Creeping ahead in the morning traffic, Julie finally asked the big question. ‘‘How can this be possible?’’
‘‘Wish I knew.’’
‘‘So whoever is after me . . . you think it’s the same guy that tried to kill you?’’ Julie asked.
‘‘Hope so.’’
‘‘That’s an odd thing to hope for.’’
He massaged his forehead. ‘‘It would mean I only have one enemy to worry about. On the other hand, maybe there are dozens of people out there hunting me down. I’m willing to bet that what they’re after is this.’’ He held up the ring. ‘‘Or maybe Konrad is just trying to drive me insane. And maybe it’s working.’’
She took a deep breath and shook her head. None of this made sense to her. How could it? None of it made sense to him.
‘‘This guy . . . he’s never going to give up, is he?’’ she asked, fearful.
‘‘He’ll just keep coming, no matter what we do.’’
‘‘He won’t give up.’’
‘‘Then . . . what do we do?’’
‘‘We have to force his hand.’’
‘‘And just exactly how do we do that?’’
‘‘We go where he’ll expect me to go next,’’ he said. ‘‘And we finish this.’’
She looked at him, alarmed. He saw her shiver, slightly. ‘‘Are you sure you’re my brother? You don’t talk like him. Or think like him.’’
‘‘We can’t go back to the police,’’ Grant explained as if it were obvious. ‘‘You’re obviously not safe there, and they’d never believe my story. They think I kidnapped you.’’
‘‘Which, technically, you did,’’ she agreed.
‘‘Look, I don’t know how I’m suddenly able to strategize and make with the big plans, but I need you to trust me. Konrad has the advantage. He can pick us off from anywhere if we slow down long enough to give him the chance. So our only option is to engineer a situation where we have the advantage.’’
She studied him, nonplussed. ‘‘You’re going to draw him out into the open by being bait yourself.’’ It wasn’t a question; it was disapproval.
‘‘It’ll be all right,’’ said Grant, a deadly glint in his eye. ‘‘I’ll take care of you. I promise.’’
‘‘It’s not me I’m worried about. And I’m not talking about what this Konrad person is capable of, either. You said you nearly killed him yesterday afternoon.’’
Grant made no response.
Julie proceeded with caution. ‘‘I know you’ve had . . . episodes . . . in the past, but you were doing better, weren’t you?’’
‘‘I was,’’ he said, exasperated. ‘‘It was just . . . it felt natural. I reacted without thinking. I just knew how to stop him. I knew exactly where and how to hit him to knock him unconscious. I don’t know how . . . I just knew.’’
‘‘And aside from this instinct stuff, you’ve had an hour of sleep in what, thirty-six hours now?’’
‘‘What do you want me to say!’’ shouted Grant. ‘‘Am I tired? Yes! Am I on edge? Yes! Am I a danger to myself? Maybe. To others? Probably! But this guy’s not going to stop to let me get some shut-eye, so unless you have a better idea . . .’’
She looked away, out her side window. They inched forward in silence for a few minutes. The morning had already gotten hot and without the Jeep’s top, the sun beat down. Grant soon felt badly about his outburst, but anger and frustration were the only sources of energy he had left. He’d apologize later. For now . . .
‘‘Will you kill him?’’ Julie spoke up in a small voice.
‘‘What?’’
She wouldn’t look at him; still she stared out her window, squinting into the brightness, though he thought he saw a tear falling down her cheek in her reflection. ‘‘Will you kill him?’’ she repeated. ‘‘Can you really do that?’’
He didn’t answer.
7
Grant insisted they wait until nightfall before making another move. They hid the Jeep and spent the day taking cover in tiny Mestizo restaurants, dark bars, and even a library. Anything to stay out of sight. When night fell, they returned to the Jeep and headed to their destination, pulling up to an old brick apartment building in Glendale, where Grant—Collin—had lived for the last seven years. It looked exactly as it always had, though it seemed a little smaller to him now.
Grant stared straight ahead at the apartment, unmoving. The sun was a distant memory now, not to be seen again for hours, and the darkness outside echoed the fear creeping in around them.
‘‘Scared?’’ Julie prompted.
He nodded, fatigue and anxiety contorting his eyes.
‘‘Me too,’’ Julie admitted. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
‘‘I, uh, . . . I need to know something,’’ he delicately announced.
‘‘Okay,’’ she replied tentatively.
‘‘Did you ever blame me for what happened to Mom?’’
Julie shifted in her seat. ‘‘How can you even ask that? Of course not!’’
A pause. ‘‘Then why didn’t you ever talk about her? To this day, I hardly know anything about Mom at all.’’
Julie looked away, paused. ‘‘I guess it was too hard.’’
‘‘And Dad?’’
She was silent.
‘‘Did he blame me?’’
‘‘Never,’’ she answered, without hesitation.
The car became as still as the sleepy neighborhood outside. The question had eaten away at Grant in his waking hours for years. All alone in his most vulnerable moments, he would allow himself to think about it for brief snippets of time, before throwing the usual walls back up in front of his emotions.
Sometimes he even cried.
‘‘Thanks,’’ he replied weakly.
‘‘Dad once told me,’’ Julie said suddenly, thoughtfully, ‘‘that you were going to be . . . different. He said he thought you might grow up and do important things, things different from what most people do.’’
Grant was taken aback. ‘‘Why would he say that?’’
She thought for a moment, straining her memory. ‘‘I forget why, but he had your mental acuity tested—this was only a few months before he died.’’ Her voice sounded far away, as she thought. ‘‘I remember him saying that your test results were ‘off the charts.’ ’’
‘‘You’re kidding. But I was only three.’’
‘‘I know,’’ she affirmed.
His mind raced. ‘‘Thanks for telling me. I had no idea.’’ He took a deep, shuddering breath and blew it out.
‘‘You can do this, Coll—um, Grant. Whoever you are, I know you better than anyone and you’re stronger than you think you are.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ he said, despondent.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her digging through her purse. She produced a tiny pocket knife attached to a keychain. Before Grant could stop her, she folded out the knife and cut a slash across her wrist.
‘‘Julie!’’ he cried, grabbing her by the arm.
She used her free arm to take a similar swipe at his wrist. It was then he noticed that the cuts were too shallow to sever a vein; the ‘‘knife’’ was little more than a fingernail clipper attachment. The gashes produced just a tiny inkling of blood, surrounded by angry-looking pink swaths of skin, on both of their wrists.
He watched as she pressed her open wound against his. ‘‘There, now we’ve made a pact.’’
‘‘Are you crazy?’’
‘‘Whatever,’’ Julie replied, undeterred. ‘‘It’s a pact made in blood, so you can’t break it. I’m going to hold you to it.’’
Grant studied her. ‘‘And exactly what are we . . . pact-ing?’’
‘‘Never surrender to anger or despair, no matter what. Never give up; never give in.’’
Grant wanted to laugh at how absurd all of this was, but Julie wouldn’t let go. ‘‘Promise me,’’ she said.
‘‘Fine, okay,’’ he said. ‘‘I promise.’
’
At Grant’s instructions, Julie was to park the Jeep three blocks down the street, turn off the engine, and wait for him there.
He took a deep breath and limped toward the building’s front door. He no longer had the keys to his home, of course—like everything else, that other man, the new ‘‘Collin,’’ now had them. So he veered to his left, around the side of the building, and looked in his ground-floor apartment window. One glance inside the darkened space told him that his double wasn’t home.
Grant took what was left of the gauze out of his pocket and rolled it around one hand and fingers, like a boxer wrapping his fist.
This will either be very butch, or very bloody.
With a quick snap, he punched straight through the bottom middle window pane. It broke loudly, the shards falling into a crinkled heap on the carpet inside. He waited, watching the building’s other windows to see if any lights came on. Nothing.
He snaked a hand inside and unlocked the window, slowly pushing up on the frame. The old window groaned and creaked, resisting his efforts. His thoughts returned to all the times over the years he’d attempted to open this same window from the inside, to get some air, and he could never get it to budge. Now, with his newly muscular frame, he could manage it.
Grant hopped up and crawled into the tiny living room, and then pushed the window closed again. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. As small and unremarkable as the apartment was, he knew it well, even in the dark. Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he glanced around and noted that everything was exactly as it had been when he’d left for work yesterday morning.
Creeping down the hall past the door to the bedroom, he made sure his doppelganger wasn’t asleep or hiding. No one there. He ventured back into the hall and checked the bathroom. Nothing. The closet across from the front door still held his scarf on a hook, exactly as he’d left it yesterday. The kitchenette around the corner was also clear. Even his coffeepot still held the dregs from his last dose of caffeine.
Grant walked from one end of the apartment to the other, and wound up back in the small living room, where he’d entered. It looked like Collin—this new Collin—hadn’t even been home yet.
But Grant’s curiosity lasted only moments before he heard someone fumbling with keys outside the door.
The lock spun, the door opened, and Collin stepped inside.
He didn’t notice Grant at all. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, into the bedroom. A lamp came on, its light shining into the hallway.
Carefully and quietly, Grant stood. He flinched as the pain in his leg returned with a sharp twinge. He stole down the hall, careful to avoid the places in the floor that creaked. Peering around the open bedroom door, he saw Collin frowning into a large, horizontal mirror that hung on the opposite wall.
Grant quietly walked up behind him and looked at him in the mirror. ‘‘How was your day?’’ he asked breezily.
The man tensed, but didn’t turn. Instead, he gazed at Grant in the mirror. Grant had expected some kind of reaction, but ‘‘Collin’’ merely sighed and shook his head. He sat down on the edge of the bed, still watching the mirror.
Grant observed him for a moment, puzzled, and then the pain in his leg convinced him to have a seat, too.
It felt abnormal, and yet not, at the same time, as they sat there, side-by-side, watching one another in the mirror.
Grant broke the silence. ‘‘Do you want to start, or should I?’’
They held eye contact.
‘‘They didn’t think you would come back here,’’ Collin said. His voice sounded so odd; Grant wasn’t used to hearing it from the outside.
‘‘Sure,’’ Grant replied, nodding slowly.
A pause. Neither of them blinked.
‘‘But I knew you would. I said so. No one listens to me.’’
‘‘I know the feeling,’’ said Grant.
Another pause.
‘‘Looks like you had difficulty getting here,’’ Collin commented, sizing up Grant’s bruises and bloodied leg.
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Then it’s a shame you’ll be leaving empty-handed. I can’t help you.’’
‘‘Actually,’’ Grant replied, ‘‘you’ve already helped me. Until now, I had no idea if you might be some kind of victim in this, just like me. Or if you were involved. Now I know. Things aren’t looking especially good for you.’’
The thought of beating his former self to a bloody pulp sounded oddly appealing just now. Why not just finish himself off? Do the world a favor . . .
‘‘I didn’t do this to you,’’ Collin said.
‘‘Then who did?’’ Grant’s voice gained strength.
The other man just stared at him.
‘‘How did it happen? How can this be real?’’ Grant cried.
‘‘It shouldn’t be,’’ Collin looked away. ‘‘But it is.’’
Grant stood, his pulse rising.
‘‘Who are you?’’
‘‘No one.’’
Grant stepped an inch closer, his pulse rising.
‘‘You’re me. Just like that. Does that mean I’m you?’’
Collin shook his head. ‘‘That’s not how this works. I’m . . . just a . . . volunteer,’’ Collin replied, and then looked up at Grant. ‘‘I’m no one important. You’re different.’’
Grant swallowed. ‘‘Someone today told me I was a ‘player,’ ’’ he paused, brow furrowed, studying the other man’s reactions. ‘‘What are we playing? Am I a pawn in someone’s twisted game?’’
‘‘I don’t know. Please, Grant, for both our sakes, you’ve got to leave here and never come back.’’
Grant snapped.
‘‘What is this?’’ he roared. He felt like putting the man’s head through the mirror. ‘‘What is going on?!’’
‘‘I don’t have any answers for you,’’ Collin replied, speaking slow and calm. ‘‘I don’t know the extent of your role.’’
Grant’s head sagged. He rubbed his eyes.
‘‘But if I were to guess,’’ Collin suddenly added, and Grant’s head popped up, ‘‘I’d say you’re much more than a pawn. A knight, maybe. Maybe more.’’
Grant was breathing fast, thoughts and questions shifting through his brain. Tears formed in his eyes, but he angrily fought them back.
‘‘I want my life back!’’ he said.
Collin rolled his eyes. ‘‘Sure you do . . .’’
Collin’s head whipped violently to the side and Grant was surprised to see that he’d just delivered a brutal backhand across Collin’s face. He’d never consciously decided to hit the man; it just came out, along with a primal scream of rage.
‘‘Switch us back!’’ he shouted.
Collin stood, anger rising in his voice. ‘‘Look at this place! You live a solitary life in a tiny apartment. No friends. No family. No connections of any kind. You make less money than you deserve. Your entire existence is miserable, and you know it! I’ve had it for less than two days, and I’m ready to let you finish me off. Why on earth would you want to come back to this?’’
Grant was stunned.
Only one answer came to mind. ‘‘It’s who I am.’’
Collin was unmoved. ‘‘Are you sure?’’ He paused. ‘‘Think about it. You’ve been given a second chance. It’s a blank slate. Do you know how many people would kill for what’s been handed to you? Grant, this is your chance to live the life you should have had.’’
The notion that this could be a desirable situation had never entered Grant’s mind. It barely registered now. ‘‘I want to know who did this to me. You must know.’’
Collin nodded. ‘‘I’m sure you’ll run into them, when the time is right.’’
‘‘Are ‘they’ the same ones who hired this man to kill me?’’
‘‘No, but I heard about him.’’ He cast another glance at Grant’s bloodied pant leg. ‘‘Konrad is a contract killer. A single-minded mercenary. I don’t kn
ow who sent him, but his interest in you doesn’t extend beyond his payment. And believe me when I say, he always gets paid.’’
Grant held up his hand, and his eyes fell down upon the ring. ‘‘Would his payment include this?’’
Collin eyed the ring and smiled a humorless smile.
‘‘Just tell me what it is,’’ Grant said imploringly. ‘‘Please.’’
Collin cocked his head to one side and gazed at him carefully, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘‘It’s the answer—’’
Something burst through the bedroom window. It flew straight into the mirror, shattering it into hundreds of shards that flew everywhere.
Collin grabbed Grant and pulled him down to the floor.
Coming to a rest next to them both was a broken liquor bottle with a rag sticking out of its hole. The rag was soaked and on fire. Some part of his brain registered that the crude weapon was called a Molotov cocktail. It was an old but effective and inexpensive trick.
The bottle’s contents spilled onto the floor, and with a soft whoosh the carpet was ablaze. Before they could react, another bottle sailed through the open window and hit the bed. It too was soon covered with flames.
Grant and Collin ran from the room, more bottles raining in after them. As one, they darted for the apartment door. Collin grabbed his cell phone on the way out and dialed 911, shouting into the phone as they ran through the outer hallway.
At the building’s front entrance, Collin burst through the main door first, looking back over his shoulder at Grant.
‘‘It’s him, come on—!’’
They both jumped at the sound of gunfire.
Grant instinctively flung himself down on the floor, just inside the door, covering his head with his hands, as more shots were fired from outside. Collin flew back into the doorway and thudded onto the ground. Grant peered over at him. Collin was lying across the threshold, his chest and arms inside and his legs outside. He made no movement, but his weight kept the old steel door from shutting itself.
Blood pooled beneath him.
8
The gunshots stopped. Grant peeked carefully outside. Konrad stood below the front steps, his gun trained and leveled, waiting for Grant to appear in the open doorway.
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