“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.
Pale streetlight seeped through the curtains, giving her just enough light to see.
From the other room, a light rustling sound. Someone rolling over in the night.
Tessa froze.
Waited.
Silence.
She slipped out of bed and padded over to the dresser, grabbed her purse, and pulled out the small case. Then, gently, softly, she slipped into the bathroom. Over the last ten months she’d become an expert at doing things soundlessly in the night, finding her way in the dark.
Tessa closed the bathroom door. Even if Martha or Conor did wake up and decide to check on her, they wouldn’t bother her in there. But she didn’t want to take any chances. So she locked it. Just in case.