Magician (11 page)

Samson Manley Fain.

The letter was signed with a flourish, the S four times the size of the other, neat little characters.

“I really have no idea what he was thanking me for. As far as I knew, we never really had a serious conversation—aside from the day he freaked out, like I told you. Anyway, that’s all he sent.”

I whipped out my cell phone and dialed Tiller’s extension. His voicemail picked up.

“Tiller,” I said, “this is Roland. I need to meet you in the Linn-Henley research library tomorrow at 8:00 a.m., if you can. I think I’ve found something, a lead. I need your big brain. We need to look up information on rock formations, probably in the southwestern states.”

I put my phone away and turned the card over again.

“You know, this is an unusual card. I mean, for one thing, there’s no return address. For another, most cards have a line or two of fine print, telling you whatever it is you’re looking at in the photo. But this one is blank, except for the picture.”

Vivian drew a little closer. She had a warm smile on her face.

“Well, if anyone could find a weird card, it would be Mr. Fain,” she said in a soft voice. “He was a different kind of person.”

Viv touched my hand. “Are
you
a different kind of person?”

She gave me a sultry smile. For the first time, I noticed she had changed clothes from that morning; she was now wearing a short black dress. I realized suddenly that Viv was the second beautiful woman who had touched me, and smiled at me, today. Odds are there would be no third.

Don’t make her hit you over the head.

“Viv, what do you say to dinner?” I turned my hand over, and clasped hers. She stepped forward, into my arms.

“Why, Roland, I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

We went to Anthony’s, a cozy little Italian place downtown. It felt like a hideaway, a smallish place, snuggly straddling the corner of 19
^th
Street and Seventh Avenue South. It also had wide bay windows. I had a habit of watching traffic slide by while I was dining, so I liked the windows. Not that I was paying the traffic much mind, currently. Viv was one of those women that demanded a man’s attention.
 

“You know, I liked you the moment I set eyes on you,” she said.

“Really. Why?”

“Call it intuition. I could tell a lot about you.”

“Intuition usually gets me into trouble. Like what kinds of things?”

Viv smiled her mischievous smile and leaned a little closer. “Like you are probably very smart. I bet you’re well-read, aren’t you.”

“You should be one of those television psychics. I actually have a degree in American Literature. How did you know that?”

“You have an intelligent face. And that crack about Philip Marlowe. Not everyone knows who that is, you know. I kind of guessed you were the bookish sort.”

“Well, I was, once upon a time. Now I mostly spend my time trying to put two and two together . . . and I usually come up with five.”

Viv smiled. “Is it exciting? Being a private detective?”

“It is right now.”

She hid her smile with one hand. With the other, she reached out and touched mine.

“A woman has to know what she likes.”

Chapter 11

I had instructed Tiller to meet me at 8:00 the next morning in the Linn-Henley research Library. So it came as no surprise that he cut me a sharp glance when I slid in at 9:30 a.m.

“Well, Mr. Longville, there you are. I was about to send out a search party.”

I smiled sheepishly and mumbled something about the traffic. Tiller’s mock seriousness disappeared.

“I am not sure heavy traffic ever put a spring in
my
step like that. I guess I can let you slide this time.”

“Here, look at this.” I threw the folder Broom had given him onto the table.

Tiller picked it up and looked it over. “Holy cow.”

“That was pretty much my reaction.”

“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, son. You sure know a pervert when you see one. But why are we here?”

“My second piece of evidence.”

Tiller held his glasses up a bit and read the print on the back. “Vivian, eh? Your traffic story loses credibility by the second, young sir.”

I shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “Long story.”

Tiller smiled. “So I supposed. What I don’t get is why you think this is your man. He wasn’t even at the Champions’ party.”

“I think that he was. Remember the videotape of Georgia’s ninth birthday party? The clowns?”

“Yes, there were three. Of course I remember.”

“And the videotape from the year before?”

Tiller bit his lip. “Yes. They used that one to measure the window of opportunity the abductor had. All of the guests were downstairs, watching it, when the girl disappeared.”

I nodded slowly. “Right. Except they weren’t.”

“Who wasn’t?”
 

I touched the file with my forefinger. “Samson Fain. Look, this is what I’ve learned. During the eighth birthday, there were four clowns. Fain was the fourth. And he’s not just a clown, he’s a magician.”

Tiller leaned closer, and his eyebrows rose. I went on.

“Kenny Joiner saw a clown in blue come in through the dayroom door, right?”

Tiller nodded. “The kid said he did, but we have that clown outside at the time, dosing himself with insulin.”

“But what if Fain was wearing the same costume and came in through the dayroom door, and walked right upstairs? According to the other clowns, he had perfected the clown in blue’s costume. I think he came in and took the girl out, while everyone sat there, oblivious.”

“That’s one hell of a theory, Roland.” Tiller looked lost in thought for a few moments. Then he stroked his beard and nodded slowly. “So he’s out west, eh?”

“Like you say, it’s the only one that fits.” I nodded at the book he was reading. “So, what have you found out?”

“Well, your phone call pointed me in the right direction, but that’s about it. I have here before me no less a tome than
The United States Geographical Survey of Prominent Rock Formations of the American Southwest.
I assure you that it is every bit as enticing a read as the title indicates. I also have managed to find
Erosion and Its Formations,
and, perhaps most interestingly, a book in the juvenile library across the street,
Big Western Rocks.”

He smiled and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I haven’t gotten to either of the others yet. He hefted the weighty geographical survey, “This big monster here has line drawings, but it’s very detailed. It was printed in the 1890’s. This might take a while. I suggest you look through the others.”

I began with a large purple volume called
Erosion and Its Formations,
but had too few pictures of the formations it discussed to be of much use. I closed it and grabbed the juvenile book. I cracked it open, and smiled. It was full of big, glossy prints. I recognized several from western movies I’d seen as a boy.

I found what I was looking for in the middle of the book. I almost missed it. There was a beautiful, two-page color shot of Monument Valley, in Arizona. The famous “Mitten” Mesas, that John Ford had used in so many of his westerns, were framed against a stunning sunset. I stopped to appreciate the shot when I noticed that there was a fold-out page attached. I carefully opened it, expecting a larger view of Monument Valley. Instead there were several smaller photographs, featuring “Other Formations of Interest.” It was the third from the top.

“Seen a ghost?” Tiller got up and came to peer over my shoulder.

“This is it.” I stabbed at the picture with a finger. He took the post card and moved the two pictures next to each other.

“Remarkable. These pictures were taken from two different angles, but they are obviously of the same formations. What are they called?”

“You have to look in the index of plates.”

I flipped to the glossary, with a vague excited feeling.

And there it was, next to the description of the photographic plates.

The Chiracahua National Monument.

 
These unique Rock Formations are located twenty miles west of Hanging Gap, Arizona.
 

They were dedicated as a national treasure in 1923.

I got up from my seat, book in hand, and headed over to the wall, where a huge map of the United States was hanging.

“Let’s have a look at this map,” I said over my shoulder.
 

Tiller got up and went right to the map, finger extended. “Don’t bother. Look, it’s near Douglas,” Tiller said excitedly, his finger coming to a rest on Hanging Gap.

I peered at the map, and then looked at Tiller. “Pardon my ignorance, but should Douglas, or Hanging Gap mean something to me?”

Tiller harrumphed. “Not unless you’ve been down to the border. You could stand in Douglas and literally pee over into Mexico.”

“So this would attract a magician hiding out from the law?” I looked from the book to the map and back. “There’s no guarantee he stayed in the area. Maybe he was just seeing the sights on his way to the border.”

“Tsk, tsk. He’s not hiding out, remember. Nobody is looking for him. As far as he knows, he got away clean. My guess is the guy’s got quite an ego, in an admittedly quirky way. He sent that post card to show your girl that he had reestablished himself in a new, more hospitable port of call. His message on the reverse side of the card pretty much tells us that. Can you think of a more tolerant place than an isolated artist’s conclave?”

“Artist’s conclave?”

“Well, you know, Castenada, O’Keefe, others. They all went out there. Something about artists and the desert.”

 
“Tiller, what do you know about it?”

“Oh, not that much, really. I’m just repeating what I’ve heard. A lot of the more iconoclast writers and artists used to end up out in Arizona and New Mexico. There’s some kind of annual festival in the desert, not too far from there. All the locals get drunk and high in public, and run around naked. Then they make a big wicker man and set it on fire.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Down right frightening, really. The average age is about fifty; I saw some pictures on the internet.”

“Really, I didn’t figure you went in for porn, Tiller.”

Tiller gave me a pained look. “It wasn’t exactly porn. Besides, I was, um, doing police research. Do you want to look this place up?”

“Look it up?”

“It’s rather obvious to me that you will be going to Arizona. That’s a rather squirrelly place. You’ll need some information on the local goings on.”

“You know the area, don’t you?”

“My lad, I have been to the fine state of Arizona on more than one occasion. It was always in an official capacity. In fact, over the years I’ve been there three times returning fugitives wanted by the INS. In former times there were no INS agents in the state of Alabama, so unlucky Birmingham detectives like myself sometimes drew the duty.”

“Well, as far as the states go, I’ve never set foot west of the Mississippi. Not even when I was in the army. But I guess I’ll have to make due.”

“If I can give you any pointers, let me know.”

I glanced at Tiller, and then looked away.

Tiller raised an eyebrow. “What? What is it?”

“I was just going to ask you how much vacation you had saved up. I could use someone who knows his way around.”

“Oh, come on now! Don’t lay a guilt trip on me. You aren’t seriously thinking of asking me to head out with you on some wild goose chase into the desert?”

“Is that what you really think? That it’s a wild goose chase? That he isn’t there? Every indication is that he is, or at least that he was. You have experience out there, and know your way around. You could be a lot of help.”

Tiller looked unsure of himself, for once. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the next.

“Well, it isn’t that easy,” he sputtered. “There would be a lot of paperwork to fill out. A real pain in the butt. And my other cases . . . ”

“With all due respect to what you do, your cases aren’t really going anywhere, Tiller.”
 

Tiller stood for a moment with his mouth open, as though he’d forgotten what he was going to say. Then he broke into a broad smile.

“Okay, why not. Maybe we’ll even get lucky and find this bastard.”

I slapped him on the shoulder.

“Good man. Then I’ll go round us up tickets. I’ll give you a call tonight, and let you know when we’re leaving.”

Tiller nodded, as we walked together toward the door. “I’ll pick up a few things that might come in handy, before we leave. So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow . . . partner.”

* * *

I stood in the doorway of the library as Tiller walked away down the street. A light drizzle had begun to fall. Overhead, I heard the roar of a departing jet. I looked up, but could not see the plane through the gloom.