The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller Read online

  “It's okay,” said Isaac, hugging her tighter. He looked over and saw that Simmons had arrived. “I’m here now.”

  “After that I don’t remember what happened,” Amy murmured. “I woke up next to the window with this bump on my head.” Isaac looked up at the small knot no bigger than a dime. “Then I crawled over to the table and tried to call 911 but my cell phone died.”

  “What happened to the man who grabbed you?”

  “He was in your office.”

  Isaac sat up and turned his head toward the office door. “Hold on a minute,” he said.

  He hurried into the office and stood over the mess scattered across the floor. His computer monitor was destroyed. It had been thrown off the desk and landed halfway across the room. There were papers from the filing cabinets thrown all about, along with broken glass from his desk lamp. An old miniature grandfather clock given to him by his father rested near his feet, dead. He walked behind the desk and saw the drawers emptied on to the floor. Little Lori Ackerman’s painting was still there (all five pieces of it crammed underneath the drawer), but something else was missing. He walked out of his office and returned to Amy at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Was this person wearing a police uniform?”

  Amy seemed surprised that her father could have guessed. “Yeah, actually he was, now that I think about it.”

  Isaac took a deep breath and looked up at Simmons eyeing him.

  “And he had a cowboy hat on.”

  Not until this moment had the feeling he expressed back at the gas station made any sense, but now he was sure that he was right. He stood up and walked over to Simmons.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, I think she’ll be all right,” Isaac said. “But guess what? She said the man who attacked her was wearing a police uniform and he had a cowboy hat on. Who does that sound like to you?” He looked over at a couple of policemen examining the broken window. “And that’s not all. He took the statue. Now how do you think Deputy Howers knew that I had it?”

  Simmons sighed. “How do we deal with this?”

  “I'm gonna find him and deal with it. This shit has gone on long enough. That son of a bitch hurt my daughter, and for that he’ll pay.”

  Isaac sat back down next to Amy.

  “He had something in his hand,” she said. “He took it from your office.”

  “I know, honey.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know," he replied. "I really don’t know.”

  6

  Isaac cleaned up the glass from the dining room floor and sealed up the window with some duct tape from the garage. He put a few towels down near the window to mop up some of the water from the carpet. Most of the officers left shortly after Isaac cleaned up the mess, and Randy was already gone before Isaac had a chance to talk to him. Simmons stayed around a little longer, talking to Isaac in the kitchen while Amy took a shower upstairs. When she was done, she changed into a pair of purple pajamas and threw the bloody nightgown in the trash.

  A half an hour later Isaac bid Simmons farewell, locked the door, and then headed up to his bedroom. He stripped off his clothes, pulled on a clean pair of red and white boxers, and was about ready to lie down on the bed, when Amy opened his bedroom door and stood in the doorway.

  “Dad.”

  Isaac thanked God that he at least had his weapon concealed. Whew, close one.

  “There was something else I forgot to tell you.”

  Isaac looked up, curious. “What’s that?”

  Amy seemed reluctant to tell him, her eyes shifted around the room. Perhaps that’s why she had waited till everyone else left the house. “Well, I don’t know how important this is, but I thought I should tell you anyway.”

  “Okay. Spill it.”

  “Just before he left, you know, with the statue. He told me to warn you to stay out of his way.”

  Chapter Nine

  1

  At a quarter past eight in the morning, a woman named Virginia Maples entered the Elmwood Police Department. She had a book in her hands, a biography called The Immortal. She had come to give the book to the detective she had seen on the news not even an hour ago.

  Yesterday investigators found yet another body, this one at the A-Plus gas station off of Highway 41. This is the fourth body in two days. The victim was in his mid to late forties and had been the manager of the gas station, though the police department has yet to issue his name. Many local residents have viewed their concerns regarding a possible killer on the loose. Phone calls and e-mails have flooded into the station, as well as the police department, but the Chief of Police Donald Stevens issued a formal reply stating that the matter is under control, and that there is nothing for the public to worry about. Still, many believe that investigators aren’t doing enough, and that more bodies will soon be discovered.

  Virginia had been paying close attention to the continuing mystery of the strange deaths occurring around town. Cause for concern, not really. But then—

  On a related note, Detective Isaac Winters, one of the investigators working the case, had his house broken into last night while he was away. The perpetrator broke through a window and assaulted his sixteen-year-old daughter. The police department has yet to identify the individual responsible but has stated that they are working on a few leads. So far, there appears to be no motive for the break in, and only one object, a small statue (at this point a crudely drawn sketch of the statue had come on the screen) that is believed to be the property of the late James Ackerman, was reported missing from the house.

  Crudely drawn, but unmistakable. Virginia knew the statue. She had photographs of it. She knew where it had come from, where it was made, and who the figure was. It was all inside the The Immortal, a book she had written.

  The receptionist was typing on a computer when Virginia approached the front desk. “How may I help you?”

  “Is Detective Winters on duty today?”

  “I’m not sure,” said the receptionist. “Hold on. Let me check.” She picked up the phone and punched in an extension. No response. Then she dialed a different extension.

  Virginia set down the book she had brought on the counter and opened the front flap. Then she took a pen from a clipboard nearby and began to write on the title page. The receptionist was now chatting with someone on the phone.

  “Okay,” she said to the person on the other end of the line. “Not a problem. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and turned back to Virginia. “I’m sorry. Detective Winters is not in at the moment.”

  Virginia set the pen back on the clipboard and closed the book. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Was he expecting you?”

  “No. I just needed to talk with him. Do you know if he’ll be in later?”

  “I really don’t know. He's had some personal issues. Perhaps I could leave a message for him?”

  “Yes, if you could give him this.” Virginia picked up the book and handed it to the receptionist.

  “What kind of book is it?”

  “It’s a biography.”

  “Oh I see,” she said. “Well, I’ll be sure he gets it.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  And that was that.

  She reached out.

  Chapter Ten

  1

  Isaac had been on the phone for most of the morning talking to Simmons, and the high school principal. This time, however, the Chief of Police Donald Stevens had called him, mostly just to see how he was holding up.

  “What time did you say the service was again?”

  “Two o’clock,” Stevens said. “At Rose Hill Cemetery.”

  Sixteen years ago, Isaac had buried Linda there. His plot was next to hers, waiting for him.

  “But like I said, if you decide not to come I’ll understand. By no means should you feel obligated.”

  “I don’t,” said Isaac. “But I’ll be there. A little fresh air couldn’t hurt. It’ll be a good chance for me
and Amy to get out of the house for a couple of hours.”

  “Sounds good,” said the chief. “Oh, and I almost forgot. A woman came in this morning asking for you.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Don’t know. But she brought you a book.”

  “Okay. Did she say anything?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t speak with her. My understanding is that she just wanted to give you the book. Then she left.”

  “Weird.”

  “Yeah. It’s on your desk.”

  “I’ll pick it up before the service”

  Isaac hung up the phone and hurried out of the house. He walked across the lawn and fished the morning newspaper from a two-inch puddle of water. On his way back to the house, as he brushed away the water from the plastic newspaper covering, he noticed that Randy’s red Ford F-150 wasn’t in the driveway.

  Amy met her father at the front door. “Are we going to a funeral?”

  Isaac passed by his daughter and set the damp newspaper down on the kitchen counter. “Yes.” Then he tried to squeeze some of the water out of the newspaper and into the sink.

  “Whose funeral?”

  “The two officers who died yesterday.”

  “In the crash?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were their names? Did you know them?”

  Isaac gave up on salvaging the newspaper and tossed it into the trash. “Deputy Keith Randall and Deputy Jonathan Bryant. And no, not really.”

  “What time are we leaving?”

  Isaac looked at his watch. It was a quarter past twelve. “Well, the service is at two.” He tried to guess how far Rose Hill Cemetery was from the precinct, knowing that there would surely be a police escort of the caskets (as well as the families), and that the motorcade would probably originate from the department. “We’ll leave at one,” he finally said.

  Amy went upstairs to get ready, while Isaac headed to his office across the living room. The destruction of last night looked much worse in the natural light. He picked up his computer monitor from the floor and carefully set it back on the desk. He wanted to start it up to see if it would still work but didn’t feel like going through all the trouble of reconnecting the ports. After cleaning up some papers and hooking the desk drawers back on to their rails, Isaac left the office and went upstairs to shower.

  Thirty minutes later, he hustled down the stairs wearing a dark blue suit and tie, and holding a pair of Oxfords in one hand. He dropped the shoes off in front of the couch and headed into the kitchen. He grabbed the cordless from the wall and dialed Randy.

  Lizzy answered. Her southern accent sounded even thicker over the phone.

  “Lizzy, this is Isaac next door.”

  “Isaac,” she said, surprised. “How ya doing? I heard about last night. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not the first time my house has been broken into, though you’d think by now I would have built a cage around the damn thing.” Lizzy laughed a little, an uncertain laugh. “Anyway, I called because I wanted to talk to Randy.”

  “Oh, he’s at work.”

  “What time do you think he’ll be home?”

  “Probably around seven. Do you want me to have him call you?”

  “No, I’ll just call back sometime after seven.”

  “Great, I’ll let him know when he gets home.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I hope everything is all right. Do you know who did it yet?”

  “Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Lizzy. “I was wondering if I should be worried.”

  “No, there’s nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine.”

  2

  Shortly after one o’clock, a yellow taxi turned on to Hampton Lane and passed a black Charger waiting at the end of the road for the turn of the light. The cab drove down the street and stopped in front of mailbox number 7882. A faded tan Corolla was in the driveway, but no red truck. The passenger in the back seat opened the cab door and stepped out on to the sidewalk. He tossed his wallet through the window, landing on the cab drivers lap. The grubby cabbie looked down at the wallet, confused, and then looked out at his fare. The officer nodded his approval, lighting up the cabbies face like bitter sunshine. The taxi turned around at the following street and dashed back down Hampton Lane just in time to clear the yellow light.

  It took Deputy Howers over twenty minutes to reach Hampton from home, and by the look of the street, he showed up right on time. The neighborhood was quiet. Most people were at work, some were mourning the dead, and yet others felt safe to stay home. Oh, what a mistake, he thought, gazing up at the quaint tan house in front of him.

  What a terrible mistake.

  3

  Elmwood Police Department.

  Isaac sat behind his desk scanning the solid black cover of a book called The Immortal. Simmons stood across from him reading a note that was left with the book. The note simply said that a woman came in this morning and dropped off the book for him to read.

  "What's this about?" Simmons asked, setting the note on the desk.

  Isaac was now flipping through the pages. "Beats me."

  "Where's your daughter? She not come?"

  "Amy's around somewhere. Check the bathroom."

  "No, that's okay. I was just curious how she was doing?"

  Isaac set the book down flat on the desk and stared at the cover again. "I suppose she's as good as can be expected. Neither one of us got much sleep last night." He opened the cover. On the backside someone had scribbled in pen any questions? call me and left a number. He held the book up and showed Simmons. Then he picked up his office phone from its cradle, found an open line, and dialed the number. A woman picked up after one ring.

  “Hi, this is Detective Isaac Winters. I got the book you left.”

  "Great. I'm glad you decided to call."

  "I have questions."

  "I figured you would. So you read the book?"

  Isaac tried to associate the female voice with someone he knew, but nobody immediately came to mind. “First question, who are you?”

  “My name is Virginia Maples. I understand you’ve been investigating the—"

  "Second question, what's with the book? And no I have not read it. I'm a little stressed for time at the moment. So if we could keep this brief."

  “I'm sorry. I promise my intention isn't to waste your time. I’m not exactly sure how much you know. That's what the book is about. I think it might contain some useful information that can help you in the investigation."

  “This book can tell me what's causing these bodies to burn?”

  “Sort of. If you could free up a time when we could meet, I think I may be able to explain it to you. It's a lot to say over the phone.”

  Isaac now felt like the woman was trying to pull him into a trap, tempting him with a piece of cheese only to leave his head locked between a metal brace and a wooden block.

  "And I won't lie, it might sound crazy at first," Virginia continued. "You'll have to trust me."

  Isaac smiled and sucked back a laugh. Even if I knew you, I probably still wouldn’t trust you, he thought. She could be playing with his head, messing with an already messed up investigation.

  “Well, I’m going to be leaving shortly for a funeral, but I could free up some time this evening if that's fine."

  "That's perfect," Virginia replied. "What time? Are we meeting at the police station?"

  "How about eight? And no, I'd rather not meet at the station. I have to look over my daughter. Would you mind coming over to my house?"

  “Sure.”

  Isaac gave her his address. "I'll see you at eight then. I have to go."

  “Okay, I'll be there. And thank you for giving me this opportunity to explain myself, detective. All I want to do is help, or try to help. Hopefully it's not too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll understand when I get there."

  Ch
apter Eleven

  1

  The motorcade to the cemetery was one of the longest Isaac had seen in recent memory, and miles longer than that of Linda’s sixteen years earlier. The reason, of course, was that in this case, there were two of Elmwood’s finest involved, and most of the department (all that weren’t currently on duty, and some that were) came to pay their respects to their fallen comrades. It was the part of the job that no one enjoyed but everyone appreciated.

  Most of the department (including Chief Stevens) was under the assumption that the two deaths of their own yesterday morning were directly attributed to the actions of James Ackerman; some even believed James deliberately orchestrated an attack on the department in an effort to cripple the ones who tried to cripple him. Yet, if there was one man in the department that knew better, it was Isaac. He had hated James just as they did, probably more, but last night Isaac had realized that although James’s living and breathing body may have been present in the truck at the time of the collision, James was already dead inside.

  Isaac held his daughter’s hand as they walked from the car up the hill to the burial site. The graves spread out across the hill looked like crops in a line, each one representing a frame of life to those who peacefully lay six feet under. This was their place of recognition, their place of remembrance. Each headstone told its own story, and even though years of weathered decay had made some of the headstones unreadable, the spirit of those they symbolized would never fade.

  Isaac stopped at the top of the hill and looked to the east. Far off in the distance, past the towering cement caskets and the monumental statue heads (reserved for those who could afford them, or those who thought they deserved them), Linda’s headstone rose out from underneath a large pine. A special bouquet of white roses waited in the car. After the ceremony, Isaac had planned to give the flowers to her, and imagine her face light up.