Blood Stone

by Michael Lister

  “Half an hour,” I said, “ago.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I’ll get you back to the school, then go get a team started on the missing women’s mail and receipts, then I’ll call Bud.”

  “Thanks for all you’re doing for me,” I said.

  “You kidding? You’ve already done more for the case than . . . anything I’ll do for you.”

  It wasn’t true, but it was exactly the kind of thing I’d come to expect him to say.

  6

  The ringing phone shattered the silence of the still, empty house.

  Susan was working the evening shift at Scarlett’s, and I was home alone.

  Instead of delivering pizza, I was home. Instead of doing a Hebrew assignment, I was studying the case file.

  It had still been daylight when I had come home from my afternoon classes and my janitorial job at the college, and I had come straight into my office and begun poring over the file.

  Since then daylight had surrendered to dark, and as I stood to go answer the phone, I realized the small desk lamp in my office was the only light on in the entire house.

  I also realized I had forgotten to turn on the heaters.

  The quiet, lifeless house was dark and cold.

  The only phone jack in the old house was in the kitchen, which was where the phone was—mounted to the wall, an extra-long cord between the base and the receiver allowing for movement around the kitchen and partly into the dining room.

  On my short walk to the kitchen I not only realized that the house was dark and cold, but that I was hungry and, most surprising of all, I hadn’t had a drink.

  I snapped on the light in the small kitchen and snatched up the receiver.

  As I had hoped, it was Frank.

  “Got good news and bad news,” he said. “I’ll start with the bad. We’ve gone over receipts, phone records, mail . . . everything we can get our hands on . . . and there’s no store or club or gym or anything we can find that the women have in common. Not a thing.”

  “Damn it,” I said. “Really thought that could be it.”

  “It was a good thought. I was sure it was gonna be it too.”

  “And the good news?”

  “Spoke with Bud Nelson this afternoon. You start to work for him tomorrow.”

  “Really? Thanks, Frank. Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “But I’m doing him the favor. You’ll be a tremendous asset for his department. Just afraid there won’t be much to use your gifts on, but . . . it’s a good enough place to start.”

  “How are you choosing them?” I asked the madman.

  Though talking to myself in a dark empty farmhouse made me look like I was the one who was mad.

  I had turned on the heaters and was now moving through the house, clicking on a light here and there, thinking about the case, questioning the faceless monster at the center of this madness.

  “I know you’re not just driving around in a van looking for them. They’re too specific, too matching of your type. So how? Where do you encounter them? Where do they catch your eye?”

  Do you go to them or do they come to you?

  How? When? Where?

  I pictured the crosshairs of a rifle scope moving about and the victims running into it.

  Running.

  Does this even have anything to do with running? Am I wrong about that?

  I thought about the role of running in my life and what I most liked about it.

  For me it was meditation, a mental, emotional, and spiritual practice as much as a physical one.

  At times running was euphoric, a stuporless oblivion.

  Past the effort, past the sweat and pounding and pain, a certain and singular pleasure waited.

  What state on the spectrum between pain and pleasure were the missing women in when the predator had leapt out of the darkness and snatched them out of the experience, out of their existences?

  And as my mind flashed back to my run at Panola Mountain that morning, another thought came to me.

  What if they all run in the same place? At least sometimes. What if sometimes they drive to the same place to run and that’s where he sees them, where he snatches them?

  What if he doesn’t go to them? What if they come to him?

  Where do people run?

  Panola Mountain Park, obviously. Where else?

  Piedmont Park.

  The Chattahoochee River Trail.

  This last one made me think of Wayne Williams, the Atlanta Child Murders, and the bodies pulled from the river.

  Not now. Where else?

  Maybe a particular stadium or track? Perhaps one of the metro area high schools opened their track to all runners at certain times and they all went to it.

  And then it came to me. And when I thought it I knew it was the place.

  Stone Mountain.

  It’s convenient. It’s beautiful and peaceful. It has over three thousand acres of extraordinary natural beauty and miles and miles of roads and trails to run.

  It’s one of the most popular spots to walk and run and exercise in the entire area—perhaps the most popular.

  Kathy actually lived in Stone Mountain near the park and the others were close enough to drive to it.

  Now I just had to find out if they did.

  I ran to my office to grab the file, then to the kitchen to the phone.

  I found Shelly Hepola’s boyfriend’s name and number in the file and punched in his number.

  “Hello.”

  “This Benton Weston?” I asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is John Jordan. I’m with the GBI. We’re looking into Shelly’s disappearance.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

  “Got a minute to answer a couple of questions?”

  “Okay.”

  “Was Shelly a runner?”

  “Yeah. Already told y’all that.”

  “Where would she run?” I asked. “Did she have any regular places she really liked?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. She ran everywhere.”

  “Piedmont Park?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Panola Mountain Park?”

  “Yeah, I think. But not often.”

  “How about the Chattahoochee Trail?”

  “Not so sure about that one. Don’t think so.”

  “How about a school track or one of the college or pro stadiums?”

  “Nah. Nothin’ like that.”

  “Stone Mountain?”

  “All the time. More there than anywhere else.”

  As soon as we hung up, I called Frank back.

  “They’re coming to him,” I said when he answered.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s not going to them. They’re coming to him. He’s not stalking them. He’s stalking an area. At least I think he is. I talked to Benton Weston. Shelly’s boyfriend. She ran there. Now we just have to see if the others did.”

  “Where?”

  “Stone Mountain.”

  “Place is always full of runners and walkers,” he said. “And all that woods . . . He could grab them, pull them into the woods, and . . . rape, kill, bury, who knows what all . . . right there.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “I mean, it’s just a theory, but . . . if they all ran there . . . and chances are good that they did . . .”

  “It’s a great theory and one we can quickly and easily confirm. We’ll call family, friends, classmates, coworkers—anyone who might know—of all the missing women and find out. Great work, John. I’ll be in touch.”

  7

  I knew Frank was going to have agents contacting those who knew the missing women to see if they regularly ran at Stone Mountain, but that would most likely be the next day and I couldn’t wait.

  Going back to the file and using the metro area phonebook we had, I began tracking down anyone who might know where the young women ran.

  It wasn’t easy.

  Several of the calls I made were to people
who either didn’t know the missing women or didn’t know them well enough to know where they ran.

  It took a while. And the entire time I was either standing in or walking around the kitchen.

  The kitchen, like the rest of our rented farmhouse, looked like a poor young couple lived in it. We had little in the way of furniture and decorations—and nothing nice. The mismatched appliances weren’t ours, only the few dishes, plates, pots, pans, and glasses—none of which were part of a complete set. Our mostly empty fridge looked like one in a frat house—random condiments and takeout containers.

  Eventually I was able to reach the right person for each of the young women.

  Cheryl’s college track coach, a coworker of Paula’s, Shelly’s boyfriend, of course, and a friend of Kathy’s—all confirmed that the women often ran at Stone Mountain.

  Of course, they ran other places too, but Stone Mountain was the only running site that all the victims had in common.

  When I finally finished, I started to call Frank, but thought better of it when I glanced at the time.

  A little while later when Susan got home, I was still riding the rush of working the case, coming up with another theory, and confirming it.

  I still hadn’t eaten or had a drink—and was feeling particularly proud about the latter.

  I wanted to talk to her about my day. I wanted to make love and hold each other. I wanted us to go get something to eat.

  But she was exhausted and in a bad mood and wanted to go straight to bed.

  “You sure you can’t stay up with me for just a few minutes?” I asked.

  “It’s been a long, hard day.”

  I nodded. “I know. But maybe a little time together would make you feel better.”

  “Do you mean sex? You mean having sex, don’t you? I’m just not up for it. I’m sorry. I just can’t tonight.”

  “I want to make love, yes, but—need to, really—but I wasn’t just talking about that. I meant just spend some time together. Even a little. We don’t have to do anything but talk or hold each other.”

  “I can’t even hold my eyes open. I just . . . it’s better if I just go to bed.”

  And just like that I went from elation to frustration, from excitement to anger, from feeling happy and hopeful to feeling down and dejected.

  With Susan in bed and our bedroom door closed, I paced around the house trying to decide what to do—where to put all the energy and excitement I had, what to do with all the anger and frustration.

  Go for a run?

  Have a drink?

  Go for a drive?

  Do homework?

  Read the case file some more?

  I decided to go pay Shelly Hepola’s boyfriend a little visit.

  “You look too young to be with the police,” he said.

  Unlike Shelly or any of the other missing women, Benton Weston III looked like money. He had answered the door of his expensive apartment wearing expensive clothes and an expensively dismissive expression on his face.

  “I get that a lot,” I said.

  His thick, dark hair was longish and slicked back with gel or mousse or something, and he smelled of an expensive aftershave I associated with high-end department stores and country clubs. His clothes had the look and label of money, as did the furnishing filling the spacious apartment behind him.

  He narrowed his small, slanted green eyes and looked up as if trying to figure out what to say. “Did y’all find her? Is she okay?”

  That’s it, I thought. Had to search for it, but you came up with the right questions to show concern.

  I shook my head. “No news yet. Just stopped by to ask you some questions.”

  “At ten o’clock at night?” he said, his tone filled with disapproval and disdain.

  “Tried to get here sooner, but . . .”

  It was difficult to tell how old he was. My guess was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Whatever his age it was too young to afford a place like this with his own money.

  “You got some sort of ID?” he said.

  “Not on me, no,” I said.

  “Really? You serious? Who are you really?”

  I felt stupid and embarrassed. This was an impulsive and ill-advised thing to do, and now I looked juvenile and stupid.

  “I didn’t know I was coming by. I’ve been off several hours. I just—”

  “You a reporter? Or are you the sick fuck who took her? I’m calling the police.”

  “Look,” I said, pulling out my wallet and holding it up. “Here’s my ID.”

  “That’s a fuckin’ Florida driver’s license,” he said.

  “That’s where I’m from. Haven’t changed it yet. Look at my ID. Then look at me. My name is John Jordan. Now, here’s the card of the GBI agent in charge of Shelly’s case. See it? Take it. His name is Frank Morgan. Close and lock the door. I’ll stay right here. Call him and ask him who I am and if it’s okay to talk to me. Okay? I just want to ask you a few questions. I’m trying to find Shelly. That’s all. Call Frank Morgan and ask him. I’ll be right here.”

  He looked back and forth from the card to me for a few moments, then nodded, and closed and locked the door.

  It seemed like it took longer than it should have, but I stood there waiting, wondering if when he opened the door again it’d be with a knife or a gun.

  I doubted he could be the abductor. Whatever was happening to the women, it was highly unlikely that one of their boyfriends did it to her and then to a series of other women also. Except they all looked like her, could be her to him. I couldn’t count him out, though he lived in an apartment, so he certainly couldn’t be a collector—not here at least. Of course, it was a big apartment, so . . . maybe.

  When he opened the door again, the chain was on it.

  Handing me Frank’s card through the slight opening, he said, “Agent Morgan said it was okay to talk to you, but if I’d rather we could do it at his office with my attorney. And I’d rather. So . . .”

  “Okay. No problem. I’m just trying to find Shelly. You want to delay that, fine, that’s on you, but it’s suspicious and makes me wonder why you would do it—like maybe you don’t care or you already know where she is, maybe even have something to do with it. You have a good night now. I’ll see you at the formal interview.”

  8

  Wound up from what I had found out about the case and angry and frustrated from my interactions with Susan and Benton, I drove to Stone Mountain to run.

  The night was cold. The wind was biting. I didn’t care.

  I really didn’t have my running gear. I didn’t care.

  I ran in jeans, an inadequate jacket, and an old pair of basketball shoes I found in the trunk.

  Looming large in the distance, Stone Mountain glowed eerily in the night sky, its granite surface a light gray-green.

  Of all the unique and stunning features of Stone Mountain, perhaps what stood out the most was its vast barrenness. It’s a 1,686-feet-high bare rock dome five miles in circumference. A geological marvel over three hundred million years in the making.

  The night was dark, no moon or stars visible, the only illumination on the sidewalk I was running on came from periodic street lamps, and the spill from the mountain on one side and the inn on the other.

  The famous face of the mountain was lit at night by a bank of large halogen lights mounted near the museum, but they were too weak to do anything but show a swath of the north face that included the carving of the three confederate figures from the Civil War. Even the part that was lit looked more like a mirage than anything else, and the rest of the giant granite mountain appeared more figment than reality.

  Across the street from the mountain, its museum, gift shop, and sky ride, the Stone Mountain Inn’s many lights also helped lessen the darkness in this area, but not by much.

  I was here not so much to investigate—though it was extremely helpful to see what it was like to run here at night—but because I was going to run somewhere, so why not he
re.

  I wasn’t concerned about the madman. He had a very particular type, and I wasn’t it. His was a most precise pattern so singular he was abducting the same woman over and over and over again.

  As I ran I wondered why he had chosen this place.

  Because of the mountain itself? Was it significant?

  Because of the traffic? The thousands and thousands of potential prey to choose from?

  Because of the location? Did it just come down to how convenient it was?

  Or was it something else entirely? Something only significant deep down in the mind of madness?

  I ran as hard and fast as I could.

  I ran without stretching or warming up.

  I ran until I felt better.

  I ran until much of the anger and frustration and excess energy had dissipated.

  I ran until I ran into Summer Grantham.

  We were headed in different directions. I was running. She was walking. And we rounded a corner at the same moment.

  “Are you okay?” I asked before I realized who I had just collided with.

  “Yeah, I’m—” she began, then stopped abruptly. “John?”

  Summer Grantham was a forty-something blond-haired brown-eyed psychic, though she didn’t care for that term, with the youthful bearing and body of a teenager, a casual, unassuming manner and a gentle, nurturing nature. We had both been in the Missing and Murdered Children group for a while and had even dated for a time.

  We embraced.

  “What’re you doing out here?” I asked.

  “Just out for a walk,” she said. “What about you? What are you running from?”

  I laughed. “Too much to name.”

  She nodded and smiled warmly.

  “I find it hard to believe you’re just out here for a walk,” I said.

  “Any more than you’re just out here for a run,” she said. “Remember what I told you before? I go where I’m led.”

  She had told me that back when I first asked her why she was involved with the Missing and Murdered Children group. It was how she used her gift and lived her life—following impressions, leadings, going with her intuitions and attractions.