Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Delron Chastain was alone on Pont des Arts. The light drizzle made it hard to see over to the cupola of Institut de France. Behind him the lamps outside of the Louvre only gave a dull glow. But it didn’t matter—none of it mattered.
The metal railing dug into his palm as tiny water droplets coated the back of his hand. He couldn’t look down, couldn’t force himself to take in the empty grate on the side of the bridge one more time. Below, the Seine’s water ran black and cold. Delron looked at it whirling and rippling. He could almost feel it swallowing him, even as he stood firmly on the wooden deck on the bridge.
It’s gone—our lock is gone.
Delron couldn’t breathe. A group of young men staggered over the otherwise deserted bridge. They were too busy talking and j
