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Sylvia opened the door, which had unlocked, and stepped in. Hugo glanced back at Lancelot, and then with a shrug, followed her in. Lancelot kept his eye on the video camera above the door, pausing briefly before entering. When he did, both hands were empty.
“Oscar!” Sylvia called out. “I’m here. I have guests.”
“The voices in your head aren’t guests!” a male voice boomed from somewhere in the house. “I’m pretty sure they’re permanent, Sylvia.”
Sylvia rolled her eyes, in the way only a sister could. They were standing crammed together in a small foyer. There was a small parlor to their left, but it was devoid of furniture. Instead, there was a yoga mat and stationary bike. Straight ahead was a dim hallway, with several closed doors leading off it.
“Where are you?” Sylvia called out.
“Workroom,” came the booming answer.
“Where else?” she muttered. “Come on,” she said to them.
Single file, Lancelot in the rear, they went down the hall to the last door on the right.
“You better have pants on,” Sylvia yelled as she opened the door.
Hugo followed her in. He’d expected something odd—maybe a tubby young man sitting on a beanbag chair playing video games, or a space that looked like the cluttered backroom of an electronics store.
Instead, he walked into what felt like mission control for NASA.
The room must have been an addition on the back of the house because it was huge, in comparison to the proportions of the rest of the home. Easily five meters wide and long, the room’s walls and ceiling were painted dark blue. The floor was dark industrial tile. There was a single huge picture window that looked out on the copse of trees they’d passed through. Light came down from some recessed fixtures, but even more was provided from the dozens of screens. There were screens mounted on the walls, multiple screens on the large U-shaped desk in the center of the room. A counter ran the entire length of the wall with the window. Along the counter were the electronic bits and guts he’d expected to see, but everything was neatly labeled and spotless.
“Ahem.” Sylvia started unpacking her bag, setting the soup, medicine, and Kleenex on the big desk.
“Just a second, let me finish soldering this.”
Hugo leaned to the side to see around one of the massive monitors on the center desk. A man sat on a rolling stool, hunched over the counter, soldering wand in hand, a huge magnifying glass mounted on a movable arm, positioned between his face and whatever he was working on.
There was a small hissing sound, and then the man—presumably Oscar, her brother—settled the soldering iron into its metal mount and rose up.
And up. And up.
The man was huge—nearly as tall as Lancelot, but broader. He wore a plain black T-shirt, and his hair was cut in a fade—nearly shaved on the sides and close cut on top. He looked more like a bodybuilder than a computer geek, and the large black-frame glasses perched on his nose seemed like a sub-par disguise.
For a moment, Hugo wondered if Sylvia and this man were siblings in name only. Oscar had skin considerably darker than Sylvia’s, but when he smiled and reached for his sister, the resemblance was there. They had the same smile, and now that Hugo was looking for it, the same nose, same tilt to their eyes.
Oscar hugged his sister, the muscles in his arms straining the hems of his sleeves. He looked at Hugo and Lancelot and frowned. When he released Sylvia from the hug, he kept an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side.
Lancelot bumped his shoulder gently, and then whispered, “We may have a problem.”
“Who are these two?” Sylvia’s brother asked.
“Oscar, this is one of my college professors from Northwestern, Dr. Hugo Marchand, and his friend, Lancelot Knight. He’s a private investigator from England. Have you been taking your medicine?”
“Medicine?” Oscar asked, his gaze still locked on them. “What are they doing here with you?”
Sylvia retrieved the pills, then reached into a mini-fridge tucked in the corner and pulled out a bottle of water. “Don’t be rude. Dr. Marchand is in Charleston doing research for a book—he’s a political science professor—and he stopped by to visit me. He’s on my Christmas card list. I’m giving him and Lancelot a tour of the city. Take these.”
Oscar looked at the two pills she placed in his palm, then gulped them down without water. “You and that Christmas card list…” Oscar stared at Lancelot. “What kind of name is Lancelot?”
“Really, Oscar?” Sylvia said, her hands on her hips. “He’s an investigator. I was telling him how you’d managed to track down Mrs. Rutherford and he was impressed. Thought the two of you could talk shop.”
“A French professor and a British investigator traveling together?” Oscar gave his sister a look that told Hugo he worried about her innate kindness as well. Clearly, her brother thought he and Lancelot were here for some insidious reason. Which they were.
Hugo glanced at Sylvia, wondering if she was going to suddenly start distrusting them, now that her brother was so clearly dubious of them and their motivations.
Sylvia sighed and turned, sitting down at one of the smaller computer terminals set up on the desk/command center. He watched as she pressed her hand against a scanner beside the keyboard.
