Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“Don’t tell me you’ve been out running...” Wondero said.

“Not at all. I was upstairs hanging upside down in a straitjacket. But it probably did my heart as much good.”

Wondero said, “I thought you were going to leave town.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes, right after your wife was kidnapped. You told me that if you found Jan, you were going to get out of L.A.”

“I realize this is difficult to understand,” Hardare told them, “but too much was at stake not to go through with the engagement. Besides, what’s to stop Osbourne from following us? We’re as safe here as we would be anywhere else.”

“You’re putting your lives at risk,” Wondero said. “Whatever you stand to gain by staying here can’t replace a life.”

Wondero paused, expecting Hardare to agree. When he didn’t, the detective threw his arms into the air and in frustration said, “Look, do you mind if I speak with your wife?”

“Go ahead,” said a woman’s voice.

Wondero again spun around, this time finding Jan standing directly behind him.

“Where did you come from?” Wondero asked incredulously.

“Indiana, originally,” she said. “We appreciate your concern, but I think we’re well prepared for Osbourne this time around.”

“Prepared?” Wondero said in disbelief. “Tell me how you prepare for a sociopath.”

“I’ll do better,” Jan said, “I’ll show you.”

Jan gave them a quick tour.

The beach house was owned by a magician friend who was a successful orthopedic surgeon. The house in Malibu was his weekend retreat, and hearing of Hardare’s troubles, he had graciously offered it because of its elaborate security system.

The upstairs consisted of a master suite and a gymnasium. There were intercoms in each room, and the windows were wired to a surveillance system that ran behind the walls, and could not be tampered with. If for some reason the electricity failed, the house would convert over to a generator in the downstairs utility room.

The first floor security was even more elaborate. The windows were also wired, while sonar boxes in each room would alert them if anything larger than an ant made an appearance. To keep his guests entertained, the doctor had built sliding partitions into the walls, allowing not only for a lot of fun, but also a quick escape if there should ever be a fire.

To further insure their safety, Jan had hired three instructors from her old school; each had fought in at least one war, none of which the United States had participated in. One man — Jan would not say which — had also specialized in “wet work” while employed by the CIA years before.

Jan left the icing for her husband. They had returned to the living area when he dramatically whisked the sheet off the stage illusion that occupied the middle of the spacious room.

“This was lent to me by my friends, Siegfreid and Roy,” Hardare said, draping the sheet over his arm. “Harry, tell me what you see.”

Wondero circled the stand. “I see a square metal cage sitting atop a stand that looks about three inches thick.”

“Anything else?” Hardare asked.

Wondero got on his knees and stared beneath the stand.

“Aren’t they the guys who turn women into tigers?” Rittenbaugh asked Hardare. “My wife and I saw them at The Mirage. They were unreal! They did this one trick with a fire-breathing dragon...”

“Nothing,” Wondero said. “It looks fair to me.”

“Good. Now watch closely,” Hardare said.

Helping Jan into the cage, Hardare shut the metal door as she crouched down inside. Stepping back, he tossed the sheet in the air. As it flew above the detectives’ heads, it opened to its full size and dropped down over the cage, elegantly engulfing his wife in its folds. Without a second’s hesitation the magician snapped the sheet away. Crouched in the cage sat his beaming daughter.

“Hey guys,” Crystal said.

“Where did your wife go?” Wondero asked.

“I can’t tell you that. But I will tell you this. She’s someplace very safe.”

Wondero hated to be fooled. As the detective got on his knees and began rapping the floor, Rittenbaugh said, “Aw come on, Harry, it’s just a trick.”

Wondero could not figure out how the trick was done. Stymied, he let Hardare walk him and his partner out to their car.

“I still think you’re making a huge mistake staying in L.A.,” Wonder said. “You’re a public person, for god’s sake. What if Osbourne slips into the theater during one of your shows?”

“It’s a chance we’re willing to take,” Hardare said.

“Look, I know we’ve let you down. Give us a chance to redeem ourselves. Let me post a pair of cops in the lobby and a pair at the backstage door. They can check everyone who comes and goes. It will make Osbourne think twice about sneaking in.”

“That would be great,” Hardare said. “While you’re offering, do you mind if I ask another favor?”

“Go ahead,” Wondero said.

“Wednesday night I’m performing an outdoor escape to help promote the show. Could you send some men for protection?”

“Consider it done,” Wondero said. “Just give us the location and time, and we’ll be there.”

Wondero and his partner got into their car. Wondero had a thought, and went back to the front door where Hardare stood.

“You and your family have a lot of guts,” Wondero said. “Please be careful. I don’t want to see anything else happen to you.”

“We will,” Hardare promised him.

Then Wondero got into his car, and drove away.

Osbourne lowered his binoculars as Wondero and his partner drove away. The morphine was wearing off, and his ankle was starting to throb. He gunned the Mustang he had stolen from long term parking at LAX.

He drove north looking for a gas station, passing the weekend hideaways of the people who really mattered: Cher, Sting, David Geffen, Jack Nicholson, Tom Cruise, and all the other heavyweights. Once, he had dreamed that he’d been invited to a party in Malibu, and spent the rest of the dream driving up and down the highway, searching in vain for the fucking house.

As he drove, his teeth tore into a baloney sandwich he had made before venturing over to the Wilshire Ebell theatre. In one half-hour period, six deliverymen had come and gone through the backstage door. Against all common sense, he had gone home, put on a drab brown UPS uniform, filled a cardboard box with books and slapped a label on it, then gone back to the theatre.

Hardare’s crew had been inside, busily uncrating props and doing carpentry work on stage. Osbourne had entered the dressing rooms, searching Hardare’s things until finding a slip of paper in a pant’s pocket that contained the address in Malibu and a phone number.

At the next gas station, Osbourne went in and purchased a Red Bull. Back in the car, he popped a morphine pill into his mouth, and washed it down. Within a minute he felt relief from his suffering. There was enough morphine in the bottle to last a few more days. Long enough, he thought.

An hour later, he pulled into the 7-11 a few blocks from his home. A payphone hung on the side of the building. When he was certain no one was watching, he removed the front metal plate with a screwdriver, and expertly rearranged the wires.

At precisely noon the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“I have a collect call for Eugene Smith,” the operator said, unaware it was a payphone. “Will you accept the charges?”

“Of course,” Osbourne said.

“Please hold.”

“Hello, Eugene,” he heard D.B.’s familiar voice say. “How have you been?”

Osbourne knew that the calls from the mental institution were monitored, and chose his words carefully. “I’m all right. I’ve still got that problem I told you about.”