"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He groaned. "What a fuckup. It wasn't her; it wasn't her," he kept repeating. "He's gonna fuckin' kill me if he finds out."
Hurrying to his parked car, he opened the door, slipped inside, and put his forehead against the steering wheel.
"I gotta think of something," he mumbled. "Shit!"
* * *
Dakota spent Saturday writing a brief report to send to her boss. After phoning him about the events the night before, he was more than willing to sponsor one ticket on her behalf and pay for her flight to the Illusionist's final show in Montreal. His only request was a summary of everything she had managed to gather so far. The flight to Montreal was scheduled for Friday and the ticket had already been emailed to her. The show ticket would be overnighted to the hotel he had booked for her.
"I hate early morning flights," Dakota grumbled as she sat looking out the window. Planes were taxiing in and out, but Gate A-6 was quiet since her layover was more than three hours. A young couple with a sleeping baby was in the corner whispering softly, looking as if they needed a good night's sleep. An older woman was reading a popular lesbian novel but was trying to conceal the title with her left hand. Dakota chuckled. She had read the book several times. It was one of her favorite traveling books.
Distracted by an elderly gentleman accompanied by two younger men dressed in business suits, she caught just a few words of the conversation.
"Yeah, another one killed on MARTA. How many has it been this year?"
Dakota didn't hear the reply, but being a journalist, she was now curious.
"Well, you'd think they'd put up some rails to make people stay back some, wouldn't you?" the young man responded.
Getting up, Dakota decided to purchase a local paper. Quickly scanning the front page, she found the article about an accident on MARTA.
"Woman Dies in Subway Accident." A local school teacher was killed when she fell in front of a MARTA train Wednesday morning. Witnesses say it appears she may have been accidentally pushed when a white male turned suddenly to speak to someone behind him. Police have identified the deceased as Brenda Simpson, 57. The identity of the man has not been determined. Eyewitnesses describe him as approximately 5-foot-7 with a slender build, thinning brown hair, and wearing a dark suit and glasses. The police are asking him contact them. At this time they are ruling the incident an accident pending further investigation.
Ms. Simpson was a teacher at the high school in Doraville. Her friends and colleague describe her as a warm caring teacher who will be sorely missed.
"Brenda was an exceptional human being. She loved her students and her colleagues," said William Langley, a fellow teacher. "She was such an interesting person. Everyone was looking forward to her return to work because she had just gotten back from watching a magic show in Charleston. We'll miss her."
Wow, that's freaky, Dakota thought. She was at the same show as me. I wonder if I talked with her.
Flipping to the next page, she began reading about the city's attempt to close one of the local private nightclubs. The article was sketchy, but the gist of the report was the club was a popular dancing and rendezvous spot for the gay community, although many straight people frequented it also. It seemed the mayor and council members had created some new zoning ordinances that changed the status of the nightclub from private to public. Dakota finished reading the story and threw the paper on the seat next to her in disgust.
"When is all this crap gonna stop?" she muttered. "Why can't people just mind their own business?"
Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes and dozed until her flight number for Montreal was called.
CHAPTER 6
ROBERT CHISHOLM stood staring out the picture window at the ocean, no longer impressed by the waves lapping at the golden sandy beach. He had looked at it since he was seven years old and had known even then this would all be his.
Charles Wentworth III inherited his wealth, but it didn't stop him from working hard to attain the position of CEO in his family's business. He had learned the basics of each phase of publishing to understand what the company employees did to make the business successful, and for that, he was highly respected by them and management.
His rise to power was quick, but few would accuse his father of nepotism when he finally made Charles the president of Wentworth Publications. At thirty-two, he eventually married the daughter of his father's best friend, more as a convenience than out of love. Christine had been a good wife and companion. Seven years into the marriage, she died of breast cancer.
Childless, Charles spent the next twelve years running the business. It wasn't until he met Cynthia Chisholm that he took an interest in life again. She was eighteen years his junior, tall, slender, redheaded, energetic, and an employee of his company. His senior vice president had hired her as his personal secretary. Charles pulled rank and acquired her for himself. Soon they were having dinners together and frequenting the local nightclubs. The fact that she had a five-year-old son didn't deter Charles from wooing the young woman. Eventually, they married, and Charles willingly adopted her son, Robert.
During the next several years, Charles did his best to bond with the boy. To most people, it appeared he was successful. Charles, however, knew better. Robert was always respectful to him when others were present, but Charles was astute enough to recognize the hatred in the eyes behind the smiling face.
He understood the child's resentment over having to share Cynthia with another man and hoped it would pass. It never did. Cynthia was a doting mom, wanting to give her son every benefit money could offer. She was truly fond of Charles, although she never really loved him. Still Charles could not have asked for a better wife. Her inability to have more children saddened him but had also made him more determined to groom Robert to take over the family business. This seemed to please Cynthia and Robert.
At twenty-eight, Robert felt he was ready to take over Wentworth Publications. His stepfather was in his mid-seventies. Robert thought he should have retired a long time before, but Charles was in excellent health. Nothing short of an accident would give Robert his rightful place.
On his twenty-ninth birthday, Robert got his wish. Cynthia and his Charles were on their way to his penthouse in Miami Beach when they were struck by a taxicab. The driver said he was distracted by an object thrown at his front window. Cursing, he turned to yell at some young hoodlums and didn't see the older couple step onto the crosswalk.
Both died from the impact, leaving Robert alone and sole heir of his step-father's business. No one was charged, and Robert didn't pursue legal action against the driver. Shrugging philosophically, he had merely commented that "an accident was an accident."
Those who were aware of his ambitious nature found his response interesting, if not downright suspicious. Rumors circulated about the "accident," but since there weren't any witnesses to say otherwise, they faded quickly.
Robert Chisholm Wentworth became the CEO of Wentworth Publications. Shortly after assuming the position, he dropped his adopted name, claiming he wanted to be known for his own accomplishments. Soon afterward, he had approached the board members about changing the name of the company but met with so much hostility that he backed down, apologizing by explaining he was just trying to give the company a new image. No one bought the explanation, but an uneasy truce was called.
Time passed and Robert Chisholm proved to be an astute businessman. The company expanded into other lines of business. The entertainment field was of special interest to him. While reviewing a few publications of "Magical Illusions", one of his company's newly acquired magazines, he noticed an article about Yemaya Lysanne, along with a small picture of her in costume. Wanting to know more, he called his senior editor into his office.
"What do we know about Ms. Lysanne?" he asked.
Clancy looked at the picture and shrugged.
"Not much. She's popular and has a rather large fan base but no one has been able to get a decent interview w
ith her. Apparently she likes to keep that mystique she promotes."
"So it would be quite a coup if my magazine was to succeed in getting a personal interview with this particular illusionist?"
Clancy nodded. "We'd be the first. That would give us an edge over the competition for future articles on other celebrities, too."
"Good. Get me a ticket to one of her performances. I want to see what makes this woman so special."
After attending the performance and studying her illusions, Chisholm wanted desperately to unravel the mysteries behind them and her. Unable to do either and not willing to accept failure, he became obsessed with her as both a performer and a woman of mystery. His instincts told him there was more to The Illusionist than just magic tricks. No one could explain her disappearing tricks. Her bios were vague and speculative. The few bits of information uncovered indicated that she had arrived in the U.S. at age twenty-one. Her passport identified her as a citizen of Moldova, supposedly from the town of Taraclia.
Curious to know more about her, Chisholm sent two investigators to the town. After receiving confirmation of their arrival, they were never heard from again. They had simply disappeared. Frustrated and unused to being thwarted, he called his government sources, only to be told there was nothing they could do. Chisholm didn't like feeling impotent and vowed he would discover the mystery behind the woman.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter!" he ordered, turning as his secretary stepped through the opening.
"Mr. Chisholm, Mr. Jones asks for a moment of your time."
"Send him in, Ms. Randall, and no calls."
"Yes, sir."
Eddy Jones stepped cautiously into the room, sweat dripping from his brow.
"For Christ's sake, Jones. Quit dripping on the carpet." Chisholm hissed.
"Um... oh.… sorry, Mr. Chisholm," he apologized, wiping his face with his sleeve.
"Well, what is it?"
"It's — it's all taken care of, Mr. Chisholm," Jones stuttered.
"Permanently?"
"Yes, sir, permanently. The... um... customer had an unfortunate accident in Atlanta. She lost her balance and fell in front of an oncoming train in the subway."
"Any witnesses?"
"Well, yes, sir. She lost her balance and fell. Very unfortunate."
"And what do the police have to say about this unfortunate incident?"
"They ruled it an accident. There won't be any problems," Eddy added, relieved his employer accepted his story.
"Good job."
Walking to his desk, he opened a drawer and pulled out a large brown envelope. Throwing it on the desk, he turned toward Jones.
"This is a plane ticket to Montreal. Reservations for your motel are at the Lord Berry. I want you at Lysanne's next performance. Your ticket is also there, along with two thousand dollars. It's a complimentary one for the charitable contribution I made to Miami Children's Hospital. It cost me eight grand, so don't go losing it. That'll be more than enough with the exchange rate."
"Sure, boss. You want me to try and take more pictures?"
"Hell, no. Someone saw you the last time and look what happened. Who knows who else might've seen you? Besides, I don't want some smart reporter connecting two deaths with Lysanne's shows."
"It's another country, boss. Who could do that?"
Robert Chisholm glared at Eddy.
"Damn it, Jones! Are you always so fucking stupid? We're talking Canada, not some godforsaken place like Russia. Reporters follow people like her all the time. Just keep an eye on her and try to get something worth the money I'm paying you. You think you can do that?"
"Sure, boss. No problem."
"Good, now get out. I've got work to do," Chisholm snapped.
CHAPTER 7
DAKOTA THREW HER luggage on the chair. Falling backward on the bed, she sighed. The flight had been smooth, but the layover in Atlanta was a bitch. A warm bath and a nap was called for, but first she needed to check at the front desk to see if the overnight package had arrived. Dialing zero, she waited for someone to pick up.
"Bon après-midi, reception. Comment puis-je vous aider?"
"Oh, hi. I mean, bonjour. This is room 223. I'm expecting a package. Has it arrived yet?"
"Un moment, mademoiselle. I weel check for you, yes?"
"Thank you."
After a few minutes, the clerk was back on the phone.
"Allo? Mademoiselle?"
"Yes."
"Ze package has not arrived. I weel let you know when it does, yes?"
"Yes, please. Would you please have the front desk ring my room in about two hours?"
"Oui, mademoiselle. Ef you need anything, you will call me? I am Nathalie."
"Thank you, Nathalie. Have a good evening."
"Vous aussi. Au revoir, mademoiselle."
* * *
Dakota didn't spend much time soaking. Getting caught up on her sleep was the bigger priority. Crawling under the sheets, she closed her eyes and drifted off.
The sounds of chanting woke her. Opening her eyes, she was confused by flames dancing in front of her. Blinking, she looked down and noticed she was wearing deerskin breeches and top.
"What the —?"
"Breeches."
"Breeches?" Dakota asked, looking across the campfire at an older version of herself.
"Breeches. Theys be breeches. Ya knows... deerskin leggins."
Looking back down, she gasped.
"But… but… they only cover my legs. The... um… rest of me is visible."
"Of course ya is. What good is havin' that thar bush of yourn covered up? Why ifn ya gets a call from nature ya'd have ta takes them down in a hurry. Worse yet, how would ya go cleaning yerself up? This way, ya just has to let the breeze blow through ifn ya pisses. Course, ifn ya has to do the other, grass is for that." .
Dakota shuddered at the thought of using grass or any plant, for that matter. What if she chose the wrong thing? She had heard stories of people who had camped and grabbed poison ivy. They actually had to be hospitalized for several days. The itching had been unbearable.
"I don't think I need to think about this at the moment. I can't believe I'm even having this conversation."
"Wahl, then. What might be on yer mind that ya needs to jawbone with me now? Ya never has before."
"Me? I just laid lay down to take a nap. I wasn't even thinking of you."
"Ya twern't? Seems ta me ya was a talkin' 'bout me a few days back. Seems ta me ya had lots of thangs to tell that magic woman," the older woman said.
"You mean Yemaya? How do you know about her? This is some type of weird dream, isn't it? I was telling her about you, and now I'm having strange dreams."
"Seems y'all has this here feexashun on dreamin'. The magic woman knowed everything and now ya claims to knowed it all."
"What do you mean Yemaya knowed… knows… knew everything? Only reason you know about her is because we talked about you. You can't know more than I do."
"There ya goes tellin' me what I ken't be knowin'. Well, youngun. I knowed she's a pawerful magic woman. And I knowed the two of ya were meant to meet up. And I knowed the two of yas is headin' for some big trouble. Darkness is comin' a callin', and it's gonna take a heap of magic and help from the Spirits if yas gonna live through it."
"What kind of darkness? What do you see?"
"Ken't tell, youngun. I just feels it in my bones and the spirits be restless. They be whisperin' about the darkness, and ya seems to be somehow connected to it."
"Darkness. You keep saying that. What darkness?"
"Not sure, chile. When da spirits start a twitterin' like they bes, it ken't be good. Ya gots to be real careful now cuz there's somethin' a brewin'. That's all I knowed, except the magic woman is gonna need yer help, and yer gonna need hers. Ya bes pardners now."
"Granny," Dakota hesitated. The connection she felt with this woman was strong. "Can I call you Granny?"
"Of course yeh ken
. What else would yah be callin me?"
The Illusionist - 3rd Edition Page 5