by James Swain
“Good morning, and thanks for being here,” the magician said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that we’re working without a script. There’s a reason for that. It’s important — in fact, its essential — that you remain in the dark until the performance begins. Your reaction to what happens must be spontaneous, and unrehearsed. Any questions?”
“You want us to show our true emotions?” one of the male actors asked.
“Yes.”
“Boy, that’s a new one.”
The rest of the group laughed. Hardare felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to face his daughter.
“You need to meet Sophie Nichols,” Crystal said. “She’s the actress that’s going to play Elaine Osbourne.”
“Lead the way,” he said.
Hardare followed his daughter out of the restaurant, up a short flight of stairs, and down a hallway that appeared to go nowhere. At its end, she placed her hands on an innocent-looking wall and pushed in, entering the Houdini Séance room.
An attractive woman in her early forties sat at the round mahogany table in the room’s center. She wore a smock, and was getting make-up applied to her face by a make-up artist.
“You must be Vincent Hardare,” she said. “I’m Sophie Nichols. How do I look?”
On the table was a photo of Elaine Osbourne that Wondero had taken from the dead woman’s house. Hardare picked the photo up, and compared it to Sophie Nichols. The make-up artist had done a remarkable job of making Sophie look like Elaine.
“You look good,” Hardare said.
“But do I look good enough?” Sophie Nichols asked.
It was a good question. There was only so much magic that blush and mascara could do.
“Maybe we should do a dry run,” Hardare suggested.
“I’d like that, if you don’t mind,” the actress said.
The makeup artist stopped what he was doing, and unpinned the smock. Hardare escorted her to the other side of the table, and had her sit beneath the portrait of Houdini.
“This is your spot,” he said. “Don’t move.”
Sophie Nichols turned into a statue. Hardare lit a candle on the table, and dimmed the room’s lights. Shadows danced across the actress’s face. In the darkness, the resemblance to Elaine Osbourne was even stronger.
“Perfect,” Hardare said.
“And you just want me to sit here during the performance, and silently move my mouth up and down,” the actress said.
“That’s right. There’s going to be a hologram over your head, so you shouldn’t move.”
“A hologram? Can I see?”
“Of course.”
The Houdini Séance room was filled with special effects. Hardare flipped a switch on the wall. A few feet above the table appeared a ghostly hand clutching a butcher knife.
“That’s clever. What else does it do?” the actress asked.
“Just watch,” Hardare said.
The ghostly hand came sharply down, plunging the knife into the actress’s chest, the momentary shock causing her to jump. The knife pulled back, dripping blood.
“You really know how to scare a gal, don’t you?” she said.
“That was the idea,” Hardare said.
Chapter 24
Jan
It was getting harder to find a payphone in L.A.
There were still a few around, but most of them were out of service. Everyone having a cell phone these days, Death supposed payphones would soon become a thing of the past, like record players and horse drawn carriages.
He pulled into a Sunset Oil gas station on West Sunset Boulevard at a few minutes past ten. Kenny Kitchen’s show had started, and was playing on his radio. The phone lines were open, and Kenny was inviting his listeners to call in.
Death got out of his car, had a look around. No police cruisers were lurking around, nor did he see any surveillance cameras hanging off the side of the building. The coast was clear, as they said in the movies.
He dropped a quarter into the payphone and called the station. The number was easy to remember. 888-KOLL.
“KOLL, this is the Kenny Kitchen show,” an operator answered.
“I want to speak to Kenny,” Death said.
“Sure. I need to ask you a few questions. First of all, what’s your name?”
“Death.”
“That’s a new one. What do you want to talk to him about?”
“He’ll know.”
“He doesn’t take crank calls, sir.”
“Tell him I’ll cut off Jan Hardare’s head and send it to him if he doesn’t pick up the phone.”
“Gotcha.”
The operator put him on hold. Kitchen picked up the line a few seconds later. The DJ’s voice was shaking.
“Hello, Kenny,” Death said pleasantly.
“I have a message for you,” Kitchen said.
“Really? From who?”
“Hardare. He wants you to watch Action 10 News at Noon.”
“That’s nice. Now, let’s talk about our deal, shall we?”
“I’ve got to go,” Kitchen said.
“Wait a minute! Didn’t you hear what I just said? I want to do a deal with Hardare. Do you understand?”
“Watch Action 10 News at Noon.”
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck you, asshole!”
Seeing red, Death slammed down the receiver, and got into his car. At times like this, it was impossible for him to function, and he sat frozen behind the wheel, hearing a pounding bass line in his ears. It was loud enough to make his head hurt, and he buried his face in his hands.
His heart, beating out of control.
By late morning the wind had picked up, and it whistled in and out of the gaping holes in the walls of the abandoned apartment house where Jan sat prisoner. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she steeled herself as a key entered the door.
The door flew open with wham! Death entered carrying a portable TV under his arm and a bag of groceries. Dressed in Nikes, faded jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt and a Dodgers baseball cap, he looked like the average Joe Blow out for a walk.
“Glad to see you’re still with us.” Shutting the door, he went into the adjoining room, and returned dragging a wooden packing box. Positioning the box before her chair, he propped the portable TV on top of it, switching it on. It was a color Sony with snowy lines running across the screen. He extended the antenna and fiddled with it for a minute.
“Can you see the picture?”
Jan said nothing.
The muscles in his back tensed, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Was that a yes, or a no?”
“Burn in hell,” she said.
He leapt across the room, his hands slapping her face with such dazzling speed that she nearly passed out. Stopping, he removed his cap and brought his face close to hers.
“Look at me, bitch.”
Jan looked. Death was hideous in a way she had not expected. A hairless face with misshapen ears, the nose and mouth contorted by hidden demons, the eyes ice blue and soulless.
“Get this straight,” he said. “I can play this nice, or I can play this ugly. Makes no difference to me.”
Kneeling, Death painstakingly unbolted her chair from the floor. Then he spun her around one hundred and eighty degrees. Jan caught the gasp rising in her throat.
The shriveled skeleton of a girl hung from the plaster ceiling behind her, her red leather mini-skirt pulled down to her knees, her straw blond hair flapping in the wind. What remained of her face was twisted in agony; a sure sign of a slow death. Death gently placed his fingertips on Jan’s shoulders and she felt the remaining fight ebb out of her tired, aching body. He spun her chair back around.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she said.
“That’s more like it.” He resumed fine tuning the portable TV. “Can you see the picture, now?”
“Yes, I can see it.”
“Good,” he replied.
Along wit
h the TV, he had brought a picnic: imported cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, dark pumpernickel bread, sliced baloney, roast beef, alpine Swiss, even little tubs of mayonnaise and mustard. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he proceeded to gorge himself.
“Your stupid husband refuses to deal with me,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Instead of listening to what I had to say, he wants me to watch Action 10 News at Noon. I thought you might want to watch as well.”
“Who is she?” Jan asked.
Death shook his head, not understanding.
“The dead woman hanging behind me.”
“Some tramp.”
“You don’t even know her name?”
“I might have once, but it escapes me.”
Death continued to shove food into his mouth. He was clearly on edge, and looked capable of just about anything. Jan said a silent prayer, hoping that if she died, it went quickly.
“Why, look at the time,” he said. “It’s almost noon. Let’s see what Mr. Magico has up his sleeve, shall we?”
“Sure.”
He turned around and faced the portable TV.
“Now, I remember,” he said. “Her name was Jane. No, that’s not right. It was Jan. I’m sure of it.”
Jan stiffened. “That’s my name.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. My mistake.”
Jan silently cursed him while staring at the TV.
Chapter 25
Rosabelle, Believe
“We’re live in thirty seconds,” the cameraman announced. “Everybody take your places.”
The actors scurried around the Houdini Séance room and took their seats. As a make-up artist dabbed pancake on his upper lip, Hardare took a deep breath. He had only one hand to play, and this was it. On the other side of the room stood Action 10 news reporter Jayne Hunter, clutching a mike. She shot him a smile.
“Are you ready?” Hunter asked.
“As ready as I’m ever going to be,” Hardare replied.
“Five seconds,” the cameraman said. Then, “We’re on…”
“Good day,” Hunter said to the camera. “This is Jayne Hunter, coming to you live from the Magic Castle in Hollywood. I’m in the famous Houdini Séance room with magician Vincent Hardare. As many of our viewers know, Hardare has been helping the LAPD hunt for a serial killer who calls himself Death. Today, Hardare is going to attempt to track Death down by speaking to the spirits. Hardare… are you ready?”
The segment was being shot with a single camera. The cameraman shifted, and focused on the magician sitting at the table with the actors he’d hired.
“Death is not the end, nor the last word for human experience,” Hardare began. “Death is another dimension, another universe, and another time. We enter this dimension only at great risk.”
Everyone at the table joined hands.
“We are gathered in a special place,” he went on. “This room is dedicated to my uncle, Erich Weiss, known to the world as Harry Houdini. During his lifetime, Houdini sought proof of the existence of the hereafter. To his wife Bess he promised that if it were possible, he would return from the next world.
“It is recorded that Houdini’s ghost spoke during a séance conducted by the Reverend Arthur Ford. During that séance, Reverend Ford revealed the secret code Houdini promised to use if he did return. Those words were, ‘Rosabelle, believe’.
“Tonight, with the aid of Houdini’s ghost, we will attempt to contact the spirt world, and ask them to help us find a serial killer who calls himself Death.”
Off camera, a bell rang three times. Hardare began to recite.
“In darkness, I see light
in daylight, I see night.
Shadows as bright as sunshine,
the blind able to see.
This is the world we wish to enter.
We ask the eternal question,
yet no one seems to know.
Who is the master of the show?
Who can explain,
or from the future tear the mask?
Yet still we dream, and still we ask.
What lies beyond the silent night
we cannot say.
Yet death is the door that leads us there,
Death the eternal key.
Rosabelle, believe.”
The séance table eerily rose in the air. Then, the stained glass window directly behind them opened with a terrific bang, and a gush of wind blew into the room, causing the candle to flicker.
It was the perfect distraction. The actress sitting to Hardare’s right rose from her place, and silently stole away. She was replaced by Sophie Nichols, who slipped into the empty chair, and began to softly moan. Under the candle’s flickering light, she bore a strong resemblance to Elaine Osbourne.
“I hear your voice,” Hardare said. “You are so close…” His face suddenly stiffened. “Don’t cry, please. I know you are hurting inside, I know. Just talk to me… let us try to help.”
An anguished cry escaped the actress’s lips.
“Who are you?” Hardare asked her.
Sophie lowered her chin, hiding her face from the camera. The voice of Alice Harvey, the Woman of a Thousand Voices, came over the room’s hidden speaker.
“My name is Elaine Osbourne,” the voice said. “I am Death’s mother. I have a message for my son.”
“Is your son the serial killer who calls himself Death?”
“Yes.”
“What is your son’s name?”
“Eugene Osbourne.”
“What is your message to Eugene,” Hardare said.
“My son must stop killing. He’s hurting me!”
“How is he hurting you?”
“Every victim he kills, an invisible knife is stabbed into my heart! Eugene — you must stop!”
A ghostly hand clutching a butcher knife appeared above the séance table and plunged down into the actress’s head, then disappeared. Hardare had not told the other actors about this little touch. Just as he’d hoped, they recoiled in horror.
“Is there anything else?” Hardare asked.
“Tell Eugene that I love him.”
“Even after he’s hurt you.”
“He’s still my son. Goodbye.”
The séance table rose into the air, and the stained glass window banged open. Sophie Nichols invisibly left the room, her seat replaced by the first actress.
The lights came up, and the cameraman panned the faces of everyone at the table, stopping last at Hardare.
“The dead have spoken,” the magician said.
Death lay on the bare floor in a fetal curl, his head buried in his hands, the crotch of his jeans soiled by his own urine. With each pitiful sob, his shoulders gently rocked, the motion reminding Jan of a baby in a cradle.
Jan sat transfixed, watching her abductor teeter on the brink of madness. How had Vince found out who Death’s mother was? And how had he found someone who looked exactly like her, and gotten her to appear at a séance? Being married to a magician had always been full of surprises, and this ranked right up there with the very best.
Death shrieked a primal scream, the sound tearing through the abandoned tenement. Pulling himself to his feet, he walked around the room, his fists pounding holes into the crumbling walls.
“Why did he do that?” he sobbed. “Why couldn’t he leave my mommy alone?”
Jan stared straight ahead. Eugene had snapped, and sounded like a ten-year-old-boy.
“I’m going to make him pay for that. Just you wait.”
From the paper bag he pulled out a string of sausages. He stuck one into his mouth and chewed viciously. Something about him had changed, although Jan wasn’t entirely sure what.
“Can I have one?” she asked.
“What did you say?”
“I’m hungry. Can I have one of your sausages.”
Death tore off a sausage and stuck it in her mouth.
“Your husband is a prick. He could have brought my f
ather back, and wouldn’t have said those bad things about me.”
Jan chewed the uncooked sausage. As it hit her stomach, her gastronomical juices went off like fireworks.