And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  And the Tide Turns

  Mystery of the Somerton Man

  Timothy Dalton

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  01 Citizen Keane

  02 Carmageddon

  03 Estate From New York

  04 Whiskey Business

  05 The Boss Man Always Rings Twice

  06 Dirty Larry

  07 Over the Ledge

  08 A Beautiful Find

  09 The Dirty Half Dozen

  10 A Walk in the Clouds

  11 Tearfest

  12 Open and Shud Case

  13 A Case of Read

  14 Juan Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

  15 B*A*S*H

  16 The Seven Year Snitch

  17 The Bad Lead

  18 The Breakfast Slug

  19 Doctor Strange Gloves

  20 Invasion of the Dead Body Snatchers

  21 The Girl with the Distracting Shampoo

  22 The Anguished Patient

  23 Trace/Off

  24 Knight Glider

  25 Room Raider

  26 Full Robber Jacket

  27 Six Degrees of Manipulation

  28 Mystery of the World

  29 3 Mile

  30 Mission Plausible

  31 The Pills Have ‘I’s

  32 In the Heat of the Light

  33 Death Spoof

  PART II

  34 Iron-Plan

  35 Message in a Body

  36 Where the Red Burn Shows

  37 Time Drop

  38 Whoa Brother, Where Art Thou?

  39 Silence of the Telegrams

  40 To Kill a Fucking Turd

  41 The Sword in the Bone

  42 The Musty Professor

  43 An Affair in November

  44 Double Infact

  45 The Last Deployed Scout

  46 The Geiger Sanction

  47 The Strongest Guard

  48 Locked Up

  49 Adelaide Then Manhattan

  PART III

  50 Déjà Who

  51 It’s a Wonderful Knife

  52 Twenty-One Missed Calls

  53 Donnie Fiasco

  54 Pains, Trains, and Automobiles

  55 The Green Bile

  56 Dangerous Finds

  57 The Terminal Scan

  58 A Few Hooded Men

  59 A Lifeless Orderly

  60 Blasted to the Past

  61 The Long Goodbye

  62 Blakes on a Plane

  63 Not Without My Slaughter

  64 Loc, Clock, and Two Smoking Barrels

  65 The Expendables Knew

  66 The Dark Insight

  PART IV

  67 The Gods Must Be Lazy

  68 Sequelibrium

  Epilogue: Tar and Away

  Copyright – About the Team

  Disclaimer

  While some elements in this book are inspired by true events and people, this is a work of fiction, and as such, I have taken certain liberties with each. Names, characters, places, and incidents are purely the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously. In order to keep the forward progression of the novel moving along smoothly, I also employed the use of artistic license with regard to law enforcement and medical procedure. Any errors or omissions are solely mine.

  “There are forces at work, dark forces,

  and they threaten all of mankind.

  Past, present, and future.”

  - Benjamin Wallace

  AND THE TIDE TURNS

  Mystery of the Somerton Man

  PART I

  There was the Door to which I found no Key:

  There was the Veil through which I could not see:

  Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE

  There was-and then no more of THEE and ME.

  - The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

  01 Citizen Keane

  April 21, 1986, 5:07 PM

  Don’t do it, his conscience screamed like a pleading child.

  The car was in ruins. Norman and Nell Tannor lay unmoving in the front seats of the vehicle. Tobias Keane watched with embodied helplessness as their son Ethan was carried away on the stretcher. The boy was not moving either, but his was a different kind of stillness; there was a tinge of color in the pallid skin and Tobias knew that life still flowed in the adolescent. But how much remained? Enough to hold off the Hand of Death?

  Unable to resist looking at the demolished car, Tobias soaked in the unwanted details. Nell’s neck was twisted in a grotesque manner and blood from her forehead had drained across the dashboard. Despite this, her face looked serene, as though she were in a state of peace.

  Norman was a different matter. His body sat forward in the driver’s seat, arms limp at his sides. His lower jaw hung loose, mouth agape, and his eyes were wide open, conveying an expression of shock. There was a trickle of blood halfway down his temple as if the flow had stopped the moment it began. The force of the collision had embedded the sun visor four inches into Norman’s skull.

  Tobias knew he would never be able to erase the images from his mind. He went to the ambulance, where the paramedics were preparing to load Norman and Nell’s son into the back. What would happen to him now? Tobias gripped the rail of the stretcher as he gazed down at Ethan’s face.

  Don’t do it, his mind wailed again.

  The elderly man sat on the side of his bed staring at the Colt .45 clenched in his hand, remembering how he’d clenched the rails of Ethan’s stretcher all those years ago. The memory of that day was just as fresh now as when it happened.

  So this is how it ends. He’d been sick for years now. The pills had worked for a while, but they merely slowed down the progression of his unique disease. He was only in his early fifties, but looked and felt a score older. The decline had been sudden; this past year had taken the hardest toll on his body.

  Tobias glanced at his liver speckled hand and tightened his hold on the pistol grip. If he waited for the disease to take him, it would become worse. He’d always heard that committing suicide was a coward’s way of dealing with life, but he didn’t feel like a coward. This was the hardest thing he’d ever contemplated doing.

  His mouth curved into a grin, but it resembled something more like a grimace. Perhaps in his next life he’d get it right and not make the same mistakes. With his free hand he scratched his unkempt beard with a few quick, rough strokes and ran fingers through his thin and graying hair. As before, he analyzed other options, but Tobias knew that the consequences of those actions could cause more harm than good.

  Yes, he thought grimly, this is how it has to be. He’d spent the better part of his life thinking about repercussions and had lived by a certain code all those years. He couldn’t break the cycle now.

  Suddenly, his body was seized by wracking coughs. Sputum mixed with blood dripped down his mouth, and he grabbed a napkin that was already spotted with red from the table beside him. He used it now to cover his mouth while he hacked violently. After the episode had passed, he wrapped a shaking hand around the phone and forced his trembling fingers to dial out. He needed to get his affairs in order.

  A female voice came on the line, clipped and professional. “J.B. Wilcox and Sons.”

  Tobias drew in a ragged breath to speak, which triggered another coughing spasm. He turned away from the receiver to muffle its sound, but the spell passed quickly, although the pain in his chest remained. He licked his dry, cracked lips, and swallowed hard.

  “My name is Tobias Keane,” he said. “I need to speak with my lawyer immediately.”

  A few moments later his conversation was concluded, and now would be the hardest call to make. The young detective, his adopted nephew Ethan, would need to know. The question was, could he be trust
ed? Yes and no. He could trust Ethan as he knew him, but things didn’t turn out the way Tobias had anticipated. The man he’d become lied to him, hadn’t he? So there it was again. Yes, he could trust Ethan, but no, he couldn’t. It seemed he couldn’t even trust himself.

  Tobias dialed the familiar numbers and the phone began to ring. He knew no one would answer, but leaving a message should be sufficient. He would have preferred a discussion face to face, but he knew that would prompt questions he didn’t want to answer out loud. More importantly, he knew Ethan would try to alter his choice. And the boy was persistent enough to succeed, because Tobias didn’t want to die. But he had to. It was time.

  He’d finished the message and moved to end the connection when he detected a movement in the periphery of his cloudy vision. Tobias jolted in alarm when he saw the figure standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice cracking as he spoke.

  His fingers released their grip on the receiver, and the phone made a clinging sound as it dropped into the cradle.

  02 Carmageddon

  April 21, 1986, 5:22 PM

  Rush hour. It was the crappiest part of Ethan Tannor’s day, besides staring at dead bodies. The dog tags hanging from the rearview mirror of his ’67 Mustang clinked together as the car came to a skidding halt just shy of making a light for the millionth time.

  “I hate traffic!” Ethan blurted out.

  “Yes, I think you’ve mentioned that before.” The reply came from Arthur Hansen, Ethan’s best friend and assigned partner for the last seven years.

  “Yeah, well you’re in no hurry to get anywhere these days, old man.”

  The jibe was at odds with Art’s true appearance. The man was a beast, standing at an intimidating six foot six, three inches taller than Ethan. His frame resembled the physique of a Mr. Olympia, which only heightened his intimidating demeanor. His slick bald pate and thick mustache added to the effect. Art was the serious type who didn’t smile often, but when he did his whole face filled with the emotion. This wasn’t one of those times. He smirked at Ethan. “You know I’m not that old. Just wait until you hit fifty-one.”

  “Whatever you say, gramps. By the way, how was the hip replacement surgery?”

  Art looked up from his case file to face Ethan, affording a familiar view of his bent nose that was gnarled from a lifetime of breaks. It made him look more menacing than the craggy edges of his face already did. “Ha, ha, ha, very funny. I told you I slipped getting out of the shower. I only bruised the bone, and by the way it’s fine now.”

  “I’m surprised your live-in nurse didn’t help you out of the chair in the bathtub. I’m a little ashamed of her.”

  “She’s not a live-in nurse, Ethan, she is my wife.”

  “So you were just preparing for the future by marrying an RN, huh?” Ethan laughed as he spoke. He couldn’t help it. The banter between them was what got him through the day, but it wasn’t his partner’s nature to fire off the first attack. It was always up to Ethan to get the ball rolling, and no matter what idiotic quip he came up with, Art always felt the need to set the record straight. Ethan knew that, sure as shit, a reply would be on its way. Art did not disappoint.

  “Sure, that’s exactly what I was planning when we got married twenty-one years ago.”

  Ethan grinned. “Well, you tell that live-in nurse – I mean, wife – of yours I miss her chicken curry.”

  “Sure thing. Speaking of Mary, you want to go to the festival with us this weekend?” Art returned to the folder in his lap and began sifting through some of the pages.

  “Is there an age requirement? I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it if I’m not part of the blue hair club.”

  Art let out a huff and rolled his eyes at Ethan. “For the last time, I’m black. So even if I had hair, it wouldn’t be turning blue like those old white ladies who dump chemicals on their head.”

  “I’m surprised you know so much on the subject.”

  “Being married gives a guy the inside track on these things. You should try it sometime.”

  “Nah, I don’t need a woman telling me what to do all the time – what to wear, what party I need to attend, and who we invite over for Sunday lunch. And deep down inside, I think you envy that.”

  Art grunted out a half laugh and went back to his papers. “I envy your freedom, my friend, but not your loneliness.”

  Maybe Art was right, but Ethan hadn’t been afforded the luxury of a female companion for a long time. “So how is her family doing back in California? You seem refreshed from the vacation,” Ethan said, dodging Art’s perceptive comment.

  “Everyone’s good. We took the kids to a few amusement parks and museums while we were there. You know how they say Disneyland is the place of children’s dreams? What the brochure doesn’t tell you is that it’s an adult’s nightmare.”

  “So I take it they enjoyed themselves?”

  “Yeah, that, and other places too. Anthony really liked the La Brea Tar Pits. We learned a lot while we were there. One of the pits was very interesting; they call it Pit 91. They say thousands of years ago it was like a lake of tar covered in dust and dirt. Tons of fossils have been found there.”

  “Huh.” The light switched to green and Ethan pressed the gas pedal, making a left turn.

  “Also, as it turns out la brea is Spanish for ‘the tar’, so translated literally, The La Brea Tar Pits would be called ‘The The Tar Tar Pits’. Talk about redundancy.”

  “Art, you truly have a wealth of knowledge.” Ethan shook his head, chuckling.

  “Yep, but if my mind ever starts going, I give you full permission to help me check out.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, but on a side note, I’ve been doing some reading of my own lately regarding Theodore Roosevelt. You guys have a lot in common.”

  Art glanced at him, curiosity piqued. Anything to learn another snippet of knowledge. “Really, like what?”

  “Bad eyesight and the early 1900s.”

  “Ethan, you’re always such an idiot.”

  Art had a point. It was a silly jab, but Ethan couldn’t resist. “At least I’m consistent, but okay, I’ll be good.”

  “Changing the subject, you need to stop driving this vehicle to work.” Art tapped his hand on the glove box. “It’s way too high profile.”

  “It’s better than that old and busted sedan you drive.”

  “My pops used to say, ‘A rubber wheel beats a rubber heel any day.’”

  There was no way to argue that logic, and it silenced Ethan from further comment.

  Traffic was thickening up worse than before, and Ethan concentrated on the road. There was a lull in the conversation, and the low volume of Metallica’s “Fade to Black” album could be heard from the cassette deck.

  A few moments passed and Art snapped the folder closed, his perusal of the files concluded. “So you think you’ll ever grow some balls and get a wife and start having kids?”

  “No thank you, I’ll leave that old fogey business – like changing diapers – to the real men.”

  Art laughed softly. “That was years ago. Sabrina’s sixteen now, and Anthony’s going to be eleven in October. She’s into all her friends and fashion now, and Tony’s glued to his video games. We just bought him one of those Nintendos for Christmas. All he ever talks about is Mario. You seen that thing yet? It was pretty pricey; I don’t know how I’m supposed to top that for his birthday.”

  “I guess it has been a while since I was at your house,” Ethan said. “I think you should just get him a bike instead.”

  “Well, it’ll be hard to pry him away from his games but I’ll talk to the wife. You have to agree, it’s really amazing what they’re doing with computers and technology nowadays. I mean, look at us; you may not remember it, but our job used to be all paper and now we’re moving up in the world. Though I’ve got to say, those black and green screens hurt my eyes. They need to fix that.”

  “Art, you need to calm down. You’ll g
et your blood pressure up again. Plus I think it might be cataracts; you should have that checked out.” Ethan snickered at his bad joke.

  Art wagged a finger at him. “Someday you’re going to be just like me – old and left behind by the times. I remember my own father telling me –”

  A fizzle of static interrupted their banter and a dispatcher’s voice came over the CB radio, “All available units, we have a possible shot fired at 2752 Yorkshire Way.”

  Art stared at Ethan. “Isn’t that –?”

  All of the humor had left Ethan’s face. He grabbed the red light, slapped it on the roof of the car through the open window, and hauled ass to his uncle’s house.

  03 Estate from New York

  April 21, 1986, 5:56 PM

  “He must have really blown his mind,” Detective Deacon Maznicki chuckled while everyone else surveyed the room. “What do you think was the last thing that went through his brain?” he said to no one in particular.

  A random officer who had the misfortune of catching Deacon’s eye shrugged, gave him a look of distaste, and carried on with his business.

  “A bullet.” Again Deacon laughed alone, his upper body heaving. The curly sprouts of hair on his chest came close to getting snared in his braided gold necklace. “And what is up with that God awful odor? It smells like his asshole yawned one too many times before he died. Am I right?”

  A few scornful looks were thrown Deacon’s way, but no one responded. Before he could open his mouth again, a giant black hand clamped down and squeezed the nape of his neck, not to cause harm but to garner attention.

  Deacon stiffened in surprise and jerked his head around. “Well, if it isn’t Arthur Hansen the MAN-sen. Say, have any more suspects hurt themselves during apprehension lately?” He made air quotes with his fingers as he said the word hurt.

  “Not today.” Art leaned in close so that only Deacon could hear his bass-like voice. “But it’s early yet.”