Precipice (8 page)

Will crept toward the house, desperately hoping the courage he’d spent the last couple hours mustering would hold long enough for him to accomplish his goal. He remembered a quote his mother taught him as a young child when he was afraid to give a presentation at school. It came from a diary entry penned by an old lieutenant, who died on the beaches of Normandy. “Courage is not the lack of fear but the ability to face it.”

And here Will was, facing his fear. But this sure didn’t feel courageous. More like stupid and irresponsible. An enemy could be waiting for him to arrive, lingering in the shadows to get their hands on him and kill him. Yet he forged on against his better judgment.

As he neared the house, his gait slowed and he scanned the building and its surroundings, looking for any suspicious movement that might indicate an assassin lying in wait. Nothing stirred, however, save for a few, dry leaves tumbling across the wild, overgrown grass. The peaceful, idyllic scene outside stood in stark contrast with the carnage waiting for him inside.

Were he not preoccupied with avoiding his own murder, he might enjoy such a beautiful setting. The sun was fading, hovering over the peaks of the trees in the west, casting fingerlike shadows stretching across the yard, while a light breeze rustled the bushes and trees. Yet Will barely noticed.

Fighting his fears, he took a final glance around and hurried up the stairs and to the door. One last pause and a final gulp to steady him. Will flung open the door and stepped inside. The room remained untouched since his terrified flight. A promising sign.

From this angle, a chair obscured the puddle, and for this he was grateful. He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the photograph once more. Undoubtedly Mr. Booth’s daughter, the image was a college graduation shot from the University of Kentucky. A small pendant hung from the top corner of the frame. Three triangles…no, Alpha Lambda Delta. She had been a member. He moved closer to read the year of her commencement, marked in gold lettering in the corner. He’d also graduated in ’03.

Somehow, that thought comforted him, though he couldn’t explain why. Even in the darkness, Will made out flowing locks of red hair framing a cute, freckled face. He caught himself staring, before jolting to reality at the sound of the door clicking into place behind him. He refocused on the scene before him and the gravity of the situation.

Will felt a panic attack coming on. Hyperventilation was soon to follow. The pounding of his heart throbbed in each temple and small beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. Every muscle in his body was tightened to its limit, as he prepared to bolt at the feeblest noise or disturbance. He wished he could sit down and calm his jittery nerves, but time was limited. Attempting to relax in the same room where a murder had taken place would be unproductive anyway.

After his eyes finished adjusting and Will was comfortable he could see well enough to remain safe, he began to slink toward the door on the far side of the room, crouching low to the floor to decrease the chance of being detected—by whom, he didn’t know, but hoped not to find out.

The bloody scene gradually came back into view, causing a slight swoon, but Will kept his mind focused enough on the task at hand to maintain a course for the adjacent room. Five feet from the opening however, he stopped once again. Another object snuck into his peripheral vision. Peeking from around the edge of the open door was a man’s hand, limp and strewn across the threshold. Will leaned forward, hoping not to see exactly what he knew he would. The body was still here.

Blood everywhere!

Will clenched his eyes closed and fell to his knees. A flash of memory blinded him.

Too much! No!

He fought to retain consciousness as the repressed memory battled to overtake him.

Please God! Don’t let this be happening!

Attempting to shake away the memories assaulting his mind, Will squeezed his eyes as tight as possible, but his efforts failed. A vicious tidal wave of memories washed over him, slowed only briefly by a few, desperate sand bags.

She was gorgeous. The whole package. Long brown hair hung halfway down her back, swaying to and fro as she walked. Will fell a few paces behind when he stopped to look into the window of the local electronics store and, though it was unintentional, he was glad he did. He never tired of watching his beautiful wife. She was everything he ever dreamed of in a spouse. Beauty, intelligence, character, plus a bit of a wild, sporty side. Today was no exception.

She stunned in a white T-shirt and a pair of slim-fitting jeans. The sleeveless shirt revealed silky smooth, olive-toned shoulders. They had eaten pizza, Will’s favorite, and were headed toward the theatre. Every Friday night, same routine. Yet it never got old. He was truly living the life. Nothing could go wrong now.

As if she just realized Will had fallen behind, Allie spun around, her hair twirling with her, exposing her small diamond cross earrings to the fading sunlight, whose rays shone with a brilliant sparkle. She should be on the cover of a magazine.

“Hurry up, silly. You’re so slow!”

Will shook his head and Allie gave him an insincere glare in return before breaking out in a dazzling smile. She turned and ran ahead, as though daring him to catch her. He teasingly gave chase.

She voiced a slight squeal as she took off, trying to stay a few paces ahead of him. She always let Will catch her, but she made him work for it. Nothing easy this evening.

Finally, he caught up to his love and swept her into his arms. She shrieked in mock fear and playfully struggled against him with a huge smile plastered across her face. Giving in, she relaxed, falling deeper into his embrace. They both closed their eyes as Will leaned in, intending to kiss her.

As suddenly as Will had entered this happy memory, he began to transition out of it. Allie faded away in his arms, until he held nothing but a faint gust of wind. Will’s eyes snapped open again.

He stood on the doorstep of his home, key in the lock and hand on the knob, but he felt uneasy. Several hours late after a long day at work in which he accomplished little, he knew she wasn’t going to be happy with him.

A light rain fell, but the cloud cover was still thin. The sun rested on the edge of the horizon, preparing to disappear for the night. He nudged the door open, inch by inch. “Allie?” He called out into the darkness.

Her Volvo sat in the driveway, but no lights shone within the house. Most nights, he’d return home to the pleasant aroma of dinner, wafting through the hallway, filling the home. But today, there was nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. Where he should have smelled the succulent aroma of pork or maybe a good piece of salmon, he instead detected a strange, pungent sweetness with maybe a trace of iron.

Will’s mind raced, outpaced only by his quickening heart rate. He stepped lightly across the threshold, listening for anything out of the ordinary.

“Allison?” The word lodged in his throat and came out as a mix between a whisper and a gurgle. He shut the door behind him without making a sound, cocking his head toward the hallway to better hear any noise breaking through the pitter-patter of raindrops.

After a few seconds, a slight crunching sound emanated from the next room. Will tiptoed in that direction, careful to step over the dead spot in the floorboards that creaked every time his shoes hit it. Halfway down the hallway, he saw it.

A small trickle of blood seeped into the corridor from a doorway near the end of the hall. He froze and his heart skipped a beat. Barely able to take his next breath, Will strode farther into the hallway, faster than before.

Even more blood became visible…way too much. He groped for his phone and punched 9-1-1. The world swirled, but came crashing to an abrupt halt when he heard it. That sound again. A gasp? A small spring of hope emerged. Forgetting his fear of being heard, Will leaped forward down the hall. He skidded to a stop outside the living room, grabbed the door frame with a single finger to keep from falling down, and spun around the corner.

The scene was straight out of a horror novel. Panic set in, his phone clattered to the floor, and his heart stopped dead. Chairs overturned, broken. Books littered the room. Shards from the expensive glass cocktail table where Allie liked to read her latest C.S. Lewis book littered the floor. Worst of all, blood coated the wood paneled surface.

A figure lay prone in the middle of the room. Not again. Not her! There it was, another gasp. She was still alive! The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs, suffocating him with every breath. He wasted no time rushing towards her and fell to his knees at her side.

Glass fragments protruded from her body and a single bullet hole oozed blood from just below her right shoulder, but his eyes were drawn her to her face. Against all odds, given her injuries, she was still breathing, though struggling to remain that way.

He couldn’t have arrived more than five minutes after her attack. Every instinct urged him to go after the assailant, to chase him down, but he couldn’t pull himself away. She needed him. Her face scratched and bruised almost beyond recognition, she rasped, desperate for breath.

Sensing Will’s presence, her head swiveled toward him, her wandering eyes able to focus on his face for a few seconds. Will gently grasped her hand in his as tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Oh Allie…” he sobbed, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry I was late.” He wiped his tears away and her blood smeared across his face. Her eyes slid in and out of focus, one moment appearing to stare off into the distance, the next fixed on him. Between gasps for air, she was able to move her lips, though no discernible sound emerged.

“I’m so sorry, Allie. I…I…I love you.”

Will’s sobs came loud and grating, broken by his struggle to get words out, to tell her everything she needed to hear. Finally, he gave up trying to speak and just held her close to his body.

The ambulance wasn’t going to arrive in time. All he could do was hold her in her final seconds. He knelt beside her weakening body, and held her limp hand for what would be the last time. As darkness fell across the city for the night, casting a long, interminable shadow across its landscape, so it did across his face.

“Chief Sloan? You have a visitor.” The intercom in Jacob Sloan’s office crackled to life. The progress made by Randal and Faye tempered his fury over the mysterious envelope, but he’d spent the last several hours in his office trudging through case files.

“Who is it?”
He wasn’t expecting anyone.

“He won’t give his name. Says he has information you’ll want to hear.”

“What kind of information?” The intercom fell silent for a minute.

“He wants to talk to you, sir.”

“Tell him I’m busy. Come back tomorrow morning.” He was not in any mood to talk to a random stranger.
If it’s that important, he’ll be back tomorrow
. But then he paused and reconsidered. Better deal with him now than put it off. He depressed the buzzer again. “Karen? Send him in, I guess.”
Let’s see what this is all about.

He shuffled together all the important papers and photos scattered across his workspace, shoved them into a nearby folder and into a side drawer, hidden from view. He couldn’t risk his guest noticing anything critical or classified.

Though the agency was not the police and their cases confidential, the general public still understood the basic gist of their work. This often resulted in laypeople showing up with “important” information off the street, but their tips rarely proved useful. Many times, people used any excuse to feel like they’d performed some grand civil service, even if their information was phony or irrelevant. Everyone wanted to be the hero.

The influx of absurd crime shows on television convinced viewers anyone could solve a case. Sloan was revolted that people were content to hinder an important investigation in a not-so-veiled effort to feel important, but office policy dictated you couldn’t turn anyone away because of the off-chance their information was valuable. Sloan despised it.

The door swung open as Karen escorted the visitor into the office. The man who entered carried an air of confidence about him, a quiet poise that reflected a man who once wielded, or maybe still did wield, vast amounts of power. He marched into the room with purpose, toward the detective.

Sloan stepped forward, extending his hand. “Detective Jacob Sloan, what can I do you for?”

“General Michael Jeffrey Krieger.” His visitor raised a stiff hand to the edge of his white, receding crew cut.

A military man.
The visitor’s confidence and poise caught Sloan off guard—he’d expected a bum off the street, not a General—and he scrambled to regain his edge. Still, Sloan caught a faint hint of alcohol on the man’s breath; as a connoisseur himself, he’d recognize that scent a mile away.
Not a good sign.

“I believe I can provide information on one of your cases.”

Motioning to the seat behind his guest, Sloan edged around behind his desk. Perception of authority is important in first encounters. Being behind a desk established himself as the authoritative figure in the room, at least psychologically.

“Thank you Karen, you can go now. No distractions please.” He glanced toward the door, gesturing for her to close it behind her.

“Yes, sir.” Sloan stood silently at his desk, listening to the clacking of her heels as she retreated down the hallway. Once her footsteps faded to nothingness, he fixed his attention on his visitor.

“And which case might that be?”

“Ian Braxton,” Krieger replied, “the museum director.”

“I see,” Sloan frowned.
How did he know they were working that case? He only found out that afternoon from that cursed envelope.
“And what information do you have on him?”

“For starters, he was partially responsible for the death of his employee, albeit indirectly. He left the door unlocked, allowing the killers to gain entry to the museum without breaking and entering.”

“Yes, we’re aware of that. Do you have any
new
information?” Sloan responded harshly, hoping to break the general’s unflappable demeanor. The sudden snap worked, albeit only for a moment. Krieger’s face flashed a second of surprise, but recovered rapidly.

“I also know his actions were without knowledge of their consequences. He was clueless as to the intruders’ purpose for visiting the museum. He believed he was aiding them in springing a surprise on an old friend.”

Sloan puzzled over this. The man’s motive for unlocking the door had eluded them so far. “How exactly did you come by this information?”

Krieger leaned forward and took a deep breath. “I spoke to him. The day before he died. I was probably one of the last people to see Mr. Braxton alive.” This juicy bit of evidence might very well make him a suspect, but he appeared willing to take that risk.

“Were you now? And did he provide you with any information on who these men were?”

“He did, and I’m prepared to share that information, on one condition.”

“And that might be?”

Krieger sucked in a deep breath, “I want to be in the loop on this investigation. If you know something, I know it. I want to help bring them down.” He paused for a quick breath before adding, “I am a retired General of the United States Army and spent considerable time in Army CID, so make no mistake. I am qualified to contribute.”

Sloan frowned. Agency rules prohibited him from providing outsiders with details of any investigation, sometimes for privacy, but mostly for security. He didn’t want to run the risk information leaking back to those he was chasing.

And he couldn’t rule out the possibility Krieger himself was the killer, trying to learn what leads they were following. Serial killers attempting to insert themselves into their own investigation was not unheard of; Gary Ridgway did that. But this man seemed sincere, and his information might be invaluable.

“I think we’ll be able to work something out. But we’ll need to check you out first: background checks, a polygraph…you know, the works.”

“Right.” Krieger nodded. “Though I already have a security clearance from the Army.”

Sloan nodded, making a mental note to confirm it in the morning. “So it’s agreed then? You tell me your information, and then, assuming your clearance is still good, we work on getting you read in on the file.”

“You have time right now?” Krieger’s voice carried anxiety in its tone. It wasn’t excitement though. Krieger’s shoulders sagged and his face drooped as though under a weighty load he was ready to purge. He leaned forward, balancing on the edge of his chair.

Sloan stared at him. He glanced at his stack of papers before answering.
Too much to do
. However, if this mysterious man’s information proved half as helpful as he hoped, it would be worth the time.

“I have all evening.”

***

The man on the ground winced as the steel toe of a boot landed yet another blow to his bruised ribs. He tightened his fetal position into a ball in an effort to protect them. After an hour or more of this “hospitality,” he was almost unrecognizable. Both eyes were nearly sealed shut from the swelling and his face, a checkerboard of black and blue. Blood oozed from a nasty gash in his lower lip and dripped over his face and upper body, soaking his shirt.

His concussed head slammed against the solid concrete floor, sending lightning bolts of pain through his skull; stars swirled overhead. He was a large man, but the attacker was no weakling himself and stood higher on the executive totem pole, so standing up to him wasn’t an option. Of course, at this point, it was too late. He’d be lucky to stand straight, much less fight.

Thud!
The audible cracking of two ribs accompanied this kick. His attacker leered down at him. “You had enough yet?” The stench of his breath, flowing out past what few rotten teeth were left, caused Douglas Grant to recoil. The sudden movement sent shockwaves of pain down his spine and he cringed.

Nothing he said would end this beating before his attacker wanted it to end, so he stayed silent. Any answer would only result in a stronger thrashing, anyway. He refused to give his attacker the satisfaction.

“Have you?!” This time the steel toe landed in the soft tissue of his abdomen, forcing out a painful grunt, though he refused to let any further sound escape him.

Deep down, Grant knew he deserved the pounding. He lost his composure and killed a man who would be more helpful alive and well. Granted, the man denting his ribs and causing scads of internal bleeding had no personal beef with him, but his boss did. Their mutual boss did. That would be the man observing the scene from his shadowy perch in the corner near the door. He still had yet to say a word since entering the room to observe the proceedings.

The enforcer crouched down next to him.
Thud! Thud!
Two punches connected with his head. The heavy rings on the man’s hand created parallel gashes across his cheekbone as the room blurred and swam in a rainbow of colors.

Through a blurry, throbbing fog, he watched the goon stride around him, looking for a new, vulnerable body part to bruise. He blinked furiously, trying to focus, gulping in miniature gasps of air trying not to stress his poor, battered ribcage. But little he did seemed to make any difference.

“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.”