by James Swain
“Now wait a minute!” Are you saying there is no such thing as ESP?”
“Of course not. Everyone has had a psychic experience during their life. The problem is no one has discovered a way to harness these hidden powers. Even the best psychics are wrong most of the time. The rest of the time, they’re simply guessing, or resorting to the same tricks I use.”
A thin line of perspiration had formed above Wondero’s lip. “What about Margaret Dansing? She helped us locate one of Death’s victims last month.”
“How did she do that?” Hardare asked.
“She told us that the victim would be at the bottom of a hill, beneath a pile of leaves. She also said the victim’s clothes would be torn, which they were.”
“And for that, your department has Margaret Dansing on a monthly retainer.”
“How did you know that?”
“Because that’s how she works,” Hardare said, sensing that Wondero was starting to hear him. “Margaret Dansing is a very successful locator of lost people. She claims she has a sixth sense, but in reality she does a lot of research. She has an exhaustive library of newspaper clippings concerning crimes in the L.A. area. She also has a ham radio operator’s license and monitors police calls. One of my friends at the Magic Castle believes Dansing has a newspaperman who works as a source for her, and provides her with inside information about specific investigations.”
Wondero’s eyes had taken on a cloudy expression. As if on a timed delay, he snapped his pencil between his hands.
“Shit. I’ve been had.”
“Margaret Dansing has baffled some of the brightest scientific minds in the country. You had no reason to believe that she was anything but sincere.”
Wondero shoved his legal pad into his folder. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. Thanks for your time. I really appreciate it.”
He walked the detective out of the hotel.
“I feel like such a rube,” Wondero said.
“Don’t,” Hardare said. “Even Houdini had a spiritualist fool him into believing that his dead mother was trying to contact him from the grave.”
“No kidding. Even I don’t believe in ghosts.”
They walked to where his SUV was parked.
“I thought you might be the breakthrough, but I guess that was pretty juvenile on my part,” the detective said.
“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” Hardare said.
“So am I.”
Wondero got behind the wheel and started the engine. As he drove away, his eyes briefly brushed Hardare’s face. Hardare could feel the detective staring right through him, and sensed that Wondero had already dismissed him from his thoughts.
He smothered a yawn. Wondero’s last remark had carried a great deal of resentment, and he guessed he’d done a good job disillusioning him. It was strange the things people chose to believe in. Most people didn’t go to church or believe in God, yet these same people believed in practically everything else, including extra terrestrials, psychic powers, and UFOs. Why not fire-breathing dragons or wizards with long white beards and pointed caps? If people were going to stake their faith on the ridiculous, at least it should be entertaining.
He went into the hotel, too tired to pay any heed to the man watching him from the running car parked across the street, and went upstairs to bed.
Chapter 4
The Road to Las Vegas
The next morning over breakfast, Hardare described his meeting with Detective Wondero to Jan. By the time he was finished, his wife’s face was ashen.
“It goes back to what I’ve been saying all along,” he said emphatically. “Too many people think these psychic routines in my show are the real thing. Intelligent people, not just the kooks. I’m fostering a belief in something I know is a sham, and that’s plain wrong. You finished?”
Jan nodded, and he got up, pushed the room service tray out into the hall and locked the door.
“Our bookings have never been stronger,” she reminded him.
“Uri Geller used to pack them in, too,” Hardare replied. He threw his clothing bag on the unmade bed and started to pack. “Remember that flim-flam artist? Israeli nightclub magician turned psychic wonder. The strange thing was, even after he was exposed as a charlatan, he still remained popular. Even Barbara Walters gave him twenty minutes of national TV time.”
She came over and tried to rub the tension out of his shoulders. “I’ve always been partial to your magic, myself.”
Thirty minutes later they met up with his daughter Crystal in the bustling hotel lobby. She’d been shopping, and while Jan poured through her bags to see what might fit her, Hardare settled their bill, tipped a bellman for loading their luggage into trunk of his Volvo 760, and coerced his wife and daughter into the car.
Traffic was heavy, and he drove down Santa Monica Boulevard trying to remember the quickest way to the Pasadena Freeway. The five hour drive to Las Vegas was a sleeper, consisting of several hundred miles of desert and an occasional dusty town, but many delays and lost pieces of baggage at LAX had convinced him that traveling by car was quicker, and generally less eventful.
He made the Freeway in an hour. Smothering a yawn, he put the car on cruise control, and glanced at Jan as she reclined her bucket seat, then into the mirror at Crystal sprawled across the backseat, her nose buried in a glossy fashion magazine.
It was hard going back to Vegas. Although he liked the management at Caesar’s, and the facilities and enthusiastic crowds night after night, it was a difficult environment for his family to live in. Vegas was a tourist town, and people on vacation got drunk, acted in the stupidest fashion imaginable, and woke up the next day not regretting it.
“I can already feel the excitement,” Crystal joked half-heartedly as they passed a flashy Vegas billboard on Interstate 15. The flat, barren desert opened up before them, and Hardare pushed the cruise control up to seventy-five.
“It’s only one week,” he reassured her. “Then back to L.A. for two weeks. That’s not a bad trade-off.”
“Great. But then what? She tossed her magazine to the floor. “I don’t know why you won’t tell me what our plans are.”
“He hasn’t told me, either,” Jan said. “Big secret.”
“That’s because I don’t know,” he said, glancing into his mirror at the shimmering white Pontiac Firebird with darkly tinted windows that had popped up on the horizon. “Management at Caesar’s wants to extend our contract another six months.”
His daughter groaned. “Six months? I can’t live in that hotel another two weeks. The slots are giving me migraines.”
“What kind of deal are they offering,” Jan said, now wide awake from her nap. “More money, better hours, or new accommodations?”
“All of the above. They’ll pay us ten percent more a week and cut out Sunday matinees. I told them we were tired of living in town, and they offered to put us in a house.”
He paused to hear any complaints. When there were none, he went on. “I drove out there last week. The house is furnished, has four bedrooms, a swimming pool, and four acres of land. There’s a gourmet kitchen, oak floors, and a Jacuzzi. It’s a nice place.”
“What about vacations,” Jan said, never easily swayed. “We haven’t had a break in six months, and they promised… “
“I went over that with management. Two weeks vacation fully paid at the end of the first three months.”
Jan took a pocket calculator from her purse and did some quick arithmetic with Crystal peering over her shoulder. Since moving to Vegas they had become best friends, and he often thought how fortunate he was that his daughter had accepted his second wife so easily, especially considering how radically different she was from Crystal’s mother.
“We’d make nearly twenty thousand dollars more,” Jan said.
“That’s not a bad offer when you throw in the perks.”
“Hey, money isn’t everything,” Crystal chided in.
Hardare smiled. His daughter could switch f
rom being materialistic to altruistic in a snap of the fingers. It seemed to him a contradiction of terms, but Jan had informed him that among her friends it was considered very fashionable.
“We do have other options,” he said, noticing the Firebird a mile back and gaining. The next eighty miles of highway went virtually unpatrolled, and he had seen drivers rocket by at a hundred and twenty. “We can take the month off, stay in Los Angeles, and help you find an apartment for school.”
“Aren’t you jumping ahead a little,” Crystal said, slumping in her seat. “I still haven’t heard from UCLA. What if they don’t accept me?”
“Your interviewer said you were a shoo-in,” Jan reminded her. “Your grades were decent, your SATs above average, and your audition for the drama coach went beautifully.”
“I know, I know,” she said, staring out the window. “I still won’t believe it until I see the acceptance notice.”
“Shades of your father,” Jan said. She caught Vince’s eye and said, “You haven’t told us what we’re going to do after taking a month off. Go on welfare?”
“No. We go to Paris, and perform at the Olympia Theatre for three months,” he said, switching off the cruise control and slowing down to let the Firebird pass. “They’re offering decent money, with a provision in the contract that gives us a share in the profits if attendance reaches eighty percent. We’ll also be the only act on the bill. No dirty comedians. No singers throwing temper tantrums. Just us.”
“What?” they both managed to cry simultaneously.
“The entire act. Ninety minutes of illusions and escapes,” he said. “I wanted it to be a surprise. There are still details to be ironed out, but the chances look good.” He paused. “If it works out, I think we’ll have enough money to put together the circus, and go on the road. It’s a big step but…” He grasped Jan’s hand in his. “I think we’re all ready for a change.”
Crystal whooped in excitement. This was the dream her father had mesmerized her with since childhood: One day, when he had enough money, he would put together a traveling magic circus similar to those that his father and Houdini had traveled with early in their careers. As she had grown older, the dream had changed, and now her father wanted the circus to work exclusively in Europe, performing in towns and small cities which normally saw little in the way of live entertainment, and for audiences not bombarded by television and the movies.
“Forget UCLA,” she exclaimed. “I want to go. What better training ground could an actress have than being in a circus?”
“Enough of that,” her father said, his tone quickly bringing her down. “We’ve had plenty of discussions about this, and you’re going to college and getting an education. Understood?”
“Why?” she said. “Don’t you want me in your show?”
“Of course I do. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had —even better than your mother. But it would be wrong if I didn’t give you the opportunity to do something else if someday you decided not to be in my show.” He paused. “Got it?”
Crystal crossed her arms. “Yeah. I get it.”
“Good.” The Firebird was five car lengths back, and had slowed down considerably, no longer hell bent on passing. From out of nowhere a man on a motorcycle passed the Firebird, and settled in a few feet behind the Volvo’s rear bumper.
“Slow down, buddy,” Hardare said aloud.
The biker was on his own little trip. Singing, laughing to himself. For the next two miles he rode their tail, flirting danger without a helmet, his long bouncing hair and effortless grin making a statement as old as Easy Rider. He started to pass and gave Crystal a smile. She waved, and he pulled back behind the Volvo.
“How did we get so lucky,” Hardare said.
“I think he’s sort of cute,” his daughter said, staring at her leather Prince Valiant. “He doesn’t look mean. I bet he doesn’t even have any tattoos.”
“That’s a reassuring thought,” Hardare said, watching his rear view mirror more than the road. “I wish he’d slow down and give me some breathing room. Hey, what’s that fool doing… “
With tires screaming the Firebird pulled a foot behind the biker, sandwiching him between the two cars, then ground his bumper into the biker’s rear wheel. The impact sent the biker flying over his handlebars and face first into their rear window, his eyes bulging through the tinted glass. The sound of his neck breaking was as unmistakable as his daughter’s ear-splitting scream. Off to their right, Hardare saw the bike catapult and flip past them across the desert. Moments later the biker slid off the trunk of their car and bounced on the highway like a rag doll. The Firebird swerved, purposely running over him.
“Daddy for God’s sake do something!” Crystal screeched.
“You can’t outrun him,” Jan said, turning sideways. “And you don’t want him banging your bumper. Get into the oncoming lane, slow down, and get behind him. He won’t expect you to do that.”
There were times when his wife talked that Hardare simply listened and did as instructed. He had known her just long enough to sometimes forget that before they’d met, Jan had been a crack instructor at a private anti-terrorist training school.
Hardare put his foot down and the Volvo shot ahead. As the Firebird accelerated, he swerved into the oncoming lane and put his foot gently on the brake. But the Firebird’s driver did not take the bait: slowing down, the Firebird pulled up alongside them. Less than a mile up the highway an oncoming truck flashed its headlights. Hardare tried to swerve into the right lane, only to have the Firebird slap into the side of his car.
“Bastard,” he swore, punching his horn. The oncoming truck did the same, not slowing down, and the Firebird’s driver added to the confusion by blaring his horn. Hardare glanced at his speedometer: he was doing 110 m.p.h. If the Volvo even nicked the truck they would all be killed instantaneously.
“Vince!” Jan barked. She pointed out his side window. “On three, turn left and drive off the road. Don’t turn too sharply, or we’ll flip. One…”
Was she out of her mind? If he waited any longer, the truck would be on top of them. He started to turn and Jan grabbed the wheel. “Two,” she said.
Then it dawned on him what Jan was doing: she wanted the Firebird to cross the line and deal with the oncoming truck. If the Firebird waited until the truck was past, they would have some breathing room.
“Three! Go for it!”
They were close enough to the truck to see the driver’s face. The Firebird banged their side as Hardare spun the wheel sharply. With a rubbery squeal the Volvo jumped off the highway and took down a rusted sign that said Barstow, 25 miles. The Firebird tried to follow, then swerved back into the right lane, as the truck roared by, blowing its horn.
They pitched and heaved across the desert. A reddish cloud swirled around them, the fine brown dust blowing on their clothes through the air conditioner. Watching the mirror, Hardare kept his foot pressed to the accelerator, trying to put as much distance between his car and the highway as possible.
“Where did he go?” said Jan, craning her neck.
“Don’t know.” He drove another bumpy mile until a large reservoir came into view. Only when he felt certain they were not being followed did he brake. He unhitched his seat belt.
Crystal buried her face in her hands and wept softly. “Why did he kill that poor boy on the motorcycle? Why? He just ran over him like an animal.”
He leaned through the seats and gently ran his fingers through his daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry honey. I don’t know. Just be glad it wasn’t us.”
“Vince,” Jan said sharply.
He followed the direction of his wife’s stare. Less than a hundred yards away the Firebird sat on a grassy incline, its engine racing. The car inched treacherously down the hill towards them.
Crystal’s voice nearly broke. “What does he want?”
Hardare watched the Firebird’s guarded advance. A red cloud blew around the Volvo, and just as quickly died away. The F
irebird’s driver blew a strange little tune — it had the familiar ring of a television theme song — over his car horn. A numbing fear crept over him, and he thought back to the night before, and his prediction on the Tonight Show.
“Me,” he said, reaching under the seat for the Louisville Slugger he kept for road trips. “Stay in the car.”
Before Jan could protest Hardare jumped out, slamming the door. “Lock the doors.”
He walked to front of his car and planted his feet in the dusty earth. Then he whacked the baseball bat against the palm of his hand. The Firebird braked to a halt fifty feet away. Hardare saw his opening, and took it.
No one is going to terrorize my family, he thought, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the car. When he had halved the distance between then, the Firebird raced its engine, as if preparing to run him over. He pointed his bat at the driver.