The Art of Vanishing (A Lila Maclean Academic Mystery Book 2)
Page 19
The dark glass allowed technicians to keep the booth illuminated inside during performances without bothering the crowd, but the stage was perfectly clear from in here. I made my way across the thickly carpeted floor until I located the closet along the back wall. The door was locked, but my key worked there, too, and I went inside. The closet ran the length of the booth and had shelves along the walls filled with electrical equipment, most of which I didn’t recognize, all with cords coiled up around them. It created a decidedly snake-like effect, and I shivered as I began to move slowly along the shelves, looking for the label Gary had mentioned.
Then I heard the sound of the booth door closing and turned to see who would come through the open closet door. My body tensed completely. This place was creepy, and I wasn’t expecting company.
Jasper entered the closet, and I jumped.
“Sorry. Gary sent me. I should have called out or something. Do you need some help?”
My shoulders relaxed. “Yes,” I said. “Can you please help me find a shelf marked ‘front stage’?”
“Sure. Which ones have you checked?”
“Only these two,” I said, gesturing to the two behind me.
“I’ll take the other side.” We moved in tandem, in slow motion, all the way to the back of the closet.
“Got it.” It was the last shelf on the bottom row on my side. I held the microphone in one hand and kept the key in the other to make sure I left with both of them.
“Great,” Jasper said. I followed him back through the main area of the booth, but right before we exited, he spun around and blocked the door. “But unfortunately, I can’t let you go out there.”
Chapter 22
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the second row of chairs bolted to the floor.
“I’m not going to sit! I’m leaving.” I tried to slip around him to the right.
He lunged, grabbed me by the shoulders, and dragged me over to a chair. I struggled, but it all happened so fast that I couldn’t do anything other than whack him with the microphone, which didn’t seem to faze him. He bent my arms behind me and fastened my wrists with something that cut painfully into my skin. I tried to move, but he had secured me somehow to the vertical bars on the chair back that I had so recently admired.
“Help!” I screamed, leaning forward as far as I could, which wasn’t much, and giving it all I had. “Help me!”
He ripped the mic and key out of my hand and came around in front of me, an odd look playing across his face.
“Gary said this booth is soundproofed. I don’t think anyone can hear you.”
I stared at him. “Jasper, untie me. Please.”
“I can’t. And I apologize if those plastic ties are too tight—I grabbed them from a box backstage, but there weren’t any instructions.”
“They’re incredibly tight. They really hurt.”
“I’m sorry, Lila.”
Trying to ignore the burning in my wrists, I took a deep breath and attempted to reason with him. “Jasper, whatever you’re doing can stop right now. Just let me go and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
“Can’t do it. You know too much. This is for the best.”
“Jasper, I don’t know anything—not a single thing—so could you please let me go?”
“Well, I can’t do that now,” he said exasperatedly. “You’ll tell everyone I’m a psycho.”
“I swear I won’t,” I said. “It’s just a misunderstanding. Between us. Never to be spoken of again.”
The air was charged, to say the least. He pressed his lips into a thin line.
“Sorry.”
“Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s a long story,” he said.
“I do not appear to be going anywhere,” I said angrily.
He perched on the edge of the table. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. That’s the most important thing for you to know.”
I assumed a pleasant, interested face, which was harder than it normally would have been, given the circumstances.
He leaned back on table and crossed his legs. “Damon is going to confess something tonight. Something important. Let’s just say I need things to go the way they need to go.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought. I wiggled my wrists experimentally, trying to be unobtrusive but he noticed, returning from his reverie.
“Stop it,” he said coldly.
“Jasper, what does Damon’s confession have to do with me?” I asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you asked about the manuscript—”
“All I know is that you gave him the manuscript.”
He considered this. “That’s part of it.”
“Did you take it from the library?”
Jasper winced. “It was part of the deal. I didn’t have any choice.”
“You made a deal with Damon?”
Jasper scratched the back of his head but didn’t say anything.
“What’s the deal, Jasper? How did you get ahold of the manuscript?”
“I paid a student two hundred dollars to get it for me.”
“But why?”
“All will become clear soon enough, Lila.” He glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes until show time.” He picked up the microphone and started toward the door.
I spoke softly. “Please let me go afterwards. Since the secret will be out.”
He didn’t respond.
At least I could see the stage from where I was sitting.
All tied up.
Jasper ripped off a piece of duct tape from a roll he materialized from somewhere. I quickly pointed out that he’d just said the room was soundproofed, but he came closer anyway. He placed it carefully over my mouth, explaining he couldn’t have me making any noise while he slipped out the door. He managed to smooth it down firmly even though I was twisting my head from side to side.
I didn’t want him to touch me.
He walked down to the first row of the booth and perused the panel for a moment, then pressed a button and the lights began to glow. Over his shoulder, he said, “I know how to work a board from undergrad. Mina and I both majored in theater. We really are a perfect fit, aren’t we?”
I so did not care right now.
He pushed a few more buttons, sliding one switch toward the top of the panel.
“I want to make sure you can at least hear everything. It’s going to be epic.”
Then he was gone.
I stared at the control board, too far away for me to reach. Then, after a fruitless struggle to release my arms, which only made them ache in addition to the burn, I tried kicking the empty table in front of me. It thumped but didn’t seem to do anything other than making my foot hurt. So I sat there, watching helplessly as audience members took their seats.
Francisco stood near the stage, talking to Gary. Jasper walked over and handed Gary the microphone. Gary switched it out with the one on the lectern. All three of them disappeared backstage. I could now hear the sounds of the audience members—distant and tinny but audible through the new mic.
Wait, was there a chance Francisco knew where I was? Had he been listening when Gary gave me the key? I couldn’t remember where he was in relation to the original request. My brain seemed increasingly fuzzy. I didn’t know if it was from fear or a lack of air. Duct tape on one’s mouth is not only uncomfortable but also restrictive. I concentrated on breathing slowly through my nose in an attempt to slow my heartbeat. The last thing I needed right now was to have a full-on panic attack. Those were hideous enough even without being lashed to a chair and gagged.
My cell phone rang. Probably my mother wondering where I was. The ring tone stopped after a few repeats and I had an idea: if I could get the phone onto the floor, maybe I could press buttons with my feet.
I worried about what Damon was going to confess.
I worried about my mother and what this would mean for their relationship.
I worried about what would happen to Mina when her father said whatever he was going to say.
I worried whether anyone would ever find me up here.
The sounds of the crowd grew louder, and my thoughts churned. If this were a play, the room would be swarming with technicians in charge of special effects. But readings only required regular lights and microphone, which were also controllable backstage. Maybe Gary would come looking for his key? Why hadn’t he done that before, though, when Jasper handed him the microphone? Maybe he’d forgotten. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was more focused on getting to the bar to hang out with his buddies after quitting time.
Curse you, Gary!
Chapter 23
The crowd fell silent when Francisco walked on the stage. He calmly greeted and thanked the audience members for coming—especially if they’d attended the other night. Smoothly, he gave the same introduction to the original reading, pausing for the chancellor’s spiel in the middle as before. Then it was Damon’s turn to come onstage. I had to give him credit for returning after the uncomfortable performance—some people would have cut bait and fled, or whatever the saying was. Perhaps he felt that if he was going to be paid, he should actually give the reading. Or perhaps he wanted to prove he wasn’t the stumbling, slurring person who showed up last time. In any case, this Damon was already different, striding across the stage confidently—he didn’t have his cane this time. He placed his book and reading glasses on the lectern and surveyed the crowd with a broad smile on his face.
“Hello, everyone” he said into the microphone. “Let’s give this another try, shall we?”
A ripple of laughter cut through the audience.
“Last time, as you may or may not know, someone had taken it upon themselves to administer some medicine to me. And, well, you saw the effects. Not my best reading style,” he said ruefully, rubbing his forehead.
There was more laughter.
“But I’ll try to put everything to rights this evening. Thanks for giving me another chance.”
The audience applauded.
Damon opened the book and removed a sheet of paper, which he unfolded. “In fact,” he said, “I’m going to read something completely new. You’ll be the first to hear it.”
Louder applause.
“I’d like to invite some people to join me onstage.” He gestured to someone in the wings, and two Stonedale facilities workers emerged carrying chairs. They placed them behind, and to the side of, the lectern. Damon, in the meantime, went over to the side of the stage and disappeared behind the curtain, reappearing quickly with Mina in tow.
As they walked, she looked uncertainly at him, and he nodded his head. She took a seat. Damon returned to the microphone. “This is Mina Clark, my daughter, who is, I’m proud to say, working on her MFA in creative writing.”
The audience applauded wildly.
“Next, please welcome Jasper Haines, my future son-in-law.” The audience applauded again as Jasper strutted—there was no other word for it—across the stage. He had a wide smile on his face and went straight for the other chair.
“Jasper is currently writing his dissertation on the books which have the grave misfortune to carry my name on them.”
The audience applauded again.
“This is called ‘The Author.’” He put on his reading glasses and began reading from the page now sitting on the lectern. “Once upon a time, there was a farmer in Iowa who wrote a novel. His name was Jasper Haines.”
“This man,” he held his arm out toward Jasper’s chair, “is his grandson.”
There was a flutter of reaction among the audience members.
Jasper’s face was downright gleeful. Mina, on the other hand, stood and took a step toward the lectern. Damon put his arm out, low and to the side, his palm facing her in an unmistakable “stop” signal, and she froze, then sat back down in her seat.
Damon paused, removed his glasses, and continued to speak. He was no longer referring to the page he’d begun reading from.
“The first Jasper was my neighbor, and I sometimes helped him out on the farm—you know, feed the animals, rake up hay, stuff like that. He gave me some money for it, which as a grad student at the university, I really needed. He and his wife Vera were very good to me. I sat right at the supper table with them and their boy Junior night after night.”
He paused. “Vera used to make these wonderful meals—pot roast, mashed potatoes, pie—the works. While Jasper and I worked outside around the farm, she would be in the kitchen for hours whipping up some mighty good eats.”
The audience made appreciative sounds at his gustatory memories.
“As we worked, we often talked about books. Jasper had been a voracious reader since high school. I can remember being impressed with insights he shared about classical myth while we repaired a fence. He was a special fan of the Medusa myth—for him, it captured the dangers of looking truth in the face. In fact, he’d nicknamed the plane he flew in the war after her. Anyway, when I’d worked for them for over a year, Jasper surprised me. When I was leaving one night, he gave me a brown paper bag with a typed manuscript inside. He didn’t say much other than that he wondered if I’d take a look; he was interested to hear what I thought. No one knew he wrote, he said. He didn’t even know why he did it.”
Damon took a breath.
“I was reluctant. I had been struggling with my own novel, which was due by the end of the month if I wanted to graduate. I only had nine chapters written, and I couldn’t seem to go any further. But there was something in his eyes I could relate to…a need of some kind. I certainly understood the desire to have one’s words read. So I agreed, warning him it would probably take several weeks or longer before I could get back to him. He said that wasn’t a problem, whenever I got around to it.”
Damon shifted his weight, gripping the side of the lectern with both hands. “When I began to read, I couldn’t believe it. The book was amazing. I read the whole thing in a matter of days and raced over to the farm to tell him how good it was. Only—” He stopped.
I was so caught up in the story that I found myself leaning forward despite the restraints, as if it would make him continue.
He cleared his throat. “Jasper had died suddenly, in his sleep. One of those things, said the doctor. No explanation for it.”
The audience responded with sympathetic noises. He scratched his head and stared down at the lectern, collecting himself emotionally. Finally, he looked up.
“We all grieved for him. Vera disappeared almost immediately—I think she and Junior went to live with her sister for awhile. It was a tragic thing, them being left suddenly like that, and I was glad they had family to take them in. I tried to decide whether to give her the novel or to respect Jasper’s wishes and keep it a secret. I didn’t know if he’d told her about it or not. Meanwhile, my advisor was pressuring me to submit a novel for the degree, and I didn’t have enough money to pay any more tuition, so out of desperation, I typed up a new title page and turned the manuscript in under my own name.”
There were gasps from the crowd. Damon began to speak faster.
“All I changed was the title, so that it foregrounded the plane. He’d given the colonel in the story the plane, so I knew it had meaning for him. Plus, as I said, we’d often talked about myths, and it made sense to infuse the title with more literary resonance. It wouldn’t hurt anybody, I reasoned. Only my advisor and the other p
eople on my committee would read it. This was long before the internet, back when final writing projects were just stored in file cabinets in a basement on campus somewhere. I’d be able to get out of town, degree in hand, and move on to the next chapter of my life. Maybe if I got a good job, I’d be able to send some money back to Vera, help her out now that Jasper was gone. I never knew anything would come of it, but my professor, unbeknownst to me, mentioned it to a friend who was an agent, and it had been accepted before I even knew it was submitted.” He shook his head. “When the contract arrived, I signed, I’m sorry to say. I had no money. I needed the advance. I had absolutely no idea The Medusa Variation would become as significant as it did.”
When he stopped speaking that time, the room was completely silent. I could feel the tension even through the walls of the booth.
“I became an important author, as they say. It all spun out of control very quickly. So I drank. And drank. And drank some more. But no amount of drink in the world can erase that kind of guilt.”
The silence was shattered by widespread reaction. From my perch, I could see audience members turning to each other and discussing what they just heard. Some of them were motioning angrily. Others were shaking their heads. Jasper was sitting up almost preternaturally straight in his chair, straining to watch. I had to admire his restraint—he probably wanted to jump around the stage doing a victory dance. Mina remained seated with one hand over her mouth, motionless.
Suddenly, the door to the booth flew open.
“Hey! No one’s supposed to be up here—” Gary marched in. “Oh, it’s you, Professor,” he said. For a split second, I thought he was a hallucination I’d conjured up through wishful thinking. When I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them and he was still there, I was so relieved that tears sprang up immediately.
Something like “Mmmmpf!” came out as I tried to speak through the duct tape.