The Prophecy

17

After spending the night in a private suite on the top floor of his office building, Payne stumbled into the spacious kitchen, searching for something to eat. The apartment had been built decades earlier by his grandfather. He used to spend so much time at the office — and had wasted so many hours driving back and forth to his mansion in the northern suburbs — that he finally wised up and converted some office space into his second home.

When Payne took over the business a few years ago, he redecorated the place, eliminating the old decor and adding a touch of luxury. Now, when he or his board of directors needed to impress an out-of-state executive or a foreign client, Payne Industries had the most scenic penthouse in the city at their disposal. And when the suite was empty and Payne didn’t feel like driving home, he followed his grandfather’s example and spent the night.

With an empty pantry and a growling stomach, Payne put on some jeans, a sweatshirt, and a winter coat. He rode the elevator to the ground floor and exited through the lobby. Just up the street was a local bakery known for its fresh bread and pastries. On Sundays, it was always packed with churchgoers, but he knew when services ended and avoided those times.

Strolling up Grandview Avenue, the picturesque road that overlooked the city, he gazed at the river below. The Gateway Clipper steamed across the icy water, shuttling Steelers fans to Heinz Field from the parking lots at Station Square, an old railroad station that had been converted into a bustling entertainment complex. Since it was nearly 11 a.m., tens of thousands of tailgaters had been partying on the North Shore for the better part of three hours. By the time the Steelers kicked off against the Cleveland Browns at 1 p.m., the local fans would be so rowdy that people could sit on their balconies and, based on the crowd noise alone, tell what was happening at the game over a mile away.

At least that’s what Payne had been told by his neighbours. The truth was he wasn’t willing to miss a home game to find out. Since Payne Industries had its own luxury box at the stadium, he took full advantage. Like many of his peers, he had grown up in the city when the Steelers were the most dominant team in the National Football League, winning four Super Bowls in six years in the 1970s. That had left an indelible mark on his young psyche. Ever since, Payne had bled black and gold like everyone else in Steelers Nation, the nickname their fanbase had been given by the national media.

Payne bought a box of pastries at the bakery. A couple of fruit Danish would hold him over until he dined on the elaborate spread at the stadium. The doughnuts and croissants would be given to Jones, who was meeting him at noon for the game, and his building’s security staff. Unlike most CEOs, Payne identified more with hardworking members of the rank and file than the white-collar types who ran corporate America. His grandfather had been the same way, starting off as a mill worker and slowly building a manufacturing empire. During his life, he had never lost track of his roots, and he made damn sure his grandson didn’t, either.

Despite the cold weather, Payne followed his weekend ritual and stopped on one of the half-dozen lookouts that jutted out from Grandview Avenue. Held in place by steel girders, the concrete platforms dangled over the steep hillside, giving locals and tourists alike a great place to photograph the scenery below. The view was so spectacular that wedding parties were often seen jostling for position on Saturday afternoons, fighting for the best possible pictures.

With no one around, Payne set his box of pastries on the ground, then fished through his pockets for some change. He found a quarter and slipped it into the coin-operated binoculars that were mounted nearby. As a youngster, he used to come here with his father, who taught him the history of the city by pointing out important landmarks through the viewfinder. The tradition had started a generation earlier when Grandpa Payne had taught Payne’s father the exact same lessons. Now, as a way of honouring them both, Payne stopped and remembered his past.

‘Hey,’ growled a voice from behind. ‘Show me your hands.’

Payne smiled, fully expecting to see one of his friends standing behind him. But when he turned round, all he saw was a silencer pointing at his chest.

‘Show me your fucking hands!’

Calmly, Payne raised his gloved hands into the air. As he did, his eyes never left the gunman. He was a middle-aged white male of average height and build. His slicked-back dark hair and fancy designer suit made him look more like a stockbroker than a criminal. Then again, in today’s economy, a lot of stockbrokers were criminals.

With his peripheral vision, Payne studied his immediate surroundings. A black Mercedes sedan was running on the nearby street. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t tell if anyone else was inside. Because of the bitter winds, the sidewalk was free of pedestrians. At least for the time being. In approximately ten minutes, the church down the street would be letting out, and when it did, Grandview would be clogged with potential targets.

Then again, ten minutes was an eternity in a hold up.

No way would this drag on that long.

‘I’ve got some cash and a box of pastries. Help yourself to either.’

‘I don’t want your wallet. I want the letter.’ Payne took a step back. ‘What letter?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me. I know you have it. You got it from the girl.’

‘What girl?’

‘The dead girl.’

Payne inched backward until he felt the cold metal railing against the small of his back. Now there was nothing behind him but a great view and a drop of several hundred feet.

‘Don’t move again!’ the man ordered.

‘Where can I go?’ Payne replied.

The man stepped forward, closing the distance to ten feet. Close enough so he wouldn’t miss, but far enough away so Payne couldn’t charge him. ‘Where’s the letter?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

The man sneered and pulled his trigger. His silencer flashed, and the bullet pinged loudly as it struck the railing less than six inches from Payne’s waist. It hit so close that he could feel the vibrations in the metal.

‘What did you do that for?’

He ignored the question. ‘We already killed the girl. What’s one more?’

‘Wait a second!’ Payne demanded. ‘Who’s we?’

The gunman sneered again. ‘I’ll ask you one last time. Where is the letter?’

Payne lowered his hands, grasping the rail behind him. ‘Honestly,’ he lied, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

‘That’s a shame, Mr Payne. Then you must die.’

Payne had been around enough soldiers in his lifetime to recognize a killer. Some men had it in their DNA, and others didn’t. Sure, most people could be provoked into murder — whether to protect a loved one or in self-defence — but it took a special sort of evil to look a defenceless stranger in the eye and savour the opportunity to end his life.

And this gunman had that talent.

With that in mind, Payne did the only rational thing he could think of.

He leaned back and flipped over the railing.