I sort out the scene in seconds, which is all I have until I’m forced forward again, into what looks like a ballroom from that strange period of time when ugly, elegant seemed to be in style.
“Madison,” I’m immediately greeted by name.
“Who are you all?” I ask as I look around. I’m reminded of the two business-suit executives who played with me in Scofield’s office/warehouse. They were men like these. I wonder if there is a connection.
“Who we are needs no explanation,” the speaker steps forward. “What is important is your cooperation.”
“Why should I cooperate with you?” I ask.
“Because your life depends on it, my dear.” He’s sleazy with his kindness, which is just a mask for villainy. He’s greying, but not ancient, a ho-hum kind of man about sixty years in age that I wouldn’t look
