And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  The pursuit of a soda forgotten, Blake limped to the door. As he stepped into the hallway he pulled the door closed silently, leaving behind a bloodstain that Ethan would never notice.

  52 Twenty-One Missed Calls

  April 22, 1986, 8:55 AM

  Blake had taken extra care on his second attempt at wrapping up the leg injury, but the wound still burned like hell with each movement. Pain had hindered his sleep the night before, but this morning it felt a great deal better.

  Now he was back at Tobias’s looming mansion. From his vantage, Blake could hear snatches of dialogue between the old bum Ethan had paid and the police officer, but he had to crane his neck around to see Ethan scaling the large oak near the brick wall. Blake watched the officer return to his car then he settled back into his own seat to wait.

  It seemed to go on forever. What’s taking him so long? Ethan had been in there for over forty minutes. Blake didn’t remember being inside for nearly that long. His fingers tapped a nervous beat on the steering wheel that would make Nicko McBrain green with envy. He glanced at the clock radio again. Those fucking choppers are going to be here any minute!

  Blake replayed the sequence in his mind, trying to remember every detail from when he had been sitting in the house going through Tobias’s papers. He recalled getting lost in confusion over everything he’d found in that safe, and then the damn telephone had started ringing, and –

  His mind snapped into focus. Could it be? Maybe what he remembered wasn’t how it had really played out before. Maybe the loops went deeper than he could fathom.

  What if he hadn’t originally been captured at the Knotty Beaver motel? What if he’d been caught at Tobias’s house all along? Or if he hadn’t placed the phone on the hook, maybe he was found by Wallace’s men, sleeping off the whiskey. The various paths that could have emerged seemed infinite, and they probably were.

  Was it possible that he’d already changed history before? That instead of being caught right here and now he’d been collared at The Elysium Terrace? It had been bugging him as to why a version of himself had gone in, guns blazing, and wound up dead on the sidewalk in front of his own apartment.

  The clock on the radio brought him back. As if drawn by an invisible force, his eyes shot down to the mobile phone sitting between the front seats.

  “Goddammit!” He blurted out loud and snatched up the phone to dial Tobias’s home number. There was no answer, but this was expected. He hadn’t answered before. Blake hung up and dialed again. And again.

  As he re-dialed and listened to the ringing, he wondered what he would say if Ethan answered. The thought occurred to him that if Ethan did pick up the phone, something had gone wrong along the way in this time stream.

  Don’t answer, don’t answer …

  The words became a silent but persistent chant in Blake’s head each time he dialed the number, heart lurching at every pause between the rings, convinced that Ethan’s voice would come on the line, but knowing that he had to keep calling. His eyes searched the mansion, looking for a sign of Ethan’s activities.

  Finally! The front gate was opening, and he saw Ethan running along the wall, trying to stay out of sight of the police cruiser.

  Blake disconnected the call and let out the breath he’d been holding. Then he stared at the receiver for a moment, and it dawned on him almost instantly. Cursing, he yanked and pulled on the phone until he ripped its base away from the screws that held it in place. Now all that kept the device connected were the wires; they would be easy enough to rip out.

  He let go of the phone and began rolling down the window. A fresh breeze drifted through the car, and then he heard it … the faint but steadily growing sound:

  THOOOOMP, THOOOMP, THOOOMP

  There was a sudden screech of tires as the police cruiser shot up the driveway. Blake saw Ethan sneaking through the open gate, and then there they were. It was breathtaking to watch them all, knowing what was going to happen. They moved almost like one body as Jackman’s squad slid from dangling ropes and landed near the police officer.

  He doesn’t die. Blake tried to reassure himself, but the sound of the gunfire made him wonder, and watching Officer Stan Bailey hit the pavement disturbed his calm.

  In the melee, Ethan crept away, and Blake returned to the phone. He pulled the last of the wires free and peeled out. The char of burning rubber added an acrid smell to the air that wafted through the open window as he drove away. He used a knee and the stub of his forearm to steady the steering wheel as he tossed the phone out onto the pavement, then quickly grabbed the wheel with his hand to regain control.

  Trace that, you bastards!

  As he navigated his way through the neighborhood, Blake thought about what had to happen next.

  It seemed there was no alternative. He would have to head to his apartment, but if he died there, Ethan would be caught eventually at the Knotty Beaver hotel. Perhaps there was a different way that didn’t end in his death. If so, what would be his next move?

  Ah yes – he remembered now: Ethan would meet with Fredericks at Jo Ann’s Café. When the memory of that crossed his mind, Blake realized it had been a long time since he’d thought about his Captain dying right before his eyes. His mind drifted to the sniper … that Son of Stalin – Gernot.

  That’s it! He had the answer: two days from now, across the street from the café. Third story window.

  But first, he needed to be at The Elysium Terrace.

  53 Donnie Fiasco

  April 22, 1986, 10:53 AM

  Donnie Yeats sat at the front desk of The Elysium Terrace, ears plugged into the headset of his walkman, fingers tapping out a Bee Gees tune on the arm of his chair while he hummed the repetitive chorus. He was perusing the latest edition of TV Guide as he lost himself in his disco world.

  The door opened and three men in official looking attire strode inside the lobby. Donnie pulled off his headphones and plopped them on the desk. The tinny sound of Barry Gibb’s falsetto voice floated up from the discarded earpieces, sounding like a muffled version of Alvin and the Chipmunks.

  Donnie put on his most impressive smile. “Can I help you?”

  “We need to search the apartment of Ethan Blake Tannor,” said one of the men.

  Donnie looked closer at the tall, lean man. A curlicue of wire wrapped over one of his ears, its end piece feeding into the ear canal. The man wore a deep black three piece suit that looked tailor made and clung to his body. Dark leather gloves covered his hands.

  Donnie felt a shiver of trepidation run up his spine. “And who may I ask is requesting?”

  A badge was flipped out and Donnie caught little more than a brief glance of the man’s picture before it was snapped closed and pulled away. The man deposited it back into an inner coat pocket. Donnie had no clue what the official seal and lettering even said, but he wasn’t about to request a second look.

  “What room number?” Mr. Three Piece asked.

  “Well, I think you might need a search –” Donnie began.

  “We’ll also need his mail box opened,” said the other man, who stood near the wall boxes. A third suit was positioned by the front entrance. Standing guard.

  Donnie’s unease grew. “Like I said, I think you’ll need to get a –”

  Three Piece reached across the desk, snatching Donnie by both of his sideburns. Before Donnie had time to react to the assault, his face had been yanked up to within inches of the man’s snarling visage.

  “This is a matter of national security,” the suit growled through gritted and bared teeth. “Are you aware that your tenant is directly linked to a murder that happened just around the block last night?” He pressed his palms painfully into Donnie’s cheek, fingers twisting further around Donnie’s voluminous sideburns.

  Donnie was about to explain to the man who had a vice grip on his face that he wasn’t the owner of the building, he just monitored the maintenance calls and the residents’ comings and goings. He opened his mouth to speak
, but his response was interrupted by an audible voice coming from the man’s ear piece.

  – “He’s down here, I’m –”

  With a rough push, Donnie was shoved back into his chair, instantly forgotten. The three men locked eyes and pulled firearms from inner holsters as they converged around the lobby entrance door.

  A sudden, loud, –POP, POP, POP– shattered the air, and the front glass crashed inward, scattering into the main hall. The men ducked for cover behind the corner walls and furnishings.

  Donnie dropped down behind the receptionist’s counter and stole a cautious peek at the front door. He expected to see someone rushing in, guns blazing, but there was no one visible outside. Yet the shooting continued.

  Where is it coming from? His frantic mind raced for answers, and he considered risking a mad dash for the stairway or elevators.

  The cacophony of bullets pelting the sides of the building and ringing into the entrance eliminated all other noise, but Donnie could see the leader of the group yelling commands into his wrist.

  Donnie couldn’t hear what the man was screaming, but he seemed to be repeating the same two words: “Go hot! Go hot! Go hot!”

  55 The Green Bile

  April 23, 1986, 7:13 AM

  The Mustang’s driver side door was almost ripped from its hinges as Ethan jerked it open. He slid down, sitting half inside, half outside the vehicle, and tossed the file folder Fredericks had brought to their meeting onto the passenger seat. Then he took the CB off the hook and was about to speak when an expression of deep thought settled over his face.

  He reran the events of that morning back in his mind. The last few moments had been a blur and he was feeling the effects of adrenaline – that strange shaky yet exalted sensation that made the heart and muscles fill with boundless, crazy energy.

  He’d felt this way before, when the call of duty took him to dangerous places, but somehow this was more … substantial. Personal. That shot had been meant for him; there was no doubt. Thank God no one had been hurt.

  After the shock subsided, Fredericks gave the order to call for backup then proceeded to clear out the café. Despite what had just happened, the only thought on Ethan’s mind now was – Didn’t I lock the car? It was the second time today this had happened. Earlier that morning, as he’d left The Cozy Clam, he’d scolded himself for leaving it unlocked all night especially in that area of town. Then, just now, he’d been in such a rush to radio the call in, he hadn’t even bothered to pull out his keys; yet the door was unlocked.

  The stinging thought persisted as he began to speak through the radio, “Dispatch, this is —”

  “Hang it up.”

  The voice sounded intimately familiar, like when someone hears a playback recording of themselves talking. And at the same time there was a rasp to it that reminded him of Uncle Tobias.

  Ethan started, but didn’t hang up the CB or call for help. He didn’t even think to draw his gun, which was out of character for him. Instead, he let go of the transmitter and spun in his seat. It wasn’t the face of Tobias he saw looking back at him, but a gaunt distressed version of himself taking up residence in the cramped backseat.

  His mind went blank as he stared at the man. When coherent thought returned, the only thing it seemed capable of was repeating, What the hell? What the hell?!

  He squeezed his eyes shut to silence the internal mantra and clear his vision. He’d been under a lot of stress lately, and now he was not only hearing things, he was seeing them too. Maybe it was time to schedule an appointment with Shelby Bennett, the department shrink. She’d worked wonders for Nathan Tust after he’d shot that kid by accident in the line of duty.

  Ethan opened his eyes. No, the apparition was still there. What if he wasn’t seeing things? If that was the case, what the fuck was happening then?

  Possible scenarios rocketed through his mind, one being: was it the Russians? Had they managed to put someone under the cosmetic knife to replicate his own facial appearance? If so, why? If not, the question remained: what was at play here? Ethan supposed anything was possible, but the immediate fact remained that a man with his face was still in the backseat, and that needed to be dealt with first.

  He finally went for his firearm, but before he had the chance to grab it, his doppelganger read his mind.

  A gun came into view, propped on the man’s thigh. The swiftness of the motion was impressive, but the pained expression on the mystery man’s face said that the movement had cost him significant reserves of strength. This was not a well man.

  “Let’s remain calm for a moment,” the husky voice said. “We should take a drive; there is much to discuss.”

  ***

  April 23, 1986, 7:19 AM

  The car maneuvered onto the busy street, leaving the chaos of Jo Ann’s Café. Approaching sirens wailed and blared as four cruisers passed them on the way to the scene.

  “Why don’t you begin by telling me who you are?” Ethan said.

  “I’m you, only close to a year wiser.”

  “Looks more like a decade,” Ethan quipped as he glanced up at the rearview mirror, but otherwise showed no outward response to the news.

  “There’s a lot that will sound crazy, but you’ll have to believe me. You have fears about some Russians in New York, right?”

  “How did you –”

  “It isn’t a fantasy. That shit is real. They call themselves the Sons of Stalin.”

  “It feels pretty fucking fictional to me – I mean, come on, who the hell are you really?”

  “I told you. I’m you. I traveled back to 1948 to stop the Sons of Stalin. I failed, but managed to make it back here, to 1986.”

  Ethan opened his mouth to shoot back a retort, but Blake cut him off. “I don’t want to hear any fucking Marty McFly reference.”

  When Ethan’s eyes rounded in momentary surprise and his jaw clamped shut, Blake knew he’d hit the spot.

  “So, let’s say I believe you. What do I call you? Twinny?”

  Blake ignored the sarcasm, reminding himself of old doctor Amhurst doing the same to him. “I’ve been going by our middle name. I can stick with that.”

  “Alright … Blake. What are you doing here then?”

  “I’m trying to stop things from going the way they did. You end up getting captured by people who work for a man named Ben Wallace. He convinces you to make the leap.”

  “Wallace?” Ethan met Blake’s gaze, concern in his eyes. “I heard that name on my answering machine. But even so, why would I do that?”

  “He baited you with the promise of saving our parents,” Blake’s voice strained with the answer and he gave a sharp cough.

  “Did … did you?” Ethan said with a hard swallow.

  “No. You wouldn’t be here today if I had. They would still be alive and your entire existence would have been altered.”

  Ethan considered that a moment before saying, “I’m sorry if I sound a little skeptical, but how am I supposed to believe all this?” His words contradicted his countenance, but Blake knew his own self well enough to know Ethan’s mind was already wrapping around the information.

  “I know it’s farfetched, but I’ve done all of what you have done – and are about to do already – with one exception: Captain Fredericks is alive.”

  Ethan scoffed, but it was half-hearted.

  “That bullet at the diner had our name on it. In my version, Fredericks signed for it instead, but not this time.”

  The face in the mirror sobered.

  Blake continued, “That file he gave you – don’t bother going to the morgue. Tobias’s body is missing.”

  “Missing? How is Uncle Tobias’s body missing?”

  Blake started to laugh then, but it erupted into a fit of violent, wet coughing. He leaned over and hacked up a mouthful of bloody fluid, feeling the same revulsion he knew Ethan had about soiling his beauty of a car. He straightened in the seat, and locked eyes with his younger self. “That man … is not our uncle.�
��

  Ethan hadn’t been able to hide his shudder of disgust, but he refocused on the street. “Yes, I know he’s not my uncle. He adopted me after my parents – or, our parents – died.”

  Blake reached forward and hooked the back of the seat with his elbow, gun still in hand as he pulled himself closer to Ethan. “What if I told you that Tobias, you, and me were all one and the same?”

  “Then I’d say you’re nuts.”

  Blake sat back without a word, silence hanging in the air between them as Ethan navigated the streets. When the quiet began to feel eternal, Ethan spoke up. “Is all of this for real?”

  “More than I want it to be.”

  “So then, where are we going?”

  “The morgue is out,” Blake said. “The doctor responsible for the missing body is a waste of time, unless you’d like to see a woman wearing a robe that leaves little to the imagination. And that’s a good thing for you, since you have a shitty imagination.”

  Ethan balked.

  “Oh come on.” Blake tapped the barrel of his gun against his temple. “I know how you think.” Another round of coughing began, but he kept speaking between hacks. “St. Jeremiah’s” –COUGH– “is also” –COUGH– “a bust.”

  This was followed by a sudden hail of more coughs and gags.

  “Cover your mouth, that is nasty,” Ethan said. “Do you realize how many germs you’re spreading? Are you sick?”

  Blake’s hacking only escalated and he fell over sideways, his body in a violent spasm. He dropped his gun as he continued coughing. Blood mixed with mucous sprayed out his mouth and splattered to the floor, the frothy liquid sliding back and forth with the motion of the Mustang. The sight of it made him feel even sicker.