15
On the top of the fence, one foot lower to keep him steady, half bent at the waist to stay level.
There was just the slightest mist. Jack could see his shadow in it, projected from behind in amber light. The river was so far below; so beautiful. The water was sparkling. And here he was: the edge; over two hundred feet down to the water. The wind was calm. Jack closed his eyes, still and quiet.
He thought about Lucy and of everything she had revealed.
Someone was calling, telling him to stop. He turned to his left. A man in a black suit and overcoat was sprinting toward him.
At the foot of the gorge the sliver of water looked horribly slender. He probably wouldn’t even hit it but either way he was going to die.
The man in the black suit was shouting. He was close now. Jack didn’t turn back to look. He stood up straight on the top curve of the fence then leapt; arms spread wide.
It felt for one moment that the thickness of the air would stop him falling; that he could merely step back onto the bridge. Then he realised he was really going over, that nothing could take that final step back now.
He tilted forward, his body remaining rigid, arms and legs outstretched, turning until he could see the bridge above, looking so much as though it were the one falling. The man who had called out was reaching up the fencing as though he could catch him. But he couldn’t. He became small so quickly, rising and rising away as Jack continued to turn in the air.
There must have been people calling out who saw him do it but he could hear nothing except the wind.
Falling.
Falling.
Turning.
His entire view was pure sky now. The sun no longer touched him. He plunged into the gloom. Absolutely no way of saving himself.
Falling.
Falling.
Turning.
He could see the river again. Coming up at him fast, no longer a sliver of crystal silver but something wide and unwieldy and uncompromisingly brutal.
He was about to die. That was absolute.
Jack closed his eyes.
If that was what was meant to be then he was satisfied.
16
Sam Decker stood at the centre of the bridge, staring down at the narrow strip of water, the metal cold against his palms, pulse slow then quickening, erratic. He narrowed his eyes, straining his vision.
Not even a sign of the killer. The wind hadn’t pushed him to either side of the river but the fall was so great, water or not, it would have been like falling onto concrete. There was no chance that he had survived.
A picture of Lucy’s corpse came to Sam’s mind, mingled with a single memory flicker of her smile. He turned from the railing.
A man was standing five feet away looking him in the face. Sam paused. The man remained where he was: mid-sixties, thin white hair, gaunt ordinary clothes. His head was bent a little to the side, his neck straining.
Staring.
Staring.
Sam whipped up his sunglasses and slid them into place, holding the man’s gaze, then he started to walk back to the hotel, deliberately pushing him out of the way. The old man stumbled to the side, staggered, then regained his balance. Now when he glared at Sam the odd blankness was gone. Sam ignored him and kept walking. Then he stopped.
He went back to the side and looked down. Far below was the river: two hundred and forty five feet straight down. How many storeys was that? Twenty five? He had heard a tale of a woman surviving the fall once, whose voluminous skirt had formed a fluke parachute, but there had been nothing to slow the fall this time. Sam had seen the entire drop as the dwindling figure gathered more and more speed. It was absolutely impossible that he had survived.
Then why…?
No. He shook his head.
Somehow, irrationally, Sam had the feeling that Lucy’s killer had survived. Somewhere, down there in the gathering darkness.
There was no way Sam could have known that.
But somehow he did.
And he was sure of it; as sure as he was that it wasn’t possible. The bastard had survived and was going to make his way home to London, thinking he had gotten away with it.
Sam looked back toward the hotel. The police would be arriving soon. His gun was upstairs. He would have been seen standing at the window firing. If he was caught up answering questions, there was at least a seventy five percent chance that he would never get away; especially if they connected him to the… other matter.
But if the boyfriend was still alive then he had to find out his name and address.
And he was going to need that gun. 
No comments:
Post a Comment