Art's heart was pounding, and his breathing was loud in his ears.
"That is one hell of a steep trail." Sven was jogging beside him.
It was Saturday morning, and the two men had decided to get some exercise. In their case, this involved running up the path to Utopoint, a hill at the city's southern edge.
He had been up here a couple of times, and he recognized the teahouse they were passing. It was closed. "We're almost at the top now."
The trees surrounding them were bereft of summer's foliage—dark fingers reaching into gray fog. The air from their lungs formed fleeting phantasms in the freezing air, but Art felt warm, thanks to the blessings of functional clothing.
Art hadn't slept well. Thoughts of murder and its motives had kept him awake. Yet the regular trot, the strong pulse of his heart, and the deep breathing triggered by the exertion had made him feel better, alive. They reminded him of his more active days back in California.
Need to do this more regularly.
The path leveled out before them. The outline of a two-storied, steep-roofed building materialized in the mist—the hotel at the top of the hill. And, at its side, like the emaciated but more elegant cousin of Eiffel tower, a construction of metal struts and ties reached skyward, its top lost in the fog above.
"We're almost there." Art had never tried to ascend the tower running. His feet rang on the first of the 178 steel rungs leading to its viewing platform.
If I reach the top without stopping, I'll get Monica released.
As a child, he had sometimes made deals with fate—deals like this one.
Some twenty-five steps up, he gained the first landing. The first one of five... or six?
"I'll take a break here," said Sven behind him.
Art waved a hand at his friend but didn't stop. The next section of the stairs looked the same as the one before, but its steps felt higher. The cadence of his breathing gained speed and urgency.
Reaching the next landing, he looked up at the maze of steel above him. Steps, girders, landings, fog—he didn't see the top platform.
His thighs ached as he worked on another flight of steps. He grasped the metal railing. It was cold to the touch, but pulling himself along helped.
The next landing was a larger one. He considered walking it to catch his breath, resuming his running when reaching the rungs at its end.
No, that would be cheating.
He crossed the landing in a jog, arriving at the next steps way too soon.
Breath rattling, he ascended.
Step, step, step. Hands numb from the frigid steel. Heart pounding, not in his chest, but in his ears now.
Another landing was just three strides long, offering no respite.
His burning legs were moving through maple syrup, his lungs were in agony. His body had become his enemy—only his brain was still his own, sending its electrical commands to limbs that had stopped paying him allegiance.
Electrical pulses instructing a body to tear itself apart.
One more landing passed. It had to be the last. But the flight of steps before him ended in yet another one.
Why was he doing this? His having a heart attack on this bloody, foggy tower had nothing to do with getting Monica out of prison.
Yet still...
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The Egg at Dumstreet
Mystery / Thriller[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex. The university he works for has fo...
