And when I look past them I can still see you for the first time, every time. Patrick, please don’t ask why. Don’t try to solve this. I’m not one of your cases. There isn’t an offender you can track down or a crime you need to solve. It’s just the way things are. Our lives are brief, momentary. I see that now. Don’t be angry that my moment is going to be over before yours. Please-I’m not trying to be brave. I’m scared, of course I am. And confused and sad and lost. It hurts so bad to know my biggest dream of all won’t come true-the dream of growing old with you. But I can’t control any of that. All I can control is what I do with each moment, with this moment, right now. I can either be bitter or grateful. It’s the choice we all face, I guess, though I never really thought of it that way before. So I’ve made my choice. I’m going to be thankful-for this moment and for every moment that I have left with you. I know things won’t be easy. I wish things were different, too. But you’ll be great with Tessa. She really loves you. She does, even though it’s hard for her to say so. And she needs you right now. I know you’ll be able to help each other through this. Don’t run from the risk of loving her. Please. Remember, our choices decide who we are, but our loves define who we’ll become. Tell her that, OK? Tell her it’s something her mom wanted her to know. And don’t blame God, Pat. Death was never his idea. But life is. Please remember that. Life has always been his idea. I can still see the lights of New York City reflected in your eyes. I’ll always see them. I’ll be watching them glitter tonight. And always. I love you, my big scruffy Valentine.
Forever yours,
Christie
By the time I finished reading it, my fingers were trembling. Tears blurred my vision. Her words lacerated my heart and also seemed to comfort me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, even though I knew there wasn’t anyone there to hear me. Maybe I was apologizing to her. I don’t know. Maybe I was saying it to all the women, the girls, the little boys I’ve been unable to help, unable to save. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I stared down at the note and noticed my hands. My wedding ring was still clinging to my finger; I’d never taken it off. I’d kept her clothes too, bringing them with me to Denver. Her jewelry box rested beside my bed.
Her shadows were all around me. Hints of her followed me everywhere. But she wasn’t here. Only her ghost was-lurking in the corner of my life. “I don’t need anything except hope,” wrote Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, “which I can’t find by looking backwards or forwards, so I suppose the thing is to shut my eyes.” Sometimes I felt like shutting my eyes like Zelda did in the burning wing of that sanitarium sixty years ago. Closing them and never opening them again.
“Don’t run from the risk of loving her,” wrote Christie.
I am so, so sorry.
I put the note away, but I couldn’t seem to put Christie away. A counselor once told me that depression is caused by anger turned inward.
I must have a whole lot of anger.
Maybe against God for letting it happen, maybe against myself. I don’t know.
So one more thing before going to the federal building. I had to see her face.
I flipped open my laptop and scrolled through her pictures. The beautiful ones of her laughing and alive, just like the pictures of the dead girls we share with the media.
And with every picture came a feeling, a memory-the springy taste of her lipstick, the curve of her thigh, the twinkle that just kept dancing in her eyes even after her laughter had faded away, the way her dusty brown hair turned blond in certain light… playing backgammon at that coffeehouse, watching a shy spring rain… the way she would get close-a little too close-when she had something important to tell me… These were the images I chose to remember even though in the end her hair fell out and her cheeks sank in and her lips became dry and narrow and bloodless.
I chose to publish only the beautiful images in my heart. I guess you can’t help but do that when you love someone.
Why did I put myself through this? Why couldn’t I move on? Why didn’t I just delete the pictures?
Because that would be like deleting her.
And I didn’t have the heart to do that.
Only God could be that cruel, a voice inside of me said. And I wondered if it was the anger or the loneliness talking. I guess it didn’t matter. Either way, it was still me.
I folded up the computer and headed for the door.
Time to get back to work.
Why didn’t he just die? thought the Illusionist. Why couldn’t Patrick Bowers have just wandered around that house for a few more seconds? It would have made things so much easier.
The game would have been over in such a glorious, memorable way. Now, the plans for tonight needed to be altered. And Alice would have to wait until tomorrow for their little rendezvous.
It was too bad. But he could wait. He was in control. Besides, tonight held its own promises, its own possibilities. And as he thought of these things, an idea came to him unbidden, an idea he could not shake.
The Illusionist smiled and picked up the phone.
49
Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid’s phone rang. His private line. “Hello?”
“You got it mostly right, Aaron,” said the voice on the other end. “The chess pieces didn’t quite match, though. And the knot in the rope was tied on the wrong side of the neck.”
“Who is this?”
“At first I wasn’t sure it was you, but when the second body showed up, I knew it couldn’t be anyone else.”
“Sevren?”
A harsh laugh. “I’ve used a lot of names over the years.”
After a brief pause. “Yes. I’m not surprised.”
“A name is just another kind of mask.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
Another pause. “It wasn’t easy to find you, Aaron.”
“I’ve been trying to keep a low profile.”
“I’ll always remember those months we had together at the group home. You remember the first time? In the forest?”
“The cat?”
“Yes. What I did with the pocket knife?”
“I remember.”
“I’ve gotten much better since then, Aaron.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“What is it you want, Sevren?”
“I want you to stop interfering in my game. Or maybe I want you to enter it with both feet. I haven’t decided.”
“So. The two girls.”
“Yes. You used my handiwork to hide your own. You remembered from those afternoons in the forest, with the animals.”
“There won’t be any others. I promise.”
“Mmm. Well, before you cross your heart and hope to die, I have to say, I think you used me. And I think you might owe me a favor.”
Aaron should have seen it coming. Sevren had somehow tracked him down. He could tell the authorities who Aaron really was, and completely disrupt the family’s plans. Everything could be lost. Aaron decided he needed to evaluate this situation very carefully. “What kind of favor do you want? Money?”
“No, Aaron, not for me. I want something money can’t buy. I want you to help me tell a little story to a certain FBI agent who just doesn’t know when to die.”
