Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) (14 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

I
F
MAGIC
WAS
Houdini’s train, it had derailed.

He and Bess holed up in their cabin in Vermont for the next three months, weathering a blizzard of bad press. There were no shows for the magician to do because of the fiasco in Hollywood. Fairbanks had painted Houdini as old and incompetent, and the large theaters that once welcomed the magician now found excuses not to book him.

The blackballing ultimately worked out in the magician’s favor. Smaller, less picky venues were still glad to host the world-renowned entertainer, and they required little advance notice for their shows. Often ads in local newspapers would appear only the day before a show, if at all. Sometimes the performances were simply word of mouth.

In this way, Houdini and Bess traveled the Northeast, performing in small towns at vaudeville halls they would have scoffed at a year ago. They always stayed under false names, and never disclosed their hotel to anyone, not even the theater owner or stage manger.

During those days, Houdini’s act wasn’t needlessly risky. He revived some of his classic escapes, and even returned to some of the intricate sleight-of-hand tricks he had been forced to abandon in the larger venues. His illusions were as complex as ever, but they lacked the flamboyance he once felt pressured to give an audience. The magic he performed was for himself, not for the insatiable expectations of others.

Houdini heard whispers that he had lost his touch, that he was afraid to perform anything dangerous after his failed stunt in Hollywood. He let the comments pass over his head like harmless wisps of clouds. During the Hangman’s Death, he had very nearly died, and by no fault of his own. Bess would have found out the next day when she picked up the morning newspaper. What an awful way to discover your husband’s death.

What is worth dying for? Bess, and only Bess.

He no longer felt the need to push himself to the brink for the amusement of others. Whatever legacy he left in magic, Houdini wanted his greatest legacy to be his devotion to his wife. If magic was the means, Bess was the meaning. As a precaution for her safety, Houdini insisted that Bess wear the Ring of the Fisherman whenever she wasn’t on stage assisting him. She scoffed the first few times but eventually gave in.

Despite their public shows, they weren’t careless; Houdini became as detail-oriented over security as he was about his performance. He left long lists of written demands for the stage manager the day before a show—doors to be locked, windows to be secured, doormen to be posted at all entrances. Every evening when he entered his dressing room, he checked to make sure a fresh white carnation had been placed on his vanity. Once, in Punxsutawney, when it had not, he grabbed Bess and led her out.

“No show,” Houdini told the stage manager as they stomped through the foyer.

“We have to!” the frazzled man said. “We have guests arriving in thirty minutes!”

“You made promises…” Houdini said.

He walked to a side door that led to an alley. He pushed it, and it opened, unlocked. Furthermore, there was no doorman there to guard it.

“…That you didn’t keep.”

“Some minor oversights,” the manager stammered. “We meant to do them.”

“An honest ‘no’ is safer than a dubious ‘yes.’”

The magician and his wife exited the theater.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“The carnation,” Houdini said. “It’s the last to-do item on my checklist. If it isn’t there, then I can’t count on any other item being completed.”

The Houdinis left that town and never returned.

After months in hiding, and the subsequent months on the road, furtively hopping from town to town, Houdini began to feel that life could start getting back to normal. It had been more than a year since his trip to Hollywood, and large venues were now extending invitations to perform after public memory had faded. For the first time since his visit to California, he allowed himself to hope that perhaps Atlas really had been killed.

Charlie Chaplin had done as he had promised, and had convinced Pickford and Fairbanks to help in the search for a Burden who might be able to destroy the Eye. Last Houdini heard, Chaplin was in Texas scouting out a young engineer who had an unusually keen sense of how machines and other processes worked.

Of Pickford and Fairbanks, Houdini heard nothing.

During long periods of travel, Houdini took the opportunity to put his expertise down on paper. His book,
Houdini on Magic
, would reveal all of his illusions, would explain every sleight-of-hand movement and detail every escape. Houdini decided that his secrets would not go to the grave with him in the manner of so many magicians before him. If his illusions revealed raised up a generation of magicians more talented than he, all the better. He would live his life with an open hand, not a closed fist.

One late October evening in Montreal, Canada, the tap of his typewriter was interrupted by a soft rap at the door. Houdini and his wife were staying down the street from the Imperial Theatre on Bleury Street, in a posh hotel with glittery chandeliers and floor mosaics so intricate the tiles looked as if they had been laid in by elves with forceps.

The hotel commissionaire announced himself, and Houdini answered the door. The man’s cheeks were ruddy from being out in the biting autumn wind. He held a cream-colored envelope in his hand.

“This came for you by
air
mail,” he said. “It must be urgent.”

“Thank you.”

Houdini took the letter and tipped the young man generously. The magician had all of his mail delivered to a post office box, then had the commissionaire stop by each evening to pick it up.

The piece of mail was made out to him, with no return address. He opened it up and read:

Mr. Houdini,

I’ve been trying to contact you, but you are as elusive as one might expect of an escape artist. I must speak to you about rather urgent matters. It concerns something I have. Something very valuable.

Please extend your show one extra day. I am on my way and will find you at the theater.

Beauty

It was the first time he had heard anything from Mary Pickford since he left Hollywood. He had not expected the two to ever cross paths again.

What could she want of me?

He pocketed the note and made a call to the theater. Because of Halloween the next night, there was nothing on the schedule; the owner said he’d be delighted to have Houdini perform one more evening. Houdini thanked him and hung up.

Bess appeared from the bathroom dressed for the celebratory dinner they always had on their last night in a city. She wore a long black skirt and a high-necked white blouse that was intricately embroidered with tiny pearl beads. She looked stunning.

“Mrs. Houdini, I’ve extended the show by one night.”

She eyed him curiously.

“That’s against the precautions you established for yourself.”

“I know,” he said. They never stayed more than three days in any location. “We have a special request.”

She considered this, nodded, then took his arm.

“Let’s have a little bit of wine tonight,” she said. “Before we return to the States.”

Bess drank as infrequently as Houdini, which meant only one thing.

She’s uneasy with this. As she should be.

If only Houdini could see the possibilities more than an hour or so into the future. He’d know whether this was a necessary exception, or a foolish risk.

“Very well,” Houdini said. “A final drink.”

Tonight, or forever?

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

T
HE
NEXT
NIGHT
, the two of them walked over to the theater at dusk, and Houdini found himself scanning the streets for the woman with the golden curls. He didn’t see her, but then he probably wouldn’t anyway; everyone was bundled up head-to-toe against the first snow flurry of the season.

At the theater, doormen were posted at every entrance as usual. The stage manager, Marcel, had taken special care after he had heard about Houdini storming out of another theater. The magician and his wife went to his dressing room to change into their costumes and rehearse, even though their act was as automatic and natural as brushing their teeth.

The door was locked, and Houdini opened it with his key. When he entered, he looked by instinct to the white carnation on the vanity.

It was gone.

He opened the door further and saw a woman seated in the room’s only armchair, twirling the carnation in-between her fingers. She stood. She was dressed all in black, including a black hat and black veil that completely covered her face.

“Mr. Houdini,” she said.

“Mrs. Pickford.”

He noticed that she was clutching something to her chest, a lump covered by her black shawl.

The magician turned to his wife.

“Mrs. Houdini, this is Mary Pickford.”

Houdini had no idea how his wife would react. He had, over the past year, dropped in pieces of the puzzle until his wife saw the entire picture of his time in Hollywood.

Bess smiled and bowed graciously.

“What a pleasure it is to meet you,” Bess said. “You must have come here in a hurry. You have no winter jacket. Here.”

Houdini watched his wife remove her own coat to give to the woman at the heart of his indiscretion.

I don’t deserve this lovely woman.

“You poor thing,” Bess said. “You’re shivering.”

As Bess wrapped the coat around her, there was a sharp and sudden cry. Bess backed away, confused. It hadn’t come from Pickford. Or had it?

The woman pulled the dark blanket off from the thing she was clutching.

It was a child.

He was about five months old, with an expression that was solemn but thoughtful. Everything about him echoed Mary Pickford: the round face, the high cheekbones, even the sparse mop of golden curls on his head, fine as cornsilk. There was only one part of him that was clearly not Pickford’s—the dark, piercing eyes.

Those indisputably belonged to Houdini.

Bess looked at her husband. Houdini looked at her. She turned back to Pickford.

“Let’s see if I can find you some hot tea.”

Her voice was tight and unsteady, a tightrope walk across her vocal chords.

Bess, you’re leaving us to talk alone.

“Thank you,” Pickford said.

She left. Houdini stared at the boy a long while in silence.

“Do you want to hold him?” Pickford asked.

Houdini nodded vaguely. None of it seemed real. The magician hung his jacket on the wooden chair at the vanity, then took the boy in his arms. He was heavier than Houdini expected. The child smelled of talcum powder and lavender. When Houdini thought of Samuel, their imaginary son, he never imagined how his child would smell.

“I can’t,” Houdini blurted out. “I mean, I never thought I could. Bess and I tried for years.”

Houdini became aware of a torrent of sadness running through him, like an underground river he had only just discovered. How had he not been aware of it sooner? How could he not know what his heart so truly desired? Even the most introspective man, he realized, could hide things from himself.

His life of magic had led him to this specific point in time, but it was ultimately a job, not a legacy. It was meaningless compared to the little boy cradled in his arms.

Magic is the means.

Tears escaped his eyes. Joy and grief and saline.

Houdini heard a kind of humming coming from the boy. Rather, he
felt
humming. It was like vibrations of music but without the music itself. Houdini chalked it up to being emotionally overloaded. He collected himself.

“What’s his name?” Houdini asked.

“Hennessey. It was my mother’s maiden name.”

“Hennessey? What an awful name. Do the poor boy a favor and change it before he enters grade school.”

The baby started to cry, as if embarrassed by his own name. Pickford took him back and sat down in the armchair.

“I should have told you sooner, but I couldn’t track you down with all of your traveling,” she said. “And I didn’t want to complicate things for you, either. But I had to come now. He’s in danger.”

“From whom? Fairbanks?”

Pickford nodded.

“In part.”

“Did he know?” Houdini asked.

“As quickly as you knew,” she said. “Those eyes, those intense, dark eyes. There’s no mistaking him.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much,” Pickford said, “but he broke a lot of things that day. He tried to live with the child, for months he did, but it drove him to madness. He left this week to film a movie on location, and told me the boy had to be gone by the time he returned. I don’t blame him. It’s my fault.”

Houdini pulled out the wooden chair and sat on it.

“What are you saying?” Houdini asked. “That you want me to…”

He stared at her black veil, and the strangeness of it suddenly struck him.

“What’s wrong? Is someone dead?”

“No, it’s just… I’m not myself these days. Or perhaps I’m more myself. I don’t know.”

Houdini stood and walked over to her. He touched the edges of her veil.

“Don’t.”

He pulled it up, slowly, and gasped at what he saw.

What has happened to her face?

She hurriedly pulled the veil back down.

“The boy,” she said, either in response to his thought or to change the conversation. She put him back into Houdini’s arms. The child fussed a bit but didn’t cry.

“I took him to get his first vaccination,” she said as she reached into her purse. She removed a small pin, then grabbed the boy’s hand and pricked his finger.

Immediately he began wailing.

“Shh, my darling,” she said to the boy. And then to Houdini: “Watch.”

She squeezed his finger and out oozed a drop of blood—if it could be called blood at all. It was unlike any Houdini had ever seen.

“He’s ill,” Houdini said.

“I don’t believe so,” Pickford said. “I snatched him from the doctors before they could prod at him and rushed home. Douglas wouldn’t listen so I went to Charlie. I showed him, and—”

The child’s wails nearly drowned Pickford out.

“Quiet, my boy,” Houdini said. “It’s not so bad.”

He kissed the boy’s pricked fingertip, then jolted. It felt as if he had just stuck his lips against an electrical outlet. The feeling reminded him of the one time he had used the Eye on Bess. In his mouth he could feel the tiny drop of blood that had touched his lips.

He swallowed. It entered his system, and he could feel it moving through his body, a distinct and separate entity, as if it had a life of its own. Others without his gift for introspection would never notice, but Houdini could tell it was something unique.

Houdini searched himself as he followed the path of the blood, and then noticed something quite odd. As he scanned his body, his range extended outside of his skin. He followed the edges of his ability, and was surprised to become aware of the heartbeat of the boy. Houdini could feel the child’s breath, sense the steady flow of his blood. It was as if the boy’s body were his own. The magician focused and reached past the boy, surprised to discover Pickford’s heartbeat within his range too. He could sense her motivations as well—not as distinct thoughts, but as a jumble of pictures, ideas, feelings, and memories. It was like looking at a blurry photograph. This was the first time he had ever been able to see inside someone else, and he realized that Pickford, and probably the rest of the world, lacked the internal clarity and order that he had. It was like walking unannounced into someone’s messy apartment.

The magician dug into Pickford’s psyche a bit more. He felt guilty, as if going through someone’s underwear drawer. What he discovered pleased him: He found a deep, passionate love for Douglas Fairbanks embedded deep within her. It was a strained, conflicted love, but it was real. And for Houdini himself he found fondness and trust, but no love.

“You’re right,” Houdini said. “He’s special. He’s powerful.”

Perhaps more powerful than Newton’s Eye.

He followed the threads of possibility, wondering if they would go further while in the presence of this boy. Perhaps he’d be able to see days, even months down the lines of options.

But when he followed the first thread, he saw only blackness, like a sensory deprivation chamber, with no sound and no feeling. It was sudden, like a radio losing power. He then followed the next thread of possibility; it was the same, abrupt darkness and nothingness. And the third and fourth and fifth. Every thread followed a different path, but each ended in the exact same place.

The magician gasped. He understood. Within the next half hour, every possibility converged at only one outcome.

Death.

But why, and how?

Houdini reached once more to see how far his range of introspection would go. It left the dressing room, flowed down the hall and up the ramp toward the audience. Houdini became aware of two heartbeats making their way backstage. One was a tiny shriveled thing, hardly stronger than a mouse’s. The other was a robust, bear-sized heartbeat that pounded in Houdini’s head like a war drum.

The magician focused on the owner of that massive heart, and he sensed a single-minded desire. The distance made it difficult, but he tried to discern the intention, the goal. It was for a person. No, it was for a thing. An object. A tool.

The Eye.

Houdini shot up.

“Atlas is here.”