The Escape Artist

by Brad Meltzer

  “Nothing. She just— For Dino’s funeral—” He cleared his throat. “She requested that you be the one to work on his body. Asked for you by name.”

  Zig nodded. He expected as much. When Zig was little, Dino’s sister used to drive them to high school. Bought beer and wine coolers for him and Dino too.

  “Ziggy, you don’t have t—”

  “Tell her I’ll do it.”

  “I can make an excuse. Let her know you’re in the hospita—”

  “Stop. I’m doing it,” Zig said, reaching for the red-and-white duffel that Master Guns brought from Zig’s home. Zig pulled out a pair of old jeans, quickly climbing into them.

  “Ziggy, what’re you—?”

  “You said his sister will be here tomorrow. If I don’t start now—”

  “Are you a moron? Your doctors— They said they want you under observation for at least another day. Your concussion—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine—and if you think I’m letting you back in the mortuary—”

  “You said Dino took a bullet to the head. That’s where Royall shot him, right? You think you got enough pieces of his skull to put him back together?”

  Master Guns didn’t respond.

  “Dino’s family is Catholic. I helped bury their mom. Their dad too. His sister Denise, she’ll want an open casket. Do you even have an intact face, or is that gonna need major sculpting and a rebuild too?”

  “Ziggy…”

  “You think we’re having a discussion. We’re not,” Zig shot back. “When Denise gets here tomorrow, she’s expecting an open casket. I’m giving her an open casket. Okay? I’m doing it. Fallen #2,358. I need to do it,” Zig said, buttoning his jeans. As he pulled a fresh shirt over his head, a Rorschach blot of blood seeped from his forehead into the chest of his T-shirt.

  “You’re one stubborn pain in my ass, you know that?” Master Guns said.

  “You really thought I’d sit here in a hospital and let you give this case to Wil?”

  Master Guns nodded at the mention of Zig’s fellow mortician. “He’s definitely a bigger a-hole than you are, Ziggy. Plus, I hate the way he spells his name with one L. Douchebaggery.”

  Zig went to smile, but the tug on his skin from the stitches hurt too much. Still, if Master Guns was making jokes, he was prepping Zig for another bomb.

  “If it makes you feel better,” Master Guns added, “we’ve been tearing through Dino’s records—phone, email, all of it. His financials were—” Master Guns paused, taking a big breath through his nose. “Ziggy, he had some pretty bad debts.”

  “How bad?”

  “Really bad. As in, taking money from his own grandmother bad. Whatever his goal was, he was flailing. His debt was well into six figures, and from what we can tell, if he didn’t pay soon, someone would’ve dropped by his house and offered him the claw side of a hammer.”

  “That doesn’t excuse it.”

  “Not saying it does. But whatever Dino did—whatever money he was taking from Royall to pay back his debt—I don’t think for one second Dino was purposely trying to hurt you.”

  Zig stayed silent, pulling out a pair of socks and taking a seat on the side of the hospital bed. “What about his sister? What’re you telling her?”

  “You think I have any say there? This is coming from the top. The real top. 456 number,” Master Guns said, referring to the prefix for the White House. “Did I tell you the President called me?”

  “You told me. Tell me about Dino.”

  “If I was a wagering man—and I’m always a wagering man—I’m guessing they’ll be using words like innocent bystander. They’ll tell her that Dino was doing his job—stocking Reese’s Pieces in the candy machine when suddenly he was shot by Royall—poor Dino being just another victim in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Zig acted surprised, but he wasn’t. At Dover, he saw it every day, the government choosing to tell a half-truth to ensure that a military secret stayed secret. In this case, what Royall did—finding out about a paying agent who was skimming money, and then the two of them using that info to plan their own super heist—it’d put Operation Bluebook on the front page of every newspaper. Even worse, it would risk exposing the identities of every current and previous soldier who worked undercover for it.

  “The President loves the program. Apparently, he’s a Harry Houdini fan too. He was hoping to protect Bluebook at all costs. That’s why, when the plane crash first happened, they rushed everyone so quickly through Dover. Keep it hush-hush and keep the program intact. The body that they thought was Nola’s just got swept up in that. No one would’ve raised an eyebrow—until, of course, you realized it wasn’t her. And that’s also why he put one of his oldest friends—the Librarian of Congress—in charge of Bluebook to begin with. Unlike our generals, when the Librarian is flying somewhere, no one looks twice at who’s sitting there next to him.”

  “So Rookstool was doing real work in Alaska?”

  “Real work. He was the point man all the so-called ‘students’ reported to. It’s been like that for decades. He was flying back with three of them, since they never like putting them all on the same plane. Apparently, Harry Houdini donated his books to the Library of Congress for a reason. Who knew librarians could be so dangerous?”

  Zig was still silent, sliding each foot into a sock, then into his shoes. Today, the government was hiding soldiers on college campuses, in computer science training programs, so we can track potential hackers and terrorists. Tomorrow, we’d have different problems; we’d hide them somewhere else. But there would always be a need for Harry Houdini’s Blue Book and the covert corps that went with it.

  “Y’know, for a while,” Zig said, “when we were looking for who was behind it all—I was worried it might be you.”

  “Yeah, well, I forgive you,” Master Guns said, forcing a laugh. “President Wallace thought the same.”

  “Then I thought for sure it was Hsu. She was the last person I saw on that day the President came to see the bodies—right before I got smashed in the head and knocked unconscious.”

  Master Guns went silent, both of them replaying that morning in the mortuary, populating it with Dino instead of Colonel Hsu. She was investigating just like they were—and was the only one smart enough to be suspicious of Dino; she even questioned him in her office.

  “So Hsu has heart, huh?” Zig asked.

  “I have to say, I thought she was No heart. But after this? Heart.”

  Zig thought about that. “I hate being wrong.”

  “Frickin’ A.”

  Crumpling up his hospital gown into a small, compact ball, Zig gripped it tight, like he was trying to keep it from expanding.

  “Y’know, Ziggy, there’s just one little detail that still makes no sense to me,” Master Guns said, glancing over at the TV on the wall and pretending to watch, even though it wasn’t on. “When you snuck back into Dover and got on that plane to Alaska, I talked to the pilots. They said that the plane had pretty much taken off, but you threw a holy fit, convincing them to stop right there on the runway.”

  “I told you—”

  “—you realized Nola pulled another fast one and wasn’t in the coffin. I remember. I’ve heard you tell the story three times now. You’re lucky the pilots listened to you. Nola might’ve been dead if they didn’t.”

  Master Guns was still eyeing the blank TV, admiring it.

  “But what I still can’t figure out, Ziggy, is…well… When you got off that plane, you went running straight to the Graveyard,” he said, referring to the old warehouse. “Straight to where Nola and Royall were as they tried to kill each other.” He was still studying the TV. “So answer me this, Ziggy. How’d you know to go there?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “You scrambled off the plane. All of Dover was on lockdown. With all the hell that was breaking loose, even if you had called for help, I get it. There was no time. You h
ad to make a spilt-second decision. But even so, don’t bullshit me, Ziggy. How’d you know Nola and Royall were in that old warehouse?”

  Zig looked up from the hospital gown he was still clutching like a miniature world. But he didn’t say a word.

  “She told you, didn’t she,” Master Guns said. It wasn’t a question. “Nola texted you for help. She reached out and told you she was in that warehouse.”

  Zig studied his friend, knowing that tone in his voice. He seemed pretty confident in his assessment. “You went through that burner phone I was carrying, didn’t you?” Zig asked.

  Now Master Guns was the silent one. “This is my job, Ziggy. And truthfully, I’m not even that surprised she texted you to come running. But what I still can’t figure out is why? Even on her best day, Nola never asks for help, not from anyone. So when I look at a situation like this, I just need to know: Was she simply panicking in a moment of desperation—or did you actually manage to ingratiate yourself enough that she somehow, by some miracle, put a tiny bit of genuine faith in you?”

  Zig went to say something, then decided against it. “I can live with either.”

  Master Guns nodded, finally turning away from the TV.

  Tossing his hospital gown aside, Zig hopped off the bed and headed for the door. Back to the mortuary, back to work.

  “Ziggy, can I say one final thing?”

  “I thought that final thing was the final thing?”

  “About Dino’s body…for the embalming… I understand why you want to work on him. It’s a little weird and Addams Family–ish, but I get it. Closure’s good.” Master Guns took another breath, his voice softer than before. “After that, though, maybe it’s time for a break.”

  “What kind of break?”

  “A break. A real break. Enough with so much death. Every day, you’re around it, surrounded by it. Maybe you… I don’t know…”

  “Are you firing me?”

  “I’m not your boss, Ziggy. I’m your friend.”

  “Then say what you’re saying.”

  Master Guns stood there a moment, shoulders straight, chest out. Unreadable. “Two days ago, when we were trying to figure out this Bluebook stuff, we started wading through all the real details about Harry Houdini’s life.”

  “Is this another magic story?”

  “It’s a death story, your favorite topic. Anyway, during the research, I found out that before Houdini died—and this is true—he gave secret passwords to those closest to him—to his wife, to his brothers, even to those in his little corps: Clifford Eddy, Rose Mackenberg, and Amedeo Vacca. Each got an individual code—a word known only to them. That way, if the person died and there was a séance, Houdini would know if the so-called ghost that the medium said had ‘appeared’ was the real deal or not.”

  “So the ghost would say the magic word to the medium, and then Houdini would know he wasn’t being scammed?”

  “I know. The guy was more obsessed with corpses than you are—but as we kept digging, we also found that Houdini gave one of these passwords to his mom. She was the ghost he wanted to speak to most of all. Apparently, he never got over her death. When she passed… It was such a devastating loss, it tore him apart for the rest of his life,” Master Guns said, glancing over at Zig.

  Now Zig was the one looking up at the blank TV.

  “Here’s what caught my eye, though, Ziggy. Y’know what his mom’s secret password was? After all the death in Houdini’s life, after spending so much time obsessing over it and chasing fake mediums, and going after spiritualists, and spending part of every show proving that every fortune-teller was a sham…y’know what code word he gave to the one woman he wished he could have back more than anyone else? It was a single word. Forgive.”

  Zig turned from the blank TV. “Forgive?”

  “Listen to the man. It’s good advice.”

  “I thought we were chatting about my job. About me taking a break.”

  “We are.”

  “Then make your point,” Zig insisted.

  “You’re not dead.”

  Zig laughed. “Thanks for the sagacious advice.”

  “I’m serious, Ziggy. You’re not underground; there’s no dirt on your face. You’ve spent so many years around these lifeless corpses, thinking they’re the ones you’re helping, but… It’s time for you to come back to life.”

  “I am alive.”

  “Not just alive, Ziggy. It’s time to live again. It’s the one trick Houdini could never pull off. But you can.”

  Zig thought about that.

  “My point is…” Master Guns took another breath through his nose. “Maybe when this is over and you’ve finished working on Dino’s body, maybe you step away from Dover for a bit. Maybe go to a plain old, regular funeral home and just…work on some civilians. Old ladies. Ninety-year-old men whose hearts finally gave way. People who are missed, but who don’t have you up to your eyebrows every day in a full-fledged tragedy.”

  “You know that’s not my—”

  “Or better yet, hit the road. Forget Delaware. Go be a pirate again—travel around—see the country. For the average funeral home, when there’s a hard case, they usually recommend a closed casket. But with your sculpting skills…what you can do for people, for their families…that’s a dying art. Go be a pirate again, and share it. Forgive. Live. It’ll do you good.”

  “My life’s here,” Zig said, though what he was really thinking was a far simpler truth, a truth he wasn’t about to share: What other life do I have?

  Master Guns stared at his friend, then took off his glasses, polished them on his shirt, and slid them back on his face. His eyes never left Zig.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You know I can’t just leave this place,” Zig said.

  “Ziggy, everyone has an arrow in their life. For all these years, you followed that arrow. But maybe it’s time to follow a new one.”

  “You practiced that arrow metaphor, didn’t you? No way did you just make that up on the spot.”

  “Your jokes don’t work on me, Ziggy. Maybe it’s time for a new challenge.”

  “I like working with the troops, with our fallen. I like helping them. I’m not leaving.”

  “You do what you want, Ziggy. But just think about it, okay? That’s all I ask.”

  Zig nodded, like he appreciated the advice. But as he headed for the door, he already knew his answer.

  “I’m not leaving,” Zig called out, turning the corner and stepping into the hospital hallway.

  He meant it.

  91

  Three days later

  I assume someone’s coming to pick you up?” Nurse Angela asked.

  “They’re on their way,” Nola said.

  It was a lie. Hospital rules said that, for liability purposes, Nurse Angela had to roll Nola’s wheelchair down to Discharge and stay by her side until her ride arrived. “I just spoke to them,” Nola explained.

  Nurse Angela nodded, pushing and not really caring.

  Ten minutes later, they were waiting in the hospital lobby, Nola still in the wheelchair, her leg extended in the Frankenstein brace they gave her to keep it immobile after surgery. Behind her, Nurse Angela stood there, staring outside at the few double-parked cars, baby clouds rising from their tailpipes as they waited for their loved ones.

  “Miss Nola, you sure they’re on their way?” Nurse Angela asked.

  “Absolutely. Any minute.”

  Nola liked Nurse Angela, liked the way she called her Miss Nola and always had a chewed pen in her breast pocket. Anxious. Real worry for her patients. But also impatient.

  By Nola’s calculation, it wouldn’t be long before Nurse Angela got antsy and excused herself. Forget hospital rules. Angela still had another eight patients to deal with. Once she was gone, Nola could call a cab and get the hell out of here. Truth was, she could call one right now, but she didn’t want anyone in the hospital knowing her personal details.

  “Miss Nola, if it’s okay with y—
”

  “There she is!” a man’s voice announced.

  Nola turned just as the sliding doors parted ways. Zig walked in, big smile on his face as he headed toward her.

  “Sorry I’m late. Someone’s pinball machine bounced out of a pickup truck and onto Route 1, so traffic on the highway was biblical,” Zig said, shaking the nurse’s hand, holding it extra long to turn on the charm.

  Nurse Angela stared at Zig’s face, at the stitches and his black eyes and bruises. His left hand was in a cast. “You were here a few days ago.”

  “Zig. Some call me Ziggy.”

  Nurse Angela didn’t answer. “You know this person?”

  “Of course I know her. I’m her ride,” Zig said.

  “I’m talking to her,” Nurse Angela shot back, turning to Nola and pulling her own hand from Zig’s grip.

  “Yeah,” Nola said from the wheelchair. “I know him.”

  “You want me t—”

  “He’s harmless,” Nola said. “Plus, I can hit him with these,” she added, raising the metal crutches that were wedged alongside her in the wheelchair.

  Nurse Angela stood there a moment, trying to decide if she believed her. She didn’t, but she didn’t have much choice. “On behalf of Kent General and all the liability insurance that goes with it, you’re officially discharged. Miss Nola, you have a nice afternoon. I’ve got patients to see, like Mr. Robbins, who keeps complaining of the smell, even though he’s the one farting up his room.”

  Zig and Nola watched the nurse disappear up the hallway, neither of them saying a word until she stepped inside an elevator and the doors slammed shut.

  “Why are you here?” Nola asked.

  “You need a ride, right?” Zig dangled his keys. “I own a car.”

  Nola looked up from her wheelchair and saw the grin in Zig’s eyes, the way he was biting the inside of his cheek. Excited. Hopeful.

  “I’ll take a cab,” she said.

  “To Washington, DC? You’re going home, right? You know what a cab will cost from here? At least three hundred, maybe four hundred bucks. You think you can afford that right now? I’m a free ride. Don’t be such a mule.”