Authors: Patrick Dakin

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery, #Retail, #Thrillers

A Shadow Fell (6 page)

BOOK: A Shadow Fell

2.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

1
1

The
days that
followed w
ere
the toughest of my life.
I was exhausted, getting no sleep, and eating poorly. My emotional state was
untenable and
made worse
by the lack of progress being reported by the FBI.

Three days after my meeting with Bartok I called
Tom Kilborn. “What can you add to what Bartok told me?” I asked.

Kilborn was obviously laboring under some heavy stress. “Look, Jack,” he said, “I’d be a liar if I told you things are looking good. You know better.”

“How much blood was found in the back of that car?
Is it possible she c
ould still be alive?”

“Yes, it’s entirely possible,” he responded. “The crime scene techs tell us it was likely that Tanya was putting up quite a struggle. The blood is most likely from a head wound which, as you know, tends to produce more blood flow than from other wounds. There’s no specific indication she was killed in the car.”

It was very small consolation. But, at that point, I was grabbing at any sliver of hope I could
glimpse through the fog of despair that enveloped me.

I was staying at the same motel
I had taken
since
arriving in Fayetteville
. When I wasn’t h
ounding Neil Bartok
or
Tom Kilborn for information
I was
camped
at Callie’s bedside
.
I
tried with everything in me not to give up hope that
she
would recover,
but n
one of the doctors or nurses I
regularly
spoke
with
gave me
much cause
to be optimistic about
her
prospects
.
In a way, I dreaded the thought of her waking up because
that
would
mean I would have to tell her about our daughter’s almost certain fate.

One morning, shortly after my arrival, a nurse stopped me and told me
the hospital administrator
had
asked
to have a word with me. I was shown into an office where I was introduced to him.
His name was Finlayson.

He spent a few minutes going over Callie’s condition with me but all it really amounted to was that they were keeping her alive and comfortable
,
without much hope that things were going to change.

“What are you suggesting?” I
asked
.

“Nothing much,” he
answered.
“The truth is, it
’
s impossible to say if or when your wife will ever come out of the coma. All I’m suggesting at the moment is that we could have her transferred to the hospital in Ocala so
she
’d be closer to home
for you
.
”

Of course it made all the sense in the world to get her nearer home. I couldn’t continue living in a motel indefinitely. “
Let’s do it
,
”
I said.

*

*

*

T
here
was nothing I could do
to
assist with Callie’s relocation
, which would take place within the next
couple of
days,
so
I decided to make the trip home and use the time the drive would take to
formulate some kind of plan
for the future
.

But
the closer to home I got
the more
depressed
I became
.
I could not imagin
e
any action I could take that would move toward a solution to the dilemma I faced.

A
s I
drove
up my driveway the feeling
of dread that had been a pervasive presence
for
day
s
was reinforced a hundredfold
.
I saw
a late model dark grey sedan
parked beside the house with two men in it. They exited the car when I came into view.

I parked my car and got out.
As they
approached me
each
flashed
an
FBI identification
wallet
and
badge
. The
y were young men, maybe mid-thirties, and
there w
as a look of
gravity
about them I’d worn myself on
many
occasions over the years – mostly when I was the bearer of very bad news.

“Mr. Parmenter?” one of the agents asked
in a very respectful tone
.

“Yes
.
”

“I’m Agent Donnelly, this is Agent Forbes.
T
om Kilborn sent us here today, sir. He wanted to be here himself but was
unable to make it
.”

“
Is
there some word on my daughter?”
I asked
, dreading the response I could almost hear ringing in my ears already
.
Both
men
were having
difficulty
maintaining eye contact with me. There was no doubt in my mind
t
hat what I was about to hear was going to be
ba
d.

“I’m afraid so, sir
,” the agent on my left said
.
“
Would you like to go inside, where we could sit down?”

I tried to steel myself for what was coming.
“Just
tell me,
”
I said, my voice hoarse.

He took a long, slow breath. “
I’
m very sorry to have to tell you
this, Mr. Parmenter. T
he
deceased
body of a young girl we believe to be
your
daughter
was located this morning in a remote area near the town of Hendersonville, Georgia.”

Even though
I
had
kn
own from the moment I saw the two agents step out of their vehicle
what the news w
as going to
be,
hearing
it
was like
being
hit in the chest with something large and heavy. For a
while
I was unable to draw breath. I
stumbled
backward and would have
fallen
had I not been standing near my car.
I shook my head
, probably
a subconscious effort to throw
off
the
unspeakable
truth
I had just
been
given
.

“How was she killed?” I
blurted
.

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any other information at this time.”

“Goddamn him to hell,” I choked
out through my sobs
.

When I recovered enough that I was able to function on some level, the agents told me they would drive me to Ocala where we would board a helicopter
for a flight
to Fayetteville
so that I could make a positive
identification
of my daughter.

Even though I had spent
the better part of
my
working life as an FBI
field
agent
and had
endured
more than
my
share of trauma
tic e
xperiences
,
seeing Tanya under these conditions would b
e
by far
the most difficult thing I had ever face
d
.

When we arrived
at
the morgue
we were met by
the coroner
, a
slender
African
-
American
woman
in h
er
fiftie
s.
She
looked at me with
kind eyes
that
peered
out through
a pair of glasses with round lenses like John Lennon
had
made popular in the sixties.
“
Sir
,
”
s
he said in a somber tone, “
I
should
warn you that you
need to
prepare yourself
for what you’re about to see
.”
Sh
e
waited for
me to
acknowledge
h
er
cautionary advice but when I didn’t
react
s
he added,
“It would be best
if you simply view her face
through the
observation
glass
.”

“
No,” I said, my eyes already beginning to blur with tears. “I
want to hold her hand.
Please.
”

The coroner
then
looked at the agent
s
accompanying me
and studied their faces for a moment
before addressing me again. “Sir,”
s
he said
with as much compassion as one human being can offer another, “
are you aware that
this child has been
decapitated?”

How much
horrific
news can the human mind absorb? When do the words you’re hearing stop conveying meaning and simply become noise
?

And when awareness
finally
dawns how much do we
really
accept
,
and how much
is
simply
beyond comprehension
?

1
2

To say that things changed for me after that day would be to understate the reality in the extreme.
My focus became one of revenge.
I
wanted
to get my hands on
Henderson
and cause him to suffer the most extreme pain imaginable.
And the longer it took, the better.

N
ews of
a nice clean take down and
then
a return to that country club they call
ed
a prison
was not going to make it for me
.
The cost to me personally didn’t matter
. As I saw it, I had already lost everything
worth having
.
Mere existence didn’t seem
worth
covet
ing
.

My return home from Fayetteville did not go well.
I w
ander
ed
around
our
empty house
i
n
a delirium
.
For two days I sat in a rocking chair on
the
verandah
, staring off at nothing.
I forgot to eat. I slept where I sat.

The service for Tanya was held on a Sunday and was kept private, attended
only by our immediate family and a few
very close
friends.

Throughout the short service I stared through blurred eyes at the
tiny
casket containing my daughter’s body.
The notion that I would never hear her cheerful voice again or see the look of wonder on her face wh
ile I read
her a story seemed inconceivable.
I
could not imagine
living long enough to
ever
forgiv
e
myself for allowing such tragedy to
befall my family.

An old
friend, Al Mercer, who had recently retired as the SAC of the Richmond office
had split with
his wife a few years before and he offered to
stay
with me
.
I
appreciated
his concern
but
told him
to
go
back home, that
I
wanted to be alone
.

Miles and Betty were pretty much inconsolable. They had no children of their own and they regarded Callie as the closest thing to a daughter they would ever know. Tanya’s death could not have hit them harder if she had been their granddaughter. Miles seemed especially shaken. It was a blessing to see them leave.
Witnessing
the pain
o
n Miles’ face made everything I was going through even
more difficult
.

My
aging
parents, of course, were
heart broken at the devastation
our
family had suffered
.
After they returned home t
hey called
me
daily but as often as not the calls would end with my mother breaking down in tears. I finally told my
d
ad that I’d rather they let me call them when I felt more like talking.

The nightmares started
in earnest
after
the funeral
. No two were ever exactly the same but the general gist didn’t vary much. All involved some form of betrayal on my part
-
my family needed me and I was not there to help them. Most nights I would startle awake soaked in sweat, a vision of Tanya, bloody and screaming,
pleading for my help.

Days passed
but
I had no concept of time. I would sit down with a coffee on the veranda
and take a sip to find it stone cold, only to
come to the realization that
three hours ha
d
elapsed.

Eve
ning
s I would often
swear I
could
hear Tanya
calling from
her bedroom.
They were never calls of terror, though. Just dim echoes of her voice calling
to
me.
Daddy… Daddy…
Time after time I
pounded up the stairs
, certain I would find her there, only to feel foolish
and pitiful
for
falling prey to my fevered imagination.

O
ne day I heard a
dog
barking and realized it was Winston. I
t
wasn’t that I
had
forgotten about him
exactly
but
I
had
just not
been able
to gather together
the
energy to
walk over
to my neighbor’s place
to retrieve him
.

At some point
, a knock at the door roused m
e
from a stupor. When I opened the door
Winston leaped up at me, nearly knocking me over. M
y neighbor
stood there
with a sad smile on his face.

“Hello, Jack,” he said. “I didn’t want to intrude on ya but I thought maybe you’d want some company. If not me, then Winston here maybe.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant to stop by earlier but…”

“Nah, don’t even think about apologizing. I’d be happy to keep the old fella actually. But I know he misses ya.”

“You know, I can’t even remember your name.”

“It’s Conrad. Folks call me Con.”

“Right. Well
, thanks, Con. I appreciate you helping us out
.”

“Look, Jack, I’ve seen the news. I know what’s happened to your family. I just want ya to know if there’s anything I can do for ya – anything at all - ya just have ta let me know.”

“I appreciate that,” I said.

I’m sure my demeanor must have made it pretty obvious I didn’t feel much like company but he seemed reluctant to leave.
He reached into the pocket of his frayed jeans and extracted a piece of paper which he handed to me. “This is my phone number,” he said. “If ya ever feel like talking, call me.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I will.”

He nodded, then turned and sauntered off.

*

*

*

I
settled in to a
mindless
routine of driving down to Ocala every other day or so to spend an hour sitting with Callie. And I’d call Tom Kilborn every few days to see if there was any progress in the search. Neither of these activities ever
provided me with a
ny
reason for
optimism
. Quite the contrary actually.
Callie, if anything, seemed to be getting worse. Her pallor was ghostly
, s
he was losing weight
rapidly
.
It was like she was disappearing before my eyes.

Th
e only thing
the FBI
had
accomplished so far in their investigation
was
to find
the bodies of
an
old couple from Wisconsin whose car Henderson had stolen
when he had first escaped from prison
. They
’d been
found with their throats slit, buried in a shallow grave in a
wooded area near Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

I
spent endless hours trying
to
fathom
how Henderson could remain at large
while
being the subject of such
a massive manhunt
.
It didn’t make sense that, with all the resources available to them, the Feds couldn’t do better than they were. The only conclusion I could come to was that
, like the press had contended,
he had taken refuge
somewhere
in the
wilderness
.
After
all his years of living in
a
remote
region
of the Virginia mountains there was probably no one
better
equipped to remain undetected than Reuben Henderson.
The more I thought about it, the more
likely it seemed
a feasible explanation
.

But where in the mountains
? That was the
million dollar
question.

*

*

*

Be
ing a bachelor for so many years should have made
a decent cook of
me
,
but it hadn’t. My idea of a good, home-cooked meal was a charred steak, a baked potato, and a cold beer.
Such
was my plan one
sultry
evening when being out
doors
seemed infinitely more inviting than
remaining
cooped up
in my increasingly claustrophobic
house
.
But a
s I went to the freezer and reached for a steak I
was struck by
a sudden
and severe
aversion to the thought of eating another meal alone. I c
l
osed the freezer door
, then dropped into a chair at
the kitchen table
where I sat
with my head
tilted
in
to
the palms of
my hands.
Thoughts of putting an end to
my
anguish
were
not new to me. They had, in fact, been occurring with increasing
frequen
cy
.
I was not thinking clearly but I was lucid enough to know
that
if I didn’t do something
soon
to change the course my life was taking there were going to be drastic consequences. I forced myself to stand, then
went to the phone
and
dial
ed
a number I found on a piece of paper
tacked to the wall
.