"Why?"

"I was telling you about misdirection?"

"I remember."

"Well, there's also time misdirection. That's tricking the audience by making them think something's going to happen at one time when it really happens at another. Like, an illusionist'll repeat an act at regular intervals. The audience subconsciously comes to believe that whatever he's doing has to happen only at those times. But what the performer does then is shorten the time between the intervals. The audience isn't paying attention and they completely miss whatever he's doing. You can spot a time-misdirection trick because the illusionist always lets the audience know what the interval is."

"Like breaking the watches?" Sachs asked.

"Exactly."

Rhyme asked, "So you don't think we have until four?"

Kara shrugged. "We might. Maybe he's planned to kill three people every four hours and then he'll murder the fourth victim only one hour later. I don't know."

"We don't know anything here," Rhyme said firmly. "What do you think, Kara? What would you do?"

She gave a troubled laugh, being asked to step into the mind of a killer. After a moment of hard debate she said, "He knows you've found the watches by now. He knows you're smart. He doesn't need to hammer it home anymore. If I were him I'd be going after the next victim before four. I'd be going after him right now."

"That's good enough for me," Rhyme said. "Forget surveillance and forget soft clothes. Lon, call Haumann and get ESU into the park. In a big way."

"It might scare him off, Linc-if he's in disguise and doing his own surveillance."

"I think we have to take that chance. Tell ESU we're looking for . . . who knows what the hell we're looking for? Give him a general description, as best you can."

Fifty-year-old killer, sixty-year-old janitor, seventy-year-old bag lady . . .

Cooper looked up from his computer. "Got the stable. Hammerstead Riding Academy."

Bell, Sellitto and Sachs started for the door. Kara said, "I want to go too."

"No," Rhyme said.

"There may be something I'll notice. Some sleight or a quick-change move by somebody in a crowd. I could spot it." A nod toward the other cops. "They might not."

"No. It's too dangerous. No civilians on a tactical operation. That's the rule."

"I don't care about the rules," the young woman said, leaning toward him defiantly. "I can help."

"Kara-"

But the young woman silenced him by glancing at the crime-scene photos of Tony Calvert and Svetlana Rasnikov then turning back to Lincoln Rhyme with a cold expression in her eyes. In this simple gesture she reminded him that it was he who'd asked her here, he who'd brought her into his world and transformed her from an innocent into someone who could now look at these horrors without flinching.

"All right," Rhyme said. Then, nodding toward Sachs, he added, "But stay close to her."

She was cautious, Malerick observed, as befitted any woman who'd just been picked up by a man in Manhattan, even if that stranger was shy, friendly and able to calm rearing horses.

Still, Cheryl Marston was relaxing little by little, enjoying the tales of his times riding bareback with a circus, all of which were embellished considerably to keep her amused and to whittle down her defenses.

After the groom and the vet on call at Hammerstead had examined Donny Boy and declared him in good health Malerick and his next unwitting performer strolled from the stable to this restaurant, which was just off Riverside Drive.

The woman now chatted amiably with John (his persona for their date) about her life in the city, her early love of horses, the ones she'd owned or ridden, her hopes of buying a summer place in Middleburg, Virginia. He responded with occasional bits of equine lore-what he could deduce from her comments and what he knew from circuses and the world of illusion. Animals have always been an important part of the profession. Mesmerizing them, vanishing them, turning them into different species. An illusionist created a hugely popular routine in the 1800s-instantly transforming a chicken into a duck. (The method was simplicity itself: the duck made his entrance wearing a quick-change chicken costume.) Killing and resurrecting animals was popular in less politically correct times, though they were rarely actually harmed; after all, it's a rather inept illusionist who has to really kill an animal to create the illusion that it's dead. It tends to be expensive too.

For his routine in Central Park today to snare Cheryl Marston, Malerick had drawn on the routines of Howard Thurston, a popular illusionist in the early 1900s, who specialized in animal acts. The trick Malerick performed wouldn't've met with Thurston's approval, though; the famous illusionist had treated the animals in his act as if they were human assistants, if not family members. Malerick had been less humane. He'd captured a pigeon by hand. He'd then turned it on its back and stroked the neck and sides slowly until it was hypnotized-a technique magicians have used for years to create the appearance of a dead bird. As Cheryl Marston approached on her horse, he'd flung the pigeon hard into the horse's face. Donny Boy's rearing in pain and fright had nothing to do with the bird, though, but was caused by an ultrasonic pitch generator, set to a frequency that stung the horse's ears. As Malerick stepped out of the bushes to "rescue" Cheryl he shut the generator off and by the time he grabbed the bridle the horse was calming.

Now, little by little, the equestrian was growing even less cautious as she learned how much they had in common. Or appeared to.

This illusion was due to Malerick's use of mentalism, not one of his strongest skills but one that he was competent at. Mentalism has nothing to do with telepathically discerning someone's thoughts, of course. It's a combination of mechanical and psychological techniques to deduce facts. Malerick was now doing what the best mentalists did-body reading, it was called, as opposed to mind reading. He was noting very subtle changes in Cheryl's poses and facial expressions and gestures in response to comments he made. Some told him he was straying from her thoughts, others that he was on the mark.

He mentioned, for instance, a friend who'd just been through a divorce and he could see easily that she had too-and she'd been on the receiving end. So, grimacing, he told her that he was divorced and that his wife'd had an affair and left him. It had devastated him but he was now recovering.

"I gave up a boat," she said, sourly, "just to get away from that son-of-a-bitch. A twenty-four-foot sailboat."

Malerick also used "Barnum statements" to make her think they had more in common than they did. The classic example was a mentalist sizing up his subject and offering gravely, "I sense you're often extroverted but at times you find yourself quite shy."

Which is interpreted as insightful but, of course, applies to nearly everybody on earth.

Neither the fictional John nor Cheryl had children. Both had cats, divorced parents and a love of tennis. Look at all these coincidences! A match made in heaven . . .

Almost time, he thought. Though he was in no hurry. Even if the police had some leads to what he was up to they'd be thinking he wouldn't kill anyone again until 4:00; it was now just after two.

You may think, Revered Audience, that the world of illusion never intersects the world of reality but that's not wholly true.

I think of John Mulholland, the renowned magician and editor of the magic magazine, The Sphinx. He abruptly announced his early retirement from magic and journalism in the nineteen fifties.

No one could figure out why. But then the rumors began-rumors that he'd started working for the American intelligence community to teach spies how to use magic techniques to deliver drugs in such subtle ways that even the most paranoid Communist didn't know he was being given a mickey.

What do you see in my hands, Revered Audience? Look closely at my fingers. Nothing, right? They seem empty. And yet, as you've probably guessed, they aren't. . . .

Now using one of Mulholland's smoother clandestine drugging techniques, Malerick picked up his spoon with his left hand. As he tapped it absently on the tabletop Cheryl glanced at it. A mere fraction of a second. But it gave Malerick enough time to empty a tiny capsule of tasteless powder into her coffee as he reached for the sugar with his other hand.

John Mulholland would've been proud.

After a few moments Malerick could see that the drug was having its effect; her eyes were slightly unfocused and she was weaving as she sat. She didn't sense anything was wrong, though. That was the good thing about flunitrazepam, the famous date-rape drug Rohypnol: you didn't know you'd been drugged. Not until the next morning. Which in Cheryl Marston's case wasn't going to be an issue.

He looked at her and smiled. "Hey, you want to see something fun?"

"Fun?" she asked drowsily. She blinked, smiling broadly.

He paid the check and then said to her. "I just bought a boat."

She laughed in delight. "A boat? I love boats. What kind?"

"Sailboat. Thirty-eight feet. My wife and I had one," Malerick added sadly. "She got it in the divorce."

"John, no, you're kidding me!" she said, laughing groggily. "My husband and I had one! He got ours in the divorce."

"Really?" He laughed and stood. "Hey, let's walk down to the river. You can see it from there."

"I'd love to." She rose unsteadily and took his arm.

He steered her through the doorway. The dosage seemed right. She was submissive but she wasn't going to pass out before he got her into the bushes next to the Hudson.

They headed toward Riverside Park. "You were talking about boats," she said drunkenly.

"That's right."

"My ex and I had one," she said.

"I know," Malerick said. "You told me."

"Oh, did I?" Cheryl laughed.

"Hold on," he said. "I have to get something."

He stopped at his car, a stolen Mazda, and took a heavy gym bag from the backseat, locked the car again. From inside the bag came a loud clank of metal. Cheryl glanced at it, began to speak but then seemed to forget what she was going to say.

"Let's go this way." Malerick led her to the end of the cross street, across a pedestrian bridge over the parkway and down into an overgrown, deserted strip of land on the riverbank.

He disengaged her arm from his and gripped her firmly around the back and under the arm. He felt her breast with his fingers as her head lolled against him.

"Look," she said, pointing unsteadily into the Hudson, where dozens of sailboats and cabin cruisers moved over the sparkling dark-blue water.

Malerick said, "My boat's down there."

"I like boats."

"So do I," he said softly.

"Really?" she asked, laughing and adding in a whisper that, guess what, she and her ex-husband had had one. But she'd lost it in the divorce.

Chapter Fifteen.

The riding academy was a slice of old New York.

Smelling powerful barn scent, Amelia Sachs looked through an archway into the interior of the woody old place at the horses and, atop them, riders-all of whom looked stately in their tan pants, black or red riding jackets, velvet helmets.

A half-dozen uniformeds from the nearby Twentieth Precinct stood in and outside the lobby. More officers were in the park, under the command of Lon Sellitto, deployed around the bridle path, looking for their elusive prey.

Sachs and Bell walked into the office and the detective flashed his gold shield to the woman behind the counter. She looked over his shoulder at the officers outside and asked uneasily, "Yes? Is there a problem?"

"Ma'am, do you use Tack-Pure to treat the saddles and leather?"

She glanced at an assistant, who nodded. "Yessir, we do. We use a lot of it."

Bell continued, "We found traces of some and of some horse manure at the scene of a homicide today. We think the suspect in that killing might work here or be stalking one of your employees or a rider."

"No! Who?"

"That's what we're not sure about, sorry to say. And we're not sure of the suspect's appearance either. All we know is he's average build. Around fifty years old. White. Might have a beard and brown hair but we aren't sure. Fingers on his left hand might be deformed. What we need is for you to talk to your employees, regular customers too if there're any hereabouts, and see if they've noticed anybody fitting that description. Or anybody who seems like they'd be a threat."

"Of course," she said uncertainly. "I'll do whatever I can. Sure."

Bell took several of the uniformed patrol officers and disappeared through an old doorway into the pungent sawdust-filled riding arena. "We'll do a search," he called back to Sachs.

The policewoman nodded and looked out the window, checking on Kara, who sat alone in Sellitto's unmarked car, parked at the curb next to Sachs's deep-yellow Camaro. The young woman wasn't happy being confined in the car but Sachs had been adamant about her staying out of danger.

Robert-Houdin had tighter tricks than the Marabouts. Though I think they almost killed him.

Don't worry. I'll make sure that doesn't happen to you.

Sachs glanced at the clock-2:00 P. M. She radioed in to Central and had the transmission patched into Rhyme's phone. A moment later the criminalist came on the line. "Sachs, Lon's teams haven't seen anything in Central Park. Any luck with you?"

"The manager's interviewing staff and riders here at the academy. Roland and his team are searching the stables." She then noticed the manager with a cluster of employees. There were assorted frowns and looks of concern on their faces. One girl, a round-faced redhead, suddenly raised her hand to her mouth in shock. She began to nod.

"Hold on, Rhyme. May have something."

The manager beckoned Sachs over and the teenager said, "I don't know if it's, like, anything important. But there's one thing?"

"What's your name?"

"Tracey?" she answered as if she were asking. "I'm a groom here?"

"Go ahead."

"Okay. What it is, is there's this rider who comes in every Saturday. Cheryl Marston."

Rhyme shouted into Sachs's ear, "At the same time? Ask her if she comes in at the same time every week."

Sachs relayed the question.

"Oh, yeah, she does," the girl said. "She's like, you know, clockwork. Been coming here for years."

The criminalist noted, "People with regular habits're easiest to target. Tell her to go on."

"And what about her, Tracey?"

"Today she comes back from a ride? About a half hour ago? And what it is is she hands off Don Juan to me, that's like her favorite horse, and she wants me and the vet to check him out careful because a bird flew into his face and spooked him. So, we're looking him over and she's telling me about this guy who came along and calmed Donny down. We tell her that Donny looks fine and she's going on about this guy, yadda, yadda, yadda, and how interesting he is and she's all excited 'cause she's going to have coffee with him and he might be a real horse whisperer. I saw him downstairs, waiting for her. And the thing is, I'm like, what's wrong with his hand? 'Cause he kinda hid it, you know. It looked like he only had three fingers."

"That's him!" Sachs said. "Do you know where they were going?"

She pointed west, away from the park. "I think that way. She didn't say where exactly."