Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

With a cape slung over one shoulder, she climbed to the top of the platform and stood before the target. She had watched the crossbows work from every angle on the ground below. Now she planned to see the trick from Oliver Tree’s point of view on the stage.

She knelt on the floor and attached a leg iron to the ring at the base of each post. The shackles had no locks, only catches to keep them closed. In her mind, she was replaying the tape she had watched a hundred times. These irons were exactly like the ones Oliver had worn on his ankles when he hung spread-eagle across the face of the target.

Mallory reached down to unhook a pair of NYPD handcuffs from her belt. Oliver had used two pairs, but there had been only one key. She had blown up segments of his film performance and found the piece of the broken key extension falling against the gray backdrop of the band shell. There had been no sign of a second key when the fingers of his left hand splayed wide with sudden pain.

Out of habit, she pulled out her own cuff key. Of course, it would never work. When her hand was bound to the posts and stretched out, this one would be too short to undo the lock. She set her key ring down on the floor and reached into the back pocket of her jeans for the relic from Faustine’s Magic Theater. She unscrewed the bulb at the top of the extension rod and selected a post with teeth to match her own cuff key.

Mallory stood up and closed one of the bracelets around the iron ring on the right-hand post. The handcuff chain dangled the open bracelet within easy reach – easier for her than Oliver. His corpse was five inches short of her own height of five ten.

And now she was confronted with her first problem. This platform was made for Max Candle, a man seven inches taller than Oliver. Yet there was no difference in the post-ring positions. On Oliver’s replica, the iron loops appeared to be the same distance from the top of the posts.

Mallory shook the dust off the silk cape and draped it across her shoulders, then pulled the hood over her hair. The long hem trailed on the stage behind her. She looked down at the outline of the trapdoor. The foot pedal was in plain view, and when she stepped on it, a square of wood dropped open behind the heels of her running shoes.

The mechanical framework rose out of the floor, slowly coming up beneath the trailing material, silently spreading its metal bones to fill out the cape in the form of raised arms. A curved metal dish imitated the top of a human skull beneath the hood. She stepped away from the cape, and spread her legs to attach the floor shackles to her ankles. Reaching up, she slipped her right wrist into the handcuff dangling from the iron ring. It took a bit of fiddling to close the bracelet with one hand while holding on to the skeleton key. Oliver Tree had done this much faster with two sets of handcuffs.

It was the first tick of the pedestal that made her drop the key.

Her mouth went dry as she watched the piece of metal clatter to the floorboards, landing beside her own discarded key ring.

The spread cape blocked her view of the crossbows. Mallory stretched one foot the length of the leg-iron chain, but she could not reach the floor pedal to drop the cape and give her a clear view of the weapons. How had Oliver Tree done this?

Bound by both legs and one hand, she listened to the ticking, the gears grinding. The noise was coming from her left side. She imagined the peg rising, moving closer to the crossbow trigger.

What is the crossbow aiming at?

She had seen Oliver die so many times, and she knew each trajectory by heart. The test firing of Max’s crossbows had agreed with the tapes of the park death.

The pedestal was ticking, ticking.

Think! Where is the arrow going to strike?

She saw Oliver clearly now. The left-hand bows fired arrows into his thighs. There was only time to frame this thought, to shift one leg. The ticking stopped. The arrow ripped through the spread silk and pinned her to the target.

No pain.

Mallory looked down at the arrow that had torn through the blue jeans and missed her skin by a hair’s breadth. Her breathing was slow and shallow, the better to listen for the movements of company in the basement, sounds of a would-be assassin. She had so little faith in accidents these days.

The gun was in her free left hand, but Mallory had no memory of pulling it from the holster. She had been that intent on the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

The red material was pulled to one side.

Malakhai.

He was looking down at the arrow pinning her leg to the target. He glanced at the open trapdoor and stepped on the floor pedal in front of it. „The lazy tongs work in slow gear. They’ll go down in another minute.“ He ignored the gun in her hand and pointed at the floor pedal. „You’re supposed to step on that before you put on the cuffs and leg irons. Timing is everything, Mallory.“ He was mildly distracted by the rising muzzle of her gun. It was harder to miss, now that she was aiming at his face.

„Point taken,“ he said. „I’m forgetting my manners. Good evening. You’re looking well.“

„You missed me by an inch.“

He glanced down at the arrow in the denim material. „I’d say it was closer than that. You probably jarred the pedestal gears when you cocked the crossbow.“ He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a pack of cigarettes, acting as if this were perfectly normal, holding a casual conversation with a chained woman. „You did cock the bow. Am I right, Mallory?“

„Am I supposed to believe this was another accident?“

His slow smile implied that this might be the more charitable view – an accident instead of a stupid mistake. „I told you not to walk in front of a loaded crossbow.“

Had the weapon been loaded when she cocked it? She could not recall checking the magazine for an unfired arrow from her test round. Was she going to own up to an oversight like that?

Well, no.

She pulled on the handcuff bracelet that bound her wrist – a not too subtle suggestion for him to unlock it, and right now.

Malakhai lit a cigarette. „The pedestals are as delicate as Swiss timepieces. In fact, the gears are Swiss.“ He exhaled a slow stream of smoke – portrait of a man at leisure. „It takes some finesse to do this illusion.“

She yanked the chain, but he did not get the hint.

Malakhai looked down at the revolver as she extended it toward his chest. „I gather you dislike criticism.“ Ignoring the gun, he reached down and pulled the arrow from the target. „You remind me of an old proverb. The girl who can’t dance always blames it on the band.“

And now he was holding a sharp arrow in one hand and standing much too close. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger.

There were so many fractured parts to her emotions. Malakhai showed no fear of the gun. That was enough to make her angry. And she wanted this to be his fault, not hers. But now he was looking down at the keys lying on the floor. This was more evidence of her own errors, and she hated him for that. She stared at the arrow in his hand. Did he mean to do some damage? Or was this a sick game he was playing?

Her body went rigid. Every muscle flooded with adrenaline for the fight, as if it would take any force to squeeze a trigger. And darker chemicals were released into her brain as a response to rage, magnifying it to obliterate reason.

In the last untainted part of her mind, she heard herself speaking calm, icy words, „Let go of the arrow. Let it fall and step back.“

A drop of sweat rolled down the side of her face. The trembling in her gun hand was nearly imperceptible. It was a muscle spasm of tight control – to prevent her revolver from firing into his chest.