Hocus ik-5

by Jan Burke

  Bret started screaming. Gene and Sam were shouting.

  “Shut up!” Powell yelled, moving back toward Julian with the knife.

  They were all silent.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Julian said, but his face was pale. Sam moved over to Bret, held on to him.

  “Now, Gene, I asked you to make your confession,” Powell said. “Tell these little faggot kids of yours what you did.”

  “No one should ever call anyone a faggot,” Sam said, repeating — verbatim — one part of a lecture they had received not long ago.

  Bret, who had not been able to take his eyes from his father’s bleeding cut, was terrified that Powell would slice at Julian again because of Sammy’s remark.

  But Powell just laughed. “You admit being faggots, huh?”

  “No. We’re just like brothers,” Sam said, still holding Bret. “Brothers don’t have sex with each other. But even if we were gay, you shouldn’t say the word ‘faggot.’ It’s bad manners.”

  Powell howled with laughter. “Man, you are a piece of work, kid.”

  “I’m very proud of you, Sam,” Gene said quietly, attracting everyone’s attention. Bret realized that Gene’s voice was different. He sounded stronger, as if being proud of Sam had made him braver. “But I’m not so proud of myself. You’re right. You and Bret are like brothers, just as Julian and I are like brothers. It’s also right that it’s my fault we are here — partly because I didn’t confide in Julian.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Julian said.

  “It’s the only thing that matters,” Gene said. “Boys, I want to tell you a story — a true story. Julian knows some of it, but not all of it.”

  Powell backed off from the men and sat on the cot. “I’m gonna enjoy the hell outta this,” he said.

  Julian looked over at Bret and Sam. He mouthed the words, “Be brave.”

  So Gene began to tell them about gambling and losing money. He talked about being afraid of the men he owed money to, of what they might do if he didn’t pay them back. He talked about Powell approaching him with the chance to make easy money.

  “Chris knew a man who wanted something flown to the United States from Mexico,” he said.

  “What was it, Daddy?” Sam asked.

  Gene hesitated.

  Powell jumped to his feet, knife in hand. He swaggered over to Gene. “What was it, Daddy?” he mimicked.

  “Cocaine,” Gene whispered.

  Bret saw Sam’s eyes widen in disbelief. Bret shouted what Sam had wanted to say. “You’re lying!”

  “Bret!” Julian said sharply.

  Gene was shaking his head. “No, Bret, I’m sorry, I’m not.”

  “Boys,” Julian said quickly, “this is a secret. You understand? No one ever hears about this. No one! Not ever.”

  Powell turned and slashed him again, the other arm this time. In the next instant, he cut Gene.

  “You two are pissing me off!” Powell shouted. “Now get on with the story, Gene. Or next time, I cut one of these little babies over here.”

  Shakily Gene went on. He told of flights to Mexico in the Cessna 210 — flights the boys thought were missions of mercy to help people too poor to pay for doctors. Yes, he really did help the poor, he told them when Sam asked. But while the other doctors were there only to help, he was also doing illegal business on the side. That’s why he always went on his own, alone, and the others went in groups. If he met up with other doctors, he told them he flew alone because of his insurance, but that wasn’t true.

  He picked up the drugs — marijuana or cocaine or heroin — in Mexico. He would then fly the plane to the Kern Valley Airport, near Lake Isabella, and drive down to Bakersfield from there. Powell would unload the drugs and leave money for Gene in a special locked box. It was a lot of money. It helped him get out of debt quickly.

  Although at first he did not handle any payments to the suppliers, eventually Gene was entrusted with taking large sums of cash to Mexico.

  Now he was no longer afraid of the men who had tried to collect his gambling debts. He was afraid of Powell and Powell’s boss. He was being asked to make more and more frequent flights. Between the flights and his schedule at the hospital, he was never home. He was always fatigued, unable to enjoy time with his friends or family. He was worried that he would be caught. He began to see how foolish he had been.

  He went to seek help from the man who had always been his best friend. Julian said that no matter what happened, he would always stand by him.

  “And I will,” Julian said when Gene reached this part of the story.

  “And I’ll always stand by Sam,” Bret said, because he knew his friend was feeling bewildered and ashamed.

  Julian smiled at Bret. Gene began weeping again.

  “Very fucking touching,” Powell said, “but you ain’t finished.”

  Julian had suggested he take some time off, Gene said. Julian had seen that Gene was exhausted, not able to think clearly. It was a complex problem. They could spend some time talking things over once Gene got some rest.

  So they planned the fishing trip, and as the day grew closer Gene found himself excited at the prospect of spending time with his friend and their sons. He worked a long shift at the hospital, trying to make sure everything would go smoothly while he was gone for the week. Then his pager went off; the code on it signified a call from Powell. It meant Powell wanted a flight.

  Gene drove up to Lake Isabella, to the airport, but as he sat in the plane, weary in more ways than one, he changed his mind. He shut down the engines and was going to leave the money on the plane, but he realized his “false start” had attracted some attention. He took the money, put it in his car, and drove to Powell’s house. He planned to tell Powell that he wanted out but Powell wasn’t home. He tried calling him but only reached the answering machine. He left a message, saying he hadn’t gone on the flight, that he needed to talk to Powell. He headed back to Bakersfield, but began to feel afraid and confused, unsure of what to do.

  “Forget all the excuses,” Powell said. “You did a dumb-ass thing.”

  As he drove, Gene said, he decided he didn’t like the idea of having this kind of money near his family, where someone might hurt them in order to take it.

  Powell laughed over that.

  “I decided not to take the money home,” Gene said. “But I was more than halfway to Bakersfield and too tired to drive all the way back to Lake Isabella and wait for Powell, so I pulled off at the side of the road and buried the money.”

  “I go to this plane,” Powell said, “thinking maybe he’s left the money there. And what do I find, huh? What do I find?”

  “An empty plane,” Gene said. “But—”

  “Fuckin’ A, an empty plane!” Powell started pacing.

  “I called you again when I got home and told you where I’d left the money!” Gene said.

  “Not so’s I could find it.”

  “I didn’t know!” Gene said. “Would I be driving toward your house if I thought you hadn’t found the money? Would I have my children in the car with me? I wasn’t trying to escape!”

  “Shut up!” Powell raged. “I ain’t stupid! You fucked up!”

  He began pacing again.

  As time went on, Powell became more restless. The tempo of his pacing increased. He said it was taking too long for the boss to get there. Something was wrong. Maybe Gene had never hidden any money there after all. In time he convinced himself that Gene had set a trap.

  That’s when the killing began. He cut the men loose, but he didn’t give them a real chance to fight. They had been tied up for hours by then, and the circulation had gone out of their hands and feet. And each time Powell inflicted a wound, he became more excited, more frenzied.

  Julian died first, then Gene. The boys were screaming. Powell turned on them. He dropped the knife and shook them, but still they screamed. He picked up a piece of pipe, was going to hit Bret with it. But at the last minute Sam shielded Bret,
who was smaller. That was how Sam’s arm was broken.

  Sam yelled, “You promised the policeman you wouldn’t hurt us!”

  Powell stopped then, as quickly as he had begun. He looked around the room in surprise, as if a stranger had done this terrible work. He hurriedly mounted the stairs, closed the basement door. Faintly they heard the sliding metal door open. They did not hear it close.

  The boys screamed for help until they were hoarse.

  The lantern batteries, already weak by the time Powell left, dimmed rapidly; the room grew darker and darker, until it was pitch black.

  The boys held on to one another.

  They settled into a state that was almost like being asleep, dreamlike and distant, only Sam’s occasional moan of pain bringing Bret back to the present. They did not know how much time had passed when the basement door opened and a flashlight shone into the dark. They stayed silent.

  “Powell?”

  The policeman.

  The chains made a rattling sound. They were both shaking.

  The light glanced onto the floor and then into their faces. They were too exhausted from standing on their feet for hours in the heavy chains to raise their hands to shield their eyes from the light.

  The policeman made a keening sound, a sound not unlike the ones they had made when they’d still had voices to cry out with. Then he was gone.

  Bret felt as if he had been awakened again. He could feel the cold of the room, smell the blood, feel Sam shiver. He began to wonder if anyone would ever find them. It was then that the door opened and another policeman came in.

  His name was Frank Harriman. He left them only long enough to radio for help, which was long enough for the boys to decide that no one would ever believe the truth.

  When Frank Harriman came back he tried to free them, but the swelling in their hands and feet had made the leather too tight to cut. When he saw he couldn’t free them without hurting them, he stayed with them, there in the cold darkness, with the stench all around, waiting for help. He braced his back against the wall and lifted them carefully onto his lap, cradling their arms so that the strain of holding the chains was finally relieved. He didn’t mind that they were silent or that they had blood on them.

  He was young, younger than their fathers. And he was taller. But something about him reminded Bret and Sam of Julian. That’s why the boys let him hold them until their mothers could be there. They did not let any of the other men take them from him, even after they were able to leave the basement — not even the one who put a splint on Sam’s arm.

  Frank Harriman wouldn’t let anyone separate them. When the others saw that the boys wouldn’t answer questions, the others were upset. He made the ones who were upset leave the boys alone. He knew they were tired and weak and afraid. He didn’t complain. He held them. Frank Harriman, and no one else.

  They didn’t trust him completely, but they trusted no one else at all.

  18

  THE DARK-HAIRED YOUNG MAN stood with his left arm extended to the side, his open left hand palm up. In his right hand he held a pack of cards. In one smooth, even movement he spread the cards from the palm of his left hand up the length of his arm to his elbow. With a grace that belied his quickness, he lifted his left arm, rolled his palm downward, and turned his body to the left. For a brief instant the cards stood in the air as one unit, then cascaded in an improbable, fluid motion to his waiting right hand, where he caught them perfectly.

  Dressed less outlandishly than he was when Frank last saw him — on Dana Ross’s porch — the magician wore jeans and a blue T-shirt. He repeated the catch again and again, never failing to spread the pack smoothly, never dropping a card, never seeming to use the concentration that must have been required.

  Frank watched silently from the bed. His headache was less sharp now, not nearly as sharp as his disappointment in realizing that he had slept again. The magician’s card flourishes had drawn his eye when he first awakened, but now he spent time taking in all that had changed during his most recent drug-induced nap.

  The curtain that had surrounded the bed was gone. The room beyond it was an odd one, of soft bending walls. As he awakened more fully, he came to the conclusion that although he was in the same bed, he was, inexplicably, inside a large tent. He had been rolled onto his right side. The IV bottle had been attached again but seemed to be clamped shut — he couldn’t be sure. His hands were still tethered, but he could move his legs. As he did, he saw that he was no longer dressed in the hospital gown. He now wore a set of surgeon’s scrubs.

  Without looking at Frank, the magician said, “Please don’t bother trying to fake sleep again. You have too much trouble staying awake to pull it off. At this rate, we’ll never get to talk to one another.”

  Frank didn’t reply, but he kept his eyes open.

  The young man stopped, set down the pack, and turned toward the bed. “On my tenth birthday, you gave me a magic kit. Do you remember?”

  “Bret?” he asked in utter disbelief. He saw the young man flinch at that disbelief, and his long-carried sense of protectiveness toward Bret Neukirk made him sorry for not hiding his reaction. But confusion soon overran regret — he could not reconcile what was happening to him now with his memory of the silent young boy.

  I’m still dreaming, he told himself. The drugs—

  “Yes,” the young man said, “I’m Bret. I’m sorry about all of this, Detective Harriman. I really am.”

  “Sorry? Bret, for chrissakes—”

  “I’m afraid you’re our hostage, sir.”

  He could only repeat numbly, “Our?”

  “Samuel. Me. Hocus.”

  Frank shut his eyes. Clenched them shut. This isn’t happening, he told himself. This isn’t happening.

  “Are you in pain?” Bret asked worriedly.

  Oh, yes, Frank thought. I’m in pain. Not Bret. Not Sam. He opened his eyes. “Why?”

  “I made a promise,” he said. “Samuel and I promised something to each other. We would see justice done, no matter how long it took.”

  “Justice? But Powell is dead—”

  “Yes,” Bret answered, watching him closely. “But not the policeman.”

  Frank tried to read Bret’s expression. “You want to kill me?”

  Bret smiled, then looked away quickly. His voice — a voice Frank had never heard speak more than a few words — was full of emotion. “I knew you wouldn’t know. I knew it. I told Samuel, but Samuel is less trusting — not that I blame him.”

  “Wouldn’t know what?” Frank asked, his headache suddenly fierce.

  “A little later on, I’ll give you something to read — our story. It explains everything. It’s the one we sent to Irene.”

  “You’ve talked to Irene?”

  “Yes. You have, too, actually,” he said. “I know you find it hard to believe,” he added quickly. “In your position, I would feel the same. When you spoke to her, Samuel had given you a drug that often makes people forget what has happened while they are under its influence.”

  Calm down. Calm down.

  “This is a lot to take in all at once, I suppose,” Bret said. “But I assure you, we will not harm Irene. She’s not a target. We didn’t want to hurt you, either. I want you to be free when this is all over.”

  “And Sam? Does he want the same thing?”

  Bret hesitated. “Well, of course, that’s the ideal situation.”

  “And if things don’t work out ideally?”

  “You shouldn’t think about such things.”

  “Forgive me, Bret, but it’s hard to think about anything else.”

  “I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of here alive.”

  He could find no real comfort in that. He began to take comfort instead in the sharp aching of his head, reasoning that this much pain meant the drugs no longer had so strong a hold on him.

  To survive, he knew, he needed information. And he needed to make sure Bret remained concerned about him.

/>   “Where is Sam?” he asked.

  “With his girlfriend. He doesn’t like to be called Sam, by the way. He goes by Samuel now.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to remember that. ‘Detective Harriman’ is a little formal. Why don’t you call me ‘Frank’?”

  Bret hesitated. “Maybe when it’s just the two of us here,” he said.

  Frank shrugged one shoulder, as if it didn’t matter. But he thought of the implications of Bret’s statement even as he said casually, “I’m more comfortable here on my side. Are you the one who moved me around?”

  Bret nodded. “It’s not good for you to stay in one position. And I thought you would like these clothes better. I — I hope that doesn’t embarrass you.”

  Having his clothes changed while he slept? It humiliated him. But he said, “No, not at all. The other outfit was embarrassing. I didn’t like the gown much.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t!”

  “You were right.”

  “I know you don’t like being restrained, either… Frank.” He said the name timidly, trying it out.

  “You’re right, Bret. I know you understand why.”

  He nodded. “I do, Frank. I don’t like to see anyone tied up. I don’t even like to see dogs tied up. Or animals in cages.”

  “Was the animal shelter your idea?”

  “The shelter,” he said, “but not the killing.” Anxiously he added, “Do you believe me?”

  “Yes,” Frank said quite truthfully. He remembered the hesitancy Bret had shown at Dana Ross’s place. Samuel had been the one who did all the rough work.

  “Maybe later, I’ll be able to convince Samuel that you should be allowed to walk around. He thinks we’ll be in danger from you if you aren’t restrained.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Oh, you can’t leave this building unless we let you out, so it would be foolish to try to harm one of us. And we have some devices that we could put on you that would discourage escape attempts, or violence, but that would allow you to move about.” Seeing Frank’s eyes widen, he added quickly, “I wouldn’t put them on you without your consent, of course. And you would know the penalty for breaking the rules beforehand.”