And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  Tobias looked away from Blake and stared down at the floor, his jaw set on a stubborn angle. “A clever trick of words, but clearly an untruth.”

  “Don’t play this game, Tobias.” Blake took a step forward.

  Tobias jerked the gun up, pressing it to his own temple, and Blake froze. “All I wanted was a better life for Ethan – for us,” Tobias wailed, his chin wrinkling.

  Blake raised his hand in a calming gesture. “My life was fine.” He interjected what he hoped was a non-confrontational tone. He’d never been good at this sort of talk, but he felt the deficiency now more than ever. “I had a great mentor and father figure. Why can’t you see that? Don’t do this. I was older than you when it happened; I know better than you how it felt when they died, you don’t. I got over it and let it go.”

  The old man’s eyes glistened as tears formed at the corners. “I lost them twice, what would you know? To save them only to see them snatched away again. Twice the loss and double the pain.”

  Blake looked at Tobias helplessly. “Sometimes things just happen that are beyond our control.”

  “Not ours!” Tobias yelled, and the gun shook in his hand. His voice turned to a whisper. “Save them this time.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  The room exploded with a noise that battered Blake’s eardrums. Tobias’s frail body jerked sideways to the mattress, and his fingers spasmed, releasing the pistol. If Blake hadn’t been deafened by the shot he would have heard the gun as it landed on the carpet.

  For several moments, Blake stood there in frozen shock. He’d never truly thought Tobias would go through with it and now that it had been done, Blake contemplated undoing what had just happened. With the press of a button it would be possible, but it would be wasted. While the device could handle multiple teleportations, there was only enough charge for one more time jump. And if he took that action, the final repercussion would be yet another copy of himself in the timeline.

  When Blake recovered enough to move, he stepped closer to the bed and squatted down to grab the Colt .45, staring at it in disbelief. Dimly, he was aware that the buzzing in his ears had subsided. He opened his hand and the pistol fell once again. He heard it that time. A lone, dull thud.

  Dammit. Tobias had forced his hand. The timeline had been set. The police would soon arrive, followed by Ethan and Art. Blake’s eyes touched on Tobias’s body, remembering how the room had looked when he’d arrived there a lifetime ago. The position of the unmoving body, the blood that had splashed against the wall – all of it, just the way it had been before.

  Turning from the bloody display, he went to the fake wall in the closet, opened it, and did the same to the iron safe. Perhaps he could alter history’s course, here at this moment, if Ethan never finds anything to … investigate.

  With the safe open Blake studied its contents, noting the investigative files Tobias had left behind. But something was wrong. There was no Rubáiyát and there was no watch. They were both … gone? Who had taken them? Then a sudden epiphany struck him: He had been the one to place the watch and Rubáiyát in the safe. Playing his part in the cycle, as he always had.

  His success depended on being able to predict the imminent future. If the timeline wasn’t set, he would never be able to pinpoint Ethan’s exact movements. Small changes in Ethan’s choices now could disrupt everything. If the watch and book were not here, he would never discover them and might not begin his investigation. Still, Ethan would return here regardless; Tobias had already left his message on the answering machine. Wallace’s attack squad would still come as well. He would have to intercept Ethan somewhere else down the timeline, but not while Jackman’s men were descending on the estate.

  Pulling the book from his jacket, Blake placed it in the safe and then struggled to remove the watch. It took a while, given his limitations with one hand and the tenacity of the claw hooks. After what seemed like an eternity, the coiled barbs sprang from his arm, and droplets of blood spattered to the carpet, unnoticed. He began to work on ejecting the meteorite fragment from the base. This took a bit more effort, and Blake swore as precious seconds passed. Finally, the latch opened and the fragment plopped out into his palm. He situated the watch in its correct position inside the safe, as he’d found it before, and put the fragment in his pocket.

  Now he just had to figure out how to stop the Russians and end the cycle for good. To do that, he needed a bit of time and space to think. He took another quick glance at the items in the safe and then snatched up two stacks of money that were held together with rubber bands. Ethan wouldn’t need all the cash Tobias left him.

  Ethan would come back here tomorrow morning and almost get caught by Jackman and his team. At this point, Blake would do anything to stop himself from traveling back, even if it meant waiting at Ethan’s apartment and putting a bullet in every last one of Jackman’s men.

  A troubling memory crept up. Blake ran his hand across his hair, and it reminded him of something. He looked down at his attire. The black leather jacket. His buzz-cut hair.

  Oh my God!

  He hadn’t changed a damn thing. He’d already tried that attempt before and was gunned down just outside of his own apartment. Hex’s words fluttered through his consciousness, “You can’t change shit.” He’d have to take a different route and pray that Hex wasn’t right. It was easy; he just wouldn’t make the same mistake this time.

  Blake mentally shook himself. He needed to get out of Tobias’s house before Sergeant Davis showed up. He left the closet and exited Tobias’s room without looking back. At the front door, he hit the button to re-open the gate.

  The key holder by the entryway caught his eye. All of the hooks were empty. You’ve gotta be kidding me! Blake reached in his pocket, fingers brushing against the old key ring with the Steelers logo.

  His conversation with Wallace on the beach in Adelaide came back to him and the impact of what he was facing hit him like a concrete wall. Switching things up was going to be more difficult than he’d imagined. He had to play it smart; his avenues were limited before the circle became unstoppable again.

  So he put the keys on the hook, knowing Ethan would snatch them up in a few short hours.

  Blake had almost gotten to the curb when he stopped. Something wasn’t right. It took him a second to process, but finally he realized it was the trashcans. Where are they? A backward glance told him. They were sitting by the three car garage.

  He remembered feeling unsettled by seeing those trashcans at the curb the day he’d left the scene of Tobias’s suicide. He’d damn well make sure it stayed that way or it could throw everything off. He ran back to the grab the bins and hauled them both to the street.

  This was all becoming more confusing by the minute.

  But his plan for now was simple. He would shadow Ethan’s apartment tonight and track his movements. He’d have to tread carefully so that everything remained unsullied. For now, all he could do was watch. And wait.

  Blake crossed the gated entrance with the trashcans in tow and left them by the curb. He was so fixated on his plans that he didn’t bother to close the gate.

  51 It’s a Wonderful Knife

  April 21, 1986, 10:28 PM

  Ethan was standing on the curb in front of Tobias’s large estate, the expression on his face distant. Blake remembered the thoughts running through his head when he’d stood outside the house that day.

  He watched Ethan from his vantage point behind the steering wheel of a recently acquired ‘85 Toyota Corolla. It had been a quick purchase, using up most of the money he’d swiped from Tobias’s safe. The car wasn’t too flashy, but it worked to his benefit for concealment by blending in with the crowd of nondescript vehicles on the street.

  He’d told the man at the dealership he was purchasing the car for business. When the salesman saw the stack of cash in Blake’s hand, he’d kicked into full gear, urging Blake to have a mobile phone installed in the car. According to the sales pitch it was all the rage
, and if anyone wanted to thrive in today’s business world it was a must. Blake hated to switch gears on his cover story, and since he had time to burn, he allowed the man his commission. Conveniently enough, the salesman had close ties to a neighboring mobile phone business so this was Blake’s lucky day for a ‘special’ price.

  While he waited for the installation, he’d grabbed something to eat and rested for a bit. Blake needed the break; fatigue was catching up to him.

  By the time he’d made his way back here with the car, the cops had already canvassed the area to speak with witnesses. So he didn’t have the immediate concern that any more authorities would stroll by asking questions. By now, Tobias’s death had been informally deemed a suicide anyway, and with suspicion gone, no eyes were cast his way. Along Yorkshire Way the amount of media traffic flowing in and out was doing well to hide his presence in close proximity to Ethan.

  Watching Ethan wrestle with his grief over their ‘uncle’s’ death filled Blake with an emotion he couldn’t describe, knowing what he knew now. And strange as it was, he felt angry that he, as Ethan, hadn’t been able to adequately grieve. Even that had been taken away from him. Everything was gone, decided by people other than him. Even though he’d made the choice to jump, he hadn’t done it of his own free will, not really. The cycle had already been set for him. He was just playing his part.

  Sudden bitterness filled him. Ethan, suck it up and head home already! He was exhausted and just wanted to get some sleep, even if it was in the back seat of the car.

  Half an hour later, Ethan managed to pry himself away from staring at Tobias’s estate and walked to his Mustang, collapsing in the seat. He sat for a moment longer, seeming to try to collect himself, then pulled away and waved to the cop on duty in a nearby car.

  Tailing Ethan was a tedious journey; Blake had forgotten how out of it he’d been at the time. Ethan crawled along just under the speed limit and kept sitting at intersections. After the third time it happened, Blake picked up on something new. There was another vehicle following Ethan home, a black two door roadster, its frame cruising low to the street.

  Ethan’s Mustang took a right into the underground parking garage and the roadster slowed, then headed down an alley at the next intersection. Blake followed, closing the distance between their cars and cutting off his headlights, even though the occupant – or occupants – of the car would know they’d been followed as soon as he pulled in behind them. After all, that was the point … shake up the timeline, right?

  The brake lights of the other vehicle lit up and Blake stomped on his own pedal, slamming the Toyota into park. He opened the door as three men hopped out of their vehicle in front of him.

  Blake had his gun ready, but held the end of it above the headlight switch. It was up to them to make the next move; he wouldn’t fire unless they initiated. “Hold it right there!” he barked.

  The hum of traffic on the street around them didn’t hush the noise of slides being pulled and rounds entering chambers. Blake flicked on the headlight switch with his pistol, casting all three men in a glaring light. When they flung their arms up to shield their eyes, he slid out of the car, using his door for cover, and took aim to shoot.

  It was difficult to fire with only the use of one arm – the kick of the gun caused his aim to move far off mark with every shot – but after six quick blasts, at least three found meat. The harsh noise of the gunfire bounced off the alley walls. Blake’s ears rang from the abuse; second time that day. If the frequency of these shootouts continued, he’d be deaf soon.

  Moving around the open car door, Blake walked toward the men who were now all lying on the ground. The first two were dead. The last was crawling across the rough pavement on his belly, trying to get to a gun that had fallen in the skirmish.

  “Stop,” Blake said, but the man kept scooting forward.

  One kick to the man’s ribs, and he curled up, grunting in agony, and let out a hiss of air. Blood bubbled out from a stomach wound. “What the fuck?” he said in one wheezing gust of breath.

  “Why are you following my friend?”

  “We was told to. We wasn’t going to do nothing, just report back.”

  The man was lying and dying. Death would be slow, so Blake knew he could still pick him for information. He looked back to the main street. No one had come to check out the loud gunfire yet.

  No good Samaritans left in New York. Despite the unwanted difficulty it would have created for one to happen by just then, this was the sort of thing that had been eating at Blake for a while now, even in his other life.

  So many times on the force he’d seen horrible things happen to people just because no one wanted to get involved. That kid in the neighboring apartment screaming from the abuse he suffered at the hands of a drunken parent? Let’s just ignore it, pretend we don’t hear anything. And on it went.

  Why save humanity when humanity didn’t even want to save itself? It was ugly but true. Was this world even worth saving?

  The sound of clothes scuffing against the pavement brought him back in time to see a glint of metal in the downed man’s hands. It sliced at his leg, digging into his right calf. On instinct, Blake kicked out, nailing the man on the chin. Blood spurted across the ground as skin split under the assault, but the man did not lose consciousness.

  Without the steadying effect of another arm, Blake’s reflexive kick caught him off balance. Mr. Gut Shot took advantage of this and swung one of his legs sideways, dropping Blake to the ground. His advantage was now lost. He felt two hands grip onto his neck, but with only one arm, he was unable to fend off the attack; just as he managed to pry one hand away and go for the second, the first would return. The man’s grip kept finding its mark, and the constriction was taking a toll on Blake’s air intake. He attempted right jabs to the attacker’s midsection, but lying on his back gave his arms little force and only furthered his loss of strength.

  His face was pushed back and he lost all leverage with his head. He bent his injured leg and felt blindly down his calf until he touched the hilt of the knife, still embedded in the muscle. He barely felt the pain as he yanked the blade out of his flesh and drove it between his attacker’s ribs.

  The man’s grip on Blake’s throat released, and Blake saw his opening. He yanked the blade out, put it against the man’s neck, and sliced open the jugular and vocal chords in one clean, swift movement. Blood cascaded down on Blake’s own face. The man’s body jerked, a gasping sound escaped his severed throat, and he collapsed on top of Blake, lifeless.

  Blake pushed the weight off him and sat up, staring at the corpse. The lights from the Toyota gave him a clear view of his foe; a Latino, sporting an ugly Zapata mustache. Then Blake saw the hideous tattoo on his neck – the seven with the crown perched above.

  He scrabbled away from the body, staring in shock at the dead man’s empty eyes. Art’s voice rang out in his head, “Throat was slit … In a back alley near your apartment. Two of his buddies had a set of gunshot wounds as well.”

  Shit, that’s Alejandro Cortez – AKA Smiley!

  Holy fucking fuck! Every decision he made was still sculpting the timeline, pushing him on an already driven path to the ultimate end: getting sent back to 1948, only to repeat all of the same mistakes.

  A distant siren blared, drawing closer. Blake used the bumper of Smiley’s car to hoist himself to his feet and hobbled to the Toyota. He needed to patch the leg wound up soon. And from this point on, he had to measure the next move he made with precision.

  It could easily be his last.

  ***

  April 22, 1986, 12:17 AM

  The ideas that floated in his brain plagued him like a cancer. Blake couldn’t help but think that more members of Los Siete Reyes were going to converge on Ethan. He remembered this was the night that he drank himself into a coma.

  It was always easy to sneak past Donnie Yeats and bypass the elevator, but taking the stairs was not so easy. He’d bound up his calf with an extra shirt
from his duffel after moving the Toyota away from the blood-soaked alley, but the burn from each step ascended felt like alcohol being poured into the wound.

  When Blake made it to his floor, his leg was on fire, but he managed to enter his condo with the deftness of a thief. Leaving the door open allowed some light into the darkened hallway that led to his living room. All was quiet inside except for the sound of soft breathing.

  The door to his room was ajar and there, spread out upon the king bed, Ethan slumbered away. If watching your own self sleep wasn’t odd to the extreme, Blake could think of nothing else.

  Should he rouse Ethan now and tell him everything? Or was that not the right move? It might very well convince Ethan not to join Wallace, but that wouldn’t stop the Russians from their invasion. What choice was the right choice? He didn’t know.

  At this point, Blake only knew that Ethan was no longer in harm’s way tonight. Turning, he limped out of the bedroom. As he entered the living room again he noticed the phone off its hook and muttered a curse. If the phone is off the hook then Ethan won’t get his morning wake-up call from Fredericks, and the timeline would no longer be intact. Continuity needed to be preserved – for now; just one more decision that wasn’t fully in his power.

  Blake put the receiver back in its cradle and walked to the kitchen. He was so thirsty. A cold soda from the fridge sounded like a great idea. He’d take one and be on his way.

  On his third step into the kitchen he slipped on a wet spot, but managed to catch himself and ended up sliding softly to the floor instead of crashing. It was then that Blake remembered the fallen ice cubes he’d left to melt so very long ago. For Blake it had been almost a year ago, but for Ethan only a few hours.

  Standing up, he realized that he didn’t escape the slip unscathed. His calf injury had torn and the hot pain seared up his thigh. Blake clutched at his leg and felt wetness bleeding through his jeans. He had to get out of here before he woke Ethan up.