"The secret of being a top-notch con man is being able to know what the mark wants, and how to make him think he's getting it."

~ Ken Kesey, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

The knock at the door sounds again. Zandra stays in place, doing her best to remain motionless against the counter of the vanity.

"Zandra? I can't reach you by phone. Everything OK in there?" comes Sunglasses's voice over the sound of the hairdryer.

That's strange, Sunglasses. I don't remember hearing the phone ring.

Then again, it's hard to hear inside that tunnel.

Zandra remains silent. Sunglasses tries one more knock before giving something else a shot. Zandra hears the whir-click of a keycard unlocking the door. Her eyes shoot to the manual lock on the door, the one that secures from the inside without electronics to prevent situations like this one.

It's unlocked.

Think fast.

"I'm in the bathroom, asshole," Zandra says.

There is zero advantage to anyone knowing that I know about the tunnel. None. Not even if Sunglasses is supposed to be offering protection.

Never show what you know, not completely. Secrets are currency.

Zandra gives herself permission to move around. She walks to the entry of the bathroom, blocking the view behind her. She glances at the phone by the bed. The receiver is loose from its base. She must not have hung up after requesting the extension cord.

"Oh, sorry," Sunglasses says from a sliver of open door. It's not enough to see Zandra.

Zandra lights him up. "You think you can just barge in here whenever you want? What the hell are you thinking? And when did you get a keycard to my room?"

"I thought there was an issue."

"Yeah, there's a big issue. Now fuck off back to your room," Zandra says. With her hand braced against the entryway of the bathroom, she kicks the door shut. "Call me if you want to talk."

Zandra secures the door with the manual lock, cursing herself for not taking the extra precaution. She turns off the hair dryer before setting the receiver back into place. She waits. Sunglasses doesn't call.

Zandra debates stretching out on the bed for some much-needed sleep, but the threat of someone crawling through the tunnel keeps her from letting her guard down. She bunches up pillows and blankets to make a nest on the bathroom floor. Another blanket she packs into the tunnel before placing the unplugged desk lamp in the cabinet. If the blanket pushes out from the other side of the tunnel, the lamp will fall over to alert Zandra, who takes center stage in the nest like a spoiled egg.

It's not like I'm going to get much sleep, but I may as well try.

Sleep comes faster than she expects, although it doesn't last long. She wakes a couple hours later, her mind racing. The blanket and desk lamp remain in place, as does the sheathed lawnmower knife up her sleeve. Try as she might, she can't fall back to sleep, so she turns the TV on and listens to infomercials until the first streaks of dawn enter the room.

Breakfast starts in 20 minutes.

Zandra leaves the TV on, hobbles out of the room, and hangs a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob. Even on the third floor, she can smell the grease and coffee of breakfast wafting up from the lobby.

A short elevator ride later, Zandra takes a seat in the lobby, obscuring her face with yesterday's newspaper.

Even tunnel rats have to eat. Let's see if one makes an appearance.

The headlines from the newspaper make bold the otherwise mundane business of Stevens Point. Zandra pretends to read the copy beneath a few, but she loses interest.

After skimming the obituaries, Zandra spots a target out of the corner of her bloodshot eye. It's the yawning man, from earlier on in the lobby. He's still yawning, although this time it seems to be for lack of coffee. He readies a cup at the breakfast station. Zandra folds the newspaper onto her lap for a better look.

He looks to be about the right height and shoulder width. He's dressed like he was before, all clean cut and professional like he's got a hot date in front of a judge.

Stevens Point isn't Manhattan. Not even the giggling dipshits at the banks wear a tie, much less for an early breakfast.

The yawning man, literally yawning, doesn't notice Zandra shuffling over to him until she says, "Good morning, child. Have we met before?" and pats him on the shoulder.

Touch establishes command, but only if it doesn't come off as creepy. Light touch is better. Works even if the person getting touched doesn't notice.

"I don't think so," the man says, struggling to keep the liquid level in his coffee mug.

"Oh, sorry, child, my mistake," Zandra says. She needs a reason to apologize one more time, so she gives a slight shove as she removes her hand from his shoulder. The coffee spills onto the man's shirt.

"Hey, watch it," the man says, backing up and sucking in his stomach to avoid the burn against his skin.

Zandra grabs a wad of napkins from the breakfast station and hands them to the man, apologizing over and over. After a few dabs, Zandra waves away the man's hands from the droop of coffee stain.

"Oh, my. Do you see that?" Zandra says.

"This coffee stain? Of course I see it," the man says.

"No, child, it's not just any coffee stain. That's the Star of Visorius," she says and places her fingers gently upon the stain.

Words that sound like Latin give bullshit instant credibility.

"It looks like a coffee stain to me," the man says.

"To the untrained eye, yes, child, it might be just that, or it could be more. The Star of Visirius can manifest anywhere, in any form, to anyone, but for only one reason," Zandra says, doing a little manifesting herself by begging the question.

"What reason?" the man says.

"There's only one way to find out. Thank goodness we crossed paths this morning. You can't be going through your day marked by the Star of Viserius without professional help. This way, child," Zandra says. She leads the man to a table and two chairs.

"Wait, who are you again?" the man says as he takes a seat across from Zandra.

"No, child, the question is just the opposite. Who are you?" Zandra says. She lays her hands, palms up, on the table. "Give me your right hand."

The man hesitates at first, but he relinquishes the hand.

"The left hand shows what nature gave you, but the right foretells the rest. Have you ever had your palm read before?" Zandra says. It's been a while since she's given a reading, but it all comes back like second nature. It reminds her why she bothered adding chiromancy to her list of "skills" in the first place.

The mark can't leave if you've got them by the hand. Quite convenient if you charge by the hour.

That's why, as a rule, you should never let a psychic take your hand. Ever. Those snakes will steal the wallet or purse from right under your nose while you stare into your palm.

"Only at kids' birthday parties," the man says.

"Amateurs. You've never had a real reading, child. Do you see this line here? And this one? When we combine them with the appearance of the Star of Vizorius, something very interesting comes to the surface," Zandra says before reciting one of a few chapters she memorized from a book about palm reading.

The "reading" is a distraction. Zandra's more interested in the man's fingernails, fingertips, and knuckles. Anyone crawling through a tunnel would show some measure of distress in those areas. Zandra can use the scuffs and scratches on her own hands for comparison.

For dressing like a Wall Street banker, his hands look like he works in construction.

Could be something. Could be nothing. It's all odds.

"For this next part, I'll need your name and birth year," Zandra says after her bloated recitation finishes.

The man isn't comfortable with offering up his year of birth, but he does say his name is, "Hank."

"Hank, I believe there are bigger things in play, much greater than even this chance encounter. I've never seen someone marked with the Star of Visiraes not go on to experience something profound, even life-changing. Don't you agree, child?" Zandra says.

Hank slides his hand away from Zandra's grasp and says, "Now that you mention it, there is something big I've been working toward. It's a little out there."

Go on.

"Do not be afraid to say such things out loud, child, for that is how anything manifests in this world. Abracadabra; so shall my words be this world," Zandra says.

"It's money. A lot of money. I've been working some angles for a long time, putting in the time and research, but I'm close. It's going to pop," Hank says.

"The more specific you state your intentions, the easier it is for the world to bend to your will, child," Zandra says.

"I wish I could. Really. But I can't," Hank says.

Good enough.

"Then this morning has already been a catalyst. It's a sign. So let's keep this going," Zandra says. She pulls out a business card. "A small group of, shall we say, interesting individuals are getting together. It's invitation only. We have room for one more."

Hank examines the card. "I might be busy."

"Make time. It's worth it. I promise you, child," Zandra says.

"Zandra?" comes a voice from the other side of the lobby. It's Sunglasses.

"I should get going to work. I've got meetings all day," Hank says. "Nice meeting you, Zandra. Maybe we'll see each other again."

"I know we will, child. I know we will," Zandra says. She rises with Hank and pats him on the shoulder. He flinches.

Sunglasses arrives with two cups of coffee in hand. "I got worried. You weren't in your room."

"Yeah, about that," Zandra says as she accepts one of the coffees. "Stay the hell out of my room."

"If you were in trouble and the door was locked, how am I supposed to assist?" Sunglasses says.

"This is kindergarten-level stuff. Don't barge in when someone is in the bathroom," Zandra says. "Were you up there this morning?"

"I only knocked and then came down for coffee. I didn't go into the room."

Zandra watches Sunglasses's eyes when he says that. He's not wearing his trademark sunglasses this early in the day, so she gets a good look. His eyes never move.

When people recall information, they usually look up and to the left. Granted, that wasn't exactly a question that required much thinking, but Sunglasses's eyes are always straight ahead whenever he's remembering something. Always.

Zandra sneaks a look at Sunglasses's flip-flops. They don't tell her much. His hands don't, either.

There is another tell, though.

"OK, fine. I'll drop it. There's plenty to do today. We've got a lot to tunnel through," Zandra says. She knows Sunglasses's baseline, and she uses the trigger word to watch for any deviation.

She doesn't find one. He's as stoic as a statue.

"There's still a full-time staff at the old Carey estate. They'll help us get the venue ready for our get-together. We should stop by," Sunglasses says.

"Of course there's a full-time staff, and there always will be. Gene Carey never terminated his indentured servants' contracts before he died. Now they work for that pain in the ass in the afterlife, too," Zandra says.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Sunglasses says.

"I'm more concernedabout whether they believe in me. Need them to pick up the phone when I call,"Zandra says. "Let's go meet a few."