He saw nothing.
“So, how’d you lose the leg?” the doctor asked as he examined Stan Lee’s dry and cracked stumps.
“Does it matter?” Stan Lee responded, immediately wishing he’d said something that didn’t sound quite so defensive.
“Just asking,” the doctor said. “Do you use skin lotion? You’re very dry.”
“Yes,” Stan Lee said. “I’ve tried everything. We talked about this at length the last time I was here. If you’d bothered to look at your notes, you’d know that.”
The doctor leaned back, tilted his head down, and peered over his glasses at Stan Lee. “Have I said or done something to agitate you, Mr. Mattheus?”
“Mattheus? My name is—”
Stan Lee stopped, catching himself in the nick of time. What in the hell was wrong with him? he wondered. Glen Oren Mattheus was the alias he’d been using for over thirty years. Christ, he was mere seconds from blurting out his real name.
“I apologize, Doctor,” Stan Lee said, keeping his voice slow and measured. “I’ve been under considerable stress lately, and it seems to have gotten the best of me.”
The doctor remained silent and continued to peer over his glasses. “I’m going to prescribe something for you, Mr. Mattheus,” the doctor said finally. “Give me a minute, and I’ll take the measurements.”
The doctor left the room and closed the door behind him.
Stan Lee released a breath and leaned back in his chair, fully aware how close he’d just come to blowing the false identity he’d worked so hard to create.
Stan Lee was getting nervous. It had been almost ten minutes since the doctor said he’d be right back. Where was he? Could he be calling the police? Maybe they—
Stan Lee’s cell phone rang.
The cell phone was used exclusively to field calls from people responding to his ads for his Southern Gentleman services. Should he answer? The doctor might return any moment.
“Good afternoon,” Stan Lee said. “How may I help you?”
“I’m trying to reach the Southern Gentleman,” a man said—it was a voice Stan Lee recognized immediately. It belonged to Koda Mulvaney.
“This is he,” Stan Lee said, instantly slowing his voice and adding a noticeable Southern drawl. “What can I do for you, Koda Mulvaney?”
“Impressive,” Koda said.
“Oh, I never forget a voice,” Stan Lee said. “And lest you forget, we spent some time together at your shindig this past July Fourth. Before that we shared the platform at last January’s Restoring Savannah Foundation Ball. Or maybe you have forgotten?”
“No, I remember,” Koda said. “That’s why I’m calling. I’d like to see if you’d be interested in serving as master of ceremonies again at this year’s event.”
“I’m confused,” Stan Lee said. “Are you aware that Miss Flagler hired me for the event and then saw fit to fire me?”
“Mika is no longer involved,” Koda said. “I’m running the event now.”
“And what date did you say?”
“It’s been moved up to the night of December 20,” Koda said. “Are you available?”
“I see,” Stan Lee said, feeling a wave of anger rush over him. Who did these people think they were? One minute he’d been hired and then just as quickly he’d been discarded like an unwanted sofa at the side of the road. Was he simply supposed to say yes and bail them out? The sheer audacity of these people.
“Breakfast,” Stan Lee said.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Take me out for pancakes,” Stan Lee said. “We’ll talk, share a few laughs, and we’ll see from there.”
“Let me get this straight,” Koda said. “You want me to take you out for pancakes?”
“Only if you want me at your event,” Stan Lee drawled. “Otherwise, it looks like my calendar is completely full for the rest of the year.”
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
NOVEMBER 23, 2010
Koda was relieved glad tto have nailed down the breakfast meeting with the Southern Gentleman earlier that morning. Even if the guy was a creep, Koda needed him since he was the glue that would hold the entire evening together.
Now Koda found himself in phone-hold hell. He’d already suffered through “The Girl from Ipanema,” “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head,” and Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy.” He felt like studio musicians were raping his ears.
“Rhinestone Cowboy” wound down and Koda prayed for something decent, only to hear the opening strains of Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” work its way through the earbuds connected to his iPhone. There’s some irony for you, Koda thought.
Koda suddenly found himself thinking about Robyn. If she were there, he’d tell her about this call and they’d end up laughing about it together for hours. There was something about Robyn’s laugh that…
The hold music stopped and the woman from the catering company came back on the line. “Thank you for waiting. I ran the numbers, and we’re looking at $165 per person, inclusive of tax.”
All Koda knew about Beatrice Shaw was that she’d been featured in the September issue of Southern Living magazine, and—if the photo was accurate—she liked to eat. With any luck, Beatrice also knew how to cook.
“It sounds low,” Koda said. “People are paying $10,000 per seat to attend the event. People are gonna expect more than a piece of chewy chicken and soggy asparagus.”
In truth, Koda couldn’t have cared less what the attendees thought. All he cared about was what his father thought.
“I’d be happy to charge you more, darlin’, but it won’t make the food taste any better. It will only make it more expensive,” Beatrice said with a tinge of annoyance. “Maybe you’d like some time to think about it?”
No, Koda thought. Time wasn’t going to help him make a better decision. Besides, time was the one thing he didn’t have. The Restoring Savannah Foundation event was only twenty-eight days away. Then a thought hit him.
“Are you completely booked up for Thanksgiving?” Koda asked.
“Of course, I am.. Thanksgiving is one of our biggest days of the year,” Beatrice said. “We’ve been booked for months.”
“I’d like to have you cater our Thanksgiving dinner,” Koda said.
“Thanksgiving is in two days, and as I said—”
“Is that a no?” Koda asked.
“Apparently, there’s been some misunderstanding,” Beatrice said. “I trained for three years with a James Beard Award-winning chef. I was featured in Southern Living magazine. Twice. I’m the Julia Roberts of Low Country catering. I don’t do auditions.”
“You’re right. There has been a misunderstanding,” Koda said. “I was under the impression you wanted to handle the Restoring Savannah Foundation event for the 150 wealthiest people in Charleston and Savannah.”
Beatrice went quiet.
Koda remained silent, too. What was it his father told him when he was training him to sell? The first person to speak loses?
“Fine,” Beatrice said finally. “I’ll send over a menu.”
Koda checked his phone and saw a text from Quinn:
Come to the second-floor guest room ASAP.
It didn’t sound good.
Koda wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to knock before entering the room, but he did anyway. Seconds later, Quinn cracked open the door and looked out.
“You’re alone,” Quinn said. “Good.”
Quinn opened the door and Koda stepped inside when he noticed something was strange about Quinn’s appearance. He looked pale. “What’s going on, Quinn? Are you okay?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” Quinn smiled. “You’re the one we need to worry about.”
We?
“Hello, Koda,” a woman said from the opposite side of the room.
Koda turned in the direction of the voice and saw a strawberry blonde in a blue prom dress sitting in one of the two large chairs.
It was Juniper.
; “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” Koda said from the chair opposite Juniper. “This entire year, from the day I first saw you in the mirror until now, it seems like a dream. I know this is a weird thing to ask, but can I touch you?” Even though Juniper was no more than three feet away, some part of Koda’s brain still needed to confirm she was real.
“Yes,” Juniper said. “For only for a second or two. Otherwise I might drain too much of your energy.”
“She’s right,” Quinn said. “I hugged her for a minute and almost passed out.”
Koda reached out and took Juniper’s hand. Yes, she was real—as real as a ghost could be, that is. Then Koda began to feel a tingling sensation run up his arm and released her hand. “Why did you decide to finally come out?”
“Because of what Quinn told me,” Juniper said.
Koda looked at Quinn. “What did you tell her?”
“Only what Stormy told us,” Quinn said. “That there is a way for Juniper to stay. Permanently.”
Koda felt a wave of uneasiness coarse through him. Neither he nor Quinn had any idea what was required for Juniper to stay, and Stormy Boyd had not yet provided them with any details about remaining in the living plane.
“Is it safe?” Koda asked. “To stay here, I mean. What about the shadow people?”
Juniper remained silent.
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” Quinn said. “The important thing right now is to find out what Juniper remembers from the night of the prom.”
Juniper spent the next fifteen minutes telling Quinn and Koda everything she could remember aboutfrom the evening of the prom thirty years earlier.
“He told me he worked for the police,” Juniper said, her head lowered and her eyes looking down at the floor. “He said he’d take me home. I trusted him.”
“So, he was a cop?” Koda asked.
Juniper shook her head. “No, he said he was a photographer for the Savannah Police Department. He was in a wheelchair.”
Quinn looked to Koda. “That’s a pretty distinct description. How many crippled photographers in wheelchairs could the Savannah PD possibly have?”
“Assuming the guy really worked for the police,” Koda said. “He could just have been—”
“But he wasn’t crippled,” Juniper said.
“What?” Quinn asked. “But you just said—”
“I said he was in a wheelchair,” Juniper said. “I didn’t say he couldn’t walk. He’s an amputee. He uses prosthetics—both legs—from the knees down. The wheelchair was a fake out.”
“So, he got you in the van,” Koda said. “Where did you go? Do you remember where he took you? What roads you took?”
Juniper shook her head. “He must have drugged me. I don’t remember anything until I woke up and the woman was trying to help me escape from the van.”
“I don’t understand what you’re telling us,” Quinn said, shaking his head in frustration. “What woman?”
Juniper shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know who she was,” Juniper said. “She was helping me remove the straps from my wrists and ankles in the back of the van, and then he came back. I’m pretty sure he…”
“He what?” Quinn asked.
“I’m pretty sure he killed her.”
The room went silent. Quinn closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “What happened then?” Koda asked finally. “Is there anything else you remember? Anything you saw?”
“I remember getting out of the van,” Juniper said. “I was still really drugged up, so things are hazy. I do remember seeing a big house off in the distance—not just a house. It was like a mansion. Lots of light coming through the windows. I started walking across the lawn, the cold wet grass on my bare feet. I thought if I could get there, maybe someone would help me.”
“But you didn’t make it,” Koda said.
Juniper shook her head. “He caught up to me and grabbed me from behind. I’m sure he drugged me again. The next thing I remember I was…”
Juniper looked down at her legs and went quiet.
“What, Juniper? What do you remember?” Quinn asked.
“I’m not going to say anything more,” Juniper said.
It took a moment for Koda and Quinn to understand. Juniper didn’t want them to know how she died—what the man did to her.
Especially Quinn.
Quinn could never know the entire truth. It would crush him. He might never recover.
“It was fast,” Juniper said finally.
Quinn nodded and lowered his head so Juniper couldn’t see his eyes welling up.
Juniper looked over at Koda. Unlike Quinn, Koda didn’t look away. Instead Koda nodded to let Juniper know he understood.
Months ago, Koda hired Stormy Boyd to find out what he could about the missing girls in Savannah, and Stormy had shown him the file.
The photographs of the girls with their legs missing.
Stormy believed—though her body had never been found—that Juniper may have been one of the girls taken by the monster known as the Leg Collector. Juniper was right to not tell Quinn everything.
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
NOVEMBER 23, 2010
Stormy lifted the telephone receiver from the cradle and dialed the number he found on the Savannah Police Department website. Koda had told Stormy about Juniper’s claim that the person who’d abducted her was a photographer with the Savannah PD. Stormy offered to follow up and see what he could find out.
“Savannah PD. Desk Sergeant Abernathy,” someone said on the other end of the line.
“Yes, Sergeant, my name is—”
“Crime in progress or general inquiry?”
“Inquiry,” Stormy said.
“Okay, tell me what you need, and I’ll direct your call to the appropriate person.”
“My name is John Boyd. I handle security for the Mulvaney family,” Stormy said.
“The Mulvaneys? You mean the billionaires? From Charleston?”
“Yes,” Stormy said. “I’m trying to find out if there was a photographer who worked there in the late seventies or early eighties. He would have been in a wheelchair.”
“Oh, yeah. I know who you’re talking about,” the desk sergeant said. “Sergent Elton Nahum.”
“Oh, so he was a police officer, too?”
“No, Nahum was a civilian,” Abernathy said.
“So, you worked with him?” Stormy asked.
“Not long. But before I go answering any more questions, I need you to tell me what this is about.”
“Is he still there?” Stormy asked.
“No, Nahum has been gone for going on twenty years now.”
“He quit?”
“Not exactly. Something like that. Nahum died on the job.”
“How?” Stormy asked.
“A fire at the coroner’s office. Detective Leo Igler, the coroner, and Nahum—all three of them trapped in the basement of the building late at night. Tragic. Now, what is this about?”
“When did this happen?” Stormy asked, ignoring the question and pressing on. It was a technique he’d found helpful when he worked as a detective, and it still worked a hundred years later.
“Let me put on my glasses, and I’ll tell you,” Abernathy said. “There, that’s better. August 17, 1990. They got a parade, twenty-one-gun salute, the whole nine yards. The city closed down Bay and Broughton for half a day.”
“Can I get a copy of the file you’re reading from?”
“File? I’m not reading from a file,” Abernathy said. “I’m reading straight off the big plaque they hung here on the station wall. Made them out to be heroes almost for doing nothing but being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Stormy sat in his chair processing what he’d just learned. The Savannah PD did have a photographer in a wheelchair—a man Stormy felt was most likely the infamous Leg Collector. But the murders continued well after August 1990. Which meant one of two things:
Either Nahum wasn’t
the Leg Collector.
Or Nahum wasn’t as dead as everybody thought he was.
ATLANTIC CITY, NEW JERSEY
DECEMBER 19, 2007
Tara Schröder kept her eyes glued to her hold cards, working to make sure she did not expose any of her poker tells. The good news was everyone had them if you watched closely enough. At this moment, it was the beefy fat-fingered man to her immediate left.
Even before the cards were dealt Tara had identified three tells, starting with the flamboyant way he waved his money in the air like a Chinese fan to get the female dealer’s attention. The second thing was the way he tossed the cash on the table rather than hand it to her. The third was the near ear-shattering volume of his voice.
Three tells in three seconds. And they told Tara that the man was a blowhard with an inferiority complex who hated women.
“Deal ‘em up, sugar,” the man shouted. “The sun’s coming up, and I got roads to plow up in Queens.”
The other person at the table was a mousey thirty-something female with brown hair and thick glasses. Maybe she was a third-grade schoolteacher handing out assignments and grading papers in suburban Toms River during the day, and drinking vodka and tonic while playing poker in Atlantic City at night.
If the mouse had any physical tells, Tara hadn’t identified them yet. She did have a distinctive betting pattern—folding quickly when her cards were unfavorable and limping in with the minimum bet when they were strong.
“Here’s a good one,” Mr. Beefy Fingers said. “What’s the difference between a large pizza and a poker player? A large pizza can feed a family of four.”
Mr. Beefy Fingers slapped his hand on the table and several of Tara’s chip stacks fell over.
Tara closed her eyes tightly, feeling the familiar sting from having been awake for thirty hours. Playing cards in a sleep-deprived state was nothing new. At least twice a week Tara closed the gallery at seven and made the 130-mile drive from Manhattan to the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. Eight hours later, she was behind the wheel, battling rush hour traffic for the next three hours, usually arriving minutes before the gallery’s posted ten o’clock opening.
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