Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“Never better,” Hardare said.

They both found the strength to laugh. Jan had seen her husband cheat death on a number of occasions, and always came away from the experience feeling as if she’d gone through it herself.

“Where are the police?” Hardare asked.

“Outside,” Jan said. “I already gave them a statement. They’ll probably want one from you later, as well.”

“I’ll give it to them now.” He started to get out of the bed, and Jan put her hand on his chest, and shoved him back down.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, I am. We have work to do.”

“Work?”

“Yes. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

She placed her hand against his forehead, just to make sure he wasn’t running a fever. His scalp felt perfectly normal.

“I’m all in favor of getting out of here,” Jan said, “but first I want to know what you’re thinking.”

Hardare leaned back in the hospital bed and gave them a little smile. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to stay in Los Angeles, and fulfill our engagement at the Wilshire Ebell?”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “But the spirit show is a disaster. You said so yourself.”

“I’m not talking about doing the spirit show,” he said.

“Then what are you planning to do?”

“We rented the theatre for two weeks, so it’s still legally ours to use. Why not do our Vegas show and bill it as our last U.S. engagement.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. Look, if we don’t do the show, we’re financially in the hole. I’ve already spent our savings on salaries, programs, even tee shirts to be sold in the lobby. If we walk away, the idea of starting our own circus will have to be shelved indefinitely.”

Jan looked at Crystal. Her stepdaughter was beaming. She looked back at her husband.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Jan said. “But how do we sell it? There isn’t enough money left to buy a decent sized advertisement in the L.A. Times , let alone run a TV campaign. We can’t fill the Wilshire Ebell for two weeks by word of mouth.”

“Houdini never advertised his shows. Neither did my father. I think I know how to sell a few tickets.”

“Wait a minute, Vince. Are you talking about doing the rollercoaster escape to get publicity?”

“I sure am,” he said emphatically. “Doing escapes is how I made my reputation. They always sell tickets.”

“But why the rollercoaster escape? Why not something else?”

“We need something big. The rollercoaster escape fits the bill. We’ll get one of the TV stations to cover it. They always do. Then the newspapers will fall in line. Bingo, free publicity.”

“But it’s dangerous.”

“All my escapes are dangerous.”

Vince was absolutely right. All of his escapes were dangerous. Only this stunt was in a category all by itself. While bound from a straitjacket, her husband would hang upside down from a rope that was tied to the track of a rollercoaster. The rollercoaster would be set in motion, and he would have exactly two minutes to free himself before the rollercoaster passed over the rope, and sent him hurtling to his death.

“Are you going to use a net?” Jan asked.

“No net. If it isn’t death-defying, it isn’t worth doing.”

“Oh God, Vince,” she said. “Haven’t we had enough excitement for one week?”

“Enough for a lifetime.” He paused. “So, what do you think?”

Jan drank her soda, and told him what she thought. “All right. It’s a great idea, even if it means you might get killed.”

“I won’t,” Hardare promised.

“Good. But I still have a concern. Eugene Osbourne is still running around L.A., and may come after us again.”

“The LAPD is going to find him,” her husband said. “It’s only a matter of time before they do.”

“But what if they don’t?”

“We can always ask the LAPD to protect us,” her husband said.

“They’ve done that already, and look what happened. I have another idea.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to handle security,” Jan said. “That includes the theatre, and wherever we end up living while we’re in town. I know a professional security company in the area that protects foreign dignitaries. I’ll hire several of their people. And I will get a gun. Nothing fancy, a .9 automatic will be fine. If Osbourne rears his ugly head, I’m going to squash him like a bug.”

“You sound serious,” Crystal said.

“Dead serious,” Jan replied.

Her husband could not speak. That was unusual for him, and Jan leaned over the bed and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Surprised?”

“Yes. I thought you were going to tell me you wanted a vacation,” he said.

“No, Vince, I want vindication. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal,” he said. “Now, let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Driving out to Malibu on the Pacific Coast Highway, Wondero could not help but stare longingly at the ocean’s gently lapping waves. He had grown up surfing in Santa Monica, and the sound of waves still called him like the sirens in the old Greek myths.

Malibu beach was open to the public, but the closeness of the homes made it impossible for anyone to reach the precious sand without first hiking for six miles. Wondero had often toyed with the idea of taking a personal day, and spending it walking the entire stretch, just to satisfy his curiosity and see if it was any better than what he’d grown up on.

Rolling up his window, he quickly fell back to reality. The phone call he’d gotten from Hardare an hour ago had floored him. The detective had checked his anger long enough to learn where Hardare was staying, then told him what he thought of his decision to remain in L.A. while Death was still at large.

“That’s it up ahead,” Rittenbaugh said. “Nice place.”

Wondero parked in the driveway behind a mud-caked Bronco with a trailer hitch. He had never quite understood Malibu’s allure, and he supposed he never would. Literally thousands of houses, some as imposing as mansions, others the size of matchboxes, lined the four-lane road like cereal boxes on a grocery shelf. He wondered if Hardare really thought he was safe here, in a place with a major highway for a backyard.

At the front door a thin Oriental examined their photo ID’s.

“All right,” he said, ushering them in.

The Oriental wore a black turtleneck and skintight jeans, no shoes or socks, and did not look armed. As he led them down a hallway, Wondero realized that he made no noise when he walked. Passing a kitchen, they entered a multi-level living area with vaulted ceilings and glossy parquet floors so bright the sunlight seemed to dance on them. The room was sparsely decorated, with a sprawling L-shaped leather couch, plus a few oddly shaped tables and chairs that could have easily been pieces of expensive art. In the room’s center sat a large piece of furniture covered by a white sheet.

“What’s your name?” Wondero asked.

“My name is Li,” the Oriental said.

“Are you in charge of security?”

“That’s Mrs. Hardare’s job.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I don’t kid. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

Li excused himself and left the room. Wondero went to the window and looked out. Somewhere he remembered reading that Jan Hardare had been an instructor at a school for mercenaries, a fact that he had immediately discounted after Death had kidnapped her.

“Hello, detectives.”

Wondero slowly turned around. Hardare had appeared out of nowhere, and was standing in the center of the room. The magician’s cheeks were flushed and his brow was glistening.