Текст книги "Illusion"

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“That’s what I’m warning you about.”

“I got her four doves just to see what her reaction would be. She named them Lily, Maybelle, Bonkers, and Carson.”

“Research, Dane. She’s smarter than you think.”

“Those were the names of the doves Mandy had clear back at the Spokane fair. There’s no way she could have known that.”

“She’s a magician, Dane, a very good one. She found out. Listen, there are things she does that neither of us have been able to figure out, but that’s how magic works, that’s the whole point.”

“She has a way with doves. It’s how we met.”

Arnie touched Dane’s hand and looked into his eyes. “Dane. Explain it to me. And listen to yourself as you answer.”

“I can’t explain it. I’ve never been able to explain it.”

“ I’veexplained it. Now, can you come up with something better?”

Dane’s mind had never been able to land on anything that made sense. “I only know what I know.” He was still amazed by the next fact even as he spoke it. “She has the same teeth, the same smile. She even smells like Mandy.”

Arnie’s eyes stayed on him for one more brief moment, but then a gradual change like the sun going down came over his face. He eased back on his bench at a loss, disbelief and despair clouding his face. “Dane. Have you really come to that point? Have you really gone crazy?”

A snappy pink dance outfit—his wife must have used it for the jazzier dance numbers and the contorted box illusions—slipped on as if made for her. The stagey shoes, the pants and cute waistcoat got her moving, finding a groove, and God help her, there was just something so rightabout it, as if in some way, in some nearby other world, the clothes were old friends, her music was their music, her moves their moves.

Arnie didn’t finish his sandwich. He didn’t finish the conversation either. “I’d better leave, right now!” he said, standing and stepping free of the bench.

Dane had never seen his friend this way before. “Arnie, it’s so hard to explain—”

“Stop. Don’t say another word. Don’t drive any more nails into this coffin.” Dane tried to say something but Arnie leaned down, finger in Dane’s face. “I’m saying this to your face, all right? Remember that I told you to your face: you have lost your mind and she is going to break your heart. She is going to use you, and then she is going to discard you.” He tossed some bills on the table. “And after she does, and you are the real Dane Collins again, a man with some sense and some kind of future, I’m not sure what, please give me a call. I’ll help you pick up the pieces.”

“Arnie!”

“Not another word!”

“Book her on Preston’s show. Just that much. I’d consider it a real favor.”

“And a monumental abuse of friendship!”

With that he hurried to the front of the restaurant and spoke with the hostess. Dane caught the words “cab” and “airport.” It occurred to him that Arnie had left his travel case back at the ranch in the guest room, but … oh, well. He was Arnie Harrington. He’d never go back for it now.

chapter

31

There was still the blue gown. She told herself she wouldn’t touch it, but then her hand just fell on all these other things and one thing led to another and …

The gown was in her vision, after all, and the embrace of love, the encounter with herself that came to her that night, were here now, in this room, in these clothes all hung according to color and occasion, in the jewels neatly arranged in little drawers, in the beautiful shoes in neat rows on two shelves.

She ached for that blue gown as she looked at the clock beside the bed. Could she try it on and put it away in five minutes, ten at the max?

Dane remembered seeing Arnie standing in the front window of Rustler’s Roost watching him go. He remembered giving Arnie a pitiful little wave as he opened the door of his car, and wondering how long it would take Arnie to get a cab of any kind in northern Idaho. From that moment to closing the door of his car in his own garage, the drive up Highway 95 and all the way back to Robin Hill Road was by rote. He didn’t remember it. His mind was elsewhere, everywhere.

He hadn’t lost a friend, he knew that. That was precisely why Arnie had cut their visit short, to save the friendship. They’d bailed on each other before to depressurize and were always able to put it back together. Still, that didn’t remove the fact that this was one bleeding, messy feeling he had, as weighty as lead, and it wasn’t likely to go away until …

Until what? Until he denied every little treasure he’d found in the girl, every flame of hope she’d lit inside him, every undeniable fact he’d gleaned that anchored his heart to hers? Until he slapped himself awake from a dream he’d always wanted, that wonderful, wishful state of heart that came uninvited, unexpected, and brought cleansing joy to his darkened state of mind?

Such was love, he supposed. Love only made sense to a point, and beyond that, didn’t answer to logic or practicality, it just went on making people complete in its own mysterious way.

And where would he be without it? That answer was easy. He’d been there already, and going back was not a happy option.

As for what lay ahead, only God knew, so maybe he didn’t have to. It would all make sense someday.

As he slipped quietly in the back door, just being home made him want to see her again, even if she was dusting the shelves or running the vacuum in her same old shirt and work jeans, even if the topic was emptying the vacuum canister or rotating the garbage cans. This house—and he—needed the sound of her voice, the prodding of her plans and intentions, the promise of her friendship.

Her VW was parked outside. She had to be in the house somewhere.

The golden-haired lady in the full-length mirror, glorious in her blue gown and shimmering jewelry, was too lovely, too regal to be she. From wherever the lady had been—and it must have been many wonderful places—she looked back into the bedroom at the cleaning girl and whispered what seemed impossible: “Mandy Whitacre.”

And the cleaning girl whispered back, “I want to be you.”

She clutched a fold of the dress and gracefully lifted it, striking a pose as the belle of the ball, and circled in place, a hint of a waltz, her feet barely lifting from the floor. From somewhere in her memory, the strains of Offenbach’s “Belle Nuit, o Nuit d’Amour” began to play and she began to sing the melody, stepping lightly, eyes closed, dreaming …

There was a man in the doorway.

She jolted and yelped as with an electrical shock, hands trembling before her face, insides so stressed she felt sick. “Ohh …” she said, and thought, I’m dead. Totally dead. Oh, God, I’ve ruined my life, I’ve ruined everything.

The sight stunned him speechless, motionless. She was trembling, a cornered animal, trying to cover herself with her arms as if to hide—and the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, just as she’d always been. Memories of Mandy in that dress came flooding back—the shows they did, the dance numbers, the illusions, the curtain calls. He’d kept it just for those memories, and now …

She was back, standing right before him.

She was falling apart, as if she’d been assembled with nuts and bolts and every nut was coming loose, every bolt was falling out, and every piece of her—her mind, her heart, her hopes, her ability to put one doggoned sentence together—was clunking to the floor. Her hands, though they tried, could never conceal her, never hide her. They finally went to her face, closing her in and covering her shame. In the dark behind them, she managed a broken, high-pitched lament, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her hands slipped down, uncovering her eyes—he was still there, still looking at her. She said again, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say a word and hardly moved except to sink into a chair near the door, never taking his eyes off her. He didn’t look angry. He looked … lost … broken.

His lingering gaze made her look at herself, touch the lovely material, gently grasp and animate a fold of the skirt. “It’s just so pretty …”

Then, meeting his eyes again, she read it, sensed it: he was lookingat her, in no unkind or improper way, but in a way, she just now realized, she would have wanted—did want, as if the mirror were telling the truth, as if she really were the beautiful lady, as if she really could be …

With a wag of his head and wonder in his eyes he said, “Mandy.”

He could have hit her in the forehead with a beanbag. Her head jerked up, her eyes widened, and she gasped. What was this, another yes to another question?

“I was going to tell you,” she said, her voice trembling.

He felt for her. She was scared and in trouble. He smiled, and that helped. She quit trembling, drew some breaths to steady herself, and then smiled ever so sheepishly, her fingers over her mouth, a nervous giggle bubbling out. With decorum and honesty he looked her up and down, cocked an eyebrow, and sent her an approving nod. Those also helped. She let go a breath in what had to be relief, her smile broadening but still apologetic. Lifting a fold of the dress with each hand, she rotated once around, letting the dress rustle and billow in ladylike, ballroom fashion. She completed the turn with a repentant shrug, eyes anxious and asking.

And how else could he tell her?

He rose from the chair and came to her, eyes gentle and voice safely academic. “As you can imagine, this dress is best suited for a waltz.”

Her left hand went to his shoulder by itself as his hand rested gently against her back. Her right hand took his left, and immediately, spirit-deep, she felt safe. The fear was gone.

“What was that tune you were humming?” he asked.

She sang it to him, and the steps just came, one-two-three, one-two-three, in a safe little box. He knew the tune as well, and sang it with her note for note as he widened the pattern into an idyllic carousel about the room. The steps flowed without a thought as she followed his lead, the walls, windows, and furniture of the room passing like scenery behind him.

When this room became many rooms, when her other worlds arose in this time and place with their shifting depths, bending dimensions, and blurring colors, his touch became her fortress, his shoulder a bulwark. From within his arms she could watch without fear where she was, where else she was, where she’d been, and where she’d be. Over his shoulder, for a fleeting shred of time, she saw her apartment—the windows, the kitchenette, her bed, and herwatching them dance. Full circle, she thought. The other side of the mirror. Hi, Eloise! It’s me, Mandy! You were right! I’m dancing in the dress, withhim!

Completeness. The other half of every emotion. All he’d lost so tangibly present, as if the past few months had never happened.

He might have drawn her in with an unconscious lead of his hand, she might have chosen it herself, but as the music faded from their voices and the waltz stilled from their awareness, her arm went around his neck, she rested her face against his shoulder, and he welcomed the firm closeness of her body against his, the curves of her waist and hips, the cashmere-soft warmth coming through her dress.

Not reliving, but stillliving; not like then, but like always.

She could have stayed here forever, real and timeless, no matter when or where or which world it was. The dance had fallen behind them, slipping into one of her forgotten pasts. While worlds and times swirled around them, she and Dane became the sun, the unmoving center of it all. She clung to him as to life, caressed his back and with a slight bow of her head kissed his hand, then kissed it again. He kissed her on the cheek.

And this time she only had to turn herhead.

It was meant to be. It had to be. It wasand he surrendered to it, incredulous and thrilled, remembering then, living now, lost in the taste of her lips and the scent of her hair, tracing the delicate shape of her neck, her ears, her face.

So this was what it was like. She had dreamed, but now she was there, embraced by love, carried by yearning, unable, unwilling to contain the feeling and finding a whole other side of herself who’d been here before, who knew, who pressed against him, gave herself to him. Oh, to be the one who shared her life, her love, her very being with this man …

She was just as when he first met her, newly blossomed, flawless and pure, delighting in life and love as her greatest adventure—

He stopped.

She opened her eyes, met his, then dropped her head, her hands still draped over his shoulders.

He took her hands from his shoulders, gave one a kiss, and let them go. He walked into the hall, escaping with deadening reluctance into the real world.

She came to rest against the closet doorpost, arms covering her because the wonderful blue gown made her feel naked.

She was framed in the doorway, her head down, her body wilted. With arms still covering her, she tried to form words but could only shake her head.

He gathered himself and said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m very, very sorry.”

She looked at him. The joy and wonder had died from her eyes. “I, I never meant to—”

“I know. You’re very young, and not at all to be blamed. The fault for all of this is mine. To put it simply, I’m very much in love, more than I realized, but not with you. I’m in love with my wife, and I guess I always will be.”

“And …” She dabbed some wetness from her nose. “I know I could never replace her.”

With a sad smile he replied, “That’s right.”

There was a silence as each waited, but there was nothing more to say.

“I guess I should leave.”

He nodded, making sure his face was kind. “For your sake, and for the whole wonderful life you still have ahead of you, yes, you should leave. You should leave right away and never come back.” He turned, then paused. “You can report your hours to Shirley and she’ll send you your check. I’ll see to it that Arnie has your contact information. I’ll be downstairs. Be sure to put everything away where you found it.”

He left her in his bedroom, wiping her eyes and leaning like a dying lily.

Downstairs, he lit a fire in the fireplace and sat on the couch to watch the flames. He heard her footsteps when she came down the stairs. She stood for a moment in the other end of the living room, but he couldn’t turn to say good-bye. He just watched the flames while she went out the door, started up her Bug, and drove down the long driveway.

He was still sitting there after the fire had died to embers and the embers to ashes.

chapter

32

Black television screen. Fade up.

Illuminated by a single, hard light source to the left of screen, white hair backlit to create a corona around his head, the bearded, sagelike face of Preston Gabriel turned toward the camera. In a low, rumbling voice reminiscent of Orson Welles, he spoke.

“Psychokinesis, the claimed power to affect matter by mind alone. Spoon bending, moving small objects, causing items to fall over or fly through the air solely by the power of the mind. Is it real, or is it illusion? Tonight we find the answers on … Gabriel’s Magic!”

Spooky, haunting music played. Blue and fiery red images collaged across the screen: Preston Gabriel, dressed in his signature black and looking much like a wizard himself, materializing a flute, then turning it into four doves in his bare hands, levitating a girl from a table, making money appear in a volunteer’s hand, vanishing a girl from a chair, lying on broken glass while a truck runs over him, producing a girl from an empty cabinet with a puff of smoke, stabbing a selected card with a knife from a cascade of falling cards in midair. Amazing moments, looks of astonishment, teasers of things to come bombarded the eyes as the music rose to a crescendo and a title burst from a tiny pixel to huge letters that filled the screen: Gabriel’s Magic.

The show’s intro cut to live cameras and a studio stage—a touch of stage smoke bringing out the bluish pin spots as the theme music played and an announcer said, “From Television World in Hollywood, ladies and gentlemen, this is Preston Gabriel.”

The studio audience cheered and applauded as the Man strode boldly into the floodlights, white mane shining, face pleasant, eyes steely. “Good evening. The art of magic is built upon a covenant between the performer and his audience: he will attempt to fool them, and they will let themselves be fooled in the full knowledge that the magician is only an actor pretending to be a magician, performing the impossible, but through trickery and illusion. Our ‘actors’ tonight: the amazing magical duo from Montreal, Canada, Torey and Abigail.” Applause. “And an astounding newcomer all the way from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho—I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Laughter. “The young, the beautiful, the talented Eloise Kramer.”

Mandy Whitacre, she thought, but didn’t say as the applause rang from the television in the green room. Mandy sat on a soft sofa, all made up, dressed up, and up against the full impact of this being her first time ever on television.

Arnie, sitting in a chair far from her, looked up from his laptop computer with an expression that said, You asked for it, kid.

She smiled at him the way she always did, wishing him well, hoping for friendship, and getting used to the idea that it was never going to happen. He was there to look after her, and he was doing a great job. He’d handled the whole booking, every detail from her flight to her hotel room, meals, schedule, the works, but he’d been honest with her, he was doing it for Dane, and their relationship was strictly professional.

In other words, they could never be friends.

So stick around, Arnie, I want to be alone. She and her favor-paying agent hardly spoke to each other.

She looked over at—was it Dwight or Dwayne, she couldn’t quite remember, her brain was so occupied with the performance coming up. He was a young man decked out in a flowery martial arts outfit, and he didn’t smile much, if at all. He was watching the screen, eyes narrow and lips grim. She figured he was getting psyched up.

Preston Gabriel went on with his opener. “And then we have tonight’s million-dollar challenger, a man who claims not to be a pretender but to have a genuine ability to move and manipulate objects by the power of his mind. If he can demonstrate this power to the satisfaction of our judges and this master pretender”—pointing to himself—“he could be eligible for our prize of one million dollars, offered to anyone who can prove psychic powers under controlled conditions: Mr. Dwight Hoskins.” Applause.

Dwight. Now she remembered.

“But first a little skulduggery. Sir, may I borrow a handkerchief?”

Linda, the producer, wearing a wireless headset and carrying a clipboard with every minute of the show planned out, stepped into the room. “Dwight? Torey and Abigail will be on for ten minutes, and then we’ll go to a break and then you’re on.”

He nodded.

Linda looked down at Mandy. “And Eloise, after Dwight’s had his spot we’ll go to a break and then you’re on.”

“Okay.” Like waiting for your turn with the dentist.

“Do you need anything?”

She already had a bottle of water in her hand, half empty. Her mouth was still dry. “Uh, no.”

Linda took a second look at her. “We’d better have Amber touch up your forehead. Why don’t you come with me.”

“The person you are calling … ‘Dr. Margo Kessler’ … is unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep. When you are finished you may simply hang up or press One for other options.”

Dane heard the same old beep but left no message. He’d already left two. Dr. Kessler had become a phantom, just like the girl who’d driven her Bug down his driveway and evaporated from his life.

Actually, he felt relieved. What was the point in calling her other than the fact that he said he would? She’d already stated her position, that he was crazy. Besides a pill, there wouldn’t be much she could add to that.

He smirked and put the phone down. There. I called.

It was surreal sitting all alone before a cold, dead fireplace in a big, empty house with a .357 Magnum in his hand. He’d theorized that actually buying the gun would help him think things through, get him past What if I… and down to I really can. It worked. A little. The weight of the steel, the feel of the grip, the smell of the oil, the rattle of the bullets in the box were real, not hypothetical. He was able to hold the barrel to his head, say “Bang,” and conceive more clearly what would follow. That was how he decided that down in the meadow—Mandy’s Meadow—would be a better place than in the living room. He would stay preserved in the winter cold until Shirley, the cops, or the neighbors found him, and there’d be no messy cleanup.

Yep. Surreal.

Amber the makeup girl carefully dabbed Mandy’s forehead with more foundation and powder. “You feeling nervous?”

Mandy was captivated by the pretty girl in the big mirror, but not out of vanity. She’d seen this girl in another mirror … and she was still wishing. She nodded at Amber’s question.

“Oh,” said Amber, giving her a looking over, “it’s showbiz, like any other gig. Forget the cameras. Just go out there and wow that audience.”

With everything Dane taught you, she thought, but all by yourself, cut loose and lonely. Small, but smile. A screwup, but you show ’em. Spread your wings and fly. God’s still with you even if he isn’t.

God?

“Hey, why the face?”

She put on the professional social interaction smile she’d been practicing. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

It’s not fair.

Applause came from the television on the wall. Preston Gabriel was back from a commercial break and introducing …

“Dwight Hoskins.”

Hoskins strode onto the stage looking like a flower vase. He shook Gabriel’s hand. Gabriel asked some questions and Hoskins talked about psychic powers: everyone has them, they just need to be developed, he developed his abilities through kung fu and learning the laws of nature from an old Chinese master …

Lord, if I only knew how to feel.

… learning to recognize his inner self, his outer self, and achieving a level of consciousness matching the absence of mind to the motions of the body …

Your grace is enough. I’d love to feel that.

Hoskins placed a pencil on a low table so that it teetered on the edge in precarious balance.

And Arnie—oooo, Arnie! I can’t explain it to him—maybe because You’ve never explained it to me!

Hoskins crouched, waved his hands about in cool, martial arts gesticulations, the pencil moved, the audience applauded.

So he can make a pencil move. Wow. Got a show to go with that?

Next came the phone book lying open on the same table, sideways in relation to Hoskins. Hoskins did his little martial arts dance again, slicing the air with his hands and striking poses, then came in close and made a few pages flip, apparently by themselves.

The audience was impressed, or maybe just being nice.

“It’s an old trick,” said Amber. “Preston’s going to nail him.”

Gabriel was talking about controlled conditions being a requirement for the challenge and bringing out a canister.

“A million dollars,” said Mandy.

“It started out as ten thousand thirty years ago and it’s grown from there, probably because nobody’s ever won it.”

“Nobody?”

“Nope. Nobody’s ever produced a psychic phenomenon that Preston hasn’t been able to expose.”

Gabriel was spreading Styrofoam packing pellets all around the phone book. “It’s widely known among magicians that objects can be made to move by a surreptitious puff of breath. Just to be sure that isn’t the case here, I’d like you to try again, this time with these Styrofoam pellets surrounding the phone book.”

Hoskins stared, and his face was readable even on television: he was trapped like a fly in a spider’s web and trying not to look like it. “The pellets might absorb the psychic energy, I don’t know.”

“What if we placed a mask over your mouth and nose. Would that be fair?”

This guy was melting on his feet. “I don’t know. I need to concentrate.”

“One last offer: suppose we turned the phone book ninety degrees so that the pages are upright in relation to you and would have to be turned sideways as one would normally turn pages? In that position, it seems to me that only psychic power would be able to move them.”

Amber wiggled a finger at the screen. “He’s gone.”

Hoskins tried it with the Styrofoam pellets around the phone book, but his energy had left him. Too much interference, he said.

“So it appears you have not met the million-dollar challenge, but I thank you for trying,” said Gabriel. To the audience, “Please bid a kind adieu to Mr. Dwight Hoskins.” They applauded him off the stage. “Next up, the lovely Eloise Kramer. Don’t go away.”

Linda, the producer, came for Mandy. “All set?”

“All set,” Amber answered, swiveling Mandy’s chair around. Mandy got to her feet, her legs a little weak. In the hall behind Linda, Dwight Hoskins passed by as if looking for the nearest exit.

The .357 Magnum remained on the lamp table near the fireplace. Dane sat in the breakfast nook, winter scenery glorious outside the windows, and tapped on his computer,

Suicide Note, First Draft

By now you have found me

(delete, delete, delete)

If you haven’t found me yet, look down in Mandy’s Meadow.

Would they even know which meadow was Mandy’s Meadow?

(delete, delete, delete)

I’ve thought long and hard about this and

After giving my life due consideration

You may be wondering why I

(shift up arrow, select, delete)

Mandy’s Meadow. From where he sat he could see the meadow cloaked in a winter mantle, crisscrossed by the hoofprints of deer and elk, the lope and rest patterns of white rabbits. Shirley had talked about the wildflowers that would bloom in that meadow come springtime, the yellow fawn lilies, mountain bluebells, purple shooting stars.

The computer screen was waiting, having only four words: Suicide Note, First Draft.

He extended his hands over the keyboard—they were still in pretty good shape, no arthritis to speak of, good tendons, clear skin. Most of his body was that way. His legs were good enough to climb the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. He was watching his cholesterol, and his blood pressure was normal. His prostate … well, he couldn’t pee over a fence, but there was no cancer and he could pee well enough.

Was he getting—what did she call it—“leadbutt”? He checked and didn’t see himself sinking too deeply into his chair. He hadn’t started whining about the good old days yet—but he had started thinking about them.

You think your wife would want that … you just chucking the whole thing and turning into an old raisin? I know what she’d say: buy some testosterone, get a motorcycle, do whatever it takes to get living again, but don’t waste the years God still has for you. You believe in God? Well, give Him some credit. He might know what He’s doing.

Dane’s hands fell into his lap. He felt chastised.

He might know what He’s doing.

Well … He just might.

Delete, delete, delete.

Dane tapped on the keys,

Since when did God choose only painless lessons for His children?

He closed the file without saving it, then strode back to the lamp table by the fireplace, wrapped the gun in its plastic wrapper, and tucked it away in its original box. He still had the receipt.

He thought he might like a cup of coffee, maybe with some of those little bake sale chocolate cookies he bought from Noah Morgan.

Arnie remained in the greenroom as Preston Gabriel announced from the television screen, “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Eloise Kramer.” Her recorded music began, and he saw two hula hoops roll out into the stage lights, one from the left, one from the right. They rolled in a circle in opposite directions and then, as they crossed each other from the camera’s viewpoint, poof, as quick as a blink, there was Eloise spinning to a graceful ta-da pose in the center. The audience gasped, and Arnie had to concede, Just wait, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Her act was astonishing, total fun, total entertainment. She would go far, no question—but without him. Someday her shady morals would catch up to her. She’d pick the wrong man, cross the wrong woman, get the wrong kind of attention. He was thankful that it wouldn’t be his job to cover her back or explain a scandal to the news hounds.

He opened his e-mail account and typed a quick e-mail to Dane:

FYI: Booked Kramer on Preston’s show. Taping today, January 17. Have since withdrawn as her agent. She has secured other management. Take care. Arnie.

No, her performance was not up to her standards. She danced in, around, and through the hula hoops as they danced with her; she set her doves flying in tight formations the cameras could follow and materialized bottles that floated around her singing counterpoint to the music; she did it all with a big smile on her face and boundless energy that played well on television, but it felt slow to her, mechanical, and she was trying too hard. The life wasn’t there, the playfulness and wonder that always popped up and surprised her to the delight of her audience. She was pretending, working against a lingering, leeching knot of sorrow she couldn’t shake.

She pushed through, draining herself, then struck her closing pose, standing in one hula hoop while framing herself with the other, the doves perched atop it. The crowd rose to their feet, as did Preston Gabriel behind his Johnny Carson desk at the side of the stage.

Stagehands gathered up the hoops, doves, and bottles, and she took a bow. She was so relieved she wanted to cry, but she laughed, smiled, and bowed again. Sweat dripped to the floor. So much for her makeup.

“Eloise Kramer, ladies and gentlemen!” bellowed Preston Gabriel.

As planned, she crossed the stage, shook Gabriel’s hand, and took her place in the chair next to his desk for a short interview. She was still panting for breath.

“Marvelous!” said Preston Gabriel, taking his seat. “Truly refreshing!”

“Thank you.”

He was smiling at her, but with a piercing gaze that made her want to cringe. “From Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.”

“Yes, sir, born and raised.”

“And just barely out of your teens—or are you?”

“I turned twenty last Saturday. Two days ago.” There was some applause, about the only celebration her birthday got. She rehearsed on that day, alone.