by Steven James
I knew what it was. Of course I did.
Christie’s letter.
I’ve carried her note with me ever since Valentine’s Day morning when I found it tucked under my pillow less than two weeks before she died. And now, like an addict, I reached for it. I knew what it would do to me if I read it, but I couldn’t help myself. I still read it nearly every day. Even though it feels like someone is pulling nettles through my chest. Because in some strange way, the pain seems to help.
At least I tell myself it does.
I sat down, unfolded the crinkled paper, and let my eyes drink in the words that I already knew by heart.
February 14, 2008 Dearest Patrick, I can still see the lights of the New York City skyline from my window. And when I look past them I can still see you for the first time, every time. Patrick, please don’t ask why. Don’t try to solve this. I’m not one of your cases. There isn’t an offender you can track down or a crime you need to solve. It’s just the way things are. Our lives are brief, momentary. I see that now. Don’t be angry that my moment is going to be over before yours. Please-I’m not trying to be brave. I’m scared, of course I am. And confused and sad and lost. It hurts so bad to know my biggest dream of all won’t come true-the dream of growing old with you. But I can’t control any of that. All I can control is what I do with each moment, with this moment, right now. I can either be bitter or grateful. It’s the choice we all face, I guess, though I never really thought of it that way before. So I’ve made my choice. I’m going to be thankful-for this moment and for every moment that I have left with you. I know things won’t be easy. I wish things were different, too. But you’ll be great with Tessa. She really loves you. She does, even though it’s hard for her to say so. And she needs you right now. I know you’ll be able to help each other through this. Don’t run from the risk of loving her. Please. Remember, our choices decide who we are, but our loves define who we’ll become. Tell her that, OK? Tell her it’s something her mom wanted her to know. And don’t blame God, Pat. Death was never his idea. But life is. Please remember that. Life has always been his idea. I can still see the lights of New York City reflected in your eyes. I’ll always see them. I’ll be watching them glitter tonight. And always. I love you, my big scruffy Valentine.
Forever yours,
Christie
By the time I finished reading it, my fingers were trembling. Tears blurred my vision. Her words lacerated my heart and also seemed to comfort me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, even though I knew there wasn’t anyone there to hear me. Maybe I was apologizing to her. I don’t know. Maybe I was saying it to all the women, the girls, the little boys I’ve been unable to help, unable to save. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I stared down at the note and noticed my hands. My wedding ring was still clinging to my finger; I’d never taken it off. I’d kept her clothes too, bringing them with me to Denver. Her jewelry box rested beside my bed.
Her shadows were all around me. Hints of her followed me everywhere. But she wasn’t here. Only her ghost was-lurking in the corner of my life. “I don’t need anything except hope,” wrote Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, “which I can’t find by looking backwards or forwards, so I suppose the thing is to shut my eyes.” Sometimes I felt like shutting my eyes like Zelda did in the burning wing of that sanitarium sixty years ago. Closing them and never opening them again.
“Don’t run from the risk of loving her,” wrote Christie.
I am so, so sorry.
I put the note away, but I couldn’t seem to put Christie away. A counselor once told me that depression is caused by anger turned inward.
I must have a whole lot of anger.
Maybe against God for letting it happen, maybe against myself. I don’t know.
So one more thing before going to the federal building. I had to see her face.
I flipped open my laptop and scrolled through her pictures. The beautiful ones of her laughing and alive, just like the pictures of the dead girls we share with the media.
And with every picture came a feeling, a memory-the springy taste of her lipstick, the curve of her thigh, the twinkle that just kept dancing in her eyes even after her laughter had faded away, the way her dusty brown hair turned blond in certain light… playing backgammon at that coffeehouse, watching a shy spring rain… the way she would get close-a little too close-when she had something important to tell me… These were the images I chose to remember even though in the end her hair fell out and her cheeks sank in and her lips became dry and narrow and bloodless.
I chose to publish only the beautiful images in my heart. I guess you can’t help but do that when you love someone.
Why did I put myself through this? Why couldn’t I move on? Why didn’t I just delete the pictures?
Because that would be like deleting her.
And I didn’t have the heart to do that.
Only God could be that cruel, a voice inside of me said. And I wondered if it was the anger or the loneliness talking. I guess it didn’t matter. Either way, it was still me.
I folded up the computer and headed for the door.
Time to get back to work.
Why didn’t he just die? thought the Illusionist. Why couldn’t Patrick Bowers have just wandered around that house for a few more seconds? It would have made things so much easier.
The game would have been over in such a glorious, memorable way. Now, the plans for tonight needed to be altered. And Alice would have to wait until tomorrow for their little rendezvous.
It was too bad. But he could wait. He was in control. Besides, tonight held its own promises, its own possibilities. And as he thought of these things, an idea came to him unbidden, an idea he could not shake.
The Illusionist smiled and picked up the phone.
49
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid’s phone rang. His private line. “Hello?”
“You got it mostly right, Aaron,” said the voice on the other end. “The chess pieces didn’t quite match, though. And the knot in the rope was tied on the wrong side of the neck.”
“Who is this?”
“At first I wasn’t sure it was you, but when the second body showed up, I knew it couldn’t be anyone else.”
“Sevren?”
A harsh laugh. “I’ve used a lot of names over the years.”
After a brief pause. “Yes. I’m not surprised.”
“A name is just another kind of mask.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
Another pause. “It wasn’t easy to find you, Aaron.”
“I’ve been trying to keep a low profile.”
“I’ll always remember those months we had together at the group home. You remember the first time? In the forest?”
“The cat?”
“Yes. What I did with the pocket knife?”
“I remember.”
“I’ve gotten much better since then, Aaron.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“What is it you want, Sevren?”
“I want you to stop interfering in my game. Or maybe I want you to enter it with both feet. I haven’t decided.”
“So. The two girls.”
“Yes. You used my handiwork to hide your own. You remembered from those afternoons in the forest, with the animals.”
“There won’t be any others. I promise.”
“Mmm. Well, before you cross your heart and hope to die, I have to say, I think you used me. And I think you might owe me a favor.”
Aaron should have seen it coming. Sevren had somehow tracked him down. He could tell the authorities who Aaron really was, and completely disrupt the family’s plans. Everything could be lost. Aaron decided he needed to evaluate this situation very carefully. “What kind of favor do you want? Money?”
“No, Aaron, not for me. I want something money can’t buy. I want you to help me tell a little story to a certain FBI agent who just doesn’t know when to die.”
“I’m listening.”
And when Kincaid found out that the agent was in North Carolina, he realized it was destiny after all that was bringing them together.
And he was always glad to fulfill that.
50
As I crossed the street toward the federal building I noticed that the crime-scene investigation unit had finished with Margaret’s car. Nothing remained in the parking lot to tell the world a dead body had been there earlier in the day except for a discarded wisp of yellow police tape scurrying across the blacktop. I wondered how the CSIU team was doing with the remains of Grolin’s house and that cave. Probably had to hire a local vertical rescue and assist team to help them rappel into the cavern.
As I looked around the parking lot, I glanced back at my hotel and noticed the curtains flutter shut in a room on the second floor.
Wait a minute.
My room was on the second floor.
I counted the windows.
No maids would be in there this late in the day.
Someone was in my room.
For a split second I thought about charging into the federal building and trying to round up some help, but I discarded the idea immediately. No time. Whoever’s in my room will be long gone by the time we arrive.
I sprinted back across the street, bolted up the stairs to the second floor, and whipped out my SIG.
I opened the stairwell door and scanned the hall. No one.
Eased down the hallway.
Room 231.
Someone followed you this morning on your way into town.
Room 229… 227… 225…
Now someone’s in your hotel room.
223…221…219…
I leveled my gun.
… 217.
The door was closed, locked. I pressed my ear against it, listened. Yes, movement. Someone was definitely inside.
I slid my key into the lock and slowly nudged the door open. I couldn’t see the entire bedroom, just the entryway. Whoever was in there was around the corner out of sight, opening and closing drawers.
I cleared my throat. “I’m a federal agent. It’s been a really long day, and I’m holding a very wicked gun. So don’t move.” I don’t think those are the exact words we’re supposed to use, but it seemed to do the trick.
The sound of the drawers stopped.
“Do something stupid, and you’ll end up dead,” I said.
I heard whoever it was mumble something.
“Step out slowly.” I eased forward, steadied my gun. “Hands in the air.”
A tall, angular man, mid-forties, with a tangled sallow beard and big ears stepped into view. “Don’t shoot!” His hands were shaking. “I’m an investigator!”
“What?”
He reached for his pocket.
“Hands up! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He froze. “I’m just trying to get my wallet.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Lie down. And watch those hands.”
He lay on the floor. I smelled something sharp. Urine. The guy had wet his pants. Not quite what I would have expected from our killer.
He was facedown on the carpet now, his hands spread.
“Was that you this morning following me in your car?”
He nodded.
I reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped it open. “Reginald Trembley, private investigator? That you?”
He nodded.
Don’t be stupid, Pat, play it safe. Remember, the killer knows how to get close. To gain trust.
I pulled out some plastic cuffs and slipped them around his wrists, yanked them tight. He grunted, but I didn’t care. “This is just so we can talk without me having to hold a gun in your face the whole time. All right?”
He nodded again.
I holstered my gun and quickly frisked him to see if he was packing a piece or if he’d taken anything from my room. He seemed clean. I helped him up and sat him on the bed, then asked him, “So who are you working for? What are you doing in my room?”
He seemed to have regained some of his courage since emptying his bladder. He sneered at me. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I’d expected as much. “OK. I completely understand.” I picked up the room phone and dialed a number. “Yeah, Dante, it’s Pat. I’m at the hotel: room 217. Caught someone rummaging through my things. I want you to come over. He doesn’t want to talk. Bring the stuff.” I hung up the phone.
A wave of fear washed over Reginald Trembley’s face. “Who’s Dante?” he said. “What’s ‘the stuff’?”
I walked into the bathroom, pulled down the shower curtain, then returned to Trembley.
“Dante’s a friend.” I glanced at my watch. “He was right across the street. I’d say you have about two minutes before he gets here. If I were you, I’d talk now. Because when Dante gets here, things are going to get messy. Dante is really good at his job.”
I laid the shower curtain on the floor in front of Trembley and spread it smooth. His lips were quivering. The guy was about to cry. “Bethanie’s parents hired me,” he said.
“Bethanie? Bethanie Dixon?”
He nodded.
I went for some towels. “Why?”
“They think she was murdered. What’s that shower curtain for?”
“She was murdered. It’s to protect the carpet.”
“No, by the cult members from the group she was with out West.”
I returned with the towels. “Cult? I thought she was studying in a private college in New Mexico.”
“That’s the line they used to cover things up, to tell the family members.” He eyed the shower curtain spread out at his feet. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m not going to, Dante is. What else? You have ninety seconds.”
Trembley’s rate of delivery began to improve dramatically. “Bethanie joined this group. I’m not sure who the leader is; everyone just calls him the Father. He claims he was there at Jonestown, you know Jonestown?”
I got the iron out of the closet. “I’ve heard of it. Keep going.”
“Claims he was there as a kid and survived. I don’t know if it’s true or not. You don’t need that iron, OK? I’m talking, all right?”
I plugged it in.
“Her parents wanted me to get her out of the group; they were gonna sue, I think.” He was talking so fast now I could barely keep up. “But then he let her go, and she turned up dead. They’re pretty sure his group did it, but the cops said it was a serial killer.”
“What do you know about this guy they call the Father?” I glanced at my watch. “One minute.”
“I don’t know, I swear! I’m not really that good. I didn’t find out very much, and then when she ended up dead and-”
The door swung open.
Trembley was shaking. “No, no, please.” He closed his eyes.
Sheriff Dante Wallace walked in munching on a cheeseburger. “What’s going-what do we have here?” he said. “Reginald Trembley?”
Trembley opened his eyes. “Sheriff Wallace? You’re Dante?” Trembley looked at me. “He’s Dante?”
I watched in disbelief as Dante leaned over and cut the cuffs off Reginald’s wrists. “You two know each other?”
“Get outta here, Reggie,” Sheriff Wallace said. “I don’t want you messin’ up this investigation. You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.” Reginald Trembley nodded, rose, and stumbled out the door. For his sake I hoped he had a change of clothes in his car.
“What’s going on?” I said. “He broke into my room.”
“He’s a snitch.” Dante looked at me. I was still holding the iron. “What’s all this here stuff on the floor?”
“I thought I might spill something,” I said. “He’s a private investigator and a snitch?”
“Look, Trembley knows everybody. He’s been on our bankroll for the last two years. This region is one of the main drug corridors to DC and New York City up I75 or I95 from Florida, across on highway 26 or 40.
Meth dealers, marijuana, dirty cops, you name it. He knows ’em all. That old boy’s connected.”
“So you just let him go?”
“We bring him in for something like this, we lose out in the long run. He didn’t take nothin’, did he?”
“No. I don’t think so,” I said with a sigh. I unplugged the iron. One step forward, two steps back. I reached into my wallet and dug out eighty dollars. “Hey, take this for your phone, Dante. I can give you more if you need it. I’m really sorry about that.”
He took another bite of his burger, eyed the money for a moment, and then accepted it. “That should be good. I’ll swing by and get me one on the way home. Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
He was still looking at the towels and shower curtain. “Any new leads on the case?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted.” Then I glanced down at the floor. “I guess I should put this stuff away. I’ll talk to you later.”
He stared at the iron for another moment or two before he turned. “Yeah, OK. See that you do.” Then he left, taking another bite out of his supper.
As I began cleaning up, I noticed something on the carpet glimmering in the light.
I knelt beside it. A lapel pin of a Confederate flag.
Just like the one the governor was wearing.
Must have pulled off Trembley’s shirt when I made him lie on the floor.
I decided it was time to listen to those phone transcripts and see what Bethanie had to say about Governor Sebastian Taylor.
51
Once inside the federal building I didn’t waste any time locating the transcripts of Bethanie’s calls to Governor Taylor’s office. As I read through them I realized she was clearly terrified but also afraid to give specifics. Maybe she was worried someone was listening in.
“Tell him the boy remembers. Tell him the boy is coming,” she said over and over. “You have to tell him!”
“The boy remembers,” I whispered.
Trembley had said the cult leader in New Mexico claimed to be a Jonestown survivor. Was he “the boy”? Terry had said Governor Taylor was a CIA agent stationed in Guyana at the time of the tragedy. Was this cult guy after the governor?
