The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (9 page)

Then an emotion swept over Isaac of which he
hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Sorrow.

Perhaps he had locked it away in some dark
and distant place of unrecognizable feelings, or maybe the long and
vigorous years in law enforcement had desensitized him. But how
could he have forgotten the tragedy of sixteen years? The four
bullets in Linda’s chest. The blood stained sheets and nightgown.
The emptiness he had felt as he laid in a hospital bed imagining
the paramedics carry her from the house in a zipped up body
bag.

He hadn’t forgotten. He had tucked those
painful feelings away in the closet for so long that when he was
finally ready to face them again, he could hardly recognize what
was left under all the dust. Maybe it was time he forgave himself.
He felt tears form in the corners of his eyes and turned away from
the painting. He wanted to let it all out and show himself that he
was not afraid, but instead he quickly shoved the torn pieces aside
and fought to hold the feelings within.

Not today,
he thought. The guilt
still flourished willingly in his blood and was more effective a
crutch than ever, and he would lean on it until it broke. Someday.
Not today.

Isaac left the kitchen table and opened up
the refrigerator. He grabbed a soda, a small jar of mayonnaise, and
a few packets of lunchmeat and set them down on the counter. They
were low on bread supply but there was still a few slices left for
a hearty sandwich. He untwisted the bread bag and reached for the
last two soft slices sandwiched between two crusty end pieces, and
then stuffed the remainder of the bag into the trash under the
sink.

As Isaac finished preparing his sandwich,
there was a knock at the front door. He froze in mid-bite and
glanced through the living room. For a brief moment, he thought he
might have been hearing things, but he quickly withdrew this notion
when a double knock followed. He finished swallowing his first bite
and set the rest of the sandwich down on the counter. As he walked
to the front door, there was another knock, followed by a
voice.

“Anybody home?” asked the voice. “Hey, man,
ya there?”

The voice was Randy Wilson's, his next-door
neighbor to the left. Randy had worked as a mechanic at a garage
just outside of town, a job he had miraculously held on to for a
couple of years, ever since his last marriage ended, but he could
do just about any odd job you could imagine. He was a real
jack-of-all-trades, loved to work with his hands, and wasn’t afraid
of trapping a little dirt under his fingernails. Randy had to be
the hardest worker Isaac had ever known, but then again he had to
work hard to support his four children.

Isaac struggled to remember the names of
Randy’s kids as he readied himself to open the door. He had
narrowed it down to three girls and a boy, but as for their names,
he hadn’t the foggiest clue. He was positive, however, that all but
two of the four children had come into the world with different
mothers. Randy had been divorced as many times as he had been
married, three altogether, and Isaac had witnessed all of it from
one door over. And, unbelievably, Randy had recently been toying
with the idea of getting married a fourth time, like three trips
through hell weren’t enough.

Randy had given up on Isaac answering the
door and began walking away, when the door finally swung open. He
turned back around and greeted Isaac. “There ya are,” he said. “I
was wondering what happened to you. I saw your car pull up.”

Isaac wondered if he was even looking at the
same man. A total transformation had taken place in Randy’s
personal appearance since the last time they had spoken. The long
scraggily hair that used to hang down over Randy’s shoulders was
washed and cut back to his ears. The full beard was shaved off
leaving just a neatly trimmed goatee in its place. The ripped blue
jeans moved out as a nice pair of slacks moved in. Even the smelly
grease stained undershirt that had become the staple of Randy’s
wardrobe was replaced with a dark blue turtleneck.

“I was just fixing myself a little lunch,”
Isaac said, not taking his eyes off the new and improved Randy
Wilson.

“Long time no see."

"Yeah. How are the kids?”

“Good.”

“You seeing the same girl?”

Randy nodded. “Lizzy.”

“Wow,” said Isaac. “So, how’s that
going?”

“Pretty darn good actually,” Randy said with
a devious smile on his face. “We’re getting married. Not for at
least six months though. We’ve been planning it together. This time
I want a real wedding, not one of those cheap last second things.
I’ve been saving up my money so I can give her the best wedding
possible. I’m tired of jumping into things with my head up my ass.
Those days are over. I’m not getting any younger, ya know? It’s
time to do something real with my life. Make a commitment.”

“Well, I hope it works out for the best. Did
you get a new job or something?”

“How’d ya guess?”

“Just a hunch. Last time we talked you were
still working for Joe Little rebuilding transmissions.”

Randy sighed. “Yeah, Joe had to close up
shop. Couldn't keep the lights on I guess. Tough times."

“So where are you working now?”

“As of this week, I’m officially a used car
salesman.”

“So you went from fixing cars to selling
cars? Nice change of scene."

“What can I say I love cars. It's pretty
good money, but I’m still trying to get the hang of the whole
selling thing.”

“Did you have today off?”

“Well, I was supposed to be working the big
sale today, but the owner Frank Delano sent everyone home after he
heard what happened to James this morning."

"James Ackerman?"

“Yeah. Did you know him or something?”

Isaac brushed his hand across the front of
his jacket and felt the small stone statue resting comfortably
inside the inner pocket. “Two policemen also died this
morning.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot who you work
for,” said Randy. “James showed me the ropes. He seemed like a
pretty cool guy. Terrible thing that happened to him though. Hey,
you gonna be around later?”

Isaac couldn’t believe that Randy Wilson had
gone from fixing junkyard cars to selling them. Something gave
Isaac the impression that Randy couldn’t sell shit to a constipated
man. But more surprising than his friends sudden makeover was that
Randy had worked and been trained by the infamous James Ackerman,
husband and father of the year according to his neighbor, the man
whom Randy now referred to as a pretty cool guy.

“You okay, man?”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “I’ve just got my
mind on other things right now. What were you saying?”

“I wanted to know if you would like to join
me and Lizzy for dinner tonight. I’m rolling out the old grill and
I thought it might be cool to catch up. What do ya say?”

“That sounds great. Is it okay if Amy tags
along?”

“Oh, sure thing, man. Wouldn’t have it any
other way. How’s she doin’ in school?”

“Good. Next year will be her senior
year.”

“How time flies. It feels like she was just
born yesterday. Damn, I’m getting old.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Unfortunately,” said Randy. “So we on for
tonight?”

The phone began to ring inside the house.
“Yeah, I think so. What time?”

“Around five, five thirty.”

“Sounds good. I’ll let you know if I can’t
make it for some reason.”

Isaac waved goodbye and shut the door. The
phone was on its fifth and final ring as he picked it up. The
answering machine clicked on and started into a spiel about him not
being home.

“Hello.”

“Isaac.” It was Simmons. “I’ve got some news
I think you’re really gonna like.”

“What’s that?”

“We found the car.”

“The Escort?”

“Yeah. A local fisherman spotted the car
back toward Catfish Creek.”

“You’re shitting me. Catfish Creek? How long
ago was it found?”

“Not long, a half an hour ago at the most. I
just got the call right before I called you.”

Isaac suddenly remembering what chief
Stevens had said.
If we locate the car, you’ll be the first one
to know.
“How long do you think it will take you to get
there?”

“I’m already on my way to pick you up.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, I thought it would be better if we
went together, that way only one of us has to drive down the trail
and risk getting their car scratched by a tree branch.”

“Much appreciated,” Isaac said. “And I just
want you to know that I don’t care what the others say about you, I
think you’re a great guy.”

“Who are the others and what have they been
saying about me?” Simmons asked, genuinely worried.

“Nobody and nothing. It was just a
joke.”

Isaac hung up the phone and rushed through
the living room to his office on the far side of the house. He
removed the stone statue from his coat pocket, dropped it in the
top desk drawer, and headed back into the kitchen. He grabbed the
sandwich from the counter, left the kitchen, and found a nice comfy
spot in front of the television. Two sets of commercials later the
doorbell rang.

3

By the time the detectives reached Highway
41, the wreckage from earlier in the morning had all been cleaned
up and towed out. Other than some small bits of glass and the deep
ruts running down the median, there was little evidence that any
accident had ever taken place, certainly not this morning.

Simmons slowed down and pulled the red
Toyota Camry off the highway. There was an abandoned police cruiser
parked just outside the entrance to Catfish Creek.

“I guess somebody decided to hoof it,” said
Isaac, pointing in the direction of the empty police car. “Stop.”
Isaac stepped out of the Camry, peered through the dark tinted
driver side window of cruiser number 947, and saw the keys resting
inside the ignition. “Left the keys behind, too.” He hopped back
inside the Camry.

Simmons pulled past the cruiser and drove
down the narrow dirt path. A quarter-mile down they came upon two
cars parked in the middle of a junction in the road. One of the
cars was property of the E.P.D. The other car had belonged to James
Ackerman who lit a fire under his ass just hours ago. Simmons
rolled down the windows and parked the Camry next to the police
cruiser. The two policemen had been waiting for the detectives to
arrive; one of them came strutting over to the side window while
the other continued to question the fisherman.

“We didn’t want to touch the car until you
arrived,” said the young policeman.

Isaac stepped out of the car. “Is that your
cruiser parked along the highway with the keys in the
ignition?”

“Yes, sir,” said the officer.

“Don’t you think that might be a bad
idea?”

“Yeah, I see what you mean. But it's almost
out of gas anyway.”

What a prize the police department got when
they picked this one up, Isaac thought.

“Have we met before?”

“I think so,” said the officer. “Yesterday,
at the Ackerman residence.”

“That’s right. What’s your name again?”

“Howers,” said the officer. “Deputy
Christopher Howers.”

“How long have you been with the
department?”

“This is my first year, sir.”

“How’s it treating you so far?”

“It’s tough.”

“It gets tougher.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, trust me, you can’t.”

The other policeman opened the door to his
cruiser and started up the engine.

“I told Deputy Menendez we could take it
from here,” said Simmons.

“Okay.”

“But what do you want to do with Mr.
Ressler?”

“Who’s Mr. Ressler?”

“The fisherman.” Simmons pointed at the
elderly man wearing tan overalls and a matching ruffled hat. In his
hand he held a handmade wooden fishing pole no more than six feet
long.

“Just tell him he can go.” Isaac turned back
toward Deputy Howers. “Why don’t you go fetch your cruiser before
somebody else does. And thanks for keeping an eye on the Escort for
us.”

“No problem,” said the deputy, hurrying to
catch his ride back to the highway.

“And try not to run out of gas.”

“Don’t worry,” said Deputy Howers, getting
into the passenger side of the rolling cruiser. “There’s a gas
station just down the street.”

“
Tell Eddie I said hi,”
Isaac yelled.

Simmons walked around the Escort checking
for any unlocked doors. “There all locked,” he said, pulling on the
final handle.

“Well, I guess we’re going to have to get in
the old fashioned way.”

“A clothes hanger?”

“No, a fist.”

“You’re kidding again, right?”

Isaac rubbed his hand across Simmons’s
balding head. “Or we could just use your head as a battering ram.
You lean over and I’ll push.”

“Now I know you’re kidding.” Simmons
restyled what little hair he had back to proper form. “Seriously,
do we need to call a locksmith or something?” He reached into his
pocket for his cell phone.

“You don’t happen to have a rag in your car,
do you?” asked Isaac.

“I have an old white undershirt that I carry
around in case of an emergency.”

“An emergency?” He reached into the back
seat of the Camry and grabbed the extra large white undershirt.
“Like what? An emergency wet T-shirt contest?”

“Well, I was thinking more like a sudden
downpour.”

“Same thing.”

Simmons watched as Isaac wrapped the shirt
around his hand and clenched it into a fist. “But I guess you were
thinking more of an emergency wax-an-buff.”

Isaac punched his fist through the driver’s
side window of the Escort, devastating the glass. Simmons jumped
back and stood with his mouth wide open like a birthing vagina.
Isaac cleared off the remaining glass hanging from the window frame
then unlocked the door from the inside.