Kara nodded. "You're right."

Weir looked disgusted as Sellitto searched again. This time the detective checked every tooth. He found a second lock pick in a similar fake tooth on the lower left jaw.

"I'm gonna make sure they put you someplace real special," the detective said ominously. He then called another officer into the room and had him shackle Weir's feet with two sets of cuffs.

"I can't walk this way," Weir complained in a wheeze.

"Baby steps," Sellitto said coldly. "Take baby steps."

Chapter Thirty-three.

The man got the message at a diner on Route 244, which because he didn't have a phone in his trailer-didn't want one, didn't trust 'em-is where he took and made all his calls.

Sometimes a few days went by before he picked up the messages but because he was expecting an important call today he'd hurried-to the extent he ever hurried-to Elma's Diner right after Bible school.

Hobbs Wentworth was a bear-sized man with a thin red beard around his face and a fringe of curly hair, lighter than his beard. The word "career" was one that nobody in Canton Falls, New York, had ever associated with Hobbs, which wasn't to say that he didn't work like an ox. He'd give a man his money's worth, as long as the job was out of doors, didn't require too much calculating and his employer was a white Christian.

Hobbs was married to a quiet, dusty woman named Cindy, who spent most of her time homeschooling, cooking, sewing and visiting with women friends who did the same. Hobbs himself spent most of his time working and hunting and spending evenings with men friends, drinking and arguing (though most of these "arguments" should be called "agreements" since he and his buddies were all extremely likeminded).

A lifelong resident of Canton Falls, he liked it here. There was plenty of good hunting land, virtually none of it posted. People were solid and good-natured and knew their heads from their rumps ("likeminded" applied to almost everyone in Canton Falls). Hobbs had lots of opportunities to do the things he enjoyed.

Like teaching Sunday school, of all things. An eighth-grade graduate with a stolen mortarboard but no learning to show for it, Hobbs had never in the Lord's universe thought anybody'd want him to teach.

But he had a flair for kids' Sunday school, it turned out. He didn't do prayer sessions or counseling or any Jesus-Loves-Me-This-I-Know singing. . . . Nope, all he did was tell Bible stories to the youngsters. But he was an instant hit-thanks largely to his refusal to stick to the party line. For instance, in his account, instead of Jesus feeding the crowds with two fish and five loaves, Hobbs reported how the Son of God went bow hunting and killed a deer from a hundred yards away and gutted and dressed it in the town square himself and he fed the people that way. (To illustrate the story Hobbs brought his compound Clearwater MX Flex to the classroom and, chunk, sent a tempered-tip arrow three inches into a cinder-block wall, to the delight of the kids.) Having finished one of those classes now, he walked inside Elma's. The waitress walked up to him. "Hey, Hobbs. Pie?"

"Naw, make it a Vernors and a cheese omelette. Extra Kraft. Hey, d'I get a phone-"

Before he could finish she handed him a slip of paper. On it were the words: Call me-JB.

She asked, "That Jeddy? Sounded like him. Since the police've been 'round, those troopers, I mean, I ain't see him 't'all."

He ignored her question and said only, "Hold that order for a minute." As he went to the pay phone, fishing hard for coins in his jeans, his mind went right back to a lunch he'd had two weeks ago at the Riverside Inn over in Bedford Junction. It'd been him and Frank Stemple and Jeddy Barnes from Canton Falls and a man named Erick Weir, who Barnes later took to calling Magic Man, because he was, of all things, a professional conjurer.

Barnes had puffed up Hobbs's day ten times by smiling and standing up when Hobbs arrived, saying to Weir, "Here, sir, meet the best shot we got in the county. Not to mention bow hunter. And a damn sharp operator too." Hobbs had sat over the fancy food at the fancy restaurant, proud but nervous too (he'd never before even dreamed about eating at the Riverside), poking his fork into the daily special and listening as Barnes and Stemple told him how they'd met Weir. He was sort of like a mercenary soldier, which Hobbs knew all about, being a subscriber to Soldier of Fortune. Hobbs noticed the scars on the man's neck and the deformed fingers, wondering what kind of fight he'd been in that'd cause that kind of damage. Napalm, maybe.

Barnes had been reluctant to even meet with Weir at first, of course, thinking entrapment. But Magic Man had put him right at ease by telling them to watch the news on one particular day. The lead story was about the murder of a Mexican gardener-an illegal immigrant-working for a rich family in a town nearby. Weir brought Barnes the dead man's wallet. A trophy, like a buck's antlers.

Weir had been right up-front. He'd told them that he'd picked the Mexican because of Barnes's views on immigrants but he personally didn't believe in their extreme causes-his interest was only in making money with his very special talents. Which suited everybody just fine. Over lunch, Magic Man Weir had laid out his plan about Charles Grady then he shook their hands and left. A few days ago Barnes and Stemple had shipped off the skippy, girl-lovin' Reverend Swensen to New York with instructions to kill Grady on Saturday night. And he'd bobbled the job as predicted.

Hobbs was supposed to "stay on call," Mr. Weir had said. "In case he was needed."

And apparently now he was. He punched in the number of the cell phone Barnes used, the account in someone else's name, and heard an abrupt "Yeah?"

"S'me."

Because of the state police all over the county looking for Barnes they'd agreed to keep all conversations over the phone to a minimum.

Barnes said, "You gotta do what we talked about at lunch."

"Uh-huh. Go to the lake."

"Right."

"Go to the lake and take the fishing gear with me?" Hobbs said.

"That's right."

"Yessir. When?"

"Now. Right away."

"Then I will."

Barnes hung up abruptly and Hobbs changed his omelette to a coffee and a bacon-and-egg sandwich, extra Kraft, to go. When Jeddy Barnes said now, right away, now and right away was how you did whatever you were supposed to do.

When the food was ready he pushed outside, fired up his pickup and drove fast onto the highway. He had one stop to make-his trailer. Then he'd pick up the old junker Dodge registered to somebody who didn't exist and speed down to the "lake," which didn't mean any kind of lake at all; it meant a particular place in New York City.

Just like the "fishing gear" he was supposed to take with him sure didn't mean a rod and reel either.

Back in the Tombs.

On one side of the floor-bolted table sat a grim-faced Joe Roth, Andrew Constable's pudgy lawyer.

Charles Grady was on the other side, flanked by his second, Roland Bell. Amelia Sachs stood; the pungent interview room, with its jaundiced, milky windows gave her a renewed sense of claustrophobia, which had been receding only slowly after the terrible panic at the Cirque Fantastique. She fidgeted and rocked her weight back and forth.

The door opened and Constable's guard led the prisoner into the room, recuffed his hands in front of him. Then he swung the door closed and returned to the corridor.

"It didn't work," was the first thing Grady said to him. A calm voice, oddly dispassionate, Sachs thought, considering that his family had nearly been wiped out.

"What didn't . . . ?" Constable began. "Is this about that fool Ralph Swensen?"

"No, this is about Erick Weir," Grady said.

"Who?" A frown that seemed genuine crossed the man's face.

The prosecutor went on to explain about the attempt on his family's life by the former illusionist turned professional killer.

"No, no, no. . . . I didn't have anything to do with Swensen. And I didn't have anything to do with this." The man looked helplessly at the scarred tabletop.

There was some graffiti scraped in the gray paint beside his hands. It seemed to be an A then a C then a partial K. "I've told you all along, Charles, there're some people I've known in the past who've gone way overboard with things. They see you and the state as the enemies-working with the Jewish people and the African Americans or whoever-and they're twisting my words around and using me as an excuse to come after you." He said in a low voice, "I'll say it again. I promise you that I had nothing to do with this."

Roth said to the prosecutor, "Let's not play games here, Charles. You're just fishing. If you've got something to connect my client to the break-in of your apartment, then-"

"Weir killed two individuals yesterday-and a police officer. That makes it capital murder."

Constable winced. His lawyer added bluntly, "Well, I'm sorry about that. But I notice you haven't charged my client. Because you don't have any evidence linking him to Weir, right?"

Grady ignored this and continued, "We're negotiating with Weir right now about turning state's evidence."

Constable turned his eyes to Sachs, looked her up and down. He seemed helpless and the gaze suggested that he was imploring her to help in some way. Perhaps she was supposed to provide the voice of female reason. But she remained silent, as did Bell. It wasn't their job to argue with suspects. The detective was here to keep an eye on Grady and see if he could learn more about the attempt on the D. A.'s life and possible future attacks. Sachs was here to see if she might learn more about Constable and his partners to help solidify the case against Weir.

Also, she'd been curious about this man-someone she'd been told was pure evil and yet who seemed to all appearances reasonable, understanding and genuinely troubled by the events of the past few days. Rhyme was content solely to look at the evidence; he had no patience for an examination of a perp's mind or soul.

Sachs, though, was fascinated with questions of good and evil. Was she looking at an innocent man now or another Adolf Hitler?

Constable shook his head. "Look, it makes no sense for me to try and kill you. The state'd send in a replacement D. A. The trial'd go on, only I'd have a murder charge slapped on me. Why'd I want to do that? What possible reason would I have to kill you?"

"Because you're a bigot and a killer and-"

Constable interrupted heatedly, "Listen here. I've put up with a lot, sir. I was arrested, humiliated in front of my family. I've been abused here and in the press. And you know what my only crime is?" He leveled his gaze to Grady. "Asking hard questions."

"Andrew," Roth touched his arm. But, with a loud jangle, the prisoner pulled it away. He was indignant and wouldn't be stopped. "Right here in this room, right now, I'm going to commit the only crimes I've ever been guilty of. First offense: I'm asking if you don't agree that when government gets to be too big it loses touch with the people. That's when cops end up with the power to stick a mop handle up the rectum of a black prisoner in custody-an innocent prisoner, by the way."

"They were caught," Grady countered lethargically.

"Them going to jail's not going to give that poor man back his dignity, now, is it? And how many don't get caught? . . . Look at what's happened in Washington. They let terrorists walk right into our country, intent to kill us, and we don't dare offend 'em by keeping 'em out or forcing 'em to be fingerprinted and carry ID cards. . . . How about another offense? Let me ask you, why don't we all just admit that there're differences between races and cultures? I've never said one race is better or worse than any other. But I do say you get grief if you go and try to mix them."

"We got rid of segregation some years ago," Bell drawled. "It is a crime, you know."

"Used to be a crime to sell liquor, Detective. Used to be a crime to work on Sunday. Used to be legal for ten-year-olds to work in factories. Then people wised up and changed those laws because they didn't reflect human nature."

He leaned forward and looked from Bell to Sachs. "My two police officer friends here. . . . Let me ask you a hard question. You get a report that a man might've committed a murder and he's black or Hispanic. You see him in an alley. Well, won't your finger be a little tighter on the trigger of your gun than if he's white? Or if he is a white man and looks like a smart man-if he has all his teeth and wears clothes that don't smell like yesterday's piss-well, then, are you going to be just a little slower to pull that trigger? Are you going to frisk him a little more gently?"

The prisoner sat back, shook his head. "Those're my crimes. That's it. Asking questions like those."

Grady said cynically, "Great material, Andrew. But before you play the persecution card, whatta you do with the fact that Erick Weir had lunch with three other people at the Riverside Inn in Bedford Junction two weeks ago. Which is two clicks from the Patriot Assembly meeting hall in Canton Falls and about five from your house."

Constable blinked. "The Riverside Inn?" He looked out the window, which was so grimy it was impossible to tell if the sky was blue or polluted yellow or drizzly gray.

Grady's eyes narrowed. "What? You know something about that place?"

"I . . .".

His lawyer touched his arm to silence him. They whispered to each other for a moment.

Grady couldn't resist pushing. "Do you know somebody who's a regular there?"

Constable glanced at Roth, who shook his head and the prisoner remained silent.

After a moment Grady asked, "How's your cell, Andrew?"

"My-"

"Your cell here in detention."

"Don't much care for it. As I suspect you know."

"It's worse in prison. And you'll have to go into solitary because the black crew in general pop would love to get-"

"Come on, Charles," Roth said wearily. "We don't need any of that."

The prosecutor said, "Well, Joe, I'm about at the end of the line here. All I've been hearing is I didn't do this, I didn't do that. That somebody's setting him up and using him. Well, if that's the case"-he now turned directly to Constable-"get off your ass and prove it to me. Show me you didn't have anything to do with trying to kill me and my family, and you get me the name of the people who did, then we'll talk."

Another whispered consultation between client and attorney.

Roth finally said, "My client's going to make some phone calls. Based on what we find he might be willing to consider cooperating."

"That's not good enough. Give me some names now."

Troubled, Constable said directly to Grady, "That's the way it's got to be. I need to be certain about this."

"Afraid you'll have to turn in some friends?" the prosecutor asked coolly. "Well, you say you like to ask hard questions. Let me ask you one: What kind of friends are they if they're willing to send you to prison for the rest of your life?" Grady stood up. "If I don't hear from you by nine tonight we go to trial tomorrow as planned."

Chapter Thirty-four.

It wasn't much of a stage.

When David Balzac had retired from the illusionist circuit ten years ago and had bought Smoke & Mirrors he'd torn out the back half of the store to put in the small theater. Balzac didn't have a cabaret license so he couldn't charge admission but he'd still hold shows here-every Sunday afternoon and Thursday night-so that his students could get up onstage and experience what performing was really like.

And what a difference it was.

Kara knew that practicing at home and performing onstage were night and day.

Something inexplicable happened when you got up in front of people. Impossible tricks that you continually flubbed at home went perfectly, owing to some mysterious spiritual adrenaline that took over your hands and proclaimed, "Thou shalt not fuck this one up."

Conversely, in a performance you might blow a trick that was second nature, like a one-coin French drop, a maneuver so simple that you'd never even think to have an out prepared in case it went south.

A high, wide black curtain separated the theater from the business end of the store. It rippled occasionally in the breeze as the front door opened and closed with a faint Roadrunner meep-meep from the electric-eye alert on the jamb.

Now approaching 4:00 P. M. on Sunday, people were entering the theater and finding seats-always beginning at the back (in magic and illusion performances nobody wants to sit in the front row; you never knew when you might get "volunteered" to be embarrassed up onstage).

Standing behind a backdrop curtain, Kara looked at the stage. The flat black walls were scuffed and streaked and the bowed oak floor was covered with dozens of bits of masking tape, from performers' blocking out their moves during rehearsal. For a backdrop, only a ratty burgundy shawl. And the entire platform was tiny: ten by twelve feet.

Still, to Kara it was Carnegie Hall or the MGM Grand itself and she was prepared to give her audience everything she had.

Like vaudevillians or parlor magicians, most illusionists simply string together a series of routines. The performers might pace the tricks carefully, building up to a thrilling finale, but that approach, Kara felt, was like watching fireworks-each burst more or less spectacular, but on the whole emotionally unsatisfying because there was no theme or continuity to the explosions. An illusionist's act should tell a story, all the tricks linked together, one leading to the next with one or more of the earlier tricks returning at the end to give the audience that delightful one-two punch that left them, she hoped, breathless.