“Don’t worry, Pat,” said Margaret. “She’s OK. The paramedics are looking after her.” But her words were barely audible, floating somewhere beside me. They meant nothing. Because I was holding Tessa’s necklace in my hand, and nothing else mattered.
He leaves an item from the next victim.
My daughter is next.
“Phone!” I yelled, pocketing the necklace. “Give me a phone!” Lien-hua handed me hers. I dialed Tessa’s cell phone number. Please answer. Please, please. The room was twirling; I was about to collapse, dizzy from the drugs.
It rang.
Someone answered. “Hello, Patrick.” I knew that voice: it was the paramedic who’d treated my shoulder. The paramedic who’d waited patiently for us to finish examining Mindy’s body, the one who helped the injured officer to the ambulance outside of Alice’s house last night. But no one noticed him because he was supposed to be there. Because paramedics are always supposed to be there. Even in Charlotte, in another city, he could blend in and disappear in the chaos following the shooting in the parking garage by just wearing his uniform. It was the perfect disguise because it wasn’t a disguise at all. He became invisible by the cleverest misdirection of all-by fitting in.
By hiding in my ear.
“Checkmate,” he said.
Dizzy… dizzy… swaying… I handed the phone to Lien-hua and mumbled, “GPS…” The world was closing in. “Track her cell location with GPS… It’s the param-” I started to say, but before I could tell them who the Illusionist was, everything went black.