Back at the house, we found Antony sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning the Mauser. He was bent over the gun, whistling, amid all manner of rods, brushes, and solvents laid out.
"I haven't cleaned this damn thing in years," he said, "and it's not in bad shape-a little copper fouling, that's about it."
"Are you getting an itchy trigger finger?" I asked.
"Not me," he said. "This is by order of the boss."
"Is he expecting gunplay?"
"Beats me," said Antony. "I just clean the gun, drive the car, get strangled by the bad guys, and make the dinners around here." He started whistling again and went back to his work.
Schell and Morgan only appeared at dinnertime. I didn't inquire what they'd been up to all afternoon. During the meal, Isabel asked Schell when he thought it would be safe for her to leave the house.
"Give it a few more days," said Schell. "Where are you thinking of going?"
"Mexico," she said.
"I'll give you some money," he said.
"I couldn't take your money," she told him.
"Well, it's going to take you a long time to walk there," he said.
"Take his money," said Antony. "I would."
"We could drive you over to Jersey and put you on a bus," Schell said. "Once you get to Mexico, send the dough back to me if you want, or not. I don't care."
"Why not a train?" asked Morgan.
"More people traveling on trains read newspapers than people on the bus," said Schell.
"Don't sweat it, hon," Antony said to Isabel. "It's going to work out."
I quickly changed the conversation to the upcoming presidential election, which was only weeks away. With the exception of Antony expressing his hopes for the repeal of Prohibition, the topic soon died from overall disinterest, but it was enough to divert the discussion away from Isabel's departure.
Later that night, once Isabel was asleep, I went in search of Schell. I wanted to talk to him about my possibly leaving. Luckily, he'd not gone to bed but was sitting on the couch in the Bugatorium. Morgan, stretched out next to him, had fallen asleep with her head resting on a pillow propped against his thigh. As I entered the room, he looked over at me, and I said, "Sorry," and began to leave, but he waved me back. I walked over and sat down across from him.
Before I could speak, he whispered to me, "I've been meaning to talk to you."
I was going to tell him the same, but his expression was one of perplexity, as if he'd made himself weary from too much thought.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I've been thinking about the butterflies," he said.
"That's not exactly unusual," I said, smiling.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I think once this present group dies out in a few weeks, I'll discontinue the Bugatorium."
"Why?"
"Recent developments have left me with a bad taste for the idea of breeding in any capacity. It's never struck me before, but now the whole thing"-here he lifted his hands in the air, the same motion he used to release butterflies during the sйances-"seems to me wrought with vanity; the most self-serving affectation."
"But the study of butterflies excited you," I said.
"I think I conned myself into the excitement."
"I always enjoyed them," I said.
"Did I ever tell you how I got started?"
"No," I said.
"It was my first con," he said. "My father, the great Magus Jack, would bet on anything. He'd bet me on things and never lose-coin flips, horse races, how many times a woman at the mailbox on the corner would open and close the little door after putting her letter in. When I'd lose, he'd laugh at me. It got to the point where all I wanted to do was beat him-if only just once.
"One morning, before the sun was even up, one of the few days he ever spent with me, we were walking through the park-he was going to show me some scam-and I spotted a butterfly, closed, on a flower. I bet him I could wiggle the flower and the butterfly wouldn't fly away. He laughed his condescending laugh at me and took the bet. I got down, grabbed the flower by the stalk, and moved it back and forth, a good six or seven times. The butterfly hung on, wouldn't budge. He didn't laugh then but paid me in silver with a grim look on his face."
"Why didn't it fly away?" I asked.
"It was something Morty had read to me one of the nights I'd stayed with him. Out in the wild, a butterfly can't fly until it's warmed by the sun. It needs the heat to move its blood up into the wings. I never forgot that con. Butterflies became my good luck charm."
"You never told me that before," I said.
"Yes," he said, nodding. "It feels like a lot of things are about to change." He looked up then and followed the flight of some white specimen whose name I didn't know. As if snapping out of a daydream, he again focused on me. "Was there something you wanted to talk about?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I just came in to say good night."
"Okay," he said and leaned back, closing his eyes. His left hand descended to rest on Morgan's shoulder.
SNOW
When I woke in the middle of the night this time, it wasn't to the sound of a phone ringing but something a hundred times louder and far more ominous. I sat bolt upright in bed just as the din died, and then I recalled where I'd heard it before-at cabin number six. A machine gun.
As Isabel came to, sitting up next to me, I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her onto the floor. She struggled to get free, saying, "What are you doing?" but I whispered in her ear to stay down and keep quiet. Remaining on all fours, I scrabbled across the bedroom and out into the hallway. There was another burst of gunfire, shorter this time, and then the sound of someone kicking in the front door.
We'd left the light on in the living room, and its glow seeped back into the hall where I was and into part of the kitchen. On the other side of the living room entrance, hunkering down with his back to the kitchen wall, was Antony in his boxer shorts and an undershirt. He held the Mauser, his finger on the trigger, the barrel pointing toward the ceiling. Looking over, he saw me and motioned with his left arm for me to get back. I started to inch away, and the next thing I knew he was spinning on his heels, bringing the gun around in his right hand. He peered quickly out into the other room and squeezed the trigger. I don't know anything about guns, but the Mauser was obviously not a mere single-shot weapon. A barrage of gunfire spat out its end.
There was silence in the living room, and I was tempted to look. I felt Isabel's hand on my back and knew she had crawled out of the bedroom behind me. I cautiously moved to the corner of the wall, all the time Antony motioning me to go back. When I finally did take a quick glance, I saw a body lying just inside the door. I pointed for Antony to look and he did. As soon as he saw no one else in the doorway, he signaled for us to run across and join him.
We literally leaped across the open entrance into the kitchen. Antony stood up and grabbed me by the back of the neck, pulling me close to him. "I'm going to lay down some fire. Take Isabel, leave by the back door. If it looks clear, run your asses off for the woods. Stay there till I come for you."
I just then realized I was shaking. He let go of my head and patted me on the cheek. "You with me?" he said.
I nodded, not even considering that all I wore was a pair of pajama pants and Isabel one of my dress shirts. That's when the back door burst in with a jarring crash, shattered glass and splinters of wood flying everywhere, the chain lock whipping the air. The phantom landed on Antony's back, knocked the gun out of his hand, and drove him forward, face-first, into the wall as Isabel and I were shoved to the side. There was a great cracking noise, and the lathing showed an imprint of the big man's head. I put my arm in front of Isabel and pushed her out of the way.