As for thinking—knowing—she was Mandy Whitacre, if all the other stuff was real, then maybe her being twenty years old in 2010 when she was born in 1951 was real, too. Sure it was. She just hadn’t figured that part out yet.

Anyway, all the trouble aside, today’s Dumpster escape went off without a hitch because slipping between dimensions, “interdimming,” to pull off a vanish, escape, levitation, whatever she needed, wasn’t so scary or difficult anymore. She was getting a handle on it—pretty much. Now, if the trouble would just stay away …

Well—she touched up her rouge— maybe you’re not crazy, so try not being dangerous. Behave yourself and be glad you aren’t in jail!

The nine-o’clock show had a great crowd, a nearly full house.

Les and Eileen, along with their friend Clive, all from Westport, Connecticut, were as entertaining as Sarah, Clive’s wife, the one Mandy levitated. Mandy allowed them to walk all around and under Sarah and even wave their hands over the top of her to feel for wires, and they were having such an amazed, flabbergasted, and hilarious time of it the routine was scoring big points and gold stars with the audience. What made the illusion even more fun was the fact that Sarah, unlike most pretty girls who get levitated, was not in a hypnotic trance but fully awake and as giddily mystified as her husband and friends were.

Nearly excellent, thought Dane, sitting near the back. Incredible timing, inventive effects and gags, great pacing, perfect misdirection and hand placement, lots of Vegas-style pizzazz, but where was the wonder? He couldn’t see it in her eyes or hear it in her voice, not like before. Maybe the town was getting to her. Or …

He could see Seamus Downey standing in the back, watching—or patrolling. Downey seemed pleased enough, but with a strange lord-of-all look in his eyes that Dane had seen before and never liked. So this was the man in her life now? That could explain a lot.

What a feeling—or feelings: pride in the great progress she’d made, gladness at her success mixed with regret at the loss of her unique sparkle, sorrow at the chasm now between them, and a longing to be with her, at least to be friends again, to steer her a bit, maybe bring back what she’d lost since … The memory of that day would forever haunt him.

He’d come in the hope of speaking with her, but now that was looking like no small task, especially with Mr. Downey the Great and Powerful lurking about. He’d thought of finding someone in management and using his name to get through to her, but seeing her on that stage made her seem so unreachable and him so much a stranger, what could he say?

He could try congratulations, kudos, small talk, and then— oh, this should be easy—the question of who she really was, and how would he segue into that? He might comment on the stage name she’d chosen and how she’d come by that name, and whether that tied in with all the other facts about her that lined up perfectly with the girl he met some forty years ago.

And where from there? Oh, this should be a cakewalk.

The show went great considering what a day she’d had, but as soon as she closed the dressing room door, uncapped a bottle of water, and dabbed the sweat from her face, the highs of the performance ebbed away and the trouble loomed in her mind. Maybe, maybe, Ernie Myers would forget about her, maybe he wouldn’t see her picture in the paper even though she told him she was looking for the Orpheus Hotel; maybe the hospital wouldn’t be that interested in her even though she decked two of its employees.

There was a knock on the door. It didn’t sound like a police bust. The voice was quiet and courteous. “Miss Whitacre?”

“Julio?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She opened the door to Julio the bellman, all by himself. He’d brought a small envelope. “Thanks, Julio.” She offered him a treat-size Hershey’s bar from a dish on her vanity. He snatched it up, gave her a wink, and let her be.

The envelope contained a note. She unfolded it and read, “ Saw you near the elevators the day of my accident, would like to speak to you regarding what you saw.”It was signed by Doris Branson, the hotel manager. Branson included her phone number.

Mandy rested against the wall and let her lungs empty. Accident? What a day. First Ernie, and now her.

The good news could be, if Doris Branson saw her near the elevators while she was interdimming there, that was one more confirmation that something real was going on, a second witness. The bad news could be, if Doris Branson had an accident right after she saw Mandy, the same as happened to Ernie, that could mean that Mandy and all her interdimming had something to do with it, and what if it did? Double trouble.

Well …

She’d just have to call Doris and face the music, whatever it was. It probably would be painful, but what else was new? She might learn something more about her very strange world, so the pain might be worth it. To put a smile on it, maybe Doris would end up on her side and talk to Ernie, then maybe they’d all talk, then maybe … she didn’t know.

Dane waited through the show, suffering and enjoying, and stood to applaud when Mandy struck her final pose. When the curtain came down and the lights came up, he searched through the heads and shoulders to find an usher, anyone—other than Downey—he might ask about having an audience with—

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. An unintended brush, of course; the place was swarming. There was an usher at the main door. He could ask him—

The tap came again. Probably Downey. Dane steeled himself and turned.

“Pardon me,” said a middle-aged man in wire-rimmed glasses. “Am I addressing Dane Collins?”

Dane was looking at a miracle and made no effort to hide his awe. “You most certainly are.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir, and glad I caught you.” The man extended his hand. “I would use an alias, but you already have my name: Jerome Parmenter. Before you have your talk with Miss Whitacre, may we have a word?”

chapter

39

Parmenter couldn’t talk with Dane anywhere at the Orpheus, not in a hotel room, not in the casino, not in the lounge or in the restaurant. They had to find someplace safe, neutral, secure. Dane suggested the house where he was staying.

“No,” said Parmenter, “everyone knows you’re living there.”

“What do you mean, ‘everyone’? Who’s ‘everyone’?”

“We’ll talk about that.”

“So how much do you know about me?”

“Not here.”

Dane thought of going to Christian Faith Center. By now it was after ten, but the church might still be open. Parmenter thought that would work. Dane called Pastor Chuck, who met him at the front door and gave him a key to lock up. Parmenter remained in the car until Dane could make sure no one would see him, and then went inside.

They settled for the Preschool Department, a large room painted in bright, primary colors with biblical murals on the walls, Scripture posters, pictures of Jesus, Moses, the disciples, the lost sheep, the boatful of fish, and finger paints of Jesus, sheep, fishing boats, and an empty tomb. They sat down on child-size chairs at a child-height table in a corner filled with plastic toys. It looked awkward, even a little silly, but Parmenter felt safe here. He visibly relaxed.

“Good. Good enough.” He faced Dane, hands on his knees, his knees elevated because of the tiny chair he sat on. “Thank you for giving me this time, and most of all, thank you for choosing to talk with me before talking to Miss Whitacre. I’m sure you’ll see it was the right choice.”

Parmenter produced a laptop computer from his briefcase, set it on the table, and flipped it open. He reached for a child’s wooden block and set it on the table as well.

Dane recognized the computer. “You were there at McCaffee’s.”