by John Case
“Now what?” he asks.
With my heart slamming against my chest, it takes more than a moment to get my breath. When I’m able to stand, I do and, reaching down, grab Boudreaux by the hair, and pull him to his feet.
He’s leering. “And how do you think you’re going to get me down?”
I speak in a low voice, almost a growl. “That’s the easy part, you wiggy fuck,” I tell him. And with that, I grab him by the scruff of the neck, spin him around, and, with a shove, send him off the edge of the spire, tumbling with a scream toward his fan club sixty feet below.
It’s chaos down in the amphitheater, everybody screaming and shouting. Kevin crawls out from the little niche toward me, terrified and sobbing. I’m cut, bleeding all over the platform. Still on my feet, I’m shaky and there’s a lot of blood, but I’m okay.
I know we have to act quickly. Right now, the people below may be thinking simply that Boudreaux’s fall was an accident. Then again, maybe not.
I don’t know what makes me think that the boys who were to be the centerpiece of the show have, for the moment, been forgotten. Sean himself might easily have wondered what was going on and emerged from his hiding place to find out. But I don’t think so. I think he’s in the basket, waiting for his cue.
“Kevin,” I say, “we have to get Sean.”
He doesn’t argue, although his eyes are huge. “Dad, you’re really bleeding.”
“It’s okay.”
Kevin’s a natural. Together, we scramble easily down the rock face. Halfway down, we come out of the mist and I tell him to stop for a moment. “We have to be careful now. Stay to the side near the ocean, so they don’t see us.”
“Okay.”
Kevin climbs down, surefooted and agile as a monkey. He actually has to wait for me from time to time. I’m the one having trouble. The arm that Boudreaux cut is weak. My hand is a mess. The blood is slippery.
Even so, we’re on the ground in less than five minutes.
I have to rest, lean against the rock. From the amphitheater come the sounds of disagreement. Not too many voices. Obviously, some of the guests have decided to leave. They’re quarreling about what to do.
“What a disappointment,” a female voice says.
“A different dénouement is all,” says a British man. “Equally dramatic in its way.”
“We’re not going to call nine-one-one,” an accented voice says. “I won’t have them crawling all over the place.”
“There’s a back way,” Kevin tells me. “I can sneak in. I can talk to Sean. He’ll hear me through the basket.”
I follow my son as we creep along toward the back of the stage. The sound of the sea helps because I’m so weak I’m clumsy, and more than once I stumble.
From our vantage point, I can see the little gathering of guests, I can just see Boudreaux’s leg, crumpled oddly at the knee, at an angle impossible in life.
The basket is at center stage, terribly exposed.
Before I can stop Kevin, he’s gone. I see him approach the basket, I see the basket quiver slightly. I can’t believe Sean can get out of it without being seen.
It comes to me: misdirection. Just as I see the top of the basket tremble, I pull the Maglite from the pack and hurl it to the right, throwing it as far as I can. It cartwheels through the air, end over end, and lands, with a huge percussive clang against the rocks.
All heads turn toward the sound as Sean scrambles out. I see the little group in the theater begin to move slowly toward the point of impact, as the boys dash toward me.
It couldn’t be more than a half-mile walk from the amphitheater to the Sea Ranch beach. We don’t have to go out into the water. It’s a simple walk along the hardened sand, amid the rocks. I know that sooner or later, someone will come after us and I do my best to hurry. It seems to take forever before I see that string of razor wire demarcating the property line between Mystère and the Sea Ranch.
Another silver-haired couple – the same ones? – walk the rocky beach. I turn toward them, one boy on each arm. They’re tugging me along now, I’m moving so slowly. And then I just can’t manage another step.
“It’s okay,” I tell the boys, trying to get my feet moving. “It’s going to be okay.” I stumble and fall.
Kevin takes off like a shot, and I see the three figures, the elegant couple bending slightly to catch my son’s words. Kevin points – they look our way.
Sean holds my hand in a ferocious grip.
Kevin and the couple are running now, and I see that the man has a cell phone to his ear.
My eyes close.
“Dad,” Kevin says.
“Sea Ranch,” the man is saying into the phone. Down on the beach. “Meg, I’m going to get the Jeep.”
“Oh, my God,” the woman says. She wraps something around my injured hand. “You boys, you press down on this,” she says. “Just like this, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Stan! Your coat.” She wraps my injured arm and compresses the wound. “Keep up the pressure, boys, that’s great.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Kevin asks, his voice trembling.
“Yes,” the woman says in a confident voice. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
And somehow, although I suspect she’s said this just to calm the boys, I know she’s right.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks very much to Detective Kevin Manning of the Las Vegas Police Department and to Leo Behnke, magician, for valuable help in guiding the author through unknown terrain. Thanks are due as well to Sam and Elisabeth Johnson for their unflagging support. A tip of the hat to Sara Murray for useful comments upon reading the manuscript. And cheers, as always, to Elaine Markson, to Joe Blades, and to everyone at Ballantine who helped bring the book into print.
When acknowledging assistance, it would not be right to omit mention of the following books, which provided valuable information about the book’s subject matter: Voodoo: Search for the Spirit by Laennec Hurbon, Panorama of Magic by Milbourne Christopher, The Art of Deception by Chuck Romano, Mysterious Stranger: A Book of Magic by David Blaine, and the fascinating Net of Magic by Lee Siegel.
***
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