Precipice

by J. Robert Kinney

  “That will be enough.” A whispered voice wafted lazily into his ears, but those punches had rung his bell hard and his senses were dulled, so he was unable to pinpoint the location of the voice. He had never been religious, but in that moment, he prayed a desperate wish to God that the voice came from his guardian angel, promising sweet relief.

  His prayer went unanswered. Grant squinted to focus his vision again, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Advancing toward him, his boss gently fondled something in his hands. A revolver.

  Every chest movement, up and down, up and down, sent jolts of pain throughout his body. An intense muscle spasm seized his back, sending Grant into new fits of agony. He contorted his body violently, to the best of his ability—anything he could think of to assuage the searing pain—but nothing worked. He could barely even cry out.

  The boss crouched over Grant, staring his employee in the eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket and slid out a pair of long, black gloves. Without saying a word, he slipped them on, one by one. He gestured for his personal muscle to leave the room.

  “Send someone back to the house. We’ll need to clean things up before the authorities arrive.” The muscular brute nodded and exited the room. Waiting for the door to close, the boss gazed down on Grant, bent over double. “You were one of the best.” He breathed out a sigh. “But I suppose…all good things must someday come to an end.”

  He rose to his feet again and repositioned the gun in his hand, a long, lanky finger poised on the trigger.

  “Goodbye, Grant.”

  Chapter 16

  Lynch waited outside the room as his boss exited.

  “Sir…if I may…?” He paused for a response before attempting further interaction. The last thing he wanted was to land himself in hot water after what happened inside that cell.

  “Continue.” The boss blinked once and tilted his head in Lynch’s direction. The position reminded him of the way a tiger observes his helpless prey: vicious, yet curious and content to observe for a minute before pouncing.

  “Sir…Grant was one of our best men…” he began as he swallowed a huge lump in his throat.

  “Yes…he was,” the boss replied with a single, sharp nod.

  The boss swept past Lynch and strode down the hallway. Lynch hurried to keep pace. He hesitated before making his next statement. Criticism in this business often wasn’t rewarded, constructive or otherwise. Swallowing that knowledge, he forged ahead, “Sir, why did you do that? We can’t afford the loss of a man of Grant’s skills.”

  This statement brought their progress to a halt as his boss wheeled to face him. Lynch’s throat constricted as the air drained from his lungs. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he took a small step backwards, putting an extra foot of distance between them. Staring deep within him, penetrating through his very essence, were the feral eyes of an animal. Two icy black crystals of nothingness, behind which he discerned no soul.

  Lynch took a few steps further in reverse until he bumped into the stone wall of the corridor. The face that gazed at him lacked discernible expression. It was a blank slate, unable to be read, yet wholly terrifying.

  After the long, petrifying silence, the beast turned away. “He broke the rules. Killing Booth was unnecessary and cost us time and effort. Booth didn’t know enough, if anything. He was a pawn, but still one we might have persuaded to help us again in the future. Grant needed to be dealt with. Swiftly and harshly, to send a message.” The monster paused for a few seconds before continuing.

  “‘Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.’ You know who said that?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Mahatma Gandhi.”

  As he cocked his head, their eyes met again and a cold shudder snaked down Lynch’s already weakened spine. “Grant was given a job. He may have thought it insignificant, especially when things got difficult, so he slacked and improvised. But he needed to do it and he needed to do it right. He failed.”

  Lynch didn’t dare move, spine plastered against the cold wall. He gulped, never taking his eyes off his boss. Nobody on the outside would ever understand, but moments like these reminded Lynch why he worked for such a man.

  The power and confidence was equal parts intoxicating and terrifying. Death followed every one of them, a shadow ready to pounce, yet the vicariously shared power made them feel untouchable by anyone other than this beast. Displease him and your shadow overtook you, leaving nothing but a tiny, insignificant blot on the face of the Earth, soon forgotten, immediately replaced. But please him and immortality felt within reach. Stick with him and rise above the laws of both men and God.

  “It was not without regret that Grant died.” The boss continued. “He was a good instrument, a strong spoke in the wheel. But his time was up. The strong beam became weak and dislodged from its place in our wheel. Broken spokes, once fractured, can never be fully repaired. They may be patched or reset, but they won’t hold their former strength and soon break again. They must be replaced.”

  He spun and again began his walk down the corridor, leaving Lynch in silent shock at the dismissal of a “friend” and coworker. Not that the boss had any friends; that ship sailed long ago. But even the most callous of bosses recognized the value of certain men over others. This man harbored no emotion, no feelings, nothing for this once valuable company-man, treating him as an asset gone bad with time.

  Lynch swiveled his head to watch the man walk down the corridor, but froze again as the boss paused and spun back, his black eyes flashing with the reflection of the lonely light bulb above. Their eyes locked again; an upward turning of the lips and a raised eyebrow accompanied the utter blackness. The man opened his lips ever so slightly, creating the appearance of a slit.

  “Question me again, Lynch, and you’ll be sharing a seat with Grant on Charon’s ferry.” Another pause. “Just remember what you said. This was one of our best men. Imagine what might happen if a…” He paused and his speech slowed to a crawling hiss, “…lesser man…made a mistake…”

  A final second of that penetrating gaze bore holes through Lynch. Then he turned away and continued down the hallway, veering left and disappearing. Lynch remained immobilized for another minute, too terrified to take a breath, before collapsing to the ground, gasping for air.

  Moments like these left him too scared to run. Your shadow will always find you.

  ***

  Will awoke from his trance shaking and huddled against the wall, his face wet with tears. Rising to his feet proved difficult, his entire body trembling. He shook his head and blinked furiously, trying to shake away the mental image of his wife dying in his arms, but he could not. It lingered in front of him like an afterimage burned into an old television screen.

  It took several minutes before he managed to stagger upright. His senses shaken, he hesitantly glanced around the room again. The pool of blood that sent him swirling down nightmare alley seeped further into the living area.

  Will stumbled through the doorway into the next room, and forced himself to keep his eyes faced straight ahead at the blank, white wall rather than toward the body of Mr. Booth, strewn before him on the ground.

  The back room he entered caused Will, for a split second, to wonder if he was hallucinating. Whitewashed walls, high tech equipment, and an array of buttons and dials like this belonged in the Pentagon, not in a rundown, civilian’s home. Everything in this laboratory screamed cleanliness, which highlighted the contrast with the gore from the outer room.

  He glanced around. Someone had ransacked the place. Drawers hung open, files scattered across the floor. He bent down to glance at a few, but the papers were a wild mess, with many missing and the rest scattered out of order: 48, 23, 15, 42, 16. No rhyme or reason. Nothing that remained was even salvageable. This is hopeless.

  Careful not to touch anything, he turned to leave, but this time he couldn’t keep his eyesight from landing on the body. He cringed.

  Edward Booth had been a handsom
e man. Roughly Artie’s age, he was bald, save for a few wisps of white-orange hair around the ears. Bruises and cuts marred his face. Blood soaked into his clothing and, through the rips in his shirt, Will spotted deep gashes on the body. His eyelids were closed, possibly by his killer who didn’t desire to see lifeless orbs gazing back at him. It created a strangely peaceful appearance amid the vicious setting.

  Then a sudden noise broke the silence. Will froze, his every muscle locked into place. A faint jangling of keys came from outside the door. Will had forgotten to lock the front door behind him and he cursed himself for that gaffe now. Not only would the visitor be alerted to his presence, an unlocked door allowed him less time to hide or escape.

  He watched the doorknob rattle and rotate, as the visitor absorbed the knowledge that a key was unnecessary. The person on the other side of the door paused before entering, but Will’s legs stubbornly refused to listen to the brain’s desperate pleas for flight.

  The door swung open with a soft, elongated squeak. “Hello?” A woman’s voice reverberated throughout the room. “Daddy, are you here?”

  Mr. Booth’s daughter, the girl from the photo. She was about to catch Will looming over the body of her murdered father. But he lacked the necessary willpower to react. Any attempt to flee at this point would exacerbate the situation. The only exit was through the same doorway she now occupied.

  She edged inside, but it took her a few seconds to scan the room before she spotted him. She was even more attractive than her photo. The years since that picture was taken had been very kind to her. She possessed a polished aura of refinement and elegance. Sunlight streamed in from outside highlighted her red locks, giving the impression her hair was glowing.

  From her location, her father’s body was out of her sightline, but at the sight of a stranger alone in that house, she let out a small yelp. “Who are you? Where’s my dad?”

  Will stumbled over his words, “I’m -- My name is William Ricketts…a friend…I’m so sorry…I just got here…” He gulped, strongly aware of her piercing gaze. Her recovered from her initial shock and now wore a look of skepticism and defiance. “I’m so sorry…I found him like this when I got here a few minutes ago…”

  His shaking hand gestured to the body at his feet—still out of sight for her—and she crept closer. As soon as she spotted her father lying still on the ground, the look of shock and horror returned and she let out a much louder scream.

  “NOOO! What did you do?!”

  “I swear! I just got here. I found him like this.” Will desperately scrambled for the right words, but as he stammered, she charged toward him. He cowered in the doorway. Bracing himself for impact, he closed his eyes, but only felt a slight bump as she brushed past him. She fell at her father’s side, her jeans sliding through the blood as her knees hit the floor.

  Will struggled with his own emotions as he witnessed her pain, too much like his own reaction when he discovered Allison. A small tear materialized at the corner of his eye, slid over his cheek, ran down his chin, and dripped off, hitting his shoe with a tiny, noiseless splat.

  Continuing to bawl, she peeked up at Will. “What happened to him?”

  “I -- I --” Will stuttered as he frantically searched for words of consolation. “I don’t know. I just got here.”

  Turning toward the body again, she bent over him, laying her head gently on his chest. Tears poured out in a torrent, and her body heaved violently with every sob. “Lord, no…”

  Will felt inept at dealing with distressed girls, especially when tears were involved. He wanted to console her, but had no clue how to go about it. She was already suspicious of him—with good reason—so he decided to give her some space. Still, leaving her here alone was a bad, and possibly dangerous, idea.

  He crouched in the corner, far enough to provide some breathing room, but just within view so she could tell he wasn’t running. For his own safety, he couldn’t stay long. He needed to keep moving. But abandoning this poor girl, huddled over the body of her murdered father, was out of the question. Leaving now would make him look even guiltier than he already did, but he also remembered his acute desire for companionship and support when he discovered Allie.

  With the walls at his back, an eye glued to the door, and his ears perked and listening for any more unexpected—and unfriendly—visitors, he hunkered down and waited for her tears to subside.

  Chapter 17

  It seemed an eternity later when Booth’s daughter ran out of tears. Without saying a word, she staggered to her feet before collapsing into an armchair in the front room. Not wanting to speak first, he slid into the adjacent chair. He couldn’t spare much time before needing to run again, but his male chivalry, instilled in him from childhood, still refused to let him leave a woman in need.

  He didn’t need to wait long though. Only a few seconds after sitting, she broke the silence. “Who are you?”

  “I’m….” Excellent question. He wasn’t sure how to explain his presence there, but after a pause, decided to go with the truth. “My name is Will. A mutual friend referred me here. Your father and mine attended school together many years ago.”

  “Referred for what?”

  “I needed his…services.” He blushed, feeling sheepish, and guilty.

  “He doesn’t do that anymore,” she spat in defiance.

  “With all due respect,” he said, taking time to choose his words. “That back room seems to imply otherwise.”

  “He quit six months ago.” She shook her head vehemently.

  “Do you know why?”

  “He didn’t say much. Just that he was ashamed of something. He used his abilities to help some very bad men and felt guilty, so he shut down.”

  “I know the feeling…” he commiserated as his voice trailed off. Edward Booth likely received the same raw deal he was now trying to escape.

  The woman peered at him. She didn’t understand his empathy. She couldn’t. “Do you know who killed him?” she asked.

  Will had a hunch, but he needed to be careful what he told her. “Probably the same men he stopped helping six months ago.” He paused. “The men who did this might return though. We need to get out of here.”

  “Absolutely not! We can’t leave my dad.” She glared at Will, jaw open and eyes unblinking. “We need to call the police.”

  “Trust me.” He shook his head. “We don’t want to be here if they return.”

  Unconvinced, she turned to face him and boldly folded her arms across her chest. The glare aimed at Will was one of fiery daggers, daring him to keep talking.

  Resigned, Will sighed heavily. “I believe the men who did this are the same ones who killed my wife a month ago. And now they’re after me too. I barely escaped yesterday.” She stared. That captured her attention. Common ground was established. He could work with that.

  “A friend of the family told me your father might be able to help.”

  She stared at him. “I’m sorry…” She seemed genuinely empathetic, at least for a moment. Then, a few gears clicked. “Wait…is that why they did this to him? So he couldn’t help you?”

  It was the question Will had been afraid she might ask. He’d hoped she wouldn’t put that together so soon. “I honestly don’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  He was still trying to answer that question himself. He couldn’t shed the unsettling feeling that somehow, this man’s fate was his fault. Will already suffered enough guilt about putting Art in harm’s way and he didn’t want to consider what that man might have done to Miles after he discovered Will’s disappearing act. Adding another death to his conscience was excruciating.

  “All I know is, I can’t be here when they get back.” He frowned. “I’d recommend you aren’t either.”

  “Shouldn’t I go to the police?”

  “I doubt it’d do much good. I went straight to the cops after Allie’s death, but the men were never caught.” He shook his head. “The police were so incompetent, I wondered if they were
somehow involved.”

  Glancing at the clock, he did a double-take. He couldn’t afford to stay any longer. “Look, I’m really sorry about your loss. I truly am.” He strode to the door. “But I can’t stay here. I need to run. I’d recommend you do the same.”

  She made no motion to join his retreat. He waited a few more seconds, said a hasty goodbye, and left.

  ***

  “I just don’t understand why God would let this happen to him,” she whispered, but Will was already gone. He’d left her sitting by herself in the house, unsure what to do. She waited a full minute before rising to her feet.

  Returning to her father’s side, she knelt once more, sliding her hand into his, doing her best to ignore the beginning signs of a cold rigor. A lone tear gathered in the corner of her eye before sliding over her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Papa.” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. Rising, she closed her eyes, whispered a brief prayer, turned from his body and walked out without looking back. She gathered her things in the next room and slipped out the door.

  Will was standing, just outside the door. “I knew you’d change your mind,” he gave a thin smile.

  “I knew you’d wait,” she snapped.

  Will cocked an eyebrow at her before nodding. His gaze lingered on her face before he turned away and led her toward the forest.

  “Let’s go.”

  They’d traveled less than twenty feet when the sound of a souped-up engine roared into earshot, freezing them in their tracks. Will blanched. He spun around to see a weather-beaten truck turning into the long driveway. They were here.

  Grabbing his new friend by the arm, harder than he intended, he twirled her body toward him as he turned to run.