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And that was when the Illusionist realized that the entire show, from start to finish with all its feigned mistakes and slick banter, had been perfectly planned, carefully rehearsed. The show itself was one big illusion. And the magician had been in control the whole time. He’d crafted each moment to misdirect the children. He was always one step ahead of the audience. One step ahead of the world.

The secret was all in misdirection. While you’re looking over here at this hand, I’m hiding the coin in my back pocket with this one. Watch and be amazed!

The light in the living room flicked off, and the game began. He edged closer to the window and waited. He was a master at waiting for just the right moment. He could wait an hour or a year. And that’s what made him who he was. The Illusionist. Always one step ahead of the world.

Time ticked by, and he waited. More lights in the neighborhood blinked out. The dogs stopped barking. Crickets began chirping from everywhere and nowhere. He stood motionless, entombed in the shadows. Always in the shadows. Just like those crickets. A man at home in the dark.

At last the bedroom light went out. Minutes passed. Then hours. He listened to his own soft breathing until the night stopped moving and sleep spread her wings over the neighborhood. Finally, it was time.

The Illusionist pulled on his ski mask and slipped on the latex gloves. Then he glided his leather gloves over the latex ones. He knew that latex gloves can snag or rip. Fingerprints and DNA from the sweat on your fingertips can be lifted from some types of latex. He knew that too. That’s why he wore both pair.

He stepped across the footpath to the garden and leaned up against the scratchy brick wall of N3161 Virginia Street. It was an anonymous middle-class house in an anonymous middle-class neighborhood in an anonymous middle-class town.

But it wouldn’t be anonymous for long.

He already knew about the alarm system. And he knew how to disarm it. The Illusionist knew where the motion sensors were, where Alice McMichaelson kept the spare key for the neighbors when she left town. He knew it all.

There’d been a break-in at Locust Security Enterprises last week. A flat-screen computer screen had been stolen. Apparently, nothing else had been touched. But he’d gotten what he was looking for. Always misdirection. Look at this hand while I put the coin in my pocket with this one. Look at the broken window and the missing monitor and don’t notice two sheets of paper missing from the copy machine. No one would notice something that small. And besides, the papers containing the security codes and wiring layout for the McMichaelson home had been put back in the locked file cabinet exactly where they belonged.

He glanced at his watch: 4:03 a.m. Perfect. People usually sleep the soundest from 3:00-5:00 a.m. See? He knew that too. He knew everything!

He walked onto the back porch, past the plaid Martha Stewart lawn chairs, past the gas grill, to the patio door and peered inside the sleepy house.

Lots of people forget to lock their porch doors and just lock the front and garage doors, as if a thief is going to walk down the street and just roam up the driveway and try the front door. Porch doors are the most vulnerable. The Illusionist knew that too. But he was prepared either way. He was always prepared.

He reached out a gloved hand and tried the door. It slid open easily, even easier than he had imagined. Part of him was disappointed. It was always better when it was a challenge.

He stepped across the welcome mat and entered the code to disarm the alarm.

There.

Now he had the whole house and the rest of the night to himself.

7

An oval dining room table loomed before him; beyond that, the living room sprawled back into the darkness. He paused and listened to the gentle sounds of a house speaking to him that all was calm. All was still.

The Illusionist moved quickly and quietly through the dining room and then into the kitchen, letting his eyes adjust to the thick darkness. The vague outlines of the living room furniture slowly materialized to his right. On his left, a large dark opening told him the hallway was there, but he already knew that. After all, he’d memorized the blueprints for the home.

He could hear the sounds of a hamster running on a squeaky wheel in a nearby room. Brenda’s room. She was eight years old and had just started third grade at St. Catherine’s Catholic School out on Sweeten Creek Road. Her teacher’s name was Andrea Brokema, but the students all called her Miss Andi.

The Illusionist entered the hallway and approached Brenda’s bedroom. She would be sleeping with Wally, the stuffed walrus she’d received on her fourth birthday.

He stood in her doorway for a moment and watched her sleep in the pool of pale light that found its way through the window. Wally was lying beside her bed.

Hmm. Must have fallen out of her arms.

The Illusionist eased into her room as silent as a dream, picked up the walrus, and slid it gently into the arms of the sleeping girl. He had to lift her left wrist slightly to do it. She squeezed the stuffed animal and rolled over onto her side. The Illusionist smiled and backed out of her room.

There. That’s better, Brenda. Much better.

A few steps ahead, the night-light in Jacob’s room spilled a green glow into the hallway. How thoughtful of you, thought the Illusionist. Providing me just enough light to see.

A fifth grader, Jacob liked Spider-Man video games, was good at math, and had been the highest scorer in his soccer league last spring. He played for Andy’s Sub Shop. The Illusionist knew everything.

He knew about their mother too.

Because, really, that’s why he was here. Not for the kids. For her.

Nobody would notice a missing prostitute. He knew that much already. He’d found that out years ago, as a matter of fact. But a soccer mom who serves on the PTA would be all over the news. Especially one as good-looking as Alice. Just like he wanted. The news media loves a missing beauty. Especially a white woman. They’d be running her story for weeks.

With the help of the night-light in Jacob’s room, the Illusionist could see the pictures on the hallway wall… a picture of Brenda dressed up like a giant carrot for her school play… one of her standing on the beach with a pink shovel in her hand… the whole family sitting in a photography studio… Jacob holding a largemouth bass beside a lakeside cabin with Garrett next to him.

That picture made him sick.

Garrett.

The man who’d left Alice for that sleazy little tramp six months ago, and then kept showing up again to threaten her and the kids whenever he was drunk. But he didn’t stop with the threats. One night he nearly broke Alice’s jaw.

Garrett.

The man who’d left a note on his building contractor’s desk last month telling the boss that he was through working for such a lowlife and was leaving to find work where he could be appreciated, somewhere warmer, in Florida. It wasn’t uncommon for people who worked construction to move farther south as winter rolled in, so of course his boss wouldn’t have been too surprised. He was probably just glad he didn’t have to pay that loser Garrett McMichaelson for the last two weeks of work.

Of course, the handwriting wasn’t Garrett’s.

But the Boss Man wouldn’t have noticed that.

Garrett, Garrett, Garrett.

Yet despite how the picture disturbed the Illusionist, it also made him smile slightly. Garrett wouldn’t be bothering Alice anymore. He wouldn’t be bursting into the house drunk, or pushing her down the stairs, or punching her in the face ever again. No, he wouldn’t be bothering anyone anymore. A man who would treat a woman like that didn’t deserve to exist. A man that vile didn’t deserve to be buried alive deep in the Appalachian Mountains. He didn’t deserve a death that gentle.

But the Illusionist was a compassionate man.