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Before the other man could speak, Bunting said, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“What? How did you know?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“It’s complicated, Avery, very complicated.”
“Mr. Bunting, I think they were going to kill me.”
“There was no thinking about it, they were.”
“But why?”
“Edgar Roy. Carla Dukes. Mistakes, Avery, mistakes.”
“So why didn’t they do it then, kill me?”
Bunting leaned against a wall of his mansion. “Proving a point.”
“To who? Me?”
“Realistically speaking, Avery, you mean nothing to them. They were making the point to me.”
“To you? Were you there?”
“I was in the next room.”
“My God. Could you see what was happening to me?”
Bunting debated whether to lie or not. “No, I couldn’t. I only heard about it later.” I’m so weak I can’t even tell him what I did.
“Things are really getting out of hand.”
“They’ve been out of hand for a while, Avery.”
“What can we do? Can you call somebody?”
“I’ve tried. They’re not listening, apparently.”
“But you’re Peter Bunting, for God’s sake.”
“I’m sorry to inform you, but that means jack shit to these folks.”
“If they come and get me, next time I don’t think I’ll be as lucky.”
“Neither will I.”
“They wouldn’t harm you, sir.”
Bunting felt like laughing. He felt like sliding down the gilded banister in the two-story foyer of his insanely expensive home screaming at the top of his lungs. Instead he quietly said, “You think?”
“Is it that bad?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He heard the other man sigh. “I can’t believe we have no one to turn to.”
