For thousands of years charlatan seers and mediums have grown rich claiming to be able to summon the spirits of the deceased for their distraught loved ones. Before the government began cracking down on such scams it was legitimate magicians who'd protect the gullible by publicly revealing the methods behind the supposedly occult effects. (Even today the brilliant magician James Randi spends much of his time debunking fakes.) Harry Houdini himself devoted much of his life and fortune to challenging fake mediums. Yet, ironically, one of the reasons he took up this cause was out of his desperate search for a legitimate medium who could contact the spirit of his mother, whose death he never completely recovered from.
Malerick now stared at the candle, the flame. Watching, praying for the spirit of his soul mate to appear and caress the yellow cone of illumination, to send him a sign. He used the candle for this medium of communication because it was fire that had taken his love away from him, fire that had changed Malerick's life forever.
Wait, did it flicker? Yes, maybe no. He couldn't tell.
Both schools of magic vied within him. As a talented illusionist, Malerick knew, of course, that his routines were nothing more than applied physics, chemistry and psychology. But still there was that one splinter of doubt in his mind that perhaps magic actually did hold the key to the supernatural: God as illusionist, vanishing our failing bodies then palming the souls of those we loved, transforming them and returning them to us, His sad and hopeful audience.
This was not unthinkable, Malerick told himself. He--
And then the candle flickered! Yes, he saw it.
The flame moved a millimeter closer to the inlaid box. Very possibly it was a sign that the soul of his dead beloved was hovering near, summoned not by mechanics but by the fiber of connection that magic might reveal if only he could stay receptive.
"Are you there?" he whispered. "Are you?"
Breathing so very slowly, afraid that his exhalation would reach the candle and make it shiver; Malerick wanted proof positive that he was not alone.
Finally the candle burned itself out and Malerick sat for a long time in his meditative state, watching gray smoke curl toward the ceiling then vanish.
A glance at his watch. He could wait no longer. He gathered his costumes and props, assembled them and dressed carefully. Applied his makeup.
The mirror told him that he was "in role."
He walked to the front lobby. A glance out the window. The street was empty.
Then outside into the spring evening for a routine that would be, yes, even more challenging than the prior ones.
Fire and illusion are soul mates.
Bursts of flash powder, candles, propane flames over which escape artists dangle . . .
Fire, Revered Audience, is the devil's toy and the devil has always been linked to magic. Fire illuminates and fire obscures, it destroys and it creates.
Fire transforms.
And it's at the heart of our next act, one I call The Charred Man.
*
The Neighborhood School just off Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village is a quaint limestone building, as modest in appearance as in name. One would never suspect that the children of some of the richest and most politically connected families in New York City learn reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic here.
It was known not only as a quality educational institution--if you can refer to an elementary school that way--but was also an important cultural venue in this part of the city.
The 8:00 P.M. Saturday music recitals, for instance.
To which the Reverend Ralph Swensen was now making his way.
He'd survived his lengthy stroll through Chinatown and Little Italy to Greenwich Village without any harm other than your average accosting by your average panhandler, to which he was by now almost oblivious. He'd stopped at a small Italian restaurant for a plate of spaghetti (that and ravioli were the only dishes on the menu he recognized). And since the wife wasn't with him he ordered a glass of red wine. The food was wonderful and he remained in the restaurant for quite some time, sipping the forbidden drink and enjoying the sight of children playing in the streets of this boisterous ethnic neighborhood.
He'd paid the check, feeling somewhat guilty about using church funds for alcohol, then continued north, farther into the Village along a route that took him through a place called Washington Square. This appeared at first to be a miniature Sodom in its own right but when he plunged into the heart of the chaotic park the reverend found that the only sins were youngsters playing loud music and people drinking beer and wine out of containers in paper bags. Although he believed in a moral system that sent certain transgressors straight to hell (like noisy homosexual prostitutes who wouldn't let you get to sleep), the spiritual offenses he found here weren't the sort that'd guarantee a one-way ticket to the big furnace.
But partway through the park he began to grow uneasy. He thought again of the man who'd been spying on him, the one in overalls with the toolkit by the hotel. The reverend was sure he'd seen him a second time--in a store window reflection not long after he'd left the hotel. The same sense of being watched came over him now. He turned fast and looked back. Well, no workmen. But he did catch sight of a trim man in a dark sportscoat watching him. The man looked away casually and veered off toward a public rest room.
Paranoia?
Had to be. The man didn't look anything like the worker. But as the reverend left the square, walking north along Fifth Avenue, dodging the hundreds of strollers on the sidewalk, he sensed again that he was being followed. Another glance behind him. This time he saw a blond man, wearing thick glasses and dressed in a brown sportscoat and T-shirt, looking his way. Reverend Swensen also noticed that he was crossing to the same side of the street that he'd just crossed to.
But now he was sure he was paranoid. Three different men couldn't've been following him. Relax, he thought and continued north on Fifth Avenue toward the Neighborhood School, the street dense with people enjoying the beautiful spring evening.
Reverend Swensen arrived at the Neighborhood School at exactly 7 P.M., a half hour before the doors would open. He set down his briefcase and crossed his arms. Then he decided that, no, he should keep a hold on the attache case and picked it up again. He lounged against a wrought-iron fence surrounding a garden next to the school, glancing uneasily in the direction he'd come.
No, no one. No workmen with toolkits. No men in sportscoats. He was--
"Excuse me, Father?"
Startled, he turned quickly and found himself looking at a big, swarthy man with a two-day growth of beard.
"Uhm, yes?"
"You here for the recital?" The man nodded toward the Neighborhood School.
"That's right," he answered, trying to keep his voice from quavering with uneasiness.
"What time's it start?"
"Eight. The doors open at seven-thirty."
"Thank you, Father."
"Not a problem."
The man smiled and walked away in the direction of the school. Reverend Swensen resumed his vigil, nervously squeezing the handle of his attache case. A look at his watch. It read 7:15.
Then, finally, after an interminable five minutes, he saw what he'd been waiting for, what he'd traveled all these many miles for: the black Lincoln Town Car with the official government license plates. It eased to a stop a block from the Neighborhood School. The minister squinted in the dusk as he read the plate number. It was the right vehicle. . . . Thank you, Lord.
Two young men in dark suits got out the front. They looked up and down the sidewalk--including a glance at him--and were apparently satisfied that the street was safe.
One of them bent down and spoke through the open rear window.
The reverend knew whom he was speaking to: Assistant District Attorney Charles Grady, the man prosecuting the case against Andrew Constable. Grady was here with his wife for the recital that their daughter was participating in. It was the prosecutor, in fact, who was at the heart of his mission t
o Sodom this weekend. Like Paul, Reverend Swensen had entered the world of the nonbelievers to show them the error of their ways and to bring them truth. He intended to do so in a somewhat more decisive way than the apostle, though: by murdering Charles Grady with the heavy pistol now resting in his briefcase, which he clutched to his chest as if it were the Ark of the Covenant itself.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sizing up the scene in front of him.
Carefully noting angles, escape routes, how many passersby were on the sidewalk, the amount of traffic on Fifth Avenue. He couldn't afford to fail. There was a lot riding on his success; he had a personal stake in making sure Charles Grady died.
Around midnight last Tuesday Jeddy Barnes, a local militiaman, had suddenly appeared at the door of the double-wide that served as Reverend Swensen's home and church. Barnes had reportedly been hiding out in a camper deep in the woods around Canton Falls after the state police raids against Andrew Constable's Patriot Assembly a few months ago.
"Make me some coffee," Barnes had commanded, looking over the terrified reverend with his fierce fanatic's eyes.
Amid the staccato tap of rain on the metal roof, Barnes, a tough, scary loner with a gray crew cut and gaunt face, had leaned forward and said, "I need you to do something for me, Ralph."
"What's that?"
Barnes had stretched his feet out and looked at the plywood altar Reverend Swensen had made himself, thick with sloppy varnish. "There's a man out to get us. Persecuting us. He's one of them."
Swensen knew that by "them" Barnes was referring to an ill-defined alliance of federal and state government, the media, non-Christians, members of any organized political party and intellectuals--for starters. ("Us" meant everybody who wasn't in any of the above categories, provided they were white.) The reverend wasn't quite as fanatical as Barnes and his tough militia buddies--who scared the soul out of him--but he certainly believed there was some truth to what they preached.
"We need to stop him."
"Who is it?"
"A prosecutor in New York City."
"Oh, the one going after Andrew?"
"That's him. Charles Grady."
"What'm I supposed to do?" Reverend Swensen had asked, envisioning a letter-writing campaign or a fiery sermon.
"Kill him," Barnes had said simply.
"What?"
"I want you to go to New York and kill him."
"Oh, Lord. Well, I can't do that." Trying to put on a firm front although his hands were shaking so bad he spilled his coffee on a hymnal. "For one thing, what good'll it do? It won't help Andrew any. Hell, they'll know he was behind it and they'll make it even harder--"
"Constable's not part of this. He's out of the equation. There're bigger issues here. We need to make a statement. You know, do what all those assholes in Washington're always saying in their press conferences. 'Send a message.' "
"Well, just forget it, Jeddy. I can't do it. It's crazy."
"Oh, I think you can."
"But I'm a minister."
"You hunt every Sunday--that's murder, if you want to look at it one way. And you were in Nam. You got scalps--if your stories're true."
"That was thirty years ago." Whispering desperately, avoiding both the man's eyes and the admission that, no, the war stories weren't true. "I'm not killing anybody."
"I'll bet Clara Sampson'd like you to." Stony silence for a moment. "Chickens're coming back to roost, Ralph."
Lord, Lord, Lord . . .
Last year Jeddy Barnes had stopped Wayne Sampson from going to the police after the dairy farmer had found the minister with Sampson's thirteen-year-old daughter in the playground he'd built behind the church. It occurred to him now that Barnes had played mediator solely to get some leverage on him. "Please, look--"
"Clara wrote a nice letter, which I happen to have. D'I mention I asked her to do that last year? Anyway, she went and described your private parts in more detail than I personally wanna read about but I'm sure a jury'd appreciate it."
"You can't do this. No, no, no . . ."
"Don't wanna argue the matter with you, Ralph. Here's the situation. If you don't agree then come next month you'll be doin' the same thing to niggers in prison that you had Clara Sampson doin' to you. Now, what's it gonna be?"
"Shit."
"I'll take that as a yes. Now, lemme walk you through what we have planned."
And Barnes had given him a gun, the address of a hotel and the location of Grady's office then shipped him off to New York City.
When he'd first arrived, a few days ago, Reverend Swensen had spent several days doing recon work. He'd gone into the state government building late Thursday afternoon and, with his slightly baffled demeanor and wearing his minister's garb, had wandered the halls unchallenged until he found a broom closet in a deserted corridor, where he hid until midnight. Then he'd broken into Grady's secretary's office and found out that the prosecutor and his family would be attending the recital at the Neighborhood School tonight; his daughter was one of the young performers.
Now, armed and edgy with cat nerves, the reverend stood fidgeting in front of the school and watching Grady's bodyguards talking with the prosecutor in the backseat. The plan was to kill Grady and his guards with the silenced pistol then drop to the ground himself, screaming in panic that a man had just driven by and was shooting from a car. The minister should be able to escape in the confusion.
Should be . . .
He now tried to say a prayer but, even though Charles Grady was a tool of the devil, asking help from the Lord our God to kill an unarmed white Christian bothered Reverend Swensen considerably. So he settled for a silent Bible recitation.
I saw another angel come down from heaven, having great power; and the earth was lit up by his glory. . . .
Reverend Swensen rocked on his feet, thinking that he couldn't bear to wait any longer. Cat nerves, cat nerves . . . He wanted to get back to his sheep, his farmland, his church, his ever-popular sermons.
Clara Sampson too, who was nearly fifteen now and for all intents and purposes fair game.
And the angel cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit. . . .
He considered the matter of Grady's family. The prosecutor's wife hadn't done anything wrong. Being married to a sinner wasn't the same as being a sinner yourself or choosing to work for one. No, he'd spare Mrs. Grady.
Unless she noticed that he was the one shooting.
As for the daughter Barnes had told him about, Chrissy. . . . He wondered how old she was and what she looked like.
And the fruits that thy soul lusted after are departed from thee, and all things which were dainty and goodly are departed from thee, and thou shalt find them no more at all. . . .
Now, he thought. Do it. Go, go, go.
And a mighty angel took up a stone like a great millstone, and cast it into the sea, saying, Thus with violence shall that great city Babylon be thrown down, and shall be found no more at all. . . .
Thinking, the stone of retribution I've got, Grady, is a well-built Swiss gun and the messenger isn't an angel from heaven but a representative of all right-thinking people in America.
He started forward.
The bodyguards were still looking away.
Opening the attache case, he took out the Rand McNally and the heavy gun. Hiding the weapon inside the colorful map, he strolled casually toward the car. Grady's bodyguards were now standing together on the sidewalk, with their backs to him. One reached down to open the door for the prosecutor.
Twenty feet away . . .
Reverend Swensen thought to Grady, God have mercy on your--
And then the angel's millstone landed squarely on his shoulders.
"On the ground, on the ground, now, now now now!"
A half-dozen men and women, a hundred demons, grabbed Reverend Swensen's arms and flung him hard to the sidewalk. "Don't move don't move do
n't move don't move!"
One grabbed the gun, one snatched away the briefcase, one pressed the reverend's neck down into the sidewalk like the weight of the city's sin. His face scraped against the concrete and pain shot through his wrists and shoulder sockets as handcuffs were ratcheted on him and his pockets turned inside out.
Crushed to the concrete Reverend Swensen saw Grady's car door open and three policemen leap out, wearing helmets and bulletproof vests.
"Stay down, head down down down!"
Jesus our Lord in heaven. . . .
He watched a man's feet walk closer to him. In contrast to the fierceness of the other officers this man was quite polite. In a southern-accented voice he said, "Now, sir, we're going to roll you over and then I'm going to read you your rights. And you let me know if you understand 'em."
Several cops turned him over and pulled him to his feet.
The reverend started in shock.
The man speaking was the one in the dark sportscoat he'd thought was following him in Washington Square. Next to him was the blond man in glasses who'd apparently taken over the surveillance. The third, the swarthy man who'd asked about the time the concert began, stood nearby.
"Sir, my name's Detective Bell. And I'm going to read those rights now. You ready? Good. Here we go."
*
Bell looked over the contents of Swensen's attache case.
Extra ammunition for the H&K pistol. A yellow pad inscribed with what looked to be a very bad sermon scrawled on it. A guidebook, New York on Fifty Dollars a Day. There was also a beat-up Gideon Bible stamped with the name and address: THE ADELPHI HOTEL, 232 BOWERY, NEW YORK, NEW YORK.
Hmmm, Bell thought wryly, looks like we can add a count of Bible larceny to the charges.
He found nothing, though, that suggested a direct connection between this attempt on Grady's life and Andrew Constable. Discouraged, he handed off the evidence to be logged in and called Rhyme to tell him that the impromptu operation by the Saving Asses team had been successful.
Back at Rhyme's an hour earlier the criminalist had continued to pore over the revised crime scene report while Mel Cooper had researched the fibers the CS team had found in Grady's office. Finally Rhyme had made some troubling deductions. The analysis of the footprints in the office revealed that the intruder had stood for some minutes in one spot--the right front corner of the secretary's desk. The inventory of the office showed only one item in this portion of the desk: the woman's daily calendar. And the only entry for this weekend was Chrissy Grady's recital at the Neighborhood School.
The Vanished Man Page 20
