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Gus replied calmly. He played his trump card. “Maybe. But I will be speaking to Good Morning America tomorrow. I expect the media is very interested in my suit… Heck, I could probably sell the movie rights.”
Another explosion of profanity.
Gus’s response was unwavering, he sounded almost bored. “I want to talk to your client directly. Arrange that, and I’ll back off.”
The deluge began then. Lawyers representing the various publishing houses who had been joined in the action, and then Veronica Cole.
“Mr. Benton, I think there has been some misunderstanding…”
“Not at all, Ms. Cole. You seem to have sold my sister’s book to a number of publishers.”
“Mr. Benton, whatever similarity you may imagine exists between Afterlife and—”
“I’m not imagining anything, Ms. Cole. Afterlife is Theodosia’s book, at least in conception.”
Veronica Cole tried to reason with him. She claimed to understand. Perhaps if Day Delos and Associates was to sell the book Theodosia Benton did submit to them—Underneath—then he would get the resolution he was obviously seeking through this suit.
“I want to speak to P. S. Altamirano—”
“He doesn’t speak English.”
“And yet he did not seem to have had a problem reading Theo’s notes. Look, Ms. Cole”—Gus made his last offer—“I want to know how Altamirano got my sister’s plot, her ideas, even her bloody characters. Honestly, I hope he tells me she gave them to him because I don’t want to believe that Day Delos and Associates stole the one thing she truly owned.”
There was a flint to Veronica’s tone now. “You should understand, Mr. Benton, that we will countersue.”
“You have twenty-four hours, and then I’m going to start calling reporters.”
“That really wouldn’t be a good idea, Mr. Benton.”
Theo opened the phone she’d stolen. An old lady who’d used the restroom at the same time as she had had left her bag open as she fussed with makeup. Theo hoped she’d still be looking for it, and didn’t have any of those disabling apps downloaded to protect it. It wasn’t password or fingerprint protected.
She dialed Mac’s number, whispering, “Please answer, please answer…”
“Etheridge.”
“Mac…it’s Theo.”
A beat. “Theo…where are you?”
“Mac, you’ve got to tell Gus to stop. He doesn’t understand.”
“Theo…where are you? Wherever you are—”
“Mac, please. Tell Gus to stop.”
Mac Etheridge rang Gus as he climbed into the Mercedes. The line was busy. He redialed with no luck until he pulled up outside Gus’s apartment. He parked next to a black Buick on the street in front of the building. As he approached the stairs, he began to run.
Horse barking madly, sounds of a scuffle behind the open crack of Gus’s door.
Mac charged the door into the middle of a fray. There was blood on the floorboards. Two intruders. A blood-covered knife embedded in a surfboard on the floor. Gus’s sleeve was soaked crimson, and Horse had cornered one of the men. The other had a gun.
Mac used the surprise of his own entry, swinging before the gunman had time to aim. The weapon was knocked loose, and the two grappled desperately to retrieve it. Mac reached it first, but there were hands around his throat as the other tried to choke the advantage from him. And at those close quarters Mac recognized a face, but he had no breath to express surprise. He twisted in an attempt to break free, unwilling to risk using the gun in the confined melee. Gus pulled the man off as Mac gasped for air, but with one arm he could not hold him. The second man seemed to have finally realized that Horse was all snarl and no bite. He fell upon Gus, with blow after blow.
From the floor, Mac pointed the gun. “Stand down or I’ll shoot.”
Hesitation.
“Believe me, I can shoot you both before you get the knife out of that board,” Mac said without even appearing to glance at the man who’d moved to the surfboard. The gun was rock steady in his hands, the grip that of someone who knew how to handle a weapon.
