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?”