The Shadow Man Read online

  The noise invaded his brain insidiously, crawling in through his ears.

  Crunch! Crunch!

  Malcolm couldn't place it at first.

  But then he recognized the sound, even through the gossamer veil of sleep, and it awakened him as quickly as a cannon shot.

  Footsteps.

  Someone was walking on the shell path.

  Malcolm rolled off the sofa onto the floor and crawled across it to switch off the light, plunging himself into darkness.

  He went to the window and peered into the yard.

  As his eyes adjusted, he scanned the dark expanse between the house and the river. At first, he saw nothing. But, then, something moved at the edge of the garden.

  He held his breath. The thing moved again.

  "Ah, shit!" he said, exhaling.

  It was a deer—an eight point buck, at least; it was hard to count accurately in the dark.

  He banged on the back door with the heel of his hand and yelled at the animal.

  "Shoo!" he said flailing his arms The animal stared at him. Its ears flicked forward. Then, in the blink of an eye, it turned, white tail aloft, and bounded off into the woods.

  "Thank God," Mal said.

  But then he heard growling behind him.

  "Daisy?"

  The dog was on her feet, her back arched, hair standing up, her fangs bared. Her eyes were blazing, bloodshot. She had a wild look about her, murderous.

  She looks like Cujo, Malcolm thought.

  "Girl, it's okay. The deer is go—"

  The dog rushed toward Malcolm, claws clattering. Her barks were bloodthirsty, vicious. He leapt out of the way just as she slammed her body into the glass of the back door, cracking one of the panes and shaking the entire doorframe with the impact of her hundred-plus-pound body.

  "Daisy? Come on, girl, it's okay."

  But she didn't back off. Her breath was fogging the glass.

  And then he saw what she was barking at.

  The man was tall, much taller than the ersatz cop had been, and thin. He was standing in the shadows at the edge of the yard, his head topped with a broad-brimmed hat, eyes shielded and invisible. He did not move much; he just wavered there, wraithlike, a shadow himself.

  And then he was gone—as if he had simply faded from view.

  At that instant, Daisy stopped growling and sat down on her haunches.

  "What the hell?"

  Malcolm turned on the floodlights all over the yard, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No man, no deer, no ghosts.

  He would not go outside again. He'd make no mistakes like the other night. He would, instead, stay safe in his castle—alarm activated, his dog on guard.

  But he would not sleep. In fact, he had begun to wonder if he would ever sleep again.

  Malcolm watched the sun rise a few hours later. It looked like it always did, an orange orb clambering up over the horizon. It had not turned a soulless black or blood red. He was, therefore, still on planet Earth. He took some vague comfort from that. And the girls would be home in the afternoon—that was also a good thing, calming his tormented gut.

  Or was it?

  What would he tell them?

  How could he protect them from this dark person when he had no idea who or where or even what he was?

  He thought of these things as he showered. He could lather up and wash away his fatigue like dirt.

  Doubt, however, clung to him like a voodoo curse.

  10

  Nightfall dropped a curtain over Savannah that evening, ending a long day of operating room drama that ranged from ruptured appendices and walled-off diverticular abscesses to a Billroth II gastric resection for a nasty fungating tumor that had hunkered down in a man's stomach wall. Malcolm's joints ached and his head throbbed but he slogged through it, gloved fingers nimbly working the EGA stapler and tying 3-0 chromic suture knots off like they always did, maintaining focus despite the bright lights in his eyes and rivulets of perspiration that trickled down his back. It was nice to just get in there and work, to focus on solving someone else's problems for a bit. He was made for that sort of thing; years of surgery under sleep-deprived conditions had taught him to appreciate the pure nature of his efforts in what his Chief of Surgery during residency had always called "The Arena of Truth."

  But he was tired.

  He had showered at the hospital, which was atypical. He was usually in a hurry to get home to his family, but he lingered in the locker room this time, knotting his tie once, then twice, as if it made any differ­ence. As he stood fully dressed in front of the mirror he marveled at the wisps of gray at his temples and the crows' feet crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes. He was getting older, no doubt, but that was okay.

  But he knew that, when he got home, he had to tell Amy about everything.

  She would have made dinner for them. She had already called to see when he would be home. Malcolm could hear the gears turning in her head even then. Amy and Mimi would whip up something special for the three of them to enjoy—coq au vin, perhaps, which was one of their favorites. She would light the candles and put on something by Copland or Mozart and they would laugh and enjoy each other's company.

  And then Malcolm would tell them that he was being stalked by a murderer.

  The house at Rose Dhu was alight when he pulled into the driveway.

  How different from last night, he thought, feeling a rush of affection for his wife. The place had been dead without her.

  As he jingled his keys to open the back door, Daisy began barking and the back porch lights flickered on. Before he could fully enter the hallway, he was met headlong by Mimi, who threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.

  "I missed you!" she said.

  "It was only a couple of days, hon," he said.

  "Well, I was worried about you out here all alone. Did you eat?"

  "I did. Can't you tell?"

  She stood back and eyed him, head cocked to one side.

  "I guess so," she said.

  "How was life at the Robertson abode?"

  "Like being in the '60s. They played a lot of Grateful Dead music—or at least I think it was them. Who was that guy? Harry Garcia?" she said.

  "Jerry Garcia. Although he was kinda hairy, if that's what you meant."

  Mimi giggled.

  "Where's your mom?" Malcolm said.

  "In the kitchen finishing up dinner. She got kind of a late start— the fish market was out of grouper, so we had to find something else."

  Malcolm grasped Mimi's hand and the two walked into the kitchen together.

  Amy was ladling something from a saucepan onto a platter. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders.

  "Hi," Malcolm said.

  She whirled around.

  "Gosh, you scared me!" she said. "I was just putting the chutney on the fish."

  "Chutney? What exactly is that again?" he asked.

  She put down the saucepan, wiped her hands on her apron and extended her arms.

  "Come here, you big idiot," she said. "I've missed you."

  They kissed. Malcolm clasped his arms around her slim waist.

  "God, you smell good," he said.

  "It's the fish," she said. "Eau de cod."

  "You didn't have to do this," he said. "I know you're tired."

  "I wanted to do this. I think it is important that we have a family reunion dinner. So there."

  Malcolm plugged his cell phone into the charger and washed his hands.

  "Well, what can I do to help? Give me a job," he said.

  "You and Mimi can make the salad," she said.

  Dinner almost made Malcolm forget about all of the evil things that had seeped into his life over the past few days. He savored the inno­cent smile of his daughter and the clear-eyed affection of his wife as much as he did the food. And the food was wonderful.

  She's every bit as beautiful as she was the day I married her, he thought.

  Malcolm felt a weight like a stone in his
chest.

  Malcolm and Amy never kept secrets from one another. He needed to tell her about what had happened to him while she was gone.

  But not here. Not now. I've got to spare Mimi.

  When dinner had ended, Mimi went to her room to do home­work. Malcolm and Amy were left alone to clean up.

  "Just think, in a few short years it will be like this every night," Amy said. "She'll be off at school, and it will be just the two of us again. Can you handle being with me all by your lonesome?"

  Malcolm smiled.

  "I think I can handle it," he said.

  As they dried the last of the dishes and put them away, Malcolm grabbed Amy's hand.

  "Come into the den with me. There's something I need to tell you," he said.

  Her eyes opened wide.

  "Is everything okay?"

  "Well, yes. And no. Let's go sit down."

  He led her to the overstuffed leather sofa in the den. She sat down. Malcolm closed the door.

  "Drink?" Malcolm asked, standing at the bar.

  "No," she said. "Mal, what's going on?"

  He took a seat opposite her, in an antique wingback chair that the two of them had purchased at an auction in Atlanta years earlier. He remembered sitting in it back then just like he was now, agonizing over whether they could afford it.

  Wish I had that kind of crisis now, he thought.

  He looked at Amy. She was blinking back tears.

  "Is there someone else?" she asked.

  Malcolm's head reeled.

  "What? No, no, of course not. That's not what this is about at all."

  He grasped her hands.

  "Do you remember that cop who came by the house right before you left? And the thing about the neighbor's dog?"

  "The one that someone killed? Snoopy?"

  "Yeah. Snoopy. I called John Pendleton to complain about the dog barking the night before it was killed, remember?" Mal said.

  "I remember."

  "You know that guy that came here that morning? The cop?"

  Amy nodded.

  "He wasn't a cop," Mal said.

  "I don't understand. Was he from animal control or something?"

  "No. I don't think he was who he said he was at all."

  Malcolm then proceeded to tell her everything about what had happened—the break-in, the Kretschinger murder, the police interview, everything.

  By the time it was over, she was crying, her mascara running, eyes red and swollen.

  "Jesus, Mal! Why didn't you tell me all of this when I called you from Atlanta?"

  "All of that stuff was going on with your mom. I didn't think you needed the additional stress."

  "But what if something had happened? What if the guy had killed you and I never saw you again?"

  "Amy, I . . ."

  She slapped at his shoulder with her open palm before burying her mascara-smeared face in her hands.

  When Amy looked up, Malcolm recognized a glint of steel in her gaze. Normally, he liked that look. It was one of the reasons he had married her.

  It scared him a little now.

  "You've always said we were a team," she said.

  "We are."

  "We do things together, we share the burden. Right?"

  "Right."

  "So don't you ever do that again, Malcolm King. I can handle anything you throw at me. We work out these things together from now on. No secrets."

  I underestimated her, he thought, feeling instantly guilty.

  He folded her into his arms.

  "Okay, Ames. Okay."

  He stroked her hair with his hand as he absorbed her sobs, as he felt the ragged shudders of her breathing. Her chest pressed against him. There was the vague patter of her heartbeat and the moist warmth of her tears on his neck and the floral scent of her hair and he held her tightly. He just wanted to hold her right there forever, to tell her that everything was going to be fine, that it was all over, once and for all.

  Only it wasn't.

  There were forces brewing that Mal did not fully understand. He did not know how he knew this, but he knew. He could feel the tension building behind his eyes, deep inside his skull, pressure rising like a smol­dering volcano, its eruption imminent. Something deeper than conscious­ness knew what the pressure meant. Indeed, his animal heart knew the scent and the vague metallic taste of it.

  It was a taste like blood.

  11

  Malcolm called Ben about the answering machine message the following morning as he walked to his car in the doctors' parking area. He told his old friend a little white lie—that he had only discovered the message when Amy came home from Atlanta.

  No reason to raise suspicions, he thought.

  "Is the answering machine digital?" Ben asked.

  "No. It's one of those old-fashioned tape jobs. We've had it for years."

  "Well, bring the tape in. There may be something on it that helps us."

  Malcolm thought that Ben's comment was laced with irony.

  Might help you indict me, he thought. But he had promised his friend one hundred percent access, and he always kept his promises.

  "Any leads?" Malcolm asked. "More reports on fake cops with bright green eyes?"

  "None so far," Ben said. "Although I have to admit that Sam Baker is pretty damn hot on you as a suspect."

  "Sam Baker is an asshole," Malcolm said.

  Ben laughed.

  "Funny that you could pick up on that in a single interview," he said.

  "Believe me, it wasn't all that difficult," Malcolm said.

  They made small talk for a minute or two, during which Malcolm promised to bring the tape by the next day. Ben said he'd be willing to drop by Rose Dhu to pick it up that evening. They agreed to talk later.

  After they hung up, Malcolm plugged his iPhone into the charging cradle and started the car. Within minutes, he found himself trapped in a rolling parking lot on Abercorn Street, a six-lane nightmare of asynchro­nous traffic lights and idiot drivers.

  "Oh, come on," he said as a matronly woman in oversized glasses wedged her gargantuan Lincoln Town Car into the space in front of him.

  He imagined that the size of the Town Car mimicked the size of her ass, and reminded himself not to buy a large car. Ever.

  The traffic ground to a near halt at Montgomery Crossroads. Malcolm saw flashing blue lights ahead. An ambulance sped by, siren wailing.

  Wreck, he thought.

  Malcolm knew at that point that he would be there for a while.

  His thoughts drifted along like flotsam in a flood zone—random, swirling, connecting and re-connecting.

  There has to be a link to Miami in all of this, he thought. But what?

  He thought about Ben's question on multiple personalities. Most cases of multiple personality disorder were the stuff of TV dramas. Mal had never even seen a single case himself in his entire professional career. However, he realized that, in fact, he did not know much more about the disorder than the average layperson. Most of his information was based upon stuff in the mass media.

  I don't think I have multiple personalities. But then again, how would I know?

  At that point, he decided to call Suresh Patel.

  Suresh was a friend. More importantly, he was a Cleveland Clinic-trained psychiatrist, and a damn good one at that.

  Ever compulsive about his phone, Patel answered on the first ring.

  "Hello, Mal. To what do I owe this pleasure? Someone with a self-inflicted gunshot wound, perhaps? Or did you just miss my company?"

  "You are a funny man, you vegetarian bastard. No, actually, this is a different sort of case. How many cases of dissociative personality have you seen?"

  "You mean real ones? Or people just making up shit? Because that is a favorite pseudo-diagnosis for people who are simply making up shit."

  "Real ones. Like Sybil. Like The Three Faces of Eve."

  "One. A single solitary one, in all my career," said Patel.

  "Tell me someth
ing: do the different personalities know what each other are doing? Or can they be completely oblivious to the actions of each other?"

  "At some level, I think that they are likely aware of one another. But consciously? Not usually. For example, one of the personalities can engage in acts that are completely out of character for many of the others—and the others may not even be aware it is happening at all."

  "Even murder?"

  "Absolutely. These are people with poor coping skills to begin with. Murder is not uncommon among them."

  "Hmm," Malcolm said, taking his foot off of the brake. The traffic had started moving again.

  "Do you think you have a real live dissociative? Because your favorite psychiatrist would love to help you untwist that knot," Patel said.

  "Nah, it's just a little tiff I got into with my wife over something we saw on TV. No big deal."

  "So you guys are doing okay?" Patel said.

  "Never better," said Malcolm. "You?"

  "Suri starts at Georgetown in the fall. Pre-law. Can you believe it? I must have been irradiated as a child in order to produce an attorney, for God's sake."

  "Seduced by the dark side," Malcolm said.

  "Ah, but she will likely have a job," Suresh said. "Off the family payroll."

  "Four years at Georgetown undergrad and three years of law school could bankrupt the family payroll," Malcolm said.

  "You are not kidding," Suresh said.

  "Listen, you guys have a great spring break if I don't see you before then," Malcolm said.

  "You do the same," said Suresh. "Take care."

  Malcolm pulled into the St. Joseph's Hospital parking lot. One quick lap appy here and he would head home to Rose Dhu.

  He got out of the car and started walking toward the ER entrance. He could hear the drone of cars on Abercorn as they headed out to parts unknown. The sun was shining brilliantly and cumulus clouds billowed past like gargantuan sailing ships in the sky, ships made of cotton candy and the dreams of small children.

  And then Malcolm saw him.

  The thin man in the broad-brimmed hat—the same one he had seen standing outside his own home—was standing among the verdant banks of azaleas clustered thick along the walls of the hospital.

  "Hey!" said Malcolm.

  The man made a quick movement and then he was gone, just like before, fading from view like a wraith.