08 Illusion

by Frank Peretti

  Well. He was Seamus. He was bred to look after her. “Well …”

  “I’m just teasing you a little. For your own good.”

  “He’s not that much of a stranger.”

  “But how much do you know about him?”

  He meant well, didn’t he? She didn’t want to get defensive. “He saved me from ‘Clarence’ and ‘Lemuel.’ When I was out on the street he gave me his hat and his sweater and he took the time to coach me with a card trick. He’s been a professional magician for more than forty years.”

  “And he’s a widower,” Seamus reminded her, “and he told you himself how he was going through some emotional issues.”

  “Which was very honest of him, don’t you think?”

  “Fair enough. But I’d be careful. As long as it’s business, fine, but I’d stay away from any personal conversations until you know him better.”

  She sighed, if only to breathe out some tension. “Actually, I’d say he reminds me of my father, if anything.”

  “So he’s a father figure.”

  “Sure. Is that so bad?”

  “No. No, that’s all right. But you’ve told him everything you’ve told me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t tell him any more. He does deserve our gratitude, absolutely, but we need to keep your life private and you safe and secure.”

  “But that’s just the thing. Am I? I’m not so sure yet.”

  “I’ve been looking into it.”

  She locked eyes with him, awaiting more, but he smiled like somebody hiding a secret and spread his arms toward the table. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

  Eloise took her place at one end of the table, blown away by the care Seamus had taken with every detail: the fine china, the silverware—a soup spoon and a dinner spoon, a salad fork and a dinner fork, a butter knife and a dinner knife!—the autumn leaves and colors centerpiece, the lit candles, the napkins—no, the serviettes—in silver napkin rings. His dining room was like the rest of his quaint bungalow near the lake: warm, embracing, with dark wood beams and leaded windows, a setting fit for a Jane Austen novel. She’d dressed in the best blouse and slacks she owned; she should have been wearing an empire-waisted dress.

  “Lovely,” she said. “Lovely, lovely!”

  Seamus smiled at her over the centerpiece. He looked great. The candlelight shimmered in his eyes, and the warm glow from the wall sconces highlighted his hair. “I think I’ll return thanks.” They bowed together and he prayed, “Dear God, for all we have received and for all we will be mindful to share, we give you thanks. Amen.”

  The meal was like a fireworks display for the mouth, just one oooh and aahhh after another except she had to hum the sounds to be polite. The whole mood changed for the better, even as she brought up the same old business. “Anyway … what can I do? What if Mr. Collins doesn’t want to hassle with somebody who might be a mental case? What if Roger and Abby find out?”

  He took some time to chew a bite, leaving her in suspense, then said, “I spoke with the hospital.”

  She almost dropped her fork and peered at him over the centerpiece. “You didn’t! Can you even do that?”

  He loved to draw things out. He stabbed another bite of turkey.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  He laughed and set his fork down. “I don’t worry that much about ‘can’ or ‘cannot.’ There’s always a way once you find the right people, preferably the ones who are nervous. They tried to tell me that all patient records were strictly confidential and that they had nothing more to say, but when I told them I was your attorney and confronted them with what I knew, we fell right into a discussion about what they couldn’t talk about and what they hoped I and my client wouldn’t talk about either, and from there, lo and behold, they brought up how they might make amends for any pain they may have caused you in exchange for your not pressing matters any further.”

  Her mouth was hanging open. Luckily she’d swallowed just before that. “You were going to sue them?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “It never came up. They wanted this whole thing kept quiet, and all I had to do was wait, just look at them until they were ready to talk about a settlement.” Now he made her wait, maybe to show how it felt. It felt terrible. She was about to break the silence when he wiggled a pointed finger. “Take a peek under your plate.”

  She scrunched down and lifted the edge.

  “Here’s a little piece of my magic,” he said.

  There was an envelope tucked under there. She pulled it out. It had her name on it, Eloise Kramer, written in Seamus’s hand.

  “Go ahead, take a look.”

  She used her butter knife to slit the envelope open, feeling like a volunteer in a magic act. Her reaction was the kind every magician hopes for: wide-eyed astonishment.

  The envelope contained a cashier’s check for fifty thousand dollars.

  The Friday after Thanksgiving, while Christmas shoppers were going nuts at the malls, Dane drove to a Starbucks in Liberty Lake, halfway between Spokane and Coeur d’Alene, to meet a lady for coffee. He spotted her the moment he stepped through the front door. She was the one sitting at a small, round table in the corner, a bulging computer bag at her feet, a twenty-ounce coffee cup on the table between her hands, and red waves and curls covering her shoulders like lush vines in autumn. She met his eyes as he approached.

  “Bernadette Nolan?” he asked.

  She extended her hand and he greeted her.

  They’d reached a unique agreement. She told him over the phone that she could not tell him anything because of confidentiality laws; she couldn’t even let him know whether he had found the right person. Nevertheless, once he described a particular individual they both might know—he did not name her—as an up-and-coming magician who could do card tricks and recall the words “Cadillac,” “purple,” and “zebra,” she agreed to visit with him. It seemed they both realized between the lines that even though she could not talk about the individual, he could, and given that, she was interested.

  He ordered a venti café mocha, nonfat but with whipped cream—his way of splitting the difference—joined her at the table, and they began circling each other verbally. Who was he, who was she, what did he do for a living, what did she do, how long?

  “Just how did you happen to call me?” she asked.

  “Half shoe leather, half luck,” he replied. “I called the hospital and got nowhere; I called the Behavioral Health Unit and still got nowhere …”

  “Confidentiality runs through the entire system.”

  “So I discovered—and I admire that. I appreciate it. But I still had some key words: ‘Spokane County Medical Center,’ ‘designated examiner,’ and ‘cute redhead’—her words, not mine. And”—he indicated her hair—“I see you fit all three.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Since I’m not under a confidentiality law I guess I can show this to you.”

  “And of course I can’t comment on it.”

  “Of course. But I suppose you can let me know if there’s any point in us talking.”

  He unfolded a photo of Eloise Kramer as the Hobett, something he clipped from a poster Roger Calhoun gave him. She looked at it carefully.

  “The makeup and the costume don’t help,” Dane admitted.

  “No, they do obscure the likeness, if that’s what you’re trying to show me. And what’s your interest in this?”

  “Management. Coaching. Producing. I’ve found a real talent here but I need to know who and what I’m dealing with.”

  “So it appears she’s working.”

  “Pretty steady. She has a regular gig at a coffee shop in Coeur d’Alene and then she’s booking private functions: you know, birthday parties, church youth groups, conferences. She has a trade show coming up.”

  She was visibly pleased. “I am very, very glad to hear it. Really.” Beyond that, all she could do was slide the photo back across the table.

  He returned the photo
to his pocket. “So why don’t we talk about something outside the bounds of confidentiality?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the system you work in. The hospital, the laws, how patients are handled …”

  “Okay.”

  “How would a patient wind up in the Behavioral Health Unit in the first place?”

  She looked down and traced little patterns on the table with her fingers. “A variety of ways. Some know they have a problem and admit themselves. A family might admit a loved one. The courts may do so.” Now she remained casual, her hands absentmindedly busy but her eyes meeting his. “Sometimes a person will appear to be in a state of mind where they could be a danger to themselves or to others, and if they’re, let’s say, homeless or wandering about and can’t identify themselves, the police can bring them in on a police hold and they can be held for twenty-four to seventy-two hours while they’re evaluated. The designated examiners are appointed by the state to examine the person and determine whether there is imminent risk, in which case the examiners—usually two—would recommend further evaluation. If the attending psychiatrist concurs, the matter would go to a judge who can extend the hold, release the individual, or have the individual sent to a state hospital.”

  She took a sip from her coffee. The pause seemed to signal the turning of a page. “If, on the other hand, the DEs find the patient is no danger to herself or others and recommend release or outpatient treatment, and the attending psychiatrist concurs …” She smiled. “It’s not against the law to be crazy. Anyone can be crazy and still mix with the rest of society as long as they don’t pose a danger.” She leaned toward him slightly. “They can have jobs, they can get training, they can pursue careers.” She held her eyes on him to make her point, then settled back and had another sip of coffee.

  “What if the patient escapes?”

  She gave a knowing half chuckle, as if they’d shared an inside joke. “Oooooooh boy.”

  Dane just waited. This was good.

  She thought about that one, looking at her coffee, looking at him, looking out the window. Finally she drew an audible breath and said, “As far as anyone knows, no patient has ever escaped from the Behavioral Health Unit. Given the security measures, it would be next to impossible.” Then she let her eyes drop off sideways as she added, “And if it did happen, especially after the seventy-two hours had elapsed, it would be such an embarrassment to the unit and to the hospital that”—she thought another moment—“that they could decide to go with the recommendations of the designated examiners and chief psychiatrist, record the patient as officially released, and close the file.”

  Not exactly the answer Dane was expecting. “ ‘Officially released’?”

  “As a matter of record. She would have been released from the hospital anyway, so her leaving on her own at a time of her choosing would be a mere technicality that could be cleared up in the paperwork.”

  “So … in that case the hospital would not be looking for the individual?”

  “Looking … ?”

  “They wouldn’t send people out to find and apprehend the person, sedate them, and bring them back?”

  Her face fell. “Oh, dear.” He could read the incredulity, even dismay, in her face. “No. That’s not … the hospital would not do that. If anything, they would contact the police, and that’s only if the original hold was still in force.”

  “They wouldn’t send two men in an SUV with a taser and a hypodermic—”

  She winced. Her fingers went to her forehead. “Ohhh, Mandy …”

  For Dane, all forward motion stopped. His next thought went on hold. Did she say … ? “Excuse me?”

  She recovered and told him, “I hope you realize that some people live in a different world than ours.”

  He steeled himself, drew on any stagecraft he could muster to look normal, and said, “Mandy can be that way.”

  She signaled him with a slight raise of her hand. “Could we forget I used her name?”

  chapter

  * * *

  23

  It was the classic bottle-and-glass routine. The Hobett started out with a glass and a wine bottle on a table and two tubes to slip over them. “Tube one goes over the glass, tube number two goes over the bottle.” When she lifted the tubes away, “The bottle has become a glass and the glass has become a bottle.” She replaced the tubes, lifted them away again, and the bottle and glass had traded places again. “So you see, you just—oops!” A second bottle appeared from a tube that should have been empty, and from there the trick was on the Hobett as more bottles appeared from the tubes until eight bottles cluttered the table. She played it all for laughs and got plenty, mugging and intentionally fumbling, the unwitting foil through the whole routine.

  Her twist on the routine was when she lined up the eight bottles, blew across their openings to produce a musical scale, and then made them sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” simply by waving her fingers at them. As the bottles ended the song in four-part harmony, she slipped a tube over each one and made it vanish until the last bottle, singing the highest note, disappeared into the tube and went silent. She held up the tube, looked at the audience through it, then put her arm through it, showing it to be empty. Great finish.

  Dane was one of four folks sharing a table just one row back, and he wouldn’t have gotten that seat without a reservation. Every table in McCaffee’s was full, and there were folks sitting in chairs anywhere the chairs would fit. Whatever the room’s maximum legal occupancy, they had to have reached it.

  Roger Calhoun must have been doing well enough to spare a little change. Eloise now had a small stage and backdrop to work from, some spotlights, and some additional recorded background music, something between Sinatra saloon and hip elevator.

  If he were her coach and mentor, Dane could have addressed a few weaknesses in the performance, mainly in the timing of her reactions—just a shade too soon, as if she knew what was going to happen—and in her body placement—sometimes she held the bottles and other objects too high, blocking her face; sometimes she played things too open, where a slight turn of her body would withhold a reveal and increase the surprise. These were small details, easy to fix. Overall, her pacing was just about right and she was connecting with the audience, making eye contact, pulling them in. The wonder, the delight in every little event were still there. She was a natural.

  Just like Mandy.

  Oh, yes. He always came back to that. Much as he tried to watch only her performance, he couldn’t help but watch her. Much as he tried to see Eloise, with every turn of her head, every tease in her eyes, every playful smile, he was seeing memories. He tried again and again to blame it on grief, denial, delusion, fantasy, even coincidence, but such explanations were tiresome and easily trumped by what he’d heard today: her name coming from the lips of a total stranger. Unless he imagined that as well, the supposed “delusion” now existed outside his mind, in the real world, which only restirred the aggravating madness of it all.

  And what in the world could he tell her? As much as he wanted to share his meeting with Bernadette Nolan and alleviate her fears, the good news came with questions, and the answers could make things worse.

  Well, he would step carefully, but he had to go there.

  She was winding up her show, starting the levitation. Some of the folks had seen it before and were shooting sideways glances at the friends they’d brought: This is it. This is what I told you about. Dane was interested in how she would sell it. Was the wonder still there? Was it still an adventure for her as much as for the audience?

  Her feet came off the floor, and the crowd leaned into the act, marveling, questioning, astounded.

  Hmm. Now Dane leaned in. She was trying a different tack, one he wouldn’t have advised: Fear. Dark forces. The unknown. She was acting tentative, extending her hands into space as if something might bite them, her eyes darting about as if seeing something sinister. She was playing it well and giving people the willies.


  Still, Dane winced to himself. This wasn’t consistent with the rest of her act, her wonder-eyed, playful persona. The fun was gone, and he was disappointed. He made a mental note. The goofy Hobett tampering with the dark side? That would have worked better with the Gypsy.

  She’d also trimmed down the routine. No rotations, no gleeful somersaults. She rose a few feet, held herself there in the precarious grip of whatever power supposedly had her, then settled to the floor at the peak of the crowd’s interest. She got her enthusiastic big finish. To Dane’s thinking, the response would have been even better if she’d not “tapped into the unknown” and come back sweating, trembling, and looking faint even as she greeted members of the audience. Some folks asked if she was all right, and her acting was so good they couldn’t be sure from her assurances that she was. As the folks sharing Dane’s table rose to go, a lady said, “Creepy!”

  Well, that said it all. Dane would talk to Eloise about it as soon as the crowd thinned down. They would talk about many things. He scanned the menu.

  “Hello. Would you happen to be Dane Collins?”

  A handsome young man who dressed well and cared about his hair stood by Dane’s table, extending his hand. Dane took it. “That’s right.”

  “Seamus Downey, Miss Kramer’s attorney. May I sit down?”

  Dane didn’t mean to delay an answer. It simply took him a moment to process the words “Miss Kramer’s attorney.” “Uh. Sure. Have a seat.”

  Downey chose the chair directly opposite Dane and planted himself there, spine, shoulders, and chin exuding confidence, authority, maybe even ownership of the table.

  “Miss Kramer’s attorney,” Dane repeated. “No kidding. I didn’t know she had an attorney.”

  Downey put on a smile he learned from another attorney, a banker, or a job interviewer. “Well, we’re good friends mostly, but the longer our relationship the more I’ve accepted the role of legal counsel, watching out for her interests.”

  Your relationship? “How long have you known her?”