Chapter Three

Thorn in Their Side

Tatum Manufacturing was a big, diversified company. Its managers had their figurative hands and literal money in hundreds of products and ideas. Chances were that in a week’s time most people in North America had either sat on, eaten off, or passed by some product that Tatum had helped manufacture.

Geth, of course, was the result of their wood division. It was Tatum that had taken the chunk of him that had contained his heart and turned him into the toothpick he was now.

Geth was appropriately grateful.

The shape he had been shaved down into had made him easy for Leven and Winter to transport, and it had kept him small and out of the direct sight of Sabine.

Yes, Tatum had helped fate well. If questioned, Geth would have nothing but positive things to say about the company that had carved up his heart and spit him out looking like the sliver he was now. But Geth might have felt differently if he had known what else Tatum had done. You see, when the large chunk of tree that contained Geth’s heart had been tossed into the blades and cut down in size, fate had kindly preserved enough of the great king’s heart intact to keep him alive and enable him to guide Leven to Foo. But the monstrous blades of Tatum’s wood division were not quite as skilled and precise as, say, the hands of a well-trained surgeon. In fact, they were less precise than the fins of a poorly trained circus seal. What those imprecise blades had done was put the majority of Geth into one toothpick. But those machines had also trimmed a tiny part of Geth and put it into a separate toothpick. That toothpick had been packaged and shipped from Burnt Culvert, Oklahoma, to North Carolina, while the toothpick known as Geth had stayed in Oklahoma.

And whereas Geth was a traditional-looking toothpick, the small piece of heart shaved from him ended up in a less conservative, specialty toothpick. That specialty toothpick was then packed into a box labeled “Ezra and Son’s Extra Fancy Party Toothpicks.” The marketing line on the label read: “Perfect for picking at even the most prestigious parties.” The toothpicks in those packages were extra long, with fringed plastic purple tops.

Well, no sooner had that package of Ezra and Son’s Extra Fancy Party Toothpicks been trucked across the country and delivered to a large grocery store in North Carolina than Charlie Pork had purchased the pack of toothpicks and carried them to the small sandwich shop he and his uncle Telly ran just off Interstate 40.

It was in that box of toothpicks that this small portion of Geth now lay. Of course, it was no longer Geth. Like a kidney that you might give to a friend in need, this vital part of Geth had been removed and now belonged to a toothpick all its own. And whereas the Geth we all know was a noble being whose every desire was for Foo and fate, this toothpick was different. This toothpick had received the dark part of Geth, and it harbored nothing but anger and hatred.

And confusion.

It was as confused and dark as any toothpick had ever been. Of course, it wasn’t hard to be king of that heap, seeing that there are so few toothpicks who feel anything at all. But as it lay there in that box, the world dark, with thoughts of anger racing through its wooden head, it grew more and more hateful and anxious.

Thanks to a ding, or an imperfection, in the side of its top, the toothpick could hear. His hearing was a bit muffled due to his purple plastic top, but on more than one occasion he heard the name Ezra.

“Throw me that box of Ezra’s,” Charlie Pork yelled.

“This box of Ezra’s?” the help yelled back.

“Them Ezra’s.”

The dark, angry, and confused toothpick had a name.

Ezra was taken out of the box along with a number of lifeless toothpicks and laid in a small tray near the soda fountain. He couldn’t see this, but deduced it when he heard Charlie Pork say, “Put them toothpicks in that small tray next to the soda fountain.”

Every once in a while Ezra would feel a hand reach into the tray, fumble around, and withdraw one of the toothpicks surrounding him.

Ezra knew his time would come. He would be picked, and when he was, he knew what he must do. That part of him that had been taken from him must pay for the horror he now had to suffer. Geth had forced Terry to chop down their tree. Now, thanks to Geth’s thoughtless act, Ezra was incomplete and felt nothing but misery. He was being tortured and had been left with the bad end of the toothpick. Ezra knew of no one to blame besides the one who had gotten the good part of the deal—the one who had taken everything else and left him with nothing but anger. He would find that one and finish him off in a way that would clearly express just how upset and wronged Ezra was. Ezra had only one purpose, one desire—and whereas on a shopping list one item might mean a quick in and out at the grocery store, Ezra’s one item was going to take some time and some very bad fate.

Geth must die.

ii

Tim Tuttle sat silently at his dining-room table. His body was still, but his mind was racing.

Tim was about as average as a person could be. Stick him in a photo with a thousand other people his age, and he would be the last one to stand out or be spotted. He did have two larger-than-usual ears, and his chin looked a bit like a turtle whose head was constantly retracted, but those were his two most distinguishing features. Aside from that, his five-foot-ten stature, brown eyes, white teeth, regular nose, and all the other bits and pieces that make up a fairly normal thirty-nine-year-old man were unremarkable.

Tim Tuttle—an average man with an average job.

Tim had been a garbage man for over twenty years. Some might argue that he wasn’t living up to his potential, but those arguing that should know that Tim loved his work. Why? Because it gave him the opportunity to think. He had all the time in the world to ponder. And, while collecting cans and dumping trash, Tim was always thinking. He had in fact thought of many great and marvelous things and had fabricated countless machines and toys from the discarded trash of others. But he had also pondered the meaning of life as he hoisted rotting vegetables into the bins, had formulated the answers to the world’s most difficult riddles as he piled old newspapers into the trucks, and had found inner peace while hosing four-week-old egg salad off the curb.

Others, if they thought of him at all, might have thought him to be simply a garbage man with a sad life. In reality, Tim was more content and fulfilled than many of those who generated even the nicest trash. Tim had a beautiful wife, two great children, a comfortable home, and he had time to think.

But at the moment, Tim’s thoughts were far from comfortable. His mind was completely focused on Winter Frore. It had been over a week since he or his wife, Wendy, had last seen Winter, and Tim was more than worried—he was scared something horrific had happened to her. Winter was not their daughter, but they had loved her as though she were. She had been a part of their family, and the Tuttles had tried hard to make up for the horrible life Winter had at home with her mother, Janet Frore. The Tuttles lived a few houses down from the Frores, and they had always kept an eye on Winter.

It’s not terribly unusual for a kind neighbor to be aware and watchful toward someone in need on their street. And the Tuttles were about as kind and solicitous as anyone. But there was a reason beyond the obvious for Tim’s concern for Winter—a reason even Tim and his wonderful mind hadn’t completely sorted out.

It had been almost thirteen years since an old woman had shown up on the Tuttles’ doorstep and whispered a secret. Tim could still remember her face—wrinkled and lumpy. She wore a brown hood over her head and had a pair of horn-rimmed, thick glasses perched on her bulbous nose. She was slightly agitated, but determined in her whispering. At first Tim had not understood her, her speaking was so soft, but she had pulled him closer and whispered fiercely.

He had never forgotten what she said, nor had he repeated it.

When Winter was ten years old the old woman had once again shown up at his door. Tim had been stepping out to go to work, and there she was. Just as before, she had leaned in, whispered the secret, and forbidden Tim to tell another soul. And now Winter was missing.

“Are you okay?” Tim’s wife, Wendy, asked, sitting down next to him. “You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Tim’s heart began beating faster. Something wasn’t right. His meal sat untouched upon the dining-room table in front of him. Steam rose softly from the sugared ham and the small, roasted red potatoes that circled it. There was salad and bread softer than most pillows. A long, thin bowl sat filled with dark gravy, and in two separate spots on the table there were dishes of butter and jam, waiting to be spread onto bread and consumed.

Tim’s two sons, Darcy and Rochester, were sitting on the opposite side of the table. They both had dark blond hair, round noses, and very sad eyes.

“You’re thinking of Winter, aren’t you?” Wendy asked.

“She wouldn’t just leave,” Tim insisted. “I know she wouldn’t. She’s not that kind of child.”

“If it meant she could get away from . . . that Janet woman, she might,” Wendy said.

“She would tell us,” Darcy cried. “She would tell us and say good-bye.”

Tim looked at the faces of his two young boys and at Wendy.

“Maybe you should talk to Janet,” Wendy suggested. “She’s her mother. Find out what she knows.”

“I don’t think she’ll talk to me,” Tim said.

“You have to at least try,” Wendy begged.

“You have to try, Dad,” Darcy chimed in. “Winter’s like our sister.”

“She might be in trouble,” Rochester added.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Tim said, trying to comfort them. “But I’ll tell you what.” He stuck out his weak chin and tried to smile. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll talk to her mother and to the police.”

It was as if Tim Tuttle had just announced that there would be four Christmases this year. The other three faces lit up with hopeful smiles.

“And if they don’t know anything, I’ll try to find her myself,” Tim threw in, knowing that Winter was too important to simply forget about. “But we have to believe that she is okay. We have to hope for the best. After all, she’s a remarkable girl.”

“I’ll say she’s remarkable,” Rochester said. “She froze her whole class.”

“Froze her class?” Tim asked in confusion.

Rochester’s cheeks reddened and he glanced at his own knees.

“Froze her class?” Tim pressed.

“I don’t know if it’s true,” Rochester finally admitted. “But some older kids were talking about how she froze her class—she turned them all into ice.”

“Don’t be silly,” Wendy said, picking up her fork and stabbing a thin slice of meat. “They weren’t speaking literally. How could someone freeze her class?”

Rochester shrugged and looked at Darcy.

“Last I heard it was impossible to freeze people,” Tim tried to joke, his heart still racing. “Now, let’s eat before this meal is frozen.”

All of them ate with Winter on their minds.