Nightrise

Corporation."
    The man smiled. "That's absolutely right," he said loudly, so the whole theatre could hear. But his voice was almost taunting Jamie, as if he didn't care one way or another if the trick had worked. "The boy got it in one."
    There was even more applause this time. There were only forty-five people left in the theatre but they were genuinely absorbed. It was the only real mystery they had seen all evening. Days later, they would still be wondering how it was done.
    And none of them had guessed the simple truth, even though it was the only possible explanation and was staring them in the face. There were no microphones. There were no hidden signals. There were no codes or messages being sent from offstage. The trick was that there was no trick. The two boys could genuinely read each other's minds.
    But the Nightrise Corporation knew. That was why they had sent these men here tonight. To see for themselves.
    It was time for Scott and Jamie Tyler to disappear.
    TWO
    Backstage
    The performance was over. Scott and Jamie had half an hour until the next one began, so the two of them went back to their dressing room. A narrow, L-shaped corridor, lit by harsh neon tubes, ran all the way around the back of the stage with an exit door at the end. As usual, they had to pick their way past the costumes, baskets, and props that were already set out for the next performance. Swami Louvishni's bed of nails was propped up next to Zorro's chains and straitjacket. A papier-mé cow came next and then a broken piano missing most of its keys — these last two left over from some other show. On one side, a bare brick wall rose forty feet up to the ceiling — this was in fact the back of the stage. On the other, a series of doors opened into small, square rooms. The entire area smelled of fried food. The theatre backed onto a motel with its kitchen directly opposite. Often when the boys left, they would see the Filipino staff in their striped aprons and white paper hats, hanging around, smoking.
    As they made their way backstage, there was a sudden whining and a dog bounded out of one of the doors. It was a German shepherd, ten years old and blind in one eye. It belonged to Frank Kirby, who used it when he was pretending to be Mr. Marvano, master illusionist. Twice a night, the dog sat behind a secret mirror, waiting to appear in the cage.

    Jamie leaned down and patted its head. "Good boy, Jagger," he said. The dog had been named after the lead singer of the Rolling Stones. Jamie didn't know why.
    "Hey—Jamie!"
    Frank Kirby was in his dressing room. Zorro was with him, sitting at a table with a glass and a half bottle of whiskey in front of him. Jamie hoped the escapologist hadn't drunk too much of it yet. One night Zorro had been handcuffed on stage, tied up, and locked into his chest…where he had promptly fallen asleep. He'd lost a week's wages for that. He and Kirby often hung out together. They were both divorced. They were both in their fifties. And —Jamie couldn't avoid the thought — they were both losers.
    "What is it, Frank?" Jamie asked. He leaned against the door and felt his brother brush past behind him.
    Scott hadn't stopped.
    "There's a rumor we may be moving." Kirby's voice was always hoarse. Smoking thirty cigarettes a day probably didn't help. "I hear maybe we're getting out of Reno. You know anything about that?"
    "I haven't heard anything," Jamie said.
    "Maybe you can ask your uncle Don. He never tells us nothing!"
    Jamie was tempted to say that Don White never told him anything either. But there was no point. Frank knew that anyway. So Jamie just shrugged and went into the room next door.
    Scott was already there, lying on the single bed with its dirty mattress and striped blanket. All the rooms were the same: completely square with a window looking out onto the parking lot, with the motel on the other side. Each one had a washbasin and a mirror surrounded by lightbulbs. In some of the rooms, the lightbulbs actually worked. Jamie glanced at his brother, who was staring up at the ceiling. There were a couple of old Marvel comics on the table and a half-empty bottle of Coke. That was it. The two of them never did anything between shows. Sometimes they talked, but recently it seemed to Jamie that Scott had begun to retreat into himself.
    "Frank thinks we may be moving," Jamie said.
    "Moving where?"
    "He didn't say." Jamie sat down. "It would be great to get out of here. Away from Reno."
    Scott thought