by Tim Ellis
Footprints of the Dead
Tim Ellis
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Timothy Stephen Ellis
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Books written by Tim Ellis can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://timellis.weebly.com/ at Smashwords.com or through online book retailers.
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To Pam, with love as always
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Dedicated to my father, George David Roy Ellis, who passed away at the age of 87 on 5 December 2012
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A big thank you to proofreader/editor Janet Green at www.thewordverve.com
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Chapter One
Thursday, September 13
Tom Gabriel poked the business end of the Smith & Wesson 686P six-inch 7-shot double-action revolver into the soft unshaven flesh beneath his jaw and pulled the trigger.
The hammer cracked onto an empty chamber.
Cassie would have to wait another day.
There was a knock at the door.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mabel standing by the large ornamental flowerpot in her traveling jacket, long narrow skirt and wide-brimmed hat watching him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He shrugged into his old, blue, toweling bathrobe, walked into the living area, and along the short hallway.
The early morning sun burst through the front door of Suite 13 at the Casablanca Inn in St Augustine, St. John’s County, Florida. This was where he lived for free – had done so for the past four years. Well, he was actually on-site security, and Allegre – the owner – expected him to show his face around the place now and again. More now than again.
“Yes?”
A nervous, middle-aged woman with red, wavy hair that touched her porcelain shoulders, and a green sleeveless dress that matched the color of her eyes, stood in the doorway.
“Hello. Are you Mr. Gabriel?”
“I’m Tom Gabriel.”
“My daughter has gone missing.”
“You need to report it to the police, ma’am.”
“You’re a detective, aren’t you?”
“Used to be a lot of things, but now I’m just retired. You should go and see Detective Mona Connelly at the police station in town. Yep, she’s the person to see.”
“No, it has to be you.” She looked around as if someone was following her. “My daughter said that if she ever went missing I was to come here to see you.”
Gabriel’s face was a repository for lines, creases, furrows, and ridges. He looked like a crumpled piece of corrugated cardboard someone had thrown away – even more so when he was perplexed. “How old is your daughter?”
“Twenty-five.”
He didn’t really want to ask her in, but neither did he want to stand there with the door open in his dressing gown.
“You’d better come in then.”
She stepped into the hallway, and he made his way to the kitchen to put some coffee on. What the hell time was it? His wrist was empty, which meant his watch was still on the bedside table. He looked at the clock on the wall – Cassie’s clock. Their daughter Misty had bought the clock for her mom’s birthday a long time ago, – before the cancer had got a foothold. It was seven-fifteen – in the morning!
“Have you seen what time it is?”
The woman looked down and shuffled her feet on the black-and-white linoleum. She had both hands wrapped around the strap of her handbag that dangled in front of her legs. “I know. I should have come last night, but it was late when I took the phone call.”
“What’s your name?” he asked as he filled up the filter with ground Blue Mountain. He’d been drinking the same coffee for over fifty years. It was expensive, but that’s what he liked.
“Gretchen Hebb, Mrs.”
“And your husband?” He sounded grumpy, but he didn’t mean to be, or maybe he did. The lack of caffeine made him that way – a drug addict who needed a fix.
“Dead.”
“Daughter’s name?”
“Mercy.”
“Coffee?” He wasn’t keen on handing out his expensive coffee to complete strangers, but Cassie would give him hell when he joined her if he wasn’t polite to people.
She looked up at him, confused at the change in direction of the questions. “Oh, no thank you.”
More for me, shot through his mind – he was turning into Scrooge: – bah humbug! “How did your daughter know about me?” He sat down and indicated for Gretchen to sit opposite him in the chair on the other side of the coffee table.
“I have no idea. One day, about six months ago, she came to me and gave me this piece of paper.” She thrust the paper at him, which was screwed up in the palm of her left hand. “It has your name and address on it. She said that if she ever went missing, I was to come here.”
“Why would she think she might go missing?”
“I asked the same question, but she wouldn’t say any more.”
“What was her work?”
“She was an investigative journalist with the St. Augustine Record, had been since leaving college. There was a sparkle in her eyes when she came ‘round that time. I had the feeling she was onto something big, you know – something that'd make her name.”
“That was six months ago, and you haven’t seen her since?”
“I saw her about six weeks ago, but it was only a quick visit.” She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a folded, large brown envelope and thrust it towards him. “She left this and said to give it to you.”
He took the envelope. “I didn’t know your daughter, you know?”
“No, but she knew you. She knew about your gift.”
His eyes closed to slits, and his face resembled that of an old shar-pei dog. “You mean my curse?”
She looked around the room. “Are there any dead people here now?”
“No, there’s no one here,” he said as he ripped the envelope open. He didn’t want to talk about the ever-present Mabel standing next to the flowerpot in the bedroom, and gazing out of the window.
“What is it?” Gretchen asked, leaning forward to look.
He moved each page from front to back. There were about twenty pages in total, and they were posters of smiling children – boys and girls – between the ages of eight and twelve that had gone missing in Florida over the past five years. He passed them to Gretchen. “How did you know she was missing?”
“That was the phone call I received last night. Her boss at the Record – Ray Franchetti, the editor – wanted to know where she was. He said he hadn’t seen her for over two weeks.”
“I see, so you haven’t seen her for six weeks, and Franchetti hasn’t seen her for two weeks. Two weeks isn’t that long. I’ll ask some questions, do some checking around, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Thank you. I can't pay you much.”
“I don't need your money, lady.” He took some notes of what she’d already told him because his memory wasn’t what it used to
be. Wrote down her address and cell number, and took back the posters of the missing children. “Now, get the hell out of here. I’ll be in contact, and don’t ask me when – it’ll take as long as it takes.”
“She’s not dead then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you haven’t seen her?”
“You think everyone that dies comes by to say hello? It don’t work like that, lady. Now go, I need more coffee and a shower.”
He shut the door behind her. What the hell was he doing taking a case at his age? He was retired for God’s sake, knocking on Hell’s door, waiting for that damned hammer to find the full chamber on his Smith & Wesson. But he knew Cassie would have made him take the case. His lip curled up as he heard her voice echoing in his head: “That poor woman. All those children. You have to do something, Thomas." She always called him by his given name.
“All right Cassie, stop nagging me,” he said out loud. “I said I'll look into it, and I will.”
After he’d poured himself another coffee and sat down, he looked at the posters again. Twenty missing children over five years. What had Mercy Hebb stumbled onto? Was she still alive? And what the hell was he doing getting involved?
***
The hot water massaged his neck as he washed his short wiry hair. Since his two tours of Vietnam in ‘73 and ‘75 when he’d been young and foolish, he’d kept his hair short as it changed color from black to silver.
Once the shampoo had rinsed away he opened his eyes.
“Crap!” he said, covering himself up as best he could with his cupped hands.
Mabel’s head poked through the shower glass.
“What have I told you about coming into the shower and seeing me naked? It’s not right, Mabel.”
Her hand appeared and touched his face – It wasn’t a real touch, but the skin on his face went ice cold.
“What?” but he knew what. She was telling him that he’d done a good thing by agreeing to help Gretchen Hebb to find her daughter.
Mabel came with the room, that’s why he’d got it for free. No one wanted to stay in a place with a resident ghost, except maybe someone who had lived with ghosts all his life. Mabel and her husband had stayed in the room many years ago on their honeymoon, and on their last day, the husband took a boat out fishing. His new wife stayed behind to pack and wait for him to return, but he never did. A terrible storm came up that day and capsized the boat. Mabel was so beset by grief that she stayed in St. Augustine and died of a broken heart. Her spirit never left the room; she was still waiting for her husband to return.
“Thanks, Mabel. Now, get the hell out of my shower, will you?”
Her head disappeared. It wasn’t the first time Mabel had communicated with him, but she didn’t do it very often. Usually, he just shared the room with her. She was waiting for her husband to join her, and he was waiting to join Cassie.
“If I didn’t know you better, Mabel,” he said as he walked back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his midriff. “I’d say you enjoy scaring the crap out of me, and seeing me naked.” He stared at the young woman, but her face was impassive. “Anyway, it wouldn’t work between us, you know. As much as I like you, you’re far too young for me. Yes, yes, I know it’s fashionable for young girls to have sugar daddies, but I have Cassie to consider, so if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep our relationship just the way it is.”
In the four years he’d stayed in the room Mabel had never spoken to him. He’d spoken to her, but mainly as a substitute for Cassie. Mrs Hebb had called it a gift, but like most human gifts, it was unpredictable, and he often felt as if it was a curse. Sometimes he saw the dead, but mostly he didn't. Sometimes they spoke to him, but mostly they didn’t. The whole thing was a crapshoot, and he’d lived with it his whole life.
Cassie had been dead for five years, and in all that time, he had never seen her. The one person he wanted to come visit with him never came, and he had no idea why.
He had another two mugs of coffee to set himself up for the day, and then made his way down to the hotel restaurant.
As soon as he sat down Manuel served him pancakes with maple syrup. Once he’d polished those off, he had three strips of bacon with eggs overeasy, hash browns and toast – the whole works. If he was going to die tomorrow, then he wanted to enjoy himself today, and there was nothing he enjoyed better than the whole works with coffee. Lots of coffee. He sat at his reserved table, which looked out over North Ocean Boulevard onto the Atlantic Ocean, and took his time.
Today, he’d go see Mona at the police department on King Street, find out what she knew about these missing kids, say hello to the other guys, and catch up on the scuttlebutt. Then, he’d drive over to Avenida Menendez to the St. Augustine Record and talk to Mercy Hebb’s boss, – Ray Franchetti – sounded like a mob name!
Gretchen had given him a key to her daughter’s apartment on East San Carlos Avenue in the Old Town. He’d drive up there afterwards for lunch, and to see if he could find any clues to Mercy’s disappearance.
***
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad getting out and about. It had been three years since he’d done any investigative work, and during those three years, he’d become an old man – sluggish, slow-witted, grumpier. Getting out of the apartment, away from the hotel, would do him some good. He hadn’t been to the police department for going on nine months.
He parked his Dodge Nitro outside the front entrance, and walked straight up to the Investigative Division. At the top of the stairs, he had to take time out to catch his breath. Maybe he’d have a heart attack, save the bullet a job.
“Tom Gabriel,” Detective Danny Butler said from his desk. “Are you still alive?”
“After those stairs, I’m not so sure.”
“Ya wanna take the elevator. I only take the stairs going down. How ya doin’?”
He hadn’t much liked Danny Butler, always thought the man was a loudmouthed bigot.
In fact, now he was here, he realized why he hadn’t been in to visit. There weren’t many of the old team left. Malky Wise had joined the FBI, Paul Sliwinski had taken a bullet, and . . . well, if he was being up front, as he generally was, Mona was the only one left that he actually did like.
“Yeah, I’m good,’ he said. ‘Mona about?”
“Little girl’s room. She’ll be back soon. Did you hear about Malky?”
“What?”
“They found him dead. Throat cut.”
At this rate I’ll outlive everyone, he thought. “Have they caught who did it?”
“You’re not gonna believe this. He was working undercover on an investigation of some such, and a hobo thought Malky was stealing his stash. Slit his throat from ear to ear.”
Tom shook his head.
“Is that you, Tom?” Mona said, approaching from behind.
He turned and hugged her. “Long time.”
“Did you forget the way here?” she said, moving to her desk and sitting down.
He sat in the chair where the perps usually sat. “Did you forget the way to the hotel?” he parried.
“I work.”
“Twenty-four hours a day?”
“You’re making excuses, Tom. You’re the bastard who never comes to visit. I’m up to my eyes in shit every day. You have more time than a perpetual clock.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. Days just seem to pass me by, and then it’s the next day. Pretty soon, a year has gone by, and I didn’t even notice.”
“You want to get out more.”
“And here I am, getting out more.”
Her eyes creased to slits. “This is not a social call though, is it? And here’s me thinking you drove all this way to see me, but you didn’t, did you?”
“You were a major part of it.”
“I’m only part of it because you want something. There’s no one else left who’ll give you the time of day.”
“You make me sound so . . . mercenary
. . . and desperate.”
“We were partners for five years. I know you, Tom Gabriel. So, what do you want?”
“If you’re sure?”
She laughed, and he remembered that she had the most beautiful laugh in the whole world. Someone should bottle that laughter and sell it to depressed people.
“Well?”
He passed her the brown envelope.
She pulled the posters out and rifled through them. “And?”
He knew the unbelievable statistics as well as she did. Eight hundred thousand kids go missing every year in America, two hundred thousand are abducted by a family member, and sixty thousand by a non-family member. Terrifyingly, three per-cent – twenty-four thousand children – are never found. Each year you hope the figure is going to be less than the year before, but it never is. It just keeps getting higher and higher.
“A journo called Mercy Hebb has disappeared. I think she was investigating the missing children.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
“I promised the mother I’d ask some questions.”
“Some of these posters are old. In fact, I think they’re all cold cases. The last one was . . .” She shuffled through them. “. . . six weeks ago. A Sally Stackhouse from East Arlington in Jacksonville.”
“No one will miss the files then, will they?”
“You’re trying to get me into trouble, aren’t you?”
A half smile creased his face. ‘Maybe twenty years ago, but the only urges I get now are for eating and sleeping.”
“I’m going to collect up the files of these missing children and put them in a box. I’ll leave that box on my desk while I go check something out. Now, if you were to come by my desk in say, half an hour, and remove that box . . . well, there wouldn’t be a lot I could do about it if I wasn’t here, would there?”
