Authors: Steven James
Opening Moves (48 page)
And with a swift, smooth motion he drove the blade high into his abdomen, aimed at his heart as he leaned forward and then used the force of impact with the floor to bury the knife in, up to the handle.
He fell limply to the side.
There was less pain than he had expected.
At first.
But based on the position of the handle he guessed the tip had found its mark.
The pain began as a tight circle of warmth unfurling through him, turning hotter and brighter with every passing second until it felt like a strange companion, as if it were something he’d always had close by, but had only now, in this moment, begun to experience fully.
He wasn’t certain he’d hit his heart but it must have been close because with each heartbeat, the handle quivered slightly, as if it were choreographed to do so, somehow programmed to move in sync with the arrival of his death.
That’s when the pain began convulsing through him, and that’s when the questions came.
He wondered if hell was real, whether that’s where he would go for doing this, for taking his own life—for this self-murder—or whether heaven awaited him, if he’d ever done enough to deserve it.
A preacher’s words came to him from a sermon he’d heard on the radio one time while driving through central Georgia: “It’s not about what
you have done for God
, brothers and sisters, but about what
God has done for you
. Amen?”
So, had he believed in that enough to receive it?
Your mother—is she in heaven? Did she go to hell for the things she did to her children on those days when she’d had too much to drink? Will you see her again when you die?
Just seconds after he thought that, he heard the front door click open.
Confused, Christopher turned his head toward the hallway, but with no clear view to the front of the house, he saw nothing.
However, he did hear footsteps coming down the hall; two people, he thought, but it was hard to tell because sound and light were merging with the pain rushing through him, the pain that was overwhelming every one of his senses and then blistering apart inside his chest.
It was confusing. Reality itself was becoming fuzzy around the edges.
And it hurt. It really, really hurt.
He grasped the handle to draw out the blade, but as soon as he moved it just the slightest degree, a new shot of pain ripped through him and he had to let go.
He drew in a weak breath and watched the handle quiver as he did.
The footsteps drew closer.
“Who’s there?” He tried to speak loudly, but the words were so soft that he was certain no one could have heard them—not even if they’d been in the room with him.
The pain grew tighter and sharper with each breath. Dying wasn’t turning out to be at all like they made it seem in the movies. This was no gentle escape into the unknown; this was more like a terrifying descent into a scream you’ve tried your whole life to keep from uttering.
“Help me, I …” This time the words were even softer, barely louder than a breath—
A voice came from the hallway, strong, masculine: “He’s in here!”
A woman and a young man whom Christopher didn’t recognize entered the living room and strode toward him. He wanted to tell them that he hadn’t meant to do this, any of this, that he just hadn’t been thinking clearly and had made a terrible mistake, and if they would only help him, he would be okay and—
The man knelt beside him and pressed a pair of fingers gently against the side of Christopher’s neck to check his pulse. “He’s still alive.”
The woman watched silently. “Give it a few minutes. It shouldn’t be long.”
A cold gust of fear swallowed Christopher.
The man moved back to his partner’s side.
No!
Christopher tried to cry out for help but ended up making no sound at all.
And that was the last time he would try to speak, the last time he would try to do anything at all, because after that, everything that happened was natural and inevitable and no longer a matter of the will. Nature ran its course, the universe claimed its next life, and at 5:57 a.m., Christopher Wellington died in strangled, wet silence as the clock just above him on the wall ticked off the seconds, edging its way into the minutes and hours and years that might have been his to enjoy if only he had not chosen to murder himself.
The couple stood by until his chest was no longer moving. At last the man, who was twenty-five, blond, and well built, checked Christopher’s pulse again. “Okay.”
“Okay,” the woman said. At thirty-six she was still in stunning shape, had short, stylish light red hair, distinctive green eyes, and a steely, unwavering gaze.
The man stood. “Do you ever wonder what’s going through their minds when they do it?”
“I don’t think that’s something you would really want to find out.”
“No. You’re right. I … I just … I wonder sometimes.”
She turned from the corpse. “Check the medicine cabinet. I’ll look in the kitchen and the bedroom.”
“Right.”
After they’d retrieved what they’d come here for, the man asked his partner, “So, what now? Up to Boston?”
“No. We won’t be visiting the importer until next Friday. First, we need to get back to Chennai—pay a little visit to the people at the production factory.”
“Back to India? I thought we were going to go to—”
“The time frame has changed.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Now you do.”
Without another word, she led him outside to the car, and they left for the airport while Christopher’s still-warm corpse lay on the living room floor soaked in blood, less than an hour after he’d awakened expecting to head to work for another ordinary day at the office after his shower and customary cup of strong, black, morning coffee.
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