The hooded man brought both his elbows together by his navel, forming a V with his forearms. On the back of his right hand was a tattoo of the flag’s insignia: green snake wrapped around the same capital letter.
The screen cut to black.
“That’s all?” Rusty said after a pause. “I was just getting into it.”
“It’s the only video I could find. Apparently there were more back in 2010. All broadcast on a public access station out of Shreveport.”
“I did a little Googling,” she continued, sitting up. “Seems these nuts earned a low-priority slot on the FBI’s watch list for domestic terrorist cells.”
“FBI?” Rusty replied. “Surprised they got taken so seriously. That wasn’t exactly a high-end production. Looks like it was shot in someone’s basement.”
“Indeed,” Monday replied, giving his back a playful scratch. “But not just any basement. And that’s where our Professor fits in.”
She clicked on a bookmarked page from the Gambit’s website.
“The follow-up article, remember? This is where it gets juicy.”
Rusty rose from the bed and sat in the chair by the window to listen as she read aloud.
“‘More than one source in Tulane’s administrative department has confirmed that Anne Guillory did not step down by choice. Rather, she was forced to leave so that the University might be spared the scandal sure to boil over when her ties to a radical eco-terrorist group came to light.’”
“Ah,” Rusty said. “It all becomes clear.”
“‘By early 2011,” Monday continued, “‘rumors were spreading in the Entomology department that Guillory had moved beyond advocating extreme conservationist tactics in the classroom, and was actively funding criminal activity. Whispers of a small but devoted cell operating under her largesse became the stuff of widespread speculation. The end came in April 2011, when Tulane’s Board of Regents learned she’d made university facilities available to members of VECTOR, including the Level 3 Biosafety Lab. She was gone within forty-eight hours of that news hitting the Dean’s desk.’”
Monday looked up from the screen.
“OK,” Rusty said, “let’s start with the fact Professor Guillory’s some kind of nut with violent friends. That makes it more plausible she might have ties with a guy like Abellard, agreed?”
Monday nodded.
“I’ll admit,” he added, “I can’t see exactly where the connection goes from there.”
“Let’s not assume his connection to her has anything to do with these VECTOR freaks. The fact that Guillory is tight with that element might explain why he sounded so obsequious on the phone with her.”
Rusty raised another brow. “Obsequious?”
“It means kissing her ass. One of my favorite words.”
“Got it, and I agree. No way Abellard’s scared of Guillory herself, but if she’s backed by a bunch of psycho tree huggers—”
“Who probably aren’t afraid to use any methods to get what they want,” Monday broke in. “Including the abduction and ransom of certain people we might know.”
Rusty rose from the chair and started pacing the hardwood floor. Monday watched him, noticing the tautness that seeped into his entire body. She could sense something building within, a steel spring coiling tighter.
“What’s going on in there?” she asked. “You look a little scary all of a sudden.”
Rusty stopped pacing and stared out the window for so long that Monday started to wonder if he’d heard. He reached for his jacket and grabbed the keys to the Navigator.
“Let’s go. He should be getting home soon.”
• • •
Prosper Lavalle dozed in a tufted wingback chair, his favorite piece of furniture in the shotgun house on Felicity Street. He found himself occupying the chair more and more often in recent days. Its position in a sunny corner of the front room made for an ideal napping spot.
Prosper had never been much of a napper in his seventy-plus years. He preferred to wake at dawn and spend a few hours listening to his collection of vintage jazz records before leaving to catch the streetcar so he could open the Mystic Arts Emporium promptly at nine o’clock. He rarely got home before sundown—much later on weekend nights—spending the entire day on his feet and seldom feeling fatigued.
That long-held pattern had started to change recently. He’d close the shop early so he could come home and drowse in his chair for a spell before rising to make dinner for one.
Prior to last week, Prosper had chalked up this variance of his schedule to the limitations of advanced age. But ever since Marceline had disappeared, each day without her return growing more intolerable than the last, he’d found a new reason to nap through the afternoons. Sleep was his only refuge from the constant worry that gnawed at him like a cancer in his bones.
He didn’t trust anyone to mind the shop other than himself. His part-time sales clerk was competent, but didn’t possess the slightest interest in magic. Prosper had no one to share his storehouse of knowledge with in the waning years of his life. He didn’t even want someone like that. He’d already had the most accomplished student any mentor could hope to find, years ago.
He was dreaming about Rusty Diamond this afternoon when a soft tapping brought him awake. Lifting his head, he made out a tall shape through the lace curtains by the front door.
The tapping grew louder. A cold stab of panic hit him.
It was a policeman. He knew it. Probably that detective, come to tell him they’d found Marceline. Or what was left of her. No chance it was Marcie herself standing out on the stoop. She had her own key and would let herself in rather than knock.
Prosper rose with an unbalancing sense of dread. He shuffled over to the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Rusty. Let me in, we need to talk.”
“Did you find her, Rusty? Tell me right now before I open this door!”
“No. I haven’t found her yet. But I’ve got an idea where she is.”
The old man unlatched the door and opened it an inch, leaving on the chain.
“I would’ve called,” Rusty said, “but this is a conversation we need to have in person.”
Prosper gave a cool glance at the woman standing next to him. He saw only a mass of dark red hair and a neck tattoo, and formed the uncharitable assumption she was some Bourbon Street pickup Rusty had inexplicably chosen to bring here.
Then a sense of recognition set in.
“I know you.”
“This is Monday Reed. She works with Marceline at Bon Coeur.”
“Yes,” Prosper nodded slowly. “You and Marcie take lunch together.”
“That’s right, sir. I saw you last week, when you brought over those flyers.”
“Did they do any good?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Monday answered. “I handed them out to the other nurses, tacked up a bunch around my neighborhood. Has anyone called you?”
The old man shook his head.
“You haven’t learned anything?” he asked, looking hard at Rusty.
“Actually we have. We just haven’t found her yet.”
“Shouldn’t have expected no better,” Prosper whispered. “I didn’t expect no better.”
“We need your help,” Rusty said, risking his nose by pressing it up close to the door’s gap. “Can we come in, please?”
Prosper glanced down at his napping chair, knowing it would offer no further sanctuary this day.
He unlatched the chain and opened the door.
Twenty minutes later, the three of them were seated in the shotgun’s front room. Rusty and Monday occupied a two-seater brocade couch while Prosper sat in his chair.
Hands on his chest, fingers steepled, he listened as Rusty gave an overview of what happened in Vacherie and everything he and Monday had learned since. His large brown eyes flared every time Abellard’s name was mentioned, small utterances of contempt forming on his lips.
When Rusty describe
d his escape from Barataria Bay, making brief reference to the stage breathing techniques he’d used to survive, the older magician leaned forward. Hands on his knees, his interest was clearly piqued. Rusty noticed the change in posture, and felt a small thrill despite himself. For the student to see his mentor enraptured by an account of how hard-earned skills were brought to bear in a life-or-death situation…it felt like a miniscule victory of sorts.
“I knew it,” Proper muttered. “That sonofabitch wasn’t gonna let her go. Why wouldn’t she listen to me?”
“I tried to warn her too,” Monday said. “She didn’t want to hear it. She said there was something good about him I just couldn’t see.”
Prosper gave a weary sigh, not finding Monday’s comment particularly useful.
“You told all this to that detective Hubbard?” he asked.
Rusty nodded.
“We went straight to the Sixth Precinct from Roque’s office. He knows everything you do.”
“So they gonna arrest the sonofabitch, yes? Go at him with a phone book till he confesses what he’s done with her, is that right?”
“Things don’t work that way anymore,” Monday said. “Unfortunately.”
She and Rusty traded a glance. On the drive over here from her place they’d debated how to describe Hubbard’s reaction to their story. It was considerably less impactful than they’d hoped for when walking into the precinct two hours before.
“Hubbard’s more interested in this guy Sherman,” Rusty said. “He’s the prime suspect for killing the doctor. Hubbard thinks he might’ve also pulled another homicide, some woman down in the Quarter. Similar weapon and m.o.”
“I heard about that,” Prosper said. “What’s it got to do with my daughter?”
Rusty almost described his visit to the Forensics Center but stopped himself, instead saying:
“As far as the NOPD is concerned, nothing. Sherman’s the suspect in two murders that are getting a lot of press. He’s the priority. Hubbard’s still not convinced anything bad has happened to Marceline. He thinks any connection between her disappearing and Sherman being fired from the ward is circumstantial at best.”
“And what about Abellard being dragged away from there?” Prosper cried. “You told him that part too, right?”
“Hubbard says that could’ve been a personal dispute. Since the hospital didn’t see fit to report either event to the cops, he’s not impressed.”
In response to the look on Prosper’s face, Monday added, “I know, it’s infuriating.”
Rusty leaned forward and risked placing a hand on the elderly man’s knee.
“I’m not willing to wait around for the cops to take this seriously. I told you I wouldn’t leave New Orleans till she’s home safe, and I meant it.”
Prosper receded back into his chair, grumbling unhappily. His eyelids sank to a near-closed position.
“Is he still awake?” Monday whispered after a protracted silence.
“I’m awake, girl.”
His eyes opened, and Rusty felt the full power of his gaze as he hadn’t in many years.
“Tell me something. If I ask you a question, can I believe the answer you give me?”
“Of course,” Rusty replied, feeling a wary tautness in his chest. “Whatever you want to know.”
“Last time I saw you in Vegas, you were riding high. Twelve shows a week, selling ’em out. But you’d changed. Success, if you can call it that, brought out the very worst in you.”
“Fair enough. So you and Marcie ditched me. I woke up one morning and you were gone. Not even a note.”
“Made no sense for us to stay. We felt like we’d already lost you. You weren’t Rusty Diamond anymore. You’d become the Raven. Just a silly stage name, but you started thinking it was real. We didn’t want no part of that.”
Rusty noticed Monday had withdrawn slightly from his side.
“What do you want to ask me?”
“After we came back home, we put you out of our minds. At least I did. Every so often I’d hear your name, from a street performer or someone in the Emporium. Then…”
Prosper pressed his hands together and pulled them apart with the theatrical flourish Rusty had seen many times before.
“You disappear, like smoke. Nobody knows where. Hottest magician to hit Vegas in years up and vanishes. It was a big story, for a while. Over time, people forgot about you. I think we all assumed the story had some sad, sordid end. Some figured you for dead, including me. But here you are, alive and well.“
Prosper leaned forward, hands planted on his thighs.
“Tell me, son. What happened out in that desert?”
The tension inside Rusty had tightened to a balled fist, constricting his breath. He felt on the verge of something he’d avoided for the past two and a half years.
“I killed someone.”
Silence greeted those words. It filled the room.
“Or maybe not. I really don’t know. I do know I hurt someone, badly. There was no time to stick around and see just how badly. It was either run or die. I ran.”
Prosper and Monday remained mute. Rusty stood, facing them.
“Paul Ponti,” he said to Prosper. “Name mean anything to you?”
“Some gangster, right?”
“There aren’t any gangsters in Vegas anymore, not like the old days. But close enough. Ponti’s what they call an operator. Parking garages, escort services, disposable cell phones, and probably some flat-out illegal shit. Not someone to cross.”
“Sounds like he’d get along great with Abellard,” Monday whispered.
“It started out simple. An invitation to a party. Ponti’s daughter was having her sweet sixteen. Big bash at his house in the hills north of town.
“Remember Rocco?” Rusty asked Prosper, not waiting for an answer. “Door guy at the Etruscan Room? He delivered the invitation. Mr. Ponti would be honored if I’d agree to a private performance. No fee mentioned, but I was made to understand it would be generous. I was also made to understand saying no wasn’t an option. When a guy like that extends an invitation, you accept gracefully.
“So I drive out there. Jesus, you wouldn’t believe this place. On a bluff outside the city limits. Best view of the Strip I ever saw. The party’s underway, a good hundred people or more. Big tent out back by an Olympic-sized pool. Two bands. Bubblegum pop for the kids, jazz for the grownups. I was nervous as fuck. I always got nervous before performing. That’s something not even you knew, did you, Prosper?”
The old man tapped his foot on the rug, impatient to hear the story.
“I managed my nerves with frequent trips to the bathroom to snort some excellent cocaine. Place had a gold fucking toilet. After about eight bumps and as many glasses of champagne, I’m way too loaded. But the crowd scares me so I just keep doing more. Felt like I was trapped in a scene from Goodfellas except everyone had better manners.”
“What about the host?” Monday asked. “What was he like?”
“Barely shook his hand. I got a very clear feeling it wasn’t his idea to hire me. There he is in his Armani, shaking hands with some dude all inked up in Goth regalia. If it wasn’t his daughter’s birthday, he probably would’ve had me hauled off in a dumpster.
“All of a sudden, it’s time to perform. I’m standing by the tent. There’s a spotlight rigged on the roof, blinding me. Whole party is crowded around to see the show. I can’t see them, just outlines in the glare. I’m sweating hard, and not just from the coke.
“I start out with some small stuff. Throwing cards. A minor pyro stunt with a handkerchief and some flash paper. Very safe, very stale. I can tell the audience is unimpressed. Getting bored in a way that feels hostile. Somebody shouts at me, why don’t I do a trick with the guest of honor? Christ, the most obvious thing in the world, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to me. So I call her out into the spotlight. Pauline, named after her daddy. Pretty girl, a little on the heavy side. She’s shy, doesn’t want to come, but everyone
starts chanting her name and she finally gives in.”
Rusty stopped talking, keeping his silence for so long he wasn’t sure he knew how to start again.
“I…can’t say why I chose the trick. Maybe it was that hostility I was feeling. Maybe I wanted to show Ponti exactly who I was, what I was capable of. Shit, maybe I was just stoned. I take the girl by the hand and ask her if she could help me with a brand-new trick I’d just devised. Never done it on stage before, I said, which was true. I’d only practiced it a few times and damn sure didn’t have it down cold.”
“What was the trick?” Prosper asked, his mien darkening.
“Something I came up with after you and Marcie skipped town. I was in a pretty unhinged frame of mind at the time. A variation of Kronstein’s Deathtrap, only this one involved neodymium magnets and gunpowder.”
“For God’s sake,” the older magician uttered, barely more than a whisper. Rusty saw the recrimination in his eyes, and the profound disappointment.
“It went wrong,” he said, speaking faster to get it all out. “My fingers were numb from the coke, too much sweat on my palms. I lost control as I was handing her a magnet for the big reveal. The powder ignited. Not a big bang, just a tailpipe backfiring. Smoke everywhere. I never heard the scream, not the first one. The smoke cleared fast, there was an empty space in front of me where she’d been standing. I look down, she’s on the concrete near the lip of the pool. Hands covering her face. I could see blood seeping through her fingers.”
“Jesus Christ,” Monday said quietly.
“Things went completely crazy. People charging in, grabbing me. There were screams, someone hit me and cracked a rib. I can’t say how I got out of that house alive. I have no memory of driving back to Vegas. Soon as I got to my suite, I really started bingeing on the coke. Just to make it go away. I didn’t sober up till late the next night. I knew it was over. Everything I had in Vegas, gone. I was a dead man if I stayed. Prison was the least scary option, and the least likely. Ponti would get to me first. So I grabbed a few things, emptied out the safe. Got in my car and started driving east. No destination in mind.
Blind Shuffle Page 18
