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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 88 For in the great clockwork scheme of things, the ghost was there, a blur of sea fire on armor plate, and clanking wistfully, lonely as a buoy. "He comes!" "They," Clayton corrected, for no sooner had the assassins blanched from the north window than fierce brown jeweled feet and arms came through the wall from a closet, and the wan Goya-face of their captive, too much for the hashasheen, the last fleeing into the faint moonlight. "Djinn of the West!" they were screaming, fumbling to start the limo. "No, that wasn't the Djinn just yet," Dory yelled, "only some of his--" But they were gone, and he had only the passing company of the ghosts, looking short of him, and then through him, as ghosts do. Weighing things he had been told. A West Indian hurricane. A killer hurricane. The first storm of the season. But a small one. You will be safe. Was the prediction. Isobars and isotherms. The storm projected to cross Florida high on the gulf, and weaken inland. But how could they be sure. He was down to the south of Upper Matecumbe, walking up old Highway One |