“Bomb,” I yelled. I spun. I ran. “Get out now!”
Kept the countdown going in my head…
… 12… 11…
I sped toward the steps.
… 10…
Bolted up the stairs, three at a time.
… 9… 8…
“Out! Ralph! Lien-hua! Bomb! There’s a bomb!”
I burst through the hallway door, Lien-hua right in front of me.
… 7…
Down the hall, toward the front door.
… 6…
Ralph landed at the bottom of the staircase.
… 5…
Outside. Onto the porch.
… 4…
Jumping. Landing on the grass.
… 3…
Scrambling forward. Lunging to the ground.
… 2…
Throwing my body over Lien-hua’s.
… 1.
Boom.
11:42 a.m., Eastern Standard Time
In Charlotte, North Carolina, Governor Sebastian Taylor caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and tilted his head to see which side of his face was more photogenic.
In Denver, Colorado, Tessa Ellis shook her head and dragged her suitcase up to the next spot in line at the US Airways ticket counter. In West Asheville, North Carolina, Alice McMichaelson stole a glance at the business textbook on her lap during a time-out in the last few minutes of her son’s soccer game.
At the concierge’s desk in the lobby of the Stratford Hotel, Theodore punched in the appropriate codes to change the name of the caterers for Monday’s luncheon.
In front of his computer, the Illusionist leaned forward with a satisfied grin and watched the house explode.
I felt the heat of the explosion wash over me, singeing my hair. Scorching my neck. And then, a shower of debris peppered my back, my legs. A storm of burning slats of wood followed immediately, raining down around us and on top of us, bringing with it a sudden, searing pain in my shoulder.
But I didn’t move. I kept my body draped over Lien-hua, and I didn’t even turn to see what sort of object had knifed its way deeply into my back, wedging itself against my shoulder blade. Behind me I heard a roar as the house’s bone-dry wood exploded into a fireball.
Then Ralph was beside me, urging us forward, yelling for us to get away from the heat and the flames. I helped Lien-hua to her feet, and we hobbled forward toward the trees, then turned to look at the house.
It was completely destroyed.
Any evidence in it would have been destroyed as well.
The cell phone in Ralph’s pocket rang.
He fished it out and answered it. Cursed. “They found her,” he said grimly. “They found Jolene.”
“Where?” I asked.
“The trunk of Margaret’s car.”
40
By the time we got to the federal building, the crime scene guys had already roped off half of the parking lot. Shock, anger, and sorrow had settled over every inch of the scene. Margaret was stalking back and forth shaking her head, one hand planted firmly on her hip, the other rubbing her forehead. Despite the fury orbiting her, she looked pale.
As we crossed the parking lot, Ralph whispered to Lien-hua and me, “He must have put the body in the trunk of her car early this morning before she left for work. She drove here with it in there. Got an email half an hour ago telling her to look in the trunk.”
“Can they trace the email?” I asked.
“Trying to. But the way it was routed, looks like the guy knew what he was doing.”
Tucker stood beside the car. He motioned for us to come closer. His face looked pasty, drained. “He blew up the house?”
Ralph nodded.
I looked at the car, couldn’t see inside. “She still in there?” I asked Tucker softly. He didn’t answer. Just stepped aside. I walked past the crime scene technicians and peered into the trunk.
The naked upper torso of a woman lay in the trunk of Margaret’s Lexus-but only the upper half. Jolene had been sawed in two just above the pelvis. She’d also been brutally tortured: dozens of cuts crisscrossed her torso, her face, her arms. Six cuts aren’t enough for him anymore, I thought.
Despite the fact that she’d been mostly drained of blood a pool of dark liquids leaked from the bottom of the corpse and spread across the carpeting in the trunk.
A metal tent stake was driven deep into Jolene’s chest, pinning down a note: “TOO SLOW. YOUR MOVE.” A white pawn was in her mouth. A ribbon in her hair.
My mind went numb, spinning, blaming, aching. For the first time in years I felt physically ill at a crime scene. Completely nauseous.
I’d been hoping maybe we would find her alive, save her, rescue her, hoping, hoping, hoping, trying to convince myself the Illusionist had been lying when he said it was too late to save her.
But he hadn’t been. Not at all.
It seemed like he’d planned everything, even timed the discovery of her body to coincide with the explosion.
I muttered an excuse to the people clustered around the car and pushed my way through the crowd. I needed some air. Some space. Actually, I needed to throw up, but I couldn’t let anyone see me. I slipped off behind a nearby car and just barely made it out of sight before I leaned over to retch.
I emptied my stomach onto the asphalt. There wasn’t much there. My entire life tasted like bile. I could hardly believe what was happening. Everything seemed to be spinning apart, the fabric of both my personal life and my career ripping right down the seams.
My stepdaughter hated me. This killer was mocking me. Christie was haunting me. I turned away from the mess of vomit and reached into my pocket to see if I had a handkerchief, anything, and found the jewelry store receipt instead. Evidence that I really had remembered Tessa’s birthday, that I really had visited that mall in Atlanta earlier this week, that I really did have a birthday present to give her.
We celebrate the days of our birth, moments of new life.
I was gone on her birthday.
The killer had mentioned her name.
Tessa.
He knew I had a daughter.
Stay focused, Pat. Don’t let him get to you.
Jolene was someone’s daughter. So was Mindy. So were the rest.
Christie would want me to find this guy, shut him down. To do anything I could to stop him from stealing birthdays from other young women. Other daughters like hers. Like mine.
