„The crown of the top hat float was what? Maybe ten feet high? There’s no way he’d ever get up there, right?“
„Right. If he was afraid of heights, you wouldn’t catch him on a stepladder. But there’s no way to verify it.“
She looked at him with such grave suspicion. Did she think he was lying? Probably. But he knew this was nothing personal. It was almost flattering that she believed he could lie.
„Mallory, you could know someone all your life and never be aware of a phobic disorder. People with phobias always avoid every situation where it might be a problem. So what are the odds you’d ever witness a panic attack?“ And an egoist like Nick would never admit to a weakness.
Down the hall, the door to Emile St. John’s room was closing. Malakhai walked toward them with an easy smile and a leisurely strolling gait – both good signs that Emile’s condition was not at all serious.
„Sorry,“ said Malakhai. „He can’t have any more visitors. It was a rather nasty accident.“
„Yeah, right.“ Mallory had undoubtedly been making the same assessments of his body language, and she had come up with a lie.
Malakhai smiled at her. His face said, Ihave a present for you, and you’re going to hate it. „Something went wrong with the illusion, but it’s easily correctable. Emile asked Nick to step in and do the act.“ He leaned close to Mallory and whispered, „Looks like Oliver bungled the plans for another trick.“
Charles had one confusing moment when he could not tell if these two were going to kill one another or embrace.
Mallory walked into the den and sat down at her desk to write the goodbye letter. Three generations of cops in the Markowitz family had done this before her.
But who would she address it to?
Charles? No, he was a secondhand friend, passed down from her late foster father. And when it came to choosing sides, he might not pick hers. She had gone to great lengths to prevent him from failing this test.
Riker? Or one of Markowitz’s old poker cronies? No. Like the pocket watch, they were also hand-me-downs from the old man, the one they really loved.
Mallory looked down at the white paper and overlaid it with images of Sacred Heart Academy. Helen Markowitz had enrolled her foster child with the nuns upon discovering that young Kathy had begun life as a Catholic. This experiment had ended badly. The little girl had proved a natural athlete and a true competitor, yet her classmates did not want her on their teams. She saw them again on the playground, edging away, eyes full of suspicion, sensing that there was something wrong with Kathy Mallory.
The business of choosing up sides had been so important to her then. And now? Well, now that the Markowitzes were dead, she had learned not to care about standing alone.
Yeah, right.
In any case, she was alone.
Mallory stared at the blank sheet. So what was the point of this?
The old pocket watch sat at the corner of the desk. Inside the cover, beneath the engravings for the old man and his forefathers, all believers in tradition, her own name was the last line of script.
In the manner of a schoolgirl dutifully attending to a homework assignment, Mallory bowed her head over the paper and wrote, ‘To all of those whom it may concern.’ She tore up this sheet and began again, less formal and more realistic in her expectations. ‘To anyone who cares – ’
And that was as far as she got. The light was failing, but she did not turn on the desk lamp.
Louisa’s letter had been dated to the day she died, and the writing had obviously consumed all the time she had left. It was a beautiful goodbye, a woman’s naked soul rendered on paper. But no one would expect such a letter from Mallory the Machine.
Once more, she labored over the opening salutation. If this was to have any meaning at all, her goodbye must belong to one person. Her foster mother would have called it an act of love to lessen the tears of those who were left behind.
Mallory’s pen hung in the air. Her head tilted to one side.
In the absence of love and without any expectation of tears, what was the point of this?
Franny Futura woke up with a start, hands batting at the narrow enclosure of glass on all sides – the coffin. And the footlights were moving, traveling across the stage at incredible speeds.
No, he was not on stage. He had never made it back to New York City. Squinting through the grimy glass, he could make out the familiar tableau of four prancing pink flamingos.
So he was still inside the public telephone booth by the highway, and now he was fully awake and full of dread. When he stood up, his knees buckled, and there were searing pains in all his joints and muscles. He slumped against a transparent wall, pressing his forehead to the glass.
When had he ever been so hungry and tired – so cold? What was he to do? The motel room was just across the parking lot. Franny’s eyes never left the door as he winced at fresh pain from an Achilles tendon. The door was a hundred miles away for one who lacked the good legs to carry himself across that dark patch of ground.
A pair of headlights entered the lot. The car was aiming straight at him, rushing toward the telephone booth and blinding him with brilliant light magnified in reflections on four walls of glass. Two thousand pounds of steel and chrome stopped just short of the booth, with a squeal of brakes and tires spitting gravel.
Which one of them was playing with him now – torturing him? This was too cruel. Was it Nick Prado or Mallory?
Chapter 19
On this dark morning, lightning split the sky over the treeline of Central Park. The stone steps of the fountain were wet with mist, and Mallory’s hair was netted with fine pearls of water. Across the wide driveway that separated the hotel from its courtyard, a high wind rustled the multinational flags that decorated the landmark facade.
She could not have orchestrated nature any better.
Another gift to the cause was a crowd of animal-rights activists ganging along the sidewalks. A small army of angry people held up giant photographs of wounded animals. Others waved signs defaming a hotel guest, a film star who wore furs in public.
A bellboy was loading suitcases into the trunk of a long black limousine. When the chauffeur walked to the rear of the car to settle the tip, Mallory sprinted out from the cover of the fountain and pushed her way through the crowd on the sidewalk. She opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the steering wheel. On the other side of the glass partition, Emile St. John was the lone passenger in the back seat. Mallory turned around to smile at him. Hers was not an expression of warmth – more like a promise of something nasty. And St. John was taken by surprise.
She depressed a button on the dashboard. The door locks clicked shut all around the car. Another button rolled down the glass wall that separated them. „Good morning.“ She managed to make this sound like a threat as she turned the key in the ignition and fired up the engine.
„Is this a kidnapping?“ St. John had recovered from his jolt, and now he seemed merely amused. „Nick will be so envious. Where are we going?“
„Nowhere.“ She maneuvered the long car across the lanes of the driveway. Grille and bumper nearly touched the parked cars at both curbs and effectively blocked the flow of traffic. The engine idled as she turned to face him, not smiling anymore. „You were a good cop for a lot of years, St. John.
It’s not your style to run away.“
„I’m afraid I’ve aged into a coward. I’m too old to do Max Candle’s routines.“ He waved one hand in the air to say, It’s that simple.
The chauffeur was politely tapping at Mallory’s window. She ignored him. „You asked Nick Prado to take over the hangman act. He’s about your age, isn’t he?“