Timothy Hallinan: The Man With No Time

“Okey-doke,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. I completed the distance to the living/dining room and followed directions. “Hi,” I said.

Pansy, Horace, and Eleanor were huddled together on the exploded couch, staring at Number Two or, more likely, his gun. I hate guns, but most of all I hate guns and nervousness. Rattlers are calm before they kill you; after all, they're just doing what millions of years of natural selection have thoughtfully equipped them to do. But killing, for a person who's not a really advanced psychopath, is light-years from routine. Most of the people who kill other people are very nervous. This kid, whose ears looked wider than his shoulders, wider than Dumbo's, was ready to jump out of his skin.

“This is all a mistake,” I said, trying to sound as calm, as dull, as a psychiatrist. “You guys are in the wrong place.”

“No,” Handsome said behind me. “You in the wrong place.”

Dumbo-Ears, also small, even thinner and shorter than the other, also dressed all in black, with a coil of rope hanging at his waist, eased the safety off with a tiny click that almost blew my eardrums out. His hands were shaking. He had a protruding Adam's apple that made him look like he'd swallowed a thumb, and it did a quick dive as he swallowed.

“This is silly,” I said, hearing my voice crack. “These people just came home and found their children missing. Look at this place. Do you think we did this?”

“Where's Lo?” Handsome said behind me, establishing himself as the dominant personality. He didn't slip his safety off because it was already off.

“We don't know,” Eleanor said in a steady voice. “He was here when we left.”

Dumbo-Ears looked quickly at Handsome. It wasn't a look my insurance agent would have appreciated. “What you think?” he snapped.

“Slowly,” Handsome said. Actually, he said “Salowly.” He tapped my shoulder with the barrel of his gun. “Children missing?”

“Yes,” I said, scared enough to volunteer information. “Two. Twins.”

“How old?”

“Four,” I said.

“Who's mommy?” Handsome asked.

“I am,” Eleanor said, before Pansy could speak. Her face was paper-white.

“And daddy?” That was Handsome again.

“Here,” Horace said.

“Then this is the deal,” Handsome said calmly. “We shoot mommy if daddy won't tell us where Lo is.” My sweat glands suddenly let go, a cascade down my sides.

“Get up, Mommy,” Handsome said to Eleanor. “Get up and go to the wall.”

Eleanor stood, slowly and gracefully, smiling regretfully at Handsome, as though he were a child whose intelligence she'd overestimated. She went to the wall at the long side of the room and put a steadying hand on the mantel over the false fireplace, where the family shrine had been. I'd never loved her so much. “Should I face you,” she asked, “or turn away?”

“Up to you,” Handsome said with a shrug.

“Then I'll face you,” Eleanor said. “That way, you'll remember me.”

She turned to face him fully and put her hands behind her, offering him her heart, her lungs, her stomach, all the places that couldn't be fixed.

“Where's Lo?” Handsome asked again.

“I don't know,” Horace said. “Honest to God-”

“We shoot mommy in the knees first,” Handsome said. “Then in the elbows. That's four. Number five is for keeps.”

Dumbo-Ears looked startled. “Aaahhh,” he said. It might have been a protest.

“He's not here,” Horace said hoarsely.

“Left knee,” Handsome said, lowering the gun that was pointed at Eleanor.

“Wait,” Pansy shrilled. “I mommy, not her. She only-”

Dumbo-Ears looked from Eleanor to her, and Handsome took a step forward so that he was beside me, and raised the gun. I shifted my weight, ready to slam him with my shoulder, and then there was a shuffling sound behind us and a sharp crack, and Handsome hurtled past, hitting me as he fell. A tornado followed him.

“Badboy,” Mrs. Chan bellowed, battering Handsome again with the wooden handles of her umbrellas, two of them, carried against the certainty that it would rain double-hard wherever she was. “Badboy, badboy, badboy.”

I went for Dumbo-Ears's throat and gun arm and got an elbow around them, jerking my arm upward to point the barrel of his gun at the ceiling. It went off twice, showering Horace and Pansy with plaster, at the precise moments that Mrs. Chan's umbrellas struck Handsome, the sound making the blows seem supernaturally hard. Handsome, realizing that his assailant was a woman in her sixties, rose to one knee and brought the gun to bear on her, just as Horace launched himself off the couch and knocked him to the floor on his side. The two of them sprawled there, and Dumbo-Ears freed himself from my grasp with surprisingly wiry arms and brought the gun around into my face.

I was backing away, trying to outrun the bullet, when something brown and compact flew snarling through the air and attached itself to Dumbo-Ears's right shoulder. Flailing at Bravo, he let the gun sag, and I grabbed it and swung it to the right, hearing a little pop as his finger, caught in the trigger guard, was dislocated.

“That's it,” I screamed, reversing the gun and pulling the trigger and spraying the walls with high-velocity slugs. The noise got everyone's attention. Mrs. Chan stopped biting Handsome's thigh, and Handsome looked up from the tangle just long enough to let Horace seize the gun in his hands. Horace turned it around and pointed it at Handsome's chest. The kid went limp, lying on his back and panting. Bravo, growling low in his throat, backed off and then sat.

“My hero,” Eleanor said to me. Or maybe to Bravo. Then her knees went, and she toppled onto the couch.

No one else spoke for a moment. We were all panting. Dumbo-Ears was clutching his dislocated finger and making a rasping sound. “Now what?” Horace said. The gun in his hands was shaking violently.

“Call the cops.”

“No.” He looked over at Pansy, who had her eyes closed. “Not yet.”

“You're nuts, Horace.” No reaction. I looked at Eleanor, who refused to meet my gaze. My own knees were beginning to shake. “Okay, it's your house. But let's at least secure these twerps so we can talk. Eleanor, unroll the dining-room rug.”

As she went to do it, Mrs. Chan registered the state of the apartment. “Aiya,” she said mournfully. Then, a small, round woman in a loose-fitting quilted silk jacket and slacks, she started straightening things.

“Horace, tell your mother she can clean up as much as she wants, but not to get anywhere near either of these guys. Also, you might want to keep her away from the closet.”

Horace said something in Cantonese, and Mrs. Chan glared at the two black-clad children and then puttered off to the kitchen. “Sonomagun,” I heard her say.

“It's unrolled,” Eleanor said from the dining room. She was standing on an Oriental rug, about six by eight. “What's in the closet?”

“It's a surprise. You, Junior,” I said to Handsome. “Over there. Horace, you make sure that this guy and his ears stay put. If he blinks, shoot him.”

“Sure,” Horace said. The gun aimed at Dumbo-Ears was steady.

Eleanor backed away as Handsome reached the rug. “Lie down,” I told him. “Right there, on the edge. Put your hands in your pockets, real deep, as far as they'll go. I want your elbows straight.”

He lay down on the short edge of the carpet, his head a couple of inches above the corner. His face was a mask of indifference.

“Roll over once,” I said. He did. “Eleanor, I want you to lift the edge of the rug and put it over him. Stand at his waist. Good. Now tuck the rug under him and roll him forward with both hands. Junior, don't move anything, understand? Don't even nod your head.”