Quicksilver

by Dean Koontz

Bridget put her hands together as you do when you’re praying, and she nodded at Erskine. “Thank you so much, padrino. But the Mountaineer is all we need.” “Very well, then. Thirty-five thousand.” “Sold,” I quickly declared. “Forty thousand,” he said. “Wait a second. We had a deal at thirty-five.” Erskine smiled sadly at me and then with amusement at Bridget. “Mrs. Torgenwald, I recommend that you prevent your husband from playing poker.” “Forty thousand,” Bridget agreed. “Give him twenty, darling, and I’ll give him the other twenty.” “Please pay Wallace,” Erskine said. “My nephew takes such delight in counting money.” Bridget and I got to our feet and together handed eight rolls of hundred-dollar bills to Wallace Beebs. Remaining in his armchair, Erskine combed one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, which was when for a moment it ceased being a hand and became an utterly alien appendage of six tentacles, each tipped with a wickedly sharp talon.