Wake the Devil (23 page)

T
hirty minutes later, Jack was in Dr. Morris Shottner’s office talking about his latest panic attack and the recent changes in his life. The aroma of tobacco from Shottner’s pipe filled the room. Not politically correct, but not unpleasant. It was a clear fall day with the temperature close to forty-five degrees. A sparrow was sitting on the windowsill watching them.

There’s a man running around trying to kill people, and I’m looking at sparrows.

Jack realized Shottner was waiting for an answer. The psychologist was in his late sixties and possessed intelligent features. His hair was mostly white with a sprinkling of brown thrown in. That day, he was dressed in charcoal gray slacks and a pale-yellow shirt with a tiny polo player logo on the pocket.

“I’m sorry, would you repeat the question?”

“I asked if you can recall what you were feeling when you saw the Sandman in New York.”

“You mean at Battery Park?”

“No, the first time. You said you spotted him outside the hospital. Tell me what went through your mind.”

Jack considered his response for a moment. “Initially, I remember a wave of fear.”

“Normal, considering you were in the presence of a killer. I might have the same feeling if a shark swam by a boat I was in.”

“It wasn’t so much that I was afraid for myself. I knew he was there to kill Rachel Lawrence and anyone else who got in his way.”

“Like Beth.”

“And Dwayne Stafford and Ray Price.”

“Yet you elected not to confront him.”

Why does everyone keep asking about that?

“My orders are to take him alive if possible. Plus, he wasn’t showing a weapon. I couldn’t start shooting on a crowded New York street. And there was the issue of his partner.”

“But you could have stopped a known killer,” Shottner pointed out.

“And the partner might still have succeeded in carrying out their mission. Half a victory won’t do in this case. Win the battle, lose the war.”

“Very sensible. What about this man scared you? I know that seems like an obvious question, but think about it for a moment.”

Jack glanced out the window. A second, more vibrantly colored bird had joined the first.

“My first thought was that he would hurt Beth, which might not make complete sense because he saved her life at Stone Mountain and again at the safehouse. Unfortunately, you can’t count on a reaction like that to remain consistent. Courtney’s experiencing some type of transference with his dead sister. According to the file, she was in the auto accident that killed his parents.”

“She survived?”

“Right. He and the sister entered into foster care together. She was six years older.”

“What happened to her?” Shottner asked.

“The sister, her boyfriend, and an abusive uncle all burned to death in their home. Courtney disappeared after that.”

Shottner’s pipe had gone out. He took a moment to relight it using a long wooden kitchen match, which he placed in an ashtray with a cork knob at the center when he was through.

Jack said, “I thought we were going to talk about my panic attack.”

“We are. But first I wanted to discuss why this man scared you.”

“I see.”

“Since you didn’t answer my earlier question, let me ask this. Was there any time to enlist help?”

“Not really. I was watching him hoping I’d spot the partner when the hospital alarm went off. Once Beth went after him, I used a pay
phone to call a fellow agent and followed them to the subway and then the park.”

“Thinking to protect her?”

“Of course. And capture the Sandman.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, he beat me again.”

“He beat you? That’s an odd choice of words. Why do you put it that way?”

“I don’t know. That’s just what came to mind.”

Shottner sat back in his chair and waited.

“You think I was afraid of losing to him?”

“I don’t recall saying anything. Seeing the ship and having it remind you of your dead partner’s painting is a very simplistic answer. If this, then that. But I wonder whether the source of your panic attack might have deeper roots. What do you think?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out, Moe.”

“Of course. How did your daughter react to the news you’re getting married again?”

“She seemed pleased and wants to come visit for the holidays. Beth’s already making plans to introduce her to her family.”

“Also good,” Morris Shottner said. “Your fiancée seems to be quite organized and moving things along quickly.”

“Sometimes too quickly,” Jack said.

“Oh?”

“I don’t mean with respect to the marriage. That’s fine. Beth’s unquestionably bright and like a sponge when it comes to learning. But she has a tendency to throw herself into a situation without thinking of the consequences. I suppose that comes from having a competitive streak and wanting to prove herself. Unnecessary, because she has already—several times. Connie was the same way.”

“You think a competitive streak is a bad thing?”

The question seemed to annoy Jack. He said, “It can get you killed.”

“Oh?”

“She went after the killer twice on her own without waiting for backup. That was not only wrong and against procedure; it was stupid. Connie was the same way. In a life-or-death situation, particularly one where others might be at risk, you need to look before you leap.”

“Sensible,” Shottner said. “Did you discuss this with her?”

“Yeah, she promised to be more careful in the future.”

Instead of feeling better when he left the session, Jack felt more unsettled than when he went in. The doctor’s questions had started him thinking along several lines. Losing to a superior opponent was always a possibility, but one he acknowledged only in an academic sense. It was simply unacceptable. Just as Beth’s going after the Sandman alone was unacceptable. Courageous, yes, but reckless. Thomas Courtney was an accomplished killer and nearly prescient in the plans he made.

The more he thought, the more the word
prescient
kept going round and round in his mind.

It was the same when he got behind the wheel of his car. Prescience was a product of science fiction, not real life. He had yet to meet a criminal who could see into the future. The simple explanation therefore was that Courtney was getting help from someone. Prescient, no. Well informed, yes.

He dropped off the evidence he’d collected during his flight up at the crime lab, then called Beth and asked her to meet him at the library.

R
achel Lawrence hated the safehouse. Being there made her feel like a prisoner. It wasn’t that the house was unpleasant. It simply wasn’t home, the place where she and George had spent their lives together. The place they talked about raising a family. If she couldn’t have children of her own, adoption would have been fine, or foster children. George would have been such a good father. He was much more patient than she was and seemed so excited by the prospect when they had discussed it. He went on and on about what he would do if they had a son, and about not letting any daughter of his date until she was at least thirty (he knew what men were like). George could always make her smile. Good Lord, how she missed him. Rachel finished her drink and went downstairs to fix another.

The three marshals sharing the house with her and Dwayne Stafford were solicitous and gave her all the space they could. They explained all about the bulletproof glass, closed-circuit TV—except in the bathrooms of course—and the sensors in the lawn. They explained about everything except how to make the hurting stop.

The euphoria she felt after the operation had now faded. At best, it was a temporary bandage. Alone in her room at night, the realization that half of her life had been destroyed and she was once again alone in the world came flooding back. Not gradually. Not in pieces. But all at once with the violence of an avalanche.

Rachel found Dwayne Stafford in the living room starring out the window. He was still fighting his own loss and wasn’t quick enough to wipe moisture from his eyes. Rachel pretended not to notice. He
was a big, sweet boy, awkward and distraught over the death of the friend he’d grown up with. She remembered their conversation on the plane. Male models. It brought a smile to her face, which faded almost immediately. Rachel poured another gin and tonic and sat down across from Dwayne.

“Hi, Doc. Speak with your office?”

“Stu Patterson’s holding down the fort as best he can. The poor guy’s been working to nine every night. He wanted to visit, but I told him that wasn’t possible.”

“Dr. Patterson seems like a good sort. Hope his wife doesn’t mind him being gone so much.”

“Oh, he’s not married. Stu has a whole stable of women he sees. George used to call them the flavor of the month.”

“No kidding.”

“He takes a different one with him to Las Vegas each time he goes on one of his monthly junkets.”

Dwayne laughed. “Sounds exciting. Personally, I’m not much for gambling. Maybe a dollar lottery ticket now and then.”

“Me too. I actually dated him before I met George. Stu was my hematology teacher in med school. What about you? Anyone special in your life?”

“Melissa Sue Townsend. Been sweet on her since the seventh grade.”

“And does she feel the same way?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Melissa Sue was the hottest girl in middle school. They retired her cheerleading sweater when she graduated.”

This time Rachel did laugh. “Are you planning to make an honest woman of her?”

“Sure am. Been saving up for a ring for about a year now.”

Rachel held up her glass in a toast and asked Dwayne if he cared to join her.

“No, ma’am, but you go right ahead.”

She took a sip she didn’t taste and put the glass down and looked out the window at the dormant lawn. Except for a thirty-yard buffer of woods that separated the properties on both sides, the rest of the trees had been removed. The house sat on a small rise with the nearest
neighbors about an acre apart. Directly behind them was a reservoir making it difficult for anyone to approach the home unseen.

“Do you have a picture of Melissa Sue?”

“I sure do,” the young detective said, taking out his wallet. The photo was taken on a beach somewhere. Melissa was blonde with a kind open face. “She’s the one on the right,” Dwayne said.

“I never would have guessed. You like to joke, don’t you?”

Dwayne shrugged. “It helps to keep me from thinking about other things. A little while ago, I spoke to Ed’s daddy. They’re gonna hold his funeral the day after tomorrow to give folks a chance to come in from out of town. If the marshals don’t have a cow, I’d appreciate it if you’d join us.”

“I’d be honored, Dwayne,” Rachel said. “We’re holding George’s service the morning I testify. Why don’t you bring your young lady?”

Dwayne Stafford shook his head. “If those ain’t the two damnedest dates I ever heard of. If Melissa still wants to marry me after that, I’ll know I have a keeper.”

“Back to back funerals,” Rachel said. “Who’da thunk it?”

*

Lenny Walpole was having dinner at Mary Mac’s Tea Room with his friend Rick. Mary Mac’s had been an Atlanta staple for as long as he could remember. Except for the metal napkin holders, the tables were all bare. The cooking was unabashedly Southern, featuring black-eyed peas, collard greens, mashed potatoes, and chicken. If you didn’t opt for a Coca-Cola with your meal, the beverage of choice was either coffee or sweet iced tea.

On the chair next to Lenny was the laptop computer. Since Rick had returned it to him that morning, he hadn’t let it out of his sight.

“How was your trip to New York?”

“Hectic,” Wesley said. “We were scouting locations for the cut-in scenes after we wrap up here.”

“Cut-in scenes?”

“Crowd shots and such. It’s easier up there because they have so many people.”

“Did the director say anything about me?”

“He sure did. You’re being given credit as technical advisor. The pay isn’t much, just union scale. It was the best I could do.”

“That’s still great,” Lenny said. “So I only have to fly the model two more times?”

“Assuming the shots come out. We’ll be using a telephoto lens, which makes the perspective tricky.”

“Wow,” Lenny said. “Will you be going up to New York for the crowd shots?”

“Absolutely.”

“I was there once in high school. It’s huge, and all those people . . .” Lenny shook his head. “Rick, I can’t tell you how much this has all meant to me. I was checking online, and there’s a methadone clinic I can get into. I’d like to get myself clean.”

“Brilliant,” Wesley said.

“Do you think afterward we could maybe hang out together?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Lenny seemed pleased by his answer. Rick was a gift from heaven. Maybe his luck was finally changing.

“So the shooting will be finished in two days?”

Wesley took a sip of his Coke, then said, “Day after tomorrow at the latest.”

“Tell me about the new location.”

“It’s a park, like Piedmont. A lot smaller, of course, and on the other side of a reservoir.”

*

Save for two figures hunched over a table studying the location of the city’s churches, the reference section of the Atlanta Public Library was empty. Jack’s original estimate of dozens of churches was high. Not quite that many, but close. Beth compiled a list as they went. Many of the buildings Jack was familiar with, having grown up in Atlanta. He was able to eliminate a fair number because the construction was either different or they didn’t have the requisite terra-cotta and marble combination.

Earlier, Beth had shared her observations about the church in New York with Dan Pappas, who agreed she might be onto something. Thom Courtney was probably hiding in either a church or
a government building, which explained the marble and terra-cotta trace evidence they’d collected. Her partner was concentrating his efforts on the latter.

According to an architect they spoke with, terra-cotta had been commonly used in buildings at one time, but was now difficult to obtain and presented too many problems because of its lack of durability and failure to meet code. The majority of its uses, he said, were confined to accents around windows and entrances.

Beth’s cellphone buzzed.

“Detective Sturgis? This is Armand Tucker with the City Inspector’s Office. I just received your message.”

“Thanks for returning the call, Mr. Tucker. I’m in the midst of an investigation and could use your help. We’re looking for a building here, like an abandoned church or a school, that we think a suspect might be holed up in.”

“Holed up?”

“Hiding from the police, sir.”

“I see. A suspect in what may I ask?”

“Seven murders.”

The statement caught Tucker by surprise. “My goodness. Unfortunately there are a great many of those.”

“So I’m finding out. This might help narrow it down. The one we’re searching for probably has terra-cotta and marble as part of its entrance. Possibly the flooring, too. I was hoping you might point us in the right direction.”

“Nothing comes to mind off the top of my head. Let me check with my colleagues. How quickly do you need this?”

“Ten minutes ago,” Beth said. “We think the killer’s planning to strike again quite soon.”

She explained the situation to Jack once the call ended.

“I have six possibilities,” he said. “We can divide the list in half. We’ll take three and Pappas and Childers can take the rest. If your friend calls back, we’ll add that to whatever he comes up with.”

“How about drafting Todd Milner?”

“He’s stuck on surveillance with Borov. Apparently something big’s about to go down in terms of a deal.”

*

Beth made the calls while they were driving. The first location was a bust, a school in Cabbage Town that was in the process of being torn down. Only half of it was still standing and the roof was completely gone.

The second location was the former residence of an Atlanta law school on Martin Luther King Drive, abandoned years earlier when the school moved to new headquarters. The old brown brick building was still there—barely. Its front doors had been replaced by warped plywood. Above the doorway was a chipped terra-cotta arch.

Jack studied it for a minute, then looked down at a layer of dust covering the steps and went around to the back entrance. Like the front door, it too had been boarded up. The only way in was via an unstable-looking metal staircase. The iron safety rail was pitted with rust and moved when he grabbed it. He had the feeling one good tug would probably pull it away from its moorings. At the bottom of the landing were wine bottles, crushed soda cans, hamburger wrappings, cereal boxes, and orange juice containers, a favorite of junkies. Jack could see one of the plywood boards had been moved aside to allow someone access. He told Beth to stay where she was, drew his gun, and climbed the steps. She didn’t argue. At the top, he squeezed his way in and was back in less than ten minutes.

“Empty.”

“What about all these food items?”

“Ancient history. Even the junkies have moved on.”

“What was it like inside?”

“The rats seemed happy enough.”

A shudder went up her spine. They headed for the car.

On the way to the third location, Dan Pappas called to say he and Childers had found nothing yet and would touch base when they finished.

*

The Rutherford B. Hayes Elementary School had been destroyed by fire and closed several years earlier. Not much was left but a
shell. Nevertheless, they went through what they could, negotiating their way across debris and piles of leaves that had accumulated around the entrance. Jack didn’t look happy. “Maybe Childers and Pappas’ll have better luck,” he said, kicking a can out of the way.

Beth was about to answer when her cellphone went off.

“Ms. Sturgis, this is Armand Tucker again. I’m afraid we didn’t come up with much. I have ten buildings that may be of some help and one possibility.”

“Let’s hear them. I’ll put you on speaker so my partner can listen.”

As it turned out, Jack had already identified eight of the locations. She wasn’t surprised. As a native Atlantan, his knowledge of the city was extensive. Then again, his knowledge of everything was extensive.

“One of our inspectors was in the field close to number nine, so I asked him to have a look around. It’s an old power company building that’s been abandoned for years.”

Beth’s antennae went up. “You sent someone there knowing we’re looking for a murderer? This man has killed seven people.”

“Oh, Bernie was very careful. He used to be in the Marines.”

What the hell does that mean?

“Bernie,” Beth said.

“Bernie Rapkin.”

“I see. Has he checked in, Mr. Tucker?”

“Just a moment ago. That’s why I’m calling. He told me the place was locked up tighter than a drum. You’d have to scale a big fence topped with barbwire. They also have a security company who checks once a day to make sure kids don’t get in.”

Beth exhaled. “All right, that doesn’t sound good. Tell me about the possibility.”

“Well, it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen it. At one time, the building housed a small Pentecostal church. They were located a few blocks from the King Center. When the church moved, it sold the property to a slumlord. I don’t know how many times we cited that man for code violations. First, he tried to run a nursing home and billed Medicare right and left. When that didn’t work out, he rented it to a lady photographer. She may still be there for
all I know. It’s just an oversize house, really. But I remember all kinds of terra-cotta inside along with a marble cistern the church left behind.”

Beth and Jack looked at each other.

“May I have the address, please?”