Authors: Steven James
Lots of people forget to lock their porch doors and just lock the front and garage doors, as if a thief is going to walk down the street and just roam up the driveway and try the front door. Porch doors are the most vulnerable. The Illusionist knew that too. But he was prepared either way. He was always prepared.
He reached out a gloved hand and tried the door. It slid open easily, even easier than he had imagined. Part of him was disappointed. It was always better when it was a challenge.
He stepped across the welcome mat and entered the code to disarm the alarm.
There.
Now he had the whole house and the rest of the night to himself.
An oval dining room table loomed before him; beyond that, the living room sprawled back into the darkness. He paused and listened to the gentle sounds of a house speaking to him that all was calm. All was still.
The Illusionist moved quickly and quietly through the dining room and then into the kitchen, letting his eyes adjust to the thick darkness. The vague outlines of the living room furniture slowly materialized to his right. On his left, a large dark opening told him the hallway was there, but he already knew that. After all, he’d memorized the blueprints for the home.
He could hear the sounds of a hamster running on a squeaky wheel in a nearby room. Brenda’s room. She was eight years old and had just started third grade at St. Catherine’s Catholic School out on Sweeten Creek Road. Her teacher’s name was Andrea Brokema, but the students all called her Miss Andi.
The Illusionist entered the hallway and approached Brenda’s bedroom. She would be sleeping with Wally, the stuffed walrus she’d received on her fourth birthday.
He stood in her doorway for a moment and watched her sleep in the pool of pale light that found its way through the window. Wally was lying beside her bed.
Hmm. Must have fallen out of her arms.
The Illusionist eased into her room as silent as a dream, picked up the walrus, and slid it gently into the arms of the sleeping girl. He had to lift her left wrist slightly to do it. She squeezed the stuffed animal and rolled over onto her side. The Illusionist smiled and backed out of her room.
There. That’s better, Brenda. Much better.
A few steps ahead, the night-light in Jacob’s room spilled a green glow into the hallway.
How thoughtful of you
, thought the Illusionist.
Providing me just enough light to see.
A fifth grader, Jacob liked Spider-Man video games, was good at math, and had been the highest scorer in his soccer league last spring. He played for Andy’s Sub Shop. The Illusionist knew everything.
He knew about their mother too.
Because, really, that’s why he was here. Not for the kids. For her.
Nobody would notice a missing prostitute. He knew that much already. He’d found that out years ago, as a matter of fact. But a soccer mom who serves on the PTA would be all over the news. Especially one as good-looking as Alice. Just like he wanted. The news media loves a missing beauty. Especially a white woman. They’d be running her story for weeks.
With the help of the night-light in Jacob’s room, the Illusionist could see the pictures on the hallway wall . . . a picture of Brenda dressed up like a giant carrot for her school play . . . one of her standing on the beach with a pink shovel in her hand . . . the whole family sitting in a photography studio . . . Jacob holding a largemouth bass beside a lakeside cabin with Garrett next to him.
That picture made him sick.
Garrett.
The man who’d left Alice for that sleazy little tramp six months ago, and then kept showing up again to threaten her and the kids whenever he was drunk. But he didn’t stop with the threats. One night he nearly broke Alice’s jaw.
Garrett.
The man who’d left a note on his building contractor’s desk last month telling the boss that he was through working for such a lowlife and was leaving to find work where he could be appreciated, somewhere warmer, in Florida. It wasn’t uncommon for people who worked construction to move farther south as winter rolled in, so of course his boss wouldn’t have been too surprised. He was probably just glad he didn’t have to pay that loser Garrett McMichaelson for the last two weeks of work.
Of course, the handwriting wasn’t Garrett’s.
But the Boss Man wouldn’t have noticed that.
Garrett, Garrett, Garrett.
Yet despite how the picture disturbed the Illusionist, it also made him smile slightly. Garrett wouldn’t be bothering Alice anymore. He wouldn’t be bursting into the house drunk, or pushing her down the stairs, or punching her in the face ever again. No, he wouldn’t be bothering anyone anymore. A man who would treat a woman like that didn’t deserve to exist. A man that vile didn’t deserve to be buried alive deep in the Appalachian Mountains. He didn’t deserve a death that gentle.
But the Illusionist was a compassionate man.
It was, perhaps, his only flaw.
He had made it to the end of the hallway now, and of course, there on the left, was her room. Alice’s room. The door was shut.
Walking lightly across the amber carpet that lined the hallway, the Illusionist stopped just outside her door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag he would need for the job.
His heart was beating faster now. It was always this way.
Relax.
Don’t get too excited.
But it was exciting. It was always exciting!
Beyond the door he could hear the soft rhythmic breathing of Alice McMichaelson, the thirty-one-year-old redheaded receptionist at the Law Offices of Brannan & Seeley. That’s where they’d first met. He could remember everything about that day. She was wearing a yellow dress the color of sweet lemonade. And that’s what he’d thought of when he first met her—sipping iced lemonade together beneath a spreading tree. Tall cool glasses. Warm afternoon sun. Smelling the summer. Looking into her bright laughing eyes. As they spoke that day, he’d caught the scent of her perfume as it drifted across the counter. And as he inhaled her fragrance it had become a way for him to touch her all throughout their conversation without her knowledge.
It had been exquisite.
He eased the door open and stepped into Alice’s room.
Through the faint glow of the streetlight outside the window, he could see her lying on her side, her lush red hair splayed all around her head. In the dim light, her hair took on a darker color, almost the color of dried blood. How odd that he would think of that now, how strange that he would think of blood at a time like this.
He wondered what she was wearing beneath the thin sheet draped so lightly across the curves of her body. He knew she liked to order from Victoria’s Secret. Her customer number was N672-9843-G. He knew all of these things from sorting through her garbage. She always left it out the night before it was supposed to be picked up. How fortunate for him.
He wondered what she would look like. Right now. All he had to do was pull back the covers. All he had to do was cover her mouth with one hand and grip her neck with the other. He could do that right now. Right here.
His heart began racing. Everything could happen tonight, in this moment. Just like he’d imagined it happening so many times.
Her breathing never changed. It was so soft and rhythmic. Like music to his ears.
Oh how he wanted to touch her! But he didn’t go toward her. He didn’t even move. He was in control. Always in control. And he wasn’t allowed to touch her tonight. He was here for something else.
I’ll be seeing you, Alice,
he thought.
I’ll be seeing you soon.
The Illusionist picked up the thing he’d come for, took one last look at Alice McMichaelson, and slipped down the hallway. He heard the hamster squeaking in its cage before he tapped the code into the security system and left the house. Then he eased back into the shadows of the sleepy neighborhood. No one noticed him. No one would ever know he was here. No one would suspect anything.
Because he was one step ahead of the world.
Watch and be amazed!
Friday
October 24, 2008
8 miles outside of Asheville
8:04 a.m.
Agent Jiang drove up to the hotel entrance, and I stepped out of the lobby to meet her. Ralph had told me he was going to send someone to pick me up. Great choice.
“Good morning, Dr. Bowers,” she said as I slid into the passenger seat beside her.
“Just call me Pat. I’ve never gotten used to the doctor part anyway.”
“Hmm. I would have thought you’d be proud of that.” She pulled out of the parking lot and merged into traffic. “First FBI agent in history to earn a PhD in Environmental Criminology.”
“So they say. I still prefer Pat.”
“OK, then, Pat. Sleep all right?”
“Actually, no,” I said. “Not so good.”
Why do you do that? Why can’t you just carry on a normal conversation
like everyone else?
Years of taking college classes at night and over the Internet while serving on the force had helped me earn a handful of degrees at a young age while simultaneously working in the field, but hadn’t helped so much with my people skills.
She glanced over at me. “You’re always honest, aren’t you Dr. . . . um, Pat?”
“I suppose so. At least I try to be.”
“So, let me guess,” she continued. “You’re in the business of uncovering the truth. It’s tough enough the way it is. You’d hate to make your job even harder by hiding yourself. You don’t wear masks, because you know how hard it is peeling them off other people. If you let people see you clearly, maybe they’ll take off their masks for you and make your job a little easier.”
I blinked. “Yeah. I guess so.”
She smiled.
Oh.
“So, Ralph’s new partner is a profiler,” I said. “I better watch what I say.”
She pursed her lips. “Ralph told me about your history with profilers. Don’t worry; I won’t hold it against you. I’m not petty.” She gestured to a cup of coffee in the passenger-side cup holder. “For you.”
“Thanks.” I might have meant for the coffee or for the truce, I didn’t clarify. I grabbed the cup and sniffed at the aroma drifting from the slit in the lid. Nice. Kenyan. I smelled it again. Probably from the Nyeri Highlands. I took a sip. Yes, definitely a SL28 cultivar from the volcanic slopes of the Kingongo Ridge. And somehow she’d guessed right—cream and honey, no sugar. Oh, I could get used to this.
“You chose wisely,” I said.
“Mountain Java Roasters. It’s in Asheville,” she replied. “Ralph said you’re picky about your coffee.”
“Ralph told you a lot.”
“Ralph told me enough.”
She was quiet then, and I wished I could think of something else to say to fill the space growing between us, but nothing came to mind.
We drove past a huge stone hotel nestled up against the mountains, and she said, “That’s the Stratford Hotel. Built entirely out of rocks from that mountain behind it. Six-hundred-and-fifty rooms. Four-and-a-half-foot-thick walls. Seven presidents have stayed there, lots of movie stars. Huge enclosed atrium with hanging gardens, pools, fountains. Even its own indoor whitewater river. Each of the main fireplaces can hold sixteen-foot-long logs.”
“And you know all this . . . how?”
“I took the trolley tour around town my second day here,” she said.
I smiled. “Gotcha.” The Stratford Hotel looked like a fortress. A world-class golf course lay at its base.
“And by the way, if I call you Pat, you need to call me Lien-hua.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Beyond that, Lien-hua didn’t push the small talk. Whether it was intuition or just politeness, I couldn’t tell. Either way I was thankful. It gave me a chance to think through my agenda for the day. I hoped to grab some files at the federal building and then spend the rest of the day visiting the sites of the crimes in this series. Over the years I’ve found that location and timing of a crime are two of the most important and overlooked aspects of an investigation. Site visits are vital to crime reconstruction.
We pulled to a stop in the parking lot of the federal building, and she turned to me. “It was Mindy,” she said evenly, still gripping the steering wheel with both hands, the muscles in her slim arms growing tight and tense. “The girl on the mountain. Mindy Travelca. We confirmed it last night. She was nineteen.”
I nodded slowly. At least now I knew what to call her. At least now she had a name.
As I followed Lien-hua into the federal building I thought of Mindy’s father being interviewed on TV, the tears wavering in his eyes. And the only thing I could think of to be thankful for was that I didn’t have to be the one to tell him the news.
Alice McMichaelson groaned, rolled over, and looked at the clock.
6:27.
Good. She still had another hour to sleep before—
Wait a minute. She blinked at the clock. Looked again.
8:27.
What? That can’t be right.
She rubbed her eyes, snatched her glasses off the end table beside the bed, and slid them on.
8:27.
Blinked.
8:28.
Oh no. Not today.
“Jacob,” she yelled. “We’re late. Get up. Brenda!”
“I’m up, Mom!” Brenda’s perky voice sang from the kitchen. “I’ve been up like forever.”
“Well, you could have woken me up too!” Only after saying it did she realize how ridiculous it sounded, having your eight-year-old daughter wake you up for work.
Alice jumped out of bed and shook her head. She’d never been great at getting up in the morning anyway, and since Garrett had left her to be with that other woman it had only gotten worse. Trouble sleeping. Bad dreams. And now waking up late for her second day on the job at the bank. Not good.
The law office thing just hadn’t been going anywhere. The pay at the bank was better and so were the hours. She could spend more time with the kids. Also, she’d started taking business classes, and the bank gave her Mondays off to go back to school—but none of that would matter now if she showed up late and lost her job.
Alice decided to go without a shower, tossed off her nightgown, and yanked open her underwear drawer. “Jacob, are you up?”