“I want him to tell me how Lorraine died.”
“Excuse me,” Kitchen said.
“He knows,” the caller said.
Hardare froze. He had heard that macabre voice before.
It was Death.
Harry Wondero could not have mistaken the look that spread across Vincent Hardare’s face on the other side of the glass. To his partner and said, “Tell them to get a goddamned trace!”
Running out the door, Rittenbaugh decorated himself with half a cup of coffee. Over the speaker Kenny Kitchen said, “One last chance, friend. What do you want?”
“I want Hardare to tell me how Lorraine died,” the caller said.
Hardare stared through the glass, obviously lost. Wondero hesitated, his mind racing. Earlier, Hardare had said he could not erase the image of the women’s dangling head from his mind, and when Wondero had pressed him, Hardare had described her face as best he could. Young, pretty, short blond hair. Death killed his victims a variety of ways, but the knife seemed to be his preference when they were pretty. A fatal stab through the ribs into the heart.
Wondero grabbed a pen from the sound technician. Holding it in his clenched fist, he committed an imaginary act of hari-kari. Hardare nodded his head.
“Goodnight sweet prince.” Kitchen put his finger on the button, and Hardare grabbed the DJ’s arm.
“You killed her with a knife,” Hardare said. “You stabbed Lorraine in the heart.”
Silence. Then their caller said, “I’m impressed.”
Wondero waved his arms, wanting Hardare to stall.
Hardare gave him the thumbs up.
Hardare thought back to his encounter in the desert with Death. He’d been able to get under the killer’s skin by taunting him, and he decided to try that approach again.
“Satisfied?” Hardare asked.
“Not really,” Death said.
“You’re hard to please.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You must have had a rough childhood.”
Over the line came the horrifying sound of a woman’s tortured screams. Before the sound technician could intercede, the screaming was abruptly cut off.
“That was a tape I made of one of my victims,” Death said, breathing heavily into the phone. “Want to hear some more?”
“No,” Hardare said, growing unnerved.
“I didn’t think so. Let me tell you why I called. I think you’re a fake. The police are just feeding you information. But I’m willing to give you another chance. Do something really amazing. Wow me.”
“Like what?”
“That’s up to you, Mr. Magico. Goodnight.”
The line went dead.
“We’ll be right back,” Kitchen said.
Wondero entered the sound booth, his mouth twitching in agitation. Rittenbaugh followed him in, his necktie dripping coffee, and squeezed it dry while standing over a wastebasket.
“He was calling from a payphone. We just missed him,” Wondero said.
“What do you want me to do now?” Hardare asked.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Wondero said. “Did you hear his voice? He’s totally unnerved. He’s going to slip up, and when he does, we’re going to catch him.”
Hardare nudged Kitchen with his elbow. “Kenny, do you mind if we keep this up?”
The DJ nervously wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This is getting pretty hairy. This guy is so tightly strung he makes Charlie Manson sound tame.”
“You can’t stop now,” Wondero implored.
“Is Vince’s call. He’s the one sticking his neck out.”
Hardare took a deep breath. Wondero had told him that Death went on rampages, and would kill again soon. He remembered an old proverb from his youth. He who saves a single life, it is as though they’ve saved the entire world.
“Let’s do it,” the magician said.
Chapter 8
Mind over Matter
The detectives left the sound booth. As the sound technician counted down, Kitchen said,” Okay Vince, we pretend that he never called. Understand?”
“Got it,” Hardare replied.
Kitchen flipped his mike on. “We’re back with Vincent Hardare, and I must say I’m impressed; I didn’t think it was possible to read minds over the airwaves, or predict the future.”
“That was nothing,” Hardare said. “Kenny, I want to show you the real power of the human mind. I want all of our listeners to turn up their radios. Do it right now. Fill your apartment or house with the sound of my voice. Make it loud.”
He paused for a beat, and said, “Now I want everyone listening to say a single word aloud. Believe. Can you say it? Believe. If you believe that by putting your energy into something, it will work, then say that single word. Believe.”
Kitchen gave him a baffled look.
Do it, Hardare wrote on the pad.
“Believe,” Kitchen said into the mike.
“That’s it,” encouraged Hardare. “Believe. Now I want everyone to close their eyes and concentrate. Concentrate on some appliance in your home which is broken. It can be a clock, or a wristwatch, or a timer on the stove that doesn’t work. It can be a radio, or a television set on the blink, or a clogged garbage disposal. Think of a broken appliance and think hard.”
Hardare pulled up his chair, his mouth inches from the mike. “With your eyes closed, think of that appliance, and superimpose a single word over it in your mind. That word is work. Work. In gigantic letters stamp that word over that appliance. Work. You want it to work. I want it to work. Let’s say it together.”
“Work,” echoed Kitchen.
“I’m going to count to five. With each number say work out loud, concentrating on that appliance. Ready?”
He paused and looked through the glass; Wondero and Rittenbaugh were staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“One. Two. Three. Four... five. Now shout, Work! Work! Work! Forget about the neighbors. Wake up the kids. Shout it as loud as you can. Work. Work.”
Hardare leaned back in his swivel chair to watch the clock above them. After ten seconds swept by he said, “We did it. You and I. Those broken appliances are now working. Go ahead; go into the next room. Take a look. See for yourselves.”
Really? Kitchen scribbled.
Really. Hardare wrote.
How?
It works itself, Hardare wrote. Open up the lines.
“Folks, our phone lines are open. Call in, and tell us how this phenomena has affected you.”
The phone on the desk was quiet. No callers. Kitchen glanced at Hardare and saw an odd look on his face. Was this a joke?
“The number is 888-KOLL,” he said, feeling ridiculous. “Call in. We want to hear from you.”
A line lit up on the phone. Then a second, and a third, then all six lines lit up. Kitchen grabbed the receiver.
“Now the fun starts,” Hardare whispered.
“Go ahead,” Kitchen said, “you’re on the air.”
Marjorie Hooks was in the kitchen of her apartment in Lawndale clipping coupons when all the commotion erupted on the radio. At eighty-six she’d outgrown anything resembling a good night’s sleep, and Kenny Kitchen was nice company at this lonely hour. She especially liked the call-ins, the different voices filling her kitchen in a friendly way, like the smell of a casserole on the stove, except tonight’s show had affected her oddly ... Kenny’s guest practically shouting at her, as if he knew she was half deaf. It was unsettling, but Hooks was listening hard. There was a quality in his voice that in a small way reminded her of a preacher. Mrs. Hooks put down her peeler, and when the man said so, shut her eyes.
“Work, work, work,” she said aloud, thinking of all the confound things in her apartment that needed repair.