The Hawley Book of the Dead (31 page)

“Reve, what’s wrong?” Panic edged my dad’s voice when he answered the phone. I never called that early.

“Daddy …” I think the last time I had called him that I was ten. “You have to come. Grace and Fai …”

“Oh, God, what happened?”

“They’re … just gone.” I felt as if I was choking on the words. “They went out for a ride, alone. They left around three yesterday. They haven’t come home yet.” Sixteen hours. Now I had internalized the hall clock, and I felt the time, could sense to a fraction of a second how long they’d been gone. “Dad, the police are here.”

There was silence for a moment. It seemed like the longest silence in the history of the world.

“We’ll come right away. You could have called us anytime, sweetheart. We would have come right over to be there with you.”

“I hoped they’d be back by now. You know …” I couldn’t go on. I realized that I’d been clinging to the hope that my dad would somehow make it all better, laugh and tell me I’d had a bad dream, that the twins were surely there, sleeping soundly in their beds. I felt the tears coming, the tightness in my chest, but I couldn’t break down. Jeremy was right. I would need all my strength for this. I wiped my face, drank some stale water from a glass on the desk.

“And Caleigh?”

“Convinced they’ll be home any minute. Sleeping on the couch now.”

“Have you told the police about your stalker?”

“They already knew. Jolon’s the police chief here now. But they might have to involve the FBI. If they decide it’s a kidnapping case. I can’t help but think of Maggie. After that …”

My father’s voice tensed. “I know, Reve.” He did know. “But let’s just concentrate on what’s in front of us, right now. I’ll wake your mother and we’ll be there soon. I’m sure they’ll be back before we get there.”

“If only they could be. Oh, Dad, I’m so … just … 
sorry
!”

“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault.”

Why didn’t I believe that?

The evidence team had done its work. The house was still full of police, detectives, and surveillance people setting up recording devices, in case the Fetch called. Most of them were downstairs, so I went up.

My head was full of snot like thick cotton batting, my body stiff from sitting most of the night, answering questions. I felt very old—I had to pull myself up by the banister one step at a time. I paused at the first landing. Grace’s room was before me, with its bubblegum pink walls. Her room in Henderson had been black. Not long before, Grace had wanted black everything, including her black horse Brio. Just before the move, a resurgence of girl bands from the ’80s had caught the twins’ attention, and Blondie, the Go-Go’s, and Katrina and the Waves replaced Marilyn Manson. Their colors changed from black to pinks and greens almost overnight.

I went into Fai’s room, with walls the color of lime pulp. I fell on the bed, breathed in their scents of watermelon lip gloss and Bed Head Shampoo. The pillow fragrant with the lives of Grace and Fai. I buried my face in it and wept.

The early light shimmered grayly, gave everything a dullness that reflected my state of mind. I sat at the kitchen table clutching the phone. I had set up my laptop there, so I could monitor e-mails as well. Only twice had “1 new” popped up on the screen: one from Setekh the Magnificent’s publicist, one from a car dealer. I didn’t respond to either.

I made more coffee, then dragged myself out to the barn to feed. The gates were open, the drive full of police cars. I took a deep breath, then opened the kitchen screen door. Miss May trotted over, hoping for a handout. I scratched the nubs where her horns used to be. Zar was pacing the fence, lonely for his friends. I dished out his grain and vitamins, poured the sweet-smelling mixture into his feed tub. Maybe the best thing about having animals is that even when everything falls apart, they still need to be fed, turned out, given fresh water. So you know the world goes on around you, somehow. I threw my arm over Zar’s neck, smelled his good horsey smell. “We’ll go out later to look for the girls if they’re not back,” I promised him, and myself.

As I left the barn, I saw Jolon walking down the drive. He wore scruffy clothes, a scruffy five o’clock shadow bloomed on his pale, drawn face. I couldn’t reconcile this tall, graying, deliberate man with my wiry black-haired Jolon, who’d been so fleet of thought and motion. His hat was tipped over his face, shading his eyes from me. But he brought the same wonderful smell he’d always had, like apples and salt and cut pine. That smell overwhelmed the clean soap smell he’d had the night before, and the horsey smell of my boots. It soothed me in spite of myself, made my tight muscles relax. I realized that I’d been holding my breath.

“Jolon.” I held out my hand for him, and he took it in both of his as if it might break. His hands were warm. He looked in my eyes and it was as if he could still read me, would know everything about me. Even after all the years apart. I thought the next minute he might fold me in his arms.

I pulled my hand away. I braced myself against the onslaught of feeling, closed myself off from wanting that human touch. I had killed my beloved husband, lost my girls. What right did I have to be comforted? Something inside me hardened like cement setting.

“You didn’t find them.”

“No. I found their trail, and yours, judging from your size and that horse’s feet. Their tracks went to the old tavern site, then … well, they stopped.”

“My daughters are missing—maybe kidnapped, maybe worse. Why the hell aren’t you out
looking
for them instead of … of standing here telling me you can’t
find
them?”

I realized I was yelling, that my hands were clenched in fists. It felt good to finally be able to blame someone for something.

Jolon touched my shoulder lightly, as if I were a horse he was gentling. He said nothing.

I turned away, balled up my hands in my pockets so they wouldn’t shake. “What happens next?”

“We’re sending the dogs out now.”

“I’m coming with you. My parents will be here any minute. They’ll stay with Caleigh.”

He shook his head. “You need to be here, too. In case the twins come back.”

“I can’t just do nothing. I’ll go crazy. I want to ride out, look for them.” I saw his questioning gaze. “You don’t need to worry, I won’t get lost. I still remember every deer path.”

He smiled bleakly. “I don’t doubt it. Just wait until the search teams go out. We have fifty or so AmeriCorps workers from around the state coming in, as well as more search-and-rescue units. They should be here within the hour. I’d feel better if you waited. So you’ll be within hailing distance of people.”

I sighed, let out the bad air that had been building in my chest. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I told him. “I guess I’m just … I don’t know, maybe a little crazy.”

“Don’t worry about it. Every parent is when their child goes missing.”

Two men were installing a trap and trace on our phone lines. Others combed the wall around the property, the other buildings. Jolon returned, his phone was ringing constantly, and he barked orders into it. The search was in full swing.

My parents arrived, followed by the child advocate, a grandmotherly older woman. After they’d talked, Caleigh declared she was very nice, and gave her a bottle cap necklace. Apparently, Caleigh had told her only what she’d told me. And that Grace and Fai hadn’t wanted to leave Nevada, but were kind of liking it here. That she really missed her dad, and Grace and Fai did, too, but they didn’t blame me. They blamed the Fetch; the man who’d been stalking them. Caleigh’s only complaint about me was that I made her study geography.

My mother and I went up to my room to watch the news on TV.

“I tried to call Nan before, but it just rang and rang. I’d hate for her to find out this way. I’ll try her again.”

“You didn’t tell her? That’s funny,” my mom said. “She called this morning, just after you did. She knew. We assumed you’d told her.”

“Huh. No. I didn’t.” We looked at each other, wondering over the mystery of Nan. “Maybe Falcon Eddy told her.”

“Maybe.” Falcon Eddy had gone out to search with Jolon at first light. He must have known he wasn’t exactly in my good graces, no matter what Nan or Jolon thought about him. He’d been the last person to see my girls, and hadn’t been able to keep them home.

Just then, the news segment of
Good Morning America
came on, and there we were, looking like the happy family we had once been. There were the photos I’d given Jolon of the girls on their horses, then portraits of their faces in close-up, the caption reading: “Missing Daughters of Las Vegas Magician Revelation Maskelyne. Second Tragedy to Befall the Amazing Maskelynes.”

Jolon came in to watch. He said, “You’ll have to decide whether you want to give interviews. There have already been calls from all the networks.” He pointed to Kelly and Michael, now cracking eggs with a celebrity chef after the solemnity of our story. “
Sixty Minutes, Dateline
, you name it, all left messages.”

“Not
Dateline
, please. Too much tear-jerking.” Mom, sitting next to me, her arm encircling me, put in her two cents.

I hated the thought of it. I already felt so exposed. Although I was one of the rock-star magicians, just a little below David Copperfield on the magic-celebrity continuum, it was still much quieter than being a real rock star. The occasional television interview or charity appearance was what I was accustomed to. I wasn’t used to my family being splashed all over the news, rather than
The World Magic Awards
. Even the news circus around Jeremy’s death hadn’t affected me much, not really. I’d been numb, insulated by my shock and grief. This was different.

“You want my advice? You should do some interviews,” Jolon told me. “Soon.” Then he said something that reverberated in my head. “Time is not their friend.”

Nineteen hours, my internal clock said. I knew he was right.

I called Henry, asked him to set up interviews. He knew about the twins, but had put off reporters until he heard from me. I made certain that Caleigh was settled in with my parents, then I tacked up and went out on Zar. It was startling how the forest had changed in one day. I rode out the open gate and realized that we’d been shielded from most of the traffic and chaos the search involved. Looking down the drive earlier I’d glimpsed only a few evidence-team workers scouring our side of the fence, two police cars, and the state police van with the phone tracing equipment. But as soon as I turned down Hunt Road, I saw one of the checkpoints Jolon mentioned. It was manned by four paramilitary guys toting rifles, surrounded by Jeeps and trucks, and about twenty other men and women dressed in bright orange.

They all stepped back, some giving me a solemn wave as I rode by. I had no idea what the etiquette was for something like this, so I just
touched the visor of my helmet in a kind of civilian’s salute and rode past. It seemed that every step Zar took, the out-of-body feeling I’d been struggling with began to lift. When we made the turn past the clump of searchers, and all I could see before me for a moment was a bright blaze of incarnadine trees, I could finally breathe through the wedge of panic lodged in my chest.

I rode until the moon came up, until I could barely see anymore. Then I turned my horse toward home. The searchers had thinned with nightfall. I had ridden to the very edge of the forest. Suddenly, I saw a glint of moonlight bounce off metal, a moving shape. My heart thudded and skipped. Then the shape resolved itself into a man on a bike riding through the woods, but not on any trail I remembered. It was probably just a search team member, although I hadn’t noticed any on bikes. He saw me, pedaled faster. He was coming right toward me. Before I could turn Zar and race off, I felt something wing by me. The man on the bike screamed and fell.

Falcon Eddy jogged out of the woods to where the biker lay moaning. “Here, the woods are closed, ya bugger.” He reached, pulled out an arrow that had been lodged somewhere, and the man screamed again. “Aaaathhh! You’re killing me!”

“Not a bit of it,” Falcon Eddy said. Zar was fidgeting, wanting to run, but I held him where he was, mesmerized by the scene before me.

“Eddy?” I called. “What’s going on? Who is that? Is he hurt?”

Eddy lifted another glinting object for me to see. “Bugger here’s got a camera. A reporter.” The man moaned. “Ah, you’re never hurt, I just grazed you. Come on, man, lep up and pedal out the way you come.”

The man rose shakily, picked up his bike. “I want my camera.”

Eddy threw it into a tree. We all heard the crunch when it hit. “What camera?”

“You’re nuts. I’m calling the police.”

“Can’t call anyone till you’re well out of the forest.”

“You … you …”

“Go on now. I’m sick of the sight of ya.” Eddy raised his bow. The man got up on his bike and pedaled as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

Eddy sheathed his arrow. “All right now, dearie?”

“You’ve been following me all day.”

He nodded.

“Are you sure he isn’t really hurt?”

“He was barely bleeding!”

“Thanks, Eddy.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring your girls back to you.”

I remembered the phantom vines growing up so swiftly through the windows, then tearing at their thorny stems until my hands bled. It wasn’t Eddy’s fault the twins had gone. Whatever had happened in reality, it
seemed
as if we had all been enchanted the day the girls disappeared. I looked off after the man pedaling his bicycle, a dark speck against the white of moonlit road.

“I know,” I told him. “But let’s get home. Maybe they’ll be back now.” I said it only to comfort myself. I didn’t really believe it. The forest around us was too dark. Too full of threats we couldn’t know about.

I’ve never trusted clocks. Time is an illusion, as fickle as a magic trick. The principle of time control was a necessary part of our spectacles. One that we revived from John Nevil’s repertoire was The Orange Tree. The audience would see at first only a large planter on the stage. I’d talk about the illusion of time, the possibility of controlling it, slowing it to a crawl, speeding it up. Jeremy, beside me, threw bright balls into the air and suspended them. He walked a few steps away, drank some water, with the balls stopped in midair. Then he stepped back and resumed his juggling, speeding up the tosses to a breakneck pitch. While the audience was fixed on him, from the planter an orange tree would begin to sprout, to leaf out, flower, and bear fruit, while he juggled so swiftly the audience could see only the blur of objects. When he finally stopped, he tucked the balls in his pocket and helped me toss the golden fruit out to the audience.