forward, pulling his captor off balance, then rolled the young man over his back. A surprised young man, he noted, grinning at him as he lay on the floor.
“Stop it!” the magician yelled, waving the gun.
Frank kicked at the man on the floor but missed him completely. He tried again and lost his own balance, crashing into a lamp and coffee table and God knew what else before the man who had been on the floor was grabbing him again. Frank struggled, but he was growing clumsier now.
“Follow the plan!” the captor yelled. “Kill him!”
Frank fell to his knees, too dizzy, too sleepy, to stand. The magician looked lost.
The captor let him fall to the floor. He marched over to the magician and took the gun.
Frank heard the shot — loud, louder than the train.
Just like falling asleep, he thought. He felt cold. He allowed himself to wish she were holding him. He imagined her arms around him and wondered if she would ever forgive him for getting himself killed.
7
M ARK B AKER DIDN’T SEE ME at my desk when he came into the newsroom. He made a beeline into John’s office. I’m not sure if it was my chickeny side or my rebellious nature at work, but in either case I wasn’t willing to contribute to the story on my husband’s disappearance — so I staged one of my own. I slipped out of the newsroom and made my way downstairs.
Cassidy wasn’t in the lobby, and I didn’t see him among the cops who were still huddled around Frank’s car. I looked across the lot and saw him leaning against my Karmann Ghia.
“I’m going home,” I told him when I reached the car.
“See you there,” he said, an announcement I was less than happy about, but I was in no mood to argue. I got into my car as he watched. I rolled down the window.
“Cassidy?”
“Hmm.”
“Should I wait here? This is where they left the message for me. Does that mean they’ll call here?”
“I’ve thought about that. I don’t think they’ll have any trouble finding you.”
“But our home phone number is unlisted….”
“I’ll bet you thought your bank account number was private, too.”
“Oh.” I looked over at the Volvo.
“You okay to drive?” he asked. “I’ll take you home if you’d like.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll make it.”
“Sure,” he said, and sauntered off toward his sedan.
As I drove home I thought of the other information I had gathered on Hocus. The murder of the animal shelter officer had generated a hue and cry for their arrests, but Hocus received less criticism over its next set of targets.
The
Express
received an anonymous call, a male voice saying that Hocus was going to clean up a few neighborhoods. Within a twenty-four-hour period, four houses exploded, killing twenty-one people — a total that was not finalized for several days, because it’s hard to count bodies when they’re in pieces the size of stew meat. Fifteen of them were at one address, a party cut short.
Normally this kind of terrorism would have resulted in outrage, but this time Hocus actually gained some supporters. It seemed a long list of neighbor complaints had been filed about each of the doomed houses — complaints about drug dealing, noise, and the constant stream of unsavory visitors in and out at all hours. In general, the neighbors of the victims figured that Hocus had done them a favor. If they had any objections, they were only to the occasional peripheral damage done by the explosions — broken windows, pictures falling from walls. Asked about the loss of human life, one man had shrugged and said, “Pest control.”
The police, for all their problems with the dealers, weren’t so happy with Hocus’s solution. Frank had been assigned to what became known as “the party house,” the site with the highest body count. He wasn’t in good shape when he got home from that one. Sometime after playing with Deke and Dunk, a long run on the beach, and a Macallan on the rocks, he started
“Stop it!” the magician yelled, waving the gun.
Frank kicked at the man on the floor but missed him completely. He tried again and lost his own balance, crashing into a lamp and coffee table and God knew what else before the man who had been on the floor was grabbing him again. Frank struggled, but he was growing clumsier now.
“Follow the plan!” the captor yelled. “Kill him!”
Frank fell to his knees, too dizzy, too sleepy, to stand. The magician looked lost.
The captor let him fall to the floor. He marched over to the magician and took the gun.
Frank heard the shot — loud, louder than the train.
Just like falling asleep, he thought. He felt cold. He allowed himself to wish she were holding him. He imagined her arms around him and wondered if she would ever forgive him for getting himself killed.
7
M ARK B AKER DIDN’T SEE ME at my desk when he came into the newsroom. He made a beeline into John’s office. I’m not sure if it was my chickeny side or my rebellious nature at work, but in either case I wasn’t willing to contribute to the story on my husband’s disappearance — so I staged one of my own. I slipped out of the newsroom and made my way downstairs.
Cassidy wasn’t in the lobby, and I didn’t see him among the cops who were still huddled around Frank’s car. I looked across the lot and saw him leaning against my Karmann Ghia.
“I’m going home,” I told him when I reached the car.
“See you there,” he said, an announcement I was less than happy about, but I was in no mood to argue. I got into my car as he watched. I rolled down the window.
“Cassidy?”
“Hmm.”
“Should I wait here? This is where they left the message for me. Does that mean they’ll call here?”
“I’ve thought about that. I don’t think they’ll have any trouble finding you.”
“But our home phone number is unlisted….”
“I’ll bet you thought your bank account number was private, too.”
“Oh.” I looked over at the Volvo.
“You okay to drive?” he asked. “I’ll take you home if you’d like.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll make it.”
“Sure,” he said, and sauntered off toward his sedan.
As I drove home I thought of the other information I had gathered on Hocus. The murder of the animal shelter officer had generated a hue and cry for their arrests, but Hocus received less criticism over its next set of targets.
The
Express
received an anonymous call, a male voice saying that Hocus was going to clean up a few neighborhoods. Within a twenty-four-hour period, four houses exploded, killing twenty-one people — a total that was not finalized for several days, because it’s hard to count bodies when they’re in pieces the size of stew meat. Fifteen of them were at one address, a party cut short.
Normally this kind of terrorism would have resulted in outrage, but this time Hocus actually gained some supporters. It seemed a long list of neighbor complaints had been filed about each of the doomed houses — complaints about drug dealing, noise, and the constant stream of unsavory visitors in and out at all hours. In general, the neighbors of the victims figured that Hocus had done them a favor. If they had any objections, they were only to the occasional peripheral damage done by the explosions — broken windows, pictures falling from walls. Asked about the loss of human life, one man had shrugged and said, “Pest control.”
The police, for all their problems with the dealers, weren’t so happy with Hocus’s solution. Frank had been assigned to what became known as “the party house,” the site with the highest body count. He wasn’t in good shape when he got home from that one. Sometime after playing with Deke and Dunk, a long run on the beach, and a Macallan on the rocks, he started
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