Once Shadows Fall (32 page)

T
hey obtained Tony Gillam’s address from Danita Ritchey and then called Max Blaylock. He had just finished at the new murder scene and sounded tired. Not surprising. It was horrific. Enough to drain anyone. He gave them directions and said he would meet them there.

The Gillams lived in a modest home in the middle of a subdivision just outside of Jordan. There was no community tennis court. No swimming pool. Just nicely maintained houses with neat lawns.

It was still light out when they arrived at seven o’clock. People were home for the evening preparing dinner. Kids were doing homework. A few were playing in their backyards. Max Blaylock’s car was parked at the curb. The sheriff was leaning against the front fender waiting for them. A Ford Explorer and a Toyota Camry were in the driveway.

“Did you call Childers and Spruell?” Pappas asked.

“Completely slipped my mind to call ’em,” Blaylock said. “Must be gettin’ old.”

Pappas smiled and informed him, “We ran a history on Gillam on the way over. He’s clean. According to Ms. Ritchey, he’s been working at Mayfield for eight years. You have any contact with him?”

Blaylock shook his head. “He phoned in a report about an abandoned car off Highway 92 a year ago, but that’s about it. Maybe there was a glitch on the video you saw. He seems like a solid citizen to me.”

“There wasn’t,” Jack said.

“You sure?” Blaylock said.

Jack stared at the sheriff.

“Yeah, I guess you are. How do you want to play this?”

“Here’s the plan,” Jack said. “We walk up and ring the doorbell.”

“Right,” Blaylock said.

“That’s it,” Jack said.

Pappas and Blaylock looked at each other. Finally, Pappas said, “Well, it’s an easy plan to remember.”

Pappas rang the front doorbell and waited.

When Tony Gillam opened the door, he didn’t seem surprised to see them.

“Tony, I’m Max Blaylock. You know these other gentlemen. Mind if we come in for a minute?”

Gillam had changed into jeans and a T-shirt and was wearing a pair of old moccasins. He asked no questions. He simply nodded and led them to the family den. The room had inexpensive laminate paneling and a small fireplace. Over the mantel was a medium-size flat-screen television. The carpeting was tan and worn. Two cabinets topped by wooden shelves flanked the fireplace. Opposite it was a blue couch and two oversize leather club chairs. No one sat down.

Blaylock said, “Do you know why we’re here, Tony?”

Gillam turned his palms up and tried to give the impression he was confused.

“We’d like to know why you altered the copy of the security disc you made for Beth Sturgis,” Jack said.

“I didn’t alter anything,” Gillam said. “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” Jack said. “You tried to distract us by asking about coffee when the imposter showed up with Dr. Cairo. After the coffee, you dropped your phone. We’ve examined the discs. They don’t match.”

“That’s ridiculous. I was there with you the whole time. I was trying to help,” Gillam said.

Pappas said, “Look, you’re in charge of Mayfield’s security. You had to have seen the file Southern States Memorial sent over. The photo doesn’t look anything like him.”

“I barely knew the man,” Gillam said. “Why would I screw around with his file? That’s crazy. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Pappas informed him, “Two other detectives are involved in the case now. Sooner or later, they’re gonna put it together. Lying to us is one thing. Don’t get yourself in deeper. We need your help, kid.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know,” Pappas said. “Do you?”

Gillam was doing his best to come across as sincere, Jack thought, but he tended to answer their questions with questions of his own, a probable sign of deception.

“If there’s a problem, let us help you, son,” Sheriff Blaylock said.

“I don’t have a problem,” Gillam insisted. “I’m calling my lawyer.”

Blaylock turned to Jack and shook his head. It was obvious to all of them Gillam was lying. Jack observed him, noting a slight sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He and Gillam made eye contact, and as they did, one piece of the puzzle finally fell into place. A small one.

“Where’s your wife, Tony?”

“My wife?”

“You know, the lady you’re married to,” Jack said pointing to a photo of them sitting on one of the cabinets.

“She’s out right now,” Gillam said.

“That’s odd. Your carport has room for two vehicles,” Jack said. “Looks like both are here.”

“A friend picked her up to go shopping.”

“I see. What friend?”

“Just someone from work. I never met her.”

“She have a cell phone?” Pappas asked.

“Sure.”

“Give her a call,” Pappas suggested. “Make sure everything’s copacetic.”

“I don’t need to call her. She’s fine. And I’ve had just about enough of this. I’d like you all to leave now.”

The color had risen in Gillam’s face, and the calm he was trying to project was beginning to show cracks. You could tell it from the rising timbre of his voice. Max Blaylock saw it as well. His hand was now marginally closer to his gun.

No one spoke for several seconds. The sheriff decided to give it one more try.

“Tony, you’ll need to come with us to my office. If it was my wife, I’d call and let her know so she doesn’t come home to an empty house. Women worry about things like that.”

Gillam stood there silently.

“How about that cell phone number?” Pappas asked.

Gillam shook his head in the negative.

Max Blaylock took a deep breath. “Tony Gillam, you are under arrest for tampering with evidence in a criminal investigation, obstruction of justice, and the destruction of government property.”

He spun Gillam around and snapped the cuffs on his wrists as he read him his Miranda rights. Gillam put up no resistance. He appeared drained.

While the sheriff was patting him down for weapons, he came across Gillam’s cell phone. He examined it and found a button on the keypad that brought up the address book. The first number on the list simply said, “Moira.” Blaylock looked at Gillam as he dialed it.

A sharp trilling sound came from the bedroom.

Pappas shook his head, went in, and returned carrying a phone in a pink case.

“Looks like your wife forgot this,” he said.

T
he man in the ski mask came slowly down the steps carrying a medium brown cardboard box. He placed it on the floor at the side of the operating table. His eyes remained fixed on Beth, who stood watching him from behind her cell door.

“I apologize for your accommodations and meeting the way we did,” he said.

Beth stared at him.

“You’re still upset,” the Soul Eater said. “I understand. Really, I do.”

“Go to hell.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Beth. Believe it or not, I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. Truly. Not to worry, though, I imagine Clever Jack will be along to rescue you in due course.”

“Too bad for you then,” Beth said.

“Not really,” the Soul Eater said. “His fate, and unfortunately yours, are both sealed. I want you to know I’ve been extremely fair. All he needs to do is put the clues together. You nearly managed and that wasn’t easy. Congratulations.”

“I didn’t
nearly
manage to figure out who you are,” Beth said. “I did. It was right there on the videos.”

“Ah, the security tapes. We were concerned about them. I figured as much when I saw your notes and the e-mail. No such thing as a perfect crime, eh?”

“You look ridiculous in that ski mask,” Beth said. “Why don’t you take it off?”

Ridiculous? Everyone was so rude to him lately. First that coarse woman at Underground Atlanta and now Beth.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“If you plan on killing me, what’s the point in hiding your face?”

She had a point. What difference did it make if she saw him? He doubted that she’d guessed who he was, but it might be fun to see her reaction. He reached up, pulled the mask off, and said, “Boo.”

Beth shook her head and looked bored.

Disappointed, the Soul Eater waited a moment longer. When nothing more was forthcoming, he supplemented his last comment. “So you figured out who I was and didn’t bother to tell anyone. That, my dear, is ridiculous.”

“Willing to bet your life on it?”

Her question brought him up short. She was bluffing. Had to be. Otherwise, the cops would have stormed the place by now. No, his plan was intact. Jack would work out the puzzle and come for her, which was exactly what they wanted. Howard was rarely wrong about such things. Revenge was a powerful motivator. That, and the rather predictable desire to protect the female of the species.

“Nice try, Beth. Really,” he said. “You’re an extremely resourceful and interesting woman.”

“Your funeral,” Beth said with a shrug. “You have a chance to get away. I’d take it if I were you.”

“Thank you. But I have no worries on that score.”

Beth inquired, “You know what a green light means?”

“Green light?”

“It’s police slang for a kill order. Basically, shoot first and ask questions later. When the cops arrive, they’ll blow you away without a second thought. Either that or I’ll kill you myself when I get out.”

“And you plan to do that how?” the Soul Eater asked.

“Come closer,” Beth said. “And I’ll whisper in your ear.”

The killer frowned and studied her face. Even in the basement’s dim light, her eyes were as hard as two emeralds. The way she was looking at him actually made him nervous. By rights, it should be the other way around. How much did she know? Hard to say exactly. Perhaps it would be better to put a bullet in her head and have done with it. No, no, no, stick with the plan. He and Howard had worked everything out in detail months earlier. Neither Clever Jack nor the woman would survive. That much was certain.

“Trying to provoke me won’t work,” he said.

“Why not?”

Annoyed, the Soul Eater flicked a dismissive hand at her and turned his attention to whatever was in the cardboard box.

“Question,” Beth said. “Does your jaw still hurt from where Donna Camp kicked you?”

He looked at her and started to reply but then stopped. She really was fascinating, much more so than his normal victims, but engaging in a verbal fencing match was silly. He decided to change the subject.

“I know you can’t understand why I’m doing this,” he said.

A few seconds ticked by as she digested his statement.

“It may come as a shock,” Beth said, “but I don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Leave me out of it. Explain the way your sick little brain works to your lawyer or maybe a priest.”

“Honestly, Beth, that’s a very provincial attitude. Don’t you think?”

He wants to talk
. This is what she was supposed to do. But the truth was, she really didn’t care. It was enough to know a dog is rabid to understand the danger it posed to everyone around. She considered trying to form a bond. Some kidnapping victims who made an attachment managed to stop themselves from becoming dehumanized by their captors and thus harder to kill. She rejected the idea just as quickly as her anger and frustration boiled over. Considering the bodies in the next room, whatever he was looking for wasn’t a friend.

“Provincial or not, tell it to someone else,” Beth said, knowing her words would have the opposite effect.

“The odd thing,” said the Soul Eater, ignoring her, “is that I come from a perfectly normal middle-class family. My mother wasn’t promiscuous. My father wasn’t a drunk. He didn’t beat me. I wasn’t raped as a child or shunned by my friends. No one ran over my puppy. In short, there were no traumatic events that changed the way I looked at the world. I thought studying psychology would give me some insight into why, ah . . . I do what I do. Apparently, it didn’t. So I sought out Howard, the quintessential sociopath. It took me two years to secure a position at Mayfield.”

“So?”

The Soul Eater grew pensive and folded his arms across his chest. He glanced around the room, not focusing on anything in particular. “I mean, it’s strange, isn’t it? Nothing at all happened, yet I turned out this way.”

“Disease exists,” Beth said. “Explanations about its origins are interesting, but they don’t change the fact that it’s here.”

“Disease,” he repeated quietly. “No, I suppose not.” He took a slow breath and then paused again to line up a scalpel on the operating table. “Why don’t you have something to drink? There are a few good Pinot Noirs in there. Maybe even a Cabernet.”

“No, thank you,” Beth said.

“It may make dealing with what happens later . . . easier.” He shrugged. “Your choice. Try to make yourself comfortable. It won’t be long now.”

With that, he glanced at the four bodies lying silently in their coffins, then smiled to himself at some private joke. And without another word, he turned and climbed back up the stairs.

*

After the door closed, Beth listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps. When she was sure he was gone, she returned to the cot and lifted a corner of the mattress. The makeshift rope she’d fashioned from strips of cloth was there. She attached her shoe to one end of it for weight and moved back to the cell door, sticking her arm through. A surge of pain from her broken collarbone shot through her body. She clenched her teeth, ignored it, and fixed her eyes on the operating instruments. If she could just get one, she might be able to pick the lock. Certainly defend herself when he came for her. And come he would. There was no doubt in her mind on that score. The man was quite insane.

What would Jack do under the circumstances? Probably build a bomb with the wine bottles
.

She had no idea how to make a bomb, but she did remember a game she used to play as a child with her sister. Dropping one end of the rope so the shoe was at the bottom, Beth began to swing it back and forth. Not unlike her childhood game at all. Only this time it was for life and death.