The policeman made a keening sound, a sound not unlike the ones they had made when they’d still had voices to cry out with. Then he was gone.
Bret felt as if he had been awakened again. He could feel the cold of the room, smell the blood, feel Sam shiver. He began to wonder if anyone would ever find them. It was then that the door opened and another policeman came in.
His name was Frank Harriman. He left them only long enough to radio for help, which was long enough for the boys to decide that no one would ever believe the truth.
When Frank Harriman came back he tried to free them, but the swelling in their hands and feet had made the leather too tight to cut. When he saw he couldn’t free them without hurting them, he stayed with them, there in the cold darkness, with the stench all around, waiting for help. He braced his back against the wall and lifted them carefully onto his lap, cradling their arms so that the strain of holding the chains was finally relieved. He didn’t mind that they were silent or that they had blood on them.
He was young, younger than their fathers. And he was taller. But something about him reminded Bret and Sam of Julian. That’s why the boys let him hold them until their mothers could be there. They did not let any of the other men take them from him, even after they were able to leave the basement — not even the one who put a splint on Sam’s arm.
Frank Harriman wouldn’t let anyone separate them. When the others saw that the boys wouldn’t answer questions, the others were upset. He made the ones who were upset leave the boys alone. He knew they were tired and weak and afraid. He didn’t complain. He held them. Frank Harriman, and no one else.
They didn’t trust him completely, but they trusted no one else at all.
18
THE DARK-HAIRED YOUNG MAN stood with his left arm extended to the side, his open left hand palm up. In his right hand he held a pack of cards. In one smooth, even movement he spread the cards from the palm of his left hand up the length of his arm to his elbow. With a grace that belied his quickness, he lifted his left arm, rolled his palm downward, and turned his body to the left. For a brief instant the cards stood in the air as one unit, then cascaded in an improbable, fluid motion to his waiting right hand, where he caught them perfectly.
Dressed less outlandishly than he was when Frank last saw him — on Dana Ross’s porch — the magician wore jeans and a blue T-shirt. He repeated the catch again and again, never failing to spread the pack smoothly, never dropping a card, never seeming to use the concentration that must have been required.
Frank watched silently from the bed. His headache was less sharp now, not nearly as sharp as his disappointment in realizing that he had slept again. The magician’s card flourishes had drawn his eye when he first awakened, but now he spent time taking in all that had changed during his most recent drug-induced nap.
The curtain that had surrounded the bed was gone. The room beyond it was an odd one, of soft bending walls. As he awakened more fully, he came to the conclusion that although he was in the same bed, he was, inexplicably, inside a large tent. He had been rolled onto his right side. The IV bottle had been attached again but seemed to be clamped shut — he couldn’t be sure. His hands were still tethered, but he could move his legs. As he did, he saw that he was no longer dressed in the hospital gown. He now wore a set of surgeon’s scrubs.
Without looking at Frank, the magician said, “Please don’t bother trying to fake sleep again. You have too much trouble staying awake to pull it off. At this rate, we’ll never get to talk to one another.”
Frank didn’t reply, but he kept his eyes open.
The young man stopped, set down the pack, and turned toward the bed. “On my tenth birthday, you gave me a magic kit. Do you remember?”
“Bret?” he asked in utter disbelief. He saw the young man flinch at that disbelief, and his long-carried sense of protectiveness toward Bret Neukirk made him sorry for not hiding his reaction. But confusion soon overran regret — he could not reconcile what was happening to him now with his memory of the silent young boy.
I’m still dreaming, he told himself. The drugs—
“Yes,” the young man said, “I’m Bret. I’m sorry about all of this, Detective Harriman. I really am.”
“Sorry? Bret, for chrissakes—”
“I’m afraid you’re our hostage, sir.”
He could only repeat numbly, “Our?”
“Samuel. Me. Hocus.”
Frank shut his eyes. Clenched them shut. This isn’t happening, he told himself. This isn’t happening.
“Are you in pain?” Bret asked worriedly.
Oh, yes, Frank thought. I’m in pain. Not Bret. Not Sam. He opened his eyes. “Why?”
“I made a promise,” he said. “Samuel and I promised something to each other. We would see justice done, no matter how long it took.”
“Justice? But Powell is dead—”
“Yes,” Bret answered, watching him closely. “But not the policeman.”
Frank tried to read Bret’s expression. “You want to kill me?”
Bret smiled, then looked away quickly. His voice — a voice Frank had never heard speak more than a few words — was full of emotion. “I
“Wouldn’t know what?” Frank asked, his headache suddenly fierce.
“A little later on, I’ll give you something to read — our story. It explains everything. It’s the one we sent to Irene.”
“You’ve talked to Irene?”
“Yes. You have, too, actually,” he said. “I know you find it hard to believe,” he added quickly. “In your position,
