Play dead

NINETY-TWO

5:40 AM

Swann opened the box. The basement was hot and damp and close.

He did not have a problem with confined spaces-he had been cured, forcibly, of this phobia at a tender young age.

The box had sat dormant for years. It had belonged to an Indian fakir, ostensibly, although Swann knew the man as Dennis Glassman, a slack-handed card man and part-time lawn-care consultant based in Reno, Nevada.

It was time for the Fire Grotto. The Seventh Wonder. With a twist, of course. This time the assistant would not get out of the cage.

Swann rolled the box to the center of the small stage. He adjusted his tie. Everything was arranged. Odette was upstairs. He had peered in on her. She was dressed in her lovely scarlet gown, just as he had planned.

He climbed the stairs to the third floor. The wall on the landing was activated by a key lock and a counterweight. He pushed aside the small painting, unlocked the door. It slid open. Beyond was a short, dark corridor leading to his father's room. Swann knew that his father had gotten out of the room a few times over the past twenty years- Karl Swann thought this was a secret-and each time Joseph had tightened security.

He edged open the door to the Great Cygne's foul lair. The old man was where he usually was, beneath the covers, sheets pulled up over his bony skull. Swann crossed the room, made sure the television was on. It was connected by a direct feed to the camera across from the stage in the basement.

It was time for Odette. Time for the Fire Grotto.

As Swann made his way through the maze, he considered how Faerwood had been built on a plot of land that had once been known as Prescott Square. He wondered if the police had arrived at Logan Circle yet. Logan Circle with its Swann Memorial Fountain.

Prescott Square, he thought.

The final piece of the tangram.