James Swain

The Man Who Cheated Death

“We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves.”

— Goethe

“My greatest task is to conquer fear.”

— Houdini

A Note To Readers

Dear Reader,

A computer is like an attic; sometimes you find things hidden in them that you thought were forever lost.

This novel was written many years ago, then disappeared (or so I thought) when files were being transferred from an old computer to a new one. Recently, I found the manuscript on my laptop, reread it, and was reminded how much I enjoyed the story.

The Man Who Cheated Death deals with two of my favorite topics, Magic and Murder. It’s been updated and polished, and is now for you to enjoy as well.

Best,

James Swain

Chapter 1

City of Angels

The telephone call early Friday morning was just what Sybil Blanchard had been waiting for. It was Saul, her agent, and he had a part for her. Not a big one he cautioned, but a part, and it was in a pilot television movie that Lorimar was trying to option to one of the networks for a series. Sybil would play a preppie virgin fresh out of Barnard who rooms with two aspiring actresses in Greenwich Village. The role was tiny, but if the pilot sold her character would stay in the series, and she would again be acting full time. Hanging up the phone, she had let out a Yipee, then opened the refrigerator and poured herself a victory tumbler of Taylor jug Chablis.

Sybil believed in herself and her ability as an actress. When she had first arrived in Hollywood that belief had somehow lifted her above thousands of other aspiring actors, and in two months landed her a bit movie role, and then a juicy part in successful mini-series. One night at a restaurant in Venice a palm reader had predicted that Sybil would be nominated for an Academy Award, and this had prompted Sybil to buy a used Jaguar and rent an oversized apartment in Glendale, convinced she was one role away from breaking into the big time.

That had been four years ago. Almost overnight her initial streak of luck had ended, and despite hundreds of auditions and cattle calls, she had been unable to land another role since. At first she had felt betrayed — like she had lost a lover — then the black clouds had rolled in. She’d grown despondent, and began to seriously doubt if she really had “it.” Was that special intangible element really there, or wasn’t it?

“I have ‘it,’ ” she had told herself for months, chanting it silently to herself like a mantra. Her spirits had slowly lifted, and through alcohol, summer stock, waiting tables, Valium, doing voiceovers for Saturday morning cartoons, and an occasional CARE envelope with a hundred dollar check from the National Bank of Idaho, she had managed to survive and not lose hope.

“To Spago,” she toasted, clinking her tumbler to the imitation crystal chandelier in her kitchen. “May I never wait on another table, drop another plate of green pasta, or be stiffed by another celebrity again.”

With a defiant toss she sent the tumbler flying through the doorway into the dining room, gouging a hole in the plasterboard wall the size of a child’s fist. You’re in big trouble now, she thought, and was overcome by a paralyzing fit of the giggles.

Sybil poured herself another glass of wine, then poured it back into the jug, fixed herself coffee, and put a George Winston compact disc on the stereo. An airy piano composition filled the nearly furnitureless apartment. Leafing through the phonebook on the kitchen counter, she vividly recalled his sold-out concert at the Hollywood Bowl a few weeks ago. A renegade hipster, Winston had looked resplendent in his tattered Levis and faded flannel shirt, his shoes left somewhere backstage as he padded out in white woolen socks. Acknowledging the applause with a barely heard “Thanks,” he sat down at the shiny grand. The next two hours Sybil had spent in the clouds, looking for new avenues to free her consciousness. His playing was an uncanny blend of classical and jazz and in the smoky autumn night it had sounded like an exotic foreign language. Sybil, knowing it was ridiculous, had likened him to Ghandi.

She got busy on the phone. Her character in the pilot was twenty-two, and that was going to take some work. The director wanted her hair cut short, and she also needed a facial, a manicure and a pedicure. Luckily she went to aerobics and didn’t need to starve herself to fit into a size six. Getting an appointment at Arden was a minor battle compared to the resistance she got from Kenneth, her hairdresser.

“Sybil honey, look at a calendar,” he admonished a minute later, a hairdryer purring in the background. “Today is Friday, Black Friday around here. The weekend is upon us. How about something sensible? Say Tuesday at three-thirty?”

“This is life and death,” she pleaded. “I got a part in a pilot. We start on Monday morning, seven a.m., and I need some major repairs. You have to squeeze me in. I’m on my knees, Kenneth.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake stop whining.” His voice carried across the salon. “Sirge, anyone drop for this afternoon? She did?” He spoke into the receiver. “You lucked out, babe. Come by at one, and I’ll make you young again.”

“You’re an angel.” Sybil hung up, and let her clenched fist slowly uncoil. She was not beautiful, and without a good cut, and the usual paint and hairspray, she couldn’t pass as even middling attractive. The phone rang, and before the answering machine in the bedroom could pick up, she answered it. The line was dead.

In the shower she weighed who to call first with her good news. Rex, her significant other, would probably suggest an intimate dinner spread out on a blanket on Venice beach; a would be Bo Goldman, he’d been banging out scripts for years, and in an act of artistic self-preservation had once wallpapered his apartment bathroom with rejection slips. She would also have to call numerous girlfriends, and eventually her Dad, who she hadn’t spoken to in a month. He was a partner in a small law firm in Ketchum, Idaho, and was of the firm belief that the United States was tilted and everything that wasn’t tightly screwed down had slid into southern California. Last Christmas he had sent a card and a plane ticket back home, his message painfully clear. Her good news would not make him happy, and she decided to call him on the weekend when the rates were cheaper.

Getting out of the shower, she heard the lingering piano trailing through her apartment, but not the buzzer. Drying off, she put on a robe, and heard the buzzer’s second ring. In the hall she hit the Talk button on the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Delivery for Sybil Blanchard.”

That would be the script from the studio. “Leave it on the floor beneath the mailboxes.”

“You have to sign for it.”

“Oh.” She touched her damp head. “Can you come back?”

“Flowers will die in the truck.”

“Flowers?” She hesitated. Who sent flowers? Certainly not Rex; he was into trashy lingerie, edible undergarments, and giant dildos tied with pink bows. Maybe they were from Saul. His way of saying nice going, you did it.

“Roses,” the deliveryman said.

“No kidding.” How theatrical. She smiled to herself and imagined that she was actually glowing. Her finger hit the electronic door release and left a wet smudge. “Bring them up.”

Sybil imagined the deliveryman cursing the ancient elevators as she brushed her hair in the bathroom. A tingling sensation had made her face aglow, and she suspected it was more than just the news, or her agent’s premature accolades. Her life was straightening itself out, finally moving forward again, on the road toward full potential, no more wayside stops. She had known it would happen, but not knowing when had always disturbed her. Every six months she erased her earnings at a self-awareness camp in Arizona where she learned to channel her energy and resources toward the eventual realization of her own being. Although it sounded odd, she was becoming herself, or as her spiritual instructor put it “growing into you” and right now she felt more in harmony with her emotions, and in better control of her own destiny, than she had since childhood.

In the kitchen she put ice cubes into a cheap plastic vase, and filled it three quarters with cold water. The doorbell rang, and she put the vase on the dining room table, tightened the knot in her robe so the delivery man wouldn’t get the wrong idea, and opened the front door.

“Miss Blanchard?”

Filling her doorway was a tall, muscular man in a brown uniform. A cap covered most of his head, his eyes hidden behind a pair of space-age wraparound shades. Sybil glanced at the veins popping in his neck and grouped him with the would-be actors at her gym who spent their afternoons pumping weights instead of learning The Method.

“That’s me.”

Sybil ushered him in. Smiling, he handed her his clipboard and pen. She took up two spaces signing her name.

“Thanks,” he said, handing her the flower box. “Can I use your phone to call my office? I’m having trouble with my van, and my cell phone’s on the blink.”

“It’s on the wall beside the fridge.”

He found it after a moment’s confusion. Dialing, he said, “You acted like you were expecting them. Birthday?”

“No, but it is a special occasion. I just landed...”

“Congratulations,” he said and began talking into the phone.

The flower box was taped together and she felt its contents shift. A small envelope was taped to the lid. Written on it was her name, her surname spelled wrong. That’s the way it’s spelled on the directory downstairs, she thought.

In the kitchen the flower man was still complaining about his van, and she told herself she was just imagining the darkness creeping around her, and popped the sides and removed the lid. A faint gurgle escaped her throat, and her knees began to buckle. Swathed in white tissue paper was a dead bird with its tongue sticking out of its beak.

“Surprised?” the flower man asked, coming out of the kitchen wielding a butcher knife.

Screaming as loud as she knew how, Sybil ran toward her bedroom. In the drawer of her bedside table was another of her dad’s presents, a.38 Smith and Wesson, and she thanked God that she always kept it cleaned and fully loaded.

The flower man tackled her in the hallway, sending them both down hard. She kicked at him viciously and he hopped on her, his knees pressing her chest to the carpeted floor, knocking the wind out of her. Grinning wickedly, he brought the knife down and stopped, the point of the blade hovering inches above her face.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Look hard.”

His left hand simultaneously swept off his cap and sunglasses, giving her the full horror show. His misshapen head had no hair, and his eyes popped grotesquely out of his head like high wattage bulbs. He could have made his living working in a carnival side show, or gotten himself cast in plenty of C-grade monster movies. He was that frightening.

“Goddamn... freak.”

“Call me names,” he said.

Sybil grasped the knife with both hands before he could plunge it down. In the medicine cabinet were the pills she took for her irregular heart beat. Without them, she was doomed.

She locked her arms together as he pressed down, refusing to give him this last pleasure. She concentrated on her hands, not giving an inch, the knife frozen above her.

“I win,” she gasped.

Her breath grew short, and then she felt her heart stop. It was a strange feeling, like someone turning off the lights, and throwing her into darkness.

“No—!” he said belligerently. “You can’t do this...!”

“You can’t... murder... a dead woman...”

Closing her eyes, Sybil saw her dead mother standing before her, then in rapid succession her Dad at his desk writing a legal brief, she and Rex running barefoot down Venice beach, then a snow-covered field behind her elementary school in Ketchum, the drifts enveloping the tops of the slides and metal swings, turning everything she could see a blinding, absolute white; then nothing.

Harry Wondero was getting nowhere with the genetic bouillabaisse that occupied the second floor of the Santa Monica apartments in Westwood. He had banged on twenty doors and flashed his faded badge at the assorted freaks and sleepy twilight dwellers who’d bothered to answer. To judge by the notes he’d taken, he learned next to nothing about the three Chicanos who had resided in 22F. According to their neighbors, the trio were nocturnal, hardly had a civil word to say, and had never put in an appearance at the apartment swimming pool. And that’s where the celebrity club had barbecues and cocktails every weekend, smoked a little grass and played friendly games of water polo. Nodding, Wondero had scribbled away, not believing that people took him for such a horse’s ass. 22F was a drugstore, and that kind of thing didn’t go unnoticed in an apartment complex with cardboard thin walls. Liars, every one, he told himself as the half-naked woman in curlers said she had to go, and closed the door in his face. At least he had something to put in the homicide report.

He took an elevator to the parking lot to wait for the forensic crew. His partner of six years, Casey Rittenbaugh, was upstairs questioning the two uniformed officers who had first arrived on the scene. One of the Chicanos, hardly older than his son, had taken a slug in the forehead that had separated his eyes about two inches more than normal, and Wondero wanted to sit in the car a few minutes to chase the image out of his mind. For a full minute he blasted the air conditioner and took deep breaths.

Beneath the dashboard the radio squawked. He called in to check on the forensic crew. They were in transit, and to the dispatcher Wondero said, “Tell them to hurry, would you?”

He dabbed at his eyes with a Kleenex. Driving in that morning he’d heard a smog alert, the retardate disc jockey advising him and the rest of L.A. not to breath today. When it got really heavy his eyes teared up, making him look vulnerable. His wife had said that, and Wondero, who didn’t like the image of a six-foot-two, two hundred thirty pound plainclothes detective blubbering in public, usually tried to hide his face whenever he felt an attack coming on.

The gray forensic van pulled into the lot and parked in a Handicapped spot. Two fingerprint men and a police photographer got out, followed by Doc Silverman, the ME, who cornered Wondero as he got out of his car.

“I should have known,” Silverman said. “What’s the rush Harry? We’re dealing in corpses, right? Nothing I learned in medschool can change that.”

Wondero put his finger on the fresh spot of jam on Silverman’s shirt, then into his mouth. “Strawberry. Let me guess. IHOP, or Burger King?”

“Never a minute’s peace with you.” Silverman got his pen started on a clipboard. “What have we got?”

“Three Chicano males, ages ranging between twenty and thirty, shot at close range with an automatic weapon. Two of them had their ankles and wrists bound together with copper wire. The third got shot taking a bath. No sign of struggle or forcible entry.”

“Any discernable motive?”

“Bag of ludes, a mirror with a few anthills of coke and a couple grand in cash strewn around the apartment. Casey also found a modified Uzi with a hundred rounds of ammo. Luckily no one had a chance to use it.”

“If they had,” Silverman said, still busy writing, “maybe one of your corpses would be talking.”

“Bullet from an Uzi can pass through three, sometimes four walls,” Wondero said, forgetting he wasn’t talking to another cop. “Instead of three stiffs you could have had ten. Then you would have had to skip breakfast and lunch.”

“You could stand to miss a couple meals yourself.”

Silverman followed him into the open apartment lobby and waited in silence for the elevator. Wondero had long ago stopped talking at moments like these, no longer able to find a rationale for the random acts of violence he encountered. As the peeling elevator doors opened, the photographer called to him. “Radio call for you, Harry.”

“Tell her I’m up to my ass at the moment.”

“I already took the liberty.”

Wondero got ugly. “And?”

“Dispatcher said this was really important.”

“Someone ought to start giving these broads urine tests.” Getting behind the wheel of his car, Wondero identified himself to the dispatcher, then listened. Saucers of water filled his eyes and made ribbons down his cheeks.

“Be there in twenty,” he said.

The two rookie cops guarding Sybil Blanchard’s apartment carefully examined Wondero’s credentials before letting him pass. Once inside, Wondero saw the same scene as before, the same familiar faces, and he supposed, the same conclusions. Four years of work had drawn him no closer to this killer than the day he’d started, and he no longer looked at each new victim as a possible solution to what had become an endless string of senseless homicides.

There was considerable activity inside the spacious apartment. Two technicians busily dusted the furniture and glasses for fingerprints, while another vacuumed the carpet for hair and minuscule clothing fibers. Down a hall in the bedroom an Asian man was taking photographs of the corpse, whose pink toes pointed to the ceiling.

The apartment, like so many in L.A., said a great deal about Sybil Blanchard’s dreams and aspirations, yet almost nothing about her past, as if part of becoming an actress or singing star required shelving your upbringing. In the same glance, Wondero saw what had probably attracted their killer to Sybil. She lived alone, no pets, and was often home during the day. He was good at speculating, and guessed that Sybil was young and impressionable. Smart, but not street smart. Otherwise she wouldn’t have opened her door to a stranger.

On the dining room table sat a flower box. Flowers are a way to a girl’s heart, he thought. He looked inside and saw the dead bird. It had been dusted and looked sugar coated.

He pushed himself down the hall to the bedroom. A detective named Marstello was taking notes while one of Silverman’s pupils examined the corpse. Standing in the doorway, Wondero halted. From the floor Sybil’s terrified eyes stared up, forever frozen.

“Close them,” he said.

The CSI tech closed Sybil’s eyes with his fingertips. He spoke slowly, his voice a monotone. “The victim appears to have died from a massive coronary. I found these in the bathroom.” He shook a bottle of pills in Wondero’s face. “Seems she had a bad ticker. The perpetrator jumped her in the hallway and they struggled on the bedroom floor, which resulted in her having a heart attack. She died almost instantly.”

“Good for you,” Wondero said to the corpse.

Marstello gave him a funny look. The tech said, “Let me show you something,” and motioned Wondero to kneel beside him. He gently parted Sybil’s fluffy brown curls and pointed at the graying roots dotting her scalp.

“It’s dyed,” Wondero said. “So what?”

“She didn’t dye her hair,” the ME explained. “I did a quick test of several strands. She was a natural brunette.”

“What are you saying?”

“She just started going gray.”

“So did I,” Wondero said sarcastically.

“Not in the last two hours.”

Wondero looked to Marstello for help. “I’m on the wrong wavelength. What’s our friend here trying to say?”

“We think she was frightened to death,” Marstello explained, being careful as he walked around the corpse. “Like the lady in Malibu last year. You remember, the rich broad with the poodles. Something scared her bad enough to cause a stroke.”

“That was the coroner’s speculation,” Wondero reminded him, remembering the case clearly, and how her dogs, locked up in a closet, had attacked the first officer on the scene.

“This isn’t speculation Harry.” From a night table Marstello picked up a pillow wrapped in a ziplock and handed it to him. A note cut and pasted from a newspaper was impaled to the pillow with a railroad spike, and Wondero read the twisted message silently.

I LeT MySeLf In.

BE bAck bEForE YOu

knoW IT.

DeAtH

Wondero sat on the bed. What had Sybil seen? He thought he knew. A killer that lacked internal control that might allow him to spare his victims the sadistic pleasures that dominated his murderous sprees. A killer that hacked up his victims and scattered their remains, a leg in the fireplace, an arm on the wet bar, the fingers clutching a beer bottle. Insanity — letters that spoke of blackness and despair that often reversed themselves, becoming wicked and perverse. Cruelty — a killer who preyed on the vulnerable and the old. A plague in human form. Sybil had met Death and surrendered to him.

“You ought to go outside Harry. Get some air.”

Wondero stared vacantly through a window. “I once read that when you die all experience is reversed. You feel the pain you inflicted during your lifetime, and suffer the way you made others suffer. Atonement for all sins. And you get an eternity to pay for what you’ve done.” He looked up at Marstello. “Do you believe that Ray?”

Marstello thought about it. “No.”

“Neither do I,” Wondero said. “But I want to.”

Chapter 2

Jay

Wondero waited until after dinner before retiring to his study to consult with his psychics.

He left his son glued to Monday night football, his wife in the kitchen making tomorrow’s casserole, his daughter in the bathroom on the phone. He liked his home this way, filled with arresting smells and lots of activity, and on the way to his study he grabbed a beer and stole a kiss from his wife.

“Rough day?” she asked.

“Yeah. Did you really tell that nasty loan officer to kiss your ass?”

“I told him to kiss my sweet ass.”

“That’s my girl.”

Two years back, when his work began disrupting their family life, Corey had started selling real estate, for no other reason than having something normal to talk about around the dinner table. Except she was great at it. Every night she told stories that put the Arabian nights to shame, and had allowed the focus of the family’s conversations to steer clear from his investigations.

Wondero went to his study and shut the door. To reduce his long work days, he often spent his nights studying evidence, with only a portable radio for company.

From a file cabinet he removed a folder marked PSI. The LAPD had put on retainer fifteen of the city’s most prominent psychics, and each week they sent Wondero their predictions as to where Death might strike again. The psychics used a variety of methods to glean their information, and it had become his job to interpret their musings and determine what might be useful.

Wondero had never believed in psychics, and thought they were all quacks. That had changed when he’d started working with them. They had predicted when Death would strike enough times to make him a believer. With their help, and a little luck, he hoped to catch their killer.

A map of downtown LA lay across his desk. Using a blue marking pen, he made an X on the street where Sybil Blanchard had died. Using a protractor, he drew a perfect circle around the blue X that had a radius of three inches. He worked off a simple formula. Any prediction that fell outside the circle was dismissed, anything within a direct hit, and worth a phone call to the psychic who’d made it to see if he or she could elaborate on their particular prediction.

He started with Chantel, an invalid gypsy whose dreams often foretold the future. Her letter was dated last Thursday. In it, she spoke of seeing a young prostitute with her throat slashed. She would be found in an apartment and not a hotel room, Chantel said, and she would be beaten around the face. She vaguely described other injuries.

He picked through the letter. Chantel was warm, but her location was a good five miles outside the circle. He put her letter aside and made a note on a yellow pad to check if Sybil Blanchard had any arrests for soliciting.

Next up was a black spiritualist named Omen. Omen had come highly recommended by the Marine patrol after successfully finding a corpse hidden in a marina, and Omen’s first predictions for Wondero were so accurate that for a brief period he had become a prime suspect. Scrawled in pencil, Omen’s sheet simply said A CHILD WILL BE KILLED, no date, no location. There was a big difference between a child and a young woman, and Wondero put the sheet back in the folder.

The next prediction was totally off. Wondero wondered if he should have its medium — a Tarot card shuffler named Madame Marie — taken off her weekly retainer. Weeding out phonies was another of his responsibilities, since the contingency budget for this project was minimal, and unknown to everyone outside of Homicide. Early on, Madame Marie had made a few hits. Since then, she had come up with air, and Wondero decided it was time for a judgment call. He decided that Madame Marie was history.

He worked through the remaining predictions, and hit a home run on the very last. Jack Pathfinder, a pony-tailed Mojave who claimed he rode into the future while ingesting psilocybin mushrooms, had come through for the third time in two months. His location was less than a mile off, his description of Sybil Blanchard close enough to be considered accurate. He had written Hair Color—? and Wondero remembered Sybil’s premature gray. Picking up the phone on his desk, he gave Jack a call.

The call went through. Maybe Jack had seen a little more that Wondero could pry out of him. Did the killer have any scars? How about tattoos or facial hair? Flying through the heavens at warp speed could be hard on a man’s memory. Think hard, Jack.

An automated voice answered Jack’s phone, said the number was a thing of the past. Wondero nestled the receiver into the cradle and took the last swallow of beer. Running a trace on him would take weeks. Shit.

At midnight, he decided to call it quits. As was his custom, he checked each room in the downstairs, making sure the windows and doors were securely fastened, and the security system was on. After trailing the same killer for four years, it had occurred to him that there was a chance that he had stumbled across his man, and that Death now knew him. The thought routinely haunted him.

He decided to watch some TV before he went to sleep. He surfed the channels, and finally stopped on The Tonight Show. Jay Leno’s face lit up the screen, and he settled back in the couch, hoping to be entertained.

“Our next guest is considered one of the world’s foremost magicians and escape artists,” Leno read off a card. “He is currently headlining at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, and starting May 10 will be performing a two week, one man show at the Wilshire Ebell Theatre here in Los Angeles. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the amazing Vincent Hardare.”

As the Tonight Show band played “It’s Impossible” the tuxedoed magician appeared in a small pond of light on the large soundstage. With his dark coloring and athletic build, his engaging good looks were instantly familiar to the studio audience. His widely televised “Escapes from Death” had made him a popular media figure, and like his uncle Houdini before him, given him a reputation he often found a challenge to measure up to.

“Thank you. Tonight, I would like to test your imagination, and present a feat truly beyond explanation. First, may I have the assistance of a young lady from the audience?”

Stepping forward, Hardare chose a photogenic blond sitting on the second row aisle. “... if you don’t mind. Your name please.”

The girl excitedly jumped up, all but blinding the cameraman and eclipsing the magician. Long luxurious legs, black leather mini skirt, red silk blouse halfway unbuttoned, she blew a teased curl out of her china doll face and said, “Samantha Droop.”

Hardare escorted her on the stage. An assistant had brought out two folding metal chairs, onto which he’d placed a thin board.

“Samantha, have you ever been levitated before?”

“No.” She took the board and flipped it over, letting the audience see it was unprepared. “Will I need flight insurance?”

The audience laughed. Hardare requested a little floating music from the bad, and had Samantha lie on the board.

“Please lay perfectly still,” he said.

She complied, and the magician raised his arms. There was a drum roll, then the haunting notes from a clarinet. There were oohs and aahs as Samantha mysteriously ascended a foot above the two chairs. She continued upward, and was soon chest high with the magician. Turning her head, she made a goofy face for the camera.

Hardare waved his arms around the thin board. “No wires, mirrors or invisible threads. Nothing at all.”

“Then what is it,” she said loudly. “Christian Science and rubber bands?”

The audience’s laughter completely drowned out the band’s playing.

“Take a look into the monitor,” Hardare said, raising his hands so she floated higher and was hovering directly above his forehead. “You be the judge.”

“Who believes anything they see on television?” she said skeptically, hardly glancing at the monitor. “They say magicians don’t use trick photography, but I think it’s a bunch of hooey.”

While she talked, Hardare moved beneath her. With a wave he sent her higher as she continued to ramble.

“Girls turning into lions and the Statue of Liberty disappearing — who buys that stuff, anyway? Not me, that’s for sure; I’m a realist, and magic isn’t real. If I were really floating wouldn’t my voice be getting higher?” By now she had floated past the overhead mikes and into the curtains and was invisible to the studio audience. “If people could float, wouldn’t NASA be onto it? Come on, let’s be real.”

The cameras had followed Samantha’s ascent and now lowered onto Hardare. He raised his arms apologetically and with a sly grin said, “Well, I suppose you can’t fool everyone. Thank you very much.”

With the applause the magician’s grin grew into a broad smile. He glanced at the ceiling and then shrugged his shoulders. On cue the lights dimmed on the small soundstage.

Moments later Hardare was shaking hands with his host. He sat down beside Leno’s first guest, a young singer who had snubbed him backstage during the rehearsal. Being slighted by a kid no one had heard of six months ago had raised Hardare’s ire — he had worked his first professional show at age ten, and now at forty-two, was close to reaching the pinnacle of his profession — and was still angry an hour before taping. In exasperation his wife had asked him the name of the foul-mouthed comic who’d given him the same treatment on The Tonight Show a few years back. He couldn’t remember it, and his wife had said, “Neither can anyone else.”

“Was that your daughter?” Leno asked during the break. “I remember when she was just a little kid.”

“That was her,” Hardare said.

“They grow up fast.”

They came back on the air. Reading off a printed card, Leno said, “Next week, the amazing Hardare will be doing a two-week engagement at the Wilshire Ebell Theatre here in LA. I’m told you’ll be presenting quite a different act.”

“That’s right,” Hardare said. “My uncle, Harry Houdini, presented the first psychic theatre in the United States. I’ve spent years studying Houdini’s notes, and will present an updated version of this show.”

“And we’re getting a preview tonight,” Leno said.

Hardare smiled, appreciating the segue. “Yes, indeed. Yesterday, I made five predictions of stories I believed would appear in today’s Los Angeles Times. These predictions were put in a padlocked box and delivered to the NBC studios for safekeeping.”

Leno brought up a small mahogany box from beneath his desk. “Which is right here.”

“Would you please verify that I haven’t touched that box since it was brought here.”

“No one’s touched the box,” Leno said.

“And neither you, nor anyone on the Tonight Show staff, have the slightest idea what’s inside.”

“Correct.”

From his pocket Hardare removed a shiny silver key and handed it to his host. “This key opens the box. Please examine it.”

Leno examined the key. “Looks good to me.”

“Before the show, I asked an NBC page to buy a copy of today’s Los Angeles Times, Hardare said. “Jay, I believe you have the copy.”

Leno produced the newspaper. “This might be hard to see, so I’ll read the headlines out loud. Let’s see... Governor asks legislature for tougher gun laws... Earthquake shakes northern California... McDonalds finds metal shards in burgers: meat recalled. Woman frightened to death: serial killer feared responsible. On the bottom of the page we have a box score: Dodgers beat Mets 3 to 2. Sounds like your typical day in L.A.”

“Those are today’s headlines,” Hardare said. “Jay, please open the box, and remove my prediction.”

Leno inserted the key into the box, and shot Hardare a look. Leno knew enough about magic to think he knew how this particular trick worked, only Hardare had yet to touch the chest or even get close to it, and that was frustrating the show’s host.

Flipping open the lid, Leno removed a square of white paper, unfolding it for the cameras. Hardare’s prediction read:

GOVERNOR WANTS GUNS LAWS CHANGED

EARTHQUAKE ROCKS CALIFORNIA

McDONALD’S RECALLS BURGERS

WOMEN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH

DODGERS WIN

The studio audience read the predictions on the monitors and started to clap. The applause grew louder when Leno shook his head in bewilderment.

“Incredible,” Leno said. “We’ll be right back.”

They broke for a commercial.

“Will you tell me how it’s done?” Leno asked.

“Sure,” Hardare said.

His host waited expectantly.

“Next time I’m on the show,” Hardare said with a smile.

The reclusive vending machine service man sat in the darkness of his living room. He had finished lifting weights an hour ago, and he rubbed his naked, hardened body with soothing oil, a mental image of Hardare’s final trick emblazoned in his thoughts.

WOMEN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH

When Leno had displayed the predictions, he had literally jumped, kicking over his glass of mineral water. With his big toe he found the wet spot on the carpet and pressed down, as if to remind himself of the shock. He told himself it was just a stupid trick, only Leno’s bewildered reaction had suggested something more. WOMAN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH — BY DEATH! He tried to laugh, but the feeble sound did not leave his throat.

Vincent Hardare. Was that his real name? He despised magicians and their craft, and this one could go to the top of his list. Good looking, smug, a smart dresser. Click of the fingers and the women come running. Fucking lounge lizard.

He stood naked at the window, staring out at beat-up cars lining the curb. Psychic theatre? What the hell was that? A wailing police car sped by, disappearing through a slit in the venetians. He felt every inch of skin shiver uncontrollably and opened the window, the cool night air flowing across his body, releasing his inhibitions and insane fears.

The LAPD made his life painful enough, now he had fortune-tellers to contend with. Saturday’s newspaper had carried a story about a local psychic, a Mojave Indian named Jack Pathfinder, who had told the police where two of his victims would be found, something that even he didn’t know until he committed a killing. The realization that someone on the outside was drawing close had frightened him enough to do something about it.

He had found Pathfinder in the phone book, and paid him a visit the next night, leaving a severed hand in the psychic snitch’s mailbox along with his unpaid bills. Two days later he’d gone back to discover Pathfinder had moved out of his shabby bungalow, his whereabouts unknown.

On the television he saw the credits for the Tonight Show roll by, followed by a list of sponsors. Airline accommodations were provided by American Airlines. For Tonight Show guests staying in Los Angeles, hotel accommodations were provided by the Sheraton Century City.

“Thank you,” he said to the television.

He spent several minutes selecting his wardrobe. During the daytime it didn’t matter what he wore, but at night the opposite was true. After several false starts, he settled upon the grayish blue uniform of a defunct moving company, and stepped into a pair of elevator shoes.

He looked in the mirror and didn’t feel finished. From his disguise box he selected a pair of cheap plastic glasses and put them on, then looked again. Done. In the closet he found his bowling ball bag and went into the kitchen.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he scolded himself. Taped to the refrigerator door was a detailed map of Sybil Blanchard’s neighborhood, complete with a series of X’s showing where to park the car, and what alleys and side streets to use as escape routes in case of trouble. He stuffed the map into the sink disposal. He opened the freezer. He had met Lorraine while cruising Sunset strip last summer and still remembered the great picture she had cut in her mini skirt and tight tee shirt, her blond hair short like a pageboy. She looked new to L.A., without the hard edges, and had hopped into his souped up Firebird the moment he had flashed a roll of bills. “I know a classy motel,” she had suggested, snuggling up as if on a date.

She had yakked to him some, and he had liked that. She was from Oregon, lived in L.A. a month, wanted to be an actress someday or maybe own an organic restaurant, as if the two were related. She dug surfing, Led Zeppelin, blowing reefer, going to the flicks. Then she’d smiled, real and pretty and genuine, and he’d remembered that for a long time, too.

He removed the zip lock bag and slowly untied the safety twist, pulling away the plastic. He had painted her face with vivid acrylics, and frozen her stylish looks. She looked as cute as the day he’d met her, and he vividly recalled her dying in his arms, her neck snapped limp. He shuddered as an erotic wave swept over him, making his blood boil and his cheeks grow flush with the passionate memory.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he said.

Chapter 3

PSI

The ringing phone snapped him awake. The clock on the night table said three a.m. Snatching up the receiver, he said, “I’d like to buy you a wristwatch.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hardare,” said a soft spoken female. “This is Suzanne at the front desk. There’s a gentleman here who wishes to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Three a.m.,” she said.

“Goodnight,” he replied, hanging up.

He slipped down between the warm sheets and became their happy prisoner. After The Tonight Show taping, he’d raced downtown to promote his upcoming show at the Wilshire Ebell on a radio call-in, back to NBC studios to discuss a possible special this fall, then dinner at the Magic Castle in Hollywood with owner Larsen Hendricks, who was also his co-promoter. Back at his hotel, he’d stayed awake long enough to catch his performance on the little screen, then had collapsed into bed.

“Who was that?” his wife murmured.

“Front desk. Some guy in the lobby.”

“Did you find out who this guy was?”

“IRS. Those clowns have been after me for years.”

“Vince, be serious.” She shook him hard enough to make him roll over. “It might be important. Are you listening?”

“Uh-huh,” sinking deeper into his goose down pillow. “Probably some magician from the Castle who wanted to show me a trick. He’ll go away.”

“But what if it’s someone else?” she said sensibly.

Her tone demanded that he pay attention. He opened his eyes, and the spacious hotel bedroom took shape. Oblique shadows danced on the wall as cars sped past the hotel seven floors below. He glanced at his wife Jan. With her curly red hair strewn across her head, she looked like a gift from heaven, the sheets perfectly outlining the curvature of her slender body.

“Only person I want to see right now is you,” he said.

The phone on the night table rang again. His wife gave him another look, and he snatched it up. It was Suzanne again.

“I see,” he said. “All right. Tell him I’ll be right down.”

Hanging up, he hopped out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Jan asked.

“Downstairs. The man in the lobby is a policeman.”

“Is something wrong?”

He threw on his clothes. “I don’t know.”

“Could somebody from the Castle be playing a practical joke?”

He gave his wife a quick kiss.

“Let’s hope so,” he said.

As the elevator descended to the lobby, Hardare wondered if his past was about to come back and haunt him. He had heard the concern in Jan’s voice and knew it wasn’t unfounded. Two years ago, while breaking into a Mexican jail to rescue his daughter, he had shot to death a corrupt policeman who, oddly enough, had also been a fan. Jan had been there, working for a tough mercenary Hardare had hired, and he had fallen head over heels.

They had rented a house in Boulder, Colorado and laid low for a month. When no sensationalized stories appeared in the newspapers, and no government agents came calling, they gradually resumed their lives, with Jan now a permanent member of the act.

Six months later they were married atop the Hoover Dam, the roadside chapels in Las Vegas not to their liking. By then they had been booked into Caesar’s Palace for a limited run. Vegas was a tough town for variety acts, but he managed to take it by storm, taking his magic to the streets in a series of publicity stunts. Offers from competitive casinos appeared, and his contract with Caesar’s was extended. Before long, even the town’s toughened cab drivers knew who he was.

In the lobby, Hardare spotted the policeman in his rumpled suit by the front desk, his thick soled shoes a dead giveaway. He hustled over, a bulging manila folder in hand, and Hardare secretly hoped this was someone’s idea of a joke.

“Harry Wondero,” the policeman said, flashing a badge and laminated photo I.D.“Sorry about the wake-up call. I’m with the homicide division of the LAPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a recent murder.”

The girl at the front desk was straining to hear, and Hardare pointed at the nearby Peacock bar. “Can we go in there for some privacy?”

“It’s closed,” Wondero said.

It was, the door locked tight. Shielding the door from the detective’s view, Hardare opened it and stepped inside.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” Wondero said, taking two chairs down from a table as Hardare found the light. The Peacock was a typical hotel bar, with a small scuffed dance floor and a buffet table for happy hour. Sitting, Hardare watched Wondero open his folder and remove a spiral notebook and yellow legal pad.

“Tell me how I can help you,” Hardare said.

“I’m not sure you can,” Wondero said. “I have a desperate situation on my hands, and thought you would be worth talking to.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll start from the beginning. For the last four years, Los Angeles has been plagued by a serial killer who calls himself Death. At infrequent intervals, Death goes on rampages. This morning, he killed a young actress named Sybil Blanchard, and we can safely guess that by tomorrow he’ll murder again, and then probably twice more by week’s end.

“Our department has dealt with serial killers before, but never with anyone as...” Wondero paused, searching for a word. “... invisible, as Death is. He leaves no solid clues, no hair, nothing we can trace. The physical composite we’ve drawn of him is at best sketchy.”

Hardare was familiar with police departments across the globe and the LAPD was as modern as any he’d read about. “If you know that this maniac is going to kill again, why not put out a citywide bulletin and stop him?”

“I wish it was that easy.” Wondero handed him the spiral notebook. “Death’s victims tend to be people that it’s almost impossible to reach, or protect. Prostitutes, vagrants, homeless people, and lately, women living alone. We can’t get to these people to tell them to be careful.”

Hardare flipped through the notebook. On each page, a different snapshot stared back at him. Negroes, young girls, teenage boys, old white-haired women, a strikingly beautiful Oriental girl with the most perfect teeth he’d seen, a destitute bag lady. He leafed through the pages and more faces stuck out, some in color, others in faded black and white; a girl in braces, a McDonald’s burger flipper with the name Hope stitched on her pocket, a wizened little man wearing a pork pie hat with great distinction. He looked up into Wondero’s unblinking eyes.

“How many victims are there?”

“Forty-eight,” Wondero said. “Twelve were committed up in San Francisco three years ago. Since our investigation began, we’ve been in contact with police departments across the country; we think Death may have also visited Seattle and San Diego as well.”

“I can’t believe...” Hardare halted in mid-speech, his eyes falling on a girl that could have been his daughter’s twin. Strawberry blond hair, aqua blue eyes, dimples. Her name was Lori Appleby, from Tulsa. He shut the notebook, having seen enough for a lifetime of memories.

“Most serial killers are caught by sheer luck, or if the killer gets sloppy and leaves obvious clues,” Wondero said. “That’s how the Boston Strangler was apprehended, and also Ted Bundy. Serial murderers aren’t normal criminals; their crimes have no motives, and they usually don’t know their victims. It’s hard to track them using conventional means, and so it is necessary for us to use unusual channels.”

“Is that where I fit in?”

“Yes.” Wondero paused, offering a sad smile. He had a ruddy, mid-western face, with bushy eyebrows and a bumpy knot marring his nose, and Hardare guessed that in college he’d played a mean game of football.

“Earlier tonight, you made a prediction on the Tonight Show.”

“That’s correct.”

“And part of your prediction was the murder of Sybil Blanchard.”

“It was?”

Wondero was momentarily speechless. “Yes... don’t you remember? You predicted that a woman would be frightened to death. That was Sybil Blanchard, Death’s most recent victim.”

“Oh,” Hardare said.

“I’ve been using a group of psychics to track Death,” Wondero went on. “You scored a direct hit, so I thought you might be willing to try again.”

Hardare’s fingers impatiently tapped the table they were sitting at. “What kind of psychics?”

“Five astrologers recommended by the San Francisco Police, four mediums, two psychic channelers, a woman who tells the future by interpreting dreams, two spiritualists, and a woman named Margaret Dansing.”

“The psychic bloodhound,” said Hardare.

“You’re familiar with her work?”

Hardare nodded.

“So what do you say? Will you give it a shot?”

“I’d like to help you, but did it ever occur to you that my prediction on the Tonight Show was a trick?”

Wondero’s mouth twisted uncomfortably. “I have a friend who works for the Tonight Show. I called him an hour ago. He said that no one had a clue how you made your predictions. Even Leno was baffled.”

So that was why the detective was here. He chose his words carefully. “Yes, but it was still a trick. I’m not, and never have been, a psychic.”

“For God’s sake,” Wondero said in exasperation. “You pull garbage like this, how is the public supposed to distinguish it from the real thing?”

Hardare took a deep breath, hating to burst his bubble. “Detective, let me assure you, there is no “real thing.” These psychics you’re working with are misrepresenting themselves. They’re ordinary people, just like you and me.”

“Now wait a minute!” Are you saying there is no such thing as ESP?”

“Of course not. Everyone has had a psychic experience during their life. The problem is no one has discovered a way to harness these hidden powers. Even the best psychics are wrong most of the time. The rest of the time, they’re simply guessing, or resorting to the same tricks I use.”

A thin line of perspiration had formed above Wondero’s lip. “What about Margaret Dansing? She helped us locate one of Death’s victims last month.”

“How did she do that?” Hardare asked.

“She told us that the victim would be at the bottom of a hill, beneath a pile of leaves. She also said the victim’s clothes would be torn, which they were.”

“And for that, your department has Margaret Dansing on a monthly retainer.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because that’s how she works,” Hardare said, sensing that Wondero was starting to hear him. “Margaret Dansing is a very successful locator of lost people. She claims she has a sixth sense, but in reality she does a lot of research. She has an exhaustive library of newspaper clippings concerning crimes in the L.A. area. She also has a ham radio operator’s license and monitors police calls. One of my friends at the Magic Castle believes Dansing has a newspaperman who works as a source for her, and provides her with inside information about specific investigations.”

Wondero’s eyes had taken on a cloudy expression. As if on a timed delay, he snapped his pencil between his hands.

“Shit. I’ve been had.”

“Margaret Dansing has baffled some of the brightest scientific minds in the country. You had no reason to believe that she was anything but sincere.”

Wondero shoved his legal pad into his folder. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. Thanks for your time. I really appreciate it.”

He walked the detective out of the hotel.

“I feel like such a rube,” Wondero said.

“Don’t,” Hardare said. “Even Houdini had a spiritualist fool him into believing that his dead mother was trying to contact him from the grave.”

“No kidding. Even I don’t believe in ghosts.”

They walked to where his SUV was parked.

“I thought you might be the breakthrough, but I guess that was pretty juvenile on my part,” the detective said.

“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” Hardare said.

“So am I.”

Wondero got behind the wheel and started the engine. As he drove away, his eyes briefly brushed Hardare’s face. Hardare could feel the detective staring right through him, and sensed that Wondero had already dismissed him from his thoughts.

He smothered a yawn. Wondero’s last remark had carried a great deal of resentment, and he guessed he’d done a good job disillusioning him. It was strange the things people chose to believe in. Most people didn’t go to church or believe in God, yet these same people believed in practically everything else, including extra terrestrials, psychic powers, and UFOs. Why not fire-breathing dragons or wizards with long white beards and pointed caps? If people were going to stake their faith on the ridiculous, at least it should be entertaining.

He went into the hotel, too tired to pay any heed to the man watching him from the running car parked across the street, and went upstairs to bed.

Chapter 4

The Road to Las Vegas

The next morning over breakfast, Hardare described his meeting with Detective Wondero to Jan. By the time he was finished, his wife’s face was ashen.

“It goes back to what I’ve been saying all along,” he said emphatically. “Too many people think these psychic routines in my show are the real thing. Intelligent people, not just the kooks. I’m fostering a belief in something I know is a sham, and that’s plain wrong. You finished?”

Jan nodded, and he got up, pushed the room service tray out into the hall and locked the door.

“Our bookings have never been stronger,” she reminded him.

“Uri Geller used to pack them in, too,” Hardare replied. He threw his clothing bag on the unmade bed and started to pack. “Remember that flim-flam artist? Israeli nightclub magician turned psychic wonder. The strange thing was, even after he was exposed as a charlatan, he still remained popular. Even Barbara Walters gave him twenty minutes of national TV time.”

She came over and tried to rub the tension out of his shoulders. “I’ve always been partial to your magic, myself.”

Thirty minutes later they met up with his daughter Crystal in the bustling hotel lobby. She’d been shopping, and while Jan poured through her bags to see what might fit her, Hardare settled their bill, tipped a bellman for loading their luggage into trunk of his Volvo 760, and coerced his wife and daughter into the car.

Traffic was heavy, and he drove down Santa Monica Boulevard trying to remember the quickest way to the Pasadena Freeway. The five hour drive to Las Vegas was a sleeper, consisting of several hundred miles of desert and an occasional dusty town, but many delays and lost pieces of baggage at LAX had convinced him that traveling by car was quicker, and generally less eventful.

He made the Freeway in an hour. Smothering a yawn, he put the car on cruise control, and glanced at Jan as she reclined her bucket seat, then into the mirror at Crystal sprawled across the backseat, her nose buried in a glossy fashion magazine.

It was hard going back to Vegas. Although he liked the management at Caesar’s, and the facilities and enthusiastic crowds night after night, it was a difficult environment for his family to live in. Vegas was a tourist town, and people on vacation got drunk, acted in the stupidest fashion imaginable, and woke up the next day not regretting it.

“I can already feel the excitement,” Crystal joked half-heartedly as they passed a flashy Vegas billboard on Interstate 15. The flat, barren desert opened up before them, and Hardare pushed the cruise control up to seventy-five.

“It’s only one week,” he reassured her. “Then back to L.A. for two weeks. That’s not a bad trade-off.”

“Great. But then what? She tossed her magazine to the floor. “I don’t know why you won’t tell me what our plans are.”

“He hasn’t told me, either,” Jan said. “Big secret.”

“That’s because I don’t know,” he said, glancing into his mirror at the shimmering white Pontiac Firebird with darkly tinted windows that had popped up on the horizon. “Management at Caesar’s wants to extend our contract another six months.”

His daughter groaned. “Six months? I can’t live in that hotel another two weeks. The slots are giving me migraines.”

“What kind of deal are they offering,” Jan said, now wide awake from her nap. “More money, better hours, or new accommodations?”

“All of the above. They’ll pay us ten percent more a week and cut out Sunday matinees. I told them we were tired of living in town, and they offered to put us in a house.”

He paused to hear any complaints. When there were none, he went on. “I drove out there last week. The house is furnished, has four bedrooms, a swimming pool, and four acres of land. There’s a gourmet kitchen, oak floors, and a Jacuzzi. It’s a nice place.”

“What about vacations,” Jan said, never easily swayed. “We haven’t had a break in six months, and they promised...”

“I went over that with management. Two weeks vacation fully paid at the end of the first three months.”

Jan took a pocket calculator from her purse and did some quick arithmetic with Crystal peering over her shoulder. Since moving to Vegas they had become best friends, and he often thought how fortunate he was that his daughter had accepted his second wife so easily, especially considering how radically different she was from Crystal’s mother.

“We’d make nearly twenty thousand dollars more,” Jan said.

“That’s not a bad offer when you throw in the perks.”

“Hey, money isn’t everything,” Crystal chided in.

Hardare smiled. His daughter could switch from being materialistic to altruistic in a snap of the fingers. It seemed to him a contradiction of terms, but Jan had informed him that among her friends it was considered very fashionable.

“We do have other options,” he said, noticing the Firebird a mile back and gaining. The next eighty miles of highway went virtually unpatrolled, and he had seen drivers rocket by at a hundred and twenty. “We can take the month off, stay in Los Angeles, and help you find an apartment for school.”

“Aren’t you jumping ahead a little,” Crystal said, slumping in her seat. “I still haven’t heard from UCLA. What if they don’t accept me?”

“Your interviewer said you were a shoo-in,” Jan reminded her. “Your grades were decent, your SATs above average, and your audition for the drama coach went beautifully.”

“I know, I know,” she said, staring out the window. “I still won’t believe it until I see the acceptance notice.”

“Shades of your father,” Jan said. She caught Vince’s eye and said, “You haven’t told us what we’re going to do after taking a month off. Go on welfare?”

“No. We go to Paris, and perform at the Olympia Theatre for three months,” he said, switching off the cruise control and slowing down to let the Firebird pass. “They’re offering decent money, with a provision in the contract that gives us a share in the profits if attendance reaches eighty percent. We’ll also be the only act on the bill. No dirty comedians. No singers throwing temper tantrums. Just us.”

“What?” they both managed to cry simultaneously.

“The entire act. Ninety minutes of illusions and escapes,” he said. “I wanted it to be a surprise. There are still details to be ironed out, but the chances look good.” He paused. “If it works out, I think we’ll have enough money to put together the circus, and go on the road. It’s a big step but...” He grasped Jan’s hand in his. “I think we’re all ready for a change.”

Crystal whooped in excitement. This was the dream her father had mesmerized her with since childhood: One day, when he had enough money, he would put together a traveling magic circus similar to those that his father and Houdini had traveled with early in their careers. As she had grown older, the dream had changed, and now her father wanted the circus to work exclusively in Europe, performing in towns and small cities which normally saw little in the way of live entertainment, and for audiences not bombarded by television and the movies.

“Forget UCLA,” she exclaimed. “I want to go. What better training ground could an actress have than being in a circus?”

“Enough of that,” her father said, his tone quickly bringing her down. “We’ve had plenty of discussions about this, and you’re going to college and getting an education. Understood?”

“Why?” she said. “Don’t you want me in your show?”

“Of course I do. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had — even better than your mother. But it would be wrong if I didn’t give you the opportunity to do something else if someday you decided not to be in my show.” He paused. “Got it?”

Crystal crossed her arms. “Yeah. I get it.”

“Good.” The Firebird was five car lengths back, and had slowed down considerably, no longer hell bent on passing. From out of nowhere a man on a motorcycle passed the Firebird, and settled in a few feet behind the Volvo’s rear bumper.

“Slow down, buddy,” Hardare said aloud.

The biker was on his own little trip. Singing, laughing to himself. For the next two miles he rode their tail, flirting danger without a helmet, his long bouncing hair and effortless grin making a statement as old as Easy Rider. He started to pass and gave Crystal a smile. She waved, and he pulled back behind the Volvo.

“How did we get so lucky,” Hardare said.

“I think he’s sort of cute,” his daughter said, staring at her leather Prince Valiant. “He doesn’t look mean. I bet he doesn’t even have any tattoos.”

“That’s a reassuring thought,” Hardare said, watching his rear view mirror more than the road. “I wish he’d slow down and give me some breathing room. Hey, what’s that fool doing...”

With tires screaming the Firebird pulled a foot behind the biker, sandwiching him between the two cars, then ground his bumper into the biker’s rear wheel. The impact sent the biker flying over his handlebars and face first into their rear window, his eyes bulging through the tinted glass. The sound of his neck breaking was as unmistakable as his daughter’s ear-splitting scream. Off to their right, Hardare saw the bike catapult and flip past them across the desert. Moments later the biker slid off the trunk of their car and bounced on the highway like a rag doll. The Firebird swerved, purposely running over him.

“Daddy for God’s sake do something!” Crystal screeched.

“You can’t outrun him,” Jan said, turning sideways. “And you don’t want him banging your bumper. Get into the oncoming lane, slow down, and get behind him. He won’t expect you to do that.”

There were times when his wife talked that Hardare simply listened and did as instructed. He had known her just long enough to sometimes forget that before they’d met, Jan had been a crack instructor at a private anti-terrorist training school.

Hardare put his foot down and the Volvo shot ahead. As the Firebird accelerated, he swerved into the oncoming lane and put his foot gently on the brake. But the Firebird’s driver did not take the bait: slowing down, the Firebird pulled up alongside them. Less than a mile up the highway an oncoming truck flashed its headlights. Hardare tried to swerve into the right lane, only to have the Firebird slap into the side of his car.

“Bastard,” he swore, punching his horn. The oncoming truck did the same, not slowing down, and the Firebird’s driver added to the confusion by blaring his horn. Hardare glanced at his speedometer: he was doing 110 m.p.h. If the Volvo even nicked the truck they would all be killed instantaneously.

“Vince!” Jan barked. She pointed out his side window. “On three, turn left and drive off the road. Don’t turn too sharply, or we’ll flip. One...”

Was she out of her mind? If he waited any longer, the truck would be on top of them. He started to turn and Jan grabbed the wheel. “Two,” she said.

Then it dawned on him what Jan was doing: she wanted the Firebird to cross the line and deal with the oncoming truck. If the Firebird waited until the truck was past, they would have some breathing room.

“Three! Go for it!”

They were close enough to the truck to see the driver’s face. The Firebird banged their side as Hardare spun the wheel sharply. With a rubbery squeal the Volvo jumped off the highway and took down a rusted sign that said Barstow, 25 miles. The Firebird tried to follow, then swerved back into the right lane, as the truck roared by, blowing its horn.

They pitched and heaved across the desert. A reddish cloud swirled around them, the fine brown dust blowing on their clothes through the air conditioner. Watching the mirror, Hardare kept his foot pressed to the accelerator, trying to put as much distance between his car and the highway as possible.

“Where did he go?” said Jan, craning her neck.

“Don’t know.” He drove another bumpy mile until a large reservoir came into view. Only when he felt certain they were not being followed did he brake. He unhitched his seat belt.

Crystal buried her face in her hands and wept softly. “Why did he kill that poor boy on the motorcycle? Why? He just ran over him like an animal.”

He leaned through the seats and gently ran his fingers through his daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry honey. I don’t know. Just be glad it wasn’t us.”

“Vince,” Jan said sharply.

He followed the direction of his wife’s stare. Less than a hundred yards away the Firebird sat on a grassy incline, its engine racing. The car inched treacherously down the hill towards them.

Crystal’s voice nearly broke. “What does he want?”

Hardare watched the Firebird’s guarded advance. A red cloud blew around the Volvo, and just as quickly died away. The Firebird’s driver blew a strange little tune — it had the familiar ring of a television theme song — over his car horn. A numbing fear crept over him, and he thought back to the night before, and his prediction on the Tonight Show.

“Me,” he said, reaching under the seat for the Louisville Slugger he kept for road trips. “Stay in the car.”

Before Jan could protest Hardare jumped out, slamming the door. “Lock the doors.”

He walked to front of his car and planted his feet in the dusty earth. Then he whacked the baseball bat against the palm of his hand. The Firebird braked to a halt fifty feet away. Hardare saw his opening, and took it.

No one is going to terrorize my family, he thought, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the car. When he had halved the distance between then, the Firebird raced its engine, as if preparing to run him over. He pointed his bat at the driver.

“Let’s get it on,” Hardare challenged, his voice angrier than he’d ever heard it. “Right here, right now. No more chicken games.”

The Firebird let out three short beeps, laughing at him. Then it went into reverse, made a 45 degree turn, and started driving in a circle around the Volvo. Hardare retreated to his car, watching the Firebird increase its speed and choke the air with dust as it did doughnuts around them.

“Come on!” he yelled. In frustration he picked up a rock and bounced it off the hood as the Firebird made another pass. The car braked with a squeal.

The driver hopped out, unarmed. A leather cap and shades covered his face. He did not look human but humanoid, his entire body swathed in taut black leather. His broad shoulders tapered down to a tiny waist, and through the leather his muscles bulged perceptibly. Hardare had never trusted body-builders; they were always out of proportion with the rest of the world.

“Know who I am?” he demanded.

Hardare nodded that he did.

“Let’s hear it, Mr. Magico.”

“Your name is Death,” Hardare replied, taking a short step forward. For a moment the driver was speechless. Seeing his chance, he said, “You killed Sybil Blanchard — I saw it in a dream.”

Hardare took another step, his eyes locked on Death’s face, trading evil stares. The face of Crystal’s look-alike flashed through his mind, and he said, “Death is the killer of helpless women and children. Death killed twelve in San Francisco. But he didn’t call himself Death then.”

Death’s arms slowly fell to his sides, a man transfixed. Hardare stole another step, his hands tensed around the bat handle. “So Death moved to LA. Bigger city, easier to stay lost. Death felt left out as a child, inferior. Death has no real friends, no one he really loves, or really loves him. Death is a loner—”

“Shut up,” Death said, the swagger gone from his voice. “I don’t want to hear anymore. Just shut your mouth..!”

“Death is a loser,” he countered, trying to keep the momentum in his voice, each sentence drawing him a yard closer, in range to take his head off. “Death taunts the police. You like to frighten people. Puts them on the defensive, doesn’t it? Let me ask you something. Did you frighten Lori from Tulsa? Remember her? Eighteen, sunny blond hair, dimples. You killed her. I know you did. I know everything about you.”

“Because the police told you,” Death seethed, his body noticeably tensing. “I know who came to your hotel last night. That big dummy Harry Wondero. Isn’t he a barrel of laughs? He told you everything he knows about me, of should I say doesn’t know. You’re a phony.”

His voice had changed again, more masculine and assertive, and he unexpectedly slipped behind the open car door. Hardare froze: what if he had a gun? Five running steps and he had a swing at him. Death reappeared holding a bowling ball bag.

“I want you to meet someone,” Death said, reaching into the bag. His fingers came out slowly, clenched around thick locks of red hair. He let the bag fall and a woman’s head dangled from his gloved hand. “This is my friend, Lorraine. She thinks you’re a fake, too.”

Hardare was suddenly tasting his breakfast. Back in the Volvo his daughter emitted a blood-curdling scream. Death tossed Lorraine into the dirt at his feet, and Hardare jumped back in revulsion, her frozen eyes staring at him like a Medusa. Within seconds her face was covered with a swarming colony of ants.

Death clapped his hands together. A sleek black Doberman Pincher scrambled out of the back seat of the Firebird. Death petted him fondly, and pointed a finger at Hardare.

“Bad man, Tyson. Kill him!”

The dog let out a killer’s growl and charged him. Hardare reflexively tossed his bat into the dog’s chest, heard a pained yelp, and ran back to his car and jumped in. He slammed his door with the snarling dog on his heels. In a rage Tyson leapt onto the hood, his snapping jaws fogging the already dirty windshield.

“Do something, Daddy,” Crystal said.

He started the car, went nowhere. The engine had overheated and stalled. Twisting the key in the ignition, he heard the engine sputter and turn over. Throwing the car into gear, he saw Death’s leather figure sprinting towards the car.

“Vince, he’s got a bomb..!” Jan said.

The Volvo lurched forward. Death stopped, lit a cloth fuse hanging from the bottle’s mouth, and tossed it. His aim was deadly, and the bottle shattered against the roof. Within seconds bright orange flames engulfed the car as well as the crazed dog standing on top of it, its head snapping back and forth in a blind fury. Hardare violently shifted gears and the animal slid off the hood.

The car’s interior grew hot, the air conditioner spitting smoke. Hardare drove as best he could toward the reservoir, at any moment expecting a radial to blow, or worse, the gas tank to explode.

They ran roughshod across the desert, taking down lopsided rows of cactus and numerous molehills, and burst through a wire fence as if it were paper. Up a short embankment, over it, his foot to the floor, the car literally flying in the air — looking sideways, his eyes met Jan’s, her face the last memory he wanted to have if the reservoir was only a foot deep — and then hit the reservoir’s murky blue water with tremendous impact.

An exploding air bag engulfed him as he was thrown forward. Much to Hardare’s surprise the car did not hit bottom, but sank fifteen feet before gently settling to rest on the swirling bottom. He looked at his wife. She was unhurt.

“Crys, you okay honey?”

“No,” his daughter said.

His daughter’s nose was smeared with blood, and she gingerly touched it with her fingers.

“Does it feel broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

Jan undid her shoulder strap. “Vince, we’re going to run out of air.”

“He’s still up there. If we surface right away, he’ll slaughter us. I’m going to hold my breath. That should leave enough oxygen for you to use. We wait five minutes, then go up. Hopefully the driver of the eighteen-wheeler saw what happened, and called the police. Sound like a plan?”

His wife and daughter both nodded.

“Good. Here we go.”

Hardare filled his lungs to capacity, his chest puffing out from exertion, then fell back in his seat and tried to relax. He could hold his breath for six minutes if he wanted to, although it would produce an excruciating headache the next day.

Closing his eyes, he saw the monster and the head. Now he knew what Sybil Blanchard had experienced before she’d died. Wondero had said that Death was elusive, and he knew that criminals did not get that way by acting careless. Soon Death would have to leave, or risk being caught.

After five minutes his skull was pounding. He glanced at his wife and daughter. They were gasping for air. It was time, and he kicked open his door with his foot.

He was going up first.

He swam out of the Volvo, waited for Jan and Crystal to safely exit, and pushed himself off the spongy bottom of the reservoir. If Death was up there, he was going to take a different approach and take the offensive. If he could get a jump on the bastard, just get close enough to touch him, he would have the advantage. Years of doing escapes had made him unbelievably strong, and as his head burst above the surface, he realized that this was his only choice. He could show no compassion or sympathy. Not when his family was involved. Just kill the bastard.

The shore was deserted. He heard Jan and Crystal pop up a few yards behind him. He swam in quickly and then staggered out of the water, his wet pants legs sucking his legs together.

“Where are you?” he bellowed angrily. “Come out here in the open.”

Behind a mountain of brown dirt he heard a low growl. Tensing, he charged up the hill like a demon. In the back of his head he heard a voice. What are you doing? He didn’t know; he’d never acted like this before in his life.

Another dog, this time a vicious German shepherd, met him at the top, its paws scrambling as it came up the other side of the hill. The dog leapt on his chest, sending Hardare backwards down the hill. Together they rolled to the edge of the reservoir. Hardare jumped up with the dog clutched in his arms, and with a violent twist of his body, threw the dog twenty feet out into the water. He spun around, anticipating Death.

“Holy mother of God.”

Two burly state troopers plowed down the hill with guns drawn. They stared at him, then his family. Finally one said, “We got an emergency call. Somebody phoned in a burning car.”

Hardare pointed at the reservoir. “It’s on the bottom. A madman threw a Molotov cocktail on our roof.”

“Well, you got lucky,” the trooper said. “This is the only reservoir for thirty miles.”

His partner went to fetch their dog. As it came out of the water it shot past his legs and scurried up the hill with its tail between its legs. “Well I’ll be goddamned,” the trooper swore.

“I think we better get you folks to a hospital,” the second trooper said.

Hardare became dizzy as the desert began to spin around him. The Neanderthal in him had gone away, leaving a dark hole where his soul had been. With a loud whumph! he sat in the dirt.

“I think that would be a good idea,” Hardare said.

Chapter 5

L.A.

Barstow was barely large enough to be called a town. But the local hospital also served the nearby Indian reservation, and the facilities were first rate. While his daughter was being X-rayed, Hardare called Caesar’s management, then the Homicide Division of the LAPD. An hour later, Wondero and a second detective, a short man with a paintbrush moustache, walked into the waiting room. Hardare tossed down a year old People and stood up.

“Your psychopath attacked us on the highway. He killed a motorcyclist while trying to run us off the road and then fire-bombed our car. He was watching my hotel last night; he saw us together and thought I was helping you.”

Wondero said, “You spoke to him?”

“We shouted at each other, then he threw a women’s head at me. That’s when I lost it.”

Without missing a beat, Wondero said, “Can you describe what he looked like?”

“Stone evil,” Hardare said.

“I mean physically.”

His partner interrupted him. “I’m Detective Rittenbaugh. Are your wife and daughter going to be all right?”

“My wife’s fine, my daughter banged her nose. The doctor wants her to take it easy for a few days.” As he spoke, Wondero nervously bit his fingernails. Finally Hardare could not stand it and said, “My height, broad shoulders, really muscular. He was dressed in leather and wore shades and a hat. I never saw his face.”

“We need to search the crime scene right away,” Wondero said excitedly to his partner. “Maybe he left some clues.”

“Right, Harry. Mr. Hardare, you still look shaken up. Like some coffee or a soft drink?”

“A cup of coffee would be good,” Hardare said.

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“I’ll be right back.” Rittenbaugh walked down a freshly mopped hallway past a semi-conscious man lying on a stretcher, and found a bank of concession machines by the pay phones. He bought three coffees and took them back to the waiting room. Wondero and Hardare were gone.

“Harry, you crummy bastard,” Rittenbaugh said, the cups burning his fingers.

“You should be angry,” Wondero said, walking with Hardare past the parking lot to a children’s nursery with metal swings and a large curving slide. “Most people who are victimized feel an immediate desire for revenge. It’s only human.”

“We were supposed to be working Vegas another week,” Hardare said, “but Caesar’s let us out of our contract. We have a big engagement in Los Angeles coming up, and I called you because—”

Wondero held up his hand like he was directing traffic. “Understood. Twenty-four hours a day. You, your wife, your girl. We’ll guard you like the crown jewels. But at the same time, I want you to consider something.”

The blurry image of a car racing across the desert a few miles away stopped Hardare dead in his tracks. When it was out of sight, he said, “What’s that?”

“Help us.”

“How?”

“I want to set a trap for Death.”

“And what do we do? Act as bait? No thanks.”

“My partner and I think Death saw the Tonight Show, and like me, believed your prediction trick was the real thing. We think he’s frightened that you’ll expose him.”

Hardare played back their confrontation. “He called me a fake. He was pumping me for information to see how much I knew about him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I knew about the murders in San Francisco. That paralyzed him for a few seconds.”

Wondero grabbed his arm excitedly. “Look at the risk he took coming out here, trying to kill you. He thinks you’re on to him.”

“No more than you.”

“That’s not the point. You drew him out with the magic.”

“So?”

“You can do it again. Keep making predictions about Death. We’ll tell the newspapers you’re working on the case. Do your tricks on TV, the radio, wherever you want, and during the tricks reveal certain things about him.”

“What things?” he said, holding Wondero’s gaze as the midday sun beat on his stooped shoulders.

“There are pieces of information that Homicide hasn’t revealed to the press. It’s not much, but it will scare him.”

“Does your partner like this scheme too?”

“He’s not against it,” Wondero said defensively.

“You’re lying to me.”

Wondero did not let the accusation slow him down. “If you don’t help us, chances are we won’t catch him. And we can’t protect you and your family forever. This guy moves around. You’re a public person.”

“Are you trying to threaten me?”

“No! I’m on my knees begging for your help.”

“Well I’m sorry, but your timing sucks. What do you think happened out there?”

“I think you outsmarted him,” Wondero said.

“No, I got lucky. He came that close to killing all three of us. Ever see someone you love die before your eyes?”

The question startled the detective. “No. Have you?”

“My first wife. I watched her burn to death in a car crash.”

Embarrassed, Wondero stared at the ground. “Really.”

“Now you can understand why I don’t want any part of your wild scheme. If Death does contact me again, you’ll be the first to know.”

Wondero stuck out his hand and Hardare reluctantly shook it. “I know this has been a rough day for you. Please reconsider what I said. Maybe next time we’ll nab him.”

Hardare angrily backed away. “No!”

“This is my card,” the detective said, shoving it into Hardare’s hand. “My direct line is on the bottom. Call anytime.”

Hardare crushed the card into a tiny ball and slowly opened his fingers. The card was gone. Wondero gaped at his empty palm.

“Goodbye, detective.”

Hardare went inside the hospital to check on his wife and daughter.

For a hundred bucks he found an old Indian willing to drive his family back to L.A. in a beat-up mini van. They rode in silence, Crystal lying with her head on Jan’s lap. Hardare sat up front, staring aimlessly at the landscape. He felt strange returning to the city with nothing but the clothes on his back, a wallet filled with credit cards and a few hundred in cash. He and his first wife had started off this way, working the joints and small hotels across the country while living out of a suitcase. It had been tough, often discouraging work, and after Barbara had died, he had found it hard to look back at those times and think of them as the good old days.

He had the driver drop them at L’ermitage in Beverly Hills. In ten minutes they were checked into a suite on the fifth floor. Their bellmen, having no bags, made a great show of pulling back the blinds and showing them where the mini-bar was. Hardare tipped him with a bill that had not completely dried. The bellman snapped it once, examining it suspiciously. Hardare showed him to the door, and locked it behind him.

“God, I wish this day never happened,” Crystal said, falling into a couch. The motion made her head spin, and she closed her eyes. “When’s our stuff arriving from Vegas? I’ve got to get out of these clothes.”

“Not for a while,” her father replied. “You and Jan have so many clothes, I had to rent a truck.”

“Very funny.”

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Hardare retrieved the crumbled business card he had invisibly tossed there in front of Wondero’s disbelieving eyes, and opened his cell phone. Wondero had made him a promise, and he planned to hold him to it.

An hour later two plainclothes detectives appeared at his door. One was tall and thin, the other short and fat. Hardare inspected their photo I.D.s before letting them in.

“My daughter is asleep, my wife’s lying down,” he said, leading them into the living room. “I had the hotel stock the refrigerator with sodas and plenty of fresh fruit. There’s cable TV and also a DVD. They rent movies at the front desk.”

“This is better than home,” the tall detective said. He draped his jacket over a chair, his automatic resting inches from his heart in a leather holster. When Hardare went to the door both men turned. “You going out?” the wider one asked.

“Yes. I need to clear my head.”

“I’d suggest going somewhere where there are lots of people. Like a bar or a restaurant. No long walks by yourself.”

“And no movie theatres,” the other detective cautioned.

He was starting to feel like a hostage. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Have the front desk ring the room when you return.”

“I’ll do that. See you in a few hours.”

Outside the hotel Hardare waved down a valet and began to describe his car when he remembered it was growing rust on the bottom of a murky reservoir. He had the boy hail him a cab.

“I thought you were coming to bed,” he heard Jan say.

She had appeared in jeans and a sweater, her hair still tousled from her nap. “I decided to go for a ride instead. If I hadn’t thought you were asleep, I’d have asked you along.”

A yellow cab pulled up. They got in, and by the time the driver had hit the meter and driven twenty feet down the street, they became hopelessly entwined in late-afternoon traffic.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“I’m not sure,” Hardare replied.

“Don’t worry,” the driver said. “I can’t get you there anyway. Not in this mess.”

“Where did the two detectives come from?” his wife asked.

“You met Husky and Starch.”

“They were hard to miss.”

“I called Wondero, and he sent them over.”

The traffic light at the end of the block turned green. The cab moved an entire car length, and braked as the light changed.

“Let’s hike it,” Hardare suggested.

He gave the driver three dollars for the hundred foot trip and they set out on foot in the direction of Rodeo Drive.

“Will you call Wondero again?” Jan said, keeping a brisk pace beside him.

“Not if I can avoid it,” At the next corner he said, “Do you think I should?”

“If you want my opinion, yes.”

“I always want your opinion.”

“I think you should agree to help him. I know it means putting our lives at risk, but the police need you. Has it occurred to you that they may never capture this crazy bastard? Even if they do, it might take years to find him.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said, stopping at the corner. “But my responsibilities lie with my family. We can’t spend the rest of our lives needing bodyguards, can we?”

“You’re pretty good at protecting yourself,” Jan said.

“What about you and Crys?”

“I can protect myself, and I can also protect Crys. For God’s sake Vince, it’s what I did for a living, remember? Protecting foreign dignitaries was something I did all the time. You think this killer is crazy? I had to deal with Libyan terrorists once. Nothing compares to them.”

Her heart was behind her words. Given half a chance, she would have tried to track down Death herself. Jan was a soft, beautiful woman until she became threatened. Then she changed.

At the next corner Hardare looked at the street sign. They had walked in a circle, and were heading back to L’ermitage. Finally he said, “Do you plan on getting a gun?”

She hesitated, knowing how he detested firearms. “I thought it would be a good idea while we’re in L.A.”

They walked the remaining block in silence. At the hotel’s entrance he said, “Let me think about it.”

Jan kissed him. “Do what you think is best.” She went inside, and he had the valet hail him another cab. He hopped in, and the cab pulled away.

“Anyplace special?” the Hispanic cabby asked.

“Why? Do you normally just drift?”

“Believe it or not, yeah. People get in my cab, they think it’s a cloud. We just float around, looking at the new billboards on Sunset Boulevard. One guy, he gets in, hands me a brand new C note, says `Let me out when I run out of money. I’ll walk from there.’ So I did. People around here are goofy.”

They pulled into traffic. Hardare stared out his window at the darkening skies. He needed to go someplace private to think, and figure out what he wanted to do.

“7001 Franklin Avenue,” Hardare said, realizing it was his only refuge.

“You mean the Magic Castle?” the cabby said. “Sure thing.”

Tires squealing, the driver viciously punched his horn and cut off a stretch Mercedes limousine, then swerved into the other, faster moving lane, making it feel like a real cab.

Chapter 6

The Castle

As the cab drove down Franklin Avenue and climbed the formidable hill leading to the Gothic mansion known as the Magic Castle, the rain started to fall in sheets. Years before, on a night identical to this, he had flipped the car he was driving, sending his first wife to her grave. He had thought time healed all wounds, but he had discovered that was just a poet’s bullshit line. He still grieved for Barbara, and had accepted the painful fact that he probably always would.

Like many magicians, the Magic Castle was his home when he visited L.A. Besides acting as a wonderful private club for magicians, the Castle also served as the clubhouse for the Academy of Magical Arts, a non-profit organization devoted exclusively to the advancement of magic.

Opening the front door, he entered a dimly lit library. A remarkably pretty female receptionist greeted him from behind a desk. He took the pen to sign his name in the ledger, then looked into her face and said, “Didn’t you used to be a brunette?”

“You have a good memory,” she said, beaming.

Often, when he was in town taping a television special, he would hire one or two Castle employees to assist him, having found it less expensive than what it cost him to fly in and house the crew that he employed full-time in his traveling show. He struggled with the receptionist’s name.

“Tracy. No. Stacy.”

“I’m impressed,” she said.

“Friedman.”

“Wow! Want to get married?”

He wasn’t ready for that one, and burst out laughing. She was no doubt aware that her job had netted two of her predecessors’ millionaire husbands, and he said, “I’m afraid I’m not that wealthy. Give me ten more years.”

“God, you’re the fourth man I’ve asked today.”

He entered his name in the guest ledger beside magic’s true luminaries. The Professor was here, the Japanese dove-worker Shimada who’d worked Vegas just the week before, the great Bill Malone, mind reader extraordinaire Max Maven, Jim Patton, the amazing John Carney, and the uncanny Scot Ron Wilson. He needed a sounding board, and he supposed this was as good a group as he’d be able to find at a moment’s notice. He went to a cluttered bookshelf where a small carved owl sat.

“Let me know if you ever need another assistant,” Stacy said, trying not to sound too anxious.

“I will. Open sesame.”

With that, the owl’s eyes lit up and the bookshelf slid open, granting him access to the club’s main lounge and bar. It was nearly empty, and he glanced at his watch, wondering where his friends were.

Sitting at the bar was one of the Castle’s celebrity members, a well known movie actor who was blind drunk.

“What’s your pleasure, Mr. Hardare?” asked the bartender.

“Ginger ale. He looks ready for the stool, Bobby.”

“Indeed he does.” The bartender poured his drink while his foot kicked the lever on a hydraulic pump beneath the bar. Very slowly the movie actor’s barstool evaporated into the floor. With his knees nearly level with the top of his head, the actor cheerfully toasted Hardare’s good health, and downed his martini. The gag had backfired, and Hardare paid for both their drinks.

Music floated through the air. Irma, the house poltergeist, was at the piano, her fingers dancing invisibly across the keys, playing an airy Chick Corea composition that had been part of his act for years. He smiled at Bobby, who pretended he had nothing to do with it.

He went upstairs to the dining room. The Castle was a large, rambling structure, with three separate small theatres, four bars, a restaurant, and a dozen hidden spots where magicians could sit and talk magic without being disturbed. At the Festalboard he fixed himself a heaping salad and took an empty table.

“I thought you went back to Vegas,” said a familiar voice.

“Change of plans,” Hardare replied, shaking hands with Les Griffey, an illusion-maker he often employed. “Where is everyone hiding? The bar was deserted.”

“They’re meeting in the Houdini Séance room. The new officers of the Academy were voted in last week.”

“I need to talk with them.”

“They just got started,” Griffey said. “I was going to call you. I just finished a new illusion. Kio’s Lady to Tiger without the depth illusion. It can be done surrounded.”

“Sounds terrific,” Hardare said.

Encouraged, Griffey gave him a full description of his new creation, his use of superlatives a show in itself. By the time he was done, Hardare had agreed to drive to San Clemente the following week, and get a first hand look.

It was because of men like Les that big stage illusions had left the dark ages and now employed lasers and other space age technology. Gone were the bulky boxes and tables with black art servantes; women were no longer suspended on brooms, they were suspended on the tips of swords, and made to rotate. Illusions now had multiple climaxes, with three or four different tricks evolving at the same time. Since Hardare could not enjoy the luxury of employing three illusion builders, as Houdini had done, he entered into contractual agreements with men like Les Griffey. Griffey would design a new illusion, and when he had honed its working to the necessary degree of perfection, he would offer it to Hardare on a short, exclusive basis. Hardare would have a few months to perform the illusion — even use it on TV — and in exchange, Griffey would later market the illusion to the fraternity using Hardare’s name as an endorsement.

When Hardare had finished his salad, he and Griffey went upstairs to the third floor and walked down a short hallway, where the magician rapped softly on the secret door to the Houdini Séance Room. It cracked open and Ron Wilson stuck his head out. “Hey Vince — good to see you. We’re just wrapping up. Give us fifteen minutes.”

“I need to talk to everyone.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes, and I need your help.”

Wilson ushered him in without another word.

The Houdini Séance room was the Castle’s most historic attraction, with many of his uncle’s old props and playbills in use as decorations. A round antique mahogany table big enough to seat eight people sat in the room’s center. The table was a masterpiece of deception, and allowed a “medium” to make all sorts of ghostly manifestations occur once the lights had been dimmed.

Hardare took the single empty seat at the table and stared into the faces of the seven men seated at the table. They were all legends, and he tried not to flinch from the weight of their icy stares. The Professor broke the silence. “I thought you were back at Caesar’s, Vincent.”

“We ran into a few problems,” Hardare said.

The Professor put his cigar into an ashtray. Upon turning ninety, he had picked up his old vices, and now regularly smoked and drank whiskey. “I hope it was nothing serious.”

“A man tried to kill us on the highway.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Bill Malone, the world’s consummate sleight of hand artist, stopped riffle-shuffling the deck of cards in front of him.

“Was Jan hurt?” Malone asked.

“No, she’s fine,” Hardare said.

“What about your daughter?”

“She suffered a mild concussion.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Malone ribbon spread the cards face-up across the table, looking for mistakes. Despite his thorough mixing, the deck was still in perfect, new-deck order. Badly fooled, Hardare said, “Stop showing off.”

Malone’s eyes twinkled. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, and tell us what happened?”

Hardare told the seven men what had happened. He held his opinion in the highest regard, and explained in minute detail the events that had occurred in the desert that morning.

“I didn’t know you kept a baseball bat in your car,” Malone said when he’d finished.

“It’s been under the seat for years. I never considered using it on someone before.”

“Be thankful,” Ron Wilson commented, giving the Professor a light. “People like that feed on evil. You’re lucky you all got out of there alive.”

“I know.”

“Vince,” the Professor said, using the glowing end of his cigar like a pointer. “You mentioned that the police want you to help them. Are you going to?”

“I’m considering it,” Hardare said. “The police want me to perform psychic stunts and draw Death out again. It’s probably the best chance they have to catch him, but it also means I’ll have to play the psychic stuff for real. I can’t give the usual disclaimers about the tricks being performed by natural means.”

There was a prolonged silence. Hardare gave each man at the table a thoughtful stare, convinced they were all thinking the same thought. Finally the Professor voiced everyone’s concern. “You could set magic back twenty years, Vince.”

“I know,” Hardare said. “But look at the flip side. I have the opportunity to use my magic to truly do some good.”

“You sound like you’ve made up your mind,” Wilson said.

Hardare shook his head. “By helping the police, I’m going to risk hurting my reputation and my art, which means hurting my friends. I’m not sure that is a decision I’m entitled to make.”

“Do you want us to make it for you?” asked the Professor.

“Yes. If any group in the world represents magic, it’s the Academy. You’re the Academy’s officers. I’d like you to discuss it, then decide what you think is best. I’ll respect whatever decision you come to.”

The seven officers of the Academy exchanged glances. “Fair enough,” Ron Wilson said for the group.

“Thank you.”

Rising at his place from the table, Hardare went into the hallway to wait to await the Academy’s decision.

Ten minutes later Wilson appeared, and ushered him back inside. Hardare took the same seat at the table, and folded his hands in his lap. He waited, wondering who would speak for the group, and was not surprised when The Professor spoke up.

“We think you should help the police, Vince.”

“You do?”

“Yes. However, we also think the final decision must be yours. You’re risking your own well being, and your family’s. Listen to your heart, and you will know what’s best.”

Hardare nodded while swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Being Houdini’s nephew carries a tremendous amount of responsibility,” the Professor went on, his voice crackling with age. “So far, you’ve handled it well. Sometimes you act like your uncle, and Houdini had the worst temper of any man I ever knew. If you do help the police — and I have the feeling you will — than you can’t let your emotions run wild. Look at history: only the most resourceful people have been capable of stopping madmen.”

Hardare leaned back in his chair. “I was thinking of performing Dunninger’s old mind reading stunt over the radio tomorrow night, to try and draw the killer out.”

The Professor’s eyes grew wide behind his thick glasses. “Then be careful! California is filled with gullible people. They may start a religion after you.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Hardare said.

The Professor leaned halfway across the table, giving him the most incriminating of stares. “You’re going to do it?”

“Yes,” Hardare said.

“How many people did you say this madman has killed?”

“Too many,” Hardare said.

“Then do what you have to, and stop worrying about your goddamned image,” The Professor growled. “You’ve been given the opportunity to do some good. If this is destiny, then follow it.”

“Yes sir.”

The officers of the Academy rose, one by one shook his hand, and filed silently out of the room. Wilson stayed behind, and placed his hand on Hardare’s shoulder.

“Feel better now?” he asked.

“Much,” he said.

Chapter 7

KOLL

Standing behind a glass wall, the sound technician raised his arm. Through a speaker he said, “Kenny, you ready? Okay. Five... four... three... two...one... you’re on the air.”

“Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s show. This is Kenny Kitchen, coming to you live on L.A.’s most progressive radio network, KOLL. This is The Midnight Hour, and tonight’s topic is parapsychology, our special guest renowned magician and psychic entertainer Vincent Hardare. Welcome to our show.”

“Thanks,” Hardare said, sitting beside his bearded host in a cramped room surrounded by coffee cups and perforated acoustic tiles. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Tonight we’re going to be discussing the hidden powers of the mind, and how psychics like Hardare help police departments across the country. In a few minutes our phone lines will be open, and we’ll be taking your calls, and maybe do a little mind-reading over the air waves. Are the juices flowing, Hardare?”

“I’m psyched,” Hardare said good naturedly.

A grin broke across Kitchen’s face. “Terrific. We’ll be right back.”

A jarring commercial filled the studio, and Kitchen switched off his microphone and fished a cigarette out of the breast pocket of his faded denim jacket. Short, pudgy and balding, Kitchen had managed to parlay his one single attribute — a deeply rich mid-Western baritone — into an entire career, and his late night talk show was a counter-culture institution over Los Angeles airwaves.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, lighting up, “how do you plan to pull this off. Stooges?”

“Too obvious,” Hardare said, being purposely vague. Kitchen was an amateur magician who had once visited him backstage at Caesar’s. Before the show, Hardare had told him what he was going to do, but not how, and Kitchen continued to plug him for details.

“You mean it’s not a set-up?”

“That’s right. Anyone can call in.”

Kitchen took a big sip of coffee. “I give up.”

“I’m going to wing it.”

“You’re what..!” Kitchen stared through the soundproof glass partition into the next room where Detectives Wondero and Rittenbaugh were gulping down coffee to stay awake. “Do L.A.’s finest know that?”

“Not unless you tell them.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Five seconds,” the sound technician said.

“That never stopped me before,” Hardare replied truthfully.

“This is The Midnight Hour,” Kitchen intoned, turning his mike on, “and our topic is parapsychology. Our guest is Vincent Hardare, who will soon be starring in his own show at the Wilshire Ebell. Hardare, you’ve used your psychic abilities to predict newspaper headlines, sporting events, even disasters. But now you’re onto something different.”

“That’s right. I’ve offered my services to the L. A. Police to help them track down a serial killer who calls himself Death.”

“Any results so far?”

“Two nights ago, I correctly predicted Death’s latest murder while appearing on the Tonight Show. I’ve also given the police several significant leads, and I’ve been told that they’re close to breaking the case wide open.”

“I realize your work is secretive, but can you tell us how?”

“Any well-trained psychic can pick up important pieces of information,” Hardare said, reading from the script he’d prepared. “For example, I’ve been able to determine that Death is a converted left-hander.”

Through the glass partition Hardare saw Wondero nod his head and silently mouth the word, “Good.”

“Still, how can a single piece of information bring the police any closer to a solution?” Kitchen asked.

“Everything is connected, Kenny. With each new piece of information the police are able to draw a sharper composite of our killer. Eventually they’ll know enough about him to make a positive identification.”

“In-ter-est-ing,” Kitchen said, stretching the word to sentence length. “We’re going to open our phone lines up. The number is 473 — KOLL. Call if you have a question, or would like Hardare to pick your brain.”

The six phone lines in front of them lit up simultaneously. Kitchen slid a notepad in front of Hardare and scribbled on it with a pencil.

Ready?

Yes, Hardare wrote.

Kitchen punched in the first line.

“You’re on the air. Go ahead.”

“I’d like to ask Mr. Hardare a question,” a young woman said, her voice practically drowned by static.

“Miss — turn down your radio!” Kitchen implored.

“Sure.” The static disappeared. Nervously she said, “Mr. Hardare, can you actually read my mind?”

“Of course,” Hardare said. “What’s your name?”

“Melody, and I live in Westwood and work at...”

“Melody,” he interrupted, “I want you to concentrate on a number between one and fifty. Now, to help me get a mental impression of the number, make it have two odd digits. Got one?”

“Wait...okay. I’ve got one.”

“Think hard... harder... I think I’ve got it.”

“You do?” Melody squealed breathlessly.

“Yes. The number you’re thinking of is 37.”

“Oh my God!” she shouted over the airwaves. “How could you possibly know that?”

“I just do,” he replied.

Melody started to babble. Kitchen drew a? on the pad.

! was Hardare’s reply.

Come on, Kitchen wrote. How?

Think it out, Hardare wrote.

Applying magician’s logic, Kitchen quickly reconstructed the effect, and realized that Melody really only had three choices. On the pad he wrote, What if she’d picked 35 or 39?

No one ever does, Hardare wrote.

“Thank you Melody,” Kitchen said, punching in another line. “You’re on the air.”

“My name’s Mike, and I think Hardare is full of crap.”

“Even morons are entitled to opinions,” Kitchen said, starting to disconnect him.

“He can’t read my mind,” Mike said belligerently. “Come on. I’m daring you. Take your best shot.”

“Okay Mike,” Hardare said. “I want you to concentrate. Now close your eyes. Think hard.”

“I am! I am!”

“Think hard... harder.” Hardare paused. “You want me to tell everyone what you’re thinking of? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s isn’t an intelligent thought in your funny shaped head.”

“HEYYYYY!!!!”

Kitchen disconnected him, punched in another line.

“You’re on the air.”

“I am? My name’s Odette and I’m calling from Venice. My sister and I are telepathic; I mean, we always know what’s on each other’s minds.”

“Telepathy is common among siblings,” Hardare said.

“Could you try to read my mind? I know it will work. I have a deck of cards my sister and I always use.”

“Tarot or regular playing cards?”

“They’re regular.”

“Okay. Take five cards from the deck. Turn them face up, and tell me their names.”

“Okay. King of Diamonds, Three of Clubs, Jack of Hearts, Six of Spades, and the Seven of Hearts.”

“Place the five cards in a face-up row on the table, King of Diamonds closest to you, then the Three, the Jack, the Six and the Seven. Have you done that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Now take your right hand and pass if back and forth over the row of cards.”

“Should I close my eyes?”

“No, keep them wide open. Now, bring your hand down on top of one card in the row. Have you done that?”

“Yes,” Odette said hesitantly.

“Look at it. Now concentrate.”

Her voice was trembling. “I... am...”

“The Three of Clubs.”

“That’s it!” Odette screamed. “Oh my God... Oh my God...”

Kitchen shook his head in bewilderment. Hardare wanted to scold him; like so many amateurs, Kitchen had not bothered to thoroughly study the classics and familiarize himself with the principals that had been fooling audiences since the beginning of time. Odette had picked the Three of Clubs because she had no other choice. On the pad he wrote, Dai Vernon’s Inner Secrets, page 19.

Kitchen tore the sheet off the pad and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Thank you Odette,” he said.

Hanging up, he punched in another line.

“This is Charlene — the button lady!”

Button lady? Hardare scribbled.

“Hello, Charlene,” Kitchen said impatiently. On the pad Kitchen wrote Speed dial.

“Hi, Kenny. And hello Vincent. May I call you Vincent?”

“When,” said Hardare.

“Oh, you’re just adorable. I saw your show in Vegas and just fell in love with you.”

“What’s the question,” Kitchen said impatiently.

“I wanted to ask Vincent if he could see into the future.”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Well, there’s something I’ve always wanted to know. This might sound crazy—”

“Not from you,” said Kitchen.

“—but can you tell me when I’m going to die? I know it sounds, well morbid, but I’m just...”

“Dying to know,” Hardare said.

“Yes!”

Kitchen elbowed him in the ribs; this was dangerous ground, and not an avenue he wanted Hardare to pursue. Next they would have mothers calling in asking if he could speak to their dead children.On the pad Kitchen wrote NO.

Hardare drew a line through it.

“Concentrate,” Hardare told the button lady.

“I am,” she said.

He waited two beats. “I see it clearly.”

Her voice was trembling. “You do? Oh I don’t think I can stand it. You must tell me.”

“Charlene, you will die... on a Wednesday.”

Kitchen exploded with laughter. He punched in another line.

“Even soothsayers have a sense of humor,” he told his listeners. “You’re on the air. Go ahead.”

“I have a request for Mr. Magico,” a man’s voice said.

“And what is that?” Kitchen asked.

“I want him to tell me how Lorraine died.”

“Excuse me,” Kitchen said.

“He knows,” the caller said.

Hardare froze. He had heard that macabre voice before.

It was Death.

Harry Wondero could not have mistaken the look that spread across Vincent Hardare’s face on the other side of the glass. To his partner and said, “Tell them to get a goddamned trace!”

Running out the door, Rittenbaugh decorated himself with half a cup of coffee. Over the speaker Kenny Kitchen said, “One last chance, friend. What do you want?”

“I want Hardare to tell me how Lorraine died,” the caller said.

Hardare stared through the glass, obviously lost. Wondero hesitated, his mind racing. Earlier, Hardare had said he could not erase the image of the women’s dangling head from his mind, and when Wondero had pressed him, Hardare had described her face as best he could. Young, pretty, short blond hair. Death killed his victims a variety of ways, but the knife seemed to be his preference when they were pretty. A fatal stab through the ribs into the heart.

Wondero grabbed a pen from the sound technician. Holding it in his clenched fist, he committed an imaginary act of hari-kari. Hardare nodded his head.

“Goodnight sweet prince.” Kitchen put his finger on the button, and Hardare grabbed the DJ’s arm.

“You killed her with a knife,” Hardare said. “You stabbed Lorraine in the heart.”

Silence. Then their caller said, “I’m impressed.”

Wondero waved his arms, wanting Hardare to stall.

Hardare gave him the thumbs up.

Hardare thought back to his encounter in the desert with Death. He’d been able to get under the killer’s skin by taunting him, and he decided to try that approach again.

“Satisfied?” Hardare asked.

“Not really,” Death said.

“You’re hard to please.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You must have had a rough childhood.”

Over the line came the horrifying sound of a woman’s tortured screams. Before the sound technician could intercede, the screaming was abruptly cut off.

“That was a tape I made of one of my victims,” Death said, breathing heavily into the phone. “Want to hear some more?”

“No,” Hardare said, growing unnerved.

“I didn’t think so. Let me tell you why I called. I think you’re a fake. The police are just feeding you information. But I’m willing to give you another chance. Do something really amazing. Wow me.”

“Like what?”

“That’s up to you, Mr. Magico. Goodnight.”

The line went dead.

“We’ll be right back,” Kitchen said.

Wondero entered the sound booth, his mouth twitching in agitation. Rittenbaugh followed him in, his necktie dripping coffee, and squeezed it dry while standing over a wastebasket.

“He was calling from a payphone. We just missed him,” Wondero said.

“What do you want me to do now?” Hardare asked.

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Wondero said. “Did you hear his voice? He’s totally unnerved. He’s going to slip up, and when he does, we’re going to catch him.”

Hardare nudged Kitchen with his elbow. “Kenny, do you mind if we keep this up?”

The DJ nervously wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This is getting pretty hairy. This guy is so tightly strung he makes Charlie Manson sound tame.”

“You can’t stop now,” Wondero implored.

“Is Vince’s call. He’s the one sticking his neck out.”

Hardare took a deep breath. Wondero had told him that Death went on rampages, and would kill again soon. He remembered an old proverb from his youth. He who saves a single life, it is as though they’ve saved the entire world.

“Let’s do it,” the magician said.

Chapter 8

Mind over Matter

The detectives left the sound booth. As the sound technician counted down, Kitchen said,” Okay Vince, we pretend that he never called. Understand?”

“Got it,” Hardare replied.

Kitchen flipped his mike on. “We’re back with Vincent Hardare, and I must say I’m impressed; I didn’t think it was possible to read minds over the airwaves, or predict the future.”

“That was nothing,” Hardare said. “Kenny, I want to show you the real power of the human mind. I want all of our listeners to turn up their radios. Do it right now. Fill your apartment or house with the sound of my voice. Make it loud.”

He paused for a beat, and said, “Now I want everyone listening to say a single word aloud. Believe. Can you say it? Believe. If you believe that by putting your energy into something, it will work, then say that single word. Believe.”

Kitchen gave him a baffled look.

Do it, Hardare wrote on the pad.

“Believe,” Kitchen said into the mike.

“That’s it,” encouraged Hardare. “Believe. Now I want everyone to close their eyes and concentrate. Concentrate on some appliance in your home which is broken. It can be a clock, or a wristwatch, or a timer on the stove that doesn’t work. It can be a radio, or a television set on the blink, or a clogged garbage disposal. Think of a broken appliance and think hard.”

Hardare pulled up his chair, his mouth inches from the mike. “With your eyes closed, think of that appliance, and superimpose a single word over it in your mind. That word is work. Work. In gigantic letters stamp that word over that appliance. Work. You want it to work. I want it to work. Let’s say it together.”

“Work,” echoed Kitchen.

“I’m going to count to five. With each number say work out loud, concentrating on that appliance. Ready?”

He paused and looked through the glass; Wondero and Rittenbaugh were staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“One. Two. Three. Four... five. Now shout, Work! Work! Work! Forget about the neighbors. Wake up the kids. Shout it as loud as you can. Work. Work.”

Hardare leaned back in his swivel chair to watch the clock above them. After ten seconds swept by he said, “We did it. You and I. Those broken appliances are now working. Go ahead; go into the next room. Take a look. See for yourselves.”

Really? Kitchen scribbled.

Really. Hardare wrote.

How?

It works itself, Hardare wrote. Open up the lines.

“Folks, our phone lines are open. Call in, and tell us how this phenomena has affected you.”

The phone on the desk was quiet. No callers. Kitchen glanced at Hardare and saw an odd look on his face. Was this a joke?

“The number is 888-KOLL,” he said, feeling ridiculous. “Call in. We want to hear from you.”

A line lit up on the phone. Then a second, and a third, then all six lines lit up. Kitchen grabbed the receiver.

“Now the fun starts,” Hardare whispered.

“Go ahead,” Kitchen said, “you’re on the air.”

Marjorie Hooks was in the kitchen of her apartment in Lawndale clipping coupons when all the commotion erupted on the radio. At eighty-six she’d outgrown anything resembling a good night’s sleep, and Kenny Kitchen was nice company at this lonely hour. She especially liked the call-ins, the different voices filling her kitchen in a friendly way, like the smell of a casserole on the stove, except tonight’s show had affected her oddly ... Kenny’s guest practically shouting at her, as if he knew she was half deaf. It was unsettling, but Hooks was listening hard. There was a quality in his voice that in a small way reminded her of a preacher. Mrs. Hooks put down her peeler, and when the man said so, shut her eyes.

“Work, work, work,” she said aloud, thinking of all the confound things in her apartment that needed repair.

She opened her eyes. Her body was tingling with electricity like the night before, when she had guessed all the sayings correctly on Wheel of Fortune. Spinning her wheelchair around the table, she squealed across the linoleum toward the living room, passed the ancient stove, and stopped on a dime.

“Oh my, isn’t that something.”

She wheeled closer, her eyes barely retaining their focus on the broken stove clock as the second hand swept around the grease riddled face. The man on the radio had fixed it!

Picking up her telephone, she dialed the station’s call letters.

“Chip. Chip. Do you hear me, young man? I want you to turn off that flashlight and go to bed.” Light flooded into the bedroom as his mother opened the door. “I see you under the covers. Now turn off that light. It’s past midnight.”

“Okay.” He clicked off the flashlight. “Goodnight.”

“You get some sleep, young man. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” His mother shut the door. Chip held his breath, listening to her slippered feet pad down the upstairs hall.

That was close. He turned up the volume of his portable radio, hoping he hadn’t missed any of the excitement. Kenny Kitchen always had the greatest guests — astrologers, ghost chasers, mountain men on the trail of Bigfoot — and now he had found someone who could read minds. One of the callers had shouted at Kitchen, and Hardare had shouted at the caller, and now Hardare was shouting at everybody — it was great stuff! Then Kitchen came on and gave a number, and Chip couldn’t stand it anymore. Climbing out of bed, he slipped into his bathrobe and slippers, and crept silently downstairs to the kitchen.

He stole into the bathroom with the kitchen phone under his arm and dialed the number. Busy. He dialed again. Still busy.

“Come on.” He dialed again.

“KOLL,” an operator answered.

He tried to make his voice sound husky. “Am I on the air?”

“No sir, this is the switchboard. Do you have something to report?”

“Uhh... yes, I do,” he stammered, desperately trying to come up with a good one. “My car started.”

“Your car?”

“That’s right. The battery was dead. I was listening to your show, and I went outside and tried it. Started up just like that.” Chip clicked his fingers the way his father always did.

“That’s amazing sir. Where do you live?”

“Uh... Hollywood.”

“Thank you for calling in.”

“No problem.” Chip heard the line disconnect. He put his hand against his chest and felt his heart pounding against his rib cage. He returned the phone to the kitchen, petted their sleeping sheltie on the head, and tip-toed upstairs. His bed was still warm, and turning up the radio, he returned to the darkly mysterious world beneath the sheets.

“Folks, my station manager has just told me we’ve gotten over two hundred calls in the past minute.” Kitchen skimmed through a stack of messages the manager had handed him and randomly started to read. “A woman in Westwood called to say her dishwasher now works. A man in Century City had his clock start. We’ve gotten a flood of calls from Burbank: electric utensils, TVs, a sinkerator, radios. And folks, a man in Hollywood called to say the dead battery on his car started. Unbelievable.”

A tech wearing a Grateful Dead tee shirt came into the sound booth and whispered into Kitchen’s ear.

“Folks, I’ve just been told that our switchboards are jammed. I know you want to share your experiences with us, but for the time being please, no more calls. If too many of you call at once, we’ll blow our circuits.”

To his guest he said, “Hardare, I don’t know how you did it, but hundreds of people have reported repairs of all sorts of appliances. This is a mind-blower.”

“And I know there are thousands more,” Hardare said, raising his voice. “And I want every single one of them to let us know!”

“But they can’t call in,” Kitchen objected, growing exasperated. “I think you just heard...”

“Forget the phones,” Hardare said. “We could be here all night. I want all of you out there listening to go to a light by a window in your home, and flick it on and off. Do it now. If we have shared something special over the airwaves this evening, then I think it’s important that we share it with each other. Get up, and turn on that light!”

Through the glass Wondero and Rittenbaugh glared at him. The glint of hopeful anticipation he’d kindled in their faces moments ago had been transformed into looks of dreadful aggrandizement. You’re crazy, their looks said, and we’re responsible.

While Kitchen did a promo for a new sponsor, Hardare scribbled on a notepad, and held it up to the glass.

GO OUTSIDE TAKE A LOOK

The detectives left without a word.

“What in God’s name is your father doing?” Jan asked, standing awestruck by the living room window of their hotel suite. Across the expansive cityscape of LA hundreds of lights had started to flicker until the night sky was ablaze with pinpoints of flashing yellow dots.

“It looks like lightning bugs in the summertime,” Crystal murmured, her nose pressed to the glass. “Look at that apartment building; there must be twenty lights going on and off.”

“I didn’t think something like this was possible,” Jan said. She was her husband’s best critic, and when he fooled her with a trick, it made her feel that she did not fully know him, and that a part of his personality was still a dark and hidden mystery.

“Come on, Jan,” Crystal said. “Did you really think you know all of Dad’s secrets?”

“I guess not,” Jan said.

The number of flicking lights continued to grow. On a distant freeway, passing motorists were flicking their headlights as if in a road rally. It was like a big game, and Crystal began flicking the overhead light in rhythm with the lights outside.

“What are you doing?” Jan asked.

“Playing along,” she exclaimed. “Why should everyone else have all the fun?”

Hardare found Wondero and Rittenbaugh standing by the gigantic antenna on the roof of KOLL, watching the blinking lights gradually fade across the city. A wind whipped across the roof and the detectives moved away from the building’s edge.

“Harry and I have seen a lot of strange things, but nothing compared to this,” Rittenbaugh said.

“We were trying to figure out how to explain this to our superiors,” Wondero added, cupping his hands around a match to light a cigarette. “Telekinesis? Mass hypnosis, mass illusions. What exactly would you call it?”

“It combines a lot of principles,” Hardare said.

“Including mass gullibility?” Wondero asked.

“You’re warm,” Hardare said.

Wondero smiled. “You owe me lunch,” he told his partner. To Hardare he said, “We had a little wager. Casey thought you had stooges calling in; I figured you were pulling a stunt similar to Orson Wells’ War of The Worlds. It was all in the presentation. You really didn’t repair any broken appliances. You just made people think that you did.”

“You’re right,” Hardare said. “There are always a small group of people who will believe just about anything. Those people initially called the station. Their calls created a snowball effect. Others call in because they want to be noticed, and bask in the spotlight.”

“Pretty soon everyone wants to get in on the act,” Wondero concluded.

“Right. They look out their windows, see a neighbor turning on a light, and decide to turn on a light, too. In this illusion, it’s the audience’s collective imagination that makes the trick work.” Hardare paused before asking the inevitable. “What next?”

“We wait,” said Rittenbaugh. “It’s his move.”

“That doesn’t sound terribly promising.”

“You scared him into calling the station,” Wondero said. “This is the first time we’ve actually heard him. He’s starting to get sloppy, and in police work that’s an encouraging sign.”

The door to the roof banged open, and the detectives spun around on their heels. Kenny Kitchen ran out, breathless.

“He called... minute after show ended,” Kitchen said. His eyes had a wild, disoriented look. His voice faltering, he said, “He played another tape for me. He called it his greatest hits. It had dozens of different voices on it... women dying, crying pathetically. I couldn’t stand it, had to hang up on him.”

Hardare put his arm around Kitchen’s trembling shoulders. “It’s okay Kenny. I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

“Oh God, Vince,” Kitchen said. “It sounded like something right out of hell.”

Chapter 9

Eugene

“Help.”

Straining beneath the agonizing weight of a barbell, Eugene Osbourne heard the women’s voice and felt his pumped and gleaming muscles involuntarily stiffen. The voice was too close.

“Help.”

Resting the barbell behind his head, he rose from the weight bench that sat in the middle of the otherwise empty dining room, and silently slipped into the downstairs hallway. Early morning sunlight filtered through the dirty windows.

“Help.” A fist banged against the front door. “Please come out and help me.”

Osbourne checked his wig and false eyebrows in a mirror before throwing the dead bolt on the door. A fiftyish, pear-shaped woman stood breathlessly before him. Her wrinkled face looked familiar, yet he did not bother to consider from where.

“What do you want?”

“Mr. Kozlowski... fell out of bed... I can’t lift him—”

“Go away. Leave me alone.”

“—I live next door,” she said, pointing at the bungalow that sat twenty feet away. “Oh please. You’re a big, strong man. I’ve seen you lift heavy boxes into your truck.”

“No.”

She looked at him beseechingly, her fingers clawing the screen door. “Please. I don’t want to have to call the police.”

“The police,” Osbourne said, stiffening.

“Mr. Kozlowski fell out of bed and I hurt my back and can’t lift him,” she said, the words shaming her into a sudden fit of anger. “Oh, to hell with you! Go back to your steroids,” she exclaimed and stormed off the porch.

Osbourne hesitated, envisioning the police parked out front. What if they saw the illegal burn pail he kept in the back yard, or the broken light on his van, and decided to issue him a ticket. They might even ask to come inside the house.

“Wait.”

The woman halted in the narrow driveway that separated the two pieces of property. He came out of his house and joined her.

“Name’s Myrtle Jones,” she said curtly.

“I’m Eugene.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Through a back door they entered a kitchen with peeling linoleum floors and ancient appliances. A delicious aroma stopped him in his tracks and he blinked, the smell triggering a plethora of buried thoughts and pleasures.

“Come on,” she said impatiently, already bossing him. “He’s down here.”

The darkened hallway led to a small bedroom. What looked like a mummy lay half-draped in sheets on the floor beside a hospital bed. Kneeling, he gathered Mr. Kozlowski in his arms.

The old man was as light as a feather, his frail, withered body more dead than alive. Osbourne looked into his face and saw a flicker of recognition. The old man’s lips moved silently.

“He’s thanking you,” she explained, tucking him in with care. “Mr. Kozlowski was quite an athlete, used to climb mountains all over the world. Sometimes I think he dreams he’s back at Kilimanjaro — he scaled that one, you know — and manages to take the arms down and climb out of his bed.”

“Your welcome,” Osbourne told him.

Back in the kitchen the aroma again caught him. She brushed past him, grabbing a potholder and banging open the oven. “Damn timer!” she swore, dropping a sheet of chocolate cookies on the range. “It never works. Did you hear about that man on the radio last night? He made broken stuff repair itself all over the city. I sure wish I’d been listening; there’s enough stuff around this place that needs fixing.”

While she fussed with the knobs on the oven, Osbourne leaned over the freshly baked cookies and inhaled deeply.

“What are they?”

“Huh?” Myrtle Jones said.

“What kind are they. They smell... different.”

“Heavenly chocolate is what my Grandma used to call them. They’re a secret family recipe.”

“Can I have some?”

“I don’t see why not. Seeing how you helped me.”

He piled cookies into his hand until they were slipping through his fingers, then headed toward the door.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how they taste?” she said, filled with indignation.

He stopped at the door. “Oh. Sure.” He popped one in his mouth and bit down, feeling the syrupy sweet chocolate overwhelm his senses. With a full mouth he said, “They’re tasty.”

“If you’re going to eat a cookie, do it right.”

Opening the refrigerator, she removed a carton of milk and poured a glass of milk. “Dip one in that. Go ahead. Tell me if that isn’t the best darn thing you’ve ever tasted.”

Eugene dipped a cookie into the milk, and popped it into his mouth. He made a happy sound, and dipped a second cookie, then a third, until the cookies in his hand were gone.

“More,” he said.

“Help yourself.”

Myrtle watched him eat, marveling at his seemingly inexhaustible appetite. She’d seen him countless times before, hiding in his house as she wheeled Mr. Kozlowski around the block, but this was her first good look. His face was ordinary, with a square jaw and a flat nose, but something about it struck her as odd. Then she realized what. His skin. It was pale white and perfectly smooth, not a trace of a beard, a face as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled through a mouth full.

“Have some more. You think these are as good as the ones you carry in your van?”

Osbourne’s head snapped, his cold, steely eyes locking on her face. Thinking it was indigestion, she dismissed the look with a wave of her hand. “I watch you load up when I can’t sleep. All those candy bars and potato chips and cookies must drive you crazy. You sell them to stores?”

“Vending machines,” he said.

“I bet you sneak a couple of bars on the side sometimes.”

“Stuff tastes like shit,” he said. Standing, he finished the milk and said, “I’ve got to go.”

Myrtle stood up with him, wishing he’d stay. Sometimes it got so lonely she thought about leaving all the doors wide open and inviting a burglar in, just to have someone to chat with.

“Thanks for the help,” she said through the screen as he crossed the yard. When he did not respond, Myrtle raised her voice. “Say, how about joining us for dinner tonight? I’ve got a pot roast and a homemade chocolate cake that will bring tears to your eyes. If you’re busy, I could bring a plate of food over later—”

Osbourne spun around. “No, don’t do that.”

“—oh, that’s right, you work nights.”

Osbourne heard the catch in her voice; she watched him, knew this was night off. “Not tonight,” he said. “I’ve got a date.”

Myrtle Jones could not hide the disappointment in her voice. “Oh. Well, you have a nice time. Maybe you can take a rain check.”

“Is your chocolate cake homemade?”

She had him. Smiling, she said, “It sure is.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, walking away.

Chapter 10

Tawny

Tawny Starr was a talking head.

On the Hollywood strip that was a pretty big deal, even gave you bragging rights. She had been in a movie, actually said a line, and that was as close a brush with stardom as any of the vicious drag queens and hookers she shared the streets with ever came to. Seventeen, broke and living three months in L.A., she had walked onto a set at Universal Studios, and nabbed a speaking role in a flick with Brad and Angie directed by Syd Marcus and the Oscar-winning Czech cameraman with the backward last name. It wasn’t much, a crummy line, “That will be five dollars.” while serving colored water to Brad’s stand-in inside a noisy nightclub, but it got her name in the bottom of the credits, and qualified her for a SAG card.

Talking head. A cameramen had called her that, and Tawny had thought he was making fun of the way her jaw stuck out when she spoke. Humiliated, she’d wept behind a backdrop until a chummy make-up girl pulled her into one of the trailers, and they’d done a few lines. In every movie, the make-up girl explained, there were characters who had no real identity; faces in the crowd who said things, then disappeared. These characters could be anyone, or look like anything, it really didn’t matter, just so long as they said their lines clearly. In the business these actors were called talking heads.

It had started innocently enough. She was standing in front of Schwabs when a stretch limo pulled up and the passenger window went down. Inside sat a graying studio exec with a funny look in his eyes. No words were spoken, no proposition made. He had simply held up a gold straw while his Oriental driver got out and opened the back door. Tawny had hopped in.

The exec had a lot of class. They’d eaten dinner at a swanky Vietnamese joint called Le Duc, taken a midnight drive through Malibu, then home to Beverly Hills to snort more coke and screw. The next day they woke at noon, did more lines on an Italian marble coffee table, and screwed some more. When they were finished, he’d announced he was going to put her into a movie.

“Give me a break,” Tawny had said.

He had. Down to the MGM lot that afternoon and she was on a movie set being measured for a cocktail waitress’s outfit, then whisked to a sound stage. They had shot her scene four times, then called it a wrap. On the way out she was given a check and made to fill out her first tax form. That night she phoned the exec, dated him a few more times, but couldn’t wrangle any more parts. He was Mister Busy, and had promised to call.

For a while she had gone on casting calls, and tried to avoid the streets. When the last of her money ran out, she took a job selling black leather panties and other freaky stuff in a boutique called Slut. Working behind the counter she might get noticed, offered another part, and it would lead to something; that was how the dream went back then.

Tawny got noticed, mostly by men buying birthday presents for their wives, and she regularly turned down dates, endless drugs, and weekends in Aspen and Maui. She didn’t see the point in making someone else happy when it didn’t make her happier. Or a little less broke.

After a month in Slut her eyes began to wander. Down the block from the store, a white-haired chick had come up with a real calling card. Twirling a boa constrictor, she let it wrap itself in a life-threatening coil around her throat. Sometimes a Mercedes or BMW would pull up, and the chick would jump in, off on another adventure. A few hours later she’d be back twirling the boa, a few bucks richer.

Tawny had decided to give the streets a shot. From her closet she dug out a halter top and shorts, and painted metallic thunderbolts on her fingernails. She hated whoring, but on the street there was action and the chance, no matter how slim, that someone would pluck her out of the slime, and put her smiling face back in front of the cameras. A one in a million shot; that was how the dream went now.

The black Eldorado bumped the curb.

“Hey sweetheart,” called the driver. “Come over here. Don’t be shy.”

Tawny leaned seductively against the newspaper machine, a stationary object on a street whirling with rough trade.

“What are you hiding,” she said, trying to make him out. “I don’t like what I can’t see.”

A dim light illuminated the car’s interior. “You’re a fox. Slide over this way. I won’t bite.”

She edged up to the gleaming, factory new car. Now visible, the john shot her a sorry smile. His face was old and weathered and he wore a black muscleman shirt that barely held in the tire of flab around his mid-section. I have a daughter about your age, he would confess as he started to do the grossest thing imaginable to her. Give her my regrets, Tawny would want to say.

“Are you available?” he asked, flashing another smile.

Something about the guy felt wrong. Tawny had learned to trust her intuition, and banged her hand on the hood of the car.

“Take it someplace else, Pops.”

The Eldorado bolted with a rubbery squeal, and she watched its taillights disappear in the traffic.

The bad feeling in her gut would not go away. She crossed against the light and walked five blocks to Madrid, a pickup joint that she sometimes frequented.

Madrid’s parking lot was packed. In its center, four police vans were parked in a tight circle. Another roundup. Girls she knew were being handcuffed, others herded into the fun buses. Tawny started walking backwards in the shadows, and when she was sure no one had spotted her, ran in her heels down the street. She ducked into a video arcade.

She found an old Bally shoved against the back wall, and fed a quarter into a machine that had been rewired to give only three balls and no Free games. As the machine came to life, she imagined the constant thunder of tumbling pins, and thought about her mother playing in the Women’s Baptist Church League every Tuesday night, and never able to break one-sixty.

“Hey, beautiful. What’s your name?”

A big dude edged up beside her, his eyes hidden behind a pair of wraparound shades that people wore in L.A. to make tourists think they didn’t want to be recognized.

“Tawny. What’s yours?”

“Bob. My friends call me Bobbie. Want to go on a date? We could have drinks, maybe a bite to eat...”

Tawny crossed her arms, gave him the deep freeze.

“Or we could act like big kids, and head straight for my place. I live up in the hills.”

She didn’t like his approach. “It’s going to cost you. Two-fifty an hour.”

He gave her a boyish grin. “Really? Why did I think you were picking me up.”

“Fuck off.”

She stormed out of the arcade. At the corner she started to cross when he came up from behind, pinching her arm.

“Come on. I was only joking.”

“Get your goddamned hands off me.”

“Calm down. How about two hundred?”

“Two-fifty. Take it or leave it.”

“Come on. Every price is negotiable.”

“Not tonight. And not for you.”

“You, my dear, are a little whore.”

“So was your mother.”

He pinched her arm and made her cry. Her foot found his groin, and he doubled over. Pulling off her shoes, she ran across the busy street and halfway down the next block before glancing over her shoulder. He was gone.

Every guy in this sleazy town had a come on. Even the married ones. At the next block she waited for the light with a dispirited bag lady. The bag lady opened her mouth, and a torrent of obscenities spewed out. Tawny stared in horror past her. Bobbie was knocking people down running towards her, eyes ablaze.

She ran into the street, dodging one car and then a delivery truck. A man delivering pizzas swerved into another lane, not wanting to get involved. She screamed belligerently at him, then saw a dorky guy wearing a baseball cap drive by in a Celica, and banged on his windshield.

“Please help me. That guy is trying to hurt me.”

His window came down. “Get in.”

Tawny jumped in. Bobbie grabbed her door before she could close it, and tried to pull her out. Leaning across the seat, the driver punched him in the face. Bobbie fell hard on the pavement with blood pouring from his mouth. The Celica pulled away, and Tawny clapped her hands together and let out an elated squeal.

“That was the best,” Tawny said.

“Thanks.” Her rescuer sheepishly averted his eyes and drove away. He wore a Dodger baseball cap and thick black glasses.

“What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

Textbooks lay on the back seat. Calculus. A book on the fall of the Roman empire. Henry James. Tawny wondered what it would be like to go to bed with a nerd, and blow his socks off.

“Thanks a lot, Tom.”

He smiled nervously. “Was that guy... your husband?”

“Ha-ha. You moonlight telling jokes?”

“Sorry. Guess that was a pretty dumb question.”

“Know where the Las Palmas hotel is?”

“Sure. It’s on my way.”

“What are you studying?”

“I’m taking a few classes in education. This might be another dumb question, but that guy back there, do you even know him?”

“Not his name. But I sure know his kind.”

“You a hooker,” he asked, watching the street.

“You a Boy Scout?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Tommy the Boy Scout. My good deed today was helping a hooker get home safely.” He took a sharp right off the Strip, and a mile later parked beneath the blinking neon sign of the seedy Las Palmas. “Well, nice meeting you.”

“You too,” she said, opening her door.

“Wait a minute,” he said in alarm.

She followed his gaze. On the sidewalk in front of the hotel lay a smoldering cigarette butt. Someone had been there moments before, yet had managed to become invisible. Tawny shut her door, not moving. “He followed us,” she said under her breath.

“Sit tight.”

He got out and had a look around, then got back in. “Must of been my imagination. It’s okay; you’re safe with me.”

He wasn’t much to look at, but he cared, and Tawny liked that. Their eyes met, and behind the glasses she saw the wanting look that was always there in her line of work. She placed her hand on his left thigh. “Like that, Tom?”

“Yes. I think... you’re very pretty.”

She ran her forefinger up the pant seam to the growing bulge in his crotch and put her mouth up to his ear. “Want a BJ?”

“Sure.”

She pulled down his zipper. “I’m going to tell you a little secret. I’m not really a hooker. I’m an actress.”

“Really?”

“I was in Straight and Narrow. Do you remember the scene in the disco, and the girl who serves Brad Pitt a martini? That was me. I had a line.”

“That’s tremendous. Are you going to be in any more films?”

“Someday.”

“Wow. I always wanted to kill someone famous.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

Their eyes met, and Tawny knew right then she’d jumped into a car with a madman. She tried to scream, and he grabbed her by the throat. Reaching beneath the dashboard, he drew a knife, and in one swift, practiced motion, plunged it deep into her chest.

Tawny felt the life seep from her body as the Celica drove around the hotel, and her passenger door was opened. Felt a pair of hands drag her out of the passenger seat, and dump her body into an open garbage can, then heard the car pull away.

She grew weak, and started to pass out. She did not want to die like this. She thought of her poor mother, and how she’d react. She’d never cared how her mother felt, yet she did now.

She heard a man’s deep voice. Thinking she’d died and gone to heaven, she opened her eyes, and saw a homeless person standing over her, his hands rifling her pockets. She grabbed his arm.

“Please help me,” she whispered.

Chapter 11

Wondero

On their twentieth wedding anniversary, Wondero’s wife had given him a propane grill from Sears, and on the same day they had nearly gotten a divorce trying to assemble it. It had more parts than an automobile engine, and too many that did not fit the way the instructions said they would. In the end they had kissed and made up, and Wondero had slid the grill into a corner of the garage, hoping to never see it again.

But on a sunny Saturday afternoon a month later he pulled the grill out and fired it up, just to see if the home breaker actually worked. In a few minutes he was a convert: the flames were evenly distributed over the layer of lava rocks, the grid hissing like a cat. Going inside, he found a platter of raw hamburgers on the kitchen table, his wife fixing cole slaw, smiling at him. His kids raced past in their bathing suits, the dog on their heels, and before he could yell about dog hair in the pool, he heard the splash.

He groaned and Corey tossed him a cold beer.

“That’s what Saturdays are for,” she reminded him.

She was right; he needed to loosen up. Taking the portable radio outside, he turned the volume up so it competed with his kid’s screams. A few minutes later Corey brought out a plate of buns to be toasted. “You’ve got a phone call from downtown.”

Over the radio he heard the sweet sound of a baseball hitting a bat. The tone in her voice suggested it was nothing important. Irritated, he went inside to his study, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

The line was dead. He hung up feeling a lump in his throat. The house had grown quiet and he went into the kitchen and looked outside. Everyone was gone. Corey, the kids, all the food, everything but the grill. In the pool he saw something floating, and sticking his face against the sliding glass door, realized it was the dog.

He shuddered, feeling all of his internal alarms go off. In the stillness he could feel a deadly entity lurking somewhere within his home. For a long moment he felt paralyzed; his worst nightmare had come true.

He stumbled through the downstairs, unable to find his gun in any of its usual hiding places, his stomach feeling like it was about to explode. Dread, he had learned long ago, was like nausea with horns.

He climbed the stairs knowing he was too late.

He found Corey upstairs in their bedroom. Death had ripped her clothes off, used nylon stockings to tie her wrists to the headboard of their bed, and slit her throat from ear to ear.

He found my son’s dismembered body in his room down the hall, the stereo turned up to a deafening roar. On the wall of his son’s room was a huge map of the United States. In blood Death had scrawled Everyone Dies!

He found his daughter in the bathroom, drowned in the toilet, the bottom of her bikini pulled down to her knees.

“Looking for me, Harry?” he heard a voice ask.

Wondero gently laid his daughter’s body on the bathroom floor and moved into the hall. Death stood at the other end, a 12 gauge shotgun cradled in his arms, rocking it like a baby. Wondero charged him as if fired out of a cannon, no longer caring about his own welfare, and saw the tiny ball of flame leave the gun’s barrel even before he heard the gun’s violent retort.

“What happened then?”

“Corey woke me up.”

“Have some water.”

Wondero took a sip of Evian. “Thanks.”

“What did Death look like?”

“Same as before,” Wondero said. “No hair, no eyebrows, pale white skin, really strange eyes.”

“Did anything about him stand out from the previous dreams?”

“He had this look on his face.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Gleeful. He was having the time of his life.”

His psychiatrist scribbled in the log he had kept of Wondero’s reoccurring nightmares, the entries dating back six months to when the dreams had first started, and Wondero had suspected he was beginning to lose his mind.

“Anything else?” Dr. Kaufman asked.

“It was like I told you before,” Wondero said. “It didn’t feel like a dream. It was all very real: the grill, the kids horsing around, the dog, I could even smell the burgers cooking. Most of my dreams are goofy, or have things out of context. Like I’m at the office walking around in my underwear and nobody says anything. This dream wasn’t like that. It was like watching a home video.”

His psychiatrist gave him a perplexed look. “Except none of those things you described have happened.”

“No,” Wondero said.

“Then it was a dream. Your subconscious is making you dream of this faceless man in response to your inner torment of not being able to catch this killer. It’s a common occurrence for people under stress.”

“I don’t know,” Wondero admitted, finishing his water.

“Don’t know what, Harry?”

“I feel like... I’m being warned.”

Kaufman gave him a measured stare, then glanced obliquely at his wristwatch, scowled dejectedly, and stood up. For the second time in as many weeks they had run over and squandered another patient’s precious minutes.

“Still fit for service?” Wondero said.

“I think so,” Kaufman said, showing him to the door.

“See you next week.”

Rittenbaugh was hurrying through the lobby of the station house as Wondero came in, and grabbed Harry by the arm.

“I think we hit pay dirt,” Rittenbaugh said.

His partner did not explain until they were in the car, weaving through traffic. “Last night a homeless guy found a hooker in a garbage can with a knife stuck in her chest. He called an ambulance, and they took her to Hollywood Community and hooked her up to life support. Cop at the hospital searched the hooker’s clothes for ID, and realized the homeless guy had cleaned her out. He tracked the homeless guy down on Sunset Strip this morning, and busted him.”

“I’m sure there is a moral to all of this,” Wondero said.

“There is. The homeless guy admitted he rolled the victim, and produced a note he found in her pocket. It’s from Death.”

A dilapidated pick-up sliced through two lanes of traffic, cutting them off. When Rittenbaugh punched the horn, the pony-tailed driver gave them the finger, and they simultaneously flashed their badges.

“Get a haircut,” Rittenbaugh yelled as they passed.

“Is the hooker still alive?”

“Yeah. He finally missed.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tawny Starr.”

“Has it hit any of the papers?”

“She’s a hooker, Harry,” Rittenbaugh said, turning into the hospital parking lot. “It won’t get noticed unless we release the note. The bad news is she’s in rough shape.”

“Can she talk?”

“I don’t think so.”

The black plastic mask that covered Tawny Starr’s nose and mouth reminded Wondero of a piece of outdated scuba equipment. A metal lung hung beside the bed, pumping oxygen into her chest. Her eyes looked tired and old, as if in the past few hours her internal clock had sped up, and her whole life had slipped by.

Beside the bed sat an Asian police artist doing a pencil sketch on a white pad. He paused to display his work. Her glassy eyes studied the sketch, and blinked heavily.

Wondero got behind the artist and had a look. The drawing showed a homely man in his mid-thirties with flared nostrils and a low forehead. A Dodgers cap covered most of his head, and a pair of glasses disguised his face. What set him apart were his eyes. They were a maniac’s eyes, and bulged out of his head. He also did not appear to have eyebrows, and Wondero wondered if this was intentional, or if the artist was planning to charcoal them in.

He went into the hall. Rittenbaugh was grilling the uniform who’d brought the victim in.

“This is Detective Harry Wondero,” Rittenbaugh said. “Harry, meet Ben Jackson. Ben, would you mind repeating what you just said?”

“Sure.” Jackson tilted his styrofoam cup, tapping out the last drop of coffee with his finger. “Like I told your partner, EMS thought she was dead, her pulse was so low. As she was being put in the ambulance, her eyes popped open, and she started talking. I asked her if she saw the guy who stabbed her, and she gives me this awful stare and whispers “He looked like you.” I said, “Like me?” and she says, “With a baseball cap.” So I said, “Do you remember anything else?” and she says, “He had schoolbooks.” Then I heard her say, “Red Warrior.” Then she passed out.”

Listening to him speak, Wondero knew Jackson was a rookie. That was why he had hung around the hospital, instead of filling out a report and going home to sleep, or to his other job.

“What do you think she meant?” Rittenbaugh asked.

“I wish I knew,” Jackson said.

Wondero said, “Were there any witnesses?”

“She was dumped behind the Las Palmas hotel. Plenty of people were around, only no one saw a thing.”

Wondero stared down the empty hospital corridor. How many times had it happened? How many times had the woman living next door sworn she’d seen nothing? Or the man walking his dog hadn’t heard a sound. Or the party of teenagers on the beach thought the screams were gulls fighting over garbage brought in by the tide.

Without another word, Wondero walked back into the victim’s room. Rittenbaugh slapped Jackson’s shoulder.

“Thanks a lot. I appreciate your hanging around.”

“I hope it helps,” the uniform said.

“Everything helps,” Rittenbaugh told him.

The police artist was finishing up as Wondero entered the room. Tawny Starr had shut her eyes and her breathing had grown shallow. Wondero picked up the clipboard hanging from her bed. Her real name was Tawny Starkowski, hometown unknown. He glanced at her birth date. Seventeen. The same age as his daughter.

Wondero said, “Did you show her the sketch?”

“Afraid not. She went under right after you left the room,” the artist said.

He hung the clipboard back on the railing. If Tawny didn’t point at the sketch, utter the words “That’s him!” or say something similar in front of a reliable witness, than what she’d told Jackson was worthless.

A female doctor entered the room along with a nurse. The doctor took Tawny’s pulse and lifted one of her eyelids.

“Is there any chance she’ll come back around?” Wondero asked.

“You must be the police,” the doctor said.

Wondero felt like he’d been slapped in the face. “I need to speak with her. She may be able to help us catch a killer.”

“Not today.” She scribbled away on the clipboard hanging from Tawny’s bed.

“Please answer my question,” Wondero said.

“It’s not in my hands anymore.”

She spoke to the nurse, who quickly left the room.

“Yes, or no,” Wondero said.

“You don’t let up, do you?”

Wondero waited her out.

“All right. No, I don’t think she’ll recover. It’s a miracle she’s lasted this long.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your professional opinion.”

“Oh, go to hell,” the doctor said.

Wondero and his partner went to a a doughnut shop two blocks from the hospital where, two hours before, there had been an armed robbery. The store manager still wore the shocked expression of someone who had seen his life flash before his eyes, and been angered by the futility of it. He banged the register shut and slapped their change onto the counter. They hid in the rear of the store, eating grape jelly doughnuts and drinking coffee.

“We need to release the sketch to the media,” Wondero said.

“Can’t,” his partner said. “The victim never confirmed it.”

“We can say she did.”

“Who will back us up? Not Jackson, and not the police artist. It’s a bad idea, Harry.”

“But we know what he looks like. If we put the sketch out there, and someone sees it, they might identify him.”

“We’ve got to play by the rules, Harry.”

Wondero sucked down the rest of his coffee. “I’ve got another idea.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Just listen. We know a more about Death than we did before. We have a vague idea what he looks like, and we know that last night he was driving around the strip impersonating a college student. What makes this significant is this. Death doesn’t know that we know. He thinks he killed Tawny Starr.”

“I don’t see how that helps us, Harry.”

“We give the sketch to Hardare.”

“I’m not reading you.”

“We take him to the scene of the crime. Bring reporters. Let him do the psychic number. He draws the sketch, and says this is what the killer looks like. The newspapers won’t have any problem printing it then.”

Rittenbaugh buried his head in his hands. “You’re sounding like something straight out of the nut house.”

“Hardare scared him once,” Wondero insisted. “He can do it again. We have to use the sketch.”

“It’s one thing to bend the rules, it’s another when you break them.”

“Bad deeds, good intentions.”

“I suppose you think one balances the other.”

“I wouldn’t stay on the force if I did. But in this situation, I think it’s warranted.”

Rittenbaugh licked the jelly off his finger. “I think you’re wrong, Harry. But if you want me to play along, I’m game.”

“You will?”

“Sure. You’ve backed me up when I’ve been wrong.”

Wondero stared into space. He could not rid himself of the image of Death running amuck in his house, butchering his family. Only now he saw himself standing in the bathroom doorway, blocking the path to his daughter. In his hands was a long gleaming sword, and although it was no match for Death’s shotgun, he was able to take a full swing just before the gun went off, and felt it sever flesh and bone.

Chapter 12

Ebell

The Wilshire Ebell Theater was known simply as the Ebell to the people of Los Angeles, and had been showcased a wide variety of live performances for nearly a hundred years. Wondero drove straight to the theater with his partner, and parked on Lucerne next to the ornate building. Inside, he found the two detectives assigned to bodyguard Hardare and his family in the lobby.

“What are you doing out here?” Wondero asked them.

“Hardare’s doing a dress rehearsal, and doesn’t want to be disturbed,” one of the detectives replied.

“Did you check the other entrances to make sure they were secure?”

“Sure did. The place is locked down.”

“Good.”

Wondero headed into the theater when his partner stopped him.

“He doesn’t want to be disturbed, Harry,” Rittenbaugh said.

“I didn’t hear that,” Wondero said.

Wondero pushed open a swinging door and entered the darkened theater. He had no idea what he was going to say to Hardare, and decided to just wing it. Walking down a center aisle, he heard music, then saw a spotlight come on, revealing an empty stage. The dress rehearsal had started, and he stopped to watch.

There was a puff of smoke in the center of the stage, and Hardare appeared out of thin air. He wore a European cut tuxedo with pleated pants, a white shirt with a starched collar, and black onyx and gold cufflinks that caught the light and made it sparkle in tiny pools around his hands. He looked at ease, at home within his fishbowl, his smile broadening at the rows of seats stretched out before him. He addressed the empty house.

“During the 1920’s, Houdini became engrossed in the spirit world while attempting to contact his beloved mother,” he began. “What he found in his search was something else entirely, and can be viewed here on this stage.”

The spotlight expanded, illuminating the innocent props that Wondero swore had not been there moments before: a black chair with a curved back, a black curtained cabinet six feet high and no wider than a phone booth, and a leather restraining device called a Kansas vest that hung on the back of the chair.

“I need the assistance of a member of the audience. You sir,” Hardare said, pointing at an empty seat in the front row. “Would you care to step forward?”

“Sure thing,” Wondero said loudly. Walking down the aisle, he climbed up the felt lined stairs to the stage. Frozen to his spot, Hardare’s eyes slowly registered on his face.

“For God’s sake, don’t do that,” Hardare said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Here,” Hardare said, throwing the Kansas vest into his hands. “I needed someone to help me anyway.”

“Can we talk first?” Wondero asked.

“Lets do both. I’ve got two union guys doing the lights and they get paid whether I work them or not.”

Wondero stretched the vest between his arms, and tested the straps to see if they were authentic. A Kansas vest — when coupled with a regulation pair of handcuffs to keep a prisoner’s hands from wandering — could not be escaped from. He fitted Hardare into the garment and did up the back.

“There is a pair of handcuffs on the table,” Hardare said. “Inspect them if you wish, and clamp them around my wrists.”

Wondero looked the cuffs over. “Look fine to me,” and as he turned, slipped them into his pocket while his other hand unsnapped the pair hanging on his belt. He clamped them on Hardare’s wrists, hoping he could not tell the difference.

“Thank you,” Hardare said enthusiastically, his stage persona on full wattage. “Directly behind me is a cabinet. Please open the curtain, step inside, and have a look around.”

Wondero drew the curtain and inspected the prop. With his car keys, he pried at several boards in the floor until he was sure they were not hinged.

“Everything’s copacetic.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give Detective Wondero a big hand for doing such a thorough job,” Hardare said.

The silence was deafening. Sensing he was making a jerk out of himself, Wondero said, “Sorry.”

Hardare entered the cabinet. Wondero drew the curtain for him, and noticed it was missing a foot of fabric at its top, leaving Hardare’s head plainly visible.

“Please step back. Just a few feet.”

Wondero obliged him. The lights on the stage dimmed while a pin light focused on Hardare’s grinning countenance. From behind the curtain a familiar looking silver pen appeared, and danced up to Hardare’s face, where the magician clasped it between his teeth.

“Hey, that’s my pen,” Wondero said.

Hardare parted his lips, and the pen eerily fell in slow motion from his mouth. Seeing it drop was like watching a film one frame at a time, and as the pin light expanded to include the entire cabinet, Wondero watched helplessly as his pen snaked out from beneath the curtain and made its ascent up the front without any visible means of support. On its way up, the pen paused briefly to do a little dance, taunting him, and Wondero forced himself not to lunge forward and snatch it out of the air.

“Here, catch,” Hardare said.

His pen flew a few feet into the air, landing on the stage. Wondero picked it up, examining it in the process. He was clueless.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“I’ve got something else of yours,” Hardare said. “Come here.”

Wondero sensed that he was about to be fooled again, and cautiously approached the cabinet.

“Stick both hands through the curtain. Go ahead.”

Wondero stuck his hands in, and a moment later, felt cold steel encircle his wrists. Realizing he’d been had, he jerked the curtain open and watched Hardare walk out, the Kansas vest still firmly secured to his body.

“Christmas,” Wondero said. He tugged at his own handcuffs encircling his wrists. This was as bad as someone stealing his gun. “I can’t reach the key,” he said awkwardly.

“Very well,” Hardare said. “Close the curtain.”

Wondero pulled the curtain closed. An instant later a woman’s red hair appeared at the top of the curtain, and like a ghostly apparition Hardare’s beautiful wife stepped out of the cabinet wearing a skintight black outfit.

“Where did you come from,” Wondero said in astonishment.

“Indiana, originally,” Jan said. She went to her husband’s aid, undoing the leather straps holding him prisoner, and he in turn unlocked Wondero’s handcuffs.

“That was a dirty trick, detective,” Hardare said.

“Sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” Wondero said.

“You don’t like to be fooled, do you?”

“Guess not. I’ve got another favor to ask.”

“Hold on.”

Hardare walked to the edge of the stage, and spoke to the technicians up in the booth. “We’re done guys. Thanks.” He came back to where Wondero stood. “Let’s talk in my dressing room.”

The dressing room was tiny and cramped. A cage with a Dutch dwarf rabbit munching on lettuce sat in the corner. Hardare and his wife leaned against the make-up table.

“Death struck again last night,” Wondero said. “He picked up a prostitute and stabbed her. Luckily, she didn’t die, and was able to tell a police artist what he looks like. I want to release the sketch to the press, only our victim fell unconscious before confirming it.”

“Is she going to die?” Jan asked quietly.

“I’m afraid so. It puts me in a bad situation. I know what our killer looks like, only the law prevents me from sharing his composite with the media.”

“What do you want me to do?” Hardare asked.

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I’d like to take you to where the girl was found. We’ll have a newspaper reporter there. You do your psychic routine, and produce the sketch, and give it to the reporter. That way, it didn’t come from me.”

“Is that ethical?” Hardare asked.

Wondero grew red in the face. “Maybe not. But it’s the only thing I can think of. Death will strike again, and soon. That’s his pattern. I’ve got to do whatever I can to stop him.”

“You’re saying a life is at stake.”

“Yes.”

“Let me see the sketch,” Hardare said.

Wondero produced the artist’s composite and handed it to the magician. He waited expectantly, hoping Hardare would say yes.

“She got a better look at him than I did,” Hardare said under his breath.

“Will you do it?” Wondero asked.

Hardare looked at his wife. “What do you think?”

“If it will help the police catch this killer, then yes, you need to do it,” Jan said.

“All right. I’ll do it. But with one caveat,” Hardare said.

“Name it, Wondero said.

“This is the last psychic stunt I’m going to do. You’re on your own after this. Understood? No more late-night visits to my hotel, or sneaking up on me unannounced.”

Wondero was beaming, and he clasped Hardare on the arm.

“You have my word,” the detective promised him.

Chapter 13

News at Noon

It was eleven o”clock in the morning when Myrtle Jones banged on Eugene Osbourne’s front door for the second time in as many days. He appeared in a bathrobe, his eyes heavy with sleep. Inside the house a radio newscaster droned on, sounding like an old movie newsreel.

“Guess what I’ve got baking in the oven,” she said, winking mischievously. “That’s right: my heavenly chocolate cake.”

On the sidewalk sat Mr. Kozlowski in a wheelchair, bundled up like a mummy. She handed Eugene a brown paper bag, the smell of warm tollhouse cookies jump-starting his senses. Eugene took one from the bag and bit into it, tasting chocolaty sweet perfection.

“I was hoping you would join us for lunch. Mr. Kozlowski is so looking forward to you coming.”

Eugene hesitated, his attention diverted by a special news flash on the radio. A school bus had overturned, children hurt.

“Can we watch television?”

Myrtle Jones was taken aback. “Well, I suppose we could.”

“All right,” he said, closing the door in her face.

Lunch was served in the musty living room on TV trays. Myrtle had outdone herself; lobster bisque, chicken pot pies made from scratch, miniature vegetables, and a bottle of wine. Eugene, wearing a fresh shirt and cologne, sat directly across from the TV, his eyes glued to the flickering screen.

“Eugene, do you have any family?” Myrtle asked while spoon feeding Mr. Kozlowski.

“Not anymore,” he said.

“Oh. Well, I’m sure you have lots of friends.”

“Just one.”

“Does he ever visit? I’d be happy to invite him—”

“He’s in prison,” Eugene said.

“Mr. Kozlowski says you remind him of a steam fitter he once employed years ago.”

Eugene looked suspiciously at her, then Mr. Kozlowski. “I didn’t hear him say anything.”

“Mr. Kozlowski talks with his fingers,” she said, showing him the tiny computer taped to the arm of the wheelchair. “He types in what he wants to say, and I read the screen.”

Eugene lifted his head to stare at the tiny screen. Printed across it were the words NICE TO MEET YOU.

“Same here,” Eugene said.

THANKS FOR HELPING YESTERDAY

“No problem.”

Myrtle stacked up their dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

YOU’RE VERY STRONG

“Uh-huh.”

BET THE GIRLS LOVE IT

“Not all of them.”

I SEE YOU BRING THEM HOME. REAL LADY KILLER

“Maybe I should invite you over sometime,” Eugene said.

TO DO WHAT? I’M EIGHTY FOUR.

“You can watch.”

The dessert was better than promised, and Eugene licked his fork after each scrumptious bite. He watched Mr. Kozlowski grow animated with his over-sized portion, his toothless mouth working vigorously. They both said yes to seconds.

Over decaf they watched the last half of a sitcom called Hugo. Hugo was an overgrown alien rodent who had been adopted by the average family next door. Orange, hairy, and shaped like a pear, Hugo was a cheap-looking puppet. No one in their right minds would have thought that he came from anywhere but a toy store, except for the people on the show with him. On today’s episode the Tanners, Hugo’s adopted family, helped Hugo deal with a cold.

OH BOY. ALIEN SNOT JOKES

“Mr. Kozlowski has a rather caustic sense of humor,” Myrtle explained, feeding him more cake.

“What would you do with Hugo?” Eugene asked him.

DROWN HIM IN A GARBAGE CAN

Embarrassed, Myrtle said, “Mister Kozlowski!”

OR FEED HIM RAT POISON

“That’s the ticket,” Eugene said.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

“I think a minute in the microwave would do the trick.”

ALIEN CASSEROLE

“Sure. They could serve him to the neighbors.”

STAY TUNED

A commercial filled the screen, and Myrtle lowered the volume with the remote. “Eugene, what happened to your dog?”

Staring at his plate, Eugene said, “He died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you getting another?”

Eugene had gone to the Humane Society that morning but been unable to find the kind of dog he wanted. “Eventually.”

“Are you looking for a particular breed?”

How did he describe the dog he wanted? It had to be ugly and fierce and beautiful all at the same time. A dog that no one else wanted; a dog that hated life as much as he did.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Eugene said.

Dancing on the screen was a giant chicken selling used cars, then a teaser for a noon news show. Reaching across Mr. Kozlowski’s tray, Eugene picked up the remote control and hit the volume. “If you don’t mind.”

“Why no, of course not,” Myrtle said.

Rising from his chair, Eugene planted himself in front of the TV, his face a foot from the screen. The commercial ended, and the face of an attractive red-haired newscaster filled the screen.

“This is Jayne Hunter,” the newscaster said. “On today’s News at Noon, learn if the water you’re drinking is contaminated, why the Lakers are underdogs for the upcoming playoffs, and how a famous magician is helping police track down L.A.’s worst serial killer. These stories and more, coming up.”

Another commercial danced across the screen. Eugene balled his fists in rage. This was all wrong. The hooker he’d murdered last night should have been one of the stories, not a piece about Hardare, the Vegas lounge lizard.

“How about more cake?” Myrtle asked.

“No,” Eugene replied, staring straight ahead.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m full,” he snapped.

The news came on. Hardare was the lead story, and was standing behind the Las Palmas hotel where he’d dumped Tawny Starr. A reporter shoved a mike into the magician’s face.

“Tell us what you’re about to do,” the reporter said.

“A woman was murdered here last night,” Hardare explained. “A residue of that violent act still lingers. I’m going to try to capture that residue, and help the police catch the killer.”

“Baloney,” Eugene shouted at the screen.

A clipboard was placed into the magician’s hands. Hardare showed the top page to the camera. It was blank. Handing the clipboard to the reporter, he removed a cigarette lighter and a piece of tissue from his pocket. He lit the tissue by its end, and let it burn in the palm of his hand. When it was no more than ash, he smeared it across the face of the clipboard.

“Our killer was dressed like a student,” Hardare said. “. He even had schoolbooks in his car. His face is square, and not particularly handsome. If he has a prominent feature, I would say it’s his nose. And he’s wearing a baseball cap. He’s a Dodger’s fan. Here is what he looks like.”

Hardare spun the clipboard spun around in his palms. A drawing of a man wearing a Dodger’s cap had appeared on the blank page. The man bore a striking resemblance to himself, and Eugene felt his entire body shudder.

“Would you look at that,” Myrtle said.

Eugene rose from the floor. “I need to go.”

“Sure you don’t want some more cake?”

Eugene shook his head. Mr. Kozlowski’s fingers were typing on his tiny computer. Eugene strained to read what he’d written.

HAVE A NICE DAY

“You, too,” he said.

Eugene stood in his backyard, destroying the evidence of last night’s killing. He squeezed the can of lighter fluid onto the burning dungarees, shirt, Nike Airs and baseball cap he’d stuffed inside the rusted oil drum, the fluid feeding the flame.

Within minutes only ashes remained. Opening a newspaper on the ground, he tilted the drum on its side, and poured the remaining evidence onto the sports page. Stomping out the ashes, he gathered the paper, went inside and flushed them down the toilet.

Then he took a shower. He alternated the temperature between scalding hot and teeth-chattering cold, still amazed at how similar the sensations felt the moment the water first hit his body. He started out cold, and slapped the wall in agony.

Hardare had shown the police what he looked like. It was not a good resemblance, nothing that would hold up in court, but that didn’t matter. They could find him now, track him down. And they would have no problem linking him to his crimes. The police had convicted Ted Bundy by matching his bridge to the bite marks on one of his victim’s arms, and their forensic technology would convict him as well. Then his reign would be over, the rest of his life spent in prison, playing checkers on Death Row.

He twisted off the cold water while simultaneously releasing the hot. The water burned his chest like tiny darts of flame. He bit his tongue savagely, halting the scream that boiled out of control within him. What was he going to do, burn all the clothes in his closet, sell the car, torch the house, and while he was at it, concrete the backyard?

He got out of the shower and stood before the vanity. A red sun the size of a pancake formed on his chest, the skin turning hot pink before his eyes. Without a disguise, he looked like a freak with his pop eyes and hairless body. The tears of his tortured childhood marched in steady progression down his face.

Going to his bedroom, Eugene drew the curtains and switched off the lights. Lying naked on the icy floor, he wrestled with his demons, his eyes fixed on the bedroom walls, watching their rough texture mold and shape itself in a thousand free-form patterns, while he waited for an answer to come.

Chapter 14

Red Warriors

That night, Wondero watched a recording of Hardare’s stunt on his TV, drank a beer, watched it again, and when he was satisfied that he’d done the right thing, decided to go to bed.

On the way upstairs he ducked into the kitchen for another bite of dessert and discovered a disaster area. His wife had refined the art of preparing thirty minute dinners, the only complaint being the lack of restraint she showed in her tornado-like-spins around the kitchen each night. Whose turn was it to clean? His son’s? No, his daughter’s. He glanced at the wall calendar and saw his own initials penciled below the date.

He cleaned up, and rewarded himself with a piece of cherry cobbler topped with Ready Whip. While he ate, he thumbed through his son’s schoolbooks. Computer science, trigonometry and physics, subjects Wondero didn’t think had been invented when he was in school. Printed on the trig book’s jacket was this year’s football schedule, now completed. The Trojans had gone 12 and 0, with his son playing backup quarterback. On the bottom of the jacket, his son had written BEAT RED WARRIORS!

He thought back to his conversation with Jackson, the cop who’d found Tawny Starr dumped in the trash. One of the things Tawny had said to him was Red Warriors. He picked up the textbook and headed upstairs.

His son lay beneath a twirl of sheets, texting his girlfriend. Wondero hopped around the clothes strewn around the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. His son folded his phone.

“You ought to clean this mess up.”

“I did. You should have seen it before.”

“Very funny.” Wondero placed the textbook on the bed. “Tell me something. What does this mean, BEAT THE RED WARRIORS?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. Refresh my memory.”

“Two years ago, the Trojans went to the Conference finals, and you took me down to San Diego to see the game. The other team was huge; half their guys had moustaches and beards. It looked like a scrimmage. About ten minutes before the game ended they started running up the score and then there was a huge clap of thunder and the skies opened up.”

And the field had looked like a sea of black mud, Wondero thought, recalling the nightmarish blackness of the sky as his son’s heroes on the varsity squad had gotten soundly trounced. “Those where the Red Warriors,” Wondero said.

“That’s right. State champs three of the past five years. And we’ve got to play them again this year in the finals.”

Textbooks. Tawny Starr had said Death was carrying textbooks, and now Wondero knew where they came from. Tomorrow he would talk to the San Diego police and the people who ran the high school where the Red Warriors played. Serial killers weren’t born, they were molded by their upbringings. The seeds were planted early, and maybe if he dug hard enough, someone would remember Death as a child.

To his son he said, “When’s the game?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told you two weeks ago.”

“You should have reminded me. I’d have taken the day off.”

“Mom volunteered to go.”

They fell silent. Wondero had always tried to be there for his kids, and could not believe he’d forgotten his son’s game.

“I’m sorry, Craig. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“Dad, you’ve been chasing this freak since I was in eighth grade. It would be so great if you nailed him before...”

“Before what?”

“I went to college.”

Wondero patted him on the knee. He could not make any promises. “You playing away or at home?”

“At home.”

“Scared?”

“I have nightmares of them steam rolling us.”

What easy nightmares to have, Wondero thought. Getting beaten wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it. Life was a smorgasbord of great intangibles, things like sunsets and lifelong friendships, watching a family grow, flawless Sunday afternoons, and whether or not you won or lost had little bearing on real happiness. But that wasn’t what Craig needed to hear; after all, they were talking football, weren’t they?

He mussed his son’s hair. “Don’t worry about the game. Everything will turn out fine. You’re going to do great.”

Chapter 15

Myth of the Magus

The show looked dreadful.

Everyone was missing cues, the assistants misplacing props, causing the production to come to a grinding halt each time something “disappeared.” To round off the rehearsal, her husband had caught a whiff of pot backstage, causing a sustained burst of anger that had still yet to subside.

Jan knew it would get better. It had to, or Vince would cancel, and to use his favorite expression, “Go back to working in the Catskills.” Standing in the wings, she watched him on center stage, explaining to the soundman how critical it was that the overhead mikes be turned off during the Spirit Cabinet routine.

“Let me get this straight,” the soundman said. “Once you’re in the cabinet, you want me to turn the sound off.”

“That’s right,” her husband said.

“But what if you want to say something,” the soundman asked.

“I won’t. I won’t say a word. Like I said, that’s when my wife slips into the cabinet. The mike has to be dead.”

“But then you want me to turn it back on,” the soundman said, the contradictory tone of his voice indicating he didn’t get it.

“Correct. Once Jan slips in, which won’t take more than five seconds, you switch the mike back on. That’s all I’m asking for. Otherwise you’re doing a wonderful job. I only wish I could say that about everybody else.”

“You and me both,” the soundman agreed. “It would be nice to hit the hay before midnight.” He took out his notebook. “Okay, once the cabinet curtain is closed, the mike goes dead for...”

Jan let out a groan. In a stern voice her husband said, “Five seconds.”

“Five seconds,” the soundman echoed.

“Right.”

“I’m writing it down,” the soundman said.

“God bless you,” Hardare replied.

Walking offstage, he put his arms around his wife’s waist. “I’m sorry for acting like such a bastard tonight,” he said.

“Someone had to,” Jan said. “Otherwise we’d be out of work.”

“Why don’t you go back to the hotel with Crys, and get some sleep? I need to go through the score again with the band. See if we can get them to hit all the notes this time.”

“What a novel idea. Sure you don’t want company?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I’d love some company in the form of one very beautiful red-haired lady to join me for mimosas and breakfast in bed.”

“That sounds absolutely sumptuous.”

Jan kissed her husband. His eyes were filled with worry, and she felt an alarm go off inside her head.

“What’s wrong, Vince? You’re not telling me something.”

“I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“Tell me now”.

“Ticket sales are down,” he said gravely. “The way things look we’re not going to break even.”

During their two-week run, they would do eighteen shows, and needed to fill sixty-five percent of the seats in order to break even. Anything above that was profit, which would be split evenly with their co-producer, Larsen Hendricks.

“How down?” Jan asked.

“They’ve pretty much stopped. I think it’s tied to my helping the police chase this killer.”

“I thought you once said that any publicity was good publicity?”

“It doesn’t seem to be true here. It’s hurt us.”

“What are you going to do?”

Her husband shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

Jan and Crystal took a cab to the hotel. Tiny white Christmas lights hung from a spindly Japanese pine in front, the odd sight the Iranian management’s response to the city’s refusal to let them hang a sign. The valet, who in his high collared white shirt looked like a circus acrobat, opened their door.

The two LAPD detectives assigned to protect them were parked in the lobby. Following them to their suite, they gave the rooms a quick check, then bid them goodnight, and went downstairs.

“Your father’s worried about ticket sales,” Jan remarked as she rummaged through the mini-bar.

“I know. They’re way off,” Crystal replied.

“What is he going to do?”

“You know, Dad. He’s always got something up his sleeve.”

The mini-bar was plied with quick fixes: thousand calorie Toberone bars, gourmet popcorn, pistachio nuts, a cache of sparkling wines and beers, and a miniature bottle of champagne that cost thirty dollars. She opted for a bottled water and dropped onto the couch beside her step-daughter, who appeared intent on burning out the TV with the remote.

“You don’t seem too worried,” Jan said.

“We’ve got time.”

“Why do I sense that you aren’t telling me something?”

Crystal flicked off the TV. “Do you really want to know what he’s planning?”

“Of course,” Jan said.

“Dad’s thinking about doing a death-defying escape to help publicize the show, and boost ticket sales. He wanted to tell you, only he knows how you hate the escapes, and wish he’d stop doing them. So he didn’t mention it.”

Jan frowned. Her husband had performed a number of dangerous outdoor escapes in Las Vegas to help promote his shows at Caesars. Along with generating tons of publicity, they’d also put several gray hairs on her head. Every time Vince sprained a muscle, or bruised a rib, she knew it could have been far worse. It was the one part about being Houdini’s nephew that she did not embrace.

“I hate the escapes,” Jan said flatly. “Can’t he do something else to boost ticket sales?”

“The escapes always work. The public loves them.”

“Why? Do they want to see your father get hurt?”

“It goes deeper than that,” Crystal said.

“What do you mean?”

“Escapes are patterned after myths, and myths have been around since the beginning of time. One myth which reoccurs repeatedly is that of the death and resurrection. That was why Houdini was so popular. He told a nation of immigrants that it was possible for them to escape their past, and become reborn.”

Jan sat transfixed. “Where did you learn this?”

“It’s from The Myth of the Magus in American Vaudeville. It’s a thesis about the Houdini family.”

“It sounds fascinating. Could I get a copy to read?”

“You’ll have to ask Dad.”

“Is it something he wrote?”

Crystal shook her head. “My mother. It was her doctorate’s thesis in cultural anthropology. She met Dad while she was researching it. They fell in love, got married, and Dad had his first full-time assistant.”

“Did she ever get her degree?”

“Nope. She had me instead. I don’t think she ever regretted it. My father’s world enchanted her; when she walked on stage, you would swear she was floating.”

The two women fell silent. Crystal rose from the couch and went to her bedroom door, then turned around. “You and my Mom are real different, but in some ways, you remind me of her.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. My mother hated the escapes, too. She was convinced that my dad would get killed one day performing them. They scared her.”

“They scare me, too,” Jan said.

“It’s who he is, Jan. You can’t change it. Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” Jan said as the door closed.

Chapter 16

D.B.

The yard of the state mental hospital was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with six foot cyclone barbed wire. In recent months, picnic tables and benches had been added, giving the Visitors area a homey feel. Inhaling deeply on a cigarette, D.B. felt the smoke tickle his lungs, and glanced fondly at Eugene Osbourne.

“It’s good to see you again, Eugene,” D.B. said. “Thank you for remembering my cigarettes. I hope you brought an extra carton for the staff.”

Eugene, who had not forgotten how things worked behind bars, nodded that he had.

“I see from the newspapers that you’ve been busy,” D.B. said. “Any problems with the police?”

“The usual.” Eugene eyed a pair of nearby guards.

“Is that why you chose such a creative disguise to wear today? I must say, the uniform becomes you.”

Eugene bristled at the remark. It was not easy changing his appearance, and he’d found that wearing a uniform usually did the trick. Today he wore a green sanitation worker’s outfit which he’d bought for two dollars at a yard sale.

“Don’t make fun of my uniform,” he said. “If I get caught, and someone remembers me coming here, it will be over for you.”

“It is over for me,” D.B. replied without a hint of self-pity. “It has been for a long time.”

“You know what I mean.”

D.B. fondly patted his arm. “I appreciate the concern. I have some good news for you. My doctor has convinced her superiors to grant me phone privileges. Soon you and I will be able to talk courtesy of AT&T. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Eugene visibly relaxed. Visiting D.B. inside the hospital had always dredged up painful memories of his own incarceration.

“That is good news,” he admitted.

“I thought you’d be happy. Now, tell me why you’re here.”

“The LAPD is using a magician named Hardare to try to catch me. Hardare keeps giving the police clues, and even showed the police what I look like. I’ve got to stop him.”

“I saw the sketch in today’s paper,” D.B. said, crushing out the cigarette and pocketing the stub. “Not a very good likeness.”

“It’s close enough,” Eugene said.

D.B. glanced at his protégé out of the corner of his eye. Eugene was staring at the ground, his mouth working silently up and down. He looked like a scared rabbit, and not the crazed killer who’d terrorized Los Angeles for the past four years.

“Perhaps it’s time for you to pull up stakes and move on,” D.B. suggested. “All good things must come to a pass. I read in the paper last week how six hundred people are moving into Florida every day. It sounds like fertile ground.”

“I’m not running away,” Eugene said adamantly. “I want to stop Hardare, and I want you to help me.”

“But he’s working with the police, Eugene. I’d advise you to lay low for a while. The police will move onto other things. Time is always on a killer’s side.”

Eugene angrily kicked at the ground. “Will you help me, or not?”

“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Patience was never one of your strong suits. Yes, I’ll help you, but be forewarned: The end result may not be to your liking.”

“I don’t care. I want Hardare.”

Eugene’s mind was made up. Why try to change it? D.B. smiled.

“Then you shall have him,” he said.

They stopped at a picnic table and sat so they faced each other. The yard had filled with visitors, many of whom had brought picnics. At a nearby table, a pregnant young Hispanic girl had burst into tears while the male inmate she was visiting stared absently into the sky, oblivious to her suffering.

“Doesn’t she understand that he can’t feel what she feels,” D.B. wondered aloud, puzzled by the outburst. “How could she have let him impregnate her, and not realize that?”

His words hung in the air like a philosopher’s musings.

“Ah, well. Let’s talk about your problem, shall we?”

Eugene nodded enthusiastically. The savage look had returned to his face, his inner demons bubbling to the surface.

“Does this Hardare fellow have a family?”

“A wife and teenage daughter.”

“Splendid. I would suggest you focus on them. Do you know what hotel they’re staying in?”

“It’s in Beverly Hills. Last night, I followed them from the theater where Hardare is performing. A pair of detectives were in the lobby, so I ran.”

“You ran away?”

“Yes. I didn’t want them to see me.”

D.B. slapped his hand against the picnic table. His face, which he pampered with facial cream and religiously shaved twice each day, broke into a hundred tiny wrinkles, betraying both his true age and his anger. “Only the weak run away, Eugene. You went to Hardare’s hotel with a plan in mind, yes?”

“Yes. I even wrote it out, like you taught me.”

“Splendid. Go back and execute your plan. Do it right now. That’s my advice.”

“But —”

“He who hesitates is lost.” D.B. rose from the table, and in a loud voice said, “Nice to see you again,” and walked away.

Chapter 17

The Rollercoaster Escape

When Jan awoke the next morning, a single rose lay in the crease of her husband’s pillow. It was barely light outside, too early for him to be back at the theater. Union hands loved working overtime, yet were impossible to make come in earlier than nine.

She found Vince’s note taped to the bathroom mirror. “A stagehand broke the Spirit Cabinet right after you left. Called Les Griffey and he agreed to fix post haste. Will be with him all morning. See you soon. XXX Vince”

She filled an empty bottle with water and slipped the rose down its neck, then got dressed, wondering when their problems would end, and their lives would go back to being normal.

She spent the morning on her laptop. At noon, she and Crystal took a cab to the theatre, stopping on the way to pick up dry cleaning from a local laundry. Their cabby, a blue-eyed Iranian who politely inquired if they were movie stars, double-parked on the quiet side street and left the meter running.

“I talked to Dad last night,” Crystal said. “I told him that you were worried about him doing an escape to help promote the show.”

“What time was this?” Jan asked.

“About two. I heard him come in, and we talked for a little while. He said he doesn’t really have a choice.”

“Are ticket sales that bad?”

“Yeah. He said we could go bust if they don’t improve. He already contacted a local TV station, and they agreed to televise it on Friday night.”

“Wait a minute. Your father has already lined this up? Which escape is he planning to do?”

“It’s something new.”

“Did he tell you? Come on, Crys, don’t keep secrets from me.”

Her stepdaughter glanced out the window.

“Hey, that guy across the street is staring at us.”

“Stop avoiding the question,” Jan said.

“I’m not avoiding the question. Come on, you’re supposed to be protecting me, aren’t you?”

Jan had a look. The driver in question had double-parked his van in the street, his face buried in some papers.

“He’s not staring anymore. Tell me what your father’s planning to do. I have a right to know.”

“The roller-coaster escape.”

“Oh, my God. You can’t be serious.”

“Dad says it’s a winner, and will get a lot of publicity.”

“Didn’t a performer down in Mexico get killed trying that stunt? What on earth is your father thinking?”

Crystal shook her head. “He’s made up his mind, Jan.”

Jan knew what that meant. When Vince decided he was going to do something, there was no turning back. She angrily got out of the cab, and slammed the door behind her.

Jan stood in line and waited for her dry-cleaning. She felt betrayed. Her husband was confiding in his daughter, but not in her. Had it been over something small, she could have excused it, but this was anything but trivial.

She paid for her order. Walking outside, she came around the corner to where their cab was double-parked, and saw broken glass in the street. She shivered at the sight of where a bullet had frosted the driver’s window.

The dry cleaning slipped through her fingers. She ran around the vehicle, and pulled open the driver’s door. Their affable cabby was slumped behind the wheel, a bloody, half dollar sized bullet hole above his left ear.

“Crys...? Crys!”

The backseat was empty. A wave of absolute dread swept over her. Crystal hadn’t been imagining things. The guy in the van had been stalking them.

Jan opened the driver’s door and rolled the corpse onto the pavement. Jumping in, she threw the running engine into drive and the cab leapt forward like an uncaged animal. She ran the next traffic light, stopping in the middle of the intersection to look both ways. The van had vanished. In desperation she grabbed the microphone to the cab radio.

“This is an emergency. I need help. Does anyone hear me?”

“Who the hell is this?” barked a radio dispatcher.

“My name is Jan Hardare.” She glanced at the operator’s license on the dash. “I’m driving the cab of Fami El Hassad.”

“Where’s Hassad?”

“He’s dead. The man who killed him has abducted my stepdaughter. I’m driving west on Pico Boulevard just past La Cienga in pursuit of a white van. Please call 911.”

“I’m dialing right now,” the dispatcher said. “Hey lady, please don’t do anything crazy with the cab.”

The screech of brakes drowned him out. She ran a red light and swerved out of the path of an oncoming Mercedes, the passengers cries making her skin crawl. At the next intersection she hit the brakes again, and looked both ways. The van could be hiding in an alley, or parked behind a larger truck, there was no way to know.

“Hey lady,” the radio dispatcher said.

“Yes...” she said, grabbing the microphone.

“The police are coming. I put an emergency call out to my fleet. One of my men just spotted a van on the corner of Fairfax and 18^th Street, heading west. He said the driver was really hauling.”

“I don’t know where that is,” she shouted, horns blaring around her as she dangerously weaved through traffic. “I’m heading south on Spaulding. Can you get me there?”

“Sure. Make a right and go to Fairfax. Hang a left, and that takes you to 18th Street.”

Jan followed the dispatcher’s while flooring the gas. A block ahead, she saw the spotted the van jockeying between cars.

“I see him! He’s still on Fairfax. I’m going after him.”

“Lady, let the police handle this. Lady... lady!”

Chapter 18

Monkey Toes

It had all happened so quickly.

“Do you have a map?” the driver of the van had asked the cabbie. He wore a gray uniform, a hat, and black wraparound shades. “I’m lost.”

“Oh, yes. I have a wonderful map!” the Iranian cabby said enthusiastically, slipping the driver a spiral-bound street guide through a crack in his window.

“Thanks. I’ll give it right back.”

“Take your time,” the cabby said.

Lifting the front of his shirt, the driver had drawn a gun and stuck its barrel to the window. There had been a loud Pop! and the cabby had lurched forward on the wheel.

Crystal had lost it. Only moments before the cabby had told her about a cereal commercial his six year old daughter was starring in. He wanted her to be on TV, then the movies. The United States was a great country, he proclaimed.

The driver pulled her out of the car at gunpoint. It was the same crazy killer who’d attacked them in the desert.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Crystal begged.

Death dragged her across the street. Opening a sliding door on the side of his van, he shoved her into the darkened interior, where she landed face-first onto an enormous pile of sheets that smelled like paint. Straddling her, he snapped a handcuff around her wrist. He was talking under his breath, whispering obscene things about her breasts and the sweet curvature of her ass, and Crystal thought Please God, Help me.

Death pulled her up and handcuffed her wrists around the top shelf of a metal rack that was bolted to the ceiling. Forced to stand on her tip-toes, Crystal got a good look at him: he was her father’s height, a flat nose, and had the strangest skin she’d ever see on a man, his face smooth and creamy white. He produced a nylon stocking from his pocket and gagged her.

He climbed up to the front and got behind the wheel. Turning the radio on, he burned rubber down the street. At each traffic light, he glanced in his rear view mirror, watching her.

“Having fun, little girl?”

Crystal waited until he was watching the road before she gave the handcuffs pinching her wrists a look. They were standard issue Smith and Wesson, nothing a bobby pin wouldn’t open. Except her pins were in her purse on the floor. When he wasn’t looking, she slipped off both her shoes.

Thank God she rarely wore socks. Working in unison, her two big toes unzipped her purse, then nimbly picked through her stockpile of gum, mints and hair clips. Houdini had taught himself how to untie complicated knots in pieces of rope using his toes. Her father had refined the technique so he could hold lock picks between his toes and open doors. Crystal wasn’t that adept, but she could use her feet as well as most people used their hands.

“Hey — what are you doing!

Death ripped off his shades, his eyes popping wildly in the rear view mirror.

“I’m talking to you, sweetmeat!”

He did not sound like the same person. Like he had a demonic amplifier in his chest.

“Go... hell,” Crystal mumbled through her gag.

With her toes she lifted her open purse a foot off the floor and shook it. A dozen pennies and a single bobby pin tumbled out. Pressing down with her big toe, she made the bobby pin stand on end, clenching it before it fell to the floor.

They were coming to a red light. Crystal saw Death shift in his seat as he slowed the van down. She jammed her right heel against the edge of the sliding metal door that separated them.

Death hit the brakes hard. Throwing the van into park, he jumped out of his seat and came for her. Crystal viciously kicked the sliding door, trying to catch him with it.

The door flew by his face, missing it by a fraction and shutting with a resounding bang! Crystal heard him laughing heinously on the other side and shrieked through her gag.

“I’m going to mutilate you!”

Death tried to open the door. When it did not slide free, he kicked it. Suddenly he was pounding his fists against it, and Crystal realized the door had locked itself.

“Rock and roll!” she screamed through her gag.

Lifting her foot up to her face, her right fingers plucked the bobby pin from her toes.She twisted it into proper lock-picking shape while trying to brush away the grime it had attracted in her purse. If the pick wasn’t clean she could jam the lock and permanently screw herself.

Her shoulders were going numb, and she stuck the pin into the keyhole and wiggled it around the ratchets and steel pins. Finding the sweet spot, she pressed as hard as she could in such an awkward position.

The cuff sprung open, freeing her.

Death’s fist had turned purple from striking the door.

THE KEY! his dark mind screamed, YOU HAVE TO FIND THE KEY!

He turned around, seeing first the green traffic light, then the ring of keys in the ignition. What an idiot he was! He turned the engine off just as traffic started to flow around him.

Immediately he heard horns, and when he did not move the van, some choice profanity from the car behind him. He caught the driver’s face in his side mirror; a big bullet-headed black driving a beat-up Lincoln.

“Nigger,” he shouted without thinking, having suppressed the word for so long in the mental hospital where he’d been part of a white minority that it was now part of his everyday language.

The Lincoln’s driver got out of his car. The man was huge, and looked ready to kill him. Death jumped behind the wheel and threw the van into drive, vaulting ahead.

He could no longer think clearly. Downtown L.A. had turned a muted gray, and he drove as if lost in a fog, his breathing labored and painful.

Death bit down on his lip, tasting blood. The pain brought instant relief and slowly — as the grayness surrounding the van lifted — clarity. He leaned his head out his window, listening for sirens. Hearing none, he told himself everything was fine. A few blocks later, he pulled down a side street, and backed the van into the alley where he’d parked the Firebird.

Jan drove while listening to the thumping of her wildly beating heart. She raced down 18th Street, each passing second forcing her to imagine life without Crystal, and the shattering effect her loss would have on all of their lives.

The van had turned, but where? On a chance she pulled down a deserted side street, and inched down the block. A white van was parked at the end of an alley next to a Mexican restaurant. Was that the right vehicle? Her instincts told her that it was. She jumped out of the cab, and ran down the alley.

The van was empty. Coming around the driver’s side, she heard a muffled scream. Crystal lay on the pavement with a man straddling her, his hands working feverishly to tie her wrists with a piece of twine. Taking a stutter step, she threw a roundhouse kick at the man’s head.

His hat flew off, revealing a bald, misshapen skull. Falling off Crystal, he rolled out of harm’s way and jumped to his feet, a dark stream of blood flowing from his nostrils into his mouth. His eyes bulged out of his head, making him look like a freak.

So this was Death, she thought.

Pulling Crystal off the ground, Jan shoved her forward.

“Run!”

Her stepdaughter hesitated. “But Jan...”

“Damn it! I said run!”

Crystal took off for the street. Death lunged at her, unconcerned by Jan’s presence. Jan sent her foot into his solar plexus, and he dropped helplessly to the pavement.

“And keep running,” Jan yelled after her.

Hearing a distant siren, Jan glanced toward the street. In the split-second it took to look away, the beast within Death swelled up, and his strength returned. Jumping off the ground, he threw his body into her, and slammed Jan against the van.

“Bitch!”

Jan shouted, expelling air as she drove her knee straight into his groin. It was a blow that could break bricks, and he staggered backward, moaning in pain.

“You... hurt me.”

Jan touched her side, felt a cracked rib. The gentle teachings of the master at the dojo where she trained in Vegas had taken their toll. She had gotten careless; sloppy. No more.

She moved toward him, ready for the kill.

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“I’m not done with you.”

“But I’m sick. I have problems.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He backed himself into a corner, cowering in fear. It was pathetic how quickly killers turned into spineless pieces of jelly when captured. Garbage was strewn across the ground. Picking up an empty bottle, he threw it at her head.

“Go away,” he screamed.

“Stand against that wall. Do as I say.”

“No. Leave me alone.”

She decided to take him down, and threw a vicious roundhouse kick at his head. She heard the rustle of the newspaper she’d inadvertently stepped upon, and felt her legs shoot out from under her. Her head snapped as she hit the ground. Black curtains came down around her, and she lost consciousness.

Chapter 19

Bad Seeds

Hardare could not make himself cry, yet knew he should. Holed up in his hotel bedroom, his sedated daughter in the next room, he knew this was the right time and place to break down, and accept the fact that he might never see Jan alive again.

But he fought the urge, the ungodly image of Barbara and Jan sitting on a cloud having a chat too much to bear. His first wife’s death had nearly destroyed him, and he felt the old wounds starting to resurface, the aching loss ripping out his insides. He hadn’t thought he would ever get over Barbara until he’d fallen in love with Jan, and he was going to cling onto even the tiniest thread of hope that she might still be alive.

Is alive! he corrected himself angrily. Knowing her, probably alive and kicking. He pushed himself up from the bed and raked his fingers across the venetian blinds, catching glimpses of the mid-afternoon sun peeking through the haze of L.A. smog. It was not even bright enough to squint at.

Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Why hadn’t the deadly encounter in the desert convinced him that he had too much to lose playing games with a madman? To compound his misery, he had been forced to cancel his two weeks at the Wilshire Ebell; by contract he was now liable for all costs incurred, including the non-refundable deposit on the theatre. In one fell swoop he had destroyed every single thing that was important to him. He heard a light tapping on the door and cracked it open. It was Rittenbaugh.

“You have a visitor,” the detective said.

Hardare peered into the suite. Kenny Kitchen was standing in the suite, talking with Wondero.

“Death called him,” Rittenbaugh said.

Hardare burst into the suite and grabbed the DJ by the arm.

“Tell me what he said to you,” the magician said.

“There was a commercial running when he called,” Kitchen explained. “My producer thought he recognized his voice, so he patched him through. I picked up, and it was him. He wanted me to tell you that he wasn’t going to kill Jan. He said that wasn’t why he’d kidnapped her.”

Hardare’s heart skipped a beat. Is alive!

“I told him that I wanted to speak to her,” Kitchen said. “I figured if he was lying, it was best to find out right away.”

Hardare tried to swallow the rising lump in his throat. “Did you... speak to her... or not?”

The DJ nodded stiffly. “I spoke to a woman who sounded very groggy. She told me to tell you she loves you. Then Death cut her off. He said he wants to do a trade: you for her. He said he would call me tomorrow during my show with the details. Then he said that if you screwed up and double-crossed him, he would beat your wife to death with a baseball bat. He told me that normally, he killed his victims with a knife, but that your wife deserved to be punished. Then he hung up.”

Hardare’s lips formed a faint smile. Knowing Jan, she must have gotten a few licks in to elicit that kind of threat. He put his hand on Kitchen’s shoulder and said, “Thank you for coming and telling me this in person.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

Hardare walked him to the door.

“I’ll call you tomorrow once he makes contact again,” Kitchen said. “Good luck, Vince.”

As Kitchen walked out the door, a black LAPD detective came in from the hallway. His name was Detective Franklin Tate, and he wore the look of someone carrying bad news.

“Any luck?” Wondero said.

“Afraid not.” Tate tugged at his necktie like it was strangling him. “I contacted the high school in San Diego where the Red Warriors play football. The principal agreed to release the names of all males who attended between over the past twenty-five years. Then I contacted San Diego Homicide, and they picked up the names and ran them through their computers and tagged anyone with a criminal record.”

“How many popped up?” Wondero asked.

“Nearly two thousand,” Tate replied. “Most of them petty drug busts, DUIs, that sort of crap. I weeded out all the brothers and minorities plus everyone who’s currently doing time. That brought it down to two hundred. I took that list over to the Department of Motor Vehicles to see how many were currently living in Orange County, and came up with twenty names.”

Tate removed the short list from his pocket. “I sent four teams out, and by noon we located everybody.” He read from his notes. “Six are dead, eight moved out of state, four are in the Army—”

Wondero said, “He grabbed Hardare’s wife this morning.”

“—one in a halfway house... What?” Tate eyes bugged out of his head. To Hardare he said, “Oh Christ, I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Hardare said.

Tate put the list back in his pocket. “Anyway, it was a dead end. We ran all the suspects down, and none of them were a match. So much for the Red Warriors.”

“Thanks for the quick turnaround,” Wondero said.

“Anytime, Harry.”

As Tate started to walk out the door, Wondero stopped him.

“Did you ask the principal if he recalled any male students with psychiatric problems?” Wondero asked.

Halting, Tate said, “Come to mention it, I did. I asked him if any student had really stuck out. He said society produces a lot of bad seeds, some worse than others. I asked him to explain, and he said he had a meeting to go to.”

“Are you sure that was the expression he used? Bad seeds?”

“Yup. It struck me as funny, too.”

“Think he was hiding something?”

The black detective rubbed his chin. “Maybe.”

“How many years has he been principal of that school?”

“I think he said over thirty.”

“That’s a long time. Yet he couldn’t cough up a single name of a bad student. That strike you as odd?”

“Yeah, it did.”

“You better give me his name and number,” Wondero said.

Tate took a piece of paper from his wallet. “Here you go.”

“Do you think the principal is hiding something?” Hardare asked when the black detective was gone.

“That would be a fair assumption.” Wondero took out his cell phone and punched in the number Tate had given him. “The trick is going to get him to open up.”

The call went through, and Wondero began speaking with the principal down in San Diego. Hearing a noise, Hardare turned to see Crystal standing in the doorway to her bedroom, her face awash with tears. He went and put his arms around her.

“I thought you were sleeping,” he said.

“Have they found Jan?” she asked.

“Not yet. You need to lie down, and rest.”

“I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. He’s not normal, Dad. There’s something wrong with him.”

“I know, Crys. He’s sick in the head.”

“No, I mean there’s something physically wrong with him.”

His daughter was telling him something important. Clasping her shoulders, he looked her in the eye. “What did you see?”

“His hat and sunglasses flew off when Jan was fighting with him. He doesn’t have any hair on his head. No eyebrows or eyelashes or any facial hair. That’s not normal, is it?”

“Maybe he shaved his hair away.”

“He doesn’t have any hair on his chest, either.”

“How do you know that?”

“Right before he shot the cab driver, he pulled up the front of his shirt to draw his gun, and I saw his chest. It was hairless. Guys always have hair on their chests, don’t they?”

“Usually.”

“Death doesn’t. He’s got something wrong with him. You need to tell the police.”

He gave his daughter another hug. “Okay, honey, I will. Promise me you’ll lie down, and get some rest.”

She said okay, and returned to her room. Hardare shut the bedroom door, and crossed the suite to where Wondero stood. The detective had finished his call, and had his car keys out.

“The principal agreed to meet with me this afternoon,” Wondero said. “Tate was right. He knows something.”

“Good,” Hardare said. “I’m going with you.”

“I’m sorry, Vince, but I can’t do that. It would compromise the investigation.”

“I don’t care about that,” Hardare said. “You dragged me and my family into this mess. I have a right to go.”

The remark made Wondero wince. To his partner he said, “You mind staying here, and watching the girl?”

“Not at all,” Rittenbaugh replied.

Wondero nodded and headed for the door.

“Time’s a wasting. Let’s go.”

Chapter 20

The Early Years

Woodrow Wilson high school was located due west of the Miramar Naval Air Station in a densely populated area called Miramar. Home of the Red Warriors, boasted a billboard just past the exit on Interstate 15. State Football Champions 2006, 2008, 2010 201?????? No, not in 2011, Wondero thought, coming off the exit ramp. In 2011, the Trojans were going to be state champs.

A security guard flagged them down inside the school parking lot. “We’re here to see Dr. Bridgewater,” Wondero explained, flashing his badge.

“Dr. Bridgewater is on the second floor, room 206,” the guard said, pointing to a spot marked Visitors Only near the entrance of an imposing red brick building. “Have a nice day.”

School was in session, and there were kids everywhere they looked. As they headed inside, Hardare wondered how many students had gone to school here during the past twenty-five years. Forty thousand, maybe fifty? What where their chances of finding one bad seed? Not good, he realized, but they still had to look.

They found the stairway. On the second floor landing, three teenagers sat on the floor, giggling to themselves. Wondero flashed his badge and one of the boys directed them to Bridgewater’s office, managing twice to call Wondero sir.

“You like doing that, don’t you?” Hardare said.

“It opens a lot of doors,” Wondero admitted.

Room 206 was at the end of a long hallway, and did not look like a walk any student would enjoy taking. They entered the office to find a disagreeable secretary guarding her boss’s door.

“Dr. Bridgewater is on a conference call, and cannot be disturbed,” the secretary explained.

Wondero hung his badge inches from her nose. She used the tip of her plastic fingernail to tap the inscription. “You’re out of your jurisdiction,” she said matter-of-factly.

“We have an appointment. It’s urgent we see him right now.”

She pressed the intercom on her desk. “Dr. Bridgewater, there are two men from the LAPD here to see you.”

Over the intercom a man’s voice said, “Give me two minutes.”

“Have a seat,” the secretary said.

The couch in the waiting area sagged beneath their combined weight. Hardare picked up an old yearbook from a coffee table and leafed through it. He came to a page with a photograph of Dr. Louis Bridgewater taken before Bridgewater was principal, and had been head of the school’s guidance counselors.

“Excuse me,” Hardare said to the secretary. “What field of medicine is Dr. Bridgewater a doctor of?”

“Psychiatry,” she said.

A few minutes later, Bridgewater came out of his office with an angry-looking teenage boy. Showing the boy to the door, he turned to greet his guests.

“Sorry for the delay,” Bridgewater said.

They entered his office. It was filled with expensive furniture and lots of diplomas. Bridgewater motioned to a pair of chairs while sitting down at his desk. He nervously interlaced his fingers together before speaking.

“You realize that, by law, I should refer you to the school attorney.”

“I understand that,” Wondero said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much time. Mr. Hardare’s wife was kidnapped this morning, and we believe the culprit once attended your school.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bridgewater said. “All right, I’ll try to help. Can you give me a description of your suspect?”

“White male, between twenty-five and forty-five years old, with classic sociopathic tendencies,” Wondero replied.

“Violent?”

“Very. His victims are all women.”

“And you think he went to school here sometime during the past twenty years.”

“Correct.”

Bridgewater opened up a file cabinet behind his desk. “The California school system currently uses MOSIAC to weed out problem children in our classrooms. Before MOSIAC, we employed Macdonald’s triad. Are you familiar with this?”

“Afraid not,” Wondero said.

“Macdonald believed homicidal maniacs share three similar childhood characteristics. Bed-wetting, starting fires, and torturing small animals. I know it sounds primitive, but those were the traits we looked for years ago.” Bridgewater tossed a file on his desk and closed the cabinet. “This file contains evaluations of students that fit the MacDonald triad, or what we used to call bad seeds. I was the school psychiatrist back then, and they were my patients. I’d be happy to look through the evaluations, and see if anyone matching your profile pops up.”

“Please,” Wondero said.

“Make yourself comfortable. This may take a while.”

Bridgewater put on his glasses and started to read. Hardare leaned forward, watching like a hawk. Magicians had been reading body language well before law enforcement had discovered its usefulness, and he looked for any tell-tale signs in the principal’s facial or physical expressions.

Thirty minutes later, one of those signs appeared.

Bridgewater lifted his head. Then, his eyelids half-lowered, as if falling asleep. The file had jogged something in his memory, and Hardare came out of his chair.

“What did you find?”

“I’m sorry. But this is very painful,” Bridgewater said.

Wondero rose as well. “Go on.”

“There was a student named Eugene Osbourne who tried to murder another student. I hate to use this term, but Eugene was crazy. I knew Eugene’s mother. She was a speech therapist here, a gentle, lovely woman. So lovely, that I asked her to marry me.”

“How many years ago was this?” Wondero asked.

“Twenty.”

“I know this is difficult, but you have to tell us about this kid,” the detective said.

“Of course. Please sit down. I’ll tell you everything,” Bridgewater said.

Eugene Osbourne had been a gangly, lop-eared tenth grader whose alcoholic father had died when he was a boy. It was a hard way to grow up, but nothing Bridgewater hadn’t seen before.

Eugene had visited his office twice a week in an effort to work out his problems. The sessions went well, with Eugene willing to explore the things which troubled him. He agonized over being rejected by a girl at the sock hop, and how he was always picked last when teams were formed.

Bridgewater had ached for him. There was no greater hurt than a boy’s bruised sense of worth. He could not make Eugene’s pain or the circumstances which had caused it go away, and instead, had tried to help Eugene cope.

“I miss my father,” Eugene had confided one day.

“What do you miss the most about him?” Bridgewater had asked.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, Eugene, I do.”

“Watching him beat up my mother.”

“That’s not funny, Eugene.”

“It is to me,” the boy had said.

In his junior year, Eugene was caught setting fires, and sent to an outside psychiatrist for evaluation. The psychiatrist tested Eugene, and discovered that he had been born with an extra Y, or male sex chromosome. Based upon this, the psychiatrist determined that Eugene had a genetic affliction toward violence, and that little could be done to cure him.

Bridgewater had read the evaluation and thrown a fit. In his opinion, genetic destiny was as dangerous as racial stereotyping, and he had fought to have Eugene returned to Woodrow Wilson so that he could treat him by more accepted methods.

In his senior year, Eugene had attempted to murder another senior, a football player named Tony Capaletti. At the time, Capaletti did not have the slightest idea who Eugene was, having never shared a single class with him.

But Capaletti was dating a cheerleader named Rosalyn Summers, who Eugene had a crush on. Rosalyn thought Eugene had once asked her out, although she hadn’t been entirely sure.

The incident had taken place at a time when Bridgewater was certain he saw all the signs pointing toward Eugene’s recovery. Eugene was coming to school, working afternoons bagging groceries, and much to everyone’s surprise, had landed a minor role in the school’s production of Once Upon a Mattress.

By then Bridgewater and Eugene’s mother, Elaine, were dating. Bridgewater knew he was falling in love, and had planned to ask Elaine to marry him when the school year ended.

It was not to be.

Two weeks before finals, Eugene was found lying in the hall, barely breathing. While placing a poisonous snake into Tony Capaletti’s locker, the snake had slipped free, and bit him.

The doctors at San Diego General had kept Eugene’s heart going by pumping him with insulin. A remedy was prescribed by a local poison specialist that required another dose of poison. Only after Elaine’s consent was granted with Eugene given the shot.

The cure did not kill Eugene, but it came close. As his body temperature rose to 105 degrees, his hair had dropped out, and he had turned into a bald, screaming monster.

Bridgewater had been by Elaine’s side when the transformation occurred. Clutching his beloved to his side, he had known that their lives would never be the same.

Bridgewater was teary-eyed by the time he’d finished telling his story. Taking a Kleenex off his desk, he loudly blew his nose.

Wondero had pulled out his BlackBerry while Bridgewater was speaking, and hunted for Eugene Osbourne in the LAPD’s crime data base. The scowl on his face said he hadn’t found him.

“Where is Eugene now?” Wondero asked.

“I have no idea,” the principal said quietly.

“You must have heard something?”

Bridgewater shook his head.

“How about his mother? Is she still alive?”

“I suppose. She lives on the outskirts of town. Elaine and I haven’t spoken in many years.”

“We need you to take us to her.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. Elaine and I stopped speaking long ago. I’m not welcome in her home.”

Hardare slammed his fist on the desk. “You have to. Eugene Osbourne is a serial killer who’s murdered dozens people. My wife will be his next victim if you don’t help us find him.”

“Eugene’s a serial killer?”

“That’s right. Will you help us, or not?”

Bridgewater pushed himself out of his chair. His face had turned white, and he looked shaken to the core.

“I’ll try,” he said.

Chapter 21

The Tape

Rancho Penasquitos was located at the foot of the imposing Black Mountain range. Comfortable family homes and small farms ran up and down secluded hills and canyons, with people on horseback as plentiful as those riding in cars.

Driving down a dirt road, Bridgewater told them the rest of his story. A smart defense attorney had managed to keep Eugene out of jail, and in shame Elaine had quit her teaching job and rented a dilapidated farm in the area.

“I haven’t seen Elaine since she moved out here,” Bridgewater said. “I heard she was still giving speech therapy at the veteran’s hospital.”

A sign on the road announced the Osbourne farm. It consisted of a tiny house with a sagging front porch, a barn with fist-sized holes dotting the walls, and a doghouse with a chained mutt standing on its roof. In the yard stood a man in tattered jeans and a football jersey. Golden brown feed seeped through his fingers into the upturned mouths of a dozen squawking baby chicks.

“Who’s that?” Wondero asked.

“That’s Matt, Elaine’s nephew.” Bridgewater said. “He’s a bit slow. Let me deal with him.”

Bridgewater parked beside a rusted fence and they got out.

“Hi, Matt. Remember me? Doctor Bridgewater. How you been?”

Matthew squinted suspiciously. “Long time no see, Doc. What brings you out here?”

“I need to speak with Elaine. Is she around?”

“She’s in the ground, Doc.”

“Elaine’s dead?”

“Yup. Kicked the bucket two years ago.”

Bridgewater stared at the ground like an actor who’d forgotten his line.

“Ask him about Eugene,” Wondero whispered.

“Have you heard from your cousin Eugene?” Bridgewater asked.

“Why you asking about that piece of garbage?”

“We need to find him.”

“Eugene sent me a letter, asked to borrow some money. Like a dope I sent it to him. Never heard from him again.”

“Ask him if he still has the letter,” Wondero whispered.

“Do you still have the letter?”

In a rage Matthew picked up a feed bucket and swung it menacingly. “I don’t want to talk about him. Eugene sucks.”

“But Matt—”

“Go away.”

Turning his back on them, Matthew resumed feeding the chicks. Hardare glanced at the house. It didn’t have more than a couple of rooms, and would be easy to search.

“I’m going in,” Hardare said.

“Wait,” Wondero said.

He ignored him, and hopped the fence. The baby chicks started to squawk, and Matthew spun around.

“Get off my property. You’re breaking the law.”

“I have to talk to you,” Hardare said.

“I said scram!”

It was like arguing with a child. It gave him an idea, and he knelt down, and put some of the feed in his palm. He tossed it at the chicks, and they quickly encircled his feet.

In becoming a magician, he had learned hundreds of tricks, and exposed himself to the different ways that had been devised to fool people. As the chicks pecked at his fingers, he picked them up and stroked their fluffy stomachs with his finger, then flipped each chick on its back, and carefully laid it on the ground. The chicks remained motionless, as if hypnotized.

Matthew knelt beside him. “Wow. How’d you do that?”

Hardare saw Wondero heading for the house. Matthew paid no attention to him.

“It’s a trick. Would you like me to show you?” Hardare asked.

“First bring them back.”

“Sure.”

Hardare gently tipped over one of the chicks with his extended finger. The chick popped up and started running in circles.

“Awesome!” Matthew exclaimed.

Soon he had all the chicks up and running. Matthew was like a little kid at his first magic show, and he held one of the chicks between his cupped hands and kissed its fluffy head.

“Show me how you did that,” he said.

Hardare taught Matthew the baby chick trick. It had been invented by an Egyptian magician named Galli Galli. By the time he was finished, Matthew was hypnotizing chicks left and right.

“This is so cool. Thanks for showing me.”

“Your welcome.”

“Do you know any more?”

“A couple.”

The sound of a slamming door lifted his head. Wondero emerged from the house with a cardboard box clutched in his hands. He gave Hardare the thumbs up, indicating his search had been successful.

“I need to run. Nice meeting you.”

“You, too.”

Hardare hopped back over the fence. Bridgewater already had the car running. He and Wondero jumped in, and they drove away.

Wondero dumped the box’s contents onto the seat. Letters, newspaper clippings, some old photos, and a tape cassette fell out. The detective divided the letters in half, and handed Hardare a stack.

“I found this stuff in a closet,” Wondero explained. “Hopefully, Eugene Osbourne’s letter is here.”

Hardare thumbed through his stack. It included letters from distant relatives and old friends. At the bottom he found an envelope addressed to Matthew Osbourne, and opened it. Inside was a letter from his cousin Eugene, begging for money.

“I found it,” Hardare said.

Wondero turned in his seat. “Is there a return address?”

“No. Eugene sent his cousin a self-addressed stamped envelope, and asked him to put a check in it. There’s no return address on the letter, or the envelope it was sent in.”

“Damn it,” Wondero said.

“Did you find anything in your stack?”

“No.”

The car fell silent. They had hit a dead end. Hardare wanted to ask Wondero what they should do now, but thought he already knew the answer. They had to hope for a miracle.

He tossed the letters back into the box. His eyes fell on the tape cassette lying on the seat.

“What do you think is on the tape?” Hardare asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Wondero said.

Wondero popped the cassette into the car’s tape player. A low hum came out of the car’s speakers, followed by a woman’s voice giving a speech lesson to a man with a pronounced stutter.

“That’s Elaine,” Bridgewater said. “She must have recorded one of her therapy sessions at the V.A. hospital.”

They listened to Elaine Osbourne during the drive back. The tape was of good quality, her voice strong and clear. As they pulled into the high school parking lot, the tape ended.

Wondero grabbed the box of letters and photographs, and got out of the car. Bridgewater started to do the same, and Hardare tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t know why, but something told him that the tape might come in handy down the road.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep the tape,” Hardare said.

Bridgewater popped the tape out of the player. He passed it back between the seats, and Hardare saw the sadness in his eyes.

“She was a wonderful woman,” the principal said.

“I’m sure she was.

They both got out of the car.

Chapter 22

The Message

Jan Hardare watched the sunrise, hating herself.

Her husband could escape from anything, ropes, chains, the insides of safes, burning houses packed with dynamite, straitjackets while doing somersaults 20,000 feet in the air, even from a swimming pool filled with man-eating sharks, and here she was, his wife and able-bodied assistant, sitting tied to a chair bolted to the floor, and unable to slip even a single knot.

A punishing wind blew through the room, and she licked her badly chapped lips for the hundredth time since awakening. The gaping hole in the wall offered an obstructed view of the burned-out and abandoned tenement buildings that dotted the landscape. She was many stories up, the view reminding her more of downtown Beirut than anyplace she’d seen in L.A.

The sun was splitting the horizon when a pair of men’s voices traveled up from below. She considered calling out for help, then heard the voices turn ugly. They were fighting over a drug deal, and Jan decided she was better off keeping her mouth shut.

After a while the voices went away, and Jan felt her heart pounding in her chest. Out of sheer desperation she began to rock back and forth in her steel chair, testing each leg to see if it were securely bolted to the concrete slab floor.

She spent the next hour straining every muscle in her body trying to escape. If there was any slack in the rope, or if she could somehow create some slack, then she could begin the torturous process of releasing herself. That was how Vince did it, and often was black and blue over half of his body the next day. Except in this case Death had done a sailor’s job in tying her down: she was not going anywhere without some help.

She was beaten and it depressed her. Her family were all military people; all fighters. Ending your life in a losing posture was nothing short of a disgrace. On his deathbed her father had stunned the family by reciting Shakespeare, his barely audible voice holding on until the bitter end.

A mean-looking rat scurried past her. She watched it disappear down a hole, wondering how long it would be before the rest of the rats in the building figured out she was here.

Since arriving at the station that morning, Kenny Kitchen had been on edge. He did a four hour talk show each day, and knew that sometime during that show, Death was going to call, and try and broker a deal with Vincent Hardare to save his wife’s life. It was a dangerous situation, and thinking about it made him sick to his stomach.

He busied himself by picking that day’s music selection. Unlike most disc jockeys, Kitchen still got to choose which music he played on his show, and did not work off a script supplied by the station.

His show went live at ten. At a few minutes past nine, Jayne, his assistant, appeared clutching a styrofoam cup filled with black liquid. Kitchen grabbed the cup and sucked it down.

“You look terrible,” Jayne said.

“I’m not looking forward to this, in case you were wondering,” Kitchen replied.

“Why don’t you go hang out in your office, and relax. I’ll pick the rest of the music selection. I know what you like.”

It sounded like a good idea.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“I’m always right. You’re just slow to acknowledge it.”

Kitchen walked down the hallway to his office and opened the door. He did a double-take at the sight of Hardare sitting at his desk, a paper matchbook levitating above his open palm.

“How did you get in here?”

“Trade secret. Shut the door.”

Kitchen shut the door and entered the office. Pulling up a chair, he sat down across from the magician. The floating matchbook dropped to the desk, and Hardare tossed it aside.

“I need your help,” Hardare said.

“Name it,” the DJ said.

“We found out who Death is. Some sicko named Eugene Osbourne. The LAPD is trying to find him right now. So far, they aren’t having any luck.

“Five years ago, Osbourne did a stint at Atascadero State Mental Hospital. The police talked to Osbourne’s doctor last night. According to the doctor, Osbourne is a control freak, who gets his kicks out of manipulating people.

“The doctor said something else. When Osbourne is challenged, he reverts to a child-like state. The doctor claimed that the best way to deal with Eugene was to constantly challenge him.”

“Like you did the other night on my show,” Kitchen said.

“Exactly.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Here’s my plan. The police want me to play along with Osbourne, in the hopes that it will lead them to finding my wife. I don’t think that’s going to work. My wife doesn’t stand a chance if we let Osbourne call the shots.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“Good. Osbourne is going to call you during your show today, and try to set up a meeting between me and him. The police want you to say that I’ll cooperate fully with his requests. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, the message has changed. I want you to tell Osbourne that he should watch Action 10 News at Noon, and hang up on him.”

The DJ rocked back in his chair. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. I’ve thought it out. I have to get the upper hand with Osbourne. Otherwise, Jan doesn’t stand a chance.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve arranged to have an Action 10 news crew televise me live from the Magic Castle. I’ve got a surprise for Osbourne that should scare the hell out of him.”

Kitchen tugged nervously on his beard. “Have you told the police?”

“No, and I’m not going to. I can’t play by their rules anymore.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

They both stood up, and went to the door.

“I’ve thought it out. I can’t play by his rules.”

“Okay. I hope you’re right.”

They both stood up, and went to the door.

“By the way, why did you sneak in here?” Kitchen asked.

“This has to be a surprise,” Hardare replied. “I couldn’t let anyone know what I was up to, except for you.”

The DJ nodded and pumped the magician’s hand.

“Good luck,” Kitchen said.

“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

Chapter 23

Sophie

Leaving through a back exit of the radio station, Hardare relocked the door with a universal lock pick, one of Houdini’s greatest yet little known creations, then waved down Crystal, who screeched up in the fiery red Camaro she’d rented.

“How did it go?” she asked as he hopped in.

Strapping himself in, he said, “It went great.”

“Nothing’s great right now, Dad,” Crystal said, punching the accelerator. Jan had taught her how to drive, recklessly changing lanes, never maintaining a single speed. “I called Central Casting like you asked me too, and hired ten actors, plus a voice specialist named Alice Garvey. They should be at the Castle now.”

“How did you pay for it?”

“Credit card. I told them they had better send their best make-up artist as well, and a couple of costume people.”

“Good thinking.”

She got onto the Santa Monica freeway and headed north. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the Magic Castle to find a small, angry mob. A dozen stylishly dressed couples stood, voicing their displeasure to the Castle’s tuxedoed host.

“I realize this is a terrible inconvenience for all of you,” the host said. “But the Castle is closed for the afternoon.”

“But we made reservations three months ago,” a man in the crowd said angrily. “Let us in, or face the consequences!”

An ugly chorus of protests went up. Crystal threw the rental into reverse, rocketed back down the winding driveway, and took a hard left at the service sign.

“Good call,” Hardare said.

They went in through the back entrance, and took a stairway to the restaurant on the second floor, which had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. The ten actors from Central Casting had arrived, and were getting wardrobes and having makeup put on by a pair of attentive make-up artists. Hardare noticed a grandmotherly type sitting in the corner, and introduced himself.

“Nice to meet you,” the woman replied. “I’m Alice Harvey, Woman of a Thousand Voices.”

Hardare knew Alice Harvey by reputation, her voice having appeared on hundreds of commercials and countless cartoons. “Thanks for coming out on such short notice,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Harvey replied. “I’ve listened to the tape of the voice you want me to impersonate, and it shouldn’t be a problem. But I do have a question. The other actors don’t have scripts to work from. Is this intentional?”

“Yes. Do you think I should talk with them?”

“It might not be a bad idea,” Harvey said.

Hardare rounded up the other actors and explained the deal. It was a good-looking group of people, but that was to be expected. This was L.A., after all.

“Good morning, and thanks for being here,” the magician said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that we’re working without a script. There’s a reason for that. It’s important — in fact, its essential — that you remain in the dark until the performance begins. Your reaction to what happens must be spontaneous, and unrehearsed. Any questions?”

“You want us to show our true emotions?” one of the male actors asked.

“Yes.”

“Boy, that’s a new one.”

The rest of the group laughed. Hardare felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to face his daughter.

“You need to meet Sophie Nichols,” Crystal said. “She’s the actress that’s going to play Elaine Osbourne.”

“Lead the way,” he said.

Hardare followed his daughter out of the restaurant, up a short flight of stairs, and down a hallway that appeared to go nowhere. At its end, she placed her hands on an innocent-looking wall and pushed in, entering the Houdini Séance room.

An attractive woman in her early forties sat at the round mahogany table in the room’s center. She wore a smock, and was getting make-up applied to her face by a make-up artist.

“You must be Vincent Hardare,” she said. “I’m Sophie Nichols. How do I look?”

On the table was a photo of Elaine Osbourne that Wondero had taken from the dead woman’s house. Hardare picked the photo up, and compared it to Sophie Nichols. The make-up artist had done a remarkable job of making Sophie look like Elaine.

“You look good,” Hardare said.

“But do I look good enough?” Sophie Nichols asked.

It was a good question. There was only so much magic that blush and mascara could do.

“Maybe we should do a dry run,” Hardare suggested.

“I’d like that, if you don’t mind,” the actress said.

The makeup artist stopped what he was doing, and unpinned the smock. Hardare escorted her to the other side of the table, and had her sit beneath the portrait of Houdini.

“This is your spot,” he said. “Don’t move.”

Sophie Nichols turned into a statue. Hardare lit a candle on the table, and dimmed the room’s lights. Shadows danced across the actress’s face. In the darkness, the resemblance to Elaine Osbourne was even stronger.

“Perfect,” Hardare said.

“And you just want me to sit here during the performance, and silently move my mouth up and down,” the actress said.

“That’s right. There’s going to be a hologram over your head, so you shouldn’t move.”

“A hologram? Can I see?”

“Of course.”

The Houdini Séance room was filled with special effects. Hardare flipped a switch on the wall. A few feet above the table appeared a ghostly hand clutching a butcher knife.

“That’s clever. What else does it do?” the actress asked.

“Just watch,” Hardare said.

The ghostly hand came sharply down, plunging the knife into the actress’s chest, the momentary shock causing her to jump. The knife pulled back, dripping blood.

“You really know how to scare a gal, don’t you?” she said.

“That was the idea,” Hardare said.

Chapter 24

Jan

It was getting harder to find a payphone in L.A.

There were still a few around, but most of them were out of service. Everyone having a cell phone these days, Death supposed payphones would soon become a thing of the past, like record players and horse drawn carriages.

He pulled into a Sunset Oil gas station on West Sunset Boulevard at a few minutes past ten. Kenny Kitchen’s show had started, and was playing on his radio. The phone lines were open, and Kenny was inviting his listeners to call in.

Death got out of his car, had a look around. No police cruisers were lurking around, nor did he see any surveillance cameras hanging off the side of the building. The coast was clear, as they said in the movies.

He dropped a quarter into the payphone and called the station. The number was easy to remember. 888-KOLL.

“KOLL, this is the Kenny Kitchen show,” an operator answered.

“I want to speak to Kenny,” Death said.

“Sure. I need to ask you a few questions. First of all, what’s your name?”

“Death.”

“That’s a new one. What do you want to talk to him about?”

“He’ll know.”

“He doesn’t take crank calls, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll cut off Jan Hardare’s head and send it to him if he doesn’t pick up the phone.”

“Gotcha.”

The operator put him on hold. Kitchen picked up the line a few seconds later. The DJ’s voice was shaking.

“Hello, Kenny,” Death said pleasantly.

“I have a message for you,” Kitchen said.

“Really? From who?”

“Hardare. He wants you to watch Action 10 News at Noon.”

“That’s nice. Now, let’s talk about our deal, shall we?”

“I’ve got to go,” Kitchen said.

“Wait a minute! Didn’t you hear what I just said? I want to do a deal with Hardare. Do you understand?”

“Watch Action 10 News at Noon.”

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

Seeing red, Death slammed down the receiver, and got into his car. At times like this, it was impossible for him to function, and he sat frozen behind the wheel, hearing a pounding bass line in his ears. It was loud enough to make his head hurt, and he buried his face in his hands.

His heart, beating out of control.

By late morning the wind had picked up, and it whistled in and out of the gaping holes in the walls of the abandoned apartment house where Jan sat prisoner. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she steeled herself as a key entered the door.

The door flew open with wham! Death entered carrying a portable TV under his arm and a bag of groceries. Dressed in Nikes, faded jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt and a Dodgers baseball cap, he looked like the average Joe Blow out for a walk.

“Glad to see you’re still with us.” Shutting the door, he went into the adjoining room, and returned dragging a wooden packing box. Positioning the box before her chair, he propped the portable TV on top of it, switching it on. It was a color Sony with snowy lines running across the screen. He extended the antenna and fiddled with it for a minute.

“Can you see the picture?”

Jan said nothing.

The muscles in his back tensed, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Was that a yes, or a no?”

“Burn in hell,” she said.

He leapt across the room, his hands slapping her face with such dazzling speed that she nearly passed out. Stopping, he removed his cap and brought his face close to hers.

“Look at me, bitch.”

Jan looked. Death was hideous in a way she had not expected. A hairless face with misshapen ears, the nose and mouth contorted by hidden demons, the eyes ice blue and soulless.

“Get this straight,” he said. “I can play this nice, or I can play this ugly. Makes no difference to me.”

Kneeling, Death painstakingly unbolted her chair from the floor. Then he spun her around one hundred and eighty degrees. Jan caught the gasp rising in her throat.

The shriveled skeleton of a girl hung from the plaster ceiling behind her, her red leather mini-skirt pulled down to her knees, her straw blond hair flapping in the wind. What remained of her face was twisted in agony; a sure sign of a slow death. Death gently placed his fingertips on Jan’s shoulders and she felt the remaining fight ebb out of her tired, aching body. He spun her chair back around.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” she said.

“That’s more like it.” He resumed fine tuning the portable TV. “Can you see the picture, now?”

“Yes, I can see it.”

“Good,” he replied.

Along with the TV, he had brought a picnic: imported cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, dark pumpernickel bread, sliced baloney, roast beef, alpine Swiss, even little tubs of mayonnaise and mustard. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he proceeded to gorge himself.

“Your stupid husband refuses to deal with me,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Instead of listening to what I had to say, he wants me to watch Action 10 News at Noon. I thought you might want to watch as well.”

“Who is she?” Jan asked.

Death shook his head, not understanding.

“The dead woman hanging behind me.”

“Some tramp.”

“You don’t even know her name?”

“I might have once, but it escapes me.”

Death continued to shove food into his mouth. He was clearly on edge, and looked capable of just about anything. Jan said a silent prayer, hoping that if she died, it went quickly.

“Why, look at the time,” he said. “It’s almost noon. Let’s see what Mr. Magico has up his sleeve, shall we?”

“Sure.”

He turned around and faced the portable TV.

“Now, I remember,” he said. “Her name was Jane. No, that’s not right. It was Jan. I’m sure of it.”

Jan stiffened. “That’s my name.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. My mistake.”

Jan silently cursed him while staring at the TV.

Chapter 25

Rosabelle, Believe

“We’re live in thirty seconds,” the cameraman announced. “Everybody take your places.”

The actors scurried around the Houdini Séance room and took their seats. As a make-up artist dabbed pancake on his upper lip, Hardare took a deep breath. He had only one hand to play, and this was it. On the other side of the room stood Action 10 news reporter Jayne Hunter, clutching a mike. She shot him a smile.

“Are you ready?” Hunter asked.

“As ready as I’m ever going to be,” Hardare replied.

“Five seconds,” the cameraman said. Then, “We’re on...”

“Good day,” Hunter said to the camera. “This is Jayne Hunter, coming to you live from the Magic Castle in Hollywood. I’m in the famous Houdini Séance room with magician Vincent Hardare. As many of our viewers know, Hardare has been helping the LAPD hunt for a serial killer who calls himself Death. Today, Hardare is going to attempt to track Death down by speaking to the spirits. Hardare... are you ready?”

The segment was being shot with a single camera. The cameraman shifted, and focused on the magician sitting at the table with the actors he’d hired.

“Death is not the end, nor the last word for human experience,” Hardare began. “Death is another dimension, another universe, and another time. We enter this dimension only at great risk.”

Everyone at the table joined hands.

“We are gathered in a special place,” he went on. “This room is dedicated to my uncle, Erich Weiss, known to the world as Harry Houdini. During his lifetime, Houdini sought proof of the existence of the hereafter. To his wife Bess he promised that if it were possible, he would return from the next world.

“It is recorded that Houdini’s ghost spoke during a séance conducted by the Reverend Arthur Ford. During that séance, Reverend Ford revealed the secret code Houdini promised to use if he did return. Those words were, ‘Rosabelle, believe’.

“Tonight, with the aid of Houdini’s ghost, we will attempt to contact the spirt world, and ask them to help us find a serial killer who calls himself Death.”

Off camera, a bell rang three times. Hardare began to recite.

The séance table eerily rose in the air. Then, the stained glass window directly behind them opened with a terrific bang, and a gush of wind blew into the room, causing the candle to flicker.

It was the perfect distraction. The actress sitting to Hardare’s right rose from her place, and silently stole away. She was replaced by Sophie Nichols, who slipped into the empty chair, and began to softly moan. Under the candle’s flickering light, she bore a strong resemblance to Elaine Osbourne.

“I hear your voice,” Hardare said. “You are so close...” His face suddenly stiffened. “Don’t cry, please. I know you are hurting inside, I know. Just talk to me... let us try to help.”

An anguished cry escaped the actress’s lips.

“Who are you?” Hardare asked her.

Sophie lowered her chin, hiding her face from the camera. The voice of Alice Harvey, the Woman of a Thousand Voices, came over the room’s hidden speaker.

“My name is Elaine Osbourne,” the voice said. “I am Death’s mother. I have a message for my son.”

“Is your son the serial killer who calls himself Death?”

“Yes.”

“What is your son’s name?”

“Eugene Osbourne.”

“What is your message to Eugene,” Hardare said.

“My son must stop killing. He’s hurting me!”

“How is he hurting you?”

“Every victim he kills, an invisible knife is stabbed into my heart! Eugene — you must stop!”

A ghostly hand clutching a butcher knife appeared above the séance table and plunged down into the actress’s head, then disappeared. Hardare had not told the other actors about this little touch. Just as he’d hoped, they recoiled in horror.

“Is there anything else?” Hardare asked.

“Tell Eugene that I love him.”

“Even after he’s hurt you.”

“He’s still my son. Goodbye.”

The séance table rose into the air, and the stained glass window banged open. Sophie Nichols invisibly left the room, her seat replaced by the first actress.

The lights came up, and the cameraman panned the faces of everyone at the table, stopping last at Hardare.

“The dead have spoken,” the magician said.

Death lay on the bare floor in a fetal curl, his head buried in his hands, the crotch of his jeans soiled by his own urine. With each pitiful sob, his shoulders gently rocked, the motion reminding Jan of a baby in a cradle.

Jan sat transfixed, watching her abductor teeter on the brink of madness. How had Vince found out who Death’s mother was? And how had he found someone who looked exactly like her, and gotten her to appear at a séance? Being married to a magician had always been full of surprises, and this ranked right up there with the very best.

Death shrieked a primal scream, the sound tearing through the abandoned tenement. Pulling himself to his feet, he walked around the room, his fists pounding holes into the crumbling walls.

“Why did he do that?” he sobbed. “Why couldn’t he leave my mommy alone?”

Jan stared straight ahead. Eugene had snapped, and sounded like a ten-year-old-boy.

“I’m going to make him pay for that. Just you wait.”

From the paper bag he pulled out a string of sausages. He stuck one into his mouth and chewed viciously. Something about him had changed, although Jan wasn’t entirely sure what.

“Can I have one?” she asked.

“What did you say?”

“I’m hungry. Can I have one of your sausages.”

Death tore off a sausage and stuck it in her mouth.

“Your husband is a prick. He could have brought my father back, and wouldn’t have said those bad things about me.”

Jan chewed the uncooked sausage. As it hit her stomach, her gastronomical juices went off like fireworks.

“Can I have something to drink?”

“Only if you say please.”

“Please.”

He put a can of soda to her lips. Jan downed it in one gulp. She’d never tasted anything more delicious in her life.

“That should keep you alive for a little while,” he said. “I’m granting you a temporary reprieve, but the sentence remains the same.”

He made a feeble effort to laugh and instead started to cry again, his shoulders visibly shaking. It was impossible, yet Jan actually found herself feeling sorry for him.

“Let me help you, Eugene.”

“No!”

“Please. Untie me from this chair. You’re a sick man; you need a doctor. I’ll help you find a good one.”

“Nobody can help me. I have a worm in my brain. Now give me your husband’s cell phone number.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he wants me to contact him. I’m not stupid. Now, give it to me.”

Jan recited her husband’s cell number from memory. Death repeated it to her, then gathered up his things and left the apartment. She felt herself shudder as he locked the door behind him.

Chapter 26

Watts

Hardare and his daughter returned to their hotel to find a grim-faced Wondero and his partner waiting in the lobby.

“I guess you saw the news,” Hardare said.

“We sure did,” Wondero said.

The detectives rode upstairs with them to their suite. Crystal hugged her father, then went to her bedroom and shut the door. Wondero jabbed his finger into Hardare’s chest.

“Do you have any idea what kind of harm you’ve caused? I should arrest you for obstructing a homicide investigation.”

“What did I do?” Hardare said.

“Just forget about your wife for a minute, and try to imagine the man who kidnapped her. Eugene Osbourne is certifiably insane. Do you think bringing back his dead mother is going to have a settling effect? What if he goes on a rampage?”

“Remember Son of Sam, the serial killer in New York?” Rittenbaugh chimed in. “When he got arrested, the police found an Uzi submachine gun in his apartment. He was going to drive out to Long Island and shoot up a discotheque filled with people.”

Hardare had already played out those scenarios, and decided it was worth the risk, if it meant saving Jan.

“Are you guys staying?” he asked.

“You’re damn straight we’re staying,” Wondero replied.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

Hardare retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. Taking out his cell phone, he placed it on the dresser and waited for Death to call.

An hour passed. He killed time staring into the hills at the stilt houses with their Chinese restaurant architecture and above ground swimming pools. What did it feel like living in a home that millions of people probably looked at every day? Like a fish in a bowl, or a king on a throne? He supposed it depended on your point of view.

His attention was drawn to an animal prowling on the deck of house. It was a coyote with a mottled brown coat and ears pointing up like a pair of antenna. It was hard to believe that a wild animal could stay alive in such a hostile environment. It said a lot for wits and cunning, and the desire to survive.

His cell phone chirped. He snatched it off the dresser and stared at the face. Caller Unknown.

He took the phone into the bathroom before answering.

“Yes?”

“Hello, Mr. Magico,” Death said.

Hardare felt the flesh rise on his arms.

“You dredged up many bad memories,” Death went on, “but you knew that, didn’t you?”

“You hurt me, I hurt you.”

“I think this little chapter should come to a close. Agreed?”

Death did not sound the same. The séance had affected him.

“That depends upon the terms.”

“Simple enough. I give you back your wife, and you leave town. I think that would make us both happy.”

Hardare’s face burned at the prospect of seeing Jan again. “Let her go, and we’ll leave by tomorrow.”

“Is that a promise?” Death said.

“Yes. My wife is worth everything to me.”

“Promise not to bring the police along?”

“No police.”

“I’ll kill her if you do.”

“No police. Now tell me where she is.”

“Your wife is residing on the top floor of an apartment house in a lovely section of town called Watts. The address is 10943 Carver Street.”

Hardare scribbled the address on a notepad with the hotel’s fancy insignia.

“I’d hurry if I were you. The building is filled with rats.”

The line went dead. Hardare went to the door of his room, and cracked it open. The detectives were parked in the living room. He called Crystal’s cell, heard her pick up.

“I need you to create a diversion so I can leave,” he said.

“Where are you going?” his daughter asked.

“To save Jan.”

“One diversion, coming right up.”

There were times when having an actress in the family was an asset. Moments later, Crystal came out of the bedroom and walked past the detectives. Slapping her hand against her forehead, she let out a moan, and collapsed to the floor.

They rushed to her aid. Hardare slipped out of his bedroom and left the suite without either man being the wiser.

The racially ignited riots that had engulfed the ghetto of Watts in 1965 had left deep, ugly scars in the landscape which the passage of time had still not healed. Boarded up storefronts and deserted apartment houses, their yards trashed with garbage and the shells of abandoned, burned out cars, had left a blight so complete that the area resembled a third world nation, and Hardare found it hard to believe that it had taken only fifteen minutes to drive here from his hotel.

Hardare read the street signs as he drove. At the intersection of Century Boulevard and South Graham Avenue he stopped at a railroad crossing to let the southbound Blue Line rumble by, and saw young men on the corner giving him ugly stares.

He parked on Carver Street and got out. The building where his wife was being held hostage was a skeletal five-story apartment house being prepared for demolition. A crane with a wrecking ball sat in a nearby lot.

He found the opening in the fence. A piece of paper was stuck in the wire, and he pulled it free. It was a note.

YOUR WIFES IN #556

Hardare entered the abandoned apartment and climbed the stairwell, hearing clay crack pipes crunch beneath his heels. The apartment had no electricity, the only light in the stairwell caused by holes in the walls. On the different floors he heard the sounds of drug deals going down. It made him sick to think that Jan was being kept here.

He came to the fifth floor and followed the numbers on the doors until he found #556. The door had a brand new padlock on it. Kneeling, he took out his wallet and removed his lock picks, and went to work opening the door.

His hands shook like someone with palsy. What if he was too late, and Jan was dead? Could he truly stand to see her lifeless body, to talk to it and not have it talk back? Was that the last picture he wanted lodged in his memory for the rest of his life?

He was afraid — afraid of losing her, afraid he already had — when the padlock audibly clicked open. He swallowed his fear and pushed open the door.

“Hello?” a familiar voice said.

He stepped into the barren apartment, and found his wife bound to a chair in the living room.

“Guess who.”

He cried while untying her. Jan cried as well.

“Did I ever tell you how wonderful it is being married to a wizard,” she said, hugging him as she got up.

“Did he hurt you?” Hardare asked.

“No. But I think you hurt him.”

Hardare’s eyes fell on the fully-clothed female skeleton hanging by her wrists from the ceiling.

“Oh, my God, who’s she?”

“One of the unlucky ones. Let’s get out of here.”

Hardare heard the noisy grinding of gears. Spinning around, he saw a concrete wrecking ball burst through the wall, sweeping the skeleton girl and the chair across the room in a tangled mass, the concussion knocking them both to the floor. Pulverized brick and plaster showered down, making it impossible to see.

He got up, and pulled Jan to her feet. The wrecking ball hit again, this time a few yards above their heads. Hardare covered his head with his arms, certain that Death knew exactly where they were in the building.

They ran into the hallway and down the stairs. The walls were beginning to collapse around them, and Hardare grabbed his wife’s hand, and looked into his eyes. He should have been scared, only he wasn’t. He’d gotten the thing he wanted most. If he was going to die, at least he’d be with the woman he loved.

Chapter 27

Buried Alive

Death had found a new friend, the wrecking ball machine, courtesy of the Amarillo Brothers Construction Company. To hell with guns and big knives; here was the true weapon of choice, capable of knocking down tall buildings with a few well placed whacks.

The building started to crumble. He kept at it, unconcerned about the two people inside. With each direct hit, the ground around him shook, letting him experience the profound aftershock of his own devastation. Picking up the bullhorn lying on the floor, he held it to his lips.

“Having fun in there?” he shouted.

He kept one eye on the front door. He had made sure the other exits were locked from the outside. Hardare and his bride had only one avenue of escape, and it was through that door.

“Anybody home?” he shouted.

He grasped the lever that activated the wrecking ball and made it swing forward. He hesitated, eyes searching for the uneven bricks on the building’s side which outlined the stairwell’s location, then decided to aim at the first floor, and see if he could make the building come down.

“Eugene! Over here!”

The voice jolted him. Hardare stood in a window on the second floor, waving his arms. Death spun the cumbersome wheel and made the crane tilt upward.

“Lights out!” he yelled into the bullhorn.

“Too slow!” Hardare yelled back.

As Death began to pull the lever, he blinked in disbelief. Hardare was no longer in the window, but now stood at another apartment window, over twenty feet away.

“Come on, you hairless freak!”

Clapping his hands, Hardare melted from view. A split-second later the magician reappeared in the first window.

“Fuck me,” Death said, no longer believing his eyes.

The words carried over the bullhorn.

“That’s right, fuck you,” Hardare called back.

A movement caught Death’s eye. Jan had run out the front door of the apartment house, and was heading for the street. They had tricked him, and like a fool, he’d fallen for it. It only made his desire to kill Hardare that much stronger.

He aimed the ball at the arches by the front door. He couldn’t tell if they were real, or fake, and decided to find out, taking them down with one fell swoop of the ball.

The ground around him shook. Half of the first floor had caved in, the building now sagging under its own weight. He had hit a main support.

The apartment house began to groan. Death jumped out of the cab to watch its demise. The collapse began at the building’s center, the floors falling in upon each other, spitting black and gray spirals of dust hundreds of feet into the air, the accumulating weight causing a great roar as the bottom floors flattened out and turned the five-story structure into a gigantic pile of rubble and jagged steel in a matter of seconds.

“Goodbye, Mr. Magico,” he said.

As he sprinted down to the bottom floor, Hardare saw the front entrance to the apartment cave in, and his chances for survival diminish. Spinning around, he ran to the rear of the dying building, looking for another way out.

But there was none. The windows were boarded shut, the back door padlocked from the outside. His lock picks did him little good if he didn’t have a keyhole to stick them in.

He retreated to the stairwell, thinking he might still be able to go up, find a hole in a wall that had crumbled, and make a jump for it. The apartment house emitted a sickening groan. Looking up, he saw a gigantic crack split the ceiling apart. He felt his knees grow weak and his spirits fail; there was no place left to run, no last-second miracles to pull out of his back pocket. He was done.

Half the ceiling came down, missing him by a few feet. He teetered backwards into a wall and tried to stay upright. He felt a board in the wall spring open, and stuck his hand into it. It was a laundry chute. Having no other place to turn, he dove headfirst down the narrow, pitch black shaft.

It was a tight, harrowing ride. A concrete wall met him at its end, and he felt a stabbing pain in his forehead, then an odd sense of nirvana, as if he were floating on the crest of a blackened wave. After a while, the moldy stench of rotted laundry brought him up from the depths, and he managed to open his eyes, and still see nothing.

He heard his cell phone ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out. Caller ID said Unknown.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Jan said elatedly.

“Alive and kicking. Where are you?”

“I’m standing outside with a couple of policemen. They called the excavation company to come dig you out.”

“That’s great. Tell the excavation guys I’m trapped in the basement.” He paused. “Any sign of Osbourne?”

“No. He escaped.”

The laundry room had begun to vibrate. Above him came a deafening pounding, and he imagined the different floors crashing in, one atop the other, not unlike the footage of condemned buildings being imploded that TV news programs found so appealing.

“Got to go,” he said.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He folded his phone and stuck it in his pocket. A rumbling sound was coming from the laundry chute. All at once he realized what it was: falling debris. Using the palms of his hands, he felt his way across the wall and quickly found the mouth of the chute, the debris gushing out like running water. Balling up a moldy sheet, he stuffed it into the chute as tightly as possible.

It didn’t work. The chute spit up its plug, and a wave of new debris sent an invisible, toxic cloud across the room, the dirt rising around his waist like quicksand.

He began to climb, his feet slipping and sliding. Two steps up, one step back, trying desperately not to fall. Finally the rock slide stopped, the laundry room almost filled. Lying on the tip of the pile, he felt around with his hands, trying to picture in his mind how much space, and breathing time, was left. There were two feet clear above his head, and an arm’s length to either side. About the size of two coffins, he thought.

He tried to guess how long it would take an excavation team to dig him out. At least an hour, he decided. There wasn’t nearly enough air in the laundry room for him to survive.

He lay in the darkness and tried not to panic. If he’d learned anything as an escape artist, it was that there was always a way out, even if the method was not always apparent. Houdini had figured that out early in his career, and escaped from situations that no one before or since had managed to do.

Many of Houdini’s escapes had never been fully explained. One was called “Buried Alive.” Put in a coffin and lowered into a grave, his uncle had stayed underground for an hour, a baffling feat considering a normal coffin held two minutes of air.

Hardare had assumed that his uncle a hidden oxygen inside the coffin. That belief had later been shattered when he’d read an entry in Houdini’s diary describing how the escape worked.

“When I go under,” Houdini wrote, “I am awake but not conscious. I float on the edge of what is real, and some removed area of the imagination. The sensation is what I suppose the French call surreal. It is strange, and often frightening.

“The secret is simple. I drop my heart beat, breathe as little as possible, and put myself into a trance. How this works is something I do not profess to understand.

“This escape is dangerous, but will remain in my repertoire. There are times in an escape artist’s life that the ability to conserve air can mean the difference between life and death.”

Hardare shifted on the rocks. Going under had worked for Houdini, and it might just work for him.

Shutting his eyes, he forced himself to relax.

His mind became an empty screen. Soon the laundry room became filled with flickering yellow stars that reminded him of a planetarium, and he watched them grow brighter and expand.

A gray, menacing fog carried him into space. Soon the fog dispersed, and he saw infinite space both above and below him. He looked at his hands and saw they were shining brightly, his skin as luminous as a full moon.

Suddenly he began to fall. Slowly at first, then faster, his body plunging at a speed so great that a child-like terror overcame him. His heart raced furiously as he dropped through the dark abyss, and fought off the overwhelming desire to fill his lungs with precious air.

His fall ended unexpectedly, his terror mercifully abated, and he found himself standing on solid ground, again immersed in gray fog. He heard cries, and women’s tortured voices. They seemed to come at him from everywhere at once. It grew unbearable, and he covered his ears with his hands.

The fog dissipated, and he saw dozens of women standing around him. There were women of every age, shape, and physical description, even hardened women from the street. They were miserable creatures, their faces racked by suffering. They formed a circle around him, and he spun around on his heels, looking for a single familiar face among them.

A tall black woman touched his arm. Her face was the one of the most frightening things he’d ever seen, her mouth twisted grotesquely as if by a wire. She put her hand beneath his chin and brought his head up, making him look. Ashamed, he stared into her face without flinching.

“Help us,” she whispered.

She had been normal once, he could see that behind the distortion. Normal, maybe even attractive. But who was she?

He felt another hand, then another. From the second and third row of the circle the women reached out to lay a hand someplace upon his body, some kneeling to touch his legs, their hands touching everywhere. He watched as women in the front gave up their spots so others could take their place and touch him.

A teenage girl who could have been his daughter’s twin came forward. Strawberry blond hair, aqua blue eyes, cute dimples. He had seen her before, and struggled to remember from where. Then it hit him. Her name was Lori Appleby, and her photo had been in the log of Death’s victims which Wondero had shown him.

Appleby edged closer. Several women moved aside, allowing her to stand next to him. She placed her hand on his sleeve. Then her eyes found his face.

“You’ve got to stop him,” she said. “We can’t leave if you don’t.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in. When they did, he felt tears run down his face and he began to cry, his chest heaving with the knowledge that each and every one of these women had been real, just like himself. His heart ached for Appleby and all the women here: for their club of lost souls.

Hardare gasped for air. He began to weaken and felt Appleby and the others tighten their hold on him, and lift him cleanly over their shoulders. In the dark infinity above him, he saw a tiny sliver of light. With both arms he reached toward it, praying it was his salvation.

Chapter 28

The Lead

Wondero and his partner were there when the excavation team pulled Hardare out of the rubble. Still alive, the magician gave a thumbs-up to the detectives as an oxygen mask was fitted on his face, and he was placed on a stretcher and put into the back of an ambulance. His wife and daughter, standing nearby, cheered like they were at a football game.

The ambulance pulled away, its siren blaring. Jan and Crystal Hardare hopped into a car and quickly followed, leaving the detectives staring at a giant hole in the ground.

“How long was he down there?” Rittenbaugh asked.

“Over an hour,” Wondero replied.

“Mind telling me how he stayed alive? Was it a trick?”

“You think I know?”

“Sure. You’re the one with the brains.”

Wondero shook his head; he didn’t have a clue. Hardare seemed capable of doing things that weren’t humanly possible. On top of that, he seemed to be incredibly lucky. The operator of the clunky earth-moving machine had simply picked a spot amid the gigantic pile of rubble and started digging, unaware that he was directly above the laundry room where Hardare was prisoner.

They went to their car. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk to watch. They parted as the detectives passed.

It was Rittenbaugh’s turn to drive. As Wondero waited for him to unlock the doors, he spotted a willowy figure standing on the corner a hundred feet away, wavering like a match flame. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, and he squinted in frustration. The figure was a tall, well dressed black male with a pearly white smile who appeared to be motioning to him.

“I’ll be right back,” Wondero said.

Rittenbaugh had seen the figure as well. “You want back up?”

“That’s not a bad idea. Follow me in the car.”

“Got it.”

Wondero headed down the sidewalk. It was in Watts that the term “a drive-by” had been coined, with drug dealers driving by their competition on street corners and blowing them away with automatic weapons. In an area this dangerous, it was better to be safe than sorry.

He came to the corner and halted. The figure was leaning against a gleaming BMW 750 parked illegally at the curb. Wondero didn’t know him, but he knew his kind. A ghetto drug-dealer, sporting a cream-colored Italian suit and shoes that looked like slippers, his white silk shirt open at half mast, his chest ablaze in glittering gold medallions and thick gold chains. The impulse to spare some ghetto kid the misery of becoming a crack addict was powerful enough to make Wondero’s right hand twitch.

“What do you want?” Wondero snarled.

“My name is Rasheed,” the drug dealer said.

“That’s nice.”

“Chill out, brother.”

“Get lost.”

“Listen,” Rasheed said, jabbing his finger in Wondero’s direction. “If people around here see me talking with you, know what happens?” He took the same finger, placed it against his temple. “I’m taking a big risk, okay?”

“So, what do you want?”

From behind his ear Rasheed produced a small square of paper. “This is for you.”

Wondero stared suspiciously at his outstretched hand. If someone snapped a photo with a cell phone, it would look like he was taking a bribe.

“What is it?”

“Information,” Rasheed said.

“About what?”

“There’s been a crazy man in the neighborhood, scaring the shit out of people. One of my runners saw him get into his car right as the apartment house was coming down. He was driving a blue Buick Skylark, real beat-up.”

Wondero took the paper and unfolded it. Scrawled on it was a California license tag. BCL -149H. His hands started to tremble. “Did your boy happen to see anything else?” Wondero asked.

“My what?” Rasheed said indignantly.

“Your runner, your track star, whatever the hell you call him, did he see anything else?”

“Come to mention it, he did.”

“Spit it out.”

“The crazy man was limping, must have fallen down when he was running away. His leg was bleeding, too.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all I know.”

“Thanks for sharing. Now, get the hell out of here.”

“I helped you, man. Show a little respect.”

Wondero been chasing Death for four years. Until now, not a single person had stepped forward, and offered up a solid lead. He should have been thankful, only Rasheed was a pusher, and would probably end up killing just as many people in his life.

“Get the hell out of here before I arrest you.”

“What—?”

“You heard me. Beat it.”

Rasheed’s eyes simmered with hatred. Moments later the BWM pulled away with a rubbery squeal.

Rittenbaugh sat at the corner, the car idling. Wondero hopped in and punched the license into the computer on the dash. “What did he give you?” his partner asked.

“Hope,” Wondero said.

Ten minutes later, the detectives were on the Hollywood freeway driving south in the restricted right lane, doing over eighty. The license belonged to a 1998 blue Buick Skylark that was registered to Warren K. Kozlowski. His address, 2234 Cicera, Apt. 2-B, was in a seedy section of West Hollywood, a few blocks from Paramount studios.

On a hunch, Wondero had called a police dispatcher to see if the Skylark had been recently stolen, and not yet entered on the LAPD computer.

He’d been wrong. The car was clean. That had gotten his attention fast: Death had driven stolen cars around L.A. from the beginning, boldly ditching them in prominent, well-traveled spots, including the driveway of the ex-mayor. But he still had to drive his own car once in a while. In this city, there was no other way to be mobile.

Rittenbaugh took the Fountain Avenue exit west to Wilton, and drove south past historic Hollywood Cemetery and the Paramount lot until he found Cicera. He took a hard right and the two detectives started reading addresses. The street was lined with three and four-story apartment houses that had been neglected beyond repair. They came to a traffic light, and Rittenbaugh jammed on the brakes.

“The address is in the next block,” Rittenbaugh said. “Do you think we should call for backup?”

Wondero considered it. With any luck, the Skylark would be parked on the curb, and Osbourne would be home. If they called for backup, there was always the chance that Osbourne would slip away, and their chance to end his murderous spree would disappear.

“Let’s get him,” Wondero said.

The light changed and Rittenbaugh let the car drift down the street. Finding the address, he double-parked, and the two detectives hopped out.

Wondero’s first steps were quick and sure. Going up the path, he halted, hitting an invisible wall. #2234 Cicera was an old gutted house, its sagging three-story frame a blackened, picked-clean carcass on a grassless plot of land.

The detectives both cursed.

Back in the car, Wondero gave the dashboard an angry punch before issuing a city-wide alert on the Skylark.

Chapter 29

Eugene’s Room

L.A. had its share of prejudice, but if any group got abused and no one heard about it, it was the elderly, especially on the roads.

Myrtle Jones had found out the hard way, her last car totaled at an intersection by a teenager without insurance. She had received no restitution, no triumphant day in court; the boy had gotten a fine, then driven away from the courthouse, while she had been forced to take a bus.

So she stayed away from cars. Only on rare occasions did she drive Mr. Kozlowski’s old Skylark, and that was because he nagged her to take it out for a spin every once and a while. The car was still registered to Mr. Kozlowski’s old address, and she was fearful of getting in another accident, and being fined for driving without correct papers.

But Mr. Kozlowski had continued to nag her. WHY LET IT FALL APART? he’d written on his tiny computer.

“Do you really want your car driven?” she’d asked him.

YES!!! he’d replied.

“How about if I let our neighbor Eugene drive it?” she said. “He asked me about the car the other day.”

GOOD IDEA

So she’d given Eugene the keys to Mr. Kozlowski’s car. Let him drive it, she thought, and I’ll stick to the sidewalks and mass transportation. A great idea, until the car had appeared in her driveway caked in dirt and something that looked like blood on the upholstery, and Mr. Kozlowski had thrown a fit.

Myrtle Jones banged on the front door of Osbourne’s home, then noticed the curtains pulled down in each window.

“Eugene? It’s Myrtle — are you in there?”

From within she heard a mournful groan.

“Eugene? Are you hurt?”

The groans grew more pronounced. She tried the door, and finding it unlocked, hesitated, knowing she should call the police. But they were always so slow, and so careless with people’s emotions. Ignoring her caution, she hurried inside.

The cries led her to the kitchen in the rear of the house. Unlike the other rooms, it was brightly lit, the sunlight streaming in from a pair of double windows over the sink. With a blanket draped over his body, Eugene lay across the kitchen floor, an empty bottle of pain killers beside him. He was shivering, his face and shoulders glistening with sweat.

“Eugene... can you hear me?” Slowly he opened his eyes, then tried to sit, the blanket falling off his naked body.

“Oh my lord,” Myrtle Jones exclaimed.

His left ankle was swollen and had turned a sickening blue. A festering wound lay in the calf of his left leg, the skin crudely sewn together with a needle and thread. Thinking she might be sick, she placed her hand against the refrigerator for support.

“Eugene — what on earth happened?”

“I went out running, and fell down.”

“Why didn’t you go to an emergency room?”

“I hate hospitals. Please help me, Myrtle. Please.”

He said her name like a little boy. Regaining her composure, she picked the blanket up off the floor, and draped it over him.

“You need to see a doctor.”

“No doctor.”

“But I insist. Your ankle looks broken, and that cut might be infected. I used to be a nurse, Eugene. I know what I’m talking about. Now, where’s your phone?”

His hands grasped her thin arms, pulled her close to him. He was amazingly strong, even in his weakened stage. “Go upstairs, and get my medicine from the bathroom. I have morphine.”

“But—”

He began to sob, his fingers squeezing the strength out of her arms. “Please say yes... please, Myrtle. Say you will.”

“Only if you’ll promise me that you’ll let me take you to the hospital.”

“All right. I promise.”

“Good. Sit tight, and I’ll be right back.”

Myrtle climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor. Down a short hallway she walked to a tiny bathroom. The appliances were old — it had been ages since she’d seen a claw-footed tub. She rifled through the medicine cabinet and read the labels. Eugene had enough pills in his medicine cabinet to open a pharmacy.

She found the morphine and headed for the stairs. In the hallway sat an old dresser with a glass bowl sitting on top. Normally, Myrtle minded her own business, but something about the bowl struck her as odd, and she stopped to have a look.

The bowl was filled with women’s jewelry. Necklaces, ear rings, and a number of thin lady’s watches. It was not the kind of collection she would have expected to find in a single man’s house. From down below, she heard Eugene moan.

“I’m coming,” she said.

“Did you find the morphine?”

She glanced at the bottle in her hand. “Not yet.”

“It’s in the medicine cabinet.”

“Be right there.”

“Hurry.”

Her curiosity had been peaked, and she pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. It was filled with women’s undergarments. She noticed they were all different brands and sizes.

This was not right. These things did not belong in this man’s house. She played back everything she knew about Eugene, and a sickening wave of nausea overcame her.

She went for the stairs. Her eyes fell upon a cracked door at the hallway’s end. She could not help herself, and stuck her head in to have a look.

She gagged. A naked light bulb dangled from the cracked plaster ceiling. In one long, slow motion sweep, her eyes saw everything that Eugene did not want her or anyone else to see: The sea of 8 x 10 black and white glossies of the dead and dying women that went up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the opposite wall, the bed with handcuffs decorating the headboard, the video camera on a tripod.

She spun around and went to the stairwell. Eugene was at the bottom, dragging his leg as he climbed the stairs.

“You shouldn’t have gone in there, Myrtle,” he said.

Chapter 30

The Last Show

Jan sat with her husband in the emergency room of St. Francis Medical Center, staring at the monitors that showed Vince’s blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen intake. Considering that her husband had been buried beneath several hundred tons of rubble for over an hour, he was in remarkably good shape.

Crystal entered the room with a can of diet soda, and handed it to her. Jan mouthed the word thanks and popped the top. They had been visited by several nurses but had yet to see a doctor.

“How you feeling,” Crystal asked her father.

“Never better,” Hardare said.

They both found the strength to laugh. Jan had seen her husband cheat death on a number of occasions, and always came away from the experience feeling as if she’d gone through it herself.

“Where are the police?” Hardare asked.

“Outside,” Jan said. “I already gave them a statement. They’ll probably want one from you later, as well.”

“I’ll give it to them now.” He started to get out of the bed, and Jan put her hand on his chest, and shoved him back down.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, I am. We have work to do.”

“Work?”

“Yes. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She placed her hand against his forehead, just to make sure he wasn’t running a fever. His scalp felt perfectly normal.

“I’m all in favor of getting out of here,” Jan said, “but first I want to know what you’re thinking.”

Hardare leaned back in the hospital bed and gave them a little smile. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to stay in Los Angeles, and fulfill our engagement at the Wilshire Ebell?”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “But the spirit show is a disaster. You said so yourself.”

“I’m not talking about doing the spirit show,” he said.

“Then what are you planning to do?”

“We rented the theatre for two weeks, so it’s still legally ours to use. Why not do our Vegas show and bill it as our last U.S. engagement.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Look, if we don’t do the show, we’re financially in the hole. I’ve already spent our savings on salaries, programs, even tee shirts to be sold in the lobby. If we walk away, the idea of starting our own circus will have to be shelved indefinitely.”

Jan looked at Crystal. Her stepdaughter was beaming. She looked back at her husband.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Jan said. “But how do we sell it? There isn’t enough money left to buy a decent sized advertisement in the L.A. Times, let alone run a TV campaign. We can’t fill the Wilshire Ebell for two weeks by word of mouth.”

“Houdini never advertised his shows. Neither did my father. I think I know how to sell a few tickets.”

“Wait a minute, Vince. Are you talking about doing the rollercoaster escape to get publicity?”

“I sure am,” he said emphatically. “Doing escapes is how I made my reputation. They always sell tickets.”

“But why the rollercoaster escape? Why not something else?”

“We need something big. The rollercoaster escape fits the bill. We’ll get one of the TV stations to cover it. They always do. Then the newspapers will fall in line. Bingo, free publicity.”

“But it’s dangerous.”

“All my escapes are dangerous.”

Vince was absolutely right. All of his escapes were dangerous. Only this stunt was in a category all by itself. While bound from a straitjacket, her husband would hang upside down from a rope that was tied to the track of a rollercoaster. The rollercoaster would be set in motion, and he would have exactly two minutes to free himself before the rollercoaster passed over the rope, and sent him hurtling to his death.

“Are you going to use a net?” Jan asked.

“No net. If it isn’t death-defying, it isn’t worth doing.”

“Oh God, Vince,” she said. “Haven’t we had enough excitement for one week?”

“Enough for a lifetime.” He paused. “So, what do you think?”

Jan drank her soda, and told him what she thought. “All right. It’s a great idea, even if it means you might get killed.”

“I won’t,” Hardare promised.

“Good. But I still have a concern. Eugene Osbourne is still running around L.A., and may come after us again.”

“The LAPD is going to find him,” her husband said. “It’s only a matter of time before they do.”

“But what if they don’t?”

“We can always ask the LAPD to protect us,” her husband said.

“They’ve done that already, and look what happened. I have another idea.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to handle security,” Jan said. “That includes the theatre, and wherever we end up living while we’re in town. I know a professional security company in the area that protects foreign dignitaries. I’ll hire several of their people. And I will get a gun. Nothing fancy, a .9 automatic will be fine. If Osbourne rears his ugly head, I’m going to squash him like a bug.”

“You sound serious,” Crystal said.

“Dead serious,” Jan replied.

Her husband could not speak. That was unusual for him, and Jan leaned over the bed and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Surprised?”

“Yes. I thought you were going to tell me you wanted a vacation,” he said.

“No, Vince, I want vindication. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal,” he said. “Now, let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Chapter 31

Malibu

Driving out to Malibu on the Pacific Coast Highway, Wondero could not help but stare longingly at the ocean’s gently lapping waves. He had grown up surfing in Santa Monica, and the sound of waves still called him like the sirens in the old Greek myths.

Malibu beach was open to the public, but the closeness of the homes made it impossible for anyone to reach the precious sand without first hiking for six miles. Wondero had often toyed with the idea of taking a personal day, and spending it walking the entire stretch, just to satisfy his curiosity and see if it was any better than what he’d grown up on.

Rolling up his window, he quickly fell back to reality. The phone call he’d gotten from Hardare an hour ago had floored him. The detective had checked his anger long enough to learn where Hardare was staying, then told him what he thought of his decision to remain in L.A. while Death was still at large.

“That’s it up ahead,” Rittenbaugh said. “Nice place.”

Wondero parked in the driveway behind a mud-caked Bronco with a trailer hitch. He had never quite understood Malibu’s allure, and he supposed he never would. Literally thousands of houses, some as imposing as mansions, others the size of matchboxes, lined the four-lane road like cereal boxes on a grocery shelf. He wondered if Hardare really thought he was safe here, in a place with a major highway for a backyard.

At the front door a thin Oriental examined their photo ID’s.

“All right,” he said, ushering them in.

The Oriental wore a black turtleneck and skintight jeans, no shoes or socks, and did not look armed. As he led them down a hallway, Wondero realized that he made no noise when he walked. Passing a kitchen, they entered a multi-level living area with vaulted ceilings and glossy parquet floors so bright the sunlight seemed to dance on them. The room was sparsely decorated, with a sprawling L-shaped leather couch, plus a few oddly shaped tables and chairs that could have easily been pieces of expensive art. In the room’s center sat a large piece of furniture covered by a white sheet.

“What’s your name?” Wondero asked.

“My name is Li,” the Oriental said.

“Are you in charge of security?”

“That’s Mrs. Hardare’s job.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I don’t kid. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

Li excused himself and left the room. Wondero went to the window and looked out. Somewhere he remembered reading that Jan Hardare had been an instructor at a school for mercenaries, a fact that he had immediately discounted after Death had kidnapped her.

“Hello, detectives.”

Wondero slowly turned around. Hardare had appeared out of nowhere, and was standing in the center of the room. The magician’s cheeks were flushed and his brow was glistening.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been out running...” Wondero said.

“Not at all. I was upstairs hanging upside down in a straitjacket. But it probably did my heart as much good.”

Wondero said, “I thought you were going to leave town.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes, right after your wife was kidnapped. You told me that if you found Jan, you were going to get out of L.A.”

“I realize this is difficult to understand,” Hardare told them, “but too much was at stake not to go through with the engagement. Besides, what’s to stop Osbourne from following us? We’re as safe here as we would be anywhere else.”

“You’re putting your lives at risk,” Wondero said. “Whatever you stand to gain by staying here can’t replace a life.”

Wondero paused, expecting Hardare to agree. When he didn’t, the detective threw his arms into the air and in frustration said, “Look, do you mind if I speak with your wife?”

“Go ahead,” said a woman’s voice.

Wondero again spun around, this time finding Jan standing directly behind him.

“Where did you come from?” Wondero asked incredulously.

“Indiana, originally,” she said. “We appreciate your concern, but I think we’re well prepared for Osbourne this time around.”

“Prepared?” Wondero said in disbelief. “Tell me how you prepare for a sociopath.”

“I’ll do better,” Jan said, “I’ll show you.”

Jan gave them a quick tour.

The beach house was owned by a magician friend who was a successful orthopedic surgeon. The house in Malibu was his weekend retreat, and hearing of Hardare’s troubles, he had graciously offered it because of its elaborate security system.

The upstairs consisted of a master suite and a gymnasium. There were intercoms in each room, and the windows were wired to a surveillance system that ran behind the walls, and could not be tampered with. If for some reason the electricity failed, the house would convert over to a generator in the downstairs utility room.

The first floor security was even more elaborate. The windows were also wired, while sonar boxes in each room would alert them if anything larger than an ant made an appearance. To keep his guests entertained, the doctor had built sliding partitions into the walls, allowing not only for a lot of fun, but also a quick escape if there should ever be a fire.

To further insure their safety, Jan had hired three instructors from her old school; each had fought in at least one war, none of which the United States had participated in. One man — Jan would not say which — had also specialized in “wet work” while employed by the CIA years before.

Jan left the icing for her husband. They had returned to the living area when he dramatically whisked the sheet off the stage illusion that occupied the middle of the spacious room.

“This was lent to me by my friends, Siegfreid and Roy,” Hardare said, draping the sheet over his arm. “Harry, tell me what you see.”

Wondero circled the stand. “I see a square metal cage sitting atop a stand that looks about three inches thick.”

“Anything else?” Hardare asked.

Wondero got on his knees and stared beneath the stand.

“Aren’t they the guys who turn women into tigers?” Rittenbaugh asked Hardare. “My wife and I saw them at The Mirage. They were unreal! They did this one trick with a fire-breathing dragon...”

“Nothing,” Wondero said. “It looks fair to me.”

“Good. Now watch closely,” Hardare said.

Helping Jan into the cage, Hardare shut the metal door as she crouched down inside. Stepping back, he tossed the sheet in the air. As it flew above the detectives’ heads, it opened to its full size and dropped down over the cage, elegantly engulfing his wife in its folds. Without a second’s hesitation the magician snapped the sheet away. Crouched in the cage sat his beaming daughter.

“Hey guys,” Crystal said.

“Where did your wife go?” Wondero asked.

“I can’t tell you that. But I will tell you this. She’s someplace very safe.”

Wondero hated to be fooled. As the detective got on his knees and began rapping the floor, Rittenbaugh said, “Aw come on, Harry, it’s just a trick.”

Wondero could not figure out how the trick was done. Stymied, he let Hardare walk him and his partner out to their car.

“I still think you’re making a huge mistake staying in L.A.,” Wonder said. “You’re a public person, for god’s sake. What if Osbourne slips into the theater during one of your shows?”

“It’s a chance we’re willing to take,” Hardare said.

“Look, I know we’ve let you down. Give us a chance to redeem ourselves. Let me post a pair of cops in the lobby and a pair at the backstage door. They can check everyone who comes and goes. It will make Osbourne think twice about sneaking in.”

“That would be great,” Hardare said. “While you’re offering, do you mind if I ask another favor?”

“Go ahead,” Wondero said.

“Wednesday night I’m performing an outdoor escape to help promote the show. Could you send some men for protection?”

“Consider it done,” Wondero said. “Just give us the location and time, and we’ll be there.”

Wondero and his partner got into their car. Wondero had a thought, and went back to the front door where Hardare stood.

“You and your family have a lot of guts,” Wondero said. “Please be careful. I don’t want to see anything else happen to you.”

“We will,” Hardare promised him.

Then Wondero got into his car, and drove away.

Chapter 32

The Straitjacket Escape

Osbourne lowered his binoculars as Wondero and his partner drove away. The morphine was wearing off, and his ankle was starting to throb. He gunned the Mustang he had stolen from long term parking at LAX.

He drove north looking for a gas station, passing the weekend hideaways of the people who really mattered: Cher, Sting, David Geffen, Jack Nicholson, Tom Cruise, and all the other heavyweights. Once, he had dreamed that he’d been invited to a party in Malibu, and spent the rest of the dream driving up and down the highway, searching in vain for the fucking house.

As he drove, his teeth tore into a baloney sandwich he had made before venturing over to the Wilshire Ebell theatre. In one half-hour period, six deliverymen had come and gone through the backstage door. Against all common sense, he had gone home, put on a drab brown UPS uniform, filled a cardboard box with books and slapped a label on it, then gone back to the theatre.

Hardare’s crew had been inside, busily uncrating props and doing carpentry work on stage. Osbourne had entered the dressing rooms, searching Hardare’s things until finding a slip of paper in a pant’s pocket that contained the address in Malibu and a phone number.

At the next gas station, Osbourne went in and purchased a Red Bull. Back in the car, he popped a morphine pill into his mouth, and washed it down. Within a minute he felt relief from his suffering. There was enough morphine in the bottle to last a few more days. Long enough, he thought.

An hour later, he pulled into the 7-11 a few blocks from his home. A payphone hung on the side of the building. When he was certain no one was watching, he removed the front metal plate with a screwdriver, and expertly rearranged the wires.

At precisely noon the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“I have a collect call for Eugene Smith,” the operator said, unaware it was a payphone. “Will you accept the charges?”

“Of course,” Osbourne said.

“Please hold.”

“Hello, Eugene,” he heard D.B.’s familiar voice say. “How have you been?”

Osbourne knew that the calls from the mental institution were monitored, and chose his words carefully. “I’m all right. I’ve still got that problem I told you about.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like me to help you fix it?”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Osbourne said.

“Good. Now listen carefully. I’ve been thinking about this situation since our visit. I think I know how we can fix this, once and for all.”

Osbourne smiled into the receiver. D.B. had guided him throughout his killing spree, and had come up with creative solutions to solving his dilemmas. He couldn’t wait to hear how his mentor planned to get rid of Hardare.

“I’m listening,” Osbourne said.

Hanging upside down by his ankles, Hardare struggled with the canvas straitjacket holding him prisoner when Jan came up from behind and gave him a push.

“Hey!” he protested, his body swinging like a pendulum.

“You’re going to be outside,” she said. “Are you ready if a stiff wind starts blowing you around?”

No, he wasn’t, and in discomfort he managed to free his left arm, and untied the leather straps holding him prisoner.

“Two minute, fifteen seconds,” Jan said, hitting her stopwatch. “You’ve got to speed it up.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, throwing the straitjacket off. Doubling himself up, he released his ankles from the block and tackle that held him suspended from the ceiling, and dropped to the floor.

For a minute he lay on a mattress on the floor and waited for the room to stop spinning. Jan plopped down beside him.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Tired and old,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Stop it. You’ve got the body of a twenty year old.”

“Maybe I should give it back. It’s getting wrinkled.”

He sat up, and in answer to his prayers Jan got on her knees and massaged his aching shoulders. Sometimes he just didn’t fully think things out. The straitjacket escape had been his signature for years, but of late he had given the routine a rest, and begun to emphasize more magic in his performances. During the hiatus, age and lack of practice had caught up with him.

“You need a good hot bath,” Jan said. She felt him stiffen, and realized she had said the wrong thing. “There’s no reason to kill yourself practicing. Think of how sore you’re going to be tomorrow.”

“Think how sore I’ll be Wednesday night if I fall,” he said.

He retrieved the straitjacket from the floor. When Houdini had introduced the escape into his show, it had caused a sensation. Later, his father had added the wrinkle of hanging upside-down. Hardare had further strengthened the routine by freeing himself while hanging from a burning rope.

But the escape was both physically and emotionally draining. He could not perform it night after night without wearing himself out. And so, he had dropped it from his shows. His audiences had not seemed to mind, and neither had he.

And now he was paying the price. The straitjacket was as torturous to remove as the first time he’d tried it on. His muscles had lost their memory, and only through constant practice was he going to make them remember.

“One more time,” Hardare said.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

He fitted himself into the straitjacket, and Jan secured the leather straps across his back. Lying on the floor, he let her attach the block and tackle to his ankles. Then, Jan began pulling him up to the ceiling. When he was as high as he could go, she tied her end of rope to a hook in the floor, and positioned the mattress directly beneath him.

“Take the mattress away,” he said.

Jan ignored him, stopwatch in hand.

“It’s a false sense of security,” he said. “I won’t be hanging over a net Wednesday night.”

“No, but you should be. Acrobats use security nets all the time.”

“Not the great ones. Please get rid of it.”

She slid the mattress into the corner. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he said.

Chapter 33

Mr. Jellybean

The tickets were just not selling, and by Tuesday night Hardare had the gut-wrenching feeling that he had made a mistake in talking his wife and daughter into staying in Los Angeles.

Between rehearsals, he and Jan had run all over town, appearing on local talk shows and radio programs to get the word out. He had even gone to the L.A. Times building and with a dozen bemused reporters as witnesses, levitated Jan a full six feet in the air while standing on the roof. The reporters had cheered and applauded heartily, and someone had taken their picture, and now all he could hope was that a story would appear in the paper either tomorrow or the next day.

There was no doubt that the publicity had helped, but early Tuesday morning the theatre manager had felt forced to call Hardare with the bad news. Less than a third of the tickets had sold, and interest seemed to be waning. The show opened Friday night, and based upon the manager’s projections, Hardare would be lucky if half the seats were filled.

Hardare had dejectedly hung up the phone. Even before he found his calculator, he knew that fifty percent occupancy was going to lose them money. The question was, how much? He did some quick arithmetic and stared at the long, ugly number, then found the courage to multiply it by fourteen.

He was going to lose his shirt. They needed to sell three thousand more tickets just to break even. At this rate, he would be in debt for the rest of his life within two weeks.

His last hope was Jayne Hunter, his contact at Action 10 News. Hunter had agreed to televise his straitjacket escape, but had left the details sketchy. Hardare knew that he needed at least four minutes on air to “sell” the escape, which in turn would help sell a few more tickets. If he got lucky, word of mouth would build to the second week, where they might actually realize a profit.

Hunter had balked at the idea of giving him that much time. “Four minutes is a lifetime on TV,” she’d said — and he’d had to sell her on the story’s unique angle, and how brave he and his family were for staying in L.A., groveling on and on until he wanted to throw up.

Finally Hunter had compromised, and given him three minutes of air time. When he’d begged for another sixty seconds, she had flatly said no. Three minutes was her limit.

He’d been livid when he’d hung up the phone. He deserved more than three minutes; he had earned it. The idea that one escape could make or break their two week run, especially when he considered what his family had gone through, only served to remind him how incredibly cruel show business could be.

It was Jan who finally brought him out of his funk. “Three minutes is better than nothing,” she’d reminded him. “Think of all the acts that never get a break at all. Come on, Vince. Everything is going to work out fine.”

Hardare was in the living room of the house in Malibu when his daughter’s heart-breaking sobs carried down the stairs. Within seconds, his wife and the three bodyguards she’d hired had their guns drawn, and were running to her aid.

“Daddy!”

Sobbing, Crystal ran past them and threw her arms around her father, burying her head into his chest.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

Her grief was so great that she could not speak. He gently guided her into the kitchen, and made her sit on a chair. She gulped down a glass of water before getting control of herself. Jan appeared at the doorway.

“House is secure,” his wife said.

Hardare nodded while staring at his daughter. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Someone killed the animals,” Crystal said, choking on the words. “One of the stagehands at the theatre called. He said the rabbits and birds... were lying upside down in their cages. He didn’t... didn’t know what to do!”

“Maybe they got sick, honey.”

“He said they were dead. Even Mr. Jellybean.”

Her body became racked with sobs, and Hardare held her tightly in his arms. To Jan he said, “Call the theatre, will you, and find out what the hell is going on.”

Twenty minutes later, Hardare was speeding down the freeway with one of their bodyguards, a bearded, small arms specialist named Brian, when he realized the true source of his daughter’s heartbreak. Maxwell T. Jellybean, the oldest and most affectionate of the Dutch dwarf rabbits he used in his show, had been a present from his late wife to Crystal many Easters ago. It was not the type of thing that he thought a good father should forget, and decided to call his daughter once they reached the theatre.

He parked in a back alley and they got out. Beside the backstage door sat two long rows of cages containing his rabbits and birds. Several members of his crew were moping around looking bewildered and upset. Kneeling beside the cages was a member of the union stage crew that came when you rented the theatre, a burnout with lifeless, shoulder-length blond hair.

“They ain’t dead,” the burnout declared loudly, trying to enlist the others’ support. “Lookit. That bird tried to flap its wing. You saw that, didn’t you?”

“It’s just the wind,” a crew member said, puffing on a cigarette. Seeing Hardare approach, he quickly stamped it out.

The burnout looked up and got to his feet. “Mister Hardare, I don’t know what happened. I was just sitting here, minding my own business...”

Hardare silenced him with a stare. He knelt down beside Brian, who had opened a cage and removed a lifeless fantail pigeon, cradling its stiff body gently between his palms.

“Nobody got close to those animals,” the burnout said.

Someone in the crew snickered, an indictment if Hardare had ever heard one. He looked at Maxwell T. Jellybean doing the back-stroke in his narrow metal cage. His daughter’s favorite pet looked very dead, and he swallowed a lump in his throat.

Brian turned the pigeon on its stomach, and carefully combed through the thick layer of feathers, his fingertips eventually parting a small patch above the left wing. Hardare stared at the small black dart lodged in the bird’s speckled red skin.

“It’s some kind of knockout dart,” Brian said, laying the pigeon gently back inside the cage. Shutting the door, he gave Mr. Jellybean a thorough going over, and found a tiny dart buried in its side. “Very professional looking.”

Without hesitation Hardare said, “Osbourne did this.”

“I think you’re right,” Brian said.

“But why?”

Brian looked him in the eye and said, “He used the dart gun because it was silent, and allowed him to strike safely from a distance. He knocked out your animals because he knows they mean a great deal to you.”

“Are you saying this is some kind of psychological warfare?”

His bodyguard shrugged his shoulders. “I think he’s trying to send you a message.”

“Which is?”

“That he can still hurt the things you love,” Brian said. “I think that is what this all means.”

Chapter 34

Atascadero

The Bell LongRanger 206 helicopter carrying Wondero and Rittenbaugh high above L.A.’s sprawling mass picked up Highway 101 just outside of Ventura and took it up the coastline to Pismo Beach, then swung inland and followed the main drag until reaching the state mental hospital in Atascadero. The LongRanger was used primarily for drug sweeps, and able to land anywhere there was a moderately flat surface, which allowed them to set down in a dusty field just a hundred yards from the hospital. Feeling like movie cops, they marched across the field and through the swinging front doors of the main building.

Wondero was furious with himself, and for good reason. He and his partner had been running around L.A. trying to catch Eugene Osbourne, when an important clue had been sitting on his desk in the form of a fax from the director at Atascadero. The fax had been there for two days, yet only this morning had he bothered to read it.

A man in hospital whites manned the reception desk. He left his fingerprints all over their photo I.D.’s before picking up a phone, and announcing their arrival to the hospital’s director.

“Dr. Cavanaugh will see you in a few minutes,” he said, putting down the phone.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions,” Wondero said.

“Not at all.”

“Do you know a patient named Douglas Barnhart?”

“Sure. D.B.’s one of our lifers.”

“Has D.B. had any visitors lately?”

“Don’t know, but I can find out.” Flipping open a log book, the receptionist ran his finger down a column of names. “Let’s see. D. B. had a visitor... on Monday.”

“Can you tell me who that visitor was?” Wondero asked, straining to read the upside down names in the book.

The receptionist turned the log around so he could have a look. In the Visitor’s Box beside D.B.’s name was a capital E followed by a long, scribbly line.

“That looks like Rodriguez’s chicken scratch,” the receptionist said, taking the log back. “He works here on Mondays. I’d call him for you, but he’s up in Frisco seeing his mother.”

Wondero handed the receptionist his card. “Please give this to Rodriguez when he gets back. Ask him to call me. Tell him it’s urgent.”

“Will do,” the receptionist said, pocketing the card.

Dr. Richard Cavanaugh was a balding mid-fortyish man of few emotions. His tired eyes only hinted at the ordeal required to run a state institution for men deemed criminally insane by the courts, a job Wondero likened to being a gatekeeper in hell.

Cavanaugh introduced the woman sitting on the couch in his office as Dr. Ruth Heller, one of his chief administrators. Heller sat with arms and legs crossed, her face a blunt wall, and Wondero sensed a problem even before he and Rittenbaugh were seated.

“Dr. Heller has been treating D.B. for over a decade,” Cavanaugh said, pulling up a chair to complete the circle. “She’s also writing a book about him. I thought she should hear what you told me.”

“You got a publisher?” Rittenbaugh asked innocently.

Heller acted like she might bite Rittenbaugh’s head off. “Yes. It’s nearly finished,” the administrator said proudly. “I believe I’ve traced the origin of D.B.’s hostilities and through therapy actually cured him of his homicidal tendencies. Needless to say, it came as a shock when Dr. Cavanaugh told me that you suspected him of having master-minded a series of murders from this hospital.”

Wondero felt like he had walked into a minefield. He hadn’t bothered to get a subpoena to question D.B.; if he didn’t handle Heller correctly, she might not let them see him.

“You know him pretty well, then,” Wondero said.

“I believe I know D.B. better than he knows himself,” Heller stated confidently. “I’ve conducted several hundred sessions with him, and have isolated a number of traumatic childhood incidents which even he does not remember.”

“That’s amazing,” Wondero said. She had calmed down, and he decided to press his attack. “In your work with D.B., has the name Babita Cattrell ever come up?”

Dr. Heller’s eyes searched the air. “No.”

“She was a co-ed that D.B. raped at UCLA in 1995. She was the prosecution’s sole witness at D.B.’s trial, I guess because she was the only person who ever survived one of his attacks.”

“He’s never mentioned her,” Dr. Heller said.

“How about Eugene Osbourne? He was D.B.’s roommate five years ago. That name sound familiar?”

“No, but that’s not surprising. D.B. has been here fifteen years. I’m sure he’s had quite a few roommates.”

Wondero felt sorry for Heller, and her years of wasted effort. From his wallet he took an aging snapshot that had been part of him for four years: it was of an aspiring folk singer with auburn hair and a tentative smile. He handed it to Heller.

“That was Babita Cattrell,” Wondero said.

“And?” she said, handing the snapshot back.

“Eugene Osbourne began killing women in L.A. four years ago,” Wondero said. “Babita was his first victim.”

A look of dread wiped away Heller’s stoic expression. “Do you think that D.B. told Osbourne to do this?”

“Yes, we do. D.B. was suspected of killing over fifty women. He picked his victims carefully. Prostitutes, women living alone, runaways. Eugene Osbourne has been doing exactly the same thing.”

“You’re saying that D.B. trained Osbourne?” she said.

“That’s what we think,” Wondero said.

Heller was in shock. She looked at the floor and shook her head. Cavanaugh took Heller’s hands, and tried to comfort her.

“I’m sorry, Ruth,” Cavanaugh said.

“I’ve worked a decade with that man,” she whispered.

Wondero said, “We’d like to spare the hospital as much embarrassment as possible.”

Cavanaugh looked at him. “Yes?”

“We have no evidence to convict D.B., just our suspicions. I want to speak with him — with Dr. Heller’s permission — and you can search his room. If you find evidence tying him to Osbourne, I’ll put in my report that you alerted us to what D.B. was up to, and not the other way around.”

“I appreciate the courtesy,” Cavanaugh said, petting Heller’s hand as the tears flowed unmercifully down her face.

Two beefy attendants led D.B. into the VISITORS room and handcuffed his arm to the leg of a chair hex bolted to the floor. Heller, who had put life back into her cheeks in the washroom, pulled a chair up beside her patient.

“D.B., this is Detectives Wondero and Rittenbaugh, of the LAPD,” Heller said.

D.B. stared at them, his eyes doing violent things inside his head. A twitch appeared in his throat.

Wondero said, “Do I have to tell you why we’re here?”

D.B. flashed two rows of perfect teeth. “I’m surprised it took you so long.”

“The wheels of justice turn slow,” Wondero said.

D.B. shifted in his chair and spoke directly to Heller.

“Ruth,” he said, dropping his voice, “I’m truly sorry about this — we made such a great team together — but all good things must end. I’m sorry if you feel used, but then again, I never thought that you weren’t using me. What kind of book are you writing? Something for a New York publishing company? Face it: you were in it for the bucks.”

“I wanted to... help you,” Heller said, seething with rage.

“And you did! You got me lots of privileges. And you told Cavanaugh I was getting better. You helped me a great deal.”

Wondero wished they were in Texas, where they still regularly executed killers like D.B. Heller bit her lip in anguish, her patient already turned away, tuning her out.

“Ready for my confession, detective?” D.B. asked.

He looked like the happiest person on the face of the earth, and when Wondero said yes, it did not register that the twitch in his neck had completely gone away.

D.B. started at the beginning. In gruesome detail he re-counted the hitchhikers and scores of runaways he had killed. First Cincinnati, then a short stint at the Port Authority in New York, then west to L.A. He had an appetite for killing, and it had grown enormous once he had gotten caught and locked away.

“When did you recruit Osbourne,” Wondero asked.

“I groomed Eugene,” he said proudly. “I saw a great capacity for violence in him, but no technique. He was just a hit and runner.”

“You mean he killed before you met him,” Rittenbaugh said, scribbling everything down in a small notebook.

“Oh yes. But not with purpose. I’ve spent half of my life inside of prisons and learned many useful things. In Eugene I saw my chance to pass this knowledge on, to mold him into what I might have been. It was a tremendous challenge.”

Heller leaned back in her chair, slowly relaxing, like a parent coming to grips with the confessions of a wayward child. She lit up a cigarette.

“Are we torturing the prisoner now?” D.B. asked.

Heller blew a cloud of bluish smoke at him.

“That’s enough!” he shouted. “Enough!”

Wondero saw Cavanaugh in the hallway, waving frantically to him through the wired window in the door. He’d found something in D.B.’s room, and the detective rose from his chair.

“Excuse me,” Wondero said.

D.B. came out of his chair as well, his bleeding left wrist twisted grotesquely where he’d dislocated it pulling it through the handcuff. Clenched in his right hand was a nail, its tip glistening like a diamond. Wondero raised his left arm, willing to sacrifice it to save his face or neck. A short explosion rocked the room, and D.B. flew sideways into the air and bounced off the wall, the right side of his face looking as if he’d just been stung by a hundred vicious bees.

Still sitting, Heller fired the tiny derringer in her hand again, this time at D.B.’s midsection. With both hands cradling his testicles, he shrunk to the floor, screaming a stream of obscenities. Lowering his arm, Wondero stepped over him and picked up the nail, feeling its tip. It was as sharp as a razor.

“It’s rat shot,” Heller explained as Rittenbaugh took the derringer from her. “I’ve been having a problem in my garage.”

Cavanaugh had entered the room without anyone realizing it. He grabbed Wondero’s arm and said, “It was all there.”

“What are you talking about?” Wondero said.

“In D.B.’s room,” Cavanaugh said. “Notebooks filled with descriptions of how to kill people. Step by step instructions for Eugene Osbourne to follow. He even plotted his escape routes for him.” He thrust a spiral bound notebook into Wondero’s hands. “This is the most recent: there are crimes in it that haven’t been committed yet.” Cavanaugh opened to a page with a bent corner and showed him. “This is supposed to happen today!”

Wondero stared at the page’s heading. It was titled HARDARE, and gave cryptic instructions on how Osbourne should create a diversion that would draw Hardare from the Malibu beach house, allowing him to attack Hardare’s wife and daughter. The date was today, and each instruction was followed by a recommended time of execution. Wondero looked at his watch — it was nearly 1:30 — then at the corresponding time on the page.

1:30: Enter house. Butcher wife, kid.

Wondero wanted to kick himself. When D.B. had opened up to them, he should have sensed something was wrong. He pulled out his cell phone, hoping he was not too late.

Chapter 35

The Weaker Sex

Jan Hardare had just spied the empty dinghy with an outboard motor sitting a quarter of a mile off shore when the kitchen phone rang. She could not recall having seen any boats moored off the beach since arriving in Malibu, and the idea that someone would want to be diving in the ice-cold Pacific this time of year struck her as odd. Her eyes remained on the water as she crossed the living room.

The doorbell rang.

She glanced down the hallway as Li answered the front door. Kevin, their third bodyguard, had stepped outside to get their dry cleaning from the car, and Jan guessed he had locked himself out. She saw Li peer through the peephole, then unlock the front door. Satisfied, she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Jan?” a frantic voice said.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Harry Wondero. You’re in danger — Osbourne’s there, at your house. “

In her mind Jan could still see the dinghy rocking in the waves. “I know,” she said into the phone without thinking.

She shouted a warning to Li. Kevin stood in the open doorway, his massive frame teetering on an imaginary tightrope. He fell face-first into the foyer, and Li could do nothing but jump back, his lethal hands and feet out of striking range as Osbourne entered the house brandishing a pistol.

Dressed in a wetsuit, Osbourne fired two silent shots, and Jan saw Li reach out and pluck the first dart a few inches from his face, his fingers moving faster than lightening. The second dart imbedded in his wrist, and the man Jan had considered her greatest security asset collapsed to the floor.

“He’s here, Harry,” Jan said, placing the phone on the kitchen counter.

Osbourne danced over the two bodies, his tiny laughter claiming victory. Pulling another pistol from his dripping wetsuit, he ripped off his headgear and threw it to the floor. Then he looked down the hall at Jan, his face a freakish mixture of elation and fear. Strange noises left his throat, like an animal.

For an instant Jan could not move. Osbourne had a sophisticated looking automatic, while her .9 was in her purse in the living room. If she made a run for it, he would have a clear shot at her back. That was not the way she wanted to die.

Jan waited for him to make his move. His popping eyes drifted past her face, and she felt the muscles in her legs twitch. He was giving her a chance to run for it, as if shooting her in cold blood wasn’t sporting enough. No, Jan thought; she had to make him come to her, and close the distance between them. If he came within striking range, they would be on even terms.

Bending over, Osbourne struggled to pull Kevin’s stiff body into the foyer, then shut the front door, locking it in the process. Jan continued to stare before what was happening made sense to her.

He had not seen her.

Dropping behind the counter, she peeked around the corner. He was heading toward her, pointing his gun at the shadows. He was as scared as she was, and she decided to tackle him the moment he got in range. Her heart skipped a beat as she heard a pair of feet came bounding down the staircase.

“Hello, little girl,” Osbourne said.

Crystal screamed.

“No, don’t back up...,” he said. “I’ll shoot you.”

“Oh God,” Crystal cried.

“Walk slowly down the stairs,” Osbourne said. “That’s it. Very good. Did you study ballet?”

“Yes,” Crystal said evenly.

“I thought so. Beautiful movement. Come here... closer.”

“Don’t touch me!”

“I said, come here!”

Jan heard Crystal whimper, and guessed he had gotten his hands on her. Their voices were coming closer. Now she had to have her gun. Stay put, she told herself. Think.

“Where is your mother?” Death said.

“Who cares?” Crystal snapped back.

Jan bit her lip; don’t goad him, Crys, she thought fearfully; you don’t know what he’s capable of doing.

“I asked you a fucking question,” he said.

Crystal screamed, and Jan started to jump until she saw Osbourne’s reflection in the oven door. He was holding Crystal by the hair like a caveman, and had shoved the barrel of his pistol into her face.

“I can shoot your eye out without killing you,” he whispered into Crystal’s ear. “Think of how that would feel.”

“Noooooo...,” Crystal sobbed. Her cries did not sound real, and Jan thought; she’s only pretending to be scared. But why?

“Where is your mother?” he repeated.

“She’s not my mother,” Crystal said defiantly. Then, “Jan’s with my dad. They went downtown to the theatre.”

Jan peeked around the corner. It was a beautiful line, but would he buy it? Osbourne had pinned Crystal against the refrigerator, his knee between her legs, his gun still in her face. Jan’s eyes met Crystal’s, and saw her mounting fear.

Hang on, Jan silently told her.

“Why didn’t she stay?” Osbourne said. “I thought she was protecting you.”

“Jan doesn’t care a goddamned bit about me,” Crystal said, her face inches from his. “She never has! She just wants my father’s money. She’s a bimbo.”

Crystal began to blubber shamelessly, and Jan rooted her on, the months of private drama coaches and constant playacting around the house finally paying dividends. Suddenly Osbourne noticed the phone on the counter. Picking it up, he held the cradle to his ear, listening.

Finally he said, “May I help you?”

A moment later he was bellowing with laughter.

“Hello Detective Wondero,” he said. “You’re too late, once again.” He shoved the receiver into Crystal’s face. “I have someone here who would like to say hello.”

“Oh God, you’ve got to help me,” Crystal half-screamed into the mouthpiece. “Jan and my Dad are at the theatre and this crazy man... he’s going to kill me!”

With that Crystal feigned hysteria, her body a quivering mass of fear. In the reflection, Jan saw Osbourne slip his gun beneath his waistband, and draw a curved hunting knife from his belt. She cautiously crept around the counter on all fours.

“Wondero, listen closely,” Osbourne said. “The next sounds you hear will be death. The one with the small d.”

He put the phone down, the receiver facing him. As he brought the knife up to Crystal’s throat, Jan stood up and grabbed a metal skillet off the counter, and smacked him in the back of the head. He crumbled, dropping his knife, and Crystal pulled free.

Osbourne crouched helplessly on the floor, trying to ward off Jan’s vicious blows.

Picking up the phone, Crystal said, “We got the bastard!”

Then she hung up, and dialed 911.

With a well-aimed blow, Jan split Death’s forehead open, his blood staining the tiled floor. The night before Vincent had told her of his out-of-body journey while buried alive, and of the lost souls he’d met in some nether world. He had described them at length, as if they were real.

“Their faces look so tortured,” her husband had said. “All those poor, brutalized women and girls. And I keep thinking: what did any of them do to deserve a punishment like this?”

“They were born female,” Jan had said.

Female. The weaker sex. Little girl. That was Osbourne’s license to kill: because they were there for his taking.

He crawled on his belly across the tile floor, begging Jan to stop as she repeatedly sent her right instep up between his legs into his crotch. He was wearing a hard plastic cup, no doubt from experience. Undaunted, Jan kept at it, having once been able to break plywood boards with this kick.

She cracked the cup on her third try. Her next kick caught nothing but flesh and turned his cries into screams of pain; he curl up protectively in a ball, and Jan kept at it, kicking him in the back and head whenever Osbourne showed signs of life.

“The police are coming,” Crystal said, watching her inflict punishment. “Come on, Jan, you’re going to kill him...”

“That was the idea,” Jan said, hearing a rib break. She sized him up for another kick and thought: this could take forever. Once the police arrived, her chance would be gone.

“Get my gun,” Jan said. “It’s in my purse on the couch.”

“But—” Crystal said.

“I said get it!”

Crystal began to cross the living room when Osbourne’s eyes popped open, and he sprang to his feet. With the rip of Velcro, he removed a jet black bayonet from the leg of his wetsuit. Standing in a deep, painful crouch, he tossed the bayonet from hand to hand. As Jan came at him, he advanced toward Crystal.

“I’ll cut her in half,” he threatened, the bayonet slicing the air. “Stay away from me, you vicious bitch. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

With her eyes Jan motioned to Crystal, who began to back up.

“Stay put, little girl,” he snarled.

“Rot in hell,” Crystal replied.

Crystal backed up into the living room. Osbourne followed her, and Jan followed him. Crystal hopped onto the illusion that her father had borrowed from Siegfreid and Roy. To the naked eye, it did not even look like a trick, just a metal cage sitting on a thin stand with a sheet partially draped over it. The German illusionists had a number of similar props lying around the house, having found them easier to maintain than an elaborate security system.

As Crystal draped herself in the sheet, Osbourne leapt toward her, too filled with murderous intentions to notice that Jan hadn’t moved, and was doing nothing to stop him.

Jumping onto the stand, he dug the bayonet into the draped form. As the sheet fell, he saw something beneath it begin to stir, and jerked the sheet away, ready to stab again.

The sleek, gold spotted cat inside the cage jumped on Osbourne and began to maul him even before he could scream. It was a lepjack, half leopard, half jaguar, an animal that had never existed until Siegfreid and Roy had succeeded in cross-breeding a litter. As the lepjack threw Osbourne to the floor, Jan helped Crystal out of the illusion, and retrieved the .9 from her purse.

Osbourne rolled across the living room, unable to free himself from the lepjack’s grasp. It had raked his entire body with its claws, setting every inch of skin on fire. He stared up at Jan and Crystal, imploring them to save him.

“Help me... please.”

“No,” Jan said.

Osbourne staggered to his feet. The lepjack clung to him, its claws digging into his side. Jan readied her gun. Then she hesitated, fearful of shooting the cat. Clutching the lepjack to his chest, Osbourne ran across the living room and threw himself headfirst through the picture window overlooking the water.

The window disintegrated before their eyes. Jan ran through the space and jumped as well. The drop was longer than she’d expected, the ground coming up much too hard.

She pushed herself off the ground. The lepjack lay on its side a few feet away, out cold.

Osbourne was gone.

She ran up and down the beach looking for him, wishing she had less compassion for animals, and had taken a clean shot when she’d the chance.

Chapter 36

The Belly of the Beast

Returning to Malibu, Hardare had nearly suffered a heart attack. Bodies in the hall, glass everywhere, his daughter in the care of several uniformed police.

“Where’s your mother?” he asked.

“Outside,” his daughter replied.

He found Jan running up and down the beach. He’d tackled her, fearful that a cop might see she was armed, and start shooting.

Rolling around in the sand, his gentleness had been overwhelmed by her fury. He had never seen such blind anger; never known such a side existed in her. Using all his strength, he managed to pin her arms down while hugging her slender body.

Unexpectedly, her anger ebbed, and in its place a terrible hurt began to surface. Crying, she whispered to him.

“I let the bastard get away, Vince. I had him on the floor, begging, and I didn’t kill him. I did the wrong thing.”

He tried to respond, the words dying in his throat. She looked into his face and knew exactly what he was thinking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered tearfully.

Arm in arm, they trudged across the dunes back to the beach house.

By nightfall, the lepjack was in the care of a pricey Malibu veterinarian, and Hardare had moved his family to the stuffy St. James Club on Sunset Boulevard. No less than half of L.A.’s finest had escorted them to the hotel, while the other half scoured the city looking for the Lamborghini belonging to a famous singer whose weekend house Osbourne had broken into.

For dinner, they ate take-out fried chicken in front of the TV in their suite while avoiding the local news programs.

“How are tickets selling,” Jan asked, heaping seconds of cole slaw and mashed potatoes onto her paper plate. Her mood had shifted like the wind in the past few hours, finally metastasizing into something she could deal with: raw hunger.

“Slow,” Hardare said, his eyes leaving the grainy Gunga Din Crystal had found flicking channels. “The first four nights are almost at break even, but after that it’s soft.”

“Do you think what happened today will help?” Jan said. “It isn’t the kind of publicity we were looking for, but it still gets our name out there.”

“Not really,” he said, hating to burst her bubble. “I spoke to the theatre manager earlier. He said he was getting dozens of calls from people wondering why we had stayed in L.A. after all that had happened. I guess they didn’t see the valor in it.”

Putting her plate aside, Jan said, “You sound like you might not anymore, Vince.”

“I don’t see any valor in this if it means losing you or Crys,” he said. “There are times when the phrase `The show must go on.’ impresses me as the dumbest thing anyone has ever said.”

Crystal zapped the TV’s power and sat on the couch beside her father. “Are you thinking about cancelling, Dad?”

“It crossed my mind,” he said. “What do you think?”

Crystal shook her head. “Not me.”

Without hesitation Jan said, “Not me either.”

He said, “Okay. I’m glad we’re still in this together.”

“Baldie won’t be back,” Crystal said. “Trust me.”

Hardare laughed, hearing some of his own bravado in his daughter’s claim. “How can you be so sure?” he asked her.

“Easy,” Crystal said. “I saw what Jan did to him.”

By 11:30 Hardare was ready to call it a night when the phone rang in their suite. He put the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”

“This is the front desk,” a man’s voice said. “Detectives Wondero and Rittenbaugh here to see you.”

They had found Osbourne. Hardare said, “Send them right up.”

“Not yet,” was Wondero’s answer as he and Rittenbaugh entered the suite. “But we’re getting close.”

It had been a long day for them as well, their faces showing the many miles they’d traveled.

“You found the Lamborghini,” Hardare said.

“We sure did,” Rittenbaugh replied, “Parked in an alley near Paramount studios. The interior is stained with blood. We think Osbourne might use it to leave the city. One of our guys spotted a wallet lying on the seat. We want to look at it, but we’re afraid of impounding the car. Osbourne might see us, and run.”

“Why not lock pick the car door,” Hardare said.

“The locks are specially fixed,” Rittenbaugh said. “Our guy couldn’t open them, and he’s a pro.”

“But he isn’t as good as you are,” Wondero said. “We were hoping you might take a whack at it.”

Hardare was tired enough to already be feeling the bed beneath him. A cup of black coffee would fix that, he thought.

In the darkened bedroom he gently shook Jan awake and explained where he was going, promising to be back soon.

“Haven’t we helped the police enough?” she asked sleepily.

“I can’t say no,” he told her.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

The locks on the Lamborghini had been specially fitted with tamper-resistant devices. Kneeling on a newspaper, Hardare held a penlight in his mouth and began to explore the lock on the driver’s door with two universals, their special construction letting him “see” the lock’s peculiar design.

He heard a man’s cough and glanced up. A pair of uniformed cops guarded each end of the block, as well as two on a rooftop, watching with infra-red binoculars. Wondero and Rittenbaugh stood behind him, waiting anxiously.

“Think you can open it?” Wondero asked.

“We’ll see,” he said.

Hardare’s head was buzzing from the swill that 7-Eleven called coffee. He shut his eyes, and let his fingers go to work.

Houdini, whose techniques he considered nonpareil, had picked locks with a blank mind. With twenty years practice, Hardare had reached this level, and even gone one step further, able to dream of faraway locals and the pleasures such places afforded.

He was imagining the city of Stuttgart — the first proposed stop for The Hardare Circus — when the driver’s door clicked open. Standing, he brushed himself off.

“All yours,” he said.

“Nice work,” Wondero said.

The detective retrieved the wallet lying on the seat, flipped it open, and pulled out a California Driver’s License. It contained a photo of Osbourne wearing a wig and glasses. The name on the license was Gene Murray the address 4501 Rosewood.

“That’s walking distance from here,” Rittenbaugh said.

The shaky two-story at 4501 Rosewood reminded Wondero of so many houses featured on Hollywood celebrity tours: a non-descript place, with a sloping porch and old casement windows, the same kind of nothing house Cary Grant and Marilyn Monroe and Carole Lombard had lived in, until fame and fortune had called them to the hills.

Wondero waited for their back-ups to position themselves. Two policemen in the alley, four standing on the curb, a chopper circling overhead, testing its spotlight on rooftops. He rapped three times on the screened front door.

Rittenbaugh edged sideways across the porch, attempting to see inside. “I hear something.”

Wondero knocked again, harder.

The front porch light flickered on, the moths asleep within the glass casement coming to life. Wondero clutched his 12 gauge, double pump shotgun to his chest. He had discounted this exact scenario years ago, convinced Death would be caught by chance, or worse, never caught at all. For him to make the collar, it was enough to make him start going back to church.

“LAPD, open up.” He paused. “Okay, we’re going in.”

Wondero kicked the door three inches above the knob. The door went down, and he rushed inside. Sitting on a chair in the hall was a package of dynamite that was wired to the door. The light on the porch had been voice-activated. It was a trap.

“Get out — get out!”

Wondero and Rittenbaugh were on the lawn when the bomb went off, and the house became engulfed in bright orange flames.

Hardare was sitting in the detectives’ car across the street when the house caught fire. He jumped out, and met the detectives in the middle of the street. They were both white as ghosts.

“What happened?”

“Osbourne booby-trapped his own house,” Wondero said. “Son-of-a-bitch just destroyed all the evidence.”

The house continued to burn. Neighbors filled the sidewalks to watch. In the window of a house next door, Hardare saw a stocky, elderly woman with an ecru net in her hair, who appeared to be tied up with ropes.

“What’s with her?” he asked.

The detectives saw the tied-up woman as well.

“Let’s find out,” Wondero said.

The old woman next door did not answer her door, which was locked. Wondero took it down, and the three men rushed in and found themselves standing in someone’s living room.

“LAPD,” Wondero shouted.

The interior was musty and dark, the light from the TV outlining the ancient credenzas and wing-backed chairs. An orangery portrait of John F. Kennedy hung next to a portrait of Jesus. A woman bound in ropes with a gag in her mouth staggered in. It was the same woman they’d seen in the window. Wondero pulled the gag out of her mouth and stared to untie her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name’s Myrtle Jones. I suppose you’re looking for Eugene. I wish I knew where he was, only I don’t.”

“Was Eugene holding you prisoner?” Wondero asked.

“Yes, since yesterday. I was inside his house, and saw his ghoulish collection. He’s the serial killer who’s been stalking Los Angeles, isn’t he.”

“Someone’s in the back of the house,” Rittenbaugh said.

The detectives drew their guns and hurried down a narrow hallway to the kitchen in the rear of the house. The shrunken remains of a man sat in a wheelchair. Prolonged sickness had eaten him away from within, his chest a sunken cavity.

“Mr. Kozlowski, we’ve been saved,” Myrtle Jones said, coming in behind them. “Mr. Kozlowski has a degenerative bone disease. When he was younger; he was a long distance runner, but those days are behind him. He’s been confined to a wheelchair for years.”

Wondero and Rittenbaugh gave Mr. Kozlowski a passing nod. They looked around the kitchen, found nothing, and headed back toward the front of the house.

Mr. Kozlowski acted annoyed, and bumped his wheelchair into the table.

“Is something wrong?” Hardare asked.

“He’s trying to say something,” Myrtle Jones explained.

A small computer was taped to the arm of his wheelchair. The infirmed man’s fingertips ran across the keyboard, and a message appeared on the screen.

HE’S HERE

“Who’s here, Mr. Kozlowski?”

EUGENE

“But he left. We both saw him.”

NO HE DIDN’T

“Well, I certainly saw him. He walked out the front door, and banged it shut.”

TRYING TO TRICK US

Kneeling, Hardare looked Mr. Kozlowski in the eye, and saw the sparkle of a mind that had refused to stop living long after his body had given up.

“Please tell me what you saw,” Hardare said.

EUGENE SNUCK AROUND THE HOUSE I HEARD HIM

“You’re saying he’s hiding behind the house?”

YES IN THE GARAGE

“Is there a car in there?”

VAN

“Does it run?”

LIKE A CHAMP

Everywhere Osbourne went, he’d used a stolen car, and it made sense that he might have another vehicle ready for his escape.

“Are you sure, Mr. Kozlowski?” Myrtle said, sounding doubtful.

HE TOOK THE KEYS

Hardare went to the back door and peered at the garage behind the house. The garage door was up, and inside the shadows he spied an old Volkwsagen bus.

“He wants to tell you something else,” Myrtle Jones said.

Hardare came back into the room.

TAKE MY GUN

“Where is it?” Hardare asked.

DRAWER BENEATH SINK

“Is it loaded?”

ALWAYS

Hardare opened the drawer under the sink and found a small caliber gun waiting for him. Grabbing it, he hurried outside.

Chapter 37

Primal Scream

Hardare came out the back door just as the VW’s headlights came on, followed by the sound of its engine turning over. The vehicle came screeching out of the garage and flew past him.

Hardare fired the gun into the vehicle’s side door. It raced past him and down the driveway to the street. A fire truck was parked in front of the burning house, the police helping the firemen deal with the blaze. The VW shot past them and sped away.

“Goddamnit — NO!”

In a heartbeat Hardare found himself standing in the middle of the street. The VW was already two blocks away. Osbourne was going to escape unless he stopped him.

Jan had taken him to a firing range a few times, and he knew how to handle a gun. Going into a crouch, he shut one eye, aimed, and started pulling the trigger.

The gun barked five times in rapid succession. The VW swerved, and smashed into a car parked by the curb. He’d hit the tank, and gasoline poured onto the street.

Hardare felt the rage of all the women Osbourne had killed boil up within him. He gave a bloodcurdling yell that came out sounding like a primal scream.

Wondero joined him as he ran down the street.

“Are you crazy — what are you doing?”

“Osbourne’s in the van,” Hardare said.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yes — the old man in the wheelchair told me.”

Wondero sprinted past him, determined to get there first.

Hardare beat him anyway.

The VW was stopped. Bright orange flames had filled the interior, as if the gates of purgatory had prematurely opened up to make room. Flames shot up twenty feet into the air.

The driver’s door swung open. Covered in flames, his head and hands already dark cinders, Osbourne toppled out of the inferno, and did a series of fading pirouettes in the street. It was beautiful and horrible at the same time, and he finally crumpled in a heap before them, his charred corpse shriveling into a ball as the fire danced in mad jubilation across his remains.

“Christ Almighty,” Wondero said. “I didn’t think I’d ever see this day.”

The detective touched the corpse with his toe, just to be sure.

Chapter 38

Kindred Spirits

The discovery of a partially melted gas can with a bullet hole in it on the floor of the van Osbourne had been driving provided a logical explanation of his demise for the local TV stations, and Hardare’s name was hardly mentioned in any of the stories which ran that night.

Hardare didn’t care. Upon returning to the hotel, his wife and daughter had treated him like a hero, and he opened up his eyes the next morning to find the celebration still underway. Jan had ordered eggs Benedict and Dom Perignon from room service, which was delivered on a metal cart. As he sat up in bed, he’d been startled by the presence of several dozen brightly colored helium balloons clinging to the ceiling. Crystal handed him a pea shooter, and a box filled with metal BBs.

“Where the heck did you get these?” he said, laughing.

“Let’s see if you’ve lost your touch!” his daughter said.

And so he had spent the next half-hour lying in bed, leaving no doubt in either of their minds that he was still the world champion at shooting balloons off the ceiling.

Their jubilation soon passed. At noon, the theatre manager at the Wilshire Ebell called the hotel. Ticket sales had slowed to a trickle. If demand did not pick up, he did not anticipate them breaking even for the two week run. Did Hardare wish to consider cancelling the engagement?

“Hell no,” Hardare had told him.

The news got a little better when they drove to Burbank that afternoon, and met with the fast-talking carnival owner who had agreed to let Hardare perform his straitjacket escape while hanging from his monster roller-coaster ride.

“With the TV people here, you’ll be a smash,” the owner assured them, punctuating his words with a stinky cigar. “You mark my words: appearing at Bob Olley’s carnival will be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for the straitjacket escape. While Jan and Crystal set up the portable spotlights, Hardare timed the roller coaster with a stopwatch. A life-time of performing escapes had taught him that most mechanical things were not dependable. The roller coaster was a perfect example: each ride was shorter by a few seconds than the one before it. After the tenth ride, the times evened out at two minutes, two seconds. He had honed the escape down to a minute forty-nine, which left a comfortable thirteen second margin for error.

He then assembled the small trampoline that was essential to the escape’s finale. Once the straitjacket was off his body, he would release his ankles from the block-and-tackle that was holding him in the air, and jump to the ground. The distance was over thirty feet, and the new trampoline had him worried. He had worked with them for years, and springs often popped, usually when someone was bouncing too hard on them.

When the trampoline was assembled, the three of them took turns testing it, then all got on together. It felt sound, and Hardare quickly put it out of his mind.

Bob Olley’s Carnival opened its gates at 5 p.m. that night. When Jayne Hunter and her crew arrived to film the escape an hour later, the place was a mob scene, and two carnival employees had to escort the Action Ten van through the crowd.

The van parked behind a concession tent. Hunter and her crew got out and began unloading their equipment, the escape artist and family no where in sight.

As Hunter got ready, she considered how much she had gotten out of this story. Two exclusives, her name mentioned repeatedly in the newspapers, and now this. She’d done well by Hardare, and she regretted only giving him three minutes of air time for his escape. The problem was, it was a publicity stunt, something which had no real news value, except if he fell. She knew how ghoulish that sounded, but also knew the public’s taste.

“Hello Jayne,” Hardare said, his face partially hidden by a pink swirl of cotton candy.

“Hello yourself,” Hunter replied.

The magician was dressed in skintight black clothes, his sleek body rippled with muscles. “A small token of my appreciation,” he said, handing her the candy.

“What did I do?” Hunter asked.

“Hundreds of kids started pouring into the carnival an hour ago, and they came to see me. One of them told my daughter you plugged my escape on your channel all afternoon. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.”

“I talked the station manager into it,” Hunter admitted, pleased to see him so happy. “My way of saying thanks.”

While Hardare talked to her crew about lighting and camera angles for the escape, Jan appeared and took Hunter aside.

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Jan said, squeezing her arm appreciatively, “and I think we’ve maybe helped you a bit, too.”

Hunter smiled. “You’ve helped me a lot.”

“I need to ask another favor,” Jan said.

“Really? What’s that?”

A train filled with screaming kids riding the roller coaster roared above their heads, making conversation useless. Jan’s entire body started to tremble, and Hunter recognized the fear lurking behind Jan’s mask of happiness.

“What do you want me to,” Hunter said.

At six o’clock Wondero was still in his office, on the phone with a sheriff in Pennsylvania who was singing his praises. At first, Wondero had been flattered, then embarrassed, and finally got annoyed. The sheriff simply wouldn’t stop lavishing praise on him. He was beginning to dislike being famous, and it had only started a few hours ago.

The thought of the century had occurred to him as he had stepped foot in his office that morning. It was something that should have dawned on him much earlier, and he supposed that it hadn’t because it was so obvious.

D.B. had other roommates.

Dr. Cavanaugh had faxed him their names. There were six, and one by one, Wondero had started tracking them down.

His luck had been phenomenal; two were dead, and he had located the other four, and turned up two more killers, the first a plumber in Reno, the other a security guard in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. Both had basements and refrigerator freezers filled with human trophies, and both were now behind bars.

“I had the F.B.I. up here ten times,” the sheriff in PA was telling him, “and they turned up squat. I’m going to call them first thing tomorrow, tell them what you did.”

The sheriff in Reno had promised the same, the F.B.I. agents in his territory having rubbed him the wrong way.

“Glad to have helped you out,” Wondero said.

“Not as glad as me,” the sheriff said.

As Wondero said goodbye, his phone lit up. The Reno killer’s capture had been picked up by U.P.I. and he had been deluged by calls. The newspapers were calling him the serial killer catcher, and if he didn’t leave his office soon, his head would grow too large to fit through the door.

His secretary stuck her head into his office. “Got a collect call for you, Harry. Somebody named Ernesto Rodriguez.”

“Never heard of him,” Wondero said.

“He says a man gave him your business card,” his secretary said.

Puzzled, Wondero punched in the line. “Hello? Yes operator, I’ll accept the call.”

“Hello,” said a man with a thick Mexican accent. “This is Ernesto. I work at the mental hospital in Atascadero.”

“Oh, right,” Wondero said, now remembering.

“Got a note in my box that says you wanted to know if I remembered who visited D.B. on Monday.”

“We already found him,” Wondero said. “Thanks for calling.”

“You found them both?” Rodriguez said.

Wondero blinked. “What did you say?”

“There were two of them. Eugene and his buddy. I heard D.B. was causing trouble, so I figured you’d better know.”

“Can you describe Eugene’s buddy,” Wondero said.

“Sure. He was in a wheelchair, real sickly-looking. Eugene wheeled him up to the fence, and D.B. talked to him for a while.”

Wondero felt his face burning up. “Do you remember anything else? Think hard.”

“Come to mention it, yeah. When they left, Eugene told D.B. how much the guy in the chair had wanted to meet him. I thought that was a little strange, you know?”

Wondero banged his fist on the front door of Mr. Kozlowski’s house, listened for life inside, then kicked in the door.

He entered with his gun drawn. The shades were drawn on every window, the interior pitch dark. Bumping into the living room furniture, he found a light switch, and flicked it on.

He found Myrtle Jones lying unconscious on the living room floor. The old gal had been through hell the past two days, and he grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch, and wrapped her in it. As he punched in 911 on his cell phone, her eyes snapped open, and she stared up at him.

“Eugene’s alive,” she whispered.

“Lie still, I’m calling for help.”

“He and Mr. Kozlowski are buddies. I never knew...”

The call went through and Wondero gave the operator the address. Then he walked to the back of the house, and found Mr. Kozlowski watching a portable TV sitting on the kitchen table. It was turned onto channel 10, home of Action 10 news.

“Why did you do it?” Wondero asked him.

Mr. Kozlowski blinked at him. His fingers danced across the keyboard of the computer on the arm of his wheelchair. His reply appeared on the computer screen.

I LIKE EUGENE WE’RE KINDRED SPIRITS

“Are you a murderer, too?”

YES

“Where are your victims?”

BASEMENT OF MY OLD HOUSE IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO

“Is that why you helped Eugene escape?”

YES

“How did he do it?” Wondero asked.

BOOBY TRAPPED THE VAN

Wondero recalled the tremendous explosion the van had made. “Who was the guy inside?”

DRUG DEALER LIVED DOWN THE BLOCK

“And you helped him.”

YES

“Where is Eugene now?”

Mr. Kozlowski’s bony fingers froze on the keypad. He was staring at the TV. Jayne Hunter of Action 10 news was on, plugging Hardare’s straitjacket escape, which was going to air in twenty minutes. “Stay tuned,” Hunter said cheerfully.

Wondero slammed his fist on the kitchen table. “He’s going to kill Hardare, isn’t he?”

Mr. Kozlowski’s eyes danced in his sunken head.

YOU TELL ME

Chapter 39

Monster of the Midway

By 6:30, the carnival crowd had become so large and unmanageable that Hardare had stolen away to Bob Olley’s personal trailer in order to prepare himself.

He lay on the floor, and tried not to think of the two solid weeks of shows they had coming up, if they managed to sell some more tickets. Instead, he projected himself into the future, and step-by-step “saw” the straitjacket escape from start to finish. That done, he began to control his breathing and drop his heartbeat, a necessary preparation for what was soon to follow.

He heard a tap on the door. “Yes?”

“I need to speak to you,” Jan said.

“Come in.”

Jan entered the trailer and dropped an empty cardboard box on the floor. She had hired some kids to pass out leaflets announcing their show. She sat beside him, and kissed him on the lips.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Never better.”

“You’re on in twenty minutes. Are you ready?”

He recalled a favorite line of Houdini’s. With a thin smile he said, “We’ll soon find out.”

At 6:50, Hardare emerged from the trailer to the wild delight of the overflow crowd. A group of high school kids had brought a banner, and chanted his name. With six carnival employees acting as bodyguards, he made his way through the dense crowd.

A circle had been roped off beneath the roller coaster, and it was here that Hunter’s crew had set up shop. Bob Olley was also there with Jan and Crystal, plus a pair of uniformed policemen. Hardare allowed the policemen to fit him into the straitjacket and lace up the leather straps on the back.

“We’re on in five minutes,” Hunter told him.

“Fine,” Hardare grunted. He’d agreed to be bound before they went on air, which he now realized was a mistake. The two cops were knocking themselves out putting him in the straitjacket, something they probably wouldn’t have done in front of a camera.

“You okay?” Jan asked when they finished.

“I’ll get out in plenty of time,” he said to reassure her. “But I’m going to feel it tomorrow morning.”

“Two minutes,” Hunter announced.

While Hunter’s crew did a final sound check, Jan encased his ankles to the block and tackle from which he would hang in the air. Crystal positioned herself next to a large plexiglass clock, the trademark of any Hardare escape.

“Thirty seconds,” Hunter said.

So this was it, Hardare thought. He felt remarkably relaxed for what was supposed to be a tense moment, and thought how ridiculous that was going to look on live television. He made his face grow taut, his eyes narrow and focused.

“Ten... nine... eight...”

Suddenly the crowd began to chant along with the cameraman.

“ ... SEVEN... SIX... FIVE... ”

Jan kissed him on the cheek.

“... FOUR... THREE... TWO...”

A hundred yards beyond the crowd, Hardare saw a long line of wailing police cars enter the carnival parking lot, their spinning wheels sending up clouds of dust. He felt a deadening weight in his stomach, but when Hunter declared, “We’re on the air!” quickly put them out of his mind, having more pressing matters to contend with.

“This is Jayne Hunter, coming to you live from Bob Olley’s Carnival of Thrills carnival in Burbank,” Hunter said to the camera. “Next to me stands Vincent Hardare, magician extraordinary, nephew of the legendary Harry Houdini.”

A huge ovation arose from the crowd.

“Tonight,” Hunter continued, “in the spirit of his uncle, Hardare will attempt to escape from a police regulation straitjacket while hanging upside down from a burning rope tied to the track of a roller coaster. If Hardare does not escape in two minutes, the roller coaster will cut the rope, and he will plunge to his death. Hardare, anything you wish to say?”

“Wish me luck!” he yelled to the crowd.

With Jan’s help, he lay on the ground and stuck his feet into the air. His wife secured a rope to the block and tackle that was attached to his feet. A switch was thrown, and a motor drew the rope up through a pulley that was tied to the track overhead.

Going into the air feet first, Hardare stared into the faces in the crowd. When he was thirty feet up, the motor was stopped, and the rope tied down.

“Are you ready?” Hunter said.

He let his eyes drift over the upside down crowd; there had to be several thousand people here. If half bought tickets to his show, he would be off the proverbial hook.

In a booming voice he said, “Let’s do it!”

With that, the ponytailed man operating the roller-coaster threw a switch, and set the empty train in motion. It lumbered down the tracks, then picked up speed as it climbed the first hill of the ride and disappeared from view.

Hardare shut his eyes to avoid vertigo. Blowing out his lungs, he shrunk his chest, and worked his fingers through the stiff canvas. His fingers ached from the exertion it took to release the first strap.

“Thirty seconds,” Hunter announced.

As he struggled to free himself, the crowd got into it, their disjointed voices becoming one. A chant went up, his name repeated like a mantra.

“Har-dare! Har-dare!”

It was a thrilling experience, and allowed him to forget the severe cramps spreading through his hands and pretend he was ten years younger, and still able to rip a straitjacket off his body without injuring himself.

There was a rumor going around L.A. which hinted at a magical time in the early morning hours when the highways were completely empty for approximately thirty minutes. This phenomenon was being called a Pause, and was explained as a short time each day when absolutely no one was in their cars.

Wondero didn’t have a Pause to get him to Burbank before Hardare went on, so he created one. Doing ninety down the Golden State with the siren on the dashboard blaring, he punched the horn while flashing his headlights. When that didn’t get cars out of his lane fast enough, he stuck his gun out the window and emptied the clip. As the lanes of stubborn traffic parted like the Red Sea, he knew he’d be suspended, and wondered if it would be with or without pay.

He didn’t care.

He took the Burbank exit and drove to the carnival. The entrance was blocked, with cars parked on the sidewalks on both sides of the road. He’d already called a dispatcher, and gotten every available cruiser to convene to the area. There were uniformed cops everywhere he looked.

But what were they looking for?

Wondero entered the grounds. Over the heads of the crowd, he could see Hardare wrestling with a straitjacket while hanging upside down from a rope attached to the track of the rollercoaster. The magician was surrounded by thousands of people, and Wondero couldn’t imagine how Osbourne was going to get close enough to Hardare to kill him.

The crowd started to chant.

“One minute!” Hunter announced.

She lowered her microphone and watched Hardare wrestle with the straitjacket. It was a tremendous stunt, and she was happy to be a part of Hardare’s publicity machine until the bullet from a high-powered rifle blew apart the windshield of the Action 10 van, spraying the crowd with a shower of flying glass.

Through her earphone, Hunter heard her director in the van groan sharply. To her crew she yelled, “Someone get in the van and help Jack! He’s been shot!”

The second shot blew apart the blue neon MONSTER OF THE MIDWAY sign hanging above the head of the roller-coaster operator. Cupping his head, the operator jumped down from his elevated platform and ran, his high-pitched screams starting a panicked stampede. The crowd moved in waves across the carnival grounds, sweeping out in all directions.

In the parking lot, policeman tried to avoid being trampled upon, until a quick volley of shots blew out several police car windshields. Within seconds several thousand people collectively turned on their heels and headed back in Hunter’s direction.

“Oh, shit,” Hunter said into her mike without thinking.

More shots, the first blowing out a crying child’s handful of clown-face balloons, the next hitting the tracks above.

“Someone get Hardare down!” Hunter screamed.

Hearing gunfire, Jan grabbed Crystal, and pulled her down to the ground.

“Dad!” Crystal screamed.

Above their heads Hardare dangled helplessly, the straitjacket still imprisoning him. Jan stared at the plexiglass clock that had been miraculously left standing by the crowd. Forty seconds to go. The suddenness of the shots had robbed her of the capacity to think.

“Hurry, Vince,” she yelled up to him.

Her husband had undone the leather straps, and was pulling the straitjacket down over his head, the most difficult part of its removal being over.

Her eyes fell on the plexiglass clock. Twenty seconds.

He was running out of time.

Jan believed in contingency plans, even if her husband didn’t. Throwing open the door to the Action 10 van, she climbed in, and glanced at the news director in the back, holding his bloody shoulder. She started the engine while pounding the horn with her fist. The crowd moved out of her way, and she reversed the van so it was directly beneath her husband.

She jumped out. Above her, Vince swung like a pendulum, the bullets missing him by inches. Seeing the rollercoaster arch up the last hill before its final decent, she started to pray.

“Come on Vince. You can do it. I know you can. Please don’t get killed... please.”

Swinging in giant arcs, Hardare guessed he had ten seconds left, maybe less. He tried to block out the screaming crowd, his sweat-soaked body writhing in agony. It occurred to him that this attack was somehow linked to Osbourne, only he wasn’t entirely sure how.

“HURRY DAD!” Crystal screamed. “YOU’VE GOT TO HURRY!!”

He was running out of time. Through the rope he could feel the vibration of the roller coaster as it came rumbling towards him. As the thought of falling became a vivid reality, he did what several doctors had urged him never to do again, and dislocated both his shoulders simultaneously. Biting his lip, he crossed his arms behind his neck and felt the straitjacket slip free. As it fell to the ground, Crystal cheered, and he popped his left shoulder into its socket, then his right, his mouth growing warm from the taste of his own blood.

Looking up, he saw the empty roller coaster come racing down the hill. He had a few seconds, and he thought; that’s all you’ve ever needed.

Doubling his body, he reached up to free himself as a bullet hit the block and tackle. His hand flew away, and he struggled to keep his body doubled.

“DAAAAAD!”

He had run out of time. The rollercoaster passed above him, and the rope was cut in half.

He plunged backwards into space. A horrible thought flashed through his mind. He wished there wasn’t a TV crew filming him as he fell so ungracefully to his death.

It was a bad way to end a career.

Chapter 40

The Man Who Cheated Death

It had been years since Wondero had run so hard.

Lungs burning, he propelled himself across the carnival grounds, his leaden feet pounding the soft earth. A hundred yards ahead of him, a man wearing a clown outfit stood atop a concession stand, shooting a rifle at the rollercoaster.

It was Osbourne. Wondero knew it was Osbourne because he was laughing with each shot he took, and only crazy men laughed when they tried to kill people. Judging by the number of shots he’d heard, Osbourne was taking target practice at the crowd.

A scream shook him to his very soul. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the rollercoaster pass over Hardare, and watched helplessly as the magician fell to his death.

He turned his attention to Osbourne. The expression on his clown face was nothing short of glee.

Wondero shot him.

He would probably pay for doing that without issuing a warning, or maybe he wouldn’t, he really didn’t know. But his gut told him it was the right thing to do, no different than shooting a rabid dog that was biting people.

Osbourne dropped the rifle, and clutched his leg. Blood spurted out of his right thigh in a burst of red.

Wondero shot him again.

The bullet ripped through his costume. Osbourne toppled forward and fell off the concession stand. He hit the ground hard, his head jerking painfully to the side as he landed.

Wondero hoped he was dead.

It was not to be. Osbourne was still breathing, his eyes blinking wildly.

“You’re under arrest. Put your hands where I can see them.”

“I think my neck’s broken.” Osbourne began to flop around like a dying fish. “I can’t move my arms or my legs.”

Wondero thought back to Mr. Kozlowski, who’d admitted that his basement was filled with victims. Perhaps this was the punishment that serial killers got for their crimes.

Wondero frisked him anyway. In the pockets of Osbourne’s clown pants he found a handgun and a knife. Wondero decided he was still a threat, and handcuffed Osbourne’s wrists behind his back. Osbourne screamed at him.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Osbourne said.

“Shut up,” Wondero replied.

“I’ll tell you what’s funny. I killed Hardare, and you couldn’t stop me.”

“I said, shut up.”

“I win, and you lose.”

The word hit Wondero hard. Osbourne was right. He’d had the chance to save Hardare, and he’d blown it.

A cheer went up on the other side of the carnival. The sound was filled with hope, and Wondero lifted his head and stared.

“What was that? What’s going on?” Osbourne said.

“You were wrong.”

Grabbing Osbourne by the back of his clown suit, Wondero pulled him off the ground, and pointed him in the direction of the sound. Osbourne drank in the sight of what had happened.

“NO!!!” Osbourne screamed.

Wondero brought his lips up to the serial killer’s ear.

“I win, Eugene.”

Hardare opened his eyes, thinking he was dead.

Above him, the stars twinkled and a cool wind blew across his face. His first impression of life after death was wonderful; there was no pain or feelings of remorse, in fact, it felt exactly like he was lying on a giant mattress.

His fingers pressed down. He was lying on a mattress, and he cautiously lifted his head.

The earth spun for a moment, then settled down to normal speed. Somehow, he was floating in the air, the carnival crowd below being calmed by the police.

He sat up stiffly, and tried to make sense of what had happened. Sliding to the edge of the mattress, he saw that he was sitting atop the Action 10 van, the mattress having been securely tied to its roof with bungee cords. Jan and Crystal stood below, and waved frantically to him. He snapped one of the bungee cords. “Was this your idea?” he asked.

“Yes,” his wife said.

“Didn’t want me working without a net, huh?”

His wife nodded, and burst into tears.

He jumped down and embraced his family. As the Action 10 cameraman zoomed in, he realized he was still on the air. Jayne Hunter stuck a mike in his face.

“Hardare, that was one hell of a show.”

“Thanks. Did they capture the man shooting at us?”

“They got him,” a policeman standing off camera said.

“We’re still on the air,” Hunter said. “Anything you care to leave us with?”

His mind raced. What did you say after seeing your life flash before your eyes? Nothing appropriate came to mind.

Hunter gave him a pleading look. She wanted the segment to end on a high note, and he flashed his best smile for the camera.

“All good things must come to an end,” Hardare said. “This is the last time I perform an escape where put my life at risk. I hope you enjoyed it.”

Jan gave him a squeeze, and he looked into her eyes.

“Thank you,” his wife said.

One Week Later

From The Los Angeles Times Classified section

For sale: Lakers/Celtics tickets, third row,

Clippers/Jazz, fifth row, Kings/Bruins, behind

penalty box. Also, Elton John/Hollywood Bowl,

Lady Gaga/Forum. Some Hardare tickets still

left (balcony only). Call Larry, 949-1981, eves.