The Eyes of Darkness

the black, physician's bag, opened it, and withdrew a compact cassette tape recorder. He removed other things from the bag too: a length of flexible rubber tubing, a sphygmomanometer for monitoring blood pressure, two small bottles of amber-colored fluid, and a packet of disposable hypodermic syringes.
    Elliot's mind raced through a list of cases that his law firm was currently handling, searching for some connection with these two intruders, but he couldn't think of one.
    The tall man gestured with the gun. "Go over to the table and sit down."
    "Not until you tell me what this is all about."
    "I'm giving the orders here."
    "But I'm not taking them."
    "I'll put a hole in you if you don't move."
    "No. You won't do that," Elliot said, wishing that he felt as confident as he sounded. "You've got something else in mind, and shooting me would ruin it."
    "Move your ass over to that table."
    "Not until you explain yourself."
    Vince glared at him.
    Elliot met the stranger's eyes and didn't look away.
    At last Vince said, "Be reasonable. We've just got to ask you some questions."
    Determined not to let them see that he was frightened, aware that any sign of fear would be taken as proof of weakness, Elliot said, "Well, you've got one hell of a weird approach for someone who's just taking a public opinion survey."
    "Move."
    "What are the hypodermic needles for?"
    "Move."
    "What are they for?"
    Vince sighed. "We gotta be sure you tell us the truth."
    "The entire truth," said Bob.
    "Drugs?" Elliot asked.
    "They're effective and reliable," said Bob.
    "And when you've finished, I'll have a brain the consistency of grape jelly."
    "No, no," Bob said. "These drugs won't do any lasting physical or mental damage."
    "What sort of questions?" Elliot asked.
    "I'm losing my patience with you," Vince said.
    "It's mutual," Elliot assured him.
    "Move."
    Elliot didn't move an inch. He refused to look at the muzzle of the pistol. He wanted them to think that guns didn't scare him. Inside, he was vibrating like a tuning fork.
    "You son of a bitch, move!"
    "What sort of questions do you want to ask me?"
    The big man scowled.
    Bob said, "For Christ's sake, Vince, tell him. He's going to hear the questions anyway when he finally sits down. Let's get this over with and split."
    Vince scratched his concrete-block chin with his shovel of a hand and then reached inside his jacket. From an inner pocket, he withdrew a few sheets of folded typing paper.
    The gun wavered, but it didn't move off target far enough to give Elliot a chance.
    "I'm supposed to ask you every question on this list," Vince said, shaking the folded paper at Elliot. "It's a lot, thirty or forty questions altogether, but it won't take long if you just sit down over there and cooperate."
    "Questions about what?" Elliot insisted.
    "Christina Evans."
    This was the last thing Elliot expected. He was dumbfounded. "Tina Evans? What about her?"
    "Got to know why she wants her little boy's grave reopened."
    Elliot stared at him, amazed. "How do you know about that?"
    "Never mind," Vince said.
    "Yeah," Bob said. "Never mind how we know. The important thing is we do know."
    "Are you the bastards who've been harassing Tina?"
    "Huh?"
    "Are you the ones who keep sending her messages?"
    "What messages?" Bob asked.
    "Are you the ones who wrecked the boy's room?"
    "What are you talking about?" Vince asked. "We haven't heard anything about this."
    "Someone's sending messages about the kid?" Bob asked.
    They appeared to be genuinely surprised by this news, and Elliot was pretty sure they weren't the people who had been trying to scare Tina. Besides, though they both struck him as slightly wacky, they didn't seem to be merely hoaxers or borderline psychopaths who got their kicks by scaring defenseless women. They looked and acted like organization men, even though the big one was rough enough at the edges to pass for a common thug. A silencer-equipped pistol, lock-release gun, truth serums— their apparatus indicated that these guys were part of a sophisticated outfit with substantial resources.
    "What about the messages she's been getting?" Vince asked, still watching Elliot closely.
    "I guess that's just one more question you're not going to get an answer for," Elliot said.
    "We'll get the answer," Vince said coldly.
    "We'll get all the answers," Bob agreed.
    "Now," Vince said, "counselor, are you going to walk over to the table and sit your ass down, or am I going to have to motivate you with this?"