started to make a run for it and Colt—my Colt—was in hot pursuit. He sailed up the vast, red-carpeted, Gone With the Wind-esque staircase and I followed as quickly as I could. From below, Jorge cried, “What’s going on here?”
When I reached the top of the stairs, Colt and Clarence were out of sight. To my right was the hallway that led to the banquet room and theater. A sign on the wall in front of me indicated with an arrow that a conference room and bathrooms were down the hallway to my left. Suspicious sounds led me in that direction. When I rounded the corner, I came face to face to face with Colt and Clarence, who had a Swiss Army knife to Colt’s neck.
“Clarence! Where did you get that knife?”
Colt grunted. “That’d be mine.”
“He lifted a knife from you? How?” If I hadn’t been worried for Colt, I would have laughed. Clarence wasn’t exactly Jackie Chan.
“It’s a mystery,” Colt grunted again.
Clarence shuffled uncomfortably, but held the knife tight. “I’ve been honing my reflexes with Tai Chi.”
Jorge was behind me, panting heavily. “Should I call the police?”
I wasn’t paying much attention to Jorge. Instead, I was realizing something that should have been apparent much earlier. The last name Heatherington brought to mind someone both Colt and I had known in college—Deena Heatherington. Looking into Clarence’s face, I saw some resemblance to Deena. But I also saw something far more familiar.
“Let’s keep the police out of this,” I said. “For now.”
“Okay,” Colt said while his face drained of color. “You’re not the one with a knife at his jugular. I happen to know it’s sharp enough to do some damage.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, while slowly moving a hand to my handy can of mace. “He’s a little frightened right now, but something is telling me that he’d never hurt you.”
Chapter Fifteen
“What should we do?” Jorge whispered.
That was a good question. Just behind Colt and Clarence was the conference room door.
“Is anyone in there, Jorge?”
“No.”
I put on my best, talking-to-a-crazy-man-with-a-knife face. “Clarence—can I call you Clarence?”
“Why are you here? What do you want?”
“I want you to let my friend go. We can talk in that conference room there. It’s right behind you. Just give me the knife.”
I could tell Jorge was nervous. “Don’t you think we should leave this to professionals?”
I looked Colt in the eyes. “Remember Deena Heatherington? From college?” My fingers wrapped slowly, quietly around the mace can.
“This really isn’t the time for reminiscing about the old days.”
“Meet her son. What year were you born, Clarence? I’m guessing it was 1984 or 85?” Clarence didn’t seem to notice when I slipped the mace out of my purse. Colt’s eyes showed me he followed every move, though.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”
“Am I wrong?”
I watched his fingers relax just enough for me to make my move. I swung the mace upwards. “I’m a woman, Clarence. We’re never wrong.”
As I positioned my weapon, Colt stomped on Clarence’s foot, elbowed him in the ribs and ripped the knife from his grip as he doubled over. Before I knew it, Colt had instinctively poised the knife back at his attacker.
“Colt! Careful! Look at him—he’s your son.”
***
Five minutes later, Colt, Clarence and I were sitting at the round conference room table. Jorge was kind enough to give us time together, along with bottles of water. I drained mine, dehydrated from the nervous perspiration. I had no idea if my surprise-him-with-the-mace trick would work, but we needed something to give us the upper hand and get the knife from Clarence.
After some gentle persuasion, I convinced Clarence to fill in the information I hadn’t already guessed. His given name was Clarence Coltrane Heatherington—his mother, Deena had named him after his grandfather and father, but she never told him his father’s full name. Not until hours before she passed away, that is. Clarence had pursued his grandfather’s love of film and trade as a projectionist, and when he was left alone after both of their deaths, he headed to Washington, DC for a dream job with the ACL and to find his father.
I needed a confusion cleared up. “Why did you use the name Colt when you got your job here?”
He snorted. “My grandfather was a good projectionist, but he had a reputation for being a real dick. I learned early on it was best to build a resume with a different first name.”
Poor Colt was white as a sheet. I had the distinct impression that