In Death's Shadow

  In Death’s Shadow

  In Death’s Shadow

  Stephen Crane Davidson

  Copyright © 2015 Authored By Stephen Crane Davidson

  Originally published as

  ISBN: 1507767595

  Dancing Willow Publications

  Publication Date: late 8/00

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 13: 9781507767597

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901641

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  Contents

  Prologue: January 1994

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Afterword

  Prologue: January 1994

  The orchids burst bright from the muted green rain forest. With a swat at a mosquito, the scientist turned and hurried to the first of a series of linked buildings that wound through the buttress roots of the trees. He froze, almost stumbling at the sound of a crackling noise from behind him in the woods. Everyone else had left except for him. The clandestine lab was well hidden, far from humanity. He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead, turned, and peered into the gloom between the web of trees. Nothing. God, he was ready to go. The noise must have been an armadillo creeping through the floor-level debris. He stepped up to the door, took one last look behind him, twisted the doorknob, and pushed. The hinges creaked. Everything rusted. Entering the lab, he stopped in front of the laminar flow hood and scowled down at the sealed package of white powder. It was a major scientific breakthrough, yet there would be no published papers. It had taken his team two years. And for what? To kill people? Only for good cause, he told himself again. Only when it would save lives in the long run. That’s what he was told. He reached through the air wall and picked up the packet. Why couldn’t he believe it was necessary? Who would really be responsible? The hood vent’s fan droned, and suddenly, he wanted out of the lab. He picked up a shockproof plastic container and fitted the packet into it. This he slid into his oversized jacket pocket. Staring at the dark computer screen as he walked past, he opened the door and lurched backward, trying to stop. For a second, he stared at the man, the long, black barrel of the rifle. The gun roared. The blast slammed the scientist back into the room. He landed hard on the floor and rolled to the side.

  The container slipped loose from his pocket and skittered across the room. His glasses fell to the floor. In shock, he stared down at the blood that poured from his chest. A moment later, searing pain jolted through his mind. He blacked out for a second and then opened his eyes to see the killer pick up the container with the powder and go into the lab. The scientist tried to scream, to stop the thief, but only a whispered groan came from his mouth.

  He crawled toward the computer. Blood spilled on the floor beneath him. He pulled himself up, turned the machine on, and tried to type in the order to destroy the facility. He could barely see the keys.

  He had to stop the man. The computer beeped, and an error message came up on the screen. Where were his glasses?

  He gasped for air and coughed blood. Forcing himself, he typed in the destruct command again and began the ID-code verification that would complete the process.

  Behind him came the sound of boots racing toward the room. The footsteps grew closer. Silence.

  One more series of numbers. He typed in the first digit before the impact of the shot threw him forward. The screen shattered. He couldn’t breathe. Then there was blackness.

  Three months later in Atlanta, Georgia, Joseph A. Woolbanks III, junior partner in the downtown Atlanta law firm Horendorf and Shaken, finished tying his running shoes and scanned his personal calendar: nothing tonight, so no need to hurry, but Saturday Elaine was giving a party. Woolbanks frowned. Elaine’s parties, or at least the coke he always ended up using at them, were one of his few bad habits.

  It had not been so long since her last party. Standing, he began his stretching routine. He considered not going to the party and decided not to decide. Five minutes later, he went out the door of his midtown condo, being sure to lock it. Above, the clouds threatened rain.

  It would feel good to run again. A slight touch of the flu had kept him in for the last couple of days. Perhaps because he had been sick, his breath came hard early in the run. He even felt a touch nauseated. Cars sped past on their way up Piedmont Avenue.

  Running on the sidewalk in deference to the heavy traffic, he stopped and helped an old bag lady get her cart up the curb cut. She gave him a suspicious look. He started back jogging. One more curve and he would see Ansley Mall. Without warning, he felt dizzy. He slowed, considered stopping and going home, but instead kept running. Not too much further. Moments later, his breath came harder, and he felt wrong.

  The world narrowed—blackness on all sides, vision tunneling. He stumbled and a crushing pain smashed down on his chest. His mind reeled with fear and confusion. As if from a distance, he felt himself falling.

  From somewhere far away came the sound of a horn, screeching brakes, and then hard metal slammed into him.

  Woolbanks was pronounced dead at Grady Memorial Hospital on Wednesday evening at 7:30 p.m. Both the ambulance team and the emergency-room staff attempted resuscitation, to no avail.

  The ambulance’s trip report indicated he had been jogging, fell into traffic, and was run over.

  The medical examiner shook his head at the death. The car had not killed the man. Woolbanks had been young and in good health. What could have caused his heart to fail? It was a busy day at Grady.

  Miles north of the downtown public hospital, Elaine Gaines, a well-liked advertising executive, was admitted to Piedmont Hospital. Also young and in good health, she had been doing aerobics at the Silver Legged Lady Spa when she apparently passed out.

  Witnesses testified that Gaines stood still a moment, looked disoriented, and then fell face-first to the floor. The ambulance was called immediately. Staff from the spa attempted CPR with no apparent effect. Elaine Gaines had no history of heart problems. The suspected diagnosis was acute myocardial infarction. She died without regaining consciousness.

  Later that evening, one of the staff at the spa found a broken necklace with a small heart-shaped pendant attached to it on the floor where Elaine had collapsed. He took it to the front office and left it with the receptionist.

  Etched on the pendant were two columns of matched numbers that looked meaningless. The receptionist placed the necklace in a desk drawer with other lost-and-found items. Now that the ambulance and police had gone, the place had quieted down.

  She thought about the tickets she had for the Georgia Games. Soon she’d be seeing the best archers in the world.

  The wheels of the bureaucracy began to roll as early as that evening. The deaths were documented as “unexpected”: the victims, too young. Later Woolbanks and Gaines would be identified as the
second and third deaths. The first death, known as the index case, had occurred several hours earlier, in fact, shortly after five in an Atlanta strip club. They all had died of heart attacks.

  One

  Harry Adams glanced at his watch and suppressed a scowl. It was just nearing five o’clock. Outside the sun would still be shining. He sat in a large, dark room with an oval-shaped bar in the middle and three raised stages, one just to the side of the table where he fidgeted in his chair. Across the table from Adams, Bill Stern pulled out a cigarette and lit it with the bar’s matches. The burning cigarette dangled from a round face with a flattened fat nose. Stern started to put the matches in his coat pocket, looked at the garishly scrawled name on the front, and dropped the book on the table as if it was diseased.

  “Glad you made it, Harry. Figured you’d need cheering,” Stern said.

  Nodding in response, Harry’s gaze turned to the dancer on the stage behind Stern. She had frizzy, shoulder-length blond hair surrounding a tan face that tapered further to a fragile chin. Her eyes shone black. She’d just taken off a swath of yellow Day-Glo cloth. She caught his glance and smiled at him.

  More uncomfortable, Harry looked back at his friend. “Yeah, sure, thanks. Never been to one of these places before.”

  Either missing the sarcasm or ignoring it, Bill nodded. “You ought to. See that girl dancing?” He pointed to the woman Harry had noticed a moment before. “That’s Lee. You’d like her.”

  “Sure.” Dubious, Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest. Bill was an old friend from journalism school, and he did work for the Atlanta paper—a better place to work than the dead-end rag where Harry worked.

  Stern leaned forward, his stomach pressing against the table. “Listen, Harry, getting divorced isn’t the end of the world. You gotta start getting out, doing things.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Harry shrugged. “Guess you’re right. It’s just, you know…”

  Bill’s gaze strayed to the dancer. The woman was slowly dancing. Harry stared at the table. Bill really didn’t want to hear what Harry felt. Nobody did, but Bill was right. It was time to get out and kick butt.

  Bill stood and went over to the dancer, who obligingly bent over to whisper to him and then let him slip two five-dollar bills into her garter. She kissed him on the cheek.

  “She’ll come back here when she’s done,” Bill said when he returned. He touched his cheek. “Did she get lipstick on me? My wife would kill me if she knew I was here. And you never know what these girls have—know what I mean?”

  “Must have missed.” Harry shook his head reassuringly though his thoughts took a different turn. No, there was no lipstick—no evidence and no disease, not that you’d catch much from a kiss on the cheek. The woman continued dancing. What the hell was he doing there?

  The music ended, and in a moment, clothed of sorts, Lee stepped over to their table and sat next to Bill, her bare leg pressed against his. She smelled of a musky perfume that combined awkwardly with the stale-beer odor of the bar.

  “Bring me a new friend?” she asked Stern.

  “Sure, baby. Meet Harry, good buddy of mine. Take care of him for me tonight, will ya. He just got divorced and needs a friend.”

  Harry’s eyes widened.

  Lee tilted her head and looked Harry over for a moment. Harry forced a smile, and then his eyes widened further as Bill stood.

  “Got to get home now. Wife’s expecting me, but, Lee, why don’t you dance for Harry?” He stuffed two more fives into the girl’s hand.

  “But—” Harry objected, but Bill was already gone.

  Lee produced a crooked smile. “Bill’s a regular of mine. I always dance for him; then he tells me about the stories he writes. What do you do, sweetie? You look like you might be a gay Chilean salsa dancer.”

  Harry blinked. “Uh no, reporter, but I work for the Stone Mountain Village Chronicle.”

  “Oh? Not Chilean?” she said and cocked her head slightly.

  Harry opened his mouth to respond and then chose better.

  “So why’d you get divorced, sweet?”

  He stared at her.

  She reached over and touched his cheek. “You can talk to me, sweet; everybody does.”

  “Regular social worker for gay dancers, huh?”

  Her face lost expression for a second, and then she grinned impishly. “You were mean, weren’t you, Harry?”

  He shifted in his chair. The music came on, a piece not as fast as the others. Harry glanced over and watched in surprise as the dancer on the stage suddenly clutched her hands to her chest. Her face contorted to a look of agony. Her head whipped back. A moment later she collapsed to the floor, crumpled in a lifeless pile. Brilliant strobes highlighted the sprawled, naked body. The woman’s skin grew whiter with each pulse of light.

  People rushed toward the stage. Lee faltered and then ran through the crowd. Harry followed her and stopped behind her when she squirmed through to where the dancer had fallen. Someone tried CPR. Harry could see no effect.

  Lee wobbled, and he grabbed her shoulders and held her upright. She started to pull away and then looked back, her eyes wide with fear. The body on the floor was a pasty white.

  “Who is it?” Harry asked.

  “My roommate, Susie,” she said, her voice so soft he had to bend over to hear her.

  “Somebody better call an ambulance.”

  She pulled away from him and ran to the back of the room. A large man pushed through, picked the woman up, and headed through the crowd. The music started again, a fast-paced, loud song. Another dancer stood in the strobe.

  People headed for the door. Curious, Harry started asking questions, a reporter’s disease. No one knew anything more than he did. She’d been dancing, stopped, and fell over. He went to ask one of the waitresses what she thought when he felt a huge hand grab him by the shoulder and turn him around. Harry looked up to see the owner of the hand.

  “Hands” squinted at Harry from a broad face with a thin scar on the right cheek. “How come you’re asking so many questions?”

  Harry tried unsuccessfully to slide out of the man’s grip. “Just curious.”

  “Let him go, Evan. He’s OK.” Carrying a huge pink bag, Lee came up beside Harry and gestured to Evan. The man dropped his hand. Lee’s makeup was streaked with jagged-edged lines. She turned away from Harry to face the bouncer.

  “Jimmie said I could go, but he’s got to stay for the police,” she said. “Do you know anyone who can drive me?”

  “I’ll call you a—”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” Harry said without thinking and stepped around to be in between Lee and Hands.

  She looked at him coolly. The bouncer stepped closer.

  “Here,” Harry said and gave the bouncer his business card. “I’ll just take her home and leave her there. That’s all. You’ve got my card. You’d know where to find me.”

  Lee studied him, her eyes softening a little. “I guess…since Bill likes you. But all I want is a ride.”

  “Sure,” Harry said and smiled, though her cold look had been chilling. Maybe there’d be a story in the other dancer’s death. How could it hurt to drive her home?

  Lee put her hand on the bouncer’s arm. “It’s all right, Evan. I know him.” She stuck her hand into her bag and pulled out a large roll of money. Peeling off two tens, she handed them to Evan. “Here’s the tip out, sweet. Share it, will you.”

  The bouncer nodded.

  Harry took a moment to consider the amount of money that had just changed hands, started toward the door, and then turned to Lee. “How is your roommate?”

  “Dead,” Lee answered.

  The office was on the eighteenth floor of the Alren Building in downtown Atlanta. The room had wall-to-wall gray carpeting. No plaques, paintings, or decorations of any kind hung from the uniform white of the w
alls. A desk, a couple of chairs, and a computer table completed the furnishings. The office looked skeletal, as if the owners had moved out and left only what they could not carry. It was an easy office to scan for electronic listening devices. The wide expanse of window, half curtained now, looked off to rolling wooded hills and the low granite dome of Stone Mountain. The sun had set just moments before.

  In front of the curtained part of the window, Joseph Ferenzi leaned back with his booted feet on the desk. His long, muscular legs filled the gray wool pants he wore. His chest was large; his face, square, with a jutting jaw and thin lips.

  He spoke into the phone.

  “Your suspicions were right, Mr. Baylor. There are people and supplies moving out of the Middle East. Given the timing, I believe the target has to be the Georgia Games. But whether before or during, I can’t tell yet. Need more time, and I’ll need you to transfer another fifty, too, so I can keep up this level of surveillance.”

  With a smile that changed to a set, patient look, Ferenzi listened and then responded again. “Yeah, I talked to the people on the Georgia Games Committee. They’re putting in a high-tech, multimillion-dollar security system. They think that takes care of it. We’ll get no support there. If we’re going to stop a disaster, we’ll have to do it ourselves. You’ve got to have feet on the ground.”

  Ferenzi scowled. “I don’t need the agency to help—”

  The scowl deepened. “Yes, sir,” he said into the phone. “I’ll meet him at the airport, but I don’t think it’s a good idea involving them. If I have to remove some people to prevent a disaster, the agency will just get in the way.”

  Ferenzi put his feet down. “Yes, I’ll get back to you within the week.”

  He hung up the phone. “Son of a bitch.”

  He got up and strode from the office, scowl still curdling his face. His sports coat bulged under his arm from the 9-millimeter automatic he had holstered there.

  His scowl had disappeared before he reached the elevators. A stranger who saw him would have thought he was a businessman. With hard features and small, cold blue eyes, he looked a man who would drive a dear bargain.