Chapter 9: The Second Question

The studio went quiet.

A handheld camera rolled up the aisle and stopped two feet from my face.

I saw the red light.

Somewhere behind it two million people were watching a man in a medic jacket.

"Sir," the host said, with a bright, rigid smile. "What's your question?"

"It's for Mr. Collier."

Brant leaned back on the couch.

He had recognized me, and he had decided to enjoy it.

"Please," he said to the host. "Let him ask."

"Mr. Collier, you said Morris Cunningham was your friend."

"He was."

"What did he drink?"

Brant blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Morris drank one thing every night for fourteen years," I said. "What was it?"

A little laugh went through the crowd.

Brant laughed with them.

"Coffee," he said. "Black, strong. He was a researcher."

"No."

"Tea, then."

"What kind?"

He waved a hand.

"Does it matter? We're on television."

"It matters to the people who loved him."

The laughter stopped.

Brant's smile held, but I saw the corner of it wobble.

"Chamomile," I said. "With a spoon of honey. He stirred it counterclockwise because he said clockwise was for people in a hurry."

The host put a hand on her chest.

"Oh," she said softly.

"His granddaughter's name is Joanna," I said.

"She sat alone at his funeral. Where was Morris's friend?"

Brant said nothing.

"You said you met him at a dinner fourteen years ago."

"Yes."

"He wasn't there."

"I remember it clearly."

"He was in a basement in Columbia fixing a routing table. I was holding the flashlight."

A murmur started in the third row, then spread.

Brant turned toward the wings, and I knew he was looking for Lyle.

"This is a stunt," he said. "This man is wanted for theft."

"Then let him say what the Lantern Line actually does," a voice called from the crowd.

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