The Ending Hour
by Maya Tawipart five
"These wicked boys brought their pieces
And their itchy fingers
And the panic crawls into my throat
'Cause I turn my head and they're looking at me
And I can't breathe"
--Tapping the Vein, "Beautiful"DAY 1
The first thing Harrison registered when he woke the next morning was surprise that he'd managed to sleep at all. The second was the empty bed beside him.
He shot bolt upright, terrified that Isaac had left after all, and then the third thing hit him right between the eyes: a massive, skull-splitting headache, four days of pent-up stress and enforced sobriety breaking through with a vengeance.
"Motherfucker," he groaned, and curled forward into a tight ball.
He wasn't expecting a response, but he got one anyway: the click of a lighter, a whiff of smoke, and Isaac's flat voice saying, "Here."
Harrison peered through his fingers in the general direction of the voice. Isaac sat sprawled in the big armchair in the corner, looking as composed as ever. There was a tray on the table next to him, holding two steaming hot cups of coffee and a bottle of painkillers. The sight only made Harrison feel worse.
He contemplated the distance between the bed and the table, and told himself he was working up to it. "This place have a minibar?" he croaked.
"No."
His eyes flicked to the small refrigerator under the TV. "So what's that, the safe deposit box?"
"No, Harrison." Isaac's inflection hadn't changed, but something in his voice made Harrison sit up and take notice, his headache forgotten. "Yes, it's a minibar. No, you're not having a drink."
Annoyance kicked Harrison's mouth into gear before his brain could catch up. "Christ, Izzy, I don't even like the dad I've got. What makes you think--"
"Shut up," Isaac said softly.
Harrison took a good look at him and decided that wasn't such a bad idea.
Isaac stubbed out his cigarette and stood. It took all of Harrison's willpower not to shrink back under the covers, but Isaac stayed where he was, pinning Harrison with that same cold, impassive stare.
"Ground rules," he said, just when Harrison was about to say something, anything, to break the silence. "I'll stick around till this thing, whatever it is, is done. I'll do whatever I can to help, and I'll get you back to court in time." Harrison opened his mouth, and Isaac cut him off with a quick, sharp gesture. "I won't ask any more questions. In return, you will do two very simple things for me."
Harrison licked his suddenly dry lips and waited.
Isaac seemed satisfied with his silence. "As long as we're here, you stay sober. I see a drink in your hand, I'll fucking cut it off."
Harrison believed him.
"And?" he asked quietly, his heart hammering in his throat.
Isaac's face hardened even more. "And if you pull that shit again, I'll cut your fucking dick off."
Harrison didn't have to ask what shit he meant. He believed that threat, too.
Isaac jerked his head at the table. "Coffee. Aspirin. Anything else?"
"Yeah," Harrison said, watching him. "I need a gun."
Isaac's expression didn't change.
"I'll see what I can do," he said.
The aspirin and the coffee took most of the edge off Harrison's headache, and after a stop at the convenience store for a tacky-ass pair of cheap sunglasses, he felt more or less ready to face the world, as long as the world didn't make any sudden movements. Waiting in line to pay with more borrowed money, he eyed the stacked six-packs of Molson's with fierce longing, but the memory of Isaac's threat held him in check. He liked his hand. There were some things a guy just couldn't do one-handed, not without some seriously awkward fumbling.
It just wasn't fair. No one should have to face a morning after sober. Especially not a morning after like this one.
But he was going to behave. He'd decided. He had to, because he still needed Isaac. Over the past three decades, Harrison may have elevated gambling to an art form, but even he knew when he'd pushed his luck too far. Most of the time, anyway.
He returned to the car with a weird twisted-up doughnut thing clenched between his teeth, another in a clear plastic bag. "Twisty doughnut?" he mumbled through the dough, holding up the bag as a peace offering.
Isaac peeled out of the parking lot with a screech of rubber. He didn't even glance at the bag.
Fine; more for him. Harrison slumped down in his seat and chewed, glaring out at the asphalt ahead. Guilt was quickly morphing into annoyance. He was trying, damn it, and fucking Isaac wouldn't even take a twisty fucking doughnut.
Clearly it was going to take more than geometrically improbable breakfast food to make amends.
Isaac didn't bother to turn onto the dirt road this time, just dropped Harrison at the turnoff, then took off again and nearly ran over Harrison's foot in the process. Harrison waited until the Geo was out of sight before muttering some choice words under his breath. He hoped Isaac was off to find some illegal weaponry, along with a couple other items Harrison had added to his shopping list, and not to, say, leave the country; but by that point, Harrison was willing to take the risk if it meant a few hours' reprieve from his presence.
The cabin was farther down the road than it had seemed in the car. By the time it came into sight, Harrison was starting to sweat in the chilly November air. In full daylight now, he could see the BMW's bumper poking out of the trees. Otherwise the place looked deserted. The shades were still drawn, showing no shadows of movement within.
The plan was simple: wait for Isaac to come back with guns, rope, and a tape recorder, then go in, tie up Richard, and force a confession out of him. Harrison told himself it was elegant in its simplicity, but the truth was, he was too strung out to think of anything better, and Isaac sure as hell wasn't offering any suggestions. Not to mention that the plan depended entirely on the resources and goodwill of a guy who currently hated his guts, with good reason. Harrison was trying not to think about that part.
He settled down in the tall weeds and finished the first doughnut, then, suddenly starving, wolfed down the second. He licked the sugar off his fingers, then glanced at his watch. Half an hour down; an unknown amount of time left to go.
Across the dirt road, nothing continued to happen.
Harrison was starting to remember why he hated stakeouts.
He had half a pack of cigarettes left, a near-empty gas station lighter, and for once not even a pack of cards in his pocket to pass the time. He could keep his hands busy, for a little while at least, but it took more discipline than he'd ever had to keep his mind from wandering. With no one to talk to, or even avoid talking to, Harrison was left with only his own thoughts for company. As company went, he'd had better.
He kept one eye on the cabin as his brain chased itself in circles. The topic of debate was a given; the ultimate conclusion, less so. He'd made a mistake last night, that much was obvious. He just wasn't sure how it could have gone differently.
Tell the truth? Isaac would never believe him.
Make something up? Isaac would know he was lying.
Tell a partial truth? He had my mom and my sister killed. Why? It's complicated. So uncomplicated it. You'd never believe it. Try me.
And back to square one. Because information was Isaac's stock in trade, and he'd never settle for just half the story. He always had to know. The weird part was that he'd let Harrison keep his secrets for as long as he had.
And why did he? Meredith's earlier question rang in his head, echoing like the pound of a judge's gavel. Why the hell had Isaac come running to the rescue, dropping obscene amounts of money to save Harrison's ass, long after Harrison had even stopped sleeping with him? Why was he keeping tabs on who Harrison was loitering-with-intent with outside the Paradise, and why did he look so goddamn betrayed last night?
The obvious answer would have seemed, well, obvious, if it didn't make Harrison want to laugh, or cry, or maybe just hit things. There was a reason they'd broken up in the first place. That star-crossed shit only worked in chick flicks and bad romance novels. In real life, he wasn't about to get back into a life of crime, and Isaac wasn't about to get out, and that was the end of it, full stop.
Except it wasn't, because Harrison kept asking for favors, and Isaac kept granting them. And Harrison did him the fucking favor of assuming Isaac was a big boy who could make his own decisions, and if he didn't want to do something, then he wouldn't do it. Now it was starting to look like maybe he'd overestimated them both.
None of which was doing anything but confusing Harrison even more. Habit made him want to justify his actions; something else entirely kept piping up about, like, Isaac's feelings and shit. Which was. Just. Before last night, he didn't even think Isaac had feelings.
Meanwhile, he was down to his next-to-last cigarette, and the sun had barely moved across the sky.
Harrison shook himself, stretching and cracking his joints in an attempt to snap out of it. He was shivering now, but he didn't dare get up and walk around to warm up, in case Richard spotted the movement from across the road. And damn it; he was cold, bored, stuck in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, stalking his crazy homicidal father, about to go on trial for attempted murder, and his only real friend probably wanted him to go die in a fire. He was tired of being sober. He didn't deserve to be sober. But if he couldn't have a drink, he wanted at least to do something.
Except he couldn't, not yet. If he'd been armed, licensed, and had his cell phone with Spencer on the speed dial, he might have at least crossed the road to go take a closer look. As it was, this was too big to risk on the kind of stellar tactical thinking that had landed him in this mess in the first place. With no gun, no phone, and no legal standing whatsoever, he couldn't do a damn thing until Isaac came back.
And wouldn't that little reunion just be a barrel of laughs.
Harrison sighed, lit his last cigarette with the butt of his old one, and resigned himself to the long wait.
It was just before sunset when Harrison heard a car approaching along the dirt road. He shook himself out of his stakeout-induced stupor and started to stand; then native wariness kicked in, and he stayed in a crouch, watching through the tall weeds as the car came into view.
A smart move on his part, as it turned out, because the car wasn't a Geo, and the driver wasn't Isaac. Harrison stopped breathing as he recognized the long fall of dark blond hair.
The car pulled into the long driveway, bouncing over the rutted ground, and stopped next to the BMW. Out of habit, Harrison committed the license plate number to memory. Olivia Doyle stepped out, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. She started for the front door, then hesitated, shooting a suspicious glance behind her; Harrison shrank back down in the weeds. He would have held his breath, if he wasn't already.
After a long, long moment, she turned back to the cabin and, this time, vanished around the back.
Game on.
Harrison stood, dusting off his jeans, and stepped out into the road, all thoughts of the plan forgotten. He'd just reached the driveway when someone grabbed him and hauled him down into another tall patch of weeds.
A hand clapped over his mouth, stifling his yelp. He kicked and struggled, heart pounding, and got in a couple good blows before he was flipped over onto his back and a familiar weight settled full-length on top of him.
He froze, and Isaac hissed, "What the fuck are you doing?"
Shit. Dude looked pissed.
Harrison rolled his eyes down to the hand over his mouth. After a few tense seconds, Isaac pulled it away. Harrison sucked in a few deep breaths, then demanded in an undertone, "Man, where the hell did you come from?"
"You weren't paying attention," Isaac snapped, matching his low voice. "A fucking Pride Parade could've rolled down the street and you wouldn't have noticed. Damn it, Harry, we had a plan!"
We? Harrison shifted; it was getting hard to breathe. "Dude, you mind?"
Isaac glared at him for a few seconds more, then rolled off with an irritated huff.
Harrison sat up and checked himself for new bruises. Satisfied with his inventory, he shot Isaac a sideways look. "You got everything?"
"Yeah, I got everything. Of course I fucking got everything."
The guns were small, black, and vicious-looking, lighter than Harrison was used to but a comforting weight all the same. He checked the clip, then stuck the weapon in his waistband and stood, holding out a hand. Isaac gave the hand a long, flat stare, then stood gracefully with no assistance.
Harrison let his hand drop back to the butt of the gun. "Olivia's here."
"I am awash with joy."
And that was it. Time to move, except Isaac wasn't moving; he was watching Harrison with a blank, expectant look, like a guy in a movie theater waiting for the show to start, only he didn't know which movie, or what it was supposed to be about, and wasn't even sure how he'd ended up there in the first place.
Which, come to think about it, wasn't a bad way to describe Isaac's involvement in general.
"What?" Harrison asked at last, shooting an anxious glance back at the cabin. The weeds offered some concealment, but not a lot, and especially not for someone as tall as Isaac.
Isaac's face darkened. He looked a little resigned now, as well as pissed. "Harry, look," he said. "You got your secrets, whatever. But you gotta give me something, man. I'm about to walk in there and point a gun at your dad and some chick I've only seen in pictures, and I don't even know why."
Harrison looked down, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He felt sick. "I can't tell you why."
"Yeah, I got that." The bite in Isaac's voice was almost a physical blow, and Harrison couldn't keep from wincing. "Believe me, we'll talk about that later. Right now, I just wanna know what to expect."
The promise of later lodged in his gut like a boulder. Harrison considered the bright side; maybe there wouldn't be a later.
The bright side wasn't looking so bright at the moment.
He sighed. "He-- my father, he's had people killed. Don't know if he's ever done the deed himself, but he could. If he had to, he would."
"And the girl?"
"Strictly small-time so far." She wasn't even a killer the way Jack had been a killer, before he'd picked up a gun and killed with his own hands. It was Olivia's job to stop Harrison saving people, but she hadn't done it yet.
Not that she wouldn't, if she could. And Harrison knew himself; knew that sooner or later, he'd screw up, and Olivia would win a round, unless he stopped her now. Problem was, he didn't have the first clue how to do that. The entirety of his plan had been to extract a confession from his father. He hadn't known Olivia would be there. Hadn't even thought about that loose end.
One thing at a time. He raised his head and met Isaac's steady stare. "They're both dangerous. Just be careful."
Isaac smiled with something almost like real humor and cocked his gun. "Hey, careful's my middle name."
Harrison couldn't resist. "I thought it was Aloysius."
Isaac pointed the gun at him. "Down, bitch."
Harrison grinned.
Isaac sighed and looked back at the cabin. "Come on. Let's do this shit."
After sitting still for so long, Harrison expected to feel antsy, even nervous, at the prospect of imminent action. Instead, as they stalked around the cabin to the back door, guns in hand, he felt a strange sort of calm settle over him. Whatever tensions there were between him and Isaac were forgotten for the moment; they moved in tandem, communicating with nothing more than a glance.
The backyard was even more overgrown than the front. They kept to the edges of the building, moving in turns toward the door, until they were pressed back against the wall on either side. No angry shouts came from within; no one poked a head out to investigate.
Another quick glance. Harrison reached over and tested the doorknob with his hand. It was unlocked.
Go, Isaac mouthed.
He flung open the door and stepped inside, gun raised.
The scene that greeted him was almost absurd in its domesticity. Harrison's father was holding a frying pan over an open flame on the stove, wearing-- was that an apron?-- as Olivia stood at a cutting board on the counter, her knife frozen in mid-chop. They stared at Harrison in obvious shock. Half a carrot fell from Olivia's hand and rolled across the floor.
Behind Harrison, Isaac said, "Oh yeah, they're dangerous killing machines."
"Hey, Dad," Harrison said, baring his teeth. "Remember our last chat? We were so rudely interrupted that time. Mind if we pick up where we left off?"
Richard's mouth worked for a few seconds before any sound came out. "Harrison," he said at last, sounding strangled.
"Nuh-uh," Harrison said, as he started to step forward. Richard stopped. "Put down the frying pan and step away from the stove, Wolfgang." He paused. "Wait, turn the stove off first."
"Don't even try it, Goldilocks," Isaac added, and Harrison glanced at Olivia in time to see her put down the knife, her eyes hard and her mouth tight. He'd forgotten about her again.
"Harrison, listen to me," his father said. He spread his hands in front of him as if to say, Look, I'm harmless! "I know last time we didn't exactly get off on the right foot--"
"You had me arrested, you dick!"
"To be fair," Richard said, "you did point a gun at me. Much like you're doing now, in fact."
"Man's got a point," Isaac said.
Harrison narrowed his eyes, though he didn't look away from his father. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm just saying, he does have a point."
Richard's eyes flicked between the two of them, and Harrison saw the comprehension dawn. "I should have known," he said, with the faintest trace of a sneer. "No wonder you wouldn't take my money. How does it feel, being a kept boy of a criminal?"
The question hit a little too close to home now. Harrison would have hit him if he didn't have to keep both hands on the gun to keep it from shaking. "Shut up," he said through clenched teeth. "There's only one thing I wanna hear from you anymore."
"And what's that?"
"Good question," Isaac muttered.
Harrison ignored him. "The truth. In front of God and witnesses and your own damn daughter, I wanna hear you tell the truth."
"I already told you everything."
"Yeah, well, consider that a dress rehearsal." Harrison stepped back, far enough to keep them both covered, and nodded sideways at Isaac. "Tie 'em up."
Isaac took care of Olivia first, keeping a wary eye on the cutlery as he dragged her to one of the kitchen chairs. She struggled a little, scowling, but didn't say anything. Harrison would have worried about her mental state if he hadn't seen her eyes: hard and alert, assessing the situation with lightning-quick glances. She wasn't dumb, just waiting.
Richard was next, and Isaac was a lot less gentle with the ropes this time. Probably still smarting from the "kept boy" crack. He wasn't the only one.
"Nice knots," Harrison said, giving them the once-over once both were secure.
"Boy Scouts," Isaac said, giving him a three-fingered salute.
"Those fingers better not mean what I think they mean."
"Depends on how you feel about the Scouts."
"Are you done?" Olivia, finally opening her mouth. Her voice matched her face: tense, no-nonsense, and completely unimpressed.
"Just about," Harrison said. He tucked the gun in his jeans with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other, thumbing on the tape recorder. Richard didn't need to see it. No point in giving the man performance anxiety.
Isaac closed the back door and leaned against it, arms crossed.
"Now," Harrison began, "first of all--"
Which was as far as he got before the front door flew open, Jack Harper walked in, and Harrison's plan was shot all to hell.
Jack stopped in the doorway, gaping, and Harrison stared dumbly back. For a split second, nobody moved; then Jack dropped the duffel bag from his shoulder, Richard shouted "Jack, he's armed!" and Isaac cracked him across the face, too late.
Harrison's paralysis broke. He pulled his gun again, only to find that Jack had done the same, and they were now aiming at each other. Good old-fashioned standoff.
He stared down the barrel of Jack's gun and wondered if it was the last thing Tru had seen before she'd died.
"Harrison," Jack said, circling slowly into the kitchen. "You never call, you never write." His usual obnoxious cheer seemed strained.
Harrison tracked him as he moved, finger tensing on the trigger. "Jack. Still popping up where you're not wanted."
"That's open to debate." Jack cocked his head. "Nice gun. Mine's bigger, but hey, they do say size doesn't matter."
"Harry," Isaac said. "Who is this guy?"
"Long story." Harrison didn't look at him. "Just walk away, Jack. You're not part of this anymore."
"Would that I could." Jack almost sounded sincere. As sincere as he ever sounded, anyway.
"Don't see who's stopping you."
"And that's your problem, Harrison. That's always been your problem. You never see the big picture."
"The big picture?" Harrison echoed, incredulous. "Jack, you're not even in the picture. You've been out of the picture since Tru died."
"Let's poll the audience," Jack said after a short pause. "What do you think, Dick? Am I out of the picture?"
"Stop playing games, Jack," Richard snapped.
"Oh, trust me, Dick. This isn't a game for me."
Harrison wanted to turn, wanted to see his father's expression, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Jack. He could see Isaac out of the corner of his eye, still against the back door, gun still in his waistband; his hand started to creep down, reaching for it, and Harrison gave a tiny shake of his head. Jack would see the movement. Jack didn't miss a trick.
"Smart move, Harry," Jack said, confirming his fears. "Drop it, Isaac. Kick it to me."
Looking murderous, Isaac did so.
Jack put his foot on the gun but didn't bend to pick it up. "See, Harrison, I don't want to shoot you or your friend. I didn't want to shoot Tru either. Obviously, what I want doesn't count for shit, am I right, Dick?"
"Jack," Richard growled, and again Harrison fought the urge to turn around. He wondered what his father was thinking, wondered if he could actually go through with it this time, could watch his son be murdered in front of him.
"He almost killed you once, you know," Jack said, as though reading Harrison's mind. "What was it, ooh, years ago now. Christmas Eve, remember? When he gave you that apartment?"
"Jack!" Richard shouted.
Jack ignored him. "Yeah, nice gesture, huh? Last-minute save, more like. We'd been meeting there for weeks. You followed him, saw us together, and ran off to tell Tru like a good little boy. Except Richard here stopped you. I watched it all, Harrison, watched him wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze. Only he couldn't go through with it. He cared too much." His voice dripped with disdain. "Too bad the day restarted before you could tell Tru. Too bad for you, I mean; lucky for us."
Harrison stared, feeling light-headed and dizzy. He wanted to throw up. That apartment had been the last decent thing his father had ever done for him, and now it wasn't even real. Now he could almost feel the fingers tightening, crushing his windpipe, cutting off his air....
"You like watching, huh, Jack?" he managed to grit out, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. "You get off on that?"
"Honestly, Harrison," Jack said, looking wounded. "What do you take me for?"
"A homicidal bastard with a gun in my face?"
"Well, sure," Jack said. "But I'm not sick."
"Really?" Harrison didn't even recognize his own voice now; it echoed in his head, someone else's words pouring out of his mouth, someone who could talk about That Night in Baltimore without years of massive therapy. "That all depends, doesn't it? Just tell me one thing. Did you know back in Baltimore that he's your father too? Did you know you're my fucking brother?"
"Apt choice of words," Jack mused, barely even missing a beat.
"Do it, Jack!" Richard sounded hysterical.
"He just told me to kill you," Jack said. "In case you missed the subtext there. I told you he couldn't go through with it, Harry. I think he's changed a little since then, don't you?"
"I don't believe it," Harrison said, numb and still staring. "You knew."
"Oh, he never told me. I figured it out all by myself. Didn't know that, did you, Dick?" Jack added, over Harrison's head. "You always did underestimate me. Sad, considering I've got your genes."
"You knew, and you still--" Abruptly Harrison came back to himself, and he choked on the words.
"Okay," Jack said after a moment. "So maybe I'm a little sick."
"Why?"
"Come on, Harry. We already had this conversation."
"So refresh my memory."
"Damn it, Jack--"
"You, shut the hell up!" Harrison shouted; the urge to turn was overwhelming now, to look his father in the eye and make him explain, but he wasn't about to let Jack out of his sight for a second. "You fucking nutcase, I don't believe you! You killed your wife, you killed your daughter, and now you're gonna kill me too?"
"Harry--"
"Don't--"
"I don't want to do this! I wouldn't have to, if you would've just seen reason!"
Would have. Not will. In Richard's mind, it was a done deal.
Fair enough; Harrison wasn't about to see reason. Not his father's version of it.
Which seriously limited his options. Right now, they were pretty much limited to none. Jack might not want to kill him-- though Harrison doubted that-- but there was no question he would, and probably soon. Maybe Harrison would get lucky and shoot him first. More likely they'd just end up shooting each other, and of all the ways Harrison definitely didn't want to go, dying side-by-side with Jack Harper was pretty near the top of the list, jockeying for position with a tragic poodle accident in the middle of downtown.
If only they'd just waited outside a little longer, until Jack turned up. If only he'd known Jack was coming. If only he could do it all over....
The thought made a terrible kind of sense.
As much as Harrison didn't want to die, he wanted Isaac to die for him even less. He'd dragged Isaac into this; it was Harrison's responsibility to get him out. But if this thing came down to a shootout, and if Jack survived, then Isaac would be the next to go. They couldn't leave him alive. They couldn't afford witnesses.
Harrison only had one card left to play. But first, he had to make sure.
"Izzy," he said out of the corner of his mouth, never taking his eyes off Jack. "How bad do you wanna live?"
Isaac, too, kept his eyes on the gun. "Pretty fucking bad right now, Harry."
"Izzy."
"What?"
"Be sure. Be really goddamn sure."
Jack's eyes widened. "You wouldn't," he said. "No way."
But he didn't sound certain.
Harrison ignored him. "How bad, Isaac?"
"Whaddya want, a fucking number?" Isaac snapped.
"Richard," Jack said in an undertone. His voice was half warning, half plea.
"Son," Richard said, "please, don't do this, don't make me do this," and oh, now he was begging?
"I'm not making you do shit," Harrison growled. Jack filled his entire field of vision; he knew that, as soon as he looked away, Jack would shoot.
"Harrison, you don't know what you're doing, you don't-- you can't--"
He had one chance. One chance to end it all, right here.
"Izzy," he said.
"What?"
A split second was all it would take. Glance away, shift aim--
"I really hope this works," Harrison said, and fired.
He wasn't the best shot ever, but at that distance, he couldn't miss. The bullet went right between Isaac's eyes; Isaac was dead before he hit the floor.
Harrison had heard the second explosion, so close to the first that it almost sounded like a single gunshot, but he didn't feel anything at first. For a moment, relief mingled with panic-- if Jack had missed, if he'd miscalculated, if he'd sacrificed Izzy for no reason... and then the curious numbness in his chest that he'd taken for simple horror started to give way to pain, his knees gave out, and the relief and panic flip-flopped in an instant. No miscalculation, but now he was shot, he was dying, and holy shit it fucking hurt.
Funny how he'd failed to factor in that little detail.
Sticky warmth spread over his chest as he collapsed, soaking into his T-shirt. His breath was labored and wet. He was dying, but not yet. Jack should've gone for a head shot too; why hadn't he? Panic, guilt, or bad aim? Not lingering sentiment, brotherly or, well, otherwise. Harrison couldn't let himself think that; it was too pathetic, even for him.
Dimly he heard his father's choked voice, apologizing of all fucking things, saying something else he couldn't quite hear. Harrison tuned it out and slowly, agonizingly turned his head, ignoring the fresh burst of pain, staring at Isaac's slack face and willing it to move. Ask, you bastard, he tried to say, but all that came out was a wet gurgle. He tasted blood and would have gagged, but his throat wouldn't work.
A shadow fell over him. He managed to turn his head back with effort. Jack stood next to him, staring down, gun pointed down at his face.
"Nice try, Harry," Jack said.
So much for sentiment. Harrison bared his teeth in a snarl.
"Sorry it had to end like this," Jack added, and cocked the gun. And the hell of it was, he really did sound sorry.
You son of a bitch.
The sentiment echoed Harrison's own thoughts, so much that at first, he thought that was all it was. It was Olivia's expression that convinced him otherwise-- still tied to the chair, her eyes wide and terrified, fixed on Isaac's corpse. Through the growing darkness of his vision, Harrison thought he saw her face pale. She'd heard it too.
It was certainly the least friendly call for help he'd ever received, but then, that was Isaac all over.
Harrison managed one last bloody, triumphant grin, and saw Jack's face slacken in surprise, saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
Too late, asshole.
That time, it was all him.
When it hit, it hurt-- worse than getting shot, worse than anything he'd felt in his life, and that included a couple of professional beatings at the hands of guys who beat up people for a living. He could feel the bullet crawling backwards out of his ribcage, inch by agonizing inch, and it felt like his chest was being ripped apart from the inside out.
It felt fucking great.
MAY | NOVEMBER (1) | NOVEMBER (2) | NOVEMBER (3) | DAY 1 | DAY 2 | AFTER | EPILOGUE Email: mayatawi@populli.net