As Mary told and then retold her story, he began to piece together some of the mystery surrounding Ethan. As rattled as his wife might have been, and as scarce as some of her details were, her words rang true. Two Ethans! It was an outrageous development, but at the same time, it fit the picture. Ethan wasn’t being framed. Ethan was being protected — by himself. Or so it would appear.
How it was happening, Art wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the set of prints on Tobias’s gun and the sniper rifle from the shooting at Jo Ann’s Café now made sense. But what kind of sense includes an identical twin of Ethan I’ve never heard of before? And even then, identical twins shouldn’t have the same prints.
The more troubling discovery of that day was that Art’s friend and the man carrying his likeness were gone. He felt helpless. Where is Ethan? Will I ever see him again? At this point, the prospect seemed unlikely, after witnessing the mayhem throughout the hospital.
Mary shifted in his hold. She was still crying, and he understood why. It wasn’t just the shock of her workplace being stormed by armed men. She’d also lost many of her coworkers in a matter of minutes. Hiding in the bathroom was the only thing that spared her life.
As he looked down the hallway again, his heart fluttered at the thought that she could have been lying beneath one of those sheets.
“It’s going to be all right,” he assured her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. But his words sounded hollow to his own ears.
It was only the second time he’d ever lied to his wife. The entire world around him felt the opposite of all right, but it was what had to be said during times like this. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t true, but if left unsaid the air of this place would likely suffocate her. Each day hereafter would never be the same — for Mary, or for him.
Of that much he was certain.
62
Blakes on a Plane
Quad turbine engines vibrated the interior hull of the cargo plane. Ethan was slumped in his bench seat, his mind tuning out the external noise as he tried to think.
They’d both been caught, so why did Blake — or, rather, his past self, or other linear self, or whatever the hell he was — seem unconcerned with their predicament? Ethan’s thoughts were going in a vicious loop, processing everything that had happened, and everything that had-had happened, and what had happened before but now wouldn’t happen. It made his head hurt from the sheer absurdity of it all.
His concentration scattered for a brief moment as the plane pitched side to side in a violent shake, burrowing deeper into the dark clouds and turbulent weather. When it stabilized, Ethan went back to his unsettled musings.
Are they going to kill us? If so, why transport us? Just get it over with! The armed guards sat across from them, their hands on the grips of their rifles, ready to fire if needed. A ‘dead or alive’ policy order must have been placed on the set of twins now that the watch wasn’t recovered, but all of them seemed itchy on the dead part. Less risk for them that way. Exactly what he’d be thinking if given such a mission.
Blake seemed more concerned with the bullet hole in his thigh than anything else. It probably hurt like hell, but even Ethan knew better than to mess with such an injury the way Blake was. Dirty fingers made dirty wounds. Dirty wounds meant infection. Infection meant possible death. Death was no good.
“Stop picking at it,” Ethan hissed under his breath.
Blake returned the scolding with a stare and gleaming teeth. Then in his harsh, gravelly voice he fired back, “Mind your own, I’m working on something.”
“I can see that, looks like a stage five infection. Maybe you can work on something else — or at least tell me what the fuck is going on? Like maybe where the fuck they’re taking us?”
“You have a dirty mouth — anyone ever tell you that?” Blake grinned again then rolled his eyes. “Fine, they’re taking us to their headquarters — which at first I was trying to avoid — but this might be more fortunate for us.” Blake’s prodding at the bullet hole caused a spurt of blood to hit the floor of the cargo hold, and he grunted. “It’s started to clot; it’s better this way.”
Ethan made a face of disgust. “Are you trying to dig the bullet out with your fingers? And how does being shackled in a Russian plane make things more fortunate for us?” He shook his wrists. They were chained to a metal ring bolted to the floor.
Blake’s eyes darted to the troops sitting along the length of the plane keeping watch. The men had removed their gas masks, but they looked no less intimidating. “Prying ears,” he whispered, “Just sit tight. They’re taking us to where we need to be.” He pulled his fingers out of his open flesh. They’d been buried almost two knuckle joints deep. “It’s hard work with only one hand.”
Ethan had witnessed stranger things in his life, but what Blake did next caught him off guard. The man examined his bloody fingers for a second and then jammed them in his mouth.
“What are you doing? Swallowing your blood?” Ethan shuddered and almost gagged from the display. “This time travel shit has made you sicker than I thought.”
Blake pulled his fingers out of his mouth. The blood was gone, but now they were covered with saliva. Then he went back to work on the bullet wound, digging deep again. He grunted and squirmed as he prodded. “There, that should be good. Now give me the sleeve of your shirt, I’m bleeding like a woman on her period.”
“You’ve done it to yourself, you fool.”
Blake slid his fingers out of the wound and pressed his hand against the hole. “Just give me the damn sleeve and wrap it.”
Ethan reached up to his shirt and began to rip the sleeve loose. It was awkward because his hands were manacled, but after a few forceful tugs the seams ripped apart.
One of the Russian guards sat forward and clicked off the safety of his gun.
“He needs a dressing, he’s bleeding everywhere.” Ethan held up a placating hand while using the other to point at Blake’s blood soaked pants. He hoped the gestures were enough to communicate his benign intentions.
Nothing was said and no other indication was given for him to proceed; just another soft click of the gun’s safety as the soldier sat back and relaxed in his seat.
Ethan began wrapping the wound — which at this point seemed more self-inflicted than not — and wondered if Blake, like Tobias, had lost his mind from the radiation sickness.
A thousand miles away, Ben Wallace stood in his skyscraper office, staring out at the cityscape through the tinted glass.
I’ve failed. They were no closer to finding Ethan Tannor than before. The future was sealed, more unchanged than ever.
He moved away from the windows and looked over at the desk, where The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam lie, its green, faded cover inviting him forward. He obeyed its call and ran his fingers across the title words.
A laced cigarette seemed to whisper his name also, but he resisted the urge. It was either end it now, or …
He eyed the time. There was little over a day left, but after hearing the reports from New York Medical, the chances of finding Ethan Tannor were closing in on an absolute zero.
They’d come close to acquiring him once, at the Keane Mansion. That was the alternate path. Wallace could send a message back, and Jackman and his crew would be able to strike just a few moments sooner. The end result would be the ruining of this timeline, but it seemed like the most viable option.