Dwight had neither option. His family was gone.
Permanently.
Courtesy of Arnie Sanchez.
The light for the seventh floor lit up and the elevator began to slow its ascent.
The parole board had voted quickly, without debate. They thanked Dwight for his time, denied Sanchezs petition and moved on to the next hearing.
On the drive back to Kansas City, Dwight had had plenty of time to recall the cold, black fury in Sanchezs eyes and wonder why that unspoken threat hadnt fazed him. Maybe he was hoping that Sanchez would blow any chance for an early release by giving voice to that threat in front of witnesses.
Or maybe it was because a threat was useless against a man with nothing left to lose.
The number eight lit up, the elevator dinged and Dwight switched the briefcase to his right hand to dig the keys out of his left pocket as the doors slid open.
As soon as the elevator closed behind him, Dwight sensed trouble. Not the Arnie-Sanchez-is-beating-the-system kind of trouble. But something was off-kilter, out of place.
He peered into the long, deserted tunnel of marbled walls and shadows, letting his eyes adjust to the dim glow of the security lights illuminating the hallway. His soft-soled oxfords made no noise on the marble tiles as he headed toward his office.
The emptiness was no surprise. By this time of night, even the die-hard workaholics like himself would have gone home. And hed passed most of the cleaning crew outside at the utility entrance, taking their first break of the night.
He listened to the cranking, whooshing sounds of the air conditioner regulating the buildings temperature against the August heat. Perfectly normal.
And yet
Dwight crinkled up his nose. Maybe it was the whisper of cigarette smoke. Someone had broken the rules of the smoke-free building. But that wasnt what nagged at him. Beneath the tobacco pungency that lingered in the air, he detected something fresher, sweeterdefinitely out of place in an environment that typically smelled of leather attaché cases and disinfectant.
He wasnt alone.
But he didnt for one moment think that a friend had dropped by to pay a surprise visit. The people he called friends knew he didnt do surprises anymore.
A slice of light cutting across the hallway diverted his attention to the emergency stairwell, where the door stood ajar. He paused in front of the inch-wide gap to listen but heard nothing beyond the usual creaks and moans of the old steel-and-limestone building that had adorned the skyline of downtown Kansas City since the Truman era.
Dwight pulled off his tie and stuffed it inside his suit jacket pocket. Hed never considered himself any kind of paranoid alarmist. But hed learned a thing or two about survival over the years. Not just in the courtroom, but in life. He took note of details, no matter how small or insignificant they might seem. Then he processed them until they made sense.
This didnt make sense.
Did the open door mean someone had escaped? Or snuck inside?
The roar of the air conditioner fans shut off as the thermostat leveled off. But instead of the eerie silence Dwight had expected, he heard a low, mewling noise somewhere in the dark interior of one of the offices down the hall. Had a stray cat gotten trapped inside the building? But how could a streetwise feline account for that sweet, oily scent?
His gaze dropped to a fleck of crimson, almost unnoticeable on the mottled gray-and-black pattern on the marble floor. How did he account for that?
Crouching down on his haunches, Dwight touched the dot of color. The floor was icy cold beneath the tip of his finger. But the spot was wet, sticky and definitely fresh.
Blood.
Suffused with a wary energy that heightened his senses and put him on guard, Dwight stood, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and prepping for whatever adversary lurked in the shadows.
A muted howl turned his attention back toward the hallway. The glow from the stairwell spotlighted another drop of blood. And another. The irregular pattern of droplets zigzagged across the floor, as if whoever was bleeding had staggered from side to side. Had the wounded creature struggled to get into the building? Or to reach the exit?
Dwight overruled his instinct to close the stairwell door behind him to protect his back. If the eighth floor had become a crime scene, the CSI team would want everything left just the way hed found it.
But if it was just a stupid catmaybe one whod gotten into an alley fighthe wasnt waiting for the police to find out and make the ADA their joke of the week.
Dwight followed the trail to his office and cursed. He could hear music now, something instrumental and indistinct. Had a maid left a radio on? Cut herself on a sharp object and run downstairs for help? Why not take the elevator? Why not use the crews walkie-talkies and call for assistance?
An image of Arnie Sanchezs cold, black eyes popped into Dwights head. Just because the bastard was locked away in Jefferson City didnt mean he couldnt make a phone call, didnt mean he couldnt make arrangements to add to Dwights misery.
Dwight slipped his key into the outer door, but, already unlocked, it drifted open. This wouldnt be the first time someone had broken into his office. But he had a feeling that what awaited him on the other side of the door was far more dangerous to him than any burglar or maid or injured stray.
Dwight crept through the set of cubicles that served his secretary and department clerks. The music was louder herehe could make out the wordless melody from a childrens movie now. The tune was punctuated by discordant wails from Please, God, be that damned cat.
Clenching his jaw with a tightness that shook through him, he narrowed his gaze to the trail of crimson dots along the gray carpeting. There was a smear on the wall beside the door to his inner office, as if someone had tried to wipe it clean.
Dwight hurried to the thick walnut door that separated his work space from the others. He didnt even bother with his keys. He pulled out his handkerchief and, as he suspected, the doorknob turned without protest and he stepped inside.
The full force of that soft, powdery scent, tinged with the odor of something slightly more pungent, caught him off guard and sucker punched him in the gut. He gripped the knob tightly, just short of snapping it off in his fist. This was a bad dream. Another one of those damn nightmares.
Only he was helplessly awake. Son of a bitch.
In four strides, hed dropped his briefcase, circled his desk and taken note of the bloody palm prints on his telephone receiver and on the note tucked beneath the music box that played beside it. No way. No friggin way.
But the blood didnt scare him half as much as the bundle sitting squarely on the middle of his desk, bawling through toothless gums and batting at the air with helpless fists.
Dwights jaw hurt with everything it took to keep himself from crying or cursing in front of the tiny, abandoned baby.
With shaky fingers, he unfolded the blood-stained blanket, unhooked the straps on the carrier and checked the infant. He was small, fragile and clean. Dwights hands were big and out of practiceand afraid. He quickly re-buckled the straps. Thank God. No visible signs of injury. The blood had another source.
Youre okay, kid. Youre not His breath stuttered and caught in the tightness of his chest. The baby wailed in earnest now, and the sound shivered along Dwights nerves, chilling him and awakening dark things inside him.