Ridley called early Saturday evening, quite upset. She had been unable to locate Clay for four days! No one at the office knew where he was, or if they knew they wouldn't tell her. He, on the other hand, had made no effort to call her. Both had more than one phone. Was this any way to advance a relationship? After listening to the whining for a few minutes, Clay heard something buzz in the line and asked, "Where are you?"

"St. Barth. In our villa."

"How'd you get down there?" Clay, of course, had been using the Gulfstream.

"I chartered a smaller jet. Too small, actually, we had to stop in San Juan for fuel. It wouldn't make it here nonstop."

Poor girl. Clay wasn't sure how she knew the number of the air charter service. "Why are you down there?" he asked, a stupid question.

"I was so stressed out because I couldn't find you. You can't do that again, Clay."

He tried to link the two - his disappearance and her escape to St. Barth, but quickly gave it up.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I left town in a hurry. Patton French needed me in Biloxi. I was too busy to call."

A long pause as she debated whether she should forgive him right then or wait a day or two. "Promise me you won't do it again," she whimpered.

Clay wasn't in the mood for either whining or promising, and he found himself relieved that she was out of the country. "It won't happen again. Relax, enjoy yourself down there."

"Can you come down?" she asked, but without any feeling. Sort of a perfunctory request.

"Not with the trial in Flagstaff getting close." He doubted seriously if she had an inkling about the trial in Flagstaff.

"Will you call me tomorrow?" she asked.

"Of course."

Jonah was back in town, with many adventures to report from the sailing life. They were to meet at nine at a bistro on Wisconsin Avenue for a late and long dinner. Around eight-thirty, the phone rang, but the caller hung up without a word. Then it rang again, and Clay grabbed it as he was buttoning his shirt.

"Is this Clay Carter?" a male voice asked.

"Yes, who is this?" Because of the sheer number of disgruntled clients out there - Dyloft and Skinny Ben and, now, especially, those irate homeowners up in Howard County - Clay had changed numbers twice in the past two months. He could handle the abuse at the office, but he preferred to live in peace.

"I'm from Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, and I have some valuable information about the Hanna company."

The words were chilling, and Clay sat on the edge of his bed. Keep him on the phone, he said as he tried to think clearly. "Okay, I'm listening." Someone from Reedsburg had somehow acquired his new, unlisted phone number.

"We can't talk over the phone," the voice said. Thirty years old, white male, high school education.

"Why not?"

"It's a long story. There are some papers."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the city. I'll meet you in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel on M Street. We can talk there."

Not a bad plan. There would be plenty of foot traffic in the lobby, just in case someone wanted to pull out a gun and start shooting lawyers. "When?" Clay asked.

"Real soon. I'll be there in five minutes. How long will it take you?"

Clay was not going to mention the fact that he lived six blocks away, though his address was no secret. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Good. I'm wearing jeans and a black Steelers cap."

"I'll find you," Clay said, then hung up. He finished dressing and hustled out of his town house. Walking rapidly along Dumbarton, he tried to imagine what information he could need or even want on the Hanna company. He'd just spent eighteen hours in Reedsburg, and was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to forget about the place. He turned south on Thirty-first Street, mumbling to himself, lost in a world of conspiracies and payoffs and spy scenarios. A lady passed with a small dog in search of a suitable spot on the sidewalk to relieve itself.

A young man in a black biker's jacket with a cigarette hanging from his mouth approached, though Clay barely saw him. As the two passed, in front of a poorly lit town house and under the limbs of an old red maple, the man suddenly, with perfect timing and precision, unloaded a short right cross that caught Clay directly on the chin.

Clay never saw it. He remembered a loud pop in his face, and his head crashing into a wrought-iron fence. There was a stick of some sort, and another man, two of them up there throwing punches and flailing away. Clay rolled to his side and managed to get a knee under himself, then the stick landed like a gunshot on the back of his skull.

He heard a woman's voice in the distance, then he passed out.

The lady had been walking her dog when she heard a commotion behind her. There was a fight of some sort, two against one, with the man on the ground getting the worse of it. She ran closer and was horrified to see two men in black jackets hammering away with large black sticks. She screamed, they ran. She whipped out her cell phone and dialed 911.

The two men ran down the block and disappeared around the corner of a church on N Street. She tried to assist the young man on the ground, who was unconscious and bleeding badly.

Clay was taken to George Washington University Hospital where a trauma team stabilized him. The initial exam revealed two large head wounds caused by something blunt, a cut on his right cheekbone, a cut in his left ear, and numerous contusions. His right fibula was cracked neatly in two. His left kneecap was in pieces and the left ankle was broken. His head was shaved and eighty-one stitches were required to close the two large cuts. His skull was badly bruised but not fractured. Six stitches in his cheekbone, eleven in his ear, and they rolled him into surgery to put his legs back together.

Jonah began calling after waiting impatiently for thirty minutes. He left the restaurant after an hour and headed on foot to Clay's town house. He knocked on the door, rang the bell, cursed just under his breath, and was ready to throw rocks at the windows when he saw Clay's car parked between two others down the street. He thought it was Clay's car, anyway.

He walked slowly toward it. Something was wrong there, he just wasn't sure what. It was a black Porsche Carrera all right, but it was covered with a white dust. He called the police.

A torn and empty Hanna Portland Cement bag was found under the Porsche. Someone had evidently covered the car with cement, then thrown water at it. In spots, especially on the roof and the hood, large patches of the cement had dried and stuck to the car. As the police inspected it, Jonah told them that its owner was unaccounted for. After a long computer search, Clay's named popped up, and Jonah took off for the hospital. He called Paulette, and she was there before he arrived. Clay was in surgery, but it was only broken bones and probably a concussion. His injuries did not appear life-threatening.

The lady with the dog told police the assailants were both white males. Three college boys entering a bar on Wisconsin Avenue reported seeing two white males in black jackets hurry around the corner from N Street. They hopped into a metallic green van, where a driver was waiting for them. It was too dark to see the license plates.

The call Clay had received at 8:39 P.M. was traced to a pay phone on M Street, about five minutes from his town house.

The trail grew cold quickly. It was, after all, only a beating. And a Saturday night beating at that. The same night would see two rapes in the city, two drive-by shootings that injured five, and two murders, both of which appeared to be completely at random.

Since Clay had no family in the city, Jonah and Paulette assumed the roles of spokesmen and decision makers. At 1:30 A.M., a doctor reported to them that the surgery had gone smoothly, all the bones were set and ready to heal, some pins and screws had been installed, things couldn't be better. They would closely monitor brain activity. They were sure there was a concussion but didn't know how serious it was. "He looks awful," she warned them.

Two hours went by, as Clay was slowly moved upstairs. Jonah had insisted on a private room. They finally saw him just after 4 A.M. A mummy would have had less wrapping.

Both legs were in thick, full-length casts suspended a few inches off the bed by a complex series of cables and pulleys. A sheet hid his chest and arms. Heavy gauze covered his skull and half his face. His eyes were swollen and shut; mercifully he was still unconscious. His chin was swollen, his lips puffy and blue. Blood had dried on his neck.

They stood in muted silence, taking in the full extent of his wounds, listening to the monitors click and beep, watching his chest move up and down, very slowly. Then Jonah started laughing. "Look at that son of a bitch," he said.

"Hush, Jonah," Paulette hissed, ready to slap him.

"There lies the King of Torts," Jonah said, shaking with suppressed laughter.

Then, she too saw the humor. She managed to laugh without opening her mouth, and for a long moment they both stood at the foot of Clay's bed, working hard to contain their amusement.

When the humor passed, she said, "You should be ashamed."

"I am. I'm sorry."

An orderly rolled in a bed. Paulette would take the first night, Jonah would get the second.

Fortunately, the assault was too late to make the Sunday Post. Miss Glick called each member of the firm and asked them not to visit the hospital and not to send flowers. They might be needed later in the week, but for now just say prayers.

Clay finally came back from the dead around noon Sunday. Paulette was tossing on the foldaway when he said, "Who's there?"

She jumped up and ran to his side. "It's me, Clay."

Through his swollen and blurry eyes he could see a black face. It certainly wasn't Ridley. He reached out with a hand and said, "Who?"

"Paulette, Clay. Can't you see?"

"No. Paulette? What are you doing here?" His words were thick, slow, and painful.

"Just taking care of you, boss."

"Where am I?"

"George Washington University Hospital."

"Why, what happened?"

"It's what they call an old-fashioned ass-kicking."

"What?"

"You got jumped. Two guys with sticks. You need some pain pills?"

"Please."

She raced from the room and found a nurse. A doctor showed up a few minutes later and, in excruciating detail, explained to Clay just how badly he'd been beaten. Another pill, and Clay drifted away again. Most of Sunday was spent in a pleasant fog, with Paulette and Jonah baby-sitting as they read the newspapers and watched pro football.

The stories hit with a fury on Monday, and they were all the same. Paulette muted the television and Jonah hid the newspapers. Miss Glick and the rest of the firm circled the wagons and had "No comment" for everyone. She received an e-mail from a sailboat captain claiming to be Clay's father. He was near the Yucatan Peninsula in the Gulf of Mexico and could someone please update him on Clay's condition? She did so - stable condition, broken bones, concussion. He thanked her and promised to check back the following day.

Ridley arrived Monday afternoon. Paulette and Jonah cleared out, happy to leave the hospital for a while. Evidently, Georgians did not understand proper hospital waiting rituals. Whereas Americans move in with their beloved sick and wounded, those from other cultures deem it more practical to stop by for an hour, then let the hospital take care of its patients. Ridley showed great affection for a few minutes and tried to interest Clay in the latest renovations to their villa. His head pounded worse and he called for a pill. She relaxed on the foldaway and tried to nap, exhausted, she said, from the flight home. Nonstop. On the Gulfstream. He fell asleep too, and when he awoke she was gone.

A detective stopped by for a follow-up. All suspicion pointed to some thugs from Reedsburg, but there was scant proof. Clay was unable to describe the man who threw the first punch. "I never saw it," he said, rubbing his chin. To make Clay feel better, the cop had four large, color photos of the black Porsche, heavily spotted with white cement, and Clay needed another pill.

Flowers poured in. Adelfa Pumphrey, Glenda at OPD, Mr. and Mrs. Rex Crittle, Rodney, Patton French, Wes Saulsberry, a judge Clay knew from Superior Court. Jonah brought a laptop, and Clay had a lengthy chat with his father.

"The King of Shorts" newsletter published three editions on Monday, each filled with the latest newspaper stories and gossip about Clay's beating. He saw none of it. Hidden away in his hospital room, he was sheltered by his friends.

Early Tuesday morning, Zack Battle stopped by on his way to the office and delivered some welcome news. The SEC was suspending its investigation of Clay. He had talked to Mel Snelling's lawyer in Baltimore. Mel wasn't budging, wasn't caving in to FBI pressure. And without Mel, they could not put together the necessary evidence.

"I guess the Feds saw you in the papers and figured you've been punished enough," Zack said.

"I'm in the paper?" Clay asked.

"A couple of stories."

"Do I want to read them?"

"I advise you not to."

The boredom of the hospital was hitting hard - the traction, the bedpans, the relentless visits by the nurses at all hours, the grave little chats with the doctors, the four walls, the dreadful food, the endless rebandaging of his injuries, the taking of blood for yet more tests, the sheer tedium of lying there, unable to move. The casts would be his for weeks, and he could not envision surviving life in the city with a wheelchair and crutches. At least two additional operations were planned, minor ones, they promised him.

The aftershocks of the actual beating came to haunt him, and he remembered more of the sounds and physical sensations of being pummeled. He saw the face of the man who threw the first punch, but couldn't be sure if it was real or just a dream. So he didn't tell the detective. He heard screams from the darkness, but they too could easily be part of the nightmare. He remembered seeing a black stick the size of a baseball bat rising into the air. Mercifully, he had been knocked out and could not recall most of the blows.

The swelling began to subside; his head was clearing. He quit the pain pills so he could think and try to run the office by phone and e-mail. Things were quite hectic there, according to everyone he talked to. But he suspected otherwise.

Ridley was good for an hour late in the morning and another late in the afternoon. She stood by his bed and was very affectionate, especially when the nurses were around. Paulette detested her and was quick to disappear when she entered the room.

"She's after your money," she said to Clay.

"And I'm after her body," Clay said.

"Well, right now she's getting the better end of the deal."

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