Precipice

by Tom Savage

  At any rate, she thought, Bob Taylor would definitely be joining them on the Kay tomorrow.

  Stu returned with the drinks, and the director arrived with the final boards. Their new opponents moved up to join them. She fanned out her new hand before her and settled back.

  Tomorrow is going to be lovely, she thought. Absolutely lovely.

  He was going through the breakfront in the living room when he heard the car pull up and stop in the parking lot outside. A door opened and slammed, and a woman— Nancy, high heels clicking on asphalt, blubbering loudly—came to the front door.

  He grabbed the backpack and ducked into the bedroom. He stood just inside the door, listening as keys jingled and the front door was unlocked. Lights clicked on, and the high heels clattered into the living room and stopped. He peered through the crack in the bedroom door. Nancy stood in the middle of the living room, her back to him, in a long, low-cut white dress of some filmy, clinging material, her black curls and pendant earrings glistening as she gazed around at the devastation that had suddenly, inexplicably arrived in her immaculate home: the open breakfront, the displaced furniture, the paintings all askew.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried.

  What the hell was she doing here? She was supposed to be at that party. His hand reached stealthily down into the open bag and grasped—

  Nancy turned slowly around and looked at the bedroom door. She raised a hand to her mouth.

  She knows, he thought. She senses that I’m in here. And now she’s going to scream. The people next door will be in here in about ten seconds. Everything will be over. Forever.

  The hand rummaged frantically. No, not the glass cutter . . jewelry . . . silverware . . . aha!

  He dropped the backpack. Sliding the knife into a back pocket, he forced a casual smile, pulled open the bedroom door, and walked out into the light.

  Nancy’s eyes—red-rimmed, her mascara smeared from weeping—widened in disbelief. “Adam!”

  “Hi,” he said, grinning sheepishly.

  She stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, they both began to laugh.

  “So,” the young woman said as the pizza was placed on the checkered tablecloth between them. “I understand you’re going to spend Labor Day weekend with your Aunt Frances in Connecticut.”

  “I sure hope so!” Lisa said. She pulled up a steaming slice from the pie, leaving behind a long trail of mozzarella strands. “I usually go every year, but this year Mommy wasn’t sure I should. I’m workin’ on her, though. He’s working on her, too, if you can believe that! I could almost like him for it. Almost. Well, I won’t say any more: I’m eating his pizza. It’s just for five days. I have two cousins about my age, Janie and Keith. They have horses! I love horses, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” the young woman replied. “I think you should go, too. It’s good to get away for a little while, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Lisa agreed. “I love St. Thomas, but Connecticut’s great, too. Do you suppose you could, you know, throw in your vote with Adam and me? Tell her I should go?”

  She smiled over at the child.

  “I’ll be sure to,” she said, and she reached for a slice.

  “Well, what do you know!” Nancy Breen cried. “So you’re the cat burglar! That’s wonderful! I don’t suppose you need the money—”

  He grinned and shook his head. Ten-seventeen.

  “Just doing it for the sport,” she said, nodding. “A little excitement. Yes. Did you knock over the Harrimans’, too?” She sounded more amused than anything else.

  Still grinning, he nodded.

  “Well, that beats all!” she declared, turning away from him and heading toward the bar in the corner of the living room. “What some people do for a good time! It’s this island, you know. The hot equatorial climate. People get crazy ideas.”

  She arrived at the bar and reached for a glass. Nice figure, he thought. She might be pretty if it weren’t for that pinched little face. That dress is wasted on her. . . .

  “Well, don’t worry, darling,” she slurred, still with her back to him. “Your secret’s safe with me. You’re welcome to anything in this house you can carry. Hell, I’ll help you carry it! I’m getting the hell out of here. Back to Ohio. Should have done it years ago. Anything I leave behind will just go to that whore of his. Barbara Conroy. Fucking whore. Would you like a drink before we clean the sonofabitch out?”

  He came up silently behind her.

  “You’re drunk, Nancy,” he said in a low, clear voice.

  She laughed and whirled around to face him. “Well, excuse me for living!”

  He moved closer, smiling at her.

  “Sorry,” he whispered, raising his black-gloved hand. “I can’t.”

  He waited a moment for her to see the knife, for the information to make its way through the alcohol cloud and register. He had to see it in her eyes, that she knew what was happening to her. That was part of it.

  She saw. The information registered. She stared, mouth opening, eyes beginning to widen. The crystal tumbler fell from her hand and landed with a thump on the carpet. He allowed himself one more sharp, exquisite second. He could stand here for hours, poised above her, feeling the power. But now he must move, he told himself reluctantly. Already she was acting reflexively, filling her lungs to scream.

  In one swift thrust, he plunged the pearl-handled steak knife through her heart.

  He jumped backward to avoid the spray. He stood several feet away, watching as she stared at him in uncomprehending horror. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Then she looked down at the knife. The dark stain began to spread across the breast of her bright white party dress as she sank slowly to her knees. She was reaching up as if to pull out the knife when death overtook her. She sagged sideways to the carpet and rolled over onto her back. The body shuddered a moment, then lay still. The pearl handle jutted straight up out of her, gleaming in the light.

  In slightly less than thirty seconds, he switched off the lights, retrieved the backpack, and swung his body out through the bedroom window. He ran down the outside stairs and into the brush. He clambered crablike along the steep hillside, slowing briefly under the occupied balcony, to the point just below where he’d left the car. He burst from the bushes and dashed across the road to the place among the trees on the other side where the Nissan was concealed. He was just about to turn the key in the ignition when another car came by along the road. He peered out through the trees and got a glimpse of the car and its driver.

  Jack Breen.

  He waited a few seconds for Jack to get far enough away up Skyline Drive. Then he started the engine and raced away downhill, in the opposite direction.

  As the red Nissan sped through the night on its way home, he glanced once more at his watch. Ten twenty-nine. He’d be back at Cliffhanger before Kay, before any of them. He’d been there all night, reading, in case anyone asked.

  But nobody would ask. Why should they?

  It hadn’t gone as planned, but it had worked out just the same. The burglar had struck again, and now he was violent. More attention. Much more than the Harrimans, who’d barely rated a mention in the local media. This would be on tomorrow’s front pages. Everyone would know; everyone would be talking.

  The next one wouldn’t be a surprise.

  Perfect.

  When Kay walked into the master bedroom at eleven fifty-six, she found her husband sitting up in bed, on top of the sheets, reading. He was naked, his enormous body dominating the enormous bed. He looked up as she entered and flashed his most disarming grin, white teeth and pale hair glistening.

  She glanced briefly at the paperback he held and rolled her eyes in mock disgust. The Killer Inside Me, by Jim Thompson.

  Still grinning, staring into her eyes, he tossed the book aside and slowly, insolently spread his legs.

  Her eyes traveled down his body. Smiling, she closed the bedroom door and locked it.

  Lisa came through the swinging door from the kitchen
and dashed up the stairs, Jumbi bounding along behind her.

  “Good night, Diana,’’ the child called as she ran. “Thanks for the movie. I can’t wait till tomorrow!”

  She watched girl and dog ascend. Then, glancing at her watch, she called, “Happy birthday.” A wave and a giggle from above, the sound of the bedroom door closing, and she was alone in the living room.

  She went over to the foyer to turn off the outside lights. Then she moved slowly around the downstairs area, switching off lamps, checking that the sliding doors to the deck were securely locked, removing the keys to the Land Rover from her purse, and dropping them on the coffee table, where they would be found by Kay in the morning. They landed next to a pack of Virginia Slims and a gold lighter that Kay had left there.

  Without thinking, without any conscious motivation, she took a cigarette, placed it in her mouth, and lit it. She stood there in the dark, shadowy living room, inhaling menthol smoke and staring at the blackness on the other side of the glass doors. She couldn’t see the water, but she could hear it in the distance, crashing incessantly against the rocks far below. Otherwise, the house was silent. She was thinking about this odd dichotomy, and had even begun moving toward the stairs, when she heard the new sounds, the muffled noises coming from the master bedroom to her right.

  She stood quite still at the foot of the staircase, straining to hear. She knew what it was: Adam and his wife were making rather loud, passionate love. She could just hear, through the bedroom door and across the room, his moans of pleasure and her sharp, insistent cries.

  She moved swiftly, silently up the stairs and down the hall to her room, a shadow among other shadows. She closed and locked her door, leaning back against it, aware that they were now directly beneath her. The sounds of their activity did not come up through the floor, so she resorted to imagining, rather than hearing, the scene.

  They would be naked and glistening with perspiration, and he would be on top of her—no; she was sitting astride him as he lay back against the damp pink satin sheets. He bucked his pelvis, thrusting up and in, and she strained the muscles of her thighs to remain one with him, to keep to the rhythm. She stared down at his face, his pale eyes tightly shut in glorious concentration, and opened her throat to rid herself of the little scream welling up within her. She threw her head back, red hair flying, as they rocked faster and faster and moved furiously, almost violently, toward that exquisite, excruciating moment when all consciousness would be lost but for the white-hot, helpless thunder in their center, locked together.

  She took another drag on the cigarette and lapsed immediately into a coughing fit. She held the little cylinder out in front of her and inspected it, surprised, wondering how it had got there. She didn’t smoke, not anymore. She’d only done so for a brief period, years ago. And even then, they’d been regular cigarettes, not these mentholated things. The mint-tinged taste was foul in her mouth.

  Then she was across the room, flinging open the sliding door and bursting out into the chill, crisp salt air. She threw the cigarette from her, over the balcony railing, watching the tiny orange spark streak out and down, remembering her similar action with the brooch three nights before. She grasped the rail and leaned out, feeling the nighttime breeze on her face and in her hair.

  They would be finished now, lying side by side in the big bed below her, naked and moist and gasping in mute, breathless pleasure. When they regained their senses, and motion was once again possible, he would reach over in the dark and grasp her waiting hand.

  The tremor coursed slowly through her. Damn you, she thought. Goddamn you. It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be Kay. Kay has no right! It should be—

  The foam caused by the smashing of water against rock was clearly visible in the light of the moon. She stared down, seeing it and hearing it but unaware, anesthetized.

  He had everything. He lived here in this gorgeous house on the cliff on this magnificent tropical island, arguably the most beautiful place in the world. He had cars and boats and all the other accoutrements of a perfectly happy, idle, luxurious existence. His pretty, rich wife made love with him and bought him gifts and anticipated his every whim. He made all the right paternal moves with the pretty little girl. He had no reason—she was certain of it—to ever feel a moment’s doubt or guilt or discomfort. Yet, unaccountably, he wanted more.

  He wanted her.

  She tightened her grip on the cold iron rail until her knuckles throbbed, and even then she refused to let go. Remember this, she thought, as you were instructed in acting class. Remember the feeling, so you can recall it when it becomes necessary for you to do so. Study it, examine it, store it deep inside for future reference.

  Use it.

  The night wind ruffled her dark hair, and the ice-blue moonlight glistened in it as she stood clutching the rail no stronger than her spine, no colder than her heart, resolute, experiencing her terrible, strengthening pain.

  TEN

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 22

  WHEN ROBIN WALKED into the lobby of the yacht club and saw her standing there, a surge of joy suffused him. He’d almost given up hope of ever seeing her again. Yet here she was, lovely and fresh and smiling, a man’s white dress shirt draped casually over her turquoise bikini, dark hair falling loose around her tanned shoulders. So pretty, he thought. So very much alive.

  “Hello again, Bob,” she said. “I’m glad you could join us.” She turned to the others. “Everybody, this is Bob Taylor.”

  He looked around at them all. “No relation.” He stood there in his red-and-white-striped jersey, jeans, and Top-Siders, grinning self-consciously and clutching the box of Godiva chocolate.

  Kay Prescott and Patricia Manning, whom he’d already met . . . Jerry Flynn in the yellow windbreaker . . an attractive young blond woman in halter top and cutoffs who was introduced as “Kyle’s friend Rita” (he wondered who Kyle was) . . . Pam and Betty Hogan, about twelve and fourteen, not twins but practically indistinguishable from each other (Betty was the younger one) . . . a little black girl named Tina . . . two boys, one black and one white, about fourteen, obviously best friends and obviously trying their best to look cool at a girl’s birthday party. He didn’t catch their names.

  When the pretty girl with the red hair shook his hand, he glanced up at Kay, knowing this could only be her daughter, the guest of honor. He grinned and handed her the candy.

  “Happy birthday, Lisa,” he said.

  The child blushed and giggled. Love at first sight. He winked at her and raised his eyes, at last, to the huge, magnificent-looking man standing behind her.

  From the moment their eyes first met, he knew that he did not care for Adam Prescott, and he wasn’t immediately sure why. Maybe it was simply that no man should be that gorgeous—a sexist observation, but there it was. He could also see, deep in the pale, clear blue eyes, that the repulsion was mutual. Or perhaps, he thought, this man simply looks at everyone that way, with a thin mask of civility that barely conceals his obvious disdain.

  The two men produced mechanical smiles and shook hands. Robin quickly withdrew his hand and turned back to his date.

  “I’m glad you called,” he said.

  She regarded him, smiling. “So am I.”

  At that point, a muscular, tanned young man with sun-bleached hair, wearing a T-shirt and jams, arrived from the direction of the beach. He spoke briefly with Adam Prescott, who introduced him as Kyle, the mate aboard the Kay. Kyle had a firm handshake and a friendly face, and his single earring glinted in the sunlight.

  Prescott then turned to his assembled guests. “All aboard!”

  There was much excited commotion from the children, who grabbed the birthday girl and dashed out of the lobby. The adults, as enthusiastic if not as energetic as the youngsters, followed them out onto the beach and down to the dock, where the sloop awaited them, dazzling white against the vivid blue of the Atlantic.

  Adam was the first to leap aboard, followed by the mate. Robin watc
hed from the dock as the big man, clad in white jeans and an open short-sleeved shirt, took complete charge: shouting orders to Kyle, stowing the enormous cooler he’d brought, leaning over to help the children onto the deck.

  Then Robin turned to the girl at his side. She stood there, watching intently as her employer hauled the kids aboard. He noticed her face: something in her expression as she stared at Adam Prescott and the children made Robin decide, then and there, to stay very close to his date for the rest of the day.

  They followed the others. The moment Robin’s feet left the solid dock, he began, ever so slightly, to tremble. He made his unsteady way over to a cushioned seat in the cockpit. Straining to appear casual, he grinned around at the others. The Kay was about sixty feet long, he figured, and it seemed awfully cramped for so large a group. Still he continued to grin, wondering inwardly which peril—seasickness or claustrophobia—would get him first.

  He dug his nails into the plastic cushion as the motor sprang to noisy life beneath his feet. He watched as Kyle jumped onto the dock, untied the craft, and leapt aboard again. Then he turned to the young woman sitting next to him, concentrating on her face and her polite small talk as the boat glided away from the dock and out into the water.

  She asked him if he’d ever sailed before, and he said that he had not. She explained that as soon as the sloop cleared the points to port and starboard and entered open water, Adam and Kyle would cut the inboard and hoist the jib and they’d really be on their way.

  Robin watched the sail rise up the mast and billow out as it caught the wind. Then he held his breath and screwed his eyes tightly shut as the entire vessel lurched suddenly sideways.