Hanes Mall
Charlotte, North Carolina
6:52 p.m.
The Illusionist stared out the window of his van at the girl walking back to her car. He knew her name-Jolene Brittany Parker. He knew her date of birth-June 17, 1989. She’d been a small baby, weighing in at only five pounds and five ounces at birth. But she’d grown up quite a bit since then. He knew everything.
He watched as she arrived at her car and opened up her purse to pull out her car keys. A smile crept across his face as he saw the bewilderment in her eyes.
She set her purse on the car beside her and opened it up, like the jaws of a snake unlocking and opening wide, too wide, to swallow some trembling rodent. She tipped it over, and her purse spit out all of its colorful contents, but still Jolene Brittany Parker did not find her keys.
She replaced the items in her purse one by one and started patting herself down. Feeling her pockets. Turning her head slightly to look at a corner of the ground. The Illusionist smiled. She’s thinking, Where did I put those lousy keys? I know I left them in my purse. Where could they be?
Oh, this was good. It was so good he could hardly stand it.
She peered in the car. At the ignition. The seat. Nope, didn’t leave them in there.
Despite himself, the Illusionist snickered. Not enough to let her hear him, of course. He was a few car lengths away, watching. But he just couldn’t help himself. This was so good!
She was distracted, just like he knew she would be. Then, he opened the door of the van and stepped outside. She hadn’t seen him yet. She was still looking for her keys. He smiled in a charming way, stepped around a blue pickup, and approached her.
“Everything okay, ma’am?” he asked. The Illusionist was wearing a security guard uniform from the mall. He had thought of everything.
“Oh, I’m just trying to remember where I put my keys,” she said absently, giving him a quick glance.
“Maybe I can help you find them?” His smile was disarming, genuine.
“Um, yeah,” she said offhandedly, looking back at the ground to see if she might have dropped the keys anyway when she was searching through her purse.
The Illusionist stepped toward her.
But there must have been something about him. The way he stood maybe, or his tone of voice, or his eagerness to help, but something made her uneasy. Maybe she suddenly realized she’d said too much to this stranger approaching her in the mall parking lot because she promptly added, “But I must have given them to my boyfriend. He’s coming right now.”
She pointed to the mall, toward some guy who was walking their way. The Illusionist let his eyes follow her finger.
It was all so entertaining. So hilarious! He almost started laughing again. There was no boyfriend. Of course not. He knew it all. He knew everything.
This was even better than he’d planned. “Well, then, I’ll just wait until he gets here. A nice woman like you shouldn’t be standing out in a parking lot all alone. I’ll have to have a word with him about how to treat a woman.” Then he smiled.
He leaned against the door of the car behind him and folded his arms. Watching.
A moment later the guy turned toward the Jiffy Oil and Lube station on the other side of the parking lot.
“Hmm. Looks like he must have parked somewhere else,” said the Illusionist, stepping quickly toward Jolene, so quickly that he caught her off guard.
She was reaching toward her purse again. For the pepper spray?
“Looking for something, Jolene?” Now he had her arm.
She was fumbling desperately through her purse. He could feel her body trembling in his arms. He could almost taste her adrenaline. Smell her fear.
“This maybe?” The Illusionist pulled the bottle of pepper spray from his own pocket with his finger on the trigger, and as a scream froze in her eyes, he emptied it into the face of Jolene Brittany Parker.
She opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand over it and held the cloth tightly against her face before she could. He held his other hand firmly against the back of her head, enjoying the feel of her soft blonde hair feathering between his fingers as she slowly went unconscious. “See, now. It’ll all be over soon,” he said as she wriggled weakly against his grip.
At last she was still.
He dragged her limp body over to the doors of his van, propped them open with one hand just like he’d practiced so many times, and slipped her inside. A normal man would have struggled lifting a 121-pound woman with only one arm. But he didn’t. He was not a normal man. There was nothing normal about him.
He eased in next to her unconscious body. “You shouldn’t leave your purse out in the break room.” He unwound the duct tape from the roll. “Some psychotic homicidal stalker might slip in and steal your keys.” The Illusionist smiled at his little joke.
And then, humming softly to himself, he pulled the doors shut and began his evening’s work.