Free The Alchemist in the Attic by Antonio Urias

the street warily. San Francisco could be a dangerous place at this hour of night. The street lamps were few and far between. Atwood was at home in the night, but he knew enough to be leery, especially with Selby’s men still following him. The old faithfuls were back, Rehms and Wright. He’d hoped they might split up to keep an eye on both of them, but clearly their employer was less interested in Walter’s movements. That could be useful. Selby had a blind spot of his own where Walter was concerned. He’d never taken him seriously. It was an easy mistake to make, but a mistake nonetheless.
    Atwood kept his pace deliberate, but found his hand straying to the brass knuckles in his pocket. Their weight was oddly reassuring. He hadn’t fared well in their first encounter, but he’d managed to deal the crooked man a sharp blow. It would be easy to lose them in these streets if he needed to, but they seemed content to simply follow him.
    Atwood finally reached Mrs. Bucket’s Boarding House. He could hear the clatter of their footsteps as they took their positions across the street. As he climbed the stairs to the front door, Atwood turned and gave them a cheeky wave. It would be a long night for them, if they planned to stay at their post. The man with a crooked nose lit his pipe and glowered out of the shadows. Beside him, the tall man made an aborted gesture that might have been a wave. Atwood chuckled to himself and slipped inside.
    As soon as he was out of sight, however, he collapsed against the door and took a deep breath. They seemed a friendly enough sort, though the crooked one didn’t seem to have forgiven him, but in the end they were hired thugs with a job to do. Atwood could appreciate that, even though it continued to complicate matters. No matter how many times he lost them, they always returned to their post. Selby must be paying them well.
    He felt hounded and the worries he tried to bury were rising to the surface. Every instinct told Atwood that this was the big one, the story of a lifetime. But with that opportunity came risk. If Selby’s cutthroats stole this out from under him, Atwood was finished. There would be no coming back from that.
    He sighed. It was a delicate line he was walking, and he was so tired. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months and he was starting to slip. He was sure he’d missed something. That thought gnawed at him, but it was a problem for another day. They were all problems for another day. He lumbered up the stairs. So many steps, creaking beneath his feet. For now he just wanted to sleep a long, dreamless sleep, but he doubted he would be so lucky. He never was.

10

The Search
    Atwood rapped on Maguire’s door and took the moment to rub his aching, tired eyes. He felt like death. Atwood kept nodding off in his office, despite the churning roar of the great printers outside his door. There was something soothing in the monotonous drone. It meant the Oracle was still running, and more importantly it drowned out the sounds in his head.
    “Come in,” Maguire called at last. Atwood sighed and obeyed.
    The office was somehow even more of a catastrophe than usual. The air was stale and close and it smelled of paper and sweat. The piles of boxes and paper had multiplied and towers had collided and collapsed, creating crests and valleys of paper, crinkled and stained. The furniture peeked through here and there, and someone had cleared a tottering path from the desk to the door.
    “Don’t just stand there,” Maguire barked, glancing up from his desk. “Get in here!”
    He struck Atwood, suddenly, as very small. Maguire was shrinking in on himself. He appeared as tired as Atwood felt, and he was finally starting to look his age. Maguire had become an old man almost overnight. It was oddly disconcerting.
    Atwood tried to imagine his father like this, and failed. His father had not been a man to shrivel and shrink, but then he had never lived long enough. Atwood’s