“What makes—I mean made—Randi so good at spotting fakes?”
“Simple,” Grayson said. “He was a master magician.”
I laughed. “Oh. Of course. That explains everything.”
Grayson’s face grew stern. “I’m serious, Drex. The Amazing Randi was every bit on par with Houdini.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. He knew every trick in the book. In fact, one of his most famous acts was escaping from a locked coffin submerged in water. He also got out of a straitjacket while dangling over Niagara Falls.”
“You don’t say,” I said. “So, is that how you got out? Escaping from a straitjacket?”
Grayson glanced over at me. “Ha ha.”
“So Randi was an escape artist,” I said. “What’s the big deal? I’ve gone out with at least half a dozen guys who disappeared when the check arrived. Nothing magical about that.”
“That was kind of his point,” Grayson said.
“What do you mean?”
“The Amazing Randi traveled the globe doing feats that appeared to require otherworldly powers. But at the end of each performance, he always concluded his show with this simple statement, ‘Everything you have seen here is tricks. There is nothing supernatural involved.”
“Oh.” I sat up in my seat. “So, in other words, Randi used magic to prove there was no such thing as magic.”
Grayson’s left eyebrow flat-lined. “Well, yes.”
“And that’s what made him famous?”
Grayson shrugged. “That and his obsession with debunking people who claimed they could read minds and whatnot.”
“You don’t think mind-reading’s possible?”
“No.”
For some reason, I felt oddly relieved. I smiled. “So, how’d Randi get so famous?”
“Back in 1972, The Amazing Randi was invited to The Johnny Carson Show to oversee the props used by Uri Geller.”
“Uri Geller? What power did he claim to have?”
Grayson turned his head from the road and stared at me, a pained expression on his face. “You’re kidding. Uri Geller? He was only the most famous psychokinetic practitioner of his time.”
“Psycho what?”
Grayson winced. “Psychokinesis. It’s the ability to manipulate physical matter without physical intervention.”
“Oh. Cool. What did Geller do to prove his claim?”
“He bent spoons with his mind.”
I sneered. “Bent spoons? Geez. I can think of a few better things to do with a talent like that.”
“If such a talent exists,” Grayson said. “During that episode of The Johnny Carson Show, Geller failed.”
I smirked. “Are you saying no utensils were harmed in the making of that show?”
“I suppose. But you’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m not. He proved Geller was a fake, right?”
“More or less. The show was basically twenty-two minutes of Geller staring at spoons.”
I laughed. “So, how’d Randi stop him?”
“He wouldn’t say. The Amazing Randi was first and foremost a magician. And, being a gentleman, he never revealed his secrets.”
I noticed a dimple form in Grayson’s cheek. “You admired This Amazing Randi guy, didn’t you?”
“Absolutely. He was one of a kind.”
I cocked my head. “Isn’t that rather ironic?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Amazing Randi was a paranormal skeptic. I figured you’d consider him your enemy. Or at least your rival.”
Grayson’s eyebrow arched. “Why would you think that?”
“I dunno. I guess because you want to prove the paranormal exists. Randi wanted to prove it didn’t.”
Grayson shrugged. “I don’t see the conflict.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Drex, to prove something scientifically, one must be willing to examine all the facts and accept the conclusions they yield. The same set of facts that might lead to proving something’s existence might instead lead to proving the exact opposite.”
“Okay, but—”
Grayson turned his gaze toward me again. “Don’t you see? Only by eliminating human bias—including fraudsters, cheaters, charlatans, and other falsifiers—can we arrive at the unadulterated truth. And, ultimately, the truth is what we seek, is it not?”
“Uh...sure,” I said, then laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You sound like you’re channeling Buddha or something.”
“Not possible. The Amazing Randi proved channeling is a hoax.”
I smirked. “Perhaps he just never met a real channeler.”
“Perhaps. And now he never will.” Grayson let out a sigh and stepped on the gas.
I could tell the news of his death had affected Grayson deeply. “Where did Randi die?” I asked softly.
“In Plantation, Florida,” he said. “It’s not that far from Plant City. I thought we might pay our respects while we’re in the area.”
“Sure. Why not?”
As I turned to face the road ahead, my thoughts wandered back to Garth’s voice on the ham radio. He’d sounded strangely hoarse. Panicked, even.
Geez. I hope Randi’s grave is the only one we’ll be visiting on this trip...
Chapter Five
As Grayson steered the old Winnebago off the I-4 exit ramp toward Lakeland, the anxiety that had been gnawing at the pit of my stomach for hours amped up its pitch. In a few more minutes, we’d be at Garth’s prepper compound.
What could’ve happened to him and his brother Jimmy?
As opposite as bookends, Garth was a goofy-looking, Wayne’s World wannabee. He was the kind of nerd you’d expect to find holed up in a basement playing World of Warcraft with his imaginary online “friends.”
Even so, Garth was no dummy. The first time we’d met, he’d managed to weasel a hundred bucks out of Grayson for pictures of Lester Jenkins, a UFO nut who’d allegedly been turned into man-pudding.
In contrast, Jimmy Wells, Garth’s brother, was the quintessential all-American boy. Handsome. Athletic. Clean-cut. And a rookie policeman. When he’d caught me and Grayson entering a taped-off crime scene, Jimmy had arrested us on the spot—at gunpoint. He’d cuffed us and read us our rights, doing everything exactly by the book.
But Jimmy had proved to be as naïve as he was straight-laced. Grayson and I’d quickly turned the tables on him. And later, Jimmy had gone off the deep-end, believing some pretty wild things based on some pretty sketchy evidence.
The odd-couple brothers lived together in a so-called “survivalist” compound that appeared, ironically, as if it had been ground zero for a recent apocalypse. Given the massive quantities of junk filling both their premises and their minds, any number of improbable things could’ve happened to the pair—from botulism
