Tyler Maise gazed stoically at the words laid out before him, his eyes steadily devouring the small, precise print he had just produced. Finding no grievous errors in thought or spelling he returned the pen to paper and signed his name in bold strokes at the bottom of the page.

"Three down, two to go," he muttered blankly as he wrapped the page into a threefold and slipped it into a plain white envelope. Tyler carefully inscribed a name across the blank face, then gently set it onto a pile of number 10 regulars identical to the newcomer.

Kenny and Will were easy. Men understood these things. After the last two years nobody could blame him anyway, least of all his own brothers. God only knows what they might have done, especially Kenny. Fire radiated from the youngest Maise, as if the flame of Hell burned brightest somewhere inside his broad chest, a constant rage of blackness only quenched by violence. That dreadful volcanic nature had both saved and doomed him time and again, his life now no longer his own.

Will was thankfully free of such soul stripping hate. He had fallen at the far end of the scale from Kenny, and Tyler was sure he had never even heard his older brother raise his voice in anger. Their mother would often cry and fret over their differing natures, something Tyler occasionally allowed for himself, albeit for a different reason. His tears were in wonder of how God's tricks are so often played on the very souls he proclaims to love.

Mom was hard and Tyler's hand shook as he signed his name. How do you tell someone who has already suffered enough loss for two lives she must now endure another? He did not mean to hurt her; there was just no other way. Tyler winced as he finished her letter, but he sealed it up and set it into the pile without wavering.

He took a break before starting on his last two jobs. A bottle of Patron stood vigil next to the pile of envelopes, and Tyler took it in hand. He poured a double shot into a clear glass, downing it in one swallow. He relished the taste, but it was more necessity than desire, a tool Tyler needed tonight. The tequila's heat spread throughout his belly, and he let it soothe his jangling nerves. Calmed, he set back to finish the first stage of his mission.

The words to Theresa came easier. What was there left to say, really? She had made her feelings perfectly clear more than once. Actually it was a lot more than once. Theresa Louise Simon - the former Mrs. Tyler Maise - made no effort to conceal her contempt for him, and he had no illusions the situation would ever change. He had come to expect the periodic certified letters from her attorney, the ones seeking more and more money, or perhaps yet another change in their custody arrangements. The only sure thing with Theresa was that nothing was ever certain at all.

A memory snuck into Tyler's mind. Six months after she had left him abruptly he came home to find her storming around his living room. Boxes were strewn about, half filled with a variety of knick-knacks Tyler was dangerously close to tossing out. He gazed at her stupidly as she stood glaring back at him, his brain filled with words but his mouth achingly numb.

"I'm just getting a few things," she hissed at him. Abruptly she reached down to the couch and held up a pair of black, lacy panties. He cringed, remembering how they got there. "You know, Tyler, if you're going to have these little sluts in our house you should at least tell them not to leave their panties lying all over the place."

With that she stomped out, leaving the boxes still sitting in the middle of the floor. It was vintage Theresa and Tyler smiled at the recollection. It felt good, this simple act. Years, had passed since Theresa had brought a smile to his lips, regardless of the reason.

Tyler finished his last sentence and performed the ritual sealing of the envelope before sending to be with the others in the pile. Finally it was time for Maria. The trembling in his hands was such that he needed another shot of Patron. He quickly downed another glass, waiting for the warmth before he dared to continue.

The words to her came slowly. He did not want to forget a thing, as this was his last chance to ever make it right again. For a fleeting moment bitterness and anger - emotions Tyler thought long buried under ash - welled up inside his chest, forcing him to stop and regain his composure. She was too young to deal with this, but the die was cast. Tears fought their way to the corners of his eyes, but a deft hand wiped them away. Painfully Tyler finished the letter and laid it on the pile, making sure it would be the first one seen.

Tyler made short work of his remaining duties. The Patron was left on the table next to the letters, an obvious clue for those who would come later. This thought amused him, too. He gratefully counted on people believing what they see. With nary a look back he grabbed his backpack, slung it across his shoulder, and walked out the front door, habitually locking it behind him. Tyler tossed the bag into the passenger seat of his rusty old Bronco as he jumped in and fired up the big motor. He quickly pulled out of the gravel driveway, making a beeline toward the coast road.

The night was a moonless inky black and stars were out in infinite numbers. Tyler was glad to see no fog covering the view. Sadly he wondered if Maria would ever see a starry night like this and think of him. Tyler ejected the thought and drove on in silence until he reached the base of the lookout. He left the Bronco parked close to the road so it could be easily seen by someone passing by, even at this ungodly hour.

He trudged deliberately up the steep incline, his feet sliding on the soft, slippery ground. Tyler rested at the base of the stairs before finishing the climb. As he ascended to the narrow walkway which thrust out over the water the roar of the surf made its first notice on his senses. Even in the darkness the outline of the water was clear, and the smell of the sea clung to him. He reveled in the cool salt air as it stung at his face and hands.

The walkway was used to watch for whales which find their way along the California coast twice a year and as such it extended out several feet beyond the edge of the rocky cliff. Tyler pressed hard against the railing and peered into the night, allowing the pounding surf to consume him, feeling the power it possessed, jealous in a way. His breathing was hard now, lips slightly quivering in fear and resolution. A long last exhale escaped him, and he stepped back a pace.

Tyler slipped the gold watch off of his wrist. He stared at the initials on the back - T.H.M. - then carefully set it on the railing, being sure to point the face inward. It was three in the morning.

"No time like the present," he whispered. "Time to rock and roll.

The walk to the battered old Kawasaki 650 was short. Tyler quickly discarded the branches and camouflage tarp he had covered it with the day before. He smiled grimly as he wrapped the tarp into a ball and tossed it over the cliff. From here he could see the Bronco resting quietly alongside the road. It caused him to pause, but the moment was fleeting. Tyler checked his wallet one last time. He counted out $2000 in hundreds and twenties, the sole remnants from years of hard work in the world he had created for himself so long ago. Without hesitation he closed the leather fold and jammed it into his backpack. He straddled the bike and quickly brought it to life.

As Tyler eased out onto the black asphalt relief touched him like a warm hand. The world had had its way with him, and now he was returning the favor. A few days from now someone would notice, but it didn't matter anymore. By the time they found the letters and the Bronco he would be gone, for all intents and purposes he would be dead. The grin grew to a full fledged laugh. He gunned the powerful motor and the bike responded beneath him. He eased into the first corner, the roar of the sea now overtaken, and not once did he look back again.

Richard Ehisen is the creator and editor of his own monthly periodical, The Norcal Sports Report, as well as the co-host of The Sport Authority, a radio and television sports talk show on KCBL FM 88.7 and KCBL Television Channels 17 & 18 in Sacramento, CA. Having been involved in organized sports since the age of nine, he is still looking for his first ever sports trophy. Until then he'll have to settle for buying them and faking it.