He waited while the conductor discussed two minor changes to her opening aria. When Reiner’s chance came, he gave it to her hard and fast. At such times there was no alternative. And Erin had insisted upon knowing immediately.
“Marcus Glenwood,” he announced.
Erin tilted her chin in his direction. After all these years, he still could be awed by the intensity of her concentration. “Yes?”
“He could not be worse news.”
Erin brushed the seamstress’ fingers aside and announced to the room, “Give us a moment alone, please.”
When the door swung shut, Reiner went on, “By all accounts, Marcus Glenwood is a stealth bomber. Quiet and Southern and polite. So mild-mannered it would be easy to dismiss him out of hand. But the man single-handedly took on the world’s largest sports apparel company and the Chinese government.” He tried to keep the alarm from his voice, for the last thing he needed was to stoke Erin’s fires. “And he won.”
Erin surprised him once again, however. Most things about this entire episode managed to shred her calm as nothing else, transforming her into a feral vixen with the powers to turn any assailant to stone. But today she simply gave him a cool smile.
“Give me the phone, Liebchen.”
“Who are you calling?”
“The man who promised to occupy the director’s box and I fear is not coming after all. Go stand guard outside my door, that’s a dear.”
Reiner did as he was told. He bestowed a smile on all who passed, as though all was right with this abnormal cosmos called opera. He knew Erin as the most consummate actress he had ever met, stage or screen. Even so, her calm left him wondering if perhaps, this time, things might actually work out.
CHAPTER 9
Marcus took the Inner Beltway around Raleigh, then headed east on what had formerly been a simple country lane. The new four-lane was presently farmed by tracts of new houses that sprouted with the speed of high-velocity weeds. Six miles farther out, carefully shielded by acres of elm and holly and scrub pine, stood the city’s last remaining quarry. Marcus made his way past a string of idling dump trucks and halted where a crew of roughnecks had toned down their speech because of the deputy sheriff standing nearby.
Darren Wilbur offered Marcus a hand like a flat-blade shovel. “H-how you doing, sir?”
“Pressed for time. I’m due in Wilmington to meet a new client. Appreciate your doing this.”
“M-mind stepping t-this way?”
The offices said all there was to know about the quarry business. The exterior walls were slatted shingles of tree bark, stripped off trees used as supports for the original shafts. That was back in the thirties, before the dozers came equipped with diamond-tipped blades which carved up the surface rock like hot wax. Just crossing the yard and climbing the back stairs turned Marcus’ black loafers a wintry shade of pale.
Outside the closed door, Darren handed Marcus a bulky file. Marcus read the name on the jacket. “Sephus Jones.”
“Amos t-tracked him down through h-his parole officer.”
Marcus opened the folder, scanned the first page. “This man’s been charged with grievous bodily harm, armed robbery, abduction of a minor, assault with intent, and extortion?”
“A-assault and abduction’re the only ones that s-stuck.”
He slapped the file shut. “You sure we don’t need some backup here?”
Darren showed a very rare smile. “I believe we’re c-covered.”
“There anything I could use as a lever?”
“M-man was picked up again l-last week.”
The quarry’s blast whistle sounded as Marcus reached for the door. Then the air concussed about him and the dusty road shivered as if a school of predatory creatures foraged beneath the surface. When the subsequent silence was broken by a bird’s tentative all-clear, Marcus pushed open the door and walked inside.
The man seated at the table leaned back so that sunlight through the door struck his body but not his face. The backs of his hands bore prison tattoos. More artistic bands of blue and purple dye wrapped aboriginal designs about his wrists and drew daggers up both forearms. Dancing upon his right arm was a snake-haired Medusa. A sunburst with a warrior’s face protruded from his shirt’s open front. “Ain’t right, you bothering me here where the whole world’s gonna know.”
The deputy merely shut the door and leaned against it. Almost instantly Marcus had to fight off the urge to gag. The smell emanating from the man coated Marcus’ tongue and the back of his throat like putrid enamel. A year’s worth of body odor was mingled with a drenching scent so overwhelming Marcus required a moment to identify it as English Leather. The man must have bathed in the stuff.
Marcus gave the room a careful sweep. A wall calendar advertising either thong bikinis or tires counted days off the previous April. The walls were rough-hewn and pegged with overdue bills and yellowed call sheets.
Sephus Jones planted his boots on the corner of the empty desk. “And just who exactly do we have here?”
Marcus pulled a straight-backed chair up close. “You should know. You were in such a powerful hurry to meet me yesterday.”
“Marcus. My man.” Sephus Jones had eyes so pale they fed upon the shadows, glimmering with a beast’s fervor. His hair was dyed a cheap reddish orange that almost matched his dime-sized freckles. “Nice little dolly you got yourself there.”
Marcus set the file on the desk between them and flipped to the last page. “Says here you’re a two-time loser, Sephus.”
“You decide you’re done with the dolly, how’s about I have a taste?”
“From what I understand, you’ve been recently brought in on something new.” Marcus lifted his gaze. “Don’t tell me that hasn’t got you sweating.”
“Chump change. I was holding a bag for a buddy.”
Marcus looked over to where Darren stood by the wall. Just crossing his arms was enough to stretch the uniform’s shoulder seams. “Hundred c-caps of ecstasy. Arrested in f-front of a j-junior high.”
The dust-matted window emitted a light like a fading lantern’s glow. A bare bulb glowed from a wire dangling off the ceiling. Neither was enough to press the shadows back very far. “Why don’t I shoot a couple of guesses your way,” Marcus suggested. “The earlier arrest has resulted in court orders to stay well away from schools, parks, the works. Which means you’re now facing a double-barrel charge.”
Sephus Jones unsnapped the leather holder hanging from his belt and plucked out a bone-handled knife. He pried open the largest blade and began paring his fingernails, reflecting what light he could muster into Marcus’ face. “There mighta been some mention made a while back. I don’t rightly recall.”
“Jailers in these parts don’t take kindly to convicts who’ve messed with children. They know better than to lay a hand on a prisoner. But they’re going to take great care in selecting your dance partners. One night awaiting arraignment should be enough to remind you of that fact.” Marcus leaned his hands on the desk. “How am I doing so far?”
“If you came looking for new business, I’m just sorry as I can be.” His grin was empty of all save the stretching of skin. “I already got me all the lawyers I can use.”
“This is what you call a carrot and stick meeting. You help me, I talk shop with the DA. You don’t, the deputy here is going to arrest you on charges of assaulting my girlfriend.”
“Just another helping of chump change, bub.” He flicked whatever he had on the knife’s tip in Marcus’ direction. “I didn’t touch the dolly.”
“All I want,” Marcus replied, “is a name.”
“What, you grown dissatisfied with the one your own daddy offered you?” He returned to his knife and his fingernails. “Now that’s a pure shame.”