08 Illusion

by Frank Peretti

  At least that was the plan. She felt nervous, and she let it show.

  From the ground it looked great. Max the executioner put a dark hood over Mandy’s head, then he and another leather-clad killer—Carl, the stage crew man—plucked her up as if she weighed nothing and set her inside the trunk. They took the chains dangling from her manacles and leg irons and locked them to the outside of the trunk for an extra measure of escapeproofing, then scrunched her down inside and slammed down the lid. The chains and locks on the trunk were noisy on purpose; Max and Carl made them clink and clatter for added effect as they bound up the trunk and padlocked it shut.

  The big crane was still around—yeah, a construction crane in the Middle Ages. Just had to roll with it. Max hooked the cable to the trunk, and the crane hoisted the trunk up to sixty feet above the stage.

  The routine had a timer—an hourglass big enough for people in the back to see. Max turned it over, and the sand began to run down. Mandy had one minute to escape. (“Or what?” she’d asked Seamus. “It’s a time limit,” he said. “Every escape needs a time limit.”)

  Every neck was craned, every eye was on that trunk as it rocked and teetered on the end of the cable, giving the appearance of a desperate struggle inside. Some folks began to cheer, and the crowd picked it up: “C’mon, Mandy! Man-DEE! Man-DEE! Man-DEE!” As the sand ran down to the last grains, some started a countdown.

  BOOM! Before the countdown reached zero or the last grain of sand dropped through, there was an explosion, gasps and screams from the crowd, a puff of white smoke. The trunk fell open, its ends and bottom hinged together and hanging end to end, its sides swinging like doors on either side of the hanging bottom. The chains and locks dangled, conquered and useless, and second best part of all, the leg irons and manacles hung at the end of their chains, empty.

  The best part was the four doves that flew out of the disassembled trunk and spiraled upward in perfect circles, as evenly spaced from each other as the points on a compass, drawing everyone’s eyes to a tiny figure perched on the very top of the building, twenty-four stories up. She was dressed in a white jumpsuit, harness, and safety helmet and was waving to everyone.

  Was it really she? The folks couldn’t believe it but did, and they loved it. The tiny lady turned to face the towering wall, then rappelled down the side of the building, kicking away from the wall in wide arcs and throwing in some spins, putting on a show while the doves circled about her. She dropped to within Max and Carl’s reach, they guided her to a triumphant landing on the stage, and the doves landed, two on each arm.

  Ta-da! “I am Mandy Whitacre!”

  It wasn’t until Mandy was safe in her dressing room that she got the shakes, same as she did after the rehearsals. Adrenaline rush. Nothing like dangling twenty-four stories above the ground to drive out the lethargy. Every cell in her body was reliving it.

  It seemed to have driven out the worry, too. Sitting at her dressing table and calming herself with chamomile tea, she warmed to the fact that it had been nearly two weeks since her perilous visit to Clark County Medical Center, where she could have been arrested, and her face-to-face with Doris Branson, the hotel manager who could have had her fired. Nothing had come of them: no police at her door, no pink slip from upstairs. Instead, the new escape had already gotten attention in the press and was sure to gain more; despite it being the slow season, she was more than holding her own in the lounge, and Mr. Vahidi was talking with Seamus about a new contract, maybe even a move from the lounge to the big room. Not bad for a first-timer in big, glittery Vegas.

  As for her mental condition or gift or alien lineage or whatever it was, she was going with it, keeping it her own little secret. It helped to look down and see herself safe on the stage while she was hanging from that rope, and she’d been a good girl since the hospital; she hadn’t hurt anybody.

  There was a familiar knock at the door. “Hi, Julio, come on in.”

  He wasn’t quite himself as he handed her another envelope.

  Now she wasn’t quite herself. “Who’s this from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s not from Ms. Branson, is it?”

  He smiled grimly. “Oh, I doubt that.”

  She turned it over and over. There was only her name on the front.

  “Guess you haven’t heard,” he said.

  “Heard what?”

  “Doris Branson committed suicide on Wednesday.”

  Now, that took a good piece of time to sink in. Oh, wow. So much for feeling good or peaceful. “You’re kidding.”

  “She was gonna be fired ’cause of being drunk on the job. Guess she ended it first.”

  “Wow” was all she could say.

  Julio got his chocolate and left.

  No wonder I haven’t heard anything, she thought, and then felt evil and selfish for thinking such a thing. It wasn’t her fault, was it? She hadn’t come anywhere near Doris that day, hadn’t touched her at all, and Doris did have a history, didn’t she? Doris created her own problems and was trying to blame her, that’s what really happened. There was a prior mental and emotional thing going here, had to be.

  No, no, don’t even go there. You didn’t ask for any of this, you didn’t have anything to do with it, let it go.

  But now she was all the more nervous about the little envelope. She picked up her nail file and slit it open. Inside was a news clipping. Oh. Maybe it was about her new escape routine; maybe it was a favorable review. Maybe …

  It was an obituary. Ernest James Myers had passed away in the hospital January 31, the day after their conversation in his hospital room—if you could call it a conversation. A simple, handwritten note was paper-clipped to the obit: “Just thought you should know.”

  No signature.

  chapter

  * * *

  41

  The seven-o’clock show was the beginning of sorrows. Mandy kept smiling, charming, dancing, and making ’em laugh, but every routine, line of banter, and dance step felt like climbing uphill wearing lead weights. Ernie and Doris were dead, and though she managed to empty her mind of fears and questions that could be verbalized—how else could she do the stunts?—she couldn’t shake a sixth-sense connection with those two and that hospital and a debilitating dread that whatever got Ernie and Doris was crawling along that connection on its way to her. If ever she was in showbiz, it was that night; she was putting on the biggest act, the happiest facade she could muster.

  The nine-o’clock show …

  Of course, the dread played right into what happened. If she hadn’t been afraid to begin with, she might have found another way to play through the difficulty, get a laugh, and move on. She’d put up with hecklers before—a tipsy lodge member now and then, a smart-aleck kid all too often—but these men were denizens of a place she’d never been, an intentional evil she’d never encountered. They got to her, they scared her, and it was the worst of all nights to do such a thing.

  The show was rolling along well enough, into its second half. She could feel her inner clock ticking down the minutes before she could take her bow, call it a night, and go home to sort things out. She was sitting in a chair, mugging and bantering with two handsome volunteers from the audience: Buck—now, there was a studly name, real or not—who was in the process of tying her to the chair with yards and yards of rope; and Jim, who was feeding quarter-inch slingshot pellets from a little box into her mouth so she could spit at balloons set up across the stage.

  The first alarm signals came from the rude, invasive manner Jim stuffed the pellets in her mouth. She made goofy noises and tried to talk with her mouth full to get some laughs, but he was having a strange kind of fun that told her, too late, that she’d called up the wrong volunteers.

  Buck was cinching the ropes so tight they hurt, but she kept smiling, making a joke out of it. “Don’t cut off my circulation, I still have half a show to do.” He wrapped the ropes around her body and the back of the chair, then planted his foot on
the back of the chair and yanked them tight, making her grunt with pain and a foreboding she made a silly face about.

  Four of Jim and Buck’s buddies were in the third row, loud and obnoxious, egging them on: “All right, Buck, she’s yours now!” “Make her moan, Buck!” “Tighter, Buck, she wants it!”

  “Okay, back off,” she told Jim, and though she hoped the audience didn’t catch it, she really meant it. He backed off and let her try spitting the pellets at the balloons.

  Pfft! Bang! One balloon down. Cheers from the crowd. She gave them a comical face, manipulating the pellets around in her mouth in exaggerated fashion.

  Oh! Buck tied one ankle to the leg of the chair and he wasn’t merciful.

  I gotta get through this. Keep ’em laughing.

  Pfft! Bang! Second balloon down.

  Ouch! Buck tied the other ankle, this time with some extra loops. Her foot was going numb.

  Okay, this stunt’s getting scratched. Never again, not in this town. What was Seamus thinking?

  Pfft! She missed, but as Dane once told her, you have to show a little vulnerability so people can identify with you.

  Vulnerability? How much rope was there, anyway? Buck wasn’t wasting any of it. Now he was tying her hands behind the chair, and that hurt, too. She couldn’t let the audience know. She kept smiling.

  “Take her, Buck!” a goon hollered.

  “How?” another joked.

  “Don’t worry,” said Buck.

  Pfft! Mandy popped the third balloon and looked around for Andy. She might need him. The lights blinded her. She couldn’t see him.

  One balloon left. One pellet still in her mouth. She decided to keep the pellet.

  Buck finished the last knot, and Mandy was so fixed to that chair she couldn’t move an arm, a leg, anything. He walked around the chair, leering at her, very proud of himself.

  The goons in the third row started to whoop. “Hey, still got one balloon left!” “Forget those balloons!”

  The show must go on. Mandy followed the script. She was supposed to have one of the volunteers time her escape. “Okay, Jim, you got a watch?”

  “Oh, I want to watch!” he said.

  Some in the audience thought that was funny, but apart from the hoots of the Filthy Four, it got only a halfhearted laugh. Folks were beginning to have doubts about this show, and Mandy could feel it.

  “No, a watch!” she said, keeping it all in fun. “I need you to be the timer.”

  “Time you or Buck?” a goon hollered.

  She wasn’t ready for it, couldn’t believe it was happening. Without warning, Buck pounced from behind her and locked his mouth over hers, making a long, lewd show of it. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She tried to turn her head away, but he stayed right on her, even gripped her head from behind and wouldn’t let her go. His buddies in the third row were on their feet, cheering. Jim threw up both arms as if seeing a touchdown, “YAHHHH!”

  The crowd reaction was mixed. Most were trying to play along and be good sports, laughing, but the mood was going south.

  Imprisoned. At their mercy. Icy, animal terror coursed through her. She groped at the ropes from outside herself, digging, yanking. The ropes were tight, the knots stubborn.

  He put his hand on her waist, started working his way up.

  She couldn’t think of anything funny. She could only feel his hand exploring her. The whole room became tea-stained; there was a low rumble and the smell of smoke; other times, other Bucks, other Jims, other Mandys began to layer atop the present …

  PING! She spit the pellet into his mouth, breaking off his front tooth.

  He jerked backward, staggering,

  … his mouth over hers, making a long, lewd show …

  … jerked backward, staggering …

  his hand to his mouth.

  … saw the blood on his hand …

  She could see him from behind, from the audience, from above, from anywhere she wanted. She also saw herself, bound to the chair. From a hundred directions, she grabbed for the ropes.

  … grabbed for the ropes …

  … see him from anywhere she wanted …

  He saw the blood on his hand and cursed her, getting mad enough to be stupid.

  With all the other hands she could find she dug at the knots and they finally came loose. She grabbed for the ropes.

  The ropes came alive, uncoiling like snakes, and the audience let out a cheer. The heroine was beginning to rally!

  … about to backhand her …

  Buck stepped up and would have backhanded her—

  One of her threw the rope around his ankle and yanked him backward.

  … yanked him backward; he body-slammed …

  He body slammed the stage, and it had to have hurt.

  … she yanked the rope and he went sprawling …

  … he went sprawling …

  … she came out of the chair …

  The audience didn’t laugh. They weren’t sure what to make of this.

  Jim was stunned and squatted down to check on his buddy.

  The stage was moving like a ship on a rough sea. Mandy’s hands broke free as the rope fell away, but her body was tied fast to the chair.

  She was standing midstage, addressing the audience, rubbing her sore wrists. “Wow! Guess you got a real show tonight!”

  … her hands broke free …

  She grabbed a pellet out of the little box beside her, spilling all the others, and popped it into her mouth.

  Now Jim cursed her, rising, coming toward her.

  She was working the ropes that bound her to the chair.

  … standing in front of him … he was coming toward her …

  She was in the chair, but standing there, too. The standing Mandy was no boxer, but anger and impulse made her throw a vicious punch to his face.

  … the rope snaked behind him …

  She didn’t feel a thing, but he reeled back, stunned, nose bleeding.

  She held the rope in many hands.

  It snaked behind him and looped around his chest. He fought it, beat at it, tried to grab hold, but it was alive, still coiling around him, keeping him busy.

  … Buck got to his feet …

  … Pfft! Try using that tonight! …

  The audience was getting noisy, some cheering, some questioning, everybody murmuring. The goons were on their feet, trying to decide what to do.

  Buck got to his feet …

  It used to work on the moose and deer that ate her and Daddy’s flowers, only she used a slingshot to ping them in the ribs. She spit this pellet where it would really hurt, and it did. Buck doubled over.

  “Try using that tonight, you son of a——” Yes. She really said it, loudly, and she meant it. She wanted to hurt him, and she wasn’t through.

  Her ankles were free, and the other Mandys were frantically working, uncoiling the rope from around her, whipping and snaking it above the stage. One half tangled itself around Jim, the other half around Buck… .

  From above, she grabbed hold of the rope.

  The middle of the rope hefted upward as if in the hand of an invisible giant. Their bodies came off the stage, collided, then dropped in a heap.

  … then dropped in a heap …

  … Jim doubled over, hit in the groin …

  She rose from the chair, rubbing her sore wrists.

  … still bound to the chair, afraid …

  By now, at long last, Andy, Carl, and two security guys ran onto the stage and gathered up Jim and Buck with the ropes still around them.

  Mandy wasn’t thinking much, just raging, wanting to hit somebody, bite somebody. She locked eyes with the four goons in the third row, her fists clenching …

  They cleared out, heads down and arms raised to shield themselves.

  She, in some form, would have gone after them, but Andy put out a gentle hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay, they’re leaving.”

  He and the other men hauled Jim and Buck up the c
enter aisle and out the back.

  Dead space. Mandy stood in the spotlight, hair tousled, face crimson and slick with sweat, her lipstick smeared, half gone. From somewhere she heard rustling, murmuring …

  Oh. There was still an audience sitting there. She rubbed her sore wrists and worked up a smile even though her voice was unsteady. “Wow! Guess you got a real show tonight!”

  They were still undecided how to feel about it.

  In Mandy’s worlds, there were still Jims and Bucks on the stage, Mandys fighting and yanking ropes, different audiences watching different parts of what had just happened, was still happening, was going to happen.

  Ladies and gentlemen, came a voice.

  … let’s have a round of applause …

  … prop manager …

  She focused on the lounge and audience that weren’t rolling, shifting, and tea-stained. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a round of applause for Buck Johnson, our prop manager, and Jimmy Hansen, our, uh, hairdresser!”

  … our, uh, hairdresser …

  … Whoo! They had me scared …

  Now they were astounded, feeling fooled, and so relieved—at least some of them were.

  Johnson? Hansen? She hadn’t a clue what their last names were. “Whoo! They had me scared!”

  … had me scared!

  … me scared!

  Andy made the decision and ordered the curtain dropped. He made an announcement over the sound system that the show would close early. The people filed out of the lounge in many moods. Some were cheering for the brave girl, some thought it was the sickest stunt they’d ever seen, some felt gypped, everybody left the lounge talking about it.

  The crew went to work. There was blood to mop from the stage and about a hundred quarter-inch steel pellets to sweep up.

  Back in the dressing room there was yelling and screaming, mostly by Mandy, at Andy: What took him so long? How could he let them do that to her? Wasn’t he watching? How dare he close her show?

  Andy kept trying to calm her down: he wasn’t sure how far to let it go, was wondering if she could play her way through it, didn’t know they’d be that brazen, was just about to put a halt to it, was she all right?