Our partners receive nothing less than first-class care, from consultation, through negotiation, and during post-project assessment. He winked and tossed back a flute of champagne into his overly generous mouth. A platinum blonde, baring a stainless-steel smile and most of her torso, poised to refill his drink.

A succession of rapid scene changes occurred—Mandibole dipping the ravishing blonde on a ballroom floor; Mandibole at the wheel of a Jaguar zooming across a plain, trailing a red dust plume; Mandibole golfing; Mandibole, again in the ivory jumpsuit, on a futuristic factory floor surrounded by robots and harried human workers; stars and planets shone beyond a transparent dome, lending the impression that the Redlick Group would soon be opening factories on an alien moon.

The man continued his unctuous patter, bolstered by a discreet yet stirring symphony orchestra.

“So fucking weird,” Red said. “A real live song-and-dance man delivers the song and dance. Goddamned repertory theater Fred Astaire.”

Redlick Group: the bedrock beneath your feet. Today, tomorrow, the future. A glitch caused the video to disintegrate, Mandibole’s voice dragging at reduced speed like the devil emoting in a cheesy ’70s horror flick. Dark static flowed and might’ve gone on forever if Red hadn’t shut off the video.

“Well, that’s a trip into the uncanny valley,” I said. My hackles were hackled.

Red enjoyed my discomfort.

“You’re an innocent, hailing from some igloo in Alaska, so let me be the first to give you the scoop—these Redlick peeps are fucking loony.” He counted off his fingers. “Redlick Group, Sword Enterprises, Zircon Corp, and Spencer Industries were the main players in the Jeffers Project. Behind the scenes, it’s as debauched and corrupt as a Roman court during the crash and burn of the empire. Even got their own Adirondacks annual retreat. Call it the Fete of the Void.”

I wondered if Delia had mentioned this soiree to Lionel.

“To be a fly on that wall.”

“It’s a Northeast version of the Bohemian Grove,” Red said. “Twenty-two-foot-tall effigy to some Bronze Age deity; old flabby rich white guys in togas. Lots of booze, lots of filthy secrets. I’m afraid you’d stick out.”

“Give me a white jacket and a trayful of drinks. I’d be the Invisible Man.”

He pretended to chuckle while casting around for his wallet.

I paid the tab as was foretold.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Twice a year, in spring and winter, I seized a bottle of whiskey and visited Reba Walker’s grave at the Pine Hollow Cemetery in Kingston. Granddaughter of Virgil and Jade; my first missing person case and first failure. Recent addition to a lifetime assortment of bitter regrets. I apologized to her headstone, then drank up. Per custom, Lionel fetched me to Meg’s to recover.

The night after my graveside vigil was a humdinger. Guilt and residual brain damage make for an inadvisable combination. Add a fifth of eighty-proof and let the horror show commence. Routine nightmares mutated in new and disturbing directions. Achilles, companion dog of my bellicose youth, fell from a mountainside, as he had in the waking world, and dashed upon the rocks. Fire devoured a lush, subtropical forest. Extinct moa birds thundered around me, fleeing the inferno. Dad pursued child-me with an oar raised overhead. The sharp, chipped oar he’d struck Mother with and split her skull. His face boiled and dissolved into an inky well. Mom floated behind him in silhouette, arms spread, wailing like a banshee. Soundless, though. A slap in the face without the whip crack.