by Steven James
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.
48
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.
49
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.”
“I’ve been trying to keep a low profile.”
“I’ll always remember those months we had together at the group home. You remember the first time? In the forest?”
“The cat?”
“Yes. What I did with the pocket knife?”
“I remember.”
“I’ve gotten much better since then, Aaron.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“What is it you want, Sevren?”
“I want you to stop interfering in my game. Or maybe I want you to enter it with both feet. I haven’t decided.”
“So. The two girls.”
“Yes. You used my handiwork to hide your own. You remembered from those afternoons in the forest, with the animals.”
“There won’t be any others. I promise.”
“Mmm. Well, before you cross your heart and hope to die, I have to say, I think you used me. And I think you might owe me a favor.”
Aaron should have seen it coming. Sevren had somehow tracked him down. He could tell the authorities who Aaron really was, and completely disrupt the family’s plans. Everything could be lost. Aaron decided he needed to evaluate this situation very carefully. “What kind of favor do you want? Money?”
“No, Aaron, not for me. I want something money can’t buy. I want you to help me tell a little story to a certain FBI agent who just doesn’t know when to die.”
“I’m listening.”
And when Kincaid found out that the agent was in North Carolina, he realized it was destiny after all that was bringing them together.
And he was always glad to fulfill that.
50
As I crossed the street toward the federal building I noticed that the crime-scene investigation unit had finished with Margaret’s car. Nothing remained in the parking lot to tell the world a dead body had been there earlier in the day except for a discarded wisp of yellow police tape scurrying across the blacktop. I wondered how the CSIU team was doing with the remains of Grolin’s house and that cave. Probably had to hire a local vertical rescue and assist team to help them rappel into the cavern.
As I looked around the parking lot, I glanced back at my hotel and noticed the curtains flutter shut in a room on the second floor.
Wait a minute.
My room was on the second floor.
I counted the windows.
No maids would be in there this late in the day.
Someone was in my room.
For a split second I thought about charging into the federal building and trying to round up some help, but I discarded the idea immediately. No time. Whoever’s in my room will be long gone by the time we arrive.
I sprinted back across the street, bolted up the stairs to the second floor, and whipped out my SIG.
I opened the stairwell door and scanned the hall. No one.
Eased down the hallway.
Room 231.
Someone followed you this morning on your way into town.
Room 229 . . . 227 . . . 225 . . .
Now someone’s in your hotel room.
223 . . . 221 . . . 219 . . .
I leveled my gun.
. . . 217.
The door was closed, locked. I pressed my ear against it, listened. Yes, movement. Someone was definitely inside.
I slid my key into the lock and slowly nudged the door open. I couldn’t see the entire bedroom, just the entryway. Whoever was in there was around the corner out of sight, opening and closing drawers.
I cleared my throat. “I’m a federal agent. It’s been a really long day, and I’m holding a very wicked gun. So don’t move.” I don’t think those are the exact words we’re supposed to use, but it seemed to do the trick.
The sound of the drawers stopped.
“Do something stupid, and you’ll end up dead,” I said.
I heard whoever it was mumble something.
“Step out slowly.” I eased forward, steadied my gun. “Hands in the air.”
A tall, angular man, mid-forties, with a tangled sallow beard and big ears stepped into view. “Don’t shoot!” His hands were shaking. “I’m an investigator!”
“What?”
He reached for his p
ocket.
“Hands up! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He froze. “I’m just trying to get my wallet.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Lie down. And watch those hands.”
He lay on the floor. I smelled something sharp. Urine. The guy had wet his pants. Not quite what I would have expected from our killer.
He was facedown on the carpet now, his hands spread.
“Was that you this morning following me in your car?”
He nodded.
I reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped it open. “Reginald Trembley, private investigator? That you?”
He nodded.
Don’t be stupid, Pat, play it safe. Remember, the killer knows how to get close. To gain trust.
I pulled out some plastic cuffs and slipped them around his wrists, yanked them tight. He grunted, but I didn’t care. “This is just so we can talk without me having to hold a gun in your face the whole time. All right?”
He nodded again.
I holstered my gun and quickly frisked him to see if he was packing a piece or if he’d taken anything from my room. He seemed clean. I helped him up and sat him on the bed, then asked him, “So who are you working for? What are you doing in my room?”
He seemed to have regained some of his courage since emptying his bladder. He sneered at me. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I’d expected as much. “OK. I completely understand.” I picked up the room phone and dialed a number. “Yeah, Dante, it’s Pat. I’m at the hotel: room 217. Caught someone rummaging through my things. I want you to come over. He doesn’t want to talk. Bring the stuff.” I hung up the phone.
A wave of fear washed over Reginald Trembley’s face. “Who’s Dante?” he said. “What’s ‘the stuff’?”
I walked into the bathroom, pulled down the shower curtain, then returned to Trembley.
“Dante’s a friend.” I glanced at my watch. “He was right across the street. I’d say you have about two minutes before he gets here. If I were you, I’d talk now. Because when Dante gets here, things are going to get messy. Dante is really good at his job.”