across this tape, or if I had walked past him on a busy street, I might not have noticed. But I was anything but casual right now. I was concentrating. And I knew. I hit the pause button anyway: 3:09.51.
Any doubts were erased. I stood there, unmoving. I did not know if I should celebrate or cry. I turned toward Squares. His eyes were on me instead of the screen. I nodded at him, confirming what he already suspected.
Owen Enfield was my brother, Ken.
40
The intercom buzzed.
'Mr. McGuane?' the receptionist, part of his security force, asked.
'Yes.'
'Joshua Ford and Raymond Cromwell are here.'
Joshua Ford was the senior partner at Stanford, Cummings and Ford, a firm that employed more than three hundred attorneys. Raymond Cromwell would thus be the note-taking, extra-hour-billing underling. Philip watched them both on the monitor. Ford was a big guy, six-four, two-twenty. He had a reputation for being tough, aggressive, nasty, and fitting that profile, he worked his face and mouth as though he were chomping on either a cigar or human leg. Cromwell, in contrast, was young, soft, manicured, and waxy-smooth.
McGuane looked over at the Ghost. The Ghost smiled, and McGuane felt another cold gust. Again he wondered about the intelligence of bringing Asselta in on this. In the end, he had decided that it would be okay. The Ghost had a stake in this too.
Besides, the Ghost was good at this.
Still keeping his eyes on that skin-crawling smile, McGuane said, 'Please send in Mr. Ford alone. Make sure that Mr. Cromwell is comfortable in the waiting room.'
'Yes, Mr. McGuane.'
McGuane had debated how to play this. He did not care for violence for violence's sake, but he never shrank from it either. It was a means to an end. The Ghost was right about that atheist-in-foxhole crap. The truth is, we are mere animals, organisms even, slightly more complex than your basic paramecium. You die, you're gone. It was pure megalomania to think we humans are somehow above death, that we, unlike any other creature, have the ability to transcend it. In life, sure, we are special, dominant, because we are the strongest and most ruthless. We rule. But in death, to believe that we are somehow special in God's eyes, that we can worm our way into his good graces by kissing his ass, well, and not to sound like a Communist here, but that's the sort of thinking that the rich have used to keep the poor in place since the beginning of man's rule.
The Ghost moved toward the door.
You take the edge any way you can get it. McGuane often trod along byways others considered taboo. You were never supposed to kill, for example, a fed or a D.A. or a cop. McGuane had killed all three. You were never supposed to attack, to use another example, powerful people who could make trouble and draw attention.
McGuane did not buy that one either.
When Joshua Ford opened the door, the Ghost had the iron baton ready. It was the approximate length of a baseball bat, with a powerful spring that helped it snap with the force of a blackjack. If you were to hit someone on the head with any kind of force, it would crush the skull like an eggshell.
Joshua Ford entered with a rich-man's swagger. He smiled at McGuane. 'Mr. McGuane.'
McGuane smiled back. 'Mr. Ford.'
Sensing someone to his right, Ford turned toward the Ghost, his hand outstretched for a customary shake. The Ghost had his eyes elsewhere. He aimed the metal bar for the shin and hit it flush. Ford cried out and dropped to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. The Ghost hit him again, this time in the right shoulder. Ford felt his arm go dead. The Ghost smashed the baton against the rib cage. There was a cracking sound. Ford tried to roll into a ball.
From across the room, McGuane asked, 'Where is he?'
Joshua Ford swallowed and croaked, 'Who?'
Big mistake. The Ghost snapped the weapon down on the man's ankle. Ford howled. McGuane looked behind him at the security monitor. Cromwell was comfortably ensconced in the waiting room. He would hear nothing. Neither would anybody else.
The Ghost hit the lawyer again, finding the same spot on the ankle. There was a crunching sound like a truck tire over a beer bottle. Ford put up a hand, pleading for mercy.
Over the years, McGuane had learned that it was best to strike before you interrogate. Most people, when presented with the threat of pain, will try to talk their way out of it. That goes double for men who are accustomed to using their mouths. They'll search for angles, for half-truths, for credible lies. They are rational, the assumption goes, and thus their opponents must be the same. Words can be used to defuse.
You need to strip them of that delusion.
The pain and fear that accompany a sudden physical assault are devastating to the psyche. Your cognitive reasoning your intelligentsia, if you will, your evolved man fades away, caves in. You are left with the Neanderthal, the primitive true-you who knows only to escape pain.
The Ghost looked over at McGuane. McGuane nodded. The Ghost stepped back and let McGuane move closer.
'He stopped in Vegas,' McGuane explained. 'That was his big mistake. He visited a doctor there. We checked the nearby pay phones for out-of-state calls made an hour before and an hour after his visit. There was only one call of interest. To you, Mr. Ford. He called you. And just to make sure, I had a man watch your office. The feds paid you a visit yesterday. So you see, it all adds up. Ken had to have a lawyer. He'd want someone tough and independent and not connected in any way to me. That would be you.'
Joshua Ford said, 'But '
McGuane held up his hand to stop him. Ford obeyed and closed his mouth. McGuane stepped back, looked at the Ghost, and said, 'John.'
The Ghost advanced and without hesitating, he whacked Ford on the side of the arm above the elbow. The elbow bent back the wrong way. Ford's face lost whatever color was left.
'If you deny or pretend you don't know what I'm talking about,' McGuane said, 'my friend here will stop the love taps and start to hurt you. Do you understand?'
Ford took a few seconds. When he finally looked up, McGuane was surprised by the steadiness of the man's gaze. Ford looked at the Ghost, then at McGuane. 'Go to hell,' Ford spat out.
The Ghost looked at McGuane. He arched an eyebrow, smiled, and said, 'Brave.'
'John…'
But the Ghost ignored him. He whipped the iron bar across Ford's face. There was a wet ripping sound as his head snapped to the side. Blood squirted across the room. Ford fell back and did not move. The Ghost lined up for another blow to the knee.
McGuane said, 'Is he still conscious?'
That made the Ghost pause. He bent down. 'Conscious,' the Ghost reported, 'but his breathing is sporadic.' He stood back up. 'Another blow and Mr. Ford might go nighty-night.'
McGuane thought about that. 'Mr. Ford?'
Ford looked up.
'Where is he?' McGuane asked again.
This time Ford shook his head.
McGuane walked over to the monitor. He swiveled it so that Joshua Ford could see the screen. Cromwell was sitting cross-legged, sipping coffee.
The Ghost pointed at the monitor. 'He wears nice shoes. Are they Allen-Edmonds?'
Ford tried to sit up. He got his hands underneath him, tried to push, fell back.
'How old is he?' McGuane asked.
Ford did not reply.
The Ghost lifted the bar. 'He asked you '
