Carter Beats the Devil (72 page)

“So, when you were in the packing crate, what happened?”

“I started to understand how you can feel sad sometimes and also keep living.”

“While you were underwater.”

“It’s hard to explain.”

They were just three strides from the door. She was to his left, arm around his waist, and his hand rested against her lower back. “You must try,” she said. “I’m very interested.” His head was cocked, as he considered his next words.

A blur, something dropped from above, clattering and metallic. Phoebe jumped. It rolled, colliding with the stage door.

“What was that?” she asked.

It was the brank, and it was occupied. In the second it took Carter to understand what was inside, he thought how unrealistic it looked, how to be truly frightening, it should have looked the way Harding’s had onstage, with brighter eyes and a messier wound to the throat.

“Something fell,” he said as if it had been a flowerpot. Walls and buttresses went up in his mind, he knew he would unlock the stage door and shove her through.

“Then why—” she said before what looked like a sack of wet laundry fell to the stage, right between them and the stage door, boots bouncing once as the legs found crazy, broken angles. Carter pulled her back by the shoulders, causing her to cry out.

There was motion on the catwalk, someone moving gracefully down the ladder by the back wall, one hand on the rungs, the other holding a pistol. There was now a head, a body, and a man with a gun between them and the stage door.

“Stand behind me,” Carter murmured in a way that would not carry far. It was his most calming voice, and using it made him feel some slight control. “This is a man from the Secret Service who’s after me. Just follow my steps,” making sure his body shielded hers.

“Charlie?”

“Follow my lead.” She was silent. Good. Carter had underestimated his opponent—Griffin had become more violent, but still, Carter felt ease, ease as solid as a cornerstone. But then the earth around it began to shake: a woman he loved was in danger, again, and beyond that thought was chaos. He counted his pulse, breathing in though his nose, out through his mouth. He had no weapons. Could he hide her somewhere? He felt her tensing.

The man dropped to the floor. Though he was still in shadow, he didn’t look at all like Griffin. He pulled a second pistol from the waist of his trousers. Carter recognized them now: the guns from the bullet-catching bit. They were terribly inaccurate, hard to aim, and only one
was loaded with a real bullet. All in all, lucky. But then luck like this was relative.

“Hello, Carter.” The man stepped over the corpse and walked, guns extended, toward Carter and Phoebe.

It was in no way Griffin. Carter didn’t recognize him. Where was the excited command to reach for the sky? The man seemed in no hurry. He wore work pants and a stiff cotton shirt, and a motoring jacket far too small for him that Carter recognized: it was from his own wardrobe. The man was completely bald and had dyed his Vandyke jet black. His skin was weathered like a sundial.

The man looked around the stage, almost smiling. “You must have wondered often whether you’d completely destroyed me.”

Carter put his face up against all the Secret Service agents he knew, and came up blank. He was about to say he had not the faintest clue what he was talking about, which would have been fatal—the man would have shot him for not remembering. But at that moment, Baby made his weak little moan, and the man turned to him and said, “Hello,
Baby.
”

Carter blinked. The face in front of him came into sudden focus, and he felt chills, and immediate, ancient anger. A dozen years ago. Here, this very stage. Mysterioso. Obnoxious, cretinous, the man who represented to Carter all that was dark and unworthy in magic. But Mysterioso had changed, somehow—something in him seemed harder and wilder; he’d aged like the windward side of a mountain. Still, Carter could handle Mysterioso.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady?”

“I don’t know her name. She’s blind, she got lost in the theatre, and I’m trying to help her leave.”

“She could have left
much
faster if you hadn’t insisted on kissing her and philosophizing afterward.” As Carter had no reply—he was remembering that
Houdini,
not he, had handled Mysterioso—Mysterioso continued, “I believe he called you Phoebe. Phoebe, will you please come out from behind your man?”

She took a broad, sidelong step. She looked quite steady, her mouth a deep frown, arms folded over her stomach. She wasn’t about to say or do anything out of fear.

“Thank you,” Mysterioso said. “You
are
lovely.”

Something awful bloomed in his chest. “So?” he demanded. “Who are you working for?”

Mysterioso simply looked around the stage. He pushed his lips out, evaluating what he saw. “That levitation you have, is that a Kellar?”

“No, it’s my own design.”

“Oh,
please,
it’s a Kellar, anyone can see you stole it.”

“I
didn’t.
” Eyes burning, Carter suddenly felt twenty-three years old again. He had to struggle to stay cool.

“It’s a Kellar,” Mysterioso concluded to his own satisfaction. “Now,” he brought both pistols up, “which of these is loaded?”

“Neither.”

He shook his head. “No. If you’d used them in the act, neither would be loaded. But you didn’t, so one has a live round.”

Phoebe said “Damn” under her breath.

“What was that?” Mysterioso raised his eyebrows.

“They’re both empty,” Carter said.

“Then you won’t mind if I shoot one at each of you. Actually, Miss Phoebe, because your friend says it’s safe, I’m going to shoot both of them at you.”

“No!”

Carter’s moment of panic seemed to delight Mysterioso, who brought the barrel of one gun to his lips, as if kissing it for being such a good boy. “Ah, you
do
love her. Which gun, Carter? Phoebe, is Carter a good liar?” Old memories percolated icily in the back of Carter’s mind. Mysterioso was playing Blackmail with him, and with live ammunition in the gun.

Carter said, “The pistol with the trigger guard in the shape of a diamond, do you see it?” As long as Carter talked, he could think rapidly, but all that came to him was that he didn’t want Phoebe to be shot, which was exactly what Mysterioso was set on doing. The pistols shot .22 rounds. “Do you see how one has a heart, the other a diamond?” If Mysterioso shot him instead of Phoebe, he could survive and charge the props table, where there were a half-dozen throwing knives. “The diamond is the live round.”

“Oh God,” Phoebe said.

“Thank you, Carter,” Mysterioso said. “But I like my original plan.” Both guns turned to Phoebe. Carter stepped in front of her. Mysterioso pulled the triggers back. Carter gritted his teeth.

“Drop your weapons now!” It was a loud voice, one used to shouting. Carter squinted into the shadows. He saw a figure staggering toward the light. Unbelievable!

Agent Griffin, begrimed and greyish black from head to toe. His clothes were torn and, as he walked onto the stage, he left footprints etched in ash.

Mysterioso looked at Griffin, whose Colt .45 was steady and cocked, a round in the chamber. Mysterioso, who had some experience with insane anger, saw it in Griffin’s eyes. “Well,” he whispered. “My my.” He sounded impressed. He took the pistols by their butts and carefully put them on the floor. Griffin kicked them away.

“Are we saved?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes.” Carter waved. “Agent Griffin. Hello!”

“Charles Carter,” Griffin declared, “you are under arrest for the murder of President Warren Gamaliel Harding. Place your hands behind your neck.”

Carter didn’t move. He was so surprised, he couldn’t move. “Excuse me?”

Mysterioso barked, “What are you talking about?” He looked at Carter with a mixture of jealousy and respect. “Carter, did you really kill—”

“Look, you grimp,” Griffin snapped, “I don’t know who you are but if you say another word, I’m going to blow a hole in your chest so big I’ll be able to read the phone book through you.” Griffin glared at him, a thousand-degree stare. Then, in a singsong voice, he added, “‘Yeah, I
do
have a ticket, thanks for reminding me.’ Asshole.”

Mysterioso intook breath, ready with a reply, and Griffin pointed the gun at his solar plexus.

“Just say it. One word. Just one.”

Mysterioso closed his eyes and let out a disappointed sigh.

Carter put his hands behind his head. “Agent Griffin, may I speak?”

“What?”

“Phoebe here is blind. Do you mind if she sits?”

Griffin shrugged. Carter walked Phoebe to the Gone! chair and helped her sit down. He put her hands on the frame of the chair. When she folded them in her lap, he returned them to the frame and held them there, pressing his fingers into her palms before letting go.

Carter returned to his pose, hands behind his head. “Why are you arresting me?”

Griffin spat soot onto the floor. “The wine bottle.” As soon as he said it, it seemed hopelessly inadequate. A wine bottle. Still, even if it took all night, he’d make Carter confess.

Carter’s response was unexpected. “The wine bottle. That’s amazing. I’m amazed.”

“What’s he talking about?” Phoebe shouted. Mysterioso opened his mouth, then thought again, and closed it.

“Quiet,” Griffin said, though not above feeling proud.

Phoebe said, “Charlie, this is where you tell him you didn’t do it.”

But Carter said nothing. To Griffin, Carter looked pleased, like he was basking in getting caught. But Griffin still hadn’t heard a confession. He had no more evidence than the bottle. So he bluffed. “The only thing I don’t know is who you were working for—the Duchess or one of the politicos.”

“Ahh,” Carter replied. “I see. What can I say about that?”

Phoebe shouted, “What about ‘I’m not guilty’?”

“It’s not that simple,” Carter murmured. “I’m thinking.” He shook something into his hand. A tin. Mysterioso frowned at it.

“What’s that?” Griffin waved his gun.

“I’m having a peppermint. I’m trying to think.” Carter shook the tin. “They’re called PEZ. Would you like one?”

“PEZ!” Griffin exclaimed. “Why you—” He growled, as it dawned on him, “The Germans. Of course.”

“Pardon? No, I’m—”

As this colloquy had taken no small attention away from him, Mysterioso shouted, “Carter, come now, you didn’t really—”

“Hey, Barrymore, I said not another word out of you!” Griffin fished in his jacket. “You’re under arrest, too. Put these on.” He threw a pair of handcuffs at Mysterioso, who caught them with one cool hand.

“What are you doing?” Carter asked.

“Cuffing him. Put ’em on, pal.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“You’re next, so shut your yap.”

“He’ll get right out!”

“Hey, these are
government regulation
cuffs,” Griffin explained. “You guys can’t dick your way out of them.”

Carter could only stare: he was face to face with ignorance. If he survived, Griffin could someday make an outstanding audience member.

And then, looking at Griffin the whole time, concentration written on his face as if asking for reassurance that he was doing it correctly, Mysterioso secured one wrist, then the other. He extended his hands. He looked toward the floorboards, radiating a luster of schoolboy shame.

Griffin got out a second pair of cuffs, which he would use to secure Mysterioso to an overhead pipe. He holstered his gun.

“Don’t get near him, Griffin.”

Griffin said, “It’s—” and Mysterioso grabbed Griffin’s wrists and gave them a quick shake. Griffin looked surprised, as that simple motion made
the handcuffs jump off Mysterioso’s wrists and onto his own. While Griffin stared at them, Mysterioso’s hand dipped into Griffin’s jacket and pulled out his gun.

Mysterioso said “Pardon,” and shot Griffin in the side.

Carter flinched. The report was awful and with it came a
thump
across the room. Baby had fallen over. Griffin looked at Mysterioso with an accusatory expression.
Poor Griffin,
Carter thought. He saw in Griffin’s eyes, before they closed, disappointment with the world. Then the agent collapsed. Mysterioso paid Griffin no mind—instead he looked with interest into the lion’s cage.

Phoebe. Carter took a single step backward and hit the button for the Gone! chair so that Phoebe, with a gasp, was fired upward as if from a slingshot. She vanished.

Mysterioso didn’t notice at first. He was too engaged by the sight of Baby stretched out. He looked away to brush soot off his clothes, and then returned to his curious stare.

This was a moment Carter could have used to engineer Mysterioso’s defeat. Instead he was fixated on Griffin, who writhed on the floor. As he bled, Carter began to float. He’d never seen a man shot before. Suddenly his own rules of conduct, the outcomes he believed in, seemed frail and naive. Mysterioso had gone places Carter could never go. He wasn’t sure how to fight that.

Then it didn’t matter. The gun was pointing at him. “I had one bullet and now I have five,” Mysterioso said, but his mind was elsewhere. “You trained Baby to fall over when there’s a gunshot?”

“Yes, or a loud enough clap.”

“How does he stand up?”

“I clap twice.”

“What if anyone else claps?”

Carter said, “Why don’t you try?”

“No. I’d have to put my gun down, so you do it. Clap.”

“There’s a man dying here.”

“I should hope so. Now clap.”

Carter gave a pair of dispirited claps. Baby lurched onto his haunches. Mysterioso watched him.

“That’s very interesting. Oh, and I see your girl is missing. What was she riding, a de Kolta?”

“Yes.”

He squinted. “I don’t see a trap. But I do see a lift, so maybe it’s a Gone! effect. Finding a blind woman on a catwalk. Yes, that should tax
me to no end.” He jerked his chin toward the stage. “I still don’t understand your Kellar device.”

Carter was about to rise to that bait, and then thought,
He’s just a bully.
Granted, a bully with a gun, but the thought gave him slight comfort. “I’m not telling you how everything works.” As he spoke, he saw Griffin’s mouth tying into a grimace. In the shadows, it was hard for Carter to see how extensive Griffin’s wound was, though the layer of soot on his torn shirt was now sticky with gore. He was on his side, knees bent, his body forming a harbor for a pool of blood.