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.