The Shadow Man Page 2

  Like human emotion, as unpredictable and chaotic as static on a television screen.

  One trigger-happy cop or pissed-off driver and he could have been blasted into oblivion.

  The headache took root gradually in his brain. By the time he hit DeRenne Avenue, his head pounded like the beat of a hammer against cloth, a dull ache that made his eyes throb.

  He did not know how he got home. He remembered the turn signal at Rose Dhu, blinker clicking like an insect. That was about it.

  Amy was sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe and glasses, sipping a steaming mug of hot chocolate that had steamed her lenses.

  The wall clock said it was 1:17 AM.

  "Sorry I'm so late," he said. "Why are you still up?"

  The words had barely left his mouth when she embraced him, soft lips on his, arms thrown around his waist. Her hair smelled like confed­erate jasmine.

  "I'm just glad you're okay," she said. "When you're not here I start having these horrible thoughts—what it would be like if this was it, if you never came back, if some lunatic blew up your plane or shot you in an alley someplace. It keeps me awake, Mal. The bed seems empty. And I hear noises. Those damn raccoons knocked the trashcans over again last night and made all kinds of racket. It all adds up. I never sleep well when you're gone."

  She kissed him again—less urgently this time. Her lips lingered on his for a moment.

  Malcolm smiled at her and brushed her dark hair from her eyes.

  "Wow," he said. "This was almost worth the accident."

  "Was Miami okay?" she asked, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her arms still encircled his waist.

  Malcolm shrugged.

  "It was Miami. I hate the airport. I didn't see much of the city— the conference took up most of my time. Did a little networking, saw a few old friends, worked on the appendectomy paper some. The usual stuff. I'm glad to be home."

  "You miss me?"

  "Damn straight," he said, patting her on the ass. "How did Mimi's play go?"

  "She was the best Lady Capulet of all time. They're doing it again for the PTA in a few weeks. You can see it. She looks so grown up in costume, Mal. You won't believe it."

  "I know I won't. Seems like she was a baby last week. How do they grow up so fast?" Malcolm said.

  "One of the great mysteries of life," Amy said. She gave him another peck on the mouth.

  "Leave your suitcase here. You can unpack tomorrow. We need to go to bed," she said, grabbing his hand.

  Malcolm flicked off the light switch, turned the deadbolt on the back door, and climbed the stairs with his wife.

  Morning came too soon for both of them.

  2

  The sun launched itself over the horizon and raced across the Atlantic Ocean toward Savannah.

  The City of Savannah was founded in 1733 by the British General James E. Oglethorpe as the first capital of the thirteenth English colony in America. He elected to build his city on a high bluff that the Indians called Yamacraw, looming over the copper-colored Savannah River. Oglethorpe was not the first to come there. The Native Americans had been there for dozens of centuries, of course—their history unwritten, its details lost in the ephemeral drift of time. They had a small village at Yamacraw. An Indian footpath traced the river's edge all the way to its mouth, where the Savannah broadened and spilled its muddy cargo into the sea at Tybee, a barrier island with a white sandy beach. The Spanish came to Georgia in the 1500s, establishing a small Benedictine mission on Skidaway Island near Savannah, at a place now called Priest's Landing. The mission at Priest's Landing was gone long before Oglethorpe arrived, its namesake priests butchered by the same Native Americans they had sought to convert.

  General Oglethorpe was a wise man. He outlawed slavery and banned attorneys in his fledgling colony, edicts which would unfortunately fall by the wayside over the ensuing years. Georgia welcomed members of all faiths and all nationalities. German Protestants, English Jews, and Irish Catholics came and were welcomed. A meticulous planner, the General designed the city in a grid, with regular city blocks interspersed with twenty-four verdant parks known as squares. The General's plan still can be seen today; his vision, though corrupted somewhat by the unforeseen elements of motorized vehicles and vast masses of humanity, has nevertheless not been materially altered to any great degree. Despite the centuries, Savannah remains true to Oglethorpe's plan. He would, no doubt, be astonished at what his efforts have wrought.

  Over the years, Savannah has survived pestilence, wars, great fires, and devastating hurricanes. It has served as a haven for pirates and as a final resting place for signers of the Declaration of Independence. Sherman spared it from the destruction he so visibly wrought across the rest of Georgia during the Civil War. The town today is an enigma: a tree-shrouded gem that serves as a home to about 140,000 people, a town simultaneously ancient and modern, with both a vibrant arts community and a vibrant illicit drug trade. It is a puzzling juxtaposition of great wealth and great poverty. Slavery is gone at last, but, alas, lawyers abound, with nearly a thousand of them in practice. There are also 600 physicians and three well-staffed hospitals. Malcolm King knew most of the lawyers and all of the physicians, and worked in all three hospitals on a daily basis. He was arguably the busiest surgeon in town.

  But not today.

  Today, despite the sun's brilliant arrival in the city of Savannah, Malcolm King slept in.

  After all, it was Saturday.

  Truth be told, Malcolm didn't usually do that, even on weekends, but he'd gotten in so late the night before that he felt it was justified. To add insult to injury, Snoopy, the impossibly vociferous Basset hound who lived with the Pendletons two houses down, had started baying at about 3 AM and wouldn't stop. Malcolm had grabbed his cell phone from the bedside table and called John Pendleton, who seemed selectively deaf to any sound his dog made, to ask him to bring the animal inside.

  "You don't hear that, John?"

  "Hear what? Who is this?"

  "It's Malcolm King, your neighbor. Don't tell me you don't hear that dog of yours."

  "Well, I do now. Now that I'm awake."

  "Could you do something about it? Or do I have to?"

  "Huh . . . okay. Sorry. I took a sleeping pill."

  The dog stopped barking a few minutes later.

  When the clock sounded at 6 AM, Malcolm turned it off. He slept past dawn. He slept through the delivery of the morning paper. He slept until he caught the scent of bacon simmering and heard the seagulls squawking outside.

  And then Mimi cracked open the door.

  "Daddy?"

  Malcolm woke up to see his teenager peering in at him.

  She had been all braces and pigtails just a little while ago, playing with puppies and dressing up dolls and having tea parties with stuffed animals. But now he could look at Mimi and see a dark-haired young woman who looked very much like her mother. It shocked him.

  "Come here, little girl," he said, sitting up in bed.

  She was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a form-fitting t-shirt. She was wearing lip gloss and the slightest bit of eyeliner, an alteration that accentuated her dark brown eyes and made her look older.

  Mimi ran to her father and hugged him.

  "We missed you. It's too quiet here when you're gone," she said.

  "Are you saying I'm loud?" Malcolm said, grinning.

  "Yes," she said. "But I like it."

  Malcolm frowned.

  "What?"

  "That shirt's too tight. I can see your bra."

  "What happened to big baggy t-shirts? They seemed fine to me."

  "Yeah, when I was ten. I'm fifteen now. This is what we wear."

  "Ah, but can you still pillow fight? Perhaps you've lost that skill, now that you're a young lady and all!"

  "You wish!" she said, grabbing a pair of pillows from the bed. Mimi whacked Malcolm on the side of the head.

  Mimi jumped on her father and straddled him, both pillows held high.


  "Say it!"

  "I most certainly will not!"

  "Say it or you'll get what's coming to you!"

  "Okay, okay! Just have mercy on your old dad." She lowered the pillows and folded her arms. "Mercy granted," she said.

  "I concede your superiority," Malcolm said. "You are truly the world's greatest pillow warrior."

  Mimi hopped off of him, tossing the pillows onto the bed.

  "That's better," she said. "Mom said to come to breakfast."

  She sprinted off down the hallway.

  Malcolm got up and splashed some water on his face. His eyes were bloodshot. The echo of the headache of the night before throbbed in his temples.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, pulled on an old Eagles t-shirt and a pair of shorts and walked down the short hallway to the kitchen.

  It was a brilliant spring day outside. Sunlight was streaming through the bay window, scattering across the three plates of bacon and pancakes that Amy had put out for them. Daisy, their golden retriever, sat on the floor, chewing on an old boot.

  "Coffee," Amy said.

  "Danke," said Malcolm, taking the steaming mug and gazing out over the back yard.

  Daisy plodded over, tail wagging, and nudged Malcolm with her head.

  "Hey, old girl," Malcolm said, scratching the dog's ears.

  Daisy's tail slapped the floor.

  "I made your coffee black. It's a Kona blend. Figured that might wake you up," Amy said.

  "When did the agapanthus begin blooming?" Malcolm asked. He sipped his coffee. It was hot; he sloshed it around in his mouth before swal­lowing it.

  "Right after you left," Amy said. "There would have been even more, but the deer have been eating them."

  "Deer eating the flowers and raccoons rummaging through the trash. The animals are at war with us," Malcolm said.

  "When Daisy was younger, she would have barked her head off if anything came into the yard. Now, the only thing that sets her off is the doorbell," Amy said.

  "Or the UPS guy," said Mimi.

  Daisy, oblivious to the slander being directed against her good name, had resumed her attack on the boot.

  "Mom, guess what? Daddy declared me a superior pillow-fighter," Mimi said, her mouth full of pancakes.

  "And so you are, dear," Malcolm said, tousling her head.

  "Oh, Mal, a policeman called from the airport. Officer O'Rourke. Said they had a license plate number on the guy who hit you. Got it from the surveillance camera. He left a number if you wanted to call," Amy said.

  She stuck the Post-it note on the table next to his plate.

  "Thanks, hon," Malcolm said, popping a piece of bacon in his mouth. "I'll call Ben about it later. Maybe he can help them track the guy down."

  "Ben? Isn't that a little beneath him? He's in homicide, right?"

  "Ben owes me. I took a bullet out of him. And anyway, we've been friends since Cub Scouts. He'd do anything for me."

  After breakfast, Amy took Mimi to the mall to meet some friends. Malcolm went into his study and called Officer O'Rourke.

  "Officer? It's Malcolm King, the guy who ran through the barri­cade last night. I understand that you got a license plate number on the SUV that hit me?"

  "That's right. Got it off of the surveillance camera. There is a problem, though," O'Rourke said.

  "What's that?"

  "The plates on the SUV that hit you were stolen. The car they were taken from was reported missing from Fort Lauderdale about a week ago, and turned up a couple of days ago in a chop shop in Miami—minus the plates. We have no leads on who stole the car."

  "Hey, I've got a buddy who works for the Savannah-Chatham PD. Mind if I give him the plate numbers?" Malcolm asked.

  "Suit yourself. It's a Florida tag, license number S as in Sam, A as in apple, E as in egg, then 1-1-3-8."

  "Thanks."

  After he hung up, Malcolm e-mailed the license plate information to his friend Ben Adams. He then took a few minutes to peruse his other e-mail, which was piling up a bit. He fired one off to Joel Birkenstock at UAB about the laparoscopic appendectomy paper and fired an electronic birthday card to his aunt Millicent, who spent more time online than she did sleeping.

  "Whatever happened to just buying a card at Hallmark?" Malcolm groused, certain that Mimi would label him an old fogy if she heard him say that.

  He called State Farm and told them about the accident, spent the rest of the afternoon repairing the ancient latch on the back gate, and had a candlelit dinner of spaghetti and meatballs with Amy and Mimi on the back porch as they gazed out over the lazy undulations of the Vernon River.

  It was the last quiet day he would have for a long, long time.

  3

  The storm hit when it was still dark outside.

  Malcolm awoke at 4 AM with a full bladder and an empty stomach. He relieved himself and went downstairs to rummage through the kitchen for something—anything!—to eat. There was, of course, some leftover spaghetti in a Tupperware bowl. He also found a package of Swiss cheese, a package of sliced turkey and two jars of pickles, in addition to a vast array of dressings, condiments, and sauces.

  After he found a container of sauerkraut and a still-full bottle of Thousand Island dressing, Malcolm decided to construct a turkey Reuben. A toasted turkey Reuben, in fact.

  As he sat at the kitchen table reading an article about the exca­vation of King Herod's tomb in Jerusalem in an old copy of National Geographic, he munched his sandwich and thought about those long-dead people who built the vast edifice that was only now being unearthed after centuries. It seemed odd that a king's intact tomb would somehow end up underground, just beneath a large city, and that no one would have any idea it was there for two thousand years.

  How much stuff is buried in this world and we just walk all over it, oblivious to what is lying just beneath the surface? he thought.

  A jagged bolt of lightning shook him out of his reverie.

  It danced across the horizon, miles away, stabbing at his retinas. A low rumble of thunder came next, rolling across river and marsh like the guttural growl of some unseen predator.

  Howling winds drove sheets of rain across the river, raindrops pelting the metal roof like ball bearings.

  The storm took more than an hour to grind its way inland.

  As the storm's trailing edges trickled water across the rooftop, Malcolm realized that he was sleepy again. He folded up the Geographic, belched loudly, and clicked off the lights over the kitchen table. He retired to the sofa in the den to take a nap.

  Malcolm was startled and a little disoriented when the doorbell rang just a few hours later. It was the gray half-light of early morning, and for a brief moment he had no idea where he was. Sitting up, he real­ized that he was in the den. He glanced at the wall clock; it was a few minutes after seven.

  Did I hear a doorbell? Or did I dream that?

  And then the doorbell rang again. More insistently this time. Malcolm ran his fingers through his hair and got up to answer the door.

  Gazing through the peephole, he saw a policeman in a rain-spat­tered poncho looking at his watch.

  Malcolm opened the door.

  "Yes, officer? Did you find him?"

  The policeman appeared puzzled.

  "Find who?"

  "The guy who hit my car."

  "This isn't about a car, sir. It's about a neighbor. Do you mind if I come in?"

  "Of course."

  Malcolm opened the door.

  The cop's poncho dripped all over the Oriental rug in the entrance foyer. He removed his waterlogged hat and set it on the table. His emerald eyes flashed at Malcolm as he whipped out a spiral-bound notebook.

  "Do you know a man named John Pendleton?" the cop asked.

  "I do. He's my neighbor."

  "Have you had any recent disagreements with him?"

  "No, not really. I mean, he has this dog, Snoopy. He's a Basset hound. Barks a lot. We've had a couple of differences over that, but that'
s it."

  "Did you call his home the other night and complain about the dog's barking?"

  "I did. It was 3 AM. Really, though, it's not a big deal. John's a good guy. He's just . . . well, he's lazy. Sleeps like a damn log. The dog was keeping me awake and I felt like I needed to call and let him know about it."

  "Did you threaten the dog?"

  "What?"

  The cop put the spiral notebook down on the table and looked Malcolm straight in the eye.

  "I said 'Did you threaten his dog?' Did you tell him that he'd better do something about his dog's barking or you'd have to?"

  "I didn't say that! Well, not exactly, but . . . what's going on here?"

  "Someone killed the Pendletons' dog. This morning, apparently," the cop said.

  Malcolm felt a cold chill run down the back of his neck.

  "My God," he said. "How . . . I mean, to kill a family pet, that's . . . that's awful."

  "The animal wasn't just killed, Dr. King. It was eviscerated. Someone cut the poor thing's throat and removed the lungs, the heart, the eyes, the intestines, and the liver. Not only that, but they left the organs displayed around the dog's slaughtered body in the family gazebo, in the back yard. The Pendleton's daughter found the animal this morning. She's inconsolable."

  Malcolm felt a potpourri of turkey and sauerkraut burbling up into his gullet.

  "I think I'm going to be sick," he mumbled, placing his hand over his mouth.

  "You're a surgeon, aren't you, Dr. King?"

  "Yes."

  "Know anatomy pretty well?"

  "Yes, but . . . wait a minute! There's no way I'd ever even think about doing something like that! I mean, that dog was a pain in the ass, but I'd never kill the thing, and certainly not like that! I've got a dog myself!"

  "Look, I know that you're a respected member of the community. We're just following up on all of our leads. I hope you understand," said the policeman.

  Malcolm felt his anger subside. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  "Of course," he said.