Chapter Twenty-Two
Janesville, 1905
Half past three o’clock
“I’m sorry, Virgil, have I shocked you?”
“Officer Holt,” he says, “or Holt. Or officer.”
“Virgil is a lovely name though. Traditional. And have I shocked you? Made you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“I don’t mean to. But your reaction, just now, it tells a different story.”
“Story,” he scoffs as sharply as he can, given that she’s right. He was already uncomfortably warm, but the prickling of his skin now is more than just a rising sweat. The hot, bare room feels as small as a closet. His heart is pounding and that’s not all. “You’re the storyteller, not me.”
“Stories are often true.”
“Sometimes true,” he says and keeps his distance, still trying to calm himself down. She didn’t need to tell that story that way, getting into those details. He should have cut her off. But he didn’t want to, and he’s sure she knows it. He might as well tell her everything, all his hopes and fears, since it doesn’t take much effort for her to figure him out.
Then something interrupts.
At first it sounds like the wind, like a tree branch on a window, except that he knows there are no trees close by. Fast wind over flat land has thrown things against the building before—broken cart wheels, lost shirts, newspapers—but none have sounded quite like this.
The sound keeps coming, something between a whistle and a scratch. He knows he’s not imagining it. Partly because it’s persistent, but partly because of the magician, who has also turned her attention toward the door, cocking her ear to listen.
“Is that a cat?” she asks. “Do you have a police cat?”
“No.”
Then the sound comes clearly, soft but unmistakable: a knock.
He doesn’t move to answer it.
She says softly, almost in a whisper, “Will this be like the telephone? Will you ignore everything for my sake?”
“Nothing for your sake,” he spits in irritation, striding in three long steps straight to the door, unlocking it, throwing it open.
No one is there. No one and nothing. No tree branches or carriage wheels or cats.
They both breathe in the soft summer night, a relief after hours of the tiny police station’s stale air. The breeze, with its slight perfume of grass and earth, is a pleasure. He takes deep, sweet, hungry breaths. The sleeping town is framed squarely in the doorway: houses with darkened windows, perfectly straight and silent streets.
“Ah, lovely.” She sighs, which snaps him out of his reverie, and he closes the door on her vision.
“What did you do that for? I was looking at your sweet little town.”
“Well, don’t. It’s not yours.”
“I didn’t say it was. What do you think I could do to it anyway? Terrorize the citizenry? Lead them like the Pied Piper in a merry parade, out of town and into the river?”
The heavy, stale air of the station closes in on him as if the sweet outdoor breeze had never been. He tries to ignore her, but the words keep coming.
“Need I remind you,” she says, “I am still chained to this chair. Terrified. Weak from lack of food and sleep. I would think you wouldn’t be so afraid of me. Just for breathing your precious Iowa air.”
He turns the key in the lock, and he doesn’t hear the click he should hear, the sound of the bolt sliding into place. But she’s chattering at him so loudly that it’s hard to hear anything, still talking, still nattering on and on and on. His head is buzzing again. She keeps talking. The later it gets, the harder it is to hold on. It’s her fault. If he hadn’t found her, if she hadn’t been so obvious with her sequins and her fairy eye…
“Be quiet!” he shouts at her.
She falls silent instantly.
He says, “Enough of this. Tell me about the murder. Now. I’ve been very kind to you, considering.”
“Have you? You hauled me off, nearly knocked me unconscious—”
“And I’ve listened to your story. But I need the end of it. If you don’t get to the end of it, the rest of it doesn’t do me any good at all.”
“And I’ll get there.”