Russell Andrews: Icarus

Holding the knife against Jack's neck, he bent him backward. Jack felt his feet leave the ground, his waist leveraging the top of the wall. The upper half of his body was leaning over into space.

"You're going over, too, Mr. Keller. You can go over easy or you can go over hard – but you're going over."

It was coming true. The wall was finally winning their battle. The edge was calling to him and drawing him near. Soon he would know what it was like to heed its call. Soon he would be falling. Flying. He would be Icarus. Out of control. Screaming…

When he heard the voice, he thought he had to be hallucinating. But he realized that Bryan had heard it, too, because Bryan relaxed his grip on Jack's neck and cocked his head.

It's not possible, Jack thought. It's just not possible.

But it was. There was no question. It was Grace's voice they heard, her quivering, frightened voice saying, "Help me." And then again: "Please, help me."

Bryan grabbed hold of Jack's shirt and dragged him to the corner of the terrace, toward the spot from which Grace had fallen. Bryan leaned over, holding Jack close to him. Jack tried not to look but he had to. What he saw was worse than any blow he'd taken from Bryan.

It was Grace. She had not plunged to her death. She was clinging desperately to one of the gray stone gargoyles protruding from the building. Her hands and legs were wrapped around the gargoyle's neck. Her broken wrist prevented her from pulling herself up but her will was not allowing her to let go and plummet.

"Help me, Jack. Please help me," she cried.

Jack saw a tiny smile cross Bryan's lips. "That's a good idea, don't you think, Mr. Keller?" And when Jack looked at him questioningly through his swollen eyes, Bryan said, "Let's go help her."

The next thing Jack knew, he was lifted up and he was somewhere he went only in his deepest and darkest nightmares: standing on top of the retaining wall. Eighteen stories below him was Madison Avenue. With no net.

It was worse than any hallucinogen. He could not stop the images from sweeping over him. And he could not stop the fear from paralyzing him. He was ten years old again; his mother had fallen. He was hanging on to Reggie Ivers's leg, dangling from the seventeenth floor. The noise from below was suddenly all around him: cars thundering by, horns honking wildly, vendors hawking their wares with harsh and angry screams. The street rushed up to meet him, bending and folding like a concrete flying carpet. Traffic lights were blinking furiously; the sky was filled with glittery explosions of red, yellow, and green. Jack's head snapped back. He was looking straight up into the broiling glare of the sun and he knew he was going over, that this was the end. The images and cacophony of noise all merged into one stultifying and choking blackness and Jack began to lose consciousness until a hand appeared magically in the small of his back, holding him up and pushing him back to an upright position on the ledge.

"Go get her," Jack heard.

For a moment he thought he must be waking up from a dream, but Bryan's face came back into focus and Jack knew this was no dream.

"Jack, please," he heard Grace call again. "I can't hold on much longer."

As Bryan jabbed at his leg with Dom's knife, prodding him to move, Jack turned his head so he could see Grace. She was sweating and petrified, trying desperately to keep her grip on the grotesque sculpture. She saw him now, said nothing, but their eyes locked and Jack nodded once. He was coming.

As the knife nicked his calf, Jack's right foot slid tentatively forward. Then his left foot slid after it. His first step. He was six inches farther along the ledge. He slowed his breath, commanded himself to stop trembling. The right foot slid again, then the left.

Twelve inches.

"Jack," Grace said. Her voice was calm and soft; it did not betray the urgency of her words. "You've got to move faster. I'm slipping."

Slide. And again. Eighteen inches. And yet again. Twenty-four.

He could no longer hear the traffic below or Grace's raspy breaths. There was no sound at all anymore but the steady pounding of his heart.

Thirty inches.

Thirty-six.

Three feet away from the terrace. The knife no longer cut into his legs. He was far enough away to be just out of Bryan's reach.

Jack's right foot slid again. His left started to follow… and then stopped. Long seconds passed and Jack didn't move. He was frozen.

"Jack," Grace said. That's all she said. There was nothing else she could say.

"Keep going, Mr. Keller."

Nothing from Jack. No response to Bryan's words. No more movement. His body was rigid. The only sign that he was alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"Mr. Keller, I said don't stop. I don't have much time. You don't want me to come get you."

Still nothing. He looked catatonic.

"I'm coming now," Bryan said. "And you're going to be very sorry."

Bryan put his hand on the top of the wall, pushed off, and slowly lifted himself up to step onto the ledge. He did not seem at all afraid or tentative.

Jack turned his head, the first movement he'd made in over a minute. He watched Bryan take one firm step toward him.

And he thought: Got you, you fucker. I've got you now.

– "-"-"BRYAN'S NEW PLAN was simple. Let Jack Keller get out as far as he could and just watch. He knew the man's fear would overtake him. He knew he'd fall and that would be that. The girl couldn't hang on much longer. By the time anyone else figured out where the bodies had come from, he'd be long gone. And besides, they would fall on their own. He wouldn't even have to push them. So it wouldn't even be murder. He could just walk away.

And then, once and for all, it would be over.

Bryan never figured that the fear would screw up the plan. Frozen as he was, Jack looked like he could stand there forever. And the longer this took, the more chance of failure. The key to success was always speed. Who'd said that? His coach, he thought. But which one? That guy in Virginia. He was a jerk but sometimes he was right. And he was right about speed. It was essential now. Someone could show up looking for the cop. Maybe another cleaning woman was coming. Bryan couldn't risk it. This had to stop now.

He wasn't afraid, standing on the one-foot-thick wall. Heights didn't bother him. He wasn't going to fall, no way. This was going to be easy. Just walk out and give one little shove. Then wave bye-bye. If he had to, he could do it to the girl, too. She'd be easy. All he had to do was walk out a little farther and down she'd go.

He took his first step and was surprised when Jack finally moved. The guy had been like a fucking rock. But now he turned to face Bryan and Bryan thought it was a strange movement. Not confused like it should have been. It was weirdly confident and deliberate. He didn't look so paralyzed all of a sudden. And he could even speak. How weird was that? What was he saying? What the hell did he say?

It sounded like: "Hold on, Grace. Just hold on."

And now he was saying something else. What was going on? This time it sounded like he said, "How's your knee, Bryan?"

What? His knee? His bad knee? It was like it always was. He looked down to see what the hell this guy was talking about…

– "-"-"JACK REMEMBERED BRYAN limping out of the restaurant after their lunch with Kid. He remembered Bryan saying, after the funeral service, that he'd blown his knee out at St. John's and lost his scholarship. And just a few minutes ago he'd said the coach at Virginia State had told him he couldn't play anymore because of his knee. Bryan Bishop had a weak spot. It was time to find out just how weak.

He waited until Bryan looked down. Jack had thought the bad knee was the left one and that's where Bryan's eyes went. He didn't wait any longer.