1.3 Mrs. Leslie Nathans and the Young Matt Nathans

"…but this the failure this evening of Mister Murder has definitely shaken up the rankings."

"That's right, Alex. With Mister Murder fumbling the bank robbery interruption at First National and allowing the robbers to escape, I think it's fair to say he's dropped in rank."

"Absolutely, Johnny, Mister Murder has slipped out of his longstanding number three ranking, opening the door to they young Hypnotist. And reports have it that the Hypnotist is currently ensconced at Police HQ, helping the officers crack the kidnapping of Mary Ellen Palmer."

"And if he leads to her freedom, Alex?"

"I don't think there's any question that he'll leapfrog Mister Murder and maybe even the Lawman. The Mary Ellen Palmer case has been quite the unsolvable thorn, Johnny, and if the Hypnotist is able to crack that nut, there's no telling how high he can climb in the rankings."

"That's a mixed metaphor, Alex, but I think you and I are on the same page. Now, let's go to an ad from our sponsor."

SPR Network's logo filled the screen, accompanied by Doctor Lifehouse's theme song. An advertisement for Lifehouse Dish Detergent followed before the television set was muted.

"Did you hear that, Matt? That man on the television said Elliot is doing good!"

"I saw, Ma," her son, 26 year old Matt Nathans said with a sigh. "What, number three?"

"The ticker had him at four, but I think that Alex Mackey man said he could be at number three by tomorrow." There was a crunch of potato chips. "He looks so good in that new costume of his!"

Matt was brushing his teeth in the small bathroom adjacent to his mother's TV room. He stopped, lowering his brush. "Elliot's at the police station now?"

"That's what they say. At HQ. That's my boy..."

Matt hadn't seen his older brother in two weeks. Elliot could be in Burundi for all Matt or his mother knew.

Matt spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink before wiping his mouth and looking into the mirror. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. Six days sober will do that. But hell, six was better than five.

"I gotta go to work, Ma. I may be late."

"Get moving then. You need that job, Matt. Your brother can't provide everything–"

"I know, I'm going."

On his way past the veritable shrine of Hypnotist photographs and memorabilia, Matt clipped a SUPERMART name tag onto his shirt.

"Back in the morning, Ma," he called, giving one last glance at the images of his brother in his Hypnotist costume. "Love you."

1.2 Mr. Pennebaker

Arnold Pennebaker smiled.

The Hypnotist stared at Pennebaker's brown teeth, feeling the first inkling of anxiety himself.

Pennebaker was prepared. He stared at the slow pendulum of the watch, heard the muted ticking of the second hand, and waited.

As he anticipated, nothing happened.

"Listen to the sound of my voice," the Hypnotist said. "Keep your eyes on the watch."

"I'm watching."

"Listen to my voice," the Hypnotist repeated. "There is nothing else but my voice. Are you listening to my voice, Mr. Pennebaker?"

"Yes."

Pennebaker took a long, deep breath. The air in the interrogation room smelled like sweat and urine. Prior to the Hypnotist's arrival, Pennebaker had studied the walls. They were stained. Some of the stains were blood. A few of the tiles bore long, jagged scratches that had presumably been made by desperate fingernails. Still, Pennebaker controlled his fear. He took another long, deep breath.

"The room will dissolve, Mr. Pennebaker. It is just you and me. Nothing else remains."

Another long, deep breath. Pennebaker's pulse slowed. To his left and write, the walls tipped and fell backwards like cheap sets in a stage play, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. Behind the Hypnotist, the broad one-way glass wall leaned precariously and fell. There was no sound, not even an echo. Everything was silent.

Nothing remained but Arnold Pennebaker, the Hypnotist, and the spartan metal table between them.

"What do you see, Mr. Pennebaker?"

"Nothing," the prisoner said. "There is darkness around us. Only darkness."

"Do you see anyone?"

"Only you."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

"I want you to visualize someone for me."

"All right," Pennebaker said. His pulse was not floating around a zen-like 40. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes had not grown heavy. Or perhaps they had.

"I want you to visualize Mary Ellen Palmer. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes."

The Hypnotist's silver watch continued to swing. And tick. And swing.

Pennebaker closed his eyes. He could feel a bright flower of victory begin to bloom in his chest.

"Can you see her now?"

"Yes, I can see her."

The Hypnotist looked around the darkness, a frown appearing on his face for the first time. The watch continued. Tick… tick… tick…

"You can see Mary Ellen, Mr. Pennebaker?"

"Yes."

"Show her to me."

The Hypnotist moved his eyes around the darkness of this new space. He waited for the silhouette of a young woman to emerge. Hair, eyes, arms, legs.

Nothing emerged from the darkness.

"Mr. Pennebaker…"

"Yes?"

"Show me Mary Ellen.  Show me Ms. Palmer."

"I can see her," Pennebaker said.

"Yes?"

"She is not for you, Hypnotist."

The watch continued. Tick… tick… tick...

"Show her to me," the Hypnotist said. "I command you."

Pennebaker smiled and took a deep breath. "You heard what I said, magician."

"I control this world," the Hypnotist interrupted. "You will do as I command. Show me Mary Ellen Palmer."

"You created this world," Pennebaker corrected, feeling something changing inside of himself. "But that does not imply control."

"Mr. Pennebaker…"

Tick… tick… tick…

"Yes?"

"I am in control.  Not you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure. Now show me–"

The watch stopped ticking. The swinging continued silently for a moment before the Hypnotist snatched it from the air.

"What?" he said softly. "What did you–"

"You are mistaken, magician," Pennebaker said. "You are not in control. I am in control."

The Hypnotist opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut short.

Things were emerging from the darkness, but they were not Mary Ellen Palmer…

1.1 The Hypnotist

The door to the interrogation opened.

The man waiting inside was silent, and he looked to be sleeping peacefully. Unfortunately, the beads of sweat creeping down his face belied his true anxiety.

A tall, thin man in a well-tailored black suit entered, the heavy iron door closing behind him with a groan.  The suit was black and old-fashioned, the onyx coat sporting two long tails.

At the crash of the closing door, the prisoner opened his eyes.

"It's you," he said. "The Hypnotist."

The man in the black suit did not speak. Slowly, he walked to the table and sat.

"How does this work?" the prisoner asked.

"You've spoken with detectives," the Hypnotist said.

"I would've rather the Doc. Or Mister Murder."

The Hypnotist smiled. "The detectives," he said. "You've spoken, yes?"

"Yeah, we talked. I ain't telling them a thing. They know my demands. But they don't wanna give up a damn thing. So what's next?"

"You know my reputation, yes?"

"Everyone knows your reputation. The cops got you on speed dial."

The Hypnotist smiled again.  "The authorities seem to find my particular gifts… useful, yes."

"Gifts.  That's one way to put it. I knew a friend who tried–"

"The girl," the Hypnotist interrupted. "Where is the girl, Mr. Pennebaker? Where is Ms. Palmer?"

The prisoner smiled for the first time. His teeth were so yellow as to be mistaken for brown. "Why do you think I'd tell you?"

"Because I'm giving you a chance.  The alternative is less pleasant than voluntary surrender."

The prisoner leaned forward and spat, "Maybe for you.  But not for me."

The Hypnotist smiled and leaned back, the cheap metal chair creaking beneath him. He opened his suit jacket, revealing a crimson velvet vest beneath, buttoned tight over his bony chest. From a pocket on his right side, a chain slinked across to the buttons at the vests center. Long thin fingers slipped into the pocket and emerged carrying a silver pocket watch.

"Last chance, Mr. Pennebaker," the Hypnotist said, unfastening the chain from his vest.

"Go spit," the prisoner said.

The Hypnotist raised his hand and opened his palm, the watch tumbling forth until the chain pulled taut.  Slowly, the watch began to sway back and forth in a pendulum arc.

"Please look here, Mr. Pennebaker," the Hypnotist said, his voice a model of serenity.

Pennebaker the prisoner leaned forward. "Do your worst," he said.