The Gift of Illusion

Chapter Twelve





1





Lizzy had just finished taking the clean clothes out of the dryer when the doorbell rang. She set the white basket down in the back hallway and headed through the living room to the front door. She looked through the peephole and saw a policeman standing with his back to her, looking out at the street. He had a black cowboy hat on his head and a gun strapped to his hip.

“May I help you, officer?”

The policeman turned around and smiled at the beautiful young woman. “Yes, I think you can. My name is Deputy Howers.”

Lizzy figured the police must have sent someone to talk to her concerning the burglary next door, even though she had told three or four of them last night that she didn’t see or hear anything.

“Do you have a moment?”

“Yeah, sure thing. Come inside.” Lizzy followed the deputy into the living room and waited for him to sit down on the couch. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“That would be wonderful.”

A minute later Lizzy returned to the living room with a glass of ice water in each hand. She immediately noticed that the deputy had removed his holster from his belt and set the gun down on the coffee table. A little strange, right? No need to worry, she thought, this man is a police officer, not some hoodlum. She handed the deputy his glass of water then sat down on the blue recliner opposite the couch.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“Because of the break in next door.”

The deputy smiled. “Yes.”

Oddly, Lizzy found herself staring down at the gun on the coffee table, and although she didn’t know why, she had a sudden urge to pick it up. “I told the officers last night that I didn’t hear anything.”

The deputy scanned the room, clearly not paying any attention to a word she said.

“How well do you know the detective?”

“Not that well, I just met him yesterday,” Lizzy said. “I’m new in the neighborhood.”

“Really,” said the deputy. “Do you live alone?”

“No, I live with my fiancé.”

“And where is he now?”

“He’s at work. Did you need to talk to him?”

“I’ll talk to him later.”

Lizzy looked down and noticed that the deputy hadn’t touched the glass of water. She was almost done with her glass. The deputy’s reserved manner made her nervous. She didn’t know anything. How many times did she have to say it? Why would he not leave?

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

The deputy stood up. Lizzy crept back in the recliner and glanced up at the officer’s dead expression. She looked down at the gun and once again felt the urge to grab it, this time stronger than before.

“No.”

Lizzy let out a deep sigh of relief and stood up. Thank the good Lord, she thought, it’s about damn time. The deputy was almost out the door before Lizzy realized he had forgotten to take his gun.

“Oh, sir,” she yelled. “You forgot your gun.”

The deputy walked back into the living room. He glanced over at the gun, and then turned his attention to Lizzy. “Thank you for your time,” he said, extending his hand.

Lizzy hesitated for a second, again feeling the strange urge to step back and pick up the gun—pick it up and send a bullet through the deputy’s head. Instead, she reprimanded herself for having such crazy thoughts, and reached out to shake the deputy’s hand.





2





Deputy Howers collapsed on the floor. He looked around the room trying to make some sense of where he was, and why his head hurt. He focused on a young woman standing nearby, watching with a smile on her face.

“Where am I?” he yelled. “Who are you?”

The woman didn’t answer.

A smoldering heat filled the room, or was it just him? Sweat poured down his cheeks. He took the cowboy hat off his head and fanned his face with it. Why would the woman not answer? Why would she not help him? After some labor, the deputy made it to his feet. He stumbled around the room shaking and flailing his hands in the air like a preacher filled with the spirit of the Holy Ghost.

The deputy finally boogied his way over to the couch, fell to his knees, and braced himself against the armrest. He picked up the glass of water from the coffee table (unaware of the gun pointed at his head) and quickly downed the liquid. Half of the water gushed down his chin, the other half rushed back up his throat—spewed from his mouth. He gagged, fought for breath, and re-swallowed much of the vomited water.

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.