Hocus

Hocus sent another fax.

13

HE HAD BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT, he decided, struggling to understand his circumstances. His mind seemed not his own; this one seemed slow and easily distracted.

Something was wrong, and his head hurt. Those two sensations kept returning, although at first he seemed to be able to will them away. Now the sensations were more persistent.

He awakened only gradually, but mindful that he must do so quietly this time. Why did he need to be quiet?

Something is wrong, that’s why.

What’s wrong?

He couldn’t remember. This is what it’s like to be stupid, he thought, frustrated.

Recent memory was difficult to hold on to. The car accident memory was an older one, but it helped him to explain the baffling world he was in now.

He was in a hospital bed, with curtains drawn around him. There were muffled voices on the other side. He was wearing a hospital gown. His head throbbed. He tried to reach to touch it and panicked. His wrists were restrained. His ankles, too.

Why?

They were the soft but immovable restraints used in hospitals and psych wards.

Had he gone crazy? Hurt someone? An image came to him, an image of hurting a magician. He could make no sense of it. Another dreamlike memory crossed his mind, of a rolling dive and furniture breaking. Maybe he was crazy after all.

Crazy and stupid. Christ, both? Why couldn’t it be one or the other?

He was distracted by a tenderness in his left hand. He saw a bandage on it and focused his attention on the back of the hand, which had been pierced by — and still held — an intravenous device, capped off. He tried to remember what it was called and couldn’t. There was no tubing now, but….

He was waking up and continued to study the hand. No IV bottle or tubing now, but, yes, there had been one before. He remembered it, remembered that he had awakened and had spoken, and they’d come over with an IV bottle. They’d told him to calm down.

Calm down? While lying here restrained, nearly bare assed, wondering what the hell they were feeding through his veins? Wondering if his slowing breaths were his last?

Calm down?

Yes, it was good that he had been quiet when he awakened this time. At least, he hoped he had been.

Within a few minutes, his memories of the journey to Riverside, the trap, the struggle with his attackers, all became clearer. He remembered dreams, too, but not much more. One thing he knew for a certainty. This was no hospital.

He heard the voices coming closer to the curtain and closed his eyes. Hoped that he would be able to only pretend to be asleep, because genuine sleep seemed so ready to claim him again.

Irene said he snored sometimes. Should he pretend to snore?

No. He didn’t know what his own snoring sounded like.

The clatter of the curtain rings being pulled back along the rod grated as if they were running along his spine.

“See? Still asleep. You can’t predict this to the minute. He could be asleep for another hour or more.”

“But he has a head injury — what if the drugs are bad for him?”

“If you weren’t so squeamish, you could have seen the wound I stitched up. It’s not a very severe injury.”

“Don’t even talk about it. Please!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Anyway, the head injury might be making him a little more sleepy. A mild concussion. If he doesn’t wake on his own after a while, we’ll wake him up, okay? I know you’re anxious to talk to him, but he needs to rest. And it will be easier on him if he wakes on his own.”

“Can’t we untie him? It reminds me of… you know.”

“We’ll untie him later,” the other said soothingly. “He’s strong and he thinks we’re strangers. We’ve always known he could be dangerous. Remember what happened in Riverside.”

“I remember,” his friend said, his voice almost a whisper.

The magician, Frank thought. That one’s the magician.

“Are you losing your resolve?” the other asked.

“No,” the magician said. Firm. Without hesitation.

“Good,” the other said. “Don’t become too attached to him.”

They closed the curtains again. Hearing their voices drift away, he finally dared to try to move a little. Moving might help him stay awake.

He wished for many things, big (his escape) and small (that someone would scratch the place that itched on the back of his head). He was not one to despair, yet he was so giddy with relief over deceiving them, he soon realized that he must do exactly what they asked him to do the last time he had awakened: calm down.

14

“NEXT CONTACT AT FIVE O’CLOCK at Bea Harriman’s home,” the fax read. “She’s expecting you.”

“Your mother-in-law?” Cassidy asked as I looked at my watch. It was just after three.