Dr. Fitzpatrick Zacharia, Fitz to his friends, slapped Carson P. Applebaum on the back, rushed across the laboratory, and plucked the startled rabbit from between the massive tines of the harmonic oscillator.  He lifted the white rabbit, affectionately known as Einstein, above his head and twirled in an uncanny display of nimbleness for the overweight, sixty-two year old man.

“Do you know what this means, Carson?” Fitz asked.

The graduate assistant turned from the lab bench, where he’d braced himself after Fitz’s slap, and faced his professor of theoretical physics.  He mumbled, “Yeah, sure.”

Carson realized the historical significance of the moment, but certain personal problems weighed down his conscience, so he did not feel like relishing their accomplishment.

“Carson, your enthusiasm is underwhelming.”  A frown added further wrinkles to Fitz’s already grizzled face.  He situated Einstein in an empty cage.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Zacharia, problems at home.”

Carson ambled toward the rabbit cage.  He watched Einstein devour lettuce leaf after lettuce leaf, envying the rabbit’s voracious appetite.  But the thought of food, any food, nauseated Carson, who was already too thin according to his mother.  Maybe he needed a three day leap into time, like Einstein, to revive his failing appetite.

“Care to talk about them?”  Fitz busied himself studying the control panel of the harmonic oscillator.

“Not now.”

Fitz nodded his bald head, then shouted instructions.  Carson dutifully followed them, happy for the distraction, pushing aside the memory of that morning.

*****

On Wednesday morning, life became intolerable.

The vid-phone had beeped at eight twenty-three, catching Carson with a cereal-laden spoon halfway to his mouth.  His mother shouted from upstairs for him to answer.

He set the spoon in the bowl and commanded the phone to answer with no picture.  He was in his underwear, and didn’t want one of his mother’s middle-aged friends seeing his underweight body, his disheveled black hair, and his bloodshot brown eyes.  Talk about a bad way to start the day.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Applebaum.  This is Lieutenant Mark Chasky of Metro.”

“You’re talking to her son, Carson.”

“Oh.  Is your mother there?  It’s important.”

“Hold on.  Mute.”  Carson then shouted, “Ma, it’s for you.”

His mother padded down the stairs wearing a fluffy pink robe, matching slippers, and therapeutic mud on her face.  Carson gave passing thought to telling the vid-phone to display picture, but reneged, not wanting to embarrass his mother.

“This is Patricia Applebaum.  To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Lieutenant Mark Chasky of Metro.  I’m sorry to disturb you ma’am, but I have bad news.”

Patricia glanced at Carson, who shrugged, unable to think of anyone who could have died that would have been a tragedy for them.  His mother was an only child, and so was Carson.  She had a lot of friends, but not real close.  He had none, all of his spare time spent in the laboratory.

“Go ahead, Lieutenant, I’m listening.”

“Charles Culmer has been released from prison on parole.”

Patricia blanched.  She breathed in sharply and clenched her robe at her chest, then stumbled backwards.  Carson jumped from his chair, knocking it over, and dragged another chair under his mother, and helped her into it.  She stared at the blank vid-phone, her mouth half-open, her hand still on her chest, fingers entangled in the folds of her robe.

“Mom!  Mom?  Mom, what is it?”  Carson kneeled in front of his mother.

“What’s happened, son?” Chasky asked.

“Phone off!”

Carson’s mother stared at him but did not respond.

“Mom?”  He hugged her and gently rocked her, rubbing her between the shoulder blades.  “Talk to me, Mom.  Please.  Whatever it is, I’ll protect you.  Talk to me.”

An hour later, she hadn’t moved.

Carson called his mother’s doctor, who rushed over and after a quick examination announced that Patricia had slipped into a deep depression brought on by extreme anxiety.

“The only thing we can do,” the doctor said, “is keep her warm.  Eventually, she’ll snap out of it.”

Carson nodded, staring at his mother, not hearing anything the doctor said.

By noon his mother still had not budged, and Carson urgently needed to leave for the university.  Rage surged through him.  Lieutenant Chasky had called back and told him he doubted Culmer would come anywhere near them, but still, they should keep their eyes open and make sure the security system was activated at all times.

Carson paced their small, thirty-fifth floor apartment.  He remembered what his now deceased grandmother had told him about Charles Culmer.

It was ten years ago when Carson had been fourteen.  He and his mother still lived with his grandmother in her large two-story house in suburban Kansas City.  His mother had suffered a relapse.  Carson could not understand why she had suddenly become unresponsive and stiff as a statue.  He’d not seen the news report about Charles Culmer having his first parole review.

His grandmother sat young Carson on the cool leather sofa in the living room.

“Carson, it’s about time you knew what happened to your mother.”

“What do you mean, Grandma?”

“Fourteen years ago, when your mother was barely pregnant with you, a man broke into your parents’ house and raped her.”

“What about my father?”

“Charles Culmer, the man who attacked your mother, also killed your father.”

His next question stuck in his throat.  He felt his mouth moving but heard nothing but the faint whooshing of the air conditioning through the vents.  His grandmother’s withered yet gentle face regarded him patiently.  He glanced at the stairs, knowing his mother sat catatonic up in one of the spare bedrooms.

Very softly he asked, “Did he come back and rape her again?”

“Oh no, child.  No no no.”  His grandmother stood, slowly.  Her old joints protested and she grimaced at the effort.  She waddled to the window and drew the blinds wider.  Summer sunlight streamed through.  “There was a news story this morning about Culmer.  He’s up for parole.”

Culmer had been denied parole that time, and for nine more years.

Carson snapped back to the present.  He continued his pacing.  His body boiled.  The auto-thermo control adjusted the room temperature in each room he entered in a failed attempt to keep a constant environment.

He had to leave.  But what to do with his mother?  He called Mrs. Dupree from across the hall and asked if she would keep an eye on his mother.  The retired and widowed neighbor said she’d be glad to, even after Carson explained the situation.  She said she had nothing better to do anyway.

Before Mrs. Dupree arrived, Carson scrubbed the mud treatment from his mother’s face.  Through teary vision, he combed her dusty blonde hair and forced her hand still clutching her chest to her lap.  He repeatedly tried to close her mouth but was unable to.

The doorbell chimed.

“Don’t worry, Mom.  I won’t let that animal anywhere near you.”  He kissed her on the cheek and went to let Mrs. Dupree in.

Carson checked the video screen by the door.  It showed a short, elderly lady, holding a suit-case sized purse.  More tears formed in his eyes.  He didn’t want to leave his mother, but he had to get to the university.  Had to.

He grabbed his jacket, opened the door, and brushed by Mrs. Dupree, too embarrassed to show his tear-streaked face.  Over his shoulder he mumbled that his mother was sitting in the kitchen.

During the bus ride to the university, Carson sat in the back seat.  His head rested against the cool glass.  The gears in his brain redlined while the options swirled.

*****

On Thursday, the rabbit died.

Sixteen months ago, they’d started with simple inanimate objects.  The first thing had been a three inch bolt which they’d transported one hour ahead.  It arrived at the prescribed hour, but was twisted beyond recognition.  Two months later, they successfully transported a six inch bolt one day ahead.  The inanimate transportations culminated with an automobile six months ago, gas tank full.  It arrived in perfect condition, and even started.  Einstein had been the first live creature to go through time.

“The autopsy revealed poor Einstein’s stomach was twisted,” Fitz said.

Carson stopped just inside the lab.  “Huh?”

“Einstein died this morning.  His stomach was twisted in knots.  Reassembled correctly, but something wasn’t right.”  Fitz studied a computer screen, a three-dimensional image of the insides of a rabbit rotated slowly.  Rapid sounds emitted from the speakers, changing in pitch as parallel lines swept over the image.

Carson watched sullenly.  The death of Einstein put a crimp in the plan he’d hatched that morning, a way to set his mother right again.  Her condition had changed little overnight.  Before leaving for the University, he’d force fed her oatmeal.  She’d chewed and swallowed, but her eyes had never focused on him.  Instead, they’d stared through him into the nightmare she now occupied.

“There must be finer vibrations, too fine for the instrument to pick up,” Fitz continued.  “We need more sensitivity in the vibrometer.  Any ideas, Carson?”

Carson mentally shook himself and pushed aside the raw image of a greasy, pock-marked man brutalizing his mother.  He’d never seen Charles Culmer, but imagined narrow eyes, pointed nose, a twisted mouth with stained teeth, and three day stubble.  A two-legged version of a ferret.

“Could it be the processor?”

“How do you mean, Carson?”

“Maybe the vibrometer is picking up the finest vibrations, but the processor is too slow to interpret them.”

“Could be.  Could be.”  Fitz put his hand to his chin.  His mouth worked at his interminable habit of biting the inside of his lips.

“How about trying two processors?” Carson suggested.  “The first can handle the lower frequency vibrations, the second can be programmed only to measure higher frequency vibrations.”

“Excellent idea,” Fitz said.  “Let’s give it a try.  But maybe add a third processor, just in case.”

Carson nodded.

They ended up using four processors.

*****

On Friday, the rabbit disappeared.

Einstein II with his black eye patch and one black leg, became the second creature to travel ahead in time, they hoped.

Sitting between the two tines of the harmonic oscillator, the white rabbit winked out of existence when the pitch reached super-audible state.

Fitz tore off his headphones.  “We’ll see what happens on Monday.”

Later, in his tiny cubic office, Carson slumped at his desk.  He attempted to grade undergraduate tests, but the differential equations barely registered.  Bubbles from the champagne Fitz had uncorked in celebration of their second animate test still percolated in his gullet.  Even after two glasses of bubbly, he’d been unable to shake his moroseness, so had left the small party, not wanting his sour mood to spoil the others’ fun.

Fitz believed in celebrating before the results came in.  If the results were bad, well, they’d had a party anyway.  If the results were good, there was too much work to do to take time to celebrate.

Carson pulled open the bottom left desk drawer and extracted a small laser pistol, a toy, a gift from his mother twelve years ago.  He’d found it in his closet one summer when home from college and had brought it back with him the next semester to use as a diversion when he became bored studying.  Aiming at the electronic target mounted on his wall, he took a couple half-hearted shots.  Both scored bull’s-eyes.

The target wavered, then steadied.  Now, instead of alternating colored circles, Carson stared at the conjured image of Charles Culmer.  The toy laser pistol in his hand became a .44 magnum ultra-special with chromium tipped, explosive cartridges.  His arm stiffened.  He aimed down the barrel and squeezed off a round.  The head of Charles Culmer disintegrated into millions of bloody pieces.

Carson sighed and tossed the toy pistol back into the drawer.  He stood, tidied up a bit, and left the university, feelings of dread sitting on his back like a mischievous monkey hitching a joy ride.

By Sunday afternoon he couldn’t sit still.  He paced the first floor of the apartment, alone now, since he’d moved his mother upstairs.  What a fun time that had been.  One-hundred and twenty-seven pounds of dead weight he’d dragged up the stairs and propped in her bed.  Three feedings a day.  He’d resorted to adult diapers, tired of changing her clothes.  Worse than having a baby.  But it wasn’t the caretaking that ate away at him.  It was the state his mother had been reduced to.

“Why is this happening to her?  What did she do to deserve this?”

He needed to be at the university, studying the computer figures on Einstein II’s departure, preparing for the rabbit’s arrival.  But he wanted his mother back, the gentle, supportive mother he cherished.

As he leaned on the bright white kitchen counter, Fitz’s theories on harmonic oscillation and the world as a giant tuning fork whirled in his mind and mixed with the image of a huge ferret chewing his mother’s eyes out.  Everything in the world vibrated at its own pitch.  Right now, Carson’s pitch was frenetic.  Even time was nothing more than a vibration.  Every object, animate or inanimate, had a distinct pitch.  Complex objects’ vibrations combined to make their patterns.  All vibrations meshed in perfect harmony.  Fitz discovered that if those pitches were changed and fitted between the vibrations of time, that an object could move through time.  The vibrations could be disassembled, shot through the gaps, so to speak, then reassembled.

They’d moved things forward.  But what about back?  The yearning to know about travel into the past burned in 
Carson’s stomach.  His head ached.  He clawed at his hair.  He flipped on the TV, then slammed it back off.

“Stereo, on!”

Synchopatic jazz drifted through the apartment.

“No!”  He cupped his ears.  “Metal, heavy metal.”

The beat changed to pounding.

“Louder!”

The stereo increased volume until he could feel the sound vibrating through his body.  The screamed words meant nothing, but the deafening sound helped him relax.

He was aware of his own odor, not having showered since Friday morning.  Hunger growled in his stomach, unnoticed by his brain.  He’d not eaten since Friday at lunch, the thought of food still nauseating.

After fifteen minutes of pacing, he screamed, “Stereo, off.”  Then at the vid-phone, “Phone.  Dial Dr. Vorhees.  No picture.”

“This is Dr. Vorhees.”

“My mother’s condition is the same.”  Failing to keep the whine out of his voice, he asked, “What can we do?”

“I think we should put her in a nursing home.  Where she’ll get around the clock attention.  Take the burden off you.”

“No!  I won’t have her in another institution.  Phone off!”  He wanted to hit something, someone, anyone, Charles Culmer.  “My mother deserves better,” he shouted to the empty room.

*****

On Monday, the rabbit reappeared.

“Quickly, bring him down the hall.  Let’s get an ultrasound,” Fitz commanded.

Carson snatched the rabbit off the harmonic oscillator and rushed after Fitz.  Einstein II started nibbling on Carson’s lab coat.  Carson fished a piece of lettuce from his pocket and gave it to the rabbit, who consumed it before they reached the ultrasound lab.

“Yes!”  Fitz jumped up and down looking like a third grader hitting his first home run.  “Look Carson, look.”

Carson couldn’t help smiling.  The rabbit’s insides looked normal.  No twisted stomach.  Everything in its place.  It had worked.  The next step, going back, a crucial step in Carson’s plan to make his mother right again.

*****

On Wednesday the rabbit appeared.

Fitz, who was standing behind the sitting Carson, watching his student manipulate a three dimensional image of a human by running a computer simulated vibrometer over the body, laid his hand on Carson’s shoulder, and squeezed.

“My God.  Look at that, Carson.”

Carson glanced up from the screen.

“How’d he get out?”

Einstein II sat between the tines of the harmonic oscillator, looking perplexed.

“He didn’t.  Look over there.”

Fitz pointed to the cages where Carson saw Einstein II dozing in the corner of his cage.

“But...”  Carson pointed first at the caged rabbit then at the one sitting in the oscillator, then back at the cages.

“Do you know what this means?” Fitz asked.

Carson dropped his arm and stared, dumbfounded, speechless.

“It worked,” Fitz whispered.  “Sometime in the future we successfully send Einstein II back in time.”  Action kicked in.  Fitz rushed to his computer, sat, and pounded on the keys.  “Go get Einstein II, the one on the oscillator.  Walk toward the other Einstein II, slowly.  I’ve got to make note of this so when we perform the experiment, we’ll know it succeeded.”

Carson retrieved the rabbit sitting in the harmonic oscillator, mentally naming him Einstein II-B.  Holding the creature at arm’s length, he carefully approached the cages.  He stopped in front of Einstein II-A’s cage and let out his breath, only then realizing he’d been holding it.  The caged rabbit looked at him, nose twitching.  The rabbit in his hands squirmed, back legs kicking.

“Put him in the cage,” Fitz said.

Carson tucked the time traveling bunny under his arm, opened the cage, held his breath again, then set Einstein II-B in the cage.  When the two rabbits touched noses, Carson flinched, expecting a flash or something.

Einstein II-B scampered to the corner of the cage and attacked the bowl of pellets.  Einstein II-A watched impassively.

“Quick, mark one of them so we can tell them apart.”

The professor trotted over to Carson and shoved a spray paint can in his student’s hand, then rushed back to his computer, furiously taking notes.

Carson sprayed a red dot on the back of Einstein II-A.  He remained standing by the cages, staring at the two rabbits, his plan to help his mother solidifying.  Soon.  It would be soon.  The sweet, pungent odor of rabbit waste drifted to his nose.  The lab was silent except for the clicking of a keyboard and the munching of rabbit pellets.

The rabbit closest to him started to change.  His nose grew to a point, his fur became striped, his eyes grew dark, his claws sharp, and his teeth longer.  Carson held his hands out and drew back.

“Nooo,” he moaned.

“Carson?”  Fitz tapped him on the shoulder.

Carson jumped.  “Huh?”  Einstein II-A was back to normal.

“You okay, son?”  Fitz’s blood shot eyes showed concern.  He laid a hand on Carson’s shoulder.  “How’s your mother?”

“The same.  Just sits in bed all day staring at the wall.”

“Any sign of Charles Culmer?”

“No.  None.”  Carson studied his athletic shoes and sighed.  Soon.  It would have to be soon.

*****

On Friday, the rabbit disappeared.

Fitz watched the harmonic oscillator and Carson watched Einstein II-A, the one with the red dot, who was still in his cage.  He knew immediately when Einstein II-B disappeared.  The red spot on the back of Einstein II-A also disappeared.

“Dr. Zacharia, the red dot is gone.”

“Just as I thought.”  Fitz typed into his computer.  “Just as I thought.  You see Carson, when II-B disappeared, then II-A ceased to exist.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.  He never traveled in time to begin with.”

“Yes, he did travel in time”  Fitz rose and walked toward Carson.  “You see, what we saw today was Einstein II leaving for his time trip and returning, in a blink of an eye.  See?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“We didn’t go back in time with him, so to us, his trip lasted only a blink.  But we know he was there for two days, as it already happened.  See?”

Carson nodded, his head swimming.  He thought he understood it, though.  Understood it enough, anyway, for his plan.

*****

On Saturday, Charles Culmer appeared.

The door chime sounded.  Carson checked the video screen.  A man dressed in overalls and a gray cap stood at the door.  In his hands he held a tool box.

“Yes?” Carson asked.

“Maintenance.  The super asked me to check on the security system.  We’ve been having problems.”

“Can’t you come back another day?”  But he worried if the security system wasn’t working, Culmer could gain entry to their apartment.

He opened the door and faced his worst nightmare.  The supposed maintenance man was a good four inches taller than Carson.  Almost as thin with sharp facial features.  Instead of yellowed teeth, as in Carson’s vision, Charles Culmer had few teeth.  The ones he had were brown and misshapen.  Strands of greasy hair curled from under his hat.  His hands were large with knotted knuckles.

Carson blocked the doorway, but Culmer shoved the tool box into his gut.  Carson doubled over and gasped for breath.  Culmer grabbed a handful of hair and jerked Carson’s head back.

“Who are you?”  Culmer’s breath smelled like rotten tobacco.

“I...I’m Carson.”

“Nice to meet you, Carson.”  Culmer kneed Carson in the groin then strolled into the apartment as if he owned the place.

Carson slumped to the floor, doubled up.  All he could see was searing white light.

“Isn’t this the residence of Patricia Applebaum?”

“Get the hell out of my apartment before I call the police.”  He pushed himself to his knees.

Culmer flashed a feral grin.  “Is that anyway to treat an old friend of your mother’s?  You are Patricia’s son, aren’t you?”

Culmer ran his malevolent gaze over Carson, who shuddered, wanting to look away from the intense, beady eyes, but could not.

“You’re not my mother’s friend.  You’re...you’re.  Just get out before I call the police.”  Carson stood, sucked in a deep breath, and straightened.  Culmer stepped forward.  Carson rushed him, head down, meaning to drive it into Culmer’s stomach.

Culmer stepped aside and backhanded Carson, knocking him against the door.  “Shut up, boy.  Where’s your mother?”  A long, narrow, extremely sharp knife materialized in Culmer’s hand, the tip under Carson’s throat.  Culmer’s face was inches from Carson’s.  “Let me ask you one more time, where is your mother?”

Despite himself, Carson flicked a glance at the stairs.  Culmer grinned again.  “Behave yourself, boy.  I’ll be right back.”

Culmer stepped away, but stopped.  Carson pushed off the wall.  Culmer drove his elbow into Carson’s face and the boy slumped to the floor, his head groggy.  The room spun out of control.

Culmer disappeared up the stairs.  Carson felt helpless and humiliated.  A bulldozer rolled through his head.  He tried to focus, tried to make his mouth work.

He heard shouting from the bedroom, then a crisp slap.  This roused him to action.  Fighting through tremendous pain, he shouted, “Phone.  Dial police.”

Before any answer from the phone, footsteps pounded down the stairs.  Culmer swept the phone off the counter.  “Not today, boy.  I’ll be back.”  He kicked Carson in the ribs, then shoved the door open, moving Carson with it, and disappeared.

*****

On Sunday, Carson disappeared.

In all the experiments to date, they’d transported one of the Einsteins only three days back or forward.  However, Carson had spent the previous night calculating the correct frequency to set the harmonic oscillator for transportation back twenty-four years, four months, and fifteen days.

He typed the figures into the console using the one finger method, with his other hand helping to steady himself.  He’d taken enough medication to mute the pain, but the pills made him jumpy, nervous.  Or was it the pills?.  He shivered.  The lab felt colder than usual.  One of the rabbits shuffled across its cage.  Carson flinched, then felt foolish.  It was four in the morning on Sunday, no one was there, not even the cleaning droid.

He entered the last figure, straightened, closed his eyes, and tilted his head to the ceiling.  When he opened his eyes, he pressed the enter key.  A small timer appeared in the lower right corner of the flat monitor.  Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight.  He remained motionless, mesmerized by the numbers.  At eighteen, he shook himself out of his daze and turned.  The spotlight above the harmonic oscillator gave it an ethereal glow.  The words, “step into the light” came unbidden into Carson’s mind.

He glanced over his shoulder.  The monitor read twelve.  With four long strides he reached the harmonic oscillator and stood between the tines.

“Damn.”  Four more strides back to the console.  The timer read six.  If he missed this one, he’d have to wait two hours for the power source to recharge.  He snatched his father’s old .44 magnum off the console table and bolted back to the oscillator.

High pitched sound surged through his body.  An intensely bright light and then darkness.  Pitch black.  The noise of scuffling and an incessant squeaking.  He extended his arms but felt nothing.  The temperature was warm.  Animal smells filled the still air.  Carson eased forward.  Another step and another.  After a couple more steps he banged into a low counter.  He tucked the .44 into his waist, under his jacket, then groped along the counter, which felt vaguely familiar.

He fell forward, stumbling, then collided with a wall.  The counter had run out.  He ran his hands along the wall and found a light switch, which he flipped.  Fluorescent lights flickered, then ignited.  He was in the lab.  Missing was the oscillator.  Ancient personal computers lined one wall and rabbit and rat cages filled two of the other walls.  An electron microscope took up much of the counter he stood by.  Test tubes were neatly arranged in racks and petri dishes were stacked against the back.  He recalled that years ago, Fitz’s lab had been a molecular biology lab.

A sudden, horrible thought washed through him.  His knees felt weak.  He grasped the counter for support.

“How am I going to get back?  Oh Christ.”  He sunk to his knees, shaking his head.  He wasn’t.  Plain and simple.  He’d live as two for twenty-four years and then one of him would disappear.  Nothing he could do about it now, other than push forward.  He sighed, then stood.

The first order of business was to find out if he’d calculated correctly.  The hallway was empty.  The university was deserted in the early morning hour.  He hurried to his usual mass transit stop, only now it was just a street corner.  Still, there was a newspaper stand.  Old fashioned paper newspapers.  He bent to get a close look, then smiled.  He’d calculated to the day.  In approximately six hours, Charles Culmer would enter their house and rape his mother and murder his father...unless he did something about it.

*****

On Sunday, Carson appeared.

His mother answered the door.  Carson gulped.  God she was beautiful.  Long, flowing, wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes.  She looked so young.

“Who is it, honey?” a man called from inside the tiny bungalow on fourth avenue.

“I don’t know.”  His mother looked quizzically at him.  “Can I help you?  Oh, my.  You’re hurt.”  She raised a hand toward his face.  He backed up a step.

“Um...”  Carson had not thought out this part of the plan.  “It’s nothing.  I fell.  Yesterday.”

“Oh.  Do I know you?”  His mother tilted her head to the side, peering up at him.

“No, not yet.”

She raised her brows.

“I mean, no.  We’ve never met.  I...I’m visiting my cousins from out of town.”  He pointed across the street.

“Oh, the Deevers?”

“Yes.  I’m Carson Deever.  Anyway, as you can see, they’ve gone to church.  And well, I, uh, went for a morning walk and they’ve locked the door.  Well...”  He looked down.

“You want to wait here for them?”

Such a sweet, innocent look.

“Yes.  That would be great.”

She smiled and stepped aside, allowing him to pass.  A faint, flowery, unobtrusive perfume met his nostrils.  He had no recollection of the house he was born in.  They’d only lived in it for one year, then he moved in with his grandmother, who lived across town.  It was a tiny house.  Only four rooms.  Immediately inside the door, to the left was the living room, sparsely furnished with mismatched sofa and chair and a small stand with a nineteen inch television.  To the right was the single bedroom.  The door was closed.  Down the short hall was a bathroom and finally, behind the living room, the kitchen, big enough only for a small dining table and four chairs.

They rounded the corner and he came face to face with his father.  He’d only known him through pictures.  His father was lean, not as tall as Carson, but more muscled.  He had a hard-edged face, softened by his welcoming grin.

“Who’d you find now, Patty?”

“This is Carson Deever.  He’s visiting with the Deevers across the street.  They left for church and locked him out.”

“Well, sit down then.  Have a cup of coffee.”

Carson glanced at his watch.  Ten minutes.  He smiled wanly and sat, accepting a small cup from his father, unable to take his eyes off the man.

“So, what do you do, Carson?”  His father sat across from Carson.

“I’m a graduate student at the university.”

“Oh, really.  What are you studying?”  His mother joined them at the table.

Again, Carson glanced at his watch.  Eight minutes.

“Theoretical physics.  Time--”  He bit off the last word.  “Time - motion studies.”

They both nodded.

His dad worked at the shoe factory, his mother explained.  They were worried though, rumors floated it might be shut down.  Carson legs bounced uncontrollably under the table.  He forced himself not to check his watch every ten seconds.  His stomach growled.

“Are you hungry?”  His mother slid back from the table.

Pangs bit into his gut.  Carson checked his watch yet again.  “No, but I could use a bathroom.”

“Of course.  Down the hall, on the left there.”

He quick-stepped to the bathroom, closed the door behind him, leaned his head against the cool wood and listened to the whisperings from the kitchen, unable to distinguish words.  He sucked in a deep breath, then crinkled his nose at the odor of old urine mixed with disinfectant.

One minute later the doorbell rang.

Carson held his breath and flattened his ear against the door.  He heard footsteps then the front door open.

“What the hell do you want, Culmer?” his father asked.

Carson heard a grunt then Culmer snarled, “My money, Applebaum.  I’ve come to collect.”

“I told you, you’ll get it next month.  I don’t have it now.”

“Then I’ll take something else.”

A crash was followed by a muted thud and then another grunt.

Carson slowly turned the doorknob.

“No, please.  Don’t hurt him.”  Desperation clouded his mother’s sweet voice.

“He should have had the money.”  Carson could hear the feralness in Culmer’s snarl.

He eased the door open with one hand.  In the other, he gripped the gun.  Culmer had his back to him, his arm extended, holding a gun pointed at his father, who was sprawled on the floor.

Carson pushed the door wider.  It creaked loud enough to be heard down the block.

Culmer whirled.  Carson raised his gun, his arm trembling, his vision blurry.  A harsh dry wind tore through his mouth, down his throat, into his lungs.  He steadied his arm with his other hand.  Culmer grinned, yellow stained teeth under a pointed nose.

Carson fired.  The report from the .44 magnum thundered through the tiny house, leaving a ringing in his ears.  A sharp pain ripped his shoulder.  He thought he’d been shot until his vision cleared and he saw Culmer, left hand gripping a red, gaping hole in his right shoulder, his weapon lying impotently on the dirty carpet.  The kick from the gun had driven Carson back into the door frame.

Culmer snarled.  He started forward.  Carson sucked in another deep breath, held it, steadied his throbbing arm, aimed through moist eyes, and fired again.  The slug propelled Culmer off his feet as it entered his chest.

Carson’s arms dropped to his sides.  The .44 fell from his hand making a muffled thud on the carpet.  Cordite mixed with sweat, an odd odor.  Electricity surged through Carson.  His eyes widened.  Patricia and his father looked at him with astonishment.

Carson creased his brows.  Things were fading.  He felt as if he were falling down a deep, wide hole.  His mother and father drifted away, growing fainter.  He reached out his hand.  Pain gripped his heart as realization coursed through his brain.  Then, like moist sheets fluttering in a spring breeze, contentment settled over him.  His mother would be free, undamaged.  His father would live.  No, correct that, his mother’s husband would live.  His father lay dead on the Applebaum’s carpet.

*****

On Friday, Carson was born.

Bright blue eyes stared, mesmerized at Patricia Applebaum’s sweet face, and over her shoulder at the beaming countenance of Derek Applebaum, the little boy’s father.

“He’s so precious,” Patricia cooed, running her fingers gently over the baby’s fine straw-colored hair.  “Let’s name him Carson.  After that strange boy who saved your life.”

“Yes,” Derek agreed.  “I wonder whatever happened to him?”

THE END