Craig Larsen - Mania

The murder seemed to unfold out of step with time.

It was past midnight. The air was cool, brisk. November was giving way to December, and a storm was riding into Seattle. Rain clouds had been gathering, looming low in the sky all day long. Fog lay over the waterfront like a heavy blanket, slowly stealing into the city on the back of a menacing, salt-laced breeze. Without a moon, it was a particularly dark night.

A half step behind his older brother, struggling to keep pace, Nicks face reflected his distress. Feeling ill, he had left the raucous, fumy bar in front of Sam, crashing through the doors into the night like he was trying to escape. A few blocks on, his face was sweaty, and he felt flushed, out of breath. His ears were still ringing with music from the jazz club. Oblivious to Nicks discomfort, Sam led the way to the car in silence, his back straight, his footsteps drumming a deliberate, rhythmic beat.

The shadows were so dense that Nick and Sam could barely see the edge of the deserted parking lot where they had left Sams new BMW a few hours earlier. Nick had the vague sense that they were being watched. Neither he nor Sam, though, had any idea that, just thirty feet away from them, crouching hidden beside a rusted Dumpster, a man dressed in rags was spying on them. Waiting. Hypnotized by the echoing cadence of their footsteps.

The lights at the ferry landing flickered in the fuzzy darkness, receding behind them as the two brothers crossed Alaskan Way. In front of them, across the empty lot, a public staircase leading steeply up toward Pike Place Market disappeared into a blackness as solid as a charcoal wall. Several clubs had let out, and the stillness was broken by distant shouts. Two streets down, five or six drunken college students were squeezing into a car, loudly debating whether to head back to campus or look for an after-hours venue. The tendrils of a girls high-pitched laughter cascaded shrilly through the night, encircling the brothers like the hair of a siren, punctuated by the metallic slam of a door. Nick hardly heard the sounds.

His fingers had found a wad of bills at the bottom of his jacket pocket. He gripped the roll, weighing it, then let it go. The paper felt grimy, dirty. Hunching against the cold, he eyed his more successful brother, aware that he must have slipped the cash into his pocket during the course of the evening. This wasnt the first time Sam had come to his aid. Without Sam, he would have been homeless. About a decade before, after their parents died, Nick had suffered a breakdown. Sam had taken him in and helped him through college. Nick wanted to be grateful. He needed the money. He barely had enough in his checking account to make rent. Resentment was welling up inside him so strongly, though, that Nick could barely restrain himself from hurling the bundle of cash at the back of his brothers head. Like a rock. Like a jagged, heavy chunk of stone.

Nick felt his teeth clench. Sam was striding gracefully next to him as though he hadnt been at all affected by the vodka. His posture was rigidly upright. Nick had never really put it into words before, not until this very second. Sam was the more powerful of the two . He had grown up, whereas Nick somehow still felt like an ineffectual kid. Nicks body stiffened. Struggling to catch his breath, he had to fight the sensation that Sam had gripped him around the neck and was squeezing his thumbs into his windpipe. The asphalt danced a bit beneath his feet.

A few steps farther, the small blur of movement in front of them that presaged the attack barely caught Nicks attention. The darkness seemed to change shape in front of them, that was all. Sam didnt see it. Glancing upward, trying to pull himself from his thoughts, Nick looked instinctively for the closest source of light. On the edge of the dark, empty lot, an industrial street lamp was burning overhead, its dim bulb suffocating in a swirling pool of mist.

When the shadows shifted again, Nick reached to touch his older brother lightly on the arm, stopping himself in midstep. His heart leapt. Someone was out there, no more than twenty feet in front of them . The wind picked up off Elliott Bay, slicing through Nicks thin jacket, blowing the tail of his shirt in front of him like a mast pennant.

Sam opened his mouth to ask Nick why he had stopped. He had time only to face his brother before a blurred, ferocious shape emerged from the darkness, rushing at them with a violence that stunned both the brothers, rooting them to the ground. Nick couldnt comprehend the speed with which they were being attacked. The whirling shape was already on top of them before it resolved itself crisply into the form of a tall, crazed man dressed in rags.

Sam was a half step in front of Nick, in the mans path. He didnt move. The wind was lifting his hair, but he stood as still as a statue, frozen with confusion. Nick didnt have time to try to warn him. The man was charging them, one hand reaching toward Sams shoulder, the other raised above his head, brandishing a knife. Nick didnt hesitate. He leapt in front of his brother, reaching for the mans wrist. As he met the larger, stronger man, it felt as if the man was going to trample him.

Nick was aware of how greasy the mans sleeve was. The rancid smell of the mans clothing filled his nose. His unshaven chin dug sharply into his cheek. When Nick reached for his other wrist, trying to stop him, the mans fingers sunk like nails into his ribs. Why wasnt Sam helping? The man was grunting, trying to regain his footing, wrestling himself free. This was no scuffle. He was going to kill them. Nick clung to his wrist. Sam, help, he heard himself mutter. Sam, please. Louder . Sam!

He was drowning. The man was taller than he was. His arms were longer. His wrists felt as wide and powerful as two-by-fours. When the man finally found his balance, he pushed Nick off him and threw him to the ground. The asphalt spun toward his face with the intensity of a cyclone. Nick had the impression that he was landing on the gravelly pavement face-first, without breaking his fall.

Nick was only vaguely conscious of the violence that followed. The knife described a gleaming arc through the mist. Nick heard the sharp slice of its blade sinking into flesh. But the night had otherwise gone silent. Sam shuddered, then crumpled to the ground without a sound. Nick couldnt breathe. He was screaming without words. Why, Sam, why? Why didnt you protect yourself?

Nick gathered himself. His arms and his legs shook. Had he been stabbed, too? No, he wasnt bleeding. His forehead had hit the pavement, and his ribs were stitched with pain, but he was all right. He would be next, though. The man had dispensed with Sam, and he was turning on him.

Nick slid backward on the pavement, cowering, trying to escape. The man was approaching him, raising the knife into the air.