The Placebo Effect (38 page)

They liked the show's approach—“Wry,” “Sardonic,” “Witty,” “New direction for Canadian television.” They weren't crazy about the director's work—no kidding. The guy had all the imagination of yesteryear's Heritage Minute—
“The tri-breasted warbler common to most northern woodlands…”
They also weren't nuts about the casting of the actors who played the reenactments. Right again, Mr. Irishman—it was almost impossible to get casting directors in this town to move away from the ten folks they endlessly used. They did, however, like the leading actor—and didn't find him too distant or off-putting or private. Decker had trained this guy from the time he was seventeen and guided him through his ten years in Hollywood—and he was a real talent. Nice that the critics saw that, but a fluke that the casting directors allowed Decker to get him into the room. Actually not a fluke. Through Trish he had informed them that if they didn't see this guy there would be no show. Why these folks made you play the death card over and over again to get anything done in this town is something that needed asking.

Decker checked to see if anyone mentioned the Mountebank voiceover warning at the top of the show—no one had. Just a reminder to Mr. Yolles that the voiceover existed.

Decker was about to dump the newspapers into the shredder when a clipping from the
Wall Street Journal
fell out. “
U.S. DRUG AGENCY PROBES CALATREX
” was the heading. In her precise scrawl Yslan had printed,
“You owe me again, Decker.”

He headed into the kitchen. He slid the USB keys out of his pocket and threw them on the counter.

He looked at the slender things just lying there, then picked up the one marked Stanstead and hid it beneath a loose floorboard beside the door frame.

“Later,” he said to the air. He had to stop doing that. People would think he was even weirder than he actually was.

He stepped back into the studio. The light on the message
machine was blinking—he unplugged the machine. He needed a bit of time alone before his world began again.

He converted the couch into a bed and stretched out on the lumpy mattress. He put his hands behind his head and watched the snow fall through the shafts of street light—and didn't remember when he fell asleep.

And his night was gratefully dreamless.

In the morning he contacted his assistant and informed him that he was going to start up classes again. His assistant was pleased and said he could get a class together for that evening. Decker thought about that then said, “Sure.”

“Six to ten thirty?”

“Yeah, the usual,” Decker replied.

“How many actors?”

“Sixteen—and as many auditors as there are chairs. Messages?”

“A guy named Eddie keeps calling. You need his number?”

“No. Got that, thanks.”

“See you tonight. Welcome home.”

Decker hung up and thought about that. Is this really my home? He didn't know. He lunched at the Swan on Queen Street, then walked back to the studio. The city seemed vaguely welcoming today. It hustled and bustled by him, but it acknowledged him, saw him, and he saw it.
Home?
he wondered.

He called his assistant for the names of the actors taking class, and as he walked across Bellwoods Park he plotted the session. He'd do the Betrayal Game with them. It was an acting game that Decker had developed years ago. Four actors are given the following scenario: They all work for a clothing store downtown. The store has not made money for three years, and they are planning to turn the corner with this year's spring line. But as they gather for the monthly meeting they pass by the competition's window and everything, every piece, every idea, every design concept is there on full display—and their supply of clothing is not due for six more weeks. They are effectively done, finished, kaput, and
all because one of the four betrayed the other three. The Betrayer is selected by secret draw. The object for those who have been betrayed is to determine who did this to them. The object for the Betrayer is to have someone else blamed for his or her perfidy. As the audience watches they have to separate the innocent from the guilty. And as the audience agrees that a person is innocent, that person is pulled out of the scene until there are just two people left—one who has been betrayed and one who is the Betrayer.

His assistant set up the parameters of the game, and then Decker came in to introduce the intricacies—the back stories that are the givens. As he spoke to the assembled sixteen actors and the twenty-odd auditors, he took note of the attentive faces in the seats and of Eddie sitting at the very back to one side—an empty chair to his right.

For a moment he didn't think he could proceed. Then he sucked it up and started the game.

In each of the first three scenes Decker identified the Betrayer long before anyone watching or any of the actors in the scene. And in each of those first three passes when there was only the Betrayer and a lone betrayed person left on the set, Decker allowed the betrayed person to punish the Betrayer—each succeeding scene with more and more vigor.

In the fourth and last scene of the night it took Decker longer to find the Betrayer. It was the immensely talented girl with the oddly spelled name, Tawtiawna, and when he finally spotted her, he looked back at the audience to see who else had picked Tawtiawna out of the group.

Eddie sat very still.

Decker quickly turned back to the scene and removed two of the betrayed actors, leaving only a betrayed middle-aged actor and the talented young actress Betrayer.

The look of shock on the middle-aged actor's face was real. Tawtiawna had completely fooled him. The look of “I'm caught” in Tawtiawna's entire being was even deeper and more truthful.

“Ask her why—single word—Why?” Decker prompted the middle-aged actor.

“Why?” the actor asked Tawtiawna.

“Deeper,” Decker said.

“Why?” then a pause, then, “Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?”

Decker heard a whimper behind him. He turned to the audience. Eddie was wide-eyed, tears streaming down his face. All eyes turned toward him—even the actors looked in his direction.

“Because of my daughter,” Eddie shouted.

Decker whipped around to face the scene. “Use that line.”

“Because of my daughter,” Tawtiawna said tentatively.

“Again,” Decker said. “Stay on that line. Just that line and no more. Your drone note against his,” he ordered, then turned back to face Eddie and the empty chair beside him. Over his shoulder he heard the actors work.

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

“Why?”

“Because of my daughter.”

And Decker sensed it before the actors did, but they were slowly, inexorably—finding their way to forgiveness.

And through their artistry, their gift, Decker found forgiveness too.

Henry-Clay Yolles stood in the massive front entryway of the Treloar Building and listened to the phantoms as they skittered away from him. Now that he was the owner of the damned thing they'd better damned well skitter. But he knew they weren't disappearing—they were simply hiding, waiting for him no doubt, on the roof from which, in 1929, his grandfather and a granduncle had held hands and jumped.

Harrison turned off his computer and leaned back in his chair. Another day gotten through, another day without an attack, another threat detected and disarmed. He flicked on his scrambled phone and hit three digits.

On the other end Mr. T picked up the phone.

“I'm listening,” Harrison said.

“Decker's back to work, we're on him.”

“Good.” Harrison knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't resist. “And Hicks?”

“She's on the case.”

It wasn't what Harrison wanted to know. “Sure. But him and her?”

“If it ever was, it isn't any longer, boss.”

Harrison hung up. The lights on his other phones were blinking. He looked at them for a moment… but chose not to answer.

Yslan hit the shuffle command on her iPod and a Journey tune came up. She hadn't listened to Journey for ages, since
The Sopranos
ended with this very song.

She leaned against the cool window of her hotel room and allowed the music to move her—move her to thoughts of the little girl she'd been and the private name she'd had for herself, and to Decker. As she slowly rocked to the music she began, for the first time in her life, to do what Decker would have called voyaging.

There were four or five inches of fresh powder snow on the sidewalk. It was a clear, cold night. The new snow puffed up to their knees as Decker and Eddie walked past the churches on Annette Street.

Neither spoke.

Both knew that the ghosts of their respective children walked with them, just out of sight.

Decker knew that Yslan and her guys were not far away, and he sensed that others—as of yet unidentified others—were watching too.

But for now he didn't care. He was content just walking with his friend, toward what used to be Eddie's home and now would be their home.

He looked around him—the churches, the police station just up the road, the old library, the turn-of-the-century Heintzman House, the roads laid out on old riverbeds, a solitary lamppost from which a fourteen-year-old boy had been lynched. Secrets, many secrets, but a place where things come together—where divergent streams meet—where Decker would wait for the return of his son and Eddie would continue to work to get his daughter back. Here, in the Junction.

D
AVID
R
OTENBERG
has published five mystery novels (the Zhong Fong detective series set in modern Shanghai) and the bestselling historical fiction novel
Shanghai, The Ivory Compact.
He has directed plays on Broadway, in Shanghai (where he directed the first Canadian play in the People's Republic of China), in Cape Town and in many regional theatres in North America. He is the artistic director of the internationally renowned Pro Actors Lab in Toronto whose unique acting techniques are used by actors in Canada, the United States, the United Kingdom, South Africa and the People's Republic of China.

He lives in Toronto, in the Junction, with his wife, Susan Santiago, and is currently at work on the second novel in the Junction Chronicles series.

ALSO BY DAVID ROTENBERG

Shanghai, the Ivory Compact

The Golden Mountain Murders

The Hamlet Murders

The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

The Lake Ching Murders: A Mystery of Fire and Ice

The Shanghai Murders: A Mystery of Love and Ivory

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