A shrug. “Then once again, what now?”
He returned the shrug. “More of the same I guess. We keep her under surveillance and hope for a break. Otherwise we wait.”
A shy, mischievous grin swept over her face. “Well, while we’re waiting, can I return the favor, and buy you dinner?” As she raised her dark lashes to look at him, he knew the offer included more than food.
Jim shook his head. “Marie, why do you bother with me? I mean, I think you’re wonderful, but what do you see in me?”
Her smile turned nostalgic. “Do you remember back when I was in sixth grade and that bully, what was his name, Jimmy Dize, was giving me such a hard time at the bus stop? You were a junior and a hunk, and you stood up to him. You don’t know how impressive that can be to a girl.”
His eyes widened. “I had forgotten all about that jerk. He was such a jackass. Two years ago I hear they put him away for ten to twenty. He was selling used cars up in Augusta. It turned out most of the cars he was selling were hot.” He paused while the memory of that day came back, then shrugged. “I couldn’t just stand there and let him harass you like that. He was just a big blowhard that picked on anyone that let him.”
Her smile turned shy. “And you told him off and he deflated like a balloon. He never gave me a bit of trouble after that.” Her voice grew soft and she looked down at her drink. “That was the day I fell in love with you.”
His eyes reflected his pain. “You know I care for you, but it seems like our timing is always wrong. During my high school years, you were just a sweet kid from the neighborhood. When you blossomed into a beautiful young woman, I was away in college most of the time. I was married by the time you finished off your degrees. Now we’re brought together again by our work, but I have this albatross of a divorce hanging around my neck.”
She started to speak but he continued. “No, don’t interrupt. I do care for you but I’m just not ready for a new relationship. The divorce is final, but I can’t seem to sever the last bonds. Please be patient while I sort out these loose ends in my life.”
He could barely hear the reply. “I’ll wait forever, if that’s what it takes.”
Tensions mounted as the morning passed. By ten Sergeant Johnson’s wife had arrived. She waited in Captain Underwood’s office, knowing that the odds of finding her husband alive shrank with each passing minute. Every ring of the phone brought a halt to what little work was being attempted in the squad room.
At eleven o’clock, the call came in to Sergeant Parkins. “Savannah Police Department. Can I help you?”
“Ah yes, ma’am. This is Sergeant Allen from the South Carolina State Police. We have located your missing officers. Or at least what’s left of them.”
Underwood bent over the body, which was still lying face down in the drying mud. The crawl marks in the mud showed the effort the officer had made as he struggled to reach safety. The captain’s head spun with rage as he realized that the shooter had incapacitated the officer and then left him to suffer, knowing he would never survive his wounds. He felt sure the shooter hadn’t been interrupted. If someone had interrupted him, the passerby would have called in a report, even if he did it anonymously. Clearly it was a message, a warning to all of the people who knew of the existence of the Chosen. There was no doubt in the captain’s mind that the assassination was linked to Patrick. Somehow the threat of these monsters had to be neutralized before they eliminated everyone who had knowledge of them.
Today was a slow day for the morgue. Dr. Frank Morgan had just finished the only autopsy scheduled for the day; an eighty-seven-year-old woman with a history of three bypasses. Because she had died at home alone, the state required an autopsy. After three hours of tests, the results revealed just what everyone had expected. Her heart had just died of old age, and the rest of her followed suit.
At 4:30 in the afternoon, the portly Dr. Morgan finished writing up his findings and decided to deliver the report to Dr. Bell personally. After all, his doctor said he should start exercising more. Walking the fifty feet down the hall, he entered Bell’s outer office to the incessant ringing of the telephone on the receptionist’s desk. He noticed that Maggie wasn’t at her desk. Then he remembered she had left at one to drive to Augusta. Her youngest son was getting married that weekend, and she had taken the rest of the week off. Frank had been invited, but had declined. Dr. Morgan hadn’t liked the kid since, at the age of three, the boy had peed on his best suit during the Christmas party.
Annoyed by the interruption, Morgan picked up the phone, “Dr. Bell’s office.”
“Dr. Bell?”
“No this is Dr. Morgan.”
“Dr. Morgan, this is Lieutenant Morris, SPD. We have a double homicide across the river and request a medical examiner from Georgia on the scene. The victims are Georgia police officers. While the autopsies will be performed in South Carolina, we wish someone from your staff to assist.”
Morgan grabbed a pen from the desk caddy and poised it over the memo pad. “Give me the particulars and I’ll be there as soon as I can clear it with Dr. Bell.”
He wrote down the address of the Jasper County morgue and hung up the phone. While he didn’t require a clearance from his superior, he always felt better letting Dr. Bell know where he would be. And, after all, he was already at his office. He knocked on the office door, then turned the knob and walked in. Neither he nor Bell was much on formality, so they barged in on each other quite often. After all, that’s what locks are for.
Morgan took one step in the door and froze. Dr. Bell’s headless torso sat in his chair. Blood covered the desk and carpet near the body. A seasoned forensic specialist, Dr. Morgan was accustomed to gory sights, but seeing a friend in that condition was different. He turned, bent over and was violently sick all over the receptionist’s desk.
The crime scene detectives spent ten minutes searching the building looking for the head before a fingerprint expert began to dust Dr. Bell’s fish tank and found himself face to face with the missing item, staring at him through the murky water.
“So let’s summarize, shall we? We have a dead suspect and two dead police officials, all of whom were beheaded. All three deaths occurred in public buildings with a lot of traffic but nobody saw or heard anything. The suspect’s body vanishes from another public building.” Mayor Roukasis smiled as he warmed up to his work. “We have two more officers that were shot to death, maybe by the same group. At least the bullets from their bodies match the one they dug out of the captain’s car. To explain these atrocities, you have this fantasy about vampires or cannibals or butterscotch pygmies or something. The videotape from the suspect’s interview has vanished, as did the records of his autopsy. Underwood, you have zip, zilch, nada.”
The mayor was not at his best when hounded by the press. He had called Captain Underwood to this private meeting to vent his frustration.
“Your Honor, I know we seem to be floundering . . .”
Roukasis sniffed.
“ . . . but we do have some evidence which will demonstrate why we have been so ineffective.” Mayor Roukasis tried to interrupt, but Underwood ignored him and continued. “However, for reasons that will become clear in time, I am not in a position to reveal this evidence yet, even to you. I also want your okay to have a suspect shadowed, but I can’t give you the suspect’s name.”
“Is it the same suspect that was in the tape?”
Underwood had forgotten the mayor had witnessed the video of Patrick’s death. “Yes sir.”
The mayor stared at him for a full minute, his arms crossed. Body language alone should have reduced the captain to ashes. Underwood felt like he was back in the principal’s office again; a situation not uncommon in the distant past. Finally the mayor spoke. “Captain Underwood, I am deeply disturbed, both by your department’s inept handling of this grave situation, and your lack of confidence in my ability to keep privileged information. I do understand that this is a difficult predicament for you and your men. But understand that it is difficult for other people as well. If you don’t end this nightmare soon, you’re history. I won’t jeopardize my political future because of you. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor.”
“Good. Get out of here and the next time I see you, you’d better be bringing me some good news for a change.”
Underwood was rubbing his temples trying to get rid of a pounding headache when the knock came at his office door. “Enter.”
Two plainclothes officers walked through the doorway and closed the door. Don Hamilton, whose long hair and wild eyes reminded Underwood of Hulk Hogan, spoke. “You sent for us, Captain?”
“I need a report on O’Mullens.”
The other man shrugged his shoulders. “Not much to tell, Captain. We lost her for about two hours the other day. Otherwise, not much is happening.”
The captain’s finger was doing tabletop laps again. The detectives noticed the movement, but ignored it. They were used to it after working for him for years. “The time you lost her wouldn’t happen to coincide with the time that Doctor Bell was killed would it?”
Both men looked uncomfortable. “We hung back so we wouldn’t attract attention, like you told us. I don’t think she knew we were there but she made sure nobody could follow them.”
Underwood sat up. “Them?”
John Hurst, a burly black man with reddish hair, looked at Hamilton and nodded. “Uh, yeah. There was some guy with her. Tall, dark hair, cleft chin. Looks kinda like Kirk Douglas. We have photos but they haven’t been printeded yet. Even when the pictures, it could be days before we get identification, unless it’s priority.”
“Could he have been one of her staff?”
“Nah. We know all her staff by now. This was somebody new.”
“Get the pictures and get out there and get me an ID. This may be important. In the meantime, what else you got?”
Hamilton consulted his notebook. “Ms. O’Mullens seems to be sticking to her routine. The only unusual thing that seems to be in the works is a plane ticket to Chicago. Word is, she’s going to some sort of an international conference. Her secretary booked the flight for Friday, and reservations for a conference sponsored by some corporation called the Walachia Foundation.”
“The Walachia Foundation? Any idea what the group does?”
“No, but I’ll look into it.”
“Do that.” He paused to grab his coffee. “Oh, and guys?”
The two detectives raised their eyes to his.
“Thanks. You guys are doing a great job. Even if I don’t always sound like it, I really appreciate your help.” He took a sip from his cup. “Anything else?”
The two detectives looked at each other. “No, sir.”
“Check on that foundation and get back to me. Also let me know if the lady does anything out of the ordinary. And for Pete’s sake don’t lose her again!”
The land that Bonaventure Cemetery occupies on the Wilmington River was once a magnificent plantation dating back to the 1700s, long before it became a cemetery during the Civil War. Its beauty was legendary, with majestic oaks covered in Spanish moss, surrounded by azaleas, camellias and dogwoods. Unfortunately most of this beauty was hidden by rain the morning of the funeral. Buckets of rain. Most of the family and friends left after the service. Few were willing to brave the elements for the graveside ceremony. As Jim walked toward the grave he looked toward Marie and wondered again at the pale man next to her. The man appeared to be family and walked to the gravesite arm in arm with Marie, lending her support. But, as frail as he looked, it was questionable as to who was supporting whom.
Jim lingered near the edge of the graveside group. He hadn’t had a chance to say more than fleeting condolences to Marie since her father’s death. He didn’t feel ready to brave the gauntlet of family and friends which had closed around her in a protective cocoon, especially when he had no encouraging words to tell her about finding her father’s killer. All of the officers who had been involved with the Patrick case had been warned of the attacks, but some had laughed it off, until Dr. Bell’s death. Underwood knew that Marie, who had assisted at Patrick’s autopsy, was in danger, but the protective circle of friends would serve as a buffer for now.
As the priest began to speak, Underwood’s attention wandered as he noticed in the distance the grave where the Bird Girl used to rest. In the late thirties a noted Savannah family commissioned a sculptor to create a statue worthy of their daughter who had passed away. The sculptor created a small bronze figure known as the Bird Girl. For over fifty years the Bird Girl watched over the family’s gravesite. Then in 1993 a Savannah photographer was looking for a cover picture for a new book. As the book grew in popularity more and more people crowded the cemetery to see the figure. The family, worried that vandals would damage or steal the figure, finally had her removed. Her whereabouts remained a mystery for years. Later the book was made into a movie, and Savannah tourism got a second shot in the arm. At that time the statue reappeared as an exhibit in the city’s Telfair Museum.
The graveside service was brief. A short prayer, a few words of comfort to the family and the casket lowered into the ground. Marie stayed long enough to throw a flower into the grave and began to walk off. His eyes on Marie, Underwood didn’t notice the hooded figure until it appeared in front of him, holding a large sword and swinging it back to make a killing arc. The figure hesitated as a voice yelled, “Hold it! Drop the weapon.” Underwood scrambled behind a headstone, just as the blade swung toward him. The tip sliced a bloody line across the back of his neck. A second later and his throat would’ve been slashed. Two seconds and they could have used two body bags. Before the attacker could swing again two explosions split the reverent silence of the cemetery. The figure dropped to one knee and raised the sword again. Underwood braced for the attack. This volley was much closer, and the figure dropped. Jim recognized the two plainclothes detectives as Hurst hurried to his side while Hamilton moved to the figure, gun held in both hands and still trained at the unmoving assassin.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Detective Sergeant Hurst helped him to his feet. His hat had blown off in his haste and his hair blazed even in the rain.
“Yes, thanks to you guys. Lucky for me you were here.”
“No luck involved, Captain. Just following your orders.”
Hamilton checked for signs of life as the mourners began to arrive. Marie and the pale man appeared, followed by the policeman assigned to guard her. “Get her out of here! Get them all out of here. There may be others.” Underwood barked the orders, then turned back to the scene just as Hamilton rolled the body over. Incredibly, the face of a sweet little woman appeared, State Senator Maggie O’Mullens.