Page 2 of The Writer
CHAPTER TWO
DECLAN SHAW WAS a good cop.
Is a good cop , he tells himself.
Because until he actually jumps, he is still living in the present tense. And that’s the rub, right? Anyone can find a deserted subway station; anyone can inch up to the edge of the platform and wait for the next train. But how many can actually work up the balls to launch themselves from the platform to the tracks? There is a science to it. Jump too early, and you’ll end up under the train. Too late, and you’re bouncing off the side. The key is to be in the air, meet the metal head-on. No pain, just lights-out.
The Eighty-First Street station is a dirty little secret known to New York’s Finest. It’s directly under the Museum of Natural History on the A/B/C lines, and once the museum closes for the night, the platform becomes a ghost town. Also a suicide hot spot. Few trains stop. Most speed up as they shoot through because there is a tacit understanding among engineers: If you’re going to hit a jumper (and odds of that are high at the Eighty-First), you want to do it quick.
The faint rumble of a train in the tunnel, maybe a minute out.
“Do it, you pussy. You’re bleeding all over the nice white paint.” Declan’s voice sounds foreign to him, and the second the words leave his mouth, he gets all self-conscious about it, like talking to himself is the craziest thing in his life at the moment, like that is where all concerned observers should be pointing their fingers.
The blood is coming from a cut on his hand. Nothing too serious, just a scrape. But enough to make a mess of the metal pipe above his head. The one he’s been holding for the better part of an hour. Without letting go, he inches closer to the edge of the pavement and stops when his shoes are half on, half off the concrete.
Declan tests the angle.
The balance.
Tenses his leg muscles.
Relaxes.
Tenses again.
Draws an oily, humid breath, lets it coat his throat when he swallows.
The train grows louder.
In his fourteen years with NYPD, Declan knows of four other cops who died in this very spot. Probably holding the same damn pipe. There’s no plaque or commemorative photo on the wall, but when he closes his eyes, he can feel them standing right there with him. He can hear them quietly counting down the seconds until that train emerges from the tunnel. He can feel their hands on him, ready to give him a little shove. A little encouragement.
Ain’t no thing , one of them mutters. We got you.
Bend your knees. Makes it easier to push off , says another.
It was the next one that got him. The next one struck him like a gut punch, because it sounded like his father.
You best be sure. ’Cause there’s no coming back.
“There’s no coming back from what I’ve done either,” he tells him. His voice carries a faint echo with all the tile.
The train grows louder. The pipe, the concrete, the air—all come alive with the vibration of it.
Maybe twenty seconds out now.
Declan has very few memories of his father. He was only seven when he died in a construction accident over on Forty-First. One that wouldn’t have happened if the foreman hadn’t been pushing everyone to put in double hours to hit some ridiculous deadline nobody gave two shits about all these years later. His father lost his footing—that’s what they told him and his mother. Would he have slipped if he hadn’t been on fifteen straight hours? Not his father. No fucking way. Declan can barely picture the man’s face anymore, but his voice… his father’s voice, that thick Irish brogue—it’s as clear today as it was when Declan was a kid.
You don’t run from your problems, boy. You grab ’em by the fucking throat.
“Pops, you don’t know.”
A drop of blood falls from his hand, hits Declan’s cheek. He wipes it away and catches a glimpse of the small tattoo on the skin between his thumb and forefinger: MM.
“Sometimes you dig a hole and there’s no climbing back out.”
Lights visible now.
The train just beyond the tunnel bend.
Ten seconds.
Every muscle in Declan’s body goes tense. His fingertips are electric. Every sound, smell, and color are amplified.
Seven.
When the train rounds the corner, it’s moving so fast it has no business staying on the tracks, but somehow it does. Sparks fly. There’s a harsh screech. Declan’s eyes find the engineer and a moment later the engineer spots him, and for that quick instant, their gazes lock. Declan tells himself he looks stoic, hard. Resolved. But in truth, he can’t hide his fear any more than the engineer can.
Three.
The world slows.
The engineer reaches for the emergency brake. His fingers curl around it. But he doesn’t pull. They both know it’s too late for that.
Two.
Declan closes his eyes.
“Sorry, Pops.”
One.