by Steven James
With the help of the night-light in Jacob’s room, the Illusionist could see the pictures on the hallway wall… a picture of Brenda dressed up like a giant carrot for her school play… one of her standing on the beach with a pink shovel in her hand… the whole family sitting in a photography studio… Jacob holding a largemouth bass beside a lakeside cabin with Garrett next to him.
That picture made him sick.
Garrett.
The man who’d left Alice for that sleazy little tramp six months ago, and then kept showing up again to threaten her and the kids whenever he was drunk. But he didn’t stop with the threats. One night he nearly broke Alice’s jaw.
Garrett.
The man who’d left a note on his building contractor’s desk last month telling the boss that he was through working for such a lowlife and was leaving to find work where he could be appreciated, somewhere warmer, in Florida. It wasn’t uncommon for people who worked construction to move farther south as winter rolled in, so of course his boss wouldn’t have been too surprised. He was probably just glad he didn’t have to pay that loser Garrett McMichaelson for the last two weeks of work.
Of course, the handwriting wasn’t Garrett’s.
But the Boss Man wouldn’t have noticed that.
Garrett, Garrett, Garrett.
Yet despite how the picture disturbed the Illusionist, it also made him smile slightly. Garrett wouldn’t be bothering Alice anymore. He wouldn’t be bursting into the house drunk, or pushing her down the stairs, or punching her in the face ever again. No, he wouldn’t be bothering anyone anymore. A man who would treat a woman like that didn’t deserve to exist. A man that vile didn’t deserve to be buried alive deep in the Appalachian Mountains. He didn’t deserve a death that gentle.
But the Illusionist was a compassionate man.
It was, perhaps, his only flaw.
He had made it to the end of the hallway now, and of course, there on the left, was her room. Alice’s room. The door was shut.
Walking lightly across the amber carpet that lined the hallway, the Illusionist stopped just outside her door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag he would need for the job.
His heart was beating faster now. It was always this way. Relax. Don’t get too excited.
But it was exciting. It was always exciting!
Beyond the door he could hear the soft rhythmic breathing of Alice McMichaelson, the thirty-one-year-old redheaded receptionist at the Law Offices of Brannan amp; Seeley. That’s where they’d first met. He could remember everything about that day. She was wearing a yellow dress the color of sweet lemonade. And that’s what he’d thought of when he first met her-sipping iced lemonade together beneath a spreading tree. Tall cool glasses. Warm afternoon sun. Smelling the summer. Looking into her bright laughing eyes. As they spoke that day, he’d caught the scent of her perfume as it drifted across the counter. And as he inhaled her fragrance it had become a way for him to touch her all throughout their conversation without her knowledge.
It had been exquisite.
He eased the door open and stepped into Alice’s room.
Through the faint glow of the streetlight outside the window, he could see her lying on her side, her lush red hair splayed all around her head. In the dim light, her hair took on a darker color, almost the color of dried blood. How odd that he would think of that now, how strange that he would think of blood at a time like this.
He wondered what she was wearing beneath the thin sheet draped so lightly across the curves of her body. He knew she liked to order from Victoria’s Secret. Her customer number was N672-9843-G. He knew all of these things from sorting through her garbage. She always left it out the night before it was supposed to be picked up. How fortunate for him.
He wondered what she would look like. Right now. All he had to do was pull back the covers. All he had to do was cover her mouth with one hand and grip her neck with the other. He could do that right now. Right here.
His heart began racing. Everything could happen tonight, in this moment. Just like he’d imagined it happening so many times.
Her breathing never changed. It was so soft and rhythmic. Like music to his ears.
Oh how he wanted to touch her! But he didn’t go toward her. He didn’t even move. He was in control. Always in control. And he wasn’t allowed to touch her tonight. He was here for something else.
I’ll be seeing you, Alice, he thought. I’ll be seeing you soon.
The Illusionist picked up the thing he’d come for, took one last look at Alice McMichaelson, and slipped down the hallway. He heard the hamster squeaking in its cage before he tapped the code into the security system and left the house. Then he eased back into the shadows of the sleepy neighborhood. No one noticed him. No one would ever know he was here. No one would suspect anything.
Because he was one step ahead of the world.
Watch and be amazed!
8
Friday
October 24, 2008
8 miles outside of Asheville
8:04 a.m.
Agent Jiang drove up to the hotel entrance, and I stepped out of the lobby to meet her. Ralph had told me he was going to send someone to pick me up. Great choice.
“Good morning, Dr. Bowers,” she said as I slid into the passenger seat beside her.
“Just call me Pat. I’ve never gotten used to the doctor part anyway.”
“Hmm. I would have thought you’d be proud of that.” She pulled out of the parking lot and merged into traffic. “First FBI agent in history to earn a PhD in Environmental Criminology.”
“So they say. I still prefer Pat.”
“OK, then, Pat. Sleep all right?”
“Actually, no,” I said. “Not so good.”
Why do you do that? Why can’t you just carry on a normal conversation like everyone else? Years of taking college classes at night and over the Internet while serving on the force had helped me earn a handful of degrees at a young age while simultaneously working in the field, but hadn’t helped so much with my people skills.
She glanced over at me. “You’re always honest, aren’t you Dr…. um, Pat?”
“I suppose so. At least I try to be.”
“So, let me guess,” she continued. “You’re in the business of uncovering the truth. It’s tough enough the way it is. You’d hate to make your job even harder by hiding yourself. You don’t wear masks, because you know how hard it is peeling them off other people. If you let people see you clearly, maybe they’ll take off their masks for you and make your job a little easier.”
I blinked. “Yeah. I guess so.”
She smiled.
Oh.
“So, Ralph’s new partner is a profiler,” I said. “I better watch what I say.”
She pursed her lips. “Ralph told me about your history with profilers. Don’t worry; I won’t hold it against you. I’m not petty.” She gestured to a cup of coffee in the passenger-side cup holder. “For you.”
“Thanks.” I might have meant for the coffee or for the truce, I didn’t clarify. I grabbed the cup and sniffed at the aroma drifting from the slit in the lid. Nice. Kenyan. I smelled it again. Probably from the Nyeri Highlands. I took a sip. Yes, definitely a SL28 cultivar from the volcanic slopes of the Kingongo Ridge. And somehow she’d guessed right-cream and honey, no sugar. Oh, I could get used to this.
“You chose wisely,” I said.
“Mountain Java Roasters. It’s in Asheville,” she replied. “Ralph said you’re picky about your coffee.”
“Ralph told you a lot.”
“Ralph told me enough.”
She was quiet then, and I wished I could think of something else to say to fill the space growing between us, but nothing came to mind.
We drove past a huge stone hotel nestled up against the mountains, and she said, “That’s the Stratford Hotel. Built entirely out of rocks from that mountain behind it. Six-hundred-and-fifty rooms. Four-and-a-half-foot-thick walls. Seven presid
ents have stayed there, lots of movie stars. Huge enclosed atrium with hanging gardens, pools, fountains. Even its own indoor whitewater river. Each of the main fireplaces can hold sixteen-foot-long logs.”
“And you know all this… how?”
“I took the trolley tour around town my second day here,” she said.
I smiled. “Gotcha.” The Stratford Hotel looked like a fortress. A world-class golf course lay at its base.
“And by the way, if I call you Pat, you need to call me Lien-hua.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Beyond that, Lien-hua didn’t push the small talk. Whether it was intuition or just politeness, I couldn’t tell. Either way I was thankful. It gave me a chance to think through my agenda for the day. I hoped to grab some files at the federal building and then spend the rest of the day visiting the sites of the crimes in this series. Over the years I’ve found that location and timing of a crime are two of the most important and overlooked aspects of an investigation. Site visits are vital to crime reconstruction.
We pulled to a stop in the parking lot of the federal building, and she turned to me. “It was Mindy,” she said evenly, still gripping the steering wheel with both hands, the muscles in her slim arms growing tight and tense. “The girl on the mountain. Mindy Travelca. We confirmed it last night. She was nineteen.”
I nodded slowly. At least now I knew what to call her. At least now she had a name.
As I followed Lien-hua into the federal building I thought of Mindy’s father being interviewed on TV, the tears wavering in his eyes. And the only thing I could think of to be thankful for was that I didn’t have to be the one to tell him the news.
9
Alice McMichaelson groaned, rolled over, and looked at the clock.
6:27
Good. She still had another hour to sleep before-
Wait a minute. She blinked at the clock. Looked again.
8:27.
What? That can’t be right.
She rubbed her eyes, snatched her glasses off the end table beside the bed, and slid them on.
8:27.
Blinked.
8:28.
Oh no. Not today.
“Jacob,” she yelled. “We’re late. Get up. Brenda!”
“I’m up, Mom!” Brenda’s perky voice sang from the kitchen. “I’ve been up like forever.”
“Well, you could have woken me up too!” Only after saying it did she realize how ridiculous it sounded, having your eight-year-old daughter wake you up for work.
Alice jumped out of bed and shook her head. She’d never been great at getting up in the morning anyway, and since Garrett had left her to be with that other woman it had only gotten worse. Trouble sleeping. Bad dreams. And now waking up late for her second day on the job at the bank. Not good.
The law office thing just hadn’t been going anywhere. The pay at the bank was better and so were the hours. She could spend more time with the kids. Also, she’d started taking business classes, and the bank gave her Mondays off to go back to school-but none of that would matter now if she showed up late and lost her job.
Alice decided to go without a shower, tossed off her nightgown, and yanked open her underwear drawer. “Jacob, are you up?”
“Yeah,” came the sleepy reply from across the hall.
“You don’t sound like it.”
The creak of his bed.
“I’m up.”
Clinking of a spoon and a cereal bowl from the kitchen. “Are we gonna be late for school, Mom?” Brenda had her mouth full.
“I’ll write you a note.”
“Oh,” said Brenda. “OK. I don’t want to miss library time.”
Alice pulled on some stockings. “Are you getting dressed, Jacob?”
“Yeah, Mom! I’m up, OK?”
“OK, OK.”
Alice flew to the closet, grabbed a dress, slipped it on. Shoes. Which shoes? It doesn’t matter. Just hurry. Anything. Black. No. Brown pumps. OK.
She stepped into the bathroom, held a washcloth under the faucet, rubbed it across her face, smeared on some lipstick. “Get your backpacks, kids. We need to go.”
Then back to the dresser. Hair is a mess. A mess! OK, where is it? She scanned the dresser. Where is that brush?
“Brenda, did you take my hairbrush?”
“No, Mom.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Alice shoved her jewelry box aside, opened up the top drawer to see if she’d tossed it in there, scanned the floor. Nothing.
8:39.
Err. “We need to get going, Jacob,” she called, but really she was yelling at herself. She glanced into the hallway. Brenda had wandered down the hall and was standing at attention with her pink backpack on. She’d probably been up since six. Jacob, on the other hand, would sleep until noon if he could get away with it.
Alice stomped into the bathroom. She had to brush her hair. Counter. Shelves. No brush. “Are you ready, Jake?”
“I didn’t get any breakfast.”
“Grab a granola bar or something. We need to get going. Does everybody have their homework?”
“What about our lunches?” asked Brenda.
Lunches!
“I’ll, um-” Alice grabbed her purse, pulled out a few bills. Passed them around. “Here. Buy a hot lunch today.”
Jake eyed the money. “Can I get pizza?”
“Whatever.” Alice scooted into Brenda’s room and used her daughter’s brush to calm down her hair. It still didn’t look good, but it would have to do. She’d find her brush later, no big deal.
She shooed the kids toward the door, grabbed the car keys, and herded everyone into the car, hoping she could make it to her desk before anyone noticed she was late.
The main FBI field office for North Carolina is located in Charlotte. Normally that’s where Ralph would have set up his base of operations, but in this case, because of the proximity of the crimes, he’d set up shop here at the satellite office in Asheville.
Even in the days when I used to live in the area and work as a wilderness guide, Asheville reminded me a little of Boulder, Colorado-only on a smaller scale and flavored with the music and culture of Appalachia. Just like Boulder, there’s an artsy downtown district complete with exotic import shops, dance studios and arts centers, roaming bohemian hippies, indoor rock-climbing gyms, quaint coffee shops selling organic blends, and vegetarian restaurants staffed by women who don’t believe in shaving any part of their bodies. And out along the streets you’ll find scores of weathered Jeeps and Land Rovers topped off with kayaks, skis, or mountain bikes depending on the season.
But here in Asheville you also find bearded musicians playing mountain dulcimers, banjos, and fiddles on the street corners at twilight, a large population of retirees, and high-steepled brick churches perched on nearly every street corner. Over the last twenty years the town has become a cultural melting pot where both ends of the spectrum-the religious fundamentalists and the social progressives-meet. Makes for an interesting mix at times.
“Asheville has more art galleries per capita than any other city in North America,” Lien-hua told me as we passed through the security checkpoint of the Veach-Baley Federal Complex. “And one of the top independent bookstores in the world.”
Apparently, it had been a very informative trolley tour.
Ralph had taken over a conference room just down the hall from the senator’s office on the first floor. Lien-hua and I walked in, and I looked around.
I saw that Ralph had brought in half a dozen computers, communication stations, bulletin boards, and dry erase boards. I felt right at home.
The pictures of the previous five victims were posted neatly on the wall. These weren’t the crime scene photos, these were the smiling, posed pictures where each victim looks airbrushed and radiant and full of life. Yearbook photos, family vacations, things like that. These are the pictures we use with the media. And thankfully these are the pictures people end up remembering.
Rather than the ones etched in my mind. The ones I can’t seem to forget.
I placed my computer bag on an empty desk and stared at the photos of the dead girls.
Victim number one, Patty Henderson, twenty-three, smiled slyly out of the corner of her mouth. She was blonde, blue-eyed, had perfect teeth, and looked like she was still in her teens.
Victim number two, Jamie McNaab, eighteen, was sitting on a paint-splattered wooden stool and holding a paintbrush. Jamie had a playful, girlish face and coy smile. A can of paint lay on the floor next to her. You could tell she was in a studio. The photographer had probably taken pictures of hundreds of smiling teenage girls posing beside those cans of paint.
Make sure we check on this photographer. There might be some kind of link through the studio. Maybe someone who works there or the place that processed the film or something.
Alexis Crawford, twenty, was next. She had stringy brown hair and was pretty in a dainty sort of way, but had a broken, lonely-looking smile as if life had not been easy on her. Which, in the end, it hadn’t been.
While I was looking at the pictures, Agent Brent Tucker walked over, pinned up a photo of Mindy Travelca, and then returned to his desk without saying a word.
In her picture, Mindy was smiling just like the others.
Ralph appeared and greeted me with a nod.
“When was Reinita’s picture taken?” I asked, looking back at the photos. Reinita Lawson, nineteen, was the fourth victim and the only African-American in the group. She had fine, light chocolate-colored skin and eyes brimming with dreams.
Ralph flipped open a manila file folder. “The day before she was abducted. She’d just posted it on her MySpace page. Why?”
In her picture she was flirting with the camera, her left hand leaning up against her cheek, delicately, invitingly. Her smile held a hint of seduction. She was strikingly beautiful, but something wasn’t right. I stared at the picture. I traced her smile, her eyes, her hand. Leaned close. “The day before? Are you sure?” I asked.
