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?”
“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?”
