“Thank you. Please show the audience that I’m correct.”
Wolfe tore away the tissue paper to reveal a worn pocketknife with a mother-of-pearl handle. The resulting ovation was long and hard.
“The police are coming,” Liza said into his earpiece. “Do you want Zack to grab Wolfe when he comes off the stage?”
“Yes,” Peter whispered back.
“I’ll tell him.”
Peter began to escort Wolfe off the stage. Only the Grim Reaper had something else in mind. Flipping open the knife, he pointed the blade at the young magician.
“We’re not done,” Wolfe said.
The savage look on his face was as easy to read as a newspaper headline.
“You came here to kill me,” Peter said.
“I most certainly did. You’re the best I’ve ever seen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Wolfe flashed a sick grin and charged him. Someone in the crowd screamed.
Wolfe staggered backward, the knife slipping from his hand. The sarcastic Brit didn’t seem so menacing anymore. Peter slugged his attacker in the mouth.
Zack leapt on the stage, and tackled Wolfe from behind. The two men began to wrestle.
“The police have entered the building,” Liza said into his earpiece.
A pair of New York’s finest came huffing down the aisle. They did double-time up the steps, and joined Peter on stage.
“Where is he?” one of the cops asked.
Peter looked at the spot where Zack and Wolfe had been standing. Both men had disappeared. He knew what had happened, and motioned to the cops.
“Follow me,” the young magician said.
4
Wolfe and Zack had fallen through a spring-loaded secret trapdoor in the stage. By the time Peter and the cops reached the basement, Wolfe had escaped through a back exit, while Zack was knocked out cold.
“Damn it,” Peter said.
“We’ll take care of your friend,” one of the cops said. “Go finish your show.”
Peter hurried back to the stage. The audience was still in their seats, waiting for the show to end. He asked a dozen people to stand up, and began to read their minds, calling out dates and anniversaries and anything else he could pull from their thoughts. By the time he was done, he was exhausted, and could barely speak.
The audience rewarded him with a standing ovation.
As the crowd was filing out, more cops arrived. A pair of detectives led him to his dressing room. Their names were Sal Dagastino and Colleen Schoch, and they were straight out of a TV cop show. Short and annoying, Dagastino barked questions like a drill sergeant, while Schoch, who was pretty enough to be a runway model, said little.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Dagastino said, scribbling in a notepad. “Wolfe tried to stab you. You blew flash paper into his face, and your assistant grabbed him. They started wrestling, and fell through a secret trapdoor. What’s that for?”
“I make myself disappear during the show,” Peter said.
“I always wondered how that worked. Your assistant hit his head and was knocked out, which let Wolfe escape. That about sum it up?”
“Yes, detective.”
“Show me how the flash paper trick works.”
“I’m not allowed to reveal my secrets. It’s the magician’s code.”
“Show me anyway.”
Peter pulled the hand flasher from his pocket, and pulled the trigger. A blinding flash of white light appeared a few feet above their heads.
“Pretty neat. I need to keep it … as evidence,” Dagastino said.
Peter handed him the device. One of his gifts was the ability to peer into the future. He saw Dagastino standing with a teenage boy who was his spitting image. Dagastino handed the boy the device, and he fired it off, burning his hand.
“Don’t let your kid play with it,” Peter said without thinking.
“Who told you I had a kid?” the detective asked, pocketing the device.
“No one. It’s what I tell everyone.”
“Thanks for the warning. Next question. Your assistant called 911 before Wolfe attacked you. Why did she do that?”
Peter couldn’t tell Dagastino the truth without revealing he was a psychic. He hated lying to the detective, but saw no other choice.
“Wolfe made some comments before the show that bothered me,” he said. “When Wolfe came on stage, I sensed he was going to cause trouble, so I told Liza to call 911.”
“You sensed it?”
“That’s right. His vibes were bad.”
Dagastino scribbled away. Peter breathed a sigh of relief.
“How did Wolfe pay for his ticket? Credit card or cash?” Dagastino asked.
“Someone came to the theater and paid cash. The ticket was waiting at will-call.”
“So there’s no paper trail.”
Peter shook his head.
“Think you’d recognize Wolfe if you saw him again?” Dagastino asked.
“Absolutely. We were as close as I am to you.”
Dagastino produced a photograph from his jacket, which he passed to Peter. The photo showed Wolfe passing through an airport security check, and had the date and time stamped in the corner. It had been taken two days ago.
“This him?” the detective asked.
“Yes. If you don’t mind my asking, who is he?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Come on. He tried to kill me.”
“I still can’t tell you.”
Reading minds was hard when the subject wouldn’t play ball. Peter realized he was going to have to pull the information out of Dagastino one piece at a time.
“You’re searching for Wolfe, aren’t you?” Peter asked.
Dagastino flipped his notepad shut, and said nothing.
“Wolfe’s a bad guy, isn’t he?” Peter went on.
Silence.
“A
Dagastino looked confused, and glanced nervously at his partner.
“He slipped into the country a few days ago and shouldn’t have, and now every cop in New York is looking high and low for him,” Peter said.
“Who the hell told you that?” Dagastino snapped.
“No one.”
“Then what are you, a mind reader?”
