A Hole In Time

A Hole In Time

An Elliot James Adventure

For Maxim

– Tons and tons, and forever and ever.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Jack C. Monroe on Smashwords

By Jack C. Monroe

Copyright 2013 Jack C. Monroe

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events or incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

He’d lost his head start.

As his enemies half ran— half walked down the sidewalk, Elliot tried to keep his eyes on Principal Douglas, hoping she wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t listening to her.

Alex and Brian were out for blood. As they’d passed by, they flipped him off from behind the principal’s back. It was no surprise. Alex had his middle finger up so often that Elliot sometimes wondered if it was actually stuck that way. Still, the gesture made Elliot’s chest tighten slightly in light of the misery and pain they’d been promising him throughout the day.

His heart picked up its pace as he watched them break off the sidewalk and dodge behind the tall, thick trunked trees just outside the school entrance. They were waiting for him. He began to weigh his options as the principal droned on in the background of his thoughts.

If he told Principal Douglas, she’d take him back to her office, and he could avoid them for one more day. But telling would lead to long explanations to the principal, then his dad would have to pick him up, and he’d have to explain again why Alex Robb and Brian Chaps were out to get him. Besides, there would always be tomorrow or the day after that. He couldn’t hang out in PD’s office every day.

He briefly tuned his mind to Principal Douglas’s words.— You know, Mr. Roland has volunteered to tutor you, she was saying, her dark eyes flashed and her accent made everything sound better than it did in plain English. But even tutoring won’t help if you don’t do your homework, Elliot.

A third figure in a dark vampire-wanna-be trench coat approached the school from the direction of the street and slipped behind the trees near the other boys. Elliot assumed Alex and Brian had called in reinforcements. Rule number one: never assume. It only makes an ass out of you and me. Mr. Roland’s favorite rule echoed through his mind so clearly that he heard it in the science teacher’s nasal toned voice. It was a good rule, but this time Elliot knew his assumption was right. Three against one. He felt himself shrink inside and he had to work to keep his breathing calm.

I’ve got his number for you. PD took his hand and pressed a small square of yellow paper into it, her warm vanilla-and-something-tropical-smelling perfume registering in his mind in the same moment he spotted the black trench coat sticking out on one side of a big maple.

I’m dead. I’m dead meat.

A longing for his dad’s old bike that sat in the back of his garage overwhelmed him. How could he have been so dumb? Evan an ugly, rusted out, nineteen eighties ten speed was better than trying to outrun Brian and Alex on foot.

— I will expect you to have called Mr. Roland, tonight, and to be able to tell me just which days you intend to meet with him for tutoring, said PD.

Elliot stuffed the small piece of paper into his pocket. Yeah, okay. He eyed the trees where he knew Alex and Brian waited and then looked toward the school. Maybe he could go in and wait for a while.

Don’t say ‘yeah,’ Elliot. Principal Douglas scolded gently. The word is yes…

If he waited, Jesse would be home alone. Eight years old, and he was still scared to be home alone. It was the stupidest thing ever, but Elliot couldn’t make his little brother be there on his own. Deep down inside, he didn’t like being alone in their house either.

Torn between the safety of the school and the fears of his brother, he mumbled a quick Okay, thanks Mrs. Douglas and took off running as fast as his legs would go, leaving his principal to lecture the air about using real words instead of messy American slang.

It didn’t work. He was parallel with the far edge of the trees when he heard his tormentors rally behind him, tearing toward the sidewalk as fast as they could.

Hey, Pussy, I’m gonna beat your ass! It wasn’t Brian’s or Alex’s voice, so Elliot assigned it to the taller kid in the trench coat.

He willed his legs to go faster.

It was dumb— the dumbest thing he could have done, standing up to Brian Chaps. The jerk had been picking on him since kindergarten, and they’d always managed to get along in a bully vs. doormat sort of arrangement. But something inside of Elliot had snapped when Brian called his father a drunk the day before. The next thing he knew, he’d bloodied the idiot’s nose. Paybacks sucked.

Elliot cast a quick glance over his shoulder to discover that Goth-boy was actually much bigger than he’d first estimated.

Nobody hits my brother and gets away with it, ass wipe.

I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. Elliot cut between two parked cars and turned down River Road in hopes they would leave him alone. He knew he wasn’t the fastest kid in the sixth grade, but he could run farther than most kids his age. River Road had two things to offer— plenty of traffic so they couldn’t kill him in private, and a hill leading up to the Hudson Bridge which would help wear them out. He didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t shake them before he reached the other side of the bridge. There were some pretty big houses on the eastern shore. Maybe one of them would have a gardener in the yard. They did most days when he passed by with Jesse.

Jesse. Shit. He’d forgotten about meeting Jesse. Elliot turned to see if his pursuers were any closer, and then looked wildly around for his little brother. Jesse couldn’t get tangled up in a fight. His little brother would try to help, and it would get him beaten to a bloody mess. Brian Chaps wouldn’t care if Jesse was half his size; he’d let him have it just for being with Elliot.

Passing Brook’s Candy store where they usually met, Elliot saw a flash of his brother standing at the cash register counter- probably buying more grape bubblegum. Jesse chewed three pieces at a time and was always in need of a new pack. Relieved, Elliot dropped his book bag two doors down by the entrance of The Purple Monkey, knowing that his brother would stop there to gaze at the PX300 gaming system on display in the window. Then he tried to run faster. The farther away they were when Jesse came out of the store, the better.

Sweat poured off his forehead despite the chilled autumn air, and he wished he could stop to throw off his sweatshirt. He became keenly aware of the way his cheeks bounced each time one of his feet struck the pavement. His legs began to feel very heavy, but he still tried to make them move as fast as the beating of his heart that pounded in his ears. The Hudson Bridge was just ahead of him, and still he could hear the boys behind him yelling obscenities. Brian knew more curse words than anybody in the school, but trench-coat-boy was yelling just as many— and that’s when it hit him. Goth-boy had screamed something about hitting his brother. Brian had gotten his older brother, a second time eighth grader, to deliver paybacks for the bloody nose.

Looking back, it got worse. Another kid, just as big as the older Chaps, had joined the chase and he wasn’t out of breath like the others. Squeezing the sweat out of his eyes, Elliot began to despair. They were going to kill him. They were twice his size, and they’d probably taught Brian every evil trick the little bastard knew, and now they were all after him.

The bridge arched up over the water a block away when Elliot saw a better plan and took it.

The train bridge.

Sitting a good fifty feet below the arched Hudson Street Bridge, it was an extra thirty yards away and across the street, but he was sure he could outrun them on the trestle. Despite their father’s warning never to play on the tracks, he and Jesse had spent days on that bridge fishing, throwing rocks, and running ahead of the trains that made their way into town.

A trash can stood by the telephone pole by his turn off, and Elliot knocked it on its side hoping the move would buy him time like it did in the movies. He ran on, craning his head to see if his ploy had worked. It hadn’t. The trash can had rolled in a semi-circle, over their path and off again before the others had a chance to reach it.

Turning down the tracks, he ran out onto the train trestle, aiming his feet at the dark shadows of the railroad ties rather than the light that glanced off the water below them. That was the trick to running on the tracks, aim for the solid shadows instead of the light. Jesse was even better at it than Elliot. If a train got too close, they jumped in. The river wasn’t too far below, and it was deep. The worst thing that had ever happened was when Jesse wacked his leg on a log or when one of them swallowed a gullet full of the nasty, polluted waters.

Concentrating on the shadows, Elliot could not afford to look behind him. He could hear the boys shouting, and it sounded as if they were getting closer. No way. Slowing down, he turned to see if they were even on the trestle, only to find Goth-boy a measly fifty feet behind. Elliot turned and tried to speed up again.

You’re going down, James. I’m tellin’ ya! Brian’s brother’s voice rang out above the pounding in Elliot’s ears. He didn’t even sound winded. I’m gonna beat you into the ground.

The sound of their footsteps too close behind him and the fear of losing any more ground made Elliot feel even shorter of breath. He cast a glance at the other end of the bridge. He’d never make it that far before they caught him. The sight of the yellow and orange trees on the other end set off a warning bell in his mind just before he stopped.

The waters swirled below him, higher than normal from the heavy autumn rains of the past two weeks. Without needing to think about it, and without needing anyone to tell him, Elliot knew that the river was too swift and too dangerous to swim in. Looking back, he took in the triumph and hatred on Goth-boy’s face for a split second before he jumped.

Cold. The water was freezing cold on the top of his head. It soaked into his clothes, his whole body convulsing with the shock of it. He hadn’t anticipated jumping into ice water. To make things worse, the bottom never came.

The few times he’d jumped off the bridge, he’d always been able to push back up to the surface from the large rocks on the river bed. But this time he felt as if he would never get to the bottom so he could start his assent to the top. Flailing his arms, heavy with the soaked fabric of his sweatshirt, he tried to swim up but he couldn’t find the surface. He couldn’t even see the light from the top of the water anymore. Everything was velvety black and freezing cold.

Elliot struggled to hold his breath, hoping he could last long enough to make it to the top. He’d never had on more than shorts and a t-shirt when he’d jumped in before. He should have known this would be harder than he thought. Wasn’t everything? The darkness seemed so thick, and he couldn’t seem to move his arms anymore. Little lights started to prick the darkness, growing in number until they began to swirl together and turn to colors.

Red, green, purple, and electric blue bursts of light swam before his eyes. He wanted them to stop. He wanted to see the big spot of sun shining down through the top of the light brownish-green water. But the last thing Elliot saw was a kaleidoscope of colors fading into white. Letting out his breath, he resigned himself to let the cold water in— he couldn’t fight it anymore.

Chapter 2

The little fishing boat had several small leaks, and Matt Nickelby grumble under his breath as he dabbed a small splotch of black tar over each area. It wouldn’t make any difference on this voyage, but he would know where the leaks were when he hauled it out of the water again. Using an ancient rusting coffee can, he scooped some of the water out of his boat and threw it back in the river. Tonight he would fix his boat, but first he wanted a decent fish for dinner and to make it back to land without swimming in the cold, swift flood waters.

The autumn air smelled crisp. The color of the trees on the river’s edge were so bright, they looked as if someone had brushed them with gold, orange, and red paint. Outside of the leaks in his boat and excepting the lack of strikes on his line, he would have to say the day was perfect. Besides, if he didn’t make a catch, he had bread and cheese in the cupboard. That was more than most people could say. His mind wandered to the neighbors across the road from his house. By the looks of them, they had precious little to eat, and winter was still ahead. He would have to look into that as soon as an opportunity presented itself. In the meantime, a fish or two would be helpful tonight.

Another boat passed him with two men rowing as their lines dragged in the water behind them. Any luck? one of them shouted at Matt.

Not yet, he returned. By their similar looks, Matt guessed they were father and son, one in his late sixties and the younger one in his forties but aged by the ravages of war.

We caught some on snails early on, but nothing in the last hour or so. Might get better toward sunset.

Snails— not a bad idea. Matt had plenty of snails behind his shed. He’d much rather catch those than dig the worms out of his garden. They were getting harder to find this time of year, and he worried that he’d over-harvested his yard. But snails thrived in the shade behind his shed. They would work fine. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Good luck to you. He waved to the men, and started to row toward the shore. He decided not to wait until sunset to get back with his leaky boat. Tomorrow he would try again— with snails, and a newly repaired dinghy.

*****

There was no struggle. When Elliot had finally quit fighting and given up, he let out his breath and anticipated the horror of drowning. He hesitated for a heartbeat of time before he let his chest expand to take in the water, his stomach tightening in anticipation of choking, or gagging. He was so tired, so confused, it took his mind several seconds to realize that he could breath. Under the water, in the black, cold depths, he could breathe as if he were still out in the air.

Elliot took in gulping breaths and tried to push back the panic that now crept into his mind. Was he dead? Had he passed out? Was he about to die? He couldn’t know. He tried again to swim but he could no longer feel the water. There was only thick, cold air like a touchable darkness all around him, even under him, holding him suspended in a state of nothingness. He crossed his arms and patted himself down to make sure he still existed in the void. He did.

He checked his pocket, his fingers closing around the wet, folded sticky note that Mrs. Douglas had given him. He was real. His stuff was still his. But, he felt more alarmed than relieved. What if the ink on the note ran and he lost Mr. Roland’s phone number? What if he was stuck in this darkness forever? And if he was going to die, he wished it would hurry up and happen. Before something started to hurt. Before he lost his nerve.

Then, as if by magic, he felt something under his feet. The rocks. Automatically, he let himself fall into a crouch on them, then pushed up with all his strength and held his breath again. The lights burst in colors around him like before, and he had the distinct sensation of rising through a velvety atmosphere. It became colder again and he could feel the water once more. He kicked, desperately kicked, pulling down water with his arms as fast as he could. I’m going to live… I’m going to live, he told himself. Just a little further. I’m going to live!

The colors disappeared, then the twinkling lights. His lungs felt as if they were going to burst, and if they didn’t, his head might beat them to it. The white-hot pain in his head made it difficult to keep kicking and swimming, but Elliot willed himself to keep going. Rule number one: never go down easy. That rule came with his dad’s voice behind it. His days as a sports journalist had given him plenty of ringside exposure to boxing, wrestling, and other fights. He claimed that it was the encouragement he heard the most in pre-bout pep talks. Secretly, Elliot thought he’d made it up.

The pain in his head became so intense Elliot began to worry that he couldn’t die. If he wasn’t dead already, why wasn’t he? And if he was dead, why could he still feel the pain? A sudden thought flooded him with a sense of panic that he might live in pain forever and ever, and he began to pray. Oh God. Oh God, please don’t let me be in hell. I know I wasn’t very good all the time, and that I should have been nicer to Riley, A mental picture of his smart-ass seven year old neighbor boy flitted through his mind along with the memory of all the times he had told him to shut-up and go home. "but please, God, please don’t make me go to hell!" He swam desperately against the pain.

The color of water came into view, and Elliot began to feel hope again. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. He slowed his arms and legs and forced them into a more synchronized rhythm, giving him a longer, more powerful glide through the water. And then it was there— the sun shining down through the water, and Elliot knew he could reach the top. Just a few more seconds and he would breathe again, not some strange, thick, sluggish air, but the crisp autumn air he needed so desperately.

His hand broke free of the water, and he kicked his way the last few inches up and gulped the air— real air— into his aching lungs. Treading water with all his might, he swiped the water and hair out of his eyes. Alive. He was alive.

He could hear men shouting to each other as he sucked the cool air into his burning lungs— they were saying something about snails. But all he wanted to think about was air and getting out of the water. He only had time to take a couple of deep breaths and to cast a glance toward the shoreline before something heavy hit him on the back of the head.

Elliot’s world went black again.

*****

It didn’t sound like a log, but Matt Nickelby still cringed when he heard the dull thud of something hitting the side of his fragile little boat. He didn’t need more repairs. Glancing around the back of the boat, he steered the vessel a little to the left to see what he had hit, and he found himself overwhelmed by horror and disbelief. He’d hit a body. As sure as the day was long, he could see hair and a wet brown shirt floating in the water by his boat. Looking closer, he wondered if he should touch it. It could be too decayed to handle. But then, there was probably some grief stricken family out there who deserved to know what had become of their loved one.

Filled with disgust and a sense of foreboding, Matt put his paddle under the body and tried to roll it over in the water. It moved only sideways, but one of the hands, visible just below the surface, caught his attention. Had he just seen it move? Anxiety gripped his stomach as he forced himself to reach over the side and pull at the wet shirt. Nothing fell off. No loosened flesh floated under the surface of the water. Pulling harder, he hoisted the body, a boy’s body, halfway out of the water.

Try as he might, he couldn’t get the boy over the side of his boat. Hey! he shouted at the two men in the other boat rowing away down river. Hey! Help! I need some help! he called a little louder.

Their oars stopped in mid-air, and he could see them talking to each other, then they began rowing again, this time toward him. Hurry! he encouraged. He held the boy up as far out of the water as he could, and searched