The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (27 page)

Tears flooded his eyes. If he only could.

Someone—was it Isaac?—whispered:
Kill
me.

Then a bright light blinded him and the
sound of expanding gases filled his head, followed by a shattering
of glass.

When he hit the floor, Isaac writhed and
latched tightly on to the left shoulder of his coat. A cold tremor
ran up the
ladder
of his spine to his heart.

How it ached.

How it burned.

But only moments later, the spinning
stopped, as did the screaming, and the bitter sting faded away.
Isaac removed his hand from the scarred spot two centimeters to the
left of his heart and looked up at his shaking palms.

No blood.

No Jacob.

There was nothing but a dark closet and a
circle of broken glass on the floor surrounding him.

12

Virginia and Simmons ran through the large
room, past the table of tortures, to the small storage room on the
far right. They stopped in the doorway and looked down at Isaac
lying in the center of the glass remains. He shook as he sat
up.

“Are you okay?” They asked.

“I think so.”

Virginia stepped forward into the room and
relocated some of the glass with her foot. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Isaac looked down at the
glass and nodded. He held out his hand and Simmons helped him to
his feet.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

No matter how certain he sounded, Virginia
could tell by the look in his eyes that Isaac wasn’t fine. She knew
he was lying. Something had happened in this room, something he
wasn’t ready to tell her.

13

The flaming torches lit the cathedral with a
dusky orange hue that gleamed through the clouds of smoke gathering
thirty feet up at the ceiling. Ten torches spaced across each wall,
held in place by black metal rings driven into the stone, far out
of the reach of human hand. The torches followed the slanted
ceiling upward from the double doors at the end of the long maroon
carpeted aisle to the back of the stage, where the group of three
now stood.

The eight rows of pews were spaced a foot
apart from each other with enough room to accommodate nine to ten
attendees per seat. The pews were constructed of thick, darkly
stained sheets of wood, eight slabs per pew, one for the seat, one
for the backrest, and six stretched upright underneath for support.
The first row of pews began five feet back of the steps that led to
the stage.

The floor of the stage was made of hardwood,
glossed over with a light yellow stain, and was in remarkable
condition in comparison to the rest of the mansion. There wasn’t a
spot of blood, scuff, or crack across the entire surface; it was
smooth and shiny like it had just been polished. In fact, the
entire sanctuary appeared to be the only room in the old stone
mansion that didn’t show its age, not at all, as though something
had kept it alive for over a century.

The three slowly walked across the empty
stage, hardwood knocking beneath them, and gazed up at the orange
glow. Isaac stopped in the center and looked out at the maroon
carpet separating the left pews from the right. His eyes moved down
the aisle and fell upon the locked double doors on the far side of
the room. He remembered yanking at the brass handles, feeling the
sensation that something was on the other side of the doors. It had
watched him struggle with great pleasure, laughing in his head. But
now, after finally finding his way into the sanctuary, and standing
at the foot of the stage, the sensation was gone.

He felt nothing but alone.

Isaac headed down the three steps at the
foot of the stage then turned back and saw Virginia and Simmons
following him, their feet knocking hard against the light wooden
floor. He walked down the red aisle, scanning each row of pews for
any sign of his daughter, without luck. As he came to the eighth
and final row, he made one last desperate attempt to restore his
faith. He cried out her name, praying that somehow, wherever she
was, she would hear him. Perhaps she would cry back, guide him to
her. He longed to hear her voice one last time, but the echo
resonating off the sanctuary walls was his and only his.

Isaac lowered his head and came to a stop in
front of the double doors. He thought of the gun in his coat
pocket. He could almost feel it in his hand, feel his index finger
pressed against the cold trigger.

This is it,
he thought,
I’m
done.

He would remove the gun from the inner
pocket, lead it into his mouth, between his teeth, and fire a
bullet through the back of his head. In an instant, the pain would
be gone. There was no turning back now. No way to restart at zero.
There was only goodbye.

Virginia and Simmons split on opposite sides
of Isaac. They saw his head lowered, his eyes closed. They knew the
storm raged inside of him, but there was nothing they could do or
say to calm it. All they could do is wait and hope for a
miracle.

The silence was broken by soft knocking,
footfalls on the stage.

Isaac began raising his head just as the
menacing voice collided with his ears.

“Finally,”
it said.

The group slowly turned together and peered
down the red aisle at Amy standing in the center of the stage.
Isaac could feel his heart beating again, fast inside his
chest.

Amy’s dirty blonde hair was messed and
curled against the sides of her ashen face. Her light blue pajamas
were slightly torn and her arms were down by the side of her body,
her legs close together. She stood motionless, expressionless, and
weakened, as though she would fall over if her body wasn’t being
held up by an elaborate configuration of invisible strings.

“We’ve been waiting,” said the voice. Isaac
saw her lips follow the words out of her mouth, but it wasn’t Amy’s
voice. This voice was deep, dark, and bottomless.

Give me back my daughter you son of a
bitch,
he thought of saying.

Amy grinned. “Come get her.”

It was a confrontation, a standoff. They had
come to the finale, the end of the trial. The jury would listen to
the closing arguments, and their verdict would come swiftly.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s what I’ve always done,” Lucius said.
“But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to listen. I want you to
understand.”

Isaac stared at Amy. He wanted nothing more
than to run to her, carry her from this haunted place, but he
feared the consequences would be fatal. He had to be careful, one
wrong move, one wrong word, and the trial could be over in an
instant. His daughter’s life swept away till just a mound of ash
remained.

“No,” said Isaac, shaking his head. “I don’t
want to talk, and I won’t listen. I came here for my daughter, and
I won’t leave until I get her back.”

“I know,” said Lucius. “But you won’t get
her back, no matter how much you think you will. She is mine now,
and here with me, she will stay.”

“Fuck you!”
Isaac yelled, as a wave
of courage passed over him.
“Give her back to me!”

“Why do you think you deserve her?”

“She’s my daughter!”

“She
was
your daughter. But that was
before you offered her to me. Before I gave her the gift.”

“You took her from me!”

Virginia hid behind Isaac, unable to speak,
move. As difficult as it was to accept, she knew there was nothing
more she could do for him now; he was on his own.
It’s the only
way,
she told herself,
the way it has to be.
She now
realized that Isaac would never forgive himself, his heart was
scarred too badly to ever heal. He would battle with the
illusionist, with the death of his wife, with his guilt, and he
would die doing so.

“I didn’t make her a part of this, you did,”
said Lucius. “I gave you the opportunity to go away, but you would
not let me be, you would not give up. And now here we are, exactly
how you knew it would end.”

Isaac nodded. The wave of courage had died
and now all that washed up were shells of guilt. This vile thing
that had kept prisoners locked in iron cells below the mansion,
torturing these innocents to no end, was right about him. None of
this should have happened, and all of it was his fault. His only
hope to save Amy would be to convince the illusionist to free her,
a task that would not be easy, or likely possible.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you? This
isn’t the first time your back has been against the wall, is it?”
He had now led Amy to the foot of the steps. Her hands gently rose.
“So why do you seem surprised? How many times must it take before
you learn your lesson?”

“Please,” Isaac pleaded. “I'll do
anything.”

Isaac bowed his head and stared down at the
maroon carpet. He was losing the battle and the jury was turning on
him. He could feel their confounded stares, their disappointment
with him. They had expected more. They had expected him to put up a
fight, but he was giving in, disappointed with himself.

“In that case, I will give you a choice,”
said Lucius. “I will leave your daughter, alive and unharmed, if
you agree to take her place.”

“Fine,” Isaac quickly said.

Virginia jumped up from behind Isaac and
grabbed the back of his coat. “Isaac, no.” She couldn’t sit back in
silence anymore and watch him give up hope, watch him fall to
pieces. “Remember the others. He’ll kill her.”

Isaac glanced back at Virginia. She released
her hand from his coat. Simmons was hunched over behind her, mouth
open, with an
I can’t believe what I’m seeing
look on his
face.

Isaac returned his focus to Amy. “I followed
you here,” he said. “I know the things you’ve done. I’ve seen it
with my own eyes.” He paused to fill his lungs with the orange,
smoking air. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because my mercy is the only hope you have
left."

Isaac had begun to formulate a final plea,
when Amy began to convulse violently on the stage, slow at first,
then faster each second. Her arms jerked behind her hips. Her hands
clenched into a tight fist.

“Stop!”
Isaac screamed.
“What are
you doing to her?”

No answer.

Amy’s body continued to shudder. Tiny rings
of fire opened up on her chest and broadened to her extremities as
though her skin was made of paper and an entire pack of lit
cigarettes burned holes from within her. The orange rings
thickened, assembled, and would soon bring forth he that lay
beneath the departing skin.

Isaac fell to his knees and covered his eyes
with his hands. He couldn’t watch this happen. He couldn’t watch
his daughter slowly burn apart until there was nothing left.
Moments later, he removed his hands from his diluted eyes and
stared down the red aisle at a mysterious figure in a dark blue
ruffled cloak, standing in the very spot Amy had stood before the
smoldering rings of fire took her away.

The dark figure was an exact mirror of the
illusionist’s former self, a living replica of the small stone
statue. His head was lowered. His pale, wrinkled hands rested
before him, palms up. Though the face of the illusionist was hidden
comfortably in shadow, there were two white balls of light enclosed
within the hood glaring across the room at Isaac.

And it was at this moment, the lost
sensation returned.

Isaac recognized the glossy eyes and the
prominent glare behind them. They were the eyes on the other side
of the double doors; eyes that enjoyed watching him suffer; eyes
that wanted to know how much he could take, how far he would go,
and now, as he fell from the end of his thread, those eyes would
finally get their answer.

Isaac reached into the inner pocket of his
coat and slowly removed the 9mm. He braced himself against the
floor with his free hand and lazily pointed the gun in the
direction of the illusionist.

The sanctuary filled with laughter, a
hollering cackle. Isaac flexed his eyebrows together, angry that
the he was not being taken seriously. His index finger gripped the
cold trigger tighter, a little further and a bullet would release
from the chamber.

But the laughter continued.

Then the illusionist spoke for the first
time since the fiery rings took Amy and delivered him.

“What do you intend to do with that foolish
thing?” It asked, though the voice had changed. The voice was still
quite deep, but no longer sounded as sinister as it once had. This
voice was human. “What has it given you all your life? Protection?
Is that it? Or, perhaps, a dead wife?”

“Don’t listen to him, Isaac,” said
Virginia.

“You and me, we aren’t so different,” Lucius
continued, now pacing the stage. “We both killed someone we loved.
The only difference is you let yourself become tormented by it. You
let guilt become your greatest weakness.” He stopped in the center
of the stage. “I did not. I became stronger because of it. I let it
become my greatest strength. Where you fell, I rose.”

Virginia grabbed Isaac from behind and shook
him as though she were trying to wake him from a trance. She told
him to drop the gun, many times, but he hadn’t heard her. His mind
was lost in a place she couldn’t access, in some dark closet of
feelings. He had finally brushed the dust off the shelf and was
frightened at what he found underneath, the mess he had covered up
and left to be forgotten.

“But don’t let my words deter your fate,”
said Lucius, stepping to the foot of the stage. He lifted his arms
up to his side until they were even with his shoulders, widening
the target.
“Kill your daughter like you killed your
wife!”

Isaac gradually lowered the gun and
whispered, “Please forgive me.” Then he raised the gun again, but
this time he wasn’t pointing it at the illusionist.