The Gift of Illusion

Chapter Eight





1





The police cruiser sat in the empty parking lot of an industrial warehouse on the right corner where Kingsley Avenue met Highway 41. Across the highway, past the light, Kingsley turned into Parker, and on the corner of Parker was the A-Plus gas station.

The deputy watched and waited from inside number 947 for the two detectives to arrive. He was sure they would come, they had every time before. They were on to him, or his trail, so to speak. But this time would be different, the game was all but over, and tonight he would make it personal.

The bald one arrived first. It was easily apparent (even from a hundred yards away) that the fat man was scared to be alone in the poorly lit parking lot with the heavy rain thumping down upon his shoulders. He paced the front entrance of the gas station observing each passing car, hoping the next one would lift the fear from his back.

Just when the fat man looked to have given up hope, the Charger arrived.

The deputy watched the detectives enter the gas station and tried to imagine their surprise. Sometimes he wished he could be a part of it, for once be on the receiving end of the illusion. Moments later, he abandoned the warehouse parking lot (his voyeuristic view) and headed down Kingsley Avenue. His loss of immortality fueled his desire for retribution.





2





From inside the house, the thundering rain sounded like giant footsteps on the roof, or so at least Amy thought. She had left Randy’s house just before the brunt of the storm arrived. She actually felt lucky to have the house to herself tonight so she could read in peace, though she wished the storm would move on and torture someone else.

She picked up the latest issue of Seventeen from the coffee table and found her place. As she began reading, there was suddenly a knock at the front door, a very loud knock. She looked over at the door and listened. Perhaps the wind blew something into the door, she thought. Why would someone be standing out in the storm anyway?

After a few seconds, she convinced herself that something must have flown into the door and focused her attention back on the magazine, but before she could flip a page, there was another knock. The second knock was even louder than the first.

Amy got up from the couch and inched toward the door. When she was close enough to see, she checked to make sure she had locked the door when she came home. Thankfully, she had. The importance of locking the door was something her father had drilled into her head time and time again, especially when she’s home alone.

She continued toward the door, careful not to make too much noise passing over the large white sheets of tile. She imagined someone standing on the other side of the door. Rainwater drenched his body. He laughed at her apprehension, mimicked the fearful look on her face. She had given in to her imagination, and now it had taken over.

When she arrived at the door, Amy wasted no time flipping on the porch light and putting an eye up to the peephole. She hoped to dispel any thought of an unwanted visitor and clear her running imagination immediately, and evidently, she had. The peephole allowed for a view as wide as the front porch, and from what she could see nobody was out there. Either they had left in the time it took her to reach the door, or her initial belief was true.

She calmed.

Her imagination was in check.

Maybe something really did slam into the door, she thought.

She twisted the bolt to the right and slowly opened the door. The rain was coming down even harder than she had thought. The front yard already looked flooded with large pockets of water. She glanced around the ground near the door but didn’t see anything that could have caused the loud bang, and other than some scattered mulch from the side of the house, the entire porch was clear.

A quick flash of lightning sliced through the sky as Amy stepped out of the doorway. She jumped back and braced herself on the door while the thunder roared. Once the resonating bellow dwindled to nearly nothing, she pried her hands off the door and stepped back out into the porch.

First, she looked to her left, and although she had to hold her hair back to keep the wind from blowing it into her face, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary; no one appeared to be hiding in the bushes. Then she looked to the right, in the direction of Randy’s house. Again, nothing unusual or out of place caught her eye. Yet, she did notice the lights flickering on and off inside his house, which she thought strange.

One short breath later, the house lights sputtered for the last time and abruptly died, as did the bulb above her head. Lightning must have struck a power line nearby and knocked the power out in the entire neighborhood.

She had never been scared of the dark, or scared of being alone, but being alone in the dark with the lightning, thunder, and foreboding presence of some mysterious visitor, now that was something different altogether.

She crept back inside the house, shut the door, and locked the stiff bolt into place. She reached around the wall for the light switch, just to make sure she wasn’t going crazy, and flipped it on. The light stayed off. The house was dark and unusually silent. She had to remind herself to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

After a minute, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, which made her feel a little safer, though now she could see the lightning cast haunting shadows on the walls. Each shadow had its own body and face; some even had two faces. The shadows came like a ghost, danced from room to room, and then scattered only to return moments later with a new dancing partner.

Now she had the worst fear of all, worse than that of being alone in the dark. She feared she wasn’t the only one in the house. Somebody else was here, hiding behind a ghostlike shadow, watching with lost eyes and waiting to greet her with a sick, malicious smile across its face.

Amy built up enough courage to step away from the front door. She tiptoed into the kitchen and peered around the corner, then walked over to the window above the kitchen sink and looked out at the side lawn. Through the thrashing rain, she could barely make out her green Civic parked in the driveway. She slowly walked the remainder of the kitchen and came out in the dining room on the other side. Her cell phone rested on the coffee table. She thought about calling her father and telling him what happened.

But what really did happen?

Nothing.

And that was exactly what her father would say. Why did she need him to tell her? Besides, she didn’t want to interrupt him while he’s at work, especially if it wasn’t really an emergency.

When she turned around, she swore she saw something rush past the dining room window. It moved too fast to be identified, but Amy was sure she had seen something. She walked over to the windowsill and looked out upon the backyard. Nobody appeared to be roaming about in the storm. She waited a minute for the something to reappear, gave up, turned to walk away, and then jumped in terror as a hand smashed through the window and grabbed her arm.

She screamed and struggled to free her arm from the clutch of the bleeding hand. With each outburst, the power of her voice weakened. Would anyone be able to hear her over the tumultuous storm? Another arm came through the window and cupped a hand over her mouth. Her legs wobbled. In the dark room, the shadows danced faster. Blood rushed to her head. Her lungs needed oxygen. She had just about given up the fight, when the intruder slammed the side of her head into the windowsill, knocking her unconscious.





3





Isaac circled the body of ash in the center aisle of the gas station. A pair of handcuffs lay in the middle with a partially burnt hand still locked within each cuff. He stopped near the checkout counter and glanced down at the sawed-off shotgun. Three shells were scattered across the floor nearby. He carefully examined the shotgun, then the handcuffs.

For the past two days, Isaac had been certain that James Ackerman was responsible for the trail of ash, and he still believed it, but with James dead, there was no reasonable logic to suggest that he could have committed this most recent crime. Could there be a copycat killer?

“Who do you think the gun belongs to?”

Isaac pointed down at the body of ash and then at the handcuffs. “More importantly, who do you think the cuffs belong to?”

“I don't know,” Simmons murmured.

“Think harder.”

“I guess they could belong to a police officer."

"Or a dominatrix."

"But wouldn't we have heard something?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Stevens said nothing of a rogue officer. But I have someone in mind."

Isaac pulled out his cell phone and dialed Chief Stevens. "Hey, question for you. Yeah, we're here. Of course. I want you to know you're officially on my shit list. Why? Why do you think? This is getting ridiculous. Anyway, I need to know if anyone didn't check in or out today. Call it a hunch."

Simmons seemed shocked that Isaac would even suggest that a member of their team could have anything to do with this carnage. He didn't know everyone personally. He hadn't been at this precinct that long. Those he did know, however, seemed to maintain a high level of moral integrity that was far more rare in a large, bustling metropolis. These were good, honest, small town people.

Isaac thanked the chief and ended the call. "Deputy Howers."

"The new guy? What about him?"

"We saw him earlier. He even told us he was going to come here and get gas. From the look of things, he did a little more than that."

“No," said Simmons. “Why would he?”

“I don’t know the answer to that question,” Isaac said. “But Stevens said he was supposed to be off duty over an hour ago and they haven't been able to get a hold of him. If he doesn't respond soon they'll do a search for his vehicle."

"Jesus. What in the hell is going on. I'm so confused by all of this."

"Okay, let's consider what we know so far. How many bodies?”

Simmons counted on his fingers. “Four, right?”

“Right. Now who was the first on the list?”

“The little girl. Lori.”

“Okay, so Lori burns to death in her room roughly forty-eight hours ago. Her parents go off to a motel where her mother burns not even eight or nine hours later. Then James disappears and puts a big target on his back. The next morning we discover James was a passenger in a deadly car wreck, and more importantly, burned up just like his wife and daughter. And that is where my head starts to go haywire. Did James really kill off his family? Did he commit suicide? And if so, how in the world did he do it from the passenger seat of a semi? Was this Dante character involved? We still can't identify how any of these fires even began. They defy all logic and reason. And now we find this guy here in the gas station. Deputy Howers is missing. These definitely aren't just random coincidences. There's a trail connecting them. It's the how's and why's that got me going f*cking crazy. It’s almost like we’re tracking a parasite that’s somehow intelligent enough to choose a new host whenever it wants.”

Simmons shrugged. “But who is responsible then, if not James?”

“I’m not saying James didn’t kill his wife and daughter, but we had a chat with Eddie after James had already bit the dust. So how do you pin a dead man to a murder?”

Simmons shook his head. “We can’t.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think James could’ve had an accomplice?”

“Anything is possible. But I doubt it. If James is one hundred percent responsible, if he was the ultimate mastermind behind this horror, which I am seriously beginning to doubt, then it is my belief he would have gone at it alone. Until now, it was a family affair. I can’t imagine someone else aiding him in his efforts, and even so, who would this person be? Who? We have nothing. No leads. No witnesses. Just piles and piles of ash.”

“So, what does all of this mean?”

“It means there's nothing we can do but wait for the next victim.” Isaac looked down at the burnt body of the store clerk, the shells strewn across the floor, the silver cuffs locking a pair of sallow, bodiless hands, and then looked back up at Simmons. “We’re either dealing with a copycat killer.” He paused for a second to summon an illogical thought. “Or something of which neither of us have the knowledge to explain.”

“You mean, like something paranormal?”

“Let’s just hope it’s the first.”





4





It took Amy a minute to remember what had happened.

How did she end up on the ground?

Why did her head throb?

Why was there glass all over the floor?

She looked up at the broken window and recalled the bloody arm clutching her wrist. She wasn’t sure how long she had been out, maybe a minute, maybe an hour. In the meantime, the storm hadn’t moved on to torture anyone else. A fierce wind carried the cold rain through the broken window.

She nearly passed out again when she touched the small, pulsating knot on the side of her head. She tried to stand up but was too disorientated to maintain any reasonable sense of balance, even more so after a loud crashing sound unsettled her.

Something heavy had fallen somewhere in the house. Whoever had grabbed her was still here. Fearful tears ran down her face as she crawled toward the coffee table, and the red cellular phone. She tried not to imagine where the intruder was hiding, she would rather not know. All she could think about was getting to the phone and calling for help.

She sobbed as she crawled across the carpet. Fear was the only motivating factor keeping her moving. Fear that the intruder was close by, and if she didn’t hurry, things could get a lot worse than they already were. What Amy didn’t realize, however, was that the intruder was closer than she thought, and watched her struggle with a rather curious delight.

When she reached the coffee table, Amy rested her left arm (the one with the sore wrist) on the side of the table and reached with her other arm for the cell phone. She picked it up off the coffee table, hand shaking. She punched in 911 and hit the send button, but before the first ring could finish, there were three quick beeps, then silence. She took the phone off her ear, unsure if the beeps were in her head or not, and glanced down at the digital panel. The screen was blank.

The phone had died at the worst possible time.

Amy unclipped the battery from the back of the phone and then returned it into place. Maybe it had a little juice left. Thirty seconds was all she needed. She pressed the power button and waited for the menu screen to light up. A part of her expected the words WELCOME TO THE END to flash across the screen as a premonition of things to come. Instead, the phone beeped once, and WARNING: BATTERY LOW lit up on the screen. She hurried to dial the number, but again three loud beeps cried in her ear and the screen blanked out.

She bowed her head.

Lightning struck dangerously close to the house waking Amy from her bereavement. She turned around and stared at the broken window in the dining room. Rain soaked the carpet and the white curtains around the window. A few large pieces of glass still hung from the shattered windowsill.

Maybe he wasn’t in the house.

That thought (as hopeful as it was) took the first plane to nowhere when she glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw the stranger with the bloody arm standing in the doorway to her father's office. He stood tall, slim, and motionless. His face hid behind the shadow produced by a black cowboy hat atop his head.

Amy crawled backwards toward the couch. She wanted to make a run for the door but knew that he would catch her before she could get there. For once, she felt too afraid to cry. She nestled up against the corner of the couch and crossed her arms over her knees.

In an instant the intruder closed the distance between them, and stood over Amy peering down with a wicked grin across his face.

“Leave me alone,” she cried, balling up tighter.

The intruder had something in his left hand. He must have taken it from the office, though Amy didn’t recognize what it was. It looked like a small piece of stone.

“Leave me alone,” she cried again.

But the intruder remained motionless. His face now leaked no expression, no smile. Amy was just about to repeat herself for the third time, when he finally spoke.

“Tell your father to stay out of my way. This is the only warning he's going to get.”

Then, to Amy’s surprise, the stranger left through the front door, and took the small piece of stone with him. Less than a minute later, the power returned.





5





The Charger made a loud grinding sound as Isaac jammed the stick into fifth gear and sped down Kingsley Avenue. The thick of the storm had passed over, though the hard rain left great portions of the road flooded. This, however, did not stop Isaac from zooming by at eighty mph, two times the posted speed limit. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do; the car practically skipped along the water, but his own safety was the last thing on his mind.

He pulled on to Hampton Lane. From the end of the block, he could see a couple of police cars, along with an ambulance, parked outside his house. He imagined Amy laying on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance crying for him, the way he had cried for her mother sixteen years earlier.

How could he have let it happen again? How?

The thought was enough to break his heart.

An officer outside hurried over to greet Isaac as he pulled into the driveway.

“Where is she?” he asked the officer. “I want to see her!"

“She’s inside,” the officer said.

Isaac hurried inside the house, passing Randy in the doorway, and stopped suddenly when he noticed the broken window in the dining room.

He gasped.

The chattering voices hushed. The room froze. Isaac felt his chest begin to ache, the skin burn. He reached up and massaged the scar on his left shoulder. Then he saw Amy sitting at the bottom of the stairs and rushed over to her.

“Dad,” she cried.

Isaac leaned down next to her. “Thank God you’re all right. I was so worried about you.” He noticed the blood on her nightgown. “You’re bleeding.”

Amy shook her head. “No, it’s not my blood.”

Isaac threw his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Tell me what happened? Who grabbed you?”

“I don’t know who he was.” Isaac wiped the tears from her face. “He broke through the window and grabbed my wrist. There was blood all over his arm. I thought he was going to kill me.”

“It's okay,” said Isaac, hugging her tighter. He looked over and saw that Simmons had arrived. “I’m here now.”

“After that I don’t remember what happened,” Amy murmured. “I woke up next to the window with this bump on my head.” Isaac looked up at the small knot no bigger than a dime. “Then I crawled over to the table and tried to call 911 but my cell phone died.”

“What happened to the man who grabbed you?”

“He was in your office.”

Isaac sat up and turned his head toward the office door. “Hold on a minute,” he said.

He hurried into the office and stood over the mess scattered across the floor. His computer monitor was destroyed. It had been thrown off the desk and landed halfway across the room. There were papers from the filing cabinets thrown all about, along with broken glass from his desk lamp. An old miniature grandfather clock given to him by his father rested near his feet, dead. He walked behind the desk and saw the drawers emptied on to the floor. Little Lori Ackerman’s painting was still there (all five pieces of it crammed underneath the drawer), but something else was missing. He walked out of his office and returned to Amy at the bottom of the staircase.

“Was this person wearing a police uniform?”

Amy seemed surprised that her father could have guessed. “Yeah, actually he was, now that I think about it.”

Isaac took a deep breath and looked up at Simmons eyeing him.

“And he had a cowboy hat on.”

Not until this moment had the feeling he expressed back at the gas station made any sense, but now he was sure that he was right. He stood up and walked over to Simmons.

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, I think she’ll be all right,” Isaac said. “But guess what? She said the man who attacked her was wearing a police uniform and he had a cowboy hat on. Who does that sound like to you?” He looked over at a couple of policemen examining the broken window. “And that’s not all. He took the statue. Now how do you think Deputy Howers knew that I had it?”

Simmons sighed. “How do we deal with this?”

“I'm gonna find him and deal with it. This shit has gone on long enough. That son of a bitch hurt my daughter, and for that he’ll pay.”

Isaac sat back down next to Amy.

“He had something in his hand,” she said. “He took it from your office.”

“I know, honey.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know," he replied. "I really don’t know.”





6





Isaac cleaned up the glass from the dining room floor and sealed up the window with some duct tape from the garage. He put a few towels down near the window to mop up some of the water from the carpet. Most of the officers left shortly after Isaac cleaned up the mess, and Randy was already gone before Isaac had a chance to talk to him. Simmons stayed around a little longer, talking to Isaac in the kitchen while Amy took a shower upstairs. When she was done, she changed into a pair of purple pajamas and threw the bloody nightgown in the trash.

A half an hour later Isaac bid Simmons farewell, locked the door, and then headed up to his bedroom. He stripped off his clothes, pulled on a clean pair of red and white boxers, and was about ready to lie down on the bed, when Amy opened his bedroom door and stood in the doorway.

“Dad.”

Isaac thanked God that he at least had his weapon concealed. Whew, close one.

“There was something else I forgot to tell you.”

Isaac looked up, curious. “What’s that?”

Amy seemed reluctant to tell him, her eyes shifted around the room. Perhaps that’s why she had waited till everyone else left the house. “Well, I don’t know how important this is, but I thought I should tell you anyway.”

“Okay. Spill it.”

“Just before he left, you know, with the statue. He told me to warn you to stay out of his way.”