The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (15 page)

What is that on his arms? Blisters?

Yes! And they’re all over his face, too.

Somehow, the deputy managed enough strength
to lift his head up from between his shoulders. He could barely
make out the woman, and the gun in her hand.

“Pleeaassee,”
he cried, his face
melting.

Stretching.

Boiling.

Blisters popped. A hot clear liquid ran
out.

Then a bullet entered his head from the left
temple. Blood sprayed the back wall behind the couch and dripped
down like red tears. The deputy hit the floor, twitched once,
twice, three times, and then stopped moving.

He was dead.

Lizzy grabbed the deputy by one of his legs
and dragged him out into the garage. She left him, locked the
garage door, and cleaned up the splattered blood and bits of fried
skin from the walls and carpet.

Shortly after, Deputy Christopher Howers
burst into flames, leaving nothing in his place but a tall
silhouette of ash and a half charred cowboy hat for a memorial.

3

He’s not going to believe me, Virginia
thought, as she pulled into the parking lot of the Public
Library.

The detective didn’t trust her, she knew it,
and she also didn’t know if she should trust him. Judging by the
way he carried himself on the phone, he was no doubt a veteran.
He’d seen it all, experienced more than his fair share of false
leads, and heard more than enough lies for one life. But with
little promise of return, he had agreed to meet with her later in
the evening, on his terms, and at his house. There she would tell
him what she could, and then leave him to make his own
determination. Hopefully, he would make the right one.

But first—

Virginia parked the black Nissan Altima
around the side of the building and walked toward the front of the
library. She entered the building and stopped at the checkout desk
behind a teenage boy wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. The
small-breasted, effeminate librarian frowned down at the book of
nude photography in front of her, flipped through a few wide black
and white pages, and then glanced up at the young boy.

“It’s for a school photography class,” the
boy said, fearing the old nag wasn’t going to let him check out the
book.

Virginia smiled and shook her head. The
librarian must have noticed the smile, because she asked if
Virginia was his mother. “No, I’m not.” The slender lady appeared
disappointed with the answer. “I just have a question. Do you carry
old newspapers?”

“Yes, but you can’t check any of them
out.”

“That’s okay. How old do they go back?”

“A few decades, I believe,” the librarian
said. “You can use the computers to search for old headlines and
articles, as long as you have a general idea what you’re looking
for.”

As she headed to the back of the library,
Virginia saw a photo hung on the wall of a woman she remembered
seeing on the news a few days ago. Under the title Event Planner,
was the woman’s name, Carol Ackerman. Carol had burned to death at
a motel not too far from here, and the night before, her daughter
had met the same fate. Yesterday, Carol’s husband. The Ackerman’s
were a family destroyed, all because of one little statue and the
torturous thing it unleashed. The
thing
Virginia would soon
disclose.

The photograph of Carol reminded Virginia of
why she was at the library in the first place, and it wasn’t to
watch the young boy proclaim his undying love for nude photography,
which was certainly quite entertaining. She was here to do a little
research on the detective. Curiosity drove her, mostly. Curiosity
and a funny feeling that she’d heard his name, Isaac Winters,
mentioned before.

Where? No clue. Somewhere.

But even given this feeling of name
recognition, given her passion and drive for knowledge, Virginia
still didn’t expect to find anything. No dirt stains or buried
skeletons. She didn’t expect to leave the library surprised. She
didn’t expect to read what she had from the front page of the
Elmwood Sun, dated January 18th, 1995.

She should have stayed home.

Chapter
Thirteen

1

7:48 p.m.

A knock at the door.

Isaac turned his head from the television,
glanced over at the front door, and then looked down at his watch.
Here we go, he thought, either Simmons or the woman.

Her name was...?

Did she even tell him?

Of course she did, he had just withdrawn it
from his memory, perhaps deliberately, believing at the time that
the woman who just wanted to
help
(as she put it), really
wanted to make a fool of him. Although while the hours passed since
their conversation (hours filled with much thought and little
talk), that initial belief, as easy as it was to grasp, slowly
began to fade away.

Over his many years of service, Isaac had
become rather proficient at spotting a liar, some more obvious than
others. Whether it was the man in the corner alley trying to
convince him the bag of cocaine was laundry detergent, or the
tearful, sympathetic father who would
never
do anything to
hurt his child, the eyes almost always told the biggest tale of
guilt. In this case, however, there were no eyes to leak a luminous
trail, only a voice, at least so far anyway. Therefore, if the
woman was telling the truth, and really did know something, it
would be obvious simply by her arrival, and if she was lying, which
he feared but did not expect, God only knows why he invited
Simmons.

Isaac turned the television off and headed
to the front door. He glared through the peephole hoping to see a
woman he had never seen before, but instead, saw Simmons. He opened
the door and invited Simmons in.

“My guess is that she's not here yet,” said
Simmons.

“She was here. She ran away when she saw you
pull in.”

“Sure she did,” said Simmons. He was
beginning to get used to the wisecracks. In a weird way, they made
him feel special, like Isaac had accepted him. “I didn't see
another car out front. Where’s Amy?”

“In her room,” said Isaac, sauntering into
the kitchen. “Reading, I think. You want something to drink?”

“Sure, what you got?”

“Um,” Isaac mumbled, searching the contents
of the fridge. “Soda, water.” He paused, waiting for Simmons to cut
him off or for something else to catch his eye. Nothing did.

“Water, I guess.”

“I guess,” Isaac whispered. He doesn’t sound
too pleased. Isaac was about to pour the glass of water, when he
saw a small jar of coffee pushed behind the coffee maker. “Would
you rather have coffee?”

“Is it decaf?”

Isaac forgot that Simmons had not been a
detective long. “Are you kidding?”

“Coffee is fine,” Simmons said. “Sounds
good.”

Isaac set the coffee maker and headed back
into the living room.

“So, tell me more about this someone.”

“There’s not much to tell,” said Isaac,
sitting down.

“You said it was a woman.”

“Sounded like a woman on the phone.”

“What’s her name?”

“I can’t remember.”

“But she said she could tell us what’s
causing the bodies to burn.”

“From what I gather.”

“How would she know?”

“Don't know. Ask her when she gets
here.”

“She couldn't just tell you over the
phone?”

“We didn't have much time,” Isaac replied.
“She just said she would rather meet in person. Besides, I like it
better this way. I don’t trust people who are only willing to talk
on the phone. It’s a lot easier to tell if someone is full of shit
when you’re close enough to smell ‘em.”

The coffee maker buzzed just seconds before
the doorbell rang.

Isaac looked through the peephole again,
this time seeing what he was hoping for. The woman didn't look
anything like what he had expected. Sometimes a voice can be
deceiving. Sometimes the women with the sexiest voices can be the
most repulsive to look at, but this woman was by far an exception.
She was tall, curvaceous, and had dark shoulder length hair that
cradled the sides of her face. Yet, just as a voice can be
deceiving, so can a peephole. He opened the door and saw that his
initial observations were correct. She was wearing faded blue jeans
and a black tank top, not the sexiest clothing in the world, but
she wore it well. She could have shown up in sweatpants and her
grandma’s wool sweater and would still be the best looking woman in
the neighborhood.

“You must be?”

“Virginia Maples,” she said, smiling. “Are
you Detective Winters?”

“Just call me Isaac.”

“Okay.”

Isaac stepped out of the doorway. “Please,
come in.” She hesitated for a moment then walked inside. Simmons
got up from the couch and walked over. “This is Detective
Simmons.”

Simmons shook her hand. “Nice to meet
you.”

“You, too.”

“Have a seat,” Isaac said, leading her into
the living room. “Would you like some pot, I just made a coffee.
Shit, excuse me. I mean I just made a pot of coffee.”

“Sure,” Virginia said, laughing as she sat
down on the couch.

Simmons sat down in the recliner. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Virginia Maples.”

“Oh, so then you're the author of the book?”
The Immortal
lay on the coffee table between them. "Isaac
never mentioned that."

“Yeah, I'm a writer. Mostly poetry."

Isaac shut off the kitchen light and headed
back into the living room carrying three multicolored mugs. After
he sorted out the coffee, he sat down on the couch next to
Virginia. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit next to you.”

Virginia smiled. “Not at all.”

"Why didn't you tell me she authored the
book?"

Isaac looked down at the little black book
in front of him, the authors name in white boldfaced letters. "I
guess I'm guilty of not paying very close attention. I didn't get
much sleep last night so forgive me if I may seem a bit
delirious."

"I understand," Virginia said. "I noticed
the taped up window over there. How is your daughter doing?"

"She'll survive. She's more worried about
me."

"Why is she worried about you?" Simmons
asked.

"Something the deputy said to her last
night."

Simmons and Virginia both waited anxiously
for Isaac to spill the beans, when he didn't look like he would,
Simmons did what Simmons does best. "What did he say?"

"Why thank you for asking. He basically just
warned me to stop following him or else. Like that's gonna happen.
If anything, his threats inspire me."

"Well, though I understand your motivation,"
Virginia said. "Perhaps you
should
stop following him."

Both Isaac and Simmons said: "What?"

"I don't mean to insult you. Quite the
opposite. But it sounds to me like this case has become personal
for you. You've had your house vandalized. You're daughter is at
risk. You're being threatened. I think if these things were
happening to me I would be hiding out somewhere."

"Obviously there is personal risk. I know
this better than most, believe me. I try not to think about it.
Instead I focus on how many other people's lives could be affected
if I don't do something. I feel a responsibility that goes over and
beyond my own personal safety."

"Again, I hope I didn't offend you. I admire
your passion, and your confidence. If I'm right about what we are
up against, then were going to need that kind of no quit attitude
to get through this."

"I don't need you to test me, if that's what
you're doing. I've been tested."

"Actually, I find it refreshing to know that
you genuinely care about the outcome, and you're not just running
through the motions. It makes what I have to say even more
necessary, as I know now that it's not falling on deaf ears."

"Were glad you're here." Simmons chimed in.
"We've come to a bit of a standstill. Any help you can give at this
point is better than nothing."

“So, where do we start?" Isaac asked. "On
the phone you said you could tell me what’s causing these bodies to
burn.”

“Right. Where to begin. On the news this
morning I saw a sketch of a statue, and from what I understand this
statue was stolen from your house.”

“Last night.”

Virginia picked up
The Immortal
from
the coffee table and flipped to page eighty-nine, close to the end.
She held the book in front of Isaac and pointed to the picture at
the bottom of the page. “Is this the statue? Look at the top of the
tombstone.”

Isaac stared down at the black and white
picture. “Oh, wow,” he said. “Yeah, that’s it.” He handed the book
over to Simmons. “Check it out.”

“How did you come across the statue?”

“I found it on James Ackerman after he
burned up in the accident. I figured it must have had some personal
relevance for him to carry it around, but not much to the case in
general. And I had no idea that it was part of a tombstone,
although I guess that explains the broken feet. When was that
picture taken?”

“Nineteen fifty two,” Virginia said. “When I
was seventeen my great grandmother died, and I found that picture,
along with a few other ones, stuffed in one of the drawers at her
old house. I also found a bunch of old documents she had compiled,
much of which I used in writing the book. I think many were handed
down to her. But it was the pictures that instantly fascinated me,
especially the picture of the mansion.”

“What mansion?” Simmons asked, flipping
through the book.

“I’m not sure what page it’s on, but it’s in
there. At first I didn’t know that the two pictures were related,
but I began to dig around and finally realized that the mansion had
belonged to a man named Lucius. That’s his grave in the picture,
and the statue is a statue of him.”