Three colored Coi carps nibbling at his body. From the porch of her family manse she could watch him clean his curved blade from the blood of a dozen or more servants that died to protect her. Once it was shining bright, he sheathed the sword and slipped it back into the belt around his waist. Then his glance rose to meet hers. His brown hair hung heavy from rain and sweat and blood, clutching around his scarred face. Black eyes, dark as the night with a glimmer of stars peered at her, his prize.She sat unmoved on the wooden floor, her hands in her lap and her face expressionless. She had waited for him. She was a hostage here, her real parents long dead. He said he would come for her, he owed it to her father, but he had lost his titles when his lord, her father lost his life.The bandit climbed the few steps to the porch and came to a halt between the doors that used to frame hundrets of pure white sheets of parchment. One was torn to shreds by the fighting and looked like it would. If she got even one question about "BDSM," she wrote — initials that must have blazed like a neon sign to her — she was going to tell everything she knew.I was keeping busy as well. Around ten, I trekked out to the airport to renew my acquaintance with the men who worked for Jerry's Charter Service with photographs of Pete, Shawn, and Betsy. The guy who had reported seeing the "suit" with the two "babes" boarding the Amalgamated plane couldn't identify the suit to save his life. But babes were another matter. Gentlemen like this always found babes easier to remember. BDSM.Upon my return, I started going through the corporate directory on the Amalgamated Coal website, looking for "Bill," the man with whom my diarist claimed to have swapped. The only "Bill" senior enough to have been invited on a trip like this was William H. Conde. I picked up the phone and punched the numbers.It turned out that Conde was a fairly new executive with the company, one who didn't know enough to hang up.
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