08 Illusion

by Frank Peretti

  He gave the mike back to the sound guy, put on a different hat and jacket than he’d been wearing, and slipped away through the crowd.

  Vahidi was collaring anyone he could find. “Where is she? What happened? Where’s Downey?”

  Everyone was still in shock, with no answers. He never found Seamus Downey. He never would.

  Dane went back into the house, walking slowly, dazed by the memories spontaneously popping up and replaying in his brain. Mandy flying under all those birds. The volcano, and then there was a fight—

  Ouch! Somebody hit him while he was standing in the hallway. He looked around—Oof! Another blow, and it hurt. No one was there but he remembered: Clarence! He beat the snot out of me!

  Zap! He went numb, then his feet hurt, his knees complained, he was out of breath … Oh! That car almost ran over me!

  By the time he got to the living room he’d suffered more pain and bruises and a blow to his stomach that put him on the floor. But he remembered where it all came from, right up to the point when Lemuel pointed a gun at him.

  So this is what it’s like. Mandy, you are one incredible trouper!

  But what’s happened? What’d I miss? As he lay on the floor dabbing blood from his mouth and thinking he might throw up, he recalled, The TV stations were there!

  He crawled to the entertainment center, grabbed the remote, and brought the big screen to life.

  The cameras were focused on the nearly empty bleachers, the crowds milling around and leaving, the stage with the dead and silent volcano.

  Kirschner and Rhodes were still there, talking it up.

  “… and we’re still trying to find out exactly what happened. This, pardon me, but this does not look like part of the act, Mark.”

  “No, Steve, it sure doesn’t. There’s damage, fire, no sign of Mandy Whitacre the magician.”

  A remote, handheld camera was circling the burning wreckage. Fire trucks and firemen were there, hoses dousing the flames.

  Kirschner went on, “You all saw it, that incredible flight of thousands—it had to be thousands—”

  “Oh, at least,” said Rhodes.

  “Thousands of doves and Mandy Whitacre suspended, flying beneath them, and now … we can only guess that this wreckage is all that’s left of the secret mechanism by which that illusion was accomplished.”

  “And something went terribly wrong.”

  “But we don’t know what, and it could be some time before we do know.”

  The two announcers kept talking away, describing what was plainly visible on the screen and telling everyone they didn’t know anything.

  Then Kirschner interrupted himself. “And as we look across the—Oh, my God!” Pause, some mike noise. “You won’t believe this. We’ve just been informed there’s been a major explosion at the Clark County Medical Center. Fire crews are on the site now, and … hang on to your hats: there are … thousands of doves in the building!”

  It hurt to run again, but Preston also had his Jeep Wrangler in the garage, and Dane had the key.

  He parked and limped from three blocks away, past curious onlookers, police cars with lights flashing and radios squawking, fire trucks standing by with nothing much to do and, as he came within a block of the hospital, doves, more doves, and all the more doves the closer he got, as thick as soapsuds in the trees, on the sidewalks, on the overhead wires, on the street signs, fence railings, everywhere. The firemen and police were working around them, wading through them, with no apparent plan as yet what to do with them all. News crews were arriving, cameramen were leaping from their vans. Hospital personnel in uniforms, coveralls, candy striper outfits, even scrubs, stood around, ambled around, clustered in little groups to watch and guess what had happened. Some played with the birds, all of which were notably tame around people.

  Police were stretching out their yellow tape, but Dane went to some candy stripers and let his bruises and bleeding speak for him. The candy stripers helped him along, slipping through the barrier and directing him to one of the hastily set up first aid stations. From there he directed himself into the milling crowds, scanning, jumping to see over heads, picking up information from conversations on every side.

  There had been no major damage—things were knocked over, spilled, and broken, but nothing a mop or broom couldn’t handle. There was no fire, no loss of electrical power, the patients were all safe and were not going to be evacuated. The birds were the biggest problem as far as anyone could see.

  The going story was that something had happened in the basement. The rumors included a gas explosion, a mental patient with a bomb, a terrorist with a bomb, a boiler explosion, a localized earthquake, a faulty foundation, and a sinkhole. No one knew for sure because the basement levels were restricted, only people with the right clearance could go down there, and those people weren’t saying anything.

  Of course, the main question spreading all over the campus was the birds and how they got there. The name “Mandy Whitacre” and the words “Grand Illusion” were popping up.

  The main door was open. Orderlies and janitorial staff were herding and shooing doves out the door with brooms.

  “Dane!” a voice whispered behind him. A hand on his shoulder jerked him around. It was Arnie, wearing a jogging outfit and a billed cap. He immediately took off the cap and jammed it down on Dane’s head, the bill so low it blocked Dane’s eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I woke up back in my bed in Preston’s house, back where I was at six this morning.”

  “Don’t look around, just walk! This way!”

  “It had to be Parmenter. He must have known I was going to get pulled into Mandy’s collective mass. He had the Machine spit me out someplace safe—more than nine hours ago.”

  “No, I mean, what are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

  “Have you found her?”

  Arnie walked him under the ribbon and toward the trees on the edge of the visitor parking. “Oh, yeah, right, we had a lovely reunion in the lobby while all hell was breaking loose. You kidding? The place is nuts right now. They’ve blocked off the basement, all the doors, everything.”

  “We’ve got to find her.”

  “No, you’ve gotta get out of here, that’s what you’ve gotta do. The place is crawling with cops and cameras and everybody’s asking questions. And the two of you seen together? Eeesh! Why don’t you just hang a sign on her? What are you thinking?”

  They ducked on the other side of a tree, keeping their faces toward it.

  “We were wondering what happened to you. One minute you’re there, the next minute—man, what did happen to you? You look like you had a scrape with somebody.”

  Dane nodded. “Twice.”

  “Ehh. Figures. Nothing halfway about you.”

  Dane tried to look around the tree, but Arnie yanked him back. “Hey! Stick with your own plan. If she’s here, we’ll find her.”

  “She’s got to be here.” He nodded toward the doves. “They made it.”

  Arnie chuckled and wagged his head. “I hope to shout they did, and not a feather out of place.” And then, just taking in all the doves, he had to laugh. “Dane, you always were the idea man, I gotta tell ya!”

  “Thank Parmenter.” Dane smiled, not in joy but in hope. “And Preston must have called in a thousand favors.” His attention lingered on some doves perched in the branches above them.

  “Well let’s get you out of town. I’ve already gotten some calls, people wondering if you were mixed up in this.” Arnie noticed Dane staring. “What?”

  There were four doves perched side by side. They were fidgeting, nodding, and bobbing in Dane’s direction, as if they knew him. He spread his arms out straight.

  They flew down and perched on his arms, two on the left, two on the right.

  Arnie did a jaw drop—then stood in front of Dane and the birds, trying to hide them. “What do you say we get ’em out of here?”

  “They’ll let you hold them.”

 
Cradling a bird in each hand, they stole away.

  On the far side of the hospital, as firemen, police, animal control people, and hospital maintenance personnel hurried through a loading door with a variety of fish, bird, and butterfly nets, a maintenance lady in coveralls and billed cap walked by them carrying a broken lamp. She dropped the lamp into a Dumpster beside the loading dock, then continued toward the street, not looking back.

  chapter

  * * *

  53

  Rancher Jack Wright never heard from or saw the weird scientists again, which was fine with him; it was part of the deal. As for the 35.76 concrete blocks, they also were part of the deal. He hauled them away to use in a new pigsty, leaving that isolated little piece of his ranch looking as if no one had ever been there—if anyone even cared to look.

  On Saturday evening at about seven, Dane stepped through the back door into his kitchen. The place was quiet.

  “Hello?” he called, but there was no answer.

  He walked through the house, checking the living room, the downstairs guest room and bath, the rooms upstairs. He stopped by his closet where Mandy’s costumes and wardrobe still hung neatly, touching the sleeve of the blue gown. Passing by his dresser, he studied a recent photo portrait; she was still so lovely.

  He checked his answering machine. No messages. Well, that was part of the plan, cell and land phone silence until they knew which way the winds were blowing, whether the bad guys were listening.

  He drove to the Quik Stop on Highway 95 to use the pay phone. Somewhere in Las Vegas, in a hotel room, a rented office, perhaps the home of one of Arnie’s friends, a telephone rang, but no one answered. He rechecked the number Arnie gave him and dialed again. Still no answer. He returned the receiver to the cradle less than gently, then sighed, resigning himself to a little more waiting, a little more not knowing.

  He returned to the ranch, carried in his luggage, and then brought in Mandy’s four doves in their cage. They were tired, ready to sleep, so he set them in the utility room with the light off so they could call it a night.

  Shirley had left all his mail in a pile on the kitchen counter and a note catching him up on the spraying she’d done, getting a new drive belt for the lawn mower, replacing the bulbs in the shop with the brighter wattage he wanted, having Susan the housekeeper skip a week and … blah blah blah, thank you, Shirley, he was too tired, too edgy to read the rest.

  He fixed himself a bowl of oat flakes, something quick and easy, and settled in front of his computer to see if he could get any news.

  The EPA had taken immediate interest in the “hazardous waste spill” in that vacant lot. A remediation crew showed up within an hour, cordoned off the area, and worked through the night to sanitize it, replacing six inches of topsoil and hydroseeding grass. The agency also took over the subbasement of the hospital, declaring those floors an environmental hazard and sealing them off. Dane had to wonder why a hospital was allowed to remain open sitting on top of an environmental hazard, but of course there was no explanation.

  Public outcry prevented any killing of the doves, so they were being captured to be sold on the Internet, distributed to pet stores, employed by local magicians, adopted by bird lovers from all over the country. White doves were free for the catching and selling dirt cheap in Las Vegas.

  As for deaths, casualties, missing persons, even what became of Mandy Whitacre, the newspeople had nothing, and the government was strangely, silently uninvolved.

  Dane sighed and let his head drop. He didn’t know, would probably never know, what Parmenter’s “contingency plan” was, but if Dane threw Mandy’s collective mass off, there would have been only one way to counterbalance it. He probably would never see the venerable scientist again.

  The Orpheus Hotel Casino had already booked another act for the big room in the aftermath of the great and mysterious tragedy: Gabriel’s Magic, featuring the famous television magician Preston Gabriel, who just happened to have some time available. Well, that worked. The Orpheus got a spike in name recognition no amount of money could buy and a great show besides. Now Dane didn’t feel quite so bad.

  He closed the computer and rubbed his eyes, so very tired. To stay out of airports where he might be seen or looked for, he’d driven Preston’s Wrangler from Vegas to Salt Lake City, where he slept in a cheap room, then drove all day Saturday to get home … to an empty house, and no word.

  He tried to sleep that night and finally dropped off. The telephone let him sleep; it never made a sound.

  Sunday morning the weather was cheerful, a rare occurrence for March in Idaho. It helped. There wasn’t a swelling bud or a new blade of grass in sight, but it helped. Dane checked the answering machine again—it was a little irrational, but he might have missed something. No messages.

  All right. He’d take another trip down to the Quik Stop and try the number again. He grabbed his coat from the closet—

  A cooing from the utility room stopped him. Oh, brother. Can’t it wait?

  Well …

  If all things were ordinary, he would have left them there until he got back, but these were not just four little doves among many, these were Bonkers, Carson, Lily, and Maybelle. They were stars, ultimate aviators, and most of all, heroes. He saw them fly with Mandy through the whole thing and it tugged at his heart like crazy. However things turned out, he owed them.

  And, of course, there was Mandy. She’d want them well taken care of.

  He brought them into the kitchen and they were glad to see him, sidestepping back and forth on their perches, chirping, bobbing around. He gave them some breakfast—fresh seeds, water, celery tops from the refrigerator—and leaned on his elbows watching them scarf it all down. “I wonder if you guys even have a clue what you did.”

  They just kept eating, cooing, and chirping.

  He shrugged. All in a day’s work. Another day, another seed, another leaf of celery.

  They needed to get out of this cage. It seemed to Dane like living in a hotel room, out of a suitcase. They needed to be home in their coop, where they had plenty of room to move and fly around. “Okay, guys, let’s go.”

  The dove coop was a temporary and adequate installation inside the shop building, just the right home for the doves until spring warmed things up and they could spend more time outside. The shop building was just a short walk down the path toward Mandy’s Meadow.

  The morning sun made it a pleasant walk—warm colors, warmth on Dane’s south shoulder, the snow all gone, and a little steam coming off the barn roof. Some crocuses were coming up. The doves were fluttering, looking all around, excited.

  He opened the door to the shop and went inside.

  “Wow! You remember this place, don’t you?” They were really hopping and chirping, more agitated than he expected. They must really be glad to be home.

  The cage door flipped open.

  “What? Hey, whoa, whoa, don’t—!”

  They crowded through it, jostling, bumping, climbing over each other.

  In all his effort to keep them in their cage he didn’t notice he’d left the shop door open.

  “No! No no no no no!”

  If it had been a movie with somebody else climbing the walls and grabbing the air trying to catch four ultimate aviators, Dane would have gotten the biggest laugh out of it, but it wasn’t and he wasn’t. He could have sworn they were working as a team, faking him out until they all got out the door.

  The door. Why didn’t I just close the door?

  Stupid. No, preoccupied. I’ve been through a lot.

  No, stupid.

  He stepped through the door and, for the sake of his own dignity and self-worth, closed it after him. The doves were up by the house aviating, making wild circles and loops over the driveway, showing off, having the time of their lives. “Yeah, rub it in.”

  The phone rang in the kitchen.

  “Oohhh!” When it rained, it poured. Loose doves and the phone ringing. If Dane had been sitting on the toil
et right now the morning would have been perfect.

  He ran up the pathway, all stops out, pedal to the metal, his legs still sore from the last big run, and got to the kitchen door as the answering machine picked up. “Hi, this is Dane. Please leave a short message …”

  Who? Who is it?

  The doves were soaring high, heading down the driveway, as good as gone.

  He almost went inside to hear the message but stopped on the threshold.

  “Hi, this is Jack Lewis …” Arnie’s code name! “Just want you to know that your order is still in process”—they hadn’t found Mandy yet—“but be advised the, uh, the means of shipping is, uh, unavailable … well, it’s gone, we can’t find it.” They couldn’t locate her blue Volkswagen. “However, if you have any information you can get back to us at …”

  Arnie was leaving a new number to call, but Dane was watching the doves circle down toward the front gate, then perch, hop, and fly in short bursts along the top of the paddock fence, following …

  A blue Volkswagen, rolling, jostling, whirring up the driveway. Arnie hung up, and Dane didn’t care. He stepped into the driveway, wanting only to see who was behind the wheel. When the little car came near the house and into the winter-thin shade of the aspens, he could see through the windshield.

  It was …

  What world was he living in now? Had he fallen from the real world into another madness, or from one madness, one dream, into another? Could he really believe what he was seeing, or was another reality or illusion or goofy deflection in the space-time watchamacallit going to horn in and change everything again? He wanted to believe, but he couldn’t. He thought he’d be ready and could handle it, but all he could do was stand there.

  When she’d stopped the Bug, set the brake, and turned off the engine, she looked at him through the car window for the longest time, as if she were having the very same questions, as if that pane of glass could shield her from answers she couldn’t bear.

  She was glad he remained so still, so everyday human with his bruises, tousled morning hair, and confounded expression. She needed a good, reassuring look at him before she opened the car door—and maybe he needed that kind of look at her.