The Vanished Man

firmly.
    “Okay,” the young woman said to Kadesky. She shook his hand.
    Kadesky glanced at the spring-loaded wire form that had fooled them. “You made that?”
    “Yep.”
    “You might want to patent it.”
    “I never thought about that. Thanks. I’ll look into it.”
    He looked her over again. “Forty-two in thirty minutes.” Then nodding, he left the room. Both he and Kara looked as if they’d each bought a very nice, very underpriced sports car.
    Sachs laughed. “Damn, you had me going.” A glance at Rhyme. “Both of you.”
    “Wait up here,” Bell said, feigning hurt. “I was in on it too. I’m the one hog-tied her.”
    Sachs shook her head again. “When did you think this up?”
    It had started last night, Rhyme explained, lying in bed, listening to the music from Cirque Fantastique, the ringmaster’s muted voice, the applause and laughter from the crowd. His thoughts had segued to Kara, how good her performance at Smoke & Mirrors had been. Recalling her lack of self-confidence and Balzac’s sway over her.
    Recalling too what Sachs had told him about her mother’s advanced senility. Which had prompted Rhyme’s invitation to Jaynene the next morning.
    “I’m going to ask you one more question,” Rhyme had said to the woman. “Think about it before you answer. And I need you to be completely honest.”
    The query was: “Will her mother ever come out of it?”
    Jaynene had said, “Will she get back her mind, is that what you’re asking?”
    “That’s right. Will she recover?”
    “No.”
    “So Kara’s not taking her to England?”
    A sad laugh. “No, no, no. That woman’s not going anywhere.”
    “Kara said she couldn’t quit her job because she needs to keep her mother in the nursing home.”
    “She needs to be cared for, sure. But not at our place. Kara’s paying for rehab and recreation, medical intervention. Short-term care. Kara’s mom doesn’t even know what year it is. She could be anywhere. Sorry to say it but all she needs is maintenance at this point.”
    “What’ll happen to her if she goes to a long-term home?”
    “She’ll keep getting worse until the end. Just the same as if she stayed with us. Only it wouldn’t bankrupt Kara.”
    After that, Jaynene and Thom had gone off to have lunch together—and undoubtedly to share war stories about the people in their care. Rhyme had then called Kara. She’d come over and they’d had a talk. The conversation had been awkward; he’d never done well with personal matters. Confronting a heartless killer was easy compared with intruding on the tender soul of someone’s life.
    “I don’t know your profession too well,” Rhyme had said. “But when I saw you perform at the store on Sunday I was impressed. And it takes a lot to impress me. You were damn good.”
    “For a student” had been her dismissive response.
    “No,” he’d said firmly, “for a performer. You should be onstage.”
    “I’m not ready yet. I’ll get there eventually.”
    After a thick pause Rhyme said, “The problem with that attitude is that sometimes you don’t get there eventually.” He glanced down at his body. “Sometimes things . . . intervene. And there you are, you’ve put off something important. And you miss it forever.”
    “But Mr. Balzac—”
    “—is keeping you down. It’s obvious.”
    “He’s only thinking what’s best for me.”
    “No, he’s not. I don’t know what he’s thinking of. But the one thing he’s not thinking of is you. Look at Weir and Loesser. And Keating. Mentors can mesmerize you. Thank Balzac for what he’s done, stay friends, send him box seat tickets for your first Carnegie Hall show. But get away from him now—while you can.”
    “I’m not mesmerized,” she’d said, laughing.
    Rhyme hadn’t responded and he sensed she was considering just how much she was under the man’s thumb. He continued, “We’ve got some juice with Kadesky—after everything we’ve done. Amelia told me how much you like the Cirque Fantastique. I think you should audition.”
    “Even if I did, I have a personal situation. My—”
    “Mother,” Rhyme’d interrupted.
    “Right.”
    “I had a talk with Jaynene.”
    The woman had fallen silent.
    Rhyme’d said, “Let me tell you a story.”
    “Story?”
    “I headed the forensics department here in New York. The job had the typical administrative crap, you can imagine. But the thing I loved most—and what Iwas best at—was running crime scenes,