Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“Do you still have the letter?”

In a rage Matthew picked up a feed bucket and swung it menacingly. “I don’t want to talk about him. Eugene sucks.”

“But Matt—”

“Go away.”

Turning his back on them, Matthew resumed feeding the chicks. Hardare glanced at the house. It didn’t have more than a couple of rooms, and would be easy to search.

“I’m going in,” Hardare said.

“Wait,” Wondero said.

He ignored him, and hopped the fence. The baby chicks started to squawk, and Matthew spun around.

“Get off my property. You’re breaking the law.”

“I have to talk to you,” Hardare said.

“I said scram!”

It was like arguing with a child. It gave him an idea, and he knelt down, and put some of the feed in his palm. He tossed it at the chicks, and they quickly encircled his feet.

In becoming a magician, he had learned hundreds of tricks, and exposed himself to the different ways that had been devised to fool people. As the chicks pecked at his fingers, he picked them up and stroked their fluffy stomachs with his finger, then flipped each chick on its back, and carefully laid it on the ground. The chicks remained motionless, as if hypnotized.

Matthew knelt beside him. “Wow. How’d you do that?”

Hardare saw Wondero heading for the house. Matthew paid no attention to him.

“It’s a trick. Would you like me to show you?” Hardare asked.

“First bring them back.”

“Sure.”

Hardare gently tipped over one of the chicks with his extended finger. The chick popped up and started running in circles.

“Awesome!” Matthew exclaimed.

Soon he had all the chicks up and running. Matthew was like a little kid at his first magic show, and he held one of the chicks between his cupped hands and kissed its fluffy head.

“Show me how you did that,” he said.

Hardare taught Matthew the baby chick trick. It had been invented by an Egyptian magician named Galli Galli. By the time he was finished, Matthew was hypnotizing chicks left and right.

“This is so cool. Thanks for showing me.”

“Your welcome.”

“Do you know any more?”

“A couple.”

The sound of a slamming door lifted his head. Wondero emerged from the house with a cardboard box clutched in his hands. He gave Hardare the thumbs up, indicating his search had been successful.

“I need to run. Nice meeting you.”

“You, too.”

Hardare hopped back over the fence. Bridgewater already had the car running. He and Wondero jumped in, and they drove away.

Wondero dumped the box’s contents onto the seat. Letters, newspaper clippings, some old photos, and a tape cassette fell out. The detective divided the letters in half, and handed Hardare a stack.

“I found this stuff in a closet,” Wondero explained. “Hopefully, Eugene Osbourne’s letter is here.”

Hardare thumbed through his stack. It included letters from distant relatives and old friends. At the bottom he found an envelope addressed to Matthew Osbourne, and opened it. Inside was a letter from his cousin Eugene, begging for money.

“I found it,” Hardare said.

Wondero turned in his seat. “Is there a return address?”

“No. Eugene sent his cousin a self-addressed stamped envelope, and asked him to put a check in it. There’s no return address on the letter, or the envelope it was sent in.”

“Damn it,” Wondero said.

“Did you find anything in your stack?”

“No.”

The car fell silent. They had hit a dead end. Hardare wanted to ask Wondero what they should do now, but thought he already knew the answer. They had to hope for a miracle.

He tossed the letters back into the box. His eyes fell on the tape cassette lying on the seat.

“What do you think is on the tape?” Hardare asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Wondero said.

Wondero popped the cassette into the car’s tape player. A low hum came out of the car’s speakers, followed by a woman’s voice giving a speech lesson to a man with a pronounced stutter.

“That’s Elaine,” Bridgewater said. “She must have recorded one of her therapy sessions at the V.A. hospital.”

They listened to Elaine Osbourne during the drive back. The tape was of good quality, her voice strong and clear. As they pulled into the high school parking lot, the tape ended.

Wondero grabbed the box of letters and photographs, and got out of the car. Bridgewater started to do the same, and Hardare tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t know why, but something told him that the tape might come in handy down the road.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep the tape,” Hardare said.

Bridgewater popped the tape out of the player. He passed it back between the seats, and Hardare saw the sadness in his eyes.

“She was a wonderful woman,” the principal said.

“I’m sure she was.

They both got out of the car.

Jan Hardare watched the sunrise, hating herself.

Her husband could escape from anything, ropes, chains, the insides of safes, burning houses packed with dynamite, straitjackets while doing somersaults 20,000 feet in the air, even from a swimming pool filled with man-eating sharks, and here she was, his wife and able-bodied assistant, sitting tied to a chair bolted to the floor, and unable to slip even a single knot.

A punishing wind blew through the room, and she licked her badly chapped lips for the hundredth time since awakening. The gaping hole in the wall offered an obstructed view of the burned-out and abandoned tenement buildings that dotted the landscape. She was many stories up, the view reminding her more of downtown Beirut than anyplace she’d seen in L.A.

The sun was splitting the horizon when a pair of men’s voices traveled up from below. She considered calling out for help, then heard the voices turn ugly. They were fighting over a drug deal, and Jan decided she was better off keeping her mouth shut.

After a while the voices went away, and Jan felt her heart pounding in her chest. Out of sheer desperation she began to rock back and forth in her steel chair, testing each leg to see if it were securely bolted to the concrete slab floor.

She spent the next hour straining every muscle in her body trying to escape. If there was any slack in the rope, or if she could somehow create some slack, then she could begin the torturous process of releasing herself. That was how Vince did it, and often was black and blue over half of his body the next day. Except in this case Death had done a sailor’s job in tying her down: she was not going anywhere without some help.

She was beaten and it depressed her. Her family were all military people; all fighters. Ending your life in a losing posture was nothing short of a disgrace. On his deathbed her father had stunned the family by reciting Shakespeare, his barely audible voice holding on until the bitter end.

A mean-looking rat scurried past her. She watched it disappear down a hole, wondering how long it would be before the rest of the rats in the building figured out she was here.

Since arriving at the station that morning, Kenny Kitchen had been on edge. He did a four hour talk show each day, and knew that sometime during that show, Death was going to call, and try and broker a deal with Vincent Hardare to save his wife’s life. It was a dangerous situation, and thinking about it made him sick to his stomach.

He busied himself by picking that day’s music selection. Unlike most disc jockeys, Kitchen still got to choose which music he played on his show, and did not work off a script supplied by the station.

His show went live at ten. At a few minutes past nine, Jayne, his assistant, appeared clutching a styrofoam cup filled with black liquid. Kitchen grabbed the cup and sucked it down.