Once they reached the burial site, Isaac looked around astonished at how many people showed up. The view from atop the hill hardly did it justice. There had to be over a hundred faces gathered together, maybe half he recognized, one being Police Chief Donald Stevens.
“Wait here for a second,” Isaac told Amy. “I’ve got to talk to someone.” Amy nodded her head and watched her father stroll around the exterior of the crowd.
Chief Stevens noticed Isaac coming toward him and excused himself from his wife. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
“I told you I would.”
“Yeah, I know,” said the chief, patting Isaac on the shoulder. “But I try not to pay attention to anything you say.”
“Thanks.”
“Where’s Amy?”
Isaac pointed over the crowd of dark clothing. “Over there.”
"Well, I’m glad you found me because I have a little news to pass your way.”
“What’s that?”
“We found Howers’s squad car.”
“Where?”
“Far down Maria Avenue, and I mean far down.”
“Past the church?”
“Yeah, out in the fuckin’ boonies. We didn't find him though, but at least now we have an idea where he might be hiding out. I have a few men searching the area, and the squad car is being brought back to the station as we speak. The idiot even left the keys in the ignition.”
“You don’t say.”
"Well, we should be getting started any minute now.”
Isaac rejoined his daughter and waited for the service to begin. After a few minutes, the crowd stood in silence while the bagpipes played Amazing Grace. Isaac tried to think about Deputies Randall and Bryant (even though he really didn’t know either of them), but his mind wandered to the east. He wondered if Linda was watching him right now, and if so, would she still be able to recognize him? Would she know how much he still loved her? Was she proud of him?
Six officers in full dress uniform carried each casket down the center row, with two on each side and one on the front and back. First was the body of Deputy Randall, followed by Deputy Bryant. Both caskets were white and had an American flag draped across the top. The officers carefully placed each casket on a stand at the front of the covered burial site then lined up in two rows of three on each side.
When the bagpipes stopped, Isaac could hear many in the crowd sobbing, including a black woman right beside him. He glanced over and watched her wipe away the tears from her eyes with a tissue. Her husband had his arm around her, poised and strong, trying to hold his emotions back long enough to comfort his wife.
This year was Deputy William Randall’s first year on the force. He was a young kid, much like Deputy Howers, though from what Isaac had heard, William was a smart kid, with a lot of potential ahead of him. But most of all, Isaac remembered that young William was black, and the couple beside him were William’s parents.
Chief Stevens provided the eulogy. This sort of ceremony wasn’t unusual to him. Over his thirty plus years with the Elmwood Police Department, Stevens had been a part of dozens and dozens of officer’s funerals, and delivering the eulogy at many. You would think by now he would have created some sort of Eulogy Form Speech, with blank lines to fill in each officer’s name. But Stevens understood that every officer is special, every eulogy sacred. He held a very high regard for the men and women working under his care trying to keep the streets safe and protect the entire community. When one of them died (or two in this case), it was like losing a family member.
When Chief Stevens finished giving the eulogy, a few officers closest to the deceased stepped up to say a few words. Afterwards, Pastor Jeffrey Abraham from the United Methodist Church (the church William Randall attended) said a prayer and blessed the departed in God's name. Then the Police Honor Guard delivered a twenty-one-gun salute (seven men firing three consecutive times) to the victims. The bagpipes played again, the Honor Guard marched off, and the families and friends of Randall and Bryant placed flowers around the caskets. Chief Stevens removed the American flags from the top of the caskets, and with a little help, folded them into a triangle and presented them to the mothers of the officers.
Simmons walked up from behind, stood next to Isaac, and watched the two deputy’s families gather around the grave. “It was a good service.”
Isaac nodded. “Just a shame it had to take place.”
“It could’ve been any one of us.”
Isaac pulled Simmons off to the side. “Why do I feel responsible?”
Why do I always feel responsible?
“What could we have done?”
“I don’t know,” Isaac said, shaking his head. He looked over at Mrs. Randall weeping over her son’s dead body. She would never be able to see him get married, or be the father he could have been. Isaac wished there was a way he could take the tears away and give her all those moments back, but he couldn’t. “I don’t know,” he said again. “Something.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“Be at my house by eight.”
The walk down to the car seemed longer than the walk up. Amy waited at the top of the hill for her father to grab the roses from the car. When he returned, they walked hand in hand to the east toward Linda’s grave. A few quiet minutes later they arrived at the gravesite. Isaac held the white roses by his side and gazed down at the headstone of his late wife. She looked the same as she ever had; some things never change.
The writing on the headstone read: Linda Winters, 1965-1995, Loving Wife and Mother.
Isaac stepped closer to the grave. He knelt down on one knee and placed the white roses down by his right foot. Amy stayed back and watched her father brush the dirt off the top of the headstone. He rested his arms on top, laid his head down, and closed his eyes.
He wished he could see her just one last time, run his hands through her hair, hear her voice, feel her soft lips against his, hold her in his arms, make love.
A few tears began to push their way through his closed eyelids. He tried with all the strength he had left to hold them back, but before he knew it, the tears sprinted down his face and rolled off his arm.
He couldn’t remember the last time he cried.
It felt good. Why was he afraid?
Why did it take so long?
Chapter Twelve
1
Lizzy had just finished taking the clean clothes out of the dryer when the doorbell rang. She set the white basket down in the back hallway and headed through the living room to the front door. She looked through the peephole and saw a policeman standing with his back to her, looking out at the street. He had a black cowboy hat on his head and a gun strapped to his hip.
“May I help you, officer?”
The policeman turned around and smiled at the beautiful young woman. “Yes, I think you can. My name is Deputy Howers.”
Lizzy figured the police must have sent someone to talk to her concerning the burglary next door, even though she had told three or four of them last night that she didn’t see or hear anything.
“Do you have a moment?”
“Yeah, sure thing. Come inside.” Lizzy followed the deputy into the living room and waited for him to sit down on the couch. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“That would be wonderful.”
A minute later Lizzy returned to the living room with a glass of ice water in each hand. She immediately noticed that the deputy had removed his holster from his belt and set the gun down on the coffee table. A little strange, right? No need to worry, she thought, this man is a police officer, not some hoodlum. She handed the deputy his glass of water then sat down on the blue recliner opposite the couch.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“Because of the break in next door.”
The deputy smiled. “Yes.”
Oddly, Lizzy found herself staring down at the gun on the coffee table, and although she didn’t know why, she had a sudden urge to pick it up.
“I told the officers last night that I didn’t hear anything.”
The deputy scanned the room, clearly not paying any attention to a word she said.
“How well do you know the detective?”
“Not that well, I just met him yesterday,” Lizzy said. “I’m new in the neighborhood.”
“Really,” said the deputy. “Do you live alone?”
“No, I live with my fiancé.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s at work. Did you need to talk to him?”
“I’ll talk to him later.”
Lizzy looked down and noticed that the deputy hadn’t touched the glass of water. She was almost done with her glass. The deputy’s reserved manner made her nervous. She didn’t know anything. How many times did she have to say it? Why would he not leave?
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
The deputy stood up. Lizzy crept back in the recliner and glanced up at the officer’s dead expression. She looked down at the gun and once again felt the urge to grab it, this time stronger than before.
“No.”
Lizzy let out a deep sigh of relief and stood up. Thank the good Lord, she thought, it’s about damn time. The deputy was almost out the door before Lizzy realized he had forgotten to take his gun.
“Oh, sir,” she yelled. “You forgot your gun.”
The deputy walked back into the living room. He glanced over at the gun, and then turned his attention to Lizzy. “Thank you for your time,” he said, extending his hand.
Lizzy hesitated for a second, again feeling the strange urge to step back and pick up the gun—pick it up and send a bullet through the deputy’s head. Instead, she reprimanded herself for having such crazy thoughts, and reached out to shake the deputy’s hand.
2
Deputy Howers collapsed on the floor. He looked around the room trying to make some sense of where he was, and why his head hurt. He focused on a young woman standing nearby, watching with a smile on her face.
“Where am I?” he yelled. “Who are you?”
The woman didn’t answer.
A smoldering heat filled the room, or was it just him? Sweat poured down his cheeks. He took the cowboy hat off his head and fanned his face with it. Why would the woman not answer? Why would she not help him? After some labor, the deputy made it to his feet. He stumbled around the room shaking and flailing his hands in the air like a preacher filled with the spirit of the Holy Ghost.
The deputy finally boogied his way over to the couch, fell to his knees, and braced himself against the armrest. He picked up the glass of water from the coffee table (unaware of the gun pointed at his head) and quickly downed the liquid. Half of the water gushed down his chin, the other half rushed back up his throat—spewed from his mouth. He gagged, fought for breath, and re-swallowed much of the vomited water.
What is that on his arms? Blisters?
Yes! And they’re all over his face, too.
Somehow, the deputy managed enough strength to lift his head up from between his shoulders. He could barely make out the woman, and the gun in her hand.
“Pleeaassee,” he cried, his face melting.
Stretching.
Boiling.
Blisters popped. A hot clear liquid ran out.
Then a bullet entered his head from the left temple. Blood sprayed the back wall behind the couch and dripped down like red tears. The deputy hit the floor, twitched once, twice, three times, and then stopped moving.
He was dead.
Lizzy grabbed the deputy by one of his legs and dragged him out into the garage. She left him, locked the garage door, and cleaned up the splattered blood and bits of fried skin from the walls and carpet.
Shortly after, Deputy Christopher Howers burst into flames, leaving nothing in his place but a tall silhouette of ash and a half charred cowboy hat for a memorial.
3
He’s not going to believe me, Virginia thought, as she pulled into the parking lot of the Public Library.
The detective didn’t trust her, she knew it, and she also didn’t know if she should trust him. Judging by the way he carried himself on the phone, he was no doubt a veteran. He’d seen it all, experienced more than his fair share of false leads, and heard more than enough lies for one life. But with little promise of return, he had agreed to meet with her later in the evening, on his terms, and at his house. There she would tell him what she could, and then leave him to make his own determination. Hopefully, he would make the right one.
But first—
Virginia parked the black Nissan Altima around the side of the building and walked toward the front of the library. She entered the building and stopped at the checkout desk behind a teenage boy wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. The small-breasted, effeminate librarian frowned down at the book of nude photography in front of her, flipped through a few wide black and white pages, and then glanced up at the young boy.
“It’s for a school photography class,” the boy said, fearing the old nag wasn’t going to let him check out the book.
Virginia smiled and shook her head. The librarian must have noticed the smile, because she asked if Virginia was his mother. “No, I’m not.” The slender lady appeared disappointed with the answer. “I just have a question. Do you carry old newspapers?”
“Yes, but you can’t check any of them out.”
“That’s okay. How old do they go back?”
“A few decades, I believe,” the librarian said. “You can use the computers to search for old headlines and articles, as long as you have a general idea what you’re looking for.”
As she headed to the back of the library, Virginia saw a photo hung on the wall of a woman she remembered seeing on the news a few days ago. Under the title Event Planner, was the woman’s name, Carol Ackerman. Carol had burned to death at a motel not too far from here, and the night before, her daughter had met the same fate. Yesterday, Carol’s husband. The Ackerman’s were a family destroyed, all because of one little statue and the torturous thing it unleashed. The thing Virginia would soon disclose.
The photograph of Carol reminded Virginia of why she was at the library in the first place, and it wasn’t to watch the young boy proclaim his undying love for nude photography, which was certainly quite entertaining. She was here to do a little research on the detective. Curiosity drove her, mostly. Curiosity and a funny feeling that she’d heard his name, Isaac Winters, mentioned before.
Where? No clue. Somewhere.
But even given this feeling of name recognition, given her passion and drive for knowledge, Virginia still didn’t expect to find anything. No dirt stains or buried skeletons. She didn’t expect to leave the library surprised. She didn’t expect to read what she had from the front page of the Elmwood Sun, dated January 18th, 1995.
She should have stayed home.
Chapter Thirteen
1
7:48 p.m.
A knock at the door.
Isaac turned his head from the television, glanced over at the front door, and then looked down at his watch. Here we go, he thought, either Simmons or the woman.
Her name was...?
Did she even tell him?
Of course she did, he had just withdrawn it from his memory, perhaps deliberately, believing at the time that the woman who just wanted to help (as she put it), really wanted to make a fool of him. Although while the hours passed since their conversation (hours filled with much thought and little talk), that initial belief, as easy as it was to grasp, slowly began to fade away.
Over his many years of service, Isaac had become rather proficient at spotting a liar, some more obvious than others. Whether it was the man in the corner alley trying to convince him the bag of cocaine was laundry detergent, or the tearful, sympathetic father who would never do anything to hurt his child, the eyes almost always told the biggest tale of guilt. In this case, however, there were no eyes to leak a luminous trail, only a voice, at least so far anyway. Therefore, if
the woman was telling the truth, and really did know something, it would be obvious simply by her arrival, and if she was lying, which he feared but did not expect, God only knows why he invited Simmons.
Isaac turned the television off and headed to the front door. He glared through the peephole hoping to see a woman he had never seen before, but instead, saw Simmons. He opened the door and invited Simmons in.
“My guess is that she's not here yet,” said Simmons.
“She was here. She ran away when she saw you pull in.”
“Sure she did,” said Simmons. He was beginning to get used to the wisecracks. In a weird way, they made him feel special, like Isaac had accepted him. “I didn't see another car out front. Where’s Amy?”
“In her room,” said Isaac, sauntering into the kitchen. “Reading, I think. You want something to drink?”
“Sure, what you got?”
“Um,” Isaac mumbled, searching the contents of the fridge. “Soda, water.” He paused, waiting for Simmons to cut him off or for something else to catch his eye. Nothing did.
“Water, I guess.”
“I guess,” Isaac whispered. He doesn’t sound too pleased. Isaac was about to pour the glass of water, when he saw a small jar of coffee pushed behind the coffee maker. “Would you rather have coffee?”
“Is it decaf?”
Isaac forgot that Simmons had not been a detective long. “Are you kidding?”
“Coffee is fine,” Simmons said. “Sounds good.”
Isaac set the coffee maker and headed back into the living room.
“So, tell me more about this someone.”
“There’s not much to tell,” said Isaac, sitting down.
“You said it was a woman.”
“Sounded like a woman on the phone.”
“What’s her name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“But she said she could tell us what’s causing the bodies to burn.”
The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller Page 11