by Steven James
That’s when the problems began.
“And were there others left alive, Father?”
“No. I waited all morning. No one came back. I was alone with the bodies. Nearly everyone I knew was dead. I went to the hospital—really, it was only a small cabin—and found some painkillers for my shoulder. I didn’t want to go near the pavilion, but I didn’t want to leave either . . . I had nowhere to go, so I spent most of the morning waiting, trying not to look at the pavilion. I hid when some looters from the tribes living in the jungle came through. And then . . .”
Kincaid’s voice slowed. Became even and hard. “The members of the Guyanese Defense Force arrived. They were laughing, my son, joking about the bodies; about my family and my friends. ‘Their brains were asleep before, and now their bodies have joined them.’ That’s the kind of thing they were saying. But the word they used for ‘asleep’ could also be translated ‘dead’ or ‘lifeless.’ They were saying those things about the people I loved, David.”
“Your first family.”
“Yes. My first family.”
He’d almost finished editing the tape when that stupid kid showed up.
“After they left, three Americans arrived—two men and a woman—and I was about to run up to them when I heard them talking. ‘Not quite what we planned, huh?’ and then one of them laughed and said, ‘No big loss, though.’ Then one of the men said something about cleaning out the files, and they headed to Father’s cabin. I hid in the shadows and watched them. They started pulling files, grabbing notebooks.”
“Destroying evidence?”
Kincaid nodded. “Yes. The links to the CIA’s involvement in the shooting, I assume. A radio was on in the background; I could hear news reports of the killings. I wanted to see more, so I pushed open one of the screen doors, and I think they heard me.”
No witnesses. Those were his orders. No survivors.
So when the kid opened up that screen door, what was he supposed to do?
“He grabbed a needle, David. And he started chasing me.”
The kid ran like a freakin’ rabbit through the compound.
Remembering it now, Sebastian Taylor realized he should have grabbed one of the AK-47s that he’d given to his contacts to pass along to Jones’s guards. Instead, he’d thought he could cover it up by using one of the needles. But the kid got away. Escaped into the jungle.
“I hid by the river, and watched him through the trees.”
The memories came back to him now in fits and starts, one image opening up the next like pages of a book he hadn’t opened in years.
He saw the two other agents step out of Jones’s cabin. “What were you going to do with that needle?” Felicity said in between sneezes. She was allergic to half the plants in the jungle.
“We have our orders,” he told her. “Cole was very clear about our mission.”
“You were gonna kill a kid!”
“We need to get out of here.” It was Tad.
“I’m not quite done with the tape,” he replied.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Felicity. “I can’t believe you were going to kill a little kid. This whole mission is a disas—” And she never finished her sentence. Tad had embedded a needle into her neck and depressed the plunger. She was drifting to the ground, shaking.
“What did you do?” yelled Sebastian.
The convulsions began. Felicity was not dying delicately.
“She’s nearly compromised this mission three times already. We can’t let them know a kid survived,” said Tad. “She would have told.”
“But you just—”
Tad reached over and grabbed Felicity’s armpits; she wasn’t dead yet but would be soon. “Help me drag her over to the pavilion. No one will know.” She was trying to speak, but her head was jerking back and forth uncontrollably. It wasn’t pretty to watch. Tad continued, “We’ll tell Cole that Jones’s men got to her first. As long as we limit the number of autopsies, we should be all right. And we just won’t mention the kid, OK? He was never here. Remember, no survivors. Got it?”
Tad might tell too. He might mention the kid.
“Yeah,” said Sebastian, fingering the needle in his hand and eyeing the space between Tad’s shoulder blades. “No survivors. I got it.”
“They killed the woman. Injected her. I saw them do it. Then Sebastian killed the other American.”
Kincaid paused, reached into his suit coat, and produced a half-full syringe in a plastic bag. “Sebastian tossed the syringe. I’m not sure why I picked it up, but his fingerprints are all over it. It’s time the world knows exactly what kind of man Sebastian Taylor is.”
“Is the cyanide still potent, Father?’
“Quite. I had it tested just to be sure.”
Kincaid put the plastic bag away. “He was on his way back to Father’s cabin when the helicopters arrived.”
Then the Rangers and Green Berets showed up, and he had to disappear. Fast. If they saw him there, six other missions in two continents would go down in flames. And so, he never finished editing the tape.
All because of the kid.
“I knew some of the Temple members who came down to identify bodies. They took me back to America with them, said I was one of their children.”
Finally, Kincaid turned to look at his faithful son. “David, when I arrived in America, the media was saying the same kinds of things the looters had said about my family. The world has had thirty years to apologize, and no one, apart from a few fringe websites and a couple of self-published books, has tried to imbue compassion and humanity into their tale, has treated them with the respect and dignity they deserve as human beings, as children of our common God.”
“And that’s why the media leaders are going to pay.”
“Yes. That’s why they’re all going to pay.”
Governor Taylor looked at his face in the mirror. His was not the face of a murderer, but of a patriot.
That’s all he’d ever been. A patriot. A man who would do what needed to be done for his country. Just like the soldiers of the South had done in the War of Northern Aggression. They’d fought for freedom—freedom for states to make their own laws, to govern themselves. A real freedom. A true freedom.
He’d always done whatever he needed to do to promote freedom. That’s what a patriot does.
And now. What needed to be done?
It took him only a moment to decide.
He made the call.
“Yeah?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“It’s me. I have what you want. Meet me in room 611 tomorrow morning at the Stratford Hotel. Ten sharp, before the luncheon. We can take care of things then.”
“It’ll look like an accident?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it all planned out.”
Click.
Yes, Sebastian Taylor would do whatever needed to be done.
He was a true patriot.
He scribbled some notes onto the page and set to work finishing his speech.
69
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid’s jet pulled to a stop on one of the corporate runways skirting the edge of the Tri-Cities Regional Airport in northeast Tennessee. It was a small enough airport for him to bribe his way in without the proper paperwork, yet large enough to handle his jet. And it was close to Asheville, less than a ninety minute drive.
He stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac. Drank in the damp autumn air.
This was the last time he would ever use this plane. Well, it had served its purpose. Just as the ranch had. As Rebekah and Caleb had. As Jessica had. As his family had. Everything had a time and a place and a purpose. That was what destiny was all about.
David stood beside him, pocketing his cell phone. “Father, the house is ready.”
“Good. It’ll give us a chance to rest and prepare for tomorrow’s activities.”
Just then a van appeared on the edge of the runway and pulled to a stop a few feet from the hangar. The driver’s d
oor swung open, and a slim, worried-looking man with trendy glasses stepped out, bowing reverently. “Father.”
“Theodore,” said Kincaid. “Has everything been arranged?”
“Yes. The uniforms are waiting at the house.”
David edged toward the van.
“And the shipment? Has it arrived?”
“Already at the hotel, Father.”
“Good.” Kincaid scratched at the scar on his wrist. “Now I believe it’s time to discuss Bethanie. She wasn’t dead when you left her, Theodore.”
A slight pause. “Yes, Father. I know.”
David slid into place behind Theodore.
“I gave you specific instructions.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“And so,” said Kincaid, “now you have a choice.”
He bit his lip. “A choice?”
“Would you like to do it yourself or have David help you?”
Theodore swallowed hard. “Father, please, I did my best.”
Kincaid waited silently.
“Please I—”
“All right, David then.”
David stepped forward and unleashed a barrage of tightly controlled kung fu moves that broke ribs, crushed the windpipe, and then snapped the neck of the young man who’d first invited him to join the family. It was over in a matter of seconds. Helping people make the transition was, after all, David’s specialty.
Kincaid watched the pulverized body twitch on the damp runway.
Thought back to the pavilion.
To the ones who lay down and never stood up again.
To the whirlpool.
To Jessica.
To the words of the Reverend Jim Jones: “To me death is not a fearful thing, it’s living that’s treacherous.”
“Put him in the back of the van,” said Kincaid. David and the other men obeyed, dragging the fresh corpse over to the back of the vehicle and hoisting it inside.
“Hide the plane,” said Kincaid. “Lock it in the hangar.”
Then he climbed into the van with his family and set out to fulfill his destiny.
70
Alice walked down the hallway and entered the bathroom. She was a bit nervous, but at least her children were safe now. That’s what mattered most. The children. She’d sent them with Officer Lewis earlier in the day. He’d promised they would be safe with him.
She turned on the bathroom light and caught sight of her jaw line in the mirror. A faint scar was still visible from the time Garrett had attacked her and sent her to the hospital. Yes, she knew what it was like to be threatened by a dangerous man.
She had her instructions and she would do them. She would follow them to the letter.
Alice McMichaelson would do anything to protect her children.
She opened the shower curtain and turned on the water.
The Illusionist grinned.
So now.
Grolin was dead, and Vanessa had expired earlier in the day—how unfortunate. He’d been there when it happened. So very tragic.
True, he’d hoped to stage Grolin’s demise a bit more elegantly, a little less obtrusively, but he could only keep him drugged so long.
Besides, sending him into the pro shop delirious had been a stroke of genius. The guy had actually started a fight with Agent Jiang! And inviting Vanessa to the golf course had been risky of course, but he needed to get the agents to a place that was isolated enough for him to control what happened, and where the shooting could take place without any clear witnesses. The idiotic investigators had acted just like he’d predicted. They would never be able to piece it all together.
These were the things the Illusionist thought of as he watched from the shadows outside Alice’s house. He remembered the first time he was here, just a few days ago, how hard it had been at the time to say no to himself, to his urges, his desires.
But now the moment was here.
At last.
A few minutes ago Alice had entered the bathroom. He could see steam cloud the windows. As he thought of her showering, his breathing became deeper, quicker.
Yellow lemonade in the sweet summer sun.
Soon. Soon.
He waited. The bathroom light blinked out. With his imagination he watched her step into the hallway and then from the hallway into her room. And, as if by magic, he saw the bedroom light come on, not just in his imagination but for real, and her lithe figure behind the curtains, shedding the towel. Lithe. Yes. That was a good word to describe her. The right word. The perfect word.
Lithe.
He would use that word later, when he wrote about tonight.
Sweet, sweet lemonade.
After a few moments the bedroom light went out. He waited a bit longer but then grew tired of the wait. He’d waited long enough for Alice. Too long. It was time to reward himself for a game well played. Time to enjoy the spoils of war.
He glided up to the house as smooth as a serpent. Donned his gloves. Pulled on the ski mask.
Back door again. This time it was locked. Ah, good. He picked it in less than thirty seconds. Disarmed the security system.
Inside.
He caught the scent of the house, slightly familiar, yet slightly foreign. Sweet and clean with a hint of cigarette smoke from the days when Garrett lived here.
He listened. Nothing but the sounds of a sleeping home. He crept down the hallway. Past Brenda’s room. Past Jacob’s room. No time to pause and look at the pictures. Not tonight. This was the last move of the game. He’d reached across the board and touched her, and now it was time to take her home, to make her his.
The Illusionist eased the bedroom door open and saw Alice lying on the bed. A still form beneath the covers.
He heard a voice in his head, a little boy crying out from inside a closet: “Mama?”
No.
“Are you there, Mama?”
No.
He wouldn’t think of those things.
He didn’t have to, and he wasn’t going to. No. No. No!
“What’s that smell, Mama?”
Stay in control. One step ahead. Always one step ahead.
Alice had left the window open a crack and pulled a wool blanket up to her neck. Red hair sprawled across her pillow. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out the cloth with the medication on it, and tried to tune in to the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Couldn’t quite. Closed his eyes for a moment to drink in the dainty perfume that lingered in the air. Her perfume. Her lovely perfume. A way to touch her.
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.
71
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.