Left To Die

People were similar in their predictability. Be it in France or Indiana. The man’s expression soured somewhat at the memory of fleeing the United States. The FBI had gotten too close. The female agent—he’d seen her on the news asking for clues. Little did she know that she’d interviewed his host family the night before he’d fled. She hadn’t known he’d been renting a room in their basement, and they hadn’t volunteered the information, wanting to avoid any hassle about renter’s insurance. They hadn’t known who he was.

Besides, how could his host family have known that the vehicle traced back to their home had belonged to him? He’d made sure to ditch the jalopy—he’d paid in cash for it anyway.

Agent Sharp. That had been her name. She’d gotten too close—far too close for comfort. But he was still on vacation. First the US, then France. It wasn’t yet time to return home… There was still so much more fun to be had.

The magician smiled at his audience and then clicked his tongue. He could feel the card wedged into the back of his mouth. He extended his hand, beckoning toward Amir, then took the card. He waved it a couple times in a big show, and then snapped his fingers. The card erupted in flame, disappearing as quickly as flash paper could—bought for less than a pound in magician stores around the world.

And yet, the reaction of his small audience sent shivers through the man. Magic was almost as fun as his other activities. It wasn’t the same, but it was nearly the same. The awe, the spectacle, the complete domination of his audience as they didn’t know what would come next. All of it intoxicated him and brought him the satisfaction of knowing what he had always known: he was smarter than them. All of them.

Everyone was staring at his hands now, awed by the disappearing card. Then he made a choking sound and looped his tongue beneath the stowed card; he pushed the card into his mouth and made a big show of puffing his cheeks, turning red in the face and placing his hands against his stomach as if he were about to throw up. Finally, with a gagging sound, he opened his mouth, and the card fell into his hand, slowly curling open. He had to pull the final fold to reveal the jack of spades.

“Is this your card?” he said, grinning at the audience.

The two tables at the bar erupted in applause, all of them staring in awe at the strange tourist and his tricks.

The jack of spades had been intentional, of course. A hero of his, who’d been named “The Spade Killer,” had been known for creating late-night art in the park districts, adopting the guise of a gardener when hunting his victims. Such interesting monickers the news outlets would come up with, labeling people like the magician as if they were superheroes. The Spade Killer had operated in France only a decade ago. He would carve up his victims with shallow cuts, creating beautiful patterns on human skin.

The man shivered in delight at the memory, recollecting his first time reading about the attacks in the newspaper back home. It had been better than porn. There had been an artistry to the Spade Killer’s work. The artist had never been caught, but photos of his work and his masterpieces could still be found online for those with discerning taste.

“How do you do that?” said Amir, snapping the man’s attention back to the moment.

The magician paused, gathering himself, then he simply shook his head, and smiled. “Would you like to see another one?” he asked.

Another one. He needed another one. It had taken so long, stalling, when that FBI agent had gotten too close. She’d asked the wrong questions in Indiana. It had been time to leave. He still wasn’t sure how much she knew. At least that was behind him. The agents in France would have to start from scratch to catch him. That gave him a good amount of time to enjoy this new playground. Like the Spade Killer, he too wouldn’t be caught.

But he couldn’t wait another couple of weeks. No, he needed to catch up. Time was of the essence. Always ticking, time. He swallowed, and his smile faltered just a little.

“Would you like to see another trick?” he asked, louder this time, glancing around at those clustered near the counter, trying to regain their attention from their bottles and half-filled glasses.

“Yes!” someone said, “Do me!”

He turned, eyeing an old, silver-haired woman smiling at him, pearl earrings glinting beneath the low light of the bar. She wouldn’t do.

He turned away from her and smiled his crocodile grin and said, “I need a little information first. This trick will only work on certain people.” They were in a bar behind the college, after all. The clientele was far younger than usual. “What are your birthdays? Year and month—it’s important. I have a sense; tell me, is anyone here twenty-three?” He said it innocuously, casually, but with enough flair and gusto to arouse curiosity. He glanced around at the few spectators seated at the bar.