Hocus ik-5 Read online

  “It’s the story with John Oakhurst in it?”

  He smiled. “Yes. John Oakhurst. He pins the deuce of clubs to a tree — ‘at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.’ ”

  I didn’t understand the quote and was about to ask him what it meant, but Frank was calling him to the phone.

  “They can leave at any time,” Bret said to Cassidy.

  “I’ll disarm the doors. But I’m staying here with Samuel.”

  “We aren’t leaving without you,” Frank said, beginning a standoff.

  Cassidy talked to Bret for a long time, while Frank and I sat next to one another, waiting silently for the negotiator to coax Bret into leaving the dead — all of them — behind.

  We heard Bret’s side of the conversation change. Yes, he could always take his life later, so he didn’t mind talking to Cassidy. And Cassidy, working his own magic, got Bret to talk about getting to know Frank and the Szals again and of dreams other than revenge. About how life might be different now and how there were some projects he’d like to see finished. The theater, for example.

  “Do you think,” Bret asked Frank at one point, “that we could really get to know one another?”

  “Yes,” Frank answered. “I enjoy talking to you, Bret.”

  “You aren’t just saying that, are you?”

  “No,” Frank said. “I mean it.”

  He said, “I’m scared.”

  “I know,” Frank said. “I was scared over the last few days, and you tried to help me. I’ll try to help you, too. You won’t have to go through anything alone.”

  “Okay,” he said simply, and told Cassidy we would be coming out through the front doors in a few minutes.

  He put on his white cape as we stood in the lobby, near the door. “How do I look?” he asked Frank.

  “Great,” he said. “Merlin would be proud.”

  “I’m scared,” he said again, glancing over at Samuel’s body.

  “We’re right here with you,” Frank said, and put his arm around Bret’s shoulders.

  We pushed open the door. I stepped through first. Bright lights were shining. I put up a hand to shield my eyes, but Bret balked completely.

  I could hear Cassidy telling them to cut some of the lights. We tried again.

  It wasn’t so bad the next time. I could see Cassidy waiting for us on the other side of the street. We walked out onto the sidewalk. We were free, I told myself. Frank was coming home. But with each step I was aware that guns were pointed at us, and I felt Bret’s fear.

  “What’s wrong?” I heard Frank ask, and realized they had stopped walking. I waited, too.

  “Chains,” Bret said.

  We saw what had halted his progress then: an officer holding a set of manacles.

  “Get those goddamned chains the hell out of here,” Frank yelled, obviously shocking everyone who knew him as quiet Frank Harriman.

  Cassidy seemed equally impatient, and the chains were quickly removed from sight.

  “Don’t be afraid, you’re safe now,” Frank said.

  Bret looked at Frank and smiled. “You said that the first time we met you. You really were our hero, you know,” he said, and reached into his cape.

  “Hold your fire!” Frank shouted, but the shot rang out before he finished the sentence. Bret’s knees buckled. Frank clutched clumsily at him as he slumped, then gathered him into his arms. “Bret? Bret?”

  People began to move toward us, but Frank fell to his knees and I moved with him, watching helplessly as he threw back his head and made a keening sound of anguish.

  Cassidy was beside us, telling the others to leave us alone. I heard him ask softly, “What was he reaching for?”

  Frank gently lifted Bret’s hand, which still gripped the deuce of clubs.

  “John Oakhurst,” he said, “committed suicide.”

  Epilogue

  I WATCHED FROM THE LANAI of our room at the Halekulani as my husband swam the length of the orchid pool underwater. His movements were strong and graceful as he crossed over the exquisite blue mosaic. When he broke the surface for a new breath, I found even these few yards between us a distance nearly too great. Perhaps sensing my gaze, he turned toward me, smiled, and beckoned. Too great a distance for him, as well.

  Halekulani means “a house worthy of paradise,” and it is. We had come to Waikiki because we had never been to it before, because we did not want to be anywhere we had ever been before. We decided to try to see things differently by seeing different things. We were cosseted here, fed delectable dishes, and in every other way taken care of in perfect style. We had saved for a rainy day, and when it had started pouring, Hawaii became our umbrella.

  We needed it. We needed a time to be able to sleep in after nightmares, a place to sort through remembrances without spectators eyeing our reactions.

  Several hours ahead of us, Las Piernas finished its day. My editor, elated a week ago by the most difficult story I’ve ever written in my life, would by now be angry that I wasn’t around to take on a new assignment. My sister, out of town during our week of hell, would begrudge my leaving town for this brief taste of heaven.

  Others would be dealing with the aftermath of that week in their own way. Cecilia, Gus, and Greg were back in Bakersfield, relieved that no one was pressing charges against them. Detailed investigations had revealed that Lang and Colson — who had little hope of avoiding prison — had each lost family members to addiction. Lieutenant Carlson, facing charges by Internal Affairs that he had leaked the story on Hocus, might not be a lieutenant by the time we returned. Bredloe, facing the chief’s displeasure over allowing Nathan Cook to enter that theater, might not be a captain. Pete, given a day or two to realize that Frank really was safe, had taken a leave of absence to go fishing with Rachel. They’d invited Jack to go along, and he’d decided to take the dogs — who had been following Frank so mercilessly, we feared we might see them surfing into Waikiki Beach. Bea, who had a long talk with Frank about his older sister, was staying at our place, keeping Cody company. She’d bought a little frame for Frank’s photo of Diana.

  Cassidy was on Maui. That would be week two of our vacation.

  Frank talked about leaving the department, about trying some other line of work. I told him that I’d stay married to him even if he became a beach bum. He hadn’t shaved the beard yet but otherwise had made no firm commitments.

  “Probably not a smart time to make the decision,” he had said yesterday.

  Probably not.

  But that world was hours ahead of us, more hours than simple longitude could measure. We were blissfully behind, moving at Hawaii’s pace. The Hawaiians were good enough to teach us how to slow down.

  At the edge of the pool Frank swam to meet me, reaching up as I stepped in.

  For all the healing that we knew lay ahead of us, we had seen what Bret and Samuel sadly could not see, that damage need not destroy us, that what remains is often so much more than what was taken. And if, after all the pain of those days had passed, some part of our lives was still left in ruins, we would build on it our own Halekulani, our house worthy of paradise.

  Or, I thought, sliding into the water and his arms, something damn close.

  Acknowledgments

  Laurie Bernstein deserves thanks first and foremost for this one, for believing in it from the start. Simon & Schuster has offered unfailing support.

  In addition to friends and family who cheered me on, I am indebted to Lisa Baldridge and Sandra Molen, research librarians, and other members of the staff of the Bakersfield Californian, who were so generous with their time and help when I visited there. Fictional Brandon North wouldn’t last a day if he had to compete with Ms. Molen, who is much more competent and organized. Patrice Black of the Bakersfield Chamber of Commerce helped me to locate Bea Harriman’s house and provided other information about the area. I appreciate the help given by the staffs of the Kern County Museum, the University Library at CSU, Long Beach, the
Long Beach Public Library (especially James Washington and Eleanor Newhard), and the Beale Memorial Library in Bakersfield. As with the staff of the Californian, the librarians in this book resemble those of the Beale only when they are brilliant and helpful.

  My thanks to Joel Hendricks, engineer, California Department of Forestry, for fire-fighting information; to Skip Langley for his expertise on medical and industrial gas systems; Ranger Patty Bates of the U.S. Forest Service, Greenhorn Ranger District, Sequoia National Forest, for information on the Kern River and wildlife in the canyon; to Mike Brewer of the San Diego Zoo for additional help with wildlife behavior; to Dan Coburn for information on aircraft; Andy Voelkel for computer help; California offices of the Southern Pacific and the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroads for information on freight trains.

  Medical questions were answered by Dr. James Gruber, emergency department physician, Dr. Ed Dohring, orthopedic surgeon, and Kelly Dorhing, R.N. Tonya Pearsley helped with information on the psychological aspects of elective mutism and in other ways too numerous to mention.

  Law enforcement and investigation expertise was generously given by several members of the Long Beach Police Department, most especially Detectives Bill Valles, John Gill, and Corporal Henry Erickson. Additional help came from Vic Pietrantoni, Los Angeles Police Department Robbery-Homicide Division; Vernon Pitsker, private investigator; the Long Beach office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; the Bakersfield office of the California Highway Patrol; GTE Security. I am also grateful to my nephew, John Pearsley, Jr., who was recently sworn in as an officer with the El Cajon Police Department and of whom I am exceedingly proud.

  Regina and Greg Szal are more remarkable than their fictional namesakes, and I appreciate the help they gave with astronomy and speech therapy.

  Several individuals at the Richard and Karen Carpenter Performing Arts Center at CSULB kindly offered information on theaters new and old when I visited there; I am very grateful to my good friend, Sharon Weissman, director, who helped me to explore the catwalk and other areas, and to Kathyrn Havey, production manager, who read the rough draft and provided insights on stagecraft and design.

  Debbie Arrington again provided invaluable assistance with information on reporting.

  Joyce Matsumoto and Chef Mavro (George Mavrothalassitis) are two reasons the Halekulani is indeed worthy of paradise. Mahalo.

  Cappy, thanks for warming my feet. And if home is where the heart is, Tim Burke is my permanent address.

  Books by Jan Burke

  Nine

  Flight

  Bones

  Liar

  Hocus

  Remember Me, Irene

  Dear Irene,

  Sweet Dreams, Irene

  Goodnight, Irene

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