by Sue Duff
“Mara, remind me to exchange Patrick’s toothpaste with something very nasty tasting.”
Milo brandished the cleaver at him. “I’m fixing you a meal. You will not leave the table until it’s consumed.”
“What about bat guano?” Mara suggested.
“Wrong color.” Ian plopped down at the table across from Patrick. “I’m thinking drywall paste.”
“You’re no good to me or the show if you don’t take care of yourself,” Patrick said. “Maybe you’re fighting a bug or something.”
“Ian can’t get sick,” Tara said but caught herself and shot a regretful glance at Milo.
“What do you mean he can’t?” Patrick asked.
“Nothing,” Milo grunted. “It’s not that.”
Patrick postured as if about to ask further, but Tara shook her head at him and he grew quiet. The girls flanked Ian and settled into the nearby chairs. “You’re depleting energy,” Mara said. “It takes—”
“—longer to regenerate after your shows,” Tara finished.
“It’s not my diet,” he sulked. “I’m just tired.”
Milo and the girls exchanged glances that gave Ian pause.
Buzzz. Patrick jumped out of his seat and checked the security camera. He pressed the button on the wall console to open the front gate. “There she is.”
“Who?” Milo said.
“An appointment,” Patrick said on the way out of the room.
“You three have assignments due today. I’ve yet to see them,” Milo announced. Tara surrendered the flash drive, and he gave her a wink.
“I just have to forward it to you,” Mara said. She took off in the direction of the office.
Milo stared at Ian. He sprang to his feet. “Gotta go, my interview’s here.” He sprinted out of the room.
“What interview? Patrick!” Milo roared. His cleaver dropped in a clatter on the floor.
Ian reached the massive door as Patrick’s hand wrapped around the iron handle. He grimaced. “I may have skipped a few corners on this one,” Patrick said.
Ian paused. “You didn’t check this out?”
“I told you if he moved in he’d become too comfortable and bend the rules.” Milo stood in the archway with a look that bore holes through Patrick. “What’s the number-one rule?”
“No interviews in person unless you approve ahead of time, but—” Patrick said.
“No buts, no exceptions. Do I have to tattoo it on your forehead?” Milo turned a disgruntled eye on Ian.
Ian shrugged. “He said it’s for a friend.”
“My old professor called. Lionel’s with the Journalism department and asked if one of his students could do an article on Ian for their campus newsfeed,” Patrick said. “I took some precautions.”
“There’s nothing cautious about giving her directions to the house,” Milo snapped.
“It’s Fort Knox around here,” Patrick said. “Anyone who would waste the gas to drive out here can’t get past the compound wall.”
The creases in Milo’s face deepened, his jaw squared. “Why didn’t you use the auditorium?”
“An interview from home will give Ian a personal touch. She had instructions to come alone, surrender her cell phone at the door, and no photos,” Patrick said. “Free publicity with the college crowd was too good to pass up. Besides, he needs practice with girls.”
“No I don’t.”
“Trust me. You do.”
Ian raised his hands. “Milo, I can handle this.” The old caretaker left with a rumbling growl on his way to the kitchen—not a warning but a temporary reprieve, like the eye of a hurricane. Patrick couldn’t afford to get on Milo’s bad side. “You need to be careful, Patrick.”
A rap on the door. Patrick pressed his hands together with a mischievous grin and bowed. “See if I chose well, my son.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” Ian said. The door swung wide, and he locked eyes with the reporter’s icy blues. Ian froze. Silence, the socially disturbing kind of silence, hovered.
“When you greet someone it typically involves speech,” Patrick whispered from behind the door.
Ian stared. She wasn’t like any reporter he’d ever met.
“Say something, for heaven’s sake,” Patrick coaxed.
A greeting lodged in Ian’s throat.
“Remember to breathe,” Patrick said.
Ian couldn’t peel himself from eyes the color of Caribbean waters.
“I bet you a hundred bucks she’s a blue-eyed blonde, I don’t even have to look.” Patrick poked him.
Ian waved him off.
Patrick stepped out from behind the door. “I intend to collect,” he muttered.
{6}
“Rayne Bevan? It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Patrick Langtree, Ian’s manager.”
At the mention of her name Ian took a step back, and his hand fell to his side. He peered at the bandage on her forehead.
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Mr. Langtree. I appreciate the rare opportunity,” she said as Patrick guided her into the house.
“I’ll take your cell phone,” Patrick said.
“I didn’t bring it.” She opened her purse and tilted it toward him. “You’re welcome to search me.”
Patrick smiled. “I’m sure that’s not necessary. I trust Lionel, and he obviously trusts you.”
Ian caught the jump in her heartbeat. “I’m Ian Black,” he mumbled while closing the door. “Sorry about the long drive.” He stood still with his hand on the door handle. How well did Patrick know his former professor?
“Ian, why don’t I get us started,” Patrick said.
“I’ve got this,” Ian said a little too gruff. “Find the girls and see about some refreshments.”
Patrick didn’t budge. “You want the girls?”
“Absolutely,” Ian said. He led the way into a large room. “We’ll meet in here.” She followed a few paces behind him.
Flames danced in the stone fireplace and it spit at them in greeting. Warmth filled the massive room but failed to penetrate Ian’s tight fists. Curiosity wrestled with his instinct to turn her around and show her the door.
“Take a seat. We’ll start when the girls get here.” Ian gestured to the sofa, placing her back to the foyer.
He plopped down in a low-backed, overstuffed chair and threw his leg over the side. Rayne sank deep into the plush couch. She rubbed her hands together and glanced about the room. Her attempts to appear relaxed couldn’t mask the bulging pulse at her neck. The muted, low roar of distant surf made it difficult to hear her heartbeat.
“Mr. Black …”
“Ian.”
“Rayne,” she offered. “I didn’t expect to find so many trees.”
“The estate is surrounded by national park.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Almost ten years.” Ian didn’t break his steady gaze on her. “The property has been in my … family, for many decades.”
Chimes from a grandfather clock rang out and joined the drumming at his temples. Rayne grabbed a notepad and portable tape recorder from her satchel. He noticed a tremor in her hand.
Convinced this was the same makeup-caked face from the alley, Ian brought his leg around to the floor and leaned forward. “What year are you?” he asked.
His sudden relaxation caught her off guard and she jerked. “Senior, about to graduate.”
“This exclusive will look good on a resume.” He gave her a grin that wasn’t quite a smirk.
Rayne tossed him a faint smile.
“I haven’t seen one of these in years.” He picked up the tape recorder and studied it. “Do you intend to record the entire interview?” he said.
“Is that a problem?”
Ian didn’t respond and held it for a moment longer, then set it down on the coffee table. “I’ll let Patrick decide.”
She picked it up. “Does Patrick make all of your decisions for you?”
He retrea
ted deep into the chair. “Only in business matters.” His core ignited at the same time a gust of wind rattled the towering windows. Ian glanced down and pressed his fist against his chest until the lingering heat subsided. When he lifted his face, Rayne was watching him with a keen interest.
She averted her eyes. “Your illusions must be physically demanding. Do you work out regularly?”
“Has the interview started?” he asked. “Or is your question … personal?”
Bright-pink blotches smeared her complexion, and her cheeks burned crimson. She shifted in her seat and rubbed her hands on her slacks. She bolted to her feet when Patrick came in carrying refreshments on a large silver platter. The girls brought up the rear.
The twins flanked Ian on either side of the chair by settling down on the wide, rolling arms in unison. They leaned in. The protective gesture made Ian think of bookends. “Girls, this is Rayne Bevan,” he said.
They paused and stared at her.
Patrick played host, serving the food and beverages. He handed Rayne a steaming cup.
She gripped the saucer. A subtle rattle magnified her tremor. Rayne studied the girls from behind the steam. “I know you’re Mara and Tara, but I don’t know which is which.”
Ian gestured, “Mara,” and then, “Tara,” on either side of him but kept his attention on Rayne. The girls remained silent.
“You’re from where?”
“Madagascar,” Ian said.
Milo’s mint tea was just what he needed. Ian filled his lungs with the calming scent then released his breath in a steady stream. The winds died down and the windows fell silent.
“Patrick, Ian said that you would decide if I could record the interview,” Rayne said.
“As long as you agree to turn it off at my discretion,” Patrick said, settling into his business persona.
“I’m a huge fan. Your show is amazing. I’ve seen at least three different performances over the past couple of years, and each one is different. I can’t imagine the planning and preparation that it takes.” Rayne set her cup down. “You must have to anticipate every detail.”
“The bigger the illusion, the more prep it takes,” Ian said.
“Aren’t you afraid others will discover your secrets?” she asked.
“I make sure security is tight,” Patrick said.
“You must be good at hiding things.” She picked up the recorder and held it toward him. She took a deep breath. “Are you aware that over the past few months, civilian heroics have increased in the area surrounding your auditorium?”
Ian clenched his jaw along with his fists.
Patrick’s tea splashed on his pant leg and he grimaced. “I thought this interview was about Ian and the show.”
“I’m trying to find the Good Samaritan who’s been helping,” she said.
“Good Samaritan?” Tara grinned. Mara snickered.
Ian cleared his throat and the girls fell mute. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Some of the victims claim the Good Samaritan uses magic.”
“And you thought of Ian?” Patrick said.
Rayne pulled an overstuffed folder out of her satchel. “I’ve been gathering evidence from police records and other reporters covering similar stories.” She pushed the folder across the table. In spite of its bulk, it slid to within easy reach.
Ian settled back in the chair. No one reached for it.
“When I talked to them, I found a common link,” Rayne said. “At one time or another, they had all gone to your show.”
“What makes you think I would have the time or opportunity to help strangers?” Ian said.
Patrick placed his cup on the coffee table. “He’s exhausted after each show and usually falls asleep on the way home.”
A breath caught in Ian’s throat. He fought to remain still in the chair.
A relaxed smile appeared on Rayne’s face. “I didn’t say the rescues were after your performances.”
Ian? The girls channeled. Mara’s hand disappeared inside her jacket.
Patience, he responded.
“It’s probably just a magician wannabe who frequents Ian’s show,” Patrick said. He came forward and sat on the edge of the coffee table. It placed him between Ian and Rayne.
Nice job of misdirection, Ian kept to himself, reminded of how quick Patrick could spin details. A sudden heat beneath his left breast cut his musings short. He glanced over Rayne’s shoulder.
On the circular table in the foyer, a rolled-up parchment, tied in the middle with twine, twirled on one end above the silver platter.
With Rayne sitting across from him, he couldn’t shyft it into his hand. He needed to retrieve it, and soon. The warmth grew unbearable the longer he ignored the message. The girls squirmed.
Through the discomfort, he forced his voice to sound steady and even. “Rayne.” He rose from his chair with the twins following suit on either side. “I’m afraid your trip out here has wasted everyone’s time.”
Patrick threw Ian a confused look that blossomed into alarm when he, too, saw the spinning message.
Rayne sprang to her feet and stepped around the table with the clear intent to intercept Ian. Patrick made a sound much like a strangled cat. It distracted her long enough for the twins to position themselves to block her path and her view.
Ian reached the foyer table and snatched the parchment out of midair. Once it was in his hand, the blistering pain lifted from his chest. He unrolled it and read the note.
“Let me help you gather your things,” Patrick said. “It appears that this interview is over.” He ushered her into the foyer. Mara hurried toward the door and opened it. Patrick handed Rayne the tape recorder and overstuffed file. “Really, Ms. Bevan, if you had been up front about your intentions, we could have made inquiries on your behalf in the magic community, questioned our fans in the police department.”
Ian cringed at the obvious slight.
Rayne stopped in front of Ian and flashed him a defiant look. “There’s something else. Something the articles don’t mention but several of the witnesses have reported. It’s the reason I’m pursuing this.”
He let the scroll spring back. Her petulance grated on his nerves. “And what would that be?” he said.
“The green glow.”
Ian’s confidence crumbled. From over her shoulder, the girls’ look of alarm fueled his pulse. He held up the message scroll. It burst into flame and disappeared. “I hate junk lying around, don’t you?”
Her startle morphed into a vengeful glare. She spun toward the door. It put Patrick in her direct path. Caught in mid-chuckle, his face fell. “Good day, Ms. Bevan,” he said as she stalked past him and out the door. Mara slammed it shut.
Patrick turned on Ian. “What the hell was that about?”
“She was the alley victim from last night,” Ian said.
“What?” Patrick raked his fingers through his hair. “Damage control may be in order.”
“Ya think?” Mara asked.
“At least she’s okay,” Tara piped in.
“I knew something about that attack wasn’t right,” Ian said.
“Ian, I warned you someone might be paying attention.”
“She wouldn’t have gotten this close if it wasn’t for you,” Ian shot back. “Fix this, Patrick. Find out everything you can about her. I think we’ve crossed paths before.”
Patrick touched the silver platter. “What’s with the twirling mail?”
“None of your business,” Mara snapped.
“It’s special delivery,” Tara said.
“I have to talk with the girls, Patrick.” Ian grabbed them by their shoulders and pulled them closer.
“No! Ian, don’t shut me out.” Patrick reached for them.
Ian shyfted with the girls before Patrick could be caught in the corona. The three of them reappeared directly below in the basement gym.
“Ian!” Patrick’s muffled shout came from overhead.
“The mess
age.” Tara pressed her hand against his chest. “Your pain.”
“The Primary doesn’t like to be ignored,” Mara said. “He’s broken the agreement and called a meeting, hasn’t he?”
Ian turned away with a shrug. “He isn’t happy about something.”
Mara bopped him on the back of his head. “Wake up. This is serious.”
{7}
Rayne parked her car behind a thick clump of redwoods and sat partially hidden by a skirt of loveseat-sized ferns. She slouched at an uncomfortable angle and stared at the main gate through the branches, convinced they were laughing at her on the other side of the wall. It had been more than an hour since she stormed out and drove away. The tension that followed her out the door played havoc with her headache. Popping a few Tylenol hadn’t eased the throbbing. It made for a restless vigil.
She hadn’t noticed the odd statues at the perimeter wall when she first arrived for the interview. They loomed high above where she sat brooding in her car. Erected on each of the pedestals that connected the brick wall every few feet, they weren’t typical gargoyles or winged creatures from Gothic architecture. These were patterned after actual animals. A whale, ape, elk, and tiger perched on this side of the compound wall. Their expression and stance were fierce and threatening, as if their purpose was to keep everyone else out.
If she hadn’t been so committed to finding the truth, she might have heeded their warning.
A car engine revved nearby, and she came alive. A motor hummed, and the gate’s thick wooden doors swung wide. A bright-red Jeep left with Ian behind the wheel.
The Jeep disappeared around a thicket of trees. She pulled out onto the dirt road, not much wider than a footpath, and followed at what she hoped was a safe distance.
Dusk rolled in with the clouds. The darkening sky left Rayne with a foreboding that seeped into her car. She didn’t know why she wasn’t leaving—stubbornness or an unwilling-ness to back down from a fight.
A tremendous crack split the evening calm.
Up ahead, the Jeep skidded to a halt as a small tree the width of a telephone pole fell across the path. It bounced then came to rest. The Jeep’s headlights captured a spreading cloud of dead leaves, moss, and pine needles.
Ian got out and examined it. His attention turned to the nearby shadows at the base of the tree.
