“Nobody,” he barked.
She twisted her body in her seat to look at him. “Nobody? How could it bloody be nobody?”
Peter leaned forward in his seat, rested his elbows on his knees, and fiddled with his shirt cuffs. “Nobody important⎯it’s none of your business.”
Larissa’s smile crumbled at the harshness in his voice. “Something right bad must be bothering you,” she said.
The roar of the crowd slackened and the emcee announced, “Two of our finest— gentlemen from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police department—will assist to verify that the chains, leg irons, and handcuffs are real.”
“You’re right, of course, luv,” she said. “It’s not my business.”
CHAPTER 5
Tuesday, August 9, 12:03 a.m
He had chosen the midnight hour not only for promotional ambiance, but because the notorious desert winds would be still, the temperature in the agreeable eighties. He laid down on his back, steel roller coaster tracks parallel to the sides of his body, and raised his arms above his head. On this curve of the track, his feet lay higher than his head. He’d practiced for this position so many times that he no longer had concern for the tingles that felt like his blood ran reversed through his veins.
Under the supervision of his technical director, two Metro cops cuffed his left hand to the track, using the Peerless Double Locks he favored. He pushed the whisper of the crowd and the distant hum of Las Vegas Strip traffic and the buzz generated by powerful electric lights to the farthest edge of his mind.
They shackled his left foot to the track. He knew that from the viewpoint of the audience and the television cameras, he looked great. Yet under the spandex jumpsuit sweat seemed to burn his body, a sensation he’d never before experienced. Under the specially-designed mask, he frowned. The lights glared brighter than usual, but he prided himself on being a professional; he would allow nothing to disturb him.
The men didn’t speak as they shackled his right hand and his right ankle to the track. The familiar Peerless cuffs—neither too tight nor too loose—felt like old friends protecting his life, yet ready to obey their greater purpose.
The emcee’s voice lowered behind the microphone. “Now chains, nineteen pounds of extra weight, will secure Maxwell to the tracks.”
He felt the weight of chain across his chest. He heard the click of the chain’s padlock. There was no give, as he knew there wouldn’t be.
“Tonight, all America wonders⎯will Maxwell, the greatest magician in the world—be able to unlock all these restraints and escape the track before the speeding roller coaster reaches him?”
The two cops carried the second chain to his feet. Their shadow crossed his eyes, momentarily blocking the light from the strobes. Far away…the low murmur of the crowd…not part of his conscious mind. A tremble convulsed his body, and the spandex jumpsuit felt painfully tight at his crotch.
“And it’s off!”
The crowd roared like a great monster. The coaster car with its six pre-selected passengers would take fifty-five seconds to climb the first peak, and then it would plunge downward toward him at 57.9 miles an hour.
He glanced at the pulsing amber pinpoint of light set up to signal to him the timing information. He would free himself before the pulse turned red—and wait. Red pulse signaled the exact moment he would roll off the track to the safety platform, leaving a pre-calculated number of seconds before the coaster passed the place on the track where he’d been shackled. In near-death as in life, timing was everything.
He exhaled the huge lungful of air he’d taken in to expand his chest when the chains were secured—the same trick a horse does when he feels the first weight of the saddle on his back and knows that next comes the tightening cinch around his belly. With that little extra room, he wriggled the chains loose enough to move his upper body.
With dexterous fingers he tugged open the gaffed handcuff on his left hand. Though the ratchets had been filed, they felt stiff, the sound they made sliding apart more harsh than it had been in practice. The ratchet of his right wrist handcuff felt tighter, too. He had to pull harder to release it.
When the handcuff fell open, he transferred his gaze back to his left hand, fingers searching for the handcuff there. But he had freed that one already.
He shook his head, found the padlock for the chains and freed his upper body. When he sat up, he faced uphill in the direction the coaster would come, always aware of the amber pulse.
Screaming fans cheered.
He reached forward for the padlock on his ankle chains. He’d done this hundreds of times before; he knew the drill in his sleep. The stark metal clatter of the padlock and chains as they fell away from his legs sounded like machine gun fire.
When he reached for his left foot the coaster was already in the tunnel. It would exit the tunnel 595.42 feet from him. He pulled the release pin, and discovered a real hinge where the trick release pin should be. He stared at his left ankle, at the manacle. In his peripheral vision he sensed the racing car.
His body, overwhelmed by terror, lost all physical control.
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, August 9, 12:04 a.m.
“Maxwell⎯no⎯!” The words flew from her mouth in a powerless scream.
Peter watched his mother’s hand clamp over his, her nails dig into his flesh. His brows tightened, but he didn’t pull away. Everything moved in slow motion—a hazy, distorted sort of tai chi movement—and he felt a widening orbit between himself and the magician who only moments ago had shackled himself to the roller coaster track.
Larissa clutched his arm, sobbing. Her disarrayed blond hair and streaked make-up made her look like a horror movie doll left outside in an acid rain.
The focus of the crowd, on its feet in anticipation of the moment of brutal collision, disintegrated into shouts and crying as the audience tried to grasp the impact of what they had witnessed. In a mad scramble to escape the horror, people fumbled to gather cameras and purses and seat cushions. Twister, Earthquake, Krakatoa. Peter watched, mindlessly naming Hollywood catastrophe movies.
The crash impact with the body of the magician threw the roller coaster car off its track. It tumbled forty-five feet to the pavement and shattered into a wreckage of twisted wood and metal and the bodies of its six passengers. Protective ratcheted seat bars and shoulder harnesses hadn’t saved them.
The body of the world’s most famous magician—his father—severed in two places, had exploded in a shower of blood and red spandex and rhinestones. Blood even splattered into the VIP stands, where Peter and his mother stood, paralyzed with shock, holding each other.
“Good God,” Larissa moaned. She buried her face in his shoulder. “What have I done? ... Get me out of here.”
Peter didn’t speak as he led his mother down the VIP grandstand steps. The beast that lurked in the shadow of every dangerous magic performance had struck. No turning back. It occurred to him that he should feel something, some sadness or remorse for the death of his famous father. Was this what shock was like? This floating of movement, this clarity of thinking?
When Larissa stumbled and fell against him, he nearly lost his footing. On the pavement at the foot of the grandstand they paused, leaning against each other for support. Pandemonium reigned in the pavilion, the light from the strobes harshly illuminating the macabre scene. He slid his arm around his mother’s waist to secure her as people shoved their way past.
“We’re going home,” he whispered. “Everything will be okay.” The muscles of his mother’s arms tightened under his hand.
“O-Oh God... where is he?” Larissa tilted back her head and raised her face to the spot where Maxwell had been secured to the tracks.
His answer was grim. “He’s...gone.”
“Should we...?”
“Should we what? I don’t see that there’s anything we can do,” he said. “Paramedics will take care of it.” With a hand gentled against his mother’s cheek, he turned her face away
from the gruesome sight. “Let’s go home now,” he whispered, guiding her in the direction of the casino and valet parking.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday, August 9, 12:10 a.m.
Carter Cunningham clutched his girl friend’s shoulders as he pushed his way through the crowd descending the stairs on the other side of the VIP grandstand. A young up-and-coming magician, Carter’s soft features were sharpened by caramel-colored hair that he wore cut long over the ears and slicked back in a retro ‘50s ducktail. Carter took every opportunity to observe the best of his profession at work. While he was no friend to Maxwell Beacham-Jones, he admired the great illusionist’s spectacular accomplishments. Always something to be learned from studying the presentation, the attitude, the movements of a great, even if you knew too much about him to like him.
“There was no reason he couldn’t make this escape work,” he said to his girlfriend, Andrea Vilari. The expression on Andrea’s full, heart-shaped face reflected the disorientation of the crowd around them. He clasped her hand tightly so they wouldn’t get separated in the confusion. “He’s done these escapes a million times. His escape last year from the water torture cell—the one he combined with a vanish—was brilliant. Being on a roller coaster track is just a change of venue.”
Andrea wasn’t listening. She’d pulled a blue bandana from her shoulder bag and was alternately crying into it, blowing her nose, and brushing imaginary blood off her white linen dress. She looked down at the ground. “My hairbrush—where’s my hairbrush? Did it fall out of my purse?”
“I can’t figure out what went wrong,” Carter said, not hearing her. “He’s a pro. There’s no reason for this.”
To avoid the pushing crowd heading in the direction of the casino, he pulled an unresisting Andrea toward the front of the stage, facing the curving tracks. Her strappy, white sandal caught, she tripped over a jumble of electrical cables, and he grabbed her arm to steady her. He looked upward to the spot where the collision of car and body had taken place.
The emcee had returned to the stage. Speaking through his microphone, he couldn’t hide the shake in his voice as he tried to calm the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s no need to hurry.” He kept his voice slow and paced. “Please proceed in an orderly manner to the exits. The Dunes Park is providing one free drink at any bar in the casino to everyone in attendance tonight. All you have to do is show your event ticket stub. On behalf of the Dunes Park, we are doing everything possible to respond to this terrible tragedy. You can help by staying calm and moving aside to let police and paramedics through.”
“Carter, let’s go,” Andrea pleaded, wiping her eyes. “Let’s have a drink and wait out the hoard at valet pick-up.”
Reluctant to hurry and determined to memorize as much detail as possible, Carter’s eyes swept the area around him. “I just want to see if I can tell what happened.” The need to analyze the stunt gone wrong and learn from it overrode any emotional response.
“They’re not going to let you near anything important. Come on, let’s go…”
“God, look at the bodies.” The magnitude of the destruction finally began to hit him. Never before had he seen such carnage. His nostrils caught an odor on the warm night air that was new to him, a faint metallic smell mixed with human sweat and smoke.
Andrea turned her head away and wailed, “Noooo, I don’t want to look at bodies. Let’s go.”
They shoved their way back to the closest exit into the casino. Andrea kept her eyes on the ground so that she wouldn’t trip again, and lurched when she saw a patch of bright red against the hard gray of cement. Maxwell’s scarf, trampled and torn.
“Oh, Carter,” she moaned.
Inside the door he stopped suddenly and she bumped into his back.
“Look who’s here,” he said. His voice carried a cold monotone of unpleasant recognition.
She turned her head to where he stared. “That’s Maxwell’s ex-wife, isn’t it?” she asked.
“And Peter.”
“Have you made up with Peter?”
“No.”
“Well, they’ve seen us. Under the circumstances, you ought to say something, at least.”
Carter didn’t move. At his side Andrea stilled, waiting for him to decide. He watched Peter, a few yards away, turn his back and make a movement that looked like he wanted to shove his mother in the opposite direction. Larissa looked confused. She stared at him and opened her mouth in a reactive grin.
“Carter, luv,” she said, unaware of the scowl on Peter’s face.
Andrea nudged him, and he said, “Larissa. I’m so sorry about Maxwell. This is horrible. I don’t know what to say.”
“What do you care?” interrupted Peter, his chin high with contempt.
Carter’s blue eyes darkened. “Peter, don’t be an ass,” he said. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
“Peter, please,” Larissa said, her British accent thickened.
“No, mother, let me tell you about Carter Cunningham. He’s not my friend and he’s not your friend.” Contempt oozed like volcanic magma from Peter’s voice. “He doesn’t care about anybody but himself and his career.”
Carter turned to Andrea. “We’d better go, before Peter throws a tantrum, attracts security, and gets us all kicked out.”
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday, August 9, 12:15 a.m.
The jangle of her cell phone didn’t surprise Cheri Raymer. She took the call and said to Tom, “It’s dispatch. I have to report down there.” She tilted her head in the direction of the scene of the roller coaster carnage and swept a hand through her long brown hair.
“Well, when you get the call, you gotta go.”
The distress she saw on her son’s narrow face slammed at her soul. The last thing she wanted to do was leave Tom after he’d witnessed a bloody disaster.
“Will you be all right?” As soon as they came out of her mouth, the words sounded stupid.
He nodded, fidgeting with his shirttails.
“I can wait a minute to go.” Priority one, damage control. “Why don’t I take you to the coffee shop? Have a Coke or some soup. I’ll call you as soon as I know how long I’ll be.” Her eyes fell from his face to his empty shirt pocket. “Where’s your cell phone?”
His voice reflected annoyance. “Right here, Mom. I’ll be fine. I don’t need to wait for you. I got my driver’s license. I can drive myself home.”
Her heart leaped in alarm. Her only child in Vegas traffic behind the wheel of a vehicle—she shuddered. She was still recovering from her discovery that for the past year—while she’d been working—he’d been driving her car illegally, with only a learner’s permit. You should be relieved that he hasn’t caused an accident, she said to herself. Yet.
She swallowed—paused to think. Tom’s hazel eyes darted everywhere, a sure sign he was shaken. Nobody should drive when they were emotionally challenged. It was almost as bad as driving drunk.
Her voice softened. “Tom, you know I have to work.” It was the lame phrase she always used to justify leaving him, being away from him. She worked long, erratic hours that kept her from spending the time with him a normal single mom would. “Please wait for me.”
He shrugged and the corners of his mouth edged upward. “Guess you can’t get me an introduction to Maxwell now, but can I come to the morgue later and see the body?”
I’ve raised a true son of a police detective, Cheri thought. She summoned a stern tone. “Tom, that’s gross. People died tonight, and I have a job to do. Now, go to the coffee shop and wait for me there.”
Loud voices behind them caught their attention. He whispered, “Isn’t that Larissa Beacham-Jones?”
She turned to follow her son’s stare. There was the woman she hadn’t seen or talked to in fourteen—no, fifteen—years. Larissa dazzled in a dark purple, expensively-cut designer pantsuit, the jacket lapels edged in rhinestones. Long, blond hair circled the top of her head in an elegant swirl. One long loose strand curved do
wn the side of her face, the end resting in a little coil on her shoulder. Still a stunner, Cheri thought. All the conditioners in the world would never make my hair swirl like that.
“And that’s Peter, her son,” she said. The man who held Larissa’s arm protectively resembled a younger version of Maxwell himself. Cheri thought, in a few years Tom might look a lot like Larissa’s son, startling herself.
Larissa and Peter were with a handsome young couple Cheri didn’t recognize. The man’s tall, lean body contrasted with that of the voluptuous young woman, all big chestnut hair and white linen, a bewildered expression on her face.
“He doesn’t care about anybody but himself and his career,” she heard Peter hiss. The young man muttered something she couldn’t hear, his arm tightened around the woman’s shoulder, and he turned her away.
Larissa’s voice urging, “Peter, luv, take me home.”
Then their backs were to them, and a pang of disappointment ran through Cheri’s mind. She didn’t think Larissa had seen her, or if she had, she hadn’t recognized her. Should she have stepped in and said something? A few words of acknowledgement and condolence? But after so long what could she say, especially in these circumstances? Larissa was understandably upset by Maxwell’s sudden death. Not the right time for a loving reunion.
“What d’ you suppose that was all about?” Tom asked.
“Haven’t a clue.”
“High drama, for sure.” He stared at Larissa as she disappeared into the crowd.
“None of our business,” Cheri said. “You know where the coffee shop is.”
He shrugged, making his shirt tighten across his shoulders. “It’s a school night.” He was smart. He knew she’d cave at that logic. “I can drive home.”
She sighed from the tightness in her chest. Let him grow up, she heard her sister say. “All right. Take the car—straight home, no detours.” She handed him the keys and his face relaxed into a grin.
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