Hard Fall by Ridley Pearson

Author:Ridley Pearson [Ridley Pearson]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Unknown
Publisher: Unknown
Published: 2010-08-23T07:43:11.409000+00:00

The ride in the elevator takes forever. It is he who breaks the police seal, he who keys in the security code, he who locks the door behind them.

"You will finish what you started," the one with the infected 17 says. "She's here to make sure you do just that." The gloved hand pats him on the shoulder. "She'll kill you if you fuck it up."

She smiles at him. She doesn't look like a killer, but he believes every word. His heart hasn't worked this fast since the hundred-yard dash in high school. That was 1966.

"You'll use Novocain this time. No tricks."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because my tooth hurts," this horrible man answers.

"I mean why me?" he restates.

"Where's the last place on earth I would be tonight?" the man asks before answering himself, "Right in this chair." The grin is forced but effective. It's the eyes that are evil. Cold blue eyes that he suddenly realizes are some kind of contact lens. His legs forsake him again.

The woman lowers the blinds before producing a weapon that seems inappropriately large.

"I can't work with that aimed at me," he protests.

The man answers. "I suggest you try."

The work is difficult without an assistant. He realizes how dependent he's become on his assistants, how slowly it goes without them. He grows nostalgic for all the years he has spent in private practice. Melancholy. Several times he loses his concentration, teased away by both painful and rewarding memories. He can sense that this is the last work he will ever do, his final performance. He has always thought of his work as a performance. He knows that be cause of this, logically, there is no reason to do this at all. He debates stabbing his stainless grabber into one of this man's dead eyes and tearing it from the socket. But he doesn't have the strength for such things. He is a dentist, a damn good dentist, and goes about his work to prove it.

When he's finished and it's damn good work he steps back and signals the man to get up.

"I will need some antibiotics and some painkillers," the patient informs him. He's never liked patients telling him his job.

"I don't have any," he lies poorly.

"Of course you do. You are flooded with samples. Mistakes are costly in this game, Doctor. Have a seat," the man says, waving him into the chair. Then he is pushed down into the chair, and he can sense the violence, the intense anger, lurking within this man. He has to bite down hard to keep his teeth from chattering. He's strangely cold and more frightened than ever before. He feels dizzy and disconnected. "Tell me where the pharmaceutical samples are kept."

He can't answer. He tries to speak but his voice won't cooperate. He sees more of that anger surface in the man's face and he points as quickly as he can. The woman passes the man that gun it looks smaller now and runs off in the direction of his own pointed finger.

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