The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (14 page)

“Well, I’m going to be leaving shortly for a
funeral, but I could free up some time this evening if that's
fine."

"That's perfect," Virginia replied. "What
time? Are we meeting at the police station?"

"How about eight? And no, I'd rather not
meet at the station. I have to look over my daughter. Would you
mind coming over to my house?"

“Sure.”

Isaac gave her his address. "I'll see you at
eight then. I have to go."

“Okay, I'll be there. And thank you for
giving me this opportunity to explain myself, detective. All I want
to do is help, or try to help. Hopefully it's not too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll understand when I get there."

Chapter Eleven

1

The motorcade to the cemetery was one of the
longest Isaac had seen in recent memory, and miles longer than that
of Linda’s sixteen years earlier. The reason, of course, was that
in this case, there were two of Elmwood’s finest involved, and most
of the department (all that weren’t currently on duty, and some
that were) came to pay their respects to their fallen comrades. It
was the part of the job that no one enjoyed but everyone
appreciated.

Most of the department (including Chief
Stevens) was under the assumption that the two deaths of their own
yesterday morning were directly attributed to the actions of James
Ackerman; some even believed James deliberately orchestrated an
attack on the department in an effort to cripple the ones who tried
to cripple him. Yet, if there was one man in the department that
knew better, it was Isaac. He had hated James just as they did,
probably more, but last night Isaac had realized that although
James’s living and breathing body may have been present in the
truck at the time of the collision, James was already dead
inside.

Isaac held his daughter’s hand as they
walked from the car up the hill to the burial site. The graves
spread out across the hill looked like crops in a line, each one
representing a frame of life to those who peacefully lay six feet
under. This was their place of recognition, their place of
remembrance. Each headstone told its own story, and even though
years of weathered decay had made some of the headstones
unreadable, the spirit of those they symbolized would never
fade.

Isaac stopped at the top of the hill and
looked to the east. Far off in the distance, past the towering
cement caskets and the monumental statue heads (reserved for those
who could afford them, or those who thought they deserved them),
Linda’s headstone rose out from underneath a large pine. A special
bouquet of white roses waited in the car. After the ceremony, Isaac
had planned to give the flowers to her, and imagine her face light
up.

Once they reached the burial site, Isaac
looked around astonished at how many people showed up. The view
from atop the hill hardly did it justice. There had to be over a
hundred faces gathered together, maybe half he recognized, one
being Police Chief Donald Stevens.

“Wait here for a second,” Isaac told Amy.
“I’ve got to talk to someone.” Amy nodded her head and watched her
father stroll around the exterior of the crowd.

Chief Stevens noticed Isaac coming toward
him and excused himself from his wife. “I’m glad you decided to
come.”

“I told you I would.”

“Yeah, I know,” said the chief, patting
Isaac on the shoulder. “But I try not to pay attention to anything
you say.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s Amy?”

Isaac pointed over the crowd of dark
clothing. “Over there.”

"Well, I’m glad you found me because I have
a little news to pass your way.”

“What’s that?”

“We found Howers’s squad car.”

“Where?”

“Far down Maria Avenue, and I mean
far
down.”

“Past the church?”

“Yeah, out in the fuckin’ boonies. We didn't
find him though, but at least now we have an idea where he might be
hiding out. I have a few men searching the area, and the squad car
is being brought back to the station as we speak. The idiot even
left the keys in the ignition.”

“You don’t say.”

"Well, we should be getting started any
minute now.”

Isaac rejoined his daughter and waited for
the service to begin. After a few minutes, the crowd stood in
silence while the bagpipes played
Amazing Grace.
Isaac tried
to think about Deputies Randall and Bryant (even though he really
didn’t know either of them), but his mind wandered to the east. He
wondered if Linda was watching him right now, and if so, would she
still be able to recognize him? Would she know how much he still
loved her? Was she proud of him?

Six officers in full dress uniform carried
each casket down the center row, with two on each side and one on
the front and back. First was the body of Deputy Randall, followed
by Deputy Bryant. Both caskets were white and had an American flag
draped across the top. The officers carefully placed each casket on
a stand at the front of the covered burial site then lined up in
two rows of three on each side.

When the bagpipes stopped, Isaac could hear
many in the crowd sobbing, including a black woman right beside
him. He glanced over and watched her wipe away the tears from her
eyes with a tissue. Her husband had his arm around her, poised and
strong, trying to hold his emotions back long enough to comfort his
wife.

This year was Deputy William Randall’s first
year on the force. He was a young kid, much like Deputy Howers,
though from what Isaac had heard, William was a smart kid, with a
lot of potential ahead of him. But most of all, Isaac remembered
that young William was black, and the couple beside him were
William’s parents.

Chief Stevens provided the eulogy. This sort
of ceremony wasn’t unusual to him. Over his thirty plus years with
the Elmwood Police Department, Stevens had been a part of dozens
and dozens of officer’s funerals, and delivering the eulogy at
many. You would think by now he would have created some sort of
Eulogy Form Speech, with blank lines to fill in each officer’s
name. But Stevens understood that every officer is special, every
eulogy sacred. He held a very high regard for the men and women
working under his care trying to keep the streets safe and protect
the entire community. When one of them died (or two in this case),
it was like losing a family member.

When Chief Stevens finished giving the
eulogy, a few officers closest to the deceased stepped up to say a
few words. Afterwards, Pastor Jeffrey Abraham from the United
Methodist Church (the church William Randall attended) said a
prayer and blessed the departed in God's name. Then the Police
Honor Guard delivered a twenty-one-gun salute (seven men firing
three consecutive times) to the victims. The bagpipes played again,
the Honor Guard marched off, and the families and friends of
Randall and Bryant placed flowers around the caskets. Chief Stevens
removed the American flags from the top of the caskets, and with a
little help, folded them into a triangle and presented them to the
mothers of the officers.

Simmons walked up from behind, stood next to
Isaac, and watched the two deputy’s families gather around the
grave. “It was a good service.”

Isaac nodded. “Just a shame it had to take
place.”

“It could’ve been any one of us.”

Isaac pulled Simmons off to the side. “Why
do I feel responsible?”

Why do I always feel responsible?

“What could we have done?”

“I don’t know,” Isaac said, shaking his
head. He looked over at Mrs. Randall weeping over her son’s dead
body. She would never be able to see him get married, or be the
father he could have been. Isaac wished there was a way he could
take the tears away and give her all those moments back, but he
couldn’t. “I don’t know,” he said again. “Something.”

“Where do we go from here?”

“Be at my house by eight.”

The walk down to the car seemed longer than
the walk up. Amy waited at the top of the hill for her father to
grab the roses from the car. When he returned, they walked hand in
hand to the east toward Linda’s grave. A few quiet minutes later
they arrived at the gravesite. Isaac held the white roses by his
side and gazed down at the headstone of his late wife. She looked
the same as she ever had; some things never change.

The writing on the headstone read: Linda
Winters, 1965-1995, Loving Wife and Mother.

Isaac stepped closer to the grave. He knelt
down on one knee and placed the white roses down by his right foot.
Amy stayed back and watched her father brush the dirt off the top
of the headstone. He rested his arms on top, laid his head down,
and closed his eyes.

He wished he could see her just one last
time, run his hands through her hair, hear her voice, feel her soft
lips against his, hold her in his arms, make love.

A few tears began to push their way through
his closed eyelids. He tried with all the strength he had left to
hold them back, but before he knew it, the tears sprinted down his
face and rolled off his arm.

He couldn’t remember the last time he
cried.

It felt good. Why was he afraid?

Why did it take so long?

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.