Hocus ik-5 Page 33

  “He’s not a boy,” Nat said.

  Cecilia popped open the trunk, stepped out of the car. “Let’s get this over with,” she said.

  The others got out. Gus walked around a little. “All clear,” he said.

  Nat started to unbutton his shirt, paused when he saw she was staring at him. “Would you please look the other way?”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t. I don’t have an injured leg, and I don’t feel as sorry for you as Gus does.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for the bastard,” Gus said to her.

  Nat shrugged, continued to undress. “Whatever. If you feel you must guard me, fine. But I haven’t fought any of you on any of this. And I don’t know what I’ve ever done to harm you, Cecilia.”

  “You let me believe you were someone you weren’t. Hurry up and strip.”

  39

  I TOOK THE FLASHLIGHT and key and crawled up the ladder. Hoping to God it wasn’t what Bret had called an “armed” door, I unlocked the access door. Gingerly I pushed it open. Nothing happened.

  I listened for a moment before continuing to climb through the access. I heard the sound of the helicopter passing overhead. Nothing else. I moved through the opening and looked around.

  I was in a space between the roof of the building and the “house” and stage below, an area called the catwalk: part of a large grid of suspended, narrow metal walkways — also called catwalks and used for access to lights and other equipment above the house and stage. The term came back to me from a great distance — I had briefly dated a stage manager in my freshman year of college. We split up when he discovered I wasn’t ready to go directly from the overture to the third act with him. An interesting man, but even with a bonus prize of free matinee tickets, he wasn’t worth it.

  The stage manager had believed in ghosts and was convinced that all old theaters were haunted. Looking along the Starlight’s catwalk with nothing more than a flashlight in my hand, I was convinced he was right about that. Although almost everything up here seemed fairly new, one misstep on the newest of catwalks would lead to a long fall. I crept along, passing lighting fixtures and electrical cords. I heard a gear turn and froze.

  Eventually working up enough courage to shine the flashlight in the direction the sound came from, I saw that it was a videocamera. I couldn’t see the lens end, which extended into the wall and was surrounded by rubber.

  Moving cautiously, shining the flashlight along the walls of the building, I saw that there were four cameras up here, one in each corner of the catwalk. There might be others in the part of the theater nearest the alley, which wasn’t accessible from the catwalk. I sat still for a time, considering my options. The cameras were undoubtedly being used by Hocus to monitor what went on outside the building, the movements of the police. Although there might be other cameras elsewhere in the building, if I disabled these, I might give Cassidy a much needed advantage. On the other hand, if Hocus saw their monitors start to blink out, their first reaction would probably be to come up here and find out what was going on. If Bret came looking for me, I might be all right, even if he was angry about the cameras. But Samuel?

  I thought of Faye Taft and gave a shudder.

  Still, it might be a chance worth taking. I might be able to elude him. Any theater was full of hiding places.

  They were probably in such a hiding place themselves. They had left the stage, but I hadn’t heard them moving through the house or up to the projection booth. I had seen no lights on in the area below the catwalk. They were probably somewhere behind or beneath the stage, then.

  If I ran along the catwalk — dangerous even in full light — from one end of the building to the other, I might make it. I couldn’t just turn off the cameras. I’d have to make sure they couldn’t be repaired quickly, or it wouldn’t be worth the risk.

  I studied the camera nearest me. I pushed at the thick rubber lining that surrounded the lens end of the camera. It gave way easily, and bright daylight came in through the small opening in the wall. I let my eyes adjust to it and looked out around the little space left by the camera. I couldn’t see anything outside the building, but I could hear the helicopter more clearly. The opening was larger than the camera itself, made to allow the camera to move for various angles.

  To my relief, the camera was fastened to an arm by a simple camera screw, similar to one on a tripod. The arm itself had separate controls. If I unscrewed the mount and yanked the power supply loose, I could shove the camera through the opening in the wall.

  I thought out the pattern I would need to follow. There were four ways to exit a catwalk. Up through the roof, but the roof access was probably booby-trapped. Down a set of stairs onto the stage or down the ladder into the projection booth — the two safest options. The final exit would be just that — a fall from one of the walks.

  For several reasons I decided to disable the cameras nearest the projection booth first. That would prevent Bret and Samuel from monitoring any police activity at the front of the building, where Cassidy and his friends would have more room to move than the blind alley at the back.

  The covering over the projection booth ceiling was a solid floor, not the narrow catwalk ramps that I’d have to take to reach the cameras at the stage end. It would be easier to take out the booth-end cameras first. I also knew the only other exit from the projection booth was a single stairway, while the stage would offer more chances for evasion if need be. Hocus might come up the stage entrance to the catwalk to see what was happening to the cameras, but that was a chance I’d have to take.

  I walked to the stage entrance, opened the unlocked door, and listened. Silence and darkness. The flashlight revealed little beyond the stairway itself. Near the door, a set of large cardboard boxes stood on a platform. A closer look showed this platform to be the top of the mechanical lift I had seen on the stage below. There were no controls on the platform, or I might have had another way down. Reading the box labels, I saw they were speakers. A new sound system for the old theater, in the process of being installed. I used one of the smaller boxes to prop open the stairway door.

  Mapping my escape along the way, I went to each camera, pushed off the rubber guards, loosened the mounting screws. Back near the projection booth I took several deep breaths, thought of orange blossoms, and yanked the first camera’s power cord, then shoved it out onto the street.

  I skipped the pleasure of watching it crash and ran to the other corner at the front of the building and did the same to that camera. Now the long run down the catwalk to the camera at stage left. I tried to move as quickly and quietly as possible. I dropped the third camera and was moving to the fourth when the booth access door flew open, a shaft of light coming through it. I turned off my flashlight, prayed faster than I ran.

  I forced myself to continue toward the camera, even as I saw a man crawling through the space. He was already pulling a gun from his waistband, though, so I detoured toward the stage stairway. He yelled, “Stop!” But he wasn’t looking directly at me, and I realized that his eyes had not adjusted to the dark. He had no flashlight, only the gun in his hand. I reached the stairway door, moved the box, then turned and toppled the other speaker boxes. I heard a shot as I closed the door behind me.

  I grabbed the stair rail, turned on the flashlight for a brief second, then moved like hell down the stairwell. I reached a landing, turned the light on again just long enough to read a sign on a door that said FLY GALLERY.

  I knew the fly gallery would be another narrow walkway, an area alongside the rigging for the mechanisms that operated curtains and backdrops. Counterweighted ropes would raise and lower curtains, borders, and backdrops from this area over the stage called “the flies.” There would be no exit from the other end, and I would be about sixty feet above the stage. Without entering the fly gallery, I opened and closed its door with a loud bang, then continued down the metal stairs.

  I could hear my pursuer struggling with the boxes as I reached the part of the stai
rwell that opened onto the stage itself. One box fell to the seats with a loud crash.

  I reached the stage and turned right. I used the flashlight again, this time to find the rigging. I went to the area where the flyman — the person who raises and lowers the scenery and curtains — would work during a production. There were dozens of line sets. I turned off the flashlight, tucked it into my jeans, and began moving along the line sets, releasing all of them, lowering curtains and backdrops like crazy.

  This made noise in the fly gallery, and I could hear my pursuer opening the door I had passed. I reached the end of the line sets and bumped into a console: the on-stage controls lights. I hesitated, then worked my way around it. I risked the flashlight once more as I heard the fly gallery door slam shut again. I chose a relatively unobstructed path between a curtain and backdrop, then turned off the flashlight. I began tiptoeing along the path, trying to get to the other side of the stage without revealing my presence. I heard my pursuer reach the stage.

  “Who are you?” I heard him call.

  It was Samuel. I didn’t answer.

  “You can’t get out of here, you know.” He tripped over something as he said this and swore as he fell. I listened but could not hear his footsteps. I moved a little farther, stumbled over one of Bret’s magician’s props. I grabbed the curtain to keep from falling. It made a soft noise as it swayed, but it didn’t rip or drop.

  I waited, regained my balance, and moved on. I could hear Samuel again now. He was moving closer to the light console. I hurried forward, stumbled again.

  The house lights came on. I was not far from the other side of the stage. I lurched to my feet, ran into the wings.

  Suddenly there was a familiar whistling sound — the sound of the alarm I had heard in the delivery bay. I kept running, moving backstage.

  I passed a red handle and pulled it. A fire alarm. Loud bells overpowered the whistling sound. The fire curtain plummeted, slowing slightly when it was about eight feet above the stage floor, blocking the house lights. I saw Samuel cross beneath it just as the stage, cut off from the house now, was enveloped in darkness once again.

  I turned on the flashlight and ran.

  40

  “CAMERAS, SIR.”

  Cassidy took his eyes from the binoculars and looked at Hank Freeman.

  “SWAT said she’s disabling the cameras,” Hank clarified. “That’s what was dropping off the building. The rubber pieces were some sort of weatherproofing. The cameras have followed. She’s dropped all but one.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Cassidy said, listening to the endless ringing of the phone line connected to his headset. Under his breath he said, “Pick up the phone, Bret.”

  Freeman was frowning now, listening over his own headset. “One of them is chasing her.”

  They heard the pop of gunfire.

  Cassidy picked up a hand radio. “Hold on.”

  Hank Freeman heard Bredloe ordering everyone to hold their fire. Bredloe’s voice was less calm, he thought. He never knew how Cassidy managed this part of it. The worse it got for everybody else, the calmer Cassidy would be. The helicopter pilot was talking now, and Freeman listened over the headset.

  “She’s still moving,” Hank said. “They’re farther apart.”

  Into the radio Cassidy said, “You copy that, Captain?”

  Bredloe said he did.

  “Pick up the phone,” Cassidy said into the headset again.

  As if Bret had heard Cassidy willing him to do so, the answer came.

  “Detective Cassidy?”

  “Yes, Bret,” Cassidy answered, smiling. “I’m here.”

  “Was that your gunfire?”

  “No, Bret, that was yours.”

  “Samuel?”

  “I think so. He apparently took a shot at Irene.”

  There was a long silence.

  “What’s he shooting with?” Cassidy asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Did he…?”

  Cassidy waited.

  “Is she all right?” Bret asked.

  “I can’t tell you, Bret.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “That part of the building isn’t shielded.”

  “What part of the building?”

  “All of it. All of it except the room I’m in can be seen on your thermal sensors. Where is she?”

  Cassidy didn’t answer.

  “I don’t want to hurt her!”

  “I know you don’t,” Cassidy said easily. “You and Samuel are different in that way, I suppose.”

  “Yes. We are. He’ll kill her! Where is she?”

  But before Cassidy could reply, he heard the sound of breaking glass. Bret shouted, “No, don’t! Don’t! Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  There was a high whistling sound in the background.

  “Ignore that alarm,” Bret said to Cassidy in a weak voice, and hung up.

  “Hank, tell the tactical folks to ignore all—”

  They heard the loud ringing of a fire alarm.

  Cassidy picked up a hand radio. “Ignore it. False alarm.”

  He heard Bredloe repeating the order.

  They listened as the bells rang.

  41

  SAMUEL RAN ACROSS the loading dock to the basement door. He used a key to shut off the fire alarm. His ears were still ringing from the damned thing. Fucking asshole intruder. How did he sneak in? That was worrisome. He would take care of the intruder later. If he was lucky, the jerk would blow himself to kingdom come.

  He entered another code, and the whistling sound ceased. Jesus, what next? Things weren’t going right. He unlocked another panel and turned on a screen that allowed him to view the basement room.

  Bret was lying on the floor. Frank Harriman was bending over him.

  Samuel frantically punched the intercom button. “Get the fuck away from him!” he screamed into the mike. “Get the fuck away from him now if you want to live, you son of a bitch!”

  Frank lifted his manacled hands in the air, backed awkwardly away from Bret. He couldn’t see the camera, so he turned toward the voice. “He fainted,” Frank said. “He’s okay, he just fainted.”

  Samuel’s breath was coming hard, painfully. “Stay away from him,” he repeated, nearly in tears, but now he could see that Frank’s hand was bleeding. The blood. That’s what must have made Bret faint.

  “What did you do to your hand?” Samuel asked.

  Frank didn’t answer, just looked around for the camera.

  “I asked a question. Answer me!”

  “I pulled the IV out,” Frank said.

  Bret moaned.

  “Let me help him,” Frank said.

  “You go near him, I’ll kill you. Go into the bathroom,” Samuel ordered. “Go in there and close the door. If he sees the blood, he’ll faint again.”

  Reluctantly, looking down at Bret as he passed him, Frank moved into the bathroom and closed the door.

  With shaking fingers Samuel entered the code, then hurried down to Bret. He rearmed the alarm, noting that the keypad had blood on it. He’d have to wipe that off later.

  Bret’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Samuel?” He tried to sit up.

  “I’m here. You’re still pale. Let me help you.” When he had situated Bret on the stairs so that he could sit more comfortably, Samuel said, “Are you hurt anywhere? Did you hit your head when you fainted?”

  “No, I think Frank caught me.” He looked around. “Where is he?”

  “In the bathroom. It’s okay. Just relax. Don’t look over there — I’ll clean up that mess. You just put your head down.”

  “Embarrassing,” Bret said, putting his head between his knees.

  “No, it’s not. Don’t worry about that. And forget about him. The fan runs when the light is on, so he can’t hear us.”

  “Maybe you should see if he’s all right. He was bleeding.”

  “Not that badly,” Samuel said. “He’ll be okay. He can rinse it off in the sink, wrap it in a towel. He’s sm
art enough to do that.”

  “He broke the morphine bottle. Pulled his IV catheter out. Tried to enter the alarm code.”

  “I should have waited, made sure he went under.”

  “He pinched the tubing shut. I don’t think he got any of it.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Samuel growled, looking toward the bathroom.

  “I don’t blame him,” Bret said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t blame him. And every time I hear those manacles—”

  “Relax, relax,” Samuel soothed.

  “I would go crazy, Samuel. If someone did that to me, I’d go crazy. I couldn’t take it.”

  “Shh. It’s all right. No one has hurt him, Bret. Not really.”

  “We have. The morphine — it’s just like the chains. It’s a chemical chain, that’s all. He knows it. It makes him feel helpless. And when he thought you had shot his wife, it must have been just like—”

  “When he thought I had what?”

  “Shot his wife. Did you shoot her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Irene Kelly. That’s who’s in the building.”

  Samuel stared at him in silence. “You lied to me,” he said, incredulous.

  “Yes. I’m sorry if that hurts you.”

  “If it hurts me? Of course it does!”

  “Just sit with me here for a minute, Samuel. Just sit with me. Like we used to, when we were silent.”

  Samuel almost rebelled, but something in Bret’s voice worried him. So he didn’t say anything.

  Within a few minutes he was calm. The silences always did this for him. In school, when they were younger, if someone made him angry, Bret could calm him in this way. And he was reminded that Bret would not have asked for one of these shared silences unless, ironically, there was something important to be “said.”

  After a long time Samuel spoke. “It was because of Faye.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hate me for that?”

  “No, of course not. But it’s getting easier for you to hurt people, and I didn’t want you to hurt Frank’s wife. That’s why I didn’t tell you she was here, Samuel.”