black thing with a serrated portion near the handle. A razor sharp tip.
“Listen carefully, Mr. Whelan,” Clive said softly. “If your attitude does not change quickly, I will open your pants with this knife and castrate you as you sit, right here. A neat incision in your scrotum, I detach your testicles with surgical precision, flick, flick, and voilà, there they’ll be, on the floor, with a minimum of bloodshed. I hate mess.”
“No,” Harry gasped. “No, no, no.”
“No? All right, then. We do have alternatives, fortunately. Let’s discuss the security policy of the Huxley once again.”
Harry stared at him, wheezing for breath. The pain was making him faint. “You’re not FBI,” he gasped.
“It’s none of your concern what I am. Not a sound, Mr. Whelan. Be brave.” The knife dug into the side of Harry’s testicles. A strangled sound issued from his throat, like the whine of a balloon letting out air. “A three-year-old girl with curly dark hair spent time in this building the day before yesterday,” Clive went on. “Find out who she left with.”
Harry tried to breathe. His lungs would not expand. His ribs were frozen. His hands clutched the desk, as if he were drowning. “I—I—”
“Think, Mr. Whelan,” Clive encouraged him. “Think.”
“D-d-day before yesterday, there was an afternoon wedding,” he forced out. “Big party, lots of overnight guests.”
“Well, then. The guest list would be an excellent place to start. Turn to the computer screen, put your hand on the mouse. Show me who checked in that afternoon. Show me a list of all the rooms that had notations regarding infants or small children.”
Harry pulled them up. The man leaned forward to peer at the screen, jabbing the knife deeper in the process. He tried not to shriek.
“Shut up, Mr. Whelan,” Clive said absently. “Hmm. Four single women with children, six couples. Did you see any of them?”
“N-n-no,” Harry gasped. “I wasn’t out on the front desk. I don’t work the desk. I work back here.”
“Oh. How unfortunate for you.” The knife dug deeper. “Perhaps one of your colleagues? If I took this knife away for a moment, you could consult with one of them. Could you behave, if I did that, Mr. Whelan? Would you be a good boy? Can I count on you?”
Harry nodded, violently.
“Because if you give me any trouble, you will regret it. And so will your colleague. Is this clear?”
“Yes,” Harry gasped. “Yes, please. I’ll call one of them. Please.”
Clive removed the crushing pressure of his fingers. Tears of relief streamed down Harry’s face, clogging his nose. He wiped them on his sleeve, and tried to remember who had been on the desk that day. Nancy, for sure. He stabbed her button. “Nancy? Could you come back here for a minute?” His voice was watery and high.
“Sure, Harry. Just a sec, got to finish up this guest.”
She was there in two interminable minutes, eyes big and puzzled. Harry made a huge effort to control his face, his voice, his bowels. Clive’s knife hovered in front of his crotch, beneath the desk, menacing him. “Nancy, do you remember that wedding party two days ago?”
“Sure,” she said. “Becca Cattrell and Nick Ward. Harry? Are you OK? You look kind of strange.” She looked curiously at the bearded man.
The knife dug into Harry’s balls again. Harry sucked air, and forced a weak smile onto his face. “I’m fine. Little headache. Do you remember a three-year-old girl in that wedding reception? Dark curly hair?”
Nancy’s big eyes rolled. “Oh, my God, yes. That kid screamed the place down the morning after, in the dining room. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life, and I’ve heard some doozies when I worked day care. Talk about living birth control.”
“Do you remember her parents’ names?”
Nancy frowned thoughtfully. “She was with her mom, I remember that. A glamorpuss type, like a top model. I didn’t check her in. Charlie did, but she’s out sick today. The glamorpuss left with the gorgeous foreign guy. That was why the kid flipped out, because her mom had to go somewhere without her.”
“What guy? What was his name?” Harry begged.
Nancy shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think he had his own room booked. One of us would’ve remembered. The guy was, like, movie star good-looking. It was unreal, the two of them together.”
Harry could not think straight enough to form a response to that, trying as he was not to vomit from the white-hot pressure of the knife tip.
Clive asked, “And who did the child leave with?”
Her face cleared. “That’s easy. It was with one of those McCloud guys. I remember the name because there were three of them, and all the girls at the desk were checking them out. Drop dead gorgeous, all three of them. Brothers, I guess. Like, be still my heart.”
“Which one?” Harry burst out. “Just tell me which one it was!”
Nancy blinked at his tone, startled. “One of the ones with a baby,” she offered timidly. “Two of them had babies. Cute as can be. I don’t remember which one, though. Look, do you want some Advil or Tylenol? Or at least some coffee? You do not look good at all.”
“No. I’m fine,” Harry said.
Clive drew the knife away, and it was all Harry could do not to collapse into sobs. “Is that enough?” He turned imploring eyes on Clive.
The man smiled genially and nodded. “That’s fine.”
“Thanks for your help, Nancy,” Harry said. “You can go.”
Nancy left, throwing a worried glance back over her shoulder. “You let me know if you change your mind about that Advil,” she said.
The door clicked closed. Harry began to sob silently.
“Don’t fall apart yet, Mr. Whelan,” Clive chided him. “I need printouts of the credit cards you billed for those two rooms, please.”
Somehow Harry managed to perform that task. Clive tucked the sheets into his pocket, and spun the knife, a twinkling show of dexterity, like a baton twirler. “Thank you, Mr. Whelan. You’ve been very helpful. And in case you’re tempted to discuss what just happened with anyone…your supervisor, for instance, or the police, or the McClouds—”
“I won’t,” Harry assured him, his voice breaking. “I promise.”
“Or your mother,” Clive continued. “Or even that pretty colleague, the one who’s so worried about you. My associates and I informed ourselves before I came here. Your address, for instance. Where you live with your mother in that Victorian home in Tacoma. Pretty, but those old houses are firetraps. It would be tragic to come home from work and find that your mother had been burned to death in a house fire, hmm? Batteries run down in the smoke alarms. Tsk tsk. Terrible shame.”
“I
