T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“I’ll be asleep in five minutes.” Though she stood ten feet from him now, he felt her arms around him still. “Thank you for coming.”

“There’s so much I’d like to tell you.”

He had no will left to hold back. Thoughts formed and instantly tumbled out. “I couldn’t say anymore what I’m asking for the trial and what I’m asking for myself.”

She closed the distance between them and reached for his good arm. Only when she gripped his hand with both of hers did she say, “I thought if I stayed mad at you it would keep me from caring.”

“You were right to try.”

She shook her head, causing the flaxen crown to shimmer. “It didn’t work.”

He breathed, and felt his crushed soul tasting a fragrance that was too good for this moment, too fine. He held it just the same, wishing there were some way to keep it always.

She seemed to understand, for her grip upon his hand tightened. “Do you think,” she whispered, “two shattered hearts could join and make one whole?”

His entire inner world keened a sad yearning, but his willful tongue betrayed him. “I’d say it was more the making of a tragedy.”

Even so, she did not let him go. “They say love can heal all wounds.”

No, he wanted to say, that was merely the stuff of poetry and dreamers and a world far finer than this place. Here it was different. Here love pierced with a lance’s thrust, killing not once but daily. But Marcus imprisoned the words behind a tightly clenched jaw.

Kirsten waited and held his hand until Alma’s voice called faintly from the front lawn. Then, she touched his cheek with lips too soft and warm for his hard nature. She crossed the foyer, pushed open the door, and tripped down the steps into the night. Kirsten left him scarred not by her touch but rather by its absence.

When the cars had driven away, he reached up and with two fingers wiped at the spot, seeking to vanquish the flood of yearning. Only now did he miss what he had gone so long without.

Randall Walker passed through customs at the Raleigh-Durham airport with the ease of one who always traveled first-class. His houseman-driver was there to greet him and accept the baggage tags. Randall walked outside and stopped by the big Mercedes parked in the emergency zone. He stood beside the car and took in great drafts of the night air. It did not matter that the place stank of jet fuel and airport fumes. Behind those odors lurked the finest scent in all the known universe-the smell of home.

He did not realize how much he had missed Raleigh until this very moment. His villa on the Amalfi Coast was everything he had recalled from his one brief visit, a true Renaissance castle. His wife was ecstatic, still walking around in a dreamlike state, scarcely believing it was actually hers. But in truth he was not made for the easy life, no matter how sweet the wine nor how fine the Mediterranean light. He missed the fray, the battles, the danger. Power was nothing unless it was used.

His houseman came out toting his two alligator bags. “Have a good flight?”

“Long. Naples to London, London to home.” Home. How wonderful a word it was. How much Marcus Glenwood and this case had almost cost him.

The houseman shut the trunk, glanced over, and asked, “You all right, sir?”

“Fine.” Randall Walker forced his limbs to unlock from the sudden burning fury.

“You’ve gone all white.”

“I’m just tired, that’s all.” He let the houseman open his door, slid inside, tried to settle the churning rage. It had been like this, on and off, ever since his departure. Sudden furies that threatened to send him screaming about the villa, shattering everything and everyone in his path.

He had to come back. Had to be there for the kill. He pulled out his cellular phone and keyed in the number for Logan’s home. When the man answered, Randall said simply, “I’m back.”

“Where have you been?”

A wave of relief swept through him. Logan’s tone was naturally impatient, demanding. Which meant the China Trade Council chairman had not gone through with his threat of public dismissal. James Southerland, the CEO of New Horizons, had assured Randall that he would personally handle the council chairman and his hair-trigger temper. Obviously Southerland was a man of his word.

Randall forced himself to ease back. He smiled at the ceiling over the backseat, then at the night outside. “Business in Italy. I hear it went well today in court.”

“You should have been there.” Logan’s gloating voice rang like great Oriental gongs. “Suzie just plain tore that guy apart.”

“You taped it?”

“Unofficially.”

“I want a copy.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Any problems with the general?”

“None. He hasn’t spoken more than ten words to me since his arrival. The guy might as well be one of those big carved Chinese dogs.”

Not according to Randall’s other sources. In private, the general was a frenzied maniac, screaming for the blood of everyone who had trapped him within this Carolina courthouse. Which was what had brought the New Horizons chairman back to the United States, not the judge’s so-called request. “When are you planning to have James Southerland testify?”

“Last thing tomorrow.”

“You mind walking me through your strategy?”

Randall leaned back and listened to the trial attorney sketch out his plan of attack. Walker’s mind expanded gradually, stretching and assuming the old familiar shape. He sighed, working the anger and the anxiety from his bones. Randall Walker was indeed home.

The next morning Marcus was relegated to the injury box, sitting and watching as Logan began an onslaught of witnesses. In swift succession the defense attorney led his people through their paces. He attacked hard and fast, moving in for the kill while Marcus was still flayed and wounded. Charlie handled the work like a pro, taking on the witnesses according to Marcus’ written notes, striking back with what force he could muster.

Two workers were brought forward to counteract the plaintiff’s accusations of New Horizons’ mistreatment of employees. The personnel manager described their sensitivity program, given to all levels of management at all U.S. facilities. A black female VP from New York described her rise from the factory floor of their New Jersey plant, one that Charlie managed to reveal on cross had long since been closed and moved south. With each witness Logan drove home the company’s excellent labor policies. Solid training schemes. Great working conditions. How well New Horizons treated their employees. Even in his drained state, Marcus could not help seeing that his case was evaporating. Logan was distancing himself and his clients from the accusations, drawing the jury farther and farther from the initial testimony.

The day’s final witness came as no great surprise, since he had spent the entire day seated between Logan and Suzie Rikkers. As chairman and chief executive officer of New Horizons Incorporated, James Southerland was as polished and powerful as a man in his position was expected to be. Logan’s opening question granted him an opportunity to apologize first to the jury and then to the judge for not being there throughout. But with a two-billion-dollar company to run and over two dozen foreign subsidiaries to manage, Southerland explained, making time for this case required a great deal of juggling. Nevertheless, he was here, and he wanted to set their minds straight on some very important matters about his fine company. Judge Nicols sat stone-faced as Logan respectfully walked the chairman through the company’s vast array of subsidiaries. Photographs were shown, supposedly taken from the Factory 101 shop floor. The pictures showed well-lit, pleasant enough surroundings. The workers were clearly Asian. The gleaming machinery was all new and part of New Horizons’ investment in this fine, upstanding partnership, the chairman declared, his tone as refined as his appearance. General Zhao unbent enough to offer his first reaction other than silent fury, smiling benignly as Southerland praised the partnership and the wonderful opportunities it offered their workers.