If I knew what was good for me was strongly implied.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

If life were a shifting maze in a violent video game, the Redlick mansion was the last zone in Horseheads I’d want to land in. In game terms, it would be the lair of a dangerous beast. Hydra, Minotaur, Cyclops. The founding fathers’ quarter of town, behind an ivy-lashed wall and a few acres of cultivated grounds. Old money, old house, closing in on a century and a half of plaster and paint facelifts. Marble pillars, leaded glass bay windows. Dormers and minarets; you get the picture. I’m sure the Olympic swimming pool, squash court, and helicopter pad were out back near the polo field.

I pulled in behind a classic black Bentley. Al Capone–looking gangster ride. A valet collected my vehicle. No one patted me down for weapons. I’d left my tools in the car anyway. He escorted me into the mansion. I was compelled to think of it as a mansion. Far too expansive and casually grandiose to be referred to as a mere house. Chandeliers dominated the vaulted foyer. Exquisitely paneled doors at every turn.

I was escorted to an antechamber and instructed to wait for Mr. Mandibole. While waiting, I admired the décor. A narrow window overlooked flower bushes, a painting of a white man in a frock coat tomahawking a native as two wild horses ripped a soldier apart, and a table supported the crumbling bust of some Roman or other. Excellent light came through a painted window beneath the ceiling beam.

Matching goons entered the room and took up positions flanking the door. The goons were hefty and clean-cut in serviceable suits. Both carried automatics in shoulder holsters. Neither looked at me directly.

A warbling flute trill preceded Mandibole’s entrance. I couldn’t detect its origin. That it might be an auditory hallucination didn’t escape me. Too many knocks to the head. High, shrill, dark side Jethro Tull; the music cut off as he rounded the corner, saw me, and slapped on a huge, bright smile. You’ve seen the grin in the arsenal of carnival barkers, self-help gurus, and death row psychopaths. His was the same, but emptier.

“Coleridge! Coleridge! Isaiah Coleridge!” He spread his arms theatrically, singing my introduction in a tenor. “Speak the devil’s name and he shall appear. Oh, but who’s the devil here?” Trained and controlled. A bit twee, a bit obnoxious. Altogether unsettling. Too bad Lionel hadn’t accompanied me. He and this creep could’ve had a Devil-Went-Down-to-Georgia dance-off.

Due to odd pressure changes, I only heard his voice in one ear at a time; defective headphones shorting in and out. The alternating dead ear registered a muffled feedback squeal; eerie fluting, boiling water, an inchoate shriek. I almost stuck a finger in to scrape the wax and barely managed to resist the maddening urge. The longer I stood there, the heavier my body felt, as if my muscles and bones were hardening to lead. The whole scene possessed the overtones of a nightmare, and maybe one I’d already lived through once or twice.