He stared at the file cabinet in the corner, still dented and listing, its contents long since replaced, as haphazardly as they had ever been. He thought about pulling the card the clown had delivered from his pocket again, thought about checking things just to be sure, but he didn’t. He had memorized the words the moment he’d read them.
He walked to the cabinet, put his hand on the drawer that the note had designated, and hesitated once again. There could be a bomb rigged up inside, he supposed—pull the handle, send yourself to kingdom come? He could have told Driscoll about everything, could have brought his friend along.
But something had told him he might follow those instructions safely, and they had stipulated that he come alone. He saw no reason not to obey.
He snapped the drawer’s little button switch with his thumb and gave the handle a jerk. The drawer rolled open easily on its guides. No blast of fire. No explosion. Just a soft thunking sound when the mechanism achieved its reach.
Deal stared down at what had been carefully stacked there for him and wondered if this was the moment when Thomas Scott or Scotty Thomas—or whatever the hell his name was—would burst through the door with his shield and gun upraised…but that didn’t happen, either.
It was only Deal there in the office, with all those upturned images—the faces of long-dead statesmen and presidents—laid out in stacks before him. He stood there, reading and rereading the note in his mind. The very least we could do, she had closed, no further elaboration.
He’d noted the scent of jasmine and lemon the moment he’d opened the envelope. He might have reached for his pocket, checked the note again, but he didn’t have to. He recalled the scent clearly. As he could visualize the hand that wrote it, the hand that had somehow turned back fire and in that way saved his life.
No need for any assistance, now, John Deal. He stood alone in the office and conjured up the ghosts.
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