They hauled him out of the van and threw him down on the concrete in front of a chain-link fence. When the spasming began to subside, they hauled him upright by his hair. A moment later, Tony felt the dark man’s fist in his chest. The pain was searing, like a branding iron piercing his already weakened body. His attacker had hit him in the solar plexus, knocked the wind out of him. Maybe broken something. Tony couldn’t breathe. He wanted to cry out, wanted to attract some help, but he could barely muster a whimper.

“Let me help,” the blond kid said. He lunged forward with a roll of duct tape and gagged Tony, then taped his wrists to two fence posts. He was immobile, pinned like a human sacrifice, arms splayed as if he were about to be crucified.

The first blow dislocated his jaw. The second cracked a rib. Tony was on fire; every nerve of his body had been electrified. The blows rained down on him, one after another, so many and so of-ten and so hard that Tony could no longer distinguish where they landed or what part of his body had been broken. The dark man worked him over with a leather sap, pummeling his head and face and hands. Tony felt two of his fingers snap. And the blows just kept coming.

Consciousness began to fade. His vision blurred. He prayed for unconsciousness; nothing else could make the pain go away. Surely they would stop. Surely then they would stop.

The dark man saw him go limp and sneered. “If you think we’re gonna quit just ’cause you don’t like it, you got another think comin’, faggot. We’re barely gettin’ started.” He ripped the duct tape off Tony’s face. “What d’you say to that, queer boy?”

Tony’s eyes were so swollen he couldn’t see. His lips were cracked and bleeding. But somehow he managed to muster the power to whisper: “Please don’t kill me. Please.”

“Beg me, you fairy. Beg!”

“I… am begging you. Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.”

“Like what? Like maybe you’ll suck my dick, is that what you’re thinking? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He shoved his fist deep into Tony’s gut.

Tony was finished, he realized. There was nothing he could do; he had no way to protect himself. He was entirely at their mercy. And they had none.

“Cut him down,” he heard the dark man say.

His heart twitched. Was it possible-was this insane torture over? Were they finally done with him? The blond man whipped out a switchblade and cut the duct tape binding his hands-and cut his wrists in the process.

“Whoops. Guess my hand slipped.”

“Never you mind, Johnny. I think he likes it. Give him another poke or two.”

The blond man did. All over Tony’s body. Treated him like a human pincushion. Tony felt blood gushing out of his body like water from a fountain, from his face, his abdomen-even his feet. Then he noticed the dark man was holding something-a five-pound iron maul hammer.

The two men continued their work for more than half an hour. And no one came to help Tony. His cries were heard by no one, no one except the person who had left the bar shortly after the assailants and witnessed the entire assault. And did nothing. But watched. And waited.

Part One. Times of Passion

1

Tulsa, Oklahoma

Two Warren Place

Offices of Kincaid & McCall

“I really don’t want to do this,” Ben Kincaid muttered.

“You never do,” Jones grumbled, as he pressed the camera to his face.

“Tell me again why this is necessary?”

“My duties as your office manager include marketing, true?”

“I suppose.”

“That means it’s my job to make sure you get out and network, an important part of modern-day law practice at which you are ridiculously pathetic.”

“So that’s what this is about? Networking?”

“The Tulsa County Bar Directory goes to every big corporation in town, Boss. Your face needs to be in it.”

“So if someone sees my handsome face in a directory, they might decide to send some work my way?”

“You never know. You’ve got to stay above the radar if you want people to remember you.”

Ben stood in the lobby of his sparsely decorated law office, trapped between Jones’s workstation and the tacky sofa in the reception area. “I don’t think I need new clients that badly.”

“Take it from someone who has reviewed the monthly accounting books. You do. Now smile.”

“I am smiling.”

“That’s not a smile. That’s a grimace.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“You want to attract clients, not scare them off.”

“I want to look like a lawyer, not a game show host.”

“Would you just smile already?”

“Not in a million-” All at once, Ben’s face lit up like a candle, with eyes wide and a hysterical grin.

Jones snapped the picture.

“Christina!” Ben whirled around.

The petite redhead standing behind him beamed. “How did you know it was me?”

“Who else would… would… do what you just did?”

“And that would be?” Jones inquired.

Ben’s face flushed. “She pinched me!”

Jones arched an eyebrow. “Where exactly?”

“You don’t need to know.” He gave his law partner a long look. “Christina. You have a navel!”

“I hope that doesn’t shock you.” Her hair was done up in a professional-looking pinned-back hairdo, but she was wearing a brief fuchsia top that exposed her midriff, a short skirt, and pink lace pumps. Across the top of the shirt, written in sequins, was: MAIS OUI.

“Britney Spears, eat your heart out.”

Christina did a little twirl. “You like, mon ami?”

“Of course I do. But Jones, as marketing director, shouldn’t you give her a little lecture on professional deportment?”

“Hey, at least she knows how to attract attention. I got no complaints.”

Christina blew him a kiss. “Merci, ma petite bagatelle. Oh, Ben, I’m sorry about last night.”

Ben’s reaction was so immediate Jones couldn’t help but notice. His chin rose; his back stiffened. “Don’t worry about it.”

“How could I not? I don’t know what came over me.”

“Really, Christina, it’s nothing.”

“But I-”

“Really, you-”

“I wouldn’t want-”

“Not another thought.”

Jones’s eyes narrowed. “So… what was this, Inns of Court or something?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, much too quickly. “I mean, something like that. Right, Christina?”

“Right. Right.” Was her face pinking up, or was it just a reflection from that outfit?

“Any messages?” Ben asked.

“Nothing new,” Jones answered. “The same anonymous female we’ve been getting for weeks.” He handed Ben the message slip. It contained only four words: PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Jones asked.

Ben didn’t answer. He crumpled the message slip in his fist. “Did you get that cable outlet installed, Christina?”

“Natch.”

“Excellent. I told you the super wouldn’t mind.”

“The super moaned and groaned and told me he was much too busy to get to it anytime before Christmas.”

“That would be a bit late for my purposes.”

“So I informed him. And he agreed to move it to the top of his to-do list.”

Ben was impressed. “Because he’s such a good friend?”

Christina shook her head. “Because he knows better than to mess with me.”

Cook County Criminal Courthouse

Chicago, Illinois

26th Street and California Avenue

Kevin Mahoney had visited the county courthouse many times since he began his law practice, but he had never seen it look like it did today. The sidewalks and courtyards outside were rarely crowded; at best a few skateboarders, panhandlers, and homeless people dotted the stone walkways. But today the area was so packed Kevin could barely find his way to the door. Maybe 2 percent of the throng had actual business in the courthouse; the rest were demonstrators, conveniently aligned east and west depending upon which side of the conflict they favored.