Alice walked down the hallway and entered the bathroom. She was a bit nervous, but at least her children were safe now. That’s what mattered most. The children. She’d sent them with Officer Lewis earlier in the day. He’d promised they would be safe with him.
She turned on the bathroom light and caught sight of her jaw line in the mirror. A faint scar was still visible from the time Garrett had attacked her and sent her to the hospital. Yes, she knew what it was like to be threatened by a dangerous man.
She had her instructions and she would do them. She would follow them to the letter.
Alice McMichaelson would do anything to protect her children.
She opened the shower curtain and turned on the water.
The Illusionist grinned.
So now.
Grolin was dead, and Vanessa had expired earlier in the day-how unfortunate. He’d been there when it happened. So very tragic.
True, he’d hoped to stage Grolin’s demise a bit more elegantly, a little less obtrusively, but he could only keep him drugged so long.
Besides, sending him into the pro shop delirious had been a stroke of genius. The guy had actually started a fight with Agent Jiang! And inviting Vanessa to the golf course had been risky of course, but he needed to get the agents to a place that was isolated enough for him to control what happened, and where the shooting could take place without any clear witnesses. The idiotic investigators had acted just like he’d predicted. They would never be able to piece it all together.
These were the things the Illusionist thought of as he watched from the shadows outside Alice’s house. He remembered the first time he was here, just a few days ago, how hard it had been at the time to say no to himself, to his urges, his desires.
But now the moment was here.
At last.
A few minutes ago Alice had entered the bathroom. He could see steam cloud the windows. As he thought of her showering, his breathing became deeper, quicker.
Yellow lemonade in the sweet summer sun.
Soon. Soon.
He waited. The bathroom light blinked out. With his imagination he watched her step into the hallway and then from the hallway into her room. And, as if by magic, he saw the bedroom light come on, not just in his imagination but for real, and her lithe figure behind the curtains, shedding the towel. Lithe. Yes. That was a good word to describe her. The right word. The perfect word.
Lithe.
He would use that word later, when he wrote about tonight.
Sweet, sweet lemonade.
After a few moments the bedroom light went out. He waited a bit longer but then grew tired of the wait. He’d waited long enough for Alice. Too long. It was time to reward himself for a game well played. Time to enjoy the spoils of war.
He glided up to the house as smooth as a serpent. Donned his gloves. Pulled on the ski mask.
Back door again. This time it was locked. Ah, good. He picked it in less than thirty seconds. Disarmed the security system.
Inside.
He caught the scent of the house, slightly familiar, yet slightly foreign. Sweet and clean with a hint of cigarette smoke from the days when Garrett lived here.
He listened. Nothing but the sounds of a sleeping home. He crept down the hallway. Past Brenda’s room. Past Jacob’s room. No time to pause and look at the pictures. Not tonight. This was the last move of the game. He’d reached across the board and touched her, and now it was time to take her home, to make her his.
The Illusionist eased the bedroom door open and saw Alice lying on the bed. A still form beneath the covers.
He heard a voice in his head, a little boy crying out from inside a closet: “Mama?”
No.
“Are you there, Mama?”
No.
He wouldn’t think of those things.
He didn’t have to, and he wasn’t going to. No. No. No!
“What’s that smell, Mama?”
Stay in control. One step ahead. Always one step ahead.
Alice had left the window open a crack and pulled a wool blanket up to her neck. Red hair sprawled across her pillow. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out the cloth with the medication on it, and tried to tune in to the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Couldn’t quite. Closed his eyes for a moment to drink in the dainty perfume that lingered in the air. Her perfume. Her lovely perfume. A way to touch her.
Reached down. Grabbed the covers.
Checkmate.
Threw them off.
Found only a pile of pillows and a wig. Heard a woman’s voice behind him.
“Don’t move. You move and you die.”
Checkmate.
We had him.
I heard Lien-hua tell him not to move. I flipped on the hall lights and rushed out of the bathroom where I’d been hiding. I could see her standing in the bedroom two meters behind the killer, her weapon trained on his back. “On your knees,” she commanded. “Now.”
He stood frozen beside the bed, both of his hands in the air.
He was dressed all in black. He wore a ski mask. I couldn’t see his face.
“Spread your hands!” I yelled. “All the way out. Slowly.” I took a cautious step forward.
He remained perfectly still, his chest the only thing moving.
Why isn’t he moving? What’s going on?
“We have him,” I said into the mic patch I was wearing, heard Ralph reply, “We’re coming in.”
Outside the house, searchlights burst on, and the agents and officers we’d hidden throughout the neighborhood stepped into position. Alice had agreed to help us. “Whatever you want me to do,” she said, “to protect the children.” So we’d put our people in place, leaving just enough space for the Illusionist to make his move. Air support would be here any minute. He was not getting away.
“On your knees,” Lien-hua yelled. “Now!”
The Illusionist knelt slowly.
I stepped forward and leveled my gun. “I said spread your hands.”
“Nice move, Patrick.” He kept his voice to a low whisper. I couldn’t tell if it was the same voice I’d heard on the phone or not. It sounded vaguely familiar but was too soft to recognize. He was moving his hands evenly toward his head, carefully. “But the game’s not over yet.”
Just as his fingers touched the side of his head, the lights went out.
A thrash of movement by my feet.
A flash of gunpowder. Someone crashing into me.
I was on the floor.
I heard a gasp.
A thud.
A soft moan from beside the closet.
The sound of breaking glass.
A scream.