The next morning Oleander woke much closer to his regular time than he had lately, the sun just barely starting to come up. He practically leapt out of bed—he felt awake, in the zone, combat-ready.
He slid out of bed, threw on his boots and coat, and immediately headed for the main lodge, opting to trek through the snow rather than take the underground transit. The morning air was chilly and brittle as an autumn leaf. He drew in a deep breath and hummed a tune as he stumped back up the wooden ramp that led to the lodge entrance.
Swinging open the door, he stamped his boots on the threshold and took in the frigid, silent room. It was the stillness that seemed to leech the elation from his bones. The fire had gone out, leaving nothing but cold, charred remains in the fireplace, next to which still sat a green chair. There was no sign of Cruller.
Oleander picked up a discarded Dream Fluff wrapper from the floor and examined it, mulling over the flare of inspiration he'd had last night. He was no longer humming.
Late at night, in some state between wakefulness and dreams, the revelation had seemed brilliant, even flawless. Now, in the growing light of day, a flicker of doubt nagged at the back of his mind. Did he really intend to hinge the most important scheme of his life on something inspired by a daft old man and a fluffy candy?
He let the wrapper drift back to the floor and did his best to push the doubts from his mind. Searching the kitchen, Oleander scrounged up a box of musty cereal and poured himself a bowl with a splash of just-expired milk. The first spoonful was like eating mushy cardboard and tasted even worse.
Fiber! was all the front of the box promised. Well, it did seem to be that.
After he had eaten, he left his dishes on the table and headed back outside, trudging around to the back of the lodge through snow that was several inches higher than it had been mere hours ago—it must have snowed through the night—and seemed heavier than it had on the short trip from the Kids' Cabins. It felt considerably colder, too, and the sky was a muted gray color covered over in clouds.
Oleander climbed up onto the lodge deck and paused by a door at the back of the building, discreetly casting about for signs of anyone nearby—human or animal. He did a quick scan of the snow around his feet as well and noticed no footprints on the deck besides his own.
"Here goes nothin', then," he muttered, and reached out to cradle a padlock on the door that had been mostly hidden from sight. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating, threading a needle of TK into the narrow lock and jiggling at the catches until it snapped open in his hand. His breath came out in a rush and he let the open padlock swing. Pushing open the door, he ducked into the disused storage closet and rooted around for one thing in particular.
Ugh, there was a ton of old junk in here: worn gloves with holes in the fingertips (dangerous, in their line of work—why hadn't these just been thrown away?); several beaten-up copies of Psychic Clue that, when added together, probably almost made one complete set; a copy of Astropsionics that Oleander had been prompted to read by Nein, only getting a few sentences in before he just about set fire to the thing; a whole bushel of mops; folders of yellowed issues of True Psychic Tales magazine, the pages curling at the edges; and stacks of cardboard boxes all labelled "Property of Agent Sasha Nein—KEEP OUT," which Oleander did not feel inclined to open. He wedged himself between the teetering stacks and forced his way to the back of the closet. There, sitting in the corner under a blanket of dust, was the old mental radio he'd been searching for, along with its smaller counterpart. He grinned toothily.
Here was one solution to his problems. He heaved the main radio into his arms (unfortunately causing a few years' worth of dust to billow in his face) and, with a jerk, lifted the smaller one into the air with TK, struggling back outside with the weight of the two objects and striving not to let them bang into anything. Once outside he set the two radios down in the snow and closed the door, locking it once again and leaning against it heavily to catch his breath.
Okay.
Now, the bigger of these two radios would go to his outpost, and the other would go straight to Loboto's lab, and then they'd be able to communicate much more freely without having to cross the lake. For now, though, it'd be best to take both radios with him back to his outpost for the day. The less suspicion he aroused from any of Cruller's personas, the better.
Oleander heaved both radios up again, using TK once more on the smaller of the two, and set off back for the Kids' Cabins area. Somehow he had to get back to the asylum tonight, though part of him worried that Cruller would be keeping a much closer eye on his canoes. Of course, there was the camp bathysphere… It was mostly used by Nein for mapping out the sunken ghost town of Shaky Claim (for science, apparently) or for conducting whatever underwater experiments he got it into his head to conduct. But it was free for any of the counselors to use, and even the older campers if they got the right permits. Oleander had used it only once, and after having to be hitched back up to the surface by the fire department and an entire rescue team, he had decided that he was perfectly happy to never explore the bottom of Lake Oblongata. But if canoes were no longer an option, well…
When he reached his treetop outpost, his concentration lapsed for a moment and the smaller radio slipped from his mental grasp—he only barely caught it before it crashed to the floor, and set it down gently by the wall. He dropped the larger radio onto the table and very nearly smashed his fingers underneath it. Great, everything was going just peachy today.
At least he'd found the mental radio set, and now all he needed to do was get them set up. At one time radios like these had been widely used by the Psychonauts for stealth missions, but they had since fallen out of favor. One end transmitted thoughts into audio, the other transmitted audio to thoughts—if he was just able to get the smaller radio to Loboto's tower room, they'd be able to communicate freely across the lake with no chance of being overheard. He'd worry about accomplishing that tonight.
The rest of the day, he'd dedicate to normal "camp" duties and filing reports for HQ.
He grimaced. By this summer, it was going to be Truman Zanotto doing this grunt work. That would serve the bearded lunkhead right.
"Sneezing their brains out?"
The (probably) false doctor's clipped tones and grating voice carried a mocking jubilation at the sheer ludocrity of the idea.
"Sneezing! Even the ancient Egyptians weren't so positively primeval with their brain removals. They had specialized pointy equipment! Pointy-pointy pokey pokey! Pull the brains out through the nosey!"
The crazed dentist gleefully jabbed Oleander's shoulder with one of the prongs that replaced his right hand.
"Right," Oleander growled, shrugging him away. "Trouble is, we're trying not to harm the brains, so spooling them out with a long hook is off the table."
The two of them sat at a rickety table in the cavernous but dingy and dimly-lit space that had once been the asylum cafeteria, both nursing mugs of hot coffee. Or… whatever sludge Loboto had decided to pour into his own mug, after happily tilting the full mug that Oleander had offered him down the kitchen sink and refilling it with something of his own concoction. Oleander gripped his own mug and kept it huddled far away from twitchy metal prongs or green-gloved fingers.
"But SNEEZING!" Loboto leaned forward over the table, his many teeth glinting in the light. "It makes no sense! I looove it!"
He let out a harsh cackle.
"But it could be done?" Oleander affirmed.
The laughter cut off abruptly. Loboto's red and green eye lights flashed, focused down on his mug of not-coffee; the permanent grin stretched across his face seemed to pull just a bit tighter.
"So this is our partnership?" he said. His voice had dropped in volume but gained a razor edge, the claws of his right hand carving scratches into the tabletop. "You dream up outlandish ideas and expect me to figure out how to design them, how to take the impossible and spin it into something tangible that I can drop into your meaty little fingers for easy use?"
Loboto stood suddenly, swiping his hand across the table and sending his mug flying. It shattered on the concrete floor, spreading a dark stain over the ground. "OF COURSE IT CAN BE DONE!"
Oleander gave a start, huddling his coffee closer to him protectively. He cleared his throat. "Great, good to hear. You'll need to get started on that immediately."
"Immediately!" Loboto echoed, and then he broke out into more raucous laughter. "But of course! Why not? Easily done! Brain removal is a cinch! SHEEGOR!"
Oleander jumped again, jolting his mug, and cursed under his breath. Not only had lukewarm coffee sloshed on his arm, but the idiot he called a partner in this project had somehow wormed his way under Oleander's militaristic guard and electrified his nerves. He was a spring wound tight, a hydrogen balloon under too much pressure, a grenade with a pulled pin.
"Doctor Loboto?" a tiny voice said, right at Oleander's elbow. His teeth slammed down on his tongue, and he tasted blood.
Curse this place! It constantly had him on edge.
"Sheegor! You took your time!" Loboto snapped. He ushered the hunched woman forward to stand in front of them, brandishing his clawed hand at Oleander. "This man wants to create a substance that will cause the victim—patient—to sneeze their brains out! Intact, of course. What is your view on the matter?"
"Oh—um…" Sheegor was still clutching her favored turtle shell in her oven-mitted hands, this time with a mitt of its own pulled over it like a sleeping bag. She caught Oleander staring at the shell. "Mr. Pokeylope gets cold," she explained.
"Well?" Loboto demanded. Sheegor flinched and shrank back as though the single word had been a threat.
"I- I think it would work," she squeaked. "If you created a- a very powerful sneeze…"
"And there you have it!" Loboto crowed. "If Sheegor thinks it's doable, then it's doable!" He pulled his hands close to his face, curling them into claws and staring at them greedily, as though already envisioning a squelchy pink brain clutched in them. "We'll have to find or concoct something to force an explosive sneeze—PEPPER! Pepper, but stronger! Better! PEPPER SQUARED!"
"And how do we make that?" Oleander asked. Loboto whirled to face him, a crazed and wild look glinting in his mismatched, mechanical eyes.
"We research, of course!" he said. "We experiment! We blow things up! Surely your department has information on this. Brain removal isn't such a unique idea, after all!"
Oleander sat back in his chair, brows arched in surprise. "Are you asking me to steal information from the Psychonauts?"
"No, I'm telling you to. And it's not stealing if you're on that nasty team, is it!"
"Yes, actually, it is." Oleander slowly hunched back over the table, and found himself staring deep into the leftover dregs of his coffee.
The Psychonauts as a rule kept tight control over any information involving brain removal. It had always been a tricky operation and the procedures were highly classified. As far as Oleander was aware, "super sneezing powder" was a new idea. Could he really find helpful research, if he knew where to look?
"Oh, I think you can discover most anything, if you look in the right place," Loboto said in a lazy hum, flouncing back to the table.
Oleander jerked his head up, his single-eyed gaze piercing Loboto's like a spike. "What did you just say?"
"I said you'd be lucky to discover anything, with that hideous-looking face!" the doctor cackled. "Now then, you be on your way! Go find some interesting things! I have much to prepare for here! Much, much to prepare!"
Still laughing, he strode back across the cafeteria toward the door, not turning back to look at Oleander. Just as he reached the door he made a sharp, impatient summoning motion with his hand. Sheegor jumped with a squeak and scurried after him, the strange pair disappearing around the corner.
"I hope your preparations include setting up that radio," Oleander muttered, standing up as well. The doctor had seemed infuriatingly indifferent about the radio Oleander had given him. For all he knew, Loboto would smash the thing and use it for parts.
He scowled as he stomped after the two of them, turning to leave the horrible building through the front doors and bracing himself for another harrowing underwater trip across the lake.
That idiot had no idea what he was asking. He may think himself a doctor, but he was still just—well, an idiot. Oleander risked blowing his own cover if he tried to investigate any top-secret brain extraction reports and databases within the Psychonauts, and anyway, there was no way to do that this far from any Psychonauts facility…
...Unless, of course, he were to use Cruller's lab.
He hummed in thought, his boots crunching through the snow in the faint moonlight. The lab was a possibility, though the risk of discovery was high. Very high. He'd have to be fast—get in, get the info, get out—and he would somehow have to make sure Cruller was out of the way for a decent stretch of time.
An image of the bumbling Admiral from last night came to mind, the old man shuffling along in pink bunny slippers and a bright orange life jacket, worrying about holes in the canoes.
Actually, keeping him out of the lab should be fairly simple.
The squirrel gripped tightly to Oleander's sleeve the next morning, its nose twitching as he approached the main lodge. The sun had risen fully, the sky a bright blue today, though that did little to dispel the deep chill of the snow that settled over everything.
"So it's warm in there?" the squirrel chittered, tilting its head at the lodge.
"Warmer than out here," Oleander said. "You remember your job?"
The squirrel shifted on his shoulder and curled its bushy tail, brushing Oleander's ear. He hoped the thing didn't have fleas. "Go inside. Hide in things. Make lots of noise and don't get caught."
"Exactly." Oleander held up part of a hotdog bun for the squirrel to snatch in its front paws. "There, your payment. Half now, and half later. You got a name, by any chance?"
The squirrel ripped off a piece of bread with its teeth and chewed it eagerly. "Sure do. Now make sure ya have more bread ready for me!" It took the bread in its mouth, scurried down Oleander's front, and leaped through one of the lodge windows. In two paces Oleander stomped up to the window and snapped it closed.
There, distraction in place.
Oleander turned and headed back down the long wooden walkway, grumbling when his boots skidded slightly on the slick boards. They had frozen overnight, and he nearly fell several more times than he would ever admit.
No sooner had he reached the bottom than a spry figure leaped from the snowy, hollow tree trunk in front of him, landing lightly on his feet, only to blink and rub his head in confusion. "Eh… what was I doin'?"
Oleander perked up at once, his eye glinting. "Chef Cruller! I called you here. Looks like a squirrel got loose in the lodge again."
Cruller whipped his head up, his shoulders rigid in indignation. "Again? I'll skin it alive and make tree-rat sausages!"
Before Oleander could respond, the old man marched up to the door and threw it open, storming inside and slamming it behind him.
It was now or never. Oleander clambered onto the hollow stump in a scattering of snow, preparing to drop down into the cart that Cruller had just arrived from.
"Is he gone?" a tiny voice asked from behind the stump.
"What the—?" Oleander lost his footing, slipping back off the edge of the stump and landing hard in the snow. When he shot back up, his head slammed into the unlit lantern hanging from the stump, sending it swinging. "Who's there?!"
"Just- just me…"
To his disbelief, Sheegor slipped out of the shadows, not meeting his gaze and wringing her mittened hands. She no longer clutched her turtle, though by her worried expression he wondered vaguely if she was missing it.
Oleander drew himself up to his full, extremely impressive height, and glared at her. "What in the sam hill are you doing here, civilian?"
How had she even gotten across the lake?!
"Dr. Loboto sent me!" Sheegor finally locked eyes with him, her expression pleading. "Please don't be mad! He wanted me to- to help you find what you need!"
"And why would he think I need your help?"
"Well, he um, well…" Sheegor scuffed her foot in the snow. "He thinks I might know what to look for. Are we going in the tree?"
"It's not a tree, and you're not coming down here!" Oleander growled. "You can run straight back to that crackpot dentist and tell him our deal is off unless he lets me do things my way!"
"But Dr. Loboto was really, really insistent!" Sheegor squeaked. "And I don't- I don't wanna make him angry while he's with Mr. Pokeylope!"
"Who's—oh. The turtle." Oleander ran a gloved hand down his face, his good eye rolling skyward. He didn't have time for this—any moment, Cruller might catch that squirrel, and then it would be over. "Fine. But you're under my orders, understand?"
"Okay!" Sheegor squeaked. Not the proper response, but it would have to do. Oleander climbed up onto the trunk once again and slid down into the cart with a bump, followed seconds later by a wide-eyed Sheegor, who landed behind him in the seat and looked around in shock. "Oh!"
"Welcome, Chef Cruller," a smooth, female voice said. "Where would you like to go?"
"Cruller's sanctuary. Stat." Oleander had no time for false niceties with a strangely flirtatious AI.
"Of course, Agent Cruller," the voice said. The cart took off with a jolt, causing Sheegor to lurch into Oleander's back with a squeal, and wheeled the two passengers far into the cold underground passageway. The strange assistant ducked her head, peering around fearfully.
"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice barely audible above the creaking cart.
Oleander grunted. "Permission to speak denied! If you're coming with me, you will remain silent!"
Sheegor made a muffled noise in her throat, but said nothing else, until at last the cart jerked to a stop and they were able to climb up into the lonely cave that Ford Cruller called home.
Despite himself, Oleander couldn't help feeling a smug satisfaction at Sheegor's gasp of awe and delight as they crossed the walkway onto the glass platform that covered the Psitanium meteorite. The vast cave was bathed in green and purple light, while various chair-like apparatuses around the place quietly beeped and whirred as holographic news feeds circled.
"Nice, huh?" he said. The woman nodded vigorously, her mop of curly white hair flopping around her face. "All right, let's see what use you are. We're looking for information on harmless brain removal."
"Um...?" Sheegor looked around, unsure.
"Oh, for Pete's—like this." Oleander heaved himself off the platform and clambered onto one of the chair apparatuses that encircled it, situating himself so he was sitting comfortably, and closed his eyes. He huffed, cracking his good eye back open to frown down at the woman. "On second thought, you stay there and do a job for me. And keep watch. We can't afford to be found here."
"Okay," Sheegor said with a nod. Still a completely improper response to a direct order. What was the world coming to these days?
He shifted in his chair and pulled his notebook and pen from his pockets, handing them down to her. "I'm going to be speaking aloud, but I might not remember everything I said. Your job is to jot down every word I say. Every word. Got it?"
The woman's eyes widened, no doubt daunted by the importance of the task.
"You can write, can't you?"
Her head bobbed. "Yes, yes!"
"Even wearing those things?" Those ugly mitts on her hands had to make fine motor skills difficult.
"Yes! Yessee!"
Slightly perturbed, but aware of their rapidly decreasing time limit, Oleander closed his eyes again and finally allowed a psychic link to open between himself and the information feeds. You had to be careful with this—if he didn't ease himself in, the flood of information would be like a colossal tidal wave to his senses and he'd be left comatose for at least several hours, as he'd seen happen to an intern once. It actually proved a decent security measure on its own, but it also required a telepathic password, which Oleander easily provided.
First, the ocean: he recalled a memory of visiting the sea with his mother as a child, watching the waves crash around him as she held his hand. The tide had nearly pulled him away.
Second, hope: the memory of his first hours with the Psychonauts would stand out in his mind to his dying day. An overwhelming rush of pride, hopefulness, and just a hint of fear, which blossomed into near-panic when he came face-to-face with the greatest man in the agency, Ford Cruller.
Third, pink: that was easy. He pictured the five-petaled flowers that gave his family their last name.
And fourth, regret: there was genuinely something. In his mind's eye he revisited a scene from several years ago, where while on a mission he'd found himself in the midst of an explosion of psychic energy that took out several buildings. There had been tremendous casualties for both the Psychonauts, and the innocent civilians who hadn't even known the agents were there—
He sucked in a breath. At the very last moment, the memory had slipped from his grasp, and he saw instead that fleeting image of Ford as the man had looked the first time Oleander had met him.
It almost wrenched him from his trance and, by extension, the suspended chair.
But a pleasant chime kept him rooted to his spot. The mental password had worked after all. He was rewarded with a direct link to the organization's vast database of news, intel, and research, and let himself relax by a fraction.
Unfortunately, it looked like the database was in the process of being reorganized, and had last been touched no less than six months ago by snot-nosed Morteous Blinn, who couldn't levitate his way out of a paper bag. Oleander groaned.
"Everything still clear?" he asked without opening his eyes. "Pen ready? You have permission to reply."
"Everything's okay," Sheegor's voice responded. She had moved a little closer, but he didn't sense any ill intentions from her. Good enough.
A deep sigh left him, and he began the laborious task of sifting through the mountain of information for what he needed.
He didn't know how much time had passed before he felt something violently shaking his foot. Jolting out of his trance, he shook whoever it was off, and opened his eyes on a world that seemed way too bright. The light and his sudden severance from the database left him woozy and disoriented for a moment, and he didn't immediately register that Sheegor was in front of him, frantically pointing toward the false tree trunk that led back out of the sanctuary.
"I hear something! I think someone's coming!" she said.
Oleander shook his head and checked his watch. He cursed. Fifteen minutes! That dratted squirrel hadn't even been able to give him half an hour's distraction! Sheegor held out his notebook and he snatched it, glancing at the contents. Two or three pages were covered in clumsy handwriting, along with a couple of turtle doodles. He frowned, but flipped it closed and tucked it into his coat pocket. He'd have to check it more thoroughly later.
"What are you still doing here?" he barked at Sheegor, hopping back onto the glass platform. "Hide! It's every man for himself!"
Almost before he had finished speaking, Sheegor vanished, darting onto one of the hovering platforms in the shadows that led down to the rocky ground. Oleander knew he couldn't move that fast. Just as the clattering noise from the tunnel came to a stop and a figure climbed out of the tree trunk, Oleander melted out of sight.
Agent Cruller strode down the walkway, muttering to himself all the way. He was nursing the thumb of his left hand, which was wrapped in red-stained tissues.
"Confounded rodent," he grumbled. He passed mere centimeters from where Oleander stood, so close that Oleander could have reached out and snagged his sleeve. "That's the third time this week. Half the camp is falling apart, and I can't find anything better to do out there than chase squirrels?"
Oleander glanced back at the walkway. Sheegor had climbed back up and was shuffling along it silently, backwards, oven-mitted hands clasped tightly over her mouth as she watched Cruller's movements. He had to stop her before she got back in the transit cart and alerted Cruller of their presence!
Cruller shook his head irritably, noticing nothing. "Squirrels! There oughta be laws against—"
He stopped less than a foot away, standing ramrod straight. Oleander, who'd started making his way back toward the walkway, froze stock-still, heart racing. Had he made a noise? When was the last time he'd showered? If Cruller concentrated, Oleander was sure he'd be able to see through his invisibility in an instant. If he was caught, it wouldn't only be his plan down the toilet, but his job, his freedom, and possibly even his life.
Cruller gave a violent sneeze. Oleander took off for the tree trunk.
He snagged Sheegor as he went, shoving her through the stump before following himself, and levitating them both a short distance to keep them from falling directly into the cart. His invisible guise disintegrating, he crouched with the cowering assistant in the semi-darkness and waited for a shout from up above.
Nothing.
Oleander waited a full five minutes to be sure before he allowed himself to relax slightly. Cruller hadn't noticed them after all.
The plan was still safe, and he had grabbed all the most important research he could find.
"Come on," he murmured, helping Sheegor back to her feet. "We're walking back. Stay quiet, you hear me?"
Sheegor bobbed her head with a tiny squeak.
"I said quiet."
Without the cart being activated, the lighting system for the network of tunnels was switched off to save power, leaving their surroundings almost black. Focusing, Oleander formed a bright green psi-bubble that hovered in front of his hand. It was dim, but lit up the passageway around them enough that they could walk forward without tripping. Sheegor's eyes widened at the show of mental powers, but she dutifully remained silent.
"All right. Follow me."
Oleander had never walked these tunnels before. The various twists and turns strained his sense of direction until he wasn't fully sure they were even heading back toward the lodge anymore. Of course, he reasoned, they had to get out of here somewhere, and anywhere outside was just as good as the lodge. Heck, if they somehow ended up back at the lake, that was just less ground to cover to get Sheegor out of his camp and back across the water where she belonged.
He glanced over at her; her eyes were locked on her feet as they shuffled along the trail. "Meant to ask ya," he said gruffly. "What kind of name is 'Sheegor,' anyway?"
"Not the very nice kind," she mumbled. "Dr. Loboto called me that and never stopped."
"Oh." He paused. "So what's your—"
"It's Penelope!" she squeaked. "My n-name's Penelope Delucca." Her eyes darted around in agitation, as though watching for eavesdroppers. "B- But I never said that! Don't tell him I said that! Please!"
"Okay, okay!" Oleander waved her off. "Enough, civvy! Forget I asked." Sheesh, this one acted like the world would end if she didn't tiptoe on eggshells.
"The- the information you found was good," Sheegor said tentatively after a pause. "It was—really, really good! You found some chemicals for sneezing powder that wouldn't hurt the brains! And you found some ones that would but I didn't write those down."
"I told you to write down everything!" Oleander snapped. To his shock, Sheegor stuck out her chin, showing defiance for the first time since he had known her.
"No, I won't let you be mean to the brains!" she said. "They didn't do anything to you! And Dr. Loboto doesn't want them to get hurt either!"
Hmph. Not until he gets his own claws into them, at least, Oleander thought, but didn't say it out loud.
"And you found some stuff about psychics." Sheegor's voice had dropped back to its normal squeak. "I didn't really know anything about that. You talked about, um, psi-locks? And helmets."
Oleander nodded. Yes, he'd made a point to search for psychic restraints. Even child psychics shouldn't be underestimated.
He stopped suddenly, lifting his head to sniff the air—a sour odor had caught his attention. "You getting that?"
"It smells rotten!" Sheegor pressed her mittened hands to her nose.
"Dead fish," Oleander confirmed with another whiff. "Yep, the lake is straight ahead. Come on, we're almost out."
They nearly ran the last few feet, climbing out through the hollow stump and tumbling out onto snowy sand in the late afternoon sun. They'd wandered through the tunnels longer than he'd thought. Oleander stood, brushing off his coat and fatigues and kicking aside a fish that had been left by the trunk's roots.
"That was a little too close for comfort," he said.
"I didn't like that man." Sheegor shivered, hugging herself in the sunlight. "He almost caught us!"
"But he didn't. That's the only thing that matters."
Sheegor looked out across the shimmering lake, squinting. "Mr. Pokeylope's going to wonder where I am!" she fretted. "...Oh, and Dr. Loboto, too! Did you get everything you needed, Mr. Oleander?"
He gave a definitive nod. Yes, this would have to do. He'd never be able to risk another trip down there.
The woman fiddled with the mitts on her hands. "Okay. Are you- are you coming to the asylum again tonight?"
Oleander glanced back at the trunk, his hand going to the pocket where he'd stashed his notebook. His brow furrowed in a glare. The faster they moved on this project, the better.
"I'll come right now."