Cast the Cards

She rolled over to him, pressed her body to his. Time passed. Minutes, hours, there was no way to tell really. The driver applied the brakes.

“Ready?” Clark asked.

“Yes.” She nodded.

The car came to a complete stop. A click sounded. He pulled the handle. Be ready. Her muscles tensed. The trunk popped. She sat up, pushed it open with her body, and found herself tumbling. He’d shoved her forward and out the car with the momentum of his body. The ground rushed up to meet her and she curled into a ball, rolling to the side.

She landed onto a hard surface. Her body took the brunt of the fall but the side of her face struck. The world spun. Beating back the dizziness, she struggled to assimilate. The squeal of tires mingled with the sound of yelling and feet pounding over pavement. The smell of burned rubber seared her nostrils.

Her vision wavered and came back in focus. An older gentleman with white hair and kind brown eyes kneeled in front of her.

“Miss, are you all right?”

“Clark, where’s Clark?”

“There was someone else in there with you?”

“Oh God.”

“We’re calling the police now, ma’am. Help’s on the way.”

Leaning over, she vomited. Tears streamed down her face. She knew with a certainty that broke the foundation of her world in two that she’d never see Clark Carr again, and it was all her fault.

***

Present Day

Carey woke with a sick feeling in his stomach. It was the anniversary of the day Clark disappeared. He always got drunk the night before. The one time I opt out of doing something with my twin and everything goes to shit. I can’t help but wonder if having three people there would’ve deterred the kidnappers. Not that I’ll ever know.

He usually avoided torturing himself with what-ifs but today was its own special brand of hell. His thoughts drifted to Savannah and a sudden urge for a hair from the dog that bit him hit. A shot of Jack wouldn’t hurt anyone. Who cared that it was— he glanced at the alarm clock beside his bed—seven in the morning? The pain wouldn’t have been so bad had it been shared. Unfortunately, his pseudo sister could barely look him in the eye. She felt so guilty about it. Henceforth the permanent split of what had once been the Three Musketeers.

It had been like losing two parts of himself instead of one. She was a big shot F.B.I. agent now over at Quantico, but she’d be at the grave this year, same as always. It was the one time a year he knew he’d see her, though they never talked, just stood at the grave, sometimes not even together. She looked good on the outside, tall, lithe, and put together. Still, he guessed she never really healed, because he didn’t hear about her having any male suitors, or female for that matter.

She lived for her job profiling. Pot meet Kettle. It wasn’t as if he had much going on outside of his gig as a cop. Never thought the name Carey Carr would be synonymous with Protect and Serve—I was usually the one raising the hell. He sat up with a groan, forced his weary body from the bed, and stumbled to the bathroom. When he walked through the door he did a double-take. Clark stood by the shower stall in the exact same outfit he’d last seen him in—brown boots, jeans, white undershirt, brown, blue and white-plaid button up and a brown leather jacket.

“Damn … I might have to leave whiskey alone if it’s going to make me hallucinate.”

“I’m not a hallucination, Carey.”

“Isn’t that what they all say?” He shook his head. “This shit it too fricking weird for me. Turn your head, Imaginary Clark. I gotta drain the lizard.”

“Why? It looks exactly the same as what I have.”

“Nice to know even in my head you’re still a smartass.” Carey shook his head, freed his dick from his boxer briefs, and aimed into the toilet.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” Imaginary Clark asked.

“Pretty obvious. Half a bottle of whiskey mixed with guilt and some anniversary angst.”

“Why haven’t I shown up before?”

“I don’t know? Can you ask me this when my head doesn’t feel like it’s being ripped apart by a jackhammer?”

Clark sighed. “Come on, Carey, you’re better than this.”

“Hey! You don’t get to come in here on your ghost cloud and judge me. Life without you is the hardest shit I’ve ever done, especially since Van split. Fuck I’m talking to myself!” He snorted.

“You’re really not.”