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
M ARCUS TOOK THE I NNER B ELTWAY 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
“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
M ARCUS TOOK THE I NNER B ELTWAY 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
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