Bisection
by Martin Kane
A stage illusion goes horribly wrong.



Author's note:

Should anyone out there wish to get in contact with me, I happily 
invite you to do so, via the messageboard for readers and writers.
I welcome any comments.

Copyright is mine.  If you do wish to use this tale elsewhere I ask 
you to please seek permission first.

Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters 
contained herewith are merely the products of an overwrought 
imagination, not to mention an unfortunate quantity of truly bad 
B-movies.

As for the adult content warning... what else would you be expecting?



 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *



Dyarchy were performing in the Valediction hippodrome, on the fringe 
of the city's theatre district.  It was their last night of the tour 
and everything was going sweetly.

It was an impressive theatre, considering its rather poky size.  It 
was old, built back when architecture was considered an art form as 
well as a commercial concern.  They had played it many times before 
and had quite deliberately chosen it for their final stop.

It was their last act, a gory little number called "Bisection".  A 
cheery piece involving a large circular saw.  

All performers, irrespective of their art, liked to end a show with a 
bang.  Save the best 'til last.  Dyarchy were one of those duos who 
also liked to leave the audience with a slightly bad taste in their 
mouth.  

There's a bit at the end of every major illusion where the magician 
steps away from the cage of spikes, miraculously unscathed; or the 
spangled assistance climbs from the box to prove she is back in one 
piece again.  That was the bit that Dyarchy tended to leave out.  

If both the audience and the act know it's all part of the show, then 
what was the purpose?  In their minds, it insulted the intelligence 
of the audience and also took some of the barbs out of what they 
liked to consider some of the darkest magic around today.

No one in the audience was overly shocked by the gory finale.  No one 
expected the magician to step out of the box unharmed at the end of 
the show - it just wasn't how they did things.  They applauded and 
went home and not one of them suspected anything truly amiss until 
they read the papers the following morning.


                          * * *


Owen Grey stepped onto the stage, all plush frills and white smoke, 
just like the greats of Vegas.  The other half of Dyarchy, Kym Grey, 
wife and equal partner, stepped on from the other side.  She was 
dressed in the conventional skimpy, sparkly swimsuit of magicians' 
assistants everywhere, but the similarity ended there.

Firstly, she wasn't the dumb bimbo playing second fiddle to the great 
illusionist, they had equal footing on the stage.  Secondly, her 
feminist streak was clearly visible in her physique, a stunningly 
muscled body, making her more than a match for any man.

The lights went wild, lasers picking patterns over the billowing 
smoke.  This was their showstopper and the dramatic thump of music 
started them off.

They crossed the stage, passing each other, moving with that 
exaggerated grace, halfway towards dancing, that all grand 
illusionists seem to do without even thinking.

They each grasped something from the wings and wheeled their separate 
treasures on.

Owen had a table, a large rectangular aluminium construction with 
thin metal legs, support struts holding each one to the large but 
thinly flat top.

The centre stage lit up brightly, letting the audience see all that 
was going on, assuring them there was no trickery involved.  He 
turned the table about, letting everyone see all around it and see it 
all around.

Kym had brought out some kind of large box, a wooden crate.  What it 
contained remained a mystery for the moment.  She stood the other 
side of the table and grasped it with her free hand, her other still 
lay possessively on her crate.

Together they lifted the table, showing its top to the audience.  It 
was flat with the exception of the hand clamps at one end, the foot 
clamps at the other.  And then there was the two long panels of 
hinged wood, running down the length of the table, one on each side.  
Smarter spectators were already picturing how this contraption 
worked.

The table went back down, was then turned side on to the audience.

Kym leapt lithely onto it, reaching up into the air as the huge 
mirror was lowered from the rafters.  Like most of the movements she 
made whilst on stage, you couldn't help wonder if it wasn't more to 
show off those amazing muscles of hers, rather than demonstrate the 
trick.  Few were complaining however.

The mirror was the same proportions as the tabletop, but half as big 
again.  It was supported on a swivel frame that let it spin, top to 
bottom, around and around.

She spun the heavy mirror, lasers dancing off it, then jumped back 
down, close to her husband.

The mirror slowed quickly enough, coming to a halt facing the 
audience straight on, perfectly perpendicular to the stage.

Kym moved threateningly towards her beloved.  He looked first 
confused, then decidedly uncomfortable, backing away from her.

He turned away and she pounced forward, proving that she was capable 
of astonishing speed.  She grasped him and they fought for a few 
moments, dance-like, spinning and ducking with grace and poise.

She produced a black gag, which she wrapped smoothly about his head, 
tightening it with a quick motion (that also just happened to flex 
her mighty biceps in a quite astonishing pump.)

Still making token protests, Owen was led to the table and forcibly 
put in place.  Needless to say, she needed to help him up, using her 
physical strength to lift him onto the table.  She lay him with his 
feet pointing to the right of the stage and his head pointed to the 
left.  She forced his hands down above his head and into the clamps.

She leapt up onto the table, facing the audience with Owen between 
her and them.  She reached up to position the huge mirror, a forty-
five degree angle so they could use it to look straight down onto the 
tabletop - look straight down on Owen.

She was down again, still facing the audience, with the table still 
between them.  She lent over her husband's hands, securing the 
clamps.  In the mirror, the audience could see his frightened face, 
see his token protests, see her check the metal bond at his wrists.

Then she moved to his feet, securing those at his ankles.

The audience could now see Owen side on, laying on the table.  They 
could also see him in the mirror.

But there was also those wooden panels - long, thin planks.  These 
were brought into play now, folding up to produce sides of a box down 
the length of his body.  Then hinged to fold down over him and clip 
to each other to form the top.

He was now secured in a thin wooden box, only the top and bottom 
open, where the clamps held him to the table.  Both feet and both 
hands jutted from the box, clearly visible from the side and also 
from the top via the large mirror.

Set up complete.  Kym walked over to her crate.  After set up and 
before execution came anticipation.  This was achieved by her opening 
the crate and lifting out a ridiculously oversized circular saw.

It was a heavy-duty piece of machinery a serious bit of hardware.  
The disc blade itself must have been two foot across.  Kym heaved it 
into the air, its tremendous weight making her mighty muscles swell 
and strain.

It kicked into life and a furious roar filled the auditorium.

The music became industrial, though was almost completely drowned by 
the evil roar of that vicious piece of slaughterhouse kit.  She swung 
it around, the massive blade sending the laser lights off in a 
thousand directions.

She showboated a little, walking across the stage from one end to the 
other, wielding the huge weapon.  Then she returned to the crate the 
massive tool had come from.  She glanced at the audience, and with a 
fair bit of prompting, gently lowered the spinning wheel against it.

The effect was instantaneous; the serrated spinning weapon splintered 
the wooden crate, the blade shattering its flimsy frame.  Trick or 
not, one thing was for certain.  The saw itself was very real.

Then she turned to her husband, still clamped inside the box, his 
hands and feet still writhing from both open ends.

She approached him from the right, his feet.  She took her time, 
letting the audience get themselves suitably worked up for what they 
were about to see.

Then she took a large, graceful step, moving her body sideways and 
making her thigh muscle flare.  She lowered the huge, ripping blade 
towards the wood box, between her husband's feet.

The saw cut through the thin wood with ridiculous ease, the awesome 
power of the heavy-duty machinery far too brawny for the flimsy case.

She lowered it slowly - carefully.  It tore a surprisingly neat rent 
in the wood.  The feet continued their panicked dance, the metal 
spinning death only inches away from his flesh.

As it lowered, the curve of the blade cut further up between his 
legs.  Then there was a slight change in tone as the disc hit the 
aluminium top of the table.

Kym paused there a moment, then her muscles flexed anew and the blade 
sank through the table.

The audience could see it puncture and fall below the level of the 
table.  She kept it away from the far end of the table, apparently 
not wanting to actually bisect the table too, but she was happy to 
put a long lengthways split along it.

The blade had ripped a long gash in the box now, splitting it right 
up between his legs.  Kym removed the saw, letting the audience see 
her progress.  She'd not drawn a single drop of her husband's blood 
but it was as close as you could get it.

Lifting the saw and holding it up on one broad shoulder; she then 
produced a long, tubular light bulb, looking almost like a 
lightsabre.  She waved it around a little, going with the Star Wars 
allusion.  Then she lowered it and waved it beneath the box, showing 
the audience that the light did indeed shine up through the split 
wood, reflected out to them in the huge mirror.

She put the bulb down, still lit, beneath the box, level to his 
chest.  She did this as though careless of its positioning, but 
undoubtedly its place had been chosen for a reason.

She moved back to his feet - still in motion.  She raised up the 
spinning, buzzing wheel of jagged death, lifted one muscled leg to 
place a foot on the side of the table.  Then a precision flex of 
muscle and she slowly lifted herself onto the table, her other foot 
standing the other side of the box.

She slowly lowered the blade down into the gash it had already made, 
letting the audience see it beneath the box as well as above it.  The 
wheel was so large, when fully lowered there was barely enough space 
for it parallel to the length of Owen's legs.

Then it began.

With the spinning blade visible both above and below the box, Kym's 
actions visible from the side and from the mirror above her, she 
eased the blade forward, up through his body.

A muffled scream, a juddering of feet and hands, and a gruesome spray 
of blood.

Kym ignored the gore, ignored the wet mess her task made, 
concentrating instead on moving the heavy machine up her husband's 
body.  There appeared to be a little resistance but it was nothing 
that a woman of her considerable strength couldn't handle

Heavy lumps of meat, shredded to pulp, were sent spraying in all 
directions.  Another jolt and suddenly heaps of wet entrails began to 
slop out beneath the box, solid assorted viscera spewing forth.

Kym didn't desist until her task was done however, the blade ripping 
free of the wood.  She then pushed it further forward, slicing right 
through the head end of the table, coming out into full view again.  
She had sliced him into two right before the eyes of a thousand 
witnesses.

They had seen the bottom of the blade, below the level of the box 
from between his feet and then up his entire body and come free at 
the head.  It hadn't risen throughout the bisection.

Kym, still standing over the shorn box, lifted the spinning saw above 
her head, spaying gore in all directions.  Shaken, awed and giggling 
with surprise and admittedly a degree of dark humour, the audience 
erupted into applause.

Smoke and lighting added to the gruesome visage, highlighting the 
bloody spectacle.  Solid chunks had coated the light bulb she'd left 
conveniently beneath him.  The light it now produced shone through a 
sickening blood-red filter.

Drinking in the applause, Kym raised her arms, stretching them out, 
Christ-like, as though wanting to embrace the whole audience.  The 
weight of the still spinning saw-blade apparently nothing to her 
thickly muscled arm.

Her free arm rose up above her head, grasping for the edge of the 
mirror.  She spun it.  Hard.

It swam around, crazy in the smoke and lights.  She gave the audience 
a curious half-smile, then tossed the huge weapon up above her head.

The circular saw spun, sailing upwards, turning around even as its 
blade continued to spin.  It hit the mirror with an exaggerated 
crash, the music and the lights exploding at the same moment.

Smoke and mirrors.  The spinning mirror shattered into a billion 
dazzling pinpricks of light, the saw vanishing into the moment.

And at the same moment, Kym had kicked out and the table had given 
up, only held together by a thread.  The side nearest the audience, 
Owen's right hand side, had fallen down towards the front of the 
stage.  The other, containing Owen's left side in it, fell backwards, 
away from the front.

Kym stood between the fallen halves, flexing her huge muscles in the 
gory red light.

Anyone hoping for a glimpse of direct gore, half a magician, was 
disappointed by an obscured view.  Smoke and lighting, a stage 
already messy with heaps of spilt entrails.  You could make out what 
was probably meat - a suitable disguise.

And before they could make out anything it too much detail, the 
curtain was dropping.

Kym stepped forward to remain in front, but the gory scene was shut 
off.  She took her final bow and Dyarchy exited stage left.


                          * * *


No one realised the trick had gone wrong at first, not even Kym Grey.  
The stage manager had seen it done a dozen times already and there 
seemed nothing different about this performance, except when Owen 
Grey failed to get out of the box once the curtain had fallen.

When the police came, the audience had already mostly cleared out.  
News hadn't even spread to the whole theatre staff, though before the 
night was out, word of mouth would certainly have travelled.

Detective Lincoln called the forensic team in, his own trusted choice 
of specialists.  He turned to Detective Wood.

'You take the girl, I want to stay with the team while they do a 
preliminary.'

'No problem.  Any thoughts?'

'I always have thoughts, it's just knowing which ones to go with.'

Wood turned to head backstage.

'Wood!'

He turned back to his superior.  'Yeah?'

'Be easy.  Remember we don't know anything yet.  She didn't 
necessarily do it.'

'OK,' Wood agreed.  He sounded less convinced however.

Lincoln returned to the gruesome corpse.

Wood found Kym Grey accepting a cup from a WPC.  She was glassy eyed 
and silent.  She still wore the skimpy, sparkly, costume from the 
show.  He made a concerted effort not to stare at her barely 
contained muscles, no matter how shocking or exposed they were.  He 
failed.

She was remarkably clean of the gore that had flown free during the 
trick but a tiny spot of blood had landed on her muscled chest.  Wood 
had to fight an absurd urge to reach out and wipe it off.

The WPC seemed to take offence to his ogling and tried to offer Kym a 
jacket.  It was a comforting gesture, made as though offering an arm 
about her shoulder or tenderly patting her knee.

'I fine thanks,' Kym insisted, shaking the offer off.

'Ms Grey?' Wood began, focusing on her face at last.  'Everything's 
being done here that possibly can be done.  If you could come with me 
now, there are a few details we need to take.'

'Sure,' she agreed blankly, standing, spilling her cup of coffee 
without even noticing.

She mutely followed as Wood led her to a car.


                          * * *


Kym Grey sat in interview room number five.  A desk, a few chairs, a 
tape-recorder built into the wall.  A large window of one-way glass.  
Smoke and mirrors.

'I once saw this trick done, a man and woman magician, like you and 
your husband.  He was tied in a sack and was then locked in a wooden 
box.  She then gets this curtain thing and stands on the box.  She 
throws the curtain up into the air and when it drops down again, it's 
the bloke who's standing there.  He opens the box, unties the sack 
and it's the bird inside.  And for a punch-line, she's even wearing a 
different swimsuit.'

'The Pendragons.  It's called Metamorphosis.'

'So how's it done?'

'Is this a part of the interview?'

'I'm just curious,' Wood told her.  And it was true, he genuinely 
was.

'Well I've never actually met them, never had a chance to ask.'

'But you know?'

'When she lifts that curtain, she pauses at chest level, just before 
tossing it up high.  At that point, the guy, Jonathan, is already out 
of the sack, which has no bottom and out of the box under cover of 
the curtain, through a fake back panel.  He's already crouched in 
front of his wife, Charlotte.

'She ducks down the second the curtain covers her, down behind the 
box.  In the time it takes him to unlock the box and untie the sack, 
she's dived down inside through the open end.'

'And the suit?'

'Basic quick-change technique.  It's laying there ready for her.'

He thought about this for a few seconds before slowly shaking his 
head sadly.

'No, I'm sorry.  I just don't see that.'

'She's got about thirty seconds.  It's enough time.'

'No.  I mean the change over.  She throws the cover up and as it's 
falling he snatches it away.  It's a split second.  There's not 
enough time.'

'You asked me how they do it.  I don't personally know.  That's how 
I'd do it.'

He shook his head again.  'It can't be done.  Not like that.  No one 
can move that fast.'

'They're good at what they do.'

'No.  I don't believe it can be done.'

'Well if you've got a better idea, let's hear it.'

'Detective,' an authoritative voice cut across.  There was a harsh 
edge to it.  A definite warning.  'I need a quick word with you a 
moment.'

Wood stood and backed off.  'You'll excuse me a minute.'

Kym didn't answer.

Outside Lincoln's indifference dissolved in an instant.

'What the hell was that all about?'

'Just warming her up for you.'

'I told you to go easy.  I told you she's no more a suspect than 
anyone else is.'

'Oh come on-'

'Don't give me that-' he began but bit his anger down as another 
detective walked past, turning his head in surprise at the sudden 
flair.

'In here,' Lincoln told him and led him into the adjacent room, an 
observation post for interview room five, where Kym Grey still sat, 
visible to them through the one-way glass.

'She did it, you know she did it.'

'I know nothing yet.  And I'll remind you that nor do you.  And 
irrespective of your hunches or gut feelings, I'm still in charge of 
this investigation and you'll do what I tell you to do or I'll 
replace you with someone who will.'

'Look, I only-'

'I don't want to hear it.  One more step out of line like that and 
this won't be a friendly chat, it'll be on the record.  Clear?'

'Yes sir.'

Penitence, finally.

'Find anything useful on the scene?'

'Only what you'd expect.  The trick.  How it was supposed to go, how 
it actually went.  You've seen the result.'

Seen it?  He'd see it every night before sleep took him for a good 
many weeks to come.

'She did it then.  He was in the box; she sliced him in half.  You're 
not telling me she did it without realising it.'

Detective Lincoln didn't answer.  He regarded her through the window.  
Studied her sitting there, waiting for the detective to return.

'OK, I'm going to take over the interview.  You hang back, don't 
speak unless I directly tell you to.  Sit down and don't be too 
threatening.  I only want you to look official.  She's already 
established who you are, I should take the lead.'

'Good cop?'

'Smart cop.'

Wood didn't ask what that would make him, just in case Lincoln told 
him.  Instead he just followed mildly into the interview room and sat 
back while his partner took over.


                          * * *


[How do they do it?  The trick.  Properly, I mean, not like tonight?]

'Now I want you to understand that you haven't been charged with 
anything,' Lincoln told her.  'We're only trying to ascertain exactly 
what happened, and to do that we have to ask everybody questions.'

She nodded.

'You're free to go at any point if you want to.  I know that you've 
called your solicitor and I understand he's on his way.  If at 
anytime you want to stop and wait for him to arrive, that would be 
fine.'

'Her,' Kym said dispassionately.  'My solicitor is a woman.'

'I apologise, I didn't mean anything by that.  Now I'm going to start 
this tape going.  This is just standard procedure, I repeat that 
you're not charged with anything.  I do appreciate that this must be 
very hard for you and if you feel you can't continue at any point 
then that would also be fine.  Can I get you anything before we 
start?  A tea or coffee?'

'Water?'

'Certainly.'  He turned to Wood.  'Detective?'

Wood got up and left them, returning quickly with a paper cup of 
water.

Kym was still wearing the spangled swimsuit from the show.  Being 
skimpy if displayed her prominent muscles to great effect (as was its 
purpose.)  Wood tried not to stare at her astounding physique.  Once 
again, he failed, goggling wide-eyed at the sheer coiled power of her 
muscles, obvious even in repose.

There was something about her body that itched nervously at some 
macho organ inside him.  He couldn't help wondering what it would be 
like fighting with a woman like her, whether his own strength and 
skill would be enough to overcome her blatantly obvious power.

He liked to think so, believing that given his natural advantage, a 
man would always defeat a woman in physical competition, no matter 
what kind of training she'd done.  But there was also a nagging 
suspicion that it wasn't necessarily so.  On the whole, it made him 
decidedly uneasy.

'If you could start by telling me what happened tonight, from the 
beginning of the illusion.'

[They show the table all the way around, to show how thin it is.  
It's the first illusion.  The table is actually a lot thicker than it 
appears from the audience's point of view.  It looks to be only a few 
inches thick but it's an optical illusion played with the lighting 
and the angle.  The table has painted lines and is sloped to hide the 
fact that it's actually got a thickness of eleven inches, a hidden 
space inside where a second man, Owen's double for the trick, is 
already hidden.]

'It began OK, we showed the box to the audience, did the normal set-
up.  There was no indication of any problem.  Owen was gagged and got 
into position.'

'Was the gag normal?'

'Yes.  We don't always use it but we have done throughout this tour.'

'Are there any safety words, emergency quit that he can use once the 
trick has begun?'

'He has a panic button, a radio transmitter switch inside his watch, 
but we never used it for this trick.  It's really not dangerous.  He 
looks strapped down inside there but he can get up and leave at any 
point he wants.  We both know exactly where the blade is going to be 
for every second throughout the trick.  We have the movements 
synchronised perfectly to the music.'

[The mirror gives the illusion of total coverage but the truth is, 
the image seen is never quite clear enough to reveal what's truly 
happening.  It looks as though she leans over him to secure his 
wrists tightly.  In reality, she's covering the point where the 
double lifts his left arm to replace Owen's, while Owen slips his own 
behind him.  The tailor has given the costume enough frills to make 
the illusion seamless.  Then again with the feet.  Owen's foot hides 
beneath the flexible fake tabletop, while the double raises his own 
foot to be clamped in his stead.]

'I clamped Owen in as normal, only his right hand and foot being 
clamped.  That's the side closest to the audience.  James, that's his 
double, slides his left foot and hand up though gaps in the fake 
table, exchanging them for Owen's.  The box isn't around them yet but 
it's obscured from the side by Owen's body and the switchover is 
hidden by my leaning over.  Once in place, viewed from above via the 
mirror, it looks like it's Owen's left hand and foot.'

'So at that point, the double, James you say, was in the correct 
position?'

'Absolutely.  Everything was going perfectly.'

[As soon as the box goes around them, the magician and his double get 
into position.  The flexible false base of the tabletop retracts, 
giving them both enough room to turn and face one another.  Each man 
is half in the wooden box on top of the aluminium table, half in the 
disguised space beneath it.  They both have one hand and one foot 
clamped into position, twisted at an angle to hide the truth that 
it's actually two men and not just one.]

'I showed the audience the saw.  Partly anticipation, partly giving 
Owen and James a chance to get into position.  Remember that they've 
both got one free hand.  It would be the easiest thing in the world 
for either of them to get up should there be any problem.'

[The blade is run down the box lengthways.  It can clearly be seen 
both above and below the box, the mirror continually having shown the 
audience that his hands and feet are still there, still moving.  To 
repair the damage requires another similar sleight of hand to replace 
the double's hand and foot with the magician's.]

'Small flexible pipes spray blood and lumps of dense sponged gore.  
Larger lumps of intestinal meat drop from beneath the box, the 
circular saw sprays them in all directions.  It's a convincing sight, 
even from the front row.  We never bother showing Owen healed again 
at the end of the show.  We always end it with one or both of us 
dying in some sort of stunt.  It's become like a trademark.

'The mirror is set to explode.  It covers the wires fast-winding the 
circular saw up into the rafters when I throw it.  Owen has a 
splatter-gore cover-sheet that hides his complete body with a kind of 
unidentifiable mess.  With the lighting you barely see a thing from 
the audience.  It's only there a few seconds.  You can only make out 
a kind of formless bloody viscera.  People convince themselves they 
see something that they really don't.'

Then she seemed to mentally stutter, as though only just remembering.

'Except this time...'

Detective gave her a few moments.

Then: 'At what point did you realise that your husband was dead?'

'When the show was done, I'd taken the final bow, the curtain was 
down for the final time.  Normally he gets out of the box.  Someone 
had thrown me a towel - Doug I think, one of the stagehands.  Another 
of the stagehands was already at the box.  I think they had realised 
there was something wrong too and they opened it to see what.

'It was his face that told me it was serious.  Pure shock, like he'd 
seen... Well like he could see... Owen.  I saw that and tore over 
there.  He saw me coming and tried to stop me, holding up his hands 
to restrain me.  I guess he wanted to spare me the sight.

'I just bowled him out of the way.  I was panicking at that point.  I 
think I threw him a little roughly.'

'No shit.  You popped his arm out of joint.'

This was from Wood, a cruel sneer.  He shut up at a glance from 
Lincoln.

'You saw Owen?' Lincoln prompted her gently.

'Yeah,' she said.  'He... it was.  Well, you saw the body.  I just 
kind of shut down.  Someone led me to the dressing room and called 
the police.'

'Was that the first time you realised that there was something wrong?  
After the show was done?'

'Yes.  Everything had gone fine up until then.'

A pause then - a highly uncomfortable silence.  If Lincoln was 
waiting a reaction or response from her, he didn't get it.  She sat 
and waited for him to break the tense moment.  Eventually he did so.

'Do you smoke?'

'I quit.'  A moment.  Two.  'Why, you got one?'

He slid a box across to her, along with a lighter.

'I quit when I first started hitting the gym for real.  I had to give 
up if I was going to be serious about getting muscles.  You don't 
smoke if you bodybuild.'

She hooked one into her mouth then struggled with the childproof 
guard on it.  Lincoln leaned in to help but she had her own method, 
ripping the plastic inhibitor off.

She lit and took a drag that looked more akin to pain than pleasure.

'Still tastes foul,' she told him.

'Is there anything else you can tell us about tonight's show.  
Anything about the actual trick that was out of the ordinary or 
didn't strike you as quite right for any reason?'

'Nothing.  It was exactly the same as it always had been.  There was 
nothing different to the dozens of times we'd already performed it.'

Lincoln nodded slowly, deep in thought.

'Has anyone spoken to James yet,' she asked.  James was the double, 
the man who'd shared a coffin with Owen while the saw did its 
gruesome business.  'If anyone can shed any light onto what happened 
then surely it's him.'

'I'm afraid James is in the hospital.  He's in a state of catatonic 
shock.  We don't know when he's likely to wake up or even how 
coherent he will be when he does so.  Understand that he's been 
through a trauma that's hard to even imagine.'

'He wasn't hurt physically?  By the blade?'

'No, he avoided the saw.'

'Tell me detective, do you have any theories on how this happened.  
Other than the obvious, I mean.'

'As I said at the beginning of this, you have not been charged.  It's 
too early to have any clear idea on what happen or why it happened.  
There's no reason to suspect that it was anything other than a 
horrible accident.'

'You say that, but we both know that it's not true.  My husband and I 
are professionals.  We never do anything that puts us in real danger.  
We use dangerous equipment but that doesn't mean we ever expose 
ourselves to risk.  For an illusion to go wrong in the manner that 
this one did then there has to be a reason.  It isn't negligence, 
there's no room in our profession for that.  Therefore it happened by 
design.'

Both the detectives were silent at this little speech.  Neither 
responded to her statement once she was done.

'Don't tell me you haven't taken that train of thought, because I 
know you have.'

'As I say, it's really too early to say.'

'Ask it.  I know you have to so let's stop batting the inevitable 
about and get it said and done.'

'Please, there really is no need.  You're not on trial here.  If we 
can move on?'

She nodded, calmly.  But when she pulled out another cigarette and 
lit it, its trembling point revealed she was not as relaxed as she at 
first appeared.

'I want to ask you about your husband's mood of late.  Was he low or 
depressed?  Was he troubled by anything or having problems eating or 
sleeping?'

'He wasn't suicidal,' Kym stated bluntly.

'I understand.  I just have to ask.'

He flicked through a few papers that sat on the desk in front of him.

'I understand that you were having a few financial problems.  You 
know that your husband had quite serious debt problems?'

'Owen and I have no secrets.  I know the trouble he was in.  He kept 
his previous and ongoing business problems separate from me and the 
promotion of Dyarchy, but I was fully aware of what was happening.'

'You know he was struggling to put his affairs straight, that he was 
constantly struggling against liquidation?'

'And I'm sure you know that we were coping with it.  That we've never 
been more popular and that it was just a matter of time before all 
that business was finally behind us.'

'That may be so, but the light at the end of the tunnel was an awful 
long way off.  Do you think that such stresses and pressures can 
dishearten a man?'

'I know my husband.  He would never kill himself.  He would never 
give up.'

'OK,' Lincoln finally agreed.  She wasn't going to budge.  There was 
however, one avenue that had been mentioned yet - not by him at 
least.

'I just have to ask you about your relationship with your husband.  
Such a situation undoubtedly puts pressure onto a marriage.  From a 
financial point of view, his death has released you from all manner of 
problems.'

'This is it,' she said, her tone colder than it had been so far.  'I 
knew you'd get around to it eventually.'

'Isn't it true that you set divorce proceedings in motion?'

'That was two years ago.  It was the first step towards divorce and 
I changed my mind almost immediately.  Those motions were withdrawn 
and I never looked back.  Owen and I sorted out those issues and 
we've never been happier or stronger.'

'But the fact cannot be denied that you benefit from Owen's death, 
much more than you ever would have benefited from a legal 
separation.'

'Barely.  If I was going to murder my husband don't you think I'd 
find a more subtle way to do it?  Don't you think I'd also get a 
better life insurance policy arranged first?  You have the papers 
there in front of you?  Read them.  Due to the nature of his death, I 
barely get a thing.  That insurance was prepared for our old age and 
retirement.'

'But the act itself was insured.  Dyarchy was insured.  Loss of 
earnings due to your husband's death means you would barely have to 
work again.'

This was true, unfortunately.  The money wasn't fantastic, but it was 
certainly enough.

'There is one more thing I have to ask.  I just find it quite 
incredible that you perform an illusion such as "Bisection", which 
you have performed a number of times, must have practised hundreds of 
times, and yet not even notice that the blade is cutting through more 
than just plain air.  Are you seriously trying to say that you felt 
no resistance against the saw, that there was no difference to 
cutting through a man's body than to moving it through thin air?'

'Firstly, it doesn't move through thin air,' she told him coldly.  
'It cuts through the wood of the box, the aluminium of the table and 
the rigged panel beneath that drops the fake gore.

'Also, when you're up on stage, the adrenaline pumping, that huge saw 
vibrating in your hands like crazy, shaking you up, your body is 
thumping like mad.  It takes a lot of strength to handle that saw - 
this is one illusion where Owen and I can't swap places, he literally 
doesn't have the requisite build for it.  I could have cut through an 
iron block and not noticed any difference.

'And finally, that saw is real, the blade is real.  The human body 
doesn't put up that much resistance, I'm sorry to say.'

Lincoln watched her carefully while she let this out.  He didn't 
comment on it, just nodded slowly when she was done.

'You know,' he said slowly.  'It occurs to me that we have similar 
jobs.  At least, more similar than you might originally suspect.  I'm 
a criminal pathologist; you know what that involves?  Figuring out 
ways to perform the impossible.  I've investigated cases were the 
evidence was scant to say the least, but it was there.  I took what 
little there was to go on and broke it down into every conceivable 
possibility and worked it through until I'd eliminated everything but 
the truth.'

'Detective Lincoln, I just lost my husband.  From all accounts I was 
the one that caused it.  That's not an admission, I just mean that it 
was by my hand that his death occurred, unwitting though it was.  I 
am smart enough to know that the most obvious solution to this puzzle 
is that either my husband or myself was the one actually responsible.  
I'm also stating now, for the record that neither of those is true.  
If you have any other ideas, I'd like to hear them, because I'm 
really stumped for an answer.'

Lincoln sighed.  'I can only repeat what I've already told you.  
There is no way we can make any comment yet as to what happened or 
who is responsible.  I can however assure you that I will work to the
best of my abilities to find out.'


                          * * *


'Well?' Wood asked excitably as soon as they were in the adjacent, 
observation room.

'Well what?  I was telling her the truth, I don't know what happened.'

'Was she lying?'

'Not that I could tell.'

'I thought you could do that body-language shit, read the subtle 
signs.'

'She wasn't giving any.  Nothing - positive or negative.  She was 
completely closed up, totally controlled.'

'Surely that means she's hiding something.'

'Not necessarily.  It just means she being defensive, which is 
totally understandable given the situation.  Plus the fact that she's 
just sliced her husband down the middle, by her own hand.  That's got 
to screw with anyone's response systems.'

'You don't think she did it, do you.'

'No I don't'

'You serious?'

'It just doesn't fit.  I mean, if she was going to murder him, why do 
it like that?  There's no reason to it.  There are other ways.  
Better ways.  Plus, the truth is, the benefits just don't add up to 
enough of a motive.  Not for her.'

Wood shrugged and watched her through the one-way glass.  She was 
playing with another cigarette, apparently debating whether or not 
she wanted it.

'She's amazingly pretty,' Wood stated suddenly.  'I mean, you 
wouldn't expect a female bodybuilder to be pretty.'

'No?'

'All those muscles.  You'd think her face should be harder or 
masculine.'

'Like the Russian women's shot-put team?'

Wood didn't pick up on the sarcasm.

'Exactly.  I mean, she's just wrong.  She could put on a coat and 
you'd never even suspect what she had beneath it - why would you?  
She'd look like a normal woman; like a really attractive woman in 
fact, and yet all the time she has those muscles hidden away.'

'It's certainly impressive.'

'Impressive?  Fucking scary more like.  Never mind Nightmare on Elm 
Street.  Freddy Kruger has nothing on that bitch.'

A WPC stuck her head around the door.

'Lincoln, that magician chick, her lawyer's here.  Also the press.  
There's a fucking mob of them outside.'

Lincoln thanked her and went to see the lawyer.

He did a double take on seeing her, a stunningly tall woman dressed 
in an immaculate dark suit.  Her hair was black and her flesh tanned 
enough to suggest a possible mixed heritage.  Her suit was tailored 
as the standard power-dressing.  Large shoulder-pads and strong 
lines.  She wore glasses - wire - and presented an appearance of one 
you did not want to fuck with.

Lincoln had been worked over by some pretty heavyweight lawyers in 
the past and had held his own OK.  Even so, it was unpleasant and 
best avoided.  Especially when it was unnecessary.

'Detective?  My name is Lisa Stone,' she told him, walking up.  'I'm 
here on behalf of Kym Grey.  Has my client been charged?'

'You client is not being held, she is here voluntarily.  She's merely 
assisting our investigations and has not been charged with anything.'

She had reached him now.  She wasn't just taller than him, she was 
broader.  He could see the muscles on her arms, bulging even through 
the suit.  What the hell was it with women these days?  Her physical 
presence was intimidating and doubtless that was her intention.

'Is my client a suspect?'

'We've yet to make any conclusions regarding who is a suspect and who 
can be eliminated as a suspect.'

'I want my client released immediately.'

'Of course, if that's her wish.'  He gestured behind her, to the 
front door, outside which was a baying horde of press jackals.  'We 
can arrange transportation for Ms Grey to try and avoid the press.'

The lawyer seemed almost disappointed that he wasn't making this 
harder for her.  She seemed to be the kind of woman who thrived on 
antagonism, was happiest when overcoming adversity.

'I have a car,' she told him.

Lincoln nodded.  'I think it's best if she leaves the back way.'

'Agreed.  Thank you.'

'Before that however, would you like to speak to your client.  I 
could arrange a private room if you'd like.'


                          * * *


The WPC he'd spoken to earlier came up to him afterwards.  She gave 
him a sardonic grin.  'Are you that polite and helpful to all 
lawyers, or just the ones who could rip your arms and legs off?'

'What?'

'Didn't you see the way that suit sat on her?  She was a bodybuilder, 
and no lightweight either.  She was just as built as her client was.'

'Probably.  But no, it isn't that.  It's because of Kym Grey.  I 
think she's innocent, and she's just lost her husband in the most 
horrible way I've ever come across.  It's the least I can do.'

Then he turned to the officer and smiled in mock offence.  'And 
anyway, who says she could.  Beneath this suit is the body of a real 
man, I'll have you know.'

The WPC grinned.  'Maybe it was the way her suit hung on her figure, 
it just showed her off to better advantage than yours does.'


                          * * *


In the car, Lisa spoke to her client openly for the first time.  This 
was not like the mock conversation they'd had in the interview room.  
Who knew what kind of cameras and mikes were spying on them - 
unconstitutional or not.

'How was it?' she asked.

'Pretty light actually,' Kym answered.  'I was expecting them to be a 
lot harder on me than that.'

'I meant the actual performance.'

'Oh.  That.  Well, nothing I wasn't expecting.  But, I mean, how do 
you prepare.  I get splattered with fake blood on a daily basis.  But 
when it's hot - when you know it isn't fake.  It was hard.'

'You did fine.'

'How's the frame holding up.'

Lisa gave a half shrug.  'Everything seems OK.  By the time people 
start to think you've committed murder, you'll already be on a 
foreign beach, tanning your muscles.'

'Owen always wanted to retire a legend.  He actually said that an 
early and mysterious death would be the best thing that could happen 
to him.'

'What about you.  How does it feel to kill your career?  You know 
that people are going to remember you as that freaky muscle-bitch who 
cut her husband into two, right down the middle.'

'My career was as half of Dyarchy.  Maybe Owen could have continued 
performing without me but I doubt I could without him.'

'Just wait until the papers get going.  This case would be splashed 
around everywhere anyway, but once people realise that you're 
gone...'

'Yeah.  We had a following but we were never that famous.  At least 
we'll make infamous.'

They drove on in silence a way.

'How's James by the way?' Kym asked.  'The police said he was 
catatonic.'

'Drug induced stupor.  He'll be fine.'

'You think they'll conclude it was me?'

'Too early to tell.  That was always the most likely conclusion.  
Either that or some sort of bizarre suicide.'

Lisa turned off at the exit, heading the car towards the airport.  
Kym's bag was in the back.  She was ready to leave.  Ready to leave 
her whole life, as she knew it, behind.

Lisa parked at the dropping off area.  She wasn't staying.

Kym retrieved her luggage.

'Well, I guess this is goodbye.'

'I guess so.'

The two women shook hands.  Then Kym lent forward and hugged the 
lawyer, squeezing her passionately.

'Thank you.  Thank you for everything you've done for us.'

'That's what we're here for.  And should you get any problems, you 
have an emergency number.'

Kym waved as Lisa drove away, then she walked with her luggage into 
the terminal.

She saw the man and headed over to him.  Despite the heavy disguise, 
she recognised her husband straight away.

'Any problems?' he asked, nervously.

'We're free,' she told him, planting a kiss on his lips.  'Of course 
you're dead and I'm on the run for your murder, but apart from that...'

'A hassle free life would be a boring life.'

'Yeah.  You know, you look remarkably good for a dead man.  I might 
just have some seriously necrophilic plans for you later.'

'I can't wait.  Shall we check in?'

And so it was that Dyarchy performed their final act, a disappearing 
trick, leaving all baffled.