Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  Still, as he opened his classroom door and settled into his seat, he decided to leave the light on. He folded his arms on his desk and rested his chin upon them, closing his eyes. A light tap caused him to lift his head with a start.

  It was just a random noise, nothing more, he tried to convince himself. He made a decision then that in the morning he would go to the police, tell them everything he knew about the clues from Kirkside. They might laugh at him, but he didn’t care. Something bad was going on in town.

  Ron looked around at the walls, stood, and hurried to the white board.

  What he considered was terrifying, but just in case, the right people had to know what he’d discovered.

  44

  Aunt Rita pulled up to the high school shortly before 8:00 a.m. on Thursday morning. It was more than an hour before the first class, and the parking lot was practically empty.

  “Are you sure Mr. Mast is here this early?”

  Liam pointed. “That’s his car over there.” He swung the door open and stepped out.

  “Liam,” his aunt called.

  Liam stuck his head back through the doorway.

  “I’m proud of you asking for help like this.”

  “Yeah, well, as you know, I haven’t exactly been killin’ it. Mr. Mast is a good teacher. I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  Aunt Rita smiled and waved goodbye. “See you this afternoon.”

  “Thanks again for the ride, Aunt Rita. Tell Pilot to behave.”

  “You’re asking a lot,” she joked.

  Liam closed the door and entered the main hallway. He stopped by his locker first to unload his other text books. With only his history book in hand, he walked to Mr. Mast’s room. The door was closed. Through the small square window, he was surprised to see the lights off inside. He wondered if Mr. Mast forgot about their meeting and was in some other part of the school.

  Liam gave the handle a turn, expecting the door to be locked. It clicked open, and he pushed it inward. An unexpected smell escaped from the room; a rank, horrid stench that caused Liam to hesitate.

  “Mr. Mast?” he said, tentatively easing the door wider.

  Light lanced in from the hallway, sending a long rectangular spotlight stretching across the front of the classroom. A mass was heaped on the desk staring at Liam. It was a human, curled up as if sleeping with its eyes open.

  “Mr. Mast?” Liam’s voice quivered. His stomach turned to mush.

  The man’s dark face was lifeless. Liam’s mind froze. He took a nervous step forward, unintentionally shielding the light from the man’s face. He stepped aside, sending a macabre glow upon Mr. Mast’s dry, shriveled eyes. A thin line of blood wrapped around his neck. The man wasn’t moving. The smell intensified.

  Liam couldn’t breathe. With a violent convulsing of his stomach, he dropped to his knees.

  45

  That evening as he lay in bed, Liam vaguely remembered talking to the police. The ordeal had left him numb. He still couldn’t digest that Mr. Mast was dead. The police were calling it a robbery/homicide. His wallet and other valuables had been taken.

  The image of Mr. Mast slumped on the desk like a bag of trash was carved into his consciousness. No matter how hard he tried to ignore the memory, it returned.

  Another horrific vision to accompany the memory of his father’s death.

  God, what have I done to deserve this?

  Bailey had texted him a few times, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say.

  Aunt Rita brought him a sandwich, with Pilot tagging along at her side. She sat him up and practically forced him to eat it, but in a gentle way. Pilot lay on a small carpet beside the bed even as Aunt Rita left the room. Liam looked at the dog, and Pilot slowly wagged his tail, but remained in place. It was as if Pilot sensed Liam’s need for silent company.

  An hour later, a thunderstorm rolled in. Unable to sleep, Liam lay in the dark staring at his ceiling. Pilot had fallen asleep but roused with the first flash and crack of thunder. Liam heard the dog’s nervous movements and saw the scared glow of Pilot’s dark gray eyes in the dimly lit room. “C’mon, boy. You can come up here with me.”

  Pilot stood with trepidation as the next clap of thunder rattled the room.

  “C’mon,” Liam urged, patting the edge of the bed.

  Pilot trotted over and jumped onto the bed. Liam slid over, allowing the Malamute to curl up next to him. Liam stroked the dog’s back, offering solace as Pilot panted rapidly.

  The lightning flashed, and the thunder followed with an ear-piercing crash.

  It was the perfect ending to a horrible day.

  46

  School was closed on Friday after Ron Mast’s murder. Liam had slept miserably the night before and was haggard when he walked into the kitchen a little after 8:00 a.m. Pilot, who had left his room sometime during the night, greeted him with a single lick to his hand as Liam sat down at the table.

  “You okay?” Aunt Rita asked gently.

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug. It was a lie.

  “I’ve already taken Pilot out. You don’t have to help me at the shop today. Do something for yourself. Walk into town. I know it’s hard, but try to enjoy the day. Oh, and it’s chilly out.”

  The thought of walking alone appealed to him. He scratched his head. “Can you please take Drew a cup of coffee and some donuts?”

  “I already did,” she admitted, not making eye contact with him.

  Liam drank a cup of coffee, but did not eat. Fifteen minutes later, he was out the door wearing a long-sleeve pullover, blue jeans, and a light jacket. Aunt Rita was right. The November temperature had dropped, but the rising sun would soon warm the day. King Street was alive with its normal traffic as the city began to wake up. Liam had no destination in mind. Yet as he set out, one occurred to him. In case Aunt Rita was watching, he cut back through the Flagler Model Land Company neighborhood. While he couldn’t explain it, he was being drawn to his school and to Mr. Mast’s classroom. He only hoped he could find a way inside.

  It was a three-mile walk to Andrew Anderson High. Liam kept a steady pace and reached it in 40 minutes. The school grounds were empty. He crossed through the parking lot and arrived at the main entrance. The gate was locked tight.

  Stupid. What was I thinking? He’d walked three miles knowing the school would be locked up tight.

  Liam hoped to catch someone, a teacher perhaps, coming in. After 45 minutes without seeing a soul, he sat against the brick wall of the building and slumped to the ground, lowering his head onto his knees. First his parents, now Mr. Mast. Was this his fate in life? Everyone he admired, everyone he grew to love, would be snatched away from him the instant he felt the first semblance of happiness?

  “Liam? Liam Poston?” a stern voice jarred him awake. His head shot up. It was Vice Principal Abelhouse. “What are you doing here?”

  It took a moment for his head to clear. He wondered how long he’d been asleep. “I…I was hoping to see Mr. Mast’s classroom.”

  For the first time, Mr. Abelhouse shed his stuffy demeanor and spoke with compassion. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Liam.”

  Liam wiped his eyes, and rose to his feet. “Mr. Abelhouse, I had dreams all last night about finding his body yesterday. In my dreams, the body is still in his classroom. I know it sounds nuts, but I have to see the room. I have to know he’s not still there.”

  “Liam,” Mr. Abelhouse began assertively, then stopped. His face softened. “I’m here for a few hours. I’ll let you inside his room, but please don’t do anything to undermine my trust in you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Abelhouse.”

  Inside, Mr. Abelhouse walked the halls with Liam in silence. Liam sensed the man’s grief as well. He had no idea how long Mr. Abelhouse had known Mr. Mast, but it was far longer than Liam’s relationship with the teacher. He guessed everyone at the school who knew Mr. Mast was grieving in one way or another.

  They arrived at the classroom, and Mr.
Abelhouse unlocked the door and turned the light on. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He paused. “He was a good man. I feel fortunate to have known him.”

  Liam could only nod his head. If he spoke, he might break down and cry.

  Mr. Abelhouse walked away, and Liam entered the classroom. The smell of the room brought back memories. Liam walked to his usual desk and sat down. Mr. Mast’s desk had a dark canvas cover draped over it. Grimly, he realized it was probably because of the blood stains. The rest of the room appeared clean.

  Liam wondered why he was even here, although deep inside he knew the answer. He didn’t believe Mr. Mast’s death was a random robbery. Something wasn’t right. If Mr. Mast was targeted, the brutal nature of the crime implied urgency, desperation…but why?

  Liam stood and walked about the room. The odds of finding anything were slim. Police had thoroughly investigated the crime scene. He only hoped something here would trigger a thought, a memory, which would prove that the little voice in his head was right.

  Everything seemed normal. The whiteboard was blank, and the syllabus was taped to the lower right corner as it had been from day one. The reproduction of pictures of historical events were posted on the walls in the same positions. The student desks were arranged normally, and the clock on the wall was ticking along.

  So what had he hoped to find?

  He retook his seat. A sudden flush of emotions made him want to scream. This was all so unfair. Life was unfair.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He looked up to see Bailey standing in the door. “How did you get in?”

  “Mr. Abelhouse let me in, too. I went by the shop, and your aunt told me you had gone for a walk. Something told me you were here. What are you doing?”

  “I don’t believe Mr. Mast was killed for his wallet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a common thief doesn’t come into a school classroom to rob a teacher. Teachers aren’t exactly known to carry around a lot of cash.”

  “But if the thief knew he was alone, he might have been an easy target.”

  “I don’t buy it. Besides, why was he here in the first place? Police said he’d left school grounds on Wednesday afternoon after class. Why would he return?”

  “Maybe he forgot something?” Bailey said, pushing her bangs apart. She paused, and her eyes turned red. “Oh, God,” she started crying and put her head in her hands, “this is so horrific. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  Liam hugged her as she stood sobbing. Facing the desk, he noticed the class syllabus once again. He recalled what Mr. Mast had said on the first day of school.

  “This is the syllabus. If you ever lose it, I keep a copy here.”

  Liam slowly pulled away from Bailey, staring at the paper.

  “What’s the matter?” Bailey said, wiping her eyes.

  Liam didn’t respond. He was fixated on the paper. “I don’t recall the syllabus being that well taped to the whiteboard. Mr. Mast had all four sides taped, but not to every end of the paper.”

  “I don’t remember. What does it matter?”

  Liam drifted to the whiteboard and read the page. “This is last year’s syllabus.”

  “Why would Mr. Mast change the current syllabus to an outdated one?”

  Liam carefully began to pull off the tape. Bailey came over to help. They worked slowly to minimize tearing. Once free, with Bailey at his side, he flipped the paper over. There were three handwritten sentences:

  Beyond where the sword splits the water, and Ponce de León’s flaw, find where Paris should be New York. There, sadly, follow the last of the daytime. Final destination is buried behind the fourth and surrounded by death.

  “That’s Mr. Mast’s handwriting,” Bailey said. “But it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I think it’s some sort of riddle.”

  “You think it gives the identity of the killer?”

  Liam exhaled slowly. “I don’t know.”

  Bailey read the first sentence aloud again, “ ‘Beyond where the sword splits the water, and Ponce de León’s flaw, find where Paris should be New York.’ ” Then she began pacing in front of the whiteboard. “I think you’re right. This is some sort of historical riddle. If Mr. Mast left it, it’s because he knew it could be deciphered. You told me you and your dad geocached, and that you’re good at riddles and puzzles. We can do this Liam.” She returned to his side and stared at the paper on the desktop. “So what do you make of the first line?”

  “I don’t,” he admitted.

  “Well, I think I do; at least part of it. ‘Beyond where the sword splits the water’ refers to the statue of the giant sword plunged into the middle of the circular fountain in the Flagler College courtyard. The sword was Flagler’s way of paying homage to Ponce de León. And ‘Ponce de León’s flaw’ is a reference to a small black tile in the inlaid pattern of the rotunda inside Flagler College. Every student and tour guide at the college knows about it. He’s telling us to go beyond the courtyard, and then beyond the rotunda in the building. But the last part makes no sense to me.”

  Liam read it again, “ ‘…find where Paris should be New York.’ ”

  “How can Paris be New York?”

  Then he remembered. “It’s referring to an artist. I think his name is Tojetti, or something close. He’s the guy who created the ceiling murals in the Grand Parlor. He autographed his work in the southwest corner of the room. Underneath his signature, he wrote Paris, which was odd, because at the time, he was living in New York City. Some scholars think he did it to appear more worldly. The first line of the riddle is leading us to the Grand Parlor in Flagler College.”

  Bailey looked at him with her inquisitive brown eyes. “How do you know all this about the artist and the Grand Parlor?”

  “I read.” He refocused on the paper. “Let’s keep going.”

  “ ‘There, sadly, follow the last of the daytime.’ ” Bailey looked up in thought. “There are two original clocks in the Hotel Ponce de León that are over 125 years old. One is the black onyx clock on the first floor. It still works. Because it’s black, it’s referred to as the night clock. In the Grand Parlor there’s a white onyx clock, known as the day clock. The solid piece of white onyx is the largest in the western hemisphere. This clock is broken.”

  “But what does he mean when he says, ‘Sadly, follow the last of the daytime’?”

  “I think it means the last number in the time. Since it’s broken, it’s stuck on the same time, like 8:51 or something. In that case, the key point in this sentence would be the ‘1’ on the clock.”

  “Is it stuck on 8:51?”

  “No, and I don’t know what time it’s stuck on.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s after one. The next tour is at two o’clock. It’s the only way we can get inside the Grand Parlor to see the clock.”

  “Are you sure no one has moved the hands?”

  “No one knows how long it’s been broken, but to repair it would mean breaking the large piece of white onyx, and the college decided against doing so. They don’t dare move the hands, for fear of doing damage. C’mon, I’ve got Mom’s car. Let’s get to the college. As county residents, the tour is free for us.”

  Liam folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket.

  ****

  As Bailey drove, Liam used her cell to pull up pictures of the white onyx clock in the Grand Parlor. He had hoped to avoid the tour by finding an image online that showed the clock, but none of the pictures were close enough to show the exact time. He could only tell it had stopped at some point in the three o’clock hour.

  He handed the smartphone back to Bailey. “I really need to get one of these someday.”

  Twenty minutes later, they passed the prominent statue of Henry Flagler and entered the Flagler College courtyard through the tall arched walkway. Bailey led him past the large fountain with the statue of the upside-down sword buried to the hilt. Climbing the steps to the terrace, they ascended more ste
ps into the building. Inside, to the left of the rotunda, they found the gift shop and got free admission to the 2:00 p.m. tour.

  Waiting in the rotunda with other tourists, Liam applied the tour sticker to his chest.

  Bailey spoke, “College students give these tours. If I can somehow get enough money to go here, I hope to do the same.”

  “Where is the Grand Parlor from here?”

  She pointed to the left. “It’s through those doors.”

  “So close, yet so far away.”

  “Under different circumstances, I wish you could take the full tour. The dining hall is fantastic. The windows around the large oval hall are Tiffany glass, protected on the outside by bulletproof glass. There are mosaics on the ceiling. The tour guides also tell you about the wagon-wheel chandelier which temporarily hung in the dining area but was lost once it was replaced a short time after the hotel opened.”

  “I remember One mentioning the chandelier at the first history club meeting.” Liam gazed up and around. Even he had to admit the rotunda was awesome. The architectural work, the mural on the ceiling, and the high dome overhead were totally clutch, even if the building was a dinosaur. He probably now knew as much as she did about the building, but he prompted her for details. “What more do you know about this place?”

  “This was the central part of the hotel where people arrived, departed, and gathered. It was also the main pathway for patrons coming from the guest rooms to other parts of the building. Notice the use of dark oak at the baseboards and the gilded walls with real gold? Over there, at what used to be the check-in area of the hotel—which is now the college’s security office—you can see the black onyx, or nighttime clock, on the wall through the glass.”

  She pointed up. “The dome is 80 feet tall with a clear oculus. That and the mezzanine are supported by eight iron columns hidden within oak pillars carved as caryatids. Caryatids are—”

  “Figures of robed women. Got it.”