Icarus. (3 page)

And now it was too good to be true. Here he was and here she was. At the lying-liar lawyers!

Well, there was only one thing to do, wasn't there?

She'd tried to hurt him. She had hurt him.

So he had to hurt her right back.

Except he couldn't hurt her because now she was gone.

There was just the boy. The terrified, crying boy.

Maybe he should hug him, Reggie thought. Hug him and tell him he could stop crying because everything was going to be fine.

Unless, of course, he didn't stop crying. Then things wouldn't be so fine. Then he'd make him be quiet.

He'd have to, wouldn't he? What other choice did he have?

– "-"-"JACK WAS HORRIFIED to find himself crying. But he couldn't stop. His mother was gone and he hadn't helped her, and the man was reaching for him, was trying to pick him up, just like he'd picked up his mother, and Jack didn't want to cry, not now, but tears were all he was capable of.

He felt the man's fingers wrap around his wrist and then his shoulders. The touch of flesh against flesh repulsed him. The man's hands seared him like an iron pressed against his skin, and without even thinking about what he was doing, Jack flung himself at the man's leg, clutching it with all his might, not trying to knock him over this time, simply refusing to let go. He could feel the man trying to shake him free, but it couldn't be done, Jack was holding on for dear life, would hold on forever if he had to because if he didn't the man would throw him out the window, too. Up close, the man's smell was even worse, it filled Jack's nostrils and made him nauseous, and the man was shaking even harder now, and pulling Jack's hair, yanking his head back, but Jack knew he'd never let go. There was nothing this man could do that would make him let go.

Then the shaking stopped, and Jack thought somehow maybe he'd won, but then he realized, no, there's no winning here, and suddenly Jack felt his insides explode. The man was beating him on the back with his fists. Slow, brutal blows hammering away at him. He felt like he might break in two, but still he wouldn't let go. Couldn't let go. Five minutes earlier he was pressed against the window, wanting to fly. Now he was crying and holding on to a madman's leg because he knew that flying was impossible. It was a fantasy, a dream, and not the dream of a little boy having fun with his mother or of some make-believe superhero saving the earth. It was a nightmare that had no happy ending. It was not the glorious Icarus but the Icarus with wings melting, high above the earth on a flight that ended only with an excruciating fall. With failure. With the sadness and fear he saw on his mother's face. And with death.

The man dragged his leg over to the window and Jack thought, What's he doing, what now? Then he could feel the man's leg kick forward and Jack's eyes widened as he realized what was happening. He tucked his chin into his chest as his shoulder and then his back and then the side of his head slammed against the thick glass. Jack remembered hitting a baseball once, shattering a window in a first-floor apartment; that's what he felt like, that baseball, because he was being skewered by new pieces of broken glass. Jack felt sharp stings in his arms and neck, he watched more glass tumble and fall, then the man gave one more kick. Again Jack was flung against the glass, only now he felt wind rushing by his face and…

No, no, please, no, he thought. Please, this can't be true.

But it was true. He heard screams from down below, and the heat, he could feel it soaking into him.

He was outside the building.

He was dangling, hundreds of feet above the ground, and the man was trying again to shake him loose. The man's leg was twisting back and forth, and up and down; it was like riding a bucking bronco, and Jack knew it was the wrong thing to do, to look down, but he couldn't help it. He saw new shards of glass tumble by. Then he saw a flash of the crowd, and even though he turned away it was too late. The street seemed to rush up at him, he felt as if he were already falling. He nearly let go, thought for a horrible moment that he had, was sure he was somersaulting through the air; he was the boy with the useless wings tumbling from the warm sun to the cold, hard earth, but, no, he was still holding on, his body was still banging against the window and the steel casing, his arms were still wrapped tightly around the man's leg and the man was still shaking him. Staring at him and hating him and shaking him…

And then the man was still. No movement at all. Jack couldn't understand it and he looked up. The man's head was twisted back toward the elevator, looking at something behind him. No, not something.

Someone.

The man turned back to the window now. Looked down at Jack, still dangling outside the building, unreachable, inches away from the ledge. The man laughed then. A laugh like Jack had never heard before. A wild, savage, and mad laugh that might have come from some inhuman creature, something that had risen up from hell.

And Jack knew what he had to do. Didn't know if he could do it but he knew he had to, had to if he wanted to live.

Had to so he wouldn't fall and disappear.

So he wouldn't be gone…

– "-"-"DOM LISTENED TO the lunatic laugh and he ran forward, ran as fast as he could because he understood what was going to happen. But he was too late. He couldn't stop it.

The madman at the window laughed again and, with Jack clutching the man's leg, Dom watched helplessly as the sweating man leapt out the window, a powerful jump, far away from the building, and Dom, grabbing at him, touched only air. He saw Jack's face the instant before the man jumped, saw what Jack was trying to do, and Dom said, "Yes," and then again, "Yes!" and the little boy let go…

– "-"-"JACK COULD FEEL the strength gathering in the man's legs, could feel it as surely as if they were of the same body, and a split second before the man jumped, so did Jack, but in the opposite direction, toward the building, reaching up and out with both hands for the frame of the broken window. His fingers grasped at it, and he felt a hot, slicing burn, saw blood flowing, his blood, as the shards in the frame sliced into his small hands, but he didn't let go. He felt the man freefall past him, saw him disappear, and now Jack was slipping. He couldn't help it. The pain and the blood made it impossible for him to hold on. He didn't have the strength to pull himself up and one hand slid away from the building and now the other hand was sliding too, it was going, he couldn't stop it, he was falling, he was gone…

Except he wasn't.

Someone was holding him, had him by the wrist. Was holding him steady, pulling him up with one hand, and then it was a miracle because he was back inside. He wasn't dangling over the street, he was on solid ground, and a familiar raspy voice was telling him that it was all right, that he was safe. That there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. That it was all over.

Jack grabbed Dom around the neck and cried and hugged him and listened as the old man told him that it was over. He felt Dom pick him up and begin running. He heard Dom say, You're going to be fine, it's all over, we're going to get you to a doctor and you're going to be fine, and Jack believed him. He closed his eyes because suddenly he couldn't keep them open anymore, and somehow he knew they were back in the elevator. As he felt the whoosh of the elevator going down, Jack did not know what was going to happen now. He understood that his mother was dead and so was the bad man. He was with Dom, he understood that, too, and somehow that felt right, Dom would keep him safe. He remembered how this day had started out so special, and he didn't understand, didn't know if he'd ever understand, how it had all gone so wrong. And before the elevator doors opened, before the policemen and the media and the emergency medical crew and the crowds that had gathered on the street began talking and yelling and taking pictures and wrapping him in a blanket and carrying him away, Jack understood one thing above all else: for the rest of his life, for as long as he lived, forever and ever, this would be the worst thing that ever happened to him.

Ten-year-old Jack Keller knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt, with absolute certainty, and it was his only comfort. He could never again be hurt like this. Never again would he feel this kind of suffering. This kind of pain or loss or paralyzing terror.

He knew it.

But he was wrong.

And many years later, when the terror came back, when the pain was worse and the suffering unimaginable, Jack understood just how wrong he'd been.

Jack Keller was twenty years old when he first thought he might be falling in love. He'd been infatuated with Caroline Hale since he'd first seen her, sitting in a psych class, seven seats to the left and three rows behind him. Of course, in the late 1970s, just about every male on the Columbia University campus was in love with Caroline from afar. He was not the only one, by any stretch of the imagination, to keep turning and staring during that lecture. She was worth staring at.

And it wasn't just her physical beauty, although that was reason enough. It was certainly reason to crane his neck almost every day in class so he could glance furtively as often as he could. Her face was angular, yet soft and lovely. High cheekbones and lips were perfect, not too thin, not too full. Serious eyes that seemed to change with her surroundings, sometimes a piercing blue, then at times a melancholy gray, even a turbulent violet. Her hair was dark brown and straight, long enough to reach her shoulders, sometimes tied back in a ponytail that made her look seven years old. Her legs were long and muscular and tan and quite visible, usually extending from the bottom of a short black skirt, and she had a way of crossing them – particularly when she became absorbed in her extensive note taking – that was so casually provocative it made Jack's heart pound. Jack couldn't understand how her legs stayed so tan, even in the New York winters. Later, when he got to know her, found out that she came from money, it was the first thing he noted to himself about rich people: they seemed to always be tan, as if their money awarded them more sunlight than was allowed to shine down on poor people.

Jack was never tan. He was one of the poor people, there on scholarship, working at night to pay the rest of his way. He had never even thought much about having money. Not until he saw Caroline. And even then it wasn't the money he was thinking about. It was those legs that were always so brown and elegant. He wondered what he'd have to do to be allowed near them, to caress them with his rough and callused and very white hands.

He watched her for almost a whole year. Never following her, just noticing her when she was near. And not pining, either; she didn't dominate his thoughts – he had girlfriends, his life was busy and full – but never quite removing her from his consciousness. Whenever he'd see her, in a class, across a campus, at a bar or party, he'd study her, marveling at her ease. It was inconceivable to him how anyone could be so sure of herself, so relaxed and confident in any situation. Men and boys flocked to her adoringly. Women seemed not to mind, liking her despite her astonishing popularity, reveling in her friendship. Jack, from across rooms and from skewed angles, watched as she was able to let anything and anyone come to her and wash over her – and be gracious and respectful in return, all the while maintaining her distance.

The first time he heard her voice, it surprised him. It did not match up with the rest of her. He had not expected the Southern accent, which was not strong but still had a lilt that permeated every phrase. Her voice was playful rather than serious or elegant. It was ever-so-slightly hoarse, not smooth and perfect. And it was not soft and unobtrusive and gentle, as he'd imagined, but strong and commanding and barbed.

They were in a club on the Upper West Side, not far from Columbia, called Mikell's. A jazz joint, dark and not at all fancy, with good burgers and cheap beer. They weren't there together; as usual, they were on opposite ends of the room. Caroline was with a group of friends, all well dressed, all laughing and talking through the music, all egotistical enough to believe they were far more interesting than the sweet, doleful sounds emanating from the stage. Jack was alone, not particularly well dressed, and not laughing. He was a junior and in a constant state of shock at the way his horizons were expanding so rapidly. One of those expansions was his appreciation for music: rock and roll, sometimes classical, mostly jazz. In the right club on the right night with the right musicians and the right number of beers inside him, jazz could speak to him. Sweep him away into its sensual and mysterious world. This was one of those nights. He was lost in the music, which was why he didn't notice when someone sat down in the extra chair at his table. And why, when the set ended, he was stunned to discover that that someone was Caroline Hale.

"I know you," she said.

He nodded, his tongue frozen.

"From Goldman's class."

He nodded again. Since his voice had clearly deserted him, he hoped that his eyes showed pleasure.

"And from campus," she added. "I always see you looking at me."

Another nod. This one embarrassed. He knew his eyes did not show pleasure now.

"You're usually behind a tree or a statue or something. Kind of lurking."

A nod. Misery in his eyes, definitely misery.

"Can you speak?" she asked.

He nodded again and she laughed. "Do all girls make you this nervous?"

This time he shook his head.

"Only me?"

Nod.

"Good," she said, and smiled, and the smile practically knocked him backward it was so wonderful. "Would you like to join me and my friends?"

He shook his head again. Just barely.

"It's hard to keep asking yes-or-no questions." When he shrugged, she said, "Because you're a snob and you think they're assholes? My friends, I mean. Is that why you don't want to sit with us?"