Hocus

34

HE AWAKENED, first noting the darkness, the cotton gag over his mouth. He couldn’t move more than a few inches. Something was right above him — silky, padded. He was in a close-fitting, satin-lined box.

A coffin! They’ve put me in a goddamned coffin!

The last of his self-control shattered. He began screaming, beating his bound hands against the lid.

But almost instantly the lid was lifted, and he squinted in the sudden brightness. Bret’s pale face appeared above him. “I’m sorry!” Bret said anxiously. “I’m sorry! I thought you’d sleep longer!”

Frank was terrified, knew he looked it. Didn’t care. The gag was too much at this point. He tried to take in breaths of air as Bret continued to apologize, helped him to sit up. Dizzy again, he made a growling sound of frustration. Bret stepped away from him.

Gradually the room stopped spinning. He was in a trunk, he saw then, a magician’s trunk. Not airtight — breathing holes, in fact. Not a coffin.

It didn’t matter. He was shaking.

Bret still did not approach, and Frank realized that even bound and gagged he probably looked like he wanted to kill somebody.

Don’t frighten Bret, he told himself. You may need his help. Even if you don’t, the last thing you need to do is make him wary of you.

Still, it took a while to calm down.

He looked around. He wasn’t in the tent now. This was some kind of cellar. That thought nearly brought another round of panic, but he fought it off.

His hands were tethered together at the wrist, the IV catheter — tender after his attack on the lid of the trunk — still in. Now, he noticed, his ankles were manacled as well.

Once he was fairly sure he could do so without appearing ferocious, he looked over at Bret. Made the unspoken request, knew Bret understood it.

Bret stepped closer again, moved behind Frank. Hesitated only slightly before he removed the gag.

Frank stretched his jaw, rubbed his tethered hands against his face.

“Thanks,” he said. “Where are we?”

Bret shook his head. “I can’t tell you that, of course. But we’ve moved. I should warn you that it would be as dangerous for you to harm me or to try to leave this place as it was to leave the tent.”

“Where’s Samuel?”

“He’ll be along later. He’ll be bringing his friend, Faye.” He paused, then said, “Would you like me to help you step out of there?”

More than just about anything, he thought, but simply said, “Yes, thanks.”

Awkwardly, unable to move his legs freely or use his hands for proper leverage, he climbed out of the trunk with Bret’s help. He saw other trunks stacked along one wall, although not as many as he had seen in the tent. The IV bottle and pole stood in one corner, near a folded bed. He decided he must have awakened while Bret was still in the process of setting up after the move.

His gaze traveled to a steep staircase that led up to a closed metal door. At the foot of the stairs there was an alarm keypad, its lights red — indicating it was armed.

He moved slowly, still dizzy from the drugs, weakened by the long hours under their influence. Bret watched him but did not prevent him from walking a few paces, dragging the chain as he moved. There was a small bathroom with a single shower stall, a few simple furnishings. The walls were brick lined, the floor concrete.

There were no windows, but the room was brightly lit. A panel of electronic equipment had been installed on one wall, including a phone, four small television monitors, and what seemed to be videotaping equipment. None of the monitors were on. For all this modern equipment, the building itself appeared to be old.

How much time had passed? Was he still in Las Piernas? In California? In the U.S.?

He turned to see that Bret had picked up a deck of cards, was idly shuffling, bridging, fanning, and moving them through his fingers with a dexterity that Frank found fascinating. Watching Bret distracted him from his fears, allowed him to relax a little more.

“You’re very talented,” he said as Bret completed a particularly complex series of flourishes.

Bret shrugged. “An amateur, really.”

“I’d like to see you perform magic someday.”

For the first time in all the time Frank had watched him practice these tricks, Bret dropped a card. The young man bent to pick it up, then set the deck on a small table. “That would have been nice — letting you see what I’ve learned,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll show you how a few of the tricks are done. We won’t have an opportunity for more than that, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” Frank said.

“You already know,” Bret said patiently, without any sign of irritation. “I’ll be dead. We’ve been over this before.”

“What’s the rush? You can always die later,” Frank said. “That’s something any of us can do — all of us will do.”

Bret picked up the cards again but held them still in his hands. “Not the way we will.”

“You don’t really want to die, do you? This has to do with Samuel.”

“Do you know the story ‘The Outcasts of Poker Flat,’ by Bret Harte?” he asked, shuffling, fanning, then extending the pack to Frank — an invitation to participate in a trick. “I’m named for him, you know.”

Frank shook his head, tried to hide his frustration. Every time he approached this topic, Bret changed the subject.

But Bret didn’t tell the tale, as Frank thought he might. Instead he folded the deck again and said,“Samuel is damaged. So am I, even if it’s not so readily apparent to you. We aren’t whole, Frank. We don’t fit in.”

“No one fits in, Bret. Not completely. Not the way you imagine it. No one.”

“You do.”

Frank laughed. “When you took me from Riverside — at Ross’s house?”

Bret flinched at the memory but nodded.

“That morning, I had a huge argument with my wife — part of a fight that had been going on for a couple of days — my mother wasn’t speaking to me, and I was happy to get out of the office, where I was being shunned after you planted that story in the paper—”

“What story?” Bret interrupted.

“About the arrests of Lang and Colson.”

“That wasn’t us.”

“But the details of the arrests—”

“No,” Bret said again. “We didn’t have anything to do with that story.”

Frank stared at him in disbelief, then quickly realized Bret had no reason to lie to him.

“What’s wrong?” Bret asked, setting down the cards.

“If you didn’t leak anything to the paper, then someone in my department did.”

“And everyone else assumed it was you?”

“Not everyone,” Frank admitted, “but I was definitely getting the cold shoulder.”

“You were betrayed,” Bret said.

“I don’t know if I’d put it like that — it’s not that serious,” Frank said, but Bret was lost in his own thoughts.

Frank heard a beeping sound. Bret moved to the keypad, entered some numbers. The door at the top of the stairs opened. Samuel walked in, dressed in dark, damp clothing, carrying a bundle. The bundle was wrapped up in what appeared to be a yellow slicker. “LPFD” was stenciled on the slicker in large red letters. Samuel was covered with soot.

“What’s he doing up?” he asked, looking at Frank.

“Where’s Faye?” Bret asked.

Samuel laughed. “She had to go to a barbecue.”

Bret was silent, his mouth drawn tight in a line of disapproval.

“She was dead before I started the fires,” Samuel said.

Still Bret said nothing.

“She said she was willing to die with us, remember?”

“But she didn’t, did she?” Bret said in a low voice.

“I almost didn’t get out of there,” Samuel said, but no one gave him any sympathy. Sulking, he walked over to the keypad, punched in some numbers, and said, “You forgot to rearm it.”

Bret shrugged, made a show of closing up the trunk Frank had been in.

Samuel turned to Frank, pointed at him. “You cause trouble,” he said, stabbing the air with his blackened index finger as he said each word. He turned and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Frank began pacing again, thinking not of Samuel’s tantrum, nor lamenting the dead woman, but trying to recall the pattern of movement of Samuel’s hand on the alarm keypad. He drew close to the keypad, glanced at it furtively. He memorized the numbers with black smudges on them, thought again of Samuel’s sooty hand moving — upper right, lower left, lower right, middle, upper left.

Maybe, he thought, I will cause trouble.

35

“I’M GOING FOR A WALK,” I said to Henry Freeman as we finished breakfast the next morning. Bea, who had been completely exhausted when we had arrived home a few hours earlier, was still asleep.

“But if Hocus calls—” Hank protested.

“Tell them I went for a walk.”

He handed me a lightweight cellular phone. “Take this, please.”

It might come in handy, I thought, and thanked him for it. I put it into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Where are you walking?” he asked.

“I’ll be down at the beach. I’m taking the dogs.”

It wasn’t a lie — I did what I told him I would do. I took the dogs for a walk on the beach. Dunk — Frank’s dog — wouldn’t allow Deke or me to lag behind or rove ahead but kept shepherding us into a close pack. Several times the dogs looked back at the stairs that led up to our street. Watching for Frank.

The ocean air was good for me, as was my time alone with the dogs. I mentally sorted through the last few days, all that had happened, all I had seen and heard and felt.

Over breakfast that morning I had asked Hank Freeman for ownership information on the warehouse, knowing the police would have not only that, but any architectural drawings they could lay their hands on. Hank told me the building had been purchased by a company four years ago, a business police had just this morning traced back to Francine Neukirk. The late Mrs. Neukirk, Hank said, had owned most of the buildings on that side of the block. They were sold to her as a unit — the warehouse, it turned out, had once been connected to two other buildings, both now vacant. Basement passageways that building plans had shown to be sealed off had been reopened.

I had asked Hank if anyone had been in the passageways that night.

“Only firefighters and SWAT,” he said. “We were all over the place. Even if the taker had tried to leave that way, he would have been seen by one of us.”

Hank also told me that outside of the recent construction work on the soundproof room — which had been completed about six months ago — none of the few neighboring business owners had seen anyone entering the building.

As I approached the house when we returned, I went to our backyard gate and let the dogs in through it, but I didn’t follow them, much to Dunk’s consternation. I took my keys, got in the car, and drove off.

I wasn’t around the corner before the cell phone rang. I answered it by saying, “Leave me alone, Hank.”

“I’m responsible for you,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re responsible for Frank. I’m not under arrest, am I?”

“Of course not, but—”

“See you later, then. Please apologize to Bea for me when she wakes up.” I was at a stop sign. I hung up, studied the phone, found the power switch, and turned it off. I took the long way to the newspaper. It was about nine-thirty when I pulled into the parking lot. I walked past the space where Frank’s car had been left just a few days before, ignored the sudden queasiness those memories brought on, and entered the building.

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.

“Because it had blood on it,” Frank said gently.

I was a little puzzled by Frank’s tone of voice.

Just above a whisper, Bret said, “Yes.”

“Go ahead and show me the trick,” Frank said, obviously trying to distract Bret from troubling thoughts.

Bret, seeming to come out of a reverie, said, “I’d take your chains off, but Samuel is already upset with me, and he should be back soon.”

“It’s all right,” Frank said again — as if comforting Bret.

I was confused by that. Was this the “Stockholming” Cassidy had spoken of? Or was Frank trying to get Bret to drop his guard? Perhaps there was something in the drugs they were giving him that made Frank docile.

I was soon distracted by the implications of what Bret had just said. If Samuel was returning, I would need a better hiding place. But if I went down the stairs, I ran the risk of walking right into him. I looked at the pile of equipment in the corner. I might be able to hide behind some of it.

“I stand here,” Bret said, drawing my attention back to the stage. He moved to a center point behind Frank. “The audience sees me lift this drape — usually, I’d cover you with it. But since you need to see what I’m doing, I’ll remove it for now.” He pulled the drape from the front of the platform with a flourish.

Frank was on a long board, it seemed, not a table, as I had thought. The board was supported by two folding chairs. It looked pretty unstable, and I wondered if Bret was planning to injure Frank in some way.

“Watch the mirror at the front of the stage,” Bret said, then suddenly pulled both chairs away.

I drew in a breath. Frank was floating in midair.

And smiling.

“Oh, if you were part of my act, I’d ask you to be more serious than that,” Bret said, obviously enjoying himself. “This is levitation, and if my concentration is broken, you’ll fall!”

Wires, I thought, trying to see them.

Bret picked up a large hoop, passed it completely over and under Frank’s body, then, putting it over Frank’s legs, brought it to Frank’s waist. He laid it almost flat in one direction, then the other; he repeated this motion from the other direction, brought the hoop over Frank’s head and shoulders to his waist. So much for wires.

Frank was starting to laugh.

“Do you know what’s holding you up?” Bret asked.

“No,” Frank said.

“Here, give me your hand.”

Bret helped Frank to stand up. As Bret moved I could just make out some object near the platform. Frank was studying it. “Here,” Bret said, “I’ll turn the lights up.”

For a moment I feared he would come up the stairs, but he changed the lighting from the stage. In the brighter overhead light I could see that a sturdy pole was planted into the floor of the stage. The pole rose straight up, about thirty inches from the floor, then bent forward toward the audience at a right angle, forming an arm that extended parallel to the floor. This horizontal arm connected to the platform.

“See this S-shaped bend?” Bret asked, pointing to a curve in the arm.

“Yes,” Frank said. “What’s it for?”

“The hoop pass. This pole is called an S-suspension. From the audience’s point of view, when the trick begins, the platform is draped. So I move up to the pole and straddle the arm, keeping my feet together and hiding the vertical part of the pole behind my legs. As I said, usually, the drape is pulled upward and over you.”

“But once the drape is pulled up, you can’t move from the center of the platform, right?” Frank asked.

“Right. I have to stay where I am to hide the pole. So the drape is pulled up, and the chairs removed. Naturally, with the support beneath you apparently gone, the audience believes you are suspended by wires. So I pass the hoop, first from one end and then the other, using the S-bend to lay it almost flat when it’s in front of me. No wires! When I do the trick in front of an audience, I replace the chairs, then allow the drape to drop back over the front of the platform. Only then can I move away from the pole. There’s another version of this trick, where the pole is behind a curtain. In that version, I can move around. But I like this version better. I think a curtain that close to the platform is too obvious — makes the audience suspicious.”

He began showing Frank other tricks, how they were done. Although Frank was slowed by the chains between his ankles, he seemed to be enjoying the conversation. Under other circumstances they would have appeared to be friends. Frank made no attempt to overpower him, although I was fairly sure he could have.

At one point Frank said, “Why are you showing me all of this? Isn’t there some code of silence among magicians?”

“Not really. Otherwise, all the secrets would have died out with Houdini or Thurston.” Bret smiled. “Or Merlin.”

“But I’m not exactly a sorcerer’s apprentice,” Frank said.

“This isn’t really magic. It’s illusion. It requires skill and showmanship and no small amount of mechanical wizardry. And it works best if you believe in real magic.”

“Do you?” Frank asked.

“Of course. What if someone else had found us that day?”

Frank was silent.

“I want this to be a children’s theater,” Bret said. “With magic shows.”

“Then make sure you get what you want,” Frank said.

Bret shook his head.

A door burst open and Samuel came onto the stage.

“The alarm was tripped,” he said to Bret.

“I know,” Bret said.

“What do you mean?”

“It was nothing. I checked the building. No one.”

Uneasy with this discussion, I moved back to the pile of equipment.

“What do you mean, ‘no one’?” Samuel asked.

“I mean, it went off not long after you left. The point of entry was the delivery area. The entry door was secure. All the doors leading from it were locked.”

“I just checked the videotape,” Samuel said angrily.

I felt sick to my stomach.

“And?” Bret said calmly.

“And you erased part of it.”

“Yes. The lights went on in the delivery area. The cameras rolled — and recorded absolutely nothing. Is there some special reason you’d like to save a tape of an empty concrete room?”

There was a brief silence, then Samuel said, “Did you check the other parts of the building anyway?”

“Of course.”

There was another lull in the conversation, then Samuel said, “What’s he doing up here?”

“I was teaching Frank something about magic,” Bret said, then added, “You are being impossibly rude.”

“Shhh,” Samuel said suddenly.

At first I didn’t understand what was happening. Frank said, “What’s wrong?”

“Shut up!” Samuel snapped, then, in sarcastic tones, said, “Forgive me. Please listen.”

Soon I heard it, too. The unmistakable sound of a rotor blade slapping the air. A helicopter was hovering overhead.

“They’ve found us!” Samuel said. “Let’s move it.”

I heard a scrambling sound, Frank’s chains rattling. Then Bret said, “I’ll go up to the control booth to turn the board off. You take Frank.” He paused, then said,

“And, Samuel—”

“I won’t hurt him, for chrissakes. Not unless—”

“Samuel!”

“Just go. He’ll be fine. Hell, if you’re that worried about him, I’ll go up to the booth.”

“No,” Bret said, and even I heard the quickness of the reply.

There was another brief silence.

“You’ve run all the errands,” Bret said. “I can’t make you do everything for me.”

“I don’t mind,” Samuel said, all the heat gone out of his voice. “I like staying busy. You know that.”

“Yes,” Bret said. “I know. But you have plenty to do right now.”

“Don’t take too long!” Samuel said.

I waited, listening, until I heard approaching footsteps. I broke out in a cold sweat, my heart hammering. I have problems with claustrophobia to begin with, but admit my fears at that moment were strictly of humans, not confined spaces. I held my breath as the door opened.

Carrying a flashlight, Bret walked quickly to the console and turned it off. The room was pitch black except for the light from the flashlight. He left it on, setting it on a corner of the black desk. He opened a drawer, pulled out a key, and left it next to the flashlight. Leaving the flashlight on the desk, he walked across the room in the darkness with sure steps. At the door he paused, listened, then said, “This is not a good hiding place. Don’t try to leave the building now, though. The exterior doors are armed.” He was so quiet after that, I thought he might have left. But then I heard him say, “Sorry we didn’t get to know one another.”

The door closed, and I heard the rapid fall of his footsteps as he raced down the stairs.

37

“FOUR.”

Cassidy swore under his breath. “He’s certain?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Henry Freeman spoke into the headset, listened, then looked up at Cassidy and nodded. “Four. Three just moved out of sight. He thinks they’re in a room with a thick metal ceiling or some other shield to prevent thermal readings. Fourth is at the other end of the building.”

“Moving?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “At least they haven’t found her yet.”

“Sir, maybe it isn’t Ms. Kelly.”

“You still hanging your stocking by the chimney, Hank?”

“No, sir.”

“How are we doing otherwise?”

“The phone company has already moved to deny origination, so they don’t have a dial tone on their phones. New line will be established any minute now.”

“We have building plans yet?”

“No, sir, but they’re on the way.”

Cassidy picked up his binoculars, stared at the old theater. The metal doors were new, but everything else about it spoke of another era — the big marquee with star-shaped neon lights ascending from it; the etched glass on the box office windows; the colorful, fan-shaped entry mosaic. The word “Starlight” was spelled out in brass-outlined letters in the mosaic.

“Which end of the building did they see her in?” he asked.

Freeman called the helicopter, repeated the question.

“This end, sir. Up high.”

“Up high?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Near the projection booth, then,” Cassidy said. “Is this a movie theater?”

“No, sir,” Freeman answered. “Although it may have been at one time. The gentleman from the bookstore said there were plays performed here until the church owned it.”

Cassidy dropped the binoculars but kept watching the building.

“Sir?” Freeman said.

“When are you going to figure out that you don’t have to call me that?”

“I don’t think I can break the habit now, sir.”

Cassidy smiled. “I guess not. What’s the trouble, Detective Henry Freeman?”

“No trouble, sir. I just wanted to say that I’m glad Captain Bredloe is allowing you to handle this one.”

“Why, thank you, Hank. But we’ve got a long way to go before we feel glad about anything.”

A few minutes later Freeman said, “The phone is ready.”

“You all set up?” Cassidy asked.

Freeman nodded.

“Let’s give them a call, then.”

The phone was answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Tom. Nice to have you back.”

“Hello, Samuel. How’s it going?”

“Well, we’re not too happy. We’re cooped up in here with Detective Harriman. Our phone doesn’t work unless you call.”

“Oh, you can call me now, Samuel. It’s just that you can’t call anyone else. By the way, how did you know it was me?”

“We can see you, of course. These high-pressure tactics are upsetting us. We don’t have the man we asked for, and time is running out.”

“Our work finding your man was delayed a little. But we’ve made progress.”

“Not enough, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve pushed us now, Tom. We would have waited until Tuesday, but you’ve pushed us. We’ll just have to give Detective Harriman a little larger dose of medicine.”

“Why rush things, Samuel?”

There was a long silence. “You talk to him,” he heard Samuel say to someone else.

There was muffled conversation, then he heard a door closing. He wrote a quick note to Freeman, who radioed the helicopter.

“Hello?” a voice said on the phone line.

“Hello,” Cassidy said.

“This is Bret.”

“Hello, Bret. We haven’t spoken much. I’m Tom. How are you doing?”

“I need to convey some information to you, Detective Cassidy,” he said, ignoring the question. “Don’t allow anyone to try to enter this building. All the doors and windows are armed with explosives. We have no regard for our own lives. We’d like to allow Frank to live, but we will kill him if our single demand is not met. We have planned for this day for over a decade, so we are prepared. We would like to achieve our goals without unnecessary loss of life.”

Cassidy was silent.

Bret spoke again, his tone softer now. “Would you like to speak to Frank?”

“Yes.”

A speakerphone button was pushed.

“Tom?” a distant voice said.

“Hello, Frank. How are you?”

“I’m a little down,” Frank said.

“We’re in a basement,” Bret said. “I believe that’s what he’s trying to hint at.”

“Is Irene there with you?” Frank asked.

“She’ll be along a little later,” Cassidy said.

“He’s lying to you,” Bret said. “She’s in the building.”

“What?” Frank shouted.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” Bret said. “She’s in the building. Samuel doesn’t know. I’ve told her about the doors.”

“But Samuel could be out looking for her right now!” Frank said.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to be going now, Detective Cassidy. I’m turning the ringer off, by the way. I’ll call you a little later.”

He hung up.

“What’s the chopper say?” Cassidy said.

“Two people moving around in opposite ends of the building.”

“Stay hidden, Irene,” Cassidy said.

“Mrs. Harriman needs to talk to you,” Hank said, listening on the radio. “Says it’s urgent.”

“Mrs. Harriman?” Cassidy said, still thinking of Irene.

“Bea Harriman.”

“I can’t leave this situation to go down there and—”

“She has some people from Bakersfield with her, sir. She said to tell you she has what Hocus wants.”

Cassidy stood stock still. “Go down there and tell Mrs. Harriman — Never mind. Listen, Hank, make sure the captain is spreading word to SWAT about those entrances. Tell them about the cameras, too. I’ll take the portable phone with me.”

He walked slowly toward the group of people standing with Bea Harriman. He’d calmed himself by the time he reached them. Cecilia Parker. Nathan Cook. Gus Matthews. Bear Bradshaw.

“Y’all have a nice trip from Bakersfield?”

“You know why we’re here,” Cecilia began.

“Oh, yes, Ms. Parker, I know. And I’m surprised four law enforcement officers — retired or not — could be such damned fools. You come here with some noble intentions, I suppose, but the truth is, Frank is alive because Hocus doesn’t have what it wants. And you know we are not going to send anyone here into that building. We’d be signing your death warrant, and probably Frank’s and Irene’s at the same time. We are not in the business of vigilante justice here. You give me time, and we’ll get Frank and Irene out of that building alive. Hocus will just have to accept that things are not going to happen exactly the way they wanted them to happen. It’s my job to get them to that point — peacefully.”

“But we know why they are doing this,” Cecilia began. “And we—”

“And you are going to be arrested if you try to interfere in any way. I won’t hesitate. Do you understand?”

He waited.

“We understand,” Bradshaw said. “I told you what would happen. Let’s go.”

He got angry looks from all of them. Cook and Matthews stomped off. Cecilia moved slowly, helping Bradshaw, both of them clearly as angry as the others. He didn’t care. They were a distraction he didn’t need. Only Bea Harriman stayed behind with Pete, Rachel, and Jack.

Cassidy walked back to the negotiator’s post.

“Any word?” he asked.

“No,” Freeman said. “But the drawings arrived.”

Cassidy looked back at the group. Pete Baird was walking away now.

“SWAT have copies of these, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cassidy unrolled the building plans, then turned to stare at Pete Baird’s retreating back. “Hank,” he said, “I want someone to watch those people. Baird included.”

“Someone is watching them, sir. We have guards—”

“No. I want our people to keep an eye on them, even if they’ve left the area. Especially if they’ve left the area.”

38

THEY PULLED INTO THE UNDERGROUND parking garage and waited.

“Excellent, Cecilia,” Nathan Cook said after a moment.

She didn’t smile until Gus said, “You’re a hell of a driver. I don’t think I could have shaken them that fast myself.”

“We might not be in the clear yet,” Bear said.

“You old hen,” Gus said. “Of course we are.”

“Having second thoughts?” Nat asked her.

“Shut up, Cookie,” Gus growled. “Don’t try to work that shit on anybody.”

“I wasn’t trying to talk her out of it, Gus,” Nat said. “I’m as determined as any of you are.”

“I doubt that,” Bear said. “Now hurry up. Who knows what they’re doing to the boy while you shoot your fancy yap off.”

“He’s not a boy,” Nat said.

Cecilia popped open the trunk, stepped out of the car. “Let’s get this over with,” she said.

The others got out. Gus walked around a little. “All clear,” he said.

Nat started to unbutton his shirt, paused when he saw she was staring at him. “Would you please look the other way?”

“No,” she said. “I won’t. I don’t have an injured leg, and I don’t feel as sorry for you as Gus does.”

“I don’t feel sorry for the bastard,” Gus said to her.

Nat shrugged, continued to undress. “Whatever. If you feel you must guard me, fine. But I haven’t fought any of you on any of this. And I don’t know what I’ve ever done to harm you, Cecilia.”

“You let me believe you were someone you weren’t. Hurry up and strip.”

39

I TOOK THE FLASHLIGHT and key and crawled up the ladder. Hoping to God it wasn’t what Bret had called an “armed” door, I unlocked the access door. Gingerly I pushed it open. Nothing happened.

I listened for a moment before continuing to climb through the access. I heard the sound of the helicopter passing overhead. Nothing else. I moved through the opening and looked around.

I was in a space between the roof of the building and the “house” and stage below, an area called the catwalk: part of a large grid of suspended, narrow metal walkways — also called catwalks and used for access to lights and other equipment above the house and stage. The term came back to me from a great distance — I had briefly dated a stage manager in my freshman year of college. We split up when he discovered I wasn’t ready to go directly from the overture to the third act with him. An interesting man, but even with a bonus prize of free matinee tickets, he wasn’t worth it.

The stage manager had believed in ghosts and was convinced that all old theaters were haunted. Looking along the Starlight’s catwalk with nothing more than a flashlight in my hand, I was convinced he was right about that. Although almost everything up here seemed fairly new, one misstep on the newest of catwalks would lead to a long fall. I crept along, passing lighting fixtures and electrical cords. I heard a gear turn and froze.

Eventually working up enough courage to shine the flashlight in the direction the sound came from, I saw that it was a videocamera. I couldn’t see the lens end, which extended into the wall and was surrounded by rubber.

Moving cautiously, shining the flashlight along the walls of the building, I saw that there were four cameras up here, one in each corner of the catwalk. There might be others in the part of the theater nearest the alley, which wasn’t accessible from the catwalk. I sat still for a time, considering my options. The cameras were undoubtedly being used by Hocus to monitor what went on outside the building, the movements of the police. Although there might be other cameras elsewhere in the building, if I disabled these, I might give Cassidy a much needed advantage. On the other hand, if Hocus saw their monitors start to blink out, their first reaction would probably be to come up here and find out what was going on. If Bret came looking for me, I might be all right, even if he was angry about the cameras. But Samuel?

I thought of Faye Taft and gave a shudder.

Still, it might be a chance worth taking. I might be able to elude him. Any theater was full of hiding places.

They were probably in such a hiding place themselves. They had left the stage, but I hadn’t heard them moving through the house or up to the projection booth. I had seen no lights on in the area below the catwalk. They were probably somewhere behind or beneath the stage, then.

If I ran along the catwalk — dangerous even in full light — from one end of the building to the other, I might make it. I couldn’t just turn off the cameras. I’d have to make sure they couldn’t be repaired quickly, or it wouldn’t be worth the risk.

I studied the camera nearest me. I pushed at the thick rubber lining that surrounded the lens end of the camera. It gave way easily, and bright daylight came in through the small opening in the wall. I let my eyes adjust to it and looked out around the little space left by the camera. I couldn’t see anything outside the building, but I could hear the helicopter more clearly. The opening was larger than the camera itself, made to allow the camera to move for various angles.

To my relief, the camera was fastened to an arm by a simple camera screw, similar to one on a tripod. The arm itself had separate controls. If I unscrewed the mount and yanked the power supply loose, I could shove the camera through the opening in the wall.

I thought out the pattern I would need to follow. There were four ways to exit a catwalk. Up through the roof, but the roof access was probably booby-trapped. Down a set of stairs onto the stage or down the ladder into the projection booth — the two safest options. The final exit would be just that — a fall from one of the walks.

For several reasons I decided to disable the cameras nearest the projection booth first. That would prevent Bret and Samuel from monitoring any police activity at the front of the building, where Cassidy and his friends would have more room to move than the blind alley at the back.

The covering over the projection booth ceiling was a solid floor, not the narrow catwalk ramps that I’d have to take to reach the cameras at the stage end. It would be easier to take out the booth-end cameras first. I also knew the only other exit from the projection booth was a single stairway, while the stage would offer more chances for evasion if need be. Hocus might come up the stage entrance to the catwalk to see what was happening to the cameras, but that was a chance I’d have to take.

I walked to the stage entrance, opened the unlocked door, and listened. Silence and darkness. The flashlight revealed little beyond the stairway itself. Near the door, a set of large cardboard boxes stood on a platform. A closer look showed this platform to be the top of the mechanical lift I had seen on the stage below. There were no controls on the platform, or I might have had another way down. Reading the box labels, I saw they were speakers. A new sound system for the old theater, in the process of being installed. I used one of the smaller boxes to prop open the stairway door.

Mapping my escape along the way, I went to each camera, pushed off the rubber guards, loosened the mounting screws. Back near the projection booth I took several deep breaths, thought of orange blossoms, and yanked the first camera’s power cord, then shoved it out onto the street.

I skipped the pleasure of watching it crash and ran to the other corner at the front of the building and did the same to that camera. Now the long run down the catwalk to the camera at stage left. I tried to move as quickly and quietly as possible. I dropped the third camera and was moving to the fourth when the booth access door flew open, a shaft of light coming through it. I turned off my flashlight, prayed faster than I ran.

I forced myself to continue toward the camera, even as I saw a man crawling through the space. He was already pulling a gun from his waistband, though, so I detoured toward the stage stairway. He yelled, “Stop!” But he wasn’t looking directly at me, and I realized that his eyes had not adjusted to the dark. He had no flashlight, only the gun in his hand. I reached the stairway door, moved the box, then turned and toppled the other speaker boxes. I heard a shot as I closed the door behind me.

I grabbed the stair rail, turned on the flashlight for a brief second, then moved like hell down the stairwell. I reached a landing, turned the light on again just long enough to read a sign on a door that said FLY GALLERY.

I knew the fly gallery would be another narrow walkway, an area alongside the rigging for the mechanisms that operated curtains and backdrops. Counterweighted ropes would raise and lower curtains, borders, and backdrops from this area over the stage called “the flies.” There would be no exit from the other end, and I would be about sixty feet above the stage. Without entering the fly gallery, I opened and closed its door with a loud bang, then continued down the metal stairs.

I could hear my pursuer struggling with the boxes as I reached the part of the stairwell that opened onto the stage itself. One box fell to the seats with a loud crash.

I reached the stage and turned right. I used the flashlight again, this time to find the rigging. I went to the area where the flyman — the person who raises and lowers the scenery and curtains — would work during a production. There were dozens of line sets. I turned off the flashlight, tucked it into my jeans, and began moving along the line sets, releasing all of them, lowering curtains and backdrops like crazy.

This made noise in the fly gallery, and I could hear my pursuer opening the door I had passed. I reached the end of the line sets and bumped into a console: the on-stage controls lights. I hesitated, then worked my way around it. I risked the flashlight once more as I heard the fly gallery door slam shut again. I chose a relatively unobstructed path between a curtain and backdrop, then turned off the flashlight. I began tiptoeing along the path, trying to get to the other side of the stage without revealing my presence. I heard my pursuer reach the stage.

“Who are you?” I heard him call.

It was Samuel. I didn’t answer.

“You can’t get out of here, you know.” He tripped over something as he said this and swore as he fell. I listened but could not hear his footsteps. I moved a little farther, stumbled over one of Bret’s magician’s props. I grabbed the curtain to keep from falling. It made a soft noise as it swayed, but it didn’t rip or drop.

I waited, regained my balance, and moved on. I could hear Samuel again now. He was moving closer to the light console. I hurried forward, stumbled again.

The house lights came on. I was not far from the other side of the stage. I lurched to my feet, ran into the wings.

Suddenly there was a familiar whistling sound — the sound of the alarm I had heard in the delivery bay. I kept running, moving backstage.

I passed a red handle and pulled it. A fire alarm. Loud bells overpowered the whistling sound. The fire curtain plummeted, slowing slightly when it was about eight feet above the stage floor, blocking the house lights. I saw Samuel cross beneath it just as the stage, cut off from the house now, was enveloped in darkness once again.

I turned on the flashlight and ran.

40

“CAMERAS, SIR.”

Cassidy took his eyes from the binoculars and looked at Hank Freeman.

“SWAT said she’s disabling the cameras,” Hank clarified. “That’s what was dropping off the building. The rubber pieces were some sort of weatherproofing. The cameras have followed. She’s dropped all but one.”

“I’ll be damned,” Cassidy said, listening to the endless ringing of the phone line connected to his headset. Under his breath he said, “Pick up the phone, Bret.”

Freeman was frowning now, listening over his own headset. “One of them is chasing her.”

They heard the pop of gunfire.

Cassidy picked up a hand radio. “Hold on.”

Hank Freeman heard Bredloe ordering everyone to hold their fire. Bredloe’s voice was less calm, he thought. He never knew how Cassidy managed this part of it. The worse it got for everybody else, the calmer Cassidy would be. The helicopter pilot was talking now, and Freeman listened over the headset.

“She’s still moving,” Hank said. “They’re farther apart.”

Into the radio Cassidy said, “You copy that, Captain?”

Bredloe said he did.

“Pick up the phone,” Cassidy said into the headset again.

As if Bret had heard Cassidy willing him to do so, the answer came.

“Detective Cassidy?”

“Yes, Bret,” Cassidy answered, smiling. “I’m here.”

“Was that your gunfire?”

“No, Bret, that was yours.”

“Samuel?”

“I think so. He apparently took a shot at Irene.”

There was a long silence.

“What’s he shooting with?” Cassidy asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Did he…?”

Cassidy waited.

“Is she all right?” Bret asked.

“I can’t tell you, Bret.”

“Why not?” he asked. “That part of the building isn’t shielded.”

“What part of the building?”

“All of it. All of it except the room I’m in can be seen on your thermal sensors. Where is she?”

Cassidy didn’t answer.

“I don’t want to hurt her!”

“I know you don’t,” Cassidy said easily. “You and Samuel are different in that way, I suppose.”

“Yes. We are. He’ll kill her! Where is she?”

But before Cassidy could reply, he heard the sound of breaking glass. Bret shouted, “No, don’t! Don’t! Oh, God! Oh, God!”

There was a high whistling sound in the background.

“Ignore that alarm,” Bret said to Cassidy in a weak voice, and hung up.

“Hank, tell the tactical folks to ignore all—”

They heard the loud ringing of a fire alarm.

Cassidy picked up a hand radio. “Ignore it. False alarm.”

He heard Bredloe repeating the order.

They listened as the bells rang.

41

SAMUEL RAN ACROSS the loading dock to the basement door. He used a key to shut off the fire alarm. His ears were still ringing from the damned thing. Fucking asshole intruder. How did he sneak in? That was worrisome. He would take care of the intruder later. If he was lucky, the jerk would blow himself to kingdom come.

He entered another code, and the whistling sound ceased. Jesus, what next? Things weren’t going right. He unlocked another panel and turned on a screen that allowed him to view the basement room.

Bret was lying on the floor. Frank Harriman was bending over him.

Samuel frantically punched the intercom button. “Get the fuck away from him!” he screamed into the mike. “Get the fuck away from him now if you want to live, you son of a bitch!”

Frank lifted his manacled hands in the air, backed awkwardly away from Bret. He couldn’t see the camera, so he turned toward the voice. “He fainted,” Frank said. “He’s okay, he just fainted.”

Samuel’s breath was coming hard, painfully. “Stay away from him,” he repeated, nearly in tears, but now he could see that Frank’s hand was bleeding. The blood. That’s what must have made Bret faint.

“What did you do to your hand?” Samuel asked.

Frank didn’t answer, just looked around for the camera.

“I asked a question. Answer me!”

“I pulled the IV out,” Frank said.

Bret moaned.

“Let me help him,” Frank said.

“You go near him, I’ll kill you. Go into the bathroom,” Samuel ordered. “Go in there and close the door. If he sees the blood, he’ll faint again.”

Reluctantly, looking down at Bret as he passed him, Frank moved into the bathroom and closed the door.

With shaking fingers Samuel entered the code, then hurried down to Bret. He rearmed the alarm, noting that the keypad had blood on it. He’d have to wipe that off later.

Bret’s eyes fluttered open.

“Samuel?” He tried to sit up.

“I’m here. You’re still pale. Let me help you.” When he had situated Bret on the stairs so that he could sit more comfortably, Samuel said, “Are you hurt anywhere? Did you hit your head when you fainted?”

“No, I think Frank caught me.” He looked around. “Where is he?”

“In the bathroom. It’s okay. Just relax. Don’t look over there — I’ll clean up that mess. You just put your head down.”

“Embarrassing,” Bret said, putting his head between his knees.

“No, it’s not. Don’t worry about that. And forget about him. The fan runs when the light is on, so he can’t hear us.”

“Maybe you should see if he’s all right. He was bleeding.”

“Not that badly,” Samuel said. “He’ll be okay. He can rinse it off in the sink, wrap it in a towel. He’s smart enough to do that.”

“He broke the morphine bottle. Pulled his IV catheter out. Tried to enter the alarm code.”

“I should have waited, made sure he went under.”

“He pinched the tubing shut. I don’t think he got any of it.”

“Son of a bitch,” Samuel growled, looking toward the bathroom.

“I don’t blame him,” Bret said.

“What?”

“I don’t blame him. And every time I hear those manacles—”

“Relax, relax,” Samuel soothed.

“I would go crazy, Samuel. If someone did that to me, I’d go crazy. I couldn’t take it.”

“Shh. It’s all right. No one has hurt him, Bret. Not really.”

“We have. The morphine — it’s just like the chains. It’s a chemical chain, that’s all. He knows it. It makes him feel helpless. And when he thought you had shot his wife, it must have been just like—”

“When he thought I had what?”

“Shot his wife. Did you shoot her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Irene Kelly. That’s who’s in the building.”

Samuel stared at him in silence. “You lied to me,” he said, incredulous.

“Yes. I’m sorry if that hurts you.”

“If it hurts me? Of course it does!”

“Just sit with me here for a minute, Samuel. Just sit with me. Like we used to, when we were silent.”

Samuel almost rebelled, but something in Bret’s voice worried him. So he didn’t say anything.

Within a few minutes he was calm. The silences always did this for him. In school, when they were younger, if someone made him angry, Bret could calm him in this way. And he was reminded that Bret would not have asked for one of these shared silences unless, ironically, there was something important to be “said.”

After a long time Samuel spoke. “It was because of Faye.”

“Yes.”

“Do you hate me for that?”

“No, of course not. But it’s getting easier for you to hurt people, and I didn’t want you to hurt Frank’s wife. That’s why I didn’t tell you she was here, Samuel.”

Another long silence stretched between them as Samuel thought about what Bret had said.

“You’re so sure he’s innocent?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bret said without hesitation. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you willing to trust my judgment?”

After a long pause Samuel said, “Yes. But there’s something you should know.”

Bret waited.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet. When I went out, I went to a pay phone and called the paper to ask if my ‘granddaughter,’ Irene Kelly, had placed an ad like I asked her to. The one about John Oakhurst.”

“And?”

“His wife knows who the policeman is.”

42

HE HAD STOPPED COMING AFTER ME. After hiding in a wardrobe room for God knew how long, I decided he had given up on me, at least for the moment. Maybe he had bigger problems. Or maybe he decided I was going to die if I tried to leave the building and figured I wasn’t worth the effort of pursuit.

I decided to do some cautious exploring.

I went through a large dressing room, scaring the bejesus out of myself when I caught my reflection in one of the many mirrors — at first, in the darkness, seeing the reflection only as another person moving in the room.

I almost went to the wall and turned on a light switch, but I decided not to become too cocky. Whatever had caused Samuel to give up his pursuit might be only a temporary delay.

I moved slowly through the back of the theater, conserving the flashlight batteries as much as possible. Eventually I wandered into an office. A light was flashing on the desk. A ringing telephone.

I answered it, crawling under the desk to hide before I spoke.

“Hello?”

“Irene?” a surprised voice asked.

“Yes,” I said, recognizing the drawling version of my name. “Glad Hank got in touch with you, Cassidy.”

“I would have preferred to find you waiting for me on the outside of the building, but I reckon that was too much to ask. Where are you?”

“Alone in some kind of office. Do you know where Frank is?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I should tell you. You’ve already been busier than a one-legged man in an asskickin’ contest.”

“I didn’t exactly plan to be locked in here with them. Anything I can do for you while I’m here?”

“Hide. Stay clear of them. They get a hold of you, we’ve got twice the problem we had before. You understand that, don’t you?”

The lights came on in the office.

Oh, shit, I thought.

“Irene?”

“She understands, Detective Cassidy,” a voice said from another extension. “Say good-bye to him, Ms. Kelly.”

“Bret?” Cassidy said.

Samuel walked around the desk. He was pointing a gun at me. He motioned me to come out.

“See you later, Cassidy,” I said. I hung up the phone and let Samuel lead me away. I noticed the light on the phone didn’t go out. I tried to be heartened by that, by the fact that Cassidy was still talking to Bret. You’ll see Frank, I told myself.

I was scared anyway.

He took me to a basement. As I came down the stairs, Frank looked up and saw me. He was still in chains, and his hand had a bigger bandage on it. He stood up. I ran to him.

He lifted his manacled hands over my head, held on to me as tightly as I held on to him. He was warm and alive and we were together. Maybe something will feel better to me someday, I thought, but I couldn’t imagine what it would be.

Bret came closer, and Frank stood very still for a moment. Frank extended his arms. Bret unlocked the chains on Frank’s wrists, pulled off the leather cuffs.

“Thank you,” Frank said. He pulled me closer, in an embrace so fierce, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t need to breathe.

“We’ll give you some time alone,” Bret said, and to our surprise, they left.

“Are you okay?” we asked each other in unison, and spent the next few moments crying in each other’s arms. I leaned back and wiped the tears from his face.

“Cassidy will get us out of here,” I said.

He nodded, told me he loved me, and we both started crying again.

“I know you think I’m an ass, coming in here, getting caught—” I started to say, but he put his fingers over my lips and shook his head.

“No more of that,” he said. “No matter what happens, we’re not going to waste time on regrets.”

I looked up at him, smiled a little, and said, “Do you think they’ve got cameras in here?”

He laughed. “Sure of it, I’m sorry to say. Microphones, too.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Damn,” he said, and held me tight.

“In spy movies, they use this kind of time to talk about strategy,” I said.

“Thank God we aren’t spies,” he said, and kissed me.

There was a ridiculously polite little knock on the basement door, and Bret came in, seeming embarrassed.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but we need to talk to Detective Cassidy.”

He put on a headset, spoke into it. “Any change?”

He listened, then said, “All right. I’m calling now. Stand by.”

“Where’s Samuel?” Frank asked.

“Keeping an eye on things. There seems to be some SWAT movement.” He turned to me. “Ms. Kelly, are you willing to tell us the name of the man we’re looking for?”

Frank looked at me in surprise. “You know?”

I didn’t answer. Before Frank could say more, Bret said, “We’ll talk about it later.”

He lifted the phone and waited.

“Hello, Detective Cassidy. I’m putting the speakerphone on.” He pressed a button, looked at us. “Would you please say something?”

We each said hello.

“Are you all right?” Cassidy asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “We haven’t been harmed.”

“Are you giving up?” Bret asked him.

“Now, what makes you say a thing like that?” Cassidy asked.

“We’ve seen some SWAT movement,” Bret answered.

“There hasn’t been any SWAT movement,” Cassidy said.

“Detective Cassidy,” Bret said, “please don’t lie.”

“I’m not,” Cassidy said. “Hold on, let me confirm what I just told you.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Bret?”

“Yes?”

“I apologize. You’re right. It was completely unauthorized, and those men have been pulled back. You want to confirm that with Samuel?”

“Just a moment,” Bret said. He spoke into the headset. “Samuel?” He listened, then said, “All right, Detective Cassidy. But now we’re concerned that you may not have your part of the situation under control.”

“Really?”

Bret seemed distracted. “Oh, no, I guess not. Samuel is telling me that those officers have been taken to the commander’s post. Well, now, shall we talk?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s make everything plain, all right?”

“Plain?”

“Unmistakable. I thought I should tell you that we have a generator and plenty of supplies, should you decide to cut off power or water.”

“No one is talking about doing anything like that, Bret.”

“We also have gas masks and protective clothing. Samuel and I do, I mean. If you try a chemical approach to this problem, Frank and Irene will suffer, not us. And we are, of course, the only ones who can arm and disarm the explosives.”

“Bret, nobody wants—”

“No, of course not. But the situation should be made plain. Now, we want one thing. Just one thing. Not money, not notoriety, not innocent lives. We don’t want a plane to fly us to Havana or any other nonsense like that. We simply want justice. That’s all.”

“Justice.”

“Yes, Detective Cassidy, justice. It’s all we live for. Literally. A life for four lives.”

Cassidy let the silence stretch. Frank was watching me. I took his uninjured hand, squeezed it lightly. He held on.

“Ms. Kelly knows the man’s name,” Bret said.

“She tell you that?”

“Not directly, no. But — just a moment—”

I could hear Cassidy shouting, though. “Stop that man! Stop him!”

“No, Detective Cassidy!” Bret said. “Tell your men to stay back! I don’t want the others to be hurt.”

“Hold on,” Cassidy said. We could hear Bredloe’s voice over a bullhorn, saying, “Officer, halt where you are. That’s an order! You are compromising negotiations and placing others’ lives in danger. Halt!”

“Are you sure it’s him?” Bret asked Samuel over the headset, turning on a television monitor. A street-level view of the area in front of the theater came on the screen. A man in a SWAT uniform was crossing the street with his hands up. Bret said, “I wish we could hear him talk.”

Just then the man shouted, “Bret! Samuel! I’m the one you want.”

“Who is that?” Frank said.

Over the headset Bret said, “Yes, just that one door.” He moved to the phone, then said, “Detective Cassidy! Use your bullhorn. Tell that man to enter by the center door only. No other door. And no other officers.”

“I can’t allow that, Bret. We don’t know that this man is the one you want. People often confess to crimes they didn’t commit, out of some mistaken sense of—”

“He’ll blow every one of us to hell and gone, sir, if you don’t do exactly as we say. Some of your men will die, too. Samuel and I don’t care about ourselves, but the Harrimans deserve better. Hurry, Detective Cassidy, he’s getting closer.”

But it was Bredloe’s voice that made the announcement, even as I heard Cassidy say, “Captain, don’t—”

“We’ll call back soon,” Bret said, hanging up. “Excuse me,” he said to us, and hurried up the stairs. He paused at the door and tossed down a key. “Just in case,” he said with a smile.

“Bret!” I called after him, but he paid no attention.

“Who is it?” Frank asked again.

“Nathan Cook,” I said, picking up the key. I took a guess and tried them on the manacles on Frank’s ankles. The locks opened.

“Cookie?” he said in disbelief, staring at the monitor, rubbing his ankles.

“Yes. Frank, I know he was your father’s friend, but I don’t trust him. I don’t know what he’s up to now, but it’s bound to be some trick.”

“You’re sure he’s the one?”

“Yes.”

Frank looked at the monitor, then back at me. “Let’s go,” he said, and shouted, “Bret, wait!” as he began to run up the stairs.

Bret entered the lobby just ahead of us, ignoring our repeated shouts.

When we burst through the doors Samuel was smiling, holding a gun on Nathan Cook, whose hands were held high.

Cook was also smiling, until he saw Frank. “Ah, Frank,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever forgive me — but I see you probably don’t even know what this is about.”

“I know,” Frank said quietly.

Until that moment, perhaps he hadn’t really believed that Nathan Cook was the man Hocus sought. But there was unmistakable fury in him now.

Cook raised a brow. “Yes, I guess you do.”

“It’s him all right,” Samuel said. “His name is Nathan Cook.”

“Are the doors rearmed?” Bret asked nervously.

Samuel nodded.

Bret moved to a phone near the box office. He picked it up. “Detective Cassidy? Nathan Cook has turned himself over to us. We’ve rearmed the doors. We’ll release Detective Harriman and Ms. Kelly to you just as soon as we have Mr. Cook safely in custody.”

“I can’t tell you how I’ve waited for this to be resolved,” Cook said.

“We waited first, remember?” Samuel said. “Powell got tired of waiting for you.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Cook said, which caused Samuel to laugh. He ignored the laughter and went on. “I didn’t mean to take so long. It was daylight when I found the turnout, and I had to wait for darkness, and then for traffic to die down. I never expected Powell to become so violent.”

Samuel laughed again.

“Drug dealing, Cookie?” Frank said. “My father would have strangled you with his bare hands.”

“It wasn’t serious dealing, Frank. I just wanted to make a point. The morons in Vice never should have demoted me. It was just a way to irritate them. I didn’t even keep the money. I gave it away — small cash donations to good causes.”

“Penance?” I asked. “Or avoiding the attention of Internal Affairs?”

“Please,” Bret said quietly. “Nothing he has to say makes any difference.” Cook glared at him, but Bret went on. “He can’t excuse what he did. Even he knows that. That’s why he came in here.”

Cook dropped his gaze.

“Take off the helmet and Kevlar vest,” Samuel ordered.

“Slowly,” Frank said. Cook reached up for the helmet, dropped it to the floor. Began unfastening the vest.

“Cecilia and Gus and Bear thought I’d have to be forced to come down here and rescue you, Frank,” Cook said. “They were wrong. This will end years of hell.”

“You aren’t rescuing anyone,” Frank said angrily.

“I can’t believe you’d try to make yourself out to be a hero.”

“Why not?” he said, swiftly pulling a gun out from beneath the vest. He aimed it directly at Samuel. “Drop it, son.”

Samuel flinched at the word “son,” but then he smiled.

“Don’t even think about it,” Cook said, glancing at Frank, who had moved slightly closer to him.

“Bret?” Samuel said.

“Yes?”

“Give Julian my love.” He pulled the trigger.

The loud report of the shots came almost at the same time, Cook’s a fraction of a second later, with Bret’s scream. The lobby filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder.

Frank ran to Samuel, saying, “No—”

I glanced at Cook, looked away from what was left of his head as I took the gun out of his hand. I made myself feel for a pulse. I’ll admit I didn’t regret not finding one.

Bret was bent over Samuel, clinging to him, making sounds of misery and grief. I looked at Frank, who shook his head. He had taken Samuel’s gun from him but simply set it aside, out of Bret’s reach. I put Nathan Cook’s gun next to it.

Frank sat next to Bret, holding on to him. His face reminded me of his face in the photo. I stood next to him, reached down, stroked my fingers through his hair. He reached up and took my hand, held on to it.

The phone was ringing. Frank glanced up at me. I didn’t let go of him — I used my free hand to answer it.

“Cassidy?”

“Irene? We heard gunfire. Anyone need an ambulance?”

“No. Cook’s dead. Samuel, too.”

I heard him sigh. His voice was unsteady as he said, “The rest of you?”

“We’re all okay. Tell them we’re all okay. But — give us some time.”

“I can hear Bret,” he said.

“Yes. The doors are still armed, but I don’t think Bret’s going to hurt us. We just need to give him some time.”

“He may not want to hurt you, but I can’t tell you how dangerous he is right now — to himself especially, but maybe to you and Frank, too. Those two boys had what amounts to a suicide pact. Don’t let him out of your sight. Where are the weapons?”

“Out of reach.”

“Good. Make sure it stays that way, all right?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got to talk to him, get him to look at things differently.”

“I don’t think he’s ready—”

“No, not right this second. Of course not. But I don’t want any further harm to come to him, Irene.”

“I know you don’t, Cassidy.”

I’m not sure how long we stayed there, huddled together on the floor. When it seemed to me that Frank was ready to hear it, I whispered some of Cassidy’s concerns to him. Frank nodded, broke open the guns, took out the remaining bullets, and pocketed the weapons. Bret seemed oblivious of anyone other than Samuel.

When exhaustion finally began to slow Bret’s grief, Frank gently pried his fingers from Samuel’s shirt. Known for being afraid of blood, Bret was now bathed in it but seemed not to notice. We stood him between us and, putting our arms around him, walked back to the basement. He was in a state of total numbness by then, I think. We helped him wash up, but he just stared blankly into space. Frank found a stage outfit in one of the trunks and asked Bret if he wanted to change clothes.

Bret didn’t answer but took the clothes and went into the bathroom.

“Maybe we shouldn’t let him alone even to do that,” I said.

“There’s nothing he can harm himself with in there,” Frank said. “I didn’t even hand him a belt. But if he’s not out in a few minutes, I’ll check on him.”

But Bret did come out, and his mood seemed to have changed. It made me want to call Cassidy. I exchanged a glance with Frank, who picked up the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Bret said to him.

Frank put the phone back, waited.

“I wish I could give your own clothes back to you,” Bret went on, “but they had blood on them and Samuel was afraid I would….” He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think mine will fit you or I’d offer—”

“It’s okay,” Frank said. “Don’t worry about it, all right?”

Bret hesitated, then nodded. Frank picked up the phone again. Bret made no objection, but seemed uneasy. Frank watched him carefully as he walked away, moved closer to me.

“What book are you reading, Ms. Kelly?” Bret asked politely.

“Call me Irene,” I said. I reached into my back pocket — removed the forgotten paperback.

“Bret Harte,” he said. “Read the title story sometime. About a group of misfits trapped in a snowstorm. The outcasts aren’t saints — definitely sinners — but not really any worse than the people who kicked them out of town — better in some ways, I suppose. They’re imperfect, in an imperfect world. But they do what they can in the face of adversity.”

“It’s the story with John Oakhurst in it?”

He smiled. “Yes. John Oakhurst. He pins the deuce of clubs to a tree — ‘at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.’ ”

I didn’t understand the quote and was about to ask him what it meant, but Frank was calling him to the phone.

“They can leave at any time,” Bret said to Cassidy.

“I’ll disarm the doors. But I’m staying here with Samuel.”

“We aren’t leaving without you,” Frank said, beginning a standoff.

Cassidy talked to Bret for a long time, while Frank and I sat next to one another, waiting silently for the negotiator to coax Bret into leaving the dead — all of them — behind.

We heard Bret’s side of the conversation change. Yes, he could always take his life later, so he didn’t mind talking to Cassidy. And Cassidy, working his own magic, got Bret to talk about getting to know Frank and the Szals again and of dreams other than revenge. About how life might be different now and how there were some projects he’d like to see finished. The theater, for example.

“Do you think,” Bret asked Frank at one point, “that we could really get to know one another?”

“Yes,” Frank answered. “I enjoy talking to you, Bret.”

“You aren’t just saying that, are you?”

“No,” Frank said. “I mean it.”

He said, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Frank said. “I was scared over the last few days, and you tried to help me. I’ll try to help you, too. You won’t have to go through anything alone.”

“Okay,” he said simply, and told Cassidy we would be coming out through the front doors in a few minutes.

He put on his white cape as we stood in the lobby, near the door. “How do I look?” he asked Frank.

“Great,” he said. “Merlin would be proud.”

“I’m scared,” he said again, glancing over at Samuel’s body.

“We’re right here with you,” Frank said, and put his arm around Bret’s shoulders.

We pushed open the door. I stepped through first. Bright lights were shining. I put up a hand to shield my eyes, but Bret balked completely.

I could hear Cassidy telling them to cut some of the lights. We tried again.

It wasn’t so bad the next time. I could see Cassidy waiting for us on the other side of the street. We walked out onto the sidewalk. We were free, I told myself. Frank was coming home. But with each step I was aware that guns were pointed at us, and I felt Bret’s fear.

“What’s wrong?” I heard Frank ask, and realized they had stopped walking. I waited, too.

“Chains,” Bret said.

We saw what had halted his progress then: an officer holding a set of manacles.

“Get those goddamned chains the hell out of here,” Frank yelled, obviously shocking everyone who knew him as quiet Frank Harriman.

Cassidy seemed equally impatient, and the chains were quickly removed from sight.

“Don’t be afraid, you’re safe now,” Frank said.

Bret looked at Frank and smiled. “You said that the first time we met you. You really were our hero, you know,” he said, and reached into his cape.

“Hold your fire!” Frank shouted, but the shot rang out before he finished the sentence. Bret’s knees buckled. Frank clutched clumsily at him as he slumped, then gathered him into his arms. “Bret? Bret?”

People began to move toward us, but Frank fell to his knees and I moved with him, watching helplessly as he threw back his head and made a keening sound of anguish.

Cassidy was beside us, telling the others to leave us alone. I heard him ask softly, “What was he reaching for?”

Frank gently lifted Bret’s hand, which still gripped the deuce of clubs.

“John Oakhurst,” he said, “committed suicide.”

Epilogue

I WATCHED FROM THE LANAI of our room at the Halekulani as my husband swam the length of the orchid pool underwater. His movements were strong and graceful as he crossed over the exquisite blue mosaic. When he broke the surface for a new breath, I found even these few yards between us a distance nearly too great. Perhaps sensing my gaze, he turned toward me, smiled, and beckoned. Too great a distance for him, as well.

Halekulani means “a house worthy of paradise,” and it is. We had come to Waikiki because we had never been to it before, because we did not want to be anywhere we had ever been before. We decided to try to see things differently by seeing different things. We were cosseted here, fed delectable dishes, and in every other way taken care of in perfect style. We had saved for a rainy day, and when it had started pouring, Hawaii became our umbrella.

We needed it. We needed a time to be able to sleep in after nightmares, a place to sort through remembrances without spectators eyeing our reactions.

Several hours ahead of us, Las Piernas finished its day. My editor, elated a week ago by the most difficult story I’ve ever written in my life, would by now be angry that I wasn’t around to take on a new assignment. My sister, out of town during our week of hell, would begrudge my leaving town for this brief taste of heaven.

Others would be dealing with the aftermath of that week in their own way. Cecilia, Gus, and Greg were back in Bakersfield, relieved that no one was pressing charges against them. Detailed investigations had revealed that Lang and Colson — who had little hope of avoiding prison — had each lost family members to addiction. Lieutenant Carlson, facing charges by Internal Affairs that he had leaked the story on Hocus, might not be a lieutenant by the time we returned. Bredloe, facing the chief’s displeasure over allowing Nathan Cook to enter that theater, might not be a captain. Pete, given a day or two to realize that Frank really was safe, had taken a leave of absence to go fishing with Rachel. They’d invited Jack to go along, and he’d decided to take the dogs — who had been following Frank so mercilessly, we feared we might see them surfing into Waikiki Beach. Bea, who had a long talk with Frank about his older sister, was staying at our place, keeping Cody company. She’d bought a little frame for Frank’s photo of Diana.

Cassidy was on Maui. That would be week two of our vacation.

Frank talked about leaving the department, about trying some other line of work. I told him that I’d stay married to him even if he became a beach bum. He hadn’t shaved the beard yet but otherwise had made no firm commitments.

“Probably not a smart time to make the decision,” he had said yesterday.

Probably not.

But that world was hours ahead of us, more hours than simple longitude could measure. We were blissfully behind, moving at Hawaii’s pace. The Hawaiians were good enough to teach us how to slow down.

At the edge of the pool Frank swam to meet me, reaching up as I stepped in.

For all the healing that we knew lay ahead of us, we had seen what Bret and Samuel sadly could not see, that damage need not destroy us, that what remains is often so much more than what was taken. And if, after all the pain of those days had passed, some part of our lives was still left in ruins, we would build on it our own Halekulani, our house worthy of paradise.

Or, I thought, sliding into the water and his arms, something damn close.

Acknowledgments

Laurie Bernstein deserves thanks first and foremost for this one, for believing in it from the start. Simon & Schuster has offered unfailing support.

In addition to friends and family who cheered me on, I am indebted to Lisa Baldridge and Sandra Molen, research librarians, and other members of the staff of the Bakersfield Californian, who were so generous with their time and help when I visited there. Fictional Brandon North wouldn’t last a day if he had to compete with Ms. Molen, who is much more competent and organized. Patrice Black of the Bakersfield Chamber of Commerce helped me to locate Bea Harriman’s house and provided other information about the area. I appreciate the help given by the staffs of the Kern County Museum, the University Library at CSU, Long Beach, the Long Beach Public Library (especially James Washington and Eleanor Newhard), and the Beale Memorial Library in Bakersfield. As with the staff of the Californian, the librarians in this book resemble those of the Beale only when they are brilliant and helpful.

My thanks to Joel Hendricks, engineer, California Department of Forestry, for fire-fighting information; to Skip Langley for his expertise on medical and industrial gas systems; Ranger Patty Bates of the U.S. Forest Service, Greenhorn Ranger District, Sequoia National Forest, for information on the Kern River and wildlife in the canyon; to Mike Brewer of the San Diego Zoo for additional help with wildlife behavior; to Dan Coburn for information on aircraft; Andy Voelkel for computer help; California offices of the Southern Pacific and the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroads for information on freight trains.

Medical questions were answered by Dr. James Gruber, emergency department physician, Dr. Ed Dohring, orthopedic surgeon, and Kelly Dorhing, R.N. Tonya Pearsley helped with information on the psychological aspects of elective mutism and in other ways too numerous to mention.

Law enforcement and investigation expertise was generously given by several members of the Long Beach Police Department, most especially Detectives Bill Valles, John Gill, and Corporal Henry Erickson. Additional help came from Vic Pietrantoni, Los Angeles Police Department Robbery-Homicide Division; Vernon Pitsker, private investigator; the Long Beach office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; the Bakersfield office of the California Highway Patrol; GTE Security. I am also grateful to my nephew, John Pearsley, Jr., who was recently sworn in as an officer with the El Cajon Police Department and of whom I am exceedingly proud.

Regina and Greg Szal are more remarkable than their fictional namesakes, and I appreciate the help they gave with astronomy and speech therapy.

Several individuals at the Richard and Karen Carpenter Performing Arts Center at CSULB kindly offered information on theaters new and old when I visited there; I am very grateful to my good friend, Sharon Weissman, director, who helped me to explore the catwalk and other areas, and to Kathyrn Havey, production manager, who read the rough draft and provided insights on stagecraft and design.

Debbie Arrington again provided invaluable assistance with information on reporting.

Joyce Matsumoto and Chef Mavro (George Mavrothalassitis) are two reasons the Halekulani is indeed worthy of paradise. Mahalo.

Cappy, thanks for warming my feet. And if home is where the heart is, Tim Burke is my permanent address.

Books by Jan Burke

Nine

Flight

Bones

Liar

Hocus

Remember Me, Irene

Dear Irene,

Sweet Dreams, Irene

Goodnight, Irene