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.
Chapter 33
It 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. Tha
t’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.
Chapter 34
Dan Pappas entered the lobby of the adult detention center and flashed his badge to the receptionist at the window. He asked for the sergeant on duty and was directed to a door at the far side of the room marked “Personnel Only.”
Each time he’d been there, it seemed like the same people were in the lobby. Some were on pay phones calling bondsmen. Others were talking in low tones to family members, trying to raise bail for those on the other side of the wall. Several years ago, some genius decided that “detention center” was politically correct, so the county changed the name. Supposedly, it played better than “jail.” Call it what you want; both had bars.
The sergeant he asked for was waiting on the inside. William Cludder was a gray-haired, twenty-four-year veteran with the sheriff’s department. They’d known each other professionally for quite some time.
“Sorry to get you up so early,” Cludder said. “He had your card in his wallet.”
Pappas glanced at a wall clock. It was just after seven.
“Not a problem. Appreciate you calling.”
“Guy says he’s a lieutenant with RHD.”
“He is,” Pappas said.
Cludder looked out the window and muttered a curse under his breath.
“He had no ID, only his driver’s license. There’s no record of him in the system. What’s the deal?”
“New acquisition,” Pappas said. “You process him yet?”
“Naw. I decided to wait for you. You bein’ straight with me?”
“Completely,” Pappas said.
Cludder informed him, “I got eight months to retirement. I don’t need any headaches.”
“There won’t be any,” Pappas said. “Can you lose the paperwork?”
The sergeant searched Pappas’s face for a moment and then handed him the arrest report he’d been holding. “What paperwork?”
“Thanks, Bill. What about the uniforms?”
“They’re good. They said he was a bit of a wiseass but didn’t give them any trouble. Where do I know this guy from?”
“It ain’t important,” Pappas said. “All you need to know is he’s on our side.”
“If you say so,” Cludder said.
“I say so,” Pappas said.
Cludder didn’t push the point. He’d been in the system long enough to know how it operated. “He’s not drunk, but he’s on something. These pills maybe.”
The sergeant pulled a bottle of Paxil out of his pocket and tossed them to Pappas.
“They’re prescription,” Pappas said, examining the bottle.
“Don’t mean he’s not abusing.”
“Where is he?”
“Number six on the A wing.”
Pappas found cell six without any trouble. The door was already open, having been electronically released on the sergeant’s order. Ja
ck was sitting on a metal bench with his head in his hands, the only one in the room. Except for a metal toilet in the corner and two unmade bunk beds, it was completely empty. The floor was gray cement.
“Morning, Jack,” Pappas said.
Jack looked up. Medical intake had applied a butterfly bandage to his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot.
When Jack didn’t respond or make a move to get up, Pappas asked, “You ready to leave, or you planning to move in?”
“That’s it?” Jack said.
“C’mon, before they change their minds,” Pappas said.
*
Once they were in the car, Pappas asked for directions to Jack’s house.
“I need to pick up my ride first.”
Pappas nodded. Jack told him where it was located.
“What happened to your head?” Pappas asked.
“Close encounter with a curb.”
“The cops who picked you up thought you were out of it.”
“Trained observers.”
“Is this a one-time thing, or do we have a problem here?” Pappas said.
“We?” Jack said.
“Consultant or not, you’re working for the APD now. People need to rely on you and vice versa. You get my meaning?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t need to be worrying about you going off the deep end if push comes to shove.”
“Understood.”
“You told me the other day your medical situation wasn’t an issue. This have anything to do with it?”
“They’re separate,” Jack said.
“So what gives?” Pappas said.
“Sometimes I drink too much,” Jack said. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Me, too,” Pappas said. “I’m asking again: is this a one-time thing?”
“I can control it,” Jack said.
Pappas shook his head. “Kale, it ain’t real good to mix pills and liquor. You know that.”
“I won’t let it interfere with what we’re doing.”
Pappas studied the man sitting next to him staring out the window. Book smart didn’t necessarily mean overall smart.
Once Shadows Fall: A Thriller (A Jack Kale and Beth Sturgis Thriller) Page 15
