he was going to do something, he would have done it already. Molly knew that was what Irwin hadn’t said. The thought chilled her even more than the breeze blowing in off the sea. She blinked and the young man was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
IN THE HOSPITAL LOUNGE, Michael helped himself to a cup of tea while he talked to Keith over his iPhone. Keith was a good friend and the primary artist on the current video game they were designing. The game revolved around an underwater fantasy world filled with fantastic creatures, mermaids and adventure. Lots and lots of adventure. At present, they were working on a downloadable-content episode to add to the original game. “No, no, loved the sketches of the undersea city, mate.”
“So what’s your problem, then?” Keith sounded irritable, but that was because he’d just gotten up. “Something must be wrong.”
“Nobody said anything was wrong with them. Didn’t you get my notes?”
Keith sighed. “I got your book, if that’s what you emailed me. A note, Michael, is something that fits on a Post-it. Or a three-by-five-inch index card. That’s a bloody note. What you sent me was a freaking history.”
“Sorry. I thought maybe you’d want to see the document. It has a detailed history of the city.”
“I’m not a reader, Michael. I’m a graphic guy. If a story can’t be told in pictures, I’m not interested.”
“And if it’s over ten minutes long. Yeah, yeah, I remember. Short attention span. You know, your romantic life must be a mess.” Michael added a scone to his tea saucer.
“My romantic life is just fine. I’m sure Katrina can provide a glowing recommendation if you’re interested.” Katrina was Keith’s significant other. She was organized and neat, the exact opposite of Keith. “In twenty-five words or less, what do you want me to do with the concepts of the city?”
“Older.”
“Older?”
“The buildings need to be older. The edges are too defined. There aren’t enough barnacles and age spots. And there should be scars from past wars. Gaps and missing pieces.”
“Ah. See? You could have just said that in your email.”
Chagrined, Michael knew it was true. He hadn’t been focused. He’d been distracted. He still was. Only, now he was thinking about the encounter with Aleister Crowe and alternative ways he could have responded.
“So where’s your head at, Michael?”
“Just sorting through things.”
“Your friend’s shooting still bothering you?”
“I haven’t forgotten about it.”
“Maybe I should wander up that way for a few days.”
Michael smiled at the thought. “You? In Blackpool? Aside from the fact that Molly would be afraid you’d get us strung up on the nearest yardarm, you wouldn’t last a day before you’d go as mad as a hatter.”
“You have such little faith.”
“I know you and I love you, mate. You’re a brother to me. I appreciate the offer, but there’s nothing you can do here.”
“If that changes, you’ll tell me?”
“The very instant.”
“Okay. Well, in the meantime, I’ll age your city.”
“By thousands of years. It should be literally on the verge of turning to dust on the seafloor.”
“Got it. I’ll work it up and get it back to you.”
“Soon?”
Keith laughed. “Soon enough.”
“I want the city to be the only thing aging.”
Keith groaned good-naturedly. “Thought you were retired and away from all the deadline pressure. Just for fun, you said. Just to keep your hand in.”
“I meant that, but we’ve still got people waiting on us for work so they can keep cashing paychecks.” That was the secondary reason for keeping the studio alive. The primary one was because Michael couldn’t stop imagining games. There were just too many interesting things in the world. Actually, worlds. And a lot of them were always traipsing through his mind.
“Give me a week, mate, and I’ll present you with a much older undersea city.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Michael rang off and started to pocket his mobile, but it buzzed to signal a new text.
I HAVE NANNY MYRIE. DID YOU KNOW SHE CAN FLY A FLOATPLANE?
Michael shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rohan Wallace’s grandmother at all, much less as a floatplane pilot. He slid his iPhone into his jeans and headed back to his friend’s room.
A MAN STOOD BY ROHAN’S BED when Michael reached the open door. About six feet tall and thirtyish, he had chestnut-brown hair pulled into a small ponytail. A dragon tattoo snaked up from the collar of the dark blue suit jacket he wore. His jeans were tucked into motorcycle boots.
“Rohan. C’mon, mate, I need you to wake up.” The man’s voice held a desperate note. “You’re leaving me hanging here. These guys I’ve got chasing after me aren’t messing about.”
Moving quietly, Michael put the teacup and saucer onto the small window shelf by the door. “Who are you?”
The man whirled around. Wild-eyed and breathing fast, he stared at Michael. “Just checking on my mate. That’s all. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist over.”
Michael spread his hands away from his sides to show that he meant no harm. “My name’s Michael Graham.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “I know who you are. I’ll ask you to clear that door.”
Slowly, Michael shook his head. “Not until you give me some identification.”
The man grinned, but it was a sick expression and tainted with panic. “You don’t need that.”
“Sorry. I don’t succumb to Jedi mind tricks. But I will be having your name.”
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Slicey.” With a quick snap of his wrist, the man pulled a switchblade knife into view. He flipped it open as easily as breathing and the stainless-steel edge gleamed. It would have been an excellent cut-scene in a game. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. I don’t have time for a lot of questions.”
His stomach twisting and turning sour with fear, Michael raised his hands. Until moving to Blackpool, he’d led a rather dull life when it came to criminal affairs. But recently he’d been threatened, beaten and shot at. He wasn’t becoming any more inured to violence—his quivering stomach was the perfect illustration of that fact—but he was determined that he wasn’t going to allow any information
