Authors: Robin Parrish
Grant took what was left of the gauze out of his pocket and rolled it around one hand and fingers, like a boxer wrapping his fist.
This will either be very butch, or very bloody
.
With a quick snap, he punched straight through the bottom middle window pane. It broke loudly, the shards falling into a crinkled heap on the carpet inside. He waited, watching the building’s other windows to see if any lights came on. Nothing.
He snaked a hand inside and unlocked the window, slowly pushing up on the frame. The old window groaned and creaked, resisting his efforts. His thoughts returned to all the times over the years he’d attempted to open this same window from the inside, to get some air, and he could never get it to budge. Now, with his newly muscular frame, he could manage it.
Grant hopped up and crawled into the tiny living room, and then pushed the window closed again. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. As small and unremarkable as the apartment was, he knew it well, even in the dark. Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he glanced around and noted that everything was exactly as it had been when he’d left for work yesterday morning.
Creeping down the hall past the door to the bedroom, he made sure his doppelganger wasn’t asleep or hiding. No one there. He ventured back into the hall and checked the bathroom. Nothing. The closet across from the front door still held his scarf on a hook, exactly as he’d left it yesterday. The kitchenette around the corner was also clear. Even his coffeepot still held the dregs from his last dose of caffeine.
Grant walked from one end of the apartment to the other, and wound up back in the small living room, where he’d entered. It looked like Collin—this new Collin—hadn’t even been home yet.
But Grant’s curiosity lasted only moments before he heard someone fumbling with keys outside the door.
The lock spun, the door opened, and Collin stepped inside.
He didn’t notice Grant at all. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, into the bedroom. A lamp came on, its light shining into the hallway.
Carefully and quietly, Grant stood. He flinched as the pain in his leg returned with a sharp twinge. He stole down the hall, careful to avoid the places in the floor that creaked. Peering around the open bedroom door, he saw Collin frowning into a large, horizontal mirror that hung on the opposite wall.
Grant quietly walked up behind him and looked at him in the mirror. ‘‘How was
your
day?’’ he asked breezily.
The man tensed, but didn’t turn. Instead, he gazed at Grant in the mirror. Grant had expected some kind of reaction, but ‘‘Collin’’ merely sighed and shook his head. He sat down on the edge of the bed, still watching the mirror.
Grant observed him for a moment, puzzled, and then the pain in his leg convinced him to have a seat, too.
It felt abnormal, and yet not, at the same time, as they sat there, side-by-side, watching one another in the mirror.
Grant broke the silence. ‘‘Do you want to start, or should I?’’
They held eye contact.
‘‘They didn’t think you would come back here,’’ Collin said. His voice sounded so odd; Grant wasn’t used to hearing it from the outside.
‘‘Sure,’’ Grant replied, nodding slowly.
A pause. Neither of them blinked.
‘‘But I knew you would. I said so. No one listens to me.’’
‘‘I know the feeling,’’ said Grant.
Another pause.
‘‘Looks like you had difficulty getting here,’’ Collin commented, sizing up Grant’s bruises and bloodied leg.
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Then it’s a shame you’ll be leaving empty-handed. I can’t help you.’’
‘‘Actually,’’ Grant replied, ‘‘you’ve
already
helped me. Until now, I had no idea if you might be some kind of victim in this, just like me. Or if you were involved. Now I know. Things aren’t looking especially good for you.’’
The thought of beating his former self to a bloody pulp sounded oddly appealing just now. Why not just finish himself off? Do the world a favor . . .
‘‘I didn’t do this to you,’’ Collin said.
‘‘Then who did?’’ Grant’s voice gained strength.
The other man just stared at him.
‘‘How did it happen? How can this be real?’’ Grant cried.
‘‘It shouldn’t be,’’ Collin looked away. ‘‘But it is.’’
Grant stood, his pulse rising.
‘‘Who are you?’’
‘‘No one.’’
Grant stepped an inch closer, his pulse rising.
‘‘You’re me. Just like that. Does that mean I’m
you
?’’
Collin shook his head. ‘‘That’s not how this works. I’m . . . just a . . . volunteer,’’ Collin replied, and then looked up at Grant. ‘‘I’m no one important. You’re different.’’
Grant swallowed. ‘‘Someone today told me I was a ‘player,’ ’’ he paused, brow furrowed, studying the other man’s reactions. ‘‘What are we playing? Am I a pawn in someone’s twisted game?’’
‘‘I don’t know. Please, Grant, for both our sakes, you’ve got to leave here and never come back.’’
Grant snapped.
‘‘What is this?’’
he roared. He felt like putting the man’s head through the mirror. ‘‘What is going on?!’’
‘‘I don’t have any answers for you,’’ Collin replied, speaking slow and calm. ‘‘I don’t know the extent of your role.’’
Grant’s head sagged. He rubbed his eyes.
‘‘But if I were to guess,’’ Collin suddenly added, and Grant’s head popped up, ‘‘I’d say you’re much more than a pawn. A knight, maybe. Maybe more.’’
Grant was breathing fast, thoughts and questions shifting through his brain. Tears formed in his eyes, but he angrily fought them back.
‘‘I want my life back!’’ he said.
Collin rolled his eyes. ‘‘
Sure
you do . . .’’
Collin’s head whipped violently to the side and Grant was surprised to see that he’d just delivered a brutal backhand across Collin’s face. He’d never consciously decided to hit the man; it just came out, along with a primal scream of rage.
‘‘Switch us back!’’ he shouted.
Collin stood, anger rising in his voice. ‘‘Look at this place! You live a solitary life in a tiny apartment. No friends. No family. No connections of any kind. You make less money than you deserve. Your entire
existence
is miserable, and
you know it
! I’ve had it for less than two days, and I’m ready to
let
you finish me off. Why on earth would you want to come back to
this
?’’
Grant was stunned.
Only one answer came to mind. ‘‘It’s who I am.’’
Collin was unmoved. ‘‘Are you sure?’’ He paused. ‘‘Think about it. You’ve been given a second chance. It’s a blank slate. Do you know how many people would
kill
for what’s been handed to you? Grant, this is your chance to live the life you
should
have had.’’
The notion that this could be a desirable situation had never entered Grant’s mind. It barely registered now. ‘‘I want to know who did this to me. You
must
know.’’
Collin nodded. ‘‘I’m sure you’ll run into them, when the time is right.’’
‘‘Are ‘they’ the same ones who hired this man to kill me?’’
‘‘No, but I heard about him.’’ He cast another glance at Grant’s bloodied pant leg. ‘‘Konrad is a contract killer. A single-minded mercenary. I don’t know who sent him, but his interest in you doesn’t extend beyond his payment. And believe me when I say, he
always
gets paid.’’
Grant held up his hand, and his eyes fell down upon the ring. ‘‘Would his payment include this?’’
Collin eyed the ring and smiled a humorless smile.
‘‘Just tell me what it is,’’ Grant said imploringly. ‘‘
Please
.’’
Collin cocked his head to one side and gazed at him carefully, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘‘It’s the answer—’’
Something burst through the bedroom window. It flew straight into the mirror, shattering it into hundreds of shards that flew everywhere.
Collin grabbed Grant and pulled him down to the floor.
Coming to a rest next to them both was a broken liquor bottle with a rag sticking out of its hole. The rag was soaked and on fire. Some part of his brain registered that the crude weapon was called a Molotov cocktail. It was an old but effective and inexpensive trick.
The bottle’s contents spilled onto the floor, and with a soft
whoosh
the carpet was ablaze. Before they could react, another bottle sailed through the open window and hit the bed. It too was soon covered with flames.
Grant and Collin ran from the room, more bottles raining in after them. As one, they darted for the apartment door. Collin grabbed his cell phone on the way out and dialed 911, shouting into the phone as they ran through the outer hallway.
At the building’s front entrance, Collin burst through the main door first, looking back over his shoulder at Grant.
‘‘It’s
him
, come on—!’’
They both jumped at the sound of gunfire.
Grant instinctively flung himself down on the floor, just inside the door, covering his head with his hands, as more shots were fired from outside. Collin flew back into the doorway and thudded onto the ground. Grant peered over at him. Collin was lying across the threshold, his chest and arms inside and his legs outside. He made no movement, but his weight kept the old steel door from shutting itself.
Blood pooled beneath him.
The gunshots stopped. Grant peeked carefully outside. Konrad stood below the front steps, his gun trained and leveled, waiting for Grant to appear in the open doorway.
It was a silent challenge.
Instead of accepting, Grant pulled on Collin’s hands, dragging him out of the doorway. Once Collin’s body had cleared the entrance, the door shut itself. It was self-locking.
Grant stood and looked down at Collin’s body.
His body.
The blood that had once run through his veins was quietly spilling out onto the floor. It had streaked across the threshold, making a trail where Grant had dragged him.
It should have been me
, he thought.
Maybe it
is
me
.
Death had come for him, but it hadn’t recognized him.
Grant jumped when the man lying on the ground moaned.
‘‘Grant,’’ he whispered. Grant dropped to his knees and put his ear next to Collin’s face. ‘‘The ring . . .’’ he wheezed. ‘‘The ring is the answer . . .’’
‘‘To what? To my questions?’’ Grant asked desperately.
Collin shook his head resignedly. ‘‘To
the
questions. The only
real
questions that have ever
mattered
.’’
Konrad resumed his gunfire from outside. There were no holes in the big steel door. But Konrad was undeterred. He began pounding on the door with something heavy.
Grant estimated that he had only a few minutes. Maybe seconds. The man outside was terribly strong. Focused. Determined.
And probably not too happy about that whole subway station thing
.
‘‘Grant,’’ Collin whispered.
Grant looked back down at him, as the hammering continued.
‘‘Take this. You should keep something . . . from your life . . .’’ he said, gesturing vaguely with his wrist. It took Grant a moment to realize that he was talking about the bracelet. The one his grandfather had worn and then passed to Grant’s father. Grant inherited it after his father’s death. It was handmade, roughly cut from a brass shell casing fired during World War II.
Collin slowly removed the bracelet and dropped it into Grant’s inside jacket pocket. Grant felt the weight of it drop into his coat, but made no attempt to put it on.
Not now
.
The front door was dented. Grant turned to the hallway leading back to his old apartment and saw the orange glow of flames dancing among shadows. The entire building would soon be burning; he was out of time.
He allowed himself one last glimpse of Collin. The man’s chest was no longer rising and falling.
Tears formed behind Grant’s eyes again, but he wiped his face furiously.
No no no!
Whoever this man had been, he’d just given his life trying to save Grant’s. Blinding anger welled up within him.
He stood to watch the door. The pounding had stopped.
‘‘You can’t stay in there, and you know it!’’ Konrad shouted through the door. From the sound of it, only the steel and a handful of inches separated the two of them. ‘‘You’ll be burned alive if you do!’’
He’s not wrong
, Grant thought. But what was he supposed to do?
‘‘Come out,’’ Konrad lowered his voice, ‘‘and I’ll finish it quick.’’
Grant’s face burned red. He was breathing fast now, his mind at full speed.
‘‘Or if you want,’’ the man said, ‘‘just open the door, and we can do this where it’s
warm
.’’ Konrad chuckled.
Grant leaned down to Collin one last time, and grabbed the cell phone from his hand, which was still clutching it. He put it in his outer jacket pocket and then faced the door, standing tall.
‘‘Then come!’’ he called.
He turned and walked away, down the burning hallway.
The pounding resumed.
‘‘Wake up!’’ came a shout in Lisa’s cheerful voice.
Daniel started, then rose slowly. He’d been slumped over his desk, asleep. Papers stuck to his arms and face, and he carefully peeled them off.
‘‘Lisa,’’ he said groggily, ‘‘I pay you for research, not,’’ he yawned, ‘‘arrhythmia.’’
It was dark and quiet outside. The digital clock on his desk read
5:08
A
.
M.
‘‘You said you wanted to know when I had the results on the knife tests,’’ she said, with raised eyebrows.
He sat up straight, alert, adjusting his glasses. ‘‘Right. What did you find?’’
‘‘Come look,’’ she said with an air of mystique.
He stood and followed her down the hall to the large laboratory that housed all of their experiments. She followed the right-side wall until she came to a small device hooked up to a tiny television monitor, which was showing wavy, green lines moving rapidly across its black screen.
‘‘When I input the readings you took of the knife,’’ she said, stopping at the monitor, ‘‘this is what I got. I would have told you sooner, but I wanted to make sure it wasn’t an equipment malfunction.’’