The naked edge

16

Cavanaugh felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked awake. It took him a moment to realize that he was in a hotel room, that sunlight struggled past the draperies, and that Jamie, who looked as tired as he felt, was leaning over him, nudging him.

"William's here," she said.

Cavanaugh squinted up toward William, who stood at the foot of the bed, holding a briefcase. Despite the long plane trip, William's expensively tailored, pinstriped suit was impeccably pressed. His pristine white shirt was perfectly starched, his striped tie dramatically authoritative. With his coiffed gray hair and projecting chest, he had never looked more like a high-powered attorney.

"He brought us beignets." Jamie bit into one.

"… coffee," Cavanaugh murmured.

"That, too." Jamie handed him a Styrofoam cup.

Groggy, Cavanaugh sipped the hot bitter liquid. "You're the best attorney anybody ever had, William."

"Maybe I should open a catering service."

"What time is it?"

"Six-thirty."

Cavanaugh turned toward Jamie. "You let me sleep this long?"

"You were dead on your feet."

"Unfortunate choice of word. You were exhausted too, but you still got up earlier than I did."

"Things on my mind. Not to mention nightmares."

"I know all about nightmares." Cavanaugh sat slowly, his head feeling as if ball bearings rolled inside it.

"On the phone last night, you told me to get here as quickly as possible," William said.

"And by God, you did. Thank you, William."

"Is there a legal emergency?"

"There's going to be," Cavanaugh told him. "And that's probably not the only emergency."

"When the Gulfstream picked me up at Teterboro airport, my escorts said that I wouldn't be needing their protection any longer."

"That's right," Jamie said. "You're not in danger now. Or perhaps I should say, you're not a specific target."

"As opposed to being part of a general target?" William frowned.

"I'm going to need your help," Cavanaugh said. "But I can't lie to you. You'll probably be risking your life to help me. Are you willing to do that?"

"As I recall, you saved my life back at your ranch-not to mention, several times you kept some of my litigation opponents from trying to strangle me."

"Then you'll do it?"

"When do we start?"

"Good man," Cavanaugh said. He stood from the bed and looked down at his rumpled slacks and shirt. "Don't have a change of clothes."

"There's no time to change them anyhow," Jamie said, peering down at her own wrinkled slacks and blouse.

"Or shave." Cavanaugh scraped a hand over his beard stubble.

"We're going to hell," Jamie said.

"Carl is." Cavanaugh went into the bathroom, shut the door, and urinated. He put his head under the cold-water facet and soaked his hair. He toweled it, ran a comb through it, then came out and took a bite from what was left of the beignet in Jamie's hand. After snapping his pistol holster to his belt, he put on his sport coat, which reeked of tear gas and smoke. "Knives. Two spare magazines. Looks like I've got everything but a winning lottery ticket."

Jamie attached her gun and knife to her belt, then hid them with her blazer. "Ready?"