Chapter 1 - Two Minutes to Midnight
The old man leaned through the open door of my car at 11:58 p.m. and told me thirty-one people were about to lose their lights because of my signature.
Rain shone on the pavement behind him. Theater marquees turned the street pink and blue, and the hood of my black sedan reflected every passing taxi. He wore a brown work jacket and a flattened canvas cap. I wore a suit that cost more than his coat probably had in twenty years.
“You've got the wrong car,” I told him.
“No,” he said. “I watched you come out of the lender's dinner. Nathan Mercer. You're exactly the man I need.”
My driver had gone around the block because a delivery truck blocked the curb. I was alone, five minutes from ending a disastrous week, and a stranger had decided to use those minutes.
“I'm not giving out money.”
“I didn't ask for any.”
He braced one rough hand against the door frame. There was black dust caught in his fingernails, the kind you never entirely wash out when you've spent a lifetime pulling wire through old walls.
“Your people are cutting power to the Orpheum block at midnight,” he said. “The demolition paperwork says the Mercy Annex is vacant. It's not.”
My watch buzzed. A message from Evan Hale, our field foreman: UTILITY CREW IN POSITION. Two minutes until the disconnect that would let us begin stripping the old downtown property. After eighteen months of delays, the redevelopment would finally move.
“Our inspections were completed,” I said.
“Your inspections were signed. That's different.”
For a second I saw not a nuisance but a frightened man forcing himself to stay calm. I could have asked his name. I could have called Evan. Instead I looked at my watch again.
“Please move away from the door.”
“Third stairwell. Blue door behind the loading dock. Count the shoes if you don't believe me.”
I reached for my phone to call security. He stepped back before I could. The old man had the terrible dignity of someone accustomed to being ignored.
“Your father knew where that stairwell led,” he said.
My hand stopped. Allan Mercer had been dead four years. I didn't allow strangers to use his name as a password.
“How did you know my father?”
“Ask me after you stop the switch.”
I called Evan. “Hold the disconnect. I need the annex checked again.”
A burst of static answered. Then Evan said, “I requested the halt thirty seconds ago when the gate guard reported someone inside. Utility says the work order's already being executed.”
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Across the street the narrow row of upstairs windows above the darkened shops went black, one after another. The old man closed his eyes as though he had been waiting for that exact sequence.
Then somewhere behind the building, a child screamed.
