Night Howls on the Hudson

Chapter 10: Seance with a Shaman

"Don't fight me on this, Neal," Peter warned. "You know you're going to lose."

"No one's fighting anyone," El said soothingly. "Let's discuss this upstairs."

Neal eyed the pair of them. They were playing good Viking, bad Viking on him, and he didn't have a chance. Neal rode with them to June's after his ignominious collapse at the festival. Despite his assurance that he was fully recovered, they insisted on staying with him till Mozzie arrived.

The final insult was when they forced him to ride the service elevator upstairs like he was an invalid. Having their company was slight compensation. Neal would rather wallow by himself than inflict his dark mood on others.

When they entered the loft, he retreated into his closet to strip off his minstrel costume. He took much longer than was necessary to change into jeans and a t-shirt while silently venting at the injustice of the world. This was supposed to be his day with Sara. Why was Astrena's timing so lousy?

When he came out, El was no longer in the living room.

"She went downstairs to raid June's kitchen," Peter explained. "I'm reliably informed that your pantry's on the bare side. A few boxes of protein bars don't count. I'm giving you advance notice, we're not leaving till you've eaten solid food that didn't come out of a foil package."

Neal shrugged. "Shopping for groceries hadn't been a high priority the past week."

Peter frowned. "It should have been." His eyes swept across the loft, resting on the French doors. The terrace was in bright sunshine. "Would you like to go outside?"

"Sure." Neal knew he was in for it. The Talk loomed in front of him, and Peter was well aware he responded better to such situations outside. "I've got some of Mozzie's honey mead chilled for you." He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. There was an open bottle of Fumé Blanc in the door, and he poured himself a glass, relieved that Christie hadn't slapped any drinking restrictions on him.

They took their seats at the glass-topped patio table and clinked glasses. Neal took pity on Peter and made the opening move. "You want to shut down the con."

"Don't paint it in such stark terms, but yes, we need to reassess. You're in no shape for undercover work, and you know it."

"Neither is Bianka. I called her last night and again this morning. Her doctor's confined her to the hospital. He's ordered a battery of tests to try to pinpoint the cause of her recurring bouts of intestinal flu. Here's a thought. Christie could put me in an adjacent room. We could have clandestine assignations in the supply closet."

Peter chuckled. "Tempting as it is to have you under supervision, I have no desire to play the Hospital Game with you. You'd probably feel honor-bound to hide somewhere inaccessible just to prove a point."

Neal shrugged. "Much as I'd enjoy the chase, it's not worth being confined."

"Don't look so gloomy. The news about Bianka takes the pressure off. We can postpone a decision for a few days. Once she leaves the hospital, you can play the mono card. That will buy more time."

Neal detected the faint glimmer of sunshine on his overcast horizon. Peter hadn't mentioned anything about his coursework yet.

"Tomorrow you'll see Christie," Peter continued. "Unless she notifies me that you've experienced a miracle cure, you'll work from home next week. Understood?"

Neal would much rather go to the office where there were more distractions, but what Peter proposed was reasonable. "I could use the time for the Renoir forgery," he conceded.