Realm of Shadows

by Eldon Farrell

  Dissatisfied by what he’s written so far he rips the page from the pad, crumples it into a ball and tosses it in the wastepaper basket beside the cabinets.

  Placing pen to paper he begins again.

  ‘Dearest Miriam, I’m writing this while you sleep because I don’t think I could say it to your face. Last night with you was great but I can’t be like you. I can’t ignore what’s going on and act like it doesn’t bother me. And I know you well enough to know you’re acting. I know what’s been done to you bothers you and you want justice. No matter how many times you tell me different I won’t believe you—I know better. I know you blame me for what’s happened and you have every right. But that’s why…’

  With an anguished exhalation he tears the paper from the pad and again balls it up before tossing it away. Frustrated by not being able to find the right words to express his feelings he puts the pen aside.

  It’s like a gulf exists between them and no matter how much he wants to he can’t find a way across it. He can’t find his way back to the way things used to be.

  “Roger?” Miriam calls from the kitchen doorway, “What are you doing?”

  Startled momentarily by her presence, he clears his throat before replying, “I didn’t hear you come downstairs. I-I was just leaving you a note saying I was going out.”

  He can feel her eyes boring into the back of his skull. He wants nothing more than to turn and give her a smile but it would be forced and she would know.

  “Where are you going?”

  Not possessing the strength for another argument he simply answers, “Just out. I have some errands to run.”

  The sound of a china mug being taken down from the cupboard fills the expanding silence between them before Miriam says, “I know it didn’t go well yesterday; with her.”

  This grabs his attention and he turns to look at her placid features as she leans against the counter.

  “I’m not an idiot,” she says with a wan smile, “I know just from your body language that it didn’t work out. I was hoping that would be the end of it Roger.”

  For a moment anger causes his nostrils to flare and his eyes to narrow—but only for a moment. Standing he says, “The hearing is tomorrow. I still have today.”

  “Roger, please stop this.” Reaching out to him she pleads, “Stay here and talk to me about what’s bothering you.”

  Turning away from her he grabs his things saying over his shoulder, “I’ll be back tonight.”

  He leaves her alone, softly crying to herself.

  Benjamin Franklin Academy was founded in 1987 to fill a need in the Atlanta area for an independent, not-for-profit college preparatory high school. Officially opening in June of 1988 for a summer program of 12 students, it has since that time graduated more than 1,300 students.

  It’s located on Clifton Road NE, situated on the campus of Emory University in two former residence buildings converted for the school’s needs. The campus reflects their overall philosophy of active as opposed to the traditional passive learning environment.

  There are no desks in classrooms here. Instead, an informal atmosphere exists where students gather with their instructors around small tables, bookshelves line the walls and the windows open onto extensive and colorful gardens.

  In the more than two decades since its founding though this is a red letter day for the school as never before has it received a visit from the FBI. Enormously curious as to what they could want, Roland Arliss the Headmaster for the Academy hurries past a group of students on his way to the front steps.

  He graduated with a BA in Mathematics from Harvard twenty-five years ago and has been an institution here for the past fifteen years. At just a shade past sixty, he has the snowy white hair, chubby cheeks, warm smile, and hearty laugh of a favorite uncle. He is adored by students and faculty alike.

  This day he’s wearing a crisp white shirt emblazoned with the academy’s logo—an open book inside a white crest on a navy blue circle bearing the inscription Esse Quam Videri—a navy colored tie, and black dress pants that have been ironed severely to display a perfectly straight crease down the front of the legs.

  Stepping outside into the bright morning sunlight, he adjusts the gold-rimmed spectacles on his fleshy nose and focuses his light-colored eyes on the four men in suits waiting at the bottom of the steps.

  “Gentlemen,” he greets them in his charming baritone as he steps down toward them with his hand extended, “Roland Arliss, Headmaster here at the Academy.”

  After shaking each hand in turn he returns his attention to Hal Jerome, the man he instinctively knows is in charge saying, “How may I be of assistance to you gentlemen this morning?”

  With a cordial smile of his own, Hal makes the introductions. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Hal Jerome from the FBI’s Behavioural Sciences Unit. With me are Agents Flannigan and Drayton and my consultant today Caleb Fine.”

  “A pleasure,” Arliss comments with a nod as he patiently waits to learn of the reason for this visit to his sleepy little campus.

  “We have reason to believe,” Hal holds his hand out to Flannigan to receive an evidence bag as he says, “That somewhere on your campus is a lock that fits this key.”

  Adjusting his glasses again, Arliss carefully examines the skeleton key inside the sealed plastic bag before asking, “What reason is that?”

  Looking at each of the imposing men before him and gauging from their stone-faced expressions that an answer will not be forthcoming, he smiles jocundly at them before shaking his head. “We have no locks here that would fit such a key I’m afraid. As you can see…”

  He cringes momentarily at his own choice of words before recovering to say, “We are a modern facility here and this key is clearly not modern.”

  “What about your basement?” Caleb speaks for the first time.

  Turning toward him Arliss responds, “The only lock down there is to the boiler room—a modern lock.”

  “Could it belong to a locker on campus maybe?”

  Returning his attention to Hal, Arliss shakes his head. “Here at the Academy we don’t have lockers Agent Jerome. We try to foster a more open approach to education than what you would find in a traditional high school.”

  “You don’t mind if we have a look around do you?”

  “Of course not,” Arliss beams a cheery grin, “Whatever I or my staff can do to aid you in your investigation Agents, consider it done. I only ask that you try not to disturb the student’s studies too much.”

  “We’ll try,” Hal promises before giving out his instructions, “Flannigan, you take Drayton and look around that building. Cal and I will go with the Headmaster here on a tour of this building. Be back here in thirty.”

  “Excellent then,” Arliss says as he stands aside to let Hal and Caleb pass. As Caleb moves past him Arliss notices the bulge under his jacket and not for the first time this morning feels his anxiety rising.

  Smoothing his tie down he heads up the steps after them.

  Twenty minutes later and they are descending the staircase into the basement. Arliss has talked near nonstop for that time regaling them with stories about the Academy’s unique approach to learning and anecdotes about past student’s successes.

  Personally, Caleb is happy they’re finally heading down to the basement. What can there be down here that Arliss could possibly be proud enough of to feel the need to continue chattering about?

  He knows the man is likely just nervous about them being here and they haven’t exactly been forthcoming with the reasons for the visit—not that the reason would put his mind at ease anyway. If he knew that a serial killer might’ve been here how would he react? I wonder if he would still think that an open campus is best.

  The uncertainty is why Hal decided on the way here to share only minimally until they knew for sure that the lock was here. They haven’t enough to get a warrant and if Arliss knew they were hunting The Toymaker he might bar them from entry to protect the school f
rom being associated in anyway with the killer.

  It’s an approach Caleb agreed wholly with.

  The basement smells of old concrete that has gotten wet at some point and has since maintained a damp quality to it. Just as Arliss told them outside the only lock down here leads to the boiler room. There were no lockers upstairs and unless Flannigan and Drayton found anything in the other building it’s looking more and more like a dead end.

  “What about the government buildings across the way?” Hal postulates, “Could that be what was referred to?”

  Shaking his head Caleb is adamant, “No. It’s here, it has to be here.”

  Turning to Arliss, Caleb registers the confusion on his face before asking, “Can you open the boiler room?”

  “Why of course,” Arliss replies stepping to the door, “But I don’t see the point Mr. Fine. The door is locked—what could be inside?”

  Hal and Caleb remain silent as Arliss jiggles the doorknob and tries to get the key to unlock the little used door. The noise fills the muted space until with a groan the door finally swings inward.

  Stepping inside, Caleb flicks on the lights and a pair of flickering halogen bulbs comes to life. Their sparse illumination does not touch the far corners of the room, leaving them in shadows.

  The boiler is on the right side of the room inside a cage. Various dust-covered pipes snake out of the cage on their way across the ceiling toward the opposite wall. It’s there that Caleb makes the discovery.

  “There’s a door here,” he mumbles. Turning to Arliss he asks, “Where does this door lead?”

  “The sub-basement I should think,” he answers, “As you can tell from the accumulation of dust, we do not venture down there often.”

  Speaking to Hal, Caleb says, “The dust has been disturbed here. Someone has gone down there recently.”

  Surprise lacing his words Arliss proclaims, “I can’t imagine who.”

  “Stay here with Mr. Arliss Hal,” Caleb directs, “I’ll check this out.”

  “I don’t think so Cal—we’ll go together.”

  “Be realistic Hal,” Caleb protests, “We don’t know what’s down there and we don’t need you falling and getting hurt.”

  Whipping his cane out Hal stops it a mere whisker length from Caleb’s nose. “I’m not an invalid Cal. Darkness is darkness to me—I’ll see just as well down there as I do up here. Let’s go.”

  After a moment Caleb relents and shoves some boxes out of the way. With both hands he pries the metal door open to the howl of rusted hinges. The staircase going down to the sub-basement is pitch-black. “No light down here?”

  Arliss shrugs saying, “We never go down here. The bulbs are probably burned out.”

  Switching on his penlight Caleb murmurs, “Stay close.”

  They descend the creaking steps carefully—ten in all before reaching the hard-packed earthen floor. Shining his light around Caleb catches dust motes as they swirl and dance in the musty air.

  “Why does this place even have a sub-basement?” Caleb asks.

  “This used to be a residence building for Emory University back in the eighties,” Arliss speculates, “It’s possible they had a use for it.”

  Swinging the light around to shine on his face Caleb asks, “Is it possible they left anything down here?”

  With a shrug Arliss answers, “I suppose anything’s possible Mr. Fine.”

  A hollow sound echoes in the space before Hal shouts, “Shine the light over here Cal. There’s something…”

  As Hal raps his cane against the metal object again Caleb brings the light over to him revealing a row of three faded green lockers. They look to be at least forty years old and are covered with a thick coating of dust and cobwebs.

  Except for the middle one; it’s been cleaned off recently and is fitted with an old rusted lock.

  “I knew it,” Caleb breathes, “They’re lockers Hal—and one of them is locked.”

  “We call in the bomb squad then.”

  “What?” Caleb and Arliss exclaim simultaneously before Caleb objects further, “Let’s just use the key and find out what’s inside.”

  “We don’t know what’s inside and that’s the point Cal,” Hal is stern in his rebuff. “Don’t forget who led us down here and what they’re capable of. We do this by the book and wait for the all clear from the bomb squad.”

  “Wait a minute,” Arliss repeats, “Bomb squad!?! What’s going on here?”

  Facing the sound of his voice Hal answers, “I’m sorry to inform you of this Mr. Arliss but, the Toymaker left this lock here. He’s been inside your school.”

  The faint beam of light captures his eyes as they widen. He turns as white as a ghost before reaching out for a place to sit down.

  Chapter 14

  Coastal North Carolina

  What the hell am I doing here?

  As the black Hummer he’s seated in races down the open expanse of U.S. 264, Tyler Edlund can’t help but wonder this.

  He was awoken before dawn by the thumping of two huge men on the door of his home. They shuttled him to Dulles International Airport for a flight aboard a sleek private jet owned—according to the logo on the tailfin—by Black Creek Consulting.

  The jet lifted off before the sun came over the horizon and took him one hour south to Greenville, North Carolina. It was there that he arrived where he is now—in the back of one of two black Hummers driving toward Swanquarter where the group will board a ferry bound for Hope.

  Shifting his weight he tries in vain to find a comfortable position. Through the window he watches the desolate landscape—a mixture of forest and farmland—fly by in a blur of subdued colors.

  He’s sore, exhausted, confused, and growing increasingly frustrated by the stony silence of his traveling companions. The two men that rousted him from an all too short sleep sit in the front seat of the vehicle and continue to ignore any and all attempts at conversation.

  Beside him, a much less imposing man—compared to the giants up front—is dozing fitfully as he’s done since they climbed aboard in Greenville.

  He has a narrow face with a nose bent slightly to the left above a pair of thin lips. Tyler can just make out the darkening approach of a five o’clock shadow along his square jaw line and over his cheeks despite the early morning hour.

  Even seated as he is—slouched down with his legs crossed awkwardly in front of him—Tyler can tell that the man is very tall. His knees almost reach the height of his slumping head of tousled black hair. He’s wearing black jeans and a black dress shirt open at the collar, making Tyler think of the old Johnny Cash number ‘The Man in Black.’

  Glancing forward through the windshield he makes the other Hummer four car lengths ahead of them. He knows that’s where the enigmatic Alexander Cummings is riding. Probably to avoid having to answer any of my questions, he grouses to himself.

  “Hey guys,” he asks of the men in the front seat, “You wanna tell me how much further we have to go?”

  Neither man so much as looks over their shoulder at him.

  “Perfect,” he mutters, “Just perfect.”

  “Aw don’t mind them,” the tall man beside him says his with his eyes still closed, “The lumps ain’t gonna tell you nothing mate.”

  Tyler recognizes the Australian lilt to his words further deepening the mystery of who he is. At last his eyes open and focus on Tyler revealing two deep pools that in truth appear almost indigo.

  “Paul Chase,” he says extending his hand in introduction.

  “Tyler Edlund,” he responds shaking his hand.

  “Nice meeting you mate.” Sporting a roguish grin Chase asks, “So how is it you happened to join our merry band?”

  “Just unlucky I guess.”

  “Ain’t we all mate,” Chase turns to look out his window muttering, “Ain’t we all.”

  After a mile or so in silence Tyler asks, “You been to Hope before?”

  “Nope.”

  “So then what’s
your job here?”

  Looking back at him Chase gives nothing away in his face—his expression is deadpan as he answers, “I’m what you’d call…a specialist. And you?”

  “I work for NOAA. What do you specialize in?”

  Cocking his right eyebrow, Chase makes like he’s considering the question before changing the subject by asking, “Tell me mate, you know anything about this supposed hurricane I’ve been hearing about?”

  Cracking wise Tyler replies, “Only that we should probably be going the other way.”

  “You all right mate,” Chase indulges in a quick laugh before the inscrutable mask is back in place. “So if you don’t know about the hurricane, why you here?”

  “To study the red tides…I guess.”

  “You don’t sound too sure of yourself,” Chase levels his gaze at him asking, “You do know why you’re here?”

  Tyler simply shrugs before turning away to watch the road speed past.

  “So what’s the thought then?” Chase starts up again, “The water killed all those people?”

  Turning back toward him Tyler replies, “Could be. Guess I’ll find out.”

  “Well if they all died like that, what happened to their bodies? There ain’t none on that island you know.”

  The certainty with which he says this strikes Tyler as being odd. Narrowing his eyes a bit he asks, “I thought you said you’ve never been to Hope—how do you know there are no bodies there?”

  After a brief pause that leaves Tyler wondering whether or not he saw confusion momentarily flare in those indigo depths, Chase smiles and answers “I read. You yanks; always suspicious.”

  “Yeah,” Tyler returns the disingenuous smile before looking away again. Staring out the window he asks, “So do you know General Cummings at all?”

  “Naw mate,” Chase cordially replies, “Seems a strange bird to me though.”

  Tyler can’t help but nod in agreement. Whatever tension was starting to build between them dissipates just as quick leaving Tyler to elaborate, “He came to NOAA to recruit me; I’d guess you’d call it that.”