He could picture it now. Her face. Her body. The workings of her throat as she gasped for breath.
Mmm.
But really, it was better not to fantasize too much about that right now. Her time would come.
And then, of course, there was Dr. Bowers. Despite all his talk about space and time and the geography of crime-see he was a poet too! — Patrick did understand the mind of a killer. Yes, somehow he knew what it was like. Maybe that’s why he made such a show of not listening to profilers. Because he was afraid of his own motives, of the dark channels in his own heart. There was something there. Yes. Something to consider.
He read one more asinine paragraph describing how the Yellow Ribbon Strangler probably started fires, wet his bed, and tortured small animals as a child.
Well, one out of three wasn’t bad.
Christie died on a rain-soaked Monday afternoon eight months ago today. End of February. Spring was trying to unfold; winter trying to die. She passed away in between the seasons, in the middle of the empty spaces of the year.
The day before she died, Reverend Richman asked how I was doing. When I told him I was okay, he asked politely if I was ready to face death. I said that I was ready for mine but that I wasn’t ready for Christie’s and never would be. Not ever.
He didn’t seem satisfied with my answer. I tried to thank him for coming and told him that right now probably wasn’t the best time to talk about all that but that both Christie and I really appreciated his-The anger had started feeling its way to the surface, and even now I could feel my hands tightening around the steering wheel.
Because he wouldn’t let it drop.
He just wouldn’t let it drop.
He interrupted me in the middle of my sentence. “Don’t take eternity lightly, Dr. Bowers. You never know when your time will come.” His concern appeared to be genuine, but his timing was terrible.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As we walked toward the door he said, “You seem like a well-read man; have you ever heard of Pascal’s Wager?”
Of course I’d heard of Pascal and his wager. Blaise Pascal was one of the greatest mathematicians to ever live and one of my favorite authors. Without his pioneering work, computers-and geographic profiling-might never have been invented. He’s the one who wrote, “The only thing that consoles us from our miseries is diversion. And yet it is the greatest of our miseries.” I read that quote years ago and never forgot it. It seemed to tell the story of my life.
“Yes, I know Pascal,” I said. “But I’ve never been a big fan of his wager. I don’t like the idea of betting on God.”
“But why wouldn’t you want to bet on God?”
I took a deep breath. On the one hand I did believe in God, but on the other I wasn’t really so sure. I had my doubts, especially in that hospital room with Christie. “Because I know someone who did.” I spoke in a low enough whisper so that my dying wife couldn’t hear me. “And he let her down.”
The sentence tasted like poison on my tongue. I knew they were harsh and hurtful words, but I didn’t care. Richman was the one who’d brought it up. He’d pushed the issue. “Now excuse me,” I said. I started ushering both him and Benjamin to the door.
“Give God a shot,” Richman persisted. “You don’t have anything to lose.”
And that did it. “Except the truth,” I shot back. “That’s what really matters in the end-more than what you believe, more than what benefits you. That’s the problem with Pascal’s Wager, Reverend. It’s based on payoffs, either now or in eternity, not on what’s true. According to Pascal, if God exists and you believe, you get to go to heaven. And if you believe but he doesn’t exist, at least you get to live with peace and hope in this life. Right?”
He nodded.
“But Reverend,” I said, “if God doesn’t exist, you shouldn’t believe that he does, even if it leads you to a happier life-because you’d be believing a lie. Living a lie. I don’t want my life based on a lie, even if it’s a comforting one. I’d rather bet on the truth.”
Richman opened his mouth to say something and then stopped. He looked from me to Benjamin and then back to me. He had no response. Nothing. It was the first time since I’d met him that he was speechless.
And that’s when Benjamin smiled and gently patted my shoulder. “You are a man of great faith, Dr. Bowers.”
His words floored me. “What?”
“Faith in what’s good-faith in the truth. A lot of people don’t even have that these days. I admire you.” And with that, he left the room.
Somehow he’d dismantled everything I’d just said, every argument I’d just used by agreeing with me. “Thank you,” I mumbled.
Richman patted my shoulder too. “He’s right,” he said. “And you’ve given me something to think about. Thanks.”
Then he left too and I sat next to Christie and wept.
26
The Illusionist slid the keyboard back and pulled out his leather-bound journal.
Enough of the cyberspace imbeciles.
Time to record his impressions of last night while the images were still fresh in his mind. Jolene. Soft, timid, frightened Jolene.
Time to relive the long, delicious night.
His words flowed smoothly, quick and nimble beneath his fingers. It was as if his mind itself were on fire, leaving a trail of cursive thought smoke across the page. Bringing back every emotion, every sensation from the night before. Oh, how he enjoyed this part of the process, this reliving of the night on the page.
And yet…
As he thought back over their night together, as enjoyable as it had been, he had to admit that it was somewhat disappointing too. Just like always. She’d been the most exciting one so far. Oh yes, that much was true. But in the end it was just like the others. After it was all done, when the final throes were over, the feelings of disappointment returned.
His fantasies about inducing death were always more thrilling than the actual deaths themselves.
Reality just didn’t measure up.
But next time, it would. That’s what he told himself. That’s what kept him going, the hope-and really, it was a hope-that he would finally find what he was looking for next time.
This time.
With Alice.
Tonight.
It took the Illusionist nearly an hour to record his thoughts about his night with Jolene. He even included some drawings. Crude, yes. But quite memorable and remarkably accurate in their depictions of human anatomy.
Then he carefully picked up the two weighty duffel bags, walked outside, and lowered them into the back of his van. Even though it was a weekend, he had to go to work today. Not the kind of work he enjoyed most, but the kind everyone needs to do. The bill-paying work.
But before heading out to make a buck, he had a couple of important deliveries to make.
As I took my exit off the highway, I thought of Tessa again. On a typical Saturday morning she wouldn’t be rolling out of bed for another three or four hours. But if I was going to be spending the morning poking around crime scenes out of cell phone range up in the mountains, I needed to call and tell her about the flight before I left.
But Ralph’s phone was dead.
Well, I’d call from the federal building then.
I was sure she wasn’t happy about having to go to that hotel last night. She hated being told what to do. Probably even convinced Mom and Dad to get her a separate room. Well, at least she didn’t know you sent a patrol car. That would have pushed her over the edge. I could only imagine how she’d react when she found out she would be leaving for North Carolina before lunchtime.
After swinging through Mountain Java Roasters and downing a cup of delicately balanced Tizapa from El Salvador, I parked my rental car in the lot beside the federal building.