scene he’d written before leaving for Riverwood. At the end of it, Slovak stood at the far corner of the building, the vast city stretching out behind him, its spires and smokestacks charred black against a “bloodred dawn.”
Graves stared at the word “bloodred” for a moment, decided it was lurid, and considered changing the color of the sunrise first to wine, then to burgundy. But thesewords seemed too soft. Too romantic. And so he decided to eliminate color altogether, so that with the rapid addition of a row of x’s Slovak now stood with his back to a jagged cityscape, the buildings in a black silhouette against a background whose exact shading the reader could provide.
With that decision, Graves began to type again:
“At last,” Kessler said. He was grinning maliciously, his teeth broken and crazily slanted, a mouthful of desecrated tombstones. “At last I am bored enough to kill you.”
Slovak wondered if he might yet deny Kessler that final victory. Glancing over the side of the building, he calculated the speed of his fall, the force of the impact. He imagined the sound of his bones as they struck the street below, sensed the sweetness of oblivion.
“Good-bye,” Kessler told him.
Slovak said nothing, but merely stared silently into his eyes.
Kessler squared himself, took the pistol in both hands, and steadied his aim. “Yours was a heart I truly loved to break,” he murmured as he drew back the cock and slowly began to squeeze the trigger.
Now what?
Graves stared at the page, his fingers still on the typewriter keys as he struggled to find some way for his hero to get out of his predicament. This was the part he hated—the working out of the physical details, when it was the hearts and minds he really cared about. Still, it couldn’t be avoided. Slovak must escape if the series was to continue. The only question was by what means.
Graves considered the possibilities. The first to occur to him was that Slovak could go over the side of the building just as Kessler pulled the trigger. Then he could grab therailing of the fire escape and swing to safety on the landing below.
He evaluated this idea for a moment, trying to recall if he’d ever used it. Various scenes of physical peril raced through his mind, tight spots he’d put Slovak in, then saved him from at the last minute. In
The Prey of Chance
, Slovak had hurled himself onto a passing coal barge. In
The Secrets of the Chamber
, he’d leaped in the path of an oncoming train, then scrambled out of harm’s way, leaving Kessler standing on the deserted rails, a thin, bemused smile playing on his lips.
But Slovak had been younger then, vastly more agile, emboldened by a sense of his own invulnerability. In those earlier, less disillusioned days, he’d wanted to live, had expected his wife to live, had envisioned their growing old together, enjoying the comfort of their final days. His life had seemed to have a determined and authentic course then, a perceivable direction. He’d felt worthwhile, his work a mission, Kessler’s recent escapes not yet a prelude to a life of failure.
But Slovak was middle-aged now, Graves thought, childless and alone, his body heavy, earthbound, a sack of flesh and blood, his mind continually racked by hideous images and chilling screams. Watching him as he faced Kessler, Graves wondered how all this might now affect his judgment, in what grim direction it might tend his increasingly tortured mind. Had he grown so tired of life that it would prevent him from seeing an opportunity for escape even if one presented itself? Graves imagined a rag man’s wagon as it passed along the street just below, saw Slovak realize that its high mound of clothing would surely break his fall, and yet, for all that, not jump.
Graves shook his head. That Slovak might make no attempt to save himself was a possibility he could not allow. Slovak must be saved. But only within the parameters ofhis character. His escape had to be
Graves stared at the word “bloodred” for a moment, decided it was lurid, and considered changing the color of the sunrise first to wine, then to burgundy. But thesewords seemed too soft. Too romantic. And so he decided to eliminate color altogether, so that with the rapid addition of a row of x’s Slovak now stood with his back to a jagged cityscape, the buildings in a black silhouette against a background whose exact shading the reader could provide.
With that decision, Graves began to type again:
“At last,” Kessler said. He was grinning maliciously, his teeth broken and crazily slanted, a mouthful of desecrated tombstones. “At last I am bored enough to kill you.”
Slovak wondered if he might yet deny Kessler that final victory. Glancing over the side of the building, he calculated the speed of his fall, the force of the impact. He imagined the sound of his bones as they struck the street below, sensed the sweetness of oblivion.
“Good-bye,” Kessler told him.
Slovak said nothing, but merely stared silently into his eyes.
Kessler squared himself, took the pistol in both hands, and steadied his aim. “Yours was a heart I truly loved to break,” he murmured as he drew back the cock and slowly began to squeeze the trigger.
Now what?
Graves stared at the page, his fingers still on the typewriter keys as he struggled to find some way for his hero to get out of his predicament. This was the part he hated—the working out of the physical details, when it was the hearts and minds he really cared about. Still, it couldn’t be avoided. Slovak must escape if the series was to continue. The only question was by what means.
Graves considered the possibilities. The first to occur to him was that Slovak could go over the side of the building just as Kessler pulled the trigger. Then he could grab therailing of the fire escape and swing to safety on the landing below.
He evaluated this idea for a moment, trying to recall if he’d ever used it. Various scenes of physical peril raced through his mind, tight spots he’d put Slovak in, then saved him from at the last minute. In
The Prey of Chance
, Slovak had hurled himself onto a passing coal barge. In
The Secrets of the Chamber
, he’d leaped in the path of an oncoming train, then scrambled out of harm’s way, leaving Kessler standing on the deserted rails, a thin, bemused smile playing on his lips.
But Slovak had been younger then, vastly more agile, emboldened by a sense of his own invulnerability. In those earlier, less disillusioned days, he’d wanted to live, had expected his wife to live, had envisioned their growing old together, enjoying the comfort of their final days. His life had seemed to have a determined and authentic course then, a perceivable direction. He’d felt worthwhile, his work a mission, Kessler’s recent escapes not yet a prelude to a life of failure.
But Slovak was middle-aged now, Graves thought, childless and alone, his body heavy, earthbound, a sack of flesh and blood, his mind continually racked by hideous images and chilling screams. Watching him as he faced Kessler, Graves wondered how all this might now affect his judgment, in what grim direction it might tend his increasingly tortured mind. Had he grown so tired of life that it would prevent him from seeing an opportunity for escape even if one presented itself? Graves imagined a rag man’s wagon as it passed along the street just below, saw Slovak realize that its high mound of clothing would surely break his fall, and yet, for all that, not jump.
Graves shook his head. That Slovak might make no attempt to save himself was a possibility he could not allow. Slovak must be saved. But only within the parameters ofhis character. His escape had to be
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