Book 2 Preview

Richard Maxwell was sweating.

A lot.

Despite the cool air of his present location —wherever it was —sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip and trickled down his back, soaking his shirt. He had obviously messed up somewhere. But how? He was certain he had accounted for all the variables. No one could have known. He didn’t make any mistakes.

Or so he thought until a few hours ago. That’s when he realized how wrong he was.

Was it a few hours ago? It could have been longer. It was hard to tell time in the back of a sealed-up van with no windows or lights.

It was like something out of a bad movie: he was walking home from his job at the retirement home, having just pulled off his best haul yet, when a van pulled up beside him, and two beefy guys manhandled him into the back. They slid the door shut, and the van took off so fast, he slid to the rear and banged his head against the back door.

They drove for a long time, and when they finally stopped and opened the door, he was surprised to see they were in a nearly empty warehouse. The only things in it were the van and a small table with two chairs lit by a pool of light from the ceiling. The beefy guys pulled him out of the van and sat him down in one of the chairs. One of them placed the backpack of pilfered items on the table, and then they both turned and left, their footsteps echoing in the darkness.

A man with pasty skin, thinning salt-and-pepper hair, a potbelly, and milky gray eyes sat in the chair opposite him, looking at the contents of a file folder. The angle of the light caused his hooked nose to cast a strange shadow across his mouth and chin.

Without looking up, the man said, “Richard Maxwell: con artist, swindler, manipulator, and now —” He set down the folder and upended the backpack. The day’s haul spilled onto the table. The man smirked at him. “ —petty thief. My, my, you’ve led quite a life for someone so young, haven’t you?”

Richard thought there was something familiar about this guy. He’d seen him somewhere. It hit him. “I know you. You’re like a city-government guy from Odyssey, right?”

The man smiled a greasy sort of smile. “Not like. Am. Councilman Philip Glossman. I wish I could say I was pleased to make your acquaintance. But I’m not.”

Richard licked his lips nervously. “Look, I was just holding that stuff for a friend —”

Glossman held up a finger and wagged it, pursing his lips and shaking his head slightly. “Please. Don’t even try.”

This was weird, Richard thought. Since when could city councilmen arrest people? And why all the subterfuge? He fought to stay cool. “So where am I? What is this place?”

“All in good time, Richard. All in good time.” Glossman examined the contents of the backpack. He picked up a gold brooch shaped like a butterfly. Tiny, sparkling diamonds lined its wings. “Pretty,” he smirked. “Though it doesn’t really go with your outfit.”

That was it. Richard slammed his hands on the table and jumped up. “What is this? What’s going on here?”

Glossman continued smirking. “Sit down, Richard,” he said evenly.

Richard leaned across the table. “I’ve got rights! You can’t arrest me without telling me why.”

Glossman laughed. “Who said you’re arrested?”

Richard leaned back slowly and swallowed hard. “If you’re not arresting me, then . . .” He sank down in the chair, heart pounding. “You’re kidnapping me?”

A bigger laugh. “Hardly! Why kidnap someone nobody would pay a ransom for?”

“Then what’s going on?” His voice was almost pleading. “Why did you bring me here?”

Glossman scooted back his chair, stood, and stepped behind it. “I’ve brought you here to meet someone —someone who very much wants to meet you.” He turned his head and called into the darkness behind him. “Sir!”

Richard heard a door open, though he saw no light. The door closed. One set of footsteps accompanied by the occasional tap-tap of a walking stick echoed in the empty building. They were headed right toward him and grew louder with each step and tap.

Suddenly a man appeared in the pool of light. He was tall and lean with angular features. He wore a black, three-piece suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. The coat fell almost to his knees, the trousers were sharply creased, and his black shoes were polished to a high gloss. He carried a black walking stick with a polished gold knob for a handle. His hair was jet black, save for white streaks that ran from both temples to the back of his head. His mustache and Vandyke beard were also jet black.

Glossman held out the chair for the man, and he glided into it with an easy grace, placing his walking stick on the table atop the pilfered loot. He looked across the table and smiled, teeth gleaming, and his gaze sent chills down Richard’s spine.

“Hello, Richard.” The man’s voice was deep, dark, rich, and cold as ice. “I’m Dr. Regis Blackgaard. You and I need to talk.”