by Rysa Walker
Then the curtain goes up, and I turn my attention to the act on the stage.
Houdini’s two female assistants—one of whom is his wife, Bess—shackled and chained him well over ten minutes ago. Then they pulled a curtain around him so he could contort in private and retreated to the side of the stage.
A twenty-first-century audience would have yawned and walked out long ago, but the people in the Hippodrome stare intently at the curtain that hides Houdini. A few read the theater program while others chat softly with their companions. The rest have their eyes glued to the stage, waiting. The piano player’s selection of music seems designed to build anticipation. Every now and then there’s a collective intake of breath as Houdini’s elbow or some other body part bumps against the fabric. Mostly, however, they just watch and wait.
A bright blue light is visible above the curtain and through a few areas along the bottom, but I’m pretty sure that no one besides Kiernan, Houdini, and I can see it. I’m not really sure where Kiernan is, in fact. He mumbled some excuse and left before Houdini first came onstage.
This is Houdini’s fourth trick of the evening, with each clearly designed to build momentum for the main event. The first act was a card trick, followed by something called Metamorphosis. Houdini’s hands were tied, then he was placed in a large bag and locked inside a trunk. Bess pulled a curtain in front of herself and the box. Next, we heard three quick claps, and when the curtain opened, Houdini was out of the box and Bess was inside, tied in the bag.
The third bit was an escape from a milk can filled with water, a trick that Houdini began performing a few years back. I remember seeing that one on some TV show I saw a long time ago, Inside the Magic or something like that, so I know the secret. The top of the can isn’t welded on. He just pushes upward and climbs out.
Suddenly the red curtain flies open, and Houdini struts toward the audience holding the chains and shackles triumphantly above his head. He started out in a tuxedo, gradually stripping down during the various acts to the black tank suit he’s now wearing, much like the one Kiernan wore at Norumbega.
Houdini’s eyes are dark and piercing, easily his most distinctive feature. Although he’s not tall, his frame is muscular. Dark hair is parted in the middle, and some attempt was made to slick it down in deference to current fashion, but it doesn’t seem to appreciate the efforts to tame it.
Before this trick began, Houdini had a few volunteers inspect the gear, making sure the chains were real and he wasn’t hiding a key somewhere. One of them looked inside his mouth, and another examined the medallion around his neck. It’s attached to a leather strap and tucked into the top of his swimsuit. Of course, to everyone else in the audience, the key looks like a plain bronze disk, wafer thin, of no possible use in an escape.
What puzzles me is that I’ve yet to see the blue light from his key disappear. In the first two escapes, it was cloaked by the box and the milk can, but this time, I could see the light above and below the curtain. Houdini never blinked out, even for a second.
The crowd applauds, complete with whistles and cheers. Houdini bows a few times, then nods toward his assistants, extending the applause to them. They curtsy, and once the noise dies down, Houdini hands the chains to Bess. Then he walks toward the audience, standing perfectly still until everyone is silent.
“Ladies . . . and . . . gentlemen,” he begins, his voice loud and clear, with a hint of an accent I can’t place. “I take great pleasure in having you here tonight to witness this next escape. Some have claimed that my talents are supernatural, but I assure you they are based on skill and athleticism alone, with no help from the great beyond. Other claims, however, are even more troubling than those of supernatural assistance. As many of you may be aware, a certain . . . party . . . here in Eastbourne has stated that I am a fraud.”
He pauses as a mix of boos and laughter ripples through the room. “These individuals apparently do not accept the word of your police who publicly attested that I escaped from their jail this past Monday. These men insist that the escapes you have witnessed tonight are stage trickery and sleight of hand. And they believe they have devised a container that can contain . . . the great Houdini.”
His eyes travel across the first few rows as he continues. “They have issued their chal—” He startles when his eyes reach my seat. What’s confusing is that he’s looking directly at my face. He doesn’t seem to even notice the medallion, despite the fact that it’s front and center on my now mostly exposed chest. He stares at me for several seconds, his eyes never once veering down toward the CHRONOS key.
When Houdini recovers, he raises his arms, looking out over the audience. “They have issued their challenge, and I will meet it this very evening.”
The lighting changes, and two men wheel a large box to the center of the stage. The younger guy has a coil of rope flung over his shoulder. Houdini introduces them as Cornwell and Son, the builders who issued the challenge in the paper, and then says, “I don’t suppose anyone happens, just by chance, to have a hammer and nails?”
Everyone laughs. About a third of the audience raises a hammer.
“Excellent! The people of Eastbourne come prepared.”
I take that as my cue to move to the side of the stage. None of the other volunteers have begun to line up, but they start moving when I do. The twelve men follow, forming an orderly line behind me. It seems that Kiernan was right to assume that his bribe was unnecessary.
Houdini gives me a nervous glance and then looks back out at the crowd. “This young lady seems very eager. Are you certain you can strike a nail, miss?”
The audience snickers, but I just nod and climb the four stairs up to the stage before I lose my nerve.
On a strictly logical level, I know most of the people in the theater aren’t actually staring at me. Almost all of them are watching Cornwell and Son as they tie up Houdini.
But my mind doesn’t operate on a logical level when I’m onstage, and my body seems to go on strike. I have to remind my lungs to pull in a breath, but my nerves are on full alert. I feel every single eye in the auditorium physically touching me, crawling all over me like ants on a candy bar.
As the men tie the final knots in the ropes, Houdini nods toward the left side of the stage where we’re standing. “I want to thank these members of the audience who have agreed to assist me in this challenge. Your actions tonight will help clear my good name. For these two gentlemen are mistaken. I am not a fraud, not a charlatan, not a fake. I am the one, the only, the original Houdini.”
Just as I’m wondering how he’ll get into the crate with his legs bound, the younger man grabs Houdini’s shoulders and the older one grabs his feet. They hoist Houdini up and begin to lower him into the crate. As soon as he’s inside, they reach behind the box for the lid.
“Wait!” My mouth is dry and it comes out as a croak, so I try again. “Wait!”
The men pause, holding the lid a few feet above the crate. Now everyone in the theater really is looking at me.
I gulp and rush forward, dropping the hammer and nails. “A kiss! I want to give Houdini a kiss for luck.”
The audience is howling now. Houdini sits up in the crate, his dark hair and widow’s peak making him resemble Count Dracula. He glances into the auditorium, where a bulky guy who is probably a bodyguard is hurrying down the outside aisle toward the stage.
But the audience is clearly eating this up—it’s probably the Edwardian equivalent of a girl throwing her panties on the stage at a rock concert—and Houdini’s inner showman wins out over his sense of caution. He shakes his head once, very distinctly, and the bodyguard pulls to a halt three rows from the stage, still watching me but not advancing.
Then Houdini smiles at the crowd. “What do you think?”
Someone yells, “Kiss her!”
“It would be very ungallant of me to refuse,” he says, and then continues in a stage whisper, “but only on the cheek, dear. My wife is watching.”
; He’s definitely correct on that point. Bess is standing in the wings looking straight at me. But her eyes aren’t fixed on my face. She’s staring at the CHRONOS key.
Leaning forward slightly, I brush Houdini’s cheek with my lips. I make sure he sees the folded note before I tuck it inside the front of his suit.
And then I run from the stage, down the steps, and straight up the aisle to the exit. As much as I’d love to stay and do my part for women’s rights, if I swing that hammer right now, I’ll miss the nail and smash my thumb.
The street is empty now, probably because most of the residents and tourists are inside the Hippodrome watching Houdini. I head back the way we came, toward the ocean, picking up my pace both because it’s cold and damp and because I want as much distance as possible between me and that stage.
Kiernan catches up to me before I’m even a block away and tosses me the lace cape. “Well, that was an interesting spectacle.”
I catch the cape and pull it over my shoulders, glaring at him the entire time. “He has your damned note. Are you happy? I hate being on stage. Hate it.”
“Really?” He looks genuinely surprised. More to the point, for that brief moment, he looks genuine. He looks like the Kiernan I know.
“I’ve hated it since I was a kid. What—your Kate never told you that?”
He doesn’t answer, making me wonder if his Kate somehow dodged stage fright. Maybe she didn’t stumble over her lines in that stupid play—or maybe the other kid never got the flu in the first place.
It’s a rare occasion for me to mention something about myself that Kiernan doesn’t already know, and it’s clearly caught him off guard. And while his mask is down, I want some answers.
“Okay, I did my part. Now it’s your turn. What have you been up to for the past six years?” I’m tempted to add that he should start with whatever it was that turned him into a total jerk, but I decide to keep that bit to myself.
“You’re not done yet, Kate. You still have to convince him to give us the bloody key. That was the final act of the show, so you need to get over to the Queen’s Hotel and—”
“You mean we need to get over there. You’re coming with, right?”
“No. As I said before, he’s more likely to give it to you than to me. His guards and I already had a run-in in Edinburgh. That’s why I stayed at the back tonight. It’s why I’m wearing this stupid mustache.”
“I don’t think he’s using the key, Kiernan. The light—it never disappeared, even for a moment, when he did the escape behind the curtain. And you’re the one who’s been researching him. If you expected me to do this alone, why not bring me in earlier so you could brief me?”
“Playing triple agent doesn’t leave much time. You knew Houdini was coming up, so why didn’t you bother to research him yourself?”
“When? When could I have done that, Kiernan? You may have had six years, but things have been kind of hectic the past few days—and yes, it’s still days for me since we were at Norumbega. On top of that, I’ve only had a few hours of not-exactly-peaceful sleep since I left you in Georgia.”
I draw in a deep breath, planning to continue my rant, but I stop mid-inhale and stare at him, adding together the bits of odd behavior he’s displayed since showing up outside Mom’s hotel room. There’s only one reason for him to have cut things this close. He needs help getting the key, and he doesn’t want to spend any more time with me than absolutely necessary. But why?
I know we need to get Houdini’s key, but I can’t fully trust Kiernan until I figure out why he’s acting so strangely. And there’s no way I’m going into this meeting without more information. Kiernan seems convinced that Houdini is using the key. I’m less convinced. I’d also like a better sense of when and where he got the damned thing.
“So that’s all you’re going to tell me? All the information you’re going to give me before you expect me to walk in alone to a meeting with a man that you’ve admitted has armed bodyguards?”
“I’ll be nearby—”
“To do what? Patch me up after his security guys shoot me?”
I give him one last angry look and speed ahead of him, ducking into an alley between two weathered wooden buildings, and yank on the velvet ribbon at the back of my neck. My CHRONOS key falls into the palm of my hand. When I pull up the display I see Trey on the phone in his hotel room ordering dinner. The messenger bag with his laptop rests near his feet. The information I can get with that computer might not be the firsthand research Kiernan has been conducting, but since he doesn’t seem inclined to share that, it will have to do.
“What are you doing?” Kiernan asks.
I check the time—9:52—and flick my thumb to set a local point. “You hang tight. I’ll be back.”
“Kate—”
∞7∞
PARK PLAZA, LONDON
September 10, 9:14 p.m.
Trey breaks off his conversation with room service when I blink in, stifling a laugh. He stops when he sees my expression, even though it’s not him I’m angry at.
I’m not even sure why he’s laughing until I glance down and realize I’m still in the stupid 1905 evening dress.
“Sorry,” he says, although I don’t know if he’s apologizing to me or to the person taking our order.
He hangs up a few seconds later and smiles. “That was quick. You look very pretty. But I didn’t know this dinner was going to be formal.”
“It’s not. In fact, it’s going to be a working dinner. I really hope you have a spare shirt or pj’s or something, because I can’t work in this horrible thing.”
Five hours later, we have a growing Houdini dossier, between the various online articles, a few fan sites, and three e-books I downloaded. We’re curled up in our usual position on the couch, and I’m happy to discover that we work very well as a research team, with me skimming the material on my tablet and Trey typing and organizing my “notes” on his laptop.
I didn’t read the books thoroughly, but just browsed through looking for things that seemed relevant. The first book argued that Houdini was some sort of spy during World War I. While I wasn’t entirely convinced on that point, the author presented some fairly solid evidence to support the assertion. Book number two covered Houdini’s friendship with Arthur Conan Doyle, the guy who wrote the Sherlock Holmes books, and their mutual fascination with the possibility of communicating with the dead. The final book was actually written by Houdini, but I’m a little suspicious of any autobiography, especially one written by a celebrity. How much is true and how much is simply what Houdini, as an entertainer, wanted his adoring public to believe?
Between the various sources, there are three different stories about how he met his wife, Bess. A half-dozen accounts, all differing on key points, tell about the encounter with a fan that may or may not have led to Houdini’s death. And there are any number of theories about how he managed some of his more daring escapes.
The one thing that sticks out for me is the fact that Houdini worked on the Midway Plaisance at the 1893 World’s Fair. He wasn’t a headliner or anything, just one teenage magician among many. Depending on which source you believe, he was either performing as part of The Brothers Houdini or he was a street magician, in disguise as a Hindu fakir. One source says he probably did both, working the streets during the day and then doing his trademark Metamorphosis trick as part of The Brothers Houdini act in the evenings.
Trey reads the passage I point out and hands the tablet back. “It could be another coincidence, Kate. They do happen—take the bit you read a minute ago about Houdini and this Harry Kellar. Almost the same name as your dad, but there’s no connection. They just share slightly different versions of a common name. Like you said before, the Exposition drew a lot of performers. Anyone who could afford the trip to Chicago went, because that’s where they’d stand the best chance of making money in a tight economy.”
I nod reluctantly. He’s right, but . . .
“It was also a big draw fo
r those who traveled with CHRONOS keys,” I argue. “Mostly Katherine and Saul, but Katherine said a few other CHRONOS agents trained there, both during her time and before. And then you have CHRONOS The Next Generation. I was there. Kiernan was there. So was his dad, and Prudence, and Simon. I’m thinking maybe someone lost a key. It’s the most logical answer to how it ended up in Houdini’s hands.”
“So Houdini found it? And he just happened to be one of a handful of people on earth who inherited the gene that allows him to use it? I don’t know. That seems like an even bigger coincidence to me than the possibility that Houdini is descended from one of the stranded CHRONOS agents. Or maybe one of the historians fooled around with Houdini’s mom, or his grandma, and she swiped the guy’s spare key as a memento?”
That sounds crazy to me, but he’s right. It’s not any crazier than someone losing a key at the World’s Fair and Houdini just happening to have inherited the gene that would allow him to use it.
“The actual CHRONOS agents didn’t carry spares,” I say. “I remember Katherine being all bent out of shape because I had two keys when we were stuck in Hotel Hell. So if someone lost a spare key, it was one of their descendants.”
I push the tray with the remains of our dinner to the side so that I can put the computers on the coffee table. Then I lean my head on Trey’s shoulder. It’s nearly 2 a.m., and the lack of sleep is hitting both of us.
“I guess it doesn’t really matter how or where Houdini got the key. Not unless I plan to go back and prevent him from getting it. And I don’t. It would be almost impossible to pinpoint the date or location, especially if he didn’t get the key at the Expo. But I want to check Katherine’s library before I do anything else, see if there are any differences between the timelines.”
“So Kiernan’s plan to confront him in Eastbourne still makes the most sense, right?”
“Yes,” I admit, “but I don’t believe for a second that Houdini’s going to hand the key over without a fight. The guy has bodyguards, plural. I’m not willing to shoot anyone to get the key, and Kiernan isn’t going to be at the meeting, so—”
