The nightly chorus rose so gradually it was only when he paused to sort through jumbled thoughts that he heard it at all. “But there are a few people who have made me feel more than welcome. Deacon Wilbur, my secretary, a few others. They … understand.”
“They accept your pain and your loss.”
Marcus found himself unwilling to meet the man’s gaze. “You’ve been checking up on me.”
“That is what makes a home, I feel. Finding a place and a people who accept you as you are.” The rocker drummed quietly for a moment. “This Deacon Wilbur, I have heard the name before. He is Gloria’s pastor, yes?”
“You told me you didn’t know Gloria Hall.”
“No, Mr. Glenwood, I said I meet many people. Which I do.” Dark eyes glittered yellow and alien in the porch light. “Look at it from my side, please. A stranger comes in and asks many questions. Many sensitive questions. Questions that, if answered to the wrong person, could hurt others who are helpless. You understand me?”
Marcus leaned forward. “Is there a direct tie-in between Factory 101 and New Horizons?”
“Rumors, Mr. Glenwood. Nothing more than rumors.” A pause filled by the cry of an owl. “Almost nothing. Gloria once told me she knew how to obtain proof. But if she indeed found this, I do not know.”
“Was she kidnapped?”
“This also I have tried to discover. Tried and failed. There is no information coming from Factory 101. None.”
“Who is in charge?”
Dee Gautam stopped rocking. “Ah. Yes. The most dangerous question of all.”
“Dangerous how?”
“People are trying very hard to keep this answer a mystery. I smell danger for those who search.” The smile was gone entirely. “I have a very good nose for danger, Mr. Glenwood.”
“Ashley Granger is trying to identify the owner.”
“Indeed I am speaking to Mr. Granger. He is a good man and must also take heed.” Dee Gautam rose to his feet. “You are a good man as well, Mr. Glenwood. I am here to be telling you to take great care.”
Marcus rose and followed the little man back across the veranda. “I’ve already met the New Horizons goons.”
As he descended the stairs, the light caught the top of Dee Gautam’s head, shining through his few remaining tendrils of hair and exposing the scalp beneath. For the first time Marcus noticed two long white scars running in parallel almost from ear to ear.
“Sometimes a person can focus upon the snarling dog and miss the bear farther back.” Dee Gautam fitted comfortably into the night. “Beware the bear, Mr. Glenwood. It will eat you whole.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE FINAL PRETRIAL HEARING on Thursday proceeded pretty much according to his expectations. Marcus struggled to remain tightly involved. The dark-suited defense lawyers clustered like opposing chess pieces set in intricate balance to his lonely knight. They raised the issue of dismissal, accusing him once more of making a frivolous claim. He neither objected nor spoke, for his mind remained fastened upon the morning’s earlier mysteries.
That morning he had gone running in the dark, fleeing the whispers that awaited the moment he had opened his eyes—the ones that said, You have no case. As he wound his way homeward through a biting chill mist, a blond head stepped into the streetlight’s glare, an apparition of false dawn and promises unfulfilled. Kirsten motioned back to the files piled by his front door. In a flat voice she had simply said, “I’ll bring what I can when it’s ready. You don’t need to call me again.” All Marcus could think to say was, “Don’t leave!” Kirsten had not even turned around, just said over her shoulder, “I’ve driven all night, I’m tired, and all I want to hear from you is good-bye.” But Marcus would not let go. His puffing breath had mingled with the predawn mist as he had rushed over and stopped her car door from closing. “Is it me,” he had demanded, “and if so couldn’t you at least let me apologize?” Kirsten had bitten down hard on whatever she had been about to say, wrenched her door shut, and driven away.
Marcus sat now before the judge’s desk, and could not help but reflect on how, until recently, simply living from day to day had been enough. Waking before dawn, following a steady routine, attending to what small legal matters chance brought his way—these were accomplishments enough. But now there was this case, and people relied on him once more. He found this only added fuel to his predawn inferno. He loathed the prospect of adding to his burden of unfulfilled obligations.
“Marcus?” Judge Nicols’ voice forced him back to the here and now. “Do you intend on joining us today?”
He turned to Logan. The words rose unbidden from his own internal depths. “Release the woman.”
The quiet demand caught the entire chamber by surprise. Logan scoffed. “Are you talking to me? Because that doesn’t sound—”
“Tell the Chinese factory to release Gloria Hall. That’s all we want. Bring her home and all this will vanish.” He turned to the judge. “That offer is for the record.”
“Your Honor, this is the most ludicrous accusation I have ever heard.”
“There is no intended accusation at all, Your Honor. Free Gloria Hall and all charges will be dropped.”
But Logan was striving too hard for the advantage to listen. “Your Honor, this merely confirms our contention that the plaintiffs are bringing a nuisance suit. Glenwood must be severely punished.”
She turned slowly, as though reluctant to show Marcus her thoughts. “Well?”
Marcus nodded acceptance. The game was so rigidly set that no such maneuvering was possible. No one could see beyond the next move, when battle would officially be joined. “We have received none of the requested corporate documents from New Horizons, Your Honor.”
Logan was ready. “That is because they do not exist.”
“Your Honor, we have shown to the magistrate and yourself photocopied documents on corporate letterhead—”
“Which we claim to be false, Your Honor. Clearly this Miss Hall copied the New Horizons logo and drew up these documents herself. It is a well-known ploy of unions trying to smear a company’s name. No doubt she learned it from the same cronies who are backing this frivolous suit. New Horizons has placed a few scattered orders with Factory 101. Nothing more.”
Obtaining the original documents was critical. What case Marcus had was based upon the disputed documents. The court did not generally admit photocopies as evidence. The law required confirmation that what Marcus possessed was bona fide. Marcus reached for his briefcase. “Your Honor, I have an affidavit from the customs house at the Wilmington docks.”
Logan exploded. “This was not included in his list of evidence!”
“If you supplied what we had requested it would not have been needed.” There was no need to mention that Kirsten had only brought the documents that very morning. Marcus kept his eyes on the judge. “The affidavit states that New Horizons has cleared hundreds of container-loads of Chinese-produced clothes. And that this has been a practice followed over several years. I therefore request that the court grant us exceptional permission to submit all our photocopied documents as bona fide evidence.”
The judge’s features tightened around the edges. She scanned the affidavit, said, “So ruled.”
Logan could not let that one go. “Objection, Your Honor, you—”
“Mr. Kendall, I do not approve of such shenanigans any more than the magistrate.” Her voice was cold and hard as dark iron. “Try anything like that in my courtroom and I’ll hold you in contempt.” She looked back to Marcus. “Anything else?”
“Yes there is. We have received no response to any of our subpoenas of corporate board members. None of them was available to grant testimony.”
“Well, Mr. Logan? Of the—how many subpoenas did you issue, Mr. Glenwood?”
“Thirty-six, Your Honor.”
“Of the thirty-six requested depositions, how many officers are available to give testimony?”
Logan cleared his throat. “The two
senior vice presidents of the local distribution company, Your Honor.”
“I don’t see those titles on this list.”
“Neither hold board-level positions, Your Honor,” Marcus said. “They would therefore know next to nothing about the Chinese partnership.”
“We deny that such a partnership exists!”
Judge Nicols extended the sheet of names to Logan. “Where are all these people?”
“Out of the country, Your Honor. This trial coincides with the annual corporate meeting in Switzerland.”
Marcus said, “I hereby request the court’s intervention in having the State Department order embassy officials in Bern to take depositions of all these corporate officers.”
“So ruled.” Judge Nicols slapped the file shut. “Nothing further? All right. We begin jury selection bright and early Monday morning.”
AS USUAL Marcus lingered and allowed time for the defense to depart ahead of him, discussing the weather with the judge’s receptionist-guard. Jim Bell had a countryman’s corded strength and a gentleman’s beard, white and cropped tight to his face. He sat on the narrow chair as he would a saddle, solid and very erect. With the directness of one born in the eastern flatlands, where people spoke sparingly and straight, he dropped the issue of a possible early frost to say, “I lost a daughter two days before her tenth birthday. Like to have killed me and the wife both. Been nineteen years and the wound hasn’t healed yet.”
For an instant Marcus supposed the man was speaking of his own accident, and the pain was like someone having dropped his heart onto a red-hot skillet. Then he breathed and pushed away the pain, knowing he had to be mistaken. No one who had suffered thus would ever willingly blindside another so afflicted.
No, the guard had to be speaking of Gloria. “You’ve been following the Hall case?”
“I listen, and the others around here have been talking.”
“Every day we don’t hear anything more, I find myself hoping a little less.”
The bearded man nodded agreement. “Handled a few kidnappings in my day. Not many. The first few weeks were always make or break.”
“You were a highway patrolman?”
“Thirty-one years. Some nights I still dream of the open road.” His smile was surprisingly gentle. “How’s the Hall family holding out?”
“About like you’d expect. Worried sick. Not sleeping well. Everything is a crisis.” Which brought to mind the recent confrontation at their house. “Do you know an assistant DA by the name of Wayde Barrett?”
“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 dislo
dge 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.
The Great Divide Page 20
