by Anne Frasier
"I need to see your ID." He was white, about seventy, with gray hair and gray stubble on his jaw.
Elise pulled out her leather case and flipped it open. He nodded and she tucked it back in her pocket.
Down the hall, to David's apartment.
"I told him he had to be out by tomorrow," the manager said. "Don't know if he killed that woman or not, but everybody in the building's scared. Nobody likes being scared."
Somebody was baking a cake. Elise could smell it.
A small dog was barking.
The manager unlocked the door and stepped back. "I'm not going in there. Last time I unlocked a door for a cop, I found a dead woman. I tell you, I'm tired of this country. I'm tired of living a life of fear." He turned away from the door, arms crossed.
Elise stepped inside and immediately smelled the rotten-egg scent of sulfur.
"David?"
On the floor, she spotted a dusting of something that looked like fine brown powder.
A trick. A spell.
She stepped around the powder to avoid getting it on the soles of her shoes.
A few feet away was David's cell phone.
"Is he dead?" the manager whispered loudly from the hall.
The living room and kitchen were empty.
Elise reached inside her jacket, unsnapped her holster, and pulled out her handgun.
She checked the bathroom. Then the bedroom.
On the foot of the bed was an open suitcase, as if David had been interrupted in the middle of packing. She slipped her weapon back in the leather case.
David's cat, Isobel, appeared from under the bed, meowing pitifully. Elise picked her up.
"Don't allow anyone in the apartment," she said, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind her. "It could be a crime scene."
The manager stared at Isobel.
"Cats and crime scenes don't mix," Elise explained.
He shook his head. "I should never have rented a room to that guy. I knew he looked shifty."
She ignored his complaints. "When did you last see David Gould?"
"Let me see.... This morning, I think. I came up and told him he wasn't going to get his deposit back."
Isobel was purring loudly.
"Early morning? Late?"
"Late. Around eleven as I recall. But don't hold me to that. My memory's bad."
"I need to see the basement."
"Basement?" The shift in conversation clearly puzzled him. "I'd better call the owner—"
"Now!"
"Okay, but I'm not taking responsibility."
Inside the elevator, Elise punched the basement button. From their earlier ride, she knew the elevator was slow; she would have run down the stairs if she hadn't needed a guide.
They hit bottom with a jolt. The door clanged open and they stepped into the basement.
"Where's the oldest part of the building?" Elise asked.
The manager led her through a catacomb maze of stone and damp, crumbling mortar. In the final room she discovered a wall where bricks had been removed, then replaced.
"Here—" She handed the cat to him and began digging at the loose bricks, dislodging several, causing them to tumble at her feet.
She straightened, pulled the two sections of map from her vest, and unfolded them.
It was a poor image, and the basement was dim, but she finally located Mary of the Angels.
She ran her finger along the line indicating the tunnel. From where she stood, she could get almost anywhere if the tunnels weren't blocked. To the Hartzell, Tate, and Hartzell Funeral Home, to Strata Luna's, and to Laurel Grove Cemetery.
She put in a call to dispatch and requested that they reroute the officers heading for Strata Luna's and send them to Mary of the Angels instead. Then she called Starsky and gave him the new location.
Officers at every possible exit would have been the ideal situation, but they didn't have that kind of manpower. And if David was unconscious, Strata Luna couldn't be moving very quickly....
She checked her watch. "Wait upstairs for the patrol unit and the detectives," she told the manager. "When they arrive, show them down here."
"You think the person who killed that woman got in through there?" the manager asked, all of his earlier impatience gone, replaced by fear and a sudden reluctant respect.
Elise dislodged more bricks until the hole was large enough for her to pass through. She pulled out her flashlight and handgun.
In the broad beam of light, red dust particles curled toward the ceiling. She directed the beam to the ground inside the tunnel and immediately spotted parallel tracks and footprints.
Holding the gun and the light together with both hands, she paused. "Feed the cat," she said over her shoulder, then ducked through the opening.
Chapter 43
I touched his bare arm.
Cold as marble.
From somewhere behind us, cockroaches scuttled.
I have to admit they used to bother me. But then I started thinking of them as extensions of myself and pretty soon I began to actually like them.
I held the lantern to his face.
His closed eyes were cast in deep shadow. His lips were blue.
Skin like paste.
He looked dead.
I swung the gurney to the left, toward the cemetery.
I had a special place there. A secret place. A place where we could both play dead.
*
The tunnel smelled like mildew and sewage. Five minutes in and Elise's shoes were saturated, her pants soaked to the knees. Along with the odor of sewer was another smell. Something herbal and slightly medicinal, a mixture of ingredients a conjurer might use.
Elise had done a quick mental calculation, and she estimated it was a mile, maybe more, to Strata Luna's house. The indirect route of public streets would have been over two.
The powerful flashlight created extreme contrasts. There was the bleached area where the beam fell; outside that beam was absolute blackness.
Pascal had been right—the tunnel system was badly deteriorated, the curved brick of the ceiling having crumbled in numerous places, now lying in jagged piles.
As she walked, she kept her head bowed.
If David had been given a high dosage of TTX, it would be crucial for him to get medical attention as quickly as possible. And Elise doubted Strata Luna would mess around with the "recreational" amount LaRue and his buddies experimented with.
The other possibility was that David was already dead, his throat cut in the MO used on Enrique and Flora. Which would make more sense. But Elise couldn't think about that. She had to believe he was still alive.
She reached a T and pulled out a map. To turn left would take her to the cemetery, to the right, Strata Luna's.
She directed the flashlight to the ground. Two to three inches of sludge over a pathway of cement. No tracks to follow.
It seemed to make sense that David would be taken to the house. It was a huge place, and would have secret rooms where he could be kept. But even if Strata Luna hadn't expected a search warrant, she would have to know that the police would be watching her house.
Elise turned in the direction of the cemetery.
*
David was forced to listen to her prattle as she pushed the gurney, her feet sloshing through water and sewage.
The floor of the tunnel wasn't smooth, and sometimes the wheels would catch, almost sending him flying. Whenever that happened, she would grab him with a "Whoops!" Then, after some maneuvering, they would be on their way until the next time.
He could now actually understand how some people found TTX addicting. It was almost an out-of-body experience, because you lost all sensation. The only thing functioning was the brain.
But then, maybe this was death. Maybe he was dead and this was hell. Maybe he was going to spend eternity being wheeled around through an underground tunnel by a crazy woman.
She found another pit in the floor.
They crashe
d to a halt.
David's body slid forward, and he heard a loud smack—his head hitting the stone wall.
She cooed over him, dabbing at his temple with the sleeve of her dress. "You're bleeding."
That meant his heart was still beating. A good sign.
Maybe.
They'd had no proof, but David had always surmised that the TTX victims had been sexually assaulted. He could admit that he had a history of having sex with strangers, but what she had in her agenda book was something he was fairly certain he didn't want anything to do with.
David knew he was going to die; he just wasn't sure how.
Best case scenario?
Tetrodotoxin.
It could eventually shut down his system and that would be that. Or she might grow tired of him and dump him someplace where he wouldn't be found.
Death, again.
Or, since the last two killings had been pretty bloody, she might go for the slit throat.
All nice choices.
Chapter 44
"Stop!"
A familiar voice, coming from the tunnel behind us.
I swung around, lantern high.
"I knew you were back," she said. "I could feel you."
She was dressed in one of her long black gowns, a flashlight in her hand. "You always loved these tunnels. Especially this stretch. I couldn't keep you away from them."
It was true.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "You promised to never walk the streets—or tunnels—of Savannah again."
She sounded confused, speaking in that exaggerated accent I'd always hated. The woman had lived in the United States her entire life. Why did she try to sound like some hoodoo priestess?
Four years ago, she'd paid me to leave. She paid me to leave and never come back so she could pretend I was dead. So she could wear her black clothes and pray over my grave. So people would feel sorry for her.
"I missed Savannah," I told her. "I missed the tunnels."
"How long ... ?"
"I returned almost two years ago."
Strata Luna let out a strangled sob, then pressed a hand to her mouth to smother the sound.
Oh, she always pretended to be so strong, but she was just as weak as the rest of them.
"Where did you stay?"
"Sometimes in the tunnels. Sometimes on the street."
A chameleon, dressing like a man or a woman. Whatever struck me. Of course I hadn't done it all on my own. Enrique had helped. He'd brought food and clothing. Money. Whatever I needed. Whatever I wanted. He'd even purchased the CDs I took to Gary Turello's funeral.
I'd always suspected Enrique had been a little in love with me. Either that or he simply felt sorry for someone whose own mother had turned her back on her.
"I knew it was you, but didn't want to believe it," Strata Luna wailed, suddenly transformed from regal priestess to whimpering, frightened old lady. "Tell me I'm wrong! Tell me you aren't the one doing all this killing."
She stretched out an imploring hand, the movement graceful even in her overwrought state. "Enrique! Poor Enrique! He loved you. He would have done anything for you.”
"He did. He died for me."
"Why?"
I thought of one of her favorite lines, Evil doesn't need a reason to exist, but I didn't want to quote her. I didn't want to honor her. "He meant too much to you."
"You were jealous?" she asked, still trying to understand.
I laughed. She was so far off. "I wanted to hurt you. I wanted you to be a lonely old woman. I wanted to take away everybody you cared about."
Her gaze fell to the gurney. "Who is that?" She stepped closer.
"David Gould."
"The detective? If what you say is true, what does he have to do with any of this? He means nothing to me."
"I just like him."
She nodded, remembering. "Even when you were little, you had a strong curiosity about death. Something unhealthy. Something compelling and twisted and sick."
"Go back home, old woman."
I'd forgotten how she could annoy me so quickly. "I've had enough of you already."
"I should have destroyed you when you were young," she said. "When I realized you were evil. But I couldn't kill my own child. My own baby girl."
"I'm not your daughter! You conjured me!" Sudden tears stung my eyes. I impatiently wiped them away with the back of my hand. "You conjured me from twigs and cat intestines soaked in blood!"
"No!"
She pretended to be shocked by my words. What an actress.
"Who told you such a lie?" she asked.
How could I possibly recall the origins of something I'd always known?
"You are my daughter. A part of me. Just as Delilah was my daughter. You pretended that you tried to save her, but I could see through you. I could always see through you. But you were never conjured. I wish I could say you were. I wish I could say you didn't come from me, but that would be a lie."
I pulled out the knife I'd used to kill Enrique and Flora. It was very sharp, and I was filled with hatred and rage. This woman had ruined my life. She had showered attention on Delilah, then Enrique and Flora, while ignoring me. While pushing me away.
"You were evil," she said, trying to explain away her failings.
"You should love all of your children equally," I told her. "That's a mother's job. To love without blame, without question."
"Even murderers?"
"Even murderers."
I lifted the knife high.
She should have zigzagged. She should have made a crooked path out of there. Instead, she remained immobile, watching me. She placed a splayed hand to her breast, where she must have had a wanga hidden. Her mouth began to move, and she muttered words meant to bring me down:
If I hang from a single thread
In a place no one shall see
It will bring fear into the heart of her who shall harm me
It will bring fear into the heart of her who shall harm me
She will be binded by fear from harming me
She will be binded by fear from harming me.
I came from the earth and dead things; I was stronger than any spell she could cast.
"Evil travels in a straight line," I told her. I brought the blade down, plunging it into the heart of my mother, the heart of Strata Luna.
Chapter 45
Elise listened to the crackling and scurrying of a million cockroaches, and the sound of dripping water.
Where was her backup? She pulled out her cell phone.
No signal.
She checked her watch. Starsky and Hutch should have reached Mary of the Angels by now.
Never go in without backup.
Every rookie knew that.
She returned the phone to her pocket and continued in the direction of the cemetery.
As she walked, her subterranean view never seemed to change. The tunnel stretched out before her, going on and on until reaching a vanishing point like some artistic lesson in perspective.
Suddenly her flashlight beam picked up a dark shape in the distance.
Elise shut off the light and jumped from one side of the tunnel to the other, quickly changing her position. Crouched, she pulled out her handgun and listened.
Poets and writers always tried to describe complete and total darkness, but it couldn't be done. It wasn't just being unable to see the smallest flicker of anything. It was that weird and false sensation of having something solid right in front of your face.
Something all around you.
Closing in.
*
Audrey tried David Gould's number again. Still no answer. She hung up and slipped on her panda-bear backpack. Maybe he was home. Maybe he just wasn't answering his phone. Some people did that. Audrey didn't know why, but they did.
Mary of the Angels wasn't that far from the police station. Probably eight blocks. She would just walk there. See if she could find David.
Her dad always told her to
be careful in the Historic and Victorian Districts, not to walk around by herself, but it wasn't night, and there were lots of people out, especially tourists taking pictures and staring at buildings and talking about how hot it was.
It didn't take Audrey long to get to Mary of the Angels.
A spooky place, really old with lots of ivy. Up high, on top of the building, were weird iron silhouettes, the gray roof reminding her of a place where chimney sweeps would dance and sing and get dirty.
She spotted a police car in front of the building. And a lot of people standing outside. Two of them were detectives she recognized from the police station.
She went up to one of them and asked what they were doing.
"Aren't you Elise Sandburg's kid?" the detective asked. He had a red face and freckles.
Audrey clung to her backpack straps. "She told me to call David Gould, but he isn't answering his phone. Is something wrong with him?" She hoped not. That gave her a weird feeling in her stomach.
"We don't know."
"Where's my mom? Wasn't she meeting you at Strata Luna's?" Audrey was feeling more nervous by the second. "She told me you were serving a search warrant."
"Something came up here," the detective said, glancing nervously at his partner.
They were keeping secrets. Audrey could tell.
"Is my mom okay?" she asked, her voice rising.
He put out his hands as if she were a dog he was trying to keep from jumping on him. "She's in a little tunnel under Mary of the Angels, that's all. No big deal. She should be showing up here soon."
"In the tunnel? By herself? She wouldn't do that. I know she wouldn't do that."
"She's in the tunnel," the partner said, beginning to sound annoyed.
"Then why are you out here?" Audrey glanced around.
Two police officers were just standing by the apartment building, talking to a gray-haired guy holding a cat.
"Why aren't you in the tunnel too?"
The detectives looked at each other, and Audrey could see shame in their faces. "They're too dangerous," the freckled man told her. "Nobody is supposed to go in them. Not even the police."