* Restaurant check from Riverside Inn, Bedford Junction, NY, indicating four people ate lunch, table 12, Saturday, two weeks prior. Turkey, meatloaf, steak, daily special. Soft drinks.

* Staff doesn't know who diners were. (Accomplices?) * Alley where Conjurer was arrested.

* Picked the cuff locks.

* Saliva (picks hidden in mouth).

* No blood type determined.

* Small razor saw for getting out of restraints (also hidden in mouth).

* No indication of Officer Burke's whereabouts.

* Harlem River scene: * No evidence, except skid marks in mud.

Profile as Illusionist * Perp will use misdirection against victims and in eluding police.

* Physical misdirection (for distraction).

* Psychological (to eliminate suspicion).

* Escape at music school was similar to Vanished Man illusion routine. Too common to trace.

* Perp is primarily an illusionist.

* Talented at sleight-of-hand.

* Also knows protean (quick-change) magic. Will use breakaway clothes, nylon and silk, bald cap, finger cups and other latex appliances. Could be any age, gender or race.

* Calvert's death = Selbit's Cutting a Woman in Half routine.

* Proficient at lock-picking (possibly lock "scrubbing").

* Knows escapism techniques.

* Experience with animal illusions.

* Used mentalism to get information on victim.

* Used sleight of hand to drug her.

* Tried to kill third victim with Houdini escape. Water Torture Cell.

* Ventriloquism.

Chapter Twenty-two.

Harry Houdini was renowned for his escapism but in fact there were many great escapists who preceded him and many who were his contemporaries.

What set Houdini apart from all the others was a simple addition to his act: the challenge. A major part of his show involved an invitation to anyone in the town where he was appearing to challenge Houdini to escape from a device or location that the challenger himself provided-maybe a local policeman's own handcuffs or a cell in the town lock-up.

It was this competitive, man-versus-man element of performing that made Houdini great. He thrived on these challenges.

And so do I, Malerick now thought, walking into his apartment after his escape from the Harlem River and a bit of reconnaissance work. But he was still badly shaken up by the events that afternoon. When he'd been performing regularly, before the fire, there was often an element of danger in the routines. Real danger. His mentor had beaten into him that if there was no risk how could you possibly hope to engage your audience? There was no sin worse to Malerick than boring those who'd come to be entertained by you. But what a series of challenges this particular act had turned out to be; the police were far better than he'd expected. How had they anticipated that he'd target the woman at the riding academy? And where he was going to drown her? Trapping him in the crafts fair then finding him in the Mazda, chasing him again-getting so close that he'd had to send the car into the river and get away in a very narrow escape.

Challenges were one thing-but he was now feeling paranoid. He wanted to do more preparation for his next routine but he decided to stay in his apartment until the last minute.

Besides, there was something else that he needed to do now. Something for himself-not for his revered audience. He drew the shades of his apartment and placed a candle on the mantelpiece, next to a small inlaid wooden box. He struck a match and lit the candle. Then sat on the rough cloth of the cheap sofa. He controlled his breathing. Inhaled slowly, exhaled.

Slowly, slowly, slowly . . .

Concentrating on the flame, drifting into a meditation.

Throughout its history the art of magic has been divided into two schools.

First, there are the sleight-of-hand artists, the prestidigitators, the jugglers, the illusionists-people who entertain their audiences with dexterity and physical skill.

The second school of magic is far more controversial: the practice of the occult. Even in this scientific era some practitioners contend that they actually possess supernatural powers to read minds and move objects mentally, predict the future and communicate with spirits.

For thousands of years charlatan seers and mediums have grown rich claiming to be able to summon the spirits of the deceased for their distraught loved ones.

Before the government began cracking down on such scams it was legitimate magicians who'd protect the gullible by publicly revealing the methods behind the supposedly occult effects. (Even today the brilliant magician James Randi spends much of his time debunking fakes.) Harry Houdini himself devoted much of his life and fortune to challenging fake mediums. Yet, ironically, one of the reasons he took up this cause was out of his desperate search for a legitimate medium who could contact the spirit of his mother, whose death he never completely recovered from.

Malerick now stared at the candle, the flame. Watching, praying for the spirit of his soul mate to appear and caress the yellow cone of illumination, to send him a sign. He used the candle for this medium of communication because it was fire that had taken his love away from him, fire that had changed Malerick's life forever.

Wait, did it flicker? Yes, maybe no. He couldn't tell.

Both schools of magic vied within him. As a talented illusionist, Malerick knew, of course, that his routines were nothing more than applied physics, chemistry and psychology. But still there was that one splinter of doubt in his mind that perhaps magic actually did hold the key to the supernatural: God as illusionist, vanishing our failing bodies then palming the souls of those we loved, transforming them and returning them to us, His sad and hopeful audience.

This was not unthinkable, Malerick told himself. He- And then the candle flickered! Yes, he saw it.

The flame moved a millimeter closer to the inlaid box. Very possibly it was a sign that the soul of his dead beloved was hovering near, summoned not by mechanics but by the fiber of connection that magic might reveal if only he could stay receptive.

"Are you there?" he whispered. "Are you?"

Breathing so very slowly, afraid that his exhalation would reach the candle and make it shiver; Malerick wanted proof positive that he was not alone.

Finally the candle burned itself out and Malerick sat for a long time in his meditative state, watching gray smoke curl toward the ceiling then vanish.

A glance at his watch. He could wait no longer. He gathered his costumes and props, assembled them and dressed carefully. Applied his makeup.

The mirror told him that he was "in role."

He walked to the front lobby. A glance out the window. The street was empty.

Then outside into the spring evening for a routine that would be, yes, even more challenging than the prior ones.

Fire and illusion are soul mates.

Bursts of flash powder, candles, propane flames over which escape artists dangle . . .

Fire, Revered Audience, is the devil's toy and the devil has always been linked to magic. Fire illuminates and fire obscures, it destroys and it creates.

Fire transforms.

And it's at the heart of our next act, one I call The Charred Man.

The Neighborhood School just off Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village is a quaint limestone building, as modest in appearance as in name. One would never suspect that the children of some of the richest and most politically connected families in New York City learn reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic here.

It was known not only as a quality educational institution-if you can refer to an elementary school that way-but was also an important cultural venue in this part of the city.

The 8:00 P. M. Saturday music recitals, for instance.

To which the Reverend Ralph Swensen was now making his way.

He'd survived his lengthy stroll through Chinatown and Little Italy to Greenwich Village without any harm other than your average accosting by your average panhandler, to which he was by now almost oblivious. He'd stopped at a small Italian restaurant for a plate of spaghetti (that and ravioli were the only dishes on the menu he recognized). And since the wife wasn't with him he ordered a glass of red wine. The food was wonderful and he remained in the restaurant for quite some time, sipping the forbidden drink and enjoying the sight of children playing in the streets of this boisterous ethnic neighborhood.

He'd paid the check, feeling somewhat guilty about using church funds for alcohol, then continued north, farther into the Village along a route that took him through a place called Washington Square. This appeared at first to be a miniature Sodom in its own right but when he plunged into the heart of the chaotic park the reverend found that the only sins were youngsters playing loud music and people drinking beer and wine out of containers in paper bags. Although he believed in a moral system that sent certain transgressors straight to hell (like noisy homosexual prostitutes who wouldn't let you get to sleep), the spiritual offenses he found here weren't the sort that'd guarantee a one-way ticket to the big furnace.

But partway through the park he began to grow uneasy. He thought again of the man who'd been spying on him, the one in overalls with the toolkit by the hotel.

The reverend was sure he'd seen him a second time in a store-window reflection not long after he'd left the hotel. The same sense of being watched came over him now. He turned fast and looked back. Well, no workmen. But he did catch sight of a trim man in a dark sports coat watching him. The man looked away casually and veered off toward a public rest room. Paranoia?

Had to be. The man didn't look anything like the worker. But as the reverend left the square, walking north along Fifth Avenue, dodging the hundreds of strollers on the sidewalk, he sensed again that he was being followed. Another glance behind him. This time he saw a blond man, wearing thick glasses and dressed in a brown sports coat and T-shirt, looking his way. Reverend Swensen also noticed that he was crossing to the same side of the street that he'd just crossed to.

But now he was sure he was paranoid. Three different men couldn't've been following him. Relax, he thought and continued north on Fifth Avenue toward the Neighborhood School, the street dense with people enjoying the beautiful spring evening.

Reverend Swensen arrived at the Neighborhood School at exactly 7 P. M., a half hour before the doors would open. He set down his briefcase and crossed his arms. Then he decided that, no, he should keep a hold on the attache case and picked it up again. He lounged against a wrought-iron fence surrounding a garden next to the school, glancing uneasily in the direction he'd come.

No, no one. No workmen with toolkits. No men in sports coats. He was- "Excuse me, Father?"

Startled, he turned quickly and found himself looking at a big, swarthy man with a two-day growth of beard.

"Uhm, yes?"

"You here for the recital?" The man nodded toward the Neighborhood School.

"That's right," he answered, trying to keep his voice from quavering with uneasiness.

"What time's it start?"

"Eight. The doors open at seven-thirty."

"Thank you, Father."

"Not a problem."

The man smiled and walked away in the direction of the school. Reverend Swensen resumed his vigil, nervously squeezing the handle of his attache case. A look at his watch. It read 7:15.

Then, finally, after an interminable five minutes, he saw what he'd been waiting for, what he'd traveled all these many miles for: the black Lincoln Town Car with the official government license plates. It eased to a stop a block from the Neighborhood School. The minister squinted in the dusk as he read the plate number. It was the right vehicle. . . . Thank you, Lord.

Two young men in dark suits got out the front. They looked up and down the sidewalk-including a glance at him-and were apparently satisfied that the street was safe.

One of them bent down and spoke through the open rear window.

The reverend knew whom he was speaking to: Assistant District Attorney Charles Grady, the man prosecuting the case against Andrew Constable. Grady was here with his wife for the recital that their daughter was participating in. It was the prosecutor, in fact, who was at the heart of his mission to Sodom this weekend.

Like Paul, the Reverend Swensen had entered the world of the nonbelievers to show them the error of their ways and to bring them truth. He intended to do so in a somewhat more decisive way than the apostle, though: by murdering Charles Grady with the heavy pistol now resting in his briefcase, which he clutched to his chest as if it were the ark of the covenant itself.

Chapter Twenty-three.

Sizing up the scene in front of him.

Carefully noting angles, escape routes, how many passersby were on the sidewalk, the amount of traffic on Fifth Avenue. He couldn't afford to fail. There was a lot riding on his success; he had a personal stake in making sure Charles Grady died.

Around midnight last Tuesday Jeddy Barnes, a local militiaman, had suddenly appeared at the door of the double-wide that served as Reverend Swensen's home and church. Barnes had reportedly been hiding out in a camper deep in the woods around Canton Falls after the state police raids against Andrew Constable's Patriot Assembly a few months ago.

"Make me some coffee," Barnes had commanded, looking over the terrified reverend with his fierce fanatic's eyes.

Amid the staccato tap of rain on the metal roof, Barnes, a tough, scary loner with a gray crew cut and gaunt face, had leaned forward and said, "I need you to do something for me, Ralph."

"What's that?"

Barnes had stretched his feet out and looked at the plywood altar Reverend Swensen had made himself, thick with sloppy varnish. "There's a man out to get us. Persecuting us. He's one of them."

Swensen knew that by "them" Barries was referring to an ill-defined alliance of federal and state government, the media, non-Christians, members of any organized political party and intellectuals-for starters. ("Us" meant everybody who wasn't in any of above categories, provided they were white.) The reverend wasn't quite as fanatical as Barnes and his tough militia buddies-who scared the soul out of him-but he certainly believed there was some truth to what they preached.

"We need to stop him."

"Who is it?"

"A prosecutor in New York City."

"Oh, the one going after Andrew?"