The Shadow Man Page 3

  "Look, one of the detectives will be by a little later for a more formal statement. You'll be available?" the cop asked. He picked up his hat and notebook.

  "I will. We're not going to church today. I've been out of town."

  The policeman moved toward the door.

  "Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. King. We'll be in touch."

  The two men shook hands. Malcolm closed the door softly as he left, latching it shut with a click.

  "Who was that?"

  Amy was standing in her bathrobe at the top of the stairs. Light was streaming around her from the window on the landing. Despite all that had gone on that morning, Malcolm could not help but admire his wife's slim silhouette.

  "The police. Somebody killed the Pendletons' dog."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  Malcolm shook his head.

  "God, that's horrible," she said.

  "The cop came by here because I called them and complained about the dog barking the other night."

  "Does that mean you're a suspect?"

  "He said he was just following up on all leads."

  "Well, that's crazy. You call and complain about a dog barking and now you're a pet murderer?"

  Amy sat down on the landing.

  "Amy, it's terrible. The cop said they cut the dog open and removed the organs."

  "Who could do that to an animal? It's sick," she said, glancing around the foyer. "Where's Daisy?"

  "I guess she's in Mimi's room."

  "I'm going to check on her," Amy said, getting up.

  Malcolm glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. It was 7:42 AM.

  "I'll come get her and take her outside in just a minute. Let me just give Ben a quick call to see if he knows anything about this," he said.

  Malcolm grabbed his cell and hit Ben Adams's number on speed dial.

  "Ben?"

  "Hey, Mal. I got your e-mail last night. Just haven't had time to look things up over the weekend."

  "No sweat. That's not really why I'm calling. Sorry to call you so early on a Sunday. Are you at work?"

  "Not yet. Why?"

  "A uniformed officer came by here and told me that y'all were investigating a crime in my area. Neighbor's dog was killed. He said the animal was eviscerated—had organs displayed all around it. They found it in a gazebo in the back yard. Know anything about that? Family's name is Pendleton."

  "Good Lord. You know them?"

  "Just from the neighborhood."

  "Well, I've heard nothing so far. That probably means no people were killed. I'll make a few phone calls and call you back."

  The two men hung up.

  "Daisy's okay," Amy called from upstairs. "She was in Mimi's room. You coming up to get her?"

  "Yeah," Malcolm said. "I'm just waiting for Ben to call me back."

  The cell rang as Malcolm was halfway up the stairs.

  "Mal?" Ben said, hoarsely.

  "Yep."

  "This is weird. We just got the call about the Pendletons a few minutes ago. The family found the dog this morning and called 9-1-1. When did you say the cop came to see you?"

  "A little after seven," Malcolm said. "Maybe 7:20 or so."

  "We didn't even know about it then—in fact, nobody did. The family didn't even find the dog until around 7:30. Was this guy really a cop?"

  Malcolm's head reeled.

  "I . . . I thought so."

  "Mal, did the guy who came to see you this morning show you a badge? Did he flash any ID or tell you his name?"

  "No," Malcolm said. "None of the above."

  "Then he was not one of us. Self-identification is standard oper­ating procedure for our department, and none of our cops would just forget to do that. And you were right—the dog was cut all apart. No one knew about that, yet, at the station house. I talked to the guy on site. He's a buddy of mine. He was shocked when I asked him about it. They had not reported that little detail to anyone yet."

  "Do you think . . .?"

  Malcolm stopped. His words caught in his throat, the gorge coming up into his mouth once again.

  "Mal, that guy may have been the person who killed your neigh­bor's dog."

  Daisy had clambered downstairs, panting, her nails clicking on the hardwood steps. As soon as she hit the bottom of the stairs, the old dog stopped panting and looked around, sniffing the air. She started whining. Her rear legs began shaking, tail tucked between her legs.

  And then Daisy began to howl.

  "Mal?" Amy called from upstairs. "Is the dog okay?"

  "Are you there?" said Ben, his voice filtered through the airwaves. But Malcolm didn't answer either of them. He couldn't. Malcolm's cell phone was lying on the entrance foyer table. He had run into the bathroom to throw up.

  4

  "You'll be okay?" Amy said.

  She placed an apple-green travel case in the back of her Lexus. "I'll be fine," said Malcolm.

  "I don't have to go. You just got home, and it's minor surgery. Mom said she could delay it . . ."

  "Amy, I'll be perfectly fine. Your mom lives alone, and they are operating on her foot. She won't be able to get around very well after they take those bunions off. Besides, you guys have planned this for months. There's certainly no reason to delay it because someone killed a neighbor's dog."

  "Are you certain?" she asked.

  "Look, I've got a ton of surgery scheduled, I can get some yard work done on the weekend, and besides, I have the ferocious Miss Daisy to protect me," Mal said, patting the dog's head.

  Daisy, panting, wagged her tail.

  "Well, that just makes me feel better already. Our vicious guard dog," Amy said.

  The sun was just coming up, its rays spilling across the frost­-bearded marsh. A squadron of pelicans skimmed across the river's glassy surface.

  "Mimi's staying at Tybee Beach with Tia Robertson. They'll take her to school," Amy said.

  "Is Tia the chick with the purple hair?" askedMalcolm.

  "It's a phase. She's a good kid—an honor student, in fact. And her mother is great—very stable, grounded. Ultra-reliable. Nothing to worry about with them."

  "Then why do they live at the beach? You know what my dad always said . . ."

  "God, I've only heard him say it a few hundred times. 'Only freaks live at the beach.' But they are good folks. Kinda 'crunchy granola and Birkenstock sandal' good, but very academically inclined," Amy said.

  "Bet they smoke pot," Mal said.

  "Mal, I smoked pot a few times myself back in the day," Amy said.

  "Not yesterday."

  Amy sighed.

  "You're impossible," she said.

  "I'm kidding with you. I like the Robertsons. I even like their love beads. In fact, I love their love beads."

  "Stop it," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You're bad."

  "I'm so bad I'm good," he said. Malcolm angled his head to kiss her. He could smell the floral essence of her hair; it clung to her, permeating the air around her. He could smell it on her pillow when she was gone.

  "Eww, PDA," Mimi said. She had a canvas flower-embroidered valise in one hand; a massive backpack was slung over one shoulder.

  "PDA?" Malcolm asked. "I am not familiar with that acronym, young lady."

  "Public display of affection, Mal. Really, you need to get out more," said Amy.

  "Hey, I know a few acronyms of my own. ERCP, for example. Stands for 'endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatogram.' You won't find that in People magazine."

  "No, you won't," Amy said, rolling her eyes. "Mimi, hand me your suitcase."

  Mimi dropped the backpack to the ground and gave her bag to her mother.

  "Hug?" she said to Malcolm, arms outstretched.

  The two hugged for a minute or so, then Malcolm pulled back and brushed his daughter's hair from her eyes.

  "You'll be okay with the Tybee Island flower children?" he asked.

  "Yes, Dad. I'll be fine. But I'll miss you this week. Don't eat so muc
h hamburger while we're gone, okay? It's bad for your cholesterol."

  "For you, I'll limit the hamburger to, say, four nights. And I'll eat a salad or two to balance it out."

  "You know it doesn't work that way, Dad," Mimi said.

  "Yes, I know," Malcolm said. "I'm a doctor, remember?"

  He picked up her backpack to hand it back to her.

  "Good Lord, this thing weighs a ton! What do you have in here, gold bricks?"

  "Yeah, Dad. Gold bricks."

  "You're gonna get scoliosis from that thing." Amy slammed the trunk of the Lexus shut.

  "The Robertsons will pick her up after school today. I'll text you when I get to Atlanta, and we'll both call you tonight. Got it?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Malcolm said.

  Amy and Mimi got into the car. He kissed Amy again—just a peck on the lips this time—and then went around to the other side of the car and kissed Mimi on the cheek.

  "That too much PDA for ya, young lady?" he asked.

  "Just enough," Mimi said.

  "Love you both. Y'all be careful," Malcolm said.

  "You, too!" Mimi called out as they backed out of the garage.

  Malcolm watched them both drive away. He felt a dull ache in his chest, the way he always felt when one of his girls left. It was even worse when both of them left.

  Daisy nudged him with her wet nose.

  Malcolm looked down at her. Daisy's chocolate brown eyes, pupils glazed over with the greenish sheen of early cataracts, were wide and trusting.

  "Well, at least I've got you, girl," he said, patting her broad furry head.

  Daisy wagged her tail enthusiastically.

  That night, after two laparoscopic cholecystectomies, an emer­gency appendectomy, a right colon resection and an office full of post-op patients, Malcolm came home in the dark chill of early spring to a quiet house.

  It was a house he loved.

  The Kings' house at Rose Dhu stood on a high bluff on the banks of the Vernon River, where it had been originally built by the inestimable Sir Patrick Houstoun, formerly of Scotland, in 1785. The house had been added to and remodeled over the years; Malcolm doubted that Sir Patrick would even recognize it today as his own. It was a rambling two-story white clapboard monstrosity with twin brick chimneys, wraparound double-columned porches, and black shutters. The eaves of the porches were painted a baby blue color called "haint blue" by the locals; legend had it that the color warded off evil spirits, although the practical application was that it kept spiders from building their webs beneath the eaves, since the color resembled the sky. The house had only had running water since the 1920s and electricity since the 1940s. It had been abandoned for years, left to the elements, when the Kings bought it in an estate sale back in early '94. Vines had clambered through shattered windowpanes back then; Malcolm even found the skeletons of several small animals in the living room, which apparently had been used as a winter den by some wild animal.

  The locals had said it was haunted.

  Amy and Malcolm spent two years planning the renovation and another four years remodeling the house. When they finally moved in, in 2001, it already felt like home. The house on Rose Dhu was truly a mani­festation of the family's soul.

  Malcolm pulled into the garage and switched on the lights. They flickered, emitted a dingy amber light for a second, then came on for good. The electrical system in the house was a little balky; Malcolm suspected that it was due to the old wiring. He'd replaced much of it, but not all of it, during the renovation. The electrical surges and brownouts would frequently reset the wireless Internet that he had so painstakingly set up the past summer.

  "Gotta get an electrician out here," he mumbled.

  Opening the deadbolt to the back door, Malcolm took Daisy outside to use the bathroom, fed her a can of food and some leftover turkey, then heated up a plate of leftover spaghetti in the microwave for himself. He treated himself to a glass of red wine with dinner and had another as he sat on the back porch staring out over the dark ribbon of the Vernon River.

  At 9:00, Malcolm called Mimi to tell her good night. Mimi was studying for an algebra test. She asked him what he ate for dinner. He lied and told her it was a salad.

  "Liar," she said.

  "I love you, too, sweetheart," he responded.

  When he called Amy, she had just given her mother a pain pill and gotten her off to bed. She sounded tired.

  "What are you up to?" Amy asked.

  "Partying with a bunch of wild women," he said.

  "Just make them clean up after themselves," she said. "It's my house."

  He tried to read a novel, a modern-day retelling of Dracula, but couldn't concentrate. He switched on the television, but nothing interested him. By 11 PM, there was nothing to do but go to bed.

  He locked up the house, brushed and flossed his teeth, took an Ambien (he never slept well when Amy was away, either) and switched off the light. He was asleep almost as soon as he hit the pillow.

  For once, Malcolm slept the sleep of the dead.

  5

  Malcolm heard the crash outside at 4 AM.

  Daisy, old as she was, heard it, too.

  The dog's barks were deafening. Malcolm parted the curtains and could see nothing but the glow of the streetlight.

  There was a rattling noise out back that Malcolm recognized, a noise that sent a deep chill into the nape of his neck.

  The chain. Someone is opening the chain latch on the back gate.

  Malcolm grabbed a baseball bat and ran downstairs.

  Flicking the lock, he bolted out the back door.

  The back gate was wide open, its chain latch disengaged. The trashcans were all knocked over, their contents scattered all about.

  "Damn raccoons!" Malcolm said.

  Daisy was growling, low and insistent, her teeth bared. Malcolm had not seen the old dog this edgy in years.

  He knelt in the dark to pick up the strewn garbage. There were cans and bottles and some shattered glass, which was odd. Most of the glass and aluminum usually went into recycling.

  He picked up one of the bottles—a brown glass Amstel Light, empty.

  "We don't even drink this. Whose garbage is this?" he said out loud.

  Malcolm tossed the Amstel Light bottle into one of the trash receptacles where it shattered.

  "WOO-WOOF! WOO-WOOF!"

  It was a bark he'd never heard from Daisy before.

  "Hey, girl, calm d—"

  The dog barreled right over Malcolm, knocking him sprawling into the pile of garbage. Something sharp sliced into his forearm and he winced. Warm blood poured down his arm, dripping off his elbow.

  "Daisy!" he called out. But she did not answer.

  The dog was snarling, insane. Her barks had a vicious timbre to them, as though she were biting them off and swallowing them.

  Without even slowing down, Daisy tore through the open back door of the house.

  "What the . . .?"

  It was then that he saw it.

  A man was inside the house. Malcolm could see his silhouette moving in the shadows, room to room, ghostly and silent.

  And then the man looked straight at him.

  Malcolm scrambled to his feet, grabbing the baseball bat. He sprinted toward the back door, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  "Hey! Get the hell out of my house, you sonofabitch!"

  The house was dark—too dark, it seemed. He flicked a light switch. Nothing.

  "Dammit!" he said.

  There was a crash from the dining room. Malcolm sprinted through the door and saw a china plate shattered on the floor. The door was swinging, Daisy barking somewhere above him.

  Above him!

  He realized that the intruder must have gone upstairs.

  Malcolm thudded up the stairwell.

  As Malcolm reached the landing, something slammed into his legs and took them out from under him. He tumbled down the stairs, striking his head on the banister as he fell, and landing in a heap at the foot
of the stairs.

  "Sonofa . . ."

  And then the power came back on.

  Daisy was sprawled beneath Malcolm, whining. There was blood smeared all over her. She scrambled to her feet and scampered into the den, her tail between her legs.

  "Daisy?" Malcolm called.

  Thumping noises from upstairs.

  "Got you trapped, you sonofabitch!" Malcolm yelled.

  He began running back up the stairs.

  A high-pitched sound pierced Malcolm's eardrums, driving through his skull. It seemed to come from anywhere and everywhere.

  From the den, Daisy howled.

  The explosion shook the walls of the house. Malcolm felt the windows shatter, felt the mirrors as they blew apart into a million frag­ments. A shuddering impulse shook the very foundation of Malcolm's universe; he could almost see the cracks in the walls. Stars pulsated in the darkness at the edges of his vision.

  Malcolm felt nauseous. His head swam and his vision was blurry, as if smeared with Vaseline. His knees buckled, flaccid, as he fell to the floor.

  And then it ended.

  Malcolm dragged himself across the glass-strewn floor. His gut writhed, cramping spastically, as if he had been violated by some parasite. His eyeballs hurt—hell, his other balls hurt, too. Everything hurt.

  He tried to stand, and fell.

  He tried to stand again and grabbed the credenza in the upstairs hallway, blood pouring down his glass-raked arms and pooling in between his fingers as his arms twitched and his legs wobbled and his entire body screamed in agony.

  Malcolm made it into the bedroom, nevertheless.

  Every single window was blown out. The mirrors were gone, too, as was every glass object in the room. There were glittering projectiles embedded in the walls, the furniture, and the ceiling. Myriad shards of glass littered the floor. Silver beams of cold moonlight shone in through the shredded remains of the bedroom curtains as they fluttered helplessly in the breeze.

  Daisy had limped up the stairs, her fur stained with blood. She pressed her muzzle up against Malcolm's leg. He scratched the old dog's head and smiled at her in spite of himself.

  "Good job, girl," he said. "You did a really good job tonight."

  She grunted, gazing up at Malcolm lovingly.

  But Malcolm was unsettled.

  Someone had been in his home. Someone had blown out his windows, shattered his mirrors and vanished into the night like a ghost.