Eddie clicked off his tape recorder. “That’s enough.”
The sun had set during their interview, and the cool breeze from Lake Michigan tugged at his clothes.
Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t even begun the interview.”
Eddie stood. “I’ve heard enough. I’d heard you treated reporters with contempt, but this is beyond the pale. Magic? Warlocks? What, are you going pull a rabbit out of your hat next? Good day, Mr. Wycliffe. I look forward to your defeat in the election.”
Eddie stalked away.
Wycliffe sighed. “Mr. Carson.”
Eddie spun. “What?”
“Sit down.”
His voice was cold, much colder than a politician’s genial tones.
Eddie sat.
He blinked in surprise. Why had he done that? He had fully intended to keep walking.
Yet here he sat.
“Don’t do that,” said Wycliffe.
“What?” said Eddie. He started to rise.
“Hit yourself.”
Again his voice was cold, the cold of an icy wind. Or perhaps a dying star.
Eddie raised his hand and slapped himself across the face. “What the hell?”
“Sit. And don’t stand again until I’m finished with you.” Wycliffe’s eyes were hidden in pools of shadow beneath his glasses. “You’ve been quite a problem to me, Mr. Carson. I need to win a Senate seat, if I’m to take the presidency. I’d hoped to convince you to see reason.” Wycliffe smiled. “But I’m going to turn a problem into an asset.”
“What is this?” said Eddie. He tried to stand. His legs would not move. “What did you slip in my drink, you bastard?”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Wycliffe. “Do you own a gun?”
“Yes, a revolver,” said Eddie. He blanched. He hadn’t meant to answer.
Wycliffe sneered. “This is what you’re going to do, Mr. Carson. You’re going to help me win this election. You will drive to your apartment. You will fabricate a letter, a suicide note, describing your longstanding homosexual relationship with Senator Fulbright. You will express your guilt and anguish over your perversion.” His voice grew colder and colder, and every word hammered in Eddie’s brain like thunder. “You will also describe the occasional acts of drug-fueled mayhem you and the good senator enjoyed.”
“No!” said Eddie. “This is nonsense! I won’t write lies!”
“You will,” said Wycliffe. His eyes seemed like pits into the void. “Leave the letter in plain sight in your apartment. Then drive to Senator Fulbright’s campaign headquarters. You will take your gun and shoot the first five people you see.” Wycliffe grinned. “Except for Senator Fulbright, of course. We wouldn’t want him to miss this, would we? Once you have shot five people, you will place the gun to your temple and use the last bullet on yourself. Tell no one of this.”
“No!” said Eddie. “I won’t do any such thing.”
“You will,” said Wycliffe. He sighed. “One of Marugon’s messengers came through the Tower today, carrying a letter. His armies captured the king of Narramore and slaughtered all his Wizards. The poor old king was hiding in the smoking rubble of his last stronghold. Marugon had a public execution, I understand. It lasted for hours. The rabble loved it. Two pieces of good news in one day. My friend and ally has triumphed, and you will win my election for me.” He grinned. “Marugon will be an emperor. In a few weeks I’ll be a Senator, and in another decade, I’ll be President of the United States.”
“No,” breathed Eddie.
Wycliffe fluttered his fingers. “Go.”
Eddie ran for the parking lot. Wycliffe was insane. Eddie decided to call the police. Instead he ran past the pay phone, got into his car, and drove off for his apartment. Eddie cursed. Why had he not called the police? He decided to drive to the nearest police station and tell them everything.
Some time later, he pulled into his apartment complex’s parking lot.
He ran up the stairs. He decided to call the state capitol in Springfield and warn them of the threat on Senator Fulbright’s life.
He unlocked the door, stepped into the living room, and reached for his phone.
Instead, he sat down at his desk and began to write the suicide note. His hands flew over the paper. He couldn’t make them stop writing.