Silas Sharp and the Case of the Missing Tuesday: Chapter 6

 

CHAPTER SIX: The Latchkey Condenser

The park was quiet again. It was the kind of quiet you get after a missing stair—when you know something’s gone, but your body’s still expecting it to be there. The pigeons came back first. Then the wind. The boy on the swing landed hard enough to scrape his knee, which made his mother cry harder than he did. But the color never returned to the mulch. And where Randy had been under the oak tree was only a thin outline in the dirt, shaped like an armchair’s shadow.  The air still churned from where Randy had been. One second, he was sitting in the Armchair of Avoidance, blinking at something only he could see. The next, he and the chair had slipped backward—no, sideways—into a shimmering absence.

I stared into the distortion, my jaw tightening. Calico was repacking her extraction spike when I saw it — a shimmer under the oak’s branches, like a mirage refusing to evaporate. The air bent, and with it came the smell of lavender, wet fur, and rain on asphalt.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” I murmured. “The chair wants to keep him. But it’s not used to being told ‘no.’”

“What do you mean?” Calico asked, clutching my arm and peering into the spot Randy voided. “What do you see?”

From inside my coat, I produced one of my little toys: the Latchkey Condenser. It was all brass glint, Bakelite curves, and the constant low tick of something winding itself whether you asked it to or not. I cranked it counterclockwise until the pressure gauge began to tremble, the air around us taking on a faint tang of ozone. A thin laser-like line emitted from the Condenser into the void. The tip of the key turned like a divining rod toward the vanishing point where Randy had gone. I flicked open the mirrored chamber, sighted down the length of the Condenser, and pulled the trigger. A hard tug from inside the void nearly jerked the device from my hand.

“What are you doing?” asked Calico.

“Trying to land a big one,” I grunted, struggling to maintain my grip.

Calico Verde rushed to my side and clutched my wrist. We pulled with determined grunts.

A ripple tore outward like a curtain yanked open in reverse. Thin threads of violet lasso-like light snapped through the gap, coiling around the armrests, the legs, and finally Randy himself. He didn’t fight, but the chair did, groaning in a voice that was almost wood and almost word.

“Mine,” it seemed to say.

Calico and I planted our feet and leaned back, reeling Randy and the Armchair in with the grim patience of a man pulling in a very opinionated fish. The light flexed, tightened, and in one last jerk, Randy and the Armchair of Avoidance popped back into the park with the faint, wet sound of a cork leaving a bottle. Tentacles of light enveloped the Armchair, separating it from Randy. He fell to the side, hitting the ground with a soft thud. The chair twitched and jerked before shrinking and falling to the ground. I snapped the mirrored chamber shut. The chair was gone, now no bigger than a matchbox in my palm. I dropped it into his pocket, where it twitched once, then went still.

“There,” I said, brushing off my hands. “No more disappearing Tuesdays.” I glanced at Randy. “You all right?”

Randy slumped forward, breathing hard, his eyes rimmed red. He looked lighter and heavier at the same time.

Calico rushed to his side. “Randy?”

He shook his head, voice low. “I saw her. Daisy. She was… just sitting there, waiting. I thought if I stayed in the chair, I could keep her. But she wouldn’t come close unless I stood up.”

I crouched beside him. “What happened when you did?”

His mouth trembled. “She walked away. And I knew she wasn’t coming back. Not in any way I could hold on to. And it hurt like hell. I'll miss her. She wasn't just a dog. Daisy was my best friend."

“That’s grief,” I said. “It’s supposed to.”

He gave a watery laugh. “Feels like someone took my chest apart and put it back together wrong.”

“That’s how you know you’re back in the right day.”

We helped him to his feet. The colors around us deepened — greens greener, sky bluer — like reality was grateful to have its day count restored.

Calico gave me a sharp look. “What are you going to do with the Armchair of Avoidance?”

“Taking it off the board.” I patted my pocket that held the shrunken piece of metaphysical furniture. “Pieces like this don’t get destroyed. They get kept. Contained. Hidden somewhere no one thinks to look.”

“And you’re the hiding place?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m just a courier for the owners.”

“Now what?” Randy asked.

“Now you go home,” I said. “Make peace with Tuesdays. Don’t skip them again. Or next time, I’ll let the chair decide what to do with you.”

He gave a weak nod and walked away, clutching the laminated school calendar Calico had given him.

Calico and I stood by my Pontiac Ventura, watching him disappear down the sidewalk.

“Maybe now he can have peace,” she said. “Maybe in time, he can even heal.”

“Time might be a construct, but memory’s the landlord—and rent always comes due.”

“You know, sometimes you say something that sounds profound but it actually doesn’t make sense,” she said, a soft smile on her lips.

“Yeah,” I said. “I get that a lot.”

She didn’t argue, but the look she gave me said she wasn’t convinced.

The Ventura’s engine coughed to life. I drove away with the chair in the trunk, the collar in my pocket, and the faint ticking of my compass against my ribs — steady now, like it was satisfied.

Randy would never stop missing Daisy. But now he’d carry her forward instead of trying to leave her behind.

And as for me — I’d file the report, pour myself a whiskey, and then order the next Cup of Joe.