Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

The door to the construction trailer was open, and the wind banged it against the siding in a lonely clatter. Could he be inside? It would have been Danny’s choice. The trailer offered privacy and an easy escape. But somehow he doubted Evan would use it. Not a bold enough gesture.

Then he saw a flash of light on the third floor, a quick flare of yellow that lasted two or three seconds. A lighter. Evan had fired up a cigarette and given away his position.

Danny could have laughed, except it was bad news. The plan had been to free Tommy and Karen while Richard distracted Evan. But to reach them, Danny would have to sneak up the stairs, right past Evan, who would be keyed up, at the top of his game. Plus there was Debbie to think of. He had no idea where she would fall in this equation, so he had to assume she was the enemy.

Frustration surged through him. Couldn’t he catch one goddamn break? Was that so unreasonable? Just a little help? He rolled over, the stones sharp against his spine. The sky above was a wash of starless midnight blue, the moon heavy and ominous. They were screwed.

Unless…

He flipped back over to stare at the building. It was a long shot. He was thirty-two, not sixteen. And even at sixteen it would have been a ballsy move.

Still.

Whatever the cost.

Danny wormed his way back to the alley side of the roof, swung his legs over, and dropped to the ground. With his back to the brick, he slid along the wall. From the mouth of the alley, he surveyed the building again, marking the place where Evan had stood – with any luck, he’d be watching the gate to the south, not the street to the east. Danny slid the watch from his pocket. Five till.

What the hell.

Staying low, he walked across the street, forcing himself not to run. Darting motion might catch Evan’s eyes, but a black shape stepping slowly between darknesses should be able to sneak past. The cracking of the plastic grew louder, but not loud enough to drown out the rushing blood in his ears. Thirty-nine steps took him to the edge of the fence, the old Hitchcock flick flashing in his mind. Fear sparked random thoughts. He pushed it away, pushed everything away, and eased himself along the fence, eyes on the jagged building with its gray skin. No sign of any motion. Reaching the far fence corner, he straightened, then bent to touch his toes, stretching his leg muscles. Tightening up could be fatal.

As his fingers gripped the chain-link fence, he allowed himself one final memory. A golden afternoon last summer, not a cloud darkening the horizon. Karen laughing and shrieking as he dragged her into the cold water of Lake Michigan.

I’m coming, baby. Whatever the cost.

The chain link bowed inward as his black sneaker bit, hands reaching for the crossbar, the metal cold in the night air, and then he hauled one leg up and over, careful not to kick the fence, and dropped to the dark ground within. He landed soundlessly and jogged toward the northeast edge of the structure, eyes on the rough dirt.

At each corner of the building, thick steel ran from buried concrete foundations all the way up to the top of the building. Up close, the H-shaped girder seemed blacker than night. He ran his hand over it, feeling the rough spots of welds, the bolt marks and torch holes. Crossbeams branched out at every floor, twelve feet between them. Sixty feet up, the metal ended in dim skies.

This can be done. You’ve seen this done.

Except that the guys he’d seen do it were twenty-year-old ironworkers with muscles like a romance novelist’s fantasy. And mostly they did it to get down.

All of a sudden, he was twelve again, playing Pisser. The same palm sweat and stomach stitches, the same mad desire to back out. Like that moment before the first hill on a roller-coaster, when you wonder if you couldn’t just jump out and take the maintenance ladder.

Grimacing, he planted his feet on the inside of the H-beam, his heel against the ground and toes to the steel. Then he grabbed the outside of the girder, arched his back to increase the tension, and started to climb.

He made it head high. Then he leaned in too far and lost his balance. His feet flailed wildly, and he slid down the steel, fingers burning. He landed hard, shocks jolting through his knees, and fought the urge to curse.

This is crazy.

The building swayed when he looked up, and his stomach flipped. The top floor seemed an impossible dream.

Whatever the cost.

He took a deep breath, planted his feet, and started again. Push with the sole of the feet. Grip with the fingers. The posture is key – use your waist as a pivot, and only your waist. Don’t let any other part bend, or your feet will slip. The traction is good. The steel is rough as sandpaper. Don’t listen to your body’s fear. Let your mind drive the flesh. Move your hand.

Pull.

Now a foot. Push.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The first floor fell away, but he didn’t notice. He forced everything else out of his mind, the world narrowing to his hands and feet and the steel. Slide. Pull. Again. In the darkness, he could see patterns in the metal, clown faces and leering spirits. The girder shielded him from a gust of wind that set the tarps snapping in a lunatic dance. Sweat ran slick from his armpit. The muscles of his stomach burned. Slide. Pull. Again.

The second floor.

The third. Don’t look down .

At the fourth, he looked down. His throat shut, and his heart and stomach tugged in different directions. The world wavered, and for a terrible half second he was overwhelmed by an urge to let go. To jump, and fall spinning to the ground. The true meaning of vertigo – not the fear of falling, but the hunger for it. His muscles trembled. He could picture the ground rushing up, the comfort of oblivion. A warm and quiet place.

He sucked in his lower lip and bit until he tasted blood.

The pain clarified. Reestablished focus. He stared at the beam as though it held all the mysteries of life. Slowly, fingers tingling and arms shaking, he forced his right hand to move. Pushed with both feet. A tiny bit at a time. There is no up. There is no down. There is no Evan. There is no you. There is only this.

Again.

Again.

Again. Whatever the cost.

And then his hand bumped into something. A crossbeam. He’d reached the top floor. He edged his legs up twice more, until his arms were almost horizontal. Guts roiling, he slid his right hand off the girder and onto the beam. The instant the tension released, his legs swung free, kicking out over fifty feet of nothing. He felt a hot flush of panic in his bowels as he dangled by one hand. His shoulder screamed and his sweaty fingers slowly began to slip.

He flung his other arm up, fumbling for the horizontal strut. His right hand began to lose its grip, the ragged steel cutting into his fingers. For a moment he hung there, left hand on the way up while right fought not to come down. Some removed part of himself wondered which would happen first. Then his left banged against the metal, fingers locking on. With a last surge of strength he hauled himself up onto his belly and rolled his legs off the edge. He lay panting on his side, fingers stiff and brittle, arms on fire, chest heaving.

He’d made it.

Then he heard Evan’s voice.

“Stop there.” Evan’s voice was commanding.

Danny’s limbs shook and burned, but he made himself keep moving. Legs wobbling and head spinning, he forced himself to his feet, scanning for Evan. The top floor lacked a roof, though vertical girders ascended to mark its future location. City light bouncing off the clouds gave the space a soft silver glow. Near the stairwell, he could see the bound figures of Tommy and Karen. Wherever Evan was, his profile should have been clear against the bright sky, but Danny saw nothing.