Real Magic (27 page)

"I'm sorry, sir," the voice returned. "There's no Dominic Rosini in Gettysburg. There are several D. Rosinis in Harrisburg. Would you like one of them?"

"No, thank you." Duncan hung up. There were probably several more D. Rosinis in Pittsburgh and even more in Philadelphia and tons in all of the United States, let alone the world. He needed something to specify which Rosini he sought before he could get any help from the phone company. He needed another clue.

But I've got one.
Running through to the kitchen and down the stairs, Duncan reached the back of the basement. The Door. That was the other clue he had. Better still, it was something Walter did not have.

Blowing off dust, Duncan searched the Door starting in the top right corner and working his way down and across until he hit the bottom left corner. He moved in a slow, deliberate pace, investigating every notch, every mark, every bump and bruise in the wood. He paid close attention to the hardware — an art deco, black metal plate with a glass knob. The plate had been stamped 1928 but wear had obscured the city name.

That was the closest he came to finding anything regarding a city, and it meant nothing. Rosini could have bought the hardware anywhere in the country. The knob looked like any other he had seen in the last few days.

Wait. Not exactly like any other knob. The Door lay flat on the table. Flat. That meant the knob on the opposite side had been removed, otherwise the Door would be propped up at a slight angle.

Carefully, Duncan ran his fingers along the edges of the door. He didn't feel anything odd. He looked over it and saw no sign of anything wrong. Wilkinson never struck Duncan as the kind that would have booby trapped a door, but from what he heard about Rosini, a little caution seemed prudent.

"Here goes nothing," he said to the room and lifted the bottom half of the door first. Disrupted dust plumed around him, and he had to put the door back before he dropped it. Rubbing his stinging eyes, he coughed and hacked, spitting up dust and mucus. Each time he inhaled, his lungs filled with more dust and the hacking continued.

He had to tramp upstairs for fresh air. After a few minutes passed, he regained control but his eyes itched and he had the constant sensation that another coughing fit would erupt with every breath. He wanted to wait a little longer, but he knew that Walter would not be wasting any time in this search.

Covering his mouth in the neck of his shirt, Duncan hurried downstairs and waved away some of the dust fog. Once in the back, he turned the same half of door over. He moved it slower this time, trying to keep the dust plumes to a minimum. When he finished, he turned to top half over. He still coughed but the shirt helped.

As the dust found new places to light upon, Duncan spied a yellowed envelope stuck in the top of the knobless hardware. He grabbed the envelope and hurried back upstairs. In the clear air of the kitchen, he saw the envelope had been addressed to Wilkinson in a neat but shaky handwriting.

Duncan removed the letter inside and read:

 

Dear Claude,

 

I'm sorry to have left you and my colleagues in such an abrupt manner. It had never been my plan and while I know I am breeching the contract with you which I signed, I pray you can forgive this transgression. No harm to you or the Wonders Show, financial or otherwise, was ever intended. But events have transpired, which you will undoubtedly learn of, that require my exit from a life of performance. No matter what some may charge, I ask that you have faith in me, your loyal servant of the stage. I am no monster and my mind is as cogent and sane as yours. I have never harmed another with my show and I never will. I care too much about my art to do so.

 

Unfortunately, my sudden departure has also put a strain on my means. If you can find it in your heart to send me the funds for the final week of performances I fulfilled, I would be eternally grateful. I need to rebuild and those monies will be crucial to my survival.

 

Please consider this request as coming from a man that has always considered you, and hopes to continue considering you, a friend.

 

Always my best to you,

Rufus Clubb

 

Duncan re-read the letter.
Who the heck was Rufus Clubb?
He wracked his brain for the name, going over all the history of magic Pappy had instilled in him, but he could not find the name. He thought about those who wrote for
The Sphinx, Jinx,
or other magic magazines, names like Mulholland, Brush, and Annemann. But those didn't seem to have anything to do with this nor could Duncan recall any name ever being associated with The Wilkinson's Wonders Show. He'd never even heard of Wilkinson's show before all of this.

The letter had to be from Rosini. Not only had Duncan found the letter clinging to Rosini's Door of Vanishing, but the content of the letter could be easily referring to the incidents of disappearing audience members who never returned. The name Rufus Clubb had to be a false name, merely a simplistic diversion.

Duncan checked the envelope. Sure enough, he found a return address for a home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Since the letter never specified an address, Duncan felt confident the return address was authentic. Why give a false address if the goal was to be mailed money?

Lancaster would take an hour, maybe two hours, to reach by car. He could be there by early evening if he got moving soon.

But Lucy took the car.

Duncan stepped outside and followed the driveway around back. A large shed with peeling green paint stood about twenty feet off the back corner of the house. Locked. Through a dirty window, he peered into the shed. A car that looked old even compared to the ones he saw daily sat inside.

He hurried back to the house and searched the kitchen for keys. Nothing. He checked around the showroom, focusing hard on the area Wilkinson had collapsed upon. Nothing. He went upstairs and checked the bedrooms. Bingo. In the bedside table, a ring of about ten keys.

Back outside, he found the shed key on the fourth try. The car revved up on the seventh.

As he sat in the shed, letting the engine warm while he familiarized himself with the machine, a feeling of confidence overcame him. More than that, though, he had the secure sense that this was right. That this was the path he should be taking. He had been in 1934 far too long.

Lucy would never have encountered the treacherous world of Nelson Walter had she not met Duncan. At least, not in the same way. Even if Vincent had become mixed up with Walter, Lucy would have simply been a side issue instead of main threat to Walter's plans.

This was for the best. He couldn't provide her the full truth that she sought. Even if he brought her to the future, he could not see himself confessing to the lowlife world he had inhabited before. What would she think of people like Pancake? What would she think about how he had used Pancake?

This made more sense. They had shared in a touch of something special, and he knew many people who would never get a glimpse of that something. To demand more would be arrogant and greedy. He would have to hold on to Lucy in his memory for all its deep, endless value. Because there would be no more.

It was time to drive to Lancaster. It was time to find Rosini. It was time to get the Door and go home.

1934

Starting on your left and moving right,

deal the five face down cards into a row.

Think of a number
between
one and five.

This is your secret number.

Count that many cards from left to right.

Turn over the card at your secret number face up.

Beginning on this face up card, count again,

moving to the right.

If you reach the end,

simply loop back to the left side and continue.

Repeat until four cards are face up and one is face down.

 

 

The drive to Lancaster took longer
than Duncan had expected. Had he known how to drive in 1934, he would have made it with time to spare. But sitting behind the wheel of a massive body of metal that lacked all the aerodynamic and ergonomic designs of the modern day proved as difficult as he feared. Turning the wheel became a full workout since power-steering had yet to be invented. And without the aid of rack-and-pinion steering, Duncan had to turn the wheel and turn the wheel and turn the wheel just to get the darn thing out of the driveway. However, after a little time, he adjusted, and since much of the road to Lancaster passed through open farmland, he encountered few obstacles (such as other cars) to deal with. He hit the worst traffic in York and consequently stalled the car twice, but eventually he pulled through.

Though Lancaster dated back to the Revolutionary War (and beyond), the city was still rather small in 1934. None of the sprawl that would eventually eat up all the precious farmland and push out many of the Amish had yet to occur. As a result, Duncan found the address well before he reached where the city stood.

He pulled up the drive, and what he saw in the yellow headlights sucker-punched his gut — a dilapidated farmhouse with a wide hole in the roof. The rest of the roof retained shingles sporadically while one side of the house appeared to lean over as if daring to collapse. The pasture fencing looked rusted and several posts lay askew or were missing entirely. Weeds encroached on all sides.

Duncan walked onto the covered porch, his steps forcing the wood to whine and groan. A breeze picked up as the sky darkened. Nailed to the front door, a piece of paper fluttered —
Notice of Foreclosure.

Duncan ripped the paper from the door. Angling it to catch what he could of the car's headlights, he read the formal, official detail of a mortgage that had gone unpaid for over a year. A year. Rosini had abandoned this address long ago. He could be anywhere.

It's over. I've reached the end.

The wind grabbed the paper and flew it into the distance. Duncan watched it go, its flapping noise mocking him, and his heart sank. This address had been his last lead. He had nothing else. Not even Lucy. He had ruined his relationship with the only woman he ever understood the word
Love
and had gained nothing for it.

"It's not fair." He pressed his forehead against the front door.

With a fist, he thumped the door repeatedly. Each time, the strike grew stronger. He rolled his head back and forth, his frustration mounting a greater assault through his fist. Then he kicked the foot of the door.

"It's not fair," he said louder. He whirled around, stomped to the edge of the porch and screamed out, "It's not fair!"

Red faced, he turned around and thrust-kicked the door as hard as he could manage. The old door splintered. Duncan kicked it again, aiming for the lock. A third kick slammed the door open, shredding the framework in the process.

Grunting, he trudged into the home. Anything he thought he could destroy, he attempted to do so. He scoured every room for any discarded items to unleash his frustrations upon. Most of the place lay barren, but he found enough — the stair's handrail, a forgotten chair, a bathroom mirror. Each one took the brunt of his rage until it had been strewn across the floor in numerous pieces.

When he reached the front door again, he stood in the entranceway, huffing for air, staring at nothing. His mind blanked. No planning. No recounting his steps. Nothing. His thoughts became as empty as he felt inside.

He might have remained standing there into the night if not for a simple, basic need. His stomach growled. At first, he ignored his hunger, but the growling continued and soon he felt sharp pangs. After an hour passed, his shoulders drooped and he slipped back into the car like a criminal slinking off under cover of dark. Nobody witnessed his outburst nor his relenting to hunger, but he felt judgmental eyes upon him nonetheless.

He drove in a haze, heading toward Lancaster City but not really paying close attention to anything around him. By the time he stopped at a roadside diner, darkness had taken over the sky and his heart.

"Sit where ya want," a pencil-thin waitress with a brunette bob said in a voice as tired and beaten as Duncan felt.

He settled in a booth near the back of the narrow diner and watched the waitress at work. She looked every bit of a woman in the '30s. He could write her history, it read so clearly on her face. A free spirit type of gal who spent the last part of the 1920's in a flapper dress, dancing and drinking through the speakeasies, always on the arm of a well-dressed guy, having a blast every night. Until the stock market crashed. The married men who paid her way no longer could afford a mistress. Broke and getting older, she lost the charm that paved her road on the party circuit. She probably came back to the Pennsylvania farmland because her parents lived around here. Except they didn't want anything to do with her. She had shamed them, perhaps insulted them when she left, maybe even said something foolish about never having to see them again. So, now she was stuck in this diner, wondering if this was all her life would amount to.