wander off somewhere. She could slip out of the closet and leave out the back way, then return through the front door in a couple of hours with some story about why she missed out on the lovely opportunity.
FEBRUARY 19TH—AFTERNOON
J.D. PACED BACK AND FORTH on the sidewalk across from The Sea Mist restaurant, even though it was only a few hours before curtain time. He kept his eyes on the front door. He was expected inside, and had called the meeting himself. The only thing to do was to go on in and get to it.
But he had taken all of the elixir that he dared to that morning, since there was an evening show—he was reluctant to try pulling off another onstage miracle like that last one—and the beneficial effect was not strong enough. Was he getting worse? He could not tell, not really. At times when he felt depressed, his mind seemed to be coming apart. But when his spirits were back up again, then all his symptoms seemed like things that he could overcome, if he just summoned enough willpower.
The only thing he remained certain of today was that this time, the elixir had failed to clear the cobwebs or to give him back his reliable memory. He could feel the powder coursing through his system, rushing his heartbeat, but the positive effect on his abilities was nil.
Because he could not remember what he intended to tell them at the meeting. Why did he call the damn thing?
Focus,
he ordered himself.
Breathe deeply. It’s just a security meeting of some kind. Detective Blackburn is going to meet you here. It’s close to the theatre, and the young Nightingale fellow works there. You told them to meet you there, but that you wanted to have the actual meeting while walking along the sidewalk, to avoid eavesdroppers.
But why were they meeting in the first place? Something about security, yes, but what?
It was time. He crossed the street hoping that it would come to him, once he was in there with the other two. He could usually manage a smooth stream of small talk in such situations, until his memory clicked back in.
So when he arrived at the front of The Sea Mist, in spite of his trepidation he pulled open the heavy brass door and walked in holding his posture straight and his chin high. Experience had long since taught him that every once in a while, sheer force of attitude can save the day when all else around you is failing, provided that you remain utterly committed.
He prepared himself with a reminder straight out of his personal toolbox:
You may meet with resistance—you already know that. And since it is expected, you will show no surprise if you encounter it. Half of an opponent’s confidence can be stomped out in that very first second, if you don’t flinch. If you can stare them down. If you can smile…
The nondescript man followed Duncan from his hotel at a safe distance, then hung back while the showman stopped outside The Sea Mist restaurant and paced the sidewalk for a while. His presence was well camouflaged by the clang of the Market Street trolley and the clopping draft horses that competed for space with backfiring automobiles and trucks.
Once Duncan finally disappeared inside the place, the nondescript man moseyed over close enough to the restaurant’s front window to take an elaborately casual look inside. He got a glimpse of Duncan seated at a table, talking to the tall young waiter. It did not tell him enough. Was Duncan about to walk back out and head toward the nearby theatre, or would he dig in and stay awhile?
To buy time, the nondescript man bent and made an elaborate ritual out of finding a pebble in his shoe and getting it out. By the time he was finished and stole another peek, he saw Duncan being joined by a big man in an inexpensive three-piece suit. This was a grown man in the full sense, quite fit looking. A soldier, maybe, or a cop of some kind.
The nondescript man was almost at the end of his time-wasting routine when the door opened and Duncan came out,
FEBRUARY 19TH—AFTERNOON
J.D. PACED BACK AND FORTH on the sidewalk across from The Sea Mist restaurant, even though it was only a few hours before curtain time. He kept his eyes on the front door. He was expected inside, and had called the meeting himself. The only thing to do was to go on in and get to it.
But he had taken all of the elixir that he dared to that morning, since there was an evening show—he was reluctant to try pulling off another onstage miracle like that last one—and the beneficial effect was not strong enough. Was he getting worse? He could not tell, not really. At times when he felt depressed, his mind seemed to be coming apart. But when his spirits were back up again, then all his symptoms seemed like things that he could overcome, if he just summoned enough willpower.
The only thing he remained certain of today was that this time, the elixir had failed to clear the cobwebs or to give him back his reliable memory. He could feel the powder coursing through his system, rushing his heartbeat, but the positive effect on his abilities was nil.
Because he could not remember what he intended to tell them at the meeting. Why did he call the damn thing?
Focus,
he ordered himself.
Breathe deeply. It’s just a security meeting of some kind. Detective Blackburn is going to meet you here. It’s close to the theatre, and the young Nightingale fellow works there. You told them to meet you there, but that you wanted to have the actual meeting while walking along the sidewalk, to avoid eavesdroppers.
But why were they meeting in the first place? Something about security, yes, but what?
It was time. He crossed the street hoping that it would come to him, once he was in there with the other two. He could usually manage a smooth stream of small talk in such situations, until his memory clicked back in.
So when he arrived at the front of The Sea Mist, in spite of his trepidation he pulled open the heavy brass door and walked in holding his posture straight and his chin high. Experience had long since taught him that every once in a while, sheer force of attitude can save the day when all else around you is failing, provided that you remain utterly committed.
He prepared himself with a reminder straight out of his personal toolbox:
You may meet with resistance—you already know that. And since it is expected, you will show no surprise if you encounter it. Half of an opponent’s confidence can be stomped out in that very first second, if you don’t flinch. If you can stare them down. If you can smile…
The nondescript man followed Duncan from his hotel at a safe distance, then hung back while the showman stopped outside The Sea Mist restaurant and paced the sidewalk for a while. His presence was well camouflaged by the clang of the Market Street trolley and the clopping draft horses that competed for space with backfiring automobiles and trucks.
Once Duncan finally disappeared inside the place, the nondescript man moseyed over close enough to the restaurant’s front window to take an elaborately casual look inside. He got a glimpse of Duncan seated at a table, talking to the tall young waiter. It did not tell him enough. Was Duncan about to walk back out and head toward the nearby theatre, or would he dig in and stay awhile?
To buy time, the nondescript man bent and made an elaborate ritual out of finding a pebble in his shoe and getting it out. By the time he was finished and stole another peek, he saw Duncan being joined by a big man in an inexpensive three-piece suit. This was a grown man in the full sense, quite fit looking. A soldier, maybe, or a cop of some kind.
The nondescript man was almost at the end of his time-wasting routine when the door opened and Duncan came out,
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