The Vanished Man

neither here nor there. It’s not a question of fairness. It’s a question of we got to find him if it takes all day. Not humane to him and now he’s twice as dangerous to anybody else comes along.”
    Looking around them at the impossible tangle of brush and reeds and swamp grass and loblolly, stretching for miles, young Roland said, “But he could be anywhere, Dad.”
    His father laughed grimly. “Oh, don’t worry ’bout finding him. He’ll find us. Keep your thumb on that safety, son. You may have to shoot fast. You comfortable with that?”
    “Yessir, I am.”
    Bell now made another visual circuit of the vans, the alleyways nearby, the buildings next to and across the street from the courthouse.
    Nothing.
    No Charles Grady.
    No Erick Weir, no sign of any of the killer’s confederates.
    Bell tapped the butt of his gun.
    Don’t worry ’bout finding him. He’ll find us. . . .

Chapter Thirty-nine
    “I’m doing a door-to-door, Rhyme. The last wing of the basement.”
    “Let ESU handle it.” He found his head craning forward tensely as he spoke into the microphone.
    “We need everybody,” Sachs whispered. “It’s a damn big building.” She was in the Tombs now, working her way through the corridors. “Eerie too. Like the music school.”
    Mysteriouser and mysteriouser . . .
    “Someday you oughta add a chapter to your book about running crime scenes in spooky locations,” she joked out of nervousness. “Okay, I’m going silent now, Rhyme. I’ll call you back.”
    Rhyme and Cooper returned to the evidence. In the corridor on the way to intake in the Tombs Sachs had recovered the blade from the razor knife and fragments of beef bone and gray sponge—to simulate skull and brain matter—as well as samples of the fake blood: sugar syrup with red food coloring. He’d used his jacket or shirt to wipe up as much of his real blood as he could from the floor and the cuffs but Sachs had run the scene as methodically as ever and she’d recovered enough of a sample for analysis. He’d taken withhim the key or lock picks he’d used to undo the cuffs. There was no other helpful evidence in the corridor scene.
    The janitor’s closet downstairs where he’d done his quick change yielded more—a paper bag in which he’d hidden the bloody squib and bladder and what he’d been wearing when they’d collared him at Grady’s: the gray suit, the white shirt he’d used to wipe up and a pair of Oxford businessman’s shoes. Cooper had found substantial trace evidence on these items: additional latex and makeup, bits of magician’s adhesive wax, streaks of ink similar to those they’d found earlier, thick nylon fibers and dried smears of more fake blood.
    The fibers turned out to be charcoal-gray carpet. The phony blood was paint. The databases they had access to didn’t give any information about either of these materials so he sent the chemical composition analysis and photos down to the FBI, with an urgent request for sourcing.
    Then an idea occurred to Rhyme. “Kara,” he called, seeing the girl sitting next to Mel Cooper, rolling a quarter over her fingers as she stared at the computer image of a fiber. “Can you help us out with one thing?”
    “Sure.”
    “Could you go over to the Cirque Fantastique and find Kadesky? Tell him about the escape and see if there’s anything else he can remember about Weir. Any illusions he particularly liked, characters or disguises he kept going back to, what sort of routines he repeated most often. . . . Anything that’ll give us an idea of what he might look like.”
    “Maybe he’s got some old clippings or pictures ofWeir in costume,” she suggested, slinging her black-and-white purse over her shoulder.
    He told her that was a good idea and then returned to the evidence chart, which still stood as testimony to his earlier observation: the more they learned, the less they knew.
    T HE C ONJURER

    Music School Crime Scene
    • Perp’s description: Brown hair, fake beard, no distinguishing, medium build, medium height, age: fifties. Ring and little fingers of left hand fused together. Changed costume quickly to resemble old, bald janitor.
    • No apparent motive.
    • Victim: Svetlana Rasnikov.
        • Full-time music student.
        • Checking family, friends, students, coworkers for possible leads.
            • No boyfriends, no known enemies. Performed at children’s birthday parties.
    • Circuit board with speaker