Blind Shadows

by James A. Moore

  Andy took the bag without preamble and carefully slipped the chain out. He fumbled with one hand around his desk until he found a set of lenses that had obviously been designed for working with jewelry and studying fine details.

  “What are we looking at, Andy?”

  The man skewered him with a stare. When he spoke the temperature in the room dropped by easily ten degrees. “Currently I’m looking at an impatient man who can’t give me five minutes to study what he brought for me to examine.”

  “Damn. I bet your college kids wet themselves when you were in a mood.”

  “As a matter of fact they did.” He looked at the necklace, pursing his lips and making little noises.

  “I’m gonna go outside and make a phone call, if that’s all right with you.”

  “I’d prefer it. You hover too damned much.”

  “Well, it’s interesting, isn’t it?” He’d told the older man how the necklace came into his possession and already been chastised for having the audacity to wash it off. Apparently that was a sin just as surely as tap dancing on a crime scene was a sin.

  “If I didn’t think it was interesting, I’d have sent you on your way by now.” The old man shot him another withering look. Oh yes, no doubt the student body had feared him mightily.

  Carl stepped outside and looked around as the sun rose higher in the sky. Off to the left the road was obscured by a thin wall of fog that clung determinedly to the side of the hill the pavement bisected. Below that the ground dropped off into a gulch and above it the wall of earth was held in place by a thick caul of kudzu that covered the remains of trees, shrubs and the Lord knew what else, leaving behind vaguely humanoid shapes that almost seemed to move if you took your eyes off them. The change of season had leeched the dark green color from the vines and left them a blend of gray and leprous yellow. That didn’t make them any more comforting to Carl.

  “Right. Phone call.”

  He looked up the number on his cell and called it. “Hello?” A pleasantly feminine voice answered on the second ring. The voice carried a pleasant southern drawl as opposed to the sharp twang he was expecting. He knew that the Blackbournes had deep roots in the area, but it was easy to forget that some of the clan actually had money, even after watching Siobhan drive off in a Jaguar the day before.

  “Hello, is this Siobhan Blackbourne?”

  “It is. To whom am I speaking?”

  He licked his lips, remembering the exceptional beauty he’d seen the day before and once again feeling like a teenaged boy. Asinine. He wasn’t about to stutter into the phone. Not the remotest chance that he’d allow that to happen.

  Fate saved him in a roundabout way. The blow to the back of his head knocked him halfway to unconscious and saved him from answering properly.

  Sometimes training makes all the difference. Carl staggered forward and rather than tensing up, twisted his body, avoiding a hard landing on his head and face when he smashed into the ground. He looked around quickly and scurried to his feet just as fast as he could. He could fight an opponent when he was down on the ground, but he preferred to be standing up.

  And when he saw the man that had hit him he thought there was a real chance that his still being on his feet wouldn’t make a difference. Carl was not a small man. He stood just at six feet in height, had done his time on the football team both in high school and when he went to the University of Georgia, and he had made sure to keep himself in good shape if only to avoid being a cliché instead of a sheriff.

  The man standing in front of him dwarfed him. He stood a solid ten inches taller than Carl, and his legs looked more like tree trunks than appendages. He was also dressed in the sort of clothes that made it clear he was from down in the Hollow. “You give it back, mister!” The man’s thick lips split into a snarl as he spoke, and his hands clenched into fists that looked about big enough to swallow watermelons whole. Not those little seedless things, either, but the real ones.

  “You need to back the hell down, right now!” He bellowed loud and proud and it had the desired effect. The man looming over him hesitated, surprised that anyone would be aggressive in his presence. “Get the hell against the wall!”

  “Give it back!” The man roared and lumbered forward, his heavy tread making the porch boards creak with every stride. He was huge. He was also not a fighter. In his defense, he probably didn’t need to be at his size. Carl didn’t carry a riot stick, a billy club or anything along those lines. He had his feet and his pistol. He preferred not to employ the pistol. Instead he moved in closer and used his knee against the side of the man’s leg, knocking him off stride. It looked good on paper. Even as he was staggering to the side, the man’s hand slapped across Carl’s chest and threw him backward.

  Carl kept his feet. Big Boy hit the porch amid a dozen creaks, groans and a few sounds of wood splintering. Andy was going to be sorely pissed off. The thought came to Carl’s mind and he shook it away. He could deal with the man after he dealt with the shaved bear that wanted to tear him in half. Rather than climb up from his knees, Big ‘Un grabbed a rocking chair and hurled it at Carl’s head. “Give it back!” His pale blue eyes glittered in the sunlight, his uneven complexion grew red and mottled as he screamed his demands again, and Carl blocked the chair with his left arm, hissing at the bruising impact that ran from forearm to shoulder.

  “Mister, I’m about done being nice with you!”

  “Give it back!” He popped back up to his full height and this time he grabbed at the table next to where the rocker had been. The table was substantially heavier—not that Big Boy noticed, thanks—and Carl didn’t like the odds of his arm staying unbroken if he got nailed again.

  The man was big, and he was maybe not going to win any debate contests with his limited vocabulary, but he figured out that the pistol aimed at his face was a better weapon than the table he had hoisted above his head.

  “You drop that right now and you stand still or I will blow your damned head off!” Big Boy dropped the table, which promptly exploded under its own weight. The top rolled in three separate directions. Oh yes, Andy would be pissed.

  Carl made the call to Nichole and kept his weapon trained on the ogre who continued to glower at him with a serious case of the I-hate-yous. By the time Stuart and Ben showed up with the wagon and a few extra restraints, Andy had come outside to let Carl know he thought he might have some answers. Amazingly, the man had not heard the sound of a water buffalo stampeding across his porch or destroying his furniture.

  Sure enough, he was pissed off about the damages.

  * * *

  Griffin parked his truck at a long abandoned gas station about half a mile from the entrance to the dirt road that led to the trailer. Now that he had a little more to work with he wanted a look at the area around the crime scene and he had decided to approach it from the rear through the woods. There was a good chance that the killer or killers might have done the same thing.

  Griffin locked the truck and walked around behind the gas station. He climbed over a small, broken fence and began making his way in the direction of the trailer. The woods were the standard for Northern Georgia, a mix of old oaks and new pines. A heavy carpet of dead leaves and pine straw covered the ground. There wasn’t much traffic on the two-lane road and the woods were quiet. Living in the shadow of Atlanta, as he had for many years, Griffin had forgotten how quiet the country could be.

  As he walked he spotted the detritus typical of areas where people hunted. Beer bottles. Vienna sausage cans. Rifle cartridges. Occasionally he found the remains of an old campfire. Seeing these things reminded Griffin of deer hunting trips with his father and uncles. He had never been much for hunting, but he had always enjoyed camping and sleeping under the stars. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been camping.

  After walking for some time, Griffin finally saw the rear of the old trailer in the distance. He didn’t plan on getting too close. Carl doubtlessly still had someone stationed there. He just wanted a
look at possible approaches to the site. Though he knew that the crime scene techs would have given the place a thorough going over, he also knew that people missed things. Plus, if there was one thing Griffin had learned in his years as an investigator, both public and private, it was to always check things out for himself.

  Griffin began a slow circuit, moving back and forth in an ever-widening arc from the rear of the trailer and studying the ground as he went. The recent wind and rain had probably covered up the signs of any recent passage though the woods, but it didn’t hurt to look. He was out of sight of the trailer when he spotted the spike.

  Griffin crouched and looked at the object without touching it. He had little doubt that it was the same sort of spike that had been driven through Jerry Wallace’s eyes. It had probably been hidden by leaves when the techs had searched the area, and the previous night’s winds had uncovered it. What to do? He could wrap the spike in something and take it to Carl, but if he moved it there might be some evidence issues later if and when Jerry’s murderer was brought to court. No, best to give Carl a call, tell him where he was, and have one of the deputies watching the trailer walk out to him.

  Griffin was about to do just that when a voice behind him said, “Best move away from there, Ace.”

  Griffin rose from his crouch and turned slowly. Two men stood about six feet away. They weren’t quite a big as Griffin but they were big enough and they were armed, one with a wooden Billy club and the other with a machete. They wore dirty flannels shirts and dirtier jeans. Griffin cursed himself for an idiot. Not only had he been so fixated on his search that he hadn’t heard the two men approach, but he had left his .357 back in the truck.

  Griffin said, “No problem, guys. Didn’t mean to trespass. I’ll just walk back the way I came.”

  Billy club grinned a gap-toothed grin. “Don’t figure you’ll be doing much walking when we’re done.”

  “Not much of anything else, neither,” Machete said. “You picked the wrong place for a stroll.”

  Griffin said, “Look. Whatever you’ve got going back here, I haven’t seen it. Let’s all just go our own ways.”

  Billy club shook his head and took a step closer to Griffin. “Now what fun would that be?” He lunged forward without warning, drawing the club back. Griffin sprang in before the club could descend, blocking the attack, and then snapped his elbow upward into the man’s jaw. Billy club stumbled backwards, spitting blood and teeth. Hitting someone with your elbow is a lot like hitting them with a brick.

  Machete came next, cursing as he directed a hard slash at Griffin’s neck. Griffin slipped to the outside of the swing, slapping the arm and blade aside just like his sensei had taught him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, jerked the arm out straight, then levered his own forearm up under Machete’s elbow. Griffin was rewarded with an audible pop as the elbow was dislocated. Machete vomited and went to the ground screaming. Griffin spun toward Billy club but he was still out of the fight, kneeling in the leaves and clutching his jaw. From the way his face was contorted, the jaw was probably broken.

  A chunk of bark exploded from a tree near Griffin and he heard the report of a gunshot. Griffin went low and moved behind a thick tree, scanning the surrounding woods as he went. About sixty feet away a figure was crouched in a shooters stance with his or her gun trained in Griffin’s direction. Time to get out of Dodge.

  The shooter was between Griffin and the way back to his truck, so choice two was the trailer where hopefully some of Carl’s men were stationed. Griffin took off from behind the tree, weaving as he ran. He heard two more shots but nothing came near him. I am never going anywhere without a gun again, Griffin told himself.

  He ran over the slight rise that hid the trailer and then down the gentle slope. As he got close to the building a voice yelled, “Freeze! Sheriff’s department.”

  Griffin stopped where he was as two Brennert deputies came toward him with guns drawn. Griffin said, “The gunshots you heard were being fired at me. The guy who did it is over the rise there.”

  “Down on the ground,” one of the deputies said. “Arms out to your side.”

  Griffin didn’t argue. He had been where these men were. Shots had been fired and they didn’t know what was going on. Griffin dropped to the ground and spread-eagled himself on the dead leaves. He said, “Hurry and cuff me before the shooter gets away. There are two other men with him.”

  One of the deputies said, “Weren’t you here yesterday with the sheriff?”

  “Yeah, I’m a private detective. My ID is in my pocket. Now seriously, there are three men out there who just tried to kill me. At least one of them has a gun.”

  “Go check it out, Randall. Holler if you need back-up. You can get up, sir.”

  Griffin got to his feet. “Thanks.”

  “Now what’s going on?”

  “I’m consulting on the Wallace murder. I was checking approaches to this trailer when two guys waylaid me. I dealt with them but then a third showed up and started shooting.”

  The deputy raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean when you say you dealt with them?”

  “I didn’t kill them. Dislocated one man’s arm. Think I broke the other one’s jaw.”

  “Um, okay. You a friend of Sheriff Price’s?”

  “I am. Why don’t you give him a call. I was going to call him once I’d had a look around anyway.”

  The deputy called Randall came walking back. He said, “Whoever they were, they booked. I found some fresh blood and two teeth. Oh and a machete. What the hell happened?”

  “Mr. Griffin here says he incapacitated two of the perpetrators.”

  “Did both of them have machetes?” said Randall.

  “One had a nightstick,” Griffin said.

  “Jesus,” said Randall.

  The other deputy said “You some sort of Special Forces guy or something?”

  Griffin said. “Why don’t you call Sheriff Price?” He wanted to tell Carl about the other murder and about the spike in the woods. Odds were the spike wasn’t there now. Which meant what? That the three men were covering their tracks? Or those of someone else? Or maybe they were the meth dealers and simply didn’t want anyone poking around in the woods. Maybe Carl had come across something that would fill in some of the gaps.

  * * *

  Carl looked at Big Boy in his cell and shook his head. Damned if the man didn’t look even bigger when he was behind bars. He was sitting down on the metal cot and panting heavily, and though it was a big enough cell, the man just seemed like he was locked in a parrot cage instead of a cage made for men. The good news was the man hadn’t put up any kind of fight. The bad news was he also didn’t carry any kind of ID on his person. If he’d driven to Andy Hunter’s place then he’d done it in an invisible car. So that was a wash, too.

  The fingerprints were processing. In a perfect world they’d be ready soon. In reality, the connection to the Integrated Automatic Fingerprint Identification System, AFIS, was only as good as the Internet connection and the damned system had been slow ever since one of the boys had started surfing the porn sites. If he ever figured out who it was, there was going to be hell to pay. He had it narrowed down to either Buckman or Holiday. Soon enough he would have his culprit. Also, there were over 60,000,000 sets of fingerprints to sort through and even the best systems take time.

  And then there was the fact that Big Boy didn’t exactly look like the sort who’d ever been booked in his county before. He’d have remembered a boy that size.

  Of course he could make a few educated guesses. The clothes from the Hollow, the face from a few unpleasant movies about inbred cannibals, and the eyes that were the exact same color as Merle Blackbourne’s.

  The thing was, he’d yet to meet anyone in the Blackbourne clan that qualified as a giant and he thought he’d met all of them at least in passing over the years.

  When in doubt, he could always ask.

  “What’s your name, Big ‘Un?”

  “Fuck you
is my name! Give it back!”

  “You know, I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.” There were two lockup cells in the station, open areas with simple cots and metal commodes. They were for the occasional drunk and people who hadn’t been processed yet. He had Big Boy in the first of them. The other was currently unoccupied. Further back there were also six additional cells, but those were reserved for people with names, who had been processed and would be staying at least a couple of days. He stepped closer to the cell, but not close enough that the gargantuan in the twenty by twenty room could reach him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not really your name. I also might be able to help you with whatever I’m supposed to give back to you if I knew what the hell you were talking about.”

  Big Boy’s brow was drawn down over his wide nose as he listened. Damned if it didn’t look like he was having trouble keeping up with the conversation. “What?”

  “Let’s try this again. What am I supposed to give back?”

  “The thing you stole!”

  Carl rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “What’s your real name? You tell me that and I’ll see about giving it back.”

  Big Boy looked at him long and hard, taking deep breaths as he contemplated the words. Every time he inhaled the shirt across his chest strained to compensate for his chest span. Carl frowned at that, because had he been asked, he’d have said the clothes were old, dirty and patched, but actually seemed to fit. Not any more.

  “My name is Frank Blackbourne.” He spoke sullenly, his light blue eyes staring murderously at a spot behind Carl.