Kirsten stood waiting for him on the wraparound veranda. Today his research aide and would-be fiancée was sheathed in gray silk, elegant in design and European in cut. Eyes the color of crushed lilacs watched his approach, giving nothing away. In the day’s dim light her white-blond hair shimmered with a glow of internal fires, the enigmatic beacon of a future he had mistakenly thought was theirs to claim. Of all the uncertainties in his life, the worst by far was not knowing if Kirsten would show up again. Or even call to say she was gone.
He took the front steps in two bounds, slapped the rain off his briefcase, set it aside, and stepped behind her. Marcus wrapped both arms around this living mystery and lowered his head so that it rested upon her shoulder. Kirsten was a quiet woman by nature, a trait some counted as weakness in a society that prized noise and empty opinions. He could spend an evening in her company, count the number of words they spoke on both hands, and feel replete. If only he could find the proper words to make her stay.
“You need to put on a clean shirt. You smell of the courthouse.”
“How does the courthouse smell?”
“Fear and ashes and burnt sulfur.” Her voice was scarcely louder than the water streaming off the veranda roof. “Hurry now. He should be here any minute.”
“Do I want to know who?”
“No, but I need to tell you.” She stepped out of his embrace. “The chairman of New Horizons.”
A pair of crows mocked him from the nearest tulip poplar. “The new guy, what’s his name?”
Netty, his secretary, called through the screen door, “Dale Steadman. The man called just after you left this morning. Personally.”
“You should have phoned and told me.”
“We know what kind of morning you’ve had. You didn’t need to be adding another worry like this one.”
Thunder rumbled from the far south. Closer to hand a car pierced the slate veil and angled into the drive. Kirsten turned him toward the door. “Go, now. You’re wearing sweat stains I can see through your jacket.”
Two years ago he had waged courtroom combat against New Horizons, the world’s largest producer of sports apparel. The press had called it a victory, and for a match-flare of an instant Marcus had stood illuminated upon the stage of public attention. But the young woman who had uncovered how a New Horizons factory used slave labor had come home in a casket. Her parents still had moments when their features would slacken and the loss of their only daughter would drill a hole through the center of their gazes. The case still wound its way through the appellate system, an endless maze created by frantic teams of New Horizons attorneys. Lawyers could spend lifetimes keeping their clients from ever shelling out a single dime, and be proud of their manufactured futility.
As he reknotted his tie, Marcus recalled the little he knew of his visitor. Dale Steadman was a newcomer to the scene, appointed chairman after New Horizons became the whipping boy of both the press and the human rights campaigners. Marcus’ case had breached the company’s armor. Their factories became the center of protests right around the globe. As a result their stock had nosedived. Dale Steadman was the former owner of a high-end sports apparel company that had been acquired by New Horizons just prior to the case. He had been foisted upon the company by panic-stricken stockholders as the new chairman. His initial steps toward cleaning up the corporate act had been viciously opposed within the company.
Marcus knew the house so intimately he could sense the change downstairs, as though the newcomers tramped across his own bones and not the conference room floor. He dreaded what was about to unfold. The air of his conference room would be as highly charged as a thunderstorm’s ground zero, when invisible particles lifted hair like tentacles seeking the oblivion of a direct hit. The chairman of New Horizons would sit flanked by his senior legal team. They would deliver whatever news they carried with the precision of laser-guided bombs, study his reaction, then depart to measure and prepare the next skirmish. Maximum damage with minimum exposure. Appellate court cases were the modern-day equivalent of the Hundred Years’ War.
But when he entered the conference room, he was confronted by the astonishing sight of a single man.
Dale Steadman sat so that he could stare out the open window, where the diminishing rain chimed and rustled. Kirsten sat beside him, angled so that she could observe both the guest and the day. Marcus’ tread sounded loud as drumbeats as he approached his new adversary. “Mr. Steadman?”
“That’s right.” Dale Steadman rose and shook Marcus’ hand, revealing a fighter’s bulk beneath his tailored navy suit. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“As we have repeatedly informed your attorneys, I have turned over the New Horizons case to the firm of Drews and Howe. What you see here is my entire practice. We’re not equipped to manage an appellate battle.”
His guest turned back to the open window, as though the reason for his visit was to be found in birdsong and rain-lashed wind. “I don’t recognize these trees you’re putting in here.”
“Crepe myrtle.” Marcus slid into his seat. “They replace a giant elm your lackeys destroyed when they tried to burn down my house.”
Kirsten leaned forward and said, “Repeat for Mr. Glenwood what you just told me.”
Marcus studied Kirsten’s face. Her sympathetic tone was jarring. New Horizons had kidnapped and murdered her best friend. If asked, Marcus would have said their new CEO would never draw anything from her save loathing.
“My ex-wife has stolen my baby girl. We’ve been divorced seven months.”
Netty entered and began pouring coffee. When Marcus remained silent, Kirsten asked, “Your ex-wife has abducted your child?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“You have custody?”
“That’s right.”
“And your ex-wife?”
“She never showed any interest in Celeste until the publicity started.”
Marcus continued to watch his fiancée, wondering how she could be so captivated by a tale that to him made no sense whatsoever. Kirsten asked, “What publicity?”
“My ex-wife is Erin Brandt.”
“I’ve heard that name.”
“She’s an internationally famous opera star. A soprano. Sings all over the world.” Dale Steadman uttered the words with the steady toll of a funeral bell. “Erin tried to keep our divorce a secret. But the European press found out somehow. There was a spate of articles.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Five months.”
“What does Ms. Brandt have to say about these allegations?”
“I haven’t had contact with Erin since she stole Celeste. I kept hoping all this would work itself out. It’s insane, I know. I’ve known it all along.”
Kirsten glanced at Marcus, offering him the chance to take over. When he remained silent, she continued, “You haven’t contacted the authorities up to now?”
“Three days after the fire, I heard from her lawyer. A spiteful Raleigh man by the name of Hamper Caisse. The lawyer said that if I made any move at all, they would convene a court hearing to reveal how drunk I was the night of the fire.” The man spoke with the disjointed precision of addressing internal ghosts. “They’ll call witnesses from the fire department and the police. They will have people from my community reveal how my drinking has been a matter of concern. They will question how such a man could possibly be left with responsibility for a baby. He said if I’m willing to work things out amicably, then I need to show some patience.”