The Vanished Man

objects mentally, predict the future and communicate with spirits.
    For thousands of years charlatan seers and mediumshave grown rich claiming to be able to summon the spirits of the deceased for their distraught loved ones. Before the government began cracking down on such scams it was legitimate magicians who’d protect the gullible by publicly revealing the methods behind the supposedly occult effects. (Even today the brilliant magician James Randi spends much of his time debunking fakes.) Harry Houdini himself devoted much of his life and fortune to challenging fake mediums. Yet, ironically, one of the reasons he took up this cause was out of his desperate search for a legitimate medium who could contact the spirit of his mother, whose death he never completely recovered from.
    Malerick now stared at the candle, the flame. Watching, praying for the spirit of his soul mate to appear and caress the yellow cone of illumination, to send him a sign. He used the candle for this medium of communication because it was fire that had taken his love away from him, fire that had changed Malerick’s life forever.
    Wait, did it flicker? Yes, maybe no. He couldn’t tell.
    Both schools of magic vied within him. As a talented illusionist, Malerick knew, of course, that his routines were nothing more than applied physics, chemistry and psychology. But still there was that one splinter of doubt in his mind that perhaps magic actually did hold the key to the supernatural: God as illusionist, vanishing our failing bodies then palming the souls of those we loved, transforming them and returning them to us, His sad and hopeful audience.
    This was not unthinkable, Malerick told himself. He—
    And then the candle flickered! Yes, he saw it.
    The flame moved a millimeter closer to the inlaid box. Very possibly it was a sign that the soul of his dead beloved was hovering near, summoned not by mechanics but by the fiber of connection that magic might reveal if only he could stay receptive.
    “Are you there?” he whispered. “Are you?”
    Breathing so very slowly, afraid that his exhalation would reach the candle and make it shiver; Malerick wanted proof positive that he was not alone.
    Finally the candle burned itself out and Malerick sat for a long time in his meditative state, watching gray smoke curl toward the ceiling then vanish.
    A glance at his watch. He could wait no longer. He gathered his costumes and props, assembled them and dressed carefully. Applied his makeup.
    The mirror told him that he was “in role.”
    He walked to the front lobby. A glance out the window. The street was empty.
    Then outside into the spring evening for a routine that would be, yes, even more challenging than the prior ones.
    Fire and illusion are soul mates.
    Bursts of flash powder, candles, propane flames over which escape artists dangle . . .
    Fire, Revered Audience, is the devil’s toy and the devil has always been linked to magic. Fire illuminates and fire obscures, it destroys and it creates.
    Fire transforms.
    And it’s at the heart of our next act, one I call The Charred Man.
    •   •   •
    The Neighborhood School just off Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village is a quaint limestone building, as modest in appearance as in name. One would never suspect that the children of some of the richest and most politically connected families in New York City learn reading, ’riting, and ’rithmatic here.
    It was known not only as a quality educational institution—if you can refer to an elementary school that way—but was also an important cultural venue in this part of the city.
    The 8:00 P.M. Saturday music recitals, for instance.
    To which the Reverend Ralph Swensen was now making his way.
    He’d survived his lengthy stroll through Chinatown and Little Italy to Greenwich Village without any harm other than your average accosting by your average panhandler, to which he was by now almost oblivious. He’d stopped at a small Italian restaurant for a plate of spaghetti (that and ravioli were the only dishes on the menu he recognized). And since the wife wasn’t with him he ordered a glass of red wine. The food was wonderful and he remained in the restaurant for quite some time, sipping the forbidden drink and enjoying the sight of children playing in the streets of this boisterous ethnic neighborhood.
    He’d paid the check, feeling somewhat guilty about using church funds for alcohol, then continued north, farther into the Village along