47.

It was Friday evening and Dugan sat at the bar with his second scotch on the rocks. He knew he shouldn’t be taking the loss so hard. His team members—four women from the Law Center at Georgetown—were being better sports about it than he was. “Hey,” one of them said, “this way we’ll have Saturday free. We can visit the Biltmore Estate.”

But litigation wasn’t about being a good sport. It was about winning. And they’d lost. In the semifinals. It was only a competition, but what the hell, his team was the best. Smart and aggressive, their cross-examinations were tough, their objections were incisive, and one of them ought to be right up there for “Best Final Argument.”

The team they’d lost to was just so-so. Two men and two women from Virginia State. Basically plodders, with smooth Southern drawls, who never rose above the ordinary. But they won, and so far two different people had suggested—without quite saying it—that the reason Dugan’s team lost was that they were all women. “They came off as a little too … well … bitchy,” was the way the lawyer from Denver put it.

“That’s bullshit,” Dugan said. “They were aggressive, and they’re better than either of those half-ass teams that made the finals.” He waved for another scotch, and Denver said he had to run. When he was gone, someone reminded Dugan that Denver’s team was one that made the finals.

Then, a little later, a similar comment. “I believe the judges thought your people were too much … well … in-your-face,” a lawyer from Kansas City explained.

“Fuck that,” Dugan said, surprised at how loud it came out. “They were just too damn good, and people didn’t like it.” Kansas City drifted away, too, and Dugan ordered another drink.

He’d called Kirsten about five. She hadn’t called back yet, and he realized he must have left his cell phone up in his room. He’d try again later. Meanwhile, time went by and people seemed to be avoiding him now. Maybe they knew his team flat out got a bad deal, and were tired of making up bullshit excuses. On the other hand he was taking this thing way too seriously. Plus, he hadn’t been away from Kirsten for this long since the day they met.

He struck up a conversation with anyone he could find who was part of the workshop, so he wouldn’t have to drink alone. Most of them had plans for dinner, but he didn’t feel much like eating … and no one invited him. He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know he wasn’t very good company.

By eight-thirty or so there was no one left in the bar that he recognized. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, and he hadn’t had this much to drink since—what?—college? He decided to have one more, then go up to bed. Maybe go home tomorrow. Fuck the damn finals. And fuck the awards banquet, too.

*   *   *

Kirsten could tell the woman on the phone was struggling not to lose patience. “I’m really sorry, ma’am,” the woman said, “but that’s the best I can do. The guest is not answering and we can’t—”

“For God’s sake,” Kirsten said, “he’s my husband. I’ve tried his cell phone and his room, and left two messages in both voice mails, and he hasn’t called back. That’s not like him. I mean … he’s still there, right? Surely you can tell me that much.”

“Um … would you mind holding a moment? For my manager?”

“Thank you.”

Under ordinary circumstances Dugan’s being suddenly unavailable might not have bothered her so much. He’d told her the final trial competition was Saturday, and that he knew his team would be a finalist. So maybe they were working late, getting ready. Or maybe he’d been overly optimistic and they’d been eliminated today, and he got pissed off and decided to come home early. But wouldn’t he—

“Hello?” It was the manager, who reluctantly admitted that Dugan was scheduled to depart the following day, and hadn’t checked out early. “But you must understand that we don’t track the whereabouts of our—”

“What if he’s unconscious in his room, for God’s sake?”

“Oh. Well … does he have a medical problem that might—”

“No,” she said. “I mean … yes!” Her mind raced. “He has … diabetes, and he has trouble controlling his blood sugar level. He could be in a diabetic coma right now. What’s the problem with knocking on his door, announcing yourself, and then going in if he doesn’t answer? At least we’d know that he isn’t … you know…” She let it hang there.

The manager agreed to send someone up. “You’re his wife? So can you verify the home number he gave us?”

Kirsten recited the number. “I’ll hang up and you can call and I’ll pick it up. Jesus!”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m going to put you on hold. Don’t go away.”

She had to admit that she was less worried about Dugan than pissed off at him. Why choose this particular time to suddenly become incommunicado? Of course she was the one who had talked him into going after he decided not to, and all week on the phone she’d kept assuring him everything was fine. Still, he ought to stay in touch. She waited, beating up on herself and Dugan alternately, until a man came on the line and said he was with hotel security.

“So,” she said, “is he there?”

“Three-oh-five is not in his room, ma’am.”

“Are you sure? Is everything all right?”

“I’m in the room now, ma’am. Everything’s fine here. From all the papers spread out everywhere, he’s probably been working real hard and went out for a snack. His cell phone’s on the table, and his room phone’s message light is blinking, so I’m sure he’ll call when he gets in.”

“Is the hotel pool still open?” He better not be splashing around with his goddamn team.

“Yes, ma’am. But I walked right by the pool area when I was on my way up here and there was nobody there at—”

“Thanks for all your trouble.”

“No problem.”

She hoped so. Worry was getting the upper hand over anger now, and she didn’t really know why.

*   *   *

Dugan had his billfold out. Concentrating, trying to figure out how much to tip the bartender. The bar was nearly empty. Just a woman down at the far end. Tall, attractive, but somehow hard-looking, too. She turned and caught him eyeing her … and smiled. A wide phony smile. She swung off her stool and came his way, carrying her drink with her. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Christ, all he needed now was some damn woman thinking he was looking for fun.

He slammed a few bills onto the bar and turned away. He felt incredibly stupid. One more drink and he’d never have made it to his room without falling down. Even now, it was questionable. The bar had one exit leading directly into the hotel lobby, but he took the other one, the door that led outside. From there it was an easy walk back to the hotel entrance, and it was actually shorter this way to the elevators. Besides, the cool air felt—

“Hi there, big fella.” That damn woman from the bar. Shit. Right beside him.

“Beat it,” he said, and waved her away.

“Hey,” she said, “be nice. I’m not gonna hurt you.” She flashed the phony smile again. “I promise.”

*   *   *

The phone finally rang. And rang. The cell phone. It took Kirsten forever to climb out of her sleep and find the damn thing. It was almost five A.M. “Hello? Dugan?”

“It’s me,” he said. “You should—”

“Jesus, where’ve you been, for chrissake?” He didn’t answer, so she said, “Hey, sorry. I’m not mad. Just … worried. How’s it going?”

Still no answer.

“Dugan?”

“He can’t talk on the phone right now.” A woman’s voice. “You’ll hear from us again, though, in a few days.”

“What are—”

“And no cops, bitch. Got it? No cops. Or I skin this man alive.”