“He’s whipped through here a few times.”
“What’s your impression of him?”
“If I found him on my shoe, I’d use a long twig to scrape him off.” The easy tone did not alter. “I hear tell the man can be bought.”
“Is that a fact?”
“No sir. But it’s a rumor I’ve heard more than once.”
Marcus turned toward the door. “I appreciate that bit of news.”
“Don’t mention it, Mr. Glenwood. You take care, now.”
Marcus’ thoughts remained a jumble of unsorted pieces as he came out of the judge’s chambers. The long hallway leading back to the elevators was empty, which was hardly surprising, for Judge Nicols occupied that entire side of the building. Another judge’s suite opened from the hall’s other end. Opposite the elevators was a marble-tiled foyer with a fountain that no longer worked. Opening off this were two federal courtrooms. Marcus was walking down the long empty hallway when someone turned in from the foyer and approached him. The man was small and gray and nondescript. He carried a file like a manila shield over his middle. His footfalls were as soft as dead air.
Marcus nodded a greeting as they passed. The man gave a little smile, and just as he came level with Marcus, he struck.
The blow was too powerful to have come from such a small man. Marcus felt as though the fist reached in through his gut, probing for his heart. He collapsed over the arm in a convulsion of agony and escaping breath.
The man was ready for this. He held Marcus upright and slammed him backward. But instead of striking the wall, Marcus fell through a door.
Hands were there to catch him. Three pairs of hands. They dragged him fully into the bathroom. The little gray man kicked inside the briefcase Marcus had dropped. “Watch the door.”
Marcus focused enough to realize the three men wore masks of nylon mesh. The little gray man stepped forward and slammed his fist a second time into Marcus’ belly. Marcus doubled over in dry heaves. Air was impossible to find. His lungs burned worse than his gut.
A hand gripped his hair, plucking his head upward. A wad of material was crammed into his mouth. Marcus gagged, fought the arms that held him. He still could not find enough air.
“Stand him up.”
The hands lifted him upright. Marcus blinked through swimming tears. His breath whistled through his nostrils.
A toneless voice said, “Here’s the thing. I could just tell you to drop the case, and right now you’d agree to just about anything. Look at me, Mr. Glenwood.”
The man’s voice was as gray as everything else about him. Marcus blinked hard. The image came and went. His whole body quaked with pain and the effort to find air.
“But I don’t want you to agree now and forget. Because if you do, I’ll have to come back. And if I come back, I’ll kill you. Nod if you understand me.”
Marcus nodded. The man’s voice was as empty as a waiting grave. Marcus nodded again.
“Good. Even so, I need to make sure you don’t forget me and this warning, Mr. Glenwood. It’s the last warning you’re going to get.” He took a step back. “Hold out his arm.”
Marcus’ eyes shot fully open as his left arm was pulled out tight from his body. The images became sharply focused-a rail-thin man with mud-spattered boots gripped his left wrist and hung on tight. Another unseen man with layers of lard over hard muscle held him in a headlock, hugging his body up so close that Marcus could scarcely move, much less put up a struggle. A shorter pudgy man stood with his palm flat on the door, keeping out all hope. Through the pair of masks that were visible, Marcus could see two men grinning hugely. With their features mashed and yellowed, they looked like gargoyles made flesh.
But the little man did not smile. Marcus saw him clearly now as he reached into his jacket and brought out what appeared to be a bulky black pen. A jerk of his wrist, and he flicked it into a slender black rod. With the swift motions of long practice he reached for the other end, gripped it with both hands, and sent it in a swinging arc down upon Marcus’ left forearm.
His scream was absorbed by the padding in his mouth. He heard the bone crack from inside his body. The four arms dropped him, and he fell, taking his weight on the broken bone. The agony was a bright white fire that exploded in his brain. He screamed again.
The gray shadow bent over him. “Don’t forget what I told you, Mr. Glenwood. Make this case go away.”
A mud-splattered boot moved in close enough for Marcus to see it through his pain. A narrow country voice rasped, “I still say he oughtta die.” The boot reared back, and crashed mercifully into the side of his head. Marcus dove wholeheartedly into the waiting darkness.
TWENTY-THREE
Consciousness came and went like the moon peeking through wind-chased clouds. Twice the nightmare tried to capture him, or at least twice that he recalled. Marcus held for a time to the notion that Dee Gautam had arrived. The little man bore a solemn expression as he said, “You did not listen to my warning.” Marcus wanted to reply, “I listened but not well enough.” Yet the effort of framing those words threatened to split his skull. Soon he was off once more, traversing a scattered realm of dreams. Or perhaps he had never left there in the first place.
The first time he came fully awake, it was to pure astonishment. For there beside his bed sat Kirsten Stanstead, and as he opened his eyes she even tried to smile. “How are you?”
Right then he was so poorly he feared a hard nod would dislodge his skull. His mouth tasted truly foul. His tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth with some gummy industrial sealant. He worked his jaw, and his lips parted reluctantly.
“Thirsty?” She reached to the side table and fitted a straw into his mouth. Marcus drew and felt his whole being absorb the cool liquid. He groaned with the pleasure, then moaned a second time from the pain in his head from the sound.
“I offered to spell Alma so she could rest.” Kirsten held the cup until she was sure he had finished drinking. “The police called last night to say you’d been hurt.”
Her blond head came and went within his field of vision, and he realized it was her movements that were jerky, not his sight. “I should call the doctor, but there’s something I need …”
For a moment Marcus was not certain whether he had drifted off again, passed smoothly back into the province of apparitions and fantasy. Then he heard her draw a ragged breath and realized he was still there. And was glad for it, though holding his thoughts together and his eyes even half-open was hard indeed.
“I’ve made such a mess of this. Of everything. I couldn’t help Gloria, and now I’ve failed again with you.”
It finally filtered through his groggy veil of pain that Kirsten was apologizing to him. For what, he felt he should know, or at least hear and understand. But the words came and went like the sound of waves crashing one against the other, making a gentle musical cadence in time to his labored breathing. Then she stopped talking, and he knew she awaited some kind of response. “You are truly sorry?”
“Oh, yes. I’d do anything to make it up to you.”
His head pounded in rhythm to his arm. His stomach and lower chest felt raked raw. “Fine. Go ask the nurse for something for my pain.” Marcus allowed his eyes to close. “Then come back and hold my good hand.”
His second awakening was to a crowded room. Marcus found that alertness came without such pain this time, which he took to be a good sign. Two women were there by his bed, both in white coats. Alma Hall stood by the window, and beside her was a tall gangly man in a uniform. The man looked vaguely familiar, but the effort of searching for his identity was too great just then.
Without asking, the older of the two white-coated women fitted the straw into his mouth. “Can you talk?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded rusty and disused.