by James Swain
And the field had looked like a sea of black mud, Wondero thought, recalling the nightmarish blackness of the sky as his son’s heroes on the varsity squad had gotten soundly trounced. “Those where the Red Warriors,” Wondero said.
“That’s right. State champs three of the past five years. And we’ve got to play them again this year in the finals.”
Textbooks. Tawny Starr had said Death was carrying textbooks, and now Wondero knew where they came from. Tomorrow he would talk to the San Diego police and the people who ran the high school where the Red Warriors played. Serial killers weren’t born, they were molded by their upbringings. The seeds were planted early, and maybe if he dug hard enough, someone would remember Death as a child.
To his son he said, “When’s the game?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told you two weeks ago.”
“You should have reminded me. I’d have taken the day off.”
“Mom volunteered to go.”
They fell silent. Wondero had always tried to be there for his kids, and could not believe he’d forgotten his son’s game.
“I’m sorry, Craig. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
“Dad, you’ve been chasing this freak since I was in eighth grade. It would be so great if you nailed him before…”
“Before what?”
“I went to college.”
Wondero patted him on the knee. He could not make any promises. “You playing away or at home?”
“At home.”
“Scared?”
“I have nightmares of them steam rolling us.”
What easy nightmares to have, Wondero thought. Getting beaten wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it. Life was a smorgasbord of great intangibles, things like sunsets and lifelong friendships, watching a family grow, flawless Sunday afternoons, and whether or not you won or lost had little bearing on real happiness. But that wasn’t what Craig needed to hear; after all, they were talking football, weren’t they?
He mussed his son’s hair. “Don’t worry about the game. Everything will turn out fine. You’re going to do great.”
Chapter 15
Myth of the Magus
The show looked dreadful.
Everyone was missing cues, the assistants misplacing props, causing the production to come to a grinding halt each time something “disappeared.” To round off the rehearsal, her husband had caught a whiff of pot backstage, causing a sustained burst of anger that had still yet to subside.
Jan knew it would get better. It had to, or Vince would cancel, and to use his favorite expression, “Go back to working in the Catskills.” Standing in the wings, she watched him on center stage, explaining to the soundman how critical it was that the overhead mikes be turned off during the Spirit Cabinet routine.
“Let me get this straight,” the soundman said. “Once you’re in the cabinet, you want me to turn the sound off.”
“That’s right,” her husband said.
“But what if you want to say something,” the soundman asked.
“I won’t. I won’t say a word. Like I said, that’s when my wife slips into the cabinet. The mike has to be dead.”
“But then you want me to turn it back on,” the soundman said, the contradictory tone of his voice indicating he didn’t get it.
“Correct. Once Jan slips in, which won’t take more than five seconds, you switch the mike back on. That’s all I’m asking for. Otherwise you’re doing a wonderful job. I only wish I could say that about everybody else.”
“You and me both,” the soundman agreed. “It would be nice to hit the hay before midnight.” He took out his notebook. “Okay, once the cabinet curtain is closed, the mike goes dead for…”
Jan let out a groan. In a stern voice her husband said, “Five seconds.”
“Five seconds,” the soundman echoed.
“Right.”
“I’m writing it down,” the soundman said.
“God bless you,” Hardare replied.
Walking offstage, he put his arms around his wife’s waist. “I’m sorry for acting like such a bastard tonight,” he said.
“Someone had to,” Jan said. “Otherwise we’d be out of work.”
“Why don’t you go back to the hotel with Crys, and get some sleep? I need to go through the score again with the band. See if we can get them to hit all the notes this time.”
“What a novel idea. Sure you don’t want company?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I’d love some company in the form of one very beautiful red-haired lady to join me for mimosas and breakfast in bed.”
“That sounds absolutely sumptuous.”
Jan kissed her husband. His eyes were filled with worry, and she felt an alarm go off inside her head.
“What’s wrong, Vince? You’re not telling me something.”
“I’ll tell you in the morning.”
“Tell me now”.
“Ticket sales are down,” he said gravely. “The way things look we’re not going to break even.”
During their two-week run, they would do eighteen shows, and needed to fill sixty-five percent of the seats in order to break even. Anything above that was profit, which would be split evenly with their co-producer, Larsen Hendricks.
“How down?” Jan asked.
“They’ve pretty much stopped. I think it’s tied to my helping the police chase this killer.”
“I thought you once said that any publicity was good publicity?”
“It doesn’t seem to be true here. It’s hurt us.”
“What are you going to do?”
Her husband shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”
Jan and Crystal took a cab to the hotel. Tiny white Christmas lights hung from a spindly Japanese pine in front, the odd sight the Iranian management’s response to the city’s refusal to let them hang a sign. The valet, who in his high collared white shirt looked like a circus acrobat, opened their door.
The two LAPD detectives assigned to protect them were parked in the lobby. Following them to their suite, they gave the rooms a quick check, then bid them goodnight, and went downstairs.
“Your father’s worried about ticket sales,” Jan remarked as she rummaged through the mini-bar.
“I know. They’re way off,” Crystal replied.
“What is he going to do?”
“You know, Dad. He’s always got something up his sleeve.”
The mini-bar was plied with quick fixes: thousand calorie Toberone bars, gourmet popcorn, pistachio nuts, a cache of sparkling wines and beers, and a miniature bottle of champagne that cost thirty dollars. She opted for a bottled water and dropped onto the couch beside her step-daughter, who appeared intent on burning out the TV with the remote.
“You don’t seem too worried,” Jan said.
“We’ve got time.”
“Why do I sense that you aren’t telling me something?”
Crystal flicked off the TV. “Do you really want to know what he’s planning?”
“Of course,” Jan said.
“Dad’s thinking about doing a death-defying escape to help publicize the show, and boost ticket sales. He wanted to tell you, only he knows how you hate the escapes, and wish he’d stop doing them. So he didn’t mention it.”
Jan frowned. Her husband had performed a number of dangerous outdoor escapes in Las Vegas to help promote his shows at Caesars. Along with generating tons of publicity, they’d also put several gray hairs on her head. Every time Vince sprained a muscle, or bruised a rib, she knew it could have been far worse. It was the one part about being Houdini’s nephew that she did not embrace.
“I hate the escapes,” Jan said flatly. “Can’t he do something else to boost ticket sales?”
“The escapes always work. The public loves them.”
“Why? Do they want to see your father get hurt?”
“It goes deeper than that,” Crys
tal said.
“What do you mean?”
“Escapes are patterned after myths, and myths have been around since the beginning of time. One myth which reoccurs repeatedly is that of the death and resurrection. That was why Houdini was so popular. He told a nation of immigrants that it was possible for them to escape their past, and become reborn.”
Jan sat transfixed. “Where did you learn this?”
“It’s from The Myth of the Magus in American Vaudeville. It’s a thesis about the Houdini family.”
“It sounds fascinating. Could I get a copy to read?”
“You’ll have to ask Dad.”
“Is it something he wrote?”
Crystal shook her head. “My mother. It was her doctorate’s thesis in cultural anthropology. She met Dad while she was researching it. They fell in love, got married, and Dad had his first full-time assistant.”
“Did she ever get her degree?”
“Nope. She had me instead. I don’t think she ever regretted it. My father’s world enchanted her; when she walked on stage, you would swear she was floating.”
The two women fell silent. Crystal rose from the couch and went to her bedroom door, then turned around. “You and my Mom are real different, but in some ways, you remind me of her.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. My mother hated the escapes, too. She was convinced that my dad would get killed one day performing them. They scared her.”
“They scare me, too,” Jan said.
“It’s who he is, Jan. You can’t change it. Goodnight.”
“Sweet dreams,” Jan said as the door closed.
Chapter 16
D.B.
The yard of the state mental hospital was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with six foot cyclone barbed wire. In recent months, picnic tables and benches had been added, giving the Visitors area a homey feel. Inhaling deeply on a cigarette, D.B. felt the smoke tickle his lungs, and glanced fondly at Eugene Osbourne.
“It’s good to see you again, Eugene,” D.B. said. “Thank you for remembering my cigarettes. I hope you brought an extra carton for the staff.”
Eugene, who had not forgotten how things worked behind bars, nodded that he had.
“I see from the newspapers that you’ve been busy,” D.B. said. “Any problems with the police?”
“The usual.” Eugene eyed a pair of nearby guards.
“Is that why you chose such a creative disguise to wear today? I must say, the uniform becomes you.”
Eugene bristled at the remark. It was not easy changing his appearance, and he’d found that wearing a uniform usually did the trick. Today he wore a green sanitation worker’s outfit which he’d bought for two dollars at a yard sale.
“Don’t make fun of my uniform,” he said. “If I get caught, and someone remembers me coming here, it will be over for you.”
“It is over for me,” D.B. replied without a hint of self-pity. “It has been for a long time.”
“You know what I mean.”
D.B. fondly patted his arm. “I appreciate the concern. I have some good news for you. My doctor has convinced her superiors to grant me phone privileges. Soon you and I will be able to talk courtesy of AT&T. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Eugene visibly relaxed. Visiting D.B. inside the hospital had always dredged up painful memories of his own incarceration.
“That is good news,” he admitted.
“I thought you’d be happy. Now, tell me why you’re here.”
“The LAPD is using a magician named Hardare to try to catch me. Hardare keeps giving the police clues, and even showed the police what I look like. I’ve got to stop him.”
“I saw the sketch in today’s paper,” D.B. said, crushing out the cigarette and pocketing the stub. “Not a very good likeness.”
“It’s close enough,” Eugene said.
D.B. glanced at his protégé out of the corner of his eye. Eugene was staring at the ground, his mouth working silently up and down. He looked like a scared rabbit, and not the crazed killer who’d terrorized Los Angeles for the past four years.
“Perhaps it’s time for you to pull up stakes and move on,” D.B. suggested. “All good things must come to a pass. I read in the paper last week how six hundred people are moving into Florida every day. It sounds like fertile ground.”
“I’m not running away,” Eugene said adamantly. “I want to stop Hardare, and I want you to help me.”
“But he’s working with the police, Eugene. I’d advise you to lay low for a while. The police will move onto other things. Time is always on a killer’s side.”
Eugene angrily kicked at the ground. “Will you help me, or not?”
“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Patience was never one of your strong suits. Yes, I’ll help you, but be forewarned: The end result may not be to your liking.”
“I don’t care. I want Hardare.”
Eugene’s mind was made up. Why try to change it? D.B. smiled.
“Then you shall have him,” he said.
They stopped at a picnic table and sat so they faced each other. The yard had filled with visitors, many of whom had brought picnics. At a nearby table, a pregnant young Hispanic girl had burst into tears while the male inmate she was visiting stared absently into the sky, oblivious to her suffering.
“Doesn’t she understand that he can’t feel what she feels,” D.B. wondered aloud, puzzled by the outburst. “How could she have let him impregnate her, and not realize that?”
His words hung in the air like a philosopher’s musings.
“Ah, well. Let’s talk about your problem, shall we?”
Eugene nodded enthusiastically. The savage look had returned to his face, his inner demons bubbling to the surface.
“Does this Hardare fellow have a family?”
“A wife and teenage daughter.”
“Splendid. I would suggest you focus on them. Do you know what hotel they’re staying in?”
“It’s in Beverly Hills. Last night, I followed them from the theater where Hardare is performing. A pair of detectives were in the lobby, so I ran.”
“You ran away?”
“Yes. I didn’t want them to see me.”
D.B. slapped his hand against the picnic table. His face, which he pampered with facial cream and religiously shaved twice each day, broke into a hundred tiny wrinkles, betraying both his true age and his anger. “Only the weak run away, Eugene. You went to Hardare’s hotel with a plan in mind, yes?”
“Yes. I even wrote it out, like you taught me.”
“Splendid. Go back and execute your plan. Do it right now. That’s my advice.”
“But —”
“He who hesitates is lost.” D.B. rose from the table, and in a loud voice said, “Nice to see you again,” and walked away.
Chapter 17
The Rollercoaster Escape
When Jan awoke the next morning, a single rose lay in the crease of her husband’s pillow. It was barely light outside, too early for him to be back at the theater. Union hands loved working overtime, yet were impossible to make come in earlier than nine.
She found Vince’s note taped to the bathroom mirror. “A stagehand broke the Spirit Cabinet right after you left. Called Les Griffey and he agreed to fix post haste. Will be with him all morning. See you soon. XXX Vince”
She filled an empty bottle with water and slipped the rose down its neck, then got dressed, wondering when their problems would end, and their lives would go back to being normal.
She spent the morning on her laptop. At noon, she and Crystal took a cab to the theatre, stopping on the way to pick up dry cleaning from a local laundry. Their cabby, a blue-eyed Iranian who politely inquired if they were movie stars, double-parked on the quiet side street and left the meter running.
“I talked to Dad last night,” Crystal said. “I told him that you were worried about him doing an escape to help promote the show.
”
“What time was this?” Jan asked.
