Precipice

by J. Robert Kinney

  The date was Dominic’s 18th birthday. He had reached adulthood… legally speaking. To make the weekend even sweeter, he’d received notice the previous evening that he was accepted into his top choice for college. Beginning in August, he’d be attending lectures and learning from some of the top minds in the country.

  He informed his mother about the acceptance letter last night and the two of them celebrated by going out for Japanese cuisine, Dominic’s favorite. She’d been the emotional rock in Dominic’s life since the divorce. Today, it was time to tell his father the good news and Dominic knew where to find him.

  “You going to stand there looking lost all afternoon or are you going to join me?” John Randal’s deep, gravelly voice boomed. The tall, athletic batter cracked another line drive straight up the middle. The netting caught the ball and dropped it harmlessly to the grass at the far end of the cage. Johnny “Hammer” Randal had been the star shortstop on this exact field when he was a seventeen year old senior. Today, he looked as though he could still effortlessly slide into a game with children thirty years his junior, having not lost a single step.

  “You saw me pull up?” Dominic asked.

  “I heard you coming a mile away. Actually, I heard those idiot shoes you insist on wearing,” John Randal hated the slap-slap sound of his son’s flip-flops. “Real men don’t wear beachwear outside of the sand. Thong sandals are bad for your feet anyway.”

  “I know, dad.” They rehashed this same argument every time they were together.

  “You wanna hit a few?” John asked, his wooden bat whistling through the air before a loud crack resounded and another baseball tore into the netting. This batting cage was his place of peace and solitude the last few years, a sanctuary to relieve the stress of a career near the top of federal law enforcement. His job was high-powered and clandestine. When days got too long, cases too tough, or the strain of secrets too great, he always returned to this exact spot, pound his frustrations into rawhide spheres, and relax.

  “Dad, I have some news,” Dominic declared as he fought to hide his smile. He hoped acceptance to his father’s alma mater would make him proud.

  John Randal didn’t answer right away. He stood still and posed for a couple seconds, studying another pitch as it spun toward the plate, before uncorking his body in a sudden, swift, smooth rotation.

  Crack!

  “You got in. That’s great.”

  “How did you know?” Dominic’s lips turned down in a confused frown, but no answer came. Another pitch careened in toward the plate before connecting with the sweet spot on the wooden bat.

  Crack!

  “Did mom tell you?” Dominic asked.

  “You know your mom and I haven’t spoken in months,” he grunted. The divorce had been hard and not particularly amicable. Dominic understood the clutter of problems between his parents was not one-sided, but his father—and his overly demanding career—took the brunt of the split. Custody went to the mother and Dominic spent most of his time with her.

  “Oh no, Dad…” Dominic closed his eyes and groaned in exasperation, “You did something, didn’t you?” He took his thumb and forefinger and kneaded his forehead.

  “Of course I did something.” His father knit his brow. The pitching machine ran out of baseballs to hurl his way, so John lay down the bat and turned to face his son. “I am your father.”

  “Dad, we’ve talked about this.” Dominic scowled, his irritation getting the better of him. His words became sharper and more biting. “I don’t want you going behind my back…”

  “I’m a respected and esteemed alumnus of the university,” his father said. “And my position in government lends itself to influence in many high places. Why not use my pull with the board of trustees to help my son? I knew you wanted to go there, so I stepped in.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Dominic spat.

  “I wanted to help you and it’s my duty to do so,” John countered. “I really don’t know why you’re so upset…”

  “Of course you do! We’ve gone through this before. I don’t want your help!”

  “Son, one of these days, you need to rein in control of that stubborn streak. Along with your strange aversion to accepting help,” John spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “No one ever got to the top—to where I am—solely on their own.”

  “I just wanted to be accepted to college on my own merits,” he muttered in frustration.

  “And if that wasn’t going to happen?” John Randal’s voice dropped in volume.

  “What do you mean?” Dominic asked after a pause. He frowned. His transcript and standardized test scores weren’t quite at the top of his class—he understood that—but they were still high. His application should have been very competitive. “You don’t think I was going to make it on my own, do you?”

  “That’s not what I said.” John shook his head and readjusted his ball cap. “Forget I said anything.” With that, John turned his back on his son and approached the machine to reload it with another round of baseballs.

  “You didn’t believe I was capable,” Dominic repeated. He refused to let it go. “You assumed I’d be rejected…” Dominic’s voice rose in both volume and pitch.

  John sighed. “Look, if you want, I can call them back and rescind my recommendation.”

  “Your recommendation?” Dominic shouted. He paced, trying to stay calm. “Was it really a recommendation or did you just pull your puppet strings?” His face grew hot, flushing with embarrassment and anger as he spoke. “You didn’t think I was good enough….you never did. And you still don’t…”

  “Fine, Dominic. I will call and tell them to reconsider your acceptance, based purely on your merits,” John said, his voice an annoying monotone. “If that’s what you want.” Dominic’s face flushed beet red. His father’s extreme—and perpetual—composure only added to his frustration.

  “Forget it, Dad,” Dominic half-turned to leave and made a snap decision. “I’m leaving. I’ll accept your help this once, but when I get there, I’m going to finally be beyond your reach. You won’t be able to swoop in and pretend to be my savior anymore when you think I can’t handle myself. I will do this on my own and I’m going to ace it. I’m going to prove you wrong. I belong there.”

  Dominic stomped off, across the street, got in his car and sped away. As he flew past the cage on his way out of campus, he saw his father watching his retreat, his bat on his shoulder and a frown on his face.

  A sudden knock on his office door woke Dominic. Startled and disoriented, he offered a quick prayer of thanks it wasn’t Sloan catching him asleep, but their young intern, Craig, hand-delivering the photos.

  Despite the sensitive nature of their casework, interns in the outer office and labs were not uncommon, though they were never allowed much access to anything important and had their actions closely monitored. Because of the close scrutiny these young kids were under, the positions always attracted the same type of person—hardworking, but bland personalities—so Dominic usually avoided them.

  But Craig broke most of the stereotypes. He was friendly, cheerful, funny and best of all, in Dominic’s opinion, a sports nut. The kid was reminiscent of himself at that age.

  After scanning the images to ensure they turned out and confirming the identity of their target, Dominic wasted little time delivering them to Sloan. “It’s him alright, boss. No doubt.” He pulled out the third photograph and pointed. “This is the best shot of his face. There’s a shadow, but there’s no question it’s him.”

  “Harrumph,” Sloan grumped. “What’s your next move?” Dominic recognized Sloan’s tactic of allowing his agents work through ideas on their own. He said it promoted stronger leadership qualities.

  “Go back there. Stake it out again. This time, follow him.”

  “And then what?

  “Want us to confront him? Arrest him?”

  “Not yet. I want to play this slow. Don’t overlook anything. Just report back everything
he does and everywhere he goes. Then we’ll figure out what to do with that information.”

  “You sure, boss? We could bring him in and question…”

  “No.” Sloan interrupted. “He might just be the tip of the iceberg. If we brought him in, we’re at the mercy of whatever he decides to tell us. We need to know what information he might not be so willing to reveal in interrogation. Let’s see where he leads before we jump to that.”

  “I hope you’re right, boss.”

  “Me too. First thing in the morning, I want you and Faye at that site, watching. And for Pete’s sake, get some sleep tonight. In fact, why don’t you take the rest of the night off and get started on that rest early. You look like a wreck and I’m going to need you at full strength.” He paused to replace the photos in the folder and handed it to Dominic. “Remember to add these to the case file.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dominic hated being reprimanded by his boss for his sleeping habits, but he couldn’t deny it was true. He visited Shannon’s cubicle and brought her up to speed, then returned to his office. There was paperwork to finish, but then he‘d take Sloan’s advice and get some rest. He’d be back to work early tomorrow morning and needed to operate at a higher efficiency than could currently be mustered.

  ***

  Knock! Knock!

  Will waited for a response. Nothing. That was expected, considering the hour. Unfortunately, “nothing” was not what he needed at the moment.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  He stood still, listening intently, ears perked for the slightest sound. There it was, the creak of someone moving about in the house. A minute later, he heard the soft clack of a deadbolt and the handle turned. The large wooden door swung inward, revealing a dark hallway and the silhouette of a short man in his 60s. He stood in the entranceway wearing nothing but a dark colored bathrobe and a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Wha’? Who’re you? Wha’re you doing ‘ere? I was soun’ asleep.”

  “Hey Artie” Will said.

  The man startled at the voice and took a step back. He blinked a couple times, struggling to get them to focus on the man standing before him. He blinked again. “Will? Will Ricketts?” He cleared his throat twice and attempted to shake the sleepy cobwebs out of his head, but with only modest success.

  “Can I come in, Artie?” The intonation in Will’s voice carried an urgency that was absent in the words he chose. He shifted his weight front to back, keeping his head low and shoulders hunched. Intellectually, he knew none of this did much good, but it helped him feel less noticeable should anyone be watching.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Artie stepped backwards, stumbling from the fog shrouding his consciousness, hindering his movements and clouding his judgment. He swept his hand out, gesturing for his guest to abandon the chilly outdoors. Will hurried inside, and Artie shut the door behind him. “Didja know it’s after four in the morning? Is everything ok?”

  Hesitating, Will struggled with how to explain. “I’m in a bit of trouble, Arthur.” They still stood in the shadows since Arthur had yet to flip on the lights inside. This mild darkness hid Will’s dirty, rough appearance, but he slowly stepped forward into a moonbeam coming from an upstairs balcony transom, revealing his torn clothing and dirty visage.

  The old man, grogginess disappearing in an instant, took in a sharp breath. Will continued, “I’m gonna need your help.”

  Chapter 8

  Dr. Arthur Adair, or simply Artie, sat without saying anything. Yet, Will’s words spilled freely as he described his peril and why he showed up unannounced after all these years, at this hour, looking like he’d been attacked by a wild dog. Not saying a word and only moving to sip from his mug of coffee, Artie merely listened.

  A student of Behavior Analysis, Adair paid less attention to the words escaping Will’s mouth in hasty fashion and focused on his mannerisms, appearance, body language and facial expressions.

  Though not a psychologist by training, he was convinced a basic understanding of the mind went a long way in any profession. In recent years, after his wife passed and his daughter moved away to start a family of her own, his skill faded with the lack of human interaction in his life, but he was happy to note he still retained a fair amount.

  His eyes wandered over Will’s distraught face. Wrinkles had developed around the young man’s eyes and stress marks lined his cheeks and forehead. Arthur’s gaze was drawn to the graying hair, once a dark reddish-brown, which aged his appearance.

  Adair’s eyes then drifted over the rest of the body. The torn clothing revealed dozens of fresh cuts and bruises that needed treatment, especially one large gash near his knee.

  Will’s fidgeting was constant. He exhibited classic symptoms of stress and anxiety. Though many symptoms are chronic, this particular fidgeting indicated a more pronounced stress of a current or recent trouble. Other symptoms were also evident, as he exhibited a periodic massaging of his neck and upper back, indicating pain. This was indicative of long term stress, undoubtedly caused by the sudden loss of his wife, as well as struggles at work, and other stressors that extended far into his youth.

  Will reached a pause in his long rambling story and the doctor sat for several seconds without saying a word, watching his visitor. Then, he struggled to his feet with the use of his favorite snakehead cane, and turned around, heading for the kitchen. “Would you like more coffee?” Artie asked, despite recognizing the mug had yet to be touched.

  “—what?” The question jolted Will out of his story. He reached for the mug on the table and finally took his first sip. “No—no thank you,” he stuttered. “Were you listening? Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. My being here is putting us both in danger. I should go.” He stood and hurried toward the front door.

  “Now hold on a second, son.”

  Will paused. Arthur poured himself another cup and returned to the living room. “I think I can help you, if only with a little understanding. But first, let me get you cleaned up. Those cuts will get infected if they aren’t washed properly. Follow me.” The doctor ambled past Will and down the hallway, waving for him to follow.

  Will hesitated, unsure how much trust and confidence to place in his old friend. After all, their last conversation took place many years ago, at the wedding. A lot had happened since then. Those were happier times.

  “Hurry up! It’s not like you have much time.” Artie’s voice boomed down the hallway and Will startled at the sudden volume.

  It was surely a sad realization, but Arthur knew Will had no one else to whom he could turn. Sighing, the young man limped after the old family friend deeper into the house.

  ***

  “I just don’t understand it. My father, the one I knew, would never be involved in something like that.”

  Artie washed, disinfected, and bandaged Will’s injuries as best he could.

  “You must understand, dear boy, it didn’t start out that way.” Artie had known Will’s parents for years and remained one of their closest friends until the day William Sr. died. “William and I didn’t see eye to eye on much, from politics to religion, but he was a good man. Not blameless—none of us are—but decent and honorable. Both of your parents were. You mother was a wonderful and kind woman who took great care of you…I was sad to see her pass.”

  He paused, choosing his words carefully. “William was a true idealist. He may have been misguided, but he saw this as a means to a better end and believed their work was justified. But eventually reality caught up to his idyllic vision and he recognized it for what it truly was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll make it quick, but I must start from the beginning,” he sighed. Artie stood, ambled into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. “Many years ago, a man by the name of Samuel Lee arrived at the office. As you know, your father was quite well-off, one of the wealthiest in the country, certainly in the area. This man, Lee, brought a proposal to him, in the hope William would choose to don
ate to his organization. They claimed to be a consortium fighting for and promoting peace. They dispatched representatives around the globe to speak to various governments about disarming. Their lobbyists in Washington battled congressmen to stop the sale of guns. They were a tad extreme, but seemed committed to their work and so William, a peace-loving man, saw no reason not to provide financial backing for this disarmament campaign. He began making modest quarterly donations. And for two years, everything seemed legitimate.”

  For the next half hour, Arthur spun a fantastic story of rumors, theft, deceit, illegal and illicit operations, cover companies, and ultimately arms dealings. Will’s father had been sucked into this world, inch by inch.

  Once the true nature of the company surfaced, however, he’d tried to get out. His reputation was on the line. If others discovered he supported arms deals in foreign countries, even unknowingly, his career was as good as dead, his life over. Combined with the group’s veiled threats aimed at his wife and son, William was forced to stay involved.

  “So he did try to get out?”

  “Yes, he hated it. But he cared too much about you and your mother. And ultimately, he cared too much about his reputation. They guaranteed his safety and his privacy as long as he kept supplying them with cash.”

  “Couldn’t he report them?”

  “The scheme was too well planned. The only company men William dealt with were so far removed from the illegal activities, no legal allegations would ever stick in court. Everything was managed through shell companies, mostly off shore. Their dirty money was whitewashed in these phony businesses to appear legit. You must understand…these men weren’t stupid. They weaseled their way into the lives of corporations worldwide and countless more families, including your friend Zachary’s, in fact.”