What if there was more behind all that seems obvious?
He reached into the back seat, scooped up the torn painting, and headed inside the house. After checking his messages, he sat down at the kitchen table, laid out the pieces of the painting in front of him, and then proceeded to place each shred of paper back into its original position. He wondered how the painting had arrived at its tattered state, though what seemed most peculiar was that the picture had been torn in five pieces from top to bottom, with each family member (all three of them) alone on their own piece, as if someone had planned it that way.
Then an emotion swept over Isaac of which he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Sorrow.
Perhaps he had locked it away in some dark and distant place of unrecognizable feelings, or maybe the long and vigorous years in law enforcement had desensitized him. But how could he have forgotten the tragedy of sixteen years? The four bullets in Linda’s chest. The blood stained sheets and nightgown. The emptiness he had felt as he laid in a hospital bed imagining the paramedics carry her from the house in a zipped up body bag.
He hadn’t forgotten. He had tucked those painful feelings away in the closet for so long that when he was finally ready to face them again, he could hardly recognize what was left under all the dust. Maybe it was time he forgave himself. He felt tears form in the corners of his eyes and turned away from the painting. He wanted to let it all out and show himself that he was not afraid, but instead he quickly shoved the torn pieces aside and fought to hold the feelings within.
Not today, he thought. The guilt still flourished willingly in his blood and was more effective a crutch than ever, and he would lean on it until it broke. Someday. Not today.
Isaac left the kitchen table and opened up the refrigerator. He grabbed a soda, a small jar of mayonnaise, and a few packets of lunchmeat and set them down on the counter. They were low on bread supply but there was still a few slices left for a hearty sandwich. He untwisted the bread bag and reached for the last two soft slices sandwiched between two crusty end pieces, and then stuffed the remainder of the bag into the trash under the sink.
As Isaac finished preparing his sandwich, there was a knock at the front door. He froze in mid-bite and glanced through the living room. For a brief moment, he thought he might have been hearing things, but he quickly withdrew this notion when a double knock followed. He finished swallowing his first bite and set the rest of the sandwich down on the counter. As he walked to the front door, there was another knock, followed by a voice.
“Anybody home?” asked the voice. “Hey, man, ya there?”
The voice was Randy Wilson's, his next-door neighbor to the left. Randy had worked as a mechanic at a garage just outside of town, a job he had miraculously held on to for a couple of years, ever since his last marriage ended, but he could do just about any odd job you could imagine. He was a real jack-of-all-trades, loved to work with his hands, and wasn’t afraid of trapping a little dirt under his fingernails. Randy had to be the hardest worker Isaac had ever known, but then again he had to work hard to support his four children.
Isaac struggled to remember the names of Randy’s kids as he readied himself to open the door. He had narrowed it down to three girls and a boy, but as for their names, he hadn’t the foggiest clue. He was positive, however, that all but two of the four children had come into the world with different mothers. Randy had been divorced as many times as he had been married, three altogether, and Isaac had witnessed all of it from one door over. And, unbelievably, Randy had recently been toying with the idea of getting married a fourth time, like three trips through hell weren’t enough.
Randy had given up on Isaac answering the door and began walking away, when the door finally swung open. He turned back around and greeted Isaac. “There ya are,” he said. “I was wondering what happened to you. I saw your car pull up.”
Isaac wondered if he was even looking at the same man. A total transformation had taken place in Randy’s personal appearance since the last time they had spoken. The long scraggily hair that used to hang down over Randy’s shoulders was washed and cut back to his ears. The full beard was shaved off leaving just a neatly trimmed goatee in its place. The ripped blue jeans moved out as a nice pair of slacks moved in. Even the smelly grease stained undershirt that had become the staple of Randy’s wardrobe was replaced with a dark blue turtleneck.
“I was just fixing myself a little lunch,” Isaac said, not taking his eyes off the new and improved Randy Wilson.
“Long time no see."
"Yeah. How are the kids?”
“Good.”
“You seeing the same girl?”
Randy nodded. “Lizzy.”
“Wow,” said Isaac. “So, how’s that going?”
“Pretty darn good actually,” Randy said with a devious smile on his face. “We’re getting married. Not for at least six months though. We’ve been planning it together. This time I want a real wedding, not one of those cheap last second things. I’ve been saving up my money so I can give her the best wedding possible. I’m tired of jumping into things with my head up my ass. Those days are over. I’m not getting any younger, ya know? It’s time to do something real with my life. Make a commitment.”
“Well, I hope it works out for the best. Did you get a new job or something?”
“How’d ya guess?”
“Just a hunch. Last time we talked you were still working for Joe Little rebuilding transmissions.”
Randy sighed. “Yeah, Joe had to close up shop. Couldn't keep the lights on I guess. Tough times."
“So where are you working now?”
“As of this week, I’m officially a used car salesman.”
“So you went from fixing cars to selling cars? Nice change of scene."
“What can I say I love cars. It's pretty good money, but I’m still trying to get the hang of the whole selling thing.”
“Did you have today off?”
“Well, I was supposed to be working the big sale today, but the owner Frank Delano sent everyone home after he heard what happened to James this morning."
"James Ackerman?"
“Yeah. Did you know him or something?”
Isaac brushed his hand across the front of his jacket and felt the small stone statue resting comfortably inside the inner pocket. “Two policemen also died this morning.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot who you work for,” said Randy. “James showed me the ropes. He seemed like a pretty cool guy. Terrible thing that happened to him though. Hey, you gonna be around later?”
Isaac couldn’t believe that Randy Wilson had gone from fixing junkyard cars to selling them. Something gave Isaac the impression that Randy couldn’t sell shit to a constipated man. But more surprising than his friends sudden makeover was that Randy had worked and been trained by the infamous James Ackerman, husband and father of the year according to his neighbor, the man whom Randy now referred to as a pretty cool guy.
“You okay, man?”
“I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “I’ve just got my mind on other things right now. What were you saying?”
“I wanted to know if you would like to join me and Lizzy for dinner tonight. I’m rolling out the old grill and I thought it might be cool to catch up. What do ya say?”
“That sounds great. Is it okay if Amy tags along?”
“Oh, sure thing, man. Wouldn’t have it any other way. How’s she doin’ in school?”
“Good. Next year will be her senior year.”
“How time flies. It feels like she was just born yesterday. Damn, I’m getting old.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Unfortunately,” said Randy. “So we on for tonight?”
The phone began to ring inside the house. “Yeah, I think so. What time?”
“Around five, five thirty.”
“Sounds good. I’ll let you know if I can’t make it for some reason.”
Isaac waved goodbye and shut the door. T
he phone was on its fifth and final ring as he picked it up. The answering machine clicked on and started into a spiel about him not being home.
“Hello.”
“Isaac.” It was Simmons. “I’ve got some news I think you’re really gonna like.”
“What’s that?”
“We found the car.”
“The Escort?”
“Yeah. A local fisherman spotted the car back toward Catfish Creek.”
“You’re shitting me. Catfish Creek? How long ago was it found?”
“Not long, a half an hour ago at the most. I just got the call right before I called you.”
Isaac suddenly remembering what chief Stevens had said. If we locate the car, you’ll be the first one to know. “How long do you think it will take you to get there?”
“I’m already on my way to pick you up.”
“You are?”
“Yeah, I thought it would be better if we went together, that way only one of us has to drive down the trail and risk getting their car scratched by a tree branch.”
“Much appreciated,” Isaac said. “And I just want you to know that I don’t care what the others say about you, I think you’re a great guy.”
“Who are the others and what have they been saying about me?” Simmons asked, genuinely worried.
“Nobody and nothing. It was just a joke.”
Isaac hung up the phone and rushed through the living room to his office on the far side of the house. He removed the stone statue from his coat pocket, dropped it in the top desk drawer, and headed back into the kitchen. He grabbed the sandwich from the counter, left the kitchen, and found a nice comfy spot in front of the television. Two sets of commercials later the doorbell rang.
3
By the time the detectives reached Highway 41, the wreckage from earlier in the morning had all been cleaned up and towed out. Other than some small bits of glass and the deep ruts running down the median, there was little evidence that any accident had ever taken place, certainly not this morning.
Simmons slowed down and pulled the red Toyota Camry off the highway. There was an abandoned police cruiser parked just outside the entrance to Catfish Creek.
“I guess somebody decided to hoof it,” said Isaac, pointing in the direction of the empty police car. “Stop.” Isaac stepped out of the Camry, peered through the dark tinted driver side window of cruiser number 947, and saw the keys resting inside the ignition. “Left the keys behind, too.” He hopped back inside the Camry.
Simmons pulled past the cruiser and drove down the narrow dirt path. A quarter-mile down they came upon two cars parked in the middle of a junction in the road. One of the cars was property of the E.P.D. The other car had belonged to James Ackerman who lit a fire under his ass just hours ago. Simmons rolled down the windows and parked the Camry next to the police cruiser. The two policemen had been waiting for the detectives to arrive; one of them came strutting over to the side window while the other continued to question the fisherman.
“We didn’t want to touch the car until you arrived,” said the young policeman.
Isaac stepped out of the car. “Is that your cruiser parked along the highway with the keys in the ignition?”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer.
“Don’t you think that might be a bad idea?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. But it's almost out of gas anyway.”
What a prize the police department got when they picked this one up, Isaac thought.
“Have we met before?”
“I think so,” said the officer. “Yesterday, at the Ackerman residence.”
“That’s right. What’s your name again?”
“Howers,” said the officer. “Deputy Christopher Howers.”
“How long have you been with the department?”
“This is my first year, sir.”
“How’s it treating you so far?”
“It’s tough.”
“It gets tougher.”
“I can imagine.”
“No, trust me, you can’t.”
The other policeman opened the door to his cruiser and started up the engine.
“I told Deputy Menendez we could take it from here,” said Simmons.
“Okay.”
“But what do you want to do with Mr. Ressler?”
“Who’s Mr. Ressler?”
“The fisherman.” Simmons pointed at the elderly man wearing tan overalls and a matching ruffled hat. In his hand he held a handmade wooden fishing pole no more than six feet long.
“Just tell him he can go.” Isaac turned back toward Deputy Howers. “Why don’t you go fetch your cruiser before somebody else does. And thanks for keeping an eye on the Escort for us.”
“No problem,” said the deputy, hurrying to catch his ride back to the highway.
“And try not to run out of gas.”
“Don’t worry,” said Deputy Howers, getting into the passenger side of the rolling cruiser. “There’s a gas station just down the street.”
“Tell Eddie I said hi,” Isaac yelled.
Simmons walked around the Escort checking for any unlocked doors. “There all locked,” he said, pulling on the final handle.
“Well, I guess we’re going to have to get in the old fashioned way.”
“A clothes hanger?”
“No, a fist.”
“You’re kidding again, right?”
Isaac rubbed his hand across Simmons’s balding head. “Or we could just use your head as a battering ram. You lean over and I’ll push.”
“Now I know you’re kidding.” Simmons restyled what little hair he had back to proper form. “Seriously, do we need to call a locksmith or something?” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
“You don’t happen to have a rag in your car, do you?” asked Isaac.
“I have an old white undershirt that I carry around in case of an emergency.”
“An emergency?” He reached into the back seat of the Camry and grabbed the extra large white undershirt. “Like what? An emergency wet T-shirt contest?”
“Well, I was thinking more like a sudden downpour.”
“Same thing.”
Simmons watched as Isaac wrapped the shirt around his hand and clenched it into a fist. “But I guess you were thinking more of an emergency wax-an-buff.”
Isaac punched his fist through the driver’s side window of the Escort, devastating the glass. Simmons jumped back and stood with his mouth wide open like a birthing vagina. Isaac cleared off the remaining glass hanging from the window frame then unlocked the door from the inside.
“Why so quiet?” he asked, tossing the balled up shirt over to Simmons.
“You’re crazy, you know that,” Simmons said, carefully stepping toward the broken window.
“I’d like to think I’m resourceful,” said Isaac. “Sounds better.” He opened the car door and looked around inside. “You’re telling me you’ve never punched out a window before?”
“No, can’t say I have. I’m not one to destroy someone else’s property.”
“Give me a break, the guy is dead for crying out loud, what harm could it do now? Besides, I’m not waiting around for a locksmith. These damn mosquitoes out here are eating me up. And I’ve got a barbecue to attend later.”
“How come I wasn’t invited?”
“Because you’d eat all the food.”
“You know, just because I’m a little overweight doesn’t mean I eat anymore than the next guy.”
Isaac laughed at Simmons’s over pronunciation of the word little.
“No, seriously. It doesn’t. Sure, I’m willing to admit that exercise and I aren’t the best of friends. Shit, to be honest, we can’t stand each other.”
This was Isaac’s favorite part of the job; the only part he truly enjoyed—fucking with the new guy. Only the best in the business could take blows without a flinch.
“Look, you can come if you want. I don’t think Randy would mind.”
Isaac wondered if Simmons even heard a word he had said. He reached around the front of the driver’s seat and pulled the trunk latch. Simmons followed Isaac around to the trunk. Except for a heavy-duty flashlight nestled in the back corner next to an emergency roadside kit, the trunk was empty. No jug of gasoline. No lighter fluid. No matches. Not even two twigs to rub together.
Simmons shook his head. “Nothing.”
Isaac sneered. “There’s got to be something.” He reached his hand underneath the dark blue carpet and ripped off the covering. A small donut tire rested in the spare compartment. He tried to lift the tire out but it was bolted to the frame of the car.
Simmons picked up the large piece of blue carpeting from the ground and placed it back into the trunk. “Did you check under the front seats,” he asked, slamming the trunk closed.
Isaac leaned down and peered under the car.
“What are you looking for?”
“Won’t know until I find it,” Isaac said.
“Did you hear me?”
Isaac rolled over, brushed the red dirt off his coat, and stood up. “Yes and no. Why don’t you check out the rest of the inside while I take a little peak at the engine?”
Simmons squeezed inside the car and popped the hood latch. “Call me brainless, but what’s the point in examining the engine? I mean, it’s not like the car was stolen or something.”
“Well, brainless, James obviously drove the damn thing out here. But why did he leave it? Why take the time to walk a half-mile up the road to a shit-hole of a gas station? Why bother taking a ride from a hippie truck driver with a trailer full of motor oil?”
“Good question,” Simmons said. “Who knows what he was thinking.”
“Exactly. Nobody knows for sure. But my guess is that the car probably broke down leaving him stranded. After that he just panicked.”
He gently closed the hood and walked back over to the driver’s side of the car.
“But I’m probably wrong.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a key to the Escort.
The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller Page 7