy straw mattress. To his left, a partition of thick, wrought iron bars separated him from a nearly identical cell containing a large man who snored loudly. The whole place smelled musty and sour, like one too many drunks had served out their recovery here.

What is going on? he thought. He had to find some answers, but didn’t know where to start. He knew he had been in New York, not even seconds before the flash of light had left him standing in the desert. He could remember his whole life: the running, the robberies, the money, his apartment, his crew - all of it. There was too much for it to have been a dream, but this felt just as real as that had.

Maybe more, he thought. He couldn’t be sure.

As real as the hard jail bed felt, nothing about it made sense. How had he gotten shot in the back? Why did they arrest him? Who was the woman they seemed to be protecting? When was all of this taking place? No modern place he knew of still used horses and wanted posters. Now that he thought of it, he didn’t see a computer or even a lamp on the large wooden desk beyond the cell gate. Maybe “when” was the most important question.

Mac looked around the room for some clue when he realized that the scrawny boy they had called “Rabbit” sat staring at him from the opposite corner of the office, rifle laid across his bony, jean-covered knees. Mac stared back for several long moments, but Rabbit never even blinked.

“Hey,” Mac said. “Rabbit - what’s going on here?”

Rabbit didn’t say anything, but bit his lower lip and blew a shrill, short, whistle. The man in the cell next to Mac’s stirred and sputtered before resuming his raucous nap.

“Rabbit, you’ve got to help me out,” Mac pleaded. “I’m not who you guys think I am. I’m really confused and -”

He stopped short as a thick silhouette stepped through the open door frame, blocking most of the fading orange sunlight from filling the room.

“Good, yer awake,” the braid-haired man said as he stepped across the room and stood before the barred cell door. “Looks like Doc took good care of you. Saved yer life, I reckon.” He pointed to the elaborate bandage that wrapped around Mac’s right shoulder and held his arm up in a sling around his neck.

Mac moved to stand, but slumped back onto the hard bench, still weak from blood loss and dizzy from from the whiskey.

“Where am I?” Mac asked.

“The law offices of Sheriff William Schumacher, but people ‘round here call me “Grey Hawk” on account of my Cherokee blood and it being easier than German. You can call me whatever ya’ like as long as it’s respectful.”

“Right - er - Sheriff.” He couldn’t believe he had escaped the law for so long and now found himself sitting behind bars in a real life spaghetti western. There’s a lot about this that’s unbelievable, but that’s the part that just isn’t possible, he joked to himself.

“What you smirkin’ at, Parrish?” the Sheriff scratched his stubble as if the look on Mac’s face made him nervous.

Mac figured if he couldn’t understand what was going on, he might as well play a long. “Just thinking about my escape plan, Sheriff. It’s a good one.”

“You can plan all you like Parrish, yer not gettin’ out of here until they come an’ transfer you to the federal prison. I sent a telegram to the Marshal up in Pecos an’ he’ll be here in a day or two to get you.”

“Look, Grey Hawk, I’m not who you think I am and I haven’t done anything to warrant being locked up.” At least not in this century, he thought.

“Nice try, Parrish. You might not think yer a bank robbin’, horse thievin’, killer who was about to do God knows what to poor Miss Turner, but that wanted poster I got over yonder says otherwise.” He spit a thick, black splatter of tobacco through the bars and onto the floor of Mac’s cell.

Mac could see he wasn’t going to get anywhere with negotiation. He shrugged and slumped over on his bench, groaning with the ache from his shoulder. Why did he care if “Cole Parrish” ended up in prison? He didn’t even know who the hell Cole Parrish was. And if he was dead and this was some understated version of Hell, then what did it matter anyway?

“Don’t get too comfortable, Parrish,” the Sheriff said, turning and walking to his desk where he sat with an exasperated sigh.

Mac rolled onto his back gingerly and stared at the wooden ceiling above him. He looked for patterns in the knots and grain of the dry, aged, wooden beams. He saw what looked like a tortured face that rippled and flowed into a dark set of veins, vaguely forming the silhouette of a small dog. He let out a long breath. Finding patterns like this had always given him a sense of peace that he couldn’t understand. He used to find whole worlds to escape to in the texture of his walls as a child. One of his few moments of respite from the harsh world he grew up in.

With his mind focused, he finally began to think through what was going on. He was now almost certain he hadn’t died back there in the alleyway outside the hospital. He still had his mind, after all, and the sheriff had mentioned sending a telegram, a technology that was consistent with the rest of the world around him. It was like he had been transported to another time. But that wasn’t possible was it? No, it couldn’t be. But if it was, what had caused it?

He walked through that final moment in his mind. He had grabbed the woman and threatened her. There didn’t seem to be anything abnormal about that, at least to him. Then, the other kid had run up and grabbed the gun. Had it gone off? He couldn’t quite remember. He tried hard to remember the feel of his finger squeezing the trigger but couldn’t. It had happened so fast. He realized this wasn’t the first time he had doubted pulling a trigger in the last few days. He winced and fought off an image of Tony lying dead on the asphalt.

Focus, he thought to himself returning his mind to the alleyway - to the trigger. Had he pulled it, or hadn’t he? It was like the moment was suspended between the two possibilities. If he hadn’t pulled the trigger, then there was no way he could be dead right now. A face flashed in his mind.

The kid, he thought as a strange sense of familiarity washed over him. He knew that kid. He concentrated for a long time trying to think of where he had seen the kid before, but he couldn’t find an answer. Everything about that final moment was like trying to put together a puzzle with every piece one solid color.

His shoulder suddenly surged with pain. He had almost completely forgot about the bullet hole in his back, lost in his mind.

“Sheriff,” he called out, voice hoarse. “My shoulder. Do you have something for the pain?” Mac pushed himself up again, feeling the energy flow down his arm and leave his body, suddenly feeling the full weight of his exhaustion.

The Sheriff met his eyes for a long silent moment, squinting as though he were suspicious of his motives or wrestling with something deep inside him. Then, he nodded slightly and slid open a drawer in the large wooden desk he sat behind. He pulled out a large, clear glass bottle with what Mac assumed to be whiskey inside and two small tin cups. The snoring cellmate on the other side of the bars sniffed in his sleep as the Sheriff poured a short draft of the smooth liquid in each cup. He stood, taking a ring of small iron keys off a hook on the wall, and walked over to unlock the cell door. He knelt down next to Mac and handed him one of the cups.

“This might be the last one you ever have, Parrish. Enjoy it.” He tapped his cup to the edge of Mac’s and shot the liquor down in one gulp. Mac did the same, nodding his appreciation.

He lay back down on the bench as the warm elixir entered his veins, replacing the blood he lost with a numbing wave of relief. He closed his eyes and rode the wave into a deep sleep.

Mac dreamed of blonde hair and a soft, simple smile.

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