Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) Read online

HOUDINI GRABBED A rifle from the crate and loaded it.

  “Who was she?” Bess asked.

  Houdini stuffed two impact grenades into his pockets.

  “Mary Pickford.”

  Chaplin choked on his cigarette and erupted into a coughing fit. Bess’s eyes swam in grief. The name somehow made it real.

  “Do you have any idea the danger you’re in?” Chaplin said. “I’d take a romantic drive up the coast with Atlas rather than face Douglas scorned.”

  “We’ll worry about that later,” Houdini said.

  Chaplin lifted the flamethrower and heaved the backpack on himself. Houdini watched impatiently as Chaplin struggled to strap the heavy backpack on.

  “What?” Chaplin asked. “It has style.”

  “I want to talk about it,” Bess said.

  “I’m sorry,” Houdini said. “Right now we have to get out of here.”

  Bess reached for the other rifle. He caught her arm.

  “No, Mrs. Houdini.”

  “How am I supposed to defend myself?” she asked.

  Houdini didn’t want her to defend herself; he wanted her to escape. There were only weapons in that crate. Was there nothing he could give her to protect herself?

  The Eye. It reproduces the great talents.

  If Bess could see potential outcomes the way Houdini could, she’d be able to escape on her own should anything happen to him.

  Houdini pulled the chain around his neck and produced the small conical object. It was heavy in his hand. The magician looked at it carefully. On the brass bands around the ends, tiny arrows were etched into the metal pointing inward. Houdini lifted it up to his eye and looked through the small end. In the dim light he saw Bess through the other side, repeated a dozen times in a little grid of diamonds.

  “Look into this,” he said.

  Houdini looked into the smaller end of the Eye while Bess looked into the wider end. Through the dark tunnel between them, he could just make out his wife’s eye. It was blurry, like a photo out of focus.

  He leaned in closer. Bess’s eye suddenly slid into sharp focus and lit up as if illuminated from the inside. Houdini saw a bright flash of light and felt a jolt, like a thousand pin pricks throughout his body. They both staggered backward.

  “Are you alright?” Houdini asked.

  She stood there a moment, her eyes closed.

  “I’m not hurt,” she said. “I know that. But I’m angry at you. And I’m scared. My heart is racing, I can feel the blood coursing through my veins, and the oxygen in my lungs, and, and—”

  “It worked,” Houdini said.

  Bess grabbed her head on both sides as if trying to make it stop.

  “It’s too much for her,” Chaplin said. “All that awareness, all at once.”

  “I’m sorry,” Houdini said. “I thought it would help.”

  Instead of helping his wife, he had incapacitated her.

  “We have to go,” Chaplin said.

  Houdini took Bess by the hand. They burst through the front door and down the narrow hallway to the stairwell. Fear coursed through him, but it sharpened his senses and made him feel alive. Houdini stopped the others by the doorway at the bottom, projecting in his mind the threads of possibility available to them. If they ran toward the ghost town, they’d hit a dead end and would be trapped. If they ran toward the Mexican village, they’d run smack into Atlas. If they ran straight, however, they could make it to the rear exit so long as they ran at full speed without stopping.

  “Come on!” Houdini said.

  They ran out of the building, past the deserted pirate ship. They made a sharp turn and ran through the Parisian neighborhood, in the opposite direction of the main entrance. Chaplin tripped on the hose of the flamethrower and went tumbling head over heels.

  Houdini ran over to him and pulled him up.

  “We have to keep moving!”

  But circumstances had now changed, and that avenue was closed to them. As they continued down the cobblestone street, Houdini saw someone turn the corner ahead of them and face them. Someone, or something.

  The dark beast.

  There it was, that hairy, amorphous blob Houdini had seen on the streets of New York. It wobbled toward them, slowly but with purpose. Houdini pulled Bess behind him, her eyes glazed over. Chaplin yelped and jumped behind the two of them.

  “What is that? My guinea pig nightmare!”

  “Other way!” Houdini shouted.

  They turned back down the street and hid against the hull of the pirate ship. Houdini was focusing on their options when the ship began to groan. He saw the massive vessel tipping in their direction, falling on top of them. The hull would easily crush them.

  “Run!”

  Houdini pulled Bess straight along the hull while Chaplin turned and ran directly away from it. The high-pitched squeal of ripping nails and splintering wood filled the magician’s ears. He and his wife cleared the hull and turned just in time to see the giant mast crashing down upon Chaplin.

  “No!”

  Houdini climbed over wood and rope and sails. In the middle of the wreckage his friend stood, in a tiny wedge of undisturbed space between the main mast and an observation deck. Destruction circled him. He seemed frozen with fear, but otherwise unscathed.

  “How did you survive that?”

  “Lucky break,” Chaplin croaked.

  Houdini turned toward the fallen ship and saw him: the giant man. He seemed even taller and thicker than Houdini remembered, a statue of Zeus in a seersucker suit. His clothes were dirty, torn, and stained with sweat.

  “Can I safely assume that is Atlas?” Chaplin asked. “Or is there someone larger we’re holding out for?”

  Houdini pointed the rifle at the giant man and fired. It hit Atlas in the cheek and he grabbed it in pain.

  “I think you cracked a tooth,” the giant man growled.

  “Who are you?” Houdini asked.

  “I’m Atlas,” he said. “Like your friend said. I rather like that moniker.”

  “Who are you really?”

  Atlas squeezed his cheek and popped the bullet out. Blood dripped down the side of his face.

  “It’s none of your concern,” he said. “If you give me Newton’s Eye, it will save us all a lot of pain. But especially for your wife. If you try to keep the Eye, I’ll pluck out both of hers.”

  Atlas was watching Bess, but Houdini redirected his attention by removing the Eye out from under his shirt. He dangled it in front of him like a carrot to a horse.

  “Tell me what you want it for,” Houdini said. “Maybe I’ll support your cause.”

  Atlas laughed.

  “Perhaps you would, perhaps not,” he said. “I’ll tell you this much: You may be stingy with your talent, magician, but I plan to be generous with mine. The world needs more strength.”

  There was a clicking sound, and Chaplin let loose a stream of flame from the end of his nozzle. It was intended for Atlas, but the hose must have been heavy and unwieldy, because Chaplin sprayed fire all over the fallen ship, creating a wall of flames.

  “Come on!” Houdini shouted.

  He yanked Chaplin by the elbow and pulled him out of the fallen sails of the ship. He grabbed Bess and they ran through a prison scene of some sort, a maze of bars and high cinder block walls. Hopefully they could lose Atlas in it. Chaplin dumped the flamethrower as they caught their breath.

  They came out the other side, and found themselves running down the set of a suburban street in a wealthy East Coast neighborhood. There were at least a dozen house fronts, plenty of places to hide. Houdini motioned to a large Colonial home to their left with a door slightly ajar.

  “Perhaps we should—”

  Atlas burst through the front door of the home, taking out a large section of wall with it.

  “Colonial was never my style anyway,” Chaplin said.

  They ran through the front door of a Victorian home across the street, which was nothing but a facade with grass behind it.
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  They ran through a forest, and Houdini wasn’t sure whether the trees were real or fake. It was thick at first, but opened suddenly into a glade.

  “Bess, are you alright?” Houdini asked.

  But his wife was catatonic, her eyes unfocused, her mind overwhelmed with internal awareness.

  Houdini saw the walls of a castle off to the left. He saw the backside of a row of brownstones to his right. All of it was fake; all of it as flimsy as cardboard to Atlas.

  They wouldn’t be able to fight the man; all they could do was hope to escape. Houdini focused internally; he saw a possible way.

  “Over here!”

  They ran down the straight paved road in front of them to the MGM water tower. It was a massive storage tank a good eight stories in the air, perched on top of four metal legs. In case of fire, it served as a quick and close source of water.

  The tower was surrounded on three sides by one-story buildings that made a U-shape around it. At the base of the tower was a fire truck. It was the only car Houdini had seen on the backlot. Houdini jumped in the driver’s seat, already reaching up his sleeve.

  “Dump the tanks!” he said to Chaplin.

  Chaplin took to unstrapping two metal barrels attached to the back. They’d move much faster that way. The massive barrels, full of water, clanked to the ground off the back of the truck and began rolling down the path from which the trio had come. Chaplin helped Bess into the passenger seat, then jumped in the back.

  Houdini stuck his pins in the ignition and worked the engine. It was a different kind of lock than he was used to, but it was still a lock. Focusing on the picks, he could feel as they touched the delicate pins sliding into place.

  “Faster would be better,” Chaplin said.

  “I’m on the last pins.”

  “You’re on pins, but I’m on pins and needles. Look.”

  Atlas bounded up the road toward them, his pants half burned and smoking. He picked up the first water barrel as if it were an empty can of green beans. Not even Houdini and Chaplin together would have been able to lift it.

  “Either he’s angry or he’s thirsty,” Chaplin said. “Let’s not find out.”

  The giant man lifted the barrel over his head with both hands and hurled it at the truck. Chaplin yelped but Houdini kept his focus, even as it came whirling at them. Houdini felt the barrel whoosh over their heads and go crashing into the building behind them. He glanced up only long enough to see the giant hole it had made in the wall.

  That would’ve taken our heads off.

  The second barrel was rolling its way toward Atlas.

  “Hurry!” Chaplin said. “I’m a comedian. I don’t want to die of anything but laughter.”

  Houdini grabbed one of the impact grenades in his pocket, turned, and hurled it at Atlas. It arced through the air, a direct hit onto Atlas’s feet. Houdini and Chaplin ducked, anticipating the explosion. Nothing happened. The grenade bounced harmlessly off Atlas and tumbled along the ground.

  “Did I mention the army gave me old weapons stock?” Chaplin asked.

  Houdini returned to the truck, feeling the last pin in the ignition slip into place. He turned the picks and the engine roared to life.

  Atlas picked up the second barrel and heaved it over his head, this time aiming more carefully.

  “I don’t think he’s going to miss this time,” Chaplin said.

  To get out of the small quad made by the buildings surrounding them, they had to first drive toward Atlas. Houdini released the brake and threw the truck into gear.

  “I see,” Bess said.

  “What?” Houdini asked.

  He felt Bess reaching into his pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I see the way,” she said.

  She grabbed the second grenade and stood up.

  “Bess, sit down,” Houdini said.

  “Drive,” she said.

  Houdini floored the truck toward Atlas and Bess threw the grenade as hard as she could—not toward Atlas, but at the closest leg of the water tower. The explosion propelled them forward. Houdini felt burning heat on the back of his head.

  He watched Atlas as they approached; the barrel remained suspended above his head, but the giant man’s attention was drawn behind them. When Houdini heard screeching metal he knew why.

  Houdini glanced back only long enough to see the damaged leg of the water tower crumple and give way. The top-heavy tower was falling over, and it was headed straight for them.

  He floored the engine and swerved around Atlas. As soon as they reached the corner of the building, Houdini whipped the car to the left as hard as he could. The car fishtailed, but he held the wheel tight and managed to straighten it out.

  The high-pitched screech of metal was nearly deafening. Houdini turned to see Atlas running away from the tower, but there wasn’t enough time for him to escape. The tank of the tower crashed down upon him.

  The blast that followed reminded Houdini of the news reels he had seen showing bombs dropping during the Great War. There was a rush of wind as water and shrapnel exploded against the ground. The ground shook as if the moon had crashed into the Earth.

  “Harry, drive!” Chaplin said.

  Houdini was so entranced by the havoc he barely saw the tidal wave rushing toward them. He turned the truck away from the site of impact and drove, but the water caught up to them and swept the truck up off the ground. Houdini lost all control of the vehicle and soon they were spinning in a circle at the whim of the water.

  The ride lasted only half a minute as the water spread and dissipated. They found themselves turned forward again just as the last wave of water lapped against one of the guard posts at the rear exit. A guard stood inside, petrified as the truck glided toward him. Houdini pressed the brake, but the car slowed of its own volition, its front bumper tapping gently against the guard post.

  Houdini and Chaplin hopped out of the truck into ankle-deep water. The guard watched them, dumbstruck.

  “One of your toilets overflowed,” Chaplin said. “You should check that out.”

  Houdini helped Bess out of the truck and the three sloshed past the guard and out of MGM Studios. They broke into a full run as soon as they hit the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “ARE YOU SURE you want to do this?”

  Houdini nodded. There was no time to waste.

  “That water tower fell right on him,” Chaplin said. “If the impact didn’t kill him, he surely drowned.”

  Houdini opened the door to the black Tin Lizzie parked in Chaplin’s circular driveway. His mansion cast a shadow over them, hiding a low-hanging moon in the west.

  “The one thing I’m learning is not to underestimate any of us,” Houdini said. “Including Atlas. And even if he is gone, we don’t know what has happened to that little beast.”

  “His furry sidekick gives me the willies,” Chaplin said. “Whatever it is.”

  Houdini got in and slammed the car door. In the dead quiet of Beverly Hills, it sounded loud enough to wake the entire city. Bess was already in the car, silent since they left the backlot.

  “And you’re sure about the Eye?” Chaplin asked.

  Houdini felt for it under his shirt. It was becoming a habit.

  “I’ll hold onto it until we figure out what to do with it. Or until you find someone who can destroy it. You’ll promise to look?”

  Chaplin winked and flashed a smile.

  “I’ll talk to Mary and Doug after things have cooled down.”

  According to Pope Benedict, the Eye couldn’t be destroyed—not by normal means, at least. But there were other great talents out there in the world; Houdini wondered if one of them might have the skill to unmake it.

  The magician had pressed his friend for help on their car ride back to Chaplin’s mansion. Under the ruse of scouting for new actors and film locations, Chaplin agreed to use United Artists as a front to hunt for other Burdens. Between Chaplin, Pickford and Fairbanks, they ha
d both access and funds unparalleled by anyone in the world. If anyone had a shot at finding the others, it was United Artists.

  Houdini and Chaplin embraced.

  “Good to see you, old friend,” Chaplin said.

  Houdini turned the ignition and the car sputtered to life, but not without a fight. It was Chaplin’s first purchase after coming to Hollywood, an old jalopy Houdini doubted would make it over the state line.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Houdini,” Chaplin said, leaning into the car and gently kissing her cheek. “Your husband, he loves you more than magic.”

  Bess’s mouth twitched but she said nothing.

  The two drove in silence. After a number of confusing turns, they found themselves headed east out of the city on the National Old Trails Road. For the first few hours it was a well-paved road with two lanes in each direction. At some point in the night it became one lane, and as the sun rose in front of them, they found themselves on a gravel road somewhere between Barstow and Needles.

  Still Bess didn’t speak. The towns grew smaller, the gas stations less frequent, and sometime after the state line, the road became dirt. The potholes became too much for the Tin Lizzie, and during the late afternoon the car limped, wheezed and finally died within a mile of Flagstaff.

  During the hot and dusty walk into town, Houdini tried to speak to his wife.

  “If I could only explain—”

  She held up her hand. He fell silent.

  Houdini might have tried to follow all of the potential threads of conversation, to find the one that would truly convey the spellbinding pull of Pickford’s beauty, to fully express the depth of his regret and shame. But now his wife could also follow all of the threads of possibility to counter his approach. There would be no end to it. Bess wanted him silent, so he would stay silent.

  In Flagstaff, they caught a train bound for the East Coast, and spent their hours in uncomfortable silence. In Dallas, Bess picked up a newspaper and read about Houdini’s stunt at the Egyptian Theatre—the one he hadn’t yet told her about. She gave him a long, disapproving stare. Houdini was happy she looked at him at all.

  Also in the newspaper was a report about the destruction at the MGM backlot. Louis B. Mayer had called it a freak accident; the damage was attributed to a faulty leg of the water tower, which had collapsed and destroyed a number of sets. A security guard had been killed.