Please extend your show one extra day. I am on my way and will find you at the theater.
Beauty
It was the first time he had heard anything from Mary Pickford since he left Hollywood. He had not expected the two to ever cross paths again.
What could she want of me?
He pocketed the note and made a call to the theater. Because of Halloween the next night, there was nothing on the schedule; the owner said he’d be delighted to have Houdini perform one more evening. Houdini thanked him and hung up.
Bess appeared from the bathroom dressed for the celebratory dinner they always had on their last night in a city. She wore a long black skirt and a high-necked white blouse that was intricately embroidered with tiny pearl beads. She looked stunning.
“Mrs. Houdini, I’ve extended the show by one night.”
She eyed him curiously.
“That’s against the precautions you established for yourself.”
“I know,” he said. They never stayed more than three days in any location. “We have a special request.”
She considered this, nodded, then took his arm.
“Let’s have a little bit of wine tonight,” she said. “Before we return to the States.”
Bess drank as infrequently as Houdini, which meant only one thing.
She’s uneasy with this. As she should be.
If only Houdini could see the possibilities more than an hour or so into the future. He’d know whether this was a necessary exception, or a foolish risk.
“Very well,” Houdini said. “A final drink.”
Tonight, or forever?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT NIGHT, the two of them walked over to the theater at dusk, and Houdini found himself scanning the streets for the woman with the golden curls. He didn’t see her, but then he probably wouldn’t anyway; everyone was bundled up head-to-toe against the first snow flurry of the season.
At the theater, doormen were posted at every entrance as usual. The stage manager, Marcel, had taken special care after he had heard about Houdini storming out of another theater. The magician and his wife went to his dressing room to change into their costumes and rehearse, even though their act was as automatic and natural as brushing their teeth.
The door was locked, and Houdini opened it with his key. When he entered, he looked by instinct to the white carnation on the vanity.
It was gone.
He opened the door further and saw a woman seated in the room’s only armchair, twirling the carnation in-between her fingers. She stood. She was dressed all in black, including a black hat and black veil that completely covered her face.
“Mr. Houdini,” she said.
“Mrs. Pickford.”
He noticed that she was clutching something to her chest, a lump covered by her black shawl.
The magician turned to his wife.
“Mrs. Houdini, this is Mary Pickford.”
Houdini had no idea how his wife would react. He had, over the past year, dropped in pieces of the puzzle until his wife saw the entire picture of his time in Hollywood.
Bess smiled and bowed graciously.
“What a pleasure it is to meet you,” Bess said. “You must have come here in a hurry. You have no winter jacket. Here.”
Houdini watched his wife remove her own coat to give to the woman at the heart of his indiscretion.
I don’t deserve this lovely woman.
“You poor thing,” Bess said. “You’re shivering.”
As Bess wrapped the coat around her, there was a sharp and sudden cry. Bess backed away, confused. It hadn’t come from Pickford. Or had it?
The woman pulled the dark blanket off from the thing she was clutching.
It was a child.
He was about five months old, with an expression that was solemn but thoughtful. Everything about him echoed Mary Pickford: the round face, the high cheekbones, even the sparse mop of golden curls on his head, fine as cornsilk. There was only one part of him that was clearly not Pickford’s—the dark, piercing eyes.
Those indisputably belonged to Houdini.
Bess looked at her husband. Houdini looked at her. She turned back to Pickford.
“Let’s see if I can find you some hot tea.”
Her voice was tight and unsteady, a tightrope walk across her vocal chords.
Bess, you’re leaving us to talk alone.
“Thank you,” Pickford said.
She left. Houdini stared at the boy a long while in silence.
“Do you want to hold him?” Pickford asked.
Houdini nodded vaguely. None of it seemed real. The magician hung his jacket on the wooden chair at the vanity, then took the boy in his arms. He was heavier than Houdini expected. The child smelled of talcum powder and lavender. When Houdini thought of Samuel, their imaginary son, he never imagined how his child would smell.
“I can’t,” Houdini blurted out. “I mean, I never thought I could. Bess and I tried for years.”
Houdini became aware of a torrent of sadness running through him, like an underground river he had only just discovered. How had he not been aware of it sooner? How could he not know what his heart so truly desired? Even the most introspective man, he realized, could hide things from himself.
His life of magic had led him to this specific point in time, but it was ultimately a job, not a legacy. It was meaningless compared to the little boy cradled in his arms.
Magic is the means.
Tears escaped his eyes. Joy and grief and saline.
Houdini heard a kind of humming coming from the boy. Rather, he felt humming. It was like vibrations of music but without the music itself. Houdini chalked it up to being emotionally overloaded. He collected himself.
“What’s his name?” Houdini asked.
“Hennessey. It was my mother’s maiden name.”
“Hennessey? What an awful name. Do the poor boy a favor and change it before he enters grade school.”
The baby started to cry, as if embarrassed by his own name. Pickford took him back and sat down in the armchair.
“I should have told you sooner, but I couldn’t track you down with all of your traveling,” she said. “And I didn’t want to complicate things for you, either. But I had to come now. He’s in danger.”
“From whom? Fairbanks?”
Pickford nodded.
“In part.”
“Did he know?” Houdini asked.
“As quickly as you knew,” she said. “Those eyes, those intense, dark eyes. There’s no mistaking him.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much,” Pickford said, “but he broke a lot of things that day. He tried to live with the child, for months he did, but it drove him to madness. He left this week to film a movie on location, and told me the boy had to be gone by the time he returned. I don’t blame him. It’s my fault.”
Houdini pulled out the wooden chair and sat on it.
“What are you saying?” Houdini asked. “That you want me to…”
He stared at her black veil, and the strangeness of it suddenly struck him.
“What’s wrong? Is someone dead?”
“No, it’s just… I’m not myself these days. Or perhaps I’m more myself. I don’t know.”
Houdini stood and walked over to her. He touched the edges of her veil.
“Don’t.”
He pulled it up, slowly, and gasped at what he saw.
What has happened to her face?
She hurriedly pulled the veil back down.
“The boy,” she said, either in response to his thought or to change the conversation. She put him back into Houdini’s arms. The child fussed a bit but didn’t cry.
“I took him to get his first vaccination,” she said as she reached into her purse. She removed a small pin, then grabbed the boy’s hand and pricked his finger.
Immediately he began wailing.
“Shh, my darling,” she said to the boy. And then to Houdini: “Wa
tch.”
She squeezed his finger and out oozed a drop of blood—if it could be called blood at all. It was unlike any Houdini had ever seen.
“He’s ill,” Houdini said.
“I don’t believe so,” Pickford said. “I snatched him from the doctors before they could prod at him and rushed home. Douglas wouldn’t listen so I went to Charlie. I showed him, and—”
The child’s wails nearly drowned Pickford out.
“Quiet, my boy,” Houdini said. “It’s not so bad.”
He kissed the boy’s pricked fingertip, then jolted. It felt as if he had just stuck his lips against an electrical outlet. The feeling reminded him of the one time he had used the Eye on Bess. In his mouth he could feel the tiny drop of blood that had touched his lips.
He swallowed. It entered his system, and he could feel it moving through his body, a distinct and separate entity, as if it had a life of its own. Others without his gift for introspection would never notice, but Houdini could tell it was something unique.
Houdini searched himself as he followed the path of the blood, and then noticed something quite odd. As he scanned his body, his range extended outside of his skin. He followed the edges of his ability, and was surprised to become aware of the heartbeat of the boy. Houdini could feel the child’s breath, sense the steady flow of his blood. It was as if the boy’s body were his own. The magician focused and reached past the boy, surprised to discover Pickford’s heartbeat within his range too. He could sense her motivations as well—not as distinct thoughts, but as a jumble of pictures, ideas, feelings, and memories. It was like looking at a blurry photograph. This was the first time he had ever been able to see inside someone else, and he realized that Pickford, and probably the rest of the world, lacked the internal clarity and order that he had. It was like walking unannounced into someone’s messy apartment.
The magician dug into Pickford’s psyche a bit more. He felt guilty, as if going through someone’s underwear drawer. What he discovered pleased him: He found a deep, passionate love for Douglas Fairbanks embedded deep within her. It was a strained, conflicted love, but it was real. And for Houdini himself he found fondness and trust, but no love.
“You’re right,” Houdini said. “He’s special. He’s powerful.”
Perhaps more powerful than Newton’s Eye.
He followed the threads of possibility, wondering if they would go further while in the presence of this boy. Perhaps he’d be able to see days, even months down the lines of options.
But when he followed the first thread, he saw only blackness, like a sensory deprivation chamber, with no sound and no feeling. It was sudden, like a radio losing power. He then followed the next thread of possibility; it was the same, abrupt darkness and nothingness. And the third and fourth and fifth. Every thread followed a different path, but each ended in the exact same place.
The magician gasped. He understood. Within the next half hour, every possibility converged at only one outcome.
Death.
But why, and how?
Houdini reached once more to see how far his range of introspection would go. It left the dressing room, flowed down the hall and up the ramp toward the audience. Houdini became aware of two heartbeats making their way backstage. One was a tiny shriveled thing, hardly stronger than a mouse’s. The other was a robust, bear-sized heartbeat that pounded in Houdini’s head like a war drum.
The magician focused on the owner of that massive heart, and he sensed a single-minded desire. The distance made it difficult, but he tried to discern the intention, the goal. It was for a person. No, it was for a thing. An object. A tool.
The Eye.
Houdini shot up.
“Atlas is here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BESS WALKED IN with a tray of tea.
“Shut the door!”
It was too late for any of them to make a break for it down the hall. The dressing room had no windows and no other exits. It was little more than an oversized broom closet. There would be no escape.
Houdini scanned the room frantically, for what he didn’t know. A weapon? Something to call for help? There was nothing; only some stage makeup, an assortment of handcuffs and picks, and the wardrobe that held his costumes.
The wardrobe.
He hoisted the child up and put him in Pickford’s arms.
“We have to hide you.”
Bess closed her eyes silently for a moment.
“Atlas,” she said.
Houdini nodded. He opened the wardrobe and lifted all of the clothes off the hangers, lying the stack over the back of a chair.
“He wants the Eye, but he’ll hurt you both if he sees you. And the boy…”
If being around the boy had such an effect on his talent, Houdini could only wonder what he might do for the others.
“Whatever you do,” he told Pickford, “You can’t let him have the boy. Hide him. Send him far away. Whatever you have to do.”
He felt for a hidden latch at the back of the wardrobe. It was a trick piece that he used to have in his show, but it was broken and he hadn’t gotten around to fixing it.
“Get in!” he said.
He stuffed all three of them in the shallow space designed for only one person. When he tried to close the false back, it popped open again. The latch was faulty and the door tended to swing open of its own accord. Bess leaned out.
“Harry!”
Her eyes glowed with fear. He didn’t want to know what she had seen down her own threads of possibility.
“Two kisses, darling,” she said. “One for now and one for later.”
Houdini leaned in and kissed his wife fiercely.
“I’ll wait,” she said. “For my second kiss.”
“You’ll get it,” Houdini said. “I promise.”
In this life or the next.
There was a knock at the door of the dressing room.
“Coming!” Houdini said.
He was about to shut it again when he had a thought. He pulled the Eye off from around his neck and hung it on Pickford’s.
“Hide it well, and tell no one. Not your husband, not Chaplin. No one. The fewer who know the better.”
Down every thread of possibility, he had seen Atlas get the Eye. By giving it to Pickford, it left his future. He couldn’t tell what would happen to it from that point on.
“Get Mrs. Pickford out of here and call the police,” he told Bess.
There was a pounding at the door this time.
“Just changing my trousers!”
He took one last look at Bess, then the boy. Staring at those brooding eyes, a thought struck him.
“Destiny!” he whispered. “He’s my reason for being in Hollywood. I know it!”
He shut the panel and replaced the clothes, praying the latch held.
The dressing room door burst off its hinges, and Houdini ducked to avoid the flying door. There, at the entrance, stood Atlas. It felt like déjà vu.
“I don’t have it,” Houdini said.
The man ducked and angled his torso to fit through the doorway. When he stood, his body filled the space. He looked around as if the Eye would be lying about somewhere.
“Where is it, then?”
“After our encounter, I wanted nothing to do with it,” Houdini said. “I threw it into the Hudson River.”
“Hmm.”
The giant man picked through objects on the vanity, touching Bess’s make-up brushes with a gentleness that belied his size.
Houdini saw movement in the doorway. From behind Atlas, the dark beast scurried into the room. For the first time Houdini got a good look at it. It wasn’t a monster, but a person—someone either very small or hunched over. The person was wearing a cloak and hood made of long, dark, luxurious hair—human hair.
“Check his jacket,” Atlas said.
A white, bony hand appeared from the folds of the hairy cloak and began to rifle through the jacket lying on the chair. Atlas approached Houdini and
felt his pants pockets. He ripped the top button of Houdini’s shirt to see if the Eye was around his neck.
“If you did throw it away,” Atlas said, “Then there would be no reason for me to chase you down.”
“Exactly,” Houdini said.
“Then there would be no reason for you to live on the run, which is what you have been doing for the past year. We only caught up to you this time because you stayed an extra day.”
He grabbed Houdini by the throat, his entire hand nearly wrapping around the magician’s neck, and lifted him off the ground.
“You must have the Eye. A man hides only when he has something to hide.”
He squeezed.
“Don’t kill him,” a whisper of a voice said. It came from the person in the cloak. “Not yet. Here.”
The shriveled white hand held up Pickford’s letter from yesterday. Atlas took the note and read it.
“Perhaps she has it, then,” the beast said.
“Who is she?” Atlas asked.
Houdini decided that he wouldn’t say another word for fear of slipping up and giving Pickford away. Atlas had never seen them together in Hollywood; there was nothing publicly linking them together. She would be safe, if only she and the boy could get out of the room.
I have to create a distraction.
Houdini removed the longest pick from his sleeve and stabbed at the giant man’s face. It was a futile effort. Atlas flicked the magician aside like a twig. Houdini flew against the vanity mirror, shattering it into pieces. The shelf below it collapsed under Houdini’s weight, and he fell to the floor. There were cuts on his face and his wrist felt broken.
Houdini saw that Bess’s jewelry box had tumbled open. There, scattered about the floor with inexpensive earrings, barrettes, and necklaces, was the Ring of the Fisherman. Houdini covered it with his left hand as he rolled over, and with his other hand covered a plain gold chain much like the one that held the Eye. He kept them pinched in the palms of his hand as he stood. To others, it would look as if he held nothing.
Atlas closed his hands into boulder-sized fists.
A gasp escaped from the wardrobe. Houdini coughed to cover it, but Atlas cocked his head. Houdini had to distract him.
“Tell me, Mr. Atlas, what’s your legacy going to be?”
Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) Page 13