Dastardly Bastard(18)

Like an Olympic diver, arms out at his sides, head tossed back toward the sky, Lyle began to drop.

Mark dug his fingers into Lyle’s outstretched forearm, pivoted back, and spun on one heel. Using his stomach as a counterweight, Mark hauled the boy back up and over the steel cable, tossing him into the rock face.

Everything unfolded in slow motion as the guard wire caught Mark just behind the knees.

The boy slid down the stony wall, landing in a crumpled heap next to his mother.

Mark’s vision flashed upward to a clear blue sky where birds played. His balance fled as he fell backward into the chasm.

Twirling, Mark was aware of light, then dark—chasm, followed by sky. Black. Blue.

Black.

Blue.

Then, only black.





14


“WATCHIN’ SOMEONE DIE, JUST, IS ne’er easy. Whether it be in pain, or in peace, the livin’ are left with the mem’ries the dead can’t carry with ‘em.”

Nana Penance’s words struck Justine McCarthy with a finality as solid as the rock face at her back. She’d watched helplessly, thrown aside by that wonderful man with more courage than a hundred armies, as he drifted away in the chasm below.

Afterward, Justine wailed uncontrollably, fat tears running down her cheeks. She felt hollow inside.

She could have done something. Nana Penance’s death had been expected, prolonged, and drawn out, but the big man had perished so suddenly. She couldn’t have stopped her grandmother’s passing, but that… that senseless loss of life might have been righted if she’d only acted.

Everything felt cold, even Trevor’s skin as she collapsed into his arms, crying into the crook of his neck. The world had gone frigid and uncaring. Justine could feel, in the pit of her stomach, an ache for the very fragility of life, the ease with which it could be snatched away.

She wept.

Trevor smoothed her hair, repeatedly whispering, “There was nothing anyone could do, baby” until his voice seemed to drone into a monotone, a requiem for the fallen.

There was nothing anyone could do, baby…

It wasn’t the first time he’d said those words.

When Nana Penance died, Justine had made two phone calls, both of them to Trevor. After getting the voicemail on his cell, she’d tried him at work. The conversation had been short. She was crying when he answered. He only asked where she was, then showed up at the hospital less than twenty minutes later.

“I ran over an old lady with a walker and blew through a speed trap to get here,” he’d joked. “No? I could—”

“She’s gone, Trevor.”

He pulled her in, held her, and erased the world around them. She never wanted to let him go. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was certain Nana Penance had died because Justine hadn’t held on tight enough. Never would she let go again.





15


JALEEEEEEEEEEEEL, THE ID SANG.

“HUH?” Jaleel moaned, fighting the drifting feeling. Someone was calling him. So persistent.

Wake up! the id screamed. His inner voice was harsher than normal, demanding.

Jaleel’s eyes snapped open. Glaring light caused him to squint. “Wha-huh? Where am—”

“Shhhh! Don’t say a word.” The figure in front of Jaleel raised a glimmering finger to its ethereal lips. The form wavered, folding in and out of itself. Jaleel could make out a head, shoulders, and two arms, but nothing else. The being disappeared at the torso, reminding Jaleel of the old Casper the Friendly Ghost cartoons.

The face was familiar. It should have been. He was looking at a see-through version of himself.

“They’ll hear you,” the vapor said. “Don’t want them to see you talking to yourself, now, do we?”

“I’m dead; aren’t I? I fell off the side, and I’m dead. Stone cold dead.”

“Shhhh!” the form hissed. “Whisper, if you absolutely have to talk.”

“Where am I?”

“Look around. Just don’t make it obvious that we’re talking.”

Jaleel steeled himself and surveyed the area. In front of him, at the guard wire, stood Donald. He remembered the little man vaguely, but had forgotten something important about him. Over to the left was—what was her name? Oh, yeah—Marsha, the cell phone kid’s mother. Under her kneeling form, the boy lay in a fetal position, his arms wrapped around his shins. Further up the pathway, Trevor was petting Justine’s hair in long motions, caressing her back with his other hand.

“What happened?”

“You went crazy. Hell, everyone went crazy. The fat guy with the camera went over the edge.” The figure whistled the sound of a dropping bomb. “Ker-splat!”

“Went over the side? He’s dead?”

“Yepper-rooney, Looney.” The form shifted as if blown by a breeze, then hummed a tune Jaleel found hauntingly familiar.

“Who are you?” Jaleel was starting to raise from his stupor enough to realize he wasn’t truly talking to himself.

“You don’t recognize me? You remember all these lay-abouts, and not me? I must say, silly goose, I’m hurt.” It shook its wispy head. Trails of pink and blue matter drifted away like so much sparkly dandruff.

“I can’t…” Jaleel slapped a palm to his forehead in frustration. “Wake up, brother. Just wake up.”