you were to unleash your invention . . . the destructive publicity, the disillusioned depositors, the loss of faith from our followers, the potential class action suits brought by the thousands of customers who have heavily invested in our impotent defenders . . . Dear God! You could topple this tower! Please! I'll give you – "
"Shut up, Barker!" King commanded.
Silence prevailed until Loneshark inquired, "How could you have constructed such an intricate device with those hands, Clint?"
"Mick, I can accomplish any endeavor with these handicapped hands that I could achieve with them when they were whole. Only now I have to practice my work with infinitely more patience," Indigence answered, paused, and then dictated, "All right! This chummy chat has concluded! Dr. Barker, place any communication equipment you're carrying on the desk." Still shaken, Brad pulled the cell phones from the pockets of both his coat and pants and complied with Clint's directive. "I assume this office suite has a walk-in closet that's probably larger than my living room," Indigence continued. He watched as Midas involuntarily shifted his suddenly frightened gaze toward a mahogany door on his left. "I thought so," Clint stated. He nodded for the men to move in that direction. King rose and led the procession. Midas reached the closet and flipped a switch to the right of the entrance, illuminating its interior. King pulled the solid door open. Clint eyed the lock and told Brad to retrieve its key from the king. Brad looked at King who pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and detached the specified one. "Insert that key into the lock, Dr. Barker." Brad followed the maintenance man's orders. King, Brad, and Mick entered. Clint released the detective's arm but kept the pistol pressed against Loneshark's back while he slowly swung the thick door toward closure. "Good bye, Mick," Clint said sadly as he jerked the gun back and slammed the door closed. The three prisoners heard the key turn and were then plunged into total darkness when Mr. Indigence flipped the switch and departed.
"No!" King screamed. His cry was muffled by the rows of hanging, custom tailored suits.
"Take it easy, Mr. Midas," Loneshark soothed.
"Get me out of here, Detective!" It was not a command but a frightened plea. Mick could hear Midas begin to pant pathetically. King struggled to project a single, terrified word, "Claustro . . . phobia!"
Dr. Barker experienced an epiphany. The great King Midas was a mere mortal after all. Brad suddenly understood that the majestic view from the tower and the exponentially expanding space of the library were only camouflaged comforts for the frail child inside the tyrant who was still frightened of being enclosed in the dark. Mick was already in motion. Pulling a row of suits from the rods on which they hung, Loneshark quickly constructed a makeshift cushion on the floor. The detective steadied the banking magnate with a hand on his wrist and an arm across his rounded shoulders. "Sit down, sir, on this pile of clothes,"Mick told King therapeutically.
