Obie's hands were itchy, tingling. He realized it was nerves, like the nerves of an Olympic star waiting for the starting gun to go off, the nerves that sing a sweet song, not jangled or out of tune. He was eager for Archie to reach the guillotine, to stoop, kneel, and place his head upon the block. As Obie watched, Archie did those very things, easily and smoothly as if it had all been rehearsed, his body loose and relaxed as usual, all his movements casual and almost in rhythm. He'd always hated Archie's coolness and hated him more at this moment for displaying that cool, that aloofness, at a time when he should be shaking in his shoes or at least showing signs of embarrassment.
Archie was lodged now in the guillotine, neck resting on the block, facedown. Obie smiled, ignored his itching fingers, and looked at Ray Bannister.
'Begin. .' he said, letting his words carry over the audience.
And Ray began. His bag of tricks. Making the deck of cards appear as if at will and playing them along his sleeve, tumbling them this way and that. Ray felt in command. Went down the brief steps to the audience, asked a student to select a card and then cajoled the kid — he made sure ahead of time that he was young, a freshman from the looks of him — onto the stage.
While Obie watched. Watched Ray and his magic show, but also watched Archie in his perch on the guillotine. This was part of the plan. To let him squirm. To make him wait. To prolong the drama. To build up the anticipation.
Ray Bannister was performing beautifully. He wished his mother and father were here to see the way he had mastered the tricks. He had chosen surefire effects, blowing his savings on tricks at the magic store in Worcester. The deck of cards he now worked with would be effective in the hands of a ten-year-old, but the audience didn't know that. They also didn't know the secret of the unending scarves, the rainbow cascading from his mouth. So deceptively simple. The old Chinese ring trick was equally effective, although it required at one particular point a touch of sleight of hand, the kind of deception that Ray had been a bit apprehensive about. But didn't need to be, he learned. The audience was in the palm of his hand, and he was able to misdirect them without problems. He forgot about Archie Costello and Obie and everything else, even his rotten first semester at Trinity, as he clicked the rings in triumph, bowed, and felt carried away on the waves of applause.
He turned, breathless, exhilarated, the way people must feel when they take a whiff of oxygen from a tank, feeling light as air, and looked at Obie. Then at Archie. Archie still on his knees, waiting.
Ray had performed in silence, except for occasional thrusts of applause or approving murmurings from the audience. Now, as his final applause ended, a burst of music jarred the air, martial military music deafeningly loud, played on Obie's cue. The music stopped as Ray moved toward the guillotine.
Now the hush again.
Ray Bannister and Obie stepped up to the guillotine as they had rehearsed, with Obie nearest the button on the right side of the apparatus.
Obie glanced at the button, small, mother-of-pearl, no larger than a dime. His eyes traveled downward, saw the small disk in place. Which meant that everything was in readiness, that Ray Bannister had touched the almost- invisible disk that had placed the mechanism in the slice position, causing the blade to slice through the cabbage. The rehearsal had called for Ray to advance now to the guillotine, run his hand over the top bar casually but actually touch a lever, likewise almost invisible, that switched the mechanism to the second position, so that the lethalness of the guillotine was removed and the blade would fall harmlessly, without touching Archie's neck at all.
Obie observed Ray's casual movement and admired the offhand way he now ran his hand along the guillotine, touching the lever. Then bowing to Obie.
Obie turned to the audience:
'And now the climax of the evening, by the illustrious master of illusion. May we present Bafflement by Bannister!'
Good-natured cheers and jeers filled the air, the crowd enjoying itself, all of them vicarious magicians for the moment.
Now it was Obie's turn for deception, the sleight of hand, for putting to use again the lessons Ray Bannister had taught him. This was where Carter came in. And Carter acted perfectly on cue, following the instructions Obie had given him earlier.
As Obie stepped to the guillotine, Carter left his position at the side of the stage and approached Ray Bannister, catching his attention.
That was all the time Obie needed to imitate Ray's manner precisely. He ran his hand across the top bar of the guillotine. He had instructed Carter to distract Ray, using whatever gimmick he could come up with, it didn't matter. 'Tell him he's got a speck of dirt on his cheek.' By the time Ray had returned his attention to Obie and the guillotine, the deed was done.
I actually did it, Obie told himself, looking at the audience and then unable to resist glancing at Archie, still patiently waiting.
The hush continued. Obie felt as though a thousand suns burned down on him but it was only the spotlight. He glanced toward Carter and Ray Bannister, saw something on Ray's face — what? He couldn't place it, couldn't name it — and then looked down at Archie again, his neck white and naked and vulnerable.
Obie stepped forward.
His arm traveled a million miles as it went through the air, his finger like the barrel of a pistol. He touched the button, pressed, heart stopped, breath held, time halted, clocks frozen.
He heard the click of the mechanism as it changed gears inside the guillotine.
He waited for the blade to fall.
Thinking for the first time of blood.
All that blood.
At that moment he heard the swish of the blade.
The railroad tracks so far below looked like the tines of a fork, like his mother's best silver, gleaming in the twilight.
Leaning over the iron railing, he felt dizzy but a good dizziness, lightheaded really, and he drew back, started a prayer:
He had botched everything, spoiled everything, but must not spoil this final act.
Lifting his head, he listened. For footsteps, for cars that might be following.
Heard no one, nothing.
Oh, he'd been clever enough, as if to compensate for failing so completely at the residence, allowing Brother Leon to trick him like that. Fleeing, he had known that he must hide. Like an animal. Ah, but with animal cunning.
He had slipped through the streets of Monument, running behind cars, through parking lots, heard sirens in the distance, felt hunted and at bay. Like in the movies. The movies, of course.
Purchasing a ticket to a matinee at Cinema 3, he had padded into the darkened theater, slouched in a seat, knees drawn up, only a few people scattered around, did not know the name of the movie, distantly recognized the actors on the screen, Dustin Hoffman maybe, whom he always mixed up with Al Pacino. Clung to himself. Waiting. Clever. Then out again, running the streets again, wanting to go home but not able to.
Listening, on the bridge, a car approaching, sweep of headlights interrupting dusk, making him feel like an insect pinned against a wall. But the light moved across and away, the car passing, motor purring catlike.
He looked down. A long way down.
It's now or never, David.
The last thing you can do to reclaim yourself, save yourself, obliterate the humiliation.
He grabbed the railing, testing it for firmness, and then climbed onto it, perched himself there, legs dangling
