The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (8 page)

“What’s your name?” The truck driver fired
up the eighteen-wheeler. “Mine’s Dante.”

"It's..." James could barely find the breath
to answer. "It's James...Ackerman.”

Dante frowned. “James Ackerman, huh? Sounds
familiar. Have we met before?”

“No...I don’t think...so.” He threw his head
back on the headrest and gasped for air while his eyes pulsated in
their sockets.

“Well, anyway, if you couldn’t already tell,
I’m a commercial truck driver. Lucky for you, I have a little time
to kill before my next shipment.”

Dante pulled the eighteen-wheeler up to the
curb of Highway 41.

“Now where exactly would you like me to drop
you off?”

James didn’t answer. He may not have even
heard the question over the loud screaming in his ears.

“Just name a street.”

Dante turned left on to Highway 41 then
glanced over at James panting intensely in the passenger seat.
“Hey, man, you okay? You don’t look too good. Maybe I should take
you to the hospital instead.”

James grasped the edge of the seat
desperately trying to hold on to life while inside his body
temperature fueled to unthinkable heights.

Dante grabbed James’s shoulder and shook him
a little, feeling an immense heat rise from the stranger’s
body.

“Hey buddy, c’mon now!” he yelled. “Tell me
what’s wrong!”

James stopped breathing. His jaw dropped
open.

Dante turned the semi around and began
heading east down the highway. The closest hospital was fifteen
minutes away, but it would have to do.

“Shit!” Dante yelled. “What in the hell did
I do to deserve—”

A bright orange flame shot out from James’s
gaping mouth.

Dante nearly jumped out of his seat as the
stranger then burst into flames. He frantically fought to clear the
smoke from his face while reaching to open the window. The bright
orange flames now died down and gave way to a light blue simmer.
James’s body sizzled like a thick cut of bacon. Soon he’d be
cooked, well done.

Dante didn’t realize just how fast he was
going. He coughed and rubbed his eyes while the smoke filling the
cab thickened. While searching for the brake pedal with his foot,
he inadvertently turned the wheel to the right, steering the semi
off the road and into the grassy median where, up ahead, two parked
police cars sat with a deputy inside each, unaware of the monstrous
wrecking machine heading in their direction at over seventy
mph.

Eddie watched from the gas station parking
lot as the eighteen-wheeler plowed through the median down the
highway and collided into two police cars. The force of the
collision pushed both cars side-by-side fifty yards down the median
and almost tore one completely in half. A soundtrack of twisting
metal; the smell of gas—rubber, flew on the back of the wind.

Eddie smiled and imagined what the impact
had done to the policemen waiting like two halves of a wishbone
ready to be split apart.

Snap.

Chapter Five

1

Isaac pulled the Charger off to the side of
Highway 41 and skipped across the street to the mess in the median.
A mob of reporters had already arrived and surrounded the wreckage
like a pack of hungry vultures craving flesh. Simmons stood at the
end of the two totaled police cruisers talking to an emergency
medical technician. Isaac walked over and introduced himself to the
EMT.

Long streaks of blood slashed the top of the
most heavily damaged cruiser. The driver’s side door had been cut
out to remove the remains of Deputy William Randall distributed
across the front and back seats. The inside of the cruiser looked
like one large canvas where someone had created an original work of
art with fresh human paint.

“Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Looks pretty bad.” Isaac placed his hand on
the smashed hood of the eighteen-wheeler. The engine was still a
little warm. “Any info on the truck driver? I’m assuming he’s
dead.” He looked up at the semi’s broken windshield, then at the
police car closest to the semi, the one with the bright red streaks
across the roof.

“Yep, he’s dead,” Simmons replied.

Isaac headed to the passenger door.

“Do you know about James?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

Isaac opened the passenger door and climbed
inside the cab. A fine gray ash covered the seat and floor of the
truck; the small stone statue lay in the middle of the ash like a
fallen angel. “No, it doesn't,” he finally answered. “You never
answered my question. What do we know about the truck driver?”

“Not much. He’s divorced. Name is Dante
Hollinger.”

“Dante, huh? Does he have a record?”

“No, he’s clean. He had an ex-wife but she’s
dead.”

“Maybe he killed her.”

Simmons shrugged his shoulders.

“Any connection between him and James
Ackerman?”

“Don’t know.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None so far, but this receipt from the
A-Plus Gas station was in the pocket of his jeans.”

Simmons pulled the receipt out of his jacket
and handed it to Isaac.

Isaac looked down at the receipt and then
down the road. “I’d say he picked up James at the gas station a few
minutes before the collision. Anything on the Escort?”

“No. Still missing.”

Isaac walked toward the rear of the truck. A
How’s my driving?
sticker was on the bumper with a telephone
number underneath. Isaac sneered when he read it. "Not very
good."

“Maybe we should call the number,” Simmons
said.

Isaac pulled on the heavy lock latched to
the trailer door. “You know what’s inside?”

“Motor oil, I believe.”

“Motor oil, huh. Oh well, how about we head
over to the gas station and have a chat with the clerk. It should
only take a minute.”

They drove down the road to the A-Plus gas
station on the corner of Parker Avenue. The parking lot was empty
when they arrived, but Isaac could see the shadowy profile of
someone meandering around inside. Once inside, he scanned the
aisles of the store while Simmons stayed close to the door. There
was a black and white television set behind the counter with the
volume turned all the way up; the tiny speakers rattled and hissed
while small dots of snow splattered on the screen.

“Hello,” Isaac called. “Anybody here?”

A skinny middle-aged man stepped out of the
back office and walked behind the front counter. The clerk looked
as though he had not taken a shower in over a month, and by the
odor—a urinals perfume—he presented with such ease and
indifference, it was very likely true. A white button up shirt
covered his darkly tanned, reptile skin, while blotches of sweat
sunk into the underarms and a ring of old dirt and filth clung to
the collar.

“What do you want?”

Isaac stepped ahead of Simmons and put his
badge down on the checkout counter. “I’m Detective Winters. And
this is Detective Simmons.” Simmons nodded at the store clerk.
“What’s your name, sir?”

The clerk licked his lips and pointed at the
tag on his shirt. “Eddie.”

“All right Eddie—”

“Can’t you read,” the clerk interrupted.

Isaac stared at the clerk for a second then
turned and smiled at Simmons.

“What do you want?”

“How about you let me ask the
questions?”

“What do you want?”

“What I want is for you to shut your damn
mouth for a second so I can speak!”

“I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Hey man, just a few questions and then were
gone,” said Simmons. “We're not here to cause any trouble.”

Eddie stood silent for a moment then snarled
at Simmons. “Whatever you say, Detective.”

“Good,” said Isaac. “Now how about turning
down the volume on the boob tube so we can communicate like
civilized human beings?”

Eddie walked over to the television and
yanked the cord from the wall.

“Thank you. Now do you know a man named
Dante Hollinger?”

The scruffy clerk offered no response.

“Or James Ackerman?”

“
Did you have a customer
come into the store an hour ago and buy a pack of Marlboro
cigarettes?” Simmons asked. “Long hair. Driving a blue eighteen
wheeler.”

“Perhaps.”

“Yes or no?” Isaac said.

“I can't remember.”

“Well, I’m not sure if you are aware of
this, but just down the road there was an accident, and one of the
vehicles involved was an eighteen wheeler.”

“Okay,” said the clerk. “Let me know when
you get to the point.”

“The point is coming,” said Isaac. “Are you
paying attention? The driver of the semi was carrying a fugitive,
both are now dead, and a receipt from your gas station dated ten
minutes before the crash was found in the driver’s pocket. Now, all
I want to know is if you knew either of them, saw them together
doing anything suspicious, or have any information at all that
could help us. That’s it. I’m not blaming you, so I could do
without the smug attitude, but I’d appreciate an answer.”

“Would you prefer a right or wrong
answer?”

“I want an honest answer,” said Isaac. “It’s
simple. Yes or no?”

Eddie grinned. “No.”

“You’re not lying to me?”

“You heard my answer.”

“Fine, but if I find out you lied to me I’ll
be back, and next time we won’t be smiling and winking at each
other from across the counter. Understand?”

Eddie grinned again. “Don’t forget your
badge, Detective.”

Isaac snatched his badge from the counter
and placed it back into his coat. The two detectives left the store
and returned to the Charger parked out front.

Isaac shook his head. “What a complete
imbecile!”

“We should have asked him about the
Escort.”

“Why? Even if he knew where it was he
wouldn’t tell us. I’m not sure that fucking idiot would remember
his name if it wasn’t pinned to his shirt.”

“So we’re not coming back?”

“Not unless we absolutely have to.”

Isaac parked the Charger in the median
parallel to the semi then got out of the car. Simmons followed.
Isaac opened the semi’s passenger door and hoisted himself up into
the cab again. He took a minute to look over the last remains of
James Ackerman plastered to the heavy-duty seat cushion and hoped
that this time he would notice something different, something he
may have overlooked in the other bodies. But the scalded markings
of James’s corpse were identical to that of his wife and
daughter.

Somehow, the case had solved itself. James
had killed his family, but not just killed—tortured. So why not end
the story the way it began, show the world that you’re not afraid
to suffer the punishment of your own design. Be the martyr.

Isaac reached his hand down into the ash and
pulled the stone figure from the ruins. He brushed the black flakes
off the statue with the tip of his index finger. This was the first
time he had been able to get a close look at the unique figure; the
shape had been intricately crafted, down to even the smallest of
details. Whoever created the small piece of stonework put a lot of
time into sculpting it, and had thought much of the shadowy figure
adorned. “I think I might hang on to this,” he said, placing the
statue into the inner pocket of his coat.

“Are you sure you want to keep that thing
around?”

Isaac stepped off the truck. “Why not? It’s
not every day you get to take your work home with you.”

“Yeah, but that thing has a way of following
bad luck around.”

“How do you know that it’s not the other
way?”

“Well, that would be even worse.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

2

The heavy two-car garage door groaned as it
rolled upward on stiff, aging rails. Isaac drove the Charger inside
and parked underneath a broken light bulb that hung overhead. A
long piece of string, which acted as a parking guide, hung from a
hook in the ceiling. When the knotted tip of the string touched the
front of the hood, the car was far enough inside the garage to not
get pelted by the electric door.

Isaac shut off the ignition and leaned back
in the firm leather seat as though it were a recliner. He dreamed
of getting away for a little while, taking some much needed time
off. A vacation sounded nice, a
real
vacation, not sitting
on his ass and staring at the back of his eyelids. Maybe after the
school year ended, he could take Amy somewhere she has never been,
which was almost anywhere beyond Elmwood. Soon she would be turning
seventeen and entering her senior year in high school, this summer
could be his last chance to do something special for her.

He returned his seat back into the upright
position and exited the car. Just as he was about to shut the door,
he caught a glimpse of the painting lying broken and forgotten in
the back seat. The painting reminded him of the old woman that
lived next door to the now infamous Ackerman residence; how she had
said such wonderful things of Lori, Carol, and especially, James.
There was something in the way she spoke, some imperative truth to
her words that begged to push the
what if
button in the back
of Isaac’s head.

What if there was more behind all that seems
obvious?

He reached into the back seat, scooped up
the torn painting, and headed inside the house. After checking his
messages, he sat down at the kitchen table, laid out the pieces of
the painting in front of him, and then proceeded to place each
shred of paper back into its original position. He wondered how the
painting had arrived at its tattered state, though what seemed most
peculiar was that the picture had been torn in five pieces from top
to bottom, with each family member (all three of them) alone on
their own piece, as if someone had planned it that way.