Authors: Steven James
Reached down. Grabbed the covers.
Checkmate.
Threw them off.
Found only a pile of pillows and a wig. Heard a woman’s voice behind him.
“Don’t move. You move and you die.”
Checkmate.
We had him.
I heard Lien-hua tell him not to move. I flipped on the hall lights and rushed out of the bathroom where I’d been hiding. I could see her standing in the bedroom two meters behind the killer, her weapon trained on his back. “On your knees,” she commanded. “Now.”
He stood frozen beside the bed, both of his hands in the air.
He was dressed all in black. He wore a ski mask. I couldn’t see his face.
“Spread your hands!” I yelled. “All the way out. Slowly.” I took a cautious step forward.
He remained perfectly still, his chest the only thing moving.
Why isn’t he moving? What’s going on?
“We have him,” I said into the mic patch I was wearing, heard Ralph reply, “We’re coming in.”
Outside the house, searchlights burst on, and the agents and officers we’d hidden throughout the neighborhood stepped into position. Alice had agreed to help us. “Whatever you want me to do,” she said, “to protect the children.” So we’d put our people in place, leaving just enough space for the Illusionist to make his move. Air support would be here any minute. He was not getting away.
“On your knees,” Lien-hua yelled. “Now!”
The Illusionist knelt slowly.
I stepped forward and leveled my gun. “I said spread your hands.”
“Nice move, Patrick.” He kept his voice to a low whisper. I couldn’t tell if it was the same voice I’d heard on the phone or not. It sounded vaguely familiar but was too soft to recognize. He was moving his hands evenly toward his head, carefully. “But the game’s not over yet.”
Just as his fingers touched the side of his head, the lights went out.
A thrash of movement by my feet.
A flash of gunpowder. Someone crashing into me.
I was on the floor.
I heard a gasp.
A thud.
A soft moan from beside the closet.
The sound of breaking glass.
A scream.
Tessa was sandwiched on the couch between the two officers, pretending to watch some lame TV show with them.
Sitting on the couch like a family. Watching TV with two cops. How pathetic.
Like a family.
She thought of Patrick and being at that crime scene earlier in the day. And picturing the legs of a dead woman—
her sawed-off
legs!
—on a treadmill. It was too much. Flying in here, meeting up with Patrick. Hearing about those people in the fire. Too much. Way too much.
She’d seen those buildings burning on his computer.
There were bodies inside the buildings.
Dead people.
She needed to cut herself. Tonight.
She stood up.
“Where are you going?” asked Officer Muncey.
“Just to the bathroom, OK!”
As she walked away she heard Officer Muncey mumble, “I thought I was done babysitting when I got out of high school.” She whispered the words, but Tessa heard her. She heard every syllable.
Tessa locked the bathroom door and pulled the razor blade out of her purse.
I turned on my flashlight. Leapt to my feet. Scanned the room.
He was gone.
Lien-hua was down.
“Lien-hua!” I ran to her.
She stirred. Rubbed her head. “Blindsided me,” she muttered. Her eyes slowly came into focus. He’d just knocked her down. That was all. “But I got two kicks in first.”
She’d had less than a second. Two kicks? Amazing.
“I heard a shot,” I said.
“It wasn’t me.”
I turned around. The window was shattered. I had no visual on the suspect. “He’s mobile. I repeat, the subject is mobile,” I yelled into my mic.
Did he get past me?
Alice!
I ran back to the bathroom. “Alice?”
“Did you get him?” her voice quavered.
“We’re going to.”
She stared at me from the shower, fully clothed, a bulletproof vest on. All part of the plan. Lien-hua had staged the shower, slipped into the bedroom to lure him out. At least Alice’s kids weren’t here; that was good. Federal protection. She’d be joining them in a few minutes. I heard shots fired outside and made it to the window just in time to see a dark form leap over a fence three houses away and disappear. Someone lay facedown in the backyard. A police officer.
“Officer down!” I yelled. We were ready to contain the killer, had roadblocks in place around the whole neighborhood, but I hadn’t expected him to move so quickly.
“Suspect heading south along Virginia Street,” somebody said. “Any word?” I yelled into my mic patch. “Anybody?” I heard shouts and confused voices. Then Wallace’s voice: “Cherokee Avenue heading west.”
He’s left-handed . . . Left-handed subjects tend to turn right when
fleeing, but when they meet an obstacle, they move to their left . . .
Wait, he would know that.
“Get to the fence,” I hollered. “Suspect will head west through the field, then north at the fence. Cut him off. I repeat, west then north.”
A voice came back. “Unit three in pursuit.”
I ran to the bedroom window and stared out across the neighborhood, trying to orient myself to the landscape again, to map out the streets and overlay them against the topography. “All units on the perimeter,” I said, “suspect is male, white, six foot one, two-hundred pounds, wearing black pants, black sweatshirt. Armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme care.”
If only there were square city blocks here. It would be so much
easier to contain him.
“Get to Richmond Avenue,” I yelled. “He’ll be heading for the strip of woods running south by southeast. Hurry. If he gets to the subdivision beyond the river, there’ll be too many places for him to hide. Hold your positions. Control all exits.”
I stared out across the street, saw the outlet roads being shut down by our roadblock, saw the string of slowing taillights as the streets leading into and out of the subdivision were sealed off. A few police cars raced to the scene, an ambulance flashed by and then nudged through the roadblock, bringing help to the injured officer lying on the lawn. Just then, the helicopters came roaring in. Too late. Everything was too late.
Still no electricity. “Can we get these lights on?” I yelled. I heard the shuffle of feet as some officers headed to the circuit breaker. Then Dante’s voice in my ear. “He’s not here. It’s like he disappeared into thin air.”
I smashed my fist into the wall.
Ralph burst through the door.
“He made it to the subdivision,” I muttered. “We can search house to house, but there are too many places for him to hide in there. My guess is we lost him.”
Ralph began filling the room with curses. “What happened to these lights?”
I shook my head. “He must have used a small electromagnetic pulse device. Maybe planted it in the dining room or connected it to the security alarm on his way in. He had the trigger hidden beside his ear.”
I heard an officer from the living room. “I’ve got it, right here!” “A trigger by his ear?” said Lien-hua.
Someone must have found the breaker; the lights came back on again.
“It’s not that uncommon,” I said. “Suicide bombers sometimes thread a detonator cord up their shirt and tape it to the back of their neck or hide it behind their ear so if they’re told to put their hands on their head they can still detonate their device. I shouldn’t have let him move his hands in close like that.”
He got away. Again.
He was ready for us.
Ralph turned to Lien-hua. “You OK?”
“I’m fine.” She kicked the closet door with a yell, splitting it in half. Her voice was on fire. “We had him. I can’t believe he got away!”
Ralph was admiring her work on the door. “Nice kick.”
I glanced out the window. “Thank God that officer was wearing a bulletproof vest.” One of the paramedics was helping her to her feet, leading her to the ambulance.
“All right, people, listen,” Ralph shouted to the pack of officers now entering the house. “We go door to door. Let’s move!”
Monday
October 27, 2008
Asheville, North Carolina
7:51 a.m.
I shoved my suitcase into the backseat of the car next to my climbing gear and stared up at the methodical gray slabs sliding across the sky. Dark continents hanging from heaven. The temperature hovered right around freezing; the air was wet and heavy. Freezing rain—or maybe even snow—was on its way.
Here’s what I knew:
(1) I was off the case. Last night was it, the last straw for Margaret. She was holding me responsible for Joseph Grolin and Vanessa Mueller’s deaths; and of course last night when the killer got away—well, that was my fault too. So Tessa and I were flying back to Denver today. And when all the internal investigations were over, I’d be lucky to get a job as a truancy officer in a middle school—at least according to Margaret.
(2) Alice and her children were safe, at least for the moment. Everything had turned so explosive that Ralph had kept her location top secret. He didn’t even tell me where he sent them.
(3) The Illusionist was still on the prowl. We hadn’t found any sign of him last night, even after searching the entire neighborhood.
(4) Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid and his group never arrived in Seattle. It was like they’d dropped off the planet. That worried me a little, but it looked like the team still had a few more days to find him.
(5) The safe house had run out of Mountain Java Roasters coffee beans. All we had left was tea.
I could tell already, it was going to be another rough day.
I still had some things to pick up from the federal building, but maybe I could get those on the way to the airport. My emotions? Honestly, they were mixed. Maybe I was better off at a desk job in Denver. I’d helped narrow the suspect pool here and focus the search area, but still, I felt empty, useless, like a failure. Yes, it would give me more time with Tessa, but I wanted to catch this guy. Wanted it bad.
I wasn’t sure if I would see Brent Tucker again before I had to leave town, so I gave him a call to encourage him. After all, I was beginning to understand how he felt. “You’re a good man, Brent Tucker,” I said as I walked into the kitchen and found Tessa foraging for some breakfast. “I appreciate all your hard work on this case.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bowers,” he said. “It was an honor to work with you. I look forward to the day our paths cross again.” After a couple minutes we both said our good-byes and hung up.
“Is there any coffee?” Tessa asked groggily.
“You drink coffee?” I said. “Oh, right. A twenty-first-century teenager. Of course.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I think we’re out.”
“Aha.” She held up a coffee can she’d found in the cupboard. “Want some?”
I read the label. “Hmm. I think tea this morning. But I’ll brew it for you if you want.”
“I can do it,” she said.
“I know. Just let me. Please. Have a seat.” I pulled out the chair for her. She hesitated for a moment and then eased into it. “Want some cereal too?”
“Whatever.”
While the coffee percolated I searched for some cereal. “So,” I said to her. “Almost packed?”
“Almost. So, the guy got away, huh?”
Great. Make me feel even worse.
“Yeah, but they’ll get him. There are good people on the case . . . and I guess this will free me up to spend more time with you.”
Silence. I waited.
Nothing.
“How does that sound?”
“Whatever.”
“Well, are you glad you got to miss a day of school?” I opened the fridge and pulled out some milk and OJ.
Tessa shrugged.
C’mon, Pat, think. You can do better than that.
“Tessa, do you know what the most dangerous shark in the world is?”
She grunted in a teenage girl sort of way. “That was random.”
“Well, do you know?”
She rolled her eyes. “The bull shark. Everyone knows that.”
Kincaid led his family through the staff entrance to the Stratford Hotel. He recognized the faces of some of the guests who were milling around. Even though most attendees had come last night for the opening session, the most prestigious guests were arriving this morning by helicopter, trying to beat the snowstorm that was predicted to hit the area.
Security was tight. As tight as a glove. Metal detectors had been set up at every public entrance. But no one was the least bit suspicious of Kincaid and his family.
After all, they’d been hired as the caterers for this morning’s event.
It was time to prepare the food.
I opened the cupboard and pulled out a box of peanut-butter-flavored cereal. “How’s this?”
She shook her head very, very slowly. “I’m allergic to peanuts.
I’ve always been allergic to peanuts.”
Oh boy.
“I must have forgot.”
“I thought you were supposed to notice everything.”
“So they say.”
Silence again.
So notice something already.
“Um, right now, I notice that your left eye is slightly darker brown than your right one.”
She grunted. “Brilliant.”
I heated some water for tea and poured myself a glass of juice. “Do you want some OJ?”
“I guess.”
The coffee was ready. I poured her a cup, and then I studied her for a moment. “I notice you’re wearing long sleeves again, and I remember seeing scars on Cherise’s left arm back when we were living in New York City, and I’m wondering if . . .”
She stared past me quietly, wouldn’t look at me.
Careful, Pat, don’t blow this.
“Sugar and cream?”
“Black.”
You can get into all that later . . . Reach out to her with your
hand open . . . Do it slower . . . that way she knows you’re not going
to hurt her . . .
I set it on the table. “That’s all. Just long sleeves.”
After a brief silence she said, “Well, so far your powers of perception are unparalleled. ‘The girl is wearing long sleeves.’ That oughtta crack the case wide open. No wonder you get the big bucks.”