Russell Andrews - Icarus

Which is why she didn't notice the pigeon.

It had flown down, landed on the ledge a foot ahead of her. When she reached it, her arm grazed its soft feathers. She felt the wings flap, heard the bird coo its annoyance, and it did the one thing she couldn't afford, couldn't let happen…

She gasped in surprise and she drew her hand back. And when the pigeon flew up, hovered by her hair, she waved it away, panicky, and as she moved she lost her balance. She knew the madman would hear her now but she didn't care. That was the least of her problems. Here she was, walking a tightrope a million miles above Manhattan, and she panicked, she was going to fall off a goddamn roof because she touched a goddamn pigeon. The thought that came into her head now was a saying she'd seen on a coffee mug at the gallery: Life's a bitch and then you die. Pretty damn apt, she thought, because she was rolling over to her left now, she had lost her balance, she was falling. Then she wasn't falling any longer. She fell.

– "-"-"JACK WATCHED GRACE disappear and he wanted to scream, he thought he would jump out of his skin, but he knew it was his only chance and he had to take advantage of it. He couldn't think about her, refused to let himself think, and as Bryan turned, as his eyes followed the path of the frightened pigeon soaring up into the sky, Jack swooped down, grabbed a ten-pound dumbbell that was sitting on the terrace carpeting a few feet away, and swung it as hard as he could at the back of Bryan's head. As Bryan sensed the attack and tried to dodge it, the weight crashed into the side of his neck. It was not a crippling blow but it was good enough. Bryan, stunned, fell down hard and Jack threw himself through the open door and into the living room. He knew he wouldn't have enough time to get the elevator or even to get to the stairway. Bryan had not stayed stunned for long. He was up immediately, he was already on his feet and coming after him…

Jack knew exactly where he was heading: to the guest coat closet in the foyer. It's where Caroline kept her hunting rifle. He was supposed to have brought it to her in Virginia but he'd forgotten. It had to still be there. It had to be. So he sprinted; all he needed was time to throw the door open and reach into the corner of the closet and grab it. He didn't have a clue if the gun was loaded but he didn't care. It was his only hope and all he could think about was that he could yank it out, aim it at Bryan and pull the trigger, and hope that he blew the crazy fucker all the way to hell.

Jack stumbled on the living room carpet, slipped; his knee grazed the floor for a moment and a stab of pain went through his hip, but he was up immediately and moving. Bryan was through the door now, but Jack had enough time, he was sure of it. If the gun was there, he could reach it. He was close now. Bryan stumbled, too, on the carpet, was up fast, was moving again…

Jack was there now. He was at the closet. He grabbed the door handle and pulled. Without waiting, he practically leapt inside, reaching frantically to push past the coats to find the gun standing in the corner. Please, let it be there… please, let it be there and be loaded…

But something was wrong. Something was falling out of the closet, falling onto him. Something big and clumsy, knocking him back and getting in his way. He couldn't reach the gun. It was impossible. He couldn't even reach the coats. This thing was on top of him and Jack was going down, he was on the floor, the thing wrapped around him and pulling him down.

No. No, no, no, no! Not a thing. Jack realized it was not a fucking thing at all.

A person. A dead person.

Patience McCoy.

Her head was practically severed from her body, her beige suit was stained a deep, pervasive red. A foul smell enveloped him as surely as her rigid limbs.

Oh, God. She was on top of him. Jack was on the floor, fighting off the policewoman's dead body, her skin cold to the touch, his stomach heaving as he looked into her still eyes, felt her blood as it stuck to his shirt and face. He was trying to scramble to his feet, nearly blind with fury and the realization that it was over. No one could save him now. No one. Bryan was standing over him. Jack had lost.

Bryan kicked him in the ribs. Jack could feel the first thud and his side was rocked with pain. He felt another and another until he realized he'd been kicked against the wall, he was propped up against the hallway wall. He was hurt pretty bad but it no longer mattered. The frenzy of movement was over. McCoy sprawled, lifeless, in front of the open closet. Bryan was calm now, staring at him. His eyes had become vacant again, empty of rage. In his hand was Dom's knife, the tip pointed at Jack's heart. The room was absolutely silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock that faced the elevator door.

"I guess I shoulda told you," Bryan said, nodding at McCoy. "She can't help you anymore."

"You killed Dom, too, didn't you?" Jack managed to get out. He saw blood drip down from his chin onto his shirt. He didn't know if it was his own or McCoy's. He didn't really care.

"No, Mr. Keller. You killed him. You said you told him everything you knew. So I had to find out what he knew, didn't I? He was a tough old fuck, I'll say that. He pulled a meat cleaver on me. Can you believe it?"

"Yeah." Jack thought of Dom. Remembered his strength and his stubbornness. "I can believe it." Bryan was slowly moving toward him now, with short, deliberate steps. "When you killed Samsonite," Jack said, "you had me there. Why didn't you just kill me then?"

Bryan looked at him incredulously. "I like you, Mr. Keller. You're my friend. I don't just go around and kill everybody, do I?"

"But on the street… the shots. You shot at me."

"They were warnings. I couldn't let you tell on me, could I? What kind of friend are you, that you'd go tell on me?"

Oh, my God, Jack thought. Oh, my God, oh, my God.

"All those others, they made me kill them," Bryan said, and took another step toward Jack. "I never wanted to hurt any of them. They made me. The one in the tub, she laughed at me. The one in the bed with you, she could've connected me to the drugs. The one in the house, the one with the husband, she asked me to be her trainer. She came to Hanson's just like you, then she was starting to ask questions. The English one. He told her. He told her what was happening and she was going to go back with him to London. Everyone was trying to take him away from me! Your wife most of all; she wouldn't listen when I had her up in that room. She kept thinking I wanted money. I didn't want money, Mr. Keller, I wanted Kid." Bryan reached down, grabbed Jack by his shirt collar, and effortlessly yanked him to his feet. "I've never murdered anybody, Mr. Keller." His eyes were absolutely cold and dead and his voice turned into a whisper. "You're the first."

Bryan cuffed Jack across the face, knocking him backward. Immediately grabbed him, held him upright, hit him again. He spun Jack around, slapped him a third time, and Jack went down. He was on the floor, on his knees, and he saw Bryan jab at him with the knife. He scrambled away but he felt the blade puncture his skin, and warm blood began to ooze down his side. Bryan jabbed again and again as Jack frantically dodged the thrusts, backing away each time, and Jack realized they were back on the terrace. His eyes bulged and he made a desperate attempt to lunge back into the apartment but Bryan jabbed him again, in the shoulder, and when Jack grabbed at the wound, Bryan hit him again, knocking Jack backward until he was up against the retaining wall. He was at the edge of the terrace. There was nowhere else to go now.

"I feel really bad about this, Mr. Keller. But it's like I told you – there's some really weird people out there."