Jimmy. “But he didn’t have a real gun, just the pellet gun we use in the bursting red balloon illusion.”
“And then?” Blackstone prompted.
“Mr. Ott was there, in the theater. He came to watch the show come apart.”
“And you killed Ott,” Blackstone said.
Phil had edged a good six feet over now. He might, if he had to, have a shot at Jimmy. I knew he wouldn’t take it unless he had to, because of Natasha.
“Yes,” he said.
“And Rand knew?”
“Yes, he was there when I did it,” said Jimmy. “I just walked past him to where Mr. Ott was sitting and laughing. I think he thought I was going to help him hide the fake knife. I had my own knife in my belt. I stabbed him while he was laughing about the look that was going to be on your face when you came back and found him alive and holding up a glass of wine to toast his making you look bad.”
“But he didn’t get the chance,” said Blackstone.
“Didn’t get the chance,” Jimmy agreed. “Mr. Rand looked at me, looked real scared. He was right. I would have killed him there, too, but he ran.”
“Jimmy, you could have told me and …”
“No,” said Jimmy with a sigh. “Nothing you can do with people like that but kill them. War is going on. American soldiers are getting killed and twisted all up every day and they do stuff like this. They needed killing, Mr. Blackstone. You needed protecting.”
Natasha definitely stirred and squirmed and looked like she was about to wake up. Jimmy looked over his shoulder and down at the street six floors below him. Phil raised his gun a few inches.
“Why should you kill three people to protect me?” asked Blackstone.
“Why? Because you saved my life and my mom’s life,” he said.
“I did? When?”
“Decatur two years ago, just a week before I went into the army,” said Jimmy. “The theater fire. I was at the show. My mom was in the ticket booth when you brought us all out on the street. You got her to come out of the booth. The fire came flying out the door and cracked right through the booth. I don’t forget. People shouldn’t forget, you know?”
“I know,” said Blackstone. “She’s waking up.”
Jimmy looked at Natasha, who definitely was about to wake up. He started to get up with her in his arms. Phil’s gun hand was at waist level now.
“Jimmy,” Blackstone said. “Please hand her to me.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt her,” Jimmy said, holding the little girl out to the magician.
Blackstone rose and took her from him. Phil’s gun was shoulder level and aimed at Jimmy.
Blackstone backed away and said,
“Thank you, Jimmy. Now, if you just put the gun down we can help you.”
“Where’s the satchel?” I asked.
“I threw it in the garbage,” Jimmy said. “There was no money in it, just folded newspapers.”
Jimmy looked at the gun in his hand as if he had forgotten it was there. Then he looked over at Pete Bouton and me and then turned his head toward Phil. He saw the gun aimed at him.
“Jimmy,” Blackstone repeated. “Look.”
Jimmy turned his eyes toward the magician, who was handing the child to his brother.
Blackstone held up both of his arms, clapped his hands and a flash of light appeared between them. When the flash ended, Blackstone was holding a duck in his hands. The duck quacked, and Phil fired.
Jimmy staggered back and looked as if he were about to topple over the roof. I ran toward him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him toward me away from the edge. He fell on his side, the gun sliding across the roof away from him.
Phil stepped forward, gun at the ready.
“How is he?” Phil asked.
“Hole in his thigh,” I said. “Bleeding a lot.”
“I’ll call for an ambulance,” Pete said, moving to the stairwell with a groggy Natasha in his arms looking over his shoulder at Jimmy. She looked as if she were going to cry.
“I wouldn’t have hurt her,” Jimmy said, not seeming to feel any pain.
“I know,” said Blackstone.
“All those months,” Jimmy said, looking at me. “Never got shot, just the shrapnel in my leg. Now I’m here, and I get shot. Funny, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Funny.”
Chapter 20
Place two wooden kitchen matches side by side on a table about four inches apart. Place a quarter on the table just above the opening between the matches. Tell your audience that the coin will repel the matches. Let someone do it. Nothing will happen as they slide the coin between the matches. Then you do it. Lean forward and concentrate. Close your eyes. Move the coin between the matches as you blow gently on the coin without moving your lips. Blow slowly, easily. The matches roll away. Practice. Always practice.
The next morning Gunther came to my room after Mrs. Plaut had given me her usual wake-up call. This morning we were having broccoli and cauliflower whipped egg delight. I was putting my pants on.
We had gotten to bed around three in the morning, and it was now a little after seven. I gave serious thought to coming back to bed after breakfast.
“Gwen is a very nice young woman,” Gunther said, adjusting his tie. “And smart, very smart. Her family is French, did you know?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” said Gunther. “French. She speaks it quite well.”
“So you got along?”
“Splendidly,” he said. “We are having lunch together, if you would like to join us.”
“You need a chaperone?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Jimmy had been taken to County Hospital where they pulled Phil’s bullet from his leg. Cawelti was there to arrest him.
“Nothing’s different between us,” Cawelti had said to Phil and me when we saw him at the hospital. “Don’t expect anything different.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.
Phil didn’t say anything.
“Come by the station in the morning. Someone will take your statement,” he said. “I won’t be there.”
“We’ll miss you,” I said.
His face was red now, almost as red as his hair.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”
His eyes met Phil’s. They held for a few seconds. Then he turned and moved toward the room where Jimmy was being guarded by a uniformed cop.
“Back to his lovable self,” I had said.
Phil only said “Good night” and went home.
At the breakfast table, Emma Simcox and Ben Bidwell were now officially holding hands. Mrs. Plaut came in
