ask questions, Rodney hopped out of the cab and closed the door.
Dad and I stayed hidden for a few minutes, then sat up and looked around. The parking attendant was distracted, smoking a cigarette and flirting with one of the dancers.
“Come on,” I said, and the two of us climbed out the passenger side, keeping the truck between us and the club.
I turned the corner and stifled a scream.
I was face-to-face with a man in a ski mask standing by the warehouse door.
“Shit!” I scrambled backward, knocking into Dad.
“It’s me!” the man said, then pulled up his ski mask.
It was Higgins, and he was grinning like a horror-movie clown.
“Jesus,” I said. “You scared the crap out of me.”
Higgins chuckled.
“Take that ridiculous thing off,” Dad said.
Higgins’s grin turned into a pout. “Why?”
“Because if we’re caught, we can’t exactly claim to be lost if one of us looks like a damn bank robber,” Dad said.
Higgins shrugged and peeled off the mask.
I glanced around. The same two cars were still parked in the lot: the hatchback and the Beemer.
“Whose cars, do you think?” Higgins asked.
“Employees of the club, perhaps?”
“Maybe,” I said. “They were here this morning.”
Higgins gestured at the door. “Is that how we’re getting in?”
The three of us moved toward it. I squatted in front of the lock, and Dad put a hand on my shoulder.
“Ready to work your magic?” he asked.
I nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“It’s a combo lock,” Higgins whispered. “How are you going to pick that?”
I glared at him. “If you insist on being here, please keep your mouth shut.”
He looked hurt, but he kept quiet. I turned back to the keypad.
Dad and I had spent the afternoon brainstorming Devereaux’s likely heroes. We debated until we had narrowed it down to three—because, according to Ripley’s research, we had only three tries to get it right. I reached for the keypad, one finger outstretched—then withdrew my hand. What if Ripley was wrong? What if I punched in the incorrect code and the alarm started squealing straightaway? Probably, the thought should’ve petrified me; instead, I found myself savoring the first trickle of adrenaline.
The name at the top of our list belonged to one of the first TV magicians ever. In a 2008 interview in Genii, Devereaux had called him an inspiration. It was the only time he had ever publicly mentioned a magician as an influence. He was a solid choice, but I had my doubts—because the man had called himself Dante the Magician. He hadn’t just been Devereaux’s hero, he’d been my father’s, too. So much that Dad had changed our family name to honor him. It seemed like too much of a coincidence. What were the odds that our last name was Devereaux’s password?
But this was no time for second-guessing; we’d discussed every name on the list for hours, making our decisions in the calm of the motel room precisely so we wouldn’t have to choose in the stress of the moment. Dante was the only magician Devereaux had ever called out in print. I had to trust our choice, no matter how unlikely it seemed.
I typed:
3-2-6-8-3 (D-A-N-T-E)
I heard no click, no sound of a bolt being thrown—and, after a moment, a red LED above the keypad blinked once.
Shit.
“What the hell?” Higgins said.
Dad laid a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ve got two more chances.”
I swallowed hard and looked back at the keypad.
According to the archivist at the Magic Castle, Devereaux had once owned a vintage poster from a 1922 performance by the Great Blackstone. Blackstone was the most famous illusionist of the early twentieth century, best known for his take on the classic levitation illusion—the same effect that Devereaux paid homage to in his flying routine. Because of this, Blackstone had been our second choice. It had the right resonance; plus, the first five letters of his last name formed a coherent word.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and typed:
2-5-2-2-5 (B-L-A-C-K)
The red LED blinked twice, then went dark.
“Fuck!”
Dad let out a hiss of breath through his teeth.
Higgins leaned in. “I thought you said you knew the code?”
I turned to curse at Higgins, but Dad intervened.
“No one asked you to come,” he said.
Higgins took a few steps backward and folded his arms.
Dad turned to me. “It’s got to be him,” he said. “It’s got to be Houdini.”
Houdini was, inarguably, the most famous magician in history. Like Devereaux, he was known for performing public exhibitions of magic in front of huge audiences;