“May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked, not unkindly. The gold colored tag pinned to her suit jacket read ‘Michelle’ in black letters.
“Just heading home, Michelle.”
Her face assumed a guarded expression. “And your name?”
“Why? I live here. Isn’t that enough?”
“I’m sorry sir, it’s just … I don’t recognize your face and we have explicit instructions at The Elysium Terrace that no –”
The phone rang, interrupting her. For a moment she looked torn between two duties. Ethan thought she was going to ignore the ringing and keep drilling him, but its insistent blaring must have been too much. She picked up the receiver and he took the moment’s reprieve to head for the elevators.
She covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand and called after him, “Sir, a moment please. I –” The woman stopped speaking, her attention back on the phone.
As Ethan punched the elevator call button, he heard her mumble, “Yes, sir,” and hang up. She said nothing further as he stepped in when the doors parted.
The ride up gifted him with virtually the same distasteful music he remembered. Somehow, this gave him comfort. Then the doors opened and he emerged into the hallway. It had been revamped as well, but Ethan found his door without incident.
A young looking kid, perhaps in his late teens, was leaning against the doorframe, looking smug. Ethan took in the kid’s appearance with a detached sense of amusement. Baggy shirt, tight pants, hat cocked to the side bearing a strange reflective sticker on its bill. An eyebrow ring glistened against pale skin, and a matching ring dangled between his nostrils like he was a raging bull –absent the rage. He had huge, holed loops that created a void in his ear lobes where skin should be.
The kid looked like a clown, out of place against the backdrop. Something occurred to Ethan then, one that he didn’t want to accept: perhaps he was the one out of place. The idea fluttered from his mind a second later. If this is what it took to fit into society today, he’d choose not to play the part. Or maybe this kid was just one of those flashy homosexuals, in which case Ethan figured he didn’t have to worry about conformity.
At any rate, another suspicion had occurred to him after seeing this joker at his door. Are my things even still here? I’ve been gone so long …
Then the kid spoke, clearing his doubts. “Hey bro, are you a … Mr. Ethan Tannor?”
Ethan eyed him a moment longer. “Who are you?”
“I’m with Hand Delivery, where we handle all items with care,” he said, looking bored as he rattled off the memorized catchphrase. “I just need you to sign for this.” He set a package down by the door and handed Ethan something that resembled a thick clipboard and a pen-like device that was missing its writing tip.
Ethan frowned at the strange pen. How was he supposed to sign something without ink?
“Don’t take all day, bro. Just sign right there.” The delivery boy pointed to a light gray area on the pad.
He hated the way this punk kept calling him ‘bro,’ but he put the strange pen against the surface. As if by magic, the first letter he wrote appeared on the screen in black. Ethan paused to marvel at this newfound technology.
“Hurry up, bro! Geez, I ain’t got all damn day, yo.”
Ethan scowled at the kid then proceeded to draw a phallus with two large hairy balls on the pad. After concluding his masterpiece, Ethan gave the writing instrument back, pushing it hard against the guy’s chest, nearly knocking him off balance.
He managed to recover himself before falling flat on his tight pants and then sauntered off with as much pride as he could manage – which wasn’t very much. No doubt Ethan had caused offense with his brusque demeanor. Well, too damn bad.
Ethan picked up the package and retrieved the keys from his pocket. He slid one into the lock, hoping it worked. It did.
When he walked inside the apartment he stopped a moment to absorb the sight. Everything was undisturbed, exactly the way it had been left since he was last here.
An unidentifiable feeling swept over him. It was almost like nothing had happened; like this should just be another day coming home from work. There wasn’t even any dust on the furniture.
He looked down at the package and ripped it open. Inside was a newspaper wrapped in plastic. He tore the plastic and withdrew the folded up paper. A note was appended to the front page:
‘KNOWLEDGE CAN BE A DANGEROUS THING’
Ethan tossed the note aside and opened the newspaper, staring in shock at the front page. No! It can’t be true! His fingers curled around the pages and for a moment he just stood there, uncomprehending. Then he ran to a window on the far side of the apartment.
They’re gone! Ethan looked back down at the article. Its blaring headline read:
‘HIJACKED JETS DESTROY TWIN TOWERS
AND HIT PENTAGON IN DAY OF TERROR’
The date on the top margin read September 12, 2001. His own words came back to him then, what he had said to Wallace only hours before, “You can’t go around screwing with history like this – think about the cost of such actions!”
Wallace’s reply had been, “Someday the cost may be worth paying, my friend.”
The outdated copy of The New York Times fell from Ethan’s hand and fluttered to the floor. Its subsections spilled about, framing the front page, where a picture of the Twin Towers engulfed in flames and billowing smoke was prominently displayed. The photo had just been permanently seared into his mind. Now he knew the reason behind the strange unsettled feeling on the drive over here from the airport. His subconscious had known.
He tore his gaze away from the cityscape where the two majestic buildings had once stood, and reached inside his pocket to retrieve the watch. Such a small device, yet capable of such incredible things. Is the cost really worth paying?
A sudden ringing sound erupted from inside the room. Ethan glanced about, looking for its origin. It sounded like a phone, and yet it didn’t. Finally, he found the source. It emanated from something on his kitchen table that looked like what the taxi driver had showed him – a ‘cell phone’. How did that get there?
Tentatively, he picked up the device and examined its screen. How the hell do I even answer this damn thing? The words ‘Slide to answer’ were lit up, with an arrow indicating the direction. He pressed his thumb against the arrow and moved it across from left to right. There was a faint click and he brought the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
A familiar voice came through the speaker. Wallace.
“Do I have your attention now, Mr. Tannor?”
EPILOGUE: Tar and Away
Pit 91, Rancho La Brea, August 1976
Over two and a half years at this job and still Deanna McClammy remained busy. Her friends always laughed at her, asking why she spent time digging up bones from ages ago when there was so much more to look forward to in life. Such demoralizing quips never got the best of her, though. Besides, what was the purpose of the future if people didn’t understand or learn from the past?
She sat on a sturdy piece of lumber suspended a foot from the surface of hardened tar. It was messy work, but she loved it; finding a new species every few months was what kept her going. She’d been digging in this quadrant of the excavation for a while now. Taut strings held by stakes in the black muck were all around her, marking off squared sections one meter at a time.
The heat of the California sun had been steady the last few days of the month. Yet Deanna was glad to be busy, despite the sweat and tar stuck to her face and hands. Construction on the museum had begun the previous year, and she knew it was going to be magnificent. Someday people would come from all over to see the fossils that had been extracted from the depths of Pit 91.
She, too, was amazed at the collection that had been put together, polished and displayed in the lab. Wires and rods would soon be placed on the old bones to hold them suspended along the corridors of the future museum.
Sweat dr
ipped from her forehead and along the bridge of her nose. She wiped it away with the back of her hand before gravity pulled it into the pit to be claimed as well. Deanna tilted her wrist to note the time. She was almost done for the day; just two hours left until her shift ended.
She pulled a thick chunk of tar out and placed it in the now full bucket that sat beside her on the makeshift seat of wood. Then she stood, hefting the bucket and balanced her way at a steady pace to the edge of the pit. She set the bucket aside, only to grab an empty one.
“You done for the day?” a voice called out.
Deanna looked up and saw Felton, one of her colleagues, hovering at the edge of the drop zone and watching her with a smile. A tall, lanky man of about her age, he’d always noticed her efforts on the dig. She never knew if it was her he was interested in, or what she pulled from the pits. At the moment he appeared a little too intrigued with her bucket.
“Just about,” she said. “But don’t wait for me; I’ve got to finish up a quadrant.”
“Catch you later, then.” He waved and sauntered away but not before turning his head and grinning at her once more.
Deanna tight-roped back along the beam and sat down again. That was when she noticed a tube-like object jutting from the tar. It was odd and out of place among the bones normally found within.
She glanced around to make sure Felton was gone before turning back to the new find. A quick tug on the object told her it was firmly in place. She set to work, her interest now fixed. Time sped by unnoticed as she uncovered the object piece by slow piece. She didn’t even remember turning on the working night lights.
Deanna knew she probably should have called in hours ago about the discovery, but everyone else was gone for the day. That wasn’t what really held her back, though. She wanted – no, she needed – to uncover this for herself. If not, one of the men on the crew, Felton included, would surely steal the credit for this discovery.
Hours later, she was able to pry the item loose from Pit 91. For a moment, she stared at it blankly. Deanna thought she knew what the object was, although it looked like none she had ever seen before. She put it aside for the moment and dug a bit longer. Then she pried another item out. This one seemed like it should be familiar but it too was different.
Well, I’d better clean them, at least. She carried the objects over to one of the tables and set about the task.
She cleaned the smaller object first. It appeared to be a watch of some kind. But what was it doing here? As she worked, her fingers pressed against one of the prongs and a blue light turned on at the top of the watch. This was like no watch she’d ever seen. Still, it wasn’t the type of object she was interested in finding. Disappointed, she placed it down on the table and went back to the workstation to begin cleaning the larger item. This one was more difficult and into the night she worked, painstakingly removing the inky sludge until it was easy enough for anyone to tell what this was: a rifle.
She glanced over her shoulder again, wondering if this was a cruel joke being played on her so that everyone would get a big kick out of the silly girl who found a modern-day watch and weapon in the pit. Well, that wouldn’t be right either – it was more like something from the future. Deanna had never seen a gun like this before either.
She inspected the rifle more closely. Twenty-nine thin slices were gouged into the barrel. They appeared too deliberate and perfect to be accidental. In truth, they almost seemed … intimate. Maybe it was an official insignia of some sort? She looked again, re-counting the marks. No, they weren’t factory engraved. These had been made by human hands. The owner of the gun, perhaps?
As she walked back to look into the dark void of Pit 91, something else occurred to her. Whoever used this weapon seemed very attached to it. If the gun was here … where was its owner?
Joke or no joke, it was over now, and she had to make the phone call. Who cared if she was mistaken and looked a fool tomorrow? Her gut told her there was a body in the pit. And who knew what else? This was a serious find.
She passed the table where the watch still lay, and the light at its top was burning red. Hadn’t it been blue before? She dropped the thought as she made her way to the phone.
The soft sound of a storm rolling in could be heard now, the clashing of thunder clouds high in the skies. She grabbed the receiver but hesitated before dialing the number. The noise of the storm disquieted her. There was an unusual cadence to its sound. She cocked her head, listening, as it intensified.
THOOOOMP, THOOOMP, THOOOMP
Tamám Shud
Author’s note: To this day, the mystery behind the “Somerton Man” – or, the “Tamám Shud” case – has remained hidden in the shadows. Cryptographers have spent years attempting to decipher the strange message left behind by the unidentified dead man, but they have still not come up with a conclusive answer to the mystery. The only thing for certain is the meaning behind the words “Tamám Shud” – which translates to: “The End.”
Dedications
For those who never got to see this day: Warren Lester Linderman (Apapa), Ella Grace Linderman (Amama), Elizabeth Eisel (Granny), Dolores Garcia (Lolis), and Alonzo Viveros.
Acknowledgements
Before I get to the main acknowledgements, I would like to give a brief note to the reader regarding this novel. When I first began to brainstorm the concept, it was just supposed to be a short story that I felt would never reach the length for it to qualify as an actual novel. As time progressed another thought took root. I have two siblings, a sister and a brother. We are alike in many ways, but at the same time we have differences that make each one of us unique. I decided that I no longer wanted the writing of this novel to be a personal experience just for myself. I became deeply committed to the idea of turning this adventure into a ‘co-venture’ with my siblings so that I could share the accomplishment.
My sister helped me edit and re-edit the book. I could not have achieved this without her, so I would like to thank Cyneva Dalton-Vazquez for everything she has done. Also, littered throughout this novel is artwork for each chapter. It was with my brother’s help – the artist of the family – that the ideas written down were brought further to life by his pencils and ink. I would like to thank Matthew Dalton for his invaluable help in that area. Additionally, I would like to thank my sister in law, Tara Dalton, for taking the time out of her busy schedule to create the beautiful cover for this book. And this section wouldn’t be complete without thanking my dear friend, Janelle Bennett, for her invaluable help with image editing.
Now I would like to throw out a special thanks to many of my close friends and family who were gracious enough to read through my manuscript during its infancy. I feel this says a lot about people in general. Most were busy with their normal day-to-day dealings but they still managed to find quiet moments here and there to finish this novel and follow it up with helpful feedback. I would like to thank each one of them individually as well.
First and foremost, I would like to thank my parents, Stanley and Kathy Dalton, for supporting their children in a way that only parents can do best. I would also like to thank Deanna Tuck, Teresa Tuck, Jasson (that is not a typo) Wilcox, Rudy Murillo, E.J. Findorff, Lori Davis Craig, Richard Cruz, and Ben Linderman.
Lastly I would like to thank my wife Maricela. Her encouragement and patience with me in seeing this to the end made the trip worthwhile.
Copyright
AND THE TIDE TURNS © 2015 Timothy Dalton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format without permission in writing from the copyright holder. For further information, email ChapterSevenBooks at gmail.com.
About the Team
Author
Timothy Dalton lives with his wife in Santa Clarita, California. He juggles work, spending time with his nephews, writing, and being the most awesome husband he can possibly be - all of which consume a large portion of his days.
Writing has been his passion for many years and this book is th
e culmination of his efforts. And the Tide Turns is his debut novel, with a second and completely different novel hot on its heels – On the Hitlist (Working Title) – which should be released in the coming months.
He hopes you enjoyed this novel as much as he enjoyed writing it.
Illustrator
Matthew Dalton is a graduate of the Savannah College of Art and Design’s Sequential Art program. His credits include Warcraft Legends, Starcraft: Frontline, Samurai’s Blood among others.
He lives in Mantua, New Jersey with his wife and two children.
Editor
Cyneva Dalton-Vazquez lives in North Carolina with her husband and two children. She always dreamed of being a writer and during her school days (a long, long time ago), she won awards for her creative work. However, the rigors of college life and the demands of real life (marriage, work, motherhood) sapped her dry, creatively speaking. Years later, she was bitten once again by the writing bug and went on to complete her first full-length novel, which will be published shortly.
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