Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

"You want my ID again? I did that the other day."

"Sir, please."

Huffily the man reached into his hip pocket and withdrew his wallet.

Except that it wasn't his.

He stared at a battered zebra-skin billfold. "Wait, I… I don't know what this is."

"It's not yours?" the cop asked.

"No," he said, troubled. He began patting his pockets. "I don't know -"

"See, that's what I was afraid of," the policewoman said. "I'm sorry, sir. You're under arrest for pickpocketing. You have the right to remain silent -"

"This is bullshit," Kadesky muttered. "There's some mistake." He opened up the wallet and stared at it for a moment. Then he barked an astonished laugh, held up the driver's license for everyone to see. It was Kara's.

There was a handwritten note inside. It dropped out. He picked it up. "It says, 'Gotcha,'" Kadesky said, narrowing his eyes and studying the policewoman closely, then the driver's license. "Wait, is this you? "

The "officer" laughed and removed the glasses then her cop cap and the brunette wig beneath it, revealing the short reddish hair once again. With a towel that Roland Bell, now chuckling hard, handed her she wiped the dark-complexion makeup off her face and peeled away the thick eyebrows and the fake red nails covering the black glossy ones. She then took her wallet back from the hands of the astonished Edward Kadesky and handed him his, which she'd dipped when she'd plowed into him and Sachs in her "escape" toward the door.

Sachs was shaking her head, too astonished to react. She and Kadesky were both staring at the body lying on the floor.

The young illusionist walked into the corner and lifted the device, a lightweight frame in the shape of a person lying on her stomach. Short reddish-purple hair covered the head portion, and the body wore clothing that resembled the jeans and windbreaker Kara'd been in when Bell had cuffed her. The arms of the outfit ended in what turned out to be latex hands, hooked together with Bell 's handcuffs, which Kara had escaped from and then relatched on the phony wrists.

"It's a feke," Rhyme now announced to the room, nodding at the frame. "A phony Kara."

When Sachs and the others had turned away – misdirected by Rhyme toward the chart – Kara had escaped from the cuffs, unfurled the body frame and then silently slipped out the door to do the quick change in the hallway.

She now folded up the device, which compressed into a little package the size of a small pillow – she'd had it hidden under her jacket when she'd arrived. The dummy wouldn't have passed close examination but in the shadows, with an unsuspecting, misdirected audience, no one had noticed it wasn't the girl.

Kadesky was shaking his head. "You did the whole escape and the quick change in less than a minute?"

"Forty seconds."

"How?"

"You saw the effect," Kara said to him. "Think I'll keep the method to myself."

"So the point of this is, I assume," said Kadesky cynically, "that you want an audition?"

Kara hesitated and Rhyme shot a prodding glance toward the young woman.

"No, the point is, this was the audition. I want a job."

Kadesky studied her closely. "It was one trick. You have others?"

"Plenty."

"How many changes've you done in one show?"

"Forty-two changes. Thirty characters. During a thirty-minute routine."

"Forty-two setups in half an hour?" the producer asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yep."

He debated for only a few seconds. "Come see me next week. I'm not cutting back my current artists' time in the ring. But they could use an assistant and an understudy. And maybe you can do some shows at our winter camp in Florida."

Rhyme and Kara exchanged glances. He nodded firmly.

"Okay," the young woman said to Kadesky. She shook his hand.

Kadesky glanced at the spring-loaded wire form that had fooled them. "You made that?"

"Yep."

"You might want to patent it."

"I never thought about that. Thanks. I'll look into it."

He looked her over again. "Forty-two in thirty minutes." Then nodding, he left the room. Both he and Kara looked as if they'd each bought a very nice, very underpriced sports car.

Sachs laughed. "Damn, you had me going." A glance at Rhyme. "Both of you."

"Wait up here," Bell said, feigning hurt. "I was in on it too. I'm the one hog-tied her."

Sachs shook her head again. "When did you think this up?"

It had started last night, Rhyme explained, lying in bed, listening to the music from Cirque Fantastique, the ringmaster's muted voice, the applause and laughter from the crowd. His thoughts had segued to Kara, how good her performance at Smoke & Mirrors had been. Recalling her lack of self-confidence and Balzac's sway over her.

Recalling too what Sachs had told him about her mother's advanced senility. Which had prompted Rhyme's invitation to Jaynene the next morning.

"I'm going to ask you one more question," Rhyme had said to the woman. "Think about it before you answer. And I need you to be completely honest."

The query was: "Will her mother ever come out of it?"

Jaynene had said, "Will she get back her mind, is that what you're askin'?"

"That's right. Will she recover?"

"No."

"So Kara's not taking her to England?"

A sad laugh. "No, no, no. That woman's not going anywhere."

"Kara said she couldn't quit her job because she needs to keep her mother in the nursing home."

"She needs to be cared for, sure. But not at our place. Kara's paying for rehab and recreation, medical intervention. Short-term care. Kara's mom doesn't even know what year it is. She could be anywhere. Sorry to say it but all she needs is maintenance at this point."

"What'll happen to her if she goes to a long-term home?"

"She'll keep getting worse until the end. Just the same as if she stayed with us. Only it wouldn't bankrupt Kara."

After that, Jaynene and Thom had gone off to have lunch together – and undoubtedly to share war stories about the people in their care. Rhyme had then called Kara. She'd come over and they'd had a talk. The conversation had been awkward; he'd never done well with personal matters. Confronting a heartless killer was easy compared with intruding on the tender soul of someone's life.

"I don't know your profession too well," Rhyme had said. "But when I saw you perform at the store on Sunday I was impressed. And it takes a lot to impress me. You were damn good."

"For a student" had been her dismissive response.

"No," he'd said firmly, "for a performer . You should be onstage."

"I'm not ready yet. I'll get there eventually."

After a thick pause Rhyme said, "The problem with that attitude is that sometimes you don't get there eventually." He glanced down at his body. "Sometimes things… intervene. And there you are, you've put off something important. And you miss it forever."

"But Mr. Balzac -"

"- is keeping you down. It's obvious."

"He's only thinking what's best for me."

"No, he's not. I don't know what he's thinking of. But the one thing he's not thinking of is you . Look at Weir and Loesser. And Keating. Mentors can mesmerize you. Thank Balzac for what he's done, stay friends, send him box seat tickets for your first Carnegie Hall show. But get away from him now – while you can."

"I'm not mesmerized," she'd said, laughing.

Rhyme hadn't responded and he sensed she was considering just how much she was under the man's thumb. He continued, "We've got some juice with Kadesky – after everything we've done. Amelia told me how much you like the Cirque Fantastique. I think you should audition."

"Even if I did, I have a personal situation. My -"

"Mother," Rhyme'd interrupted.

"Right."

"I had a talk with Jaynene."