The Pawn (13 page)

Then I transcribed the conversation as closely as I could get it word for word. I called the Bureau to see if they could trace the call, but they didn’t come up with anything—not that I really thought they would. I looked over my notes of the conversation again to see if there were any holes, any things I’d missed.

He knows me, who I am, what I do. Is he someone from my past?
He said, “You need to worry about me now.” Why? Is he after me?
Am I the pawn?

“I’ll get you,” I said aloud. I realized I was clenching my fists again. This time, though, I didn’t try to relax them. It felt good to be on fire on the inside. To be back in the game.

I tried to tell myself he was lying, that the girl was okay, that Jolene would be all right and we could still save her if we hurried.

But it didn’t work. I knew it was too late. She was already dead.

21

The Illusionist let Jolene hear the entire conversation. He especially liked the look on her face when he said it was too late to save the girl. He hung up the phone and smiled.

He untied the gag and expected her to scream, but she just whimpered instead, “Please, don’t hurt me, mister. Please.” Her voice was raspy, her eyes swollen and bloodshot from the pepper spray. “I’ll do whatever you want,” she was crying, blurting out the words, shaking. He liked that. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Just please, let me go.” Oh, he liked that very much.

He put a finger up to her lips. “Shh, now. Quiet, Jolene. I know you will.” Her wrists were bound to the chair she was seated on, but he held her trembling fingers between his nonetheless. To comfort her.

Outside the cabin, darkness had long since fallen over the mountains. She might scream, but it wouldn’t matter. The walls were soundproof. Besides, they were miles away from the nearest town.

He let go of her hands and walked over to the counter to sip at his coffee. It was late, but he expected to be up for a while. “Do you know how many people are born each day, Jolene?”

“What?”

“387,834 people, Jolene. And every day 153,288 people die. That means that every second 4.5 people are born, and 1.8 people die. Every year, the population of the world grows by more than 78 million people. And do you know how many of those people are remembered after they die?”

“Please, mister.” She began to sob softly, but he paid no attention to it.

“Only a handful, Jolene. You live, you die, the world forgets your name. Life is a cosmic joke. But I’m going to make you memorable. Your name will become famous. Your face will become immortal on television and the Internet.”

He walked toward her.

“On August 31, 1888, a prostitute named Mary Ann Nichols died at the hands of Jack the Ripper, the world’s most infamous serial killer. She was his first. Today, there are dozens of websites in her honor, a fan club, twenty-two songs have been written in memory of her. She lives on. Her name will stay alive forever.”

Jolene trembled. “Mister, please—”

“Jack the Ripper was never found, Jolene. Today there are over a hundred suspects. Each has found his place in history.” He chuckled slightly. “And despite what some people have claimed, the verdict is still out. No one knows for sure who he was. We don’t remember the dead, Jolene, unless they’ve done something unforgettable.” He stroked her hair gently. “Or unless something unforgettable has been done to them.” He leaned over to gaze into her trembling eyes. “Oh yes. I am going to give you a gift, my dear. The gift of immortality. I’m going to give you a place in the history of an anonymous world. People will remember you for decades.”

“Mister, I’ll do anything.”

He set down the cup and walked over to his tools. “Have you heard of Boethius, Jolene?”

The girl was crying now, making it harder to carry on the conversation. The Illusionist didn’t like that. He picked up a knife from the tray—this one was one of his favorites—and walked back to her side of the room.

“I said, have you heard of Boethius?”

She shook her head no, getting more wide-eyed the closer he came.

“He was a Roman philosopher in 480–524 AD who was falsely accused of treason and lost his place in the senate. He was exiled to a cave until his execution. He had everything one day and lost everything the next. In his moment of deepest agony and confusion, he didn’t turn to the gods. Do you know who he turned to?”

Silence.

He held his bracelet up to her face. Inscribed on the metal band was a single word. “Sophia,” he read it to her. “The Greek word for wisdom. Boethius turned to philosophy, Jolene. And she taught him a priceless lesson. A lesson that set him free. Do you know what that lesson was?”

Her eyes seemed to light up when he said the word
free
. “Please let me go. I won’t tell.”

Once again he ignored her. “She taught him that fame and wealth are weak gods because they are so fickle. The best teacher, the greatest instructor to lead us to true wisdom, is pain.”

“Oh no. Please. No.”

“Oh yes. Suffering is the most faithful teacher, Jolene, for pain leads us to clarity, and clarity leads us to truth. Do you agree with Boethius, Jolene?”

“I don’t know.” She was shaking.

“Oh, I think you do know. I think you know that Boethius is right, but you’ve spent your whole life telling yourself that happiness leads to fulfillment. Right? Am I right?”

“I guess so.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Please—”

“Aren’t I!”

“Yes.” He watched her stare at the knife he was twirling only inches from her face.

He leaned closer. “You’re answering the questions so much better now. I’m very proud of you. So I have one last question for you—do you think I agree with Boethius?”

She shook slightly, he could see the fear in her eyes. A whisper of terror rippled through her. “Yes.”

“Once again you are correct, Jolene. And now I’m going to give you a great gift.”

“You’re going to let me go?”

“Oh no. I’m afraid not. The gift I wish to give you is twofold.”

“No—”

“I’ll give you enlightenment and then immortality. And what is the road to enlightenment?”

“No—”

He cut her then, the first cut of the night, slashing the knife quickly and deeply into her forearm, opening an angry red wound. She let out a sharp gasp. Saw the blood leaking out. Started to hyperventilate.

He wiped the blade clean against his pants leg. Yes, he had special plans for her. Not just the six wounds of the other women. Many, many more.

“What is the pathway to enlightenment, Jolene?”

“Pain.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Pain, pain, pain.” Her words sputtered away into strangled sobs.

“Yes. You’re right again. I’m very proud of you. Now, let the lesson begin.”

And he was right. She did scream. Before the lesson had barely begun.

22

Tessa Ellis waited until she heard the sound of slow rhythmic breathing coming from the adjoining hotel room. Then she waited another couple of minutes just to make sure.

Her grandparents—actually her stepdad’s parents—had at least gotten her a separate room at the hotel. She’d demanded that much. There was no way she was going to sleep in the same room with them. Uh-uh. No way.

“We’ll get a room with two beds,” Martha had offered as she picked up her car keys. “Patrick said it would be best.”

Patrick said? Oh, well if Patrick said it, then it must be true. If
Patrick cares so much about what’s best for everyone, why isn’t he
here?

“I’m staying home,” Tessa said. “And I don’t care what
Patrick
says!”

“Please,” Conor said gently. He’d always seemed to get along with her better than Martha did. “It’ll just be for tonight.” He sounded patient but tired.

“I need my privacy!”

And then he surprised her by agreeing. “Yes, yes. Of course you do, Tessa.”

She stopped yelling long enough to see what he would do.

Martha Bowers was staring at her husband. He handed her purse to her. “Of course she does, Martha. She needs her privacy. We’ll get two rooms. Won’t we?” And Martha had given in with a sigh.

The rooms were joined by a door that Conor had said needed to stay open “just a crack; just for safety’s sake. I know you understand.”

No, she didn’t, but what did that matter. “Fine. Whatever,” she said at last.

But it wasn’t necessary; it’s not like she was in any danger or anything. After all, there were two cops parked outside the hotel in an unmarked sedan. That was probably also the work of her stepdad, Patrick Bowers. Mr. FBI . . . Mr. Serial Killer Hunter . . . Mr. I’ll Be Gone Again This Weekend But You’ll Be Fine With My Parents . . . It would be just like him to call in two cops to help protect her but not do a thing to come back home himself.

She’d noticed them right away. Over the last year she’d gotten good at identifying cops. When Conor was leading her to the hotel she banged her fist on the window of the cops’ car. One of them was so startled he spilled his soda all over himself. That was great. She gave them both the finger. That was even better.

Tessa had listened to Martha and Conor talking in whispers for nearly an hour before they finally slipped into sleep. They’d probably been talking about her, but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t make out the words.

Now she listened again, straining against the darkness, but all she heard were the soft sounds of sleep coming from the adjoining hotel room.

Tessa sat up and slid the blanket to the side.

Pale streetlight seeped through the curtains, giving her just enough light to see.

From the other room, a light rustling sound. Someone rolling over in the night.

Tessa froze.

Waited.

Silence.

She slipped out of bed and padded over to the dresser, grabbed her purse, and pulled out the small case. Then, gently, softly, she slipped into the bathroom. Over the last ten months she’d become an expert at doing things soundlessly in the night, finding her way in the dark.

Tessa closed the bathroom door. Even if Martha or Conor did wake up and decide to check on her, they wouldn’t bother her in there. But she didn’t want to take any chances. So she locked it. Just in case.

She pulled up the sleeve of her pajamas and stared for a moment at the set of straight scars descending the inside of her right arm.

Last summer she’d thought her grandparents might ask her why she always wore long-sleeve pajamas and even long-sleeve T-shirts, but they hadn’t. They’d pretty much left her alone to dress the way she wanted to. So had Patrick. He was as clueless as they were.

She opened up the case and pulled out the razor blade.

At first, when she’d heard about self-inflicting, or “self-mutilation” as some people called it, she thought it sounded weird. Why would anyone purposely cut herself? What good could that possibly do? Then, one night when she was sleeping over at her best friend Cherise’s house—back when she used to live in New York City, of course—Tessa found out Cherise was into cutting and had been doing it for two months ever since breaking up with Adam Schoeneck, who’d dumped her for that sophomore cheerleader from East Side High. “It’s like, when you have all this pain inside you,” Cherise had told her, “it’s a way to let it out, you know?”

Tessa had no idea, but she’d said, “Yeah, I know.” What kind of pain could Cherise have? She was popular. She had both her parents. She had everything.

“The cut only stings for like a second, and then it’s over.” Cherise was watching herself brush her rich, cinnamon-colored hair in the mirror. “You have to be careful not to go too deep, though, or you’ll start leaving scars. Did you see that new guy at school? Oh! Totally gorgeous. Anyway, want some pizza? I’m starved.” Cherise had a way of making the most exotic things sound ordinary and the most commonplace things sound exciting.

Still, for a long time Tessa hadn’t even thought about cutting herself. Hadn’t even considered it. But then when her mom was first admitted to the hospital, she’d gotten scared and tried to figure out what to do. It all happened so fast. The doctors weren’t saying much, but she could tell it was serious. She never expected Mom to get sick, not like that. Things like that only happened to other people, not to people like her mom. Not to families like hers.

But then she found out that sometimes they did.

When the treatments didn’t help and Mom got weaker and weaker, Tessa had even tried to talk to Patrick—but that didn’t help much. It wasn’t that he was mean or anything, just distracted. Besides, they’d only known each other for like a year before that, and she’d grown up without a dad anyway, so it’d always been kind of hard for them to talk to each other—to really talk. Then when he got so wrapped up taking care of Mom, well, she had to do something on her own.

So the night her mom started chemo, Tessa had taken an X-acto knife and held it against the inside of her right thigh. Cherise told her the best spots to do it so no one would see, so no one could tell.

“Isn’t it kind of weird, hurting yourself like that?” Tessa had asked.

“It’s not like you want to hurt yourself or anything,” Cherise had explained. “It’s more like the opposite. You’re actually trying to find a way to let the pain out. Try it. You’ll see. It hurts more when you don’t do it.”

That first time had been the hardest. Tessa wasn’t even sure she’d be able to go through with it. Even now she could remember how nervous she was touching the cold steel to her skin, trembling a little, wondering if it would really help, if anything could really help—and then at last pressing the blade hard enough to draw blood and how it hurt more than she thought it would and how her leg twitched and she ended up dropping the knife, just barely missing her foot.

But somehow it did help. Yes. Somehow seeing that small streak of blood made the way she felt inside seem less out of control, less desperate, less awkwardly, gnawingly painful. Even if she couldn’t make her mom feel better, even if she couldn’t talk to Patrick, at least she could do something. At least she could do this.

Of course, it got worse after Mom died. That’s when she moved from her leg to her arm. Everything spun out of control then. Really bad for a while. But Tessa knew she was just doing it to cope. She could stop anytime she wanted to. She knew that much.