Timothy Dalton
And the Tide Turns
Disclaimer
While some elements in this book are inspired by true events and people, this is a work of fiction, and as such, I have taken certain liberties with each. Names, characters, places, and incidents are purely the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously. In order to keep the forward progression of the novel moving along smoothly, I also employed the use of artistic license with regard to law enforcement and medical procedure. Any errors or omissions are solely mine.
Epigraph
“There are forces at work, dark forces,
and they threaten all of mankind.
Past, present, and future.”
PART I
There was the Door to which I found no Key:
There was the Veil through which I could not see:
Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE
There was-and then no more of THEE and ME.
01
Citizen Keane
Don’t do it, his conscience screamed like a pleading child.
The car was in ruins. Norman and Nell Tannor lay unmoving in the front seats of the vehicle. Tobias Keane watched with embodied helplessness as their son Ethan was carried away on the stretcher. The boy was not moving either, but his was a different kind of stillness; there was a tinge of color in the pallid skin and Tobias knew that life still flowed in the adolescent. But how much remained? Enough to hold off the Hand of Death?
Unable to resist looking at the demolished car, Tobias soaked in the unwanted details. Nell’s neck was twisted in a grotesque manner and blood from her forehead had drained across the dashboard. Despite this, her face looked serene, as though she were in a state of peace.
Norman was a different matter. His body sat forward in the driver’s seat, arms limp at his sides. His lower jaw hung loose, mouth agape, and his eyes were wide open, conveying an expression of shock. There was a trickle of blood halfway down his temple as if the flow had stopped the moment it began. The force of the collision had embedded the sun visor four inches into Norman’s skull.
Tobias knew he would never be able to erase the images from his mind. He went to the ambulance, where the paramedics were preparing to load Norman and Nell’s son into the back. What would happen to him now? Tobias gripped the rail of the stretcher as he gazed down at Ethan’s face.
Don’t do it, his mind wailed again.
The elderly man sat on the side of his bed staring at the Colt .45 clenched in his hand, remembering how he’d clenched the rails of Ethan’s stretcher all those years ago. The memory of that day was just as fresh now as when it happened.
So this is how it ends. He’d been sick for years now. The pills had worked for a while, but they merely slowed down the progression of his unique disease. He was only in his early fifties, but looked and felt a score older. The decline had been sudden; this past year had taken the hardest toll on his body.
Tobias glanced at his liver speckled hand and tightened his hold on the pistol grip. If he waited for the disease to take him, it would become worse. He’d always heard that committing suicide was a coward’s way of dealing with life, but he didn’t feel like a coward. This was the hardest thing he’d ever contemplated doing.
His mouth curved into a grin, but it resembled something more like a grimace. Perhaps in his next life he’d get it right and not make the same mistakes. With his free hand he scratched his unkempt beard with a few quick, rough strokes and ran fingers through his thin and graying hair. As before, he analyzed other options, but Tobias knew that the consequences of those actions could cause more harm than good.
Yes, he thought grimly, this is how it has to be. He’d spent the better part of his life thinking about repercussions and had lived by a certain code all those years. He couldn’t break the cycle now.
Suddenly, his body was seized by wracking coughs. Sputum mixed with blood dripped down his mouth, and he grabbed a napkin that was already spotted with red from the table beside him. He used it now to cover his mouth while he hacked violently. After the episode had passed, he wrapped a shaking hand around the phone and forced his trembling fingers to dial out. He needed to get his affairs in order.
A female voice came on the line, clipped and professional. “J.B. Wilcox and Sons.”
Tobias drew in a ragged breath to speak, which triggered another coughing spasm. He turned away from the receiver to muffle its sound, but the spell passed quickly, although the pain in his chest remained. He licked his dry, cracked lips, and swallowed hard.
“My name is Tobias Keane,” he said. “I need to speak with my lawyer immediately.”
A few moments later his conversation was concluded, and now would be the hardest call to make. The young detective, his adopted nephew Ethan, would need to know. The question was, could he be trusted? Yes and no. He could trust Ethan as he knew him, but things didn’t turn out the way Tobias had anticipated. The man he’d become lied to him, hadn’t he? So there it was again. Yes, he could trust Ethan, but no, he couldn’t. It seemed he couldn’t even trust himself.
Tobias dialed the familiar numbers and the phone began to ring. He knew no one would answer, but leaving a message should be sufficient. He would have preferred a discussion face to face, but he knew that would prompt questions he didn’t want to answer out loud. More importantly, he knew Ethan would try to alter his choice. And the boy was persistent enough to succeed, because Tobias didn’t want to die. But he had to. It was time.
He’d finished the message and moved to end the connection when he detected a movement in the periphery of his cloudy vision. Tobias jolted in alarm when he saw the figure standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice cracking as he spoke.
His fingers released their grip on the receiver, and the phone made a clinging sound as it dropped into the cradle.
02
Carmageddon
Rush hour. It was the crappiest part of Ethan Tannor’s day, besides staring at dead bodies. The dog tags hanging from the rearview mirror of his ’67 Mustang clinked together as the car came to a skidding halt just shy of making a light for the millionth time.
“I hate traffic!” Ethan blurted out.
“Yes, I think you’ve mentioned that before.” The reply came from Arthur Hansen, Ethan’s best friend and assigned partner for the last seven years.
“Yeah, well you’re in no hurry to get anywhere these days, old man.”
The jibe was at odds with Art’s true appearance. The man was a beast, standing at an intimidating six foot six, three inches taller than Ethan. His frame resembled the physique of a Mr. Olympia, which only heightened his intimidating demeanor. His slick bald pate and thick mustache added to the effect. Art was the serious type who didn’t smile often, but when he did his whole face filled with the emotion. This wasn’t one of those times. He smirked at Ethan. “You know I’m not that old. Just wait until you hit fifty-one.”
“Whatever you say, gramps. By the way, how was the hip replacement surgery?”