Last Breath

44

Adam had hated his ex-wife for a long time, but until tonight that hatred had been impersonal, driven by the conviction that she had wronged him, that justice demanded retribution.

Now he knew what real hatred was. He knew it with the agonized throbbing of his genitals, where she had shocked him-Jesus, shocked him like some prisoner in a Third World jail with his nuts hooked up to a car battery. He knew it with the complaint of his left knee, already stiffening up. She’d struck him with the flat of the plank, hard against his lower thigh, close to the knee, and though he didn’t think there was any permanent damage, he could feel the swelling of a nasty bruise.

She had hurt him.

He repeated the thought in his mind, trying out different emphases- she had hurt him, she had hurt him, she had hurt him.

No matter how it came out, it sounded equally incredible.

For her to hurt him had never been part of the plan. He was the one who was supposed to inflict pain and punishment. Hell, he was entitled to.

Now here he was, limping through the dark streets of Midvale Office Park, his balls aching, his knee on fire, and she was out there somewhere, uninjured as far as he knew, having equalized the contest.

He was pretty sure she couldn’t escape. That was one reassuring thought. He knew the complex well, and with the gate locked, it was a giant cage.

A cage. That was the first thought to strike him on the night when Roger Eastman had shown him this place.

Eastman was another attorney at Brigham amp; Garner, but unlike Adam he was no newcomer to the firm. He’d been there fifteen years, developing a healthy roster of clients and an even healthier paunch, which hours on the golf course did nothing to reduce. For some reason he had taken Adam under his wing.

One day three weeks earlier, Eastman asked if Adam had plans for the evening. “Nothing important,” Adam said, aware that the only item on his personal agenda was a visit to the Web site he had discovered, the one showing C.J.’s bedroom.

“Great.” Eastman smiled. “I want to show you something.”

He was very mysterious during the drive out of town. He refused to answer any questions. “You’ll see” was all he would say as he steered his Lexus away from the last remnants of the January sunset.

It was fully dark by the time they reached his secret spot. Adam remembered the moment when the Lexus turned onto the unlighted asphalt road that seemed to lead nowhere-and then Eastman flicked on his high beams to illuminate a construction-site sign.

“Midvale Office Park?” Adam asked. “This is where you wanted to take me?”

“That’s right, kid.” Eastman often called him kid. Adam hated it. “And you know why?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Because it’s mine.”

From his coat pocket Eastman produced a ring of keys-not his regular keys, but the kind of heavy chain a night watchman would carry. He unlocked the gate, pushing it open, then returned to the Lexus and drove into the complex, past shells of three-story buildings, lightless, bare of trees or other foliage. The artist’s rendering on the sign over the gate showed a Tudor architectural motif, but the facades had not been put up, leaving only featureless wood-frame walls with dark, glassless windows.

“Mine,” he said again. “Well, partly mine anyway. I’ve got this client. Tommy Binswanger-I’ve mentioned him.”

“Sure.”

“Tommy’s a broker. Handles commercial real estate. He tipped me off about this place. Prime investment opportunity. The original developers hit a financial snag, had to shut down construction, declare bankruptcy, unload all their assets. Tommy put together a group of investors, and we snatched this place for a song. To ante up my share, I had to burn through my portfolio, take out a second mortgage, pay IRA penalties for early withdrawal. The wife didn’t like it, let me tell you. Well, fuck her. She never approves of anything I do. This deal’s gonna make me rich.”

You already are rich, Adam thought. But he merely said, “Wow.”

“Wow is right. The developers were so desperate for ready cash, they were in no position to bargain. Tommy estimates this facility will be worth a minimum of twenty million when completed. We paid a fraction of that.”

“Has construction resumed?” Adam asked, looking at the dark avenues gliding past, the empty windows, the excavations and dead ends.

“Not till next year. March is the tentative start date. We need to work out a few details first. Legal matters, tax issues, all that crap. Tommy’s handling it.” He waved his hand vaguely.

It was clear to Adam that Eastman had no idea what the details were or how long they might take to work out He had put his faith in the infallible Tommy. Adam hoped his trust was misplaced. It would be amusing to see Roger humbled by financial ruin. He could imagine the fat blowhard crying over his martini-he still drank those-and cursing Tommy Binswanger and the injustice of the world.

“Looks like you lucked into something big,” Adam said. “Wish I’d known about it.”

Eastman laughed. “You? On your salary, you couldn’t get on board a deal like this, kid.”

Kid again. “Guess you’re right.”

“But I’ll tell you what. When we have our grand opening, you’re invited.”

Eastman completed his tour of the office park. He drove through the gate, then got out and padlocked it again.

“Gotta protect my investment,” he said as he drove away. “Not that there’s any risk of vandalism. Got no neighbors except a few horse ranches a mile away or more. Anyway, the place is sealed up tight. Ten-foot perimeter fence topped with razor wire. Nobody can get in.”

“Or out,” Adam muttered, thinking of the complex for the first time not as an office park but as a huge steel cage.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Say, Roger, I’m developing a thirst. What do you say we stop off for adult beverages on our way home?”

“The wife’ll kill me. I’m late enough as it is.” Eastman shrugged. “What the hell. I feel like celebrating. Every time I visit that place, I see dollar signs, kid.”

Adam didn’t even mind being called kid now. He laughed along with Eastman, laughed at his locker-room jokes and his anecdotes about golf and the firm and “the wife,” who evidently had no actual name. He laughed when they shared a table at a tavern on Melrose, and he laughed when after several drinks Eastman fumbled with his coat.

“Let me help you with that, Rog,” Adam offered, still laughing as his fingers slipped into the coat pocket and closed over the ring of keys.

He found the key ring now, in his pants pocket, and fingered it for reassurance. As long as the place was locked up, C.J. was trapped. He could hunt her down. She couldn’t fight him.

Or could she? Already she’d proven more dangerous than he had expected. He’d thought it would be so easy. He’d rehearsed her death for days. He’d killed her a thousand times in his thoughts.

And always his mantra played in counterpoint to the stream of images, the mantra he recited now, through gritted teeth.

“Nobody fucks with me. Nobody makes me their bitch. Nobody-”

Another stab of pain in his knee. Damn. He wouldn’t be able to walk much farther.

To track her down, he would have to use his car.