And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  Finally, Mikhail found his voice. “I am prepared to die.” The blood in his mouth made his speech slurry, and his Russian accent adding to the already hard to understand words.

  William Amhurst leaned in, his old eyes keen, and stared deep into Mikhail’s. “Who said anything about dying? I’m speaking of science, and science tells me that the human body has limits. All I need to do is perform some tests. What are your limits?”

  ***

  Is it safe? The infamous line came to Blake’s mind, and a chill went down his spine. He was glad not to be in Mikhail’s shoes.

  Mikhail’s lower lip began to tremble, and blood leaked from his mouth to dribble down onto his pants.

  Blake said, “I say we just start by cutting his penis off and get this over with.”

  Mikhail cried out and began struggling against the ropes that held him to the chair. He thrashed about with such intensity that veins bulged in his neck and arms.

  “What is your choice – mercy or mutilation?” Blake said with forced indifference. During his previous life in the military and as a cop, he’d seen a lot of intense interrogations. This beat them all.

  Movement ceased from the bound man, but he remained tight-lipped. His shaking hands clutched the arm of the chair, knuckles gleaming ivory.

  Amhurst made a tsking noise. “Pride is such a dangerous thing. Science will triumph tonight. Let’s begin.” He signaled to Blake. “Hold his head back with the strap.”

  The bloody man bucked again in the chair, giving vicious yanks against his restraints, though it did no good. Blake pulled Mikhail’s head back with the strap and fastened the leather to the bottom rung of the chair. The Russian was now effectively positioned for Amhurst’s work.

  The would-be nursery – a room reserved for love and affection – now emitted machine sounds that were better suited for a dentist’s office, the accompanying moans and screams befitting a torture chamber. The hum of the drill sounded, and then, just as quickly, the noise of an unrestrained drill was replaced by the sound of a bit meeting resistance.

  43 An Affair in November

  December 1, 1948, 2:56 AM

  It was an appalling display, but Mikhail held up pretty well to the horrific damage of Amhurst’s drill. Holes were not only in his teeth but there were also small, sporadic punctures in his now swollen cheeks. Even with the brace holding him in place, his motions of resistance had caused several missed drills, the bit tearing clean through the sides of his face. By now, blood was dribbling down his chin, onto his neck, and soaking into his shirt.

  There was another whooshing sound as Amhurst shot more compressed air into Mikhail’s mouth. His cheeks bulged and the air whistled through the holes in his skin. The man’s screams were muffled and mixed with gurgles as he choked on blood that pooled in his throat.

  Blake had lost track of how long this torture dragged on, but he was beginning to feel he couldn’t watch too much more if new information wasn’t given. This man would probably never break; it must have been one of the reasons Gernot had chosen him. Seeing Amhurst go to town on Mikhail’s mouth did nothing but encourage a nonstop loop of Marathon Man scenes to run through Blake’s mind.

  Amhurst readied the air hose for another attempt and Mikhail struggled in vain to keep his mouth closed. Blake sighed, at the limits of his patience with old stinky codger versus young bloody man. He took the nozzle from the doctor, jammed it through one of the gaping holes in Mikhail’s cheek, and squeezed the trigger. Air blew out of the other side of the man’s mouth, accompanied by thin trails of blood.

  Blake gave the air hose back to Amhurst. “It has to be no-nonsense torture if you’re going to do it.”

  As the doctor returned to his work with renewed vigor, Blake took a moment to inspect himself in a mirror that was propped against the wall.

  He’d definitely seen better days. Satoshi had given him quite a beating, and although Blake was the victor, the absence of his arm was the visual byproduct of a defeat. Scattered bandages covered numerous nicks and cuts along his body, and a deep purple bruise took up residence on most of the left side of his face. He grimaced at the spectacle, then winced as he felt the faintest trace of discomfort returning.

  Blake didn’t know how long the ‘Ache-Be-Gone’ respite would last, but he was terrified of the feeling that would be forthcoming when the drug’s effectiveness wore off. He was glad he had some backups left.

  Something moved in the mirror, drawing Blake’s eyes to the reflection of the room’s window. There was a figure peeking through the glass. Despite Mikhail’s cries, the attention of a common passerby at this hour would be out of the ordinary, especially given their location.

  Whoever the voyeur was, he hadn’t noticed that he’d been spotted. Blake decided to make use of this. “Amhurst,” he said.

  The doctor’s drill skipped, tearing another gash in Mikhail’s cheek, and the captive jolted and scream-gagged again. Amhurst looked up and tilted his head, waiting for Blake’s comment. Mikhail eyeballed them both with an expression now far beyond mere panic.

  “You know, this whole Marathon Man thing has run its course. I think it’s time to speed things up. Let’s just take his stones and see what he says – I’ll be back with a knife.”

  Amhurst and Blake ignored the strangled sound that seeped from Mikhail’s throat. The doctor set down the drill and gazed thoughtfully at his victim. “I still have other methods. There are plenty of chemicals in the lab.”

  At that, Mikhail’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body went slack as he slid into apparent unconsciousness. But the telltale fluttering of his eyelids gave him away.

  “Sounds great,” Blake quipped. “We can melt his balls off instead.”

  “That wasn’t what I was suggesting.”

  “Keep your suggestions. I’ll head down. Feel free to continue working on his teeth if you like.”

  The drill fired back up as Blake left the room, but he didn’t head downstairs. Instead, he picked up Mikhail’s gun that Amhurst had set on the hall table, then walked deftly to the front door and opened it, stepping quietly outside into the chill night air.

  He took a cautious glance around the house and saw the interloper, who was still trying to peer inside Dr. Amhurst’s makeshift torture chamber. The man wore a bowler hat and a dark coat. His attire triggered a memory in Blake. This was the man who’d been spying on him at the diner earlier.

  Blake drew back into the shelter of the corner to consider his options. When he peeked again, the man was still there. He gripped the handle of the gun, comforted by the reassuring feel of it, before swinging over the ledge. His boots hit the mud with a thump, and the man by the window jerked around to face him.

  “Don’t fucking move!” Blake leveled the gun at the man’s chest. “Who are you?”

  The man froze, but only for a second. And then, contrary to Blake’s command, he moved, dashing down the alleyway beside the house. Blake dropped his gun arm and sighed, rolling his eyes. He wasn’t up for a foot chase, dammit! But he needed to make sure this guy wasn’t another one of Gernot’s men. Cursing under his breath, Blake pushed into a run.

  The unknown man was already clawing his way up the fence at the end of the alley. As Blake ran up behind, the man launched himself over the top. What had been a minor inconvenience to the man who fled was an epic struggle for Blake.

  He stowed his gun and jumped awkwardly, reaching with his right arm. His fingers grasped the edge, but handicapped by the stub of his left arm, he couldn’t swing himself up. His missing appendage hit the fence, and he slipped, falling hard to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and the gun crunched into his hip bone. Regardless of the numbing agent in his system, it hurt like hell. Blake groaned – long and loud – and struggled to his feet like a man Amhurst’s age.

  He looked through one of the slats in the fence and saw the man opening the door of a car parked across the street. He’s getting away! Blake drew in a deep breath and raised
his leg to kick through the fence. He drove his foot into the wood, which merely creaked in protest.

  “Come on!” he fumed, sending out two more kicks, then a fourth, and finally two of the pieces of timber broke free.

  Squeezing his way through, Blake nipped his tender arm against the opening but he gritted his teeth and kept going. A car door slammed. Damn! But wait, the man hadn’t entered the vehicle; he was now running again down another side street in the direction of the beach.

  Blake saw he was closing the distance now as he rounded the next turn. The rate of footfalls betrayed the man’s fitness; he was slowing and near the point of exhaustion. Blake’s lungs burned as well, and he felt wetness running down his calf, dimly registering that the stitching on his leg wound must have ripped from the volley of kicks he’d just thrown.

  Waves crashed in the distance beyond as the chase went down a set of wooden steps to the beach. The man must have known he couldn’t lose Blake within the city lights on the street and was hoping to escape in the darkness of the surf and sand.

  And, Blake thought, he might succeed. The man was sinking into a black pit of shadows in front of him as the lights from the street lost their effectiveness with each yard of ground covered.

  He couldn’t let this man get away. Then Blake remembered the gun and yanked it loose, firing a shot. A small shower of sand kicked up in front of the fleeing man and he skidded sideways, tripping over his own legs.

  A few short strides later Blake had closed in on him. But the man had given up his attempt at escape. He rolled over, puffing for air, and now sat looking at Blake.

  The gun shook in Blake’s hand as he caught his own breath, but he still pointed it at the sitting man. Then Blake saw his face.

  What the hell?

  “Ben Wallace?” The hair was a different color and the beard was absent, but the eyes that stared up at him now belonged to the same man that Blake knew from decades in the future.

  Ben stood up, dusting himself off but not managing to remove all the stains from his pants. “I’m not the same Ben, I assure you. We haven’t met, although I’m sure you know who I am.”

  Blake lowered the gun. “You bet your ass I know who you are – you sent me here.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Ben made a wry face. “I sent myself here too.”

  “So what happens now?” Blake asked, shaking his head. This was a major mind fuck.

  “Nothing. You failed, as I can see; they have the meteorite. They won. Again.”

  Blake’s mind refused to accept there was nothing to be done. “Maybe we can stop them before they send back the Sons of Stalin.”

  “No, it’s hopeless; this was our last option. We don’t know where they travel from in 1986, we only know when. We thought if we could make them fail here, then they would be stuck in an infinite loop of failure.”

  “I didn’t fail. We still have a piece of the rock.”

  “And they have the larger one.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you failed, just as you failed before; because it all happens the same way every time. You don’t understand how hard it is to change history.” Then he seemed to reflect on something and, as if quoting a famous line, said, “The past is obdurate.”

  Obdurate? Blake had no idea what the word meant, but he hated it already. “What are you saying?”

  “It doesn’t matter how hard you try,” Ben said tiredly, like he was explaining things to a child. “You think you’re making a new choice, and then it turns out it was those choices that tipped the dominoes to begin with. You yourself are in a loop, my friend – just as I am – and no matter what different turns I think I’m making along the way, it ends up they’ve all been made before.”

  Blake shook his head. This was too much to process.

  “I bet you even know what will happen next,” Ben said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look around. Where are we? Look at me – at my face.”

  Blake puffed out an impatient breath. “I am. You’re Ben Wallace, and we’re standing on the beach.”

  But as the words trailed from his lips and he stared at Ben’s face, recognition dawned.

  He’d seen that face in another place besides 1986. It had been in a photo of Ben’s own dead body … a photo in an article that had been written about the mysterious death of the Somerton Man.

  The realization hit Blake like a punch to the gut, but as he intently studied Ben’s impassive features, another shock ran though him: if he took the face in front of him and aged it twenty or thirty years, it would closely resemble Patient 3944. The same ginger hair.

  What the fuck?

  Ben was saying, “I’ve decided, with information I gathered today, and our conversation at this moment, that my mission had been a failure as well. My existence here only changes the future and makes it worse.”

  “I won’t kill you,” Blake said, his jaw set at a stubborn angle. “I’ll choose differently.”

  Ben smiled, but looked almost sad. “It wasn’t your decision. You don’t kill me, I poison myself.”

  “Why don’t you alter your choice?”

  “I can’t. We travelers are all flies in the ointment, caught in a web of our own doing.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” Blake snapped. “I won’t kill myself to satisfy some perverse sense of duty.”

  Ben shrugged. “So you choose to live, as you have before. Tobias chose life as well.”

  “Tobias. He’s here.” Blake had almost forgotten.

  Ben nodded. “I was going to go with him, but having seen how this attempt played out, I’m forced to switch my call.”

  Blake stood in silence for a moment, trying to process what he was hearing. “How was it supposed to play out?”

  “Things didn’t go according to plan. The doctor was supposed to run the moment Tobias sent the telegram.” Ben looked out at the darkness of the ocean. “We were friends, Tobias and I. But I couldn’t look into his eyes any longer without telling him the truth; I just wanted him to live. He’s leaving tonight. He’s at the train station now.”

  Blake analyzed the possibilities. Perhaps he could still change things. What did this man know about what was possible? “What’s your plan?” he finally asked.

  “It has already been enacted. I’ve left a message to inform those in the future that you and Tobias are dead. Otherwise, I’m supposed to make sure that you are.”

  Blake tightened his hold on the gun. “Let me guess. To keep the timeline preserved.”

  “Yes, but I can’t keep living this way. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter who you were when you went into the machine; you’re not always the same man who comes out on the other side.” Ben gave him a knowing look. “You’ll see.”

  “Was it all for friendship, this sudden change?”

  “No. It was love.”

  “Oh my God – are you kidding? For a woman.” Blake wanted to laugh. This was all so … melodramatic.

  Ben glanced away again. “Not just any woman. It wasn’t something I planned on, but she was the love of my life.”

  “Was; as in past tense. What happened? You got a Dear John letter?”

  “She waited for a bit, but she was with child – our child. In these times, a woman cannot easily manage being unmarried, with a baby. She thought I was dead, and by the time I returned it was too late.”

  “Wow, that’s a sad story,” Blake said. “Get to the part where you and the future version of yourself screwed my life over.”

  Ben didn’t react to the barb. Instead, he seemed to contemplate his next words with care. When he looked back at Blake, his demeanor was chilling. “Every decision has been yours, but you may learn that you don’t have the free will you thought you did.”

  His words carried the weight of something ominous, like an invisible, deadly hand was guiding this whole affair to a destructive end.

  “I have free will,” Blake insisted. “What if I shoot you ri
ght here?” He aimed the gun at Ben’s face.

  Ben stared into the barrel of the weapon for a long moment, then his eyes flicked back up to Blake. “It matters not.”

  Blake pulled the trigger. Click. Out of bullets. How?

  Ben gave a little smirk. He hadn’t even flinched. It was as if he’d already known.

  Blake lowered his arm and stared helplessly at the other man. “I could kill you any way of my choosing.”

  “What’s done is done, and it can’t be undone,” Ben said in a hushed voice, walking away to sit in the sand by a nearby seawall. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes from an inner pocket of his coat and offered one to Blake. “Smoke?”

  Blake wanted to strangle the life from this man just to prove that he could do something different, but what purpose would that do, trying to prove something so trivial to a corpse? “So how do you kill yourself, Mr. Wallace?”

  “P-tox-34.”

  Blake frowned. “Come again?”

  Ben waggled the cigarette package. “These are laced with them. Undetectable by smell and taste. Very effective. Even a toxicology test shows nothing.”

  “So you just tried to poison me?”

  Ben laughed softly. “Relax, I knew you would decline.” He opened the packet and pulled out two cigarettes. He tucked one of them behind his ear and held the other between his fingers.

  “How is that?”

  “Because of the timeline. This is not where you die – unless you’d like to demonstrate how wrong I am.” He offered up the pack of smokes a second time.

  When Blake didn’t respond, Ben laughed again, and reached into another coat pocket. He withdrew an object and tossed it to Blake, followed by two more. “Take those.”

  Blake looked down where the items had landed by his feet. Three bottles of pills lay in the sand, identical to the ones Wallace had given him back in 1986 before he made the ridiculous leap for mankind. He gazed back at Ben. “Why?”