The Vanished Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Over where?" Rhyme asked.

  "To my show." He nodded toward Central Park.

  "That's yours? The Cirque Fantastique?"

  "Right. I assumed you knew that. You had the police car parked there. . . . You do know that Cirque Fantastique is the old Hasbro and Keller Brothers circus."

  "What?" Sellitto asked.

  Rhyme glanced at Kara, who was shaking her head. "Mr. Balzac never told me that when I called him last night."

  "After the fire," Kadesky said, "we retooled. Cirque du Soleil was having so much success I recommended to Sid Keller that we do what they were. When we got the insurance money we started Fantastique."

  "No, no, no," Rhyme whispered, staring at the evidence charts.

  "What, Linc?" Sellitto asked.

  "That's what Weir's doing here," he announced. "Your show's his target. Cirque Fantastique."

  "What?"

  Scanning the evidence again. Applying facts to the premise.

  Rhyme nodded. "Dogs!"

  "What?" Sachs asked.

  "Goddamn dogs! Look at the chart. Look at it! The animal hairs and Central Park dirt're from the dog knoll! Right outside the window." A fierce nod toward the front of his town house. "He wasn't checking out Cheryl Marston on the bridle path; he was checking out the circus. The newspaper, the one in his Mazda--look at that headline: 'Entertainment for Kids Young and Old.' Call up the paper--see if there's information about the circus in it. Thom--call Peter! Hurry."

  The aide was good friends with a reporter for the Times, a young man who'd helped them occasionally in the past. He grabbed the phone and placed the call. Peter Hoddins worked the International desk but it took him less than a minute to find the answer. He relayed the information to Thom, who announced, "The circus was the feature of the story. All sorts of details--hours, acts, bios of the employees. Even a sidebar on security."

  "Shit," Rhyme snapped. "He was doing his research. . . . And the press pass? That'd give him access to backstage." Rhyme was squinting as he looked at the evidence chart. "Yes! I get it now. The victims. What did they represent? Jobs in the circus. A makeup artist. A horseback rider. . . . And the first victim! Yes, she was a student but what was her job? Singing and entertaining kids--like a clown'd do."

  "And the murder techniques themselves," Sachs pointed out. "They were all magic tricks."

  *

  "Yep. He's after your show. Terry Dobyns said his motive was ultimately revenge. Hell, he's planted a fuel bomb."

  "My God," Kadesky said. "There're two thousand people there! And the show's starting in ten minutes."

  At two in the afternoon. . . .

  "The Sunday matinee," Rhyme added. "Just like in Ohio three years ago."

  Sellitto grabbed his Motorola and called the officers stationed at the circus. There was no answer. The detective frowned and placed a call on Rhyme's speakerphone.

  "Officer Koslowski here," the man answered a moment later.

  Sellitto identified himself and barked, "Why isn't your radio on, Officer?"

  "Radio? Well, we're off duty, Lieutenant."

  "Off duty? You just went on duty."

  "Well, Detective, we were told to stand down."

  "You were what?"

  "Some detective came by a half hour ago and told us we weren't needed anymore. Said we could take the rest of the day off. I'm on my way to Rockaway Beach with my family. I can--"

  "Describe him."

  "Fifties. Beard, brown hair."

  "Where'd he go?"

  "No idea. Walked up to the car, flashed his shield and dismissed us."

  Sellitto slammed the disconnect. "It's happening. . . . Oh, man, it's happening." He shouted to Sachs, "Call the Sixth, get the Bomb Squad there." Then he himself called Central and had Emergency Services and fire trucks sent to the circus.

  Kadesky ran toward the door. "I'll evacuate the tent."

  Bell said he was calling Emergency Medical Services and having burn teams established at Columbia Presbyterian.

  "I want more soft-clothed in the park," Rhyme said. "A lot of them. I have a feeling the Conjurer's going to be there."

  "Be there?" Sellitto asked.

  "To watch the fire. He'll be close. I remember his eyes when he was looking at the flames in my room. He likes to watch fire. No, he wouldn't miss this for the world."

  Chapter Thirty

  He wasn't worried so much about the fire itself.

  As Edward Kadesky sprinted the short distance from Lincoln Rhyme's apartment to the tent of the Cirque Fantastique he was thinking that with new codes and fire retardants, even the worst theater and circus tent fires proceed fairly slowly. No, the real danger is the panic, the tons of human muscles, the stampede that tramples and tears and crushes and suffocates. Bones broken, lungs burst, asphyxiation . . .

  Saving people in a circus disaster means getting them out of the facility without panic. Traditionally, to alert the clowns and acrobats and other hands that a fire has broken out the ringmaster would send a subtle signal to the bandleader, who then launched into the energetic John Philip Sousa march, "Stars and Stripes Forever." The workers were supposed to take up emergency stations and calmly lead the audience through designated exits (those employees who didn't simply, of course, abandon ship themselves).

  The tune had been replaced over the years by far more efficient procedures for the evacuation of a circus tent. But if a gas bomb detonated, spreading burning liquid everywhere?

  The crowd would sprint to the exits and a thousand people would die in the crush.

  Edward Kadesky ran into the tent and saw twenty-six hundred people eagerly awaiting the opening of his show.

  His show.

  That was what he thought. The show he'd created. Kadesky had been a hawker in sideshows, a curtain bitch at second-tier theaters in third-tier cities, a payroll manager and ticket seller in sweaty regional circuses. He'd struggled for years to bring to the public shows that transcended the tawdry side of the business, the carny aspect of circuses. He'd done it once, with the Hasbro and Keller Brothers show--which Erick Weir had destroyed. Then he'd done it again with Cirque Fantastique, a world-renowned show that brought legitimacy, even prestige, to a profession that was so often disparaged by those who attended theater and opera, and ignored by those who watched E! and MTV.

  Remembering the wave of searing heat from the Hasbro tent fire in Ohio. The flecks of ash like deadly, gray snow. The howl of the flames--the astonishing noise--as his show had lumbered to its death right in front of him.

  There was one difference, though: three years ago the tent had been empty. Today thousands of men, women and children would be in the middle of the conflagration.

  Kadesky's assistant, Katherine Tunney, a young brunette who'd risen high in the Disney theme park organization before coming to work with him, noticed his troubled gaze and instantly joined him. That was one of Katherine's big talents: sensing his thoughts almost telepathically. "What?" she whispered.

  He told her what he'd learned from Lincoln Rhyme and the police. Her eyes began to sweep the circus tent, just like his, looking both for the bomb and at the victims.

  "How do we handle it?" she asked tersely.

  He considered this for a moment then gave her instructions. He added, "Then you leave. Get out."

  "But are you staying? What are--?"

  "Do it now," he said firmly. Then squeezed her hand. In a softer voice he added, "I'll meet you outside. It'll be okay."

  She wanted to embrace him, he sensed. But his glance told her no. They were in view of most of the seats here; he didn't want anyone in the audience to think even for a moment that something was wrong. "Walk slowly. Keep smiling. We're performers before anything else, remember."

  Katherine nodded and went first to the lighting man and then to the bandleader to deliver Kadesky's instructions. Finally she took up a position beside the main doorway.

  Straightening his tie and buttoning his jacket, Kadesky glanced at the orches
tra, nodded. A drumroll began.

  Showtime, he thought.

  As he strode, smiling broadly, into the middle of the ring the audience began to fall silent. He stopped in the direct center of the circle and the drumroll ceased. A moment later two fingers of white illumination targeted him. Though he'd told Katherine to have the lighting man hit him with the main spots he still gave a brief gasp, thinking for an instant that the brilliant lights were from the detonating gas bomb.

  But his smile never wavered and he recovered instantly. He lifted a cordless microphone to his lips and began to speak. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Cirque Fantastique." Calm, pleasant, commanding. "We have a wonderful show for you today. And to begin I'm going to ask your indulgence. I'm afraid we're going to inconvenience you a bit but I think the effort will be well worth it. We have a special performance outside the tent. I apologize. . . . We tried to get the Plaza Hotel inside here but their management wouldn't let us. Something about the guests not agreeing."

  A pause for the laughter.

  "So I'm going to ask you to hold on to your ticket stubs and step outside into Central Park."

  The crowd began murmuring, wondering what the act might be.

  He smiled. "Find space anywhere nearby. If you can see the buildings on Central Park South you'll be able to watch the act just fine."

  Laughter and excitement now in the seats. What could he mean? Were daredevils doing high-wire acts on the skyscrapers?

  "Now, lower rows first, in an orderly manner, if you please. Use whatever exit is near you."

  The houselights went up. He saw Katherine Tunney standing at the door, smiling and motioning people to leave. Please, he thought to her, get out. Leave!

  The audience was chatting loudly as they rose--he could vaguely see them through the blinding lights. They were looking at their companions, wondering who should be the first to leave. Which way to go. Then they began to gather children, collecting purses and popcorn containers, checking for their ticket stubs.

  Kadesky smiled as he watched them rise and amble toward the exits to safety. But he was thinking:

  Chicago, Illinois, December 1903. At a matinee performance of Eddie Foy's famous vaudeville routine at the Iroquois Theater a spotlight started a fire that quickly spread from the stage to the seats. The two thousand people inside raced to the exits, jamming them closed so completely that firemen couldn't get through the doors. More than six hundred in the audience died horrible deaths.

  Hartford, Connecticut, July 1944. Another matinee. At the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus, just as the famous Wallenda family was starting its renowned high-wire act, a small fire started in the southeast side of the tent and soon devoured the canvas--which had been waterproofed with gasoline and paraffin. Within minutes more than one hundred fifty people had been burned, suffocated or crushed to death.

  Chicago, Hartford, so many other cities too. Thousands of terrible deaths in theater and circus fires over the years. Was that going to happen here? Is that how the Cirque Fantastique, how his show would be remembered?

  The tent was emptying smoothly. Yet, the price of avoiding panic was a slow exit. There were still many people inside. And some, it seemed, remained in their seats, preferring to stay inside and miss the spectacle in the park. When most people had left he'd have to tell them what was really going on.

  When was the bomb set to go off? Probably not right away. Weir would give the latecomers a chance to arrive and take their seats--to cause the most injuries. It was now 2:10. Maybe he'd set it for an even time: quarter past or 2:30.

  And where was it?

  He had no clue where one might leave a bomb so that it would do the most damage.

  Glancing across the tent to the crowd massing at the front doorway he saw Katherine's silhouette--the woman's arm beckoning to him to leave.

  But he was staying. He'd do whatever was necessary to evacuate the tent, including taking people by the hand and leading them to the door, pushing them out if he needed to and returning for more--even if the tent was falling in sheets of fire around him. He was going to be the last person out.

  Smiling broadly, he shook his head to her and then lifted the microphone and continued to tell the audience what a delightful act awaited them outside. Suddenly loud music interrupted him. He glanced at the bandstand. The musicians had left--as Kadesky had ordered--but the bandleader stood over the computer console that controlled the prerecorded music they sometimes used. Their eyes met and Kadesky nodded in approval. The leader, a veteran of circus life, had put on a tape and turned the volume up. The tune was "The Stars and Stripes Forever."

  *

  Amelia Sachs pushed through the crowds exiting the Cirque Fantastique and ran into the center of the tent, where marching music was blaring loudly and Edward Kadesky was holding a microphone and enthusiastically urging everyone outside to see a special illusion--to avoid panic, she assumed.

  Brilliant idea, she thought, picturing the horrific crush if this many people raced for the exits.

  Sachs was the first officer to arrive--approaching sirens told her other rescue workers would be here soon--but she didn't wait for anyone else; she began the search immediately. She looked around, trying to decide the best place to leave a fuel bomb. To cause the most fatalities, she supposed, he'd plant it under some bleachers, near an exit.

  The device--or devices--would be bulky. Unlike dynamite or plastic explosives, fuel bombs must be large to do significant damage. They could be hidden in a shipping container or a large cardboard box. Maybe in an oil drum. She noticed a plastic trash container--a big one, which would hold about fifty gallons, she guessed. It was just to the side of the main exit and dozens of people were walking slowly past it on their way outside. There were twenty or twenty-five such bins inside the tent. The dark green containers would be the perfect choice to hide bombs.

  She ran to the one nearest her and paused at the drum. She was unable to see inside--the lid was in an inverted V-shape with a swinging door--but Sachs knew the door wouldn't be rigged to trigger the detonator; the brass told them he was using a timer. She took a small flashlight from her back pocket and shone it into the messy, foul-smelling interior. The bin was already more than half full of paper and food wrappers and empty cups; she couldn't see the bottom. She shifted the drum slightly; it was too light to hold even a gallon of gasoline.

  Another glance around the tent. Still hundreds of people inside, heading slowly for the doors.

  And dozens of other trash bins to check out. She started for the next one.

  Then she stopped and squinted. Under the main bleachers and right near the south exit of the tent was an object about four feet square, covered by a black tarp. She thought immediately about Weir's trick of using a cloth to hide himself. Whatever was under the cloth was virtually invisible and was big enough to hold hundreds of gallons of gas.

  A large crowd was within twenty feet of it.

  Outside, sirens grew louder and then began to go silent as the emergency vehicles parked near the tent. Firemen and police officers began to enter. She flashed her shield to the one nearest her. "Bomb Squad here yet?"

  "Should be five, six minutes."

  She nodded and told them to carefully check the trash drums then she started toward the tarp-covered box.

  And then it happened.

  Not the bomb itself. But the panic, which seemed to erupt as fast as a detonation.

  Sachs wasn't sure what prompted it--the sight of the emergency vehicles outside and the firemen pushing their way inside probably made some patrons uneasy. Then Sachs heard a series of pops at the main doorway. She recognized the sound from yesterday: the snapping of the huge commedia dell'arte Harlequin banner in the wind. But the audience at that exit must've thought they were gunshots and turned back, panicked, looking for other exits. Suddenly the tent filled with a huge collective voice, like the inhalation of a breath in fear. A deep rustling, a roar.

  Then the wa
ve broke.

  Screaming and crying out, people stampeded for the doors. Sachs was slammed from behind by the terrified mass. Her cheekbone struck the shoulder of a man in front of her, leaving her stunned. Screams rose, snatches of howls and shouts about fire, about bombs, about terrorists.

  "Don't push!" she cried. But no one heard her words. It would be impossible to stop the tide anyway. A thousand individuals had become a single entity. Some people tried to fend off its crushing body but in the surge from behind they were pressed into it and became part of the beast, which lurched desperately toward the glare of the opening.

  Sachs wrenched her arm free from between two teenage boys, their ruddy faces long with fear. Her head was slammed forward and she glimpsed some tattered flesh on the tent floor. She gasped, thinking a child was being trampled. But no, it was a shredded balloon. A baby's bottle, a scrap of green cloth, popcorn, a souvenir Harlequin mask, a Discman were being ground apart under the massive weight of the feet. If anyone was to fall they'd die in seconds. Sachs herself felt no balance or control; it seemed she could tumble helplessly to the floor at any moment.

  Then her feet were actually lifted off the floor, sandwiched between two sweating bodies--a big man in a bloody Izod shirt, holding a sobbing young boy above his head, and a woman who seemed to have passed out. The screams grew louder, children's and adults' mixed, and fueled the panic. Heat enveloped her and soon it was nearly impossible to breathe. The pressure on her chest threatened to crush her heart to silence. Claustrophobia--Amelia Sachs's one big fear--now wrapped its tight arms around her and she felt herself swallowed up by an unbearable sensation of confinement.

  When you move they can't getcha . . .

  But she wasn't moving anywhere. She was held tight by a suffocating mass of powerful, damp bodies, not even human now, a collection of muscles and sweat and fists and spit and feet pressing harder and harder into itself.

  Please, no! Please, let me move! Let me get one hand free. Let me take one breath of air.

  She thought she saw blood. She thought she saw torn flesh.

  Maybe they were hers.

  From terror as much as from the pain and the suffocation, Amelia Sachs felt herself start to black out.

  No! Don't fall under their feet. Don't fall!