Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (187 page)

“Do you know his name?”

“Not his real name. I have a call in to a man who might know. Onstage he went by the Great Cygne.”

The man pronounced the word
seen-yeh.

“And this older magician was from Philly?” Byrne asked.

“I believe so, although I could not find any specific information on that.”

Lake handed Byrne a faded color image of a tall, slender man in a cutaway tuxedo. “This is the only photo I could find. It was downloaded from a German website.”

Byrne reached into the car. He took out a pair of photos he found in Laura Somerville’s strongbox and compared them to the downloaded photograph. They were identical.

“Rumor was that the Great Cygne was a little unstable,” Lake said. “And that he was pretty much shunned by the community at large.”

“Why is that?”

“Years ago he invented an illusion called ‘The Singing Boy’ and sold it to a number of top magicians—claiming exclusivity to each of them—for a great deal of money. When word got out, he was persona non grata in magic circles. No one really saw him after that, I gather.”

“The Great Cygne. Can you spell that for me?” Byrne asked.

The man did. It hit Byrne like a sledgehammer.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Lake continued, “in French, the word
cygne
means—”

“Swan,” Byrne said.

Swan Lake. The puzzle is in the shape of a bird.

“He’s building a swan.”

| EIGHTY |

| 2 : 55 AM |

L
ILLY SAT IN A CHAIR IN THE CANDLELIT ROOM
. T
HE OLD MAN STROKED
her hair, his fingers ice cold. A few moments earlier she had heard something loud—it might have been a slamming door or a backfire—but she dared not ask about it.

She had never been more frightened in her life.

When she looked up at the old man, he was staring at her.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The man looked at her as if she were crazy. He put his shoulders back, lifted his chin. “I am the Great Cygne.”

“You called me a name before. What was it?”

“Odette, of course.”

“And what is this place?”

Another incredulous look. “This is Faerwood.”

“Do you live here?”

The old man got a faraway look. For a moment it appeared as if he might be falling asleep. Then he told Lilly an incredible story.

He told her that his real name was Karl Swann, and that he was once a world-renowned magician, student of the masters, mentor to the greats. He told her that many years ago he’d had a mishap during one of his stage illusions, and accidentally hanged himself. He told her that his son, Joseph, had kept him in this room for more than twenty years, but now he was much better, and was ready to perform all over the world again. He told her that this night would be the Great Cygne’s greatest triumph, something called the Fire Grotto.

Lilly tried to digest it all.
Twenty years.
She looked around. The room was crowded with steamer trunks, wooden crates, broken furniture. At one end was an enormous hospital bed with filthy sheets. On the dressers were stacks of food-littered trays. Everywhere were tattered silks, bent linking rings, rusted cups, torn playing cards. The walls were covered with old posters and yellowed news clippings.

“Do you remember the time we played Tulsa?” he asked. “Do you remember Harwelden?”

Lilly shook her head. The man faded in and out. Coherent one moment, gone the next. Earlier she had wandered over to the door, and covertly tried the knob behind her back. It was locked.

“Do you remember Blackstone?” he asked.

Lilly looked at the wall. On it was a framed poster of a man, in caricature, with two small devils at his feet, and another on his shoulder. The name BLACKSTONE was emblazoned across the bottom. There was a smaller legend there, too. Lilly quoted it aloud.

“Blackstone?” she asked. “The greatest necromantic extravaganza on earth?”

The man seemed to come alive. Color rose in his cheeks.

“Yes!” he said. “The greatest magician the world has ever known.” The old man struggled to his feet. “It is time to prepare for the stage.” He held out his fragile hand. Lilly took it, helping him up.

“What’s the Fire Grotto?” Lilly asked.

He assessed her with his milky eyes. “I’ll show you.”

He crossed the room to a small table, pulled out the drawer, slid it back in. Next to the table a wall panel slid up, revealing a number of wooden file cabinets. There had to be twenty in all.

The old man contemplated the labels for a while, then opened a drawer. He rifled the contents. He soon found an envelope full of photos. “Here you are at the fair in Baton Rouge,” he said.

He showed her an old photograph, a picture of a young woman in a scarlet gown standing next to a box with seven swords sticking out of it. A man in a cape and top hat stood to her right. The man was clearly Karl Swann. A fair-haired young boy stood off to the side. He looked to be about five years old. Lilly recognized his eyes. It was her captor’s eyes.

The old man produced a second photograph. “This is Faerwood on the day we moved in. It was earlier this year. Isn’t it magnificent?”

Karl Swann proffered a picture of himself and his young son. In the photograph the old man looked young and strong. His son looked sullen.

Earlier this year,
Lilly thought. He
is
gone. She turned the photograph to the candlelight, looked at it carefully. It took her breath away. It wasn’t the expressions of the man and boy, or the way they seemed to be standing in two different worlds, it was the house itself. The tower, the huge porch, the four chimneys rising into the sky like tortured, barren trees.

Lilly had lived with this image, frozen in her mind, for months.

It’s him,
she thought. My God,
it’s him.
His name is Joseph Swann. She had told him everything, and he had kidnapped her and brought her here.

Lilly steadied herself by putting a hand on the table. She felt nauseated.

“Behold the Garden of Flowers.”

Lilly looked at the old man. He was still busy with the file cabinet. He hadn’t said a word. The sound had come from behind her. Lilly spun around. The television was now on. On the screen she saw seven rectangles. Six different video feeds playing. In the upper left was something called the Garden of Flowers. Next to it was an illusion called the Girl Without a Middle. When Lilly looked at the third video her heart nearly stopped. She knew the girl in the large water tank. She felt lightheaded again. When she looked back at the screen the last video was playing. There was a girl in a bridal gown being led to a big box. The girl in the video was Claire.

Joseph Swann was a murderer. He was dressing up like his father, and killing girls in a chamber of horrors.

There was one video left on the screen. It was black. For now. Lilly knew exactly who it was for.

Karl Swann rummaged through another drawer. He extracted a folder. Inside the folder were pages and pages of drawings and brittle diagrams, scribbled blueprints. He extracted a single page.

“This,” he said, “is the Fire Grotto.”

The drawing was of a large box, a cage made of steel and smoked glass. As Lilly ran her eyes over the drawing, she catalogued every corner, every hinge, every latch. “How does it work?” she asked.

Five minutes later, when the old man finished telling her how the illusion worked, and of its spectacular, fiery flourish, Lilly knew all she needed to know about the Fire Grotto. She also knew what was going to happen. Joseph Swann aimed to put her in the box, and set it afire. There was no doubt in her mind.

“You must remember the secret latch on the bottom,” the old man said. “This is very important.” The old man then held up another yellowed blueprint. “It is quite easy to get lost in Faerwood. There are many rooms here, many machines. If you do get lost, this will help.”

Lilly took the old blueprint. She instantly memorized the dimensions, the details, where the doors and hidden stairwells were located, where the switches were. It seemed each room had a secret.

Before she could ask Karl Swann another question, Lilly heard the sound of a car engine. She looked out the barred window. Three stories below a van pulled into the driveway.

Lilly grabbed the blueprint and ran to the corner of the room, to the secret passage. The man stepped in front of her. He put something in her hand. “You will need this.”

When she reached the opening, Lilly heard the old man add, “Remember the secret latch. Remember, Odette.”

Lowering herself into the dark shaft, Lilly had no idea if she was returning the way she had come. She scrambled forward as fast as she could, banging her knees and elbows. Her hands were slick with sweat. The passageway seemed endless, and even darker than it had earlier. After a full minute she stopped, felt the sides, the ceiling. Had she passed Claire’s room? She had no idea. She listened for any change in the hot silence. She heard only her pulse.

She continued onward. The sound of the classical music returned, this time louder. She
was
finding her way back. She was about to stop again when she saw the faint rectangle of light in the distance. She rumbled forward as quickly as she could, emerged through the panel, dashed into the room, gulping the fresh air. She heard footsteps in the hallway outside. A key turned in the lock.

Lilly grabbed her shoes from the opening, letting the panel slide shut. She bolted across the room and dove under the covers as the second key turned. As the door opened, Lilly noticed she had dropped the old blueprint on the floor. She grabbed it, pulled it under the comforter at the last second, her heart racing.

Joseph Swann.

The Fire Grotto.

Lilly did not know how she was going to get out of this, or if she would make it until morning, but she knew one thing for certain.

She could not allow Joseph Swann to get her inside that box.

| EIGHTY-ONE |

| 3 : 20 AM |

T
HEY HAD NEARLY ONE HUNDRED ADDRESSES OF PEOPLE NAMED SWAN
, more than thirty for Swann. Uniformed officers from virtually every district were pounding on doors, calling in on police radios.

They had gotten word on the publishing house that handled David Sinclair’s books. It was a small outfit in Denver. According to the senior editor, no one there had ever met Mr. Sinclair. Sinclair had sent an unagented proposal to them six years earlier, by mail. The editor had spoken to the man many times over the course of the writing and editing of the book, but Sinclair had never come to Denver. They corresponded with the author via a Hotmail account and a street address in Philadelphia, an address that turned out to be a drop box on Sansom Street. Their records showed that the man had rented the box by the year, sending a money order for a year at a time. There was a high turnover rate in employees, and the few who were contacted at this hour could not recall the man who rented box 18909. The initial form that was filled out appeared to be typed on an old IBM Selectric, and the street address and phone number listed were both phony.

Payments from the publishing house were made by company check, made out to David Sinclair. They had never been cashed.

The bookstore in Chester County had no address for him, just the cell phone number the detectives already had. It was a dead end.

At 3:20
AM
a department car roared to a stop. It was Detective Nicci Malone. “We’ve got prints,” she said. “They’re on that Chinese box.”

“Please tell me they’re in the system,” Jessica said.

“They’re in the system. His name is Dylan Pierson.”

T
HE TEAM DESCENDED
on a run-down row house near Nineteenth and Poplar. Byrne knocked on the door until lights came on inside. He held his weapon behind his back. Soon the door opened. A heavyset white woman in her forties stood before them, her face puffed with sleep, last night’s mascara racoooning her eyes. She wore an oversized Flyers jersey, baggy pink sweats, stained white terrycloth flops.

“We’re looking for Dylan Pierson,” Byrne said, holding up his badge.

The woman looked from Byrne’s eyes, to the badge, back. “That’s my son.”

“Is he here?”

“He’s upstairs sleeping. Why do you—”Byrne pushed her aside, bulled through the small dirty living room. Jessica and Josh Bontrager followed.

“Hey!” the woman yelled. “You can’t just … I’ll
sue
you!”

Byrne reached into his pocket. Without looking back he tossed a handful of his business cards in the air, and stormed up the stairs.

D
YLAN
P
IERSON WAS NINETEEN
. He had long greasy hair, a feeble soul patch below his lower lip, way too much attitude for the time of night and Byrne’s mood. On the walls were a mosaic of skateboarding posters:
Skate or Die; A Grind is a Terrible Thing to Waste; Rail Against the Machine.

Dylan Pierson had been arrested twice for drug possession; had twice gotten away with community service. His room was a sty, the floor covered in dirty clothes, potato chip bags, magazines, questionably stained Kleenex.

When Byrne entered, he had flipped on the overhead light and all but lifted Dylan Pierson from his bed. Pierson was cowering against the wall.

“Where were you tonight?” Byrne yelled.

Dylan Pierson tried to comprehend how his little kingdom had suddenly been invaded by big scary police in the middle of the night. He wiped sleep from his eyes. “I … I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Byrne took out a picture, a blowup of a computer screen capture of the Collector. “Who is this?”

The kid tried to focus. “I have no idea.”

Byrne grabbed his arm, yanked. “Let’s go.”

“Wait! Jesus. Let me look.” He turned on a desk lamp, looked more carefully at the photograph. “Hang on. Hang on. Okay. Okay. I know who this is, man. He looks different with that beard and shit, but I think I know him.”