Sacrificial Ground

by Thomas H. Cook

  “Worked? He’s not here anymore?”

  “His part of the project was finished about a week ago,” Curtis said.

  “Is this Mercer Place address where he still lives?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Frank wrote the address down in his notebook. “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well at all.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “In his personnel file.”

  “Would you mind if I took it with me?”

  “Not at all,” Curtis said. “He’s finished here, anyway.” He walked to a single, freestanding file cabinet and pulled out a picture of Toffler. It showed a tall, lean young man with curly blond hair. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. There was a paintbrush in his hand.

  “Thanks,” Frank said as he pocketed the photograph.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Clemons,” Curtis said. “Here, let me show you out.”

  Frank turned his head out toward the front of the building.

  “No, no,” Curtis said quickly. “We’ll use the rear entrance.” He took Frank’s elbow and tugged him gently to the right.

  They went out the side door on the north side of the building. The drop cloths were still piled by the single cement step, and as Frank glanced toward the parking area, he realized that Angelica had parked in an almost direct line of vision from the door.

  “If one of your artists were working late,” he said to Curtis, “would he use this door to go in and out?”

  “Yes,” Curtis said, “the front is locked after five.” He glanced about the park, then up at the high gray wall of the Cyclorama. “This restoration is going to benefit this whole area of the city,” he said.

  “It could use it,” Frank said, as he started walking toward his car.

  “This neighborhood has quite a history, did you know that?” Curtis asked.

  Frank shook his head as he walked on.

  “Much of it was a burial ground,” Curtis said. “We learned that during the excavations.”

  “What excavations?”

  “When the first piping was put in,” Curtis said. “That’s when certain areas were uncovered. Workmen found a great many bones.” He nodded in the general vicinity of Waldo Street. “Especially over there, in the area beyond Boulevard.” Curtis’ eyes darkened. “The workmen reported it to the police. They weren’t archeologists and anthropologists, after all. It was an odd find. So many bones. Human bones. “ His eyes shifted back to Frank. “All female. All from teenage girls.”

  Frank began to feel dizzy.

  “So rather than an ordinary burial ground,” Curtis went on, “we think it was probably a place of sacrifice. There was no evidence of trauma, no fractured skulls, for example. We think their throats were cut.”

  In his mind, Frank could see the young girls as they flailed about on the ground, bleeding slowly to death. He could feel the blade as it sliced through their long brown throats, and the wave of warm blood as it washed down their naked chests. The high wail that came from them seemed to struggle upward into the air around him.

  26

  Frank dropped the photograph on Caleb’s desk. “His name is Vincent Toffler.”

  Caleb glanced at the photograph. “Okay.” He looked up. “Want to tell me the rest?”

  “The night Angelica went for that ride with the Doyle kid, she stopped at the Cyclorama. I always thought she was waiting to see somebody, but I was wrong. I think she was waiting to be seen by somebody.”

  Caleb tapped the picture with his finger. “By this guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “After she left the Cyclorama, she headed for this particular street, Mercer Place. She drove up and down it a few times. Again, like she was trying to be seen.”

  “And this guy lives on Mercer?” Caleb asked.

  “Yes,” Frank said. “He works at the Cyclorama and he lives on Mercer Place. From where Angelica parked, she could see a little door at the back of the building.”

  “Slow down, Frank,” Caleb said. “Which building?”

  “The Cyclorama,” Frank went on methodically. “This door is the artists’ entrance to the building, the one Toffler would have used either to go in or come out of the building.”

  Caleb nodded slowly. “So we’ve got him at Cyclorama and on Mercer Place.” He smiled indulgently. “It’s good, Frank, but it’s circumstantial.”

  “And one other thing,” Frank added, “those galleries Angelica went to near Grant Park, there are three of them on the street. She was seen in two of the three. The one she wasn’t seen in has Toffler’s work hanging in it.”

  Caleb scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “It’s still circumstantial, but it’s worth checking out. “ He stood up. “It’ll be a treat. I haven’t seen the Cyclorama in years.”

  “He’s not there anymore,” Frank said. “He finished his job there a week ago.”

  “So it’s Mercer Place then,” Caleb said wearily.

  “Yeah.”

  Caleb drew in a slow, despairing breath. “Dear God, I hate to go get a guy at home.”

  They pulled up to the house on Mercer Place a few minutes later. It was a small, wood frame structure that looked as if it had been fully restored. The white, freshly painted exterior gleamed brightly in the late-morning sun, but the interior was utterly dark, and the adjoining driveway was empty.

  “I don’t see any movement in there,” Caleb said as he eyed the front of the house. “Looks like nobody’s home.”

  “We don’t have enough for a warrant,” Frank said.

  Caleb looked at him. “Can you dig up anything else right quick?”

  “No.”

  “Just have to wait till he comes home then.”

  “We could look around outside,” Frank said.

  “Okay,” Caleb said. “But let’s make sure nobody’s there before we go poking around in the yard.”

  The new wooden steps did not creak at all as the two of them walked up on the front porch.

  “This guy’s really fixed this place up,” Caleb said as he took up his position at the left side of the door. He paused a moment, then knocked.

  No answer.

  He waited a moment, then knocked again.

  No one came to the door, and no sounds came from inside the house.

  “I think he’s gone,” Caleb said.

  “Yeah.”

  They walked down the stairs together, then split up, Frank heading around the left side of the house, Caleb around the right. The foundation was low, and as he moved along the side of the house, Frank could easily look through the windows as he passed. The front room was sparsely furnished, but everything was arranged with an eye to neatness, order, a sense of well-used space. There was a plain blue sofa and matching chair, a knotted rug, and a slender wooden rocking chair. Through the dark air of the interior, Frank could see Caleb’s large face as it stared into the same room from the other side of the house. He smiled quickly, then pointed to the rear, and the two of them made their way toward the back of the house.

  The next window was much smaller and the shade was drawn halfway. It was the bathroom, and Frank moved past it quickly and on to the third window. It was a bit higher from the ground, but he had no trouble seeing over the ledge. It was a neatly arranged kitchen, larger than he had expected, with shelves along the front wall, facing a polished white stove and refrigerator. Again, he could see Caleb’s face as it stared at him from the other side of the room. For a moment it seemed to fade slowly, then break apart like a piece of crumbling statuary, and Frank squinted hard to bring it back together.

  “Nothing strange around here,” Caleb said, as the two rejoined each other in the back yard.

  “No,” Frank said. “Nothing at all.”

  “Bedroom’s on the other side of the bathroom,” Caleb added. “Just a bed, all made up, and a closet with the door open.”

  “Anything in it?”

  “Only wha
t you’d expect. A bunch of clothes.”

  “So he probably still lives here,” Frank said.

  “Yeah. That’s the one good thing about it.”

  Frank glanced around the back yard. There was a small building near the back fence. It looked as if it had once been a garage.

  “Let’s check that out,” he said.

  It was a small wooden structure and one side had been peeled of its paint, as if someone were stripping it for a new paint job. Shades had been drawn down over the two small windows along either side.

  “Shades are open at the house,” Caleb said quietly. “Why not here?”

  Frank stepped over to the door. He looked at Caleb. “What do you want to do?”

  “Step back, Frank,” Caleb said without hesitation. Then he raised his leg and slammed it against the door. The whole building shook as the door banged open and slammed against the inner wall.

  It was utterly dark inside, and for an instant Frank hesitated to go in. He could feel death like a thick smoke in the air around him, and as he finally stepped into the interior darkness, he felt as if life itself were cracking like dry earth beneath his feet, dissolving into dust.

  “Find the light,” Caleb said.

  Frank moved quickly to one of the small windows and threw open the shade. A shaft of silver light swept into the room.

  Caleb opened a second shade, and the air brightened around them, revealing a neatly ordered artist’s studio. Several large canvases leaned against the far wall. A sculptor’s bench stood in the center of the room, and a plaster model of a naked woman rose from it like a small, half-finished monument. And to the right, blocking one window, but showered with light from another, was an enormous painting. It was of a young woman dressed in a willowy veil. Her sleek white legs were vaguely visible through her clothes, and as Frank’s eyes slowly rose, he could see her pale white thighs, then her small rounded breasts, and up along the tapered neck to a face rendered so beautifully that he suddenly realized that he had never seen its true radiance before.

  “Angelica,” he said wonderingly.

  Caleb turned toward the painting. His lips parted softly, but he said nothing.

  “She was here,” Frank said, almost to himself. “She came here many times.”

  “Yes,” Caleb said.

  Frank drew his eyes from the painting. There was a tall wooden armoire next to it. He walked to it and pulled open its double doors. It was full of clothes, the frilly lace and soft velvet, the red satin blouse and the black leather skirt. He could smell the fragrance of Angelica’s body on the cloth. It was a soft, subtle musk that struck him as the last sad remnant of her life on earth. He felt his hand reach out to caress the cloth tenderly, then stopped himself and turned to Caleb.

  “I’m going to wait for him,” he said. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

  “Me, too,” Caleb said. He shrugged. “I ain’t going no place but the grave.”

  They walked out of the shed and carefully closed the door behind them. Then they returned to the car and drove it a few yards away, turned around and headed back up the street. There was a narrow alleyway not too far from the house, and they backed just far enough into it so that they could watch the house without being seen.

  The bright light of midday slowly turned to gray as the afternoon deepened into night. Far in the distance, they could see a band of storm clouds moving slowly toward the city.

  “Going to be another toad-stringer,” Caleb said. He looked at his watch. “Been here five hours.”

  “You can go home if you want to,” Frank said.

  Caleb shook his head. “Nah, not yet.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s my ass that’s complaining,” he said with a smile, “not my old bulldog heart.”

  An hour later the first sounds of thunder rolled over the city. Jagged streaks of lightning blazed out of the darkness, and a few minutes after that, the rain swept down upon them in thick, windblown sheets.

  Caleb leaned toward the dashboard and peered toward the house. “Well, we still won’t have no trouble seeing him.”

  “No, we won’t.”

  Caleb leaned back in his seat, and released a long slow sigh. “Retiring next year, Frank, did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Life’s funny. You get too much of one thing, and not enough of something else. Now this stakeout shit, that’s something I’ve had too much of.”

  Frank’s eyes drifted over to the house. “I sometimes think of quitting.”

  Caleb looked surprised. “You do? How come?”

  “Just tired, I guess.”

  “Of too much blood?”

  Frank shook his head. “No, not that. But just that people should live better than they do, Caleb. “ He looked at his partner. “I don’t know what keeps them from it. I’d like to find that out, sometime. I’d like to really know.”

  Suddenly two shafts of yellow light swept down from the small hill at the end of the street. They moved slowly down Mercer, two bars of glowing light that finally came to rest and then flashed off in front of Toffler’s house.

  Frank pulled out the photograph Curtis had given him and looked at it. Then he handed it to Caleb. “Check it out again, let’s don’t roust the wrong guy.”

  Caleb glanced at the picture then back up toward the car. “Get out of the fucking car,” he whispered.

  Frank pressed his eyes near the windshield and stared out toward the house. The car stood motionlessly in front of it. Then the door opened on the driver’s side, and as it did so a flash of bright lightning broke over the street.

  “That’s him,” Frank said.

  The man was now standing by the car, the door still open. He looked behind him, then toward the dark house.

  Caleb squinted hard. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said.

  The man quickly strode into the front yard, then veered to the left and headed behind the house. For a moment, he disappeared into the covering darkness. Then a light flashed on in the shed out back.

  “Good,” Caleb said. “No place to hide in that little shack.” He picked up the radio. “This is A one zero four. We’re checking out a murder suspect. Extent of danger, unknown. Would appreciate backup at one two one Mercer Place. No siren, please. Just be there if we need you.” He put down the mike, and smiled. “That puts a lid on it, Frank. “ He opened the car door. “Let’s go.”

  The door of the shed was wide open, and a wide slant of light swept out of it. From time to time a shadow would flit between the lamp and the sheeting rain, and each time Frank saw it, he felt his breath catch in his throat. As he walked toward the open door, he felt the lightness of his flesh, the weak, uncertain web that held his life. He glanced at Caleb and felt a sudden overwhelming urge to touch his arm and warn him to take care.

  Instead, it was Caleb who turned. “Be careful, Frank,” he whispered. Then he smiled and walked on.

  They stopped at the edge of light, paused for just an instant, then knocked lightly at the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  Frank pulled out his badge and went through the door.

  “Police,” he said.

  The man looked up. He was tall, slender, with blond hair and light blue eyes that gave his face a startling beauty. He was standing by the sculptor’s bench, his thumb poised at the statue’s throat.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Caleb came up beside Frank. “Just a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Are you Vincent Toffler?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Frank returned his badge to his coat. “We have a few questions for you.” He took out the picture of Angelica Devereaux and held it up. “Do you know this girl?”

  The man nodded. “Yes.”

  Frank took a small, cautious step toward him as he pocketed the photograph. “How did you happen to know her?” he asked.

  “She was my subject,” the man said matter-of-factly. He pointed to the large pa
inting to his left. “That’s her, as you can see.”

  “How well did you know her, Mr. Toffler?” Frank asked, almost amiably.

  “She was my subject.”

  “You said that.”

  “Well, that means that I painted her,” Toffler said. “She was my model. You can’t paint what you don’t know.”

  “So you got to know her fairly well?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Toffler said. He looked at the sculpture. “Do you mind if I continue with this while we talk?”

  “Not at all,” Frank said. He took another step. “So she was your model.”

  “Yes,” Toffler said indifferently. He pressed his thumb into the statue’s upper arm and drew it down smoothly.

  “Where did you meet her?” Caleb asked. He walked over to the opposite wall and leaned heavily against it. “From the look of that painting you did, you got to know her better than fairly well.”

  Toffler glared at Caleb. “That’s offensive,” he said.

  “Why don’t you just answer his question?” Frank replied.

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly that I painted her,” he said. “It was more like I painted what she inspired.”

  “Which was?”

  “Desire,” Toffler said. “She was the central figure, the creature who made it possible.”

  “Made what possible?” Frank asked.

  “My study.”

  “Of Angelica?”

  Toffler laughed. “Angelica did not merit a study,” he said. “No, my portrait of human desire. That’s what I wanted to capture. Desire in men and women of all ages. Angelica inspired it in people.” He smiled slightly. “She could walk into a room and make everyone in it want her, more than anything they had ever wanted in their lives. That was her gift, that kind of beauty. They wanted to touch her, all of them.”

  “How do you know that?” Frank asked.

  “I could see it in their eyes,” Toffler said. He returned to the sculpture, carefully rubbing his thumb across the woman’s throat. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

  “Where would you see these people?”

  “Wherever I sent her,” Toffler said. “It was the same kind of reaction no matter where she was. It could be a poolroom or theater, it didn’t matter.”