Free Sorcerer by Greg F. Gifune Page B

smiled nervously.  “All I want to do is—”
    “Stay where you are.”
    “I won’t come any closer,” he said, hoping to mask his own fear with a docile tone.  “Relax, OK?  Mr. Hope asked me to tell you that it’s in your best interest to settle your debt with him and that you should contact him as soon as possible.  He just wanted me to deliver that message.  That’s it.”
    The man gave a questioning stare.  “You don’t know what you’re into yet, do you?”
    “Honestly?” Jeff asked through a sigh.  “No.  I don’t have any idea.”
    “You will.”  Wychek moved toward the window, the knife leveled in front of him.  “But by then it’ll be too late.”
    Jeff glanced in the direction of the doorway, fairly certain if he made a quick dash for it he could make it outside well ahead of the man.  “What do you owe him?  What does he want from you?”
    “Everything.”  Wychek slumped a bit, defeated.  “And I’m tired of running, McGrath.  I’m tired of being afraid.”
    “Come with me, and I’ll get in touch with Mr. Hope.  I’m sure we can all sit down and work out an arrangement both of you can live with.”
    “You crazy or just dumb as a brick?”
    “I’m frightened and confused, same as you.”
    “Funny how it all fits together,” he said, as if to himself.  “All I wanted was to get out from under my problems, I…I wanted me and my wife to be free from them, you know?  My drinking, the drugs, my running around, I—I can’t stop, I’m a fuckup, and she—she’s a good woman, my wife.  Too good for me, she never deserved this.  I wanted to get better so we could both be happy…free.  He told me he could help us, told me he could make it all come true.  But it was a trick.  He’s a cruel and evil fuck .”  
    “Maybe you and I can help each other.”
    “Ain’t no help against his kind.”
    “He’s powerful, rich and plays demented games with people’s lives, but he’s a man just like you and me.”
    “No he’s not.”
    “Come with me,” Jeff said again.  “We’ll confront the bastard together and get to the bottom of this.”
    Wychek hopelessly bowed his head.  “You tell Foster Hope I’ll see him real soon.”
    Before Jeff had a chance to respond, Wychek rushed to the window, and with a horrific scream, launched himself through the plastic drape and plummeted to the street below.
    A stomach-churning thud followed.
    Jeff ran to the window and saw the carcass of an old refrigerator in the alley below.  Sprawled across the top was Wychek’s broken body.  It flopped over like a rag doll, leaving behind a wide red wake as it slid lifelessly to the ground.
    Staggering back, Jeff fell to his knees and vomited.  When the nausea had left him he forced himself back to his feet and staggered from the room.
    Ignoring the now heavy rain and a burning sensation deep in his gut, he crossed the vacant lot at a full run.  As he rounded the corner and joined a more congested street he slowed his pace and tried to appear calm.
    At the next block he leaned against the corner of a bank, fumbled his cell phone from his belt and frantically punched in the number he’d been given.  It was answered on the first ring, but all Jeff heard was heavy breathing.  “Hello?” he said, voice breaking.  “Hello!”
    “Jeff, is that you?” Mr. Hope asked.
    “Something terrible has happened!”
    “Calm down.  What’s going on?”
    “Wychek’s dead,” he said, blurting the words but trying to keep his voice down due to the amount of people passing by.  “He’s dead.”
    “I want to be certain I heard you correctly.  Would you repeat that please?”
    “Wychek.  Is.  Dead.”
    “Dead, you say?”
    Jeff wiped rainwater from his face with his free hand, looked out at the street and pressed the phone tighter against his ear.  “ Yes ,” he hissed.  “He threw himself out a fucking window.”
    “Excellent work, Jeff.”
    “What?”  Jeff spun back