The man lunged at him again, this time with the switchblade an inch or two from Mark's nose. He pinned him in the corner with a heavy forearm, and suddenly jabbed the shiny blade at Mark's waist. Quickly and efficiently, he cut a belt loop. Then a second one. He'd already delivered his message, without interruption, and now it was time for a little reinforcement.
"I'll slice your guts out, do you understand me?" he demanded, and then released Mark.
Mark nodded. A lump the size of a golf ball clogged his dry throat, and suddenly his eyes were wet. He nodded yes, yes, yes.
"I'll kill you. Do you believe me?" Mark stared at the knife, and nodded some more. "And if you tell anyone about me, I'll get you. Understand?" Mark kept nodding, only faster now.
The man slid the knife into a pocket and pulled a folded eight by ten color photograph from under the lab jacket. He stuck it in Mark's face. "You seen this before?" he asked, smiling now.
It was a department store portrait taken when Mark was in the second grade, and for years now it had hung in the den above the television. Mark stared at it.
"Recognize it?" the man barked at him.
Mark nodded. There was only one such photograph in the world.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and the man moved quickly, again by the door. At the last second, two nurses stepped in, and Mark finally breathed. He stayed in the corner, holding the railings, praying for a miracle. The switchblade had come closer with each assault, and he simply could not take another one. On the third floor, three more people entered and stood between Mark and the man with the knife. In an instant, Mark's assailant was gone; through the door as it was closing.
"Are you okay?" A nurse was staring at him, frowning and very concerned. The elevator kicked and started down. She touched his forehead and felt a layer of sweat between her fingers. His eyes were wet. "You look pale," she said.
"I'm okay," he mumbled weakly, holding the railings for support.
Another nurse looked down at him in the corner. They studied his face with much concern. "Are you sure?" He nodded, and the elevator door suddenly opened on the second floor. He darted through bodies and was in a narrow corridor dodging gurneys and wheelchairs. His well-worn Nike hightops squeaked on the clean linoleum as he ran to a door with an EXIT sign over it. He pushed through the door, and was in the stairwell. He grabbed the rails and started up, two steps at a time, churning and churning. The pain hit his thighs at the sixth floor, but he ran harder. He passed a doctor on the eighth floor, but never slowed. He ran, climbing the mountain at a record pace until the stairwell stopped on the fifteenth floor. He collapsed on a landing under a fire hose, and sat in the semidarkness until the sun filtered through a tiny painted window above him.
PURSUANT TO HIS AGREEMENT WITH REGGIE, CLINT OPENED the office at exactly eight, and after turning on the lights, made the coffee. It was Wednesday, southern pecan day. He looked through the countless one-pound bags of coffee beans in the refrigerator until he found southern pecan, and measured four perfect scoops into the grinder. She would know in an instant if he'd missed the measurement by half a teaspoon. She would take the first sip like a wine connoisseur, smack her lips like a rabbit, then pass judgment on the coffee. He added the precise quantity of water, flipped the switch, and waited for the first black drops to hit the canister. The aroma was delicious.
Glint enjoyed the coffee almost as much as his boss did, and the meticulous routine of making it was only half-serious. They began each morning with a quiet cup as they planned the day and talked about the mail. They had met in a detox center eleven years earlier when she was forty-one and he was seventeen. They had started law school at the same time, but he flunked out after a nasty round with coke. He'd been perfectly clean for five years, she for six. They had leaned on each other many times.
He sorted the mail and placed it carefully on her clean desk. He poured his first cup of coffee in the kitchen, and read with great interest the front-page story about her newest client. As usual, Slick had his facts. And, as usual, the facts were stretched with a good dose of innuendo thrown in. The boys favored each other, but Ricky's hair was a shade lighter. He smiled with several teeth missing.
Glint placed the front page in the center of Reggie's desk.
UNLESS SHE WAS EXPECTED IN COURT, REGGIE SELDOM MADE it to the office before 9 A. M. She was a slow starter who usually hit her stride around four in the afternoon and preferred to work late.
Her mission as a lawyer was to protect abused and neglected children, and she did this with great skill and passion. The juvenile courts routinely called her for indigent work representing kids who needed lawyers but didn't know it. She was a zealous advocate for small clients who could not say thanks. She had sued fathers for molesting daughters. She had sued uncles for raping their nieces. She had sued mothers for abusing their babies. She had investigated parents for exposing their children to drugs. She served as legal guardian for more than twenty children. And she worked the Juvenile Court as appointed counsel for kids in trouble with the law. She performed pro bono work for children in need of commitment to mental facilities. The money was adequate, but not important. She had money once, lots of it, and it had brought nothing but misery.
She sipped the southern pecan, pronounced it good, and planned the day with Glint. It was a ritual adhered to whenever possible.
As she picked up the newspaper, the buzzer rang as the door opened. Glint jumped to answer it. He found Mark Sway standing in the reception room, wet from the drizzle and out of breath.
"Good morning, Mark. You're all wet." "I need to see Reggie." His bangs stuck to his forehead and water dripped from his nose. He was in a daze.
"Sure." Glint backed away from him, and returned with a hand towel from the rest room. He wiped Mark's face, and said, "Follow me." Reggie was waiting in the center of her office. Glint closed the door and left them alone.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I think we need to talk." She pointed, and he sat in a wingback chair and she sat on the sofa.
"What's going on, Mark?" His eyes were red and tired. He stared at the flowers on the coffee table.
"Ricky snapped out of it early this morning." "That's great. What time?" "A couple of hours ago." "You look tired. Would you like some hot cocoa?" "No. Did you see the paper this morning?" "Yeah, I saw it. Does it scare you?" "Of course it scares me." Glint knocked on the door, then opened it and brought the hot cocoa anyway. Mark thanked him and held it with both hands. He was cold and the warm cup helped. Glint closed the door and was gone.
"When do we meet with the FBI?" he asked.
"In an hour. Why?" He sipped the cocoa and it burned his tongue. "I'm not sure I want to talk to them." "Okay. You don't have to, you know. I've explained all this." "I know. Can I ask you something?" "Of course, Mark. You look scared." "It's been a rough morning." He took another tiny sip, then another. "What would happen to me if I never told anyone what I know?" "You've told me." "Yeah, but you can't tell. And I haven't told you everything, right?" "That's right." "I've told you that I know where the body is, but I haven't told-" "I know, Mark. I don't know where it is. There's a big difference, and I certainly understand it." "Do you want to know?" "Do you want to tell me?" "Not really. Not now." She was relieved but didn't show it. "Okay, then I don't want to know." "So what happens to me if I never tell?" She'd thought about this for hours, and still had no answer. But she'd met Foltrigg, had watched him under pressure, and was convinced he would try all legal means to extract the information from her client. As much as she wanted to, she could not advise him to lie.