The Illusionist let Jolene hear the entire conversation. He especially liked the look on her face when he said it was too late to save the girl. He hung up the phone and smiled.
He untied the gag and expected her to scream, but she just whimpered instead, “Please, don’t hurt me, mister. Please.” Her voice was raspy, her eyes swollen and bloodshot from the pepper spray. “I’ll do whatever you want,” she was crying, blurting out the words, shaking. He liked that. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Just please, let me go.” Oh, he liked that very much.
He put a finger up to her lips. “Shh, now. Quiet, Jolene. I know you will.” Her wrists were bound to the chair she was seated on, but he held her trembling fingers between his nonetheless. To comfort her.
Outside the cabin, darkness had long since fallen over the mountains. She might scream, but it wouldn’t matter. The walls were soundproof. Besides, they were miles away from the nearest town.
He let go of her hands and walked over to the counter to sip at his coffee. It was late, but he expected to be up for a while. “Do you know how many people are born each day, Jolene?”
“What?”
“387,834 people, Jolene. And every day 153,288 people die. That means that every second 4.5 people are born, and 1.8 people die. Every year, the population of the world grows by more than 78 million people. And do you know how many of those people are remembered after they die?”
“Please, mister.” She began to sob softly, but he paid no attention to it.
“Only a handful, Jolene. You live, you die, the world forgets your name. Life is a cosmic joke. But I’m going to make you memorable. Your name will become famous. Your face will become immortal on television and the Internet.”
He walked toward her.
“On August 31, 1888, a prostitute named Mary Ann Nichols died at the hands of Jack the Ripper, the world’s most infamous serial killer. She was his first. Today, there are dozens of websites in her honor, a fan club, twenty-two songs have been written in memory of her. She lives on. Her name will stay alive forever.”
Jolene trembled. “Mister, please-”
“Jack the Ripper was never found, Jolene. Today there are over a hundred suspects. Each has found his place in history.” He chuckled slightly. “And despite what some people have claimed, the verdict is still out. No one knows for sure who he was. We don’t remember the dead, Jolene, unless they’ve done something unforgettable.” He stroked her hair gently. “Or unless something unforgettable has been done to them.” He leaned over to gaze into her trembling eyes. “Oh yes. I am going to give you a gift, my dear. The gift of immortality. I’m going to give you a place in the history of an anonymous world. People will remember you for decades.”
“Mister, I’ll do anything.”
He set down the cup and walked over to his tools. “Have you heard of Boethius, Jolene?”
The girl was crying now, making it harder to carry on the conversation. The Illusionist didn’t like that. He picked up a knife from the tray-this one was one of his favorites-and walked back to her side of the room.
“I said, have you heard of Boethius?”
She shook her head no, getting more wide-eyed the closer he came.
“He was a Roman philosopher in 480-524 AD who was falsely accused of treason and lost his place in the senate. He was exiled to a cave until his execution. He had everything one day and lost everything the next. In his moment of deepest agony and confusion, he didn’t turn to the gods. Do you know who he turned to?”
Silence.
He held his bracelet up to her face. Inscribed on the metal band was a single word. “Sophia,” he read it to her. “The Greek word for wisdom. Boethius turned to philosophy, Jolene. And she taught him a priceless lesson. A lesson that set him free. Do you know what that lesson was?”
Her eyes seemed to light up when he said the word free. “Please let me go. I won’t tell.”
Once again he ignored her. “She taught him that fame and wealth are weak gods because they are so fickle. The best teacher, the greatest instructor to lead us to true wisdom, is pain.”
“Oh no. Please. No.”
“Oh yes. Suffering is the most faithful teacher, Jolene, for pain leads us to clarity, and clarity leads us to truth. Do you agree with Boethius, Jolene?”
“I don’t know.” She was shaking.
“Oh, I think you do know. I think you know that Boethius is right, but you’ve spent your whole life telling yourself that happiness leads to fulfillment. Right? Am I right?”
“I guess so.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Please-”
“Aren’t I!”
“Yes.” He watched her stare at the knife he was twirling only inches from her face.
He leaned closer. “You’re answering the questions so much better now. I’m very proud of you. So I have one last question for you-do you think I agree with Boethius?”
She shook slightly, he could see the fear in her eyes. A whisper of terror rippled through her. “Yes.”
“Once again you are correct, Jolene. And now I’m going to give you a great gift.”
“You’re going to let me go?”
“Oh no. I’m afraid not. The gift I wish to give you is twofold.”
“No-”
“I’ll give you enlightenment and then immortality. And what is the road to enlightenment?”
“No-”
He cut her then, the first cut of the night, slashing the knife quickly and deeply into her forearm, opening an angry red wound. She let out a sharp gasp. Saw the blood leaking out. Started to hyperventilate.
He wiped the blade clean against his pants leg. Yes, he had special plans for her. Not just the six wounds of the other women. Many, many more.
“What is the pathway to enlightenment, Jolene?”
“Pain.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Pain, pain, pain.” Her words sputtered away into strangled sobs.
“Yes. You’re right again. I’m very proud of you. Now, let the lesson begin.”
And he was right. She did scream. Before the lesson had barely begun.