The Man Who Cheated Death (Vincent Hardare)

by James Swain

  “Hey, that’s my pen,” Wondero said.

  Hardare parted his lips, and the pen eerily fell in slow motion from his mouth. Seeing it drop was like watching a film one frame at a time, and as the pin light expanded to include the entire cabinet, Wondero watched helplessly as his pen snaked out from beneath the curtain and made its ascent up the front without any visible means of support. On its way up, the pen paused briefly to do a little dance, taunting him, and Wondero forced himself not to lunge forward and snatch it out of the air.

  “Here, catch,” Hardare said.

  His pen flew a few feet into the air, landing on the stage. Wondero picked it up, examining it in the process. He was clueless.

  “How the hell did you do that?”

  “I’ve got something else of yours,” Hardare said. “Come here.”

  Wondero sensed that he was about to be fooled again, and cautiously approached the cabinet.

  “Stick both hands through the curtain. Go ahead.”

  Wondero stuck his hands in, and a moment later, felt cold steel encircle his wrists. Realizing he’d been had, he jerked the curtain open and watched Hardare walk out, the Kansas vest still firmly secured to his body.

  “Christmas,” Wondero said. He tugged at his own handcuffs encircling his wrists. This was as bad as someone stealing his gun. “I can’t reach the key,” he said awkwardly.

  “Very well,” Hardare said. “Close the curtain.”

  Wondero pulled the curtain closed. An instant later a woman’s red hair appeared at the top of the curtain, and like a ghostly apparition Hardare’s beautiful wife stepped out of the cabinet wearing a skintight black outfit.

  “Where did you come from,” Wondero said in astonishment.

  “Indiana, originally,” Jan said. She went to her husband’s aid, undoing the leather straps holding him prisoner, and he in turn unlocked Wondero’s handcuffs.

  “That was a dirty trick, detective,” Hardare said.

  “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” Wondero said.

  “You don’t like to be fooled, do you?”

  “Guess not. I’ve got another favor to ask.”

  “Hold on.”

  Hardare walked to the edge of the stage, and spoke to the technicians up in the booth. “We’re done guys. Thanks.” He came back to where Wondero stood. “Let’s talk in my dressing room.”

  The dressing room was tiny and cramped. A cage with a Dutch dwarf rabbit munching on lettuce sat in the corner. Hardare and his wife leaned against the make-up table.

  “Death struck again last night,” Wondero said. “He picked up a prostitute and stabbed her. Luckily, she didn’t die, and was able to tell a police artist what he looks like. I want to release the sketch to the press, only our victim fell unconscious before confirming it.”

  “Is she going to die?” Jan asked quietly.

  “I’m afraid so. It puts me in a bad situation. I know what our killer looks like, only the law prevents me from sharing his composite with the media.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Hardare asked.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking. I’d like to take you to where the girl was found. We’ll have a newspaper reporter there. You do your psychic routine, and produce the sketch, and give it to the reporter. That way, it didn’t come from me.”

  “Is that ethical?” Hardare asked.

  Wondero grew red in the face. “Maybe not. But it’s the only thing I can think of. Death will strike again, and soon. That’s his pattern. I’ve got to do whatever I can to stop him.”

  “You’re saying a life is at stake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see the sketch,” Hardare said.

  Wondero produced the artist’s composite and handed it to the magician. He waited expectantly, hoping Hardare would say yes.

  “She got a better look at him than I did,” Hardare said under his breath.

  “Will you do it?” Wondero asked.

  Hardare looked at his wife. “What do you think?”

  “If it will help the police catch this killer, then yes, you need to do it,” Jan said.

  “All right. I’ll do it. But with one caveat,” Hardare said.

  “Name it, Wondero said.

  “This is the last psychic stunt I’m going to do. You’re on your own after this. Understood? No more late-night visits to my hotel, or sneaking up on me unannounced.”

  Wondero was beaming, and he clasped Hardare on the arm.

  “You have my word,” the detective promised him.

  Chapter 13

  News at Noon

  It was eleven o”clock in the morning when Myrtle Jones banged on Eugene Osbourne’s front door for the second time in as many days. He appeared in a bathrobe, his eyes heavy with sleep. Inside the house a radio newscaster droned on, sounding like an old movie newsreel.

  “Guess what I’ve got baking in the oven,” she said, winking mischievously. “That’s right: my heavenly chocolate cake.”

  On the sidewalk sat Mr. Kozlowski in a wheelchair, bundled up like a mummy. She handed Eugene a brown paper bag, the smell of warm tollhouse cookies jump-starting his senses. Eugene took one from the bag and bit into it, tasting chocolaty sweet perfection.

  “I was hoping you would join us for lunch. Mr. Kozlowski is so looking forward to you coming.”

  Eugene hesitated, his attention diverted by a special news flash on the radio. A school bus had overturned, children hurt.

  “Can we watch television?”

  Myrtle Jones was taken aback. “Well, I suppose we could.”

  “All right,” he said, closing the door in her face.

  Lunch was served in the musty living room on TV trays. Myrtle had outdone herself; lobster bisque, chicken pot pies made from scratch, miniature vegetables, and a bottle of wine. Eugene, wearing a fresh shirt and cologne, sat directly across from the TV, his eyes glued to the flickering screen.

  “Eugene, do you have any family?” Myrtle asked while spoon feeding Mr. Kozlowski.

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure you have lots of friends.”

  “Just one.”

  “Does he ever visit? I’d be happy to invite him — “

  “He’s in prison,” Eugene said.

  “Mr. Kozlowski says you remind him of a steam fitter he once employed years ago.”

  Eugene looked suspiciously at her, then Mr. Kozlowski. “I didn’t hear him say anything.”

  “Mr. Kozlowski talks with his fingers,” she said, showing him the tiny computer taped to the arm of the wheelchair. “He types in what he wants to say, and I read the screen.”

  Eugene lifted his head to stare at the tiny screen. Printed across it were the words NICE TO MEET YOU.

  “Same here,” Eugene said.

  THANKS FOR HELPING YESTERDAY

  “No problem.”

  Myrtle stacked up their dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

  YOU’RE VERY STRONG

  “Uh-huh.”

  BET THE GIRLS LOVE IT

  “Not all of them.”

  I SEE YOU BRING THEM HOME. REAL LADY KILLER

  “Maybe I should invite you over sometime,” Eugene said.

  TO DO WHAT? I’M EIGHTY FOUR.

  “You can watch.”

  The dessert was better than promised, and Eugene licked his fork after each scrumptious bite. He watched Mr. Kozlowski grow animated with his over-sized portion, his toothless mouth working vigorously. They both said yes to seconds.

  Over decaf they watched the last half of a sitcom called Hugo. Hugo was an overgrown alien rodent who had been adopted by the average family next door. Orange, hairy, and shaped like a pear, Hugo was a cheap-looking puppet. No one in their right minds would have thought that he came from anywhere but a toy store, except for the people on the show with him. On today’s episode the Tanners, Hugo’s adopted family, helped Hugo deal with a cold.

  OH BOY. ALIEN SNOT JOKES

  “Mr. K
ozlowski has a rather caustic sense of humor,” Myrtle explained, feeding him more cake.

  “What would you do with Hugo?” Eugene asked him.

  DROWN HIM IN A GARBAGE CAN

  Embarrassed, Myrtle said, “Mister Kozlowski!”

  OR FEED HIM RAT POISON

  “That’s the ticket,” Eugene said.

  WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

  “I think a minute in the microwave would do the trick.”

  ALIEN CASSEROLE

  “Sure. They could serve him to the neighbors.”

  STAY TUNED

  A commercial filled the screen, and Myrtle lowered the volume with the remote. “Eugene, what happened to your dog?”

  Staring at his plate, Eugene said, “He died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you getting another?”

  Eugene had gone to the Humane Society that morning but been unable to find the kind of dog he wanted. “Eventually.”

  “Are you looking for a particular breed?”

  How did he describe the dog he wanted? It had to be ugly and fierce and beautiful all at the same time. A dog that no one else wanted; a dog that hated life as much as he did.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” Eugene said.

  Dancing on the screen was a giant chicken selling used cars, then a teaser for a noon news show. Reaching across Mr. Kozlowski’s tray, Eugene picked up the remote control and hit the volume. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Why no, of course not,” Myrtle said.

  Rising from his chair, Eugene planted himself in front of the TV, his face a foot from the screen. The commercial ended, and the face of an attractive red-haired newscaster filled the screen.

  “This is Jayne Hunter,” the newscaster said. “On today’s News at Noon, learn if the water you’re drinking is contaminated, why the Lakers are underdogs for the upcoming playoffs, and how a famous magician is helping police track down L.A.’s worst serial killer. These stories and more, coming up.”

  Another commercial danced across the screen. Eugene balled his fists in rage. This was all wrong. The hooker he’d murdered last night should have been one of the stories, not a piece about Hardare, the Vegas lounge lizard.

  “How about more cake?” Myrtle asked.

  “No,” Eugene replied, staring straight ahead.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m full,” he snapped.

  The news came on. Hardare was the lead story, and was standing behind the Las Palmas hotel where he’d dumped Tawny Starr. A reporter shoved a mike into the magician’s face.

  “Tell us what you’re about to do,” the reporter said.

  “A woman was murdered here last night,” Hardare explained. “A residue of that violent act still lingers. I’m going to try to capture that residue, and help the police catch the killer.”

  “Baloney,” Eugene shouted at the screen.

  A clipboard was placed into the magician’s hands. Hardare showed the top page to the camera. It was blank. Handing the clipboard to the reporter, he removed a cigarette lighter and a piece of tissue from his pocket. He lit the tissue by its end, and let it burn in the palm of his hand. When it was no more than ash, he smeared it across the face of the clipboard.

  “Our killer was dressed like a student,” Hardare said. “. He even had schoolbooks in his car. His face is square, and not particularly handsome. If he has a prominent feature, I would say it’s his nose. And he’s wearing a baseball cap. He’s a Dodger’s fan. Here is what he looks like.”

  Hardare spun the clipboard spun around in his palms. A drawing of a man wearing a Dodger’s cap had appeared on the blank page. The man bore a striking resemblance to himself, and Eugene felt his entire body shudder.

  “Would you look at that,” Myrtle said.

  Eugene rose from the floor. “I need to go.”

  “Sure you don’t want some more cake?”

  Eugene shook his head. Mr. Kozlowski’s fingers were typing on his tiny computer. Eugene strained to read what he’d written.

  HAVE A NICE DAY

  “You, too,” he said.

  Eugene stood in his backyard, destroying the evidence of last night’s killing. He squeezed the can of lighter fluid onto the burning dungarees, shirt, Nike Airs and baseball cap he’d stuffed inside the rusted oil drum, the fluid feeding the flame.

  Within minutes only ashes remained. Opening a newspaper on the ground, he tilted the drum on its side, and poured the remaining evidence onto the sports page. Stomping out the ashes, he gathered the paper, went inside and flushed them down the toilet.

  Then he took a shower. He alternated the temperature between scalding hot and teeth-chattering cold, still amazed at how similar the sensations felt the moment the water first hit his body. He started out cold, and slapped the wall in agony.

  Hardare had shown the police what he looked like. It was not a good resemblance, nothing that would hold up in court, but that didn’t matter. They could find him now, track him down. And they would have no problem linking him to his crimes. The police had convicted Ted Bundy by matching his bridge to the bite marks on one of his victim’s arms, and their forensic technology would convict him as well. Then his reign would be over, the rest of his life spent in prison, playing checkers on Death Row.

  He twisted off the cold water while simultaneously releasing the hot. The water burned his chest like tiny darts of flame. He bit his tongue savagely, halting the scream that boiled out of control within him. What was he going to do, burn all the clothes in his closet, sell the car, torch the house, and while he was at it, concrete the backyard?

  He got out of the shower and stood before the vanity. A red sun the size of a pancake formed on his chest, the skin turning hot pink before his eyes. Without a disguise, he looked like a freak with his pop eyes and hairless body. The tears of his tortured childhood marched in steady progression down his face.

  Going to his bedroom, Eugene drew the curtains and switched off the lights. Lying naked on the icy floor, he wrestled with his demons, his eyes fixed on the bedroom walls, watching their rough texture mold and shape itself in a thousand free-form patterns, while he waited for an answer to come.

  Chapter 14

  Red Warriors

  That night, Wondero watched a recording of Hardare’s stunt on his TV, drank a beer, watched it again, and when he was satisfied that he’d done the right thing, decided to go to bed.

  On the way upstairs he ducked into the kitchen for another bite of dessert and discovered a disaster area. His wife had refined the art of preparing thirty minute dinners, the only complaint being the lack of restraint she showed in her tornado-like-spins around the kitchen each night. Whose turn was it to clean? His son’s? No, his daughter’s. He glanced at the wall calendar and saw his own initials penciled below the date.

  He cleaned up, and rewarded himself with a piece of cherry cobbler topped with Ready Whip. While he ate, he thumbed through his son’s schoolbooks. Computer science, trigonometry and physics, subjects Wondero didn’t think had been invented when he was in school. Printed on the trig book’s jacket was this year’s football schedule, now completed. The Trojans had gone 12 and 0, with his son playing backup quarterback. On the bottom of the jacket, his son had written BEAT RED WARRIORS!

  He thought back to his conversation with Jackson, the cop who’d found Tawny Starr dumped in the trash. One of the things Tawny had said to him was Red Warriors. He picked up the textbook and headed upstairs.

  His son lay beneath a twirl of sheets, texting his girlfriend. Wondero hopped around the clothes strewn around the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. His son folded his phone.

  “You ought to clean this mess up.”

  “I did. You should have seen it before.”

  “Very funny.” Wondero placed the textbook on the bed. “Tell me something. What does this mean, BEAT THE RED WARRIORS?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No. Refresh my memory.”

  “Two years ago, th
e Trojans went to the Conference finals, and you took me down to San Diego to see the game. The other team was huge; half their guys had moustaches and beards. It looked like a scrimmage. About ten minutes before the game ended they started running up the score and then there was a huge clap of thunder and the skies opened up.”