Down the Rabbit Hole

“No way I’m missing this part. Should I think of sex with McNab again?”

“Whatever works.” She pulled out her ’link, read the detailed message from Roarke. “The man is good,” she murmured. “Three hidden accounts, three different names—all leading back to the Hatter—who, according to Feeney’s search, is actually Louis Carroll Ravenwood, born Devonshire, England, in 1999—one sibling, Alice.”

“So he was who he was until the sister self-terminated.”

“Prior to, he and the sister—big surprise—worked the carny circuit.”

Eve looked back through the glass. “Add the money and the false IDs to the whole bunch of drugs Illegals found in his house, and he’s not going to look so happy when we’re done. Let’s go wipe that smile off his face.”

He looked over as they came in, and his smile turned into a grin.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve and Peabody, Detective Delia entering interview with Ravenwood, Louis Carroll—”

“I’m Doctor Bright.”

Eve just kept speaking. “On the matters of case numbers . . .” She reeled off many as she took a seat across from him. “Mr. Ravenwood, you’ve—”

“I prefer Doctor Bright.”

“You’ve been read your rights,” she continued. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in these matters?”

“I understand perfectly, and so much more. How are you feeling?”

“Better than you will. A hell of a lot better than your two pals are. They’re getting jittery. That’s what happens when addicts don’t get their fix. I figure they’ll roll on you within twenty-four, but I don’t need them. Peabody, why don’t you list the illegals found in our guest’s home?”

Peabody took out her PPC and crisply read off the report from Illegals.

“Quite a collection.” She kept her eyes on his, actually felt him try to probe her thoughts—and pushed her will against his. “That alone’s going to get you a nice long stay in a cage. Add in using said illegals on individuals without their consent or knowledge—”

“They come to me.” He played his fingers in the air. “They come seeking my help. I give them what they seek. We cross the bridge together, and the crossing requires peace. A quiet mind, quiet, relaxed, still.” His fingers played, played, as if stroking a purring cat. “Imagine drifting under a blue sea, under a blue sky. See the clouds, white and soft.”

He had something, she thought, and it pulled. But it wasn’t enough without the kick of his herbs and chemicals. She leaned closer. “You think you can mesmerize me? You’re a fraud. You’ve been a fraud your whole life. You just figured out how to use a mediocre talent to get rich and feel important.”

“Mediocre!” He slapped his hands on the table. “My gift is beyond. My beyond is genius!”

“Your gift is bullshit, Ravenwood. Or should I call you Niles Carroll? Maybe Angus Roland or Anton Zacari or François Simon?”

Something flickered in his eyes—the first hint of fear.

“I have many names. My gift demands it.”

“Gift.” She snorted. “I’ve seen carneys with more than you have. That’s where you started, right?” She pushed up, moved around the table, coming at him from behind. “Telling fortunes, getting people to quack like a duck at some two-bit carnival? You and your sister.”

His body jerked. “Be quiet.”

“Golly.” Peabody widened her eyes. “You’re pissing him off, Lieutenant.”

“Am I? Does it piss you off to talk about your sister? Did you feed her the drugs that hooked her, or did she do it to herself? Why did she try to kill you? Did one of your sessions go south? Or maybe you’d just had enough of her, drugged her up good, faked the whole thing so you could kill her.”

“She killed herself.”

“Like Darlene Fitzwilliams? Like—wait, let me read your mind.” She held her hands over his head, swayed. “I feel their spirits reaching out to me. Marian Beechem in London, Fiona MacNee in Edinburgh, Sylvia Garth in Prague.”

“Get away from me.” He shrieked it, but Eve continued to list names. “All women, like your sister.”

“I bet he couldn’t bring her back,” Peabody said. “She wouldn’t come. Not after what he did to her.”

“Shut up! Shut your mouth! You can’t speak. Your tongue is tied, your throat is closed!”

Peabody’s lips clamped together, her eyes widened as she lifted her hands to her throat. Choked and gasped. Then dropped them. “Nope, I can speak just fine.”

Good one, Eve thought. She glanced at her ’link, read Roarke’s text. Smiled. Then walked around the table again. “Jesus, the guy believes his own shtick. No good without the tea party and the mists, the lights. The hats? What is it with the hats?”

“Carneys like props,” Peabody suggested. “Maybe he’ll pull a white rabbit out of one.”

“Or a March Hare. But her name’s really Willow Bateman, and she’ll do all kinds of flips on you.”

“Ms. March is loyal.”

“To your illegals cocktails, sure. But without them . . . You shouldn’t have pitched your pathetic ability against someone like Dupres. She’s the real deal, and she gave us everything we needed to shut you down.”

“Impossible.” He flicked his hands in the air.