Once Shadows Fall (14 page)

T
here was no need to guess which arch Donna camp was entombed behind. In the dim light, it had not been possible to see the color difference between the old and new mortar or the joint discrepancy in the courses of brick. Once they were close, both became apparent. The recently constructed wall gave way after only two blows with the battering ram. Jack, Harrison, and Beth stood off to one side and watched with a cold dread building in them at what they might find inside.

Two SWAT officers climbed over the pile of brick and disappeared into the shadows. A moment later Antonelli yelled, “She’s alive! I saw her move. He’s got her wrapped up like a mummy. We need oxygen ASAP! Someone call the medics!”

The EMT unit arrived within minutes and transferred Donna Camp to a stretcher, cautiously carrying her out of the alcove. One of the technicians started an IV drip to combat her dehydration.

“Is she able to talk?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. She’s pretty banged up, but she should be okay.”

“I need a few minutes with her.”

“Jack, they need to get this woman to a hospital,” Beth said.

Jack ignored her and moved to the stretcher. “Ma’am, are you well enough to speak with me?”

“I think so,” Donna said.

“Did you see the man who did this to you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He’s tall with brown hair and blue eyes. He had a beard, but it didn’t look real.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“Uh-huh. I asked him if the wall was the only thing he could get up. He didn’t like that.”

Jack stifled a laugh. “No, I don’t imagine he did. How did he react?”

“He tried to put tape over my mouth. When he got close, I kicked him and ran. But he caught me again.” Donna tentatively touched her left eye and winced.

“He hit you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you recall which hand he used?”

Donna thought for a second and then said, “His left one.”

“You’re doing great,” Jack reassured. “Did he do anything else besides hit you?”

“Nothing sexual, if that’s what you mean,” Donna said.

Jack glanced at Beth. She already had a plastic evidence bag in one hand and was in the process of filling out a description card. Quick learner.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Jack said to Donna, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a brave woman. You said you kicked him?”

“Correct.”

“Which foot?”

“This one,” Donna answered, lifting her right leg. “You can have my shoe if you need it.”

“We do,” Jack said. “When we’re done, I’d like you to spend a little time with Detective Sturgis, so she can check the rest of your clothes.”

“For fibers and fingerprints?”

Jack smiled, “Been watching
CSI
on television?”

“I don’t mind. I want to help.”

“You already have. Tell me what else you remember about him.”

“He might have been wearing a wig, too, but it was hard to tell because it was dark.”

“I understand. And you’re sure his eye color was blue?”

“Probably more gray now that I think of it.”

“After he hit you, did he put his hands anywhere else on your body?”

“Around my throat, but he was wearing gloves—brown leather gloves.”

Jack nodded. No surprise there. “What about you? Did you put your hands on him?”

“I tried to fight, but he was too strong,” Donna said. She seemed to sag a little with the last statement.

Jack caught Beth’s warning look and thanked her. He nodded to her and stood back while she ran a sticky roller over the woman’s clothes to pick up trace evidence.

After the EMTs left for the hospital, they went back to the alcove and began searching the area for clues. Forensics arrived and set up two portable lights, which helped a great deal. Their work was methodical and painstaking and yielded a good set of footprints. Whether these were left by the killer or by someone else, Jack didn’t know. He ordered comparison prints from each of the SWAT officers to eliminate them. The unspoken question on everyone’s mind was what would they find behind the other alcoves.

Rather than knock down the wall as they did the first one, Sheeley sent one of his men for a hammer and cold chisel. Little by little, the mortar was chipped away and a brick was removed. The officer then used his Maglite to peer into the room, sweeping the beam from side to side slowly. Everyone’s attention was riveted on him.

Suddenly, the man’s hand stopped moving. He pulled his head back and said, “Holy shit.”

Most of the color seemed to have left his face. He turned back to Sheeley and announced, “There’s another body in here.”

I
t took the rest of the day and into the night before the other walls came down. One by one, the bricks were removed and placed into separate piles. Ben Furman and two assistants arrived on the scene and worked tirelessly. Dan Pappas, back from interviewing witnesses, showed up along with Deputy Chief Noah Ritson and Burt Wiggins. They watched from the sidelines without comment. Sheeley and his men also stayed to see the developing nightmare. They had the expression of people who had just discovered their training would be of no value. The atmosphere in the courtyard took on a surreal quality. Police and technicians moved in and out of the lights going about their tasks without speaking. A group of uniforms were assigned to keep the crowd back, which was growing in size with every passing hour. Among the onlookers were reporters from the newspaper, CNN, Fox News, and all three major networks.

After the last body was removed and turned over to the medical examiner, Noah Ritson motioned the detectives away from the cameras now set up behind the police barricade.

Ritson addressed Jack first. “I noticed you speaking with the crime scene photographer a minute ago. What was that about?”

“I asked her to get some pictures of the crowd.”

“You think our man is here?”

“It’s possible,” Jack said. “Detectives Sturgis and Pappas found what looks like an observation point near the dam. Sometimes these nuts like to hang around and see our reactions.”

“Nuts?”

“It captures the spirit, Chief,” Jack said.

Ritson smiled. “We’ll need to make a statement to the media. What can you tell me?”

Jack noted his use of the term
we
rather than
I
when he mentioned making a statement.

“Five of the victims are female; one is male. Judging from the clothing and the state of decomposition on the first woman we took out, I’d say her body has been here for quite a while. Years, probably. The ME or maybe a forensic anthropologist can give us a better idea.”

“What about the others?” Ritson asked.

“Thanks to the lack of moisture and the alcove being sealed, the bodies are in surprisingly good condition. The style of clothes indicates they were here even longer than the first victim. Since around the early nineteen hundreds, I imagine.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Best guess, Chief, unless they attended a costume party before they were murdered.”

“You’re telling me we’ve had a serial killer running around since the turn of the last century?” Ritson said.

Jack took a deep breath and looked through the gate to where the crowd was congregating. “I’m only telling you what I observed. It’s too soon to reach any conclusions.”

Ritson took a moment to digest the implications. “Okay. Get cleaned up and think over what you want to say. We don’t need to set off a general panic.” He turned to Beth and Pappas. “I want both of you at the press conference. I’ll handle the broad strokes and then Professor Kale will take over.”

Pappas waited until the chief was out of earshot and leaned around Jack to look at him from the back.

“What are you doing?” Beth asked.

“Checking to see if there’s a bull’s-eye strapped to his ass.”

A short distance away, reporters jockeyed for position.

“Showtime,” Jack mumbled as they started forward.

The reporters began shouting questions almost before Chief Ritson was in position. He held his hands up for quiet.

“As some of you know, another woman was recently abducted. Thanks to some quick thinking on the part of our investigative team, I’m pleased to announce she was rescued several hours ago. She’s now resting comfortably at Grady Hospital.”

“What’s her name, Chief?” a reporter from WXIA called out.

“We’d prefer to keep that confidential for the time being until she’s had a chance to speak with her family.”

“Was she hurt in any way?”

“Some bruises and scrapes, I’m told, but otherwise she appears to be in good health—badly shaken, but all right.”

“Was she sexually assaulted?” a reporter from Fox News asked.

Ritson squinted against the glare and shielded his eyes to see who had spoken. “She advised us there was nothing like that.”

The reporter followed up with another question. “How about ransom demands?”

“At this time we’re not aware of any demands for money, but we’re still investigating.”

An attractive blonde woman who Jack recognized from a TV news special about the zoo’s new panda asked the inevitable next question. This was probably a juicier story than what the panda was up to. “If this woman was rescued hours ago, what were you doing in there so long?”

The chief, used to dealing with the media, answered calmly. “Gail, in any crime scene, it’s important that we examine the area for clues carefully and methodically. We wouldn’t want to miss something significant.”

One reporter’s voice rose above the others. “Is that why Jackson Kale is here?”

Earlier, Jack had seen Burt Wiggins talking with her and had no doubt the question was preplanned. It fit Ritson’s style of managing the flow of information. Not a bad idea, when he thought about it.

“Professor Kale and the rest of our team were the ones who pieced the clues together and figured out where the kidnapper had her hidden. They were assisted by a uniform officer who initially recovered a number of evidentiary items near the Historical Society and realized their importance. Their efforts were central in her rescue. As you might imagine, we’re justifiably proud.”

Several reporters broke into a round of applause.

“So this is unrelated to the recent deaths in Jordan and at Lake Lanier?” the same reporter asked.

“This may be a good time to turn this over to Professor Kale, who can fill you in on the details,” the chief said.

Despite his new rank as a lieutenant, Jack took note that Ritson continued to refer to him as “professor,” thereby reinforcing his separate status from the department. As he stepped up to the microphone, he
felt his heart rate and respiration start to climb. As unobtrusively as he could, he took several breaths and tried to relax.

A reporter for the
Atlanta Journal
asked, “Dr. Kale, was this woman’s abduction related to the other deaths?”

“Yes.”

“I’m confused. Don’t kidnappers generally abduct people because they want money or something in return?”

“Generally,” Jack said. “I should clarify. This was an attempted murder, not a kidnapping.”

A murmur ran through the crowd before the same reporter continued, “What was the motive?”

“I don’t know.”

“There was a report she was wrapped up like a mummy.”

“It’s true that the victim was bound,” Jack said, keeping the information to a minimum.

“Do you have any suspects at this time?”

“Suspects, no. But we’re making progress.”

“What does that mean?” the reporter asked.

“Just what I said. We know, for example, the killer is a white male, tall, with light-blue or gray eyes.”

A reporter who had once interviewed Jack jumped in with his own question. “Jack, given your previous experience with Howard Pell and the similarities to the murders in Jordan, do you think you’re dealing with a copycat?”

Jack considered the question and then said, “No, I don’t believe that. The killer wants it to appear that way, but he’s operating under a different agenda.”

“We’ve seen what looked like a number of bodies being carried out. Did the same man kill them all?”

“It’s too soon to say what the causes of death were. Suffice to say, they don’t appear to be from natural reasons. As soon as we know more, we’ll make an announcement. By tomorrow morning, a tip line will be set up. We’re asking for the public’s help. If you know anything about these deaths, please give us a call. You can do it in confidence.”

“Are you saying the public is at risk?” Patterson asked.

“I’m not supposed to instill panic, but until the killer’s caught, I’d say everyone’s at risk. That’s why we need your help.”

*

The Soul Eater drove slowly listening to the press conference on his car radio. He was surprised Kale had put the clues together so quickly. By all rights, it should have taken longer.
So they discovered my little mausoleum
.
What of it? They were meant to be found . . . eventually
. He touched the book lying on the seat next to him. It was old, covered in black leather, and bent from years of use. Kale’s quick discoveries simply meant he would have to move his schedule up as well, which was annoying but not fatal to his plan.

Kale was a bright man, and sooner or later, he’d figure the puzzle out. But by then it would be too late. The Soul Eater calmed his mind and used his turn signal to change lanes. Wouldn’t want to give the police an excuse to pull him over.

He thought about the two detectives standing dutifully behind Clever Jack, the tall brunette and her cumbersome partner with the scarred face. They were there to show support. How touching.

At Fourteenth Street, the killer turned east and then turned again on Peachtree Road and proceeded north through Buckhead, past Lenox Mall and Phipps Plaza, marveling how the two shopping centers had managed to avoid any regional identity over the years. Eventually, he came to Brookhaven and found the street where Jack Kale lived. He pulled over to the curb and shut off his engine.

I
t took a moment before Jack realized the scream that had woken him was his.

Light from a streetlamp glinted through the curtains of his bedroom. He was lying on the floor, still wearing the same clothes he wore at Underground Atlanta. His head was throbbing. The ceiling and walls seemed to be spinning. A clammy film of sweat covered his face. His clothes were damp.

It was the same old nightmare. The same ship that appeared in those dreams, the one that he could never explain. Same cobblestone street. Same gaslight. Connie Belasco’s face, or what was left of it, was contorted in unimaginable pain. Her large, dark eyes stared back at him in mute accusation.

Jack lay there, looking out the window at the houses along his street. Through the parted curtains, he could see his neighbor asleep in an arm chair with a book on her lap. His eyes eventually drifted back to the streetlamp. Painful to look at. Maybe if he stared long enough, it would burn away the image of Connie, reduced to a limbless freak by a monster.

Jack lifted his head and let it sink back down to the rug. Marta was lying next to him. He rolled over, rubbed his face against Marta’s neck, and told her everything would be all right, wondering if dogs could tell when people were lying.

He had no idea what time it was. Late probably. The prospect of going back to sleep was unattractive. One drink to steady himself wouldn’t hurt. He had a vague recollection of the panic attack striking just before he fell asleep. It was all a jumble.

When he was sufficiently recovered, he rose and staggered over to the liquor cabinet, only to find the bottle of Macallan Scotch was gone. He’d hidden it someplace. Where?

Didn’t matter. Wellington’s Bar was only a short drive away. They’d be open until three o’clock in the morning. He found his bottle of pills in the bedroom and took several.

The murder book, containing the crime scene, forensic, and medical examiner’s reports, was on the floor where he’d dropped it. The book also contained investigative notes, witness statements, evidence descriptions, and photos of the victims. In short, everything relating to their deaths. Jack bent down, straightened the pages, and then shut the binder and left the house.

Getting to Wellington’s meant he had to drive past the cemetery where Connie Belasco was buried. He owed her a visit, even if it was late. Several months had passed since the last time he was there. It was nearly one in the morning. She’d understand.

Jack turned onto Mt. Vernon Road, the street that ran alongside the cemetery, with its awful crematorium, and parked. The night was still. The only things moving were moths hovering around a street light. Serenity Park, as they called it, was lit by a pale half-moon. He couldn’t see Connie’s grave but was able to pick out the large oak he used for a landmark. She’d be about fifty feet to the left. Leaning back against the headrest, Jack shut his eyes and let the cool early morning air wash over him.

Before the panic attack hit, he’d been thinking about time. Or, to be more specific, the passage of it. The time his daughter was born. The time he spent in the Marines. His years with the FBI. And what the last seven years had been like.

Life or merely existence, he wasn’t sure which.

Eventually, his mind turned to that day at Cloudland Canyon, as it so often did. Burt Wiggins pointed out that he’d pulled back before killing Pell. Maybe that counted for something. But he’d looked into the pit and saw his own reflection staring back at him. That’s when time froze for Jack Kale.

Beth Sturgis, in all her naiveté, wanted to fight evil, a losing proposition if ever he’d heard one. Like energy, true evil couldn’t be destroyed. It merely changed form and reappeared someplace else. Einstein had once said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.” That might mean he was insane, because he was following the same path again. Perhaps he should call Mayfield and see if they had a spare room available. One with a view. What times he
and Pell could have together. Doing the same thing over and over until nothing remained of either of them. All gone. No one home. Like Connie.

Jack looked again at the old oak. Its branches formed a canopy against the sky. Was he doing the right thing, letting circumstances drag him along? Hard to say. At some signal beyond his understanding, a hundred birds nesting in the tree chose that moment to take flight, startling him. He watched them soar into the air, silhouettes against the pale moonlight. Then his eye moved to the left where Connie’s grave was. Did she just whisper something? Or was he imagining it?

“Maybe you’re right,” he whispered back and started the engine.

*

One of Wellington’s chief attractions was that it stayed open late, or early depending on your point of view. Its patrons were laborers and people who went to work without a tie. They sat at the bar or at tables drinking quietly. An old-style television hung on the wall above the liquor bottles perpetually tuned to one of the ESPN channels. There were no twenty- or thirtysomethings in chic clothes. Nobody struck up idle conversations. People were there to drink, as he was.

The pills had long since kicked in.

Jack finished his Scotch and held his glass up to the waitress for a refill.

“You want to go easy on that stuff,” she said.

“No,” Jack said. “I don’t.”

His tongue felt thick and the words came out slightly slurred.

“Last one, honey. We’re closing in ten minutes.”

“All the more reason to hurry.”

“Sure,” she said, taking his glass.

The murder book was open on the table next to him to the forensics section. He tried concentrating on Furman’s findings, but the words swam on the page. The bar’s low lighting only made things worse. Eventually, he gave up and concentrated on the Scotch.

The waitress reappeared with his drink.

“You want me to call you a cab?” she asked.

Jack downed the contents in one shot and handed her a twenty.

“It’s a nice night,” he said. “I think I’ll walk for a bit.”

“The hotel usually has a few taxis waiting out front,” she said. “It’s about four blocks down the street.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

“You gonna be all right?”

“In what sense do you ask?”

“To get home,” she said. “You don’t look so great.”

“Rough day at the office,” Jack said.

“Yeah. Well, take it slow, okay?”

With the binder under his arm, Jack left the bar and began walking along Peachtree Road. Atlanta had thirty-eight separate streets named Peachtree. Made sense. After all, Georgia was the Peach State. Wherever you looked, it was peaches. Peach this. Peach that. So how come they called it the Dogwood City?

For some reason, that struck him as funny. Jack slowed to a halt and looked around, trying to decide where he was. Surely he should have reached the hotel by now. He’d been walking for nearly twenty minutes. He stepped out into the middle of the street for a better look and realized he’d gone the wrong way. Without checking the traffic, he started back for the sidewalk and found himself in the headlights of a car bearing down on him at high speed. The driver swerved at the last moment and sped by, horn blaring. Jack lost his balance, crashed into a pair of garbage cans, and fell to the ground. Head and pavement made contact, stunning him. The murder book went flying.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack was sitting on the curb trying to collect his wits when the short blast of a siren got his attention. Another pair of headlights lit up his immediate area. They were accompanied by flashing blue lights.

Jack put his hand up, squinting against the glare. Two uniform cops exited their cruiser and approached him.

“You all right, buddy?” one of the cops asked.

“Just resting for a minute,” Jack said.

“You picked a helluva place to do it,” the cop said, eyeing the overturned trash cans. “Pull your feet in so they don’t get run over.”

Jack pulled his feet in.

“You need medical attention? That’s a nasty scrape on your forehead.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jack said.

“Glad to hear it. If you’re okay, why don’t you run along home?”

Jack stared at the officer without responding.

“You hear what I said, pal?”

“I have a theory that the world revolves,” Jack said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m waiting for my house to pass.”

The cop exchanged a glance with his partner, then asked to see some ID.