The Pawn (21 page)

“Jolene?” I called again, this time softer, my heart hammering in my chest.
This is where he brings them. This is where he does it.

I stepped forward onto the staircase. Behind me, the door swung creakily shut on its own.

I took the steps slowly, watching for trip wires or booby traps. If Grolin was as good as I thought he was, he wasn’t just going to let us walk in here and find her.

“Jolene?”

Step. Step.

No reply. But I did sense a rustle of movement in the darkness somewhere below me. My heart raced.

“Jolene, are you here?”

No reply.

Step.

I reached the bottom of the stairs.

38

2 minutes 25 seconds.

The dark cellar drank up the light of the single bulb, leaving most of the basement wrapped in thick shadows. I turned on my flashlight.

The air down here was noticeably cooler than the air in the rest of the house.

It reminded me of a cave
.

The heavy support beams buried in the dirt floor had long ago started to sway under the weight of the house, giving the illusion that the entire house might collapse at any moment. The middle of the cellar contained a tumble of cardboard boxes and dead furniture. An old mountain bike, a pair of skis, and a torn backpack leaned against the stack. A workbench sat in the right-hand corner of the cellar under a pegboard covered with screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, ragged handsaws, and chisels.
He might be a carpenter.
Or the tools might be for something else. Have those checked for
blood. Hair. Prints.

I turned. On my left, a metal bookshelf leaned against the far wall of the cellar. Even in the dim light I could tell it held textbooks on journalism and English composition, long ago relegated to the basement.
He’s a journalist, a writer. A lover of words. He can’t part
with his old books even if he knows he’ll never read them again.

Above the bookshelf near the ceiling was the small recessed window I’d seen earlier. It was covered with grime. I doubted it had ever been opened.

“Jolene?” I called as gently as I could, hoping not to scare her if she was here and hurt. “Are you here? My name is Patrick. I’m here to help.”

Walking into his lair like this made me uneasy. The house groaned, settling onto its foundation, accepting Ralph’s weight on the floorboards above me. I steadied my gun and swung the flashlight beam around the perimeter of the cellar, passing the circle of light across the wall.

As I moved through the cellar, I realized that there weren’t any spiderwebs lacing across my face even though I noticed spiders skittering across the workbench.

Someone had been down here recently.

“Are you here?” I called. I scanned the walls for evidence of hidden doors or rooms. I listened for a muffled cry, scratching sounds, sobbing, anything to tell me she was here and still alive.

The dirt floor didn’t look disturbed. I scanned the room again, walked the perimeter again. The cellar had been cut out of the mountain, and the walls were built with river rock. I inspected the cracks between them but couldn’t find any sign of a hidden room or passageway.

There’s got to be something here. Something I’m missing.
As I looked around, my eyes landed on the workbench.

I walked over to it and trained the flashlight beam on the work space. Pliers. Hammers. Hacksaws. Any of them could be very handy for a sadistic serial killer. Some lay on the workbench, others were hanging from the pegboard, but none of them appeared either bloodstained or freshly cleaned.

Then I noticed an outline on the pegboard where the dust wasn’t as thick.

Something’s missing. Something was hanging there.

I traced the shape with the tip of my finger.

A saw.

Suddenly his words from last night came back to me:
“Forget
the girl. It’s too late for her . . . I saw her first . . .”

He’d actually told me, “I saw her first.”

Dear God, no.

Just then I caught a flutter of movement out of the corner of my eye, and I spun around, leveling my gun. A scraggly cat jumped down from the top of the bookshelf and scurried up the stairs with an annoyed purr. I took a deep breath to calm myself and listened in the wake of the cat’s exit for any sounds, anything at all.

“Jolene?”

As I watched the cat leave, I noticed a woodstove in the corner of the cellar, probably left over from the days when burning wood was the only source of heat for a house out here halfway up a mountainside.

I didn’t want to look inside it, but I knew I had to. Over the years I’d seen lots of ways offenders try to dispose of bodies.

A woodstove was one of them.

I crossed the dingy cellar in half a dozen quick strides and held my hand out to see if the stove was still warm.

It was.

I took a deep breath, nearly choking on the thick, pungent air of Grolin’s cellar.

I slid the gun into my holster and wrapped the tail of my shirt around my hand. Then I grabbed the stove handle and gave it a firm twist. It snapped up with a click, and the stove’s door popped open.

A soft hot glow poured out of the opening. He’d been burning something down here. A pile of embers burst into flame with the sudden rush of air.

Bracing myself for the smell of burnt flesh, I leaned over and peered inside.

39

59 seconds.

Just a pile of ashes and glowing coals. Nothing more. No bones, hair, teeth.

What? A scrap of scorched paper fluttered out. I picked it up. Part of a diagram. Technical drawings.

Technical drawings?

I grabbed a piece of wood from a nearby pile and shoved the coals aside, stirring them, looking for the charred remains of Jolene Brittany Parker.

Nothing. Not even a shred of clothing.

When morticians cremate a body, bone fragments remain. If Grolin had tried to dispose of her body in here, there would be something left of her. But there wasn’t. He hadn’t burned Jolene’s corpse in this stove.

I was relieved but also frustrated. Where was she? What had he done with her?

The Illusionist leaned forward. He’d placed a small camera in the basement on the top of the bookshelf. Dr. Bowers was down there now, poking around the woodpile.

He’d found something by the stove.

They only had 33 seconds left, though.

It wouldn’t be enough time to get out.

No.

Not enough time.

I set the piece of wood back on the pile, and that’s when I noticed the wires.

Wires?

I directed the beam of my flashlight at them.

Oh no.

Pushed the wood to the side.

It was too easy to get in here.

Saw the metal box.

Too easy.

Read the numbers blinking on the timer.

He likes to watch.

14 . . . 13 . . .

“Bomb,” I yelled. I spun. I ran. “Get out now!”

Kept the countdown going in my head . . .

. . . 12 . . . 11 . . .

I sped toward the steps.

. . . 10 . . .

Bolted up the stairs, three at a time.

. . . 9 . . . 8 . . .

“Out! Ralph! Lien-hua! Bomb! There’s a bomb!”

I burst through the hallway door, Lien-hua right in front of me.

. . . 7 . . .

Down the hall, toward the front door.

. . . 6 . . .

Ralph landed at the bottom of the staircase.

. . . 5 . . .

Outside. Onto the porch.

. . . 4 . . .

Jumping. Landing on the grass.

. . . 3 . . .

Scrambling forward. Lunging to the ground.

. . . 2 . . .

Throwing my body over Lien-hua’s.

. . . 1.

Boom.

11:42 a.m., Eastern Standard Time

In Charlotte, North Carolina, Governor Sebastian Taylor caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and tilted his head to see which side of his face was more photogenic.

In Denver, Colorado, Tessa Ellis shook her head and dragged her suitcase up to the next spot in line at the US Airways ticket counter. In West Asheville, North Carolina, Alice McMichaelson stole a glance at the business textbook on her lap during a time-out in the last few minutes of her son’s soccer game.

At the concierge’s desk in the lobby of the Stratford Hotel, Theodore punched in the appropriate codes to change the name of the caterers for Monday’s luncheon.

In front of his computer, the Illusionist leaned forward with a satisfied grin and watched the house explode.

I felt the heat of the explosion wash over me, singeing my hair. Scorching my neck. And then, a shower of debris peppered my back, my legs. A storm of burning slats of wood followed immediately, raining down around us and on top of us, bringing with it a sudden, searing pain in my shoulder.

But I didn’t move. I kept my body draped over Lien-hua, and I didn’t even turn to see what sort of object had knifed its way deeply into my back, wedging itself against my shoulder blade. Behind me I heard a roar as the house’s bone-dry wood exploded into a fireball.

Then Ralph was beside me, urging us forward, yelling for us to get away from the heat and the flames. I helped Lien-hua to her feet, and we hobbled forward toward the trees, then turned to look at the house.

It was completely destroyed.

Any evidence in it would have been destroyed as well.

The cell phone in Ralph’s pocket rang.

He fished it out and answered it. Cursed. “They found her,” he said grimly. “They found Jolene.”

“Where?” I asked.

“The trunk of Margaret’s car.”

40

By the time we got to the federal building, the crime scene guys had already roped off half of the parking lot. Shock, anger, and sorrow had settled over every inch of the scene. Margaret was stalking back and forth shaking her head, one hand planted firmly on her hip, the other rubbing her forehead. Despite the fury orbiting her, she looked pale.

As we crossed the parking lot, Ralph whispered to Lien-hua and me, “He must have put the body in the trunk of her car early this morning before she left for work. She drove here with it in there. Got an email half an hour ago telling her to look in the trunk.”

“Can they trace the email?” I asked.

“Trying to. But the way it was routed, looks like the guy knew what he was doing.”

Tucker stood beside the car. He motioned for us to come closer. His face looked pasty, drained. “He blew up the house?”

Ralph nodded.

I looked at the car, couldn’t see inside. “She still in there?” I asked Tucker softly. He didn’t answer. Just stepped aside. I walked past the crime scene technicians and peered into the trunk.

The naked upper torso of a woman lay in the trunk of Margaret’s Lexus—but only the upper half. Jolene had been sawed in two just above the pelvis. She’d also been brutally tortured: dozens of cuts crisscrossed her torso, her face, her arms.
Six cuts aren’t enough for
him anymore
, I thought.

Despite the fact that she’d been mostly drained of blood a pool of dark liquids leaked from the bottom of the corpse and spread across the carpeting in the trunk.

A metal tent stake was driven deep into Jolene’s chest, pinning down a note: “TOO SLOW. YOUR MOVE.” A white pawn was in her mouth. A ribbon in her hair.

My mind went numb, spinning, blaming, aching. For the first time in years I felt physically ill at a crime scene. Completely nauseous.

I’d been hoping maybe we would find her alive, save her, rescue her, hoping, hoping, hoping, trying to convince myself the Illusionist had been lying when he said it was too late to save her.

But he hadn’t been. Not at all.

It seemed like he’d planned everything, even timed the discovery of her body to coincide with the explosion.

I muttered an excuse to the people clustered around the car and pushed my way through the crowd. I needed some air. Some space. Actually, I needed to throw up, but I couldn’t let anyone see me. I slipped off behind a nearby car and just barely made it out of sight before I leaned over to retch.

I emptied my stomach onto the asphalt. There wasn’t much there. My entire life tasted like bile. I could hardly believe what was happening. Everything seemed to be spinning apart, the fabric of both my personal life and my career ripping right down the seams.

My stepdaughter hated me. This killer was mocking me. Christie was haunting me. I turned away from the mess of vomit and reached into my pocket to see if I had a handkerchief, anything, and found the jewelry store receipt instead. Evidence that I really had remembered Tessa’s birthday, that I really had visited that mall in Atlanta earlier this week, that I really did have a birthday present to give her.

We celebrate the days of our birth, moments of new life.

I was gone on her birthday.

The killer had mentioned her name.

Tessa.

He knew I had a daughter.

Stay focused, Pat. Don’t let him get to you.

Jolene was someone’s daughter. So was Mindy. So were the rest.

Christie would want me to find this guy, shut him down. To do anything I could to stop him from stealing birthdays from other young women. Other daughters like hers. Like mine.

“We know she’s going to be OK. We love you, Mindy,”
her father had said on TV. He didn’t know she was already dead.
“We’re here
for you—”

But how could I catch this guy? He was smarter than I was, always one step ahead.

The only way to catch him is to stop playing by his rules. You
need to make a move.

I thought of Jolene, what it would be like to lose a daughter like that, to have her mutilated, abused, slaughtered. I couldn’t even imagine it.

Right now, the Illusionist was somewhere laughing at us, probably watching us, mocking the pain he was causing. I couldn’t let him get away with it. I couldn’t.

With those thoughts, rage, white hot and unchained, began to rip through my soul. Howling anger sharpening its claws. Filling me. Boiling inside of me. Chasing away the nausea, chasing away everything and replacing it with a storm of fury. The rage both frightened and reassured me. Over the last eight months, wrath had started to feel right at home in me.