Inside the backstage portion of the tent once again she hid the badge in her pocket and found a friendlier employee. The woman, Katherine Tunney, nodded sympathetically when Kara explained what she was doing there—that a former illusionist wanted for murder had been identified as someone Mr. Kadesky had worked with a long time ago. The woman had heard about the killings and she invited Kara to wait until the producer returned from dinner. Katherine gave Kara a pass to sit in one of the VIP boxes and then left on another errand, promising that she'd tell the guards to make sure Mr. Kadesky came to see her as soon as he returned. On her way to the box seat her pager sounded, an urgent beeping. She gasped when she saw the number, ran to a bank of temporary pay phones and, hand shaking, made the call.

"Stuyvesant Manor," the voice said.

"Jaynene Williams, please."

A huge wait.

"'Lo?"

"It's me. Kara. Is Mom okay?"

"Oh, she's fine, girl. But I wanted to tell you—don't get your hopes up. It might be nothin'. But a few minutes ago she woke up and asked for you. She knows it's Sunday night and she remembered you coming by earlier."

"You mean, 'me,' the real me?"

"Yep, your real name. Then she gave this little frown and said, 'Unless all she goes by is that crazy stage name of hers, Kara.'"

My God. . . . Could she be back?

"And she knew me and she asked where you were. Said she wanted to tell you something."

Kara's heart accelerated.

Tell me something . . .

"Better get over here soon, honey. Might last. But it might not. You know how that goes."

"I'm in the middle of something, Jaynene. I'll get there as soon as I can." They hung up and, frantic, Kara returned to her seat. The tension was unbearable.

Right this instant her mother might be asking where her daughter was. Frowning and disappointed that the girl wasn't there. Please, she prayed, looking again toward the doorway for Kadesky. Nothing.

Wishing she could tap a hickory magic wand on the battered metal railing in front of her, point it at the doorway and materialize the producer.

Please, she thought again, aiming the imaginary wand toward the doorway. Please . . .

Nothing for a moment. Then several figures entered. None of them was Kadesky, though. They were just three women dressed in medieval costumes and wearing masks whose forlorn expressions were belied by the buoyant spring in the step of actors about to begin their evening's performance.

———«»———«»———«»———

Roland Bell was standing in one of the canyons of downtown Manhattan: Center Street between the grimy, towering Criminal Courts building, crowned by the Bridge of Sighs, and the nondescript office building across the street from it.

Still no sign of Charles Grady's Volvo.

The lighthouse rotation once again. Where, where, where?

A honk nearby, in the direction of the entrance to the bridge. A shout.