Redondo placed a hand over his heart. “Thank you. I’m touched, but I must warn you, this last trick is dangerous. For it to work—for you to survive it—you must possess not only a belief in magic, but an unshakable confidence in yourself and your own abilities. My grand finale is not intended for the weak willed or the faint of heart. So think before you place yourself in harm’s way. Ask yourself… do you believe in magic? Really believe in it? Also, do you have a problem with tight spaces? Are you averse to being run through with flaming swords? Do you fear death? Most important, can you be trusted to keep inviolate the secrets of supernatural, fantastic illusion? If the answer to one of these questions is yes and the answer to several others is no, then you might be the one I need to assist me with this last trick. So! Who’s feeling brave? Any takers?”
A few hands went down. A few others stayed up. The rest settled somewhere in between. The magician zeroed in on an anxious boy seated near the back of the house who dropped his hand, then half-heartedly raised it again. Before he had a chance to withdraw it a second time, the magician called on him.
“You there! In the back with the longish hair… is your hand up or down?”
The boy quivered as every eye in the theater turned to look at him. “It’s… uh… Well, it’s—”
“Can’t decide, eh? Come on, then. We’ll figure it out together.”
The boy froze. “What?” he asked in a tiny voice.
“Good people of the Majestic Theatre, give the boy a little encouragement, will you? Let’s see if we can’t get him up out of his seat.”
A mixture of polite applause from adult chaperones and disappointed groans from children who had actually wanted to be chosen filled the room. The boy stood up and squeezed past the other people in his row, apologizing with every step he took. He walked up the center aisle alone, looking intimidated by the weight of the moment and the grandeur of the venue. He was small and skittish, rail thin with a pasty complexion and dark circles under his eyes. He had messy, shoulder-length black hair and wore a secondhand suit that looked even shabbier once he stood next to the magician. Side by side, the two were polar opposites—the polished and the pale.
“Don’t be shy,” said the magician, motioning for the boy to join him in the spotlight. “Welcome, young man. Tell the audience, what is your name?”
“Grayson, sir. Grayson Manchester.”
The magician offered his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Grayson. Everybody, put your hands together for this fine young man. Together we will perform feats of wonder to dazzle and amaze.”
“This was an act, of course,” Kuriev explained, standing just off the stage. “They played these parts, said these lines, countless times, but nevermore after this night.”
Grayson gave a timid smile as the audience clapped for him. He looked as if he might melt under the houselights. Joey studied him and Redondo for some kind of acknowledgment between the magician and his assistant. A nod. A look. Something. Neither one of them broke character in the slightest. Joey observed in Grayson a perfect commitment to the role of “volunteer.”
“How old are you, Grayson?” asked Redondo.
“Twelve, sir.”
“And have you ever done magic before?”
“No, sir.”
“Never? And still you volunteered to be a part of this?”
“Actually, I didn’t mean to volunteer for—”
“I’m sorry. Ladies and gentlemen… one more round of applause for my brave young assistant!” Grayson gulped as the crowd saluted him once again. The magician patted him on the back. “Not to worry, lad, there’s nothing to it.” He pulled away a large silk drop cloth behind him, unveiling the props for his grand finale. There were swords, chains, a large wooden crate, and burning torches set on stands that had somehow managed to avoid burning through the silk. The audience cheered as Redondo shook out the silk drop cloth, transforming it into a handkerchief small enough to fit neatly inside his breast pocket. “All you have to do is stand inside this box,” he said, opening the door of the crate. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
Grayson eyed the crate cautiously. “What’s going to happen?”
“Something magnificent.” The magician walked around the box, banging a fist against each side. “This may look like an ordinary wooden crate, and in many ways it is. As you can see, there are no escape hatches. No trapdoors.” He stepped inside the crate and stomped on the floor, which held firm. “However, looks can be deceiving. Crafted from a special wood imported from the far-off island of Caloo-Calay, this crate is an ethereal gateway. A bona fide mystic portal. I’m about to transport you to a realm of wonderment and mystery.”
“What are the swords for?” Grayson asked, unenthusiastic about the journey on which he was about to embark.
“Oh, they won’t be a problem. Provided you believe in magic. You do, don’t you?”
Grayson nodded, unsure.
“Good. That’s very important.” Redondo nudged Grayson into the box. “In you go. Hold on to this, why don’t you?” he said, taking off his top hat. “For luck,” he added with a wink. Having entrusted Grayson with his magic hat, Redondo closed the wooden door on him and turned to face the audience. “Now. Let’s make things interesting, shall we? Watch closely as I seal—”
His voice dried up, fading into a hoarse whisper. Redondo stopped and touched two fingers to his Adam’s apple. “Excuse me,” he rasped, reaching for a nearby glass of ice water. Having quenched his thirst, he cleared his throat. “Let’s try that again,” he said, trying to keep the show moving. “Watch as I seal young Grayso—” Once again the magician’s words got stuck in his throat. He tugged at his collar, unable to breathe.
“Is everything all right?” Grayson asked from inside the crate.
Everything was not all right. Redondo gagged and bent over. He punched himself in the sternum, fighting for air. Behind him, a hammer and nails floated across the stage with a mind of their own. As Redondo struggled to cough up whatever it was that was choking him, the tools went to work nailing the crate shut.
The spectacle met with a confused smattering of applause. When the last nail was pounded into place, the hammer fell to the floor with a clunk and Redondo spit out a playing card. It fluttered around him like a butterfly as he stood there hunched over and gasping. Eventually he regained his composure and snatched the card out of the air. Redondo turned it over, and all the color drained from his face. Joey had a pretty good idea what image he was looking at. Redondo cast the card aside, and it slid across the stage, coming to a stop at Joey’s feet. Sure enough, it was the same card Joey had produced the day he’d met Redondo. The calling card of the Invisible Hand. Joey’s eyes widened in alarm. Thinking about Redondo’s reaction to seeing the card the day before made him deeply concerned for the boy inside the box.
Redondo rounded on the crate his assistant was trapped inside, ready for anything. The torches on either side of it erupted with geysers of flame, and the chains sprang to life, wrapping themselves around the crate. There were cheers from audience members who thought it was all part of the show, but a growing number of people began to worry that something was off. Redondo was not paying them any mind. There was no presentation… no showiness to what he was doing. He was focused solely on the crate.
The swords rose up into the air, and flames leaped from the torches to the blades. They circled the crate, building up a fiery barrier. Redondo waved his hands, summoning an unseen force to push the swords back. The audience oohed and aahed. Maybe this trick was fine after all.
Redondo flashed his palms twice. The first time he did it, they were empty. The second time, a large gold skeleton key appeared inside his right hand. He rushed to the oversize padlock that held the chains in place.
“What’s going on out there?” Grayson asked from inside the crate. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing to worry about!” Redondo replied, fitting the key into the keyhole. “Just remain calm. I’ll have you
out of there in a mo—ahh!”
Redondo cried out as the key melted in the lock. He jumped back, shaking his hand violently. Molten gold splattered across the stage. The chains and padlock turned bright red, glowing with heat. Joey and the others gasped. Watching Redondo get the burns that scarred his hands added to the weight of the vision for Joey, making it more real. More visceral. He wanted to run out and help Grayson, but there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t even really there. Joey balled a fist, a terrible feeling of powerlessness churning in his stomach.
“Are you still there?” Grayson pounded on the door of the crate. “It’s getting hot in here. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Redondo clutched his badly burned hand as the swords swooped back down, surrounding the crate. They swirled in the air, spinning fast enough to create a flaming vortex. Within seconds the stage curtain was ablaze and Grayson could be heard screaming. “Help! I’m burning up! Get me out of here!”
People got out of their seats, beginning to realize this was no ordinary trick. The theater was on fire. The boy was in danger and so were they.
Parents gathered up their children and looked for the nearest exit, but Redondo stood firm. He drew Houdini’s wand from his sleeve. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This ends now.” He threw his arm forward, pointing the wand at the crate. “VALEFUEGO!” he shouted. The swords flew back. The fiery tornado dissipated.
But only for a moment.
The swords turned in midair and came down like flaming missiles. They ran through the crate, creating an explosion that blew Redondo off the stage. He landed in the orchestra pit. All around, people were screaming and running for the door. Fire spread across the theater walls, growing out of control. The theater manager, a round man with a bushy black mustache, helped Redondo up off the floor.
“What’s going on? What did you do?” the manager asked.
“No! It wasn’t me.… The Invisible Hand, they—”
“Who? What are you talking about?” The theater manager looked around the burning theater with growing alarm. He grabbed Redondo by the lapels and shook him. “What about the boy?” Redondo couldn’t speak. Behind him, the charred remains of the crate broke apart and fire consumed the stage. “He wasn’t actually in there, was he? Tell me you got him out!”
It was no use talking to Redondo. He was in shock as a dark shadow descended on the theater. Defying the flames, it moved from the back of the house to the front in a steady wave. A sinister laugh echoed through the room.
The theater manager spun around, still holding Redondo tight. “What is that? Who is that? What’s going—”
He was interrupted by a flock of doves pouring out of Redondo’s pockets and sleeves. They engulfed the theater manager, and when they passed, he found himself clutching an empty tuxedo jacket. He spun around, scanning the theater as terrified people fled the flames. Redondo was gone. The sweeping shadow kept coming. It reached the stage, and an icy chill ran through Joey’s body. He shivered, and the vision of the theater shook with him. When he blinked his eyes, the vision was gone. They were back in Kuriev’s cabin.
“What happened to the theater?” asked Shazad. “Where did it go?”
“Something broke the connection,” Kuriev said, tapping the crystal ball as the light inside it faded down to nothing.
Joey shifted uncomfortably, feeling self-conscious about the pang of fear that had needled his gut as the shadow closed in. Was it me? he wondered. Did I break it? Fortunately, he was the only person asking that question. Everyone else was far more concerned with what they had just seen.
“He lost him,” Leanora said. “Even with the wand, he couldn’t save him. And he ran. Rather than stay and fight, he ran!”
Joey was still grappling with the truth about Grayson Manchester’s fiery death when he felt a cool breeze on his neck. He turned toward the door, which was wide open. “Uh, Mr. Kuriev? Didn’t you lock the door? With, like… a bunch of locks?”
Everyone turned to look at the door, which was swinging loosely on its hinge. Before Kuriev could say anything, a man stepped forward out of the shadows and slammed the door shut from the inside. He was wearing a top hat and a scarf to hide his face. His eyes glowed with a creepy green light. “What are you watching?” he asked. “Anything good?”
14 Hat Trick
“Who the devil?” Kuriev said, a baffled expression on his face.
The man in the top hat and scarf took a bow. “Good evening, sir. I do hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not again,” Joey said. A skeevy chill tingled his neck as if a spider were crawling up his back. “That’s him.”
“Him who?” Shazad asked.
“Him! The—the guy!” Joey sputtered. “The Invisible Hand guy!”
“Is that a crystal ball?” asked the man in the top hat and scarf. “I wouldn’t mind having one of those.”
Kuriev snatched the crystal ball out of the air and held it close to his chest. “Go,” he told Joey and the others. “Out the back door, now.” His voice was steady, but the sense of urgency was unmistakable. It was an order, and Joey didn’t need to be told twice. He was already backing away in the other direction, but Leanora and Shazad lingered, fixated on the intruder.
“Come on!” Joey shouted, reaching out his hand and imploring them to move. The man in the top hat and scarf laughed as Kuriev fumbled with the crystal ball, putting it back into its box.
“Very kind of you to wrap that up for me,” the man in the top hat and scarf told Kuriev. “I didn’t come here expecting such generosity, but I’ll gladly take that off your hands for you.” He looked around the room. “Along with anything else you’ve got lying around here—and them, of course,” he added, gesturing to Joey, Leanora, and Shazad. “Can’t forget them, can we?”
Now Leanora and Shazad inched away from the front door, following Joey’s example. Kuriev went to the fireplace and took a tiny painted wooden box off the mantel. “Let us make a deal. Leave them. You take Rasputin’s Murder Box instead.”
Murder box? Joey wondered. That sounds promising.
Kuriev opened the box, and hundreds of crows flew out, filling the room. It wasn’t what Joey had expected, but he understood. A flock of crows was called a murder. Kuriev’s “murder box” was a clever little piece of magic, and Joey was grateful he had it. The old man grabbed Leanora’s wrist and pulled her toward the back door. Joey and Shazad dashed after them with the crows running interference. The birds provided a welcome diversion, flapping, cawing, and pecking as they swirled around the man in the top hat and scarf. Kuriev wrenched open the door and ushered the children outside. On his way out Joey saw the man with the glowing eyes remove his top hat and wave it like a net. In a single, fluid motion, he captured all the crows inside the hat and returned it to the top of his head with an artful flip. A second later he was striding toward the back door.
“Out you go,” Kuriev said, shoving Leanora out the door last. She was reluctant to go once she realized he was not coming with them.
“What about you?” Leanora asked.
“Tell your grandmother I said hello.” Kuriev grimaced. “And quite possibly… goodbye.”
He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him. Leanora pounded the grainy wood with her fist. “No! What are you doing?”
“He’s buying us time,” Shazad said. “Will your doorknob work on this door?”
Leanora clutched at her bag, feeling for the doorknob inside. She nodded. “Yes, but—we need to get this off first,” she said, rattling the back-door handle.
“Does it matter how we do that? Can we break it off?” Joey asked. He scanned the area around the house, looking for a heavy stone or a piece of firewood they could use.
“Forget this door,” Shazad said, changing his mind. “We need to get out of here. The woodshed in the forest—we’ll go back the way we came.”
“What about him?” Leanora said, staring at the locked cabin door, behind which Kuriev surely faced mortal peril.
The door jumped inside its frame. Kuriev had just been thrown up against the other side. Everyone jerked back a few feet.
“There’s nothing we can do for him. We have to go!”
“We can’t just leave him!” Leanora protested.
“Leanora, please,” Joey said, trying to get through to her. “Shazad’s right. Kuriev is giving us a chance. We have to use it. You have to show us how to get back. We need you.”
Leanora wiped away tears and slid her goggles over her eyes. Rather than lead the way to the shed, she stood there motionless.
“What’s the matter?” Joey asked. “Don’t you see him?”
“I see twelve of him,” Leanora said. Joey instantly understood the problem. Leanora’s magic lenses showed her a full week’s worth of time at once. Kuriev had, of course, been outside of his cabin on numerous occasions over the last seven days, which cluttered the area around the house with visions of him and made the way forward less obvious.
“Pick one of them!” Shazad urged.
“We came out of the forest over there, didn’t we?” Joey asked, trying to be helpful.
Leanora looked where Joey was pointing, hopefully tracking the image of an old man with his arms full of firewood. “Follow me,” she said, her voice cracking with guilt and grief. She took off into the woods, and the two boys followed.
Whether it was due to Kuriev putting up more of a fight than anyone had expected out of him, or some kind of special magic locks he had placed on the back door, they were already deep in the forest by the time the man in the top hat and scarf got out of the house. Joey, Leanora, and Shazad were halfway down the trail when they heard the door fly off its hinges with a bang. Looking back through leaves and branches, Joey saw the man in the top hat and scarf standing in the doorway. He didn’t see Kuriev.
“He’s coming,” Joey said. He urged the group on in a hoarse whisper. “Keep going!”
Order of the Majestic Page 17
