Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“What did I do?” Hardare said.

“Just forget about your wife for a minute, and try to imagine the man who kidnapped her. Eugene Osbourne is certifiably insane. Do you think bringing back his dead mother is going to have a settling effect? What if he goes on a rampage?”

“Remember Son of Sam, the serial killer in New York?” Rittenbaugh chimed in. “When he got arrested, the police found an Uzi submachine gun in his apartment. He was going to drive out to Long Island and shoot up a discotheque filled with people.”

Hardare had already played out those scenarios, and decided it was worth the risk, if it meant saving Jan.

“Are you guys staying?” he asked.

“You’re damn straight we’re staying,” Wondero replied.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

Hardare retreated to his bedroom and shut the door. Taking out his cell phone, he placed it on the dresser and waited for Death to call.

An hour passed. He killed time staring into the hills at the stilt houses with their Chinese restaurant architecture and above ground swimming pools. What did it feel like living in a home that millions of people probably looked at every day? Like a fish in a bowl, or a king on a throne? He supposed it depended on your point of view.

His attention was drawn to an animal prowling on the deck of house. It was a coyote with a mottled brown coat and ears pointing up like a pair of antenna. It was hard to believe that a wild animal could stay alive in such a hostile environment. It said a lot for wits and cunning, and the desire to survive.

His cell phone chirped. He snatched it off the dresser and stared at the face. Caller Unknown.

He took the phone into the bathroom before answering.

“Yes?”

“Hello, Mr. Magico,” Death said.

Hardare felt the flesh rise on his arms.

“You dredged up many bad memories,” Death went on, “but you knew that, didn’t you?”

“You hurt me, I hurt you.”

“I think this little chapter should come to a close. Agreed?”

Death did not sound the same. The séance had affected him.

“That depends upon the terms.”

“Simple enough. I give you back your wife, and you leave town. I think that would make us both happy.”

Hardare’s face burned at the prospect of seeing Jan again. “Let her go, and we’ll leave by tomorrow.”

“Is that a promise?” Death said.

“Yes. My wife is worth everything to me.”

“Promise not to bring the police along?”

“No police.”

“I’ll kill her if you do.”

“No police. Now tell me where she is.”

“Your wife is residing on the top floor of an apartment house in a lovely section of town called Watts. The address is 10943 Carver Street.”

Hardare scribbled the address on a notepad with the hotel’s fancy insignia.

“I’d hurry if I were you. The building is filled with rats.”

The line went dead. Hardare went to the door of his room, and cracked it open. The detectives were parked in the living room. He called Crystal’s cell, heard her pick up.

“I need you to create a diversion so I can leave,” he said.

“Where are you going?” his daughter asked.

“To save Jan.”

“One diversion, coming right up.”

There were times when having an actress in the family was an asset. Moments later, Crystal came out of the bedroom and walked past the detectives. Slapping her hand against her forehead, she let out a moan, and collapsed to the floor.

They rushed to her aid. Hardare slipped out of his bedroom and left the suite without either man being the wiser.

The racially ignited riots that had engulfed the ghetto of Watts in 1965 had left deep, ugly scars in the landscape which the passage of time had still not healed. Boarded up storefronts and deserted apartment houses, their yards trashed with garbage and the shells of abandoned, burned out cars, had left a blight so complete that the area resembled a third world nation, and Hardare found it hard to believe that it had taken only fifteen minutes to drive here from his hotel.

Hardare read the street signs as he drove. At the intersection of Century Boulevard and South Graham Avenue he stopped at a railroad crossing to let the southbound Blue Line rumble by, and saw young men on the corner giving him ugly stares.

He parked on Carver Street and got out. The building where his wife was being held hostage was a skeletal five-story apartment house being prepared for demolition. A crane with a wrecking ball sat in a nearby lot.

He found the opening in the fence. A piece of paper was stuck in the wire, and he pulled it free. It was a note.

YOUR WIFES IN #556

Hardare entered the abandoned apartment and climbed the stairwell, hearing clay crack pipes crunch beneath his heels. The apartment had no electricity, the only light in the stairwell caused by holes in the walls. On the different floors he heard the sounds of drug deals going down. It made him sick to think that Jan was being kept here.

He came to the fifth floor and followed the numbers on the doors until he found #556. The door had a brand new padlock on it. Kneeling, he took out his wallet and removed his lock picks, and went to work opening the door.

His hands shook like someone with palsy. What if he was too late, and Jan was dead? Could he truly stand to see her lifeless body, to talk to it and not have it talk back? Was that the last picture he wanted lodged in his memory for the rest of his life?

He was afraid — afraid of losing her, afraid he already had — when the padlock audibly clicked open. He swallowed his fear and pushed open the door.

“Hello?” a familiar voice said.

He stepped into the barren apartment, and found his wife bound to a chair in the living room.

“Guess who.”

He cried while untying her. Jan cried as well.

“Did I ever tell you how wonderful it is being married to a wizard,” she said, hugging him as she got up.

“Did he hurt you?” Hardare asked.

“No. But I think you hurt him.”

Hardare’s eyes fell on the fully-clothed female skeleton hanging by her wrists from the ceiling.

“Oh, my God, who’s she?”

“One of the unlucky ones. Let’s get out of here.”

Hardare heard the noisy grinding of gears. Spinning around, he saw a concrete wrecking ball burst through the wall, sweeping the skeleton girl and the chair across the room in a tangled mass, the concussion knocking them both to the floor. Pulverized brick and plaster showered down, making it impossible to see.

He got up, and pulled Jan to her feet. The wrecking ball hit again, this time a few yards above their heads. Hardare covered his head with his arms, certain that Death knew exactly where they were in the building.

They ran into the hallway and down the stairs. The walls were beginning to collapse around them, and Hardare grabbed his wife’s hand, and looked into his eyes. He should have been scared, only he wasn’t. He’d gotten the thing he wanted most. If he was going to die, at least he’d be with the woman he loved.

Death had found a new friend, the wrecking ball machine, courtesy of the Amarillo Brothers Construction Company. To hell with guns and big knives; here was the true weapon of choice, capable of knocking down tall buildings with a few well placed whacks.

The building started to crumble. He kept at it, unconcerned about the two people inside. With each direct hit, the ground around him shook, letting him experience the profound aftershock of his own devastation. Picking up the bullhorn lying on the floor, he held it to his lips.

“Having fun in there?” he shouted.

He kept one eye on the front door. He had made sure the other exits were locked from the outside. Hardare and his bride had only one avenue of escape, and it was through that door.