For I must go where lazy Peace
Will hide her drowsy head;
And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead
William Davenant
The airplane cuts through the air high above the Atlantic ocean. Ensconced in the window seat, I moodily gaze out at the passing clouds-castles. In the distance, the sun is setting.
Nothing gives me pleasure. Nothing gives me solace. I can never be satiated. I am a black hole.
Hours later, the plane lands without incident. Wearing an overcoat and a fedora with a bag hanging over my shoulder, I weave my way through the soulless gaze of the passengers slow to climb out of their seats. Overweight, bloated faces glaring at me as I shove through them, ignoring their angry outbursts. I stare ahead with an abstracted expression as the flight attendant welcomes me to New York City.
It’s midnight when the taxi leaves me in a fog of exhaust on the corner of Nassau and Liberty. The wind is whipping my coat about my feet, forcing me to take hold of my fedora. A light drizzle has started to fall from the black sky as I look up at the silvery curtain wall of One Chase Manhattan.
The lobby is quiet, foreboding in its emptiness. As I pass a half-circular security desk, the guard looks up from his video screens and rises from his chair.
“Can I help you?”
“No.”
He comes after me as I move for the elevator. The doors spill open and I slither inward. With his hand on his radio the guard moves through the doors just as they close. He grabs me by the neck and forces me up against the back wall.
“Stand still.”
He raises the radio to his lips. Before he can speak, I grab his arm and twist it until his shoulder pops out of place. As he bends over in agony I kick the button for the forty-fourth floor. The elevator fills with his screams as it races upward.
The doors open to the offices of Avery, Fitzpatrick and Beirne, one of the largest law firms in the country. I step over the guard and the puddle of blood spreading out from his knife-slashed cheeks and exit the elevator. The foyer is dark and somber. A large reception desk sits ahead. Above it, engraved on the wall:
In justice is all virtues found in sum.
Aristotle
Donald Avery makes millions of dollars a year. Murderers, rapists and drug dealers go free and he reaps the rewards. He lies with every single breath that he takes in order to put them back on the street, only to line his already overflowing pockets. His twisted sense of justice, his moral high-ground, exists only as far as his bank account allows.
The door to his office explodes, splintered by a kick. Far away behind a massive marble desk Donald Avery jumps out of his chair. “Who—What?” His words stumble out of his lips as he cowers down out of sight. With a sudden, blinding speed, I rush across the expansive office and jump up on top of the desk. I reach down, grabbing at Avery’s collar and hoist him up next to me. When he finally mounts the courage to look up, his eyes widen at the sight of my face.
“Mr. Grey?”
His words cut off and his eyes dart to my right hand as it slides a nickle-plated pistol from my front pocket. He’s trembling. The light catches the gun and reflects across his face.
“Good night, Mr. Avery.”
I slam the gun against the side of his head. He goes limp and falls, spilling over the edge of the desk and crumbling on the floor.
Radix malorum est cupiditas. Greed is the root of all evil.
“Wh—what the hell is this?”
Stripped of clothing and tied to a chair, Avery lifts his head and strains his eyes against the bright moonlight pouring over him through the high rise window. He tries pulling at his restraints, but finds them too tight and strong for his meager effort.
“Pointless,” I say. He jerks his head toward the sound of my voice. I’m sitting on the edge of his desk, looking at a picture frame I found sitting next to his computer screen. In the picture is Avery, along with his wife and two adolescent children.
“Surprised you have time for a family, Mr. Avery, with the long hours that you work.”
“What do you want?” the begging begins. “Money? I’ve got two thousand in a safe hidden under my desk.”
I slide off the marble, gun in hand, and tip-toe my way over to him. I raise the gun up and press it to his temple. He grovels, trying to turn away from it but I push it into the crook above his ear.
“My wife will be expecting me any time now. She’ll call the police—”
“I’m more worried about the guard I slew in the elevator.”
He’s sobbing. “Please, I have children.”
“I know.”
“Just tell me what it is you want.”
“What do I want?” I ask as the gun barrel slides off his sweat-covered cheek. He looks up at me, relief in his eyes. “I want to know where Jackson is hiding out. He must have needed your help getting out of Germany after he killed those poor nurses and that doctor.”
Avery shakes his head. “We both know you killed them.”
“Regardless,” I say with a sigh. “I want to know where he is.”
“Why? So you can murder him, too? Jackson should have never asked me to get you out of that hospital. You should be locked up till your last breath.”
“Shaddup,” I say with a hacking laugh, raising the gun back up and aiming it at his wrinkled forehead. “Tell me where he is or Mrs. Avery will have to settle for a closed casket.”
Pinching his eyes shut, he squeals, “He’s in Vegas with Jada.”
“With Jada? That dog.”
Trembling, he raises his head and looks up at me past the gun barrel. “That’s all I know. I swear.”
“I believe you, Avery. You’ve done me proud. Because of that, I’m not going to shoot you.”
“Thank God,” he whispers as I turn the gun away and aim it toward the large window. My finger squeezes off six shots that punch large apple-sized holes through the glass. With each one Avery jumps against his restraints, slamming his eyes shut and wailing over the bang of the gun. Smoke swirls from the barrel as I toss it to the ground.
“Ready?” I ask as I reach behind his head, grabbing the back of his chair.
“What—What are you going to do?” he cries as I take hold of the seat between his legs. Looking over at the window, the glass starts to spiderweb outward from each of the six bullet holes, cracking and groaning under the tension that holds it in the frame.
“Please—NO!”
His ear-shattering screams fill my head as I hoist the chair into the air and throw him through the window. I fall to my knees on the glass-covered floor near the windowsill and stare down the slope of the building, watching Donald Avery as he plummets five hundred feet to the pavement. I can still hear his screams for the first hundred feet or so until the howl of the wind envelops him and he disappears against the black backdrop of streets and car lights below.