Hocus ik-5

by Jan Burke

  Avoiding anyone associated with the newsroom, I quickly ducked into the downstairs office of classified advertising. Following Hocus’s instructions, I paid for an ad in the personals section that read “John Oakhurst, come home.”

  Geoffrey, the day shift security guard, had never failed to do me any kindness he could manage, and he kept his record at one hundred percent when I asked him if all the pool cars were spoken for. He didn’t answer yes or no, just handed me a set of keys and said, “Drive carefully.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and started to leave. I stopped at the front doors and turned back. I handed him the cellular phone and said, “When the Las Piernas Police Department comes looking for me, please give them their phone.”

  He laughed his wheezy laugh and said, “Sure.”

  I parked the pool car several blocks away from the burned-out warehouse, not even driving past it, although the temptation was great. But I knew there would still be some activity there, investigators sifting through the rubble, so I avoided it. Frank isn’t there, I told myself. Prayed to God it was true.

  I got out of the car and started walking. The night before, as we had stayed penned in our enclosure, I had thought about this neighborhood. Now, walking through it, I was fairly certain that Hocus was still nearby.

  Whether or not they had been seen entering it, Hocus had been in the warehouse. I was betting they hadn’t moved far. First, Frank wouldn’t be easy to move. If he were awake, he might escape. That meant he was probably still doped up on morphine, all the more likely if they were sticking to their plan of increasing his dosages.

  As I had told Bredloe, I didn’t think the arrival of the police at the warehouse had been a surprise — they had been beckoned there. Only two people were in the warehouse when the fire was set; Faye Taft was very likely the “prone” person in the warehouse. So Frank had been moved and had had to be watched by Samuel or Bret.

  Bret, most likely, I decided. Faye was Samuel’s girlfriend. I couldn’t be sure it was Samuel who stayed there to make sure she burned up with the building, but there was something in the way he had spoken of her that made me believe he was capable of it. And I remembered Regina Szal telling me that Bret had passed out at the sight of blood. Bret, I had decided, made an unlikely killer.

  Samuel had to have left on foot. Any escape in a vehicle would have been impossible. Either he disguised himself as an official — a firefighter or SWAT team member — or he had left by some concealed exit.

  When I was about a block north and two blocks east of the warehouse, I slowed down, started paying more attention to the neighborhood. I walked past a shoe repair shop with a faded cardboard sign in the window that said “We closed Mondays.” There was a comic book store next to it. I glanced in, saw five or six customers, all who seemed to be men in their thirties. I kept walking.

  When I reached the row of shops directly behind the warehouse, I began to get the distinct impression that someone was following me. Paranoia required no effort on my part at this point, so I ducked into a small café. All the tables were covered with plastic-coated, red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. There were dusty plastic vases with dusty plastic flowers in them. I sat at a table in the back, only to glance down and notice that a large fly was in final repose on one of the red checkers.

  “We don’t open for lunch for another hour,” a voice called from the back.

  “I’m in luck, then,” I said under my breath, then stood up and walked toward the voice. A large, rough-faced man in a dirty apron filled up most of a narrow hallway. His arms were covered with tattoos. He was lighting a cigarette.

  I looked back toward the street, just in time to see Reed Collins peer in through the window. After seeing nothing but empty tables, he walked on.

  “You want something, lady?” Mr. Culinary Arts asked.

  “Could I use your rest room?”

  “Look, we’re closed.”

  I reached into my jeans and pulled out a buck. “Could I use your rest room?” I asked again.

  He looked skeptical. “A lousy buck?”

  “Even pay toilets used to only cost a nickel,” I said.

  He took a long drag on the cigarette. “So did a candy bar. Stop or you’ll make me cry.”

  After glancing back at the window, I pulled out a second dollar. He snatched the bills from my fingers and said, “Make yourself at home.”

  The bathroom was past the kitchen, and judging from the sweltering heat in the tiny room, the ovens were on the other side of one wall. I flipped on the light switch, which also turned on a fan that sounded like a tank battalion crossing a metal bridge but did nothing to cool the room. The switch also apparently signaled an air freshener dispenser to have multiple orgasms — it found its release again and again. The toilet and sink were rust stained, the floor was sticky, and toilet paper seemed to be on a BYO roll basis.

  Thank God I didn’t have to go.

  Trying not to touch anything, I waited. I started wondering if I was going to end up with some disease late in life, an illness that would be traced back to overexposure to that air freshener. The scent must have been named “Yes, Bears Do.”

  When I couldn’t take it any longer, I stepped out.

  “He turned right at the corner,” the cook said.

  “Who?”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “The cop you’re avoiding. Plainclothes guy.”

  “He came in here?”

  “No. Like I said, went around the corner to the right.”

  “How could you tell he was a cop?” I asked.

  “Folsom, class of 1989. Fully rehabilitated, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said. “What makes you so sure I’m avoiding a cop?”

  He started laughing and pulled the two dollars back out of his pocket. He handed them to me and said, “Sister, you earned it,” as he walked back into the kitchen.

  As I started toward the front door, I heard him say, “Hey!”

  I turned around.

  “You in some kind of trouble?” he asked.

  “Not really. Someone else is.”

  “Yeah? Well, go over to the little bookstore across the street. Guy over there will let you out the back way.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The long, narrow store sold used books. The owner was at a counter in the back, talking on the phone. He was tall and thin and looked as if he had been selling books since the day the Gutenberg Bible was hot off the press. There was a closed door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY behind him. I decided not to make a scene by rushing through it and passed the time browsing — not an unpleasant diversion. I found a paperback copy of a collection of short stories by Bret Harte and pulled it from the shelf. A penciled notation on the title page said it was mine for a quarter — a deal.

  Deciding I needed to move toward the rear of the store in case Reed Collins came back, I moved closer to the counter and started looking over the eclectic collections on the back shelves, which yellowed tags identified as books on gardening, bicycling, architecture, military history, and other subjects. While most sections were crowded with titles, there was a noticeable gap on one of the upper shelves, and I stood on tiptoe to read its tag.

  “Magic and Magicians,” I read aloud.

  The store owner had just finished his call. “Magic?” he repeated. “Not you, too. Is this some new craze or something?”

  “You’ve had a lot of people in here buying books on magic?”

  He shook his head. “No, just Mr. Messier, the fellow that bought the theater.”

  Something was familiar about that name, but I couldn’t place it. “Which theater?”

  “Oh, it’s just down the alley from here. The Starlight. Long time ago, it was quite a grand place, but then it went broke. Church group had it for a little while. Called it the Starlight Chapel. Then the church went broke. Hasn’t operated as a theater in years, but Mr. Messier’s restoring it.”

  The Starlight. I knew where I had heard the
name, then. “Would this be Mr. Charles Messier?”

  “Why, yes!” he said, smiling. “Do you know him?”

  “We’ve spoken on the phone,” I said. “Is he a young man?”

  “Yes, but don’t let that fool you. He’s well off. And smart as a whip. And I’m telling you, he showed me a couple of card tricks — he should be in Vegas, he’s that good.”

  “Sounds like you’ve taken a liking to him.”

  “I have, I have. Mr. Messier is a very charming young man. And he’s put a lot of work into that theater.”

  I paid for the Harte stories and said, “I have a favor to ask.”

  The owner looked up at me.

  “The cook at the café across the street said you might let me out the back door, into the alley.”

  The old man smiled. “Ray said that? Well, sure, go right ahead.”

  “How well do you know Ray?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

  “You mean, do I know he’s an ex-con? Sure I do. He worked here for me when he first got out, then went to work over there at the café. He keeps an eye out for me, though. Neighborhood’s a lot tougher than it used to be — heck, they tell me the SWAT team was all over the place last night. A warehouse burned down. Anyway, Ray doesn’t let anybody give me any trouble. So if he wants you to see our lovely alley, go right on through that back door. But I’ll warn you, that back door will lock behind you, so once you’re in the alley, you have to walk to the end of it to get out.”

  “Thank you — and please thank Ray again for me.” I started to leave, then paused and asked, “Do you know where the nearest pay phone is?”

  “Local call?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Go right ahead and use mine.”

  “Thanks.”

  I dialed Cassidy’s number, got an answering machine.

  “Cassidy, this is Irene. There’s an old theater between Twentieth and Twenty-first Streets, off….”

  “Denton,” the old man supplied.

  “Denton,” I said. “It’s owned by Mr. Charles Messier, whom you may remember from our conversation with the Szals. I think he has our package. The Starlight Theater. I’ll call back in a few minutes.”

  I hung up, stood wondering if I trusted such an important message to an answering machine.

  “Go ahead,” the old man said, “make another call.” At my puzzled look he added, “You’re still hanging on to the phone. Squeezing it half to death, I’d say.”

  I looked down at my hand, embarrassed to see he was right. “Thank you,” I said again.

  As the phone rang, I started to lose my courage. Hank was probably going to follow the rule book and call up Bredloe or Lewis. Or maybe ignore everything I had to say and try to charge me with interfering with an investigation.

  He answered with a nervous, “Hello?”

  “Hank, it’s Irene.”

  “Oh, thank God!” he said. “Uh, just a minute.”

  “No stalling, Hank. Page Cassidy. Tell him to check his answering machine.” I hung up.

  I thanked the bookstore owner again and left, hoping Freeman wouldn’t be able to trace the call.

  The alley, as it turned out, was a blind one, ending at a brick wall not far from the bookstore. Luckily the open end of the alley was in the direction I would have taken anyway — to my left, opposite the one Reed Collins was last seen traveling. It was fairly wide, as alleys went — wide enough for a truck. All the same, with only one way out, as the bookstore door closed behind me, I felt cornered.

  The alley was not much to look at. Brick walls, metal doors, and trash bins. A few high, barred windows and some roof access ladders. One or two fire escapes.

  A scruffy cat slept on one of the fire escapes. He didn’t look as if he had ever let anyone call him a pet. He was one of the few things in the alley that didn’t have a layer of soot on it.

  The day was starting to warm up, and the odor from the bins, already sharp, was going to increase with every degree of heat.

  I started walking down the center of the alley, but soon that sensation of being watched returned, and I moved closer to the wall on my right. I looked up at the rooflines of the buildings on the left. No one. I was about to edge closer to the other side when I heard a loud metallic rattling sound. I shrank back against the wall, hiding behind a bin. The sound, I realized, was that of a large, metal roll-up door being opened. I heard a motor start up, and a brown delivery van slowly pulled out into the alley. Fading paint on the brick above the doorway said “Starlight Theater.”

  In the van’s side mirror I saw the reflection of the driver. Another old man, except I knew this one. I had seen him in a library in Bakersfield.

  He honked the horn of the van, and the door started to roll shut as he drove off.

  Frank was nearby. Either in that van or in the building.

  I ran around the bin, flattened myself to the ground, and rolled beneath the door just as it closed.

  I was in total darkness.

  36

  I COULD HEAR FAINT SOUNDS coming from somewhere inside the building. I started to crawl forward, feeling my way along the concrete floor. Suddenly the room I was in was filled with bright light, and I heard a high-pitched whistling sound. Panicked, I jumped to my feet and looked for a place to hide. The room was a delivery bay, absolutely barren, with three doors leading off it. The one farthest to the left had an alarm keypad next to it. Several of the lights on the keypad were blinking.

  Certain that someone was going to come through one of the other doors at any moment, I tried the middle one. Locked. The door to the right, however, pulled open. I shut it behind me. I was again in darkness, but I could hear someone entering the delivery bay. I turned to flee and immediately stumbled. I reached out and caught myself between the narrow walls of the space ahead of me. A stairway, I realized. Hurrying, but moving as quietly as possible, I climbed the stairs, waiting for lights to be turned on above me or to find myself stepping off into some void. I reached a landing, but there were more stairs above it. I continued upward.

  The stairs went on forever, it seemed, finally ending at another doorway. Cautiously, bending low, I turned the handle, pushed open the door. There was low light here, most of it coming through windows that faced the stage. I was, I realized, in a projection booth.

  The small booth was unoccupied. A lighting control console was on, a computerized system with monitors and a keyboard added to a variety of other controls. Sitting on a sleek black desk, the console appeared to be the only new fixture in a room that was otherwise musty with age. A pile of discarded equipment stood in one corner. A ladder attached to one wall rose into a recess in the ceiling. I wasn’t sure what it led to, but the door in the recess appeared to be locked.

  Staying low, I crept to the largest of the windows in the booth. I gradually raised up to look down on the stage below.

  My eyes were drawn immediately to a figure lying on a draped table. His hands and feet manacled, he was dressed in what appeared to be pajamas. One hand bandaged. Face pale beneath three days’ growth of beard, but maybe he only seemed pale because of the bright stage lights. He didn’t move, but perhaps he was asleep.

  Frank.

  I put a hand over my mouth to keep from shouting out his name. As if he heard me anyway, he stirred slightly.

  Tears began running down my cheeks. I wiped them away. Nothing to feel so all-fired relieved about yet, I told myself, but to no avail. He was alive. I could see him.

  In addition to the draped table, there were several other objects on the stage. Some long, freestanding mirrors, trunks, a colorful set of boxes, and a large cylinder. A mechanical lift stood at one side of the stage, its platform extended up into the ceiling. I only glanced at these objects; Frank held my attention. I wondered how long I could keep myself from running to him. If anything happened to him while I watched from a distance….

  He opened his eyes, seemed groggy, disoriented.

  I tried to force
myself to look at the situation logically. As much as I wanted to be with Frank now, doing anything that might let Hocus know I was here would be madness — dangerous for both Frank and me. It would give Hocus two hostages instead of one. If, instead, I could stay hidden until Cassidy arrived, maybe we would both survive.

  As foolish as it may have been to enter Hocus’s lair, I had no regrets at that moment. I had answers now to at least two of the questions that had tortured me since Friday night. I knew where Frank was, I knew he was alive.

  Another figure appeared on the stage, a young man dressed in a shimmering white cape and black top hat, wearing white gloves. Bret Neukirk. I drew back from the window, though I doubted he could see beyond the stage lights.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked Frank. Hearing his voice so clearly, I gave a start, then realized the sound was coming through a speaker in the booth.

  Frank was looking around, obviously confused by his surroundings.

  “You’re on stage,” Bret said, and Frank’s face turned red. “No — no,” Bret added quickly. “No one is out there. I know you can’t see past the lights, but the theater is empty. Don’t move too much to one side or the other, by the way. You’re on a platform, not a bed.”

  Frank tried to lift himself up, but Bret put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay here for a moment. You can watch while I show you how to levitate. Can you see yourself?”

  “Yes,” Frank said, looking at one of the several mirrors. His expression changed then, to one of dismay.

  “Oh, no — I’m sorry. Perhaps this was a mistake,” Bret said, reading that change of expression as clearly as I did. “I didn’t think about… well, I just didn’t think.”

  “It’s all right,” Frank said. “My reflection surprised me, that’s all.” He studied Bret and said, “That’s a different cape from the one you were wearing in Riverside, at Ross’s house. The other one was purple.”

  “Yes,” Bret said. “I got rid of that one.” He looked a little pale.