No, please.… Worse than the pain, Rhyme feared the horror of being deprived of yet another of his senses. The killer eased the edge close to Rhyme's eye, moved it back and forth.

Then the killer smiled and stepped back. He glanced across the room into the shadows on the far wall. "Now, Revered Audience, let's begin our routine with some prestidigitation. I'll be assisted by a fellow performer here." These words were spoken in an eerie, theatrical tone.

The man's hand rose and he displayed the glistening razor blade. In a smooth gesture the Conjurer pulled out the waistband of Rhyme's sweatpants and underwear and tossed the blade like a Frisbee toward his naked groin.

The criminalist winced.

"What he must be thinking…" the Conjurer said to his imaginary audience.

"Knowing that a razor blade is against his skin, perhaps cutting into his skin, his genitals, a vein or an artery. And he doesn't feel a thing!"

Rhyme stared at the front of his pants, waiting for blood to appear.

Then the Conjurer smiled. "But maybe the blade's not there… Maybe it's someplace else. Maybe here." He reached into his own mouth and pulled the small rectangle of steel out. He held it up. Then frowned. "Wait." He removed another blade from his mouth. Then more. He now had the four blades back in his hand. He fanned them like cards then tossed them into the air above Rhyme, who gasped and cringed, waiting for them to hit him. But… nothing. They'd vanished.

In his neck and temple Rhyme felt his heart pounding, harder now, sweat trickling down his forehead and temple. Rhyme glanced at the alarm clock. It seemed like hours had passed. But Thom had left only fifteen minutes ago.

Rhyme asked, "Why are you doing this? Those people you killed? What was the point?"

"They weren't all killed," he pointed out angrily. "You ruined my performance with the equestrian by the Hudson River."

"Well, attacked then. Why?"

"It was nothing personal," he said and broke into a coughing spell.

"Not personal?" Rhyme spat out, incredulous.

"Let's say it was more what they represented than who they were."

"What does that mean? 'Represented'? Explain."

The Conjurer whispered, "No. I don't think I will." He walked slowly around Rhyme's bed, breathing hard. "Do you know what goes through the mind of the audience during a performance? Part of them hopes that the illusionist isn't going to escape in time, that he'll drown, he'll fall on the spikes, burn up, get crushed to death. There's a trick called the Burning Mirror. My favorite. It starts out with a vain illusionist looking in a mirror. He sees a beautiful woman on the other side of the glass. She beckons to him and finally he gives in to temptation and steps through. We see they've changed places. The woman's now on the front side of the mirror. But there's a puff of smoke and she does a quick change and becomes Satan."

"Now the illusionist is trapped in hell, chained to the floor. Flames begin shooting up from the floor around him. A wall of fire moves closer. Just as he's about to be engulfed by flames he gets out of the chains and leaps through the fire at the back of the mirror to safety. The devil runs toward the illusionist, flies into the air and vanishes. The illusionist shatters the mirror with a hammer. Then he walks across the stage, pauses and snaps his fingers. There's a flash of light and, you've probably guessed, he becomes the devil… The audience loves it… But I know that part of everyone's mind is rooting for the fire to win and the performer to die." He paused. "And, of course, that does happen from time to time."

"Who are you?" Rhyme whispered, despairing now.

"Me?" The Conjurer leaned forward and passionately rasped, "I'm the Wizard of the North. I'm the greatest illusionist who ever was. I'm Houdini. I'm the man who can escape from the burning mirror. From handcuffs, chains, locked rooms, shackles, ropes, anything…" He eyed Rhyme closely. "Except… except you. I was afraid that you were the one thing I couldn't escape from. You're too good. I had to stop you before tomorrow afternoon…"

"Why? What's happening tomorrow afternoon?"

The Conjurer didn't answer. He looked into the gloom. "Now, Revered Audience, our main act – the Charred Man. Look at our performer here – no chains, no handcuffs, no ropes. Yet he can't possibly escape. This is even harder than the world's first escape routine: St. Peter. Thrown in a cell, shackled, guarded. And yet he escaped. Of course, he had an important confederate. God. Our performer tonight, however, is on his own."

A small gray object appeared in the Conjurer's hand and he leaned forward fast, before Rhyme could turn his head. The killer slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth.

He then shut out all the lights in the room except a small night-light. He returned to Rhyme's bed, held an index finger up and flicked his thumb against it. A three-inch point of flame rose from the digit.

The Conjurer wagged the finger back and forth. "Sweating, I can see." He held the flame close to Rhyme's face. "Fire… Isn't it fascinating? It's probably the most compelling image in illusionism. Fire's the perfect misdirection. Everyone watches flame. They never take their eyes off it onstage. I could do anything with my other hand and you'd never notice. For instance…"

The bottle of Rhyme's scotch appeared in the man's grip. He held the flame under the bottle for a long moment. Then the killer took a sip of liquor and held the flaming finger in front of his lips, looking directly at Rhyme, who cringed. But the Conjurer smiled, turned aside and blew the flaming spray toward the ceiling, stepping back slightly as the stream of fire vanished into the darkness of the ceiling.

Rhyme's eyes flickered to the wall in the corner of the room.

The Conjurer laughed. "Smoke detector? I got that earlier. The battery's gone."

He blew another flaming stream toward the ceiling and set the bottle down.

Suddenly a white handkerchief appeared. He wafted it under Rhyme's nose. It was soaked in gasoline. The astringent smell burned Rhyme's eyes and nose. The Conjurer coiled the handkerchief into a short rope and, ripping open Rhyme's pajama top, draped it around his neck like a scarf.

The man walked toward the door, silently opened the deadbolt and then the door, looked out.

Rhyme's nose detected another scent mixed with the gasoline. What was it? A rich, smoky scent… Oh, the scotch. The killer must've left the bottle open.

Except that the smell soon overtook the gasoline's aroma. It was overpowering.

There was scotch everywhere. And Rhyme understood with dismay what the man was doing. He'd poured a stream of liquor from the door to the bed, like a fuse. The Conjurer flicked his finger and a white fireball flew from his hand into the pool of single malt.

The liquor ignited and blue flames raced along the floor. Soon they'd set fire to a stack of magazines and a cardboard box next to the bed. One of the rattan chairs too.

Soon the fire would climb up the bedclothes and begin devouring his body, which he wouldn't feel, and then his face and head, which he horribly would. He turned to the Conjurer but the man was gone, the door closed. Smoke began to sting Rhyme's eyes and fill his nose. The fire crawled closer, igniting boxes and books and posters, melting CDs.

Soon the blue and yellow flames began lapping at the blankets at the foot of Lincoln Rhyme's bed.