“I’m okay,” Caleb replied, as he tried to locate the receding figure on the opposite sidewalk.
“That was a nasty tumble,” another man said. “You sure you’re okay?”
Straining to see over the heads of those who’d gathered around him, Caleb brushed himself off. “I’m okay,” he repeated.
“Sorry!” He quickly tossed the word in the direction of the driver who’d struck him, and limped to the opposite curb, leaving the small crowd of people standing in the middle of stopped traffic, shaking their heads and commenting to one another.
“That’s one lucky guy.”
“He must be crazy.”
“What an idiot.”
Caleb ignored their comments.
“ELLIE!” he yelled again as he reached the opposite curb.
Caleb looked around desperately, but the young woman with the bouncing auburn hair was nowhere in sight.
Dodging pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk, he hobbled as fast as he could in the direction she’d been heading. When he reached the busy corner, he looked in all directions. There were people everywhere. He started in several directions, but stopped. Which way should he go?
It was no use. She was gone, swallowed up in the sea of humanity.
Acutely aware of the pain in both legs now, he slowly limped back to the cafe to retrieve his brief case. Thankfully, it was still under the table where he’d left it.
He sat down to catch his breath. The waiter brought him a fresh glass of water and asked if he was all right. Assuring the man that he was, Caleb drained the glass in one long gulp. Then he pulled out his cell phone and called B.J.
“B.J.,” Caleb shouted into his phone as soon as his friend answered. “I saw her!”
There was a pause on the other end. “Caleb? What are you talking about? Saw who?”
“Ellie. I just saw Ellie!”
There was an even longer pause. “Caleb, where are you? Are you still in Atlanta? At the cemetery?”
“Yeah, I’m in Atlanta. But not at the cemetery. I’m downtown. And I just saw Ellie across the street.”
B.J.’s voice still seemed hesitant. “Um . . . you saw Ellie? What made you think it was her?”
“Are you kidding?” Caleb’s voice rose an octave. “Of course it was her. I’d know her anywhere. That hair. The way it bounces. It was her, B.J. I’m telling you, it was her.”
“Did you get a good look at her? I mean, if she was way across the street from you, maybe it was just someone who looked a lot like her.”
Caleb fought back frustration. “I know it sounds strange, but it was her. I’m positive, B.J. She’s alive!” His exclamation was met with a long silence. “B.J.? You still there?”
B.J. spoke slowly. “Um, Caleb, do you realize what you’re saying? I’m afraid that couldn’t have been Ellie you saw, pal. She’s at the Woodlawn Cemetery, remember? We all visited her together.”
Caleb placed his free hand over his other ear and leaned forward on both elbows. He fought to control his voice. “Listen, I know it sounds crazy, but I got a good look at her. Remember what I told you about her father? Maybe he really did fake her obituary and forge her death certificate.”
“But what about her grave, Caleb? Are you telling me he faked her burial, too? You saw the marker yourself.”
“I know I did. But what if that was a fake, too? It’s possible. Anyway, I can’t deny what I just saw with my own two eyes.”
“I’m sure you saw someone who looked a lot like Ellie. The spitting image of her, maybe. I wish it could be her, too, pal. But we have to face the facts. Ellie’s gone, and you need to move on. That’s all there is to it. I’m sorry.”
“Well, don’t believe me, then,” he huffed. “But I’m going to prove you wrong. You just wait and see.” Caleb disconnected the call and leaned back in his chair. He slowly let the air escape from his lungs. What now? What should he do?
The waiter returned and refilled his glass. After taking another long drink, he sat there chewing his lower lip and pondering his next move. Suddenly his phone rang. It was his father.
“Caleb?” His father’s voice sounded worried. “Son, are you all right? I just got a call from B.J. He said you seemed to be in some sort of crisis.”
“Crisis? No, Dad, I’m not in a crisis. But you won’t believe what just happened.”
He told his father everything he had witnessed a few minutes earlier. “What do you make of it, Dad? What do you think I should do?”
“Well,” his father began slowly, “why don’t you go back to your hotel room for the time being and take it easy. I’ll leave right away and drive up there to meet you.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Caleb protested. “Besides, I’m already checked out.”
“Then why don’t you wait where you are and I’ll meet you there.”
“Dad, I’m fine. I’m not crazy,” he assured his father. “I’m not having a mental or emotional breakdown. I know what I saw.”
Always the diplomat, his father replied, “I believe you, son. But if you don’t want me to come up there to Atlanta, maybe I could meet you at your apartment. When do you think you’ll get back?”
“I’ll call you when I’m about an hour out, okay? How’s that?” His father reluctantly agreed.
Caleb limped back to his car in the underground parking lot. His legs were really hurting now. That car must have hit him harder than he first thought. As he got behind the wheel, he noticed the flowers he’d bought earlier that afternoon.
Maybe B.J. was right. Maybe it was only someone who looked like Ellie.
After all, isn’t it true that every person in the world has a double?
But no, this was no double he’d seen. It was her, all right.
He wasn’t going to let anyone convince him otherwise. And he would prove them wrong. Somehow. Instead of heading straight home, he decided to swing by the cemetery and place the flowers on Ellie’s grave. After all, that’s what he’d bought them for.
It was after six when Caleb drove into Woodlawn Cemetery and made his way up the winding road to the Pine Hill section. Parking where his father had parked the last time they were here, he grabbed the flowers and limped up the rise to Ellie’s grave.
The first thing he noticed as he approached the plot was that the newly planted grass was now a thick luxurious carpet of grass and weeds. The second thing he noticed were the withered remains of the bouquets his family had left behind. No one had bothered to remove them.
The white cross with the wreath was gone. In its place was a black polished granite headstone set flush with the ground. It was nothing elaborate, but at least Ellie’s father had kept his word.
As he stared at the inscription his blood ran cold.
AUBREY LYNN SELKIRK
March 7, 1936 – January 14, 2018
Stunned, Caleb stared at the block of stone under his feet.
That couldn’t be right. He must have the wrong plot. He looked around. There was the old knotty pine to the left, now more dead than alive. No, this was the place. No mistake about it.
Then why had they replaced Ellie’s marker with the headstone of a stranger? Was she somewhere else? In another section, perhaps? In an unmarked grave?
And what about seeing her downtown less than two hours ago? If that was really her, then she wouldn’t be here anyway. He’d lost her in the rush hour crowd, and now he’d lost her in the cemetery as well.
Feeling extremely uneasy, he left the bouquet and got back in his car. He sat there for about five minutes, wondering what to do. Should he go home, like he promised? Or stay in Atlanta overnight and look into this latest mystery personally?
Caleb left the motel around nine in the morning and drove back to the cemetery office. It was a small building off the frontage road about a quarter mile past the main entrance. As he pulled into the small gravel lot, he saw a sign on the door.
Office Hours: 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM
It was nine-fifteen, and no one was there. Go f
igure.
While waiting for someone to arrive, he thought about the call to his parents the previous evening. His father had not been happy with his decision to remain in Atlanta. But he’d convinced him that he needed to resolve this in person, now rather than later.
Twenty minutes passed before a small sedan pulled up next to the office. A woman in her mid-fifties with graying hair got out, and after glancing in his direction, disappeared into the building. He gave her a few minutes, and then he entered the office. The narrow room looked like it hadn’t been updated since the seventies.
Wood paneling covered the walls, and the green sculptured carpet was faded and worn from years of sunlight and foot traffic. A faint odor of mildew hung over the room. After seeing the lack of maintenance outside, he wasn’t surprised.
“May I help you?” The woman looked at him over a pair of gold reading glasses.
“Yes. I’m Caleb Sawyer, and I think there’s been a mix up with a couple of headstones,” he began. He went on to explain what he’d discovered the previous evening.
The woman cocked her head to one side and stared at him. “And where exactly did this alleged mix up take place?”
“Um . . . plot seventy-four. In the Pine Hill section.”
She spun around in her chair and rummaged through a file cabinet against the wall behind her desk. She pulled out a single folder and turned back and plopped it down in front of her.
“What did you say the name of the deceased was again?” She leaned over and peered intently into the file.
“Elinor A. Thompson.”
The woman frowned. She looked up at Caleb over the top of her glasses again. “You’re sure about that?”
“Yes I’m sure.” He returned her frown.
“And you’re sure the location is in the Pine Hill section, plot number seventy-four?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him. “Well I can assure you that no one by that name is buried there. Our records show that an Aubrey L. Selkirk was interred there on January fourteenth of this year. That plot and the one next to it were purchased by her family over twenty years ago.”
Caleb couldn’t believe his ears. “But I stood at that very plot on February twenty-first with my family and best friend. We all saw the marker. And it said ‘Elinor A. Thompson.’ There’s got to be a mistake. Perhaps the grounds crew accidentally switched the headstones.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” the woman spoke up quickly. “Those kinds of things almost never happen in this business. We’re required by state and federal law to keep very accurate records, you know.”
“But there must be some mistake. All five of us couldn’t have be wrong.” He had a sudden inspiration. “Wait, I can prove it.”
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the photos. Showing her a close-up of Ellie’s marker, he added excitedly, “See. I took this in February when we were all here.”
The woman studied the picture through her readers, and then shook her head. “Well, I don’t know. I see a white cross with that name all right. But there’s not enough picture around it to prove that it was where you say it was. This photo could have been taken anywhere. Do you have any other pictures that show the surrounding area?”
“No,” he answered, his shoulders slumping.
“Well, it doesn’t matter.” She clapped her hands. “If this Elinor Thompson is somewhere else in Woodlawn, our alphabetical files will tell us where.” She opened the lower left desk drawer and pulled out a dog-eared list of names, held together by a half-dozen staples. Flipping back and forth through the pages, she searched for Ellie’s name. “That’s strange,” she muttered.
“What? What is it?” he pushed.
The woman shook her head. “There’s no record at all of an Elinor Thompson here in Woodlawn.” She looked up and squinted. “Are you sure you have the right cemetery?”
Caleb returned to his car and sat in the parking lot for a while. What in the world was going on? Where was Ellie’s headstone? He decided to pray.
“Lord, I just don’t know what’s going on here,” he began. “I’m confused, and frustrated, and I don’t know what to do. But I know You’re in control. Please direct my steps and straighten out this mess. I need Your help.”
Then he drove home.
His parents were waiting at his Columbus apartment when he got back. They spent the afternoon with him discussing the incredible events of the past twenty-four hours.
Later that evening, they took him out to dinner. At the restaurant, Caleb picked at his food. His appetite had left him, and he felt mentally and emotionally exhausted.
His mother voiced her concern. “Caleb, maybe we should stay here overnight.” She smiled at him. “In the morning I could make your favorite breakfast if you like.”
He stopped playing with his food. “Mom, that’s really not necessary. I’m just tired after everything that’s happened. I need a good night’s rest, that’s all. You guys go on home. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“All right, if that’s what you want,” she relented.
His father agreed. “We’ll go home tonight, but tomorrow I’d like to look into the missing headstone myself. Is that alright with you?”
“Sure, Dad. The sooner we get some answers the better.”
After his parents left his apartment, Caleb collapsed on the sofa. But he awoke around one o’clock in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep, so he got up and made himself a snack in the kitchenette. Sitting at the small round table, his mind was a jumble of thoughts.
He knew he’d seen Ellie’s grave at Pine Hill #74 in Woodlawn Cemetery in February. But he also knew he’d seen Ellie on the sidewalk in downtown Atlanta just two days ago.
Was there a logical explanation for both? Either Ellie was dead and buried in Woodlawn, or else she was alive and walking the streets of Atlanta. There was no middle ground.
His heart began to race. There was only one person who could explain this anomaly. One person who’d said Ellie was in Woodlawn when in fact she might not really be there. One person who knew for sure where she was right this very minute.
And that person was John C. Smith.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE CONFRONTATION
THE DARKNESS OF NIGHT WAS just beginning its metamorphosis into the grayness of dawn when Caleb’s metallic blue Camaro pulled to the curb of the nearly deserted avenue in one of Atlanta’s many residential suburbs. It was nearly six-thirty Friday morning. He’d been up since one-o-clock when he’d made the decision to return to Atlanta without notifying anyone.
Caleb turned on the car’s reading light and picked up the scrap of paper he’d stuffed into the cup holder.
Elmwood Village Apartments
4391 W. Cannondale Avenue, Apt. 1C
Atlanta, GA 30310
That was the address for John Smith that his father had passed on to him. It matched the one that Krystal had located earlier on the internet. This had to be the right place.
He lowered his side window, and in the dim light of morning strained to read the numbers of the apartment buildings across the street. Through the evenly spaced trees that separated the east and westbound lanes of Cannondale Avenue, he made out the number 4389 on the building directly opposite him.
That must mean the one further down was 4391. Four ground level doors, labeled 1A to 1D respectively, faced the street in each building.
John Smith must live behind door number three of the next building. Sitting in his darkened car, Caleb tried to formulate a plan for confronting Mr. Smith.
Should he go to the man’s door and talk to him there, or should he wait until he came out of the apartment and talk to him in the open?
He decided the latter would be the best option. He saw several lights come on here and there, but the windows of 1C remained dark. A person walked past on the sidewalk. As he waited, his eyelids grew heavy. He’d had only a couple hours of sleep before driving the two and a half hours to get here, and
he’d already been exhausted before that.
He took a sip of coffee from the insulated foam cup he’d purchased when he reached the outskirts of the city, but the shot of caffeine failed to achieve its intended purpose.
The metallic squeal of brakes jerked Caleb awake. Dazed, he looked around to get his bearings. It was much lighter now. He glanced at his watch. The time was seven forty-five.
Across the avenue, a city bus had just pulled to the curb in front of John Smith’s apartment building. In the early morning grayness, Caleb had failed to notice the Metro Stop sign on the pole by the curb.
As a half dozen people lined up to climb aboard, his eyes swept over the windows of John Smith’s apartment. The lights were on.
It was almost time for the face-to-face meeting. The meeting he’d long desired—and feared. The door to 1C abruptly opened, and a beautiful young woman carrying a large canvas bag over one shoulder rushed down the steps toward the bus.
Transfixed, his eyes followed the bouncing auburn hair until the familiar head disappeared into the interior of the bus. The release of air from the buses’ brakes snapped Caleb out of his trance. He flung open his car door, and limped across the eastbound lane of the Avenue, but not before looking both ways.
“ELLIE!” he shouted, trying to head off the bus. He frantically waved his arms to get the driver’s attention, but the bus pulled away from him.
With aching legs, he hobbled back to the Camaro, nearly stumbling in the process. He started his car and fastened his seat belt in one fluid motion. Then, gunning the engine, he laid down rubber as he headed east toward a break in the median half a block away. With tires whining, he executed a U-turn and raced west down Cannondale Avenue, disregarding the speed limit in pursuit of the city bus, which was making a right hand turn three hundred yards ahead.
Caleb navigated the turn with all the skills of a professional drifter.
Don’t lose sight of that bus!
Fortunately, traffic was light this time of morning. Rush hour wouldn’t begin for another thirty minutes or so. He eased the Camaro in behind the bus and followed at a safe distance.
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