All that glitters...

"This is all your fault!"

The acerbic words cut through the stillness and sterility of the room.

Michael stared helplessly as venomous spittle left David's contorted lips. The once angelic face, now inches from his own, burned a deep crimson red. The familiar jawline clenched and sharpened. Those eyes, once innocent and expressive, now narrow and vacuous pools, dark and overflowing at the edges. He was drawn to the bulging vein in his son's left temple, pulsing blue under the cold fluorescent lights. The spittle landed. Michael could almost taste the contempt. The wet droplets remained in situ, a stark and bitter reminder that he had no answer to the charge.

Forty-eight hours earlier

The recoil of the Desert Eagle took him by surprise; its whip hammering into his shoulder and throwing him off-balance. His smile broadened. He slowly unwrapped his hands from the shiny steel, admiring the semi-automatic pistol. As he turned it over in the light, he saw his face momentarily, fragmenting in the mirrored surface of the titanium-gold finish. He had planned to return it to the Evidence Room on his way home, but the allure of its power was overwhelming.

What harm could come in holding onto it for another evening?

They all did it; borrowed things from the Evidence Room. Some were never returned, like the key of coke from the Jersey Dawn raids, bands of cash from the underground card rooms, and even baggies of marijuana confiscated during Freshman week. The police were notoriously underpaid, and Detective Michael Ryder didn't know a single cop who hadn't bent the law.

His arrest of John 'the Fat Cat' Dinkleman was already yesterday's news; the front page story already lining the litter trays of the city's feline population. Recognition and admiration were short-lived in his profession. Taking the Deagle off that slimy drug lord was a huge bust. Everyone knew it! So he felt somewhat justified enjoying the fruits of his labour, for just a little longer. Nobody would notice, or question, its absence.

The Fat Cat had never fired the gun. It was clean as a whistle when Michael violated its virginal status by inserting the magazine and firing that first round. It was a status symbol, unusual and expensive. As an everyday weapon, it was impractical; too heavy, too powerful, too dangerous, and far too inaccurate in inexperienced hands. A misfired bullet, unchecked, could travel upwards to five miles with the right trajectory. An accurate shot would not leave much to the imagination. Michael had taken it off the streets, along with the head of the biggest drug cartel in the city. He'd done his civic duty. He checked the barrel - empty; made sure no bullets remained in the chamber, wiped down the gun, and packed it away. Then he removed his ear mufflers and left the shooting bay. No harm done.

"That pistol sure packs a punch!" Michael threw a cursory glance towards the voice, which came from a uniformed Range Officer leaning casually against the open exit door. He was chewing on the head of a cigar being rotated slowly between imperfect teeth. Michael sighed. The R.O.'s eyes remained locked on the holstered beauty, its butt glinting in the natural light which flooded the reception area. Mumbling in acknowledgment, Michael returned his attention to his bank card, which he was swiping for the third time against the mobile PayPoint. He lamented the ever-spiraling costs of privately owned parking lots in the area. If anyone was committing a crime, he reasoned, it was the parking entrepreneurs, holding the public to ransom. The last thing he wanted right now was to become embroiled in a conversation about a firearm that should not be in his possession, and the temperamental Paypoint was delaying his exit from the venue. "Don't suppose there's a chance I could have a go sometime?" Michael froze. Damn it! The guy was still talking to him. His heart thumped a little harder inside his chest. His voice wavered slightly as he began to reply, before quickly swallowing his words. He jammed the card strip into the magnetic reader, and bashed out his PIN, before removing both the card and validated ticket from the machine and stuffing them haphazardly into his wallet. He inhaled slowly and deliberately, steadying his voice. "Sorry, my friend, but this weapon is on loan, and it wouldn't be right for me to hand it off to anyone else." The Range officer cocked his head and, narrowing his eyes, nodded by way of understanding. "Sure, no problem. Can't blame a guy for asking though, right?" He paused momentarily before continuing. "Now, Detective, you have a nice day, and uh... tell that son of yours, er... David, that Jon-Jon from the range says hello. " Jon-Jon bit through the final layer of the cigar, spitting the head onto the ground, before priming the end. He drew in smooth shallow puffs, making no effort to vacate the doorway. As Michael edged past, a thick cloud of white cigar smoke swirled around him and followed him out the door; the acrid scent lingering long after his sedan had left the car park.

David pulled into the driveway of his parent's home. One more trip and his old bedroom would be cleared of all packing boxes. He had moved in with Sarah six months prior but this would make it official. His phone rang as he parked the car. Seeing the caller ID, he fought his desire to ignore the call, but he owed a debt, and knew the consequences of doing nothing. He thought of Sarah, and his unborn child, and took a deep breath before answering, "It's David, what do you need?"

David's car was in the drive when he arrived home. Michael knew he needed to talk with him about Jon-Jon's unsettling comments, but he was tired. He headed straight to his room and deposited the gun into the bedside safe. He spun the dials, flicked on the TV, and allowed his body to sink unreservedly into bed. The conversation could wait until morning.

David waited until his father was asleep. Then he made his way into the room, knelt quietly next to the bed, and spun the dials of the safe in quick succession. One, two, three, four clicks, barely audible over the cacophonous drone of his father's rattling snore, tossing back and forth between the covers. As the safe door swung open, he was grateful that his father was a creature of habit. He reached in and removed the gaudy holstered pistol, together with the loose bullets lying alongside it, and placed them carefully into his backpack before heading back out to his car. He had no idea what Jon-Jon's boss wanted with the gun, or how Jon-Jon had known where to find it, but he was in no position to question him. He owed him his life, and it was time to pay up. This would be the last of it. Then he would be free.

David dipped the car's headlights and parked up under the tree line alongside the park. The late-night winter air bit at the back of his neck. He rubbed his hands together vigorously before cupping them to his mouth; the warmth of his breath against his palms halting the encroaching numbness in his fingertips. He tugged at his woolen beanie, drawing it snugly over his ears. Jon-Jon was late. The engine was switched off. He didn't want to draw any attention. Then, in the stillness, he saw it... a shadow... ghostlike... moving swiftly through the trees on the dimly lit edge of the park. Unnerved, David's pulse quickened. He stifled a cough, his throat constricting with the dry night air. His eyes darted left to right. He reached into the bag, removed the gun, and loaded the magazine with the oversized bullets. Then he sank low in his seat, the gun clenched in a white-knuckled grip between his thighs, and waited.

Where the hell was Jon-Jon? He wanted this to be over. He had fallen into the wrong circles to make a quick buck. The thought of being a soon-to-be husband and father excited and terrified him. He thought about Sarah. He had hoped to kick-start their life together as a family, but one job gone wrong saw him owing a life debt to a downtown lowlife; a lowlife with a lackey called Jon-Jon, who could always be relied on to mop up any mess. He dare not let him down. But something was wrong. Jon-Jon was never late. And there it was again... a shadow moving on the tree line. David felt exposed but knew he couldn't leave. If Jon-Jon arrived and he wasn't there with the goods... He shuddered. The consequences didn't bear thinking about.

He was pondering his next move when he heard the click. "Relax. Be quiet. Don't move." A voice hissed, as a hand came through the now open door of his car, around his neck, and over his mouth.

"What the..." but the rest of his words were stifled under a large open palm. Panicking, David wrestled himself free from the grip, flung himself onto the passenger seat, turned, and fired the pistol. The recoil slammed him back against the inside of the door. Except for the high-pitched ringing in his ears, there was nothing but silence. When he looked up, the intruder was gone. David wasted no time dragging himself back behind the wheel, before pulling his door shut and firing up the ignition.

It didn't take long for sirens to sound in the area. The Forensics team examined the body found on the sidewalk and was quick to link the cause of death to a gunshot wound from a .50 Action Express cartridge, most likely fired from a Desert Eagle. Within twenty-four hours, David was arrested. CCTV had placed his car in the area that evening, and investigations revealed that DNA found inside the car matched that of the victim. Internal checks revealed that the Fat Cat's Deagle was missing from the evidence room. Its last known whereabouts were confirmed when a parking ticket in Michael's wallet combined with the charge on his bank account, placed him at the range earlier that evening, and a few inquiries at the range put the confiscated weapon in his possession. From that point, the investigation raced swiftly to its conclusion.

Present time
David fought hard against the restraints, his entire body convulsing. Then his feet slid beneath him, and he collapsed. He lay where he fell, a salty mess dry heaving onto the white tiled floor. He was about to be indicted for manslaughter and a litany of other minor felonies. This was a goodbye of sorts; a small concession from those in law enforcement who knew him as a boy. He wasn't a killer but he had made some poor choices in his life, and choices have consequences. The coroner pulled the sheet back over the lifeless torso as Michael looked on from his vantage point in the corner of the room. Strong arms, and a set of steel manacles, were the only things that spared them both the full extent of David's grief.

Michael thought back over the events that had led them to this point. He had woken when David's headlights had swept slowly across his bedroom windows that evening. Instinctively, he had looked towards the safe, and, seeing the door ajar, had leaped out of bed. Damn that Jon-Jon! he had thought. Still dressed in work clothes, he had grabbed his car keys and raced out the door, catching up with David's vehicle a mere block away. He had followed him at a safe distance until David had parked and then, realising their danger, had chosen to intervene and extricate him from the situation as quickly and quietly as possible. But he hadn't counted on David's blind panic.

It felt quite surreal, the finality of it all. Michael looked first at his own lifeless body on the hospital gurney and then at his son, prostrate on the floor in chains. A succession of poor choices had resulted in the domino effect that had led to this moment. The pain of loss cut through him. His demise had been quick, but David's would last a lifetime.

Within that brokenness, there were no winners. In the end, they were destined to fall. While others looked on, they had spiraled to their ultimate demise. But the night is always darkest just before the dawn, and with the two of them out of the way, Michael now had high hopes for the youngest Ryder in the family, whose newborn cry was, at that moment, echoing through the halls of the maternity ward two floors above them.