The Pawn

by Steven James

  “What’s Wally scared of?”

  Brenda hugged her stuffed walrus tighter. “Monsters.”

  For just a moment Alice considered trying to convince her daughter that there were no such thing as monsters, but she knew it wouldn’t work. She’d tried that before. She’d done what all parents do, opening the closet doors, flipping up the bedcovers to look beneath the bed. “See? No monsters. Now go to sleep.” But it never worked. All kids know monsters can turn invisible, so showing them empty closets never does any good. And besides, she didn’t have enough energy for all of that tonight. She needed a new approach.

  Alice got up and walked over to her daughter. “Monsters, huh. Well, maybe Wally would feel better if he went to sleep in a room where there are no monsters.”

  Brenda looked confused. “Where?”

  “Mommy’s bedroom. No monsters are allowed in there when I’m studying my books. It’s a rule.”

  “It is?”

  Alice led her daughter down the hallway. “Of course.”

  “Who made it?”

  Alice tried to think fast. “Well, the angels did, honey. Monsters are no match for angels, you know that.”

  They’d reached the bedroom. “Yeah,” said Brenda. “Everyone knows that.”

  Alice pulled back the edge of the covers. “You see, the angels made a rule long ago that mommies get special protection when they’re trying to take good care of their children. No monsters allowed.”

  Brenda was thoughtful for a moment. “That’s a good rule.”

  “Yes it is. Now climb in.”

  She pulled the covers up to her daughter’s chin.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there a rule about daddies too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  After a slight pause. “I think sometimes Daddy let the monsters in.”

  Alice felt her heart hammering. “You know, sweetheart,” Alice said as calmly as she could, “all you have to remember is that the angels are watching over you tonight and the monsters are all far, far away. Now, good night.”

  “Good night, Mommy.”

  Alice gave her daughter a kiss on the forehead, and as she was closing the door, she heard Brenda telling Wally, “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Mommy says the monsters can’t get in.”

  Then Alice went back to the living room, thinking of Garrett. She couldn’t help it. At first he’d been so kind, so gentle, so loving. He’d been a good dad, really, teaching Brenda to read, taking Jacob fishing. Being there for them in the evenings, leaving work at work. But then he started drinking, and it all turned upside down. Everything changed. She tried not to think about the times the monster had shown up in her bedroom. Tried only to remember the other times.

  Failed.

  How was it possible for an angel and a monster to live in the same man?

  And with that question burrowing through her mind, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get any more studying done that night.

  As we pulled into the mall parking lot I turned to Lien-hua. “Governor Taylor is something else, isn’t he?” I spoke softly enough so the driver wouldn’t hear.

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “And he knows something. I don’t see how he could be involved in this case, but there’s something more going on here. He’s hiding something.” And then, anticipating my next question, she added, “Going to that luncheon gives us a chance to find out more about his interest in this case.”

  She just continued to impress me. “Good thinking,” I said. “By the way, anyone important on the phone back there?”

  She pointed to the man approaching the car. “Just Ralph. Nothing vital.”

  Our driver pulled to a stop, and we climbed out of the car. After the driver left, Lien-hua filled Ralph in on our meeting with Governor Taylor. He grunted a little, nodded, seemed to take it all in stride. “All right,” he announced. “I have no idea what all that was about, but if we can keep him on our side it can only help. Let’s put this thing to bed for the night and get some sleep.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Hey, listen, can I borrow your phone? I need to make an important call. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”

  Ralph grumbled but handed it over. “Battery’s almost dead. The charger is back in Asheville—”

  “No problem.”

  “OK. Just don’t ‘drop’ it.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Thanks.”

  Ralph and Lien-hua decided to stay the night in Charlotte and bring the local police department up to speed while I flew back to Asheville to get an early start in the morning.

  While the chopper pilot did his safety check, I called Terry Wilson, a friend in the NSA who’d worked with me on the satellite-mapping project. I caught him just as he was shutting off the light to go to bed. After a quick greeting, I jumped right into it. “Terry, I need some discreet information on Sebastian Taylor, the governor of North Carolina.”

  “When you say discreet, do you mean discreet or discreet?”

  “I mean I don’t want anyone else to know you’re poking around. Anyone.”

  “Oh, that kind of discreet.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “It’s what I do best. When do you need it by?”

  “What do you think?

  A sigh. “Yesterday.”

  “Close enough.”

  “All right. Let me see what I can do. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ll owe me for this.”

  “I always do.”

  I dozed a little on the flight back to Asheville and took a taxi to the hotel. Just as I walked into my hotel room, the phone rang. I couldn’t believe it; the day seemed like it would never end. I picked it up. “Yeah?” I said wearily.

  “Patrick Bowers.” Voice distortion software. I couldn’t even tell if the voice was male or female. “Patrick Bowers, PhD.”

  “Who is this?”

  A short, venomous laugh. “He is okay, I trust?”

  It’s him. It’s the killer. The Yellow Ribbon Strangler!

  “An inch over and you’d have killed him on the spot,” I said, scrambling to think of ways to keep him on the phone.

  “Yes, of course. But you and I both know I didn’t intend to kill him—although I could have. I had a clear shot at you too, Dr. Bowers.”

  Considers himself an excellent shot, maybe a sniper. Ex-military. Check gun clubs, gun shows. Narcissist, enjoys controlling others, dominating them. Arrogant. My thoughts raced ahead of me as I tried to stay focused on the conversation.

  “Where’s Jolene? Is she OK?”

  “Oh, Patrick, I was happy to see that you’re helping with this case. It raises the stakes, don’t you think?”

  Even though the voice was altered, I guessed from the underlying speech patterns and pauses that he grew up in the mid-south or somewhere along the southern coast. Maybe New Orleans.

  “Jolene. I asked about Jolene—”

  “Forget the girl, Dr. Bowers. You can’t have her.” He laughed again. “I saw her first. It’s too late for her.”

  I was breathing faster now, getting angry. “What do you mean, it’s too late?” Is she dead? Did he kill her already?

  “Forget her!” he continued. “You need to worry about me now.”

  I tried to conceal my growing rage, tried to control myself. “Then who are you? Tell me your name, and we can talk this through.”

  “Please, Patrick, don’t patronize me. Call me the Illusionist.”

  “The Illusionist? You’re a magician, then. Like Houdini?”

  “I’m not like anyone. But you should know that already. You and that stepdaughter of yours, Tessa Bernice Ellis.” A slow chill snaked its way down my spine. Before I could respond he finished by saying, “Welcome to the game. I’ll talk to you again soon.”

  “Don’t hang—”

  But it was too late. The line was dead.

 
He knew about Tessa? How did he know about Tessa? I frantically dialed my parents and told them to check on her. Now.

  A moment later, after they had, I demanded they go to a hotel for the night. Even though they were in Denver, I couldn’t take any chances. After a few minutes of arguing, they said they would. I made them promise. Tessa would hate me all the more for doing it, but I didn’t care. Somehow this guy knew about her. That meant she was in danger.

  Then I transcribed the conversation as closely as I could get it word for word. I called the Bureau to see if they could trace the call, but they didn’t come up with anything—not that I really thought they would. I looked over my notes of the conversation again to see if there were any holes, any things I’d missed.

  He knows me, who I am, what I do. Is he someone from my past? He said, “You need to worry about me now.” Why? Is he after me? Am I the pawn?

  “I’ll get you,” I said aloud. I realized I was clenching my fists again. This time, though, I didn’t try to relax them. It felt good to be on fire on the inside. To be back in the game.

  I tried to tell myself he was lying, that the girl was okay, that Jolene would be all right and we could still save her if we hurried.

  But it didn’t work. I knew it was too late. She was already dead.

  21

  The Illusionist let Jolene hear the entire conversation. He especially liked the look on her face when he said it was too late to save the girl. He hung up the phone and smiled.

  He untied the gag and expected her to scream, but she just whimpered instead, “Please, don’t hurt me, mister. Please.” Her voice was raspy, her eyes swollen and bloodshot from the pepper spray. “I’ll do whatever you want,” she was crying, blurting out the words, shaking. He liked that. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Just please, let me go.” Oh, he liked that very much.

  He put a finger up to her lips. “Shh, now. Quiet, Jolene. I know you will.” Her wrists were bound to the chair she was seated on, but he held her trembling fingers between his nonetheless. To comfort her.

  Outside the cabin, darkness had long since fallen over the mountains. She might scream, but it wouldn’t matter. The walls were soundproof. Besides, they were miles away from the nearest town.

  He let go of her hands and walked over to the counter to sip at his coffee. It was late, but he expected to be up for a while. “Do you know how many people are born each day, Jolene?”

  “What?”

  “387,834 people, Jolene. And every day 153,288 people die. That means that every second 4.5 people are born, and 1.8 people die. Every year, the population of the world grows by more than 78 million people. And do you know how many of those people are remembered after they die?”

  “Please, mister.” She began to sob softly, but he paid no attention to it.

  “Only a handful, Jolene. You live, you die, the world forgets your name. Life is a cosmic joke. But I’m going to make you memorable. Your name will become famous. Your face will become immortal on television and the Internet.”

  He walked toward her.

  “On August 31, 1888, a prostitute named Mary Ann Nichols died at the hands of Jack the Ripper, the world’s most infamous serial killer. She was his first. Today, there are dozens of websites in her honor, a fan club, twenty-two songs have been written in memory of her. She lives on. Her name will stay alive forever.”

  Jolene trembled. “Mister, please—”

  “Jack the Ripper was never found, Jolene. Today there are over a hundred suspects. Each has found his place in history.” He chuckled slightly. “And despite what some people have claimed, the verdict is still out. No one knows for sure who he was. We don’t remember the dead, Jolene, unless they’ve done something unforgettable.” He stroked her hair gently. “Or unless something unforgettable has been done to them.” He leaned over to gaze into her trembling eyes. “Oh yes. I am going to give you a gift, my dear. The gift of immortality. I’m going to give you a place in the history of an anonymous world. People will remember you for decades.”

  “Mister, I’ll do anything.”

  He set down the cup and walked over to his tools. “Have you heard of Boethius, Jolene?”

  The girl was crying now, making it harder to carry on the conversation. The Illusionist didn’t like that. He picked up a knife from the tray—this one was one of his favorites—and walked back to her side of the room.

  “I said, have you heard of Boethius?”

  She shook her head no, getting more wide-eyed the closer he came.

  “He was a Roman philosopher in 480–524 AD who was falsely accused of treason and lost his place in the senate. He was exiled to a cave until his execution. He had everything one day and lost everything the next. In his moment of deepest agony and confusion, he didn’t turn to the gods. Do you know who he turned to?”

  Silence.

  He held his bracelet up to her face. Inscribed on the metal band was a single word. “Sophia,” he read it to her. “The Greek word for wisdom. Boethius turned to philosophy, Jolene. And she taught him a priceless lesson. A lesson that set him free. Do you know what that lesson was?”

  Her eyes seemed to light up when he said the word free. “Please let me go. I won’t tell.”

  Once again he ignored her. “She taught him that fame and wealth are weak gods because they are so fickle. The best teacher, the greatest instructor to lead us to true wisdom, is pain.”

  “Oh no. Please. No.”

  “Oh yes. Suffering is the most faithful teacher, Jolene, for pain leads us to clarity, and clarity leads us to truth. Do you agree with Boethius, Jolene?”

  “I don’t know.” She was shaking.

  “Oh, I think you do know. I think you know that Boethius is right, but you’ve spent your whole life telling yourself that happiness leads to fulfillment. Right? Am I right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Please—”

  “Aren’t I!”

  “Yes.” He watched her stare at the knife he was twirling only inches from her face.

  He leaned closer. “You’re answering the questions so much better now. I’m very proud of you. So I have one last question for you—do you think I agree with Boethius?”

  She shook slightly, he could see the fear in her eyes. A whisper of terror rippled through her. “Yes.”

  “Once again you are correct, Jolene. And now I’m going to give you a great gift.”

  “You’re going to let me go?”

  “Oh no. I’m afraid not. The gift I wish to give you is twofold.”

  “No—”

  “I’ll give you enlightenment and then immortality. And what is the road to enlightenment?”

  “No—”

  He cut her then, the first cut of the night, slashing the knife quickly and deeply into her forearm, opening an angry red wound. She let out a sharp gasp. Saw the blood leaking out. Started to hyperventilate.

  He wiped the blade clean against his pants leg. Yes, he had special plans for her. Not just the six wounds of the other women. Many, many more.

  “What is the pathway to enlightenment, Jolene?”

  “Pain.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Pain, pain, pain.” Her words sputtered away into strangled sobs.

  “Yes. You’re right again. I’m very proud of you. Now, let the lesson begin.”

  And he was right. She did scream. Before the lesson had barely begun.

  22

  Tessa Ellis waited until she heard the sound of slow rhythmic breathing coming from the adjoining hotel room. Then she waited another couple of minutes just to make sure.

  Her grandparents—actually her stepdad’s parents—had at least gotten her a separate room at the hotel. She’d demanded that much. There was no way she was going to sleep in the same room with them. Uh-uh. No way.

  “We’ll get a room with two beds,” Martha had offered as she picked up her car keys. “Patrick said it would be best.”

  Patrick said?
Oh, well if Patrick said it, then it must be true. If Patrick cares so much about what’s best for everyone, why isn’t he here?

  “I’m staying home,” Tessa said. “And I don’t care what Patrick says!”

  “Please,” Conor said gently. He’d always seemed to get along with her better than Martha did. “It’ll just be for tonight.” He sounded patient but tired.

  “I need my privacy!”

  And then he surprised her by agreeing. “Yes, yes. Of course you do, Tessa.”

  She stopped yelling long enough to see what he would do.

  Martha Bowers was staring at her husband. He handed her purse to her. “Of course she does, Martha. She needs her privacy. We’ll get two rooms. Won’t we?” And Martha had given in with a sigh.

  The rooms were joined by a door that Conor had said needed to stay open “just a crack; just for safety’s sake. I know you understand.”

  No, she didn’t, but what did that matter. “Fine. Whatever,” she said at last.

  But it wasn’t necessary; it’s not like she was in any danger or anything. After all, there were two cops parked outside the hotel in an unmarked sedan. That was probably also the work of her stepdad, Patrick Bowers. Mr. FBI . . . Mr. Serial Killer Hunter . . . Mr. I’ll Be Gone Again This Weekend But You’ll Be Fine With My Parents . . . It would be just like him to call in two cops to help protect her but not do a thing to come back home himself.

  She’d noticed them right away. Over the last year she’d gotten good at identifying cops. When Conor was leading her to the hotel she banged her fist on the window of the cops’ car. One of them was so startled he spilled his soda all over himself. That was great. She gave them both the finger. That was even better.

  Tessa had listened to Martha and Conor talking in whispers for nearly an hour before they finally slipped into sleep. They’d probably been talking about her, but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t make out the words.

  Now she listened again, straining against the darkness, but all she heard were the soft sounds of sleep coming from the adjoining hotel room.

  Tessa sat up and slid the blanket to the side.