Chapter 15
Back in Bobby’s Chevy, Sam B started up the engine, with Sam A once again riding shotgun—despite his protestations that Sam B was “probably reckless enough to get us both killed.”
Sam A was now clothed in a blue button-down and khakis, which looked almost the same as Sam B’s ensemble, though his shirt was more of a sea foam green. The important thing was that he was unremarkable, and that he looked exactly like Bobby.
Sam B still didn’t like the naming convention, and was trying to view his assigned letter as representing ‘Beckett,’ rather than any other implication. It wasn’t particularly working.
With a whirring sound, Al blinked into existence in the back seat of the car.
“Did you find her?” Sam A asked him, as his counterpart began to reverse out of the driveway.
“Yeah, I found her. She’s having home-made margaritas with her girlfriend a mile or two southwest of here.”
“Of course she is,” Sam B grumbled. “How the hell am I supposed to talk her out of what’s clearly an addiction in a couple of days? And even if I can sober her up now, it’s not like Bobby’s gonna be around to watch her like a hawk throughout the pregnancy.”
“Hang a left here, Sam.” Al took a long drag from his cigar before punching a few buttons on the handlink. “Well, Ziggy’s revised odds are that there’s a coin flip as to whether you’re here for the baby, or here to prevent Bobby’s death.”
Sam B, despite himself, brightened at this. “So you’re saying if I can get Brenda sober enough to carry the pregnancy to term, then I might leap out of here before I get sent to my doom?”
“It’s a possibility,” Al agreed. “Take the next right and then a left at the next intersection after that.”
“Well that can’t be right,” Sam A chimed in. “You can’t just leap out of Bobby knowing he’ll get killed soon, surely?”
“Better him than me,” Sam B muttered.
“Well, let’s look at this rationally,” Al said, “seeing as the two of you seem a little compromised in that department right now. If Sam B can prevent the miscarriage, and you don’t leap, then you know that you’re here to prevent Bobby’s death, plus he’ll have a kid waiting for him when he comes home. And if you do leap, at least you’ll have carried on Bobby’s family line, right? Oh—when you get to the T-intersection at the end of this street, turn right and head straight for a mile.”
“That would make sense for a typical leap,” Sam B said, shaking his head, “but we have a slight complication.” He gestured a hand towards Sam A. “What’s he here for? If I don’t leap, it might be because of him.”
“Is it to do with the drug bust you mentioned yesterday?” asked Sam A.
Al studied the handlink a moment, and nodded. “Yeah, probably. The whole commune shut down after the raid, since most of the adults living there got a prison sentence. And Richie had the added bonus of draft dodging, along with a few others.”
“I can’t let that happen,” Sam A lamented. “I need to talk to Alicia; she’s the deciding vote.”
“Deciding vote?” Al asked.
“Yeah,” said Sam A. “Yesterday the commune voted on all my proposals for improvements. The only one not to pass was my suggestion to trash all of the illegal substances—it tied, with one undecided vote. She was given a day to think about it, and there’ll be a new vote tonight when we all get back.”
“Really?” Sam B was astonished. “Half of a hippie commune agreed to ditch their drugs?!”
“Sure. A psychic alien in their midst had a mysterious vision of the future,” Sam A said, grinning, and turned his eye to Al again. “I never found out when the raid’s supposed to happen, by the way.”
“Oh… hang on a sec.” Al tapped his query into the handlink, and looked up as it bleeped in response. “The twentieth, at about ten at night.”
“And what’s today?” Sam A asked, eliciting a stare from both Sam B and Al.
“You’ve been here two days and you don’t even know the date?” Al asked, incredulous.
“I don’t even know the exact year,” Sam A said, shaking his head and chuckling. “I’ve been really, really isolated, okay? I didn’t even get a look at my reflection until today.”
“For real?” Al said in disbelief. “Boy, you’ve really been slumming it, huh? It’s May seventeenth, 1970, Sam.”
Sam A gave a contemplative nod. “Only three days to go…”
“That’s also Bobby’s deployment date,” Sam B supplied grimly.
“A pivotal day for both of us, then.”
“Here it is,” Al said, gesturing to a house that looked just like all the others. Sam B pulled the car to the side of the road, and the three of them took in the house.
“So what’s the plan here?” Sam A asked.
Sam B pulled the keys out of the ignition, his jaw set. “You wait here and I’ll try and talk some sense into her.” He opened the door and climbed out.
“I think Brenda and her pal are already half way to blitzed, so you need to be tactful,” Al warned.
Sam A got out of the car and hurried to join his twin. “I don’t think I trust you to pull this off. Let me do it.”
“You’ve never even met Brenda,” Sam B said with a frown. “And besides, I’m the husband, not you. I think she hates Richie, truth be told.”
“You know as well as I do it doesn’t matter if I’ve met someone before. I can still make a difference—we do it all the time!” Sam A grabbed his other half firmly by the shoulder. “And what Brenda needs right now is someone who’ll listen. Who’ll empathise with her. Let me talk to her.”
Sam B rolled his eyes. “Fine. Frankly, I didn’t want to talk to her anyway. But listen, I don’t know this friend of hers. She might try and turn Richie in if she knows it’s you.” He pulled his wedding band off, and handed it to Sam A. “Pretend to be Bobby, and I’ll wait in the car. You can take the margarita to the face if you want—suit yourself.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” Al remarked, coming up behind the pair. “Now hop to it, alright? Before they see the bottom of another glass.”
Sam A slid the ring onto his finger, and Sam B returned to the car, watching his double covertly through the back seat window. Sam A approached the door and knocked, with Al standing beside him for coaching.
Sam B watched as a woman he didn’t recognise answered the door, her face stony. He watched as his alter-ego gave some kind of impassioned speech to her, taking her by the hand delicately, and gazing into her eyes.
He watched as the woman retreated into the house, only for Brenda to emerge onto the doorstep, her arms crossed. He watched Sam A extend a gentle hand to Brenda’s stomach as he made his case, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes.
He watched Brenda’s facade melt away, replaced by tears—but not the furious tears of spite that Sam B had experienced. She began to weep, and allowed his double to wrap his arms around her tenderly as she cried into his shoulder.
Then, as he guided her towards the car, Al centred himself in the back seat with Sam B.
“Well, that was a roaring success,” Al said. “Guess Sam A had the right idea. All she needed was a soft touch.”
“I can do a soft touch,” Sam B said defensively. “In fact I was perfectly soft before she showered me with Chianti yesterday.”
Al just gave him an unconvinced look as Sam A and Brenda reached the car.
Jeez, even Al has no faith in me? He frowned as he began to wonder if maybe he really did get all the bad parts of the whole. If that’s true, then… what’s the point of me?
Brenda opened the passenger door, and peered inside, towards Sam B. The breeze from the open door brought with it the strong scent of tequila.
“Hello, Richie…” she said, taking her seat. “So you’ve come to rub it in our faces that you get to stay on home soil while Bobby’s fighting for our country?”
Sam B rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to give a cutting remark in reply, but checked himself when he saw the warning expression from both Al and Sam A.
“It’s lovely to see you too, Brenda,” he said coldly instead, narrowing his eyes.
“Boy, you could cut this tension with a knife,” Al said, chuckling nervously. “Well, try to get along. I’m gonna go talk to… to Gooshie.” He gave Sam B a look that might have been worry before turning his attention to the handlink.
He opened the Imaging Chamber door, and scurried away into the white light, leaving Sam B wishing he could follow and escape with him. Because hell—if Mister Perfect here had everything under control, then maybe he was supposed to do it all anyway.