And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  “Jesus, Blake! Are you okay? Blake!”

  Ethan made another turn of the wheel and Blake rolled onto his back. The coughing seizure didn’t stop, and now the bloody foam was filling up in his throat, but he didn’t have the strength to push himself all the way over. His windpipe clogged as he began to suffocate on his own bile, felt a splatter of it spray into his eyes, burning them, making his vision blur.

  Dimly, as if very far away in a dark dream, Blake realized he could still feel the car rocking as it moved, but only just a little now.

  Or maybe that’s just what it felt like to die.

  54 Pains, Trains, and Automobiles

  April 22, 1986, 9:35 PM

  Perhaps ripping out the mobile phone hadn’t been the best idea at the time. It was unfortunate that the Toyota wouldn’t start up now, but Blake surmised that an exposed wire had made contact with metal somewhere, creating a parasitic drain on the battery. Or maybe the slick used car salesman had sold him a lemon.

  Ethan was leaving the library and Blake wouldn’t be able to follow him on the road to The Cozy Clam without a vehicle. It wasn’t the end of the world, though. He could use the subway to scoot across town.

  He’d been trailing Ethan all day, and everything happened just as before, despite Blake having changed his own fate earlier at Ethan’s apartment.

  That part had been easy enough. Blake just switched up his attack this time around, opting to fire at Wallace’s crew from the top of a nearby building just long enough for Ethan to escape. The outcome may have been different this time, but from Ethan’s vantage point, it had probably looked pretty much the same: gunfight outside his apartment meant time to find another place to stay.

  It had been eighteen minutes since Blake kicked the Corolla in disgust and stalked away from its parking spot close to the library. Now he was sitting in one of the seats on the city metro with a scowl blanketed across his face.

  With funds running low, it wouldn’t be possible to purchase another car so late at night, and he couldn’t just go and rent a room at the same hotel where Ethan was staying. He didn’t want to risk the manager saying something to Ethan in the morning about a twin that had checked in as well. Granted, Ethan might dismiss such information as coincidence, but Blake doubted it based on what Ethan had witnessed over the last couple days.

  Still, sleeping arrangements had to be made; the idea of spending the night on the street wasn’t appealing. Then Blake thought of something. He pulled his duffel from the floor and began to loosen the top of the bag. He dug inside, searching, but was interrupted by a massive shape protruding into his field of view.

  The most obese human being he’d ever seen hovered over him. At first glance, he couldn’t tell whether it was a woman or man. The dress helped clue him in; still, even then you might not know for sure these days. The woman looked like she could double as The Michelin Man’s wife, with rolls of lumpy flesh constricting in on itself to form rings along her arms, legs, chin – and Blake didn’t even want to imagine what lay under that dress. Thick glasses framed her frog-like face, and a ridiculous shade of hooker red lipstick outlined her mouth and beyond. Veins of the lipstick had leaked into the wrinkles around her mouth, accentuating her clown-like appearance.

  “Get up, I’m handicapped,” she half-croaked and bellowed through her wobbling jowls.

  Already pissed, Blake didn’t even attempt to control his response. It fluttered to his mind and out his mouth without a filter. “You’re not handicapped, you’re just a fatass. Move along Queen Kong,” he snapped.

  Her pig eyes widened in surprise; apparently no one had ever stood up to her bully tactics before – either out of sympathy or fear of being crushed beneath her bulk. She let out an, “Ugh!” and the noise sent a reverberation through several of her chins.

  Blake almost gagged; he felt like shit and the sight of this woman wasn’t helping. They had a brief staring contest, but when Blake didn’t move she gave up and turned away in search of another passenger’s seat to acquire, doing a strange waddle from leg to leg as she moved further down the aisle that barely accommodated her girth.

  He scowled after her and resumed the search inside his bag. After a few moments of sifting, he pulled out what he was looking for, and sighed in relief. It was the keys to his ’67 Mustang, the one he’d had in his pocket when he jumped back to 1948 – and in doing so had created what now amounted to a duplicate set in 1986. He smiled, thankful he hadn’t left them behind in the past.

  Sleep would be uncomfortable in the bucket seat of the car, but at least it would be an escape from the cold and a chance to keep close to Ethan. All that mattered was that he was gone before Ethan came down to leave for his meeting with Captain Fredericks at Jo Ann’s Café.

  Blake shoved the keys into his pocket and leaned back in his seat. The movement caused a sudden wave of dizziness, making his head swim, and an unsettled feeling ran a sickly course through him. It was an unfamiliar sensation at first but then evolved into nausea, and he instantly wanted to vomit. He closed his eyes and took several breaths to calm himself. The odd stirring in his stomach finally passed.

  It’s nothing. Just anxiety and exhaustion.

  Right, the voice in the back of his mind answered.

  ***

  April 23, 1986, 5:00 AM

  A beeping disturbed the silence, followed by the clanging of a dumpster being emptied. Blake’s eyelids cracked open slowly and he groaned. He’d slept like shit last night. Getting into the car unnoticed had been easy enough, but catching sleep hadn’t. His malaise from the night before on the metro fluttered back to him and he groaned again.

  When the feeling subsided, he got up and glanced around the parking lot. Most of the cars were still here. He wanted to catch more sleep, but he had to go now. The meeting with Fredericks would be soon and he needed to grab something to eat before he got there, even though food was the last thing he wanted.

  Blake got out of the car, bringing his pack with him. As he walked away, he patted the roof of the Mustang affectionately. God, how he missed it.

  He headed to Jo Ann’s Café after snagging a bite to eat on the go: hot coffee for his freezing bones, a bacon and egg sandwich for a protein boost, and a donut to feed his sweet tooth.

  The strange unease flowed through his body again. Maybe it hadn’t been wise to polish off that biscuit with the donut; now it curdled in his belly and wanted to come back up. Blake told himself that his stomach was probably rebelling against the highly-processed foods here. After spending over half a year in the 40s, maybe he wasn’t ready for good old New York food. His concern wasn’t easily abated this time, but he was nearing his destination and couldn’t stop to think about it now.

  He spied the building across the street from the diner and noted it was a rundown brick and mortar style apartment complex. The structure was twelve stories high unless his count was off, but Blake only cared about what was inside one of the rooms on the third floor. He glanced up at the window he remembered seeing the sniper rifle poking out of. From what he could tell, it would be the third one from the left.

  It surprised Blake that it had taken him so long to figure out how the Russians knew Ethan would be coming here today. The conclusion he’d finally drawn was that the Captain’s home phone must have been wire tapped. Putting a tap on the whole police station would have been too hard for the Russian cell to accomplish unnoticed, and the amount of calls that streamed in daily would have been burdensome to weed through. Sitting back and hoping to catch some chatter about Ethan’s location coming out of his boss’s house would be far simpler.

  Perhaps the only reason Ethan – he – hadn’t been killed that day was because he’d been eating with his back to the window. It was likely that the only way the sniper had gotten a bead on Ethan was when he was able to eyeball Captain Fredericks’ visible gold badge through the gun’s scope.

  Today would be the true test. So far, Blake had only changed one incident since he returned, and i
t had been a good one, of course: he hadn’t died on the street in front of his building.

  Granted, he could have just avoided going there altogether, but he needed the shootout to happen because when Ethan had witnessed it that day, his decision to stay away from home had been sealed. Blake couldn’t be sure it had been sealed even after the face beating he’d given the guy in the van. A part of him – Ethan – might have thought he could just return home when the coast was clear. However, seeing the guy with the buzz cut and black jacket go down outside the entryway to his condo had confirmed it wouldn’t be safe to return. Not until he could get a handle on things.

  Now that he had a glimpse of his own future – and also knew the immediate fate of his Captain – an inkling of frustration and doubt still loomed on his horizon. Had yesterday’s success at changing the present really been a success, or was he creating yet another loop?

  He took a look at the cheap watch fastened to his belt. He’d purchased it at a 7-11 last night on his way to The Cozy Clam. Fortunately, this watch lacked the claw hooks that his traveling timepiece had, but he’d been unable to get it to tighten on his arm without it falling off.

  It was almost 6:45, and he was now on the third floor of the building across the street. The wallpaper in the hallway was cheap, peeling and bubbling in pockets. The neglected interior was a reflection of the neighborhood as a whole. This worked to Blake’s advantage. Neighbors wouldn’t come running right away at the sound of trouble. Not that they would in an upscale apartment either, but reaction time in a place like that would be marginally better. Here, any ruckus contained within the separate cubicles that passed for apartments would probably be ignored outright.

  Blake stood at the door marked 3011, the third one from the end. There was no use checking the handle to see if it was unlocked; it wouldn’t be. He pulled out his gun. Putting a bullet into the chamber would be difficult without a second hand, but he’d already figured out a solution.

  He shoved the slider against the chair rail molding of the corridor and pushed the gun downward. Slowly, he released the tension on the gun; there was no need letting the Russian get wind of his presence right outside the room. Now the weapon was ready. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled. Here goes.

  Blake assumed an adjusted stance to accommodate for the handicap of one arm. Then he aimed the gun at the doorknob, fired into the surrounding wood twice in quick succession, and smashed shoulder first into the door. There was a brief creak of resistance before the area around the knob tore away as it relinquished its hold.

  Half stumbling, half charging into the room, his brain took hold of his surroundings. It wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting, having mentally prepared himself to come barging into a living room, with the sniper in a corner taking aim at Ethan. Instead, he’d catapulted himself into a narrow hallway, his inertia propelling him ahead until he regained control of his feet before face planting on the ground. The knife wound in his right calf burned from the aggressive demands of his body, slowing his run to an awkward, limping sprint.

  In the distance, he heard a bolt action rifle sliding a bullet meant for Ethan – but bearing Fredericks’ name – into place. Blake was reaching the end of the small hallway now. Soon he would be in the living area he’d initially prepared for. Maintaining pace, erratic though it was, he rounded the corner.

  The speed of time can be a strange thing. It accelerates when it ought not to and creeps along when it should. In the span of mere seconds, Blake analyzed his backdrop in striking detail. Somewhere in a lecture hall, he figured Dr. Cunningham could be delivering a perfect but boring sermon on the subject.

  On the floor between a worn couch and a coffee table was an unmoving body; Blake presumed the apartment’s resident. The woman’s head was at an unnatural angle, the neck blue and purple from internal bleeding and bruising. His eyes followed the rotation of his own neck as he scanned the room.

  In the corner, just as he imagined, was Gernot, sniper rifle in hand. It was surreal to see the man that he’d had a hand in killing still alive and vertical. The rifle in Gernot’s grip was supported by the window sill, but he wasn’t looking through its scope. He was staring straight at Blake, eyes wide, mouth agape. Now he collected himself as he realized what this encounter meant.

  “Not a step closer, I’ll kill him!” Gernot rasped, his Russian accent coming out harsh in his anger. The calm demeanor of the man Blake had witnessed in Amhurst’s lab coldly preparing to kill the old doctor was gone. This didn’t even seem like the same person. And it wasn’t, just another version. Minus the grotesque burn scar.

  Blake’s gun came up and he trained it on the Russian. “No you won’t. You miss. How do you think I’m here?”

  For a split second Blake’s own words snagged in his mind. Was this the reason Gernot had missed before? Had he already done this as well? Were the loops just sequencing one after another – where if he failed once and corrected his steps, he only locked himself into another loop?

  No! He had to be changing something this time. He could feel it … even the air seemed to be charged with expectation.

  The assassin stared, his eyes twitching. The question on his face was clear: Do I really miss?

  “Your friend Wallace,” Gernot said with a dry voice.

  “He’s not my friend, and he can join you in Hell when I’m done with you.”

  Gernot sneered. “You can’t stop me. Neither can Wallace. He and I are exactly the same.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Ha! Wallace and his five.”

  Wallace and his five? Blake didn’t know what Gernot was talking about. There were more than five members in Jackman’s squad. But he no longer cared, and he was done talking with this scumbag.

  He pulled the trigger. Blake didn’t know how many bullets he fired, but he knew the sound of an empty weapon when the first –click– emanated from the gun. He also registered one shot of Gernot’s rifle ringing out along with his own fire and for a heart-stopping moment he feared things were repeating.

  Blake rushed toward the dead Russian, yanking the sniper rifle away from the man’s lifeless hands. He peered through the scope, down at Jo Ann’s Café. The glass window had been blown out, Ethan was scuttling beneath the table, and then …

  He let out a breath as he saw Captain Fredericks moving to shelter as well and sagged against the window in relief. He’d done it!

  There was no time to celebrate though. If he wasn’t out soon, he’d have a lot of explaining to do when New York’s finest showed up.

  Blake dumped the rifle and ran for the door, ignoring the protest from his injured leg.

  56 Dangerous Finds

  April 23, 1986, 10:10 AM

  Art trudged into the squad room and collapsed in the chair at his desk, staring blankly at its surface. Around him, the station was abuzz with that morning’s incident. He’d been called in from his day off to help with the overload.

  Fredericks had almost been killed in broad daylight, along with Ethan; that much alone was a shock to his system. Now his partner was missing. Pieces of Ethan’s personal mystery were coming together, but they didn’t make sense.

  What have you gotten yourself into, buddy?

  His phone jingled.

  Dear God, please be Ethan.

  “Hansen,” he said, and held his breath for the familiar, joking voice of his friend.

  “Hi Art, it’s Marek Bagowski. I’ve been trying to get you all day.”

  Damn. “What’s up, Bags?”

  “Just wanted to get back to you on that little favor you requested concerning our findings on the Keane case.”

  “What did you come up with?”

  Marek hesitated before saying, “Incongruities all over the map.”

  Art was silent, but his hand gripped the receiver tighter.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m waiting to hear what’s wrong with your map.”

  “Okay, I heard there was a mix-up at the morgu
e, but before Mr. Keane’s body got misplaced we’d done some tests. We found powder burns on his hands, which are consistent with the conclusion that he’d fired the gun himself. And we did find prints on the weapon.”

  “I sense a pimpled butt coming.”

  Marek chuckled. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Keane’s fingers had been burned.”

  “Burned? How?”

  “Not exactly sure. But it appears to have been done intentionally.”

  Art’s gut clenched. This sounded wrong. “Are you saying self-inflicted? How do you know?”

  “Because all of them had been burned. Every last one.”

  “Maybe it was an accident?”

  “I suppose that’s possible, but it’s highly unlikely that an accident would so cleanly eliminate a person’s fingerprints.” Marek let Art think about that for a moment, then he continued, “It appears to have been done more than once over the course of several years, and the stage of healing suggests that the latest removal had happened several days prior.”

  “Okay, okay. Stop suggesting. So whose prints are on the gun?”

  When Marek answered, his confusion was evident. “I know this may seem strange, but the results suggest eh, I mean, they show that the prints belong to Ethan Tannor.”

  “That’s impossible. He was in the car with me when Tobias killed himself.”

  “Hey man, I’m just telling you what we found. I don’t understand it either; I just thought you’d want to know first.”

  “Whatever it looks like, he’s being set up. Ethan told me he received a message from Tobias and it sounded like there was someone else in the house just before he killed himself.”

  “Has he given that information to Fredericks?”

  Art ground his teeth in irritation with where the facts were pointing and how suspicious his friend’s actions appeared. “He erased it.”