And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  Moments after the choppers left, police sirens echoed through the luxurious neighborhood streets signaling the approach of a cavalry that has arrived too late.

  10 A Walk in the Crowds

  April 22, 1986, 10:45 AM

  This was not the sort of day Ethan had expected when he woke up with a hangover that morning. He had no idea what was afoot, but he needed to grab his 9mm from the apartment. His instincts were in overdrive, and he felt hyper-sensitive – absorbing details at an alarming pace, and yet tuning them out at the same time. Everything that had happened earlier that morning was still forefront in his mind: the attack choppers, the tactical team that descended upon Tobias’s estate, and the swiftness with which the poor officer was taken down.

  Reawakened after many years, Ethan’s military training sprang to life with renewed vigor, his lessons on tactical evasion kicking into gear. He parked a few blocks down in an underground deck and moved up the street to take a different route home. As he walked, he put on the sunglasses and Steelers cap he’d taken from the car, setting it backward on his head like many of the young kids seemed to be doing today. The shades and cap, combined with the casual dark brown leather coat he wore, should allow him to blend in. He hoped. This wasn’t exactly the same environment as guerilla warfare or one of his military covert missions.

  He needed to sit down and study the items in his possession again. If they were the reason for what had happened at his uncle’s house, he first had to ensure he wasn’t being followed. He stopped to look at a storefront display and casually glanced in the direction he’d come from. No one in particular stood out; instead, people shuffled around him in annoyance like he was an obstinate rock in the midst of a rushing river.

  His building was nearby, and as Ethan approached, the only vehicles that stood out were a maintenance truck, a van that had magnetic stickers advertising a local painting business, and a dark blue sedan sitting curbside. The driver at the wheel of the sedan appeared to be waiting on other passengers to arrive.

  Ethan slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better view of the car’s driver. The man shifted continuously in his seat, scanning the crowd of people hustling by.

  Son of a bitch! He knew surveillance when he saw it. These people were scoping out his pad. Now he’d have to come up with another means of acquiring a weapon or …

  Ethan doubled back, allowing the crowd to swallow him again.

  11 Tearfest

  April 22, 1986, 10:49 AM

  The van’s sliding door flew open and shut in quick succession. Ethan had jumped inside before the driver realized what happened. Ethan hoped the watchers in the vehicles ahead hadn’t noticed; because the van was parked behind the others, they probably hadn’t. Still, time was limited.

  “Hey, hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing?” the driver wailed, his voice high-pitched in surprise.

  “Shut up!” A backhanded fist thunked against the driver’s head along with the order.

  After recovering from the blow, the man tried to turn in his seat.

  “Face forward. Hands on the wheel or things get messy.”

  Not overly foolish, the man did as he was told. Whether it was the veiled threat or the cold bite of metal that touched the base of his skull, Ethan wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter because at this point he had the man’s full attention now.

  “Who are you?” The man asked through tight lips, beads of sweat forming at his temples.

  “I’ll be asking the questions,” Ethan snarled. Nevertheless, it was the best question to ask – so Ethan copied. “Who are you?”

  No answer.

  Ethan grabbed the driver by the hair and slammed his face into the steering wheel. Blood exploded from the man’s nostrils as the bridge bone cracked. Tears formed in pools at the corners of his eyes. It had nothing to do with crying – getting your nose smashed just tended to have that effect. Ethan knew this from experience.

  “You broke my nose!” the man screeched.

  It was an unnecessary declaration because Ethan already knew it had to be. What a wuss. He glanced at his building’s entrance to make sure no one was returning to the van. Only one person in the area seemed out of place for reasons Ethan couldn’t explain. He could only glimpse the man from behind but was able to tell he had a buzz cut hairstyle and wore a black leather coat. And he was heading for The Elysium Terrace.

  Ethan turned back to the front seat of the van he was in. “Who the hell are you? And what are your men doing in my house?” he asked in a low voice that promised further pain if the question wasn’t answered.

  In the rearview mirror Ethan saw the man’s eyes widen in comprehension of the unspoken threat but he remained silent. Ethan clamped down on the man’s hair and jerked him closer. His mouth was now inches from the man’s ear and he pressed the metal harder against his head. “Did your ears get damaged? Answer me, dammit, or they’re going to need windshield wipers on the inside of this van to clean your brain off.”

  Slowly, the man held his hands up in calm surrender and Ethan eased his grip. The driver moved to wipe off the blood oozing down his mouth, but his hand was in an odd position. Ethan saw his lips move before he registered the words.

  “He’s down here – I’m –”

  It took four slams of the driver’s head against the window before the man slumped over the steering wheel. Ethan pulled him back so the pressure on the wheel wouldn’t sound the horn. Seconds were precious; the others would be here any moment. He reached over the seat and took the firearm holstered under Mr. Broken Nose’s jacket.

  Then he pivoted, opened the van door again, and emerged from the vehicle, walking swiftly away without closing the door. He deposited his newly acquired weapon into one of the side pockets of his coat and the Zippo lighter he’d used as a decoy gun on the now unconscious man in the other.

  Suddenly, a loud –POP, POP, POP– sounded from across the street. Ethan spun around to see the man with the buzz cut and black coat walking backward out of The Elysium Terrace. Even from this distance, he could see that the man held a gun, pointing it in the direction of the closing doors.

  An explosion of glass shattered outward from the entrance and several more shots burst through the air. Buzz Cut fell to one knee, wounded. Yet he was still trying to raise his arm to fire off another shot when more gun blasts found their mark in his torso, sprawling him to his back on the sidewalk.

  Ethan stood in frozen observation, his mind reeling. This was the second time in almost as many hours that he’d seen someone gunned down in front of him, and realization settled in like a lead weight. His earlier speculation that Tobias’s files held something significant had only been a hunch. Now he knew with certain dread that something very serious was happening in New York.

  And he’d landed right in the middle.

  12 Open and Shud Case

  April 22, 1986, 2:07 PM

  Checking into the hotel for a few hours had helped Ethan reclaim his bearings and a plan. He closed and locked the door marked 109 with a key that was held hostage by a large and gaudy pastel blue placard then walked to the front office to check out for the day. He would probably return later tonight, but since his life had been altered and he was on the move he couldn’t commit to coming back.

  Returning the key to the front office less than half a day after checking in didn’t seem out of the ordinary for this motel; most people frequenting the place rented by the hour. Ethan got in the car and drove away from The Cozy Clam and its garish sign advertising color TV and vibrating beds.

  It had been the scummiest location he could find on short notice and the last place anyone would think to look for him. He’d figured that switching up his routine would be a good plan. Just being on leave was already a change of daily habits, but in addition to the change of locale, he might need to start alternating the use of his car and the city metro. Just in case.

  It was still early. Perhaps he could use the extra time to dig further into hi
s uncle’s files. Ethan adjusted his course and headed to the nearest public library.

  As always, parking was terrible when he got there, but he managed to snag a spot close to the building. After grabbing his things from the passenger seat, he got out and was locking the door when he looked up and let out a curse. This was a no parking zone. Of course it had been too perfect.

  He didn’t have time for this shit. Ethan glanced around. A Jeep Comanche was parked behind his Mustang, and a Buick LeSabre sat in front. Both held lovely little tickets between the wiper blade and windshield. He snatched the ticket from the Jeep and put it under his own wiper blade. He could have dealt with the situation later, but given the circumstances he felt he deserved one less headache.

  ***

  April 22, 1986, 3:17 PM

  What had his uncle’s last words meant? Ethan still felt infinite confusion as he again inspected the contents from his uncle’s safe; like the first time, he was having no luck putting the jumbled pieces together.

  He’d laid the items out in neat piles on the library table. The newspaper article about the plane crash was on top of one stack. This time he noted that the number “136” had a faded circle around it, signifying its importance to Tobias. But why? It had been simple enough to track down another copy of the original article on the library’s microfiche files and have it printed out. The slight difference between the headlines almost went unnoticed, but when Ethan rescanned the newly printed version, it jumped out at him then in big black letters on the splash page: ‘TOLL RISES TO 134 IN COLLISION OF PLANES OVER NEW YORK CITY’.

  Frowning, he propped a fist under his chin and stared at the discrepancy. This added yet another unexplained piece to the strange puzzle. Where and who were the other two people? Was his uncle’s copy incorrect? For some reason this inconsistency brought to mind the conspiracy theories of the Kennedy assassination and the questionable photographs of Lee Harvey Oswald that some people claimed were doctored. He looked again at the copy from Tobias’s safe.

  This makes no sense. He placed the library’s version on top of his uncle’s original and picked up the old, musty Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam. As he gently opened the ancient looking tome he took care to examine it closer this time. He noticed a portion of the last page had been removed – not sliced clean, but ripped away, as if in haste. On the inside back cover of the book a seemingly random series of letters were scribbled upon the yellowed paper.

  Ethan jotted the strange jumble down in his notebook:

  MRGOABABD

  MLIAOI

  WTBIMPANETP

  MLIABOAIAQC

  ITTMTSAMSTGAB

  He decided to return to the odd combinations later, when he had more time to try to decipher their meaning.

  The last item left in the back of the book was a tiny strip of neatly folded paper with torn edges. He unfolded the paper; inside were two lonely words:

  He noted the jagged pattern of the ripped edges and held the paper against the last page of the book; the rip lines matched up perfectly.

  There was only one other sheet of paper inside the book – a note written presumably by Tobias himself. It read: “Look into the ‘Tamám Shud’ case, Australia 1948.”

  Ethan put down the paper and stretched, extending his cramped legs for relief. Then he rose and headed for the main desk where a petite college student with braces sat engrossed in a book titled Salem’s Lot. He could see that the book had been dog eared numerous times along the way and Ethan couldn’t help but wonder how she managed to finish a novel with all the intrusions throughout her day.

  Her name was Lucy Nevares, and she had been the most competent and useful member of the library staff, despite her young age. He’d already called on her several times for help and her assistance had been invaluable. Ethan hated to be the interloper yet again, invading the innocent looking girl’s quiet moment on duty, but it was her job and she’d seemed more than happy to oblige him with the research tasks he’d given her.

  He rapped softly on the counter and cringed when the girl jumped in her seat. “I’m sorry to bother you again Lucy, but I need another microfiche pulled from the archives.”

  “Oh, no problem, sir. That’s what I’m here for.” Lucy grinned brightly, giving him an eyeful of shimmering metal.

  Ethan handed her the paper where he’d written down the date of the periodical he needed. She took it from him and flashed another gleaming smile.

  “Be back in a minute.” She slid out of her seat and disappeared through a pair of swinging doors, Salem’s Lot put on hold once more.

  13 A Case of Read

  April 22, 1986, 6:44 PM

  The happy faced Lucy Nevares had returned with a copy of a 1948 newspaper article from Adelaide, Australia, which he’d read and reread numerous times. It described the mysterious death of an unknown individual referred to as The Somerton Man. The only thing Ethan gleaned from what he read was just more questions with no answers in sight. The article contained much of the same information from Tobias’s documents, along with additional photographs, one of which was that of the mysterious dead man.

  Ethan flipped through his uncle’s things and found a photo from a different newspaper clipping. It displayed the area where the body was found, with several onlookers standing by. A circle had been drawn around one of the onlookers, who stood off to the left in a sideways stance with his arm out in front of his face to block the morning sun.

  Thanks, Tobias, it all makes perfect sense now. Oh, wait – it doesn’t. These random pieces of information seemed relevant to each other, but the dots weren’t connecting. If Ethan didn’t know better, he would have thought Tobias was baiting him from beyond the grave. He cast the newspaper and clippings aside and rifled through some of the other documents in his uncle’s portfolio.

  Red, black, and blue ink marks were splashed across numerous pages, notations of a dedicated but frustrated man in search of something important. Fragmented blurbs of thought had been jotted down in hasty scrawl, statements and queries which led to more confusion, question marks punctuating the unanswered ink ramblings followed by dates and random years with more question marks.

  Ethan retrieved a sheet of paper littered with Tobias’s scribble, one out of several he’d already examined. Underneath it was yet another newspaper clipping. The title of this article mentioned an unidentified badly beaten man who had been found in Alexandria, Virginia and was admitted to a local hospital for treatment. He suffered from brain trauma and had no memory of who he was. After sufficient recovery at the hospital he was admitted to St. Jeremiah’s. The unknown man wrote only in unintelligible jumbles; no words, just letters and numbers. The article ended by asking the community for help with any information they could provide on the John Doe. In the top left corner of the page was Tobias’s familiar scrawl, which read: “Connection to Code?? Operation Backslider.”

  Tobias must have been hot on the trail of something big – but what? The periodical was dated from the 70s – more than a decade and a half ago – but perhaps there were answers at St. Jeremiah’s if this John Doe still resided there.

  Ethan’s mind felt like how it used to when he crammed for a college exam – overstuffed with information – but he was still no closer to understanding. It was time to call in a favor.

  He stood up, gathered his things into his duffel bag, and left the library, throwing a wave of goodbye to Lucy as he walked out. She was too engrossed in her book to notice, or maybe she was avoiding eye contact on purpose. Ethan wouldn’t blame her; he’d worked her hard today.

  Jogging down the steps two and three at a time, Ethan headed straight for the phone booth on the corner when he reached the sidewalk. It was a snug fit with the duffel bag, but he managed to close the door all the way. After digging some coins out of his pocket, he deposited them in the machine and dialed.

  Four rings.

  “Detective Hansen.”

  “And what took you so long to get to the phone Old Man River?”
<
br />   Art puffed a breath then lowered his voice. “Ethan, this is no time for funnies. Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, I need a favor,” Ethan said.

  “Anything,” Art said without hesitation, and Ethan almost felt bad for the line he’d just thought up.

  But not quite. “You need to get a wheelchair; I don’t like the thought of your clumsy old ass walking around that office with fragile bones. Anything could happen.”

  “Jesus, this is serious, man!” Art’s annoyance was palpable. “There was a full on assault at your uncle’s house early this morning. I’ve been trying to call you ever since – what the hell is going on?”

  “I know. I was there.”

  A brief moment of silence preceded Art’s whispered outburst. “And you are just now telling someone?”

  Ethan felt like a child being scolded. With two kids, Art got plenty of opportunities to perfect such an edge to his voice. “Well, I didn’t want to put any stress on your heart. Have you been taking your meds?”

  “They’re multi-vitamins, not meds,” Art snapped. “I don’t even know why I bother explaining these … You know what? Never mind, now listen – shut up with the wisecracks, and tell me what kind of crap you’ve gotten yourself into!”

  Ethan figured it was time to put the jokes on hold for now. “I’ve stumbled onto something, but I don’t know what. I can’t say any more than that. You’ll just have to trust me, okay?” He waited while Art processed this, hoping his friend wouldn’t take the withholding of information personally.