Mallory’s hand blocked out the low-riding afternoon sun, as she stared up at the man on the ladder. He was working on an old-style marquee lined with yellow lightbulbs and topped with a row of elegant gold type. The workman bolted down the last letter to spell out ‘Faustine’s Magic Theater.’ Less permanent text appeared in the white areas on three sides of the square overhang. Among the magicians listed for the upcoming performance, Franny Futura was the headliner and the only name she recognized.
The building was twenty-five blocks north of the theater district, but it was Broadway. Not a bad address for the man Charles had described as a tired museum of magic.
Mallory turned to the glass doors trimmed with thin wheels of steel. Riker had removed the yellow crime scene tapes. Was he still here? Still angry? Her birthday gift should have covered a multitude of sins, payback for crimes she had not yet thought of committing. Actually, she had bought the coat because his old one was too threadbare to keep him warm in winter. But this simple explanation would have cost her too much.
She paused by the entrance to inspect a recently installed display case of chrome and glass. Photographs of Oliver’s grandmother were arranged in a circle around her memorial plaque. In a clockwise history of snapshots and publicity photos, Faustine aged from a slight dark-haired girl to a portly diva sporting an obvious wig. In the most recent portrait, hard black lines rimmed her eyes, and the mouth was made wider with dark lipstick. Among the traits that had remained constant throughout Faustine’s long life was a look of hunger, a prominent determined chin and heartless eyes. Mallory wondered if anyone had ever crossed this woman. She thought not.
Pushing through the doors, she stepped into a small lobby. More alterations had been made since the auction. This intimate space was decorated with a dark green couch. The smell of new leather mingled with the odor of fresh plaster. A tarnished brass spittoon sat on the floor beside a standing ashtray. The walls and carpeting were paler shades of green. Faustine had obviously had a penchant for this color – and for attractive young boys.
The old woman’s apprentices were ganged together on a giant theater poster framed in ornate gold. Mallory read the small brass plaque on the wall to her right.
So this photograph had been rescued from 1940, while Faustine was still alive; before the theater seats had been ripped out to accommodate dining tables; before the war had marched into the city in the gray uniforms of occupation forces. It would be two years before Louisa arrived in Paris. Oliver Tree was not listed in this company of boy performers in tuxedos and top hats. Evidently his own grandmother had not considered him a magician. Young Max Candle stood in the background, barely contained inside the borders of the frame. There was a boy’s explosion of energy in his body language. He was set to fly, to escape the camera and rush into real life. In his eyes was an expectation of things to come – wonderful things.
But there was so much more to Malakhai, though he could only have been fifteen that year. He was the dynamic center of the photograph, enthroned in a high-backed chair, a boy king with long hair spread across his broad shoulders. In a sense, Mr. Halpern had been correct – only Malakhai’s hair had grown old. Something of the boy and his beauty had stayed with the man.
The others had followed the more natural course of time, morphing into entirely different faces and forms. The young version of Emile St. John was glorious, with thick curling hair and the body of a god – a remote god, for his eyes were focused on some interior landscape. Franny Futura had been delicate, almost girlish with his full pouting lips and long eyelashes. But Mallory could barely recognize the teenage Nick Prado, sleek and saturnine. Standing a bit apart from the others, he was a dark figure with liquid Spanish eyes and a wicked grin that said, Yes, I am beautiful, aren’t I? There was not enough resemblance to make Prado the father of this graceful boy. All that survived was the love affair with himself.
Mallory turned toward the sound of laughter. She peered through a glass circle in the lobby door. Three of Faustine’s apprentices were on the stage. Emile St. John stood against the backdrop of a green curtain. Nick Prado and Franny Futura sat on wooden crates, passing a wine bottle between them. The auction tables were gone, and so was Oliver’s platform. The movie people must have taken it. Damn you, Riker.
He knew she wanted another look at the interior room, yet he had allowed the new owner to ship the platform out to the West Coast. Angry now, she pushed open the swinging door and marched down the wide center aisle.
„What are you people doing here?“ Three heads turned her way. „I’m guessing this isn’t a wake for Oliver’s nephew.“
„Well, hello.“ Nick Prado smiled and sucked in his paunch. „Just collecting the spoils of the auction.“ He held up a set of keys. „Sergeant Riker let us in.“ He looked down at the champagne bottle in his hand. „And of course, we had to properly christen Oliver’s theater.“
Squinting to see her better, Franny Futura walked perilously close to the edge of the stage. Normally a clean and tidy man, his tie was awry, and so was his mouth; it wobbled in a foolish smile. He was holding a plastic wineglass and weaving in an intoxicated line when he tangled his feet and tripped, landing on his backside. Eyes round and innocent as a startled gray-haired baby, Futura sat bolt upright on the floor of the stage, legs splayed out. He stared at his glass and the miracle of unspilt wine, mumbling something incoherent, which might have been, „There is a God.“
Mallory climbed the stairs to the stage. „Where’s the platform?“ If it had been collected recently, it might be in the city and still within reach.
„Not to worry.“ Emile St. John parted the backdrop curtain to give her a glimpse of the large wooden structure behind it. All the crossbows were in position and pointing up toward the wooden posts at the top of the staircase. „Riker told the Hollywood people they couldn’t ship it for a few more days.“
„Oliver’s lawyer adores you.“ Prado was at her side and standing too close, exhaling fumes of wine with every word. „That corpse probably doubled the opening bid on the platform. And of course, Franny loves you, too. His performance is sold out for the entire festival.“ He looked down at Futura, who sat on the floor calmly sipping his champagne.
„And you thought this place was too far from the theater district to pull in a crowd.“ Prado bent down to clap Futura on the back. The man’s torso slumped forward, then slowly toppled the other way. Now he lay flat on the stage, and the wine was still unspilled.
Emile St. John left off the chore of uncorking another champagne bottle. He wrapped one massive hand around Futura’s arm to lift the smaller man from the floor. „Enough wine, Franny?“
Prado’s smile was all for Mallory as he flicked his wrist to snap a disk of black silk, popping out the crown of the top hat. „You’ll excuse Franny? He’s not himself.“
Too bad.
Futura was leaning on the arm of St. John, grinning at her and utterly impervious to fear – but that would change. Tomorrow morning when he was sober, she would officially own this case. Just for the fear value, she would order two uniformed cops to haul Futura downtown. She didn’t think much of his chances for holding out more than five minutes into the interview.
Nick Prado straightened Futura’s tie. „He’s not much to look at now, is he? I wish you could have met Franny when he was young and beautiful. Faustine only hired the most alluring boys in Paris. Ah, what time can do to the human body.“
Apparently, Prado did not include himself in the aging process. What an odd mirror this egoist must have, a looking glass that blinded him to time, perhaps something like Max Candle’s carnival mirror. Oliver Tree’s replica of that prop had been laid across a wooden crate. The distorted glass surface served as a makeshift tabletop for champagne bottles and an assortment of delicatessen containers.
She followed St. John’s shifting form in the mirror, alternately thinning and expanding. His aging had been less dramatic. The serenity of the boy in the poster was still in evidence, and he carried his excess pounds as ballast in the world. This man would not be shattered easily. As an interrogation subject, he posed the most interesting problem.
Mallory surveyed the leftovers of their impromptu picnic. The carnival glass was littered with remains of gourmet items on paper plates. She stared at Futura until she caught his wandering glazed eye. „You didn’t invite Malakhai to the party?“
„I’m sure he’ll be along in a while,“ said Futura, unruffled and entirely too happy. „He’s prowling around Charles’s basement.“
St. John pulled a plastic wineglass from a paper bag. „Now where is the other champagne – “
„I’m on it, Emile.“ Prado was working the cork off a fresh bottle. It popped like a gunshot. A moment later, Franny Futura jumped in a delayed reaction.
St. John handed Mallory a wineglass and poured from a vintage bottle that must have cost the moon. He lit a cigar, also very expensive.
„Cuban,“ said Mallory, staring at the discarded wrapper. And he nodded, apparently not caring that he was flaunting contraband in front of the police. She addressed her remarks to the wineglass in her hand, hoping to make them seem casual. „So Malakhai didn’t find what he was looking for in the basement?“
St. John only shrugged to say that he had no idea. „Charles might know. We were running low on food, so he’s making a deli run with Detective Riker. They’ll be back soon.“
„You think Malakhai might be looking for a photograph of his wife?“ She set the wineglass down on the mirror. „I understand pictures of Louisa are scarce.“ She turned to Futura. He smiled and slowly put up both his hands to show her that he had nothing she wanted. Mallory moved a step closer. „Do you remember what she looked like? How long was her hair the first time you saw her?“
Futura gestured to a point just past his shoulder. „About so long.“
„As I recall, her hair was very short.“ Prado poured wine into the moving target of the drunken man’s glass.
„But that was later,“ said Futura. „The first time I saw her – “
He lost the thread of this thought as Prado raised a wineglass to propose a toast.
„To more glamorous days at Faustine’s.“
St. John clinked glasses with him. „Glamorous? Oh, Nick, you liar.“ One hand made a wide gesture that encompassed the surroundings. „Oliver made a few improvements. The original Faustine’s was wonderfully seedy. After the old lady died, we turned it into a dinner theater. The air was always full of smoke. The floor reeked of whiskey and wine.“
„And the food was very bad.“ Mallory faced St. John, squaring off in a pugilist stance. „German soldiers were your best customers. No officers, though. Unless you count the night Malakhai wore that Gestapo uniform on stage.“ How was she faring under St. John’s appraising eyes? She could tell nothing from his placid face. What would it take to unnerve this man?
„Still, we did a good business.“ Nick Prado stepped into the awkward silence between Mallory and St. John, and he filled their glasses. „There were just too many free drinks for the Germans. So there was never enough money to go around.“ He picked up Mallory’s discarded glass and put it into her hand. „But it was a grand party. It went on for years.“
„But no profits.“ Mallory kept her eyes on St. John. „You all had day jobs to pick up the slack. What was yours?“
„I had a flair for picking pockets.“ The large man bowed from the waist as he held out a bright gold object swinging from a watch fob. „I believe this is yours.“
Mallory was now holding unwanted wine in one hand and her pocket watch in the other. Her source at Interpol had confirmed St. John’s history, and she was trying to reconcile his law enforcement career with this talent for theft. It never occurred to her to look in the mirror for clarity as she set down her glass. „How did Louisa make money?“
Emile St. John spoke first. He would always be the lead in this company. The others deferred to him. „Louisa played her violin on the street.“
Futura slugged back his wine, saying, „But she made more money playing poker in a back room of the theater.“
„The same back room where she was murdered?“
A moment of sobriety stole over Futura’s face. Then Prado slapped him between the shoulder blades, as if this would knock the man back into a happy drunk – and it did.
„Louisa’s death was a tragedy,“ said St. John. „An accident.“
She turned around to face him. „Like Oliver’s accident?“
„Exactly.“ He smiled, pleased that she understood – finally.
„I can prove Oliver was murdered.“ She looked from face to face. Only Futura was showing some wear, losing the glow of the wine once again.
Prado gave her a stage leer. „So pretty to have such a morbid interest in murder. Is there anything else in your life – besides death?“
„It’s a professional interest, Prado.“ She watched him in peripheral vision, not bothering to look his way, only tossing this remark in the air. „I know what you did in the war. You threw in with the British. You were an expert marksman.“
„A bit more to it than that.“ His smile was gracious, making allowances for her oversight, her failure to fully appreciate him. „On the stage, I was a master of the trick shot.“
„You were a sniper.“ She said this as if it were an insult, glancing at him, as if she had just noticed him standing three feet away and found him inconsequential. „You never got this close to your victims. They were the size of insects when you killed them. And that works nicely with the murder attempt at the parade. I just happen to be looking for a long-distance killer – the man who fired that gun.“
He laughed out loud, disappointing her. She had been aiming for a display of temper.
„Is that what this is all about? Who shot the big puppy?“ Prado pointed to her untouched glass. „Drink your wine, Mallory. Lighten up.“
St. John was more serious. „If this is a police interrogation, perhaps I should call my attorney.“
„But you couldn’t have shot the balloon.“ Futura spread his lips in a silly grin. He tottered over to Emile St. John and squeezed the larger man’s arm in a reassuring gesture. „When that gun went off, you were on the float with me.“
„The next time,“ said Mallory, „the sniper won’t mess up the shot. One of you is going to be seriously dead. If you like your skins, you’ll talk to me. It all ties back to Louisa’s murder. Why don’t we start there?“
„When Louisa died,“ said Prado, „we didn’t have any experience in killing- None of us were in the war yet.“
„Not true.“ Futura stood up, a little wobbly for the wine. „Emile was in the war. He worked for the Resistance.“
St. John was taken by surprise for the first time. „You knew that, Franny? But how?“
„Let me guess.“ Mallory turned on Futura. „Because it takes one to know one?“
„Guilty,“ he said.
Mallory moved closer to Futura. „And there’s one other way you could’ve known – if you worked for the Germans.“
Prado draped one protective arm around the shoulders of the drunken man. „I told you, Mallory. Half of Paris worked for the Germans. I had some dealings with them myself. I loved American cigarettes, but the Germans had the best French wines. What’s a boy to do?“
Mallory ignored him and spoke to Futura. „Resistance fighters? That’s another way of saying terrorists. You and Emile tossed your bombs and ran away before they hit the ground. So between you two – “ She glanced at Prado. „And this sniper – I now have three long-distance killers.“
„You make it sound so cold,“ said Prado. „Not like a police officer’s job, is it? You run toward the enemy. You want to embrace him, to bring him down. It’s very sexual, isn’t it? Is there an absence of normal sex in your life, Detective Mallory?“
„Nick,“ was all St. John had to say. He was the voice of censure here, and the other man reluctantly retired to one side of the stage.
Mallory followed Prado across the boards. She was not done with him vet. „In 1942, you had a nice little business going. I saw some of your handiwork on Louisa’s passport.“ She turned back to St. John and Futura. „All of you had something to lose if she was captured by the Germans. Their prisoners always talked, didn’t they?“
„Vichy French were just as vicious,“ said Prado. „And what would the Germans want with Louisa? She was a schoolgirl when she came to Pans.“
Mallory turned back to him and shook her head, to tell this man she had caught him in a lie. „You knew Louisa wasn’t just another refugee. When Malakhai brought her to Paris, he cut off her hair and dressed her as a boy.
Then he hid her in the one place no one would think to look for her – nder a spotlight on a stage surrounded by German soldiers. Even if he ever told you she was an escaped prisoner, you knew she was wanted. You all knew.“
She focused her attention on Futura, the one most likely to fold, drunk or sober „Malakhai shot his wife with a crossbow. But he’s not the one who killed her. The murder went down after he ran out of the theater.“
Futura turned to Nick Prado, perhaps believing that he spoke in a whisper. „Malakhai broke the – “
Prado put one arm around the man, stared into his drunken face and willed him to be silent.
St John refilled their glasses. „Less talking, more drinking, Franny.“ He turned to Mallory. „So this is an official police interrogation?“
„Not at all.“ she said. „More like I’m doing you a favor. One of you murdered Louisa.“ Mallory was staring at Futura, pleased to see him spill his wine this time. She leaned close to his ear. „Better I get you before Malakhai does. You know what he did in the war. All his kills were ripped to pieces.“
Prado was not smiling anymore as he replenished Futura’s lost wine. „We all agreed to keep quiet about Louisa – for Malakhai’s sake. It’s old business, Mallory. Let it go.“
„Oliver’s death was pretty damn recent.“
„But what has that got to do with Louisa?“ Prado seemed genuinely annoyed.
„Oliver helped Max Candle and Malakhai work on the platform, but he didn’t see the rest of you between 1942 and the day he died in Central Park.“ She turned from face to face, watching for the giveaway look to tell her she might be wrong about this, that they might have lied in their police statements. „So fifty years go by. And then he comes up with this cryptic invitation. One of you thought he was going to talk about Louisa’s death. A murder charge never goes away. But it gets really scary if you know her husband’s war record. Who would want Malakhai for an enemy?“ Who besides herself?
Futura put his hand to his mouth, a signal of impending vomit. Nick Prado nodded and led the man down the steps toward the lobby, saying, „I guess the party’s over, Franny.“
St. John followed after them. When the lobby door had closed behind the trio, Mallory drew the curtain aside to expose the replica of Max Candle’s platform. This time she checked the crossbow magazines for arrows before she climbed the thirteen steps to the top.
She spent a few quiet minutes on her hands and knees, making measurements and inspecting the floor levers. Their positions were an exact match to Max Candle’s original platform. The only difference was in the hinges of the trapdoors. These were better, sturdier. There was no wide crack in the floorboards where the hinges joined with the stage.
When she was done with the exterior, she touched the pressure latch on the wall near the center panel, and the door swung open. She stared at the dim interior. In her younger days, she would never have entered this room, for there was only one exit, and Kathy the street-smart child had always avoided every enclosure with the makings of a trap. Even now, she was not comfortable with the idea of going inside.
What made her look back she could not say. Emile St. John had made no noise stealing up behind her. He was holding out her pocket watch – again.
„Sorry, force of habit.“ He returned it to her, then walked back through the opening in the curtain, heading for the makeshift table. He picked up the full wineglass she had left on the mirror. „There’s something we should discuss. Perhaps over a drink.“
Mallory accepted the plastic goblet from his outstretched hand. „You want me to stop scaring Franny Futura.“
„Well, that would be nice.“ He smiled as he poured more wine for himself. „Franny was always a timid soul. But I’m sure you guessed that within a minute of meeting him.“
She nodded. „So how did he wind up in the Resistance? It doesn’t square with – “
„Molotov cocktails and tommy guns?“ He laughed as if this were a great joke. „In Paris, Franny’s day job was clerking in the post office. Never tossed a bomb in his life, never held a gun. His Resistance work was intercepting denouncement letters. Do you – “
„Letters from snitches.“ Personally, she was in favor of snitches. The police department could not run without them.
„Yes, it was a nasty wartime habit, people turning on one another.“ He walked back behind the curtain and sat down on the bottom step of the platform. „But the real offenses were rarely mentioned. Is your neighbor’s dog peeing on your azaleas? Is the postman diddling your wife? Well then, denounce him as a subversive. Do it in a secret letter. No need to sign your name.“
St. John leaned one arm on the step behind him and regarded her glass with suspicion.
Because she was not drinking with him?
She tipped back the wineglass – a sip to keep him talking.
„It still goes on,“ he said. „Reporters and their secret sources – cockroaches who won’t come out in the light. We haven’t learned a damn thing from the war.“
When he paused, she took another sip. Riker had always maintained that he did not trust anyone who refused to lift a glass with him. She had never gone drinking with Riker, and that might explain a lot.
„Franny saved a lot of lives with his interceptions,“ said St. John. „But he existed in a permanent state of fear – waiting for the knock on the door, the arrest in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea what monstrous things were done to people like him? A bullet in the head would’ve been a kindness. And here you are, Mallory, young and strong, carrying a gun and knocking on Franny’s door.“
She considered this new role he had cast her in – the monster. „Can I ask you something – cop to cop?“
He only smiled at this. Perhaps Malakhai had told him about dropping that bit of information into the dinner conversation.
She sat down beside him on the step. „You quit magic in the fifties. So I have to wonder about your assets, large assets. You didn’t amass that capital on the salary of an Interpol bureau chief.“
That got no rise out of him either. And that was odd. The long tour of duty with Interpol was not information from Malakhai, but gleaned from her computer connection at the foreign bureau. Had St. John been expecting this? Yes, that was in his smile, which said, At last.
So her Internet pen pal in Europe had ratted her out.
That weasel, that miserable little -
„You’re right.“ St. John sipped his wine, savoring it, taking his own time. „My stage career was a short one compared to all the years at Interpol. But I did inherit sizeable investments from my family. I wasn’t in the black market, if that’s what you – “
„Let’s back up. In 1942, you were a rookie policeman in Paris. I know Louisa’s death certificate was faked. You were on the crime scene the night she died. What did – “
„Now you’re only guessing.“ St. John put up one hand, in the manner of a traffic cop, to stop Mallory’s lie of protest before it was fully formed in her mind. He produced a cigar from a platinum case, then gestured to her wineglass. „You drink, I’ll talk.“
She watched him go through the stalling machinations of taking a small clipper from his breast pocket, then cutting the tip off the end of his cigar. He pocketed the clipper and slowly searched his suit for the lighter. Mallory liked his style; she was taking mental notes on torture-by-delay as she tapped her foot – waiting for him to get on with this.
„Mallory, I know you made inquiries about me. I spoke to the Interpol agent – your Internet playmate.“ He feigned sadness with a slow shake of the head. „You really should pick your friends better. Philippe Breton was not discreet. I’ve been retired for fifteen years, so he must have gone through a great deal of trouble to track me down at my New York hotel. He called to ask if I had actually met you. Wanted to know what his mysterious American cop looked like.“
St. John flicked his gold lighter and puffed on the cigar, exhaling a cloud of smoke. „He’s a shallow young man. You’re much too good for him. So I told Philippe that you had thick glasses and thicker ankles. Forgive me, Mallory, but I also gave you a rather bad skin condition. I hope you don’t mind my taking an avuncular interest.“
They spent a quiet moment of companionable silence, watching the smoke escape to the catwalk high above them. She sipped her champagne, and he continued.
„Of course, Philippe won’t be chatting with you anymore. He’s doing fieldwork now – no more computers. You see, I gave his superiors quite a different description. I told them about your golden hair, your lovely green eyes – your insatiable quest for knowledge. They thought it best to remove the young man from temptation. You wouldn’t expect that attitude from the French, now would you?“
„Nice work.“ And she meant that. She was not angry that he had killed off her Interpol connection. Emile St. John had been a good cop in his day. If it turned out that he had murdered Oliver, she would not hesitate to put him in line for the death penalty, but there would be some regret. „You know I’m going to interrogate Futura. So you’re planning to get him a lawyer, right?“
„Absolutely.“ He exhaled a smoke ring and watched it rise in a halo until it disappeared. „My lawyers are quite good. I’m afraid they won’t allow you to terrorize poor Franny on some fishing expedition for evidence. But it’s these unofficial interviews that bother me. That will have to stop. I don’t want to bludgeon you with money and influence – so crude. But I will if you force me.“
This threat was more than she had hoped for. He would not go to this trouble if Futura were not a gold mine of information. But she was suspicious of everything that came to her too easily. There might be another motive: Perhaps St. John was simply a decent man who would not stand by while she tortured his pet rabbit.
„What did you do for the Resistance?“ And per their established ritual, she sipped her wine to lead him on.
„Some men like to talk about the war. I don’t.“ St. John studied her face for a moment. Whatever he saw in her eyes, it disturbed him. „And now I must go.“ He lifted the bottle from the floor and set it on the stair beside her. „I’ll trust you to finish this. It would be a crime to waste vintage champagne.“
„I suppose some people have good reason to hide what they did in the war.“
He paused by the front curtain. „I don’t expect you to understand, Mallory. You weren’t there.“
„You knew Futura was in the Resistance. They asked you to keep an eye on him, right? You were his watcher.“
He turned to face her. „Very good, Mallory. Yes, some people were concerned about Franny’s timid nature. But that’s what made him a personal hero to me.“
„How many people knew about your connection to the Resistance?“
„Four men. Three of them are dead.“
„And Futura wasn’t one of them. That’s why you were surprised that he would know. Who would trust him with a secret like that? You didn’t. That was pretty obvious.“ Still his face gave up nothing useful. „I don’t think you and Prado traveled in the same circles with Futura. Neither one of you has seen him since the war. Am I right?“
St. John nodded. „The theater closed down after Louisa died. That was the end of everything. We were all – “
„When Futura said you were in the Resistance, Prado wasn’t surprised.“
„Well, Nick always knew. I made good use of his forgeries.“
„You missed my point. I was watching Prado’s face. He wasn’t surprised that Futura knew. Your old friend was the one who told him. And now you’re asking yourself – when did Prado give you up? Was it last week? Or during the occupation? When did he give your secret away to that frightened little man?“
Yes, she could see a tiny fault line in the wall of magicians. Emile St. John would have to wonder about that betrayal, and wondering was all he would ever do. She knew he would never ask Prado any questions. He would simply live with the doubts – the damage. That was the man’s style.
There was a deep sadness about him; it went to the bone in the way of damp weather – and chilled him, though the shudder was very slight. „You’re better than I ever was. You were born to the job.“
This was not entirely a compliment – Mallory understood that. Emile St. John had already explained it to her: She was the cop of all cops, the monster knocking at the door of Franny Futura’s nightmares.
Mallory stood at the opening in the back curtain and watched him walk away from her. When he had traveled up the center aisle and the door swung shut behind him, she set her glass down on the carnival mirror. Her eye caught the movement of her reflection in the glass, a face distorted in a smeary elongation. The image grew more grotesque as she moved, contracting her features in an aspect of cruelty. She bobbed her head, looking for another way to see herself, but there was no normal woman in this mirror.
A light rush of cold air moved through her hair, as if someone had passed behind her. She turned to look at the backstage window. Its frames of glass were missing, and a sheet of plastic covered the opening. Thin streams of wind whistled around the edges between tenpenny nails.
Mallory reached inside the platform to pull the chain for a lightbulb dangling from the low ceiling. Like Max Candle’s version, a round tin shade made a bright pool of light on the floor and left the ceiling in shadow. Along the walls, the platforms did not differ in the design of grooves and pegs – She looked up at the trapdoors, barely able to distinguish the shadowed edges. The levers and latches were all on the top of the stage – just like Max Candle’s original. She finished collecting statistics on the room, needing no drawings, only numbers she could feed to her computer.
At her back, she felt the inrushing air of the closing door. She turned too late.
No!
It was shut tight. Also like Max’s platform, this one had no interior doorknob. She pushed on the wood, but the center panel would not give. Her fists beat on the door to the rhythm of Stupid, stupid mistake!
Even as a child, she had known better than to turn her back on a door. By the age of eight, she had learned to avoid any room without a second exit to escape the baby-flesh pimps and the lunatics on the street. The child had suffered beatings to earn this hard lesson, and then she had crawled off to lick wounds and review what she had learned from experience and pain – trust no one – never turn your back.
Never! Never! She pounded on the wood again.
How could this have happened to her? She should have propped the door open.
Stupid mistake.
Now she beat on the wood with one fist, just hard enough to hurt her, but not to break her hand. Pain was good. It cleared her mind. Mallory pulled a cell phone from her blazer pocket, but there was no dial tone. She was standing in a dead zone.
St. John had said that Charles and Riker would return soon. But would they stay if they thought the theater was empty, if the party was obviously over? This room had a tight enough seal to prevent the stink of Richard Tree’s body from escaping. Was it airtight? Was it soundproof too?
Mallory heard the spit of electricity above her head. The lightbulb died, the room went black, and she had to remember to breathe.
Though she knew every inch of this room, she could not conquer the idea that one misstep would plunge her into an abyss. There was no up or down in absolute darkness, no marker for the solid world. Her arms hung useless at her sides. And her lungs were also failing her, taking air in shallower sips. A sensation of fluttering insect wings brushed the walls inside her chest.
But she would not call it panic; she called it remembrance.
This was every vacant building where she had made herself into a tight ball of a child, holding her breath and waiting for dangerous feet to pass her by in the dark. Then came a little girl’s life-and-death decisions about staying too long or leaving too soon. The magic men were right – timing was everything.
Was the platform airtight? If she stayed too long – One hand rose by force of will, and not her own. Kathy the street child was taking over, forming one tiny hand into the hammer of a fist and pounding on the wall. Mallory stood off to one side of her mind and listened to the outraged little girl. Young Kathy was screaming, „Let me out, you bastards! Let me out!“
The platform was not soundproof. Mallory could hear noise on the other side of the wood. Running feet were coming toward her. The child was hollering at the top of her tiny lungs, a torrent of anger and obscenity; but the woman, absent all emotion, coolly pulled out her revolver and aimed it at the place where the door would open.
The light was a wide painful crack in the wood.
Riker’s startled eyes were fixed on the muzzle of her gun. „Well, it can’t be something I said. I just got here.“