Vanishing Act
Table of Contents
NOW IN BOOKSTORES, THE LATEST RIVETING JANE WHITEFIELD NOVEL - DANCE FOR THE DEAD BY THOMAS PERRY
For Isabel
With love to Alix and Jo
"RIVETING ... SATISFYING ..."
Nobody writes thrillers like Thomas Perry.... His books are unpredictable, action-packed, and fueled by a cynical wit and observant eye for detail.... In Jane Whitefield, Perry has created a unique heroine, an ultracompetent woman attuned to the ancient ways of her ancestors and to the harsh realities of the modern, bureaucratic world."
— San Francisco Chronicle
"[Thomas Perry’s] novels are all clever and original... [with] appealing characters ... VANISHING ACT is very much in this tradition.... A large part of the book’s appeal is the Whitefield character. She’s clever.... The action is nonstop."
—Detroit News
"On one level VANISHING ACT is a typical classy and quirky Perry thriller, full of the sort of syllogistic logic in which things snap into place like so many Lego blocks. But it is also a very rational book about the limits of rationality ... it is more than merely entertaining: It is brave."
— The Boston Sunday Globe
"Thomas Perry has written a tightly woven, action-packed thriller, and Jane Whitefield definitely warrants another appearance."
— The Denver Post
"A REAL PAGE-TURNER ...
Perry showed me something new and wonderful with this book. Not content to write another garden variety thriller, he has produced a masterpiece that goes far beyond the ’novel of suspense’ designation on its cover. All an awestruck reader can do is sit back and wait to see what he comes up with next."
— Wichita Eagle
"Thomas Perry has fashioned a unique and fascinating heroine for this, his sixth novel.... Original and intriguing ... There’s plenty of thrills and taut suspense.... [A] compelling adventure-thriller with a fiercely savvy heroine equally capable amid dark city streets or a primordial forest."
—Blade-Citizen Preview
"Laced with icy humor, VANISHING ACT offers a rich look into the mores and philosophy of the Seneca Nation—and beats Tony Hillerman at his own game."
— The Hartford Courant
"With a strong heroine and ... [an] engaging story line, VANISHING ACT deserves to be read."
—South Bend Tribune
"Gratifying ... Jane knows an impressive amount about a lot of things and is entertainingly resourceful."
— The New York Times
"HIS MOST AMBITIOUS WRITING TO DATE ...
The best thing about Thomas Perry’s thrillers are the devilishly ingenious schemes his protagonists devise to outwit their pursuers.... Perry keeps readers engrossed with wickedly smart protagonists.... Perry can really write."
— San Francisco Examiner
"Perry has done what seems to be almost the unthinkable these days—written a suspense novel that can be read without first taking a weight-lifting course. The ending, set amidst the stunning scenery of the Adirondack Mountains, is a true heart-stopper. It’s no wonder the film rights to VANISHING ACT already have been snapped up."
— Orlando Sentinel
"Thomas Perry ... has created a new suspense novel so breathtaking you may need to keep oxygen handy. VANISHING ACT moves at such a pulse-pounding pace that readers may have to force themselves to slow down to appreciate the grace and intelligence of the writing."
—Albuquerque Sunday Journal
"Toying with conventions, Tonawanda native Perry has shaken up a venerable plot device in crime fiction. Not only are the tough-guy assignments performed by a woman, but she’s in the private detective business to hide, not find, persons who’ve gone missing."
— Buffalo News
"RARE AND WONDERFUL ...
Perry outdoes himself.... Jane Whitefield is the most exciting and welcome female character to appear in a long time. There is not a more completely realized woman protagonist in all of today’s crime fiction.... VANISHING ACT has the intelligent and thoughtfully developed exploration of being and becoming, using ancestry and survival as the vehicle."
— Mostly Murder
"Edgar winner Thomas Perry is a character-driven writer.... Perry knows New York State well, and his descriptions resonate with that knowledge.... Moreover, his blending of the natural and the spirit worlds within the mind of his unusual heroine make VANISHING ACT a memorable novel."
—Nashville Book Page
"The most intriguing aspect is the lead character, Jane. She is an original and truly fascinating because the author weaves her mixed heritage so well, making her a woman of character and highly distinctive. This novel is not just a character study... [it] moves swiftly along, taking the reader with it."
— The Ellenville Press
"A unique novel of suspense and thrills ... This is a novel of love, betrayal, mystery, and vengeance.... Perry’s historical background is fascinating, his characters are originals, his dialogue is sharp; and VANISHING ACT is an engrossing thriller."
— New Smyrna Beach Observer
"OUTSTANDING ...
[VANISHING ACT] is so good that the clichés that normally appear in reviews—and on book covers—can’t do it justice. It’s that good because Perry is an excellent writer. It’s that good because he introduces the reader to an unusual, and highly likable, heroine who’s a mix of modern womanhood and ancient Native American spirituality. Most of all, it’s that good because Perry abandons all formulas and offers the reader a completely original plot."
— Lexington Herald-Leader
"Mystery/suspense novels have had American Indian heroes and they’ve had female heroines—but few of them have displayed the combination of raw courage and compassion as does Jane Whitefield, a Seneca Indian who helps hunted people ’disappear.’... Although many male authors have attempted to write from the female point of view, few actually succeed with the easy grace as does author Perry.... In Whitefield, he has crafted a sensitive, loving woman who also happens to have the courage of a Roman gladiator."
— Mesa Tribune
"[Thomas Perry] has demonstrated an ability to be fast-paced and clever, amusing and erudite.... Perry has done a lot of homework for this book, and the historical fabric is rich with tidbits of our shared past.... [He is] a spellbinding storyteller."
— Winston-Salem Journal
"A taut thriller ... [An] unusually intriguing heroine."
—Publishers Weekly
There is nothing in which these barbarians carry their superstition to a more extravagant length, than in what regards dreams; ... in whatever manner the dream is conceived, it is always looked upon as a thing sacred, and as the most ordinary way in which the gods make known their will to men.
For the most part, they look upon them either as a desire of the soul inspired by some genius, or an order from him; and in consequence of this principle, they hold it a religious duty to obey them; and an Indian having dreamed of having a finger cut off, had it really cut off as soon as he awoke, after having prepared himself for this important action by a feast...
The affair becomes still more serious, should any one take it into his head to dream that he cuts the throat of another, for he will certainly accomplish it if he can; but woe to him, in his turn, should a third person dream that he revenges the dead.
Pierre de Charlevoix,
Journal of a Voyage to North-America,
1761
1
Jack Killigan used the reflections in the dark windows to watch the woman walk quickly up the long concourse, look at her high heels so she could take a few extra steps while the escalator was carrying her down, and then hurry around the curve so she could step onto the conveyor. She didn’t even know he was shadowing her. They always looked behind them every few seconds, but they never looked in front—didn’t really look.
Here she was getting off an airplane, so how could anybody not know where she was heading now? He could have just strolled straight to the baggage-claim area and waited for her there, but this one was worth serious money, so he had decided not to be lazy about it. He was a hundred feet ahead of her on the moving walkway, so he felt confident enough to look back.
She looked like a French model—or maybe Italian— chestnut hair, tall and slender, with legs that seemed longer than they really were because the leather skirt was shorter than it should have been. A lot of times they were like this. They didn’t have any idea of how to be inconspicuous. He only did rich women. Their husbands or whatever they called themselves were the only ones who had Killigan’s fee. The average guy who had this kind of problem would try to take care of it himself, but not just because of the number of dollars. He would do it because he couldn’t conceive of hiring somebody else to bring his woman back for him. He wouldn’t want anybody to know about it. But these rich guys were brought up with it. People washed their underwear for them and emptied the wastebasket where they threw their used rubbers. A lot of times the men were older—too old to do what had to be done.
Killigan’s peripheral vision caught the woman turning away from him again to look back for her imaginary pursuers. He turned his head to watch. She had to bend a little at the hips to lean over the railing and stretch her neck to see around the bunch of Wichita Chamber of Commerce types who had stopped behind her. He couldn’t help noticing the skirt again. That was typical. They would run away from home dressed like they wanted to be noticed, either because they didn’t own a dress that cost less than a used car or because they didn’t know there was such a thing. His eyes lingered on the shiny leather stretched across her buttocks. It was a long time on the road from Los Angeles to Indiana. Once he had her in the van, anything might happen. Women sometimes considered all kinds of options if they wanted out bad enough.
As though she had somehow heard what he was thinking, her back seemed to give a shiver, and he barely managed to turn his head away from her in time.
Killigan stepped off the conveyor and headed for the row of public telephones along the wall, to give her time to get past him. She came within four or five feet of him as she passed the telephones, and he caught a scent of her perfume, a slight change that made the air taste like a spice. He was busy wondering what that stuff cost when she turned the wrong way. "Oh shit," he said into the telephone. "Coitus interruptus." He was getting all geared up for it, and she was... of course. He caught sight of her walking into the ladies’ room.
Killigan hung the telephone on its hook and walked to the other side of the terminal so he would be behind her when she got around to coming out.
The woman emerged after a few minutes, and he almost felt sorry for her. She had put on sunglasses and a short jacket and a long blond wig to cover the dark hair, but she was carrying the same handmade leather flight bag that matched the leather skirt. He could even detect a fresh drop or two of perfume. The only person who wouldn’t recognize her was somebody who wasn’t looking for her at all. Those long legs in those dark stockings: If she’d had any sense at all, that was what she would have covered.
Killigan waited while she put a good two hundred feet between them before he started toward the baggage area. He could feel the universe rolling along smoothly now, the way it was supposed to. That had just been a little bump in the pavement. She was watching for her luggage, staring down at the metal track that wound around the waiting area. It was all a question of timing now.
He saw her spot her suitcase. She watched it all the way from the moment it brushed in through the weather flaps and went around the track; then he saw her lean forward and strain to drag and bump it over the rim onto the floor. It made her seem more vulnerable and ripe to watch her balance on the toes of those high-heeled shoes and do that. There wasn’t a lot of strength in those arms.
Killigan waited until she had hauled it to the door and shown the security woman her ticket with the stub stapled to it that matched the one on the suitcase. Then the door opened and she stepped out onto the sidewalk with Killigan at her elbow. At the curb she stopped and looked to the left to find a taxi, and Killigan moved in.
He flashed his identification wallet in her face as he said, "Come with me, please, Mrs. Eckerly," clutched her arm, and pulled her along with him, so there was never a second for her to think.
She tried to dig in her heels, but he knew exactly the way they reacted, so he gave her a first taste of it. He bent her wrist down enough so she knew it would break if she didn’t come, and jerked her along more quickly. It wasn’t just the pain that worked on them, it was the fact that he knew how to inflict it so easily. It proved to something deep inside them that he represented genuine authority—cops and law and government and, even more, all the massed force that made people do what they were supposed to do.
He hustled her across the street in the crosswalk, not even waiting for the light to change, just holding up a hand and counting on the drivers’ reflexes. He knew that, too, would help. And then he had her inside the big concrete parking structure and he was already feeling relief, because he was through the hard part, where real airport cops might be loitering and where, if she screamed and ran, it might be hard to subdue her without attracting some man he couldn’t scare off by flashing an imitation-leather wallet with his license on one side and a business card with a picture of an eagle on the other.
He had parked the van on the first floor, just about twenty feet from the exit. To get that space he’d had to be here early and hang around all evening, but it was paying off now. She was already to the back door before she said, "Wait, you’re making a mistake. Don’t do this." She never pulled herself together enough to look up at him.
It was exactly what they always said, but it was a little disconcerting, because usually they tried to use their faces—the tiny quiver in the lips, the big wet eyes. And there wasn’t that little sob in her voice. It was like a whisper in the big concrete place, and it went right through him. He couldn’t let up for a second, he knew. "No mistake, Mrs. Eckerly. There’s a legal complaint, and you’ll have to go back and clear that up. Face the van, please." He had hoped to do this after she was inside, because the sight of the handcuffs sometimes made them panicky, but he had a feeling about this one. He slipped the cuffs off his belt and turned her away from him. As he pulled her left arm around behind her, it came too quickly.
He pulled harder, but that didn’t seem to help. He had been keeping her off balance, trying not to give her a chance to think, but she had been waiting for him to have to use one hand to get the cuffs. She stomped on his instep, turned with him, and brought her elbow up against the bridge of his nose. He heard the bone break and felt the warm blood streaming out of his nostrils into his mouth. He knew he was in trouble, because of the pain and the slowness. And something bad had happened to the bones in his foot. He stepped back to try to get time working with him again, but his toes didn’t want to hold him, so he had to rock back on his heel and use his other foot for balance. He was angry, maddened with pain. He was going to make her hurt just as much. In a second she would turn to run, and he would be on her. He pushed off to get started.
The woman didn’t turn, and she didn’t run. She drifted toward him, and he sensed what she had in mind. She was winding up for a kick in the groin. They always taught women that in those self-defense classes. He bent his body and held his hands low to grip her leg when she did it.
As he watched her legs, she leapt forward and butted her forehead into his face. The blow to his nose had been painful, but this time the world exploded. She had pushed off the ground with both legs, and knocked him backward with all her strength.
Killigan let out a howl as he hit the pavement. It was a screech of hurt and shock and, for the first time, fear. Killigan was desperately injured now, and he was down, where he couldn’t defend himself. She would go for his eyes in a second. He clapped his hands over his bloody face and rolled onto his belly on the concrete and shouted, "Help! Help me!"
His ears told him she was hovering somewhere nearby, dancing around, circling to look for a chance to do whatever they had taught her to do. He tried to see between his fingers and keep his face down, and then he felt it. The handcuffs went around both of his wrists at once. He was outraged, scandalized.
He scrambled to his knees and tried to stand, but her voice came again. This time it was louder, but still calm: "Stay down on the ground." He put his fists on the pavement and pushed himself up, but the patch of concrete in front of his eyes seemed to flash as though it were electrified, and then he found himself on his side, his legs spasmodically working, trying to run. It had been a kick to the kidney. It occurred to him he could be dying. He lay there and screamed again. "Help!" he shrieked. "Help me!"
Suddenly, he saw lights that didn’t go away: bright, blinding and steady, and his sluggish consciousness tried to decide if she had gotten his eyes after all. That didn’t make sense, because he could see his hands. And then he heard it. "Police officers! Don’t move!"
He tried to smile, but it hurt. His top front teeth felt loose, and his upper lip was swollen to a tight, hard lump that didn’t seem to belong to him. Then there were footsteps, and they got louder, and he could see one pair of cops’ black shoes and black pants, and he knew it would be all right. Then big, hard hands rolled him over onto his back, and the pain surprised him so much that he didn’t see anything anymore.
When Killigan awoke he was in a hospital room. He had no idea how long he had been there, but he knew he had not been wrong about the damage he had sustained. His whole head had a tender, fragile feeling, as though moving it would cause something to come loose and bleed. He heard a rustling noise, and then the cop was standing in front of him.
"Mr. Killigan?" He was the kind of cop that Killigan liked the least. He was trim and neat, with a short, carefully combed haircut that made him look like an army lieutenant. He pulled a little notebook out of the inner pocket of a gray tweed coat, letting Killigan see the strap of the shoulder holster.
"Yeah," he rasped. He wasn’t sure why his voice sounded like that, and then he tasted that he was swallowing blood.
"I’m Detective Sergeant Coleman, L.A. Police Department. I need to ask you some questions about what happened. Your I.D. says you’re a private investigator."
"Right."
"Were you working?"
"Yeah."
"What were you doing at the airport?"
"Picking up a woman named Rhonda Eckerly. Citizen’s arrest. There’s a complaint. She’s wanted in Indiana."
"What charge?"
"Grand larceny."
"So you’re a bounty hunter?"
Killigan heard something he didn’t like in the sound. It was a careful modulation of tone, as though the cop were trying to keep contempt out of his voice. Well, Killigan would make enough on this job to pay his salary for a year. Maybe he would find a way to mention the number and let this guy chew on it for the next few days. "The victim retained me to locate the suspect and bring her back."
The cop squinted and tilted his head a little. "Who’s the victim?"
"Mr. Robert Eckerly."
"I see," said Sergeant Coleman. He stared at Killigan for a long time without letting his face reveal anything. Finally, he said, "I’d like to bring in the woman who was arrested when the officers found you. Are you up to that?"
"Yeah. I want her held. I’ll press charges."
The detective’s tongue made a quick search of his teeth as he headed for the door, but then he turned around again. "How did she come to assault you?"
So that was it. The little bastard was so sure Killigan was weak—that it couldn’t happen to him. "I was escorting her to the van, and she surprised me. She must have taken one of those courses."
"Were the handcuffs yours?"
"Yes."
The detective pulled a chair close to the bed and sat on the edge of it. "Mr. Killigan," he said. "You’re in a dangerous business. You must have some idea of how to pull this kind of thing off without getting yourself in trouble. I think you made a mistake."
"It would seem so," said Killigan. "Now, where the fuck is Rhonda Eckerly?"
The detective stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. A uniformed cop came in with his hand on the arm of a woman. She was about thirty. She was tall and slender and olive-skinned, with large eyes and black hair. Then Killigan realized that she was wearing Rhonda Eckerly’s clothes. "No," he said. "No. That’s not the one."
"This isn’t Rhonda Eckerly?"
"No!" he shouted. A pain gripped him from his hairline to his jaw. It was as though his whole face had been peeled and a cold wind blew on it. "You got the wrong one!"
"No," said Detective Coleman evenly. "You did."
The sanctimonious little cop hadn’t needed to say that because, even distracted by pain and half paralyzed by the dope they’d shot into him to make him lie here, Killigan had been able to figure out that much. She was a ringer. The clothes, the amateurish way Rhonda Eckerly had tried to do things—it had all been planned so they could change in the bathroom.
The woman said, "Can I talk to him?"
"I guess so," said the cop.
"Alone?"
"No," said the detective. "Not a chance."
She didn’t look surprised. She walked a little closer to the foot of the bed, and the uniformed officer stayed at her elbow. "Do you know anything about Rhonda Eckerly?"