He closed his eyes at the last second and tightened his grip on the steering wheel until there was no squeeze left. Then, whoosh. The front ends didn’t lock. The vehicles passed by each other, so closely that River felt the vacuum suck him to the right.
Then he flipped.
His body left the seat and slammed into another part of the interior, then another and another.
Everything spun.
It was too fast to make out images.
All he could see were violent blurs.
Then the vehicle almost tipped again but didn’t. Instead it twisted, reset on the wheels and sped into the topography with a wild bumping motion.
River’s brain lightened at that second.
The vehicle wouldn’t flip again.
He wasn’t dead and whatever happened in the next few seconds wouldn’t kill him.
He’d survived.
He might be hurt-hurt badly in fact-but he wasn’t dead.
The vehicle slowed and finally came to a stop. River was in the back seat, half on the floor, twisted. He bowed his forehead onto his hands and closed his eyes.
Everything was silent.
It was the deepest silence he’d ever heard.
Thunder rushed through his veins.
He was alive.
That’s all that mattered.
Then a warning sounded inside his head, a warning that said he had no time to relax.
Something was wrong.
A pain from his side made him focus. He looked down and saw a knife sticking out of his body.
There was blood, lots and lots of blood, enough to scare him.
He grabbed the knife as fast as he could, pulled it out and dropped it.
There.
The bastard was out.
He twisted upright and pulled his shirt up to see how deep the wound was.
He couldn’t tell.
There was too much blood.
It felt deep but he couldn’t tell.
Suddenly his right eye blurred.
He wiped the back of his hand across it.
When he pulled it away, there was blood, dripping down from somewhere above.
He felt around until he found the wound. It was on his head, under his hair, two or three inches back. He ran a finger along it to gauge how bad it was.
It was bad.
79
“So what do you say? Are you in?”
London was waiting for an answer.
Her stomach was pressed to Wilde’s.
Her lips were open.
Her breathing was shallow.
Wilde was at a crossroads, the kind that lasts only a few seconds and then ripples forever. Part of him said yes, go; screw his whole existence, disappear with London and let whatever happens happen. The other part said no, don’t even think about it; he hardly knew the woman, certainly not enough to throw away everything he’d built up in Denver.
He blew smoke.
Then he looked down into her eyes and opened his mouth to talk.
He still didn’t know what the answer would be, but knew it was time to give it.
The silence was over.
It was time to decide.
It would come to him as he mouthed the words.
Suddenly a noise came from behind him. He turned to find a man in the room, a man he knew-Crockett Bluetone, the hotshot lawyer, the head of London’s firm.
London was as surprised as Wilde and took a step back.
“The door was open,” Bluetone said. Then to Wilde, nodding at his cigarette, “You got another?”
Wilde hesitated; then he tapped one loose and extended the pack.
Bluetone pulled it out, said “Thanks,” and lit up from a fancy gold lighter.
His eyes were on London.
He flicked the lighter shut, stuck it in his pocket, blew smoke at London and looked at Wilde.
“She’s a beautiful woman. I wouldn’t take her offer, though, not if I was you.” He focused on London and said, “Tell him why.”
Wilde turned to London.
Her face was a mixture of hate, fear and confusion.
“Get out of here,” she said.
“Sure, partner, whatever you say. We’ll be talking, though. Trust me on that.”
Then he was out of the room and down the stairs.
The front door opened and slammed.
He was gone.
Partner.
The word ricocheted through Wilde’s brain.
“What did he mean, partner? He didn’t mean law partner, did he?”
London took a step back.
The wall stopped her from going farther.
“He’s scum,” she said. “The guy who tried to kill me last night-Bluetone hired him. That’s why I’m getting out of Denver. That’s why I can’t practice law anymore.”
Half of Wilde wanted to take the woman in his arms.
The other half wanted answers.
“Answer my question,” he said. “What did he mean, partner?”
