The door flew open with wham! Death entered carrying a portable TV under his arm and a bag of groceries. Dressed in Nikes, faded jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt and a Dodgers baseball cap, he looked like the average Joe Blow out for a walk.
“Glad to see you’re still with us.” Shutting the door, he went into the adjoining room, and returned dragging a wooden packing box. Positioning the box before her chair, he propped the portable TV on top of it, switching it on. It was a color Sony with snowy lines running across the screen. He extended the antenna and fiddled with it for a minute.
“Can you see the picture?”
Jan said nothing.
The muscles in his back tensed, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Was that a yes, or a no?”
“Burn in hell,” she said.
He leapt across the room, his hands slapping her face with such dazzling speed that she nearly passed out. Stopping, he removed his cap and brought his face close to hers.
“Look at me, bitch.”
Jan looked. Death was hideous in a way she had not expected. A hairless face with misshapen ears, the nose and mouth contorted by hidden demons, the eyes ice blue and soulless.
“Get this straight,” he said. “I can play this nice, or I can play this ugly. Makes no difference to me.”
Kneeling, Death painstakingly unbolted her chair from the floor. Then he spun her around one hundred and eighty degrees. Jan caught the gasp rising in her throat.
The shriveled skeleton of a girl hung from the plaster ceiling behind her, her red leather mini-skirt pulled down to her knees, her straw blond hair flapping in the wind. What remained of her face was twisted in agony; a sure sign of a slow death. Death gently placed his fingertips on Jan’s shoulders and she felt the remaining fight ebb out of her tired, aching body. He spun her chair back around.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she said.
“That’s more like it.” He resumed fine tuning the portable TV. “Can you see the picture, now?”
“Yes, I can see it.”
“Good,” he replied.
Along with the TV, he had brought a picnic: imported cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, dark pumpernickel bread, sliced baloney, roast beef, alpine Swiss, even little tubs of mayonnaise and mustard. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he proceeded to gorge himself.
“Your stupid husband refuses to deal with me,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Instead of listening to what I had to say, he wants me to watch Action 10 News at Noon. I thought you might want to watch as well.”
“Who is she?” Jan asked.
Death shook his head, not understanding.
“The dead woman hanging behind me.”
“Some tramp.”
“You don’t even know her name?”
“I might have once, but it escapes me.”
Death continued to shove food into his mouth. He was clearly on edge, and looked capable of just about anything. Jan said a silent prayer, hoping that if she died, it went quickly.
“Why, look at the time,” he said. “It’s almost noon. Let’s see what Mr. Magico has up his sleeve, shall we?”
“Sure.”
He turned around and faced the portable TV.
“Now, I remember,” he said. “Her name was Jane. No, that’s not right. It was Jan. I’m sure of it.”
Jan stiffened. “That’s my name.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. My mistake.”
Jan silently cursed him while staring at the TV.
Chapter 25
Rosabelle, Believe
“We’re live in thirty seconds,” the cameraman announced. “Everybody take your places.”
The actors scurried around the Houdini Séance room and took their seats. As a make-up artist dabbed pancake on his upper lip, Hardare took a deep breath. He had only one hand to play, and this was it. On the other side of the room stood Action 10 news reporter Jayne Hunter, clutching a mike. She shot him a smile.
“Are you ready?” Hunter asked.
“As ready as I’m ever going to be,” Hardare replied.
“Five seconds,” the cameraman said. Then, “We’re on...”
“Good day,” Hunter said to the camera. “This is Jayne Hunter, coming to you live from the Magic Castle in Hollywood. I’m in the famous Houdini Séance room with magician Vincent Hardare. As many of our viewers know, Hardare has been helping the LAPD hunt for a serial killer who calls himself Death. Today, Hardare is going to attempt to track Death down by speaking to the spirits. Hardare... are you ready?”
The segment was being shot with a single camera. The cameraman shifted, and focused on the magician sitting at the table with the actors he’d hired.
“Death is not the end, nor the last word for human experience,” Hardare began. “Death is another dimension, another universe, and another time. We enter this dimension only at great risk.”
Everyone at the table joined hands.
“We are gathered in a special place,” he went on. “This room is dedicated to my uncle, Erich Weiss, known to the world as Harry Houdini. During his lifetime, Houdini sought proof of the existence of the hereafter. To his wife Bess he promised that if it were possible, he would return from the next world.
“It is recorded that Houdini’s ghost spoke during a séance conducted by the Reverend Arthur Ford. During that séance, Reverend Ford revealed the secret code Houdini promised to use if he did return. Those words were, ‘Rosabelle, believe’.
“Tonight, with the aid of Houdini’s ghost, we will attempt to contact the spirt world, and ask them to help us find a serial killer who calls himself Death.”
Off camera, a bell rang three times. Hardare began to recite.
The séance table eerily rose in the air. Then, the stained glass window directly behind them opened with a terrific bang, and a gush of wind blew into the room, causing the candle to flicker.
It was the perfect distraction. The actress sitting to Hardare’s right rose from her place, and silently stole away. She was replaced by Sophie Nichols, who slipped into the empty chair, and began to softly moan. Under the candle’s flickering light, she bore a strong resemblance to Elaine Osbourne.
“I hear your voice,” Hardare said. “You are so close...” His face suddenly stiffened. “Don’t cry, please. I know you are hurting inside, I know. Just talk to me... let us try to help.”
An anguished cry escaped the actress’s lips.
“Who are you?” Hardare asked her.
Sophie lowered her chin, hiding her face from the camera. The voice of Alice Harvey, the Woman of a Thousand Voices, came over the room’s hidden speaker.
“My name is Elaine Osbourne,” the voice said. “I am Death’s mother. I have a message for my son.”
“Is your son the serial killer who calls himself Death?”
“Yes.”
“What is your son’s name?”
“Eugene Osbourne.”
“What is your message to Eugene,” Hardare said.
“My son must stop killing. He’s hurting me!”