Once Shadows Fall

by Robert Daniels

In the Old Fourth Ward, he found a business closed for the evening about two blocks from the Leland Avenue address. Jack parked his car and started back. An approach on foot was preferable to announcing his arrival in a vehicle.

  The buildings he passed were uniformly stooped shouldered. Age and a declining economy had sapped the strength from the frames that held them up. There was no grass, no trees. Not even weeds bothered to push their way up through cracks in the asphalt.

  Over time, the neighborhood had changed from middle-class white to poor minorities, eventually making a full circle back to families and young singles. Atlanta had simply grown away from it, pushing northeast and northwest along the I-75 and I-85 corridors.

  Some attempts had been made to transform the area, all of which had fallen short. Inevitably, investors put their money into things that would have appealed to them had they lived there. The initial influx of trendy boutiques, lingerie, and novelty shops came and went. What remained were fading signs in damaged doorways. He spotted the house he was looking for on the next block.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. The caller ID said the call was restricted. He assumed it was Cairo again. Like a lot of psychotics, the man enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Pell had been the same way at the end.

  “Did you enjoy the show?” Cairo asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Ah, well, I’m sorry. I do have a surprise for you. A farewell gift, as it were. I’m going to give you your own mummy. I suspect the beautiful Ms. Sturgis looks quite good in white.”

  Jack didn’t reply.

  He turned a corner and continued past a group of adolescent teens hanging around the entrance of a midrise building. Half of them were smoking. The girls wore ridiculously short skirts and too much makeup. The boys were trying to look hard. No one paid him any attention. He was used to it.

  “Still there?” Cairo asked.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Still think you can find me?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Standing in front of your door.”

  There was a momentary pause and then the curtain of a window on the second floor moved slightly. Jack smiled.

  “You’re lying,” Cairo said.

  “You never know.”

  “Yes, I do. Just like I know you lied about Howard killing your partner. You shot her, Jack. You and no one else.”

  Jack said nothing.

  Concealed in the shadows of an alley, he studied the house. It was old, probably close to seventy-five years. Three stories high with a French-style Mansard roof. A small safety apron bounded by wrought iron grillwork about two feet in height ran around the roof’s perimeter. Next to the house was a clapboard building in pretty bad shape. It was one story higher than the home he was interested in—that at least was a break.

  “Still with me, Jack?”

  “Still here. So you and Howard are a team.”

  “Indeed.”

  Jack nodded. “Where in the world did you find Lemon’s grandson?”

  “I didn’t. If you must know, he found me. Mathias was my patient. He came to me very concerned that some of his grandfather’s characteristics were beginning to emerge in him. Odd the way genetics works. I merely encouraged him to . . . ah, be himself.”

  “You manipulated him.”

  “We call it therapy, Jack. You should know that. Fortunately, the man served his purpose despite being something of a buffoon.”

  “A buffoon you picked to set the charges in the tunnel and break into the dam’s computer system at Lake Lanier. Howard isn’t very tolerant of people who make mistakes.”

  “Mathias was a tool. Some tools, as you know, work better than others.”

  “You think Pell will accept that explanation?”

  The last statement finally got a rise. “Howard and I are extremely close . . .”

  Cairo finally realized he was talking too much and caught himself.

  “Very good,” he said slowly. “You live up to your name, Clever Jack.”

  “Why don’t we meet?” Jack said. “Then you can tell me all about how you’re going to break him out of Mayfield.”

  “You’ll learn soon enough. Medical advances are happening all the time. I told that to Beth. Psychiatry is no different. Once Howard’s found to be sane, he’s a free man.”

  “Interesting,” Jack said. “What about a trade? Myself for Beth Sturgis. You let her go, and I’ll deliver myself to you. No word to the cops. Pell’ll have his revenge. Everyone will be happy.”

  A long time passed before Cairo responded. “You surprise me. I’ll call you back.”

  *

  Beth Sturgis was sick to her stomach. From the cell door she witnessed the horrific operation in disbelief and shock.

  When it was over, Cairo turned to her and said, “As I said earlier, your savior is on the way to rescue you.”

  Beth said nothing.

  “He’s really not as smart as I gave him credit for. Either that or he completely failed to see my little joke.”

  “Joke?”

  “Cairo, mummy, hieroglyphics, get it?” He pointed to the form of a female wrapped in linen bandages resting in her sarcophagus. “The late Mrs. Gillam. Elegant, isn’t she?”

  Beth shook her head.

  “No? Oh, well. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few more things to attend to.”

  He was at the top of the stairs when he heard the bottle break.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Beth called out, “but I don’t look good in white.”

  The Soul Eater turned and ran down the steps to Beth’s cell. She was sitting on the bed smiling at him, her arms covered in blood.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” Cairo yelled.

  He began to fumble for the keys in his pocket as Beth’s head lolled to one side. A moment later she collapsed onto the bed.

  Cairo threw the door open and raced into the room. The stupid woman was spoiling everything. A matched pair, that’s what Howard said. A matched set.

  “Selfish, selfish, selfish,” he muttered reaching for her left hand and blinked. The wrist wasn’t cut, just smeared with blood. Confused, Cairo looked at her face. Beth’s eyes were open staring at him. He didn’t see the broken bottle neck coming until it was too late.

  Beth’s free hand swung around in an arc slashing at his jugular vein. Blood exploded from the wound. Cairo lurched backward, his hand going to his neck in an attempt to stem the flow. Beth struck again, downward this time, jamming the glass shard into his thigh.

  The Soul Eater let out a howl, staggering backward in disbelief and rage.

  Avoiding his lunge, she ducked under his arm and made a dash for the steps.

  *

  Jack crossed to the building. It had been abandoned some time ago and now provided illegal shelter to several of the city’s homeless population. Three of them lay in sleeping bags on the floor beneath blankets and newspapers. Trash, bottles of wine, and malt liquor littered the lobby entrance. He carefully stepped over them and went up to the roof.

  From the street he had estimated the gap between the house and building was no more than eight feet. It looked considerably wider now. A short distance away he could see a stream of headlights moving along Ponce de Leon Avenue. Farther to the south, the Bank of America Building with its erector-shaped top lit up the night.

  Jack backed up a few steps to give himself a running start and leaped to the opposite roof. He landed harder than he thought and was carried forward by his own momentum. But for the decorative iron railing, he would have pitched over the edge. He shook his head and moved to the nearest dormer and pried the window open. Nobody locks windows four stories up. From the street, he thought the dormer might be part of an attic. He was wrong. It was a storage room. He withdrew the penlight from his sock, turned it on, and looked around. The room contained a variety of cardboard boxes stacked neatly along the sloping walls. A playpen, a bassinet, and various items of dated furniture w
ere there. Dusty. Forgotten.

  The only door opened onto an uncarpeted landing with a staircase. Jack used the sides of the steps to lessen the danger of creaks and silently descended to the next floor where he found three more rooms. They were filled with furniture and covered by drop cloths. The house smelled as if no one had opened a window for a long time. If Cairo held true to form, he and what was left of Mathias Lemon were somewhere in the basement. There was every chance Beth would be there, too.

  Why hadn’t he called? What if she was dead? What would he do when he and Cairo came face to face? Let history repeat itself?

  The heat began building in his chest, urging him to abandon stealth and charge headlong into the basement. That would be a mistake. His mind was his best weapon. Use it. Howard Pell and Cairo were still playing the game. Try as he might, it was nearly impossible to stay focused. If Beth was still alive, she needed him, particularly after seeing that video. Spending the rest of his life without her was simply unacceptable. The urgency to do something continued to grow to the point where he wanted to scream. With an effort he didn’t believe himself capable, Jack regained control. His fingers closed around the handle of his gun.

  You want me, Cairo? I’m coming.

  *

  Beth slammed the door behind her to find she was on the first floor of a house. Directly ahead was a living room with heavy Spanish-style furniture dating from the 1940s and a large fireplace with ornate plaque above it. The Inquisition’s summer home. Classical music was coming from a pair of speakers against the wall. She didn’t need music; she needed a weapon.

  What little light there was came through an opening in the drapes. She could hear Cairo on the steps. No time to search for a weapon. Get out. Call for backup.

  The front door was at the far end of the hall. She was nearly to it when the basement door burst open. Alton Cairo stood there silhouetted, holding a bandage to the side of his neck. In his left hand was a scalpel.

  Keeping her eyes on him, Beth backed slowly away, bumped into the wall, and reached for the light switch. If only she could find something to fight with. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips when a hand closed over hers.

  “Not a good idea,” Jack said, coming down the last step. He was holding a gun and had it trained on Cairo.

  “Jack! How—?”

  Jack raised a finger and pointed upward. Suspended from the ceiling were a series of balloons with a thin wire running between them. She followed it to the light switch. The smell of gasoline was now apparent, filling her nostrils.

  “Turn that on and the whole place’ll go up. The house is rigged to catch fire in case the police close in. Sorry it took me so long—you’re bleeding.”

  “I’m okay. It looks worse than it is. How did you find me?”

  “I picked up where you left off and followed your trail of bread crumbs. Once we figured out the late Mr. Lemon and Dr. Death here were working together, it wasn’t hard. With Pell’s help, Cairo’s been working off a blueprint.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Flashing blue lights were now coming through the opening in the drapes.

  “Lucky Jack,” Cairo sneered.

  “More like observant Jack. Drop the knife and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Cairo did as he was told.

  Jack continued, “Lemon’s grandson, Mathias, probably murdered or was an accessory to murdering Ron Curry and his family in order to take his place at Mayfield. He’s no longer with us. Cairo just operated on him.”

  “I saw.”

  Jack nodded. “When I was at the library, I came across a reference to a book called Terror in the Dark. It’s a study on serial killers. Unfortunately, they didn’t have it. After some searching, I located a copy at an old bookstore not too far from my house. It gives a good account of how Lemon rigged his home to catch fire.

  “It was obvious to me back then that Pell was modeling off Albert Lemon. Cairo in turn patterned himself after Pell. Each one was trying to put his own stamp on the killings. I suspect the tunnels we encountered are Cairo’s version of catacombs. Essentially like the mazes in the pyramids that led to the burial chamber.”

  Beth shook her head.

  “When we searched Pell’s home, I was always bothered by two empty spaces on his bookshelves sitting side by side. What we did find was a notepad with random doodling and quotes from the book. There were pages and pages of them. Pell was completely obsessed. My guess is one was Lemon’s diary, the other Terror in the Dark. Once I found the copy and began to read, I understood what they were doing. That led me to some newspaper articles that identified this neighborhood.”

  “Congratulations,” Cairo said. “Unfortunately, you’ll never touch Howard. He’s beyond your reach.”

  “Perhaps,” Jack said. “Your phone call puts him right back in the mix. Fortunately, cell phone calls can be traced and monitored, in case you didn’t know. Even that throwaway piece of crap you were using.”

  “The courts have already said he’s not competent to stand trial.”

  “For the old crimes, maybe,” Jack said. “We’ll see about the new ones. Accessory to murder, conspiracy and all that.”

  “Why the clues?” Beth asked.

  Cairo simply stared at her and then laughed to himself in a high pitched giggle.

  “You know the answer,” Jack said.

  Beth glanced at him and thought for a moment. “Ego. He has a need to prove he’s smarter than everyone else. But it’s not a normal need. What do you call it?”

  “Pathological.”

  “That’s the reason for the game they were playing. Cairo told me he wondered why he turned out the way he is. I guess he was hoping a madman’s diary would help him understand.”

  “You think it’s over. I can assure you, it’s not,” Cairo said.

  A silence ensued before Beth said, “He’s right, Jack. They’ll probably wind up as roommates.”

  Jack turned to look at her.

  “Not much we can do. It’s up to the courts now.”

  Beth was almost ready to agree until Moira Gillam and the other mummies in the basement flashed into her mind. Cairo was leaning against the door frame. The mummies were replaced by Betsy Ann Tinsley, Jerome Haffner, and Sandra Goldner, wearing her orange cocktail dress, all robbed of their lives by a monster. A monster who might be released on the public one day. The kind who took delight in killing defenseless animals and torturing people.

  A long time ago, when she first joined the cops, she asked her father how he felt about shooting a man who had raped and murdered a ten-year-old girl in Charlotte. To her surprise, he was not emotional at all, nor was there any hesitation in his response. “There are certain lines you cross you don’t get to come back from. I had no doubt when I pulled the trigger. To tell you the truth, I’ve never given him any thought since.”

  In that last moment, the Soul Eater may have understood what was going through her mind when she looked back at him. Certainly Jack did. His nod to her was almost imperceptible.

  “You and the bitch haven’t won anything,” Cairo said.

  As they turned to walk out the front door, Beth lifted her elbow and hit the light switch.

  Chapter 81

  It was early May. Dusk. Two figures stood on a little knoll in Chastain Park. Some distance away, electric lights burned over a baseball diamond, and boys were chasing grounders hit by a coach at home plate. Jack thought back to when he was young. He’d played on that field. It was a quieter, more predictable time, marked by greater civility and trust. The world had changed; the diamond remained a constant. Not really a bad time to sit in the backyard with someone you loved, sipping ice tea from tall glasses, and watching fireflies light up the night.

  Beth had just finished spreading Peeka the cat’s ashes on the sloping green lawn, the same place she’d found him years earlier as a starving kitten. Jack felt a pang for her loss, which melted away when she turned back and smiled at him. He’d never seen
anything quite so beautiful. Marta sat close by watching her as well. Her tail rocked slightly when Beth waved.

  The fire department had been able to contain the blaze at Cairo’s house but couldn’t save the structure. Just as well. The chamber of horrors had sunk back into the abyss from which it came. Perhaps fire would cleanse the city and give it a chance to heal.

  Now that the ordeal was over, Georgia Tech wanted him back, but it didn’t feel quite the same. He’d have to give it some thought. But not just then. Beth reached the crest of the knoll and without a word slipped her hand into his, then rested her head on his shoulder. From their vantage point he could see Atlanta’s skyline in the distance. Most of the lights were on. Overhead, the first evening star appeared, bright against a deepening blue sky. Somewhere in the dark a scent of honeysuckle floated back to him. It was a beautiful time of year and Atlanta was a beautiful city. He didn’t know a better one. There were probably more beautiful cities, but he didn’t know them.

  Marta finally nudged their hands with her nose. He looked down at her and then at Beth. She nodded. And together they walked down the hill and out into the vulnerable night.

  Acknowledgments

  This book wouldn’t have been possible without the help and support of my dearest friend, Jane Mashburn, a gem of a person if there ever was one. Thanks also to Gary Peel, who patiently sat there and listened to the numerous scenes and passages I inflicted on him without ever once trying to flee.

  Since this is my first book, it’s difficult to speak with any authority on the craft of writing or the publishing industry. I can, however, point out some things that quickly became obvious to me as the novel progressed.

  First, if there are better or more helpful agents out there than Jane Dystel, Miriam Goderich, and the people at Dystel Goderich Literary Management, I don’t know who they are. At no point could I have asked for more. From the very beginning, they believed in the book and never gave up. Their efforts were not simply confined to finding it a home but in helping me develop as a writer through their suggestions and comments.

  It would be disingenuous to claim this book was authored by me alone. In candor, it is the product of Matt Martz’s insight and direction as my editor along with editors Maddie Caldwell and Nike Power—yes, that really is her name—all of whom dug in and helped me see what I could not. Their patience, advice, and nurturing is not to be believed. Any writer, let alone someone new to the profession, should be willing to walk over hot coals to have them on their side. Three editors for the price of one? Not a bad deal at all. They made the process of putting the final version together a wonderful experience. Each turned out to be part muse, part psychologist, and all friend. I simply can’t imagine being luckier than I was to have such a fine group of professionals on my side. My appreciation and gratitude also goes to Andy Ruggirello, Crooked Lane art director, for the great work in creating such a nifty cover, and to Alex Celia for his meticulous copy editing. A tip of the hat also goes to Jennifer Canzone, for her design of the book itself. Thanks as well to the amazing Sarah Poppe for all her help and assistance and to Butch Morgan for his impromptu proofreading.