Matheson,Richard - Now You See It.

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NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that

this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the

publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for

this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book

are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coinci-

dental.

NOW YOU SEE IT...

thereof, in any form.

Cover art by Roger Loveless

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherly Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New Yoric. NY 10010

Tor Books on the World Wide Web:

http://www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN:0-812-548H-6

Library of Congress Card Catalog Number 94-4107

First edition: February 1995

First mass market edition: August 1996

Printed m the United States of America

0987654321

To my dear friend Robert Bloch,

who created magic in all our lives

Magician's Choice: A technique in which

two or more choices are supposedly

offered for free selection by tile spectator

but a predetermined one actually is

imposed upon him.

1011113 S.UKIUGNI

chapter 1

U aresay you've never/ in your life, read a story written by a

vegetable. Well, here's your chance. Not that ifs a story. It

happened; I was there-

Your narrator and humble servant, Mr. Vegetable.

My name is Emil Delacorte. When all this occurred, I was

seventy-three.

You've probably never heard of me, even though I was a

headlining magician in the 30's, 40's and 50's; called The

Great Delacorte—a title I passed along to my son. I'm sure

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you've heard of him.

I was doing very well until I had a "cerebrovascular acci-

dent" in 1966. Thafs a "stroke" to you, though I'm more

inclined toward "apoplexy"; sounds more colorful. The ex-

perience itself/ of course, was not so colorful. Though it was,

God knows, plenty dramatic.

To me, anyway.

I was on me verge of being sealed into a boiler tank (one

12 Richard Matheson

of my better escapes) when a blood vessel in my brain

popped, depriving said brain of oxygen supply. Hemiplegitt

(paralysis) took place, commencing the process which con-

verted me into the aforementioned vegetable.

Quite a vision to my audience, I gather- From charming,

urbane Delacorte (The Great) I was suddenly reduced to a

dizzy, vertigo-locked, nauseous reeler. No doubt startling

to the assembled folks. Disgusting too, as a violent head-

ache and vomiting set in.

Not exactly the highlight of my showbiz career.

Soon atterward, permanent paralysis began, the loss of

speech, and my one-way ticket to Vegetable City. Sudden

death from stroke being rare, I was not permitted the grace

of taking my final bow and exiting me stage of life.

Instead, the best fate could offer me was a doctor's in-

struction to reduce physical and emotional tension while I

waited for as much recovery as possible.

Fourteen years later, when these events transpired, I was

still waiting.

By dint of my son's loving kindness, I was not dispatched

to some asylum but permitted to reside in his home, a mo-

tionless figure customarily located in the study—or, as I

prefer to call it. The Magic Room.

There I sat ensconced in my wheelchair, a staring obelisk,

an effigy of what I'd been, a statue entitled Impotence (in

more ways than one) or, better still. Up On the Shelf for Good.

A voiceless, torpid lump, ostensibly brainless.

There, you see, is the rub. For the real torment was that in

mat dumb shell I existed in, an active and observant brain

was struggling for the means to express itself. That is the

horror of a stroke, believe me.

Perhaps if mis had happened ten or twenty years later,

Now You See K... 13

there might have been some medical-surgical procedure by

which I could have ended my night- (and day-) mare.

Then again, perhaps not. Even my son, devoted as he was

to, me, might have found it inescapable to A&F (Accept and

Forget). Who could have blamed the man? I had become

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more a piece of furniture than a family member. Not hard to

take a piece of furniture for granted.

I go on at length about my plant-kingdom persona so you

will understand how all these strange events could have

taken place in my presence without a single person in-

volved giving it a second thought that I was mere. But then,

do we concern ourselves with me observational capacities

of a turnip?

Anyway, Maximilian (my son) had enough problems of

his own, as you will discover.

A few more explanatory comments before I launch into my

account of that fateful day.

Because of Maximilian's loyalty to me, I had a nurse (one

Nelly Washington) who stayed with me constantly (in the

beginning, anyway), providing those attentions I could not

request but obviously required—eating and elimination to

the fore.

Nelly was no Venus but she had an inner beauty of com-

passion, a good deal of patience, and (luckily for her as well

as for me) an abundant sense of humor. Most of all. God

bless her giant heart, she never allowed me to remain de-

feated or helpless. She was a rock of reassurance on which I

wobbled constantly until some semblance of hope oozed

back into my brain—along with a few restorative drams of

blood.

I'm glad she happened to be absent on the day it all took

14 Richard Mathenm

place/ although in retrospect, I realize that it probably was

no accident

After all. she would have been an obviously sentient wit-

ness to the mania which occurred.

One thing about residing in a useless body in the sole com-

pany of one's brain: it gives one time to appraise said brain,

appreciate its true capacities, and, eventually, train it to per-

form. In this way I was able to educate my brain to remem-

ber everything I saw around me, thus enabling me to write

down this event in full detail.

This is fortunate because the events I will describe took

place fourteen years ago. I will explain, in due course, why I

had to wait so long to disclose them-

But first, let me sketch in me environment for the play,

or—most appropriately—Ihe setting for the magic show.

For magic is me dark thread which binds together me tapes-

try of mis crazed and homicidal episode, this lethal interval

of time.

This period of total lunacy.

This happened in the home where my son had lived for

thirty-seven of his fifty-two years. My wife Lenore gave

birth to him in 1928, dying ten years later giving birth to our

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second (stillborn) son.

As indicated, Maximilian had been (since my "accident"

made it impossible for me to perform) The Great Delacorte.

He had been my assistant since he was seventeen, and knew

my act as weU as I did, performing on his own as well as

continuing to help me, reaching full theatrical bloom when

he was thirty-seven and assumed my stage name.

Living in this house were two other people, not counting

the houseman and cleaning woman, who were also not pre-

Now You See It- 15

sent on that day. Coincidence? My aged, wrinkled ass it

was.

The first of these two people was Max's wife Cassandra,

forty-one, a woman of uncommon beauty, intelligence, and

nastiness. She had been married to Max for nine years/ his

assistant in the act for eight-

Cassandra had two goals in life. One was to get my an-

cient bones out of the house and into a distant vegetable

farm.

The other was.., well, that must wait, or we have no tale.

The third resident of Delacorte Hall (exclusive of Nelly

and the two servants, o£ course) was Cassandra's brother

Brian, thirty-five, an employee of my son's.

The house was (still is) in Massachusetts, standing in the

center of a twenty-two-acre plot of woodland, set back ap-

proximately a quarter of a mile from the road. (Forgive the

exactitude of detail, ifs a habit I'm unable to overcome.)

Described briefly (I'll try, anyway), Delacorte Hall was (is)

French Provincial in design, a truly splendid two-story

structure which I'd had built in 1943, a choice earning year

for me.

The house had (has) seven bedrooms and baths, a modest

theater, a swimming pool below, a large kitchen, formal

dining room, a large living room, and the rooms in which

the hours of insanity took place—my study and, later,

Max's.

The Magic Room.

Why do I call it that? Because it was a masterpiece of

prearrangements, a cornucopia of gimmicks and arcana. ]

had begun the process in 1945 for my own pleasure. Later

Max had added to it; so much so mat, at the time of thes<

events, even I was unaware of what he'd done to the room

my earlier years of invalidism having been spent in my bed

16 Rickarri Mathnon

room. It was only m the late sixties that Max saw to it that

Nelly brought my wheelchair on a daily basis to TMR,

knowing me pleasure I had always taken in it when I was a

real person instead of a two-eyed potato.

The study men; The Magic Room.

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Thirty feet in length, twenty in width^ many-windowed

with one particularly large picture window affording a

spectacular view of me countryside behind the house, a

small lake in the distance, a gazebo on its shore.

The study had always been luxuriously appointed. Built-

in shelves lined two walls, many filled with leather-bound

scrapbooks: my reviews and news dippings, and Max's.

The remainder of the shelves were filled with books almost

exclusively devoted to magic history and/or methodology.

On a third wall hung framed lobby posters of my and

Max's more notable appearances.

A fieldstone fireplace (quite massive) stood against me

fourth wall, on its mantelpiece a collection of relics, souve-

nirs, and objets d'art which Lenore and I—and, later. Max—

had collected through me years- Also standing on it was a

silver candelabra with three black candles, next to it a silver

matchbox.

Fret not, dear reader, these details are of consequence, all

of mem a valid part of the account-

Where was I?

Yes, me fireplace. Above the mantelpiece hung several

items.

Two were large oil paintings, one of my lovely Lenore (I

blessed my son for leaving it there), the other of an equally

lovely (perhaps stunningly beautiful would be more accu-

rate a description) young woman: Adelaide, Max's first

wife, who died in 1963,

Also mounted above said mantelpiece was a set of En-

Now You See H... 17

glish dueling pistols, circa 1879; a pike from the nineteenth-

century Spanish Army; and an African spear and blow-

gun—all to play their roles in the murderous exploits soon

to commence.

Near the fireplace was my (then Max's) desk, eighteenth-

century French, its glossy surface seven feet by four feet, on

it an arrangement of relics, souvenirs, and objets d'art from

my (our) collection. A telephone and a silver-plated de-

canter (with glass) completed (he articles on me desk. Be-

hind it was a high-backed revolving chair, upholstered in

black learner.

Other items to be mentioned: a handsome brass-and-

teakwood bar, glasses and silver ice bucket on its top; two

red learner easy chairs with end tables; an extremely large

(two feet in diameter) antique world globe.

Finally, a quintet of items vital to the narrative.

One: a standing lobby display poster—a life-size photo-

graph of Max in top hat and tails; a placard reading:

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THE GREAT DELACORTE

"In Touch With the Mysterious."

Two: an ornately decorated Egyptian burial case, stand-

ing upright, its lid open.

Three: a suit of armor (sixteenth-century German), its

faceplate shut.

Four: a lever-operated guillotine (a miniature version of

the one used during the French Revolution), its blade raised

to the top as though positioned to decapitate some doomed

marquis.

Five: set upright on its lever-operated base, a mahogany

casket with a window to reveal me head and shoulders of

the deceased.

Inside the casket were what appeared to be the head and

shoulders of my son—Maximilian Delacorte, handsome

18 Richard Mattieson

(got my looks), vandyke-bearded (an ostentation I es-

chewed), eyes shut, expression imperious, the very image

of a Spanish grandee lying in state.

How's that for memory?

Anyway, dear reader, mark these things.

All were integral to the madness.

How shall I typify what happened? Passion play? Some-

what. Weird tale? Indubitably. Horror story? Pretty dose.

Grotesque melodrama? Certainly. Black comedy? Your

point of view will determine that. Perhaps it was a combi-

nation of them all.

Suffice to say that the events which took place in the

home of my son on the afternoon of July 17,1980, were, to

say the least, singular.

So to the story. A chronicle of greed and cruelty, horror

and rapacity, sadism and murder.

Love, American style.

ctapterZ

By shifting my eyes to the utmost, I could read the small

dock on Max's desk. Eleven fifty-seven A.M- A gray and

windy morning, outside sounds—wind, rustling foliage,

distant thunder rumblings—harbingers of an approaching

summer storm. Nature herself conspiring to set the scene

for that turbulent afternoon? Who knows?

I was seated in my usual place, a location chosen by my

son from which I could, by (as noted) shifting my eyeballs,

get a panoramic view of The Magic Room. 1 had break-

fasted, been changed, and now was in position to observe

the many doings about to occur-

Which began, as I recall/ at noon. And if it wasn't exactly

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noon, to hell with it, I'm going to say that it was exactly

noon.

At noon, the cabal began.

I heard a voice shout, "Cassandra?"

That of Brian (Crane), calling from the entry hall. My eye-

balls shifted; pretty much the extent of my physical dexter-

ity, I might add.

20 Richard Matheson

There was silence for a few moments. Then Brian called

again, more loudly/ "Cassandra!"

Somewhere upstairs, a door was opened (my hearing,

too, was unimpeded) and Cassandra answered with her

usual imperious tone, "What?"

"Come down to Max's den!" he shouted. "I've got some-

thing to show you!"

"Brian, I am really busy!" Cassandra shouted back.

Brother persisted. "You can spare a minute! Come on!"

"Brian!" a protesting cry now.

He would not back off. "I guarantee you'll love it!" he

shouted.

Reluctant submission from Cassandra. "Oh, all right."

I heard the clicking of a woman's shoe heels on the

wooden floorboards of the entry hall—

—and Cassandra entered The Magic Room, tall, blonde,

alluring. Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt,

brown, high-heeled shoes.

I would have frowned if my facial muscles had been up

toil

How did Cassandra get here first when she was upstairs and

Brian down?

I tried to see more clearly as she crossed to the bar and,

stooping, opened me door of the ice maker. I heard her start

to ladle ice cubes into the silver bucket.

I would have frowned again—in spades—if I'd been able

to.

For, down the staircase and across the floorboards of the

entry hall, I heard me clicking of a woman's shoe heels—

—and Cassandra entered TMR, tall, blonde, alluring.

Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt, you know the

rest.

"What me hell?" I would have said if my voice had been

attainable. I certainly thought it. What the hell is going on?

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Now You See It- 21

Was I hallucinating now, a new (and lower) stage of stroke-

dom?

The moment the second Cassandra had entered the room,

the first Cassandra had stopped putting ice cubes into me

silver bucket.

I watched the second Cassandra as she looked around,

her gaze passing me, as usual, with non-reception- Does one

take notice of a plant?

Then the first Cassandra rose from behind the bar and

thrumped down the bucket on the counter.

The two Cassandras eyed each other, doppelgangers to

the detail. I closed my eyes; mat I could manage. When I

open them, I thought, I'll see only one of them.

1 did. I didn't. There they were, the Cassandra twins. Did

I begin to get the message at that point?

If I did, it wasn't because I was helped by either of mem.

The first Cassandra smiled.

The second Cassandra smiled—then shook her head with

a chuckle.

As did the first.

The sounds they uttered were identical as the second

Cassandra indicated amusement, then me first.

There was no way, let me assure you, mat I could tell

them apart. It could have been double vision. My mind's

eye knew otherwise but my skull's eyes didn't.

Now the second Cassandra approached the bar and

stopped, peering closely at the first. The first peered like-

wise.

The second made a sound of appreciative recognition.

The first made me identical sound.

The second gave the first a chiding look. Received it back,

identically. The game was getting on my nerves; patience

was not one of my virtues at that time, though obviously no

one knew it.

22 Richard Matheson

Irritatingly, these two were clones in manner as well as

appearance.

The second gnawed at the edge of her right index finger,

smiling/ making noises of amusement. So, too, did the first.

Then the second spoke.

"All right," she said.

"All right," echoed the first.

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Their voices were identical.

Damn it, will one of you crack? 1 thought.

The two Cassandras eyed each other saudly, smiling the

same smile, affecting the same expression; an uncanny

sight, I'm forced to admit.

The second ran fingers through her long blonde hair. So

did the first, laughing throatily—as did the second. When

will this damned burlesque conclude? I wondered.

. It had a few more stages to go.

The second Cassandra raised her right hand. The first one

raised hers, the movement a duplicate.

With a repressed smile, the second suddenly produced a

scarlet handkerchief from me air—a minor "appearance";

sleeve concealment.

The first Cassandra stared at her. The second chuckled,

on the verge of triumph.

At which the first, with a duplicate chuckle, produced the

same scarlet handkerchief.

The second threw her head back with a startled laugh. So

did the first.

Impasse, me twins regarding one another.

Until the second Cassandra tossed her handkerchief into

the air.

As did the first.

The second, though, grabbed at hers abruptly as it fell,

causing it to vanish.

Despite her efforts to do likewise, the first Cassandra was

Now You SeeH... 23

unable to prevent her handkerchief from fluttering to me

floor.

The second made a sound of victory and pointed at the

first—who made a sound which might have been translated

as, "Oh, well, you can't win them all."

The second clearly examined the first. "Not bad," she al-

lowed.

"Damn perfect," said me first, still with Cassandra's

voice.

The smile of the second Cassandra disappeared. "Are

you sure he's still out walking?" she demanded.

"Would I be doing mis if he weren't?" asked me first,

now in his own voice.

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'^Well, we can't take any risks," Cassandra told him

disapprovingly. "You'd better go upstairs and change."

By now, a chill had begun to settle in my stomach as I

stared at mem.

What are they up to?

"I have to set it up first," Brian was saying, gesturing

vaguely toward the room,

Cassandra frowned. "You should have done chat ear-

lier," she said.

"With all I had to do?" he answered; again, the coldness in

my vitals.

Cassandra grimaced with impatience. "Well, get it over

with/ but/asf," she ordered him.

She started to turn away when Brian grabbed her arm,

restraining her. Cassandra looked around in irritation.

"What?"

"You're determined to do this?" Brian asked.

Now I really felt disturbed.

"Brian, we have gone through this already—endlessly."

Her tone was coldly critical, making it obvious that what-

ever was going on, it was her idea, not his. "Now come on,"

24 Richard Mathesofl

die said. "You have to get out of here." She looked around

uncomfortably. "Harry could get here any moment/'

"All right." He looked at her/ a distressed Cassandra ap-

praising her calmer twin.

Seeing this, Cassandra put her hands on his arms and

smiled with reassurance. "Brian. Darling," she said. "It's

going to be all right. Fear not!"

He did not respond, and she looked concerned now. "I

can depend on you, can't I?" she asked.

His look and voice were gravity itself.

"Haven't you always?" he said.

She squeezed his arms. "Get on with it men," she told

him.

She turned and moved to me doorway, shoe heels click-

ing on the oak floor.

There she turned. "And if you hear Harry's car drive up,

or the doorbell rings, for God's sake, get upstairs right

away."

"All right/' he said. He sounded almost angry now. It

was the most he could manage with his sister. Anger, he

could not permit himself.

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Matheson, Richard - Now You See It.

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