Authors: Steven James
And Dr. Peterov had proven more than worthy of his salary.
Kincaid’s pharmaceutical labs had provided the ideal place to perfect the process—all in the name of research and development. Of course, after selling the company he’d brought that research with him to his private labs here in New Mexico.
But for everything to work out as planned, he needed just the right agent. Bacterial or viral, it didn’t matter to him. Just something contagious, airborne if possible. Silent for a few days; deadly from the start. And Dr. Peterov had delivered the perfect little bug.
Rebekah and Caleb were holding each other now, struggling for breath. Reading the sacred scripts aloud, bowing in rhythm to the words.
It was Dr. Peterov’s idea to use the gram negative bacillus called
Francisella tularensis
. He’d pioneered ways of weaponizing it in Russia before the end of the Cold War. “It’s versatile, able to be spread either through ingestion or as an aerosol, fatal about 35 percent of the time, and very tough to identify symptomatically,” he’d told Kincaid. By splicing in some genes from Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever, he and his team had created something nearly impossible to diagnose. Very exotic. And very deadly.
“What about a cure?” Kincaid had asked him.
“There is no known vaccine for CCHF, and the vaccine for tularemia, the disease caused by
Francisella tularensis
, isn’t available to nonmilitary personnel. Of course we developed a way to treat it in case we were exposed, but without our research the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention will never find a cure in time.”
It’d taken six years to find a way to make the bacteria contagious human to human and to make it virulent enough to raise the death toll up to 85 percent—a satisfactory percentage to Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid. After all, when you know you’ll
most likely
die, it’s a thousand times more terrifying than if you know
for certain
that you will—in which case you might find peace; or if you discover the odds are actually
in your favor
—in which case you can survive relatively well on denial.
No, the most terrible thing of all is to face life without the possibility of either peace or denial.
With no place to run or hide.
Distribution seemed to be the primary problem. At first he’d thought about using inhalers to spread it—after all, his drug company produced some of the most popular asthma medicine currently prescribed, but his goal wasn’t to indiscriminately infect children, so he gave that idea up almost immediately. No, he needed a more focused distribution system. He’d considered replacing fire extinguishers with an aerosol version of the bacterium and then starting a fire in the Stratford Hotel, but that seemed too elaborate. Besides, the place was built out of solid rock.
Finally, he’d landed on a simple plan. Nearly infallible. Completely unstoppable.
Kincaid looked at Rebekah and Caleb.
The effects of the genetically altered CCHF tularemia were quite evident by now: the trembling limbs, skin ulcers, swollen lymph nodes, orifice bleeding. It was actually rather disturbing to watch.
But, the couple didn’t look disturbed or frightened. After all, they’d volunteered for this job. To go ahead of the rest.
A test had been necessary, after all, and this was the easiest way to control it, here at the ranch.
They were holding hands, eyes closed, perhaps in prayer to their Father, Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid. As they mouthed their petitions, Caleb’s eyelids started hemorrhaging, seeping blood.
Kincaid spent all afternoon consumed with thoughts of the jungle, watching them die. The babies. The syringes, and of course, Jessie Rembrandt and the whirlpool and the hunting knife twisting slowly to the bottom of the bloody water.
And then, at last, his thoughts turned to Sebastian Taylor, the governor of North Carolina, the one responsible for it all.
The further I moved into this case, the more complex and intriguing it became.
After talking with Terry, I spent about forty-five minutes at the desk in my hotel room, jotting down notes, drawing lines to connect ideas, and crossing out entire pages of my notebook as I eliminated different theories.
I hardly noticed how numb my shoulder had become from the ice. Finally, all I had left was a dripping bag of water that I discarded in the trash.
First, we had a serial killer murdering women and leaving their bodies in geographically significant locations. He wanted them found. He was making a statement to us, carefully tying all his crimes together. Besides being an expert marksman, he could tie sutures, electronically scramble the origins of his emails, and might have grown up along the southern coast. Based on the way the ropes were knotted around the women’s necks, it appeared to me that he was left-handed. He had knowledge of local climbing and caving areas and knew to leave a clean crime scene and blow up a house.
Quite a resume.
I tried to avoid thinking it was Grolin, but everything kept pointing in his direction.
Second, we didn’t know it for sure yet, but the evidence seemed to indicate that somewhere along the line, another killer had started copying him.
But how did the copycat find out about the correct kind of chess pieces, the wound patterns, the yellow ribbons? The two killers could be working together, of course. Either that or:
(A) The copycat knew the Illusionist.
(B) He’d seen the case files.
Since there was no way for me to know whether or not the killers knew each other, I could only look into option B.
But was that even possible? Only our investigation team had access to the case files. Was it actually possible that the killer was a member of the team?
And what about victimology for the copycat? How was he choosing his victims?
So far it appeared that the copycat killer had murdered Bethanie and Alexis, and maybe others we didn’t know about. So the real question was, what did Bethanie and Alexis have in common?
I pulled up their case files on my computer and began comparing notes, timelines, relationships. They were both from the East, but from different cities—Bethanie from Athens, Georgia, and Alexis from Roanoke, Virginia. Both had attended college out West for a few months.
Both were killed within days of returning home.
I don’t believe in coincidences, so I made a note to follow up on the school they attended. Maybe the killer had something to do with the college.
And then there was Governor Taylor. How did he fit into everything?
I sighed and rubbed the bridge of my nose.
Well, since I wasn’t going to Charlotte tonight, maybe I could look into some of these questions and then spend some time reworking the geo profile based on the theory that there were two killers instead of one.
OK. Good. A plan. But first, before anything else, I needed a shower. After hiking up a mountain, dropping into a cave, running to the trailhead wearing a backpack, and having a house blow up next to me, a shower sounded like a really good idea.
After stepping out of the shower and toweling off, I pulled some clothes out of my suitcase and noticed a sheet of paper flutter to the floor.
I knew what it was. Of course I did.
Christie’s letter.
I’ve carried her note with me ever since Valentine’s Day morning when I found it tucked under my pillow less than two weeks before she died. And now, like an addict, I reached for it. I knew what it would do to me if I read it, but I couldn’t help myself. I still read it nearly every day. Even though it feels like someone is pulling nettles through my chest. Because in some strange way, the pain seems to help.
At least I tell myself it does.
I sat down, unfolded the crinkled paper, and let my eyes drink in the words that I already knew by heart.
February 14, 2008
Dearest Patrick,
I can still see the lights of the New York City
skyline from my window. And when I look past
them I can still see you for the first time, every time.
Patrick, please don’t ask why. Don’t try to
solve this. I’m not one of your cases. There isn’t an
offender you can track down or a crime you need to
solve. It’s just the way things are. Our lives are brief,
momentary. I see that now. Don’t be angry that my
moment is going to be over before yours.
Please—I’m not trying to be brave. I’m scared,
of course I am. And confused and sad and lost. It
hurts so bad to know my biggest dream of all won’t come true—the dream of growing old with you. But
I can’t control any of that. All I can control is what I
do with each moment, with this moment, right now. I can either be bitter or grateful. It’s the choice we all
face, I guess, though I never really thought of it that
way before. So I’ve made my choice. I’m going to be
thankful—for this moment and for every moment
that I have left with you.
I know things won’t be easy. I wish things were
different, too. But you’ll be great with Tessa. She
really loves you. She does, even though it’s hard for
her to say so. And she needs you right now. I know
you’ll be able to help each other through this. Don’t
run from the risk of loving her. Please.
Remember, our choices decide who we are, but our
loves define who we’ll become. Tell her that, OK? Tell
her it’s something her mom wanted her to know.
And don’t blame God, Pat. Death was never his
idea. But life is. Please remember that. Life has
always been his idea.
I can still see the lights of New York City reflected
in your eyes. I’ll always see them. I’ll be watching
them glitter tonight. And always. I love you, my big
scruffy Valentine.
Forever yours,
Christie
By the time I finished reading it, my fingers were trembling. Tears blurred my vision. Her words lacerated my heart and also seemed to comfort me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, even though I knew there wasn’t anyone there to hear me. Maybe I was apologizing to her. I don’t know. Maybe I was saying it to all the women, the girls, the little boys I’ve been unable to help, unable to save. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I stared down at the note and noticed my hands. My wedding ring was still clinging to my finger; I’d never taken it off. I’d kept her clothes too, bringing them with me to Denver. Her jewelry box rested beside my bed.
Her shadows were all around me. Hints of her followed me everywhere. But she wasn’t here. Only her ghost was—lurking in the corner of my life. “I don’t need anything except hope,” wrote Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, “which I can’t find by looking backwards or forwards, so I suppose the thing is to shut my eyes.” Sometimes I felt like shutting my eyes like Zelda did in the burning wing of that sanitarium sixty years ago. Closing them and never opening them again.
“Don’t run from the risk of loving her,” wrote Christie.
I am so, so sorry.
I put the note away, but I couldn’t seem to put Christie away. A counselor once told me that depression is caused by anger turned inward.
I must have a whole lot of anger.
Maybe against God for letting it happen, maybe against myself. I don’t know.
So one more thing before going to the federal building. I had to see her face.
I flipped open my laptop and scrolled through her pictures. The beautiful ones of her laughing and alive, just like the pictures of the dead girls we share with the media.
And with every picture came a feeling, a memory—the springy taste of her lipstick, the curve of her thigh, the twinkle that just kept dancing in her eyes even after her laughter had faded away, the way her dusty brown hair turned blond in certain light . . . playing backgammon at that coffeehouse, watching a shy spring rain . . . the way she would get close—a little too close—when she had something important to tell me . . . These were the images I chose to remember even though in the end her hair fell out and her cheeks sank in and her lips became dry and narrow and bloodless.
I chose to publish only the beautiful images in my heart. I guess you can’t help but do that when you love someone.
Why did I put myself through this? Why couldn’t I move on? Why didn’t I just delete the pictures?
Because that would be like deleting her.
And I didn’t have the heart to do that.
Only God could be that cruel,
a voice inside of me said. And I wondered if it was the anger or the loneliness talking. I guess it didn’t matter. Either way, it was still me.
I folded up the computer and headed for the door.
Time to get back to work.
Why didn’t he just die?
thought the Illusionist.
Why couldn’t
Patrick Bowers have just wandered around that house for a few
more seconds?
It would have made things so much easier.
The game would have been over in such a glorious, memorable way. Now, the plans for tonight needed to be altered. And Alice would have to wait until tomorrow for their little rendezvous.
It was too bad. But he could wait. He was in control. Besides, tonight held its own promises, its own possibilities. And as he thought of these things, an idea came to him unbidden, an idea he could not shake.
The Illusionist smiled and picked up the phone.
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid’s phone rang. His private line. “Hello?”
“You got it mostly right, Aaron,” said the voice on the other end. “The chess pieces didn’t quite match, though. And the knot in the rope was tied on the wrong side of the neck.”
“Who is this?”
“At first I wasn’t sure it was you, but when the second body showed up, I knew it couldn’t be anyone else.”
“Sevren?”
A harsh laugh. “I’ve used a lot of names over the years.”
After a brief pause. “Yes. I’m not surprised.”
“A name is just another kind of mask.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
Another pause. “It wasn’t easy to find you, Aaron.”