Seconds later, Chicago's Will you still love me? echoed sweet melodies throughout the still house, and evoked distant dreams of a time when life seemed so simple—perfect, sitting at a concert, falling in love.
Just falling in love.
Chapter Four
1
The tall trees hung thick branches over the dirt road, raining down dead leaves that fluttered about in the morning breeze. A few of the leaves landed on the blue Escort as it hiked down the narrow trail kicking dirt out the back of its tires. James Ackerman stopped the car suddenly as he arrived at a fork in the road. He looked both ways trying to remember which path he had taken hours ago. According to the clock radio, it was almost seven in the morning. He had survived the night hiding out by Catfish Creek, but there wasn't much time left now. Resources were running low. This body was getting weaker by the minute, this mind further exhausted. Death was waiting just over the next horizon. He needed to initiate new contact, change course, or risk becoming trapped on a sinking vessel.
James reached underneath the front passenger seat to retrieve the stone figurine. His gateway. He would only use it as a last resort. He slid the small statue into the interior pocket of his sport coat, abandoned the Escort in the center of the fork, and walked west through the woods. Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the woods on to Parker Avenue.
An old gas station was across the street. A tall, longhaired man climbed out of an eighteen-wheeler and walked around the corner to the front door of the station.
James hurried across the street and entered the station.
The store clerk sat behind the counter staring mindlessly at the morning news on an old eight-inch black and white television set. The longhaired trucker passed by James on his way to the front counter.
“Two packs of Marlboro reds in a box,” said the truck driver.
The clerk reached over his head and pulled the cigarettes from the shelf.
“Is that all?” he asked.
The truck driver nodded and handed the clerk a credit card. After signing the store copy, the truck driver took his receipt and left the store.
James crept up to the front counter and grinned at the wiry store clerk. The clerk had tanned, leathery skin, and a small crooked mustache.
“Eddie, is it?” he asked, looking down at the white nametag pined to the clerk’s shirt.
“Yep. How can I help you, pal?”
James leaned over the counter. “This is your lucky day, Eddie. I have something for you."
2
James sauntered out into the parking lot and looked around for his car. He had no idea where he was or how he had arrived here. He vaguely remembered sleeping in his car, and walking through the woods, but it had all felt like a strange dream. Nearby, a longhaired man was talking on a payphone.
“Excuse me.”
The man took the phone away from his ear and covered it with the palm of his hand.
“Have you seen a blue Ford Escort?”
“No,” said the half-shaven man with a fresh cigarette hanging from his lip. “Ya lose your car or something?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a problem. I’m gonna finish my call now.”
James walked around the corner and passed by a semi on his way to the back of the building. A few tiny drops of sweat ran down his face and met at the base of his neck. Rotting trash and sewage littered the back of the gas station; a stench of rats, newspaper, gasoline, and beef jerky. There were two dumpsters but neither held any dump, the trash never made it inside. He found an orange hose wrapped up in knots on the opposite side of the building. Just what he needed to calm his nerves, cool water, but when he turned the nozzle, nothing but a single warm drop fled from the rubber tube. Frustrated, James threw down the hose and strolled around the side of the building, back into the parking lot. He thought of calling the police and reporting his car stolen, but figured he’d better find out for sure.
While he waited for the truck driver to finish his call, he wiped away the sweat from his forehead. The beads of sweat tickled, itched.
A moment later the truck driver hung up the payphone.
“Hey, do you think you could do me a favor?”
“Depends. What?”
“Could you give me a lift to my house? Or at least just drop me off in town? I would really appreciate it. I’ll even pay you.”
“I don’t think that’d be a problem.”
“Thank you so much.”
James followed the truck driver around the corner to the semi waiting on the other side. He could feel his heart beat faster with each second that passed. Muscles tightened to the point of tearing. His hands vibrated like a resonating church bell. He tried to calm himself, relax. If he could just get home, everything would be all right.
“What’s your name?” The truck driver fired up the eighteen-wheeler. “Mine’s Dante.”
"It's..." James could barely find the breath to answer. "It's James...Ackerman.”
Dante frowned. “James Ackerman, huh? Sounds familiar. Have we met before?”
“No...I don’t think...so.” He threw his head back on the headrest and gasped for air while his eyes pulsated in their sockets.
“Well, anyway, if you couldn’t already tell, I’m a commercial truck driver. Lucky for you, I have a little time to kill before my next shipment.”
Dante pulled the eighteen-wheeler up to the curb of Highway 41.
“Now where exactly would you like me to drop you off?”
James didn’t answer. He may not have even heard the question over the loud screaming in his ears.
“Just name a street.”
Dante turned left on to Highway 41 then glanced over at James panting intensely in the passenger seat. “Hey, man, you okay? You don’t look too good. Maybe I should take you to the hospital instead.”
James grasped the edge of the seat desperately trying to hold on to life while inside his body temperature fueled to unthinkable heights.
Dante grabbed James’s shoulder and shook him a little, feeling an immense heat rise from the stranger’s body.
“Hey buddy, c’mon now!” he yelled. “Tell me what’s wrong!”
James stopped breathing. His jaw dropped open.
Dante turned the semi around and began heading east down the highway. The closest hospital was fifteen minutes away, but it would have to do.
“Shit!” Dante yelled. “What in the hell did I do to deserve—”
A bright orange flame shot out from James’s gaping mouth.
Dante nearly jumped out of his seat as the stranger then burst into flames. He frantically fought to clear the smoke from his face while reaching to open the window. The bright orange flames now died down and gave way to a light blue simmer. James’s body sizzled like a thick cut of bacon. Soon he’d be cooked, well done.
Dante didn’t realize just how fast he was going. He coughed and rubbed his eyes while the smoke filling the cab thickened. While searching for the brake pedal with his foot, he inadvertently turned the wheel to the right, steering the semi off the road and into the grassy median where, up ahead, two parked police cars sat with a deputy inside each, unaware of the monstrous wrecking machine heading in their direction at over seventy mph.
Eddie watched from the gas station parking lot as the eighteen-wheeler plowed through the median down the highway and collided into two police cars. The force of the collision pushed both cars side-by-side fifty yards down the median and almost tore one completely in half. A soundtrack of twisting metal; the smell of gas—rubber, flew on the back of the wind.
Eddie smiled and imagined what the impact had done to the policemen waiting like two halves of a wishbone ready to be split apart.
Snap.
Chapter Five
1
Isaac pulled the Charger off to the side of Highway 41 and skipped across the street to the mess in the median. A mob of reporters had already arrived and surrounded the wreckage like a
pack of hungry vultures craving flesh. Simmons stood at the end of the two totaled police cruisers talking to an emergency medical technician. Isaac walked over and introduced himself to the EMT.
Long streaks of blood slashed the top of the most heavily damaged cruiser. The driver’s side door had been cut out to remove the remains of Deputy William Randall distributed across the front and back seats. The inside of the cruiser looked like one large canvas where someone had created an original work of art with fresh human paint.
“Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Looks pretty bad.” Isaac placed his hand on the smashed hood of the eighteen-wheeler. The engine was still a little warm. “Any info on the truck driver? I’m assuming he’s dead.” He looked up at the semi’s broken windshield, then at the police car closest to the semi, the one with the bright red streaks across the roof.
“Yep, he’s dead,” Simmons replied.
Isaac headed to the passenger door.
“Do you know about James?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
Isaac opened the passenger door and climbed inside the cab. A fine gray ash covered the seat and floor of the truck; the small stone statue lay in the middle of the ash like a fallen angel. “No, it doesn't,” he finally answered. “You never answered my question. What do we know about the truck driver?”
“Not much. He’s divorced. Name is Dante Hollinger.”
“Dante, huh? Does he have a record?”
“No, he’s clean. He had an ex-wife but she’s dead.”
“Maybe he killed her.”
Simmons shrugged his shoulders.
“Any connection between him and James Ackerman?”
“Don’t know.”
“Any witnesses?”
“None so far, but this receipt from the A-Plus Gas station was in the pocket of his jeans.”
Simmons pulled the receipt out of his jacket and handed it to Isaac.
Isaac looked down at the receipt and then down the road. “I’d say he picked up James at the gas station a few minutes before the collision. Anything on the Escort?”
“No. Still missing.”
Isaac walked toward the rear of the truck. A How’s my driving? sticker was on the bumper with a telephone number underneath. Isaac sneered when he read it. "Not very good."
“Maybe we should call the number,” Simmons said.
Isaac pulled on the heavy lock latched to the trailer door. “You know what’s inside?”
“Motor oil, I believe.”
“Motor oil, huh. Oh well, how about we head over to the gas station and have a chat with the clerk. It should only take a minute.”
They drove down the road to the A-Plus gas station on the corner of Parker Avenue. The parking lot was empty when they arrived, but Isaac could see the shadowy profile of someone meandering around inside. Once inside, he scanned the aisles of the store while Simmons stayed close to the door. There was a black and white television set behind the counter with the volume turned all the way up; the tiny speakers rattled and hissed while small dots of snow splattered on the screen.
“Hello,” Isaac called. “Anybody here?”
A skinny middle-aged man stepped out of the back office and walked behind the front counter. The clerk looked as though he had not taken a shower in over a month, and by the odor—a urinals perfume—he presented with such ease and indifference, it was very likely true. A white button up shirt covered his darkly tanned, reptile skin, while blotches of sweat sunk into the underarms and a ring of old dirt and filth clung to the collar.
“What do you want?”
Isaac stepped ahead of Simmons and put his badge down on the checkout counter. “I’m Detective Winters. And this is Detective Simmons.” Simmons nodded at the store clerk. “What’s your name, sir?”
The clerk licked his lips and pointed at the tag on his shirt. “Eddie.”
“All right Eddie—”
“Can’t you read,” the clerk interrupted.
Isaac stared at the clerk for a second then turned and smiled at Simmons.
“What do you want?”
“How about you let me ask the questions?”
“What do you want?”
“What I want is for you to shut your damn mouth for a second so I can speak!”
“I don’t have to listen to you.”
“Hey man, just a few questions and then were gone,” said Simmons. “We're not here to cause any trouble.”
Eddie stood silent for a moment then snarled at Simmons. “Whatever you say, Detective.”
“Good,” said Isaac. “Now how about turning down the volume on the boob tube so we can communicate like civilized human beings?”
Eddie walked over to the television and yanked the cord from the wall.
“Thank you. Now do you know a man named Dante Hollinger?”
The scruffy clerk offered no response.
“Or James Ackerman?”
“Did you have a customer come into the store an hour ago and buy a pack of Marlboro cigarettes?” Simmons asked. “Long hair. Driving a blue eighteen wheeler.”
“Perhaps.”
“Yes or no?” Isaac said.
“I can't remember.”
“Well, I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but just down the road there was an accident, and one of the vehicles involved was an eighteen wheeler.”
“Okay,” said the clerk. “Let me know when you get to the point.”
“The point is coming,” said Isaac. “Are you paying attention? The driver of the semi was carrying a fugitive, both are now dead, and a receipt from your gas station dated ten minutes before the crash was found in the driver’s pocket. Now, all I want to know is if you knew either of them, saw them together doing anything suspicious, or have any information at all that could help us. That’s it. I’m not blaming you, so I could do without the smug attitude, but I’d appreciate an answer.”
“Would you prefer a right or wrong answer?”
“I want an honest answer,” said Isaac. “It’s simple. Yes or no?”
Eddie grinned. “No.”
“You’re not lying to me?”
“You heard my answer.”
“Fine, but if I find out you lied to me I’ll be back, and next time we won’t be smiling and winking at each other from across the counter. Understand?”
Eddie grinned again. “Don’t forget your badge, Detective.”
Isaac snatched his badge from the counter and placed it back into his coat. The two detectives left the store and returned to the Charger parked out front.
Isaac shook his head. “What a complete imbecile!”
“We should have asked him about the Escort.”
“Why? Even if he knew where it was he wouldn’t tell us. I’m not sure that fucking idiot would remember his name if it wasn’t pinned to his shirt.”
“So we’re not coming back?”
“Not unless we absolutely have to.”
Isaac parked the Charger in the median parallel to the semi then got out of the car. Simmons followed. Isaac opened the semi’s passenger door and hoisted himself up into the cab again. He took a minute to look over the last remains of James Ackerman plastered to the heavy-duty seat cushion and hoped that this time he would notice something different, something he may have overlooked in the other bodies. But the scalded markings of James’s corpse were identical to that of his wife and daughter.
Somehow, the case had solved itself. James had killed his family, but not just killed—tortured. So why not end the story the way it began, show the world that you’re not afraid to suffer the punishment of your own design. Be the martyr.
Isaac reached his hand down into the ash and pulled the stone figure from the ruins. He brushed the black flakes off the statue with the tip of his index finger. This was the first time he had been able to get a close look at the unique figure; the shape had been intricately crafted, down to even the smallest of details. Whoever create
d the small piece of stonework put a lot of time into sculpting it, and had thought much of the shadowy figure adorned. “I think I might hang on to this,” he said, placing the statue into the inner pocket of his coat.
“Are you sure you want to keep that thing around?”
Isaac stepped off the truck. “Why not? It’s not every day you get to take your work home with you.”
“Yeah, but that thing has a way of following bad luck around.”
“How do you know that it’s not the other way?”
“Well, that would be even worse.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
2
The heavy two-car garage door groaned as it rolled upward on stiff, aging rails. Isaac drove the Charger inside and parked underneath a broken light bulb that hung overhead. A long piece of string, which acted as a parking guide, hung from a hook in the ceiling. When the knotted tip of the string touched the front of the hood, the car was far enough inside the garage to not get pelted by the electric door.
Isaac shut off the ignition and leaned back in the firm leather seat as though it were a recliner. He dreamed of getting away for a little while, taking some much needed time off. A vacation sounded nice, a real vacation, not sitting on his ass and staring at the back of his eyelids. Maybe after the school year ended, he could take Amy somewhere she has never been, which was almost anywhere beyond Elmwood. Soon she would be turning seventeen and entering her senior year in high school, this summer could be his last chance to do something special for her.
He returned his seat back into the upright position and exited the car. Just as he was about to shut the door, he caught a glimpse of the painting lying broken and forgotten in the back seat. The painting reminded him of the old woman that lived next door to the now infamous Ackerman residence; how she had said such wonderful things of Lori, Carol, and especially, James. There was something in the way she spoke, some imperative truth to her words that begged to push the what if button in the back of Isaac’s head.
The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller Page 6