Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  40

  It was pitch black outside when a rap on the front door awoke Turnfield. As he was prone to do, he had fallen asleep in his recliner with the lights on while watching an old movie. He glanced at the clock on the wall: 11:55, damn near midnight. Who in the hell was knocking at his door at this hour?

  He lumbered from the chair as the knocks continued. “Goddammit, I’m coming.” Before he reached the door, he heard a scrape and the door sprung open. “Get outta my house!” he shouted in a gruff but fear-filled voice.

  “We have unfinished business, Bodach.” It was that godawful Scotty guy.

  “You can’t just break in my house!”

  “I just did.” The man gave Turnfield a harsh shove, sending him backward, spilling over the couch. He felt helpless, landing with a grunt as he tumbled to the floor. Shaken, his stomach felt crushed, his ribs on fire. Before he could regain his senses, the Scottish man was lifting him.

  “Now, Mr. Turnfield, tell me where the staircase banister is.”

  “Why? Why are you after it?” Turnfield asked, talking between jolts of pain attacking his side and abdomen.

  “I didn’t say you could ask me any questions, now did I?”

  The blow to his head was punishing. The man’s fist felt like a brick. Turnfield’s legs folded, but the Scottish man caught him, refusing to let him fall. As Turnfield gained his balance, the Scottish man stepped back, leaving Turnfield barely leaning against the back of the couch, laboring to breathe, his head pulsing in pain.

  “Last chance. Answer me. Where is the banister?”

  Turnfield’s world blurred. The pain resonated from all parts of his body. He was going to die if he didn’t do something. On the nearby end table, he spotted the television remote. It wasn’t much, but it was the only chance he had. Fumbling to the side, he reached for it and managed to grab hold.

  “Aye, what in blazes are you going to do with that thing? Change channels?”

  Turnfield tried to build up his anger, hoping it would motivate him, but he was scared senseless. He spun, lifting the control in his right hand, intent on clobbering the intruder. When he brought it down like a hammer, he missed the man entirely, stumbling forward, falling to the floor.

  The next thing he knew, the Scottish man flipped him over. Holding the remote in his hand, the attacker sat on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs.

  “Sorry, too late to chat now,” the Scottish man said with chilling calmness.

  As Turnfield gasped and wheezed, the man crammed the device into Turnfield’s mouth, shredding his front teeth with a sickening crunch. Blood spilled everywhere. The unforgiving pain was only rivaled by the insane glare in the Scottish man’s dark eyes.

  ****

  Granville Turnfield had passed out, but Farlan still tied him up, using an electrical cord he ripped from the table lamp. He couldn’t risk the man reviving while he attended to business.

  The physical duress and partially destroyed mouth had finally convinced the cranky old man to tell Farlan what he wanted to know. As Turnfield whispered the information in a blood-filled, gurgling voice, Farlan smiled. Sometimes torture was the best method after all.

  With Turnfield secure, Farlan took the stairs to the second floor and found the trapdoor in the ceiling. He pulled a dangling string and it opened downward, replete with a folding ladder which he stretched to its full length. Farlan scaled the rungs and found another pull string at the top of the stairs. A quick tug resulted in a bright white light illuminating the attic.

  What a festering hold it was, reeking of mold and dust. Boxes, along with old, mangled and decaying furniture, were everywhere. He climbed inside where there was enough room to stand. Turnfield had said something about a carpet. He spotted one bunched in a corner. Walking gingerly over sacks, bags and boxes, with roaches the size of his middle finger scurrying about, Farlan finally reached it. Carefully, he grabbed a corner of the carpet and eased it back, revealing a six-foot section of a mahogany staircase banister lying across a dresser. It didn’t take long to locate the numbers. He wrote them down and double-checked for accuracy.

  Two down, four to go.

  He considered returning downstairs to look for an accelerant, but with this mess there was no need. He pulled the cigarette lighter from his pants pocket and lit an end of the carpet. The flame caught quickly, racing across the dry fabric. Carefully, he returned to the opening and backed down the ladder, but not before admiring the growing flame in the corner. Just to be sure, he lit other cloth items nearby. Each burned like they’d been soaked in petrol. He watched, and within minutes, half the attic floor was ablaze.

  Downstairs, Turnfield remained unconscious. Farlan wasn’t sure the old crank was still alive. Already, smoke was seeping down the stairs from the attic. For good measure, he lit the couch on fire.

  Farlan calmly took the key out of the lock from inside the door and left. Outside, he relocked the door, removing the key and taking it with him. He walked away from the house and into the darkness. At this hour on a Monday night, the streets were quiet.

  Partway down the block, he paused to see the fire break through the living room window, radiating a brilliant orange hue.

  Inside, Granville Turnfield and the Kirkside banister were going up in flames.

  41

  Although he’d had difficulty sleeping last night, this morning, Ron was thoroughly energized. After identifying the artwork in the Flagler photograph, his optimism had gotten the better of him. If found, it would be a monumental discovery.

  Then he’d turned on the morning news. The report of Granville Turnfield’s death last night in the house fire was a sobering reminder that he might not be the only one after the treasure. The man’s death remained at the forefront of his thoughts the entire day. It was far too coincidental that three people involved with Henry Flagler’s photograph and the possible branded items from Kirkside had now died within the last month.

  It was time to renew his efforts to find the Kirkside pieces and whatever clues they might hold.

  Ron left class as soon as the school day ended. In need of a jumpstart, he was anxious to get to the North Florida Historians Library. The library closed at 4:30, and Ron parked on a nearby side street with only minutes to spare.

  He reached the outer glass door. Grady Evans waved at him from behind the desk and buzzed him in.

  Ron approached via the short hallway. “Good afternoon, Grady.”

  “Hello, Mr. Mast. You’re aware we’re closing in a few minutes?”

  Ron nodded. “I just have a few quick questions. I promise.”

  Grady briefly massaged his bald scalp. “Fire away, and I’ll see if I can help.”

  “You know how it’s been said that some pieces of Kirkside were co-opted by citizens of St. Augustine? I’m curious to find out where those pieces are now. Specifically, I’m searching for the staircase banister, pergola, a timepiece, the front door, and a fanlight window.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Koyster legend, does it?” Grady asked.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because I heard about the house fire of that old man, Turnfield, this morning. Rumor has it that he was the last surviving member. It’s also been said he had one of the items you mentioned: the staircase banister.”

  “Terrible tragedy,” Ron acknowledged. He thought about mentioning his meeting with Turnfield but decided against it. “Do you know anything about the other items? The pergola, timepiece, front door and fanlight window?”

  “I’m pretty sure the fanlight window is at a house on the south end of St. George Street. Someone once told me it’s inside the porch. I can get you the address because the man who owned it was a member of the North Florida Historians. He only moved away three months ago. As for the pergola, someone once told me it’s across the river on Anastasia Island at a home on Arpieka Avenue, but I never verified it. The front door I can’t help with. What was the other item?”

  �
�Timepiece.”

  “You mean like a clock?”

  Ron chuckled. “Actually, I have no idea.”

  “Well, let’s assume it’s a clock. In any event, I haven’t heard of any that came from the mansion.” Grady paused, staring at Ron curiously, “Why these specific items? Did you find something tangible that ties them to the Koysters?”

  “Let’s just say I found a list, but there’s no mention of the Koysters.”

  “But you think there may be a connection?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Man, I love a good mystery.” Grady opened his drawer and pulled out a stapled clump of papers. He thumbed through the pages. “Here it is.” He wrote down the address of the house on St. George Street and handed it to Ron. “This is the location of the fanlight window anyway. There’s no one living there now. The house is up for sale.” He pushed the papers back into the drawer and closed it. “Can I help with anything else? I’m a pretty good historical detective.”

  “Appreciate the offer, Grady. I’m good.”

  ****

  Although he knew the exact address of the house on St. George Street with the fanlight window, he would have to wait until he could set up an appointment with a realtor since Grady said it was on the porch. In the meantime, he would pursue the pergola while it was still daylight. The structure should be easy to find, given its size and the fact that it would be located in the yard and, most likely, visible from the street.

  After swinging by his house for some things, Ron took the Bridge of Lions across the bay to Anastasia Island. Minutes later, he reached the quiet neighborhood street of Arpieka Avenue. He soon found a house with a pergola crowded over a driveway in a front yard so overgrown that it resembled a rain forest. It was possible the home was the winter residence of a snowbird. The pergola was weather-beaten and had lost more than half of its white paint. Ron parked on the road and went to the front door. He would ask permission to examine it and, if needed, make up some story about his true intentions. He hated to lie and was relieved when his knocks went unanswered.

  Ron returned to his car and opened the trunk. He’d come prepared with a small step-ladder, magnifying glass, pad, and pencil. Carrying the items, he trampled through the high grass and weeds and reached the driveway. Standing beside the pergola, he noticed the wood was in better shape than it had appeared from the road. Maybe this wasn’t from Kirkside.

  Ron worked quickly, hoping to avoid any nosey neighbors. Examining the underside of one of the slats in the roof, he felt a rush of adrenaline as a set of tiny numbers appeared, pressed into the wood.

  He wrote them down on the notepad and took a close-up picture with his smartphone. As he stepped down from the ladder, anxious to gather his things and go, he felt like he was being watched. He casually looked around, trying not to be obvious.

  No one was in sight. Several cars had passed by, but no one had seemed to pay him any attention.

  He shivered. He was allowing his imagination to get the better of him.

  With everything returned to his trunk, Ron started the engine. Before driving away, he contemplated the numbers he’d jotted down:

  19 21 16 112 22 25 19 14 11

  While his excitement was palpable, he had to be rational. The numbers might be unrelated to his search. Also, there was no guarantee this was the pergola from Kirkside, though it seemed to fit the description.

  Even assuming it was the original, and the numbers were placed there by Ida Alice Flagler, he still had no idea what they represented.

  42

  Farlan arrived at the North Florida Historians Library on Marine Street minutes after they opened. He had only learned of the library last night when he happened to come across it on the Internet.

  At the second-floor glass door, he rang a bell and was promptly buzzed in.

  “Good morning,” Farlan said. He reached the desk and extended his hand. “My name is Jeremy Murray.”

  “Grady Evans,” Grady said, standing and shaking the man’s hand. “Call me Grady. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before, Mr. Murray. You’ll need to fill in this sign-in sheet and show me your driver’s license.”

  “Actually, Grady,” Farlan said, noticing the small research library was empty, “I have a few questions I hope you can help me with.”

  “Fire away.”

  “I’m seeking items that came from Henry Flagler’s—”

  “—mansion, Kirkside?” Grady finished his sentence.

  “Aye, Grady. Are you a mind reader?” Farlan offered a false smile.

  “No, but you’re not the first to show up recently chasing after pieces of Flagler’s old home.”

  Farlan had a good idea of who had been here before him. Turnfield had spilled the man’s name after Farlan had bashed his teeth out. “I’m looking for these three items.” He showed a sheet of paper to Grady.

  The man seemed to hedge. He rubbed his smooth head.

  “Let me guess,” Farlan began, “same items the other person is seeking.”

  Grady didn’t comment. “I know of two. The pergola is on Arpieka Avenue. Don’t know the address. The columns are at Kirkside Apartments.” He handed the paper back to Farlan.

  Farlan pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I’ve studied the columns in old pictures of Kirkside. They’re Corinthian. The ones at Kirkside Apartments don’t have the capitals. The columns appear Doric.”

  “You’re very observant, Mr. Farlan, but there’s a reason for that. You see, the Kirkside columns had to be two-and-a-half stories tall at the mansion. But when they were moved to Kirkside Apartments—”

  “—they had to be shortened. The capitals were removed,” it dawned on Farlan.

  “Now who’s reading whose mind?” Grady grinned.

  “Aye, and the last item?” Farlan pointed to the page.

  “Like I said, no clue. Oh, but something I forgot to suggest before to the other party, you may want to talk to local realtors. They’re in and out of listed houses and may have knowledge of where some of the Kirkside pieces are now, or at least are thought to be.”

  “Excellent suggestion, Grady. I want to thank you for your assistance,” Farlan shook the man’s hand and left.

  As Farlan descended the outside stairwell, he realized he had a new priority before resuming his search for the clues: eliminate his competition.

  43

  On Wednesday, Ron was unable to set up an appointment with the realtor who had listed the house for sale on St. George Street. She was out of town, and the woman filling in was unavailable to meet with him until late Thursday afternoon.

  After school, Ron gathered his extensive notes. After spending considerable time the previous night trying to decipher the numbers from the pergola, he knew that a larger sample size was needed. Of course, that meant finding more of the Kirkside pieces.

  That evening after dinner, he left his home in Lincolnville on foot. St. George Street was a seven-block walk. Without inside access to the house, he knew he was limited in what he could search. It might be a useless trip, but he had to do something.

  The mid-November temperature had cooled. Florida weather was unpredictable this time of year; beach weather one day, frosty winds the next. Night had fallen, and the temperature continued to drop. He hastened along the dimly lit sidewalk and thought about the deaths of Gabriel Young, Erlinda Crewson and, just last night, Granville Turnfield’s fatal house fire. The commonality was undeniable, even if the police couldn’t see it. Then again, the police were unaware the killer might be after a treasure.

  The narrow sidewalk seemed to close in on Ron as he hurried alongside the dark street. Normal nightly sounds became a distraction. For the most part, people were tucked into their houses for the evening, and Ron felt as if he was walking an abandoned neighborhood.

  Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to leave his house.

  With mailboxes set on the porches, house numbers were individually tacked up or on a plaque somewhere on the front of each h
ouse, which made them difficult to read in the dark. Several times, he had to dip into unfenced yards to read the addresses.

  As he went, he couldn’t shake an ominous feeling. Every dozen steps or so, Ron glanced over his shoulder. The sidewalk was old and unleveled and he stubbed his toe on a slab of cement where a tree root had elevated it. The pain was intense, and Ron paused to allow it to subside. Sounds continued to spook him. He was consumed by a peculiar feeling that suggested he wasn’t alone, yet Ron saw no one. The streets remained silent, with the exception of a car that slowed then sped up after passing him.

  He was nearing the house, but something warned him to stay away. Irrational? Maybe. Ron did not believe in omens or extra sensory perception, but he often took guidance from his intuition.

  At the next crossroad, Ron angled right and headed back to his house. He would wait until his appointment with the realtor tomorrow. He still couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched.

  Ron made a decision on the way home.

  When he reached his house, he bolted the door behind him. He grabbed a large Ziplock bag from the pantry, placed the composition book with all of his notes inside, and sealed it tight. He left the house, turning all the lights off, and climbed into his car.

  Thirty-five minutes later, he opened the gate to Andrew Anderson High and locked it behind him. He advanced quietly down the hallway until he arrived in his classroom. He was probably just being paranoid, but he would sleep here for the night, as uncomfortable as it would be. He had an 8:00 a.m. meeting with Liam, at Liam’s request, to help him prepare for an upcoming test. Morning would be here before he knew it, he told himself.