The Blade Itself

44

Cold air sawed in and out of his lungs as Da

Despite the moon, the night was dark, the scattered pools of sodium light doing little to alleviate the gloom. Da

The Pike Street building rose five stories, each less finished than the last, until the top floor girders poked upward like broken bones. A streetlight on the opposite corner backlit the skeletal structure, marking the concrete shaft that enclosed the fire stairs. October wind made the sheeting on the face snap and pop. On one hand, that was a stroke of luck; it echoed loudly, and would cover his approach. But it also meant he couldn’t see inside at all. The only part he could make out was the top floor, which had no plastic to screen it. Da

Wait.

There, by the upper entrance to the stairwell. Something caught his eye, a dark shape not geometric enough to belong. Then it moved, and he saw that it was two somethings.

Tommy and Karen.

It made sense. Tie them up out of the way, somewhere they couldn’t escape. Steel bands tightened around Da

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 Da

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.

Da

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.

Da

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 spi