Wake the Devil
ALSO BY ROBERT DANIELS:
Once Shadows Fall
A THRILLER
ROBERT DANIELS
NEW
YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Robert M. Daniels Corporation
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-62953-771-9
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-62953-798-6
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-62953-799-3
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-62953-800-6
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-62953-801-3
Cover design by Andy Ruggirello
Crooked Lane Books
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First Edition: September 2016
In memory of my father. The best man I ever knew.
D
r. George Lawrence stood in line with six other people at Georgia’s Stone Mountain Park, waiting to board the aerial tram. With him was his wife, Rachel. Four teenagers cutting school that day and a Japanese couple made up the rest of the passengers. Far above them, suspended from a thick metal cable, was a red-and-white boxcar slowly making its way to the loading platform. Everyone in the group watched its descent.
It was November, and in the dense forest surrounding the mountain’s base, the leaves were just beginning to change. Over a three-week period, the area would turn into an impressionist painting with reds, yellows, golds, and oranges on display. From an airplane, the colors were so vibrant they seemed to be the work of man rather than nature. The park now boasted a golf course, nature trails, a restaurant, a petting zoo, and a scenic railroad that toured the grounds. The bucolic environment was a welcome change from the 6.5 million people living in metro Atlanta.
By and large, the countryside looked much as it had a hundred fifty years ago, when the original acreage was sold for a shotgun and barrel of whiskey. At the time, there were two schools of thought about which party had come out ahead.
Rachel had organized their trip two days earlier. Like her husband, she was also a doctor, and both were on the edge of exhaustion, having just completed three operations in a row. The final one lasted twenty-three hours and involved separating the two hemispheres of a nine-year-old girl’s brain in an effort to free her from a series of
epileptic seizures that were racking her frail body daily. Neither George nor Rachel would have traded the smile on the child’s face when she woke, or her parents’ look of gratitude, for all the tea in China.
The following day they allowed themselves the luxury of sleeping in. They were in the middle of breakfast when Rachel informed George they were taking Friday off. No emergencies loomed and no procedures were scheduled. In preparation for the trip, Rachel had instructed their staff to refer anything that came up to their partners and not to call them unless the office was on fire. Maybe not even then.
Balding, lanky, thirty-five-year-old George was a little uneasy about their impromptu vacation, but he’d been married long enough to know arguing with his wife was not a preferable alternative. The couple had been together since their third year of medical school at Johns Hopkins.
“Oh, damn,” Rachel said, drawing George from his thoughts.
“What?”
“I left my phone in the car.”
George put an arm around Rachel’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
“We’re on vacation today. Remember?”
“Maybe I should get it.”
“Relax, I’ve got mine with me. If anyone has a problem, they’ll call.”
“You mean they’ll call me,” his wife said. “You never answer your phone.”
“Well . . . I’ll make an exception this time,” George said.
Rachel didn’t appear convinced. For all her talk about relaxing, he knew she’d worry about being out of contact with the office. As pediatric surgeons, emergencies involving children often sprung at them out of the blue. It came with the territory.
The cable car had reached the halfway point in its gradual descent but was still a couple hundred feet above them. On the opposite side of the mountain, carved into a sheer granite face, was a memorial to three of the South’s heroes, each mounted majestically atop a horse: Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis, the Confederacy’s only president. Native Georgians tended to refer to that distant
unpleasantness as the War of Northern Aggression rather than the Civil War.
A crease formed between Rachel’s eyes. “Maybe I should run back and get it . . . just in case.”
George was familiar with that expression. Inevitably she would obsess about the phone until it ruined their outing. Such was the extent of her dedication to their profession and the children they cared for.
“I’ll go, honey,” he said.
“No, you head on and get us a table. I’ll catch the next car up,” Rachel said, handing George a wicker basket. She kissed him on the cheek, stepped out of line, and began walking rapidly toward the parking lot.
George watched her for a moment and shook his head. When he turned back to the mountain, he made eye contact with the Japanese man in front of him and nodded to be polite. The man returned the greeting with a nod of his own. George checked his watch. In a few minutes, it would be eleven thirty. The day was clear with no rain in sight. The air smelled heavily of pine. Overhead, a few white clouds drifted lazily across a robin’s-egg sky. Conscious of the weight of the picnic basket, George hefted it a couple times and frowned.
What the heck did she put in here?
“Big,” the Japanese man said.
“Yeah, she always overpacks,” George told him.
The man smiled, nodded again, and pointed to the mountain. “Very big.”
“What? Oh, I see. Yeah, definitely big. Like Mount Fuji.”
“Ah,” the man said, with a slight bow. He seemed pleased at the reference.
The tram finally arrived and eased into the loading dock, coming to a halt with a thump. The name “Stone Mountain” was written on its side in white letters. Oblivious to George and the Japanese couple, the four teenagers boarded first and moved to the front of the car, talking animatedly amongst themselves. Thirty seconds later the door rolled back along its track.
George looked out the rear observation window hoping to catch a glimpse of Rachel, but the Visitors Center was in the way. The
mountain loomed above him. Shaped like a great gray whale or an upside-down soup bowl, it was the largest mass of exposed granite in the world. After a slight pause, the car lurched forward and drew away from the dock, rising into the air.
As they continued to climb, the parking lot came into view. Because it was a weekday, the lot was only lightly crowded. With the added height, he had no trouble picking out his white SUV and the shape of his wife hurrying back to the loading platform. He took in a breath and let it out. A day off wasn’t such a bad idea after all. As soon as they could put two weeks together without the world coming to an end, he resolved to surprise Rachel with a real vacation. It had been four years since their last one, and even on that trip, it had rained every day. Maybe a cruise, or that trip to Europe they’d been talking about since college. George smiled and whispered “Rachel” to himself.
*
When Rachel saw the tram appear above the Visitors Center, she slowed to a walk. According to the brochure she had picked up when they arrived, the trip would take nine minutes. The return was only eight.
Why was that? Gravity, she decided.
Rachel checked her phone. No messages. Excellent. A break, even a small one, was just what they needed. Surgeons were human, and tired doctors made mistakes, and mistakes cost lives.
She was nearly back at the platform when a loud bang from the control room at the end of the loading dock startled her. Instinctively, she looked up at the cable car. It had stopped moving and was hanging suspended above the valley.
Several seconds passed and nothing happened. The car simply stayed where it was.
“Aw, nuts,” Rachel said under her breath. “Just our—”
A flash of light from a second explosion directly above the tram reached her before the sound did. Rachel gasped as a hand of ice closed around her stomach. Time seemed to slow. Unbelievably, the metal cable separated and the car, now held aloft by nothing, began a free fall back to earth.
E
mory University’s Carlos Museum is smaller and more intimate than its cousin in Atlanta, located some ten miles away. It was currently hosting a traveling exhibit on primitive art, specifically cave paintings. Jack Kale was there. It wasn’t that cave paintings interested him. His presence had been requested by the museum’s director. Earlier that week, Michael Goodell had asked Jack to solve a mystery. Everyone loves a mystery—except cops and anthropologists.
The stars of the exhibit were three skeletons recovered from a glacial cave in the Austrian Alps. Forensic anthropologists had dated the bones at fifty thousand years old. After the Vienna exhibit concluded, it was Atlanta’s turn. While arranging for transport to the States, curators noticed a number of marks and nicks on two of the three skeletons. Thus far, no one had been able to explain them. The popular consensus was the marks were as old as the skeletons. Goodell, a scientist himself, contacted Jack hoping he could shed some light on their origin.
For the past two days, Jack, a forensic psychology professor and former FBI agent, had been studying the bodies and taking measurements in what was perhaps the oddest venue he had ever worked in.
The museum had gone to considerable lengths in recreating the Austrian cave where the bodies had been discovered. Jack now found himself standing on a dirt floor examining the remains of three people who had died fifty millennia ago. The Viennese curators had provided photographs so the bones could be placed in their original positions. Around him, the cave walls were decorated with ancient
paintings of hunting scenes. The exhibit was scheduled to open later that week.
When the double doors at the far end of the gallery opened, admitting a blade of light into the room, Jack glanced up from his work. He’d been using a magnifying glass to examine the smallest of the bodies. Remnants of a tanned leather dress the girl wore had managed to survive the passage of time thanks to an avalanche sealing off the cave. Year after year, century after century, snow fell and ice formed, growing ever deeper, until a landslide tore part of the hill away to reveal the entrance. A father and son on a weekend trek noticed the opening and decided to investigate. Their discovery sent ripples throughout the archaeological world.
Detective Beth Sturgis and her partner, Dan Pappas, entered the gallery accompanied by two people. One Jack knew; the other he didn’t. Janet Newton had been his boss for a number of years when he was still with the FBI. She smiled at him and wiggled her fingers slightly in a greeting. Pappas and the man beside him nodded. Beth Sturgis winked but kept her expression neutral. The four remained just inside the door, waiting for him to finish. He was already certain their visit wasn’t social.
The cave was dimly lit with small incandescent lights recessed into the ceiling and cleverly hidden behind rocks. Director Goodell stood off to one side observing, arms folded across his chest. He noticed the new arrivals but made no move toward them.
Without focusing on anything in particular, Jack lifted his head and asked, “Are you still there, Bernhard?”
“I am,” a German-accented voice replied from a speakerphone sitting on a table outside the cave.
“Two detectives have just entered the room accompanied by a third gentleman who I suspect is also a member of their profession. With them is Ms. Janet Newton, a deputy director with the FBI. Shall I continue?”
“Police officers
and
the FBI, you say?”
“That’s correct.”
“Given what you’ve told me about our three ancient friends, that seems about right. Any objections, Michael?”
“None,” Goodell replied. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Dr. Kale was about to explain what happened. Come closer if you wish.”
Beth and Pappas exchanged glances, then looked at their companions. Janet Newton nodded and they moved to where Goodell stood, taking up positions behind him. Goodell was in his late fifties, medium height, and dressed in a dark-blue suit with a pale-yellow shirt and a maroon tie. His hair was a salt-and-pepper mixture.
He explained to the new arrivals, “On the phone with us is Dr. Bernhard Streck, director of the Vienna Museum.”
Polite greetings were exchanged. Goodell supplemented his comment with some details about the discovery and what they were looking at.
As he was talking, Beth’s attention turned to the skeletons. They were spread out about five feet apart and looked as though they had fallen involuntarily as opposed to having lain down to sleep. The largest was resting on its face. From the size, she concluded the bones were that of a man. Slightly smaller and a short distance from him was a female, lying at an angle. The smallest, clearly a child, was curled up next to the woman, her knees drawn in. Without being told, she knew she was looking at a mother and daughter. For no reason she could identify, an ineffable sense of sadness descended upon her. A moment later, Jack put her feeling into words. “We’re looking at three people who were murdered.”
“Dear God, Jack,” Streck said. “How can you tell?”
Jack continued. “I don’t think anyone can say for certain, but I suspect this is the case. The nick on the man’s spinal column and lower rib cage indicates he was stabbed from behind. The wound becomes progressively wider the deeper in it goes, angling upward toward the heart. It’s also triangular in shape, which is consistent with the head of a flint spear Michael tells me was in use at the time. The museum has several good examples available.”
Goodell indicated his agreement with a slight inclination of his head and said nothing.
In the subdued light, Jack paused and glanced around the cave pensively. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself. For a moment, he had the impression of a mild subterranean wind passing across his skin. He continued his narrative.
“The injury to the woman’s left hand is what we call a defensive wound. This occurs when someone throws up their arm to deflect a downward blow. From the crush-type mark on the side of her skull, I’d say she was rushing to help her mate when the killer or killers turned on her.”
The man with Beth and Pappas shook his head and kept watching. From the manner in which his eyes moved, taking in the cave’s details, Jack was certain he had guessed correctly. Law enforcement. No doubt about it.
Streck inquired, “What about the little girl? You said there were no wounds on her.”
“Murdered nonetheless,” Jack said. “According to the medical examiner who was here yesterday, she was about four years old at the time she died. Certainly no more than five. The human skull closes at a predictable rate and allows us to pinpoint age with some accuracy.”
“Yah, but if there were no wounds . . .”
“What I believe happened is this . . . seeing her parents struck down, and now left alone in a hostile and frightening world, the child crawled to her mother and lay down beside her, where she eventually died of thirst or hunger or both. Her bones show the type of brittleness that results from dehydration.”
“Jesus,” Pappas said, turning his head away.
“From the crude cooking utensils and remnants of a fire ring, they must have been eating or about to eat when it happened.”
He stood, brushed the dirt from his trousers, then placed the magnifying glass on the table next to the phone. The only sound in the room came from air passing through the return vents. Jack studied them for a moment and decided they were the source of his subterranean wind.
For several seconds, no one spoke. Beth looked at the tiny skeleton, its hand resting on the mother’s shoulder, and felt her throat constrict. It was so small. So fragile. She wondered if this woman had sung to her child and held her hand when they went for a walk. Whether she told her daughter what the birds and animals dreamed of as her grandmother had done for her when she was a child.
Streck’s voice returned to the speaker. Even though he was five thousand miles away, the director of Vienna’s museum was not immune to the sense of loss and tragedy in the gallery.
“Thank you, Jack. I see it’s nearly closing time,” Streck said. “I believe I’ll walk across the street and have a glass of schnapps . . . perhaps two. Then I will drop by my daughter’s home for a few minutes. Good day to you all.”
