CREIGHTON POOLE HAD absolutely nothing to do. Sometimes he wondered why he even showed up in the office. Force of habit, no doubt. And the need to keep some filament of his faded career glowing. There was also the possibility that the phone would ring with a call that would move him into some government ministry, where he might have a flicker of power, or at least a way back up the ladder.
The last thing he expected on a quiet Thursday was a buzz on his intercom. He instinctively turned to call out to his assistant, then remembered that he no longer had one. He pressed the button on his desk console.
“Creighton Poole,” he said. “Who’s there?”
“Mr. Poole!” A familiar voice came through the speaker. “It’s me. Maddy. Maddy Gomes.” Poole pressed the button again, this time with annoyance.
“What do you want?” he asked. His last meeting with Maddy Gomes had not exactly gone according to plan. This girl was wily—not to mention some kind of sorceress.
“We need to talk,” said Maddy.
“About what?” asked Poole.
“I have an assignment for you,” said Maddy. “I have money.”
The magic word. Poole pressed the buzzer.
Still no elevator. While waiting for guests to walk up thirty flights, Poole usually lit a cigar. The little ritual relaxed him. But this time, he wanted to keep his edge. Whatever this crafty brat wanted this time, he would play hardball. No tricks. In the meantime, he paced.
A few minutes later, he heard a knock on the outer office door. He opened it a crack. And there she was. Same attitude. New wardrobe.
“No skateboard today?” he asked.
“Scooter,” she corrected him. “The sun was so warm, I decided to walk.”
Poole opened the door wider for Maddy. Suddenly, two other people—a man and a woman—stepped in from the sides. Before Poole could react, all three were standing in his outer office.
Poole looked perplexed. He looked to Maddy for answers.
“I’m sorry…” he stammered. “Who are…?”
“Mr. Poole,” said Maddy, “this is Lamont Cranston.”
“My pleasure,” said Lamont, extending his hand. Poole shook it gingerly and squinted at Lamont’s face.
“Dear God,” said Poole.
“You look surprised, Mr. Poole,” said Margo, holding out her hand as well. “Margo Lane.”
“Margo Lane?” said Poole, taking her hand limply. Now his mind was reeling. “But you’re…”
“I know,” said Margo. “Dead.”
“Check out this view!” said Maddy. She was already in Poole’s inner office, standing at his wall of windows. Margo brushed past Poole to join her.
“You have a balcony!” said Margo. She reached for the door handle.
“Don’t open that!” said Poole. “You’ll let the smoke in.”
Margo opened it anyway. She stepped out onto the narrow platform, put her arms on the railing, and took a deep breath. Poole retreated to the safe space behind his desk and loosened his tie, feeling flushed and nervous.
“What…what do you want?” he asked. “Maddy said something about an assignment?” He cleared his throat. “And money?”
Lamont leaned over Poole’s desk.
“The assignment is very simple,” he said. “Produce every document in your possession that concerns Maddy and Jessica Gomes. And there is no money.”
“Sorry,” said Maddy. “I lied a little.”
Poole looked down. He felt the tingle of sweat in his armpits.
“We want to know about Maddy’s history,” said Lamont. “Her parents. How she and I are connected.”
“Every juicy detail,” said Margo, peeking in from the balcony.
“I’ll bet it’s all in there,” said Maddy. She pointed to a metal file cabinet in a corner of the office. Poole looked over at the cabinet and gave it a dismissive wave.
“That’s just old firm business,” said Poole. “Ancient history at this point. I wouldn’t even know where to find the key!”
“That’s a real shame,” said Margo. She was now closer, leaning over the desk. Poole looked around. Suddenly, he and Margo were the only two people in the room.
“Wait!” he said, looking wildly from side to side. “Where did…?”
He felt himself being lifted by both arms, and dragged toward the open balcony door.
“No! Stop!” he said, looking desperately at Margo. “What’s happening?”
“It’s called persuasion, Mr. Poole.”
Poole flailed, his body jerking around so that his back was to the railing.
Suddenly he felt pressure behind his knees and then a solid lift. A second later, he was hanging backward over the balcony, upside down, tie flapping in the wind.
He screamed—loud enough to make people thirty stories down look up.
“Maddy’s records?” It was Lamont’s voice. But it was coming from thin air.
“Sweet Jesus!” screamed Poole. “Don’t drop me!”
“My records?” Now it was Maddy’s voice, from the other side. Poole’s eyes rolled back and caught a blur of buildings, streets, and barrel fires four hundred feet down.
“Yes!” he whimpered. “Yes! Put me down!”
He felt a strong hand hook around the front of his belt. With one powerful pull, he was upright again, feet on the balcony, face nearly purple. He felt lucky that he was wearing a dark suit. It concealed that he had slightly peed himself.