The Escape Artist Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Forty-four Steps, Inc.

  Cover design by Jarrod Taylor

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First Edition: March 2018

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  That 2,000 Yard Stare. Oil on canvas, 36½ X 28½. Life Collection of Art WWII, U.S. Army Center of Military History, Fort Belvoir, Virginia. Image courtesy of the Tom Lea Institute.

  ISBN: 978-1-4555-5951-0

  E3-20180206-DA-NF

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

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  Discover More Brad Meltzer

  ALSO BY BRAD MELTZER

  For Sally Katz,

  my godmother,

  the true reader in our family.

  Your love is magic.

  Acknowledgments

  Twenty years. This book marks twenty years(!) since my first novel was published. That means, dear reader, if you were there from the start, you’re old. It also means I owe you big for giving me this writer’s life.

  This book is a mystery. It’s also a mission. Six years ago, I went on a USO trip to entertain our troops in the Middle East. Soon after, I learned about the heroes at Dover Air Force Base. Looking back, it seems clear I was in the midst of my own crisis, examining my life and my place in this world. The point is, I believe every book is born from a need, and it was this book that helped me realize the difference between being alive and actually living. It’s what gave birth to the two new characters in these pages.

  With that said, I owe tremendous thank-yous to the following: My first lady, Cori, who opens my heart and brings me to life. She is in every single page of this novel. I love you for it, C. Jonas, Lila, and Theo are always my best blessings. With these kids, I know what I live for. Jill Kneerim, my friend and agent, is the great soul. I have been enriched by her soul for two decades. Friend and agent Jennifer Rudolph Walsh at WME goes to battle for us every day. Extra thanks to Hope Denekamp, Lucy Cleland, Ike Williams, and all our friends at the Kneerim & Williams Agency.

  This book is about a fight for one’s life. So I need to thank my sister, Bari, who was there as we fought for ours. Also to Bobby, Ami, Adam, Gilda, and Will, for always standing with us.

  I pride myself on my loyalty. Noah Kuttler takes it one step further. I trust him like no one else. He is a vault and a well of kindness. My life is better with you in it, Noah. Ethan Kline dreams the big dreams with me. Then Dale Flam, Matt Kuttler, Chris Weiss, and Judd Winick pour through my various drafts, telling me all the parts that make no sense and all the jokes that aren’t funny. They don’t realize all my jokes are funny.

  With every book, a few people become so vital to the process it’s as if their souls get poured into these pages. So let me start with William “Zig” Zwicharowski. As the Port Mortuary Branch Chief at Dover, he spends every day taking care of our fallen troops, making sure they’re treated with honor, dignity, and respect. I’ve spent twenty years doing research. I’ve never been more humbled by someone’s work. I’m embarrassing him now, so let me just say this: To everyone on the Dover team, thank you for what you do for Gold Star families. In addition to Zig, a special thank-you to another of my heroes, former Dover man Matt Genereux, who kept me honest at every level. Matt and Zig are family to me—and were my moral compasses. (Heart!) Finally, my master of all things military and one of my oldest friends, Scott Deutsch. In junior high school, we went to Michael Jackson’s Victory Tour together. Today, he works in the military. I asked him hundreds of inane questions and he gave me all the right answers. I’m the one who then screws it up. You inspire me every day, pal. Thanks for all your trust.

  I also need to thank everyone at Dover, including Major Ray Geoffroy, Tracy E. Bailey, Edward Conway, Chris Schulze, Mary Ellen “Mel” Spera, and Master Gunnery Sergeant Frederick Upchurch. (And yes, I know what really happened to Building 1303.) Also, much appreciation to my friend Senator Chris Coons for the hospitality in his home state of Delaware.

  Even more details came from First Sergeant Amy L. M. Brown, our real-life Army Artist-in-Residence; Chris Semancik and everyone at the US Army Center of Military History, Museum Support Center at Fort Belvoir; Mary Roach, whose mastery of the dead left me breathless (as you read this thriller, when I reference my “favorite professor,” I’m referencing Mary—go buy her book Stiff; it’s brilliant); Chuck Collins of Compassionate Friends (if you know someone who has lost a child, go to their site); Ben Becker, fo
r the gun knowledge; Caleb Wilde (along with his dad, Bill, and grandfather Bud), who spent a day talking about the dead and Pennsylvania; Steve Whittlesey and Howland Blackiston, for the honeybee details; Joel Marlin for the best history of magic; Mark Dimunation and everyone in the Houdini Collection at the Library of Congress; The Amazing Mr. Ash at Ash’s Magic Shop, and the ever elusive Master of the Book, who deserves to be acknowledged but will only do it with a code name.

  Extra thanks to Eljay Bowron, Bob Mayer (the godfather to Zig), Jake Black, David Howard, and Mark Ginsberg; Dr. Lee Benjamin and Dr. Ronald K. Wright, for always helping me maim and kill with authority; and the rest of my own inner circle, who I bother for every book: Jim Day, Chris Eliopoulos, Jo Ayn Glanzer, Denise Jaeger, Katriela Knight, Jason Sherry, Marie Grunbeck, Nick Marell, Staci Schecter, Simon Sinek, Eling Tsai, and David Watkins. Finally, major thanks to everyone in the military and veterans community, especially family members of those who serve. Your sacrifice is never lost on me. To that end, if you are thinking about suicide, especially in the military, call 1-800-273-8255. You are not alone. And thanks to everyone else who anonymously enriched these pages. You know who you are.

  The books The Secret Life of Houdini by William Kalush and Larry Sloman, Art of the American Soldier by Renée Klish, Stories in Stone by Douglas Keister, Houdini!!! by Kenneth Silverman, and articles including “The Things That Carried Him” by Chris Jones, “Making Toast” by Roger Rosenblatt, “What Suffering Does” by David Brooks, and the writings of Linton Weeks were all greatly informing to this process; “Last Inspection” by James Dao and “The Child Exchange” by Megan Twohey led me to both Zig and Nola; our family on Decoded and Lost History, and at HISTORY, including Nancy Dubuc, Paul Cabana, Mike Stiller, and Russ McCarroll, for bringing me Houdini; Rob Weisbach, for being the very first; and of course, my family and friends, whose names forever inhabit these pages.

  I also want to thank everyone at Grand Central Publishing: Michael Pietsch, Brian McLendon, Matthew Ballast, Caitlin Mulrooney-Lyski, Kyra Baldwin, Chris Murphy, Dave Epstein, Martha Bucci, Ali Cutrone, Karen Torres, Jean Griffin, Beth deGuzman, Andrew Duncan, Meriam Metoui, Bob Castillo, Mari Okuda, the kindest and hardest-working sales force in show business, and all my treasured friends there. I’ve said it before, and I’ll never stop saying it: They are the true reason this book is in your hands. I need to add a special thank-you to Jamie Raab, who knows that no matter where she goes, she’s always family. I also want to welcome superstar Wes Miller, who has edited and pushed me in the very best ways. I’m lucky to know him. Finally, I want to thank our new master of ceremonies, Ben Sevier. Let me say it as clearly as I can: He has been the champion of this book and the classiest of class acts. I am so thankful he’s in my life. Thank you, Ben, for your faith.

  1898, John Elbert Wilkie, a friend of Harry Houdini,

  was put in charge of the United States Secret Service.

  Wilkie was a fan of Houdini and did his own tricks himself.

  It is the only time in history that a magician was in control of the Secret Service.

  Prologue

  Copper Center, Alaska

  These were the last thirty-two seconds of her life.

  As the small plane—a twin-engine CASA used by the military—took off from the airfield, most of the seven passengers on board were staring out their windows, thinking themselves lucky. Few people got to see this side of the world, much less the private base that the Army had built out here. On maps, it didn’t exist. On Google, it was permanently blurred.

  In the last row of the plane, a woman with shoulder-length black hair was convinced she was blessed, marveling at the snow-dusted tops of Alaska’s beautiful aspen trees. She loved that the roots of aspen trees often grew together, supporting each other and forming a giant organism. It was why she joined the Army all those years ago: to build something stronger, with others. She got just that when she came out here to the lush wilderness.

  Definitely blessed, she told herself. Then, just like that, the plane began to vibrate.

  Her initial reaction was, Fix it—straighten us out. She was annoyed that the vibrations were messing up her handwriting. On the open tray table, she was trying to write a letter—a dirty note—to her fiancé, Anthony, telling him what she was planning to do to him later that evening.

  Her hope was to slip it into his back pocket, Anthony being so surprised—and horny—from her traveling all the way to Fort Campbell on his birthday, he wouldn’t notice her sliding some playful fun into his pocket. And even if he did, well…thanks to their Army schedules, she and Anthony hadn’t been alone with each other in two months. He’d have no problem with a pretty girl’s hand on his ass.

  The intercom cracked to life. “Prepare for—”

  The pilot never got the words out.

  The plane tilted, nose down, like it was arcing over the peak of a roller coaster. The woman with the black hair felt her stomach twist. All that was left was the final drop. Suddenly, there were anvils on her shoulders, pressing her into her seat.

  Diagonally across the aisle, an Army lieutenant with buzzed red hair and triangular eyes made a face and gripped his armrests, just beginning to realize how bad it was about to get.

  The woman with the black hair was Army too—a twenty-seven-year-old supply sergeant—and on those first days of her Airborne training at Fort Benning, they taught her that when it comes to a plane crash, people don’t panic. They become docile and silent. To save yourself, you need to take action.

  The plane jolted, nearly knocking the pen from her hand. The pen. Her letter. She almost forgot she was writing it. She thought about Anthony, about writing a will… Then she replayed those last few minutes before she got on board. Oh, God. Now it made sense. Her stomach was up in her throat. The VIPs at the front of the plane were now screaming. She knew why this plane was going down. This wasn’t an accident.

  Frantically, she jotted a new note, her hand shaking, tears squeezing out from behind her eyes.

  The plane jolted again. A fireball of jet fuel came in through the emergency door on her left, from outside. Her shirt was on fire. She patted it out. She could smell melting plastic, yet at the sight of the flames—

  The door. She was seated at the emergency exit.

  Still clutching tight to the scribbled note, she gripped the door’s red handle with both hands and started to pull. It gave way, and she slid it sideways. There was a pop. The door was still closed, but the seal was broken.

  Twenty seconds to go.

  She tried to get out of her seat, but her seat belt— It was still buckled. In a frenzy, she clawed at it. Click. She was free.

  Still holding the crumpled note, now damp in her sweaty fist, she put her palm to the exit door and gave it a shove. It was stuck from the fire. She gave it a kick. The door opened as a rodeo of wind whipped her black hair in every direction. Papers went flying through the cabin. A phone bounced against the ceiling. People were screaming, though she couldn’t make out any of it.

  Fourteen seconds to go.

  Outside, the tall, snow-covered aspen trees that had looked so small were now racing at her, growing larger every second. She knew the odds. When you free-fall in a light aircraft, if fate’s not on your side, you don’t have a chance.

  “GO! GET OUT!” a man’s voice shouted.

  She had barely turned as the lieutenant with the triangular eyes barreled into her, fighting to get to the emergency exit.

  The plane was in free fall now, a reddish orange smoke filling the cabin. Eleven seconds to go. The man was pushing against her with all his weight. They both knew if they jumped too soon—above three hundred feet—they wouldn’t survive the impact. Even if they were lucky enough to live, the compound fractures in their legs—if the bones came through their skin—it’d make them bleed out in no time.

  No. This had to be timed just right.

  Not until you’re at the treetops, she told herself, remembering her training and eyeing the a
spens, which were closer than ever. The wind blinded her. The smoke was in her lungs as she held the lieutenant at bay with one hand and held tight to the note with her other.

  “GO! NOW!” the man screamed, and for a moment, it looked like his back was on fire.

  Eight seconds to go.

  The plane plummeted diagonally toward the ground. Without even thinking about it, she stuffed the note into the one place she thought it might survive.

  “WE DON’T HAVE—!”

  Six seconds.

  She put her foot on the lip of the doorway, turned back to the lieutenant and grabbed him by his shirt, trying to pull him outside with her. This could work. She could save them both.

  She was wrong.

  The lieutenant pulled away. It was instinct. No one wants to be yanked from a plane. That was the end. The lieutenant with the triangular eyes would go down, literally, in flames.

  With three seconds to go, the woman with black hair leapt from the plane. She would land on the balls of her feet, still trying to follow her training as she hit with a thud in the snow. A perfect landing. But also a deadly one. She’d break both legs and snap her neck on impact.

  The emergency crews would find her name on the manifest. Nola Brown.

  And the scribbled note—her final words—that she’d hidden so well? That would be found by the least likely person of all.

  1

  Dover Air Force Base, Delaware

  Jim “Zig” Zigarowski knew the pain was coming. It didn’t stop him. He was good with pain. Used to it. Still, he knew this one would sting. Since the day Zig arrived at this remote building at the back of Dover Air Force Base, every case was wrenching. Especially this one. Hence the pain.

  “I thought Lou was on call today?” asked Dr. Womack, a short Hispanic man with a weak beard and baggy medical scrubs.

  “We switched,” Zig said, wheeling the gurney a bit faster up the hallway, hoping to leave Womack behind. “Lou had a dinner date.”

  “Really? I just saw Lou at dinner. All alone.”

  Zig stopped. This was the moment where it could all implode. Zig shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have taken this gurney, or what was hidden below the light blue sheet that covered it. Would Womack stop him? Only if he realized what was going on.