by Steven James
“They’re not going to do anything,” Xavier declares firmly, iterating his distrust of the federal government. “Except maybe get in the way.”
“Well, we’ll see. I can be rather persistent and strong-willed when I want to be.”
“That’s true,” I agree.
A slight eyebrow raise. “Careful now.”
“I’m just saying, you are a woman who knows how to get what she wants.”
“Ah.”
Our eyes linger over each other, she offers me a slight smile and it feels nice.
In truth, Charlene is a lot more diplomatic and patient than either me or Xavier, and I figure she really is the right choice to talk with the FBI.
“Good.” I collect our plates and slip them into the dishwasher. “In the morning, Charlene, you can go to the federal building with what we know and see if they’ll look into Emilio’s death, Fionna and Lonnie can attack the USB drive, extract the files, work on decrypting them, and maybe Xavier and I can go to Emilio’s house to have a look around.”
“You’re not a detective.” Charlene’s objection seems halfhearted, as if she realizes it’s something she’s supposed to say but doesn’t really believe will convince me.
“No. But Fionna already tried the police and they’re not doing anything. Emilio doesn’t have any family here; we’re the ones who had to put his funeral together. Besides, the police wouldn’t know what to look for. Emilio was my friend. I’ve been over to his place dozens of times. If something’s not right, even something small that the police would miss, I might be able to notice it.”
When you’re doing mentalism, you train yourself to notice things—the little things most people miss. So-called mediums and psychics are experts at picking up on nonverbal cues, clothing choices, subconscious habits, anything that’s out of place on a person or in a specific setting. I’ve found that if you’re going to debunk them, you have to think like them. It’s taken me a few years, but I’m pretty good at noticing things that are easy to miss unless you’re keeping an eye out for them.
“Alright.” Xavier grabs his things to go to his RV. “I’ll see you folks in the morning. Sleep tight.”
“Good night, Mr. Wray.”
“Good night, Ms. McClury.”
I invite him to stay the night in the house, even though I suspect he’ll decline the offer, which he does. “I sleep best in my own bed,” he tells me. His bed is a thin mattress lying on a wooden platform in the RV.
After he leaves and Fionna heads down the hall, I walk Charlene to her room.
From the start she made it clear that if we were going to try to make things work between us, I had to respect her boundaries and her spiritual views about marriage and chastity.
Her deeply held convictions were part of what attracted me to her, though admittedly it wasn’t going to be easy to live up to them. “I’ve made mistakes in the past,” she told me when we started going out. “I don’t want to make them with you. Do you know the odds of people who sleep together staying together long-term, versus those who get married first?”
“No,” I answered honestly.
“Reams of research. We’d be shooting ourselves in the foot if we were intimate now. I really care about you and I want to see where this can lead, so let’s do what we can on the front end to make sure the odds are in our favor.” From anyone else it might have seemed prudish, but from her it seemed genuine and respectable.
One thing was for sure: it was definitely countercultural—especially in Vegas—but as long as it was the best route for us to take toward making this work, I was on board.
I had to hand it to her for setting down some ground rules, and I wanted her to know that I thought she was worth the wait, that I was in this for the long haul.
Outside her room I brush the back of my finger against her cheek. “How are you doing?”
“Good. I guess. Yeah. Considering everything.”
“Come here.” I hold her, and after a few minutes it feels as if we’ve given strength to each other—strength that neither of us had before.
It’s a mystery to me how love can offer you more than you’d ever imagine and allow you to give away what you don’t even realize you have—and somehow end up richer for it all in the end. The more you give, the more you have to give; the more you keep love to yourself, the less of it you have. It’s the paradox at the heart of every relationship.
After a moment she steps back. “Everything that happened in the Philippines seems like it happened weeks ago instead of just during the last day or two.”
“It feels that way to me too.”
“It’s strange how memory works.”
I read somewhere that a philosopher had written, “We are the selves we remember.” I mention that to Charlene and she considers it. “But what about the parts of our lives we forget?”
“Hmm . . .” Not a bad point. “That’s all part of the equation too, I suppose. Maybe there’s a reason we forget some things—the pain, you know? So we can move on.”
I have the sense that she knows I’m thinking not just about Emilio but also about the loss of my family, but neither of us brings it up and that’s okay with me.
A slight awkwardness edges in between us, for reasons I’m not even certain of, then we kiss, say good night, and I head to my room.
Even as tired as I am, I’m not expecting that I’ll get the best night’s sleep.
The idea of going to my dead friend’s house to look around is troubling me as I change into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and climb into bed.
Emilio.
My family.
Memories that will always be with me.
If we are the selves that we remember, then I expect I’ll always have a self that’s wrapped up in far too many layers of pain.
Calista took the hand of the man she’d been flirting with. He seemed like a nice enough guy, a little overweight, you know, but not too bad, and he was kinda cute in a middle-aged, balding guy sort of way.
They left the bar and walked together toward his hotel room.
A secret.
Yes.
He would not be getting what he expected tonight. Derek would be paying them a visit before they could get started, would drug him, and he would wake up tomorrow morning and not remember anything about the night.
Date rape drugs can come in handy. And Derek was an expert at using them.
She knew their mark for tomorrow night, but tonight had given her a chance to note the location of the security cameras so she could be sure to keep her back turned to them tomorrow.
The dry run had gone according to plan. She would be fine doing her job tomorrow evening when everything was on the line.
Not that she was concerned. After five years of doing this, she was confident in her abilities, but it was good to know that she could even work her magic in the Chimera Club, among the LA escorts and with the highest rollers in Vegas.
Tomás Agcaoili landed in San Francisco and took the shuttle to his hotel.
He would spend the rest of the night here and then fly to Las Vegas later in the afternoon to meet with the man who’d hired him to kill Emilio Benigno.
Tomás had gotten half of his money up front. Now that he’d done his part he was ready to get paid the rest, and then he could disappear forever.
But he’d failed to get the drive.
Amid the confusion beside the coffin following Emilio’s death, he was supposed to have slipped away and gone through the man’s things. But he hadn’t gotten the chance before Banks and Wray chased him into the jungle and then took Emilio’s luggage with them when they left.
It wouldn’t be wise to appear before Akinsanya without the drive, but if he didn’t meet with him he wouldn’t get paid, so it was a catch-22. In the end, he decided that he would show up and explain that he had acquired the drive but lost it when he leapt off the waterfall, in the turmoil at the base of the falls.
It was destroyed, he would explain, lost for
good.
However, he’d heard stories about what Akinsanya would do to you with the needle and suture thread if you disappointed him, and he couldn’t even imagine going through that.
So, gather a little more information about the man before meeting with him. Maybe that would be a good idea.
Yes, tomorrow afternoon he was going to make sure that Akinsanya kept up his part of the deal, but first Tomás decided he would visit with Solomon in Vegas. If anyone could help him avoid problems with Akinsanya, Solomon could.
Part IV
Sealed In
Saturday, February 9
7:54 a.m.
During the night I dream that it is me instead of Emilio in the coffin.
I’m in total darkness and the snakes are active. I can feel them writhe across my body as I work at the handcuffs.
Somehow Charlene is sitting beside me, and despite the fact that it’s obsidian black in the coffin, I can see her. But it’s a dream and I know this, even as it’s happening, and the believable and the impossible merge in dreams like they never do in the real world. So light and dark mean nothing. Senses blur. The unbelievable makes sense. The outlandish seems reasonable.
And so.
Charlene is warning me not to use the air tube, not to touch it, but nevertheless, I find it in the dark and bring it to my lips. I expect to feel the dry, leathery skin of one of the snakes gliding into my mouth or its fangs piercing my tongue, but instead, the air tube vanishes and suddenly I’m standing in the cemetery staring down at four open graves.
Emilio lies in one of them, Rachel and the boys in the others. Snakes curl across all four bodies, dozens of cobras on each of them in four winding, squirming masses. I rush over and try to clear off the corpses, but I can’t do it fast enough; every time I toss a snake aside, another appears.
Then my sons open their eyes and call for me to help them. They reach out their arms; I lean toward them, assuring them that I’m here for them, that I’ll save them, that they don’t need to worry because their daddy is here. But before I can lift the boys, the snakes slither one after another into their open mouths and I’m screaming and flinging snakes aside as the nightmare vanishes and I wake up alone in my bedroom.
I’m shaking, but it’s not like in the movies where people sit bolt upright after waking from a nightmare. Instead, I just lie there listening to the harsh sound of my breathing as I try to untangle my waking thoughts from the dark ones of my dreams.
And in a strange way, I find it necessary to try to convince myself of something I already know, so I tell myself over and over, It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real.
A shiver, a residue of the nightmare, slides through me.
Just relax. It wasn’t real.
None of that helps. Finally, I realize there’s one thing I can do that might make it easier to move on.
Closing my eyes again, I attempt to reenter the dream so I can fulfill my promise to my boys, so that I can somehow rescue them. But I’m unable to pick up the nightmare where it left off. All I get is a nightmarish blur of images of snakes and corpses and cemeteries and tears.
After a few minutes, I open my eyes and keep them open, hoping to leave the dream world behind for good.
And thankfully, the dreams do begin to fade, as all dreams do, until they’re nearly all gone, all except for the enduring impression of snakes slithering down the throats of my sons.
I rise, and during my shower I inspect my injured shin and snake-bitten arm. The bruise on my leg is deeply discolored. It aches, but I think I’ll be able to get by without limping—which will be important for tonight’s show.
Rest, ice, and a little vitamin I—ibuprofen—should help.
The arm is tender, but healing. Before getting dressed I put some antibiotic on it and gently bandage the wound.
I dress and slide my 1895 Morgan Dollar into my pocket.
Rings can get in the way of doing sleight of hand effects, so when Rachel and I married, we didn’t exchange wedding rings. Instead, we exchanged coins, and this is the one she gave me. Though I have some in my collection that are worth more monetarily, this is the most valuable one to me, and I carry it with me nearly all the time.
I start filling the sink with water.
For the finale tonight I’ll need to hold my breath for over two minutes while escaping from a straightjacket.
In a piranha-filled aquarium.
After being lit on fire.
And dropping thirty feet into the tank.
All Xavier’s idea.
Of course.
We’ve been in rehearsal for this show for more than two months and I’ve managed to get out reasonably consistently, but still, I wish I could’ve had more time this week to put the final touches on the performance.
Well, it would have to happen at this afternoon’s rehearsal.
And, of course, live at tonight’s show.
I turn off the water, close my eyes, and take a couple deep breaths.
Then I start the timer on my phone and lower my face into the water.
I’ve drowned eight times in my career, and each time Charlene has brought me back. It’s embarrassing when you drown while you’re trying to entertain people. I always refund the money of audience members who come to shows where I die when I’m not trying to. Seems like the least I can do.
I come up for air.
Check the time: 1 minute 43 seconds.
Not very impressive.
I take a moment to regroup, catch my breath, and then I go under again.
After six tries my best effort is two minutes and ten seconds, but that’s while I’m being still, without adrenaline, without struggling to get out of a straightjacket.
I’m way out of practice, but I tend to do well under pressure and I assure myself that I’ll be okay tonight.
But I decide not to tell Charlene my time.
As I enter the hallway, I smell sausages sizzling downstairs in the kitchen and hear Xavier making funny noises and Mandie, Fionna’s five-year-old daughter, giggling.
On the way past Charlene’s room I notice her door is open. She’s sitting on a stool in front of the mirror doing her hair. Having a slender, limber assistant is the key to a lot of effects, and she stays in remarkable shape for our show. And now, with black leather boots, fishnet stockings, and a stylish green skirt, she looks professional with a touch of sass.
“Hey, Jev, come on in.”
I join her.
“You can close the door.”
I do.
When I take a seat on her bed, I’m struck again by how attractive she is. It’s the rare kind of natural beauty some women have that’s simple and understated, where they don’t need makeup at all, but when they use it they become unforgettable.
There’s something intimate about watching a woman do her hair, and for a moment I’m entranced, then she asks me how I slept.
Charlene knows all too well how much my dreams have troubled me over the past seventeen months, and I’m guessing she’s not asking so much if I had nightmares as much as she is asking how well I’ve been able to move past them.
I’m at just that angle where I’m not sure if I should be addressing her reflection in the mirror or looking at her directly. I go with the reflection. “I dreamt of Emilio and Rachel and the boys. I couldn’t save any of them. You were in my dream too. You tried to save me.”
“Did I succeed?”
“I woke up before anyone could be saved.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “It was just a dream.”
“Yeah.” The moment brings an awkwardness that I don’t like. “How about you? How’d you sleep?”
She brushes her hair quietly for another moment, and when she replies she doesn’t address my question, but I can read an answer beneath her words. “I’m going to miss him, Jev. Emilio, I mean.”
“Me too.”
Then we’re both silent, and time goes on until at last she gestures toward my arm. “How is that this morni
ng?”
“Still stings, but it’s getting better.”
“And your leg?”
“How did you know I hurt my leg?”
“You were limping yesterday. You were trying to hide it, but I could tell.”
“I must say, you are an astute woman, Charlene Antioch.”
“Well, I work with an illusionist. We’re experts at trafficking in deception. I need to be able to tell what’s real and what’s not.”
“Now, see, I prefer the word entertainment to deception. Karl Germain liked to say, ‘Magic is the only honest profession. A magician promises to deceive you and he does.’”
“Ah. Quoting the pioneers in your field now?”
“I need to rely on someone for credibility.” Getting back to her original question, I rub my bruised shin gently. “Anyway, yeah. I bruised it when I landed in the water at the base of the falls. Smacked into a boulder. But it’ll be okay. I’ve been knocked around a lot worse than this.”
“So then you’re going to be good for tonight? I mean, the straightjacket escape?”
“I think so.”
“You have to do more than think so, Jev. This effect is dangerous, you could—”
“I’ll be alright. I’m sure I’ll be alright.”
“Have you been practicing your breath-holding?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your time?”
A beat. “It’s sufficient.”
“We could have Seth do it.”
Seth Greene is my body double. When he’s got his makeup on and the lighting is right, you really can’t tell us apart. Well, truthfully, you could, if you were expecting to, but whenever he appears, it’s in a situation where everyone anticipates that it will be me. And so that’s what they see.
After all, people see what they expect to see. It’s one of the three things illusionists rely on to make their effects work—sleight of hand, misdirection, and audience expectation.
I’ve trained Seth to do some escapes, but he’s still learning, and I would never trust him to do the effect Xavier designed for me for tonight. I don’t tell Charlene that, I simply reiterate that I’ll be fine.
