Текст книги "Illusion"

Автор книги: Фрэнк Перетти

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chapter

41

The seven-o’clock show was the beginning of sorrows. Mandy kept smiling, charming, dancing, and making ’em laugh, but every routine, line of banter, and dance step felt like climbing uphill wearing lead weights. Ernie and Doris were dead, and though she managed to empty her mind of fears and questions that could be verbalized—how else could she do the stunts?—she couldn’t shake a sixth-sense connection with those two and that hospital and a debilitating dread that whatever got Ernie and Doris was crawling along that connection on its way to her. If ever she was in showbiz, it was that night; she was putting on the biggest act, the happiest facade she could muster.

The nine-o’clock show …

Of course, the dread played right into what happened. If she hadn’t been afraid to begin with, she might have found another way to play through the difficulty, get a laugh, and move on. She’d put up with hecklers before—a tipsy lodge member now and then, a smart-aleck kid all too often—but these men were denizens of a place she’d never been, an intentional evil she’d never encountered. They got to her, they scared her, and it was the worst of all nights to do such a thing.

The show was rolling along well enough, into its second half. She could feel her inner clock ticking down the minutes before she could take her bow, call it a night, and go home to sort things out. She was sitting in a chair, mugging and bantering with two handsome volunteers from the audience: Buck—now, there was a studly name, real or not—who was in the process of tying her to the chair with yards and yards of rope; and Jim, who was feeding quarter-inch slingshot pellets from a little box into her mouth so she could spit at balloons set up across the stage.

The first alarm signals came from the rude, invasive manner Jim stuffed the pellets in her mouth. She made goofy noises and tried to talk with her mouth full to get some laughs, but he was having a strange kind of fun that told her, too late, that she’d called up the wrong volunteers.

Buck was cinching the ropes so tight they hurt, but she kept smiling, making a joke out of it. “Don’t cut off my circulation, I still have half a show to do.” He wrapped the ropes around her body and the back of the chair, then planted his foot on the back of the chair and yanked them tight, making her grunt with pain and a foreboding she made a silly face about.

Four of Jim and Buck’s buddies were in the third row, loud and obnoxious, egging them on: “All right, Buck, she’s yours now!” “Make her moan, Buck!” “Tighter, Buck, she wants it!”

“Okay, back off,” she told Jim, and though she hoped the audience didn’t catch it, she really meant it. He backed off and let her try spitting the pellets at the balloons.

Pfft! Bang! One balloon down. Cheers from the crowd. She gave them a comical face, manipulating the pellets around in her mouth in exaggerated fashion.

Oh! Buck tied one ankle to the leg of the chair and he wasn’t merciful.

I gotta get through this. Keep ’em laughing.

Pfft! Bang! Second balloon down.

Ouch!Buck tied the other ankle, this time with some extra loops. Her foot was going numb.

Okay, this stunt’s getting scratched. Never again, not in this town. What was Seamus thinking?

Pfft! She missed, but as Dane once told her, you have to show a little vulnerability so people can identify with you.

Vulnerability? How much rope was there, anyway? Buck wasn’t wasting any of it. Now he was tying her hands behind the chair, and that hurt, too. She couldn’t let the audience know. She kept smiling.

“Take her, Buck!” a goon hollered.

“How?” another joked.

“Don’t worry,” said Buck.

Pfft! Mandy popped the third balloon and looked around for Andy. She might need him. The lights blinded her. She couldn’t see him.

One balloon left. One pellet still in her mouth. She decided to keep the pellet.

Buck finished the last knot, and Mandy was so fixed to that chair she couldn’t move an arm, a leg, anything. He walked around the chair, leering at her, very proud of himself.

The goons in the third row started to whoop. “Hey, still got one balloon left!” “Forget thoseballoons!”

The show must go on. Mandy followed the script. She was supposed to have one of the volunteers time her escape. “Okay, Jim, you got a watch?”

“Oh, I wantto watch!” he said.

Some in the audience thought that was funny, but apart from the hoots of the Filthy Four, it got only a halfhearted laugh. Folks were beginning to have doubts about this show, and Mandy could feel it.

“No, a watch!” she said, keeping it all in fun. “I need you to be the timer.”

“Time you or Buck?” a goon hollered.

She wasn’t ready for it, couldn’t believe it was happening. Without warning, Buck pounced from behind her and locked his mouth over hers, making a long, lewd show of it. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She tried to turn her head away, but he stayed right on her, even gripped her head from behind and wouldn’t let her go. His buddies in the third row were on their feet, cheering. Jim threw up both arms as if seeing a touchdown, “YAHHHH!”

The crowd reaction was mixed. Most were trying to play along and be good sports, laughing, but the mood was going south.

Imprisoned. At their mercy. Icy, animal terror coursed through her. She groped at the ropes from outside herself, digging, yanking. The ropes were tight, the knots stubborn.

He put his hand on her waist, started working his way up.

She couldn’t think of anything funny. She could only feel his hand exploring her. The whole room became tea-stained; there was a low rumble and the smell of smoke; other times, other Bucks, other Jims, other Mandys began to layer atop the present …

PING! She spit the pellet into his mouth, breaking off his front tooth.

He jerked backward, staggering,

… his mouth over hers, making a long, lewd show …

… jerked backward, staggering …

his hand to his mouth.

… saw the blood on his hand …

She could see him from behind, from the audience, from above, from anywhere she wanted. She also saw herself, bound to the chair. From a hundred directions, she grabbed for the ropes.

… grabbed for the ropes …

… see him from anywhere she wanted …

He saw the blood on his hand and cursed her, getting mad enough to be stupid.

With all the other hands she could find she dug at the knots and they finally came loose. She grabbed for the ropes.

The ropes came alive, uncoiling like snakes, and the audience let out a cheer. The heroine was beginning to rally!

… about to backhand her …

Buck stepped up and would have backhanded her—

One of her threw the rope around his ankle and yanked him backward.

… yanked him backward; he body-slammed …

He body slammed the stage, and it had to have hurt.

… she yanked the rope and he went sprawling …

… he went sprawling …

… she came out of the chair …

The audience didn’t laugh. They weren’t sure what to make of this.

Jim was stunned and squatted down to check on his buddy.

The stage was moving like a ship on a rough sea. Mandy’s hands broke free as the rope fell away, but her body was tied fast to the chair.

She was standing midstage, addressing the audience, rubbing her sore wrists. “Wow! Guess you got a real show tonight!”

… her hands broke free …

She grabbed a pellet out of the little box beside her, spilling all the others, and popped it into her mouth.

Now Jim cursed her, rising, coming toward her.

She was working the ropes that bound her to the chair.

… standing in front of him … he was coming toward her …

She was in the chair, but standing there, too. The standing Mandy was no boxer, but anger and impulse made her throw a vicious punch to his face.

… the rope snaked behind him …

She didn’t feel a thing, but he reeled back, stunned, nose bleeding.

She held the rope in many hands.

It snaked behind him and looped around his chest. He fought it, beat at it, tried to grab hold, but it was alive, still coiling around him, keeping him busy.

… Buck got to his feet …

… Pfft! Try usingthat tonight! …

The audience was getting noisy, some cheering, some questioning, everybody murmuring. The goons were on their feet, trying to decide what to do.

Buck got to his feet …

It used to work on the moose and deer that ate her and Daddy’s flowers, only she used a slingshot to ping themin the ribs. She spit this pellet where it would really hurt, and it did. Buck doubled over.

“Try using thattonight, you son of a–” Yes. She really said it, loudly, and she meant it. She wanted to hurt him, and she wasn’t through.

Her ankles were free, and the other Mandys were frantically working, uncoiling the rope from around her, whipping and snaking it above the stage. One half tangled itself around Jim, the other half around Buck… .

From above, she grabbed hold of the rope.

The middle of the rope hefted upward as if in the hand of an invisible giant. Their bodies came off the stage, collided, then dropped in a heap.

… then dropped in a heap …

… Jim doubled over, hit in the groin …

She rose from the chair, rubbing her sore wrists.

… still bound to the chair, afraid …

By now, at long last, Andy, Carl, and two security guys ran onto the stage and gathered up Jim and Buck with the ropes still around them.

Mandy wasn’t thinking much, just raging, wanting to hit somebody, bite somebody. She locked eyes with the four goons in the third row, her fists clenching …

They cleared out, heads down and arms raised to shield themselves.

She, in some form, would have gone after them, but Andy put out a gentle hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay, they’re leaving.”

He and the other men hauled Jim and Buck up the center aisle and out the back.

Dead space. Mandy stood in the spotlight, hair tousled, face crimson and slick with sweat, her lipstick smeared, half gone. From somewhere she heard rustling, murmuring …

Oh. There was still an audience sitting there. She rubbed her sore wrists and worked up a smile even though her voice was unsteady. “Wow! Guess you got a real show tonight!”

They were still undecided how to feel about it.

In Mandy’s worlds, there were still Jims and Bucks on the stage, Mandys fighting and yanking ropes, different audiences watching different parts of what had just happened, was still happening, was going to happen.

Ladies and gentlemen,came a voice.

… let’s have a round of applause …

… prop manager …

She focused on the lounge and audience that weren’t rolling, shifting, and tea-stained. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a round of applause for Buck Johnson, our prop manager, and Jimmy Hansen, our, uh, hairdresser!”

… our, uh, hairdresser …

… Whoo! They had me scared …

Now they were astounded, feeling fooled, and so relieved—at least some of them were.

Johnson? Hansen? She hadn’t a clue what their last names were. “Whoo! They had mescared!”

… had me scared!

… me scared!

Andy made the decision and ordered the curtain dropped. He made an announcement over the sound system that the show would close early. The people filed out of the lounge in many moods. Some were cheering for the brave girl, some thought it was the sickest stunt they’d ever seen, some felt gypped, everybody left the lounge talking about it.

The crew went to work. There was blood to mop from the stage and about a hundred quarter-inch steel pellets to sweep up.

Back in the dressing room there was yelling and screaming, mostly by Mandy, at Andy: What took him so long? How could he let them do that to her? Wasn’t he watching? How dare he close her show?

Andy kept trying to calm her down: he wasn’t sure how far to let it go, was wondering if she could play her way through it, didn’t know they’d be that brazen, was just about to put a halt to it, was she all right?

“No, I’m not all right!” she cried, immersing her face in the sink, smearing on soap, sloshing and slobbering the water into and out of her mouth to cleanse herself. “I’ve been violated! I’ve been, I’ve been shamed!”

“And you wanted to keep going?”

“I told you, it’s my show!”

“It’s my lounge.”

She smeared on more soap and washed her face again. “No, I am not all right! What kind of town is this, anyway, they let people like that run around violating people right in front of everybody!” She was crying, even yelling in the sink, her voice bubbling in the water. She soaped her hands and face again.

“This is Vegas,” Andy explained. “People can forget themselves—”

“I am not all right, can’t you see that? And I’m not one of your stripper, show-it-off showgirl bimbo nincompoops! I’m Mandy Whitacre, Mandy Whitacre, and I have some dignity!”

“You’ve already washed your face.”

“Well, I haven’t!”

“Listen, I should call a medic—”

“No doctors!”

“You should let them check you over.”

“No, I’m not all right! Seamus should have known, he should have known this would happen. What are you doing here?”

“I’m making sure—”

“Well, try knocking!”

“I came in here with you. You could hardly walk, remember?”

“No, I am not all right! How many of you are there, anyway?”

He shied back, hands extended as if she might attack him. “I’ll get a medic.”

She saw herself in the mirror. “I gotta get out of this outfit. I gotta get out of here.”

“Mandy, you’re upset, you’re beside yourself—”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“I’ll get someone—”

“Get out of here! And you get out of here! And you, too!”

Several Andys went out the door like a succession of instant replays. Mandy slammed the door shut, went to the mirror—the door slammed shut again, then again—saw her crimson, overwashed face and water-spiked hair with soap still in it; she’d splashed water and soap down the front of her costume, and there was a scary, psycho-banshee look in her eyes. If any medics came in here right now they’d inject her, take her away, and lock her up where doctors would give her pills, take away her clothes, her toothbrush, her freedom.

… Get out of here! And you get out of here! …

She toweled her hair, changed into her street clothes, and got out of there, leaving the place in a mess.

She worked her way down the hall behind the lounge … and into the main casino, staying on the carpeted throughway next to the wall so the security guys wouldn’t bother her. She hurried by the banks of slot machines, the roulette table, her hand on the wall to keep from getting lost in the wrong world.

… the roulette table …

… changed into her street clothes …

She couldn’t go home because she didn’t dare drive not knowing which car she was driving through which intersection and in what order. She thought she could sit in the Claim Jumper restaurant for a while, just have a salad, stay put, and wait out the storm. The restaurant was just off the casino floor, a short walk.

She saw herself up ahead, hanging a left into the restaurant. Okay. It looked like it happened, or was about to happen. She followed herself.

The hostess looked right through her, talking to somebody else. Mandy reached for a menu on the counter. Her hand passed through it. Wrong time. She ventured into the restaurant to do a quick visual search and spotted herself sitting in a corner booth, looking miserable and picking at a Cobb salad. All right, the corner booth. Now all she had to do was find the hostess who was here now.

She went back to the front, and the hostess noticed her. “Good evening. Table for one?”

“How about a corner booth?”

“We have one.”

When she got there, the miserable Mandy looked up and said, “I don’t want to talk to you! Go away!”

“You go away!” She immediately had to tell the waitress, “Not you, I was talking to a bug.”

The miserable Mandy dissolved. The booth was empty and the table was clean. Mandy sat down, ordered the Cobb salad, then anchored her hands to the tabletop to connect with the present world and wait until all the other worlds and times went away—if they ever did. The noise was terrible. Every voice, every spoken word, every jingle of a slot machine or clang of a jackpot was doubled and tripled upon itself, happening, having happened, going to happen, all at once. People walked by on their way to a table, then walked by again on their way to the same table, having the exact conversation as before. She overheard phrases from the tables around her several times before, while, and after they were spoken. Four people at one table sounded like twenty. She even heard conversations between people at tables that were empty, before the people arrived. She was sitting in the same restaurant again and again, all at the same time.

Oh, God, help me.

The waitress brought her salad, but it wasn’t there yet. She came again with the same salad, but Mandy could see the table through the leaves and plate. The third time, the salad was real. The fourth time she ignored it and paid attention to the third.

But she could hardly touch it. How many times would she take the same bite, how many times would she swallow it? Maybe this was going to be one of those mythological hells, sitting in the same restaurant eating the same salad over and over again, bite by repeated bite, for all eternity, full and hungry at the same time, the plate empty, the plate full. She almost laughed, she felt like crying. From outside herself she was getting a kick out of this comedy, but inside she was the hapless foil it was happening to, and that girl was quietly, privately losing her mind over a plate of salad.

She forked a few leaves into her mouth and chewed.

Someone approached the table. It was she.

Oh, why doesn’t she just leave me alone!“I don’t want to talk to you! Go away!”

The other Mandy felt just the way she did, she knew. “You go away!”

Mandy joined the other Mandy in telling the waitress who wasn’t there, “Not you, I was talking to a bug.”

The other Mandy dissolved.

The Mandy still sitting there slid the salad aside and propped her head in her hand.

Tears came to her eyes. She let them flow down her face, but she was too exhausted to cry.

She reached in her bag for her cell phone but withdrew her hand, leaving the phone there. It was just a thought: Call Dane.

But that was over, didn’t she remember? She would never see the ranch, hear his voice, or feel his touch again.

She picked at her salad because there was nothing else to do. If she stayed here and didn’t go anywhere else or interact with anyone, she shouldn’t be a danger. The medics or security or the police would find her eventually and take her where she couldn’t hurt anyone. Pills would make all the fear and hurt and disappointment go away.

This bite tasted new, like she hadn’t had this one before.

“Excuse me?” It was a quiet voice, just one, right here, right now. She looked up into the face of a lady she didn’t know. “Are you doing all right?”

Mandy noticed it was quieter. The only people talking were the people who were really there, having conversations as they happened. The restaurant looked and felt like the only one happening. She looked again at the lady, a gal in her fifties, she guessed, still dark-haired, well built, and fully aware of it. She had a man with her, no doubt her husband. He was bald and, well, retired-looking, but he took good care of himself and looked proud to be in her company.

Mandy wiped her eyes, feeling no need to mince words. “No, I’m not doing very well at all. Thank you for asking.”

The lady put her hand on Mandy’s. “We saw your show tonight. Listen, kid, you were entirely in the right and we were proud of you!”

The man said, “If you hadn’t decked those guys I would have.”

Fresh tears came to her eyes, but Mandy didn’t care. There would surely be a pill for it.

“No, no,” said the lady. “Don’t do that. You’re an incredible performer! Just incredible! We were so proud!”

You haven’t met the real me, whoever she is.

The lady was still talking. “We were surprised that more people hadn’t heard about you.”

“That’s going to change,” said the man with a smile.

“Oh, I’m sure of that,” Mandy said glumly.

Now the lady sat in the booth, opposite her.

“Especially … well, maybe you won’t appreciate this, but you …” The lady shook a finger at her, wagging her head. “You look so much like …”

“Mandy Collins. I know.”

“A lot of people remember her, and you could be her daughter.”

“I’m not. I’m Mandy Whitacre.”

The lady smiled—in awe, it seemed—and exchanged a look with her husband. “Well, even that, that was something that caught our eye, your name, and then your face …”

Mandy started to say something about needing to finish her dinner and go home, it was nice to meet them, blah blah blah, but she only got as far as “Well, anyway—”

–before the lady kept going. “This is something only Terry and I would know about, our own little secret, but we used to know a Mandy Whitacre way back before you were born, and she was a magician, too, believe it or not, and that’s why we came to see your show. Your name was just so familiar, it was even spelled the same, and we just had to come and see, you know, what this Mandy Whitacre was like, and then”—the lady shook her head in wonder—“this is going to sound so unbelievable, but you look just like the Mandy Whitacre we went to school with. It’s just incredible.”

Oh. Right. Went to school with.Okay, now it made sense. By now there were so many Mandy Whitacres out there, one of them was bound to bring along some old friends to liven up the party. Mandy could guess the answer even as she asked, “What school?”

“North Idaho Junior College in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Of course, it’s called North Idaho College now, NIC.”

Sure, of course. That’s where Mandy Whitacre—at least the Mandy Whitacre she thought she was—went to college, and of course some old friends from NIC would just pop up in a restaurant in Las Vegas at this late hour and they’d run into each other. Mandy went with it. At least when the medics arrived and saw her talking to people who weren’t there, they’d know they’d found the right person. Funny, though, how all the Mandys were the same age as she but these two friends were old, and there was something about the lady’s voice … something about her husband’s voice …

“Terry?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, extending his hand. “Terry Lundin.”

She gripped his hand and stared at him unabashedly, reconstructing his face from a memory only months old: wild, red hair like an explosion, black, horn-rimmed glasses, skinny like a road runner … he used to drive a Road Runner. They called him … “You’re … you’re Road Runner!”

He was taken aback, astounded. He looked at the lady, she looked at him, and they reacted as if they were seeing a magic show again. He said, “Yes, that’s right!”

“You are so amazing!” the lady exclaimed, and now the eyes, the wide grin, the naturally gaga expression, were unmistakable. Yes, Terry Lundin was her boyfriend in the summer of 1970. They were getting serious.

And yes, it was her voice! Mandy did recognize it, and now the face … absolutely, positively, of course! “Joanie?”