“No.”
The fingernail returned to its slow tracing. “I must warn you, we have a number of witnesses who will testify to the contrary.”
“I had a problem before the accident. Since then I have stopped drinking altogether.”
“Have you?” Her snakelike whisper trapped him in an unwelcome intimacy. “As a result of this same accident, you also endured a difficult divorce.”
“You should know,” he said, the words strangled in his own ears.
A slow turn, an almost chanted, “Your Honor, please instruct the witness to answer the question.”
Marcus did not wait for Judge Nicols to speak. “Yes. It was difficult.”
“You lost your little boy, Jason. You lost Jessica, your daughter. You lost your wife. You lost your standing within the legal community. You could say, could you not, that the accident totally demolished your life.”
Marcus found himself unable to answer. Hearing Suzie Rikkers speak his children’s names left him desperate to reach across the railing and crush her neck between his hands.
Suzie Rikkers took a pause for breath, both hands out and reaching across the wooden railing. Her blood-red fingernails weaved and danced as if they were casting a spell. “Have you recovered from this accident and the losses you suffered?”
“As much as anyone can.” Not caring that it was the wrong answer. Not caring how it sounded at all. Simply striving for control.
“I suggest that you have not recovered at all.” Another intimate smile. “A lone attorney, working without support, bringing such a case as this to federal court-would you not say that was the act of someone who still has a long way to go to recover?”
“Objection!”
Suzie did not turn. Did not speak. She simply waited for the inevitable, “I am going to allow the question.”
“No,” Marcus replied, “I do not agree.”
“Don’t you.” Her sigh was a small shiver of ecstasy. “How many clients do you now have?”
“Several dozen.”
“Of these, how many are major corporate accounts?”
“None.”
“And yet, before the accident, how many clients did you carry?”
“Several hundred.”
“And how many of those were corporate accounts?”
“I don’t recall exactly. About thirty.”
“Thirty major clients, hundreds of cases.” She gave him a little grimace, regretting the need to add a slight whining edge to her voice. The intimacy was giving way to the knife. “And now, almost nothing. Except this one case.”
“I said I have other clients.”
“Indeed you did. I’m sure they must be something.” She moved to the podium. “This case against New Horizons is your ticket back to the big time, is it not?”
“Objection.”
Judge Nicols shook her head. Slowly. Almost in apology to Marcus. “Overruled.”
“Let me rephrase the question.” Sharper now, the whine that of a jagged-toothed saw. “You are trying to reestablish your reputation, are you not?”
“No.”
“You are desperate to generate some publicity for yourself.”
“No. That’s not-”
“You have everything to gain and nothing to lose in this case. Is that not so, Mr. Glenwood?”
“I believe this case represents a genuine-”
“Starting over in a small town, operating out of your own house, starving for business, missing the big time. You had to come up with something so off-the-wall, so utterly outrageous, that the press would have no choice but to take notice!”
“No. That’s not true.”
“Is it not. Is it not.” Her features twisted with the scarring of jaded lust. “Would it not be more truthful to say, Mr. Glenwood, that you have taken aim at a fine local corporation and trashed its good name for no other reason than to jump-start your own dismal career?”
“No.” Knowing the weakness in his voice would sound like guilt, caring only that the end was now in sight. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it.” The sneer was acrid. “Isn’t it.”
“No.”
“Well, I suppose then I am done here.” She gripped the podium with a vulture’s claw and forced herself around. “No further questions.”
FORTY-ONE
When Marcus stepped from the car, he had difficulty mustering enough strength to get himself moving. The vague scent of ashes drifted about the car like the remnants of his own pyre. Darren walked over and gripped his arm. “You j-just come on.”
When he saw the three women gathered on his veranda, Marcus could have wept with relief over having someone there to help vanquish the ghosts. Netty was the first to come forward, inspecting his face and then embracing him hard. “I’d like to roast the lot of them over a slow fire.”
Alma was next, her arms as strong and solid as her frame and her concern. When she released him, it was to say, “I brought you some dinner.”
“I’m sorry, Alma, I should never have taken this-”
“You hush up now.” She tugged him up the steps. “You need something hot in your stomach.”
Alma released him so that Kirsten could approach. Her concern was just as genuine as the others’, her embrace as natural. But her arms were sweet as honeyed wine, her fragrance drawn from a season of greater promise. Marcus closed his eyes and gave in to the thought that here he could finally rest.
They took him inside and put a plate in front of him. He ate because they watched him, though the only flavor in his mouth was dust and ashes.
They knew enough of hard times not to make the moment linger. Only Kirsten hung back after Netty and Alma moved toward the car. “I could stay if you like.”
“I’ll be asleep in five minutes.” Though she stood ten feet from him now, he felt her arms around him still. “Thank you for coming.”
“There’s so much I’d like to tell you.”
He had no will left to hold back. Thoughts formed and instantly tumbled out. “I couldn’t say anymore what I’m asking for the trial and what I’m asking for myself.”
She closed the distance between them and reached for his good arm. Only when she gripped his hand with both of hers did she say, “I thought if I stayed mad at you it would keep me from caring.”
“You were right to try.”
She shook her head, causing the flaxen crown to shimmer. “It didn’t work.”
He breathed, and felt his crushed soul tasting a fragrance that was too good for this moment, too fine. He held it just the same, wishing there were some way to keep it always.
She seemed to understand, for her grip upon his hand tightened. “Do you think,” she whispered, “two shattered hearts could join and make one whole?”
His entire inner world keened a sad yearning, but his willful tongue betrayed him. “I’d say it was more the making of a tragedy.”
Even so, she did not let him go. “They say love can heal all wounds.”
No, he wanted to say, that was merely the stuff of poetry and dreamers and a world far finer than this place. Here it was different. Here love pierced with a lance’s thrust, killing not once but daily. But Marcus imprisoned the words behind a tightly clenched jaw.
Kirsten waited and held his hand until Alma’s voice called faintly from the front lawn. Then, she touched his cheek with lips too soft and warm for his hard nature. She crossed the foyer, pushed open the door, and tripped down the steps into the night. Kirsten left him scarred not by her touch but rather by its absence.
When the cars had driven away, he reached up and with two fingers wiped at the spot, seeking to vanquish the flood of yearning. Only now did he miss what he had gone so long without.
Randall Walker passed through customs at the Raleigh-Durham airport with the ease of one who always traveled first-class. His houseman-driver was there to greet him and accept the baggage tags. Randall walked outside and stopped by the big Mercedes parked in the emergency zone. He stood beside the car and took in great drafts of the night air. It did not matter that the place stank of jet fuel and airport fumes. Behind those odors lurked the finest scent in all the known universe-the smell of home.