The Vanished Man (Lincoln Rhyme 5)

He leaned forward, mesmerized by the horror of the sight.

More smoke, more screams.

Struggling not to let an unnatural smile slide onto his face, he offered a prayer of thanks. There was no deity Malerick believed in but he sent these words of gratitude to the soul of Harry Houdini, his namesake and idol, and the patron saint of magicians.

Gasps and cries as those around him in this secluded part of the park ran forward to help or to gape. Malerick waited a few moments longer but he knew that soon hundreds of police would fill the park. Looking concerned, pulling out his cell phone to pretend to call the fire department, he eased toward the sidewalk. Still, he couldn't help pausing once more. He looked back to see, half obscured by smoke, the huge banners in front of the tent. On one of them masked Arlecchino, reached outward, holding up his empty palms.

Look, Revered Audience, nothing in my hands.

Except that, like a sleight-of-hand artist, the character was holding something--something hidden from view in a perfect backhand finger conceal.

And only Malerick knew what it was.

The coy Harlequin was holding death.

III

TIPPING THE GAFF

Sunday, April 21,

to Thursday, April 25

"To be a great magician, one must be able to present an illusion in such a way that people are not only puzzled, but deeply moved."

--S. H. SHARP

Forty-six

Amelia Sachs's Camaro hit ninety on the West Side Highway, speeding toward Central Park.

Unlike the FDR Drive, which was a controlled-access expressway, the roadway here was dotted with stoplights and, at Fourteenth Street, it featured a jog that sent her misaligned Chevrolet into an alarming skid, resulting in a sparking kiss between sheet steel and concrete barriers.

So the killer had tricked them with yet another genius's touch. Neither Charles Grady's death nor Andrew Constable's escape was Weir's goal; they were the ultimate misdirections. The killer had been after what they'd rejected yesterday as being too obvious--the Cirque Fantastique.

As she'd been about to kick in one of the few remaining hiding spots in the basement of the court and detention center, Glock high, Rhyme had called her and told her the situation. Lon Sellitto and Roland Bell were headed for the circus, Mel Cooper was jogging over there to help out. Bo Haumann and several ESU teams were on their way too. Everybody was needed and Rhyme wanted her uptown as fast as possible.

"I'm on my way," she'd said, clicking the phone off. She'd turned and begun to sprint out of the basement but paused, returned to the door she'd been standing at and kicked it in anyway.

Just in case.

It'd been completely empty, completely silent--except for the sound of the killer's derisive laughter in her imagination.

Five minutes later she was in her Camaro, pedal down.

The light at Twenty-third Street was against her but the cross traffic wasn't too bad so she went through it fast, relying on the steering wheel, rather than her brakes or the conscience of citizens to yield to her flashing blue light, to get her to the other side.

Once through it, a fast downshift, pedal to the floor and the rattling engine sped her up to eighty. Her hand found her Motorola and she called Rhyme to tell him where she was and to ask what exactly he needed her to do.

*

Malerick wandered slowly out of the park, jostled by people running the opposite way, toward the fire.

"What's going on?"

"Jesus!"

"The police. . . . Did somebody call the police?"