08 Illusion (13 page)

What if it was she?

Mandy?

No! The, the girl,
you know, the girl I met today
… the …

Maybe you
should
call Kessler …

He stopped in midthought, hand on his face.
Oh, brother.
Not only was he being ridiculous, he was also arguing with himself.

And the phone was still ringing.

He picked it up. “Hello?”

She was back in her room, so suddenly she stumbled and dropped against the bed. The walls were back, the warmth of the house enveloped her, the light from the bedside lamp made her squint.

“Hello?”

He could hear the sound of the outdoors coming through the phone from the gate intercom, but nobody answered.

“Hello?”

He hung up. Weird coincidence. If it happened again, he’d have to have the gate system checked. But who would he call to do that? Shirley would know, he’d have to tell her if he remembered, maybe he should write it down, maybe he should call Kessler, but the moving van was coming tomorrow so maybe he’d better open that gate and leave it open. Was there a way to get a truck down to the barn to stash all that magic stuff? Should he worry about protecting the floors? Did he want any more coffee? …

A zillion little realities tore him away from the
moment
, whatever it was. He sat once again at the table in the big, dead-quiet, empty kitchen and stared at the words on his computer. Maybe he should make a list of everything that needed to be done. Good idea. He opened a new file and tapped in the heading: Things to Do.

Yes, everything felt normal again.
Whoopee.

Hallucinations
, Eloise thought. That was something Bernadette and Karla asked her about. Did she ever have any hallucinations or delusions?

Well, duh …

She sank to the floor, her back against the bed, the tennis ball on the floor beside her. She absentmindedly rolled the tennis ball under her palm, scanned the walls around her, the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp, and the bed, all solid and really there, and then she sighed.

Well, yeah, sure, she was crazy. Not that she’d had much doubt about it, but finally, sitting on the floor in a cozy little room where she was safe, she accepted it, and without fear. She was a little surprised how calm she was, but crying and freaking out were behind her, an old debt she’d already paid to this problem. There was no point to them now.

She made the tennis ball land on the tip of her finger and spin there, perfectly balanced, until she let it stop.

chapter

13

A
digital photograph of the Gypsy Girl popped up on the computer screen. She was hurrying up a sidewalk in a downtown district, one hand clutching a sweater closely about her and the other toying with a wool hat she was wearing. She was looking away from the street and her face was not visible.

“Yeah, I’d say she’s hiding her face,” said a male voice from the computer. “Look at 23.”

Stone tapped the right arrow key until Gypsy Girl 23 scrolled onto the screen. This photo was zoomed in closer. The girl was looking down, her profile mostly obscured by her street side hand. She was yanking a scarf out from under the wool cap.

“Most of the shots show the same behavior,” said Stone, speaking to the computer.

“Wonder what he told her.”

Mortimer, binoculars in hand, divided his attention between the satellite conversation in the farm house and the Collins ranch house across the valley where a moving van had finally arrived. As two movers wearing back braces muscled a sofa from the van through the front door, he glanced over at the computer. Stone had pressed the right arrow key and scrolled number 24 from offscreen to center. Now the girl’s eyes and nose were visible, but the makeup still disguised her.

“Whatever it was, it ruined her day. She got out of there,” Stone remarked.

“Hoping no one would see her,” said the voice. “Not too friendly an encounter.”

“He did give her the hat and the sweater,” Stone said.

“And a tip,” said Mortimer.

“And she’s a magician,” said the voice on the computer, “which definitely makes her a person of interest. But was there any indication that they knew each other? Remember who we’re talking about here.”

“None that we could see,” said Stone. “I think he was just being generous to a busker.”

“How old would you say she was?”

“Hard to tell. Twenties, thirties. But what if … ?” Stone and Mortimer looked at each other, and Stone went ahead. “If this is the subject, can she be young enough not to know who he is?”

“What if she hasn’t met him yet?” asked Mortimer.

“
That
young?” the voice said. There was a long silence followed by a muttered “Incredible.”

“Sir?” Stone inquired.

“Parmenter would have to rework the protocol … see if anything matches. This is way beyond our projections …” Another pause, and then the voice commented, “But if she hasn’t even met him yet, we’d be downright lucky, wouldn’t we?”

Splosh! Eloise dipped the long-handled window mop in the bucket of soapy water, then soaped and squeegeed the front window of the Real Life Ministries Thrift Store. Only one more pane to go, and then she could move on to sorting out the donations for the day, price-tagging and hanging up the new clothes, and making sure the children’s toys were arranged on the shelves by age group.

The job was fun. Mia and the others were great to work with, and it was a sweet arrangement: girls from the halfway house—today that meant herself and Darci the former jailbird—put in hours at the thrift store, and in exchange the thrift store helped meet the needs of the halfway house with clothing, food, and whatever else might come through the donation door that was useful. So Eloise didn’t earn dollars, she earned safety, well-being, and time to figure things out. Such a deal!

She squeegeed the last window, then stopped to look at the girl in the glass looking back at her with clear, expressive eyes. The girl was still a bit of a hobo, she supposed, still a little lost in a strange world and working through some heavy sadness besides, but she was getting there; she was digging her way out. She was getting to know herself, settling on those things about her that were true and likable no matter what world she thought she was living in. She had friends, and that made her world real enough to touch with her heart, and that made all the difference. She was wearing clothes of her own choosing: a warm jacket she’d earned with her labors and the wool cap the mysterious man on the street had given her. Before long, she hoped, she would find a way to actually make some money and pay for the things she needed.

Which got her thinking about her current plan and that tattered black derby hanging inside the store. When did that come in? It looked like something Emmett Kelly would have worn, a little bashed in, old but proud. If it fit it might be perfect.

And what was that term the mysterious man used?

“I know what an independent contractor is,” said Mr. Calhoun, leaning on the counter, looking as if she was trying to sell him a quilting club membership or spring-wound fire alarms.

“So you wouldn’t have to pay me like an employee. I could start out just making tips.”

He looked away from her and took more interest in how things were going in his coffee shop. All around them, McCaffee’s Sandwich and Coffee Shop was in full swing. The coffeemakers were pounding, grinding, and squirting out espressos, lattes, mochas, frappuccinos: his wife, Abby, and their two young employees—Megan with the coffee-stained apron and black curls, Myron with enough rings in his face to hang a shower curtain—were taking orders for coffee and sandwiches and hustling them out to the tables as if their jobs depended on it, which they probably did. “The way I see it, any money you take out of here is money I don’t get.”

“But I might bring in more customers and they might stay a little longer and buy more.”

Mr. Calhoun’s bald head was getting little sweat beads on it. “Look, people come in here to grab a bite and talk business, play some chess, work on their computers. They don’t want to stop what they’re doing and watch card tricks.” One look around the room told that story: the place was noisy with chatting customers, and almost every other table had someone tapping and clicking away on a computer. At one table in the center, two guys wearing their billed caps backward were playing a game of chess. “You used to be the Gypsy, right?”

“I bagged that idea. It didn’t have family appeal.”

“So”—he waved his finger at her new outfit—“what’s this, Charlie Chaplin?”

She’d claimed that tattered and dented derby hat from the thrift store, along with some baggy trousers, an oversize black suit coat, and cloddy shoes. A little makeup to stubble her face, sadden her eyes, and redden her nose completed the character. “Hobett.”

He made a face at her face. “Hobett?”

“A girl hobo.”

“A girl hobo with whiskers?”

She shrugged. “It’s funny. And what’s a hobo without whiskers?”

He granted her half a smile. “Cute.”

“And I do new tricks now.”

He looked around the room again, antsy and preoccupied. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a coffee and muffin, on me. It’s the best I can do for you.”

Sad news. She pouted a clownish pout, but then doffed her hat with a salutary flourish. “You’re a sweetie.”

“I’m telling you no, did you catch that?”

She nodded. “No. I mean, yes, you said no.”

He tapped on his wife as she hurried by. “Abby, give her a muffin and whatever coffee she wants. Hate to see someone go hungry.” Then he turned back to Eloise and aimed his finger at her. “But this is it, all right? You don’t come back, not with this, this hobo thing or any other thing. All right?”

“Yes, sir!”

“All right.”

When Abby came back behind the counter, she was sympathetic. “I think your outfit is really cute.”

“Thank you.”

“What would you like, honey?”

Eloise asked for a blueberry muffin and a sixteen-ounce double-shot decaf mocha. Abby prepared the order herself. Eloise told her, “Thank you so much,” and she really meant it.

“You’re very welcome. Go ahead and take a table.”

She was in a costume for no particular reason now, but this was an artsy kind of place with theater posters on the walls and a musicians/artists/yoga/herbal remedy/colon health bulletin board; looking weird was no big deal. A few folks looked her way, but were immediately satisfied—oh, a hobo. Okay.

She found a table in the center of the room and settled in for a consolatory meal that would end soon enough, but hey, she was going to enjoy it. Her first bite of the muffin was hot, moist, and flavorful; a blueberry burst inside her mouth, spilling its sweetness. The first sip of the mocha topped off the muffin so well she closed her eyes, held it in her mouth, and savored it before swallowing it. This was joy, just enough to close out the talkers and planners, the tapping computers, the chess players, the periodic moan of the front door, and her little dark cloud of disappointment.

When she opened her eyes, she noticed a little girl at the next table sitting in her daddy’s lap and looking at her—not staring, looking. She was four, maybe five, with golden curls in blue ribbons, a blue dress that matched, and big blue eyes. She was munching on a cookie, had crumbs on her cheeks, and must have found Eloise to be the most engaging thing she’d ever seen.

Eloise looked back, drawn to those eyes. The little girl was comfortable with that, so neither thought to look anywhere else. While all around them the talking and tapping, the sipping and chewing, the serving and paying rattled on in isolated clusters, she and the girl visited, getting to know each other without a word.
You see me, don’t you, little girl? I’m really here, a somebody. I fit into your world and that’s okay with you.

Eloise smiled, head tilted, and gave the girl a little wave with her fingers.

The child pressed close against her daddy’s chest but never looked away, and she smiled a teeny bit.

Now her daddy was smiling at the exchange as he took a sip from his coffee. Mommy was smiling, too, watching her daughter.

A mommy, a daddy, and a safe and loved little girl. Eloise felt an ache and a warmth at the same time. She could have cried, but something in the little girl’s eyes drove the tears from hers: wonder.

Yes, that was it. Wonder. What Eloise—or Mandy?—used to feel when looking at a flower, cradling a dove chick in her hand, or sitting out on the tractor watching the wispy clouds at the very top of the sky.

Misdirection. Eloise fell into it, just had to do it. She took a long, slow bite from her muffin, drawing the little girl’s eyes to her comical face while her free hand found some quarters in her pocket—props left over from the Gypsy’s fateful day. A quick load and she was ready. She waved a little wave again, but this time a quarter appeared between her first two fingers. She stared in wide-eyed, clownlike astonishment.

“Oh-ohh,” said the mommy.

The little girl stared. Maybe she got it, maybe she didn’t.

Eloise closed her fingers, opened them again, and there was a second quarter between her second and third fingers.

“Where’d that come from?” the daddy asked the girl, and now she smiled as if to say, “Hey, what’s going on here?”

Eloise waved up a third quarter, then vanished all of them, rotating and showing her empty hand. Mommy and Daddy did some quiet little claps. The little girl just watched.

Eloise’s eyes followed an invisible quarter buzzing by. She snatched it from thin air, put it in her mouth, and drew it from her ear.

Clap clap. The girl smiled with one finger in her mouth.

For no more than a second, Eloise wondered if she should be doing this in Mr. Calhoun’s coffee shop when he told her no, but she bumped that thought. This wasn’t a show, this was making friends.