by James Swain
“And we’re getting a preview tonight,” Leno said.
Hardare smiled, appreciating the segue. “Yes, indeed. Yesterday, I made five predictions of stories I believed would appear in today’s Los Angeles Times. These predictions were put in a padlocked box and delivered to the NBC studios for safekeeping.”
Leno brought up a small mahogany box from beneath his desk. “Which is right here.”
“Would you please verify that I haven’t touched that box since it was brought here.”
“No one’s touched the box,” Leno said.
“And neither you, nor anyone on the Tonight Show staff, have the slightest idea what’s inside.”
“Correct.”
From his pocket Hardare removed a shiny silver key and handed it to his host. “This key opens the box. Please examine it.”
Leno examined the key. “Looks good to me.”
“Before the show, I asked an NBC page to buy a copy of today’s Los Angeles Times, Hardare said. “Jay, I believe you have the copy.”
Leno produced the newspaper. “This might be hard to see, so I’ll read the headlines out loud. Let’s see… Governor asks legislature for tougher gun laws… Earthquake shakes northern California… McDonalds finds metal shards in burgers: meat recalled. Woman frightened to death: serial killer feared responsible. On the bottom of the page we have a box score: Dodgers beat Mets 3 to 2. Sounds like your typical day in L.A.”
“Those are today’s headlines,” Hardare said. “Jay, please open the box, and remove my prediction.”
Leno inserted the key into the box, and shot Hardare a look. Leno knew enough about magic to think he knew how this particular trick worked, only Hardare had yet to touch the chest or even get close to it, and that was frustrating the show’s host.
Flipping open the lid, Leno removed a square of white paper, unfolding it for the cameras. Hardare’s prediction read:
GOVERNOR WANTS GUNS LAWS CHANGED
EARTHQUAKE ROCKS CALIFORNIA
McDONALD’S RECALLS BURGERS
WOMEN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH
DODGERS WIN
The studio audience read the predictions on the monitors and started to clap. The applause grew louder when Leno shook his head in bewilderment.
“Incredible,” Leno said. “We’ll be right back.”
They broke for a commercial.
“Will you tell me how it’s done?” Leno asked.
“Sure,” Hardare said.
His host waited expectantly.
“Next time I’m on the show,” Hardare said with a smile.
The reclusive vending machine service man sat in the darkness of his living room. He had finished lifting weights an hour ago, and he rubbed his naked, hardened body with soothing oil, a mental image of Hardare’s final trick emblazoned in his thoughts.
WOMEN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH
When Leno had displayed the predictions, he had literally jumped, kicking over his glass of mineral water. With his big toe he found the wet spot on the carpet and pressed down, as if to remind himself of the shock. He told himself it was just a stupid trick, only Leno’s bewildered reaction had suggested something more. WOMAN FRIGHTENED TO DEATH — BY DEATH! He tried to laugh, but the feeble sound did not leave his throat.
Vincent Hardare. Was that his real name? He despised magicians and their craft, and this one could go to the top of his list. Good looking, smug, a smart dresser. Click of the fingers and the women come running. Fucking lounge lizard.
He stood naked at the window, staring out at beat-up cars lining the curb. Psychic theatre? What the hell was that? A wailing police car sped by, disappearing through a slit in the venetians. He felt every inch of skin shiver uncontrollably and opened the window, the cool night air flowing across his body, releasing his inhibitions and insane fears.
The LAPD made his life painful enough, now he had fortune-tellers to contend with. Saturday’s newspaper had carried a story about a local psychic, a Mojave Indian named Jack Pathfinder, who had told the police where two of his victims would be found, something that even he didn’t know until he committed a killing. The realization that someone on the outside was drawing close had frightened him enough to do something about it.
He had found Pathfinder in the phone book, and paid him a visit the next night, leaving a severed hand in the psychic snitch’s mailbox along with his unpaid bills. Two days later he’d gone back to discover Pathfinder had moved out of his shabby bungalow, his whereabouts unknown.
On the television he saw the credits for the Tonight Show roll by, followed by a list of sponsors. Airline accommodations were provided by American Airlines. For Tonight Show guests staying in Los Angeles, hotel accommodations were provided by the Sheraton Century City.
“Thank you,” he said to the television.
He spent several minutes selecting his wardrobe. During the daytime it didn’t matter what he wore, but at night the opposite was true. After several false starts, he settled upon the grayish blue uniform of a defunct moving company, and stepped into a pair of elevator shoes.
He looked in the mirror and didn’t feel finished. From his disguise box he selected a pair of cheap plastic glasses and put them on, then looked again. Done. In the closet he found his bowling ball bag and went into the kitchen.
“You’re getting sloppy,” he scolded himself. Taped to the refrigerator door was a detailed map of Sybil Blanchard’s neighborhood, complete with a series of X’s showing where to park the car, and what alleys and side streets to use as escape routes in case of trouble. He stuffed the map into the sink disposal. He opened the freezer. He had met Lorraine while cruising Sunset strip last summer and still remembered the great picture she had cut in her mini skirt and tight tee shirt, her blond hair short like a pageboy. She looked new to L.A., without the hard edges, and had hopped into his souped up Firebird the moment he had flashed a roll of bills. “I know a classy motel,” she had suggested, snuggling up as if on a date.
She had yakked to him some, and he had liked that. She was from Oregon, lived in L.A. a month, wanted to be an actress someday or maybe own an organic restaurant, as if the two were related. She dug surfing, Led Zeppelin, blowing reefer, going to the flicks. Then she’d smiled, real and pretty and genuine, and he’d remembered that for a long time, too.
He removed the zip lock bag and slowly untied the safety twist, pulling away the plastic. He had painted her face with vivid acrylics, and frozen her stylish looks. She looked as cute as the day he’d met her, and he vividly recalled her dying in his arms, her neck snapped limp. He shuddered as an erotic wave swept over him, making his blood boil and his cheeks grow flush with the passionate memory.
“Let’s go for a ride,” he said.
Chapter 3
PSI
The ringing phone snapped him awake. The clock on the night table said three a.m. Snatching up the receiver, he said, “I’d like to buy you a wristwatch.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hardare,” said a soft spoken female. “This is Suzanne at the front desk. There’s a gentleman here who wishes to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Three a.m.,” she said.
“Goodnight,” he replied, hanging up.
He slipped down between the warm sheets and became their happy prisoner. After The Tonight Show taping, he’d raced downtown to promote his upcoming show at the Wilshire Ebell on a radio call-in, back to NBC studios to discuss a possible special this fall, then dinner at the Magic Castle in Hollywood with owner Larsen Hendricks, who was also his co-promoter. Back at his hotel, he’d stayed awake long enough to catch his performance on the little screen, then had collapsed into bed.
“Who was that?” his wife murmured.
“Front desk. Some guy in the lobby.”
“Did you find out who this guy was?”
“IRS. Those clowns have been after me for years.”
“Vince, be serious.” She shook him hard enough to make
him roll over. “It might be important. Are you listening?”
“Uh-huh,” sinking deeper into his goose down pillow. “Probably some magician from the Castle who wanted to show me a trick. He’ll go away.”
“But what if it’s someone else?” she said sensibly.
Her tone demanded that he pay attention. He opened his eyes, and the spacious hotel bedroom took shape. Oblique shadows danced on the wall as cars sped past the hotel seven floors below. He glanced at his wife Jan. With her curly red hair strewn across her head, she looked like a gift from heaven, the sheets perfectly outlining the curvature of her slender body.
“Only person I want to see right now is you,” he said.
The phone on the night table rang again. His wife gave him another look, and he snatched it up. It was Suzanne again.
“I see,” he said. “All right. Tell him I’ll be right down.”
Hanging up, he hopped out of bed.
“Where are you going?” Jan asked.
“Downstairs. The man in the lobby is a policeman.”
“Is something wrong?”
He threw on his clothes. “I don’t know.”
“Could somebody from the Castle be playing a practical joke?”
He gave his wife a quick kiss.
“Let’s hope so,” he said.
As the elevator descended to the lobby, Hardare wondered if his past was about to come back and haunt him. He had heard the concern in Jan’s voice and knew it wasn’t unfounded. Two years ago, while breaking into a Mexican jail to rescue his daughter, he had shot to death a corrupt policeman who, oddly enough, had also been a fan. Jan had been there, working for a tough mercenary Hardare had hired, and he had fallen head over heels.
They had rented a house in Boulder, Colorado and laid low for a month. When no sensationalized stories appeared in the newspapers, and no government agents came calling, they gradually resumed their lives, with Jan now a permanent member of the act.
Six months later they were married atop the Hoover Dam, the roadside chapels in Las Vegas not to their liking. By then they had been booked into Caesar’s Palace for a limited run. Vegas was a tough town for variety acts, but he managed to take it by storm, taking his magic to the streets in a series of publicity stunts. Offers from competitive casinos appeared, and his contract with Caesar’s was extended. Before long, even the town’s toughened cab drivers knew who he was.
In the lobby, Hardare spotted the policeman in his rumpled suit by the front desk, his thick soled shoes a dead giveaway. He hustled over, a bulging manila folder in hand, and Hardare secretly hoped this was someone’s idea of a joke.
“Harry Wondero,” the policeman said, flashing a badge and laminated photo I.D.“Sorry about the wake-up call. I’m with the homicide division of the LAPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a recent murder.”
The girl at the front desk was straining to hear, and Hardare pointed at the nearby Peacock bar. “Can we go in there for some privacy?”
“It’s closed,” Wondero said.
It was, the door locked tight. Shielding the door from the detective’s view, Hardare opened it and stepped inside.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” Wondero said, taking two chairs down from a table as Hardare found the light. The Peacock was a typical hotel bar, with a small scuffed dance floor and a buffet table for happy hour. Sitting, Hardare watched Wondero open his folder and remove a spiral notebook and yellow legal pad.
“Tell me how I can help you,” Hardare said.
“I’m not sure you can,” Wondero said. “I have a desperate situation on my hands, and thought you would be worth talking to.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll start from the beginning. For the last four years, Los Angeles has been plagued by a serial killer who calls himself Death. At infrequent intervals, Death goes on rampages. This morning, he killed a young actress named Sybil Blanchard, and we can safely guess that by tomorrow he’ll murder again, and then probably twice more by week’s end.
“Our department has dealt with serial killers before, but never with anyone as…” Wondero paused, searching for a word. “… invisible, as Death is. He leaves no solid clues, no hair, nothing we can trace. The physical composite we’ve drawn of him is at best sketchy.”
Hardare was familiar with police departments across the globe and the LAPD was as modern as any he’d read about. “If you know that this maniac is going to kill again, why not put out a citywide bulletin and stop him?”
“I wish it was that easy.” Wondero handed him the spiral notebook. “Death’s victims tend to be people that it’s almost impossible to reach, or protect. Prostitutes, vagrants, homeless people, and lately, women living alone. We can’t get to these people to tell them to be careful.”
Hardare flipped through the notebook. On each page, a different snapshot stared back at him. Negroes, young girls, teenage boys, old white-haired women, a strikingly beautiful Oriental girl with the most perfect teeth he’d seen, a destitute bag lady. He leafed through the pages and more faces stuck out, some in color, others in faded black and white; a girl in braces, a McDonald’s burger flipper with the name Hope stitched on her pocket, a wizened little man wearing a pork pie hat with great distinction. He looked up into Wondero’s unblinking eyes.
“How many victims are there?”
“Forty-eight,” Wondero said. “Twelve were committed up in San Francisco three years ago. Since our investigation began, we’ve been in contact with police departments across the country; we think Death may have also visited Seattle and San Diego as well.”
“I can’t believe…” Hardare halted in mid-speech, his eyes falling on a girl that could have been his daughter’s twin. Strawberry blond hair, aqua blue eyes, dimples. Her name was Lori Appleby, from Tulsa. He shut the notebook, having seen enough for a lifetime of memories.
“Most serial killers are caught by sheer luck, or if the killer gets sloppy and leaves obvious clues,” Wondero said. “That’s how the Boston Strangler was apprehended, and also Ted Bundy. Serial murderers aren’t normal criminals; their crimes have no motives, and they usually don’t know their victims. It’s hard to track them using conventional means, and so it is necessary for us to use unusual channels.”
“Is that where I fit in?”
“Yes.” Wondero paused, offering a sad smile. He had a ruddy, mid-western face, with bushy eyebrows and a bumpy knot marring his nose, and Hardare guessed that in college he’d played a mean game of football.
“Earlier tonight, you made a prediction on the Tonight Show.”
“That’s correct.”
“And part of your prediction was the murder of Sybil Blanchard.”
“It was?”
Wondero was momentarily speechless. “Yes… don’t you remember? You predicted that a woman would be frightened to death. That was Sybil Blanchard, Death’s most recent victim.”
“Oh,” Hardare said.
“I’ve been using a group of psychics to track Death,” Wondero went on. “You scored a direct hit, so I thought you might be willing to try again.”
Hardare’s fingers impatiently tapped the table they were sitting at. “What kind of psychics?”
“Five astrologers recommended by the San Francisco Police, four mediums, two psychic channelers, a woman who tells the future by interpreting dreams, two spiritualists, and a woman named Margaret Dansing.”
“The psychic bloodhound,” said Hardare.
“You’re familiar with her work?”
Hardare nodded.
“So what do you say? Will you give it a shot?”
“I’d like to help you, but did it ever occur to you that my prediction on the Tonight Show was a trick?”
Wondero’s mouth twisted uncomfortably. “I have a friend who works for the Tonight Show. I called him an hour ago. He said that no one had a clue how you made your predictions. Even Leno was baffled.”
So that was why the detective was here. He
chose his words carefully. “Yes, but it was still a trick. I’m not, and never have been, a psychic.”
“For God’s sake,” Wondero said in exasperation. “You pull garbage like this, how is the public supposed to distinguish it from the real thing?”
Hardare took a deep breath, hating to burst his bubble. “Detective, let me assure you, there is no “real thing.” These psychics you’re working with are misrepresenting themselves. They’re ordinary people, just like you and me.”