He’s being smothered and doesn’t respond. I ask Judith to step aside for a moment, and when we’re alone I say, “Can we meet here with the FBI later in the morning? There’s more to the story.”

“Tell me now,” she hisses.

“I’ll tell you when I want to tell you, and that’s with the FBI listening. Okay?”

She hates it when she’s not in control. She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and manages to say, “Sure.”

I walk away, refuse to acknowledge her parents, and get in the van. As we drive away, I look at Starcher and wonder when I’ll see him again.

4.

At 9:00 a.m., I’m in court for a preliminary hearing. By then, the news is out, courtesy of a leak by the police, that my son has been found and returned to his parents. The judge grants me a continuance and I hurry out of the courtroom. I have a handful of lawyer pals and several of them want to chat and offer congratulations. I’m just not in the mood.

Fango ambushes me in the hallway, just like he did three weeks ago. I keep walking and refuse to look at him. He falls in beside me and says, “Say, Rudd, Link is getting pretty anxious about the money. I told him about your kid and all, and, by the way, he sends his concerns.”

“Tell Link to worry about his own problems,” I snap as we march stride for stride.

“He is, and one of his problems just happens to be you and the money.”

“Too bad,” I say and walk even faster.

He labors to keep up with me, labors to think of something clever to say, and makes a big mistake with “You know, your kid just might not be that safe after all.”

I wheel around and throw a tight right cross that lands perfectly on his chin. He walks into it and doesn’t see it until it’s too late. His head jerks so violently that I hear the crunching of bones somewhere, and in the first split second I think I’ve broken his neck.

But his neck is fine; he’s been hit before, plenty of times, and has the scars to prove it.

Fango sprawls across the marble floor, and when he finally comes to rest he doesn’t move. Out cold. A perfect knockout punch that I could never replicate. I’m tempted to kick him in the head a few times for good measure, but out of the corner of my eye I see a sudden movement. Another thug is moving toward me and he’s reaching for a pocket and a weapon. Someone yells behind me.

The second thug goes down as hard as Fango when Partner whacks him over the head with a stainless steel baton he carries in his coat pocket. The baton is designed for just such occasions. When contracted it’s about six inches long, but when whipped out properly it extends to eighteen inches and is equipped with a steel knob at its tip. It can easily crack a skull, is in fact designed to do so. I tell Partner to give it to me and disappear. A security guard runs over and looks at the two unconscious thugs. I hand him my bar association ID card and say, “Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. These two goons just tried to jump me.”

A crowd gathers. Fango wakes up first, mumbling and rubbing his jaw, then he tries to stand but can’t find his feet. Finally, with the help of the security guard, he gets up, still wobbly, and wants to leave. A cop makes him sit on a nearby bench while an EMT tends to his buddy. Eventually, the second guy wakes up, with a very large knot on the back of his head. They ice it for a few minutes, then put him on the same bench with Fango. I stand close and glare at them. They glare right back. The EMT gives me an ice pack for my right hand.

Getting punched is nothing for these two and they’re not about to press charges. That would require paperwork, a lot of questions, and no small amount of prying by the police. They work for Link Scanlon and they don’t answer questions. Right now they can’t wait to get out of the building and back on the streets, where they make the rules.

I tell the police that I, too, have no desire to press charges. As I walk away, I lean close to Fango and whisper, “Tell Link that if I hear one more word out of you, or him, I’m going to the FBI.”

Fango sneers as if he might spit in my face.

5.

I suppose some days are meant to be spent with the FBI. I walk into the lobby of Judith’s firm a few minutes after 11:00 a.m. The receptionist is smiling and chatting with a paralegal. They smile at me and gush with congratulations. I don’t realize it immediately, but they think I’m some sort of hero. A lawyer sticks her head out of her office door and says congratulations. The mood is almost jubilant, and why not? Starcher has been rescued and is safely at home, where he belongs. We were all numb, shell-shocked, terrified, and waiting for the nightmare to become a tragedy. Instead, we got lucky.

Judith is in a large, well-appointed conference room with two FBI agents, Beatty and Agnew. Though my right hand is swollen and throbbing, I manage to shake their hands without any evidence of pain. I nod at Judith, say no to coffee, and ask how Starcher is doing. Just fine. Everything is swell.

Beatty, the talker, explains that Judith called the FBI late Saturday afternoon, but they had not officially entered the investigation. Agnew, the note taker, scribbles away and nods his head; whatever Beatty says is exactly true. The FBI does not get involved in kidnappings until the local police invite them in, or there is evidence that the victim has been moved across state lines. He prattles on for a while, smug with his importance. I let him go.

“Now,” Beatty says, looking at me, “you wanted to meet?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I know exactly who kidnapped Starcher, and I know why.”

Agnew’s pen stops in mid-stroke as everyone freezes. With her eyebrows arched, Judith says, “Do tell.”

So I tell the story, all of it.

6.

The elation Judith felt upon our son’s return dissipates halfway through my narrative. When it becomes apparent that the abduction was a direct result of another one of my notorious cases, her body language shifts dramatically and her mind starts racing away. Now, finally, she has clear proof that I am a danger to Starcher. She’ll probably file papers this afternoon.

I avoid eye contact with her, but the vibes are strong enough to spike the tension in the room.

When I finish, Beatty seems stunned. Agnew has burned through an entire legal pad with his chicken scratch.

Beatty says, “Well, I guess there’s a good reason the police didn’t want us involved.”

Agnew grunts his agreement. Judith asks, “How can you prove any of this?”

“I didn’t say I could prove it. Proof will be difficult, if not impossible. There may be surveillance footage of Nancy at the truck stop, taking the kid in, but I bet she’s disguised in some way. I doubt if Starcher could identify the guy who grabbed him at the park. I don’t know. You have any suggestions?”

She says, “It seems pretty far-fetched, the theory that the police would abduct a child.”

“So you don’t believe me?” I fire back.

The truth is that she wants to believe me. She wants my story to be true; because then she can use it as evidence against me when she drags me back to court. She won’t answer my question. “So what’s next?” I ask Beatty.