The Magician Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  He squeezed past the others filing through the door, jogging after Sam and Reynolds. He caught them up as they reached the dining room.

  A woman spoke to the audience from the stage. “At no time will that bullet leave The Maestro’s hand until the moment he loads it into the pistol.”

  Minerva Khan, dressed in what appeared to be a handful of strategically flung diamonds, stood at the end of the stage, smiling out at the packed room. Waiters and waitresses bearing trays of champagne, Oysters Rockefeller, and Brie crostini circulated through the tightly wedged tables and chairs, trying to avoid stepping on anyone’s cape or tripping over anyone’s sword cane.

  Top Hat White Rabbit seemed to be a little more Black Rabbit Rose than Magic Castle. There did not appear to be a membership fee or a dress code, though everyone present was clearly a magician and dressed to the nines.

  Minerva broke off her speech as a cadre of police officers mounted the steps to the stage. SAC Reynolds intercepted Doug Devant as he left the bar and came to inquire what was happening.

  Jason showed The Tower card to Sam. “He’s definitely here. Or was.”

  “We know we’re on the right track, then.” Sam took the card and frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “A bomb? Fire? At a guess, total destruction of the club and everyone in it,” Jason said.

  “Christ.”

  From the stage, a police captain was asking people to move slowly and calmly to the exits.

  Jason spotted Ted Fields making his way to the front of the stage. He lifted down Minerva and then The Maestro.

  Sam whistled to Reynolds. Reynolds patted Devant on the arm, and Devant, looking deeply shaken, joined the officers directing people to the fire exits. Despite the instructions to stay calm, a few people began to rush. Glasses were spilled, chairs knocked over as guests scrambled to grab their belongings and push through the sea of tables. Officers moved to assist.

  Reynolds rejoined Sam and Jason.

  “We could be looking for a bomb,” Sam said.

  Even in the muted light, Jason could see Reynolds lost color. “Where the hell would he get hold of something like that?”

  “Explosives, incendiary devices are used frequently in magic shows. Not the real thing, of course, but the principles of putting a device like that together are essentially the same.”

  Reynolds gave Jason a look of noncomprehension before turning to make his way through the crowd to begin directing his team to search beneath tables, chairs, potted plants, and every other place they could think of.

  “Would he stay to watch?” Jason asked Sam. Sam was surveying the crowd, scanning intently for Terry. Every officer and agent had been provided with a photo of Van der Beck.

  Sam gave him a quick, distracted look. “He doesn’t plan on dying in here, that I can tell you.”

  There was an unearthly whoosh from a few feet to the side. A woman screamed as the black and gold draperies behind the stage burst into flames. A wave of heat seemed to roll over them.

  “Move,” Sam ordered. His hands locked on Jason’s shoulders, and he thrust him into the stream of now panicking people shoving their way back through the bookcase door.

  “Sam!” Jason tried to look back over his shoulder. The room was already filling with smoke. He could not see Sam. “Sam!”

  He tried to push a return path through the wall of terrified people, but that was impossible. No one was about to fall back or give way. The tide of club guests surged forward, carrying Jason with them.

  Someone stumbled against him. An older man with a cane. Jason steadied him. Someone knocked into him on the other side. He looked and saw Elle Diamond in a black sequined evening gown. Her blue eyes seemed to reflect the flames now engulfing the stage.

  “Don’t fall. Don’t slip,” Diamond said. “Don’t lose your footing.” She was half dragging an elderly woman in a silver chiffon gown behind her. “Don’t fall. Don’t slip,” She repeated like a mantra.

  The crowd lurched forward, and Jason was half-crushed against the edge of the bookshelf, but then he managed to wriggle through. When he reached the entry hall, he realized he could not go back for Sam.

  His first responsibility was to make sure everyone got out safely. As agonizing a choice as it was, that had to be his priority.

  He stepped to the side and began to help people through the doorway, sometimes bodily hauling them through. Smoke was billowing from the dining room, and the final people stumbling out were choking and coughing.

  Jason slipped back through the doorcase—the heat on the other side was like stepping into a sauna. But it’s a dry heat, he thought crazily.

  Only a step or two in, he bumped into someone slim and slight and blonde. Through the smoke, he recognized Detective Ward. She wore a blue silk evening dress and held a wad of colored silk scarves in front of her face.

  I thought so. I thought you were probably a member of the community.

  “You can’t go back in there,” she cried hoarsely. And then, “Agent West? Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?”

  “Sam Kennedy is still in there.”

  “Nobody is in there. We’re the last ones out.” She planted a surprisingly forceful hand in his chest, driving him backward toward the main entrance and the fresh air.

  As they stumbled outside into the cold night, firemen brushed past them, dragging heavy rubber hoses. Red and blue strobe lights cut through the smoky darkness. The shriek of sirens drowned out the sound of voices, the crackle of radios.

  The April night was so frigid, Jason felt like he was choking on it. He couldn’t stop coughing. Someone in a paramedic’s uniform slapped an oxygen mask over his face, draped a blanket over his shoulders, and asked him a bunch of questions he didn’t listen to.

  Where is he? Where the hell is he? Why doesn’t he come? Why don’t I see him anywhere?

  When he was able to stop coughing, he shoved the mask away and started moving through the crowd. News vans were arriving and more paramedics and more fire engines. The street outside the club was jammed with vehicles and people. Club goers stood in bunches, talking and crying. Some spoke to police officers. Some spoke to reporters.

  Sam was nowhere.

  Where are you? Don’t do this to me, Kennedy. Not now.

  Jason ran into SAC Reynolds, who was directing agents to fan out through the streets surrounding the club. “This guy can not slip through our fingers,” Reynolds was shouting. “I don’t care what you have to do. Turn over every lid of every trash can. Check every doghouse, treehouse and outhouse.”

  “Have you seen Sam?”

  Reynolds’ face was streaked with soot. He looked at Jason without recognition for a moment, then said, “He went after Van der Beck.”

  “Went where after Van der Beck?”

  “Out through the kitchen into the back alley. Wait. West!”

  Jason turned and started back the way he had come, ignoring Reynolds’ shout, “Special Agent West!”

  He jogged down the length of the building, turned a corner, and found a crowd of firemen and cops.

  No Sam.

  I don’t believe it. It’s not true. If you let that evil little shit get the drop on you, I’ll kill you myself, Kennedy. A sound alarmingly like a sob caught in his throat.

  Don’t be a dumbass, West. He’s fine. He’s like those Old West marshals. Too tough to die.

  Kennedy, where the fuck are you?

  Hand resting on his weapon, he continued down the alley, past Dumpsters and stacks of cardboard boxes and mountains of black trash bags. The smell of smoke permeated everything. He heard a faint sound—for an instant he thought it was the mewl of a cat—then a chill went down his spine. He began to run toward the cross street he could see at the end of the alley.

  He skidded to a stop as a tall form came around the corner, dragging something along the ground with him.

  Jason’s heart was still banging in his chest, but now it was with relief.

  �
�I curse you with the power of the demon lords,” Terry Van der Beck was babbling through his tears. “You will face the wrath of—”

  “Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo to you too,” Sam drawled.

  “Sam?” Jason called. His voice was almost steady.

  “Right here,” Sam called back. He sounded as cool and untroubled as if he’d gone for a stroll in the park.

  Jason waited, working to control his breathing and his face as Sam dragged Van der Beck along like a sack of potatoes.

  “Look what I found hiding under a bush,” Kennedy said.

  “I see.”

  Kennedy peered at him. “Okay, West?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Jason asked tersely, joining the procession. “Just because you shoved me out the door like a goddamned civilian while you—”

  “Okay, okay,” Sam said mildly. “Let me just drop this off.”

  And that was, in fact, about what he did. Hurled Van der Beck into a crowd of cops, who delightedly took possession of him. Cameras began clicking, flashes going off in bright white flashes. Sam led Jason by the arm away from the smoldering and soggy club. They ended up in the sheltering alcove doorway of the neighboring building.

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  The weird thing was, as scared and angry and dying to speak his mind as Jason had been a few minutes earlier, he was suddenly just…tired.

  Maybe Sam was right about delayed reaction and PTS and all the rest of it because it felt like a wave had knocked his legs out from under him, knocked him flat on his ass. Everything that had happened in the last week was all catching up with him: the attack in the China King parking lot, the fact that no one could find Kyser, the crazy race through the funhouse and believing he was going to see his young partner shot in front of him, not recognizing the prop gun for what it was, not realizing that Terry Van der Beck had actually tried to break-in while he was sleeping, thinking Sam might be dead…and way, way, way too many dead bodies.

  Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this.

  He shook his head.

  “Go on.”

  Jason closed his eyes.

  “Hey,” Sam murmured, concerned. “West?”

  Jason moved his head in negation, dropped his forehead on Kennedy’s shoulder. Kennedy’s arm came around him.

  “Come on, West.” Kennedy nuzzled his ear. “Everything’s okay. It’s just reaction. You did good work tonight.”

  Oh yeah, and this. Feeling the way I do about you and not knowing where this is going. Not knowing what you really want. If you see a future for it. Never knowing when I’m going to see you again.

  But, of course, he couldn’t say that.

  Jason raised his head. Scowled. “Not exactly teamwork, was it?”

  Kennedy said with surprised sincerity, “It was pretty close.”

  “Yeah?” Jason turned to stare as the cleanup process began on the street.

  “You’re tired, that’s all.” Kennedy said. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  “Sure.”

  Kennedy leaned forward to kiss him. “Good thing you’ve still got a week of sick leave left.”

  Jason smiled reluctantly.

  “It’ll be okay, Jason,” Kennedy said. “You’ll see. Trust me.”

  * * * * *

  So… Déjà vu.

  One week later, Jason unlocked the side door that served as his front door and let himself into the small cozy kitchen of the blue cottage on Carroll Canal.

  The timers were on, so the house was brightly lit and felt comfortably warm—it also felt very, very quiet.

  He and Sam had said their goodbyes at the airport that morning. Sam had been flying to that long-delayed meeting in Seattle. Jason had been headed home. And home had never sounded so lonely.

  But it had been a very good week. Restful, relaxing. The week he should have had when he’d left the hospital. After Terry Van Der Beck’s arraignment for murder, arson and a whole host of other crimes, Sam had taken Jason to see bison in their natural habitat and visit the Wyoming State Museum. Another night they’d had dinner with SAC Reynolds and his wife Anne, and Jason had seen Sam like he’d never seen him before: laughing and relaxed as he and Reynolds shared unflattering and funny stories about the good old days. They had dined with Ruby a couple of nights too, and Jason had come to realize how much Sam loved and respected his mother beneath the amused exasperation. An entire week of just being a normal couple. Cooking and eating and sleeping and talking and, yeah, occasionally arguing, but it had felt right. It had felt real. Like this could be the future.

  But not the immediate future.

  There was no talk of an immediate future.

  Well, that was the reality of their situation—and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon. The good news was, he felt newly confident of Sam’s feelings for him—and of his feelings for Sam. They could make this work. Plenty of people made long distance work. It wasn’t ideal, but it sure as hell beat the alternative.

  A white pitcher filled with scarlet-edged roses from his garden sat on the tile of the kitchen counter. His mail was neatly stacked in front of the pitcher. That would be Charlie welcoming him home. He knew without looking there would be half-and-half in the fridge and clean sheets on his bed. He shook his head, but really, it was one of the perks of having sisters either one old enough to be his mother.

  The mail was the usual mix of bills—though he paid almost everything online—circulars, a couple of art magazines, a lot of catalogs targeting law enforcement or at least LEO wannabes…and an oversize dark-blue envelope addressed in a familiar cramped hand.

  Jason’s heart deflated.

  “Shit.”

  No postmark.

  What the hell did that mean? Hand-delivered?

  Automatically, he felt around for a pair of gloves but ended up having to retrieve a pair from his bedroom—yeah, that was the nice thing about dating another agent; you didn’t have to explain about the kinky surplus of latex gloves.

  He used a paring knife to slit the envelope and delicately pulled out the stiff card.

  He stared at it for a long moment.

  Okay. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, so no need for his heart to thump in his ears like he was in mortal danger.

  There was no proof Kyser was the one who had attacked him. Jason still could not recall the details of the attack.

  Instinct is just another word for guessing. Right?

  But those faces. Those distorted, misshapen shrieking faces…were those supposed to be flames? The whole thing was kind of reminiscent of Arthur Rackham’s more macabre illustrations. Or maybe Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

  Good. Keep that professional distance. Analyze. Assess. Don’t let this be about you.

  Nothing inherently violent or threatening in the colors—black, red, orange—and yet the overall effect was undeniably disturbing. The nib of the pen had gouged the stiff paper in a couple of spots.

  Jason drew a breath and opened the card.

  It took him a second to realize the text consisted of one phrase copied over and over, the tiny print seeming to thicken and expand with each reiteration.

  Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

  WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?

&nbs
p; WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  Jason West and Sam Kennedy will return Winter 2019

  in

  The Monuments Men Murders

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  About the Author

  Author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure, and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON’S work has been translated into eleven languages. Her FBI thriller Fair Game was the first Male/Male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, then the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan’s annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list). The Adrien English series was awarded the All Time Favorite Couple by the Goodreads M/M Romance Group.

  She is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist (twice for Gay Mystery), An Edgar nominee and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads All Time Favorite M/M Author award.

  Josh is married and lives in Southern California.

  Find other Josh Lanyon titles at www.joshlanyon.com

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