Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy)

H
OUDINI’S

L
AST
T
RICK

D A V I D   K H A L A F

Houdini's Last Trick

Prequel, The Burdens Trilogy

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Also available on Amazon:

The Sixteen Burdens

Book 1, The Burdens Trilogy

Pancho Villa’s Hollywood Close-Up

Novella, The Burdens Trilogy (Summer 2016)

The Seventeenth Burden

Book 2, The Burdens Trilogy (Fall 2016)

Copyright © 2015 by David Khalaf. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Tamara Khalaf

Book illustrations by Francesca Baerald

Proofreading by Constantino Duran, Dyanne Khalaf, and Ben Rocke

Apartment management and picking up my slack by Jim Khalaf

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Connect with the author:
www.facebook.com/davidkhalafwriting

or read the blog at
www.davidkhalaf.com

“The public sees only the thrill of the accomplished trick; they have no conception of the tortuous preliminary self-training that was necessary to conquer fear. No one except myself can appreciate how I have to work at this job every single day, never letting up for a moment. I always have on my mind the thought that next year I must do something greater, something more wonderful.”

— Harry Houdini

_______________________________

For Tino,

with whom I can be nothing

_______________________________

C
HAPTER
O
NE

H
ARRY
H
OUDINI
WAS
going to die—he was sure of it.

The magician knew a lot of things: how to pick any lock on the face of the Earth, how to tie a knot in a rope eighty-seven different ways, how to hold his breath for four minutes under water. But what he knew better than anything else was himself.

And in that moment, buried under a foot of sand, in a wooden coffin latched shut with three different locks, his hands tied behind his back, what he knew was that he didn't have enough time to finish his escape. His breath simply wouldn't hold out.

Where is that blasted razor?

Houdini knew he had exactly seventy-four seconds of breath left before he lost consciousness. Even if he had the razor, it would take him twenty-two seconds to sever the rope tying his hands together. With the wire hidden in the rope, it would take him seventeen seconds to poke through the crack between the lid and the body of the coffin and pick the lock closest to his head on the outside of the coffin. Another nineteen seconds for the second lock, and twenty-seven seconds for the one closest to his feet.

Eleven seconds short.

And that was if he had the razor. He had coughed it out of his mouth as sand was poured on top of him from a giant concrete mixer. A hard clump of dirt had hit him in the soft spot of his throat and he had involuntarily gagged it out. Now the razor was buried in the sand somewhere between his nose and his chest.

Had his train back to New York not been delayed by a cow taking a nap across the tracks, he would have checked the sand himself. Instead, the responsibility had fallen to a sloppy stage manager who probably hadn’t bothered to even run his fingers through the sand. Let it be known that the Great Houdini was killed by a lazy cow.

Houdini focused, and projected in his mind the other potential avenues available to him: untying the rope without the razor, picking the locks with bound hands, attempting to dig out of the sand and call for help. In his mind he followed all of the paths into the future, like glowing strings that led down a dark hall. He followed the paths as far as they would go, and each one led to the same simple outcome: death.

There simply wasn’t enough time. He needed more options.

Houdini turned his head in the sand, feeling around with his chin. In his mind's eye, he could see everything that was touching him. He could see every grain of sand; he knew its color. He could see his white dress shirt, crushed against his body and ripping at the seams from the pressure. He could see his black wool socks, could visualize the hole in the left sock's big toe just as well as he could feel it.

This was his gift. This was his Burden.

The razor was nowhere to be found. It was a useless effort anyway. He would pass out in the coffin before anyone in the audience realized something was wrong. By the time Bess had the locks cut and the coffin opened, he would be dead. He had to think of something else. There had to be another way.

Fifty-two seconds.

Sand was a poor choice for his act. He should have stuck to water. Water was clean, predictable and, most important, lighter than sand. With the added pressure against his chest, he had lost a good ten seconds of air out his nostrils. But magic was all about showmanship, and showmanship was all about outdoing oneself. He couldn't have repeated this trick with water. Repetition was stagnation. Stagnation was death.

Danger was what made Harry Houdini the best magician on Earth. It was his introspection that kept him alive. Knowing himself and his future potential—this was what allowed him to ride the fine line between daring and disaster.

Thirty-six seconds.

He needed more options. What did he know about himself now that could save his life? He knew he had the skill to free himself if he could just create more time. He knew he could untie the rope around his wrist if he could rotate one of his hands enough so that his middle finger and thumb could touch the knot. He knew that Bess had tied the rope and that she always made a double-diamond knot. He knew he would panic if he thought too much about Bess. Lovely, sweet Bess.

Twenty-five seconds.

How could he create more time to work on the knot? A knot...a knot. His fingertips were grazing against the side of the coffin. He felt the wood, could see the grain of the pine in his mind. It was rough and straight except for one small part the size of a silver dollar. A wood knot.

A new option popped into his head. This new glowing string of potential sped off into the dark future of his mind. He saw it unwind into smaller threads, all potential avenues that ended in death. All except one.

Houdini knew knots were the weakest part of a wooden board. He knew his fingers were strong from years of intricate work with rope, chains, and locks. He knew he could create strong pressure if he could bend his legs and wedge both his knees and his head against the opposite side of the coffin.

He turned and struggled under the weight of the sand to pull his knees in. He held his thumb on the knot so he wouldn't lose it. With his head and knees pressing against the opposite side, he pushed as hard as he could with his thumb. He pushed and pushed until he felt the bone in his thumb on the verge of snapping. Nothing.

Eighteen seconds.

In his mind's eye, Houdini could see an energy inside of him. Was it his soul? Was it his talent? Was it merely the lack of oxygen causing stars? If he died now, Bess would never recover. He was the act, but they were a team. She was Houdini as much as he was. Only she knew where to put a key under his tongue where no one would find it. Only she knew how to tie a knot that was sturdy to the touch but came undone with just the right pull. Bess would never again tie another double-diamond knot.

The rope knot. It was bulky and hard, tougher than his own thumb. Houdini twisted the rope so that the knot was at the base of his palm. He pushed it against the coffin, rope knot against wood knot.

Seven seconds.

He pushed with all his might, a pain shooting up his wrist as the knot dug deep into his palm. His head pounded and his neck felt as if it might snap. Every bone in his body was under pressure. Every molecule in his being groaned. He felt everything and nothing all at once. His head was swirling. There were only five seconds left before he passed out. Then four, three, two.

And then, a pop.

The knot in the wood exploded outward, and Houdini could practically see it hitting someone in the first row of the audience. Sand hissed out of the coffin like a sand timer, and the last thing Houdini heard before passing out was the collective gasp of the audience.

In the space of unconsciousness, he was a single point of light. A star in a dark universe. He became aware of others around him. Four points of light. A square, a plane. The square doubled. A cube with eight points. A third dimension. It doubled again to sixteen points. It was a dimension beyond his comprehension. Sixteen points. Sixteen talents. And him, one of them.

Houdini gasped for air. The sand had cleared away from his face. He was now only half submerged. From the harsh spotlight shining in through the knot hole, Houdini could see the razor blade sticking out of the sand near his face.

Had he passed out for seconds or minutes? It didn't matter. From here his escape was a cake walk. In little more than a minute he had cut the rope, pulled out the wire, and picked the first two locks. He didn't bother with the third. His body was pumping with adrenaline, and he wedged his feet against the coffin door and kicked with all his might. The third lock burst off its hinges and the door flew open with shards of wood flying everywhere.

Talk about showmanship.

The audience roared with pleasure and amazement. Houdini stood up and sucked in the warm air and applause. He was alive. And he was still the best magician on Earth.