Dewey hunched over the computer screen in the tiny room he’d rented on the dark side of town. It was small and austere as a sort of penance for Phoebe’s current incarceration. Until she was free, no five-star hotels for him. He’d been typing for so many hours the tips of his fingers were numb. He gave them a shake, then rubbed his eyes. It didn’t help the blurring, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t have time to stop. The illusion had to be perfect or they were dead. Might be dead anyway, but he didn’t want it to be because of faulty work on his part.
Harding was balanced on the knife-edge of sanity. It showed in the trembling of his hands, in the twitch in one cheek and in the expression in his eyes. Dewey wasn’t sure any illusion would be enough to get them clear. There were too many variabl
