Born of Illusion (28 page)

“Uncle Arnie is a sweetheart, isn’t he? It’s hard to believe he’s one of the most powerful men in the city. Everyone’s so intimidated by him, but he’s just a pussycat, really. Well, unless you cross him.”

I freeze as I suddenly realize where I’ve seen him before. Arnold “the Brain” Rothstein is the head of a Jewish mob family and practically a permanent feature in the papers. He’s been indicted more times than I can count and was rumored to be involved in the 1919 World Series scandal.

“Arnold Rothstein is your uncle?” I squeak.

Cynthia’s shoulders slump. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re going to go all disapproving. This always happens! As soon as I make a friend, they find out about my family and bam, it’s all over. Jack’s family will hardly even talk to me.”

Tears spring up in her eyes and I reach out to grab her hand. “No, of course not! I’m the last person to judge anyone. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

She sniffles. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” I watch curiously as she dabs her eyes. “How old are you anyway?”

“I just turned twenty last July.”

That explains so much.

She offers me a cigarette and I shake my head, so she lights it and exhales while giving me a sharp look. “So why does your face look like you’ve been in a boxing match with Jack Dempsey?”

I touch my cheek self-consciously.

“No, you did a good job of hiding it,” Cynthia assures me. “I’m just good at seeing that sort of thing.”

I bet she is.

The waitress interrupts and asks us if we would like to order or wait for our guest. Cynthia consults her watch. “Let’s go ahead and eat, shall we? I’m famished.”

We order, and as soon as the waitress leaves I tell Cynthia what happened.

Cynthia’s big blue eyes get even bigger. “I can’t believe you escaped! I’d have been so scared!”

I shiver as I remember my nightmare run through the streets. “I was scared. Now I’m just angry.”

Cynthia nods. “I would be, too. You want me to get Uncle Arnie to look into it? I know he would. He likes you.”

“I just met him!”

“He likes your father. That means a lot. And he wasn’t kidding when he said he knows everything that happens in New York. I bet he could find out who it was.”

The waitress sets down our food as I consider her offer. On one hand, it would be really nice to know who is out to get me. On the other, what would “sweet” old Uncle Arnie do if he found them? Do I want to be responsible for that?

“Ladies, deepest apologies for my tardiness.” Dr. Bennett’s effusive voice interrupts my thoughts. “I ran into a colleague of mine and I’ve persuaded her to join us. I do hope you don’t mind.”

I look up with a smile, grateful for the distraction.

Dr. Bennett removes his greatcoat and turns to draw his companion forward. Everything inside me freezes when I see who it is.

The next few seconds play out in slow motion, my every sense heightened. Mrs. Lindsay’s smile is pasted on, but her cheek is twitching as she nods politely to Cynthia. As her eyes swivel toward me, I note that though she’s wearing a clean coat, it’s covering the same ragged dress she was wearing when she attacked me. I want to run when her eyes lock on to mine, but I’m frozen in my seat, even when her mouth opens in a perfectly shaped O.

It’s when the screaming starts that I finally leap to my feet, knocking my chair backward. At first, there are no words, just an unearthly wailing that sounds as if it were ripping her soul apart. Her hands form claws and I snatch up my purse and leap back, running into the person dining at the table behind me. Everything in the restaurant screeches to a halt as the ghastly sound continues.

Then a word rises from the cacophony. “Witch!” she screams. “Wiiiitch!”

“My God, woman!” Dr. Bennett grabs onto Mrs. Lindsay’s arm just as she makes a lunge for me, which is a good thing as my knife is already out of my purse and hidden in the palm of my hand.

Cynthia grabs our coats and pulls me out of the restaurant, leaving Dr. Bennett to cope with the still-howling Mrs. Lindsay. In seconds, she has me in the car with the doors shut and locked.

“Hurry up and get us out of here, Al,” she tells the driver before turning to me. “What was all that about? I simply can’t be involved in any kind of scandal. Both my family
and
my husband’s family would kill me, though for different reasons. Wasn’t that woman at the last séance I went to?”

I nod, my teeth chattering.

Cynthia hands me my coat and waits till I put it on. “What’s wrong with her?”

I shake my head. “I think she’s crazy,” I say, and tell her about Mrs. Lindsay attacking me in the park.

“You mean you’ve been attacked twice in the last week? You should carry a gun.”

In answer, I take out my knife, the blade flashing as the lights of Broadway reflect off it. “I’m more comfortable with this.”

She stares for a moment, then laughs. “You carry a shiv?” She reaches into the pocket of her fur coat and pulls out a small pistol.

We stare at each other silently as the car winds its way through the traffic. Then we burst into laughter, the kind edged with both hysteria and relief.

It looks as if I’ve finally found a friend.

I sleep in the next morning, letting Mother fix her own breakfast. After the trouble last night, I’m not really hungry anyway. She and Jacques went out earlier, but are back now and talking quietly in the sitting room.

Cynthia and I decided against telling anyone about Mrs. Lindsay’s breakdown in the restaurant.

“My uncle is going to hear about it, regardless,” she’d said. “Lindy’s is practically his office, but I don’t want Jack or his family to get wind of it.”

I agree. I don’t want my mother to hear about it either.

I pace my bedroom after dressing for the day. Mrs. Lindsay is insane. Why do I keep running into her? Could she have been involved in my abduction?

I have to find out more about that vision. I know it’s the key to everything.

I shiver. Owen is taking me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art tomorrow, but last night’s fiasco has cast a pall over everything. Tomorrow will be fun because Owen is fun.
He
knows how to have a good time. I viciously jab a pin into my black cloche to hold it in place. Cole isn’t exactly a barrel of laughs; he’s more . . . I sigh. Wonderful. Cole is more wonderful.

And my actions might have put him in danger.

My eyes are inadvertently drawn to the drawer where I’d hidden the letter. Guilt and confusion kept me from reading it that day in the restaurant, but maybe there’s something in it I should know? I bite my lip and, glancing at the door, pull it out. I was right; the big, loopy handwriting definitely belongs to a girl.

Dear C—

Hope this missive finds you well and safe, with special emphasis on the safe. (More on that later.) First, I fear the Society is coming apart at the seams, or will once the vote occurs. Some of our kind will not stand for being barred from club policy any longer, not to mention forbidding women to sit on the board! Our supporters are many, but our enemies are numerous as well, even if their leader has gone missing. Which brings me to the point of this letter—our contacts were correct. We do believe he is in the States. We have discovered one of his former Sensitives in an asylum in Surrey. She has gone quite mad from all the experiments and I’m not sure if we can do anything to help her. We are told the poor girl was not always this unstable. It makes me so angry! Anyway, I’m sure our “friend” won’t try to contact you directly—not after the thrashing you gave him last time—but he is quite capable of hiring someone to persuade you to his way of thinking. Which brings up my next thought, How well do you know this girl you keep writing about? How strange that it is the daughter and not the medium who is like us! And how strange that a solemn young man like yourself would write so about a girl! But seriously, can you trust her? I would tell you to be careful, but you are always so.

Please stay safe. H— sends his regards.

L—

My heart aches as I return the letter to its envelope. If Cole did trust me, he certainly doesn’t now. Does he think I might have snatched the letter to give to their enemy, whoever he is? And why is Cole still here if he’s in danger? What does it all mean, and does Dr. Bennett know about any of this? Why did Dr. Bennett really leave the Society? As always, I have more questions than answers.

Twenty-three

“A
re you sure you’re feeling up to this?” Jacques asks that evening as we get ready for our performance. Anxiety lines his face—even his mustache looks nervous. I send out a silver ribbon like Cole and I had practiced but come back empty-handed. Even though I’ve been working on controlling my abilities on my own, I still can’t pick up on Jacques’s emotions.

“Yes, darling, are you sure you’re okay? Owen is out front in the audience. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind spelling you for another show.”

I snort. Mother’s true intentions come through loud and clear—even without using my abilities.

“Owen isn’t nearly as talented or experienced as Anna,” Jacques snaps. “People look forward to seeing her. We don’t want to disappoint them further.”

I don’t know who is more surprised, me or my mother. From the look on her face, I’m betting on Mother. Jacques is oblivious to her, however, and leaves after wishing us luck.

“Is this the kind of life you want?” Mother asks suddenly.

I turn from the mirror, where I’ve been trying to hide my fading bruises.

“What do you mean?”

She gives a slight smile. “You’re almost an adult. I don’t think I’ve ever given a thought as to what you might want for your own life.” She stands and stares into the mirror, smoothing her already smooth hair. “Now that things are so much better for us, perhaps you want to give up the show—get married, have children. Live a more normal life.”

My chest aches. Mother’s capacity to surprise never lessens. But is she sincere? Or is she just trying to maneuver me out of the show? I send out a strand, but it wavers and fades before it reaches her. Maybe my own emotions are tangling things up, or maybe I don’t really want to know how she feels.

There’s a knock on the door—the signal that the show is starting—and I follow her to the stage. I stand in the wings, excitement making my pulse race. No matter how bad things are or how complicated my life is, performing is always a joyous thing for me.

Perhaps it’s because my mother and I are both emotional, or maybe it’s in the stars, but the show is going well.

Being in front of an audience, listening to their gasps and laughter—it feels so right. Mother’s question sits in the back of my mind as I perform. Do I want to settle down? Do I want respectability? Or do I want this?

Why can’t you have both?
a little voice inside me whispers.

Why can’t I be both a wife and a magician? A mother and a performer? Mother did it. But then again, Mother isn’t really the best role model.

Toward the end of the show a sense of déjà vu creeps over me. A tingling sensation in my stomach spreads to my chest and I miss a cue as the overpowering scent of burned sugar assails my nose. My breath quickens as I smile, stupidly. Painful red lights flash before my eyes and soon the audience, the stage, and even my mother fade from view. Then, in the dark place where the visions come, the images appear.
My mother, bound and gagged. Bruises mark her face, and her eyes show both terror and defiance. But not for herself. She’s afraid for me. I feel the enormity of her despair as if it were my own. A dark, hulking figure moves into the picture and chills run down my spine. He’s coming for me.

For the first time during a vision, I try watching it as if it were a picture show, to separate my mind from the terror running through my body. I stare at the figure moving toward me, desperately trying to see who it is. Who is after me? Who is holding my mother prisoner? But the image shifts and I’m underwater, my lungs burning. Nausea rises up and the image spins away like a top.

The theater snaps into sharp focus; and for a fraction of a second, I see the audience watching, puzzled, as my mother calls out to me. Then the room spins, faster and faster. The last thing I hear before the room goes dark is my mother screaming my name.

I awake sometime later on the couch in our dressing room. A stranger with a large, sandy-colored mustache is bending over me. I let out a strangled noise and push him away.

My mother rushes to my side. “It’s all right, darling, he’s a doctor.”

“I’m just checking your pupils. Bright light,” he warns before shining a light into my eyes. “Again.”

I blink and he presses lightly on the sides of my throat. “How do you feel?”

I take a mental catalog of all my body parts. I’m still bruised from the abduction, but that’s nothing new. “I feel fine.”