But as she gazed backstage, at the hundreds of performers who'd been in the business since childhood, Balzac's firm voice looped through her mind: Not yet, not yet, not yet... She heard these words with both disappointment yet comfort. He was right, she decided with finality. He was the expert, she was the apprentice. She had to have confidence in him. A year or two. The wait would be worth it.
Besides, there was her mother....
Who was maybe sitting up in bed right now, chatting with Jaynene, wondering where her daughter was-the daughter who'd abandoned her on the one night when she should've been there. Kadesky's assistant, Katherine Tunney, appeared at the top of the stairs and gestured toward her.
Was Kadesky here? Please....
But the woman said, "He just called. He had a radio interview after dinner and he's running late. He'll be here soon. That's his box in the front. Why don't you wait there?" Kara nodded and, discouraged, walked to the seat Katherine indicated,
sat down and gazed back at the tent. She saw that the magic transformation was finally complete; every seat was filled. The children, the men, the women were now an audience.
Thud.
Kara jumped as a loud, hollow drum resonated through the tent.
The lights went down, extinguished completely, plunging them into a darkness broken only by the red exit lights.
Thud.
The crowd was instantly silent.
Thud... thud... thud.
The drum beat sounded slowly. You could feel it in your chest.
Thud... thud....
A brilliant spotlight shot into the center of the ring, illuminating the ac
tor playing Arlecchino, dressed in his black-and-white-checkered bodysuit, wearing his matching half mask. Holding a long scepter high in the air, he looked around mischievously.
Thud.
He stepped forward and began to march around the ring as a procession
of performers appeared behind him: other commedia dell' arte characters, as well as spirits, fairies, princesses and princes, wizards. Some walking, some dancing, some cartwheeling slowly as if under water, some on high stilts stepping more gracefully than most people stroll down the sidewalk, some riding in chariots or carts decorated with tulle and feathers and lace and tiny glowing lights.
Everyone moving in perfect time to the drum.
Thud... thud...
Faces masked, faces painted white or black or silver or gold, faces dotted with glitter. Hands juggling glowing balls, hands carrying orbs or flares or candles or lanterns, hands scattering confetti like glittering snow. Solemn, regal, playful, grotesque.
Thud...
Both medieval and futuristic, the parade was hypnotic. And its message
was unmistakable: whatever existed outside the tent was invalid here. You could forget everything you'd learned about life, about human nature, about the laws of physics themselves. Your heart was now beating not to its own rhythm but in time to the crisp drum, and your soul was no longer yours; it had been captured by this unearthly parade making its deliberate way into the world of illusion.
Chapter Forty-five
We come now to the finale of our show, Revered Audience. It's time to present our most celebrated and controversial-illusion. A variation on the infamous Burning Mirror. During our show this weekend you've seen the performances of illusions created by such masters as Harry Houdini and P. T. Selbit and Howard Thurston. But not even they would attempt an act like the Burning Mirror. Our performer, trapped in a likeness of hell, surrounded by flames that close in inexorably--and the only route for escape, a tiny doorway protected by a wall of fire. Though, of course, the door might not be an escape route at all. Maybe it's just an illusion.
I have to warn you, Revered Audience, that the most recent attempt to perform this trick resulted in tragedy.
I know, because I was there.
So, please, for your own sake, spend a moment looking around the tent and consider what you will do should disaster strike.... But on reflection, no, it's too late for that. Perhaps the best you can hope for now is simply to pray.
Malerick had returned to Central Park and was standing under a tree about fifty yards from the glowing white tent of the Cirque Fantastique.
Bearded once more, he was dressed in a jogging suit and a high-necked knit shirt. Tufts of sweaty blond hair poked from underneath a Chase Manhattan lOK Run for the Cure cap. Faux sweat stains-out of a bottle-attested to his present persona: a minor financial executive at a major bank out for his Sunday-night run. He'd stopped for a breather and was absently looking at the circus tent.
Perfectly natural.
He found himself oddly calm. This serenity reminded him of that mo
ment just after the Hasbro circus fire in Ohio, before the full implications of the disaster had become clear. While by rights he should have been screaming, he in fact found himself numb. In an emotional coma. He felt the same at this moment, listening to the music, the bass notes amplified, it seemed, by the taut canvas of the tent itself. The diffuse applause, laughter, gasps of astonishment.
In his years of performing he'd rarely gotten stage fright. When you knew your act cold, when you'd rehearsed sufficiently, what was there to be nervous about? This is what he now experienced. Everything had been so carefully planned that he knew his show would unfold as intended.
Scanning the tent in its last few minutes on earth, he saw two figures just outside the large service doorway through which he'd driven the ambulance not long before. A man and a young woman. Speaking to each other, ear close to mouth so they could converse over the sound of the music.
Yes! One of them was Kadesky. He'd been worried that the producer
might not be present at the time of the explosion. The other was Kara. Kadesky pointed inside and together they walked in the direction he'd indicated. Malerick estimated that they had to be no more than ten feet from the ambulance. A look at his watch. Almost time.
And now, my friends, my Revered Audience...
Exactly at nine P.M. a spume of fire shot from the doorway of the tent. A moment later the silhouette of the huge flames inside rolled across the glowing canvas of the tent as they consumed the bleachers, the audience, the decorations. The music stopped abruptly, replaced by screams, and coils of dark smoke began to pour from the top of the tent. He leaned forward, mesmerized by the horror of the sight.
More smoke, more screams.
Struggling not to let an unnatural smile slide onto his face, he offered a prayer of thanks. There was no deity Malerick believed in but he sent these
words of gratitude to the soul of Harry Houdini, his namesake and idol, and the patron saint of magicians.
Gasps and cries as those around him in this secluded part of the park ran forward to help or to gape. Malerick waited a few moments longer but he knew that soon hundreds of police would fill the park. Looking concerned, pulling out his cell phone to pretend to call the fire department, he eased toward the sidewalk. Still, he couldn't help pausing once more. He looked back to see, half obscured by smoke, the huge banners in front of the tent. On one of them masked Arlecchino, reached outward, holding up his empty palms.
Look, Revered Audience, nothing in my hands.
Except that, like a sleight-of-hand artist, the character was holding
something-something hidden from view in a perfect backhand finger conceal.
And only Malerick knew what it was.
The coy Harlequin was holding death.
III
TIPPING THE GAFF
SUNDAY, APRIL 21, TO THURSDAY, APRIL 25
"To be a great magician, one must be able to present
an illusion in such a way that people are not only
puzzled, but deeply moved."
-So H. Sharp
Chapter Forty-six
Amelia Sachs's Camaro hit ninety on the West Side Highway, speeding toward Central Park.
Unlike the FDR Drive, which was a controlled-access expressway, the roadway here was dotted with stoplights and, at Fourteenth Street, it featured a jog that sent her misaligned Chevrolet into an alarming skid, resulting in a sparking kiss between sheet steel and concrete barriers.
So the killer had tricked them with yet another genius's touch. Neither Charles Grady's death nor Andrew Constable's escape was Weir's goal; they were the ultimate misdirections. The killer had been after what they'd rejected yesterday as being too obvious-the Cirque Fantastique.
As she'd been about to kick in one of the few remaining hiding spots in the basement of the court and detention center, Glock high, Rhyme had called her and told her the situation. Lon Sellitto and Roland Bell were headed for the circus, Mel Cooper was jogging over there to help out. Bo Haumann and several ESU teams were on their way too. Everybody was needed and Rhyme wanted her uptown as fast as possible.
'Tm on my way," she'd said, clicking the phone off. She'd turned and begun to sprint out of the basement but paused, returned to the door she'd been standing at and kicked it in anyway.
Just in case.
It'd been completely empty, completely silent-except for the sound of the killer's derisive laughter in her imagination.
Five minutes later she was in her Camaro, pedal down.
The light at Twenty-third Street was against her but the cross traffic
wasn't too bad so she went through it fast, relying on the steering wheel, rather than her brakes or the conscience of citizens to yield to her flashing blue light, to get her to the other side.
Once through it, a fast downshift, pedal to the floor and the rattling engine sped her up to eighty. Her hand found her Motorola and she called Rhyme to tell him where she was and to ask what exactly he needed her to do.
Malerick wandered slowly out of the park, jostled by people running the opposite way, toward the fire.
'What's going on?"
"Jesus!"
"The police.... Did somebody call the police?"
"Do you hear screaming? Do you hear that?"
At the comer of Central Park West and a cross street he collided with a young Asian woman, staring in concern toward the park. She asked, "You know what happened?"
Malerick thought, Yes, indeed I do: the man and the circus that destroyed my life are dying. But he frowned and said to her gravely, "I don't know. But it seems pretty serious."
He continued west, beginning what would be a very circuitous, half hour journey back to his apartment, during which he'd execute several quick changes and make absolutely certain no one was following him. His plans called for him to stay at his apartment tonight then in the morning leave for Europe, where after several months of training he'd resume performing-under his new name. Not a soul on earth, other than his revered audience, knew "Malerick" and that's who he'd be to the public from now on. He had one regret-that he wouldn't be able to perform his favorite routine, the Burning Mirror; far too many people associated that with him. In fact, he'd have to trim a lot of the material. He'd give up ventriloquism, mentalism, and many of the close-in routines he'd done. Having such a broad repertoire could-as had happened this weekend-tip the gaff as to his identity.
Malerick continued to Broadway, then doubled back toward his apartment. He continued to check the streets behind and around him. He saw no one following.
He stepped inside the lobby and paused, studied the street for a full five minutes. An elderly man-Malerick recognized him as a neighbor from across the street-walking his poodle. A kid on Rollerblades. Two teenage girls with ice cream cones. No one else. The street was empty: tomorrow was Monday, a work- and schoolday. People were now home ironing clothes, helping their children with lessons... and glued to the TV watching CNN reporting on the terrible tragedy in Central Park.
He hurried to his apartment, doused all the lights.
And now the show closes, Revered Audience, as they always do.
But it is the nature of our art that what's old to today's audience will be fresh and inventive to those elsewhere, tomorrow and the day after. Did you know, my friends, that curtain calls are not to thank the performer but are intended to give him a chance to thank his audience-those people who were kind enough to lend him their attention during his show. So I applaud you now for gracing me with your presence during these modest performances. I hope I've given you excitement and joy. I hope I've brought wonder to your hearts as you joined me in this netherworld where life is transformed to death, death to life and the real to the unreal.
I bow to you, Revered Audience....
