In Death's Shadow Page 3

  “Stop her,” the man gasped, doubled over in pain.

  She ran for the other side of the street.

  The car inched forward into her. The bumper caught her on the inside of the leg, caving her knee in. She twisted and vaulted off the hood and away from the car, pain lancing down her leg. Bag flung in the other direction for balance, she stumbled on her high heels and barely dodged a pickup truck. The policeman’s whistle screamed. People on both sides of the sidewalk gathered and stared. She fled past another car and then up the sidewalk and through the crowd to the cafeteria building. She drove open the door and once inside bent down, slipped off the high heels, and ran barefoot through the crowd. Looking back, she didn’t see her assailant.

  Down halls and shadow-strewn concrete ramps she ran, until panting for breath she found a women’s bathroom. She shoved the door open and stumbled inside. No one was there. She rushed into a stall, closed the door, dropped her shoes and bag, sat down on the toilet, and barely smothered a scream. She beat her fist against the metal wall. Her body shook. Damn them. Her wrists stung.

  Her jaws clenched, she fought to hold back memories, images clothed in hatred—violence. But the terror burst through, becoming a blur of hallucinated sounds so vivid she jerked her head to the side and was lost in agony, her current reality inundated by memories so real she felt she was there—again.

  The crack of a fired pistol, her father’s roar of anger, another shot, and then silence. Then she huddled in bed, a small, frightened, twelve-year-old in a dark room. Terrified by the gunshot, she clutched a blanket to her chest.

  A door squeaked open. Ree bolted upright, remembered where she was, and peered through the crack in between the stall and the door to catch a glimpse of a woman in blue jeans with a backpack over her shoulder. A moment later, Ree heard the sound of water running in a sink.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly like the counselor had taught her to do whenever her memories became too real. Another breath. Her shaking subsided. Her heart slowed. The bathroom door closed with a bang.

  Why couldn’t they leave her alone? She felt violated. Shoving up the sleeve of Harry’s coat, she looked at her wrist. There were red marks where the man had clutched her. She tugged the sleeve back down and cursed.

  The men who had broken into her apartment obviously knew she went to school. But how? Harry? No, Harry didn’t know to tell. It must have been Denny, Susie’s boyfriend—that bastard. Susie had told him. They knew she worked at the Bare Nights.

  Who could she trust? With her life divided, she had no real friends. Denise? Denise lived with her parents, as many students at Georgia State did. The girl would be shocked just to learn that Ree stripped for a living.

  She unlocked the stall and glanced at the mirror. Her pupils looked huge. She splashed cold water on her face and then finally pulled open the bathroom door.

  She paused and studied the people in the hallway. Seeing only youthful students, she hurried to an outside exit and then round the back of the building to the automatic teller machine. Using her card, she withdrew two hundred dollars. She got change at the cafeteria and rounded the corner to the phones.

  Harry was out. Ree gritted her teeth and left a message for him. She exited the building in the midst of a large group, followed the students to the rapid rail, and paid her way to Lenox Mall. She stayed in the middle of the crowd. There was safety in the bodies that surrounded her, but it did not keep her from turning to see if anyone followed her or feeling the hair on the back of her neck bristling.

  On board, she found her usual seat at the back of the train car and sat by herself. She forced her attention to the ordinary, trying to ignore the memories, the seething fear inside her. Opening her bag, she pulled out a scrap of paper and scribbled a list. She needed underwear, socks, some tights, another blouse, and comfortable shoes (instead of high heels).

  She could not go to the club, and with that thought her mind screamed. She almost had a degree, a new life. Lee Abu, the dancer, was soon to disappear and be replaced by Kara-Ree Andrews, the honor-roll student. What did the men want?

  Why had they grabbed her? Her body tensed at the memory. She felt herself sinking. She took another deep breath, but it clung in her chest. Darkness swirled in her mind, and she heard the gunshot again, the yell of her father. Her mind filled with the vision of the man who had invaded her bedroom.

  A bandanna hid his face. He held a gun. He smelled of sweat. He lunged for her, pried her fingers from the blanket she huddled under, and forced her arms behind her back. She struggled, fighting to keep free, but with one hand holding her, he struck her across the face with the other. Blood trickled down her lip into her mouth. She tasted its iron sickness and went limp with fear. He tied her wrists with rope.

  The train screeched as it slowed for the station. The sound broke the grip of her terror. Shaken, Ree let the breath out as slow as she could. Sweat dripped down her sides. She looked at the list in her hand. The paper was crushed into a wad.

  For a weekday, the mall was busy, filled with women. The shops were full of bright and soft-to-the-touch clothing. Ree walked with her head down. Seeing her attackers might loose the terror inside her again and send her screaming to the floor.

  On impulse she went into the first store she saw, a sporting goods place. She bought the sharpest knife she could find. Outside the store, she pulled the knife out, threw away the cardboard backing, and put the knife into her bag. She clutched the bag tight, felt the reassuring bulk of the weapon.

  She bought herself a late lunch in the food court. High above her, a myriad of metal struts supported a corrugated metal roof and skylights that let in only gray gloom. The day had clouded into overcast. Finished eating, she browsed through the endless walkways of the mall, buying the clothes she would need. The shoes cost too much. The tights were black with stirrups. She changed into the tights and studied herself in the dressing-room mirror. They fit. Satisfied, she glanced at her watch and started. She had told Harry to meet her at seven. It was ten after. She hurriedly paid for the clothes and ran for the exit, hoping he was outside waiting for her. She wondered if he was gay.

  Gone. The room was empty.

  Harry peered into the bathroom. No one. On the kitchen counter was a note. It said: “Thanks, Lee.” The writing was small and neat with all the letters rounded. He read it, crumpled it, cursed it, and threw it in the trash. A look at his watch sent him rushing for the door.

  Traffic was light. He made good time, arriving in the office and to his desk before the Dragon Lady even managed to ask anyone where he was. He picked up the morning’s faxes from his in-box, read lead sentences, and threw away the one’s that didn’t tell him anything. Then he went to the mailed releases and did the same. He wanted to toss the pile over the shoulder-high gray walls of his cubicle. Instead, he pushed them to the side.

  Nothing he could do would make this a better job. He grimaced and listlessly sifted through the remaining papers, hoping for something interesting. He couldn’t focus on the type in front of him. He needed a real story. Finally, he gave up and punched a button on his phone.

  Several rings later a familiar voice answered. “O’Heartlan.”

  “Hey, Sarge.”

  “What you want today, Harry?” the man said, the warmth in his voice belying the unfriendly words.

  “You hear anything about a dancer that keeled over at the Bare Nights Club?” Harry said.

  “What you need?”

  “Well, for starters, did she die, and if so, how about cause of death?”

  There was a momentary pause, the sound of papers shuffling across a desk, and then a tapping of keys. “Yep, she died. Initial report was heart attack.”

  “Hmm.”

  “So what’s it to you? You transferred back to the police desk?”

  “No such luck. Thought there might be a story; might look into it
.”

  “A stripper having a heart attack? You’re grasping at straws,” O’Heartlan said.

  Harry grimaced. “Story of my life, Sarge. I mean, she was young, in good shape. I could tell. Shouldn’t be having a heart attack.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Should she?” Harry said.

  “Look,” O’Heartlan finally said, “I’m glad you’re into something. You’ve been floating around like scum on a pond ever since the divorce. But this is not it. As a friend, I’m telling you, those dancers are trouble. If they aren’t high on something, they’re naturally off in left field.”

  “Probably right,” Harry said. “You keeping the case open?”

  “Least you’re back to the old Harry. Never listen to anyone. Why don’t you go bother some white cop with all these questions, huh?”

  “Hey, Sarge, just asking, and you know I’d never bother anybody but you. You’re my main line.” Harry could almost hear O’Heartlan shaking his head.

  “All right. Somebody would have gone over to her place; let me look.” There was a pause. “Says here that a couple of officers went to the dancer’s apartment. The door was open…That was probable cause, so they went inside. The place was all torn up, as if it had been searched. We’ve posted a ‘be on the lookout’ to the squad cars for the roommate, but no sign of her as yet.”

  Puzzled, Harry frowned. “Any indication of why the place had been searched?”

  “No. That’s what we’ll ask the roommate if we find her, but the dancer died of natural causes. With no roommate, there’s nobody to complain about a break-in. Besides, we got bigger problems than a stripper who probably had three diseases and was doped up on cocaine and drops dead from a heart attack. The games are coming up, and the security requirements are fantastic. I got another meeting this morning. Do a story on that if you want to write something.”

  “Yeah right, just wondered. Anything else happening?”

  “Nothing but the usual. There was a guy died doin’ it to his girlfriend. His wife about tore me up.”

  Harry smiled. “Serves you right. If you’d been doing your job, upholding the peace and honor of the community, he’d have been home in his own bed. Let me know if you hear anything more about that dancer.”

  “Sure, Harry, but I doubt it. I’ll check with the guys that went to her place.”

  “Uh-huh. Call me, and thanks, buddy.”

  The phone went to dial tone. Harry leaned back in his chair. It squeaked.

  Picking up a pen, he scribbled down on a sheet of paper what he knew. The roommate was young and died from a heart attack. That was strange but not unheard of, he guessed. Probably the people that searched the apartment were the one’s he’d seen. What were they looking for in there? Was it related to the woman’s death? He shrugged. Didn’t know. Lee said she didn’t know them. She didn’t want to be around the police, but she didn’t drink and didn’t seem to have any interest in prostitution. She had seemed frightened by the men in her apartment. She took off in the morning without a word. He hadn’t hassled her.

  The roommate and drugs? Would that make a story? He shook his head. Still, O’Heartlan had warned him away. That was a good sign.

  He started sorting through his in-box again and came up with a news release about a local group promoting child safety. It would be meeting at 9:30 in a nearby hospital. If he went, he would be out of the office before the Dragon noticed he had come in to work, and even better, he’d be out on an assignment she would approve of. Always good to keep the Dragon happy, particularly since she was the editor.

  He shoved a notepad into his pocket, told the receptionist his destination, and went out the door into the windy gray of late Atlanta winter. He pulled his coat close and hurried to his car. The drive wasn’t long enough for the heater to warm the car.

  Harry sat in the last row, rubbed his growling stomach, and watched the speaker. He didn’t bother to listen. He’d reconstruct a story from the fact sheets he’d been given. Instead, he began to line up in his mind what he would do next.

  The meeting ended, and he strolled through the hotel-like atrium of the hospital to the exit. The parking lot was full; the wind, still brisk and cool. He got in the old Chevy and drove across the street to a service station and started placing calls to contacts. It was a long list in a worn pocket notebook, people he’d worked with on stories, people who knew things or knew how to find them out, other cops. It was a contact list every reporter kept. For the first time in months, he felt energized. He was doing something.

  The club, the Bare Nights, turned out to be owned by one Billy Gardener. Further research revealed the man owned several clubs, dancing and otherwise, and that he had been investigated. He appeared to be legit or as legit as you could be in that business. No ties with drugs.

  One theory with a strike against it. Had the roommate been killed so they could search the apartment? No, they said natural causes. Something was wrong here.

  Too much coincidence. Harry scratched his head, returned to his car, and drove back to his office. Strolling in casually, he picked up a message, and his breath quickened as he read it. Lee wanted to meet him that night. He was to pick her up in the parking lot at Lenox Mall.

  He went to his desk and scowled at his own reaction. Was it the story or something else, some fool fantasy? She was beautiful in an exotic sort of way, especially when he’d seen her all wrapped up in the afghan, her face soft with sleep. But she’d left without explanation. Maybe O’Heartlan was right—trouble. He scratched at his head, rubbed his jaw. He’d spent half the morning looking for leads, and it had felt good. A real story could land him a job with a paper, not a rag. Lee might know the answers. How could it hurt to go pick her up at a shopping center?

  He spent the rest of the day calling in favors. By late afternoon, the police report was complete. He learned that Lee’s name was Lee Abu, though some called her Ree, and she hadn’t been found. He didn’t tell them he knew where she would be that evening. There was no warrant for her. He leaned back in his chair to consider what he’d learned and then had to reach for an incoming call. It was his friend Bill from the Atlanta papers.

  “Were you there when that dancer died?” the man asked, his voice agitated.

  Harry hesitated before answering. “Yeah.”

  “We’re running a story in the morning. The health department is investigating the death.”

  “Oh? How come?” Harry’s heart quickened.

  “There’ve been several similar deaths. Fact, the CDC has been called, a Dr. Rendon to be exact. Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “No,” he said, keeping the interest out of his voice as well as the sudden chill he’d felt. “I asked around, too. The woman collapsed on the floor, and that was it.”

  “Huh, too bad. Well, just thought you should know. Could be the start of an epidemic, but the health department downplayed the whole thing. Said probably coincidence. You think we ought to go see a doctor? We were there.”

  Harry took a deep breath. “Wouldn’t think so,” he said. “They didn’t say it was something catching, right?”

  “They didn’t say much of anything.”

  “Right—oh, wait a minute, Bill.” Harry sat forward in his chair. “You got the number for this CDC doc?”

  Harry scribbled the number down and hung up the phone. He tried the CDC number. No answer, but voicemail. That was too bad. He was going to ask about whether it could be caught or not. He didn’t leave a message. Either way it thickened the soup. The clock changed digits to a six, and Harry, startled by the lateness, bolted for his car. Between a stop at the instant-burgers place and traffic, he arrived at the mall at five to seven. The sun had disappeared. Lee’s message said she’d be on the outskirts of the lot on the Peachtree side.

  When he got there, she was nowhere in sight. He parked next to the retaini
ng wall and turned on the radio. Ten minutes of advertisements later, she still had not shown. The shadows were heavy; several of the lights, out. A good place for a mugging, he decided and looked around. He saw no one near.

  Irritated with waiting, he got out of the car and scanned the area. This far from the mall buildings, there were few cars, fewer people, and no sign of Lee or Ree Abu or whoever the hell she was. What a strange name.

  He turned to look behind him. A fist slammed into his stomach. He doubled over and gasped for breath.

  Fulton County Health Department faces Grady Hospital. For the poor, health services are four lanes apart. The street between is crowded, narrowed by illegally parked cars and buses. While Grady is in the business of patching the wounded, the health department strives to prevent illness before it occurs. Grady’s emergency rooms have waiting lines.

  The room inside the health department was small, square, and dominated by a rectangular table. The walls looked to be plaster with painted-over cracks. A fluorescent light hummed. Dr. Thomas Rendon loosened his tie and brushed a length of blond hair back from his forehead. The air in the room felt hot. To his side sat Michael Turken, the medical examiner for Fulton and Dekalb Counties, his elongated face lengthened even further by a yawn. He was a tall, thin man, almost as tall as Rendon. He had just come in from another meeting. His white shirt looked rumpled.

  “What’s the situation?” Turken asked.

  Rendon stared at the stack of papers in front of him. “Six dead. All unexpected. They were young and on the whole healthy. At the time of death, they were all engaging in some kind of exercise.”

  “New cases?”

  “We’ve called all the hospitals,” Rendon said and pointed at the stack of papers. “The case definition is so broad we’re picking up hundreds of possibles. We don’t have enough information to narrow it.”