Banks invited two audience members up to strap him into a straightjacket. His feet were shackled together, and he wore a weight belt to keep him at the bottom of the aquarium.
An announcer explained that the average person can hold his breath for forty to forty-five seconds. He encouraged the audience members to hold their breath with Banks as he disappeared into the water.
The platform would drop away and he would plunge into the aquarium. He needed to get out of the straightjacket, get the weight belt off, and get out of the shackles before drowning or being attacked by the piranhas.
But first two of his assistants doused him with some sort of flammable liquid.
And set him on fire.
Breathless
The flames rage up my body.
My face is covered with a gel that protects your skin when your clothes are lit on fire, but still, the heat is intense and severe.
The key to getting out of a straightjacket is flexibility, practice, and the way you position your arms when they’re strapping you in. Everything seemed alright a few moments ago, but now my right arm, the one that was injured by the snakebite, is much more cramped than it should be.
As far as I know, no other magician has attempted an escape while in a flaming straightjacket, and I can tell why.
The heat is almost unbearable.
And it’s terrifically hard to breathe.
The water will put the fire out, but I’m counting off the seconds in my head, and I have at least ten more before the platform I’m standing on is going to drop away.
I struggle with the straightjacket more than normal, and that’s not good because once I hit the water it’ll be even harder to escape — moisture makes the fabric cling to your skin, and it becomes like a wrestling match with yourself. The toughest straightjacket escapes are underwater ones.
Six seconds.
I get my right arm loose and close to bringing it over my head, but I wait. I’ll do that as soon as I hit the water, otherwise I’d be brushing the flaming straightjacket right across my face.
Four seconds.
The waterproof, fire-resistant gel on my face is almost melted away. I’m trying to draw in deep breaths, but it’s nearly impossible since the fire is swallowing the oxygen all around me, I only have a couple—
Two seconds.
I snatch in a final, strangled breath that’s going to have to last me two minutes.
And then the platform gives way.
The platform split apart beneath his feet and Banks dropped nearly three stories into the tank. It was filled only enough to displace the water without splashing piranhas all over the stage or onto the audience.
A cloud of smoke and an audible hissing sound followed him as he hit the water and sank immediately to the bottom, the weight belt dragging him down.
Fred took a deep breath to see how his breath-holding compared to the magician’s.
Banks appeared to be having a rough time getting out of the straightjacket, but Fred figured it was all part of the act, that it was all carefully rehearsed to make things look more dangerous than they were in order to make for a more exciting escape.
A giant digital stop-clock hanging above the stage ticked off the seconds, marking how long he’d been underwater.
So far, twenty-five.
Fred was still able to hold his breath along with Banks. When he looked around the audience, he saw a few people nearby let out whatever air was remaining in their lungs and draw in several gasping breaths.
A circle of bubbles escaped from the bottom of the aquarium, obscuring Banks for a few seconds. It was undoubtedly part of the trick, but when the bubbles disappeared he was still in the straightjacket.
By now the time read fifty-four seconds.
And Fred ran out of breath.
I lose track of how long I’m underwater, but before I dropped I hadn’t gotten nearly as much air in my lungs as I should have and already I can tell.
It’s a tight squeeze, but I manage to slide my right arm up over my head, and from there I work at the left arm.
Then I have the straps to deal with.
And the weight belt.
And the manacles on my ankles.
We’d talked about using spring-loaded shackles, but I’m an escape artist and I like doing the picks myself. I have a hairpin in my left hand. After I get out of the straightjacket, I’ll use it on the manacles.
But now, the way I’m feeling, I’m not sure that insisting to pick the locks had been such a good idea.
One minute, nineteen seconds.
By now, most of the people surrounding Fred had started breathing again. Everyone looked tense. The breath-holding challenge had worked. The audience was gripped, nervous, and staring with rapt attention at the stage.
Another blast of bubbles engulfed Banks, and when they cleared away he was still in the straightjacket but had made some progress and was close to getting out.
It happens as I’m tugging the jacket off.
The bite on my right arm rips open and a streak of fresh blood slithers into the water, then expands into smokelike crimson streaks that curl all around me.
And that’s when the piranhas move in.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the fish swarmed en masse on Banks. No matter how much you practice a trick, this couldn’t possibly be part of the plan.
The water seemed to boil with fish and blood and bubbles, and then two divers leapt in from the platform on the other side of the tank and their flippers kicked up sand from the bottom of the pool, further obscuring everything.
Finally, one of them surfaced, looked around, and then went under again.
It appeared that the audience members were holding their breath again, but this time in worried anticipation. Some of the women stared wide-eyed at the stage with their hands over their mouths.
Then both divers were at the surface, shaking their heads and getting out of the water. The bubbles stopped, the fish dispersed, the sand began settling and there was no sign of Jevin Banks.
Until one of the paramedics turned toward the audience, took off his cap.
And it was Banks.
He waved to the crowd, flourished with his hand, everyone went crazy and the curtains fell.
Then the music started again, and the dancers came out to take a bow as the curtains rose once again. The assistants and then Banks appeared, bowed, and then the show was over.
A pretty amazing climax.
Fred decided he would wait until the crowd had cleared out and then find a way backstage to locate Xavier Wray.
The man who was blackmailing him was going to call at 10:15, and he needed to find out the location of the USB drive from Wray before the call.
As long as he could corner Wray alone somewhere, it should be enough time.
While he waited for the auditorium to clear, Fred glanced his hand across the gun that he carried and ran through what he was going to say to Wray to convince him to give up those files.
I was backstage getting treated for the bites on my arm when Seth took a bow for me, just a few minutes ago.
To put it mildly, the effect had not gone well at all.
I was supposed to have been working at the shackles when the bubbles rose a third time, then, while I was hidden, free myself and duck behind the fake reef as Seth slipped in to take my place. Then I would go up the secret tunnel to the trapdoor and pull on the paramedic clothes as Seth pretended to drown and the divers leapt in to rescue him, kicking up sand that obscures him enough for the audience to not notice that he’s not me.