by Brad Meltzer
Nola stood there a moment. “I want him,” she decided, pulling Dooch close, into a hug.
Dooch relished the touch, rubbing his cheek against Nola’s arm. He didn’t smell at all, and he moved just like a cat.
“Nola, there’s something in everyone that’s beautiful. Your job is to unlock it. That sounds like a yoga quote, but it’s gospel.”
Nola nodded, not realizing how soon she’d need those words. It would be one of the most important lessons of her life.
“I’m glad this is gonna work out,” Ms. Sable added. “Just make sure it’s okay with your dad.”
58
Washington, DC
Today
The bullet hit Houdini in the center of his esophagus.
“Hgkkkk!”
He was still in mid-chew, still grinning at Nola—as a small black bullet hole appeared in his neck. He tried clearing his throat. It was filled with blood.
He grabbed his own neck, his body lurching backward against the sink in the kitchenette. It helped him keep his balance until his eyes went wide, then rolled backward too. His legs buckled.
Nola knew what came next.
He hit the linoleum like a discarded marionette, blood pouring from his throat.
“Nola, are you nuts!?” Zig yelled. “How could you—?”
The Curtain spun backward, her claw no longer at Nola’s neck as she elbowed Zig in the face, just like Nola gambled she would.
Whoever The Curtain was, she was a pro. Her top priority would always be self-preservation. It was a risk Nola had to take; if she didn’t shoot Houdini, she and Zig would already be—
“Fuh!” Zig groaned, stumbling sideways, slipping on the shattered glass, blood pouring from his nose.
The Curtain didn’t let up. Storming toward Zig, she sliced at his hand, her metal claws tearing his skin and sending his knife flying. But as The Curtain was about to learn, there’s a cost to turning your back on Nola.
Without a breath of hesitation, Nola raised her gun, aimed it at the back of The Curtain’s head, and pulled the trigger.
Blam!
A tall panel of frosted glass—next to where the door used to be—shattered from the stray bullet. Nola was surprised by her own miss. The Curtain was fast, especially for someone her size.
Nola raised her gun again. Same spot. Back of The Curtain’s head.
In a blur, The Curtain spun with a roundhouse kick aimed at Nola’s gun.
Nola saw it coming, but she had to give The Curtain credit. Whoever this woman was, she was a brawler. Well trained too. The roundhouse kick wasn’t karate or tae kwon do. Jeet Kune Do, Nola decided, noticing the way The Curtain’s leg swept like a hook. She was going for speed, not power. Not that it’d help The Curtain here.
Nola put up a blocking elbow. She had to use her shooting hand, had to move her gun.
The Curtain grinned, snapping her kick. Nola stood her ground, absorbing the impact and realizing half a second too late that the hook kick was just a distraction, a setup for The Curtain to get close enough to—
With a swipe of her hand, The Curtain sank her metal claws deep into the inside of Nola’s wrist, slicing it open.
Nola made a noise, a groan, but she wouldn’t cry out, even as the blood trickled toward her elbow.
Dumb, Nola cursed herself. Should’ve seen that coming.
In the distance, she heard the faint sound of sirens. The police were still blocks away. But as Nola felt her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears, she could hear…everything, like every noise in the universe was suddenly isolated and— There. Another sound. Coming from the front of the office. Someone sobbing. The receptionist was under her desk, crying. When the world sounds like this…Nola knew she was going into shock.
Nola tried holding tight to her gun—Don’t let it go!—but the pain… Forget the pain. Put it away. She’d been in worse fights. She thought of Royall and the friends he brought home, the things they’d say. She put the pain of those nights away. She’d bury this too.
Looking down, Nola clutched the gun with everything she had. But there was nothing in her hand. The gun had fallen to the floor. Barely three seconds had passed. Gripping her own bleeding wrist, Nola fought to stay on her feet.
A few feet away, Zig was still on the ground, bleeding from his nose and finally getting his bearings. Barely three more seconds had passed.
“You have about four minutes before you pass out,” The Curtain said, picking up Nola’s gun, admiring the weight. “Approximately six minutes until you hemorrhage.” Pressing her lips together, The Curtain grinned at her own victory, then aimed the gun at Nola’s chest and gripped the trigger. “This is for making me drink that shitty coffee.”
“No!” Zig screamed, fighting to get up.
Blam!
Nola intentionally turned toward the bullet.
Instead of hitting Nola in the chest, the bullet burrowed just below her collarbone. She was still clutching her own wrist, the blood seeping between her fingers as the world went blurry, then black.
Her last thought was about the color of her own blood and how it looked in this green fluorescent light. It gave the crimson a hint of purple. There was a color just like that on the color wheel. It was called…Carmine, she finally remembered as she fell to the floor, just shy of the conference table.
Storming toward her, The Curtain leaned down over Nola’s unconscious body and pressed the barrel of the gun to the side of Nola’s head. Her finger tightened around the trigger and—
“Fuuh!” The Curtain roared in pain as Zig plunged his knife through her field jacket and deep into the back of The Curtain’s shoulder blade.
The knife was halfway in when it hit bone. Zig gave it a sharp twist, widening the wound, which made The Curtain drop her gun. It was a move he learned from the dozens of fallen service members who’d been ambushed in hand-to-hand attacks—and whose rounded gashes he’d stitched up so many times.
Zig thought the pain would make her pass out. He couldn’t be more wrong.
“You’re fucking dead!” The Curtain boomed, still on her feet, her back to him, as she thrashed and swung wildly.
To protect himself, Zig had to let go of the knife, which was still in her shoulder. Thrusting her elbow, then a backward headbutt, she clipped him in the gut, then the chin. Her metal claw scratched at his leg. It was like he was standing behind a wild bull and trying to hold it in a headlock.
“Enough!” Zig said, still directly behind her. His chest bumped into her back as he gripped her neck and dug his fingers above the hollow of her throat. The more he pressed into her larynx, the harder it was for her to breathe.
“Hhh,” The Curtain gasped, still violently thrashing, still trying to stab him with her claw. He held his arms straight out to keep her away. Outside, in the distance, the sirens were getting louder.
Zig squeezed even harder. The knife was still sticking out of The Curtain’s shoulder. She tried to reach for it, tried to grab at him. Zig tightened his grip as she shoved herself backward. Her ponytail hit Zig in the face. Zig squeezed even tighter. Within seconds, The Curtain’s movements slowed down, her arms sagging to her sides.
No.
Not to her sides. She reached for something in her army coat, in the lower left pocket. A gun? Another claw?
Tung.
The round metal object hit the floor, rolling like a wobbly egg toward Nola’s lifeless body.
It was a grenade.
Dangling from The Curtain’s middle finger was the pin.
59
Oh, shit.
The Curtain slumped sideways, nearly unconscious. The trigger—the metal lever on the side of the grenade—was at Zig’s feet. No question…it was live.
Oh, shit.
Outside, the sirens were shrieking loudly. The police— If they ran in now—
“Nola, get up!” Zig shouted.
She didn’t move. Didn’t look like she was even breathing. She was turned on her side in a puddle of glas
s shards and blood, still lifelessly holding her own wrist.
Zig dropped to his knees next to her, looking for a pulse. Her skin was gray, but her chest… She was breathing.
He tried to lift her. There wasn’t time. Back at Dover, grenade injuries were a regular occurrence. Once the pin was pulled and the trigger got loose, the delay fuse on a grenade was barely five seconds.
Four…three…
The sirens were screaming. The police were pulling up.
Behind Zig, someone was coughing. The Curtain. She was awake, hunched over and down on all fours, air now filling her lungs. The knife was still sticking out of her back, reminding Zig of the sword in the stone.
The Curtain turned toward him. “Now…” she coughed, her dark eyes on Zig, “we all die together.”
“No, asshole,” Zig said. “Just you.”
Springing to his feet, he kicked the grenade back toward The Curtain, then threw all of his weight onto the wide side of the conference table, tipping it toward himself and Nola.
The table landed on its side with a chomp. Zig gave it another tug, letting momentum do the rest. As the table flipped upside down and toward them, Zig pounced on Nola, covering her body with his own. The table slammed him from behind, sandwiching them together.
Zig shut his eyes and started praying, the same prayer he’d been saying far too often lately. Magpie, I hope I’m wrong about the afterlife, because I really can’t wait to see you.
Two…one…
Zig’s final thought was a fleeting one, about how grenades work—by projecting bits of metal into vital organs—and hoping that if his body got sent to Dover, Louisa would be the one to embalm him rather than Wil. Because Wil was a jerkoff.
Zig shut his eyes, holding tight to Nola and pressing his forehead against hers. And then…
Nothing.
Silence.
He gave it another few seconds.
Still nothing.
Opening his eyes, Zig glanced over his shoulder. From his angle down on the ground, the slanted table gave him only a small triangular view of the conference room, which was covered in glass. He shoved the table slightly so he—
There. On the floor. Right where he kicked it.
The grenade.
It was just sitting there, fully intact.
Confused, Zig gave the heavy table a shove, pushing it aside. The Curtain and Houdini…both of them…gone.
Mothertrucker. The grenade…it was fake. Dumb old man, he scolded himself. So stupid to fall for such an easy distraction.
Along the floor, there was a trail of blood that led to the back of the office, past the kitchenette. There was a click as the fire door slapped shut. When The Curtain left, she was carrying Houdini’s body.
Maybe Zig could still catch her. Certainly he could. But only if he left Nola.
If Zig were smart, he’d run right now—leave Nola to the cops. They’d get her the medical attention she needed. And they’d also start asking questions, which would cause a brand-new set of problems.
Zig thought back to the magic shop, to what the old magician Caesar had said about the big move covering the small one. Whatever Operation Bluebook was doing with those suitcases full of money, someone in the military was making really big moves to keep this all quiet. It was the same with—who was that woman? The Native American? No rank, ribbons, or name tag on her army jacket. That’s how Uncle Sam goes in when they don’t want to risk being traced to a particular mission. If she’s active military… Big moves were definitely happening. That’s why Colonel Hsu, Master Guns, and everyone else at Dover were suddenly working double time to see why Zig was so interested in this case.
So why was Zig so interested?
He stared down at Nola on the ground, her head awkwardly sagging sideways. To the untrained eye, she looked like a corpse—but Zig knew, the dead have a stillness and weight that can’t be replicated. Nola was alive. And if everyone on the other side was active military, there was only one way to keep her that way.
“I got you,” he whispered, scooping Nola into his arms. He grabbed her gun too, just in case. As he lifted Nola, her white hair flowed away from her face, revealing the scarred and jagged edge of her left ear. Zig was embarrassed by how good it made him feel.
“G-Get…Get off me…!” Nola growled, her words slurring, her eyes still closed. “I…I don’t need your help…”
Zig ignored her, eyeing the wound below her collarbone. Clean hit. Even if the bullet was still inside, that was good—meant it could be stitched.
The sirens outside were deafening. There was a screech of brakes. The cops were arriving.
Zig headed toward the back door, cradling her as he kicked it open and darted out into the cold. He glanced around. The alley was wide—big enough for a truck—but completely empty. Thank God it was dark.
“Mongol…F-Faber…Staedtler…Ticonderoga…” Nola mumbled.
“Ticonderoga? That a person or a place?”
Nola shook her head, blinking herself awake and wincing in pain. “Y-You better be able to stitch me together,” she muttered.
60
Caesar, we got problems!”
No one answered.
“Caesar, get out here—I need help!” Zig shouted, bursting into the magic shop. He had left Nola lying across the backseat of his car, floating in and out of consciousness. “I need a first aid kit! And a sewing kit if you’ve got it!”
Zig made it all the way to the front counter before he noticed the smell—the smell he knew so well from Dover—the coppery stench from when a body was still fresh. The smell of blood.
“Caesar, if you’re about to jump out wearing a gorilla mask, please do it n—”
On Zig’s right, down one of the aisles, he spotted a small dark puddle seeping from the foot of one of the bookcases, coming from the aisle behind it.
Zig’s chest felt like it was hollowed out with a metal rake.
He ran to the next aisle. The puddle was larger there. At eye level, a shelf filled with bendable magic wands and rubbery pencils was sprayed with bits of meat and bone. The words Kids Section were handwritten on a laminated index card that was taped to the top.
Along the floor, a long smear of blood ran down the aisle and turned the corner, like someone had dragged the body away. Or was still dragging it.
Zig reached into his pocket, putting his hand on Nola’s gun. He was tempted to yell a warning—something to scare them off—but the truth was, whoever was here, Zig didn’t want to scare them off.
Cocking the gun and gripping the trigger, Zig walked quickly down the aisle, sticking to the left to keep himself off the overhead camera. On the opposite side of the store, the mounted Bozo the Clown head kept watch.
The smear of blood across the tile veered around the corner, then beelined toward the store’s back room, where the door was propped open.
Zig looked up, eyeing the ceiling. He could still see the mounted Bozo the Clown. But unlike the front of the store, there were no cameras back here. Whatever business Caesar did in the back room, he didn’t want records of it. More important, whoever was back here now, they wouldn’t see Zig coming.
On three, Zig told himself, pausing just outside the threshold. He held his breath and gripped the trigger. One…two…
Darting inside, Zig pointed his gun. The wide storage room was just as he had left it. Stacks of cardboard boxes, egg-crates filled with old magic tricks, but otherwise empty.
Along the floor, the smear of blood veered to the left, to Caesar’s tiny office. Sticking out of the open doorway were the legs of an old man dressed in slacks and orthopedic black shoes—
“Nonono,” Zig muttered.
Zig raced to The Amazing Caesar’s side. The back of his head was a wet mess of hair and exposed bone. He was facedown in a pool of his own— The blood was everywhere…on his chair, on the handles of the desk drawers…there was even a perfect red handprint, like a kindergarten painting, on the leather blotter on his desk.
Caesar wasn’t dragged here. He crawled on his own.
At Dover, Zig had seen it dozens of times: on the battlefield, a soldier with a missing jaw and no legs crawling two miles back to his base, just so he could die in his own bed. No one fights harder for life than the dying.
Zig reexamined the blood on the chair, the desk, even the blotter. So what made Caesar crawl all the way here?
Zig turned the body over. A spit bubble, tinted red with blood, popped at Caesar’s lips. He was breathing.
“Caesar…Caesar, can you hear me!?”
The old magician didn’t move, though his eyes were still open, dilating in the light. His skin was gray, like an elephant. He didn’t have long.
“Caesar, if you hear me, blink!”
He didn’t blink. He just stared up at Zig, peaceful as could be. There was no fear on his face. He knew what was coming.
Zig went to say something, then noticed…
Caesar was clutching something in his hand. It was square and silver. A picture frame. He was holding it to his chest. This is what Caesar crawled back for.
“Who’s this? This you?” Zig asked, tugging on the frame. Caesar nodded with his eyes, but wouldn’t let go.
The frame was smeared in blood, but Zig could still make out the image: a muted color photograph from the eighties—of an elderly couple on a cruise ship. The man’s hair was thicker and darker, but it was clearly Caesar, his arm draped around the woman’s waist.
It was the pose from every cruise ship photo, right down to them standing in front of a round life preserver with the name of the ship on it. S.S. SeaDream. From the looks of it, Caesar was a bruiser back then, a rhino stuffed into a Hawaiian shirt. But God, the way his mouth was open in mid-laugh…did he look happy.
“Your wife?” Zig asked, now picturing his own ex-wife, in a similar photo she and Zig took decades ago, on a riverboat in New Orleans for his thirtieth birthday. Would Zig crawl back through his house just to get one last look at the photo? He knew the answer.
“T-The plane…” Caesar sputtered, his face ruled by sadness.