Emile was spellbound, watching through binoculars. Like everything else this day, planning and expecting this were one thing; seeing it was far, far beyond that.
As the last burning shred of metal hit the ground, he got on his radio. “Dane? Dane, come in. Dane, do you read me?”
Nothing.
Dane awoke with a start, lying in bed in Preston’s home. Daylight streamed through the windows. What on earth?
With horror and disbelief he saw the time: 2:25—in the afternoon! How could he have overslept that long? Why didn’t anyone call him? Where was everybody?
And why was he lying in bed fully clothed, the keys to Preston’s car still in his pocket? He even had his shoes on.
Whatever happened at the hospital—earthquake, gas explosion, terrorist attack—everyone agreed it happened under the building. The fire department was on its way. Four security personnel streamed down the NO ADMITTANCE stairways to a locked door, used clearance badges to get through, and stepped cautiously into the hallway.
No smoke. No apparent damage.
The big double doors appeared intact. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
“Okay,” said the chief of security, “heads up.” He went to the keypad.
For the other three, this was scary but tantalizing. Even though they had access to every other part of the building, none of them had ever been allowed down here.
The chief swiped his card through the slot, and the doors opened.
They hit the floor, arms covering their faces, sure they were goners …
… as hundreds of white doves exploded into the hallway, panicked and flapping, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, careening down the hallway.
Dane sat on the steps that led from the house into the garage, the keys to Preston’s Lexus in his hand. He distinctly remembered parking the car in this garage the night before, but now it wasn’t there. Stolen? Arnie took it? Preston came and got it?
Then … the next strange thing: he remembered getting up that morning, driving to the Orpheus, checking the pod, running through the routine with Mandy, deciding not to rehearse the hang glider.
So how did he get here?
Emile got a mike from the sound crew. “Thank you so much for being a part of our amazing show today with the one and only Mandy Whitacre! Please walk to the nearest exit and have a great day here in the Entertainment Capital of the World!”
He gave the mike back to the sound guy, put on a different hat and jacket than he’d been wearing, and slipped away through the crowd.
Vahidi was collaring anyone he could find. “Where is she? What happened? Where’s Downey?”
Everyone was still in shock, with no answers. He never found Seamus Downey. He never would.
Dane went back into the house, walking slowly, dazed by the memories spontaneously popping up and replaying in his brain. Mandy flying under all those birds. The volcano, and then there was a fight—
Ouch! Somebody hit him while he was standing in the hallway. He looked around— Oof!Another blow, and it hurt. No one was there but he remembered: Clarence! He beat the snot out of me!
Zap! He went numb, then his feet hurt, his knees complained, he was out of breath … Oh! That car almost ran over me!
By the time he got to the living room he’d suffered more pain and bruises and a blow to his stomach that put him on the floor. But he remembered where it all came from, right up to the point when Lemuel pointed a gun at him.
So this is what it’s like. Mandy, you are one incredible trouper!
But what’s happened? What’d I miss?As he lay on the floor dabbing blood from his mouth and thinking he might throw up, he recalled, The TV stations were there!
He crawled to the entertainment center, grabbed the remote, and brought the big screen to life.
The cameras were focused on the nearly empty bleachers, the crowds milling around and leaving, the stage with the dead and silent volcano.
Kirschner and Rhodes were still there, talking it up.
“… and we’re still trying to find out exactly what happened. This, pardon me, but this does not look like part of the act, Mark.”
“No, Steve, it sure doesn’t. There’s damage, fire, no sign of Mandy Whitacre the magician.”
A remote, handheld camera was circling the burning wreckage. Fire trucks and firemen were there, hoses dousing the flames.
Kirschner went on, “You all saw it, that incredible flight of thousands—it had to be thousands—”
“Oh, at least,” said Rhodes.
“Thousands of doves and Mandy Whitacre suspended, flying beneath them, and now … we can only guess that this wreckage is all that’s left of the secret mechanism by which that illusion was accomplished.”
“And something went terribly wrong.”
“But we don’t know what, and it could be some time before we do know.”
The two announcers kept talking away, describing what was plainly visible on the screen and telling everyone they didn’t know anything.
Then Kirschner interrupted himself. “And as we look across the—Oh, my God!” Pause, some mike noise. “You won’t believe this. We’ve just been informed there’s been a major explosion at the Clark County Medical Center. Fire crews are on the site now, and … hang on to your hats: there are … thousands of dovesin the building!”
It hurt to run again, but Preston also had his Jeep Wrangler in the garage, and Dane had the key.
He parked and limped from three blocks away, past curious onlookers, police cars with lights flashing and radios squawking, fire trucks standing by with nothing much to do and, as he came within a block of the hospital, doves, more doves, and all the more doves the closer he got, as thick as soapsuds in the trees, on the sidewalks, on the overhead wires, on the street signs, fence railings, everywhere. The firemen and police were working around them, wading through them, with no apparent plan as yet what to do with them all. News crews were arriving, cameramen were leaping from their vans. Hospital personnel in uniforms, coveralls, candy striper outfits, even scrubs, stood around, ambled around, clustered in little groups to watch and guess what had happened. Some played with the birds, all of which were notably tame around people.
Police were stretching out their yellow tape, but Dane went to some candy stripers and let his bruises and bleeding speak for him. The candy stripers helped him along, slipping through the barrier and directing him to one of the hastily set up first aid stations. From there he directed himself into the milling crowds, scanning, jumping to see over heads, picking up information from conversations on every side.
There had been no major damage—things were knocked over, spilled, and broken, but nothing a mop or broom couldn’t handle. There was no fire, no loss of electrical power, the patients were all safe and were not going to be evacuated. The birds were the biggest problem as far as anyone could see.
The going story was that something had happened in the basement. The rumors included a gas explosion, a mental patient with a bomb, a terrorist with a bomb, a boiler explosion, a localized earthquake, a faulty foundation, and a sinkhole. No one knew for sure because the basement levels were restricted, only people with the right clearance could go down there, and those people weren’t saying anything.
Of course, the main question spreading all over the campus was the birds and how they got there. The name “Mandy Whitacre” and the words “Grand Illusion” were popping up.
The main door was open. Orderlies and janitorial staff were herding and shooing doves out the door with brooms.
“Dane!” a voice whispered behind him. A hand on his shoulder jerked him around. It was Arnie, wearing a jogging outfit and a billed cap. He immediately took off the cap and jammed it down on Dane’s head, the bill so low it blocked Dane’s eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I woke up back in my bed in Preston’s house, back where I was at six this morning.”