Dane Spencer was almost afraid to look at his watch. He knew he was working well past midnight; it was only a matter of how much. It was always like this, the night before a big trial. No matter how early he started, no matter how hard he worked, there were always a million things left to be done at the last moment. This time was no exception. Now it seemed clear he wouldn't be going home at all. That, too, had occurred before, which was why he always kept a spare suit and a grooming kit in his office. He didn't even need to call. Jenny knew he had a trial coming up; she wouldn't be expecting to see him anytime before she went to bed. And when she woke up and saw the other side of the bed still empty, she would just shrug and say, "Good luck."
Least it paid the bills.
Karen Dutoi was still sitting at her desk outside his office, typing each new revision of his witness outlines as soon as he slid them into her box. It was an endless process; every time he went over them he thought of something new. Thank God trials had a start date; otherwise, you could revise your strategy until the end of time.
"Go home, Karen," Spencer said, leaning against her desk. "It's late. You have a family that needs you."
"Oh, no," she replied. "If you can stand it, I can."
"I have to do this. You don't."
"But all these revisions…"
"I don't mind going into court with a little ink on my outlines. It's not as if anyone's going to see them but me."
"I appreciate the offer, Dane, but I know there'll be more work than this before you get to the courtroom. You're going to need me. I'm staying."
"But your kids-"
"Are fine. I'm staying. Besides, aren't you still waiting for that expert witless?" It was a little joke they'd told each other at least a dozen times.
"Yes, but that still doesn't mean you have to be here."
"What kind of joker wants to meet in the dead of the night?"
"The kind who doesn't want his employer to know he's turned quisling until he's in a room surrounded by federal marshals. Seriously, Karen-"
"Forget it. I'm not going home."
He sighed, pretending to be annoyed. In reality, it was impossible to be annoyed with her. Among other reasons, because he went for her page boy cut and button nose in a big way. If she weren't married, he would've made a move weeks ago. Of course, technically, he was married himself. Not that he'd ever let that stop him before. Who knew? Maybe if he finally got all this work done before the sun rose, and they weren't both unconscious…
"Well," he said with resignation, "if we're both staying, someone's going to have to make another pot of coffee. And the unsexist, egalitarian thing would be for me to make it. The only problem with that being-I don't know how."
She laughed. "I'm right on it, boss. Just let me finish-"
Karen was cut off by a pounding at the door, so sudden it made her jump. She slipped out from behind the desk, peered through the peephole.
Must be the expert witness. A short burly man in torn jeans and a tight T-shirt. What field could possibly be his expertise? Karen wondered.
"You gotta help me!" the man said after she let him in. He was wide-eyed and panicked, looking from one of them to the other. "I spotted one of my bosses' goons in the parking garage. They know I'm here!"
Spencer stepped forward. He wasn't sure what to say. This witness could be crucial to winning a multimillion dollar case. But looking at him, it was hard to believe he had ever been part of a professional industrial firm. "I'll call Barney, down at the security booth on the first floor lobby. He'll make sure no one gets in who isn't on the list."
"There's three of them," the man said, "against one old guy? They'll slaughter him."
"Please. Try not to be melodramatic."
"You don't get it," the man said, flailing his arms. "I left my girlfriend in there."
"What?"
"I'm not kiddin'. She's sittin' in my car. They're gonna kill her!"
"But why-"
"Please, mister, I'll explain later. But first we gotta get her out of there."
Spencer didn't know what to do. He did not trust this man, not at all. But if there really was a woman in danger, he had to help. He'd just make sure he collected Barney before he followed the man into the garage. And make sure Barney was armed.
Karen was frantically rummaging through her top desk drawer. "I know I put my passcard in here somewhere," she muttered, forehead creased. "Why is it you can never find things when you need them most?"
"I'll get mine," Spencer said, disappearing into his office. No way he was letting Karen go off with this man by herself, anyway. He walked back to his office, took his coat off the hook on the back of the door, retrieved his passcard, then returned to the lobby.
Karen was sprawled on the floor, her legs bent back, her dress bunched around her waist, a white cloth across her mouth.
"What in the hell-" But before he could finish the sentence, much less understand what was happening, he felt his left arm being jerked behind him.
The man from the hallway was holding a pair of handcuffs, and before Spencer knew what was happening, he had slid the cuffs over one wrist and snapped the other end to the doorknob.
"What is the meaning of this?" Spencer barked. "Are you working for the defendant? Because if they think they're going to bully me into giving them a settlement, you can just tell-"
"This ain't got nothing to do with your case, mister. Your number came up, that's all."
"Number? What are you talking about? Did you hurt Karen?"
"Nah. She was just in the way. Tough girl, though-knocked me up against the wall but good till I got my hands on her. She'll wake up in a hour or so. Worse she'll have is a headache. You-now that's different."
"Wh-What do you mean? What are you going to do?" He paused, the horror of his situation slowly dawning on him. "Are-Are you going to burn off my face? Like those people I read about in the paper?"
"Course not. You ain't Keter."
Spencer was terrified, but he knew better than to let that show. Even after all these years, he still went into a courtroom scared to death that he would embarrass himself. But he'd learned to cope. Indeed, he thought that perhaps the fear gave him an edge, gave him the impetus to succeed. Maybe it could do the same here. He had to look firm and strong-even if he felt anything but.
"This is your last chance. Unlock these cuffs or I will scream for help."
"Scream all you want. There's no one else on this floor. I checked. That's why she-I-made the appointment for this hour of the night."
"You-" Spencer could feel his heart racing. "You planned this."
"Yeah," the man growled. He returned from the outside hallway with two heavy implements, one of them an axe, the other a long iron rod. A branding iron. "I would've rather done this earlier. I'm not really a night person, you know? But it was important to get you in your place of work. Your primal habitat."
"Me? Why me?"
"You are Chesed. You represent a part of the primordial human form. A piece of the divine."
"I haven't done anything to you."
"You have taken God's greatest gift and tossed it away like it ain't worth nothin'."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Really? How is your child doing?"
"My-daughter? What? Have you done something to my kid?"
"You've done somethin' to her, not me." He looked up. "Where's the kitchen?"
"The kitchen?" Spencer twisted back and forth, trying to get close enough to slug the man. But the handcuffs held him back like a leash. "Why do you want the kitchen?"
The man balanced the branding iron in his hands, measuring its weight. "Gotta heat this little baby up."
"Oh my God. Oh my God. You are the one." He stopped short, his throat suddenly dry. "Look, I've got money. Tons of it. Look around you. You think this office was built on peanuts? I could make you a very rich individual."
The man shook his head. "So you've got tons of money for me. But not a dime for your own flesh and blood."
"What are you talking about?"
"How much money have you been sendin' that kid of yours?"
Spencer swallowed. There was something very strange going on here. This man knew too much, knew things no one could possibly know. "In the final divorce decree, the court did not require me to make any support payments to my wife or daughter. At the time, I was flat broke."
"On paper. Not in real life. You have a house worth more than a million bucks."
"The law does not require you to sell your home. And since it was a gift in trust from my father, my wife did not own half of it. So-"
"Lawyer talk." The man waved a hand in the air. "You abandoned your child."
"She's with her mother-"
"Did you know your Jenna was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes?"
"What?"
"Yeah. But her mother can only afford the most basic health care, and it won't cover all the insulin and other stuff she's gonna need if she wants to live past thirty."
"But-then-why didn't Abigail call-"
"Because she knew you didn't give a damn. She knew it would be a waste of time. You'd turn her down, just like you did every other time she came to you for help."
"You don't understand. Abigail is very manipulative. She uses the child-"
"I understand everythin' I need to understand." All of a sudden, Spencer realized Tucker was crouched on the floor. A second later, before he could react, another set of handcuffs had chained his right ankle to the leg of Karen's desk. Spencer flailed back and forth, but it was no use. He was trapped.
The man disappeared again, but this time, when he returned, he was carrying a video camera. And wearing a ski mask.
"What the hell are you going to do with that?" Spencer bellowed.
"Make a movie," he replied. "Don't worry about it. You're never gonna see it." He set the camera on the desk, pushed the Record button, then picked up the axe.
"Do you think you're going to cut off my head, you bastard?" Spencer shouted, his voice rising. He tried to tell himself there was an errant hope that someone might hear, but he knew that in reality his panic was surfacing. "Well, you're not. I may be tied down, but I'm not helpless. I won't just stand here and take it! You'll never get my head!"
"That's all right," Tucker said. He pinched the blade of the axe between his fingers. A spot of blood rose to the surface. The blade was sharp-very sharp. "That's no problem at all. 'Cause I don't want your head." He raised the axe high above the arm stretched out from the desk to the doorknob, then lowered it.