The Vanished Man

(quick change) magic. Will use breakaway clothes, nylon and silk, bald cap, finger cups and other latex appliances. Could be any age, gender or race.
    • Calvert’s death = Selbit’s Cutting a Woman in Half routine.
    • Proficient at lock picking (possibly lock “scrubbing”).

Chapter Thirteen
    In 1900 Manhattan’s horse population was over 100,000 and, space being at a premium on the island even in those days, many animals were housed in high-rises—at least that’s what their second- and third-story quarters would have been considered at the time.
    One such elevated stable can still be found in the borough, the well-known Hammerstead Riding Academy on the Upper West Side. Still in its original structure, built in 1885, the academy features hundreds of stalls above the ground-level arena, which is the site for both private riding lessons and shows. A large, busy stable like this seems an anomaly in a city like Manhattan in the twenty-first century until you consider that Central Park’s six miles of well-tended bridle paths are only a few blocks away.
    Ninety horses reside in the academy, some privately owned and some for rent, and one of these latter variety was now being led down a steep ramp from his stall by a groom, a redheaded teenage girl, to a waiting rider.
    Cheryl Marston felt the same thrill she did every Saturday at this time of day when she saw the tall, feisty horse with the mottled rump of an Appaloosa.
    “Hey, Donny Boy,” she called, her pet name for the animal, whose real name was Don Juan di Middleburg. A ladies’ man, she often said. A joke but true enough: under a male rider the animal would shy and whinny and resist from the git-go. But with Marston he was putty.
    “See you in an hour,” she told the groom, swinging up onto Donny Boy, gripping the supple reins, feeling his astonishing muscles beneath her.
    A touch to the ribs and they were on their way. Out onto Eighty-sixth Street, moving east slowly toward Central Park, the shod feet clopping loudly on the asphalt, drawing everyone’s attention, as they examined both the gorgeous animal and, high atop him, the thin-faced, serious woman dressed in jodhpurs, a red jacket and black velvet helmet, out of which dangled a long blonde French braid.
    Crossing into Central Park itself, Marston glanced south and saw in the distance the office building in Midtown where she spent fifty hours a week practicing corporate law. There were a thousand thoughts that might have overwhelmed her now about the job, projects that were “front-burnered,” as one of her partners said with irritating frequency. But none of these thoughts intruded at the moment. Nothing could. She was invulnerable to everything when she sat here, on one of God’s most magnificent creations, feeling the sun-warmed, loam-scented air on her face as Donny Boy trotted along the dark path, surrounded by early jonquils and forsythia and lilacs.
    The first beautiful day this spring.
    For a half hour she circled the reservoir slowly, lostin the rapture of that unique connection between two different, complementary animals, each powerful and smart in its own way. She enjoyed a brief canter and then slowed to post in a trot as they came to the sharper turns in the deserted northern part of the park, near Harlem.
    Completely at peace.
    Until the worst happened.
    She wasn’t sure exactly how it occurred. She’d slowed to make the turn through a narrow gap between two stands of bushes when a pigeon flew directly into Donny Boy’s face. Whinnying, he skidded to a stop so fast that Marston was nearly thrown off. Then he reared and she almost went backward over his rump.
    She grabbed his mane and the front edge of the saddle to keep from falling eight feet to the rocky ground. “Whoa, Donny,” she cried, trying to pat his neck. “Donny Boy—it’s all right. Whoa!”
    Still, he kept rearing, crazed. Had the collision with the bird hurt his eyes? Her concern for the horse, though, was mixed with her own fear. Sharp rocks jutted from the ground on either side of them. If Donny Boy kept rearing he could lose his balance on the uneven ground and go down hard—possibly with her under him. Nearly all of the serious injuries among her fellow riders weren’t from tumbling off a horse but were from being caught between the animal and the ground when it fell.
    “Donny!” she called breathlessly. But he reared again and held the position, dancing in panic on his hind legs and