Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand
Page 13
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He didn’t have an assistant. He turned the box around himself, showing off the artwork on all four sides, proving that there were no hidden compartments, mirrors, or other tricks aiding the illusion. Then he called for a volunteer from the audience.
I could be forgiven for assuming the volunteer was a plant. She was too stereotypical to be real: a housewife type in a floral shirt and pastel-colored slacks, permed and dyed hair, too much makeup, and a wide smile. On vacation from the Midwest with her midlevel bureaucrat husband. She hurried to the stairs leading up to the stage, blushing and twittering. Grant assisted her, offering his hand and bowing in old-school gentlemanly fashion. This made the volunteer twitter even more. He asked for her name.
“Mary,” she said, hand to her cheek, as if she could still her blushing.
“Mary. Thank you for helping me this evening. Now, you agree that this is an ordinary box?” He led her to examine the box up close.
“Well, I wouldn’t say ordinary. It’s much too nice for that.”
“But you agree that it hasn’t been tampered with in any way?”
“It looks normal.”
Grant opened the front of the box, revealing the black, featureless interior. “Mary, would you mind stepping inside? I assure you it’s perfectly safe.”
Mary giggled, moving into the box as she’d been asked.
He stood in place and turned the box. In the absence of big music and flashy lighting effects, I could hear the box’s wheels scratching on the stage’s wooden surface. Then he stopped the cabinet, steadied it, and opened the door. The box was empty.
Like many of his tricks, this was familiar. I expected the box to be empty. Still, the effect of seeing that empty space was eerie. Grant stepped into the box to prove that it was empty, that it wasn’t a trick of mirrors. Strangely, that made me even more nervous. In spite of myself I wanted to know, where is she? Where’d she go?
Grant stepped to the edge of the stage. “Where is Mary’s husband? Sir, would you like me to bring your wife back?” Soft laughter—nervous laughter—rippled through the audience. I couldn’t see the man, but presumably he nodded yes. Grant smiled. “One of these days a husband is going to say no. Then where will I be?”
Again he turned the box, opened the door, and there stood Mary, wide-eyed and a little breathless.
Grant asked, “Madam, are you well?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And how was it?”
“It—it was very dark in there.” She looked over her shoulder at the inside of the cabinet. Was that a little bit of fear in her eyes?
That, more than anything, made the illusion a success. Any magician could make someone in a cabinet disappear. But I had never seen the disappearee look at the prop afterward with trepidation. What had happened?
Grant sent her back to the audience, which showered applause over him. He accepted it gracefully, with a thin smile and short bow. Then he left the stage, and the curtain closed.
I sat in the theater for a long time, staring at that closed curtain, wondering what it was I had just seen. A magic show, yes. But that wasn’t all. Couldn’t have been all.
Only one thing for it: I sneaked backstage.
Chapter 5
I’d been to enough concerts with enough backstage passes that I knew some tricks. First: act like you belong. If you walk with purpose and disguise the fact that you don’t know where the hell you’re going, most of the underlings won’t stop you. That would take a bouncer or stage manager. Second: most theaters had the same basic layout. The house, the stage, the rigging, the booth, and somewhere in back were dressing rooms and storage areas. Follow your instincts, poke your nose in enough rooms, eventually you’d find something interesting. The hard part was usually finding an unlocked, accessible door to the backstage area in the first place.
In the lobby area between the theater and the casino, an emergency exit toward the back looked promising. I checked for alarms, hoped for the best, and opened the door. On the other side was a concrete hallway, functional and unattractive. Wiring and vents were exposed. Directly opposite me was another door marked EMERGENCY. It probably led to the outside. To my right, however, the hallway led back to the direction of the theater. Bingo.="0„
The place was mostly dark, lit by a few unobtrusive work lights. Boxes, chairs, lighting and microphone stands, and other theatrical detritus lined the walls, shoved here to be out of the way. I followed my nose, strained my ears listening for human sounds: movement, voices. I didn’t hear anything. The place smelled musty and a little ripe—thirty years of performers working and sweating here had seeped into the walls. I found a door marked STAGE. It was locked. I continued down the hall looking for another way in, to get a closer look at Grant and his gear.
The Wolf side didn’t like this at all. The hallway seemed too narrow. It was crammed with stuff, scaffolds, wiring, larger vents trailing along the ceiling, an optical illusion making me claustrophobic.
I heard something then, like a box dropped on a hollow floor. Freezing, motionless, I waited for the next noise to tell me what was happening and heard movement, shifting, someone walking on the stage, maybe. When I turned, the direction the sound came from seemed to change. Carefully, I continued on, and the sound seemed less human. More like mice scritching behind the walls of an old house. The muscles in my shoulders started to bunch up, like hackles rising.
Maybe this place was haunted. Every old theater had a ghost, right? Nothing to be afraid of. Actually, I didn’t know enough about ghosts to know whether to be afraid of them or not. I tried to breathe slower. Had to keep it together.
Ahead, another doorway—double doors, with long metal push-in handles—stood open. It seemed to be lighter beyond. Maybe this was where the dressing rooms were. I continued, expecting to find another hallway lined with doorways. Maybe one would be helpfully labeled with a nameplate reading “Odysseus Grant.”
Instead, I found a workshop. Industrial power tools stood on islands, their electric cords attached to overhead sockets. Other industrial equipment, like a stage-sized cherry picker, lined the edges. Above, an extension cord was swinging from a socket, like someone had just been here. I definitely heard footsteps now. They sounded distant, as if someone had followed me through the first set of emergency doors. They walked steadily but unhurried, growing louder.
I clenched my hands, feeling the claws lurking inside me. Get the hell out of here, Wolf was whining. Growling. I couldn’t go back, though. Had to go forward. I raced through another set of double doors at the end of the workshop.
I could be forgiven for assuming the volunteer was a plant. She was too stereotypical to be real: a housewife type in a floral shirt and pastel-colored slacks, permed and dyed hair, too much makeup, and a wide smile. On vacation from the Midwest with her midlevel bureaucrat husband. She hurried to the stairs leading up to the stage, blushing and twittering. Grant assisted her, offering his hand and bowing in old-school gentlemanly fashion. This made the volunteer twitter even more. He asked for her name.
“Mary,” she said, hand to her cheek, as if she could still her blushing.
“Mary. Thank you for helping me this evening. Now, you agree that this is an ordinary box?” He led her to examine the box up close.
“Well, I wouldn’t say ordinary. It’s much too nice for that.”
“But you agree that it hasn’t been tampered with in any way?”
“It looks normal.”
Grant opened the front of the box, revealing the black, featureless interior. “Mary, would you mind stepping inside? I assure you it’s perfectly safe.”
Mary giggled, moving into the box as she’d been asked.
He stood in place and turned the box. In the absence of big music and flashy lighting effects, I could hear the box’s wheels scratching on the stage’s wooden surface. Then he stopped the cabinet, steadied it, and opened the door. The box was empty.
Like many of his tricks, this was familiar. I expected the box to be empty. Still, the effect of seeing that empty space was eerie. Grant stepped into the box to prove that it was empty, that it wasn’t a trick of mirrors. Strangely, that made me even more nervous. In spite of myself I wanted to know, where is she? Where’d she go?
Grant stepped to the edge of the stage. “Where is Mary’s husband? Sir, would you like me to bring your wife back?” Soft laughter—nervous laughter—rippled through the audience. I couldn’t see the man, but presumably he nodded yes. Grant smiled. “One of these days a husband is going to say no. Then where will I be?”
Again he turned the box, opened the door, and there stood Mary, wide-eyed and a little breathless.
Grant asked, “Madam, are you well?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And how was it?”
“It—it was very dark in there.” She looked over her shoulder at the inside of the cabinet. Was that a little bit of fear in her eyes?
That, more than anything, made the illusion a success. Any magician could make someone in a cabinet disappear. But I had never seen the disappearee look at the prop afterward with trepidation. What had happened?
Grant sent her back to the audience, which showered applause over him. He accepted it gracefully, with a thin smile and short bow. Then he left the stage, and the curtain closed.
I sat in the theater for a long time, staring at that closed curtain, wondering what it was I had just seen. A magic show, yes. But that wasn’t all. Couldn’t have been all.
Only one thing for it: I sneaked backstage.
Chapter 5
I’d been to enough concerts with enough backstage passes that I knew some tricks. First: act like you belong. If you walk with purpose and disguise the fact that you don’t know where the hell you’re going, most of the underlings won’t stop you. That would take a bouncer or stage manager. Second: most theaters had the same basic layout. The house, the stage, the rigging, the booth, and somewhere in back were dressing rooms and storage areas. Follow your instincts, poke your nose in enough rooms, eventually you’d find something interesting. The hard part was usually finding an unlocked, accessible door to the backstage area in the first place.
In the lobby area between the theater and the casino, an emergency exit toward the back looked promising. I checked for alarms, hoped for the best, and opened the door. On the other side was a concrete hallway, functional and unattractive. Wiring and vents were exposed. Directly opposite me was another door marked EMERGENCY. It probably led to the outside. To my right, however, the hallway led back to the direction of the theater. Bingo.="0„
The place was mostly dark, lit by a few unobtrusive work lights. Boxes, chairs, lighting and microphone stands, and other theatrical detritus lined the walls, shoved here to be out of the way. I followed my nose, strained my ears listening for human sounds: movement, voices. I didn’t hear anything. The place smelled musty and a little ripe—thirty years of performers working and sweating here had seeped into the walls. I found a door marked STAGE. It was locked. I continued down the hall looking for another way in, to get a closer look at Grant and his gear.
The Wolf side didn’t like this at all. The hallway seemed too narrow. It was crammed with stuff, scaffolds, wiring, larger vents trailing along the ceiling, an optical illusion making me claustrophobic.
I heard something then, like a box dropped on a hollow floor. Freezing, motionless, I waited for the next noise to tell me what was happening and heard movement, shifting, someone walking on the stage, maybe. When I turned, the direction the sound came from seemed to change. Carefully, I continued on, and the sound seemed less human. More like mice scritching behind the walls of an old house. The muscles in my shoulders started to bunch up, like hackles rising.
Maybe this place was haunted. Every old theater had a ghost, right? Nothing to be afraid of. Actually, I didn’t know enough about ghosts to know whether to be afraid of them or not. I tried to breathe slower. Had to keep it together.
Ahead, another doorway—double doors, with long metal push-in handles—stood open. It seemed to be lighter beyond. Maybe this was where the dressing rooms were. I continued, expecting to find another hallway lined with doorways. Maybe one would be helpfully labeled with a nameplate reading “Odysseus Grant.”
Instead, I found a workshop. Industrial power tools stood on islands, their electric cords attached to overhead sockets. Other industrial equipment, like a stage-sized cherry picker, lined the edges. Above, an extension cord was swinging from a socket, like someone had just been here. I definitely heard footsteps now. They sounded distant, as if someone had followed me through the first set of emergency doors. They walked steadily but unhurried, growing louder.
I clenched my hands, feeling the claws lurking inside me. Get the hell out of here, Wolf was whining. Growling. I couldn’t go back, though. Had to go forward. I raced through another set of double doors at the end of the workshop.
