I rolled over and was almost asleep when…
Bzzzzz…bzzzzz…bzzzzz…
I turned on the light, opened the drawer, and took out the cell phone again.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE ESCAPED.”
It had to be Zeke, messing with me. He must have been the one who sent the old cell phone to my hospital room, as a joke. That guy cracks me up.
“How could I have escaped?” I tapped.
A few seconds passed, and then this appeared on the screen.…
“SKOOB IS BOOKS BACKWARD. THERE WAS A BOOKSHELF ON THE WALL.”
“So?” I tapped.
“ONE OF THE BOOKS HAD A KEY INSIDE. IT WOULD HAVE OPENED THE DESK DRAWER.”
Of course! It was so simple! They probably cut out the center of the book’s pages to hide the key. We should have been able to figure that out when we were in the escape room. The solution was right under our noses. Zeke must have been thinking about it all night.
“How do you know that?” I tapped.
A few more seconds passed, and then this appeared on the screen.…
“LET’S JUST SAY I’M GOOD AT ESCAPING FROM THINGS.”
“Pretty smart, Zeke,” I tapped.
“IT’S NOT ZEKE,” my screen said.
“Then who are you?” I tapped.
Three dots appeared on the screen, and they were there for a long time, which suggested that he—or she—was writing a long reply. Finally the dots disappeared. I was a little more than surprised when they were replaced by just one word:
“HOUDINI.”
THE GREAT MYSTERY
Okay, now I was sure I was being pranked.
Zeke is always pulling crazy stuff like this. He likes to mess with people, especially me. He’ll put toothpaste in your Oreos or cotton balls in your sneakers just for laughs. One time he told me the next day was going to be “Pajama Day” and everybody was going to wear pajamas to school. So I wore my pajamas. But when I got to school, I was the only kid wearing pajamas! I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive Zeke for that one.
It was like putting the coins on the train tracks. Zeke likes to do weird stuff that most other people wouldn’t think of doing. Not bad stuff, mind you. He doesn’t break the law or intentionally hurt anybody. He just likes to do weird stuff. That’s the way his brain works, I guess.
I was staring at the word “HOUDINI” on the phone screen when it was replaced by another text.…
“THE ESCAPE ROOM WAS A PIECE OF CAKE. ANYBODY SHOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO GET OUT.”
“Knock it off, Zeke,” I tapped on the phone. “It’s not funny.”
“I AM NOT ZEKE,” appeared on my screen after a few seconds. “I AM HARRY HOUDINI.”
I knew that was a lie. Harry Houdini died way back in 1926. Zeke didn’t know the story of how it happened, but I did. I had read all about it.
If you’ve ever heard anybody say that Houdini died from a punch in the stomach, it’s basically true. Here’s what happened:
Houdini was doing a bunch of shows in the fall of 1926. During a show in Albany, New York, he was about to perform his famous Water Torture Cell trick when a wire twisted and he fractured his left ankle. Houdini took pride in not giving in to pain, so the show went on. (In fact, when he wanted to prove how tough he was, Houdini would sometimes stick a needle through his cheek.)
Despite the broken ankle, he struggled through two shows in Albany, then did a show in Schenectady, and after that it was on to Montreal, limping the whole time.
On October 22, during the afternoon before his show, Houdini gave a talk at McGill University. During the talk, one of the students drew a sketch of him. Houdini was impressed, and invited the student to come to the theater where he was performing the next day to draw another one for his collection.
While Houdini was lying down on a couch posing for his picture, another student knocked on the dressing-room door. His name was J. Gordon Whitehead. They talked about various subjects, and then Whitehead suddenly asked, “Is it true, Mr. Houdini, that you can resist the hardest blows struck to the abdomen?”
Houdini played along, letting Whitehead feel the muscles in his arms.
“Would you mind if I delivered a few blows to your abdomen, Mr. Houdini?” Whitehead asked.
Houdini said it was okay. He was lying on a couch, remember, because of his broken ankle. Suddenly, without giving Houdini a chance to tense up his muscles and get ready, Whitehead punched him four or five times in the stomach. Whitehead was a big man, and he hit Houdini as hard as he could.
Houdini took the blows, but was in serious pain afterward. At his show the next night, he was sweating and had to lie down during intermission. After the show, he couldn’t dress himself. He was in too much pain.
Detroit was the next stop on the tour. When he arrived, Houdini had a temperature of 102 degrees. A doctor was called, and he said that Houdini had acute appendicitis. Houdini insisted on doing his show anyway, although his temperature was now at 104. He struggled through the performance, and collapsed at the end.
He was taken to the hospital and rushed into surgery. Doctors removed his appendix, which had ruptured. He felt a little better, but then Houdini took a turn for the worse. Poison from his appendix had seeped into his intestines. Another operation had to be performed.
It didn’t work. Houdini died that Sunday—Halloween—at Grace Hospital in Detroit. His last words were “I can’t fight anymore.” He was just fifty-two years old.
“Houdini is dead,” I tapped on the little keypad.
The reply came quickly. It was just two letters.…
“SO?”
I thought that was all, but then a torrent of words scrolled up my little
