Hocus (22 page)

Dressed less outlandishly than he was when Frank last saw him — on Dana Ross’s porch — the magician wore jeans and a blue T-shirt. He repeated the catch again and again, never failing to spread the pack smoothly, never dropping a card, never seeming to use the concentration that must have been required.

Frank watched silently from the bed. His headache was less sharp now, not nearly as sharp as his disappointment in realizing that he had slept again. The magician’s card flourishes had drawn his eye when he first awakened, but now he spent time taking in all that had changed during his most recent drug-induced nap.

The curtain that had surrounded the bed was gone. The room beyond it was an odd one, of soft bending walls. As he awakened more fully, he came to the conclusion that although he was in the same bed, he was, inexplicably, inside a large tent. He had been rolled onto his right side. The IV bottle had been attached again but seemed to be clamped shut — he couldn’t be sure. His hands were still tethered, but he could move his legs. As he did, he saw that he was no longer dressed in the hospital gown. He now wore a set of surgeon’s scrubs.

Without looking at Frank, the magician said, “Please don’t bother trying to fake sleep again. You have too much trouble staying awake to pull it off. At this rate, we’ll never get to talk to one another.”

Frank didn’t reply, but he kept his eyes open.

The young man stopped, set down the pack, and turned toward the bed. “On my tenth birthday, you gave me a magic kit. Do you remember?”

“Bret?” he asked in utter disbelief. He saw the young man flinch at that disbelief, and his long-carried sense of protectiveness toward Bret Neukirk made him sorry for not hiding his reaction. But confusion soon overran regret — he could not reconcile what was happening to him now with his memory of the silent young boy.

I’m still dreaming, he told himself. The drugs—

“Yes,” the young man said, “I’m Bret. I’m sorry about all of this, Detective Harriman. I really am.”

“Sorry? Bret, for chrissakes—”

“I’m afraid you’re our hostage, sir.”

He could only repeat numbly, “Our?”

“Samuel. Me. Hocus.”

Frank shut his eyes. Clenched them shut. This isn’t happening, he told himself. This isn’t happening.

“Are you in pain?” Bret asked worriedly.

Oh, yes, Frank thought. I’m in pain. Not Bret. Not Sam. He opened his eyes. “Why?”

“I made a promise,” he said. “Samuel and I promised something to each other. We would see justice done, no matter how long it took.”

“Justice? But Powell is dead—”

“Yes,” Bret answered, watching him closely. “But not the policeman.”

Frank tried to read Bret’s expression. “You want to kill me?”

Bret smiled, then looked away quickly. His voice — a voice Frank had never heard speak more than a few words — was full of emotion. “I
knew
you wouldn’t know. I knew it. I told Samuel, but Samuel is less trusting — not that I blame him.”

“Wouldn’t know what?” Frank asked, his headache suddenly fierce.

“A little later on, I’ll give you something to read — our story. It explains everything. It’s the one we sent to Irene.”

“You’ve talked to Irene?”

“Yes. You have, too, actually,” he said. “I know you find it hard to believe,” he added quickly. “In your position, I would feel the same. When you spoke to her, Samuel had given you a drug that often makes people forget what has happened while they are under its influence.”

Calm down. Calm down.

“This is a lot to take in all at once, I suppose,” Bret said. “But I assure you, we will not harm Irene. She’s not a target. We didn’t want to hurt you, either. I want you to be free when this is all over.”

“And Sam? Does he want the same thing?”

Bret hesitated. “Well, of course, that’s the ideal situation.”

“And if things don’t work out ideally?”

“You shouldn’t think about such things.”

“Forgive me, Bret, but it’s hard to think about anything else.”

“I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of here alive.”

He could find no real comfort in that. He began to take comfort instead in the sharp aching of his head, reasoning that this much pain meant the drugs no longer had so strong a hold on him.

To survive, he knew, he needed information. And he needed to make sure Bret remained concerned about him.

“Where is Sam?” he asked.

“With his girlfriend. He doesn’t like to be called Sam, by the way. He goes by Samuel now.”

“Okay, I’ll try to remember that. ‘Detective Harriman’ is a little formal. Why don’t you call me ‘Frank’?”

Bret hesitated. “Maybe when it’s just the two of us here,” he said.

Frank shrugged one shoulder, as if it didn’t matter. But he thought of the implications of Bret’s statement even as he said casually, “I’m more comfortable here on my side. Are you the one who moved me around?”

Bret nodded. “It’s not good for you to stay in one position. And I thought you would like these clothes better. I — I hope that doesn’t embarrass you.”

Having his clothes changed while he slept? It humiliated him. But he said, “No, not at all. The other outfit was embarrassing. I didn’t like the gown much.”

“I knew you wouldn’t!”

“You were right.”

“I know you don’t like being restrained, either… Frank.” He said the name timidly, trying it out.

“You’re right, Bret. I know you understand why.”

He nodded. “I do, Frank. I don’t like to see anyone tied up. I don’t even like to see dogs tied up. Or animals in cages.”

“Was the animal shelter your idea?”

“The shelter,” he said, “but not the killing.” Anxiously he added, “Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Frank said quite truthfully. He remembered the hesitancy Bret had shown at Dana Ross’s place. Samuel had been the one who did all the rough work.

“Maybe later, I’ll be able to convince Samuel that you should be allowed to walk around. He thinks we’ll be in danger from you if you aren’t restrained.”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, you can’t leave this building unless we let you out, so it would be foolish to try to harm one of us. And we have some devices that we could put on you that would discourage escape attempts, or violence, but that would allow you to move about.” Seeing Frank’s eyes widen, he added quickly, “I wouldn’t put them on you without your consent, of course. And you would know the penalty for breaking the rules beforehand.”

When Frank didn’t reply, Bret added, “I don’t really like the idea myself — but as an alternative to being tied to the bed?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

A silence stretched between them. Frank said, “So Samuel has a girlfriend?”

Bret nodded.

“It’s hard for me to realize that you’re both men now. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes.”

“What’s the girlfriend like?”

Bret shrugged. “He doesn’t love her. She’s just someone to have sex with.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t like or dislike her. She doesn’t really matter. I feel a little sorry for her, if anything, because I think she really cares about Samuel.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t care about her?”

“Oh, he cares, but only because he likes having sex with her.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. But it doesn’t matter. I mean, I think I would have pursued it before now if it did. I’ve been attracted to women, but I didn’t want a relationship to just be something…
passing.
Do you understand?”

“I think so. But why would it have to be passing? Maybe it would last longer.”

“No, it couldn’t. But let’s not talk about that now.” He looked at his watch. “We only have another hour before I have to start the drip again.”

“Please — I don’t need the drugs—”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

Frank was silent, trying to fight a sense of panic. Awake, he stood some sort of chance. With the drugs….

“Tell me about your life,” Bret was saying. When Frank hesitated Bret said, “I mean, what’s happened to you since we last saw you?”

“You seem to know a lot about me already,” Frank said, hearing the anger, the resentment, over his captivity come to the surface. He knew he should not show it. But it was there.

Bret shook his head. “No, those are just facts.”

“You want lies?”

“No,” Bret said, turning red. “I mean, facts don’t tell a person anything. I know you moved to Las Piernas. I know you are a homicide detective and that Pete Baird is your partner and that your wife is named Irene and that she’s a reporter. So what? It’s like reading tombstones in a graveyard. ‘Born.’ ‘Died.’ ‘Beloved daughter of…’ So what?” He paused, then said, “Are you thirsty?”

“Yes,” Frank said, surprised by the question.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier.” He moved to a small table near the bed, then brought a water glass and a straw over to the rail, helped Frank to take a drink. It was cool and good.

“Now,” Bret said, setting down the glass. “We aren’t going to have much time together, and when this is over, we’ll never see each other again. I’ve wondered about you, Frank Harriman. Are you happier in Las Piernas than in Bakersfield? Do you like what you do? Does it bother you, working in homicide? Is Pete Baird your favorite partner, or do you wish you worked with someone else? Are you glad you married Irene? Do you miss your father?”

Frank stared at him a moment, then said, “Yes. Yes, I do miss him. I think about him often.”

And he began to talk to Bret about his father and Las Piernas and even about Irene, not noticing when Bret reached over and started the IV again, until he was feeling far too drowsy to fight it. The water, he thought belatedly. The water was drugged.

He was not sure if the voice was within the dream or not. He heard a door close and thought it strange that a tent would have a door that closed just like a metal door. He was thinking about that when the voice said, “What the hell have you done?”

“You’ve been wrong about him,” Bret said.

Everything after that was most definitely within a dream.

T
HE LAST PAGE OF THE FAX
contained only a few brief sentences:

As for the contents of the package you received, just remember — there is more where that came from.

It may help you to know that Julian Neukirk was six feet tall; the policeman was taller.

When you learn the identity of the policeman, place an ad in the
Las Piernas News Express,
in the personals, to read: “John Oakhurst, come home.”

Detective Harriman will receive increasing amounts of morphine over the next few days. He will stop receiving the morphine when we are satisfied that you have correctly identified our enemy. We suggest you hurry.

“Let’s go,” I said to Cassidy. “There’s a lot to be done.”

He started the car. “What do you think of the story?”

“ ‘Father’s Day’?”

“Yes.”

“I think they were trying to tell the truth — at least as they remember it. They didn’t try to apologize for Gene Ryan. Other than that… well, I’d say Bret wrote it.”

“Why Bret?” he asked.

“Even though it’s in third person, everything is from his point of view.”

Cassidy nodded. “Any idea who John Oakhurst is?”

“No, although the name seems familiar.”

“To me, too,” he said. “I just can’t remember where I’ve heard it.”

“Maybe it’s just a made-up name.”

“Not with this group.”

“No. No, I suppose not… I understand why they want me to find this cop. But it’s so hard for me to understand how they feel about Frank.”

“I’m not sure they understand that themselves. Remember the last line? About trust? If nothing else, we can learn a lot about them from this story.”

I went ahead and asked the question I was afraid to hear answered. “How long do you suppose it will be before they’re giving him a fatal level of morphine?”

He shrugged. “They could do it in one injection if they set their minds to it. But if they go slowly enough, he’ll build a tolerance.”

My mind snagged on the words “one injection” as surely as if they had been made of barbed wire.

He picked up his cellular phone and dialed Bea’s number. “Mrs. Harriman? Tom Cassidy. Sorry to keep you waiting so long, ma’am. We’re on our way back to the house now.” He listened, then said, “I’m sorry to hear you were troubled. Yes, ma’am. Couldn’t have handled it better myself.”

He hung up and said, “You guessed right about the
Californian.
They’ve already sent a reporter out. Your mother-in-law slammed the door in the man’s face. Surprised it took the paper this long. I guess your buddy the librarian must have struggled with his conscience for a while.”

“Conscience? Yeah, right. Brandon just spent the afternoon wondering which would make his boss angrier: his admission that he let us into the library or getting beat by an out-of-town paper on a story he had a jump start on.”

“Did he choose right?”

“I’d say so. Is Bea upset about this?”

“Not really. Greg Bradshaw called one of his friends on the Bakersfield PD, and they’ve got someone watching the house now, making sure the family isn’t disturbed.”

Cassidy’s cellular phone rang. He answered with his name, made a few noncommittal sounds, then said, “That’s great, Hank. Yes, I’ll have the fax set up, too. I’ve got quite a bit of new information to send you.” He told Hank about the
Californian
’s visit to Bea Harriman’s house. There was a pause, then he frowned. “Sure, put him on.” Another pause. “Yes, sir.” He glanced at his watch, listened for some time. “Yes, I’ll tell her.”

He hung up. “Bret Neukirk — no surprise — is a computer wizard. Something of a wizard in any case — he’s an accomplished magician. And Samuel Ryan is an EMT — emergency medical technician. He’s been working as a paramedic.”

“That explains how he had access to drugs.”

“Made it easier for him to steal them, anyway,” Cassidy said. “One other thing. Captain asked me to tell you that the press conference is set for a little later this evening — eight-thirty. Supposed to give the electronic media time to fit it into the late evening news.”