When Ethan’s eyes rounded in momentary surprise and his jaw clamped shut, Blake knew he’d hit the spot.
“So, let’s say I believe you. What do I call you? Twinny?”
Blake ignored the sarcasm, reminding himself of old doctor Amhurst doing the same to him. “I’ve been going by our middle name. I can stick with that.”
“Alright … Blake. What are you doing here then?”
“I’m trying to stop things from going the way they did. You end up getting captured by people who work for a man named Ben Wallace. He convinces you to make the leap.”
“Wallace?” Ethan met Blake’s gaze, concern in his eyes. “I heard that name on my answering machine. But even so, why would I do that?”
“He baited you with the promise of saving our parents,” Blake’s voice strained with the answer and he gave a sharp cough.
“Did … did you?” Ethan said with a hard swallow.
“No. You wouldn’t be here today if I had. They would still be alive and your entire existence would have been altered.”
Ethan considered that a moment before saying, “I’m sorry if I sound a little skeptical, but how am I supposed to believe all this?” His words contradicted his countenance, but Blake knew his own self well enough to know Ethan’s mind was already wrapping around the information.
“I know it’s farfetched, but I’ve done all of what you have done — and are about to do already — with one exception: Captain Fredericks is alive.”
Ethan scoffed, but it was half-hearted.
“That bullet at the diner had our name on it. In my version, Fredericks signed for it instead, but not this time.”
The face in the mirror sobered.
Blake continued, “That file he gave you — don’t bother going to the morgue. Tobias’s body is missing.”
“Missing? How is Uncle Tobias’s body missing?”
Blake started to laugh then, but it erupted into a fit of violent, wet coughing. He leaned over and hacked up a mouthful of bloody fluid, feeling the same revulsion he knew Ethan had about soiling his beauty of a car. He straightened in the seat, and locked eyes with his younger self. “That man … is not our uncle.”
Ethan hadn’t been able to hide his shudder of disgust, but he refocused on the street. “Yes, I know he’s not my uncle. He adopted me after my parents — or, our parents — died.”
Blake reached forward and hooked the back of the seat with his elbow, gun still in hand as he pulled himself closer to Ethan. “What if I told you that Tobias, you, and me were all one and the same?”
“Then I’d say you’re nuts.”
Blake sat back without a word, silence hanging in the air between them as Ethan navigated the streets. When the quiet began to feel eternal, Ethan spoke up. “Is all of this for real?”
“More than I want it to be.”
“So then, where are we going?”
“The morgue is out,” Blake said. “The doctor responsible for the missing body is a waste of time, unless you’d like to see a woman wearing a robe that leaves little to the imagination. And that’s a good thing for you, since you have a shitty imagination.”
Ethan balked.
“Oh come on.” Blake tapped the barrel of his gun against his temple. “I know how you think.” Another round of coughing began, but he kept speaking between hacks. “St. Jeremiah’s” —COUGH— “is also” —COUGH— “a bust.”
This was followed by a sudden hail of more coughs and gags.
“Cover your mouth, that is nasty,” Ethan said. “Do you realize how many germs you’re spreading? Are you sick?”
Blake’s hacking only escalated and he fell over sideways, his body in a violent spasm. He dropped his gun as he continued coughing. Blood mixed with mucous sprayed out his mouth and splattered to the floor, the frothy liquid sliding back and forth with the motion of the Mustang. The sight of it made him feel even sicker.
“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.
56
Dangerous Finds
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 morgue, 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.”