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The Counterfeit

Chapter Two

I left the courthouse at 7:15, giving me forty-five minutes to walk the five blocks to Abravanel Hall. It was a breezy night, and the sidewalks were nearly empty.

Rebekah’s concert was going to be a big deal. She was an incredible violinist, but rarely got a venue that would showcase her talents. Of course, I don’t know Mozart from Monet, but she assured me that this performance was important. She wasn’t the star of the show, but she was a featured performer, and her photo was on the second page of the program.

I turned off of Main Street and onto 100 South.

It happened fast—faster than it happens in the movies. One second I was walking, looking down at my feet and thinking about Rebekah, and the next second I was face to face with death, and there was a knife at my stomach. There was no time for anything.

I don’t know where he came from—I hadn’t been paying attention—but his left hand was suddenly gripping my shoulder, and his right was violently rocking the knife back and forth.

I struggled against him, my first blows panicked and worthless. It didn’t deter him—he kept ramming the knife into me. And for some reason, all I felt was a dull pressure. I mean, every time he shoved I nearly fell over, but there was no piercing pain, no blood.

I looked into his face. His wide eyes were angry and frightened, and I’m sure that mirrored his on both counts. I took a step back and threw a punch. He dodged it easily and yanked the knife back, tearing a jagged hole in my suit coat.

The knife was long and wide, with a serrated edge and a wicked point. He held it lightly, sizing me up and ready to lunge. I thought of my options. I could stand and fight, but there wasn’t much I knew about self-defense. I could run, but the thought of turning my back to him terrified me.

Suddenly, he glanced at something over my shoulder, took one last look at me, and fled.

The FBI arrived a moment later. A man who was dressed almost exactly like Agent Harrop grabbed me by the shoulder and hurried me into a defensible corner until a car arrived. It only took a few seconds before I was helped into the back of a black sedan.

My attacker was gone. The FBI agent was yelling into a radio, and other people were yelling back at him. Our car pulled away from the curb, and I tried to start breathing again.

I guess the rumor was true.

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