“And we won’t break his little mind quite so badly, right?” Tina added.
“Whatever,” I said, still giggling. “Is there any of that wine left? I think I could use a drink.”
Provost introduced us to the rest of the crew—Ron Valenti and another co-producer named Eli Cabe would be doing most of the technical work on the show. They’d also brought along a trio of production assistants—Skip, Amy, and Gordon—to help. They were eager twenty-somethings, who seemed giddy to be working on a real show—any show. This was their foot in the door. They looked the part, dressed in casual jeans and funky T-shirts, with headsets permanently attached to their ears and clipboards in their hands. Skip had long, dark hair in a ponytail; Amy was petite and energetic, and she tended to shout across rooms; and Gordon was a bit heavyset and always seemed to be smiling about something. They’d also take care of the catering—the kitchen was fully stocked and we’d have three hot meals a day. This might even turn out to feel like a real vacation.
The lodge had a back room, off the living room, normally set up as a library or reading room. The production crew had taken it over and converted it to a studio, where they parked all their cameras, monitors, and editing equipment. Here, they’d review their footage as it came in and start making the “magic.” It was off-limits to participants, of course. I was already thinking of how I could sneak a look in.
The show hadn’t officially started taping yet; we were still missing people. The scheduled “activities”—and didn’t that sound ominous—would start tomorrow. For now, the cameras were getting footage for some kind of introductory montage, and in the meantime we could all get to know each other. Happily, the lodge had a liberally stocked wine cabinet. It would help to take the edge off whenever I had to talk to Conrad. I had a feeling it was going to be all too easy to bait this guy.
I started in right away, of course. “Conrad, tell me something: you do believe that astronauts have walked on the moon, right?”
“Of course,” he said.
“And Lee Harvey Oswald was acting alone when he shot Kennedy?”
“Probably, yes.”
“Good, you’re not a complete conspiracy nut.” Just a partial one. “Hey, I have it on good authority from a vampire in Las Vegas that Oswald used silver bullets. What do you say to that?”
Various skeptical responses followed that announcement. I just grinned. I still hadn’t done the research—like did Kennedy use the White House silver when he was in office?—to back that one up. I wasn’t sure I believed the vampire who told me this. But I still wondered.
Lee said, “You’re even more of a loudmouth in person than you are on your show. I thought it was all an act.”
“I became a DJ because I’m a loudmouth, not the other way around,” I said.
An artificial noise intruded—the drone of an airplane descending into the valley. Provost stood and looked out the living room’s big picture window that gave a view over the porch and into the valley.
“Ah, that’s the last shuttle in, I think,” he said. He actually rubbed his hands with glee.
Moments later, the front door opened. The man who stepped through it was quite possibly the last person I expected to see here. Oh, the list of people I’d never expect to take part in a show like this was long, and he might not have been quite the last. But he was close.
“Grant!” I said, setting down my wineglass and standing to meet him. My smile grew wide.
Odysseus Grant was a stage magician who fronted an old-fashioned Vaudevillian-style magic show in Las Vegas, complete with rabbits pulled from top hats. The act was more than a stage show: Grant really was a magician, or a sorcerer, or something. A master of arcane knowledge on a crusade against chaos, a real-life Doctor Strange, except even more ominous. He had a box of vanishing that opened into… somewhere else. A weird pocket dimension was my theory. He’d said he was going to retire the doorway—I hoped that meant that whatever was inside wasn’t going to be getting out anytime soon.
Frankly, I couldn’t begin to understand much of what Odysseus Grant really did. But I was still happy to see him.
“Kitty,” he said, as warmly as he ever said anything. His smile was thin, but it was there. He was tall, slender, sharp, with pale hair and stony blue eyes. He wore a white button-up shirt and black slacks and held a suit jacket over his arm.
I didn’t rush to hug him like I had with my other friends. Grant wasn’t a very huggable guy.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “How the hell did they talk you into doing this dog-and-pony show?”
“I’ve been considering taking my show on the road for some time now. This seemed like a way to start,” he said. “I’m not at all surprised to see you here.”
I shrugged. I’d reconciled myself to the fact that in some respects, I was very predictable.
“Mr. Grant, welcome.” Provost leapt up to shake hands, acting almost deferential toward the magician. Grant had that effect on people.
Provost made introductions again, and Grant greeted everyone neutrally, sizing them up, looking each person in the eye, studying them. Calculating. If I didn’t know the guy, and if he hadn’t saved my life once, he’d have made me really nervous. In fact, Tina and Jeffrey both seemed wary of him, not greeting him quite as warmly as they could have, keeping a good space between them. I wondered what they saw when they looked at him, what they suspected. If I had to guess what Jeffrey saw in the magician’s aura, I’d say “power.”
“I suppose you’re here because you think you’re a real magician,” Conrad said.
Grant raised
