Play Dead

Chapter 3

David Gould had run five miles with another five to go when his pager went off. He didn't check it.

When he'd started out, the streets had been dark and deserted, with fog clinging to rolling lawns and areas of dense vegetation. Now it was light. The storm had moved on to Atlanta, and traffic was getting heavy. Sidewalks were littered with shredded leaves and crushed blossoms. In a couple of areas, he'd spotted some downed trees.

Helluva storm.

He should probably run with a cell phone, but that would have been a pain in the ass. Besides, the purpose of the run was to get away from everything for a while. Time to empty his mind and let himself fall into that semihypnotic state, lulled by the rhythmic pounding of jogging shoes.

His pace was even; the only thing that ever changed was the intensity of the pounding, varying upon the surface he traversed. The soft, hollow thud of earth was interrupted by the more solid connection of asphalt, which in turn gave way to cement and the crunch of gravel.

Gravel was his least favorite because the sound wasn't as clean.

His head was always full of clutter that served no purpose other than to confuse him and complicate his thought processes. Running helped. Running for him was the equivalent of defragmenting his hard drive. By the end of the day, he usually felt pretty level, pretty good about things, but with each morning came a fresh wave of clutter and the desperate need to purge himself.

David moved through Forsyth Park, past the fountain with the spouting mermen and the guy selling salvation. A homeless woman crawled from under a blooming magnolia where she'd nested for the night. Several people he didn't know told him good morning.

They were so damn friendly here. It pissed him off.

So far, David hadn't experienced the Savannah John Berendt had written about. David Gould's Savannah was a darker place, a place that had more to do with life on the streets than with life in a multimillion-dollar mansion. Not that Savannah wasn't one of the most beautiful places he'd ever seen, because it was. The city's beauty and uniqueness were directly related to the twenty-two squares designed by the founder, James Oglethorpe. Two- and three-story historic homes, with their graciously curved front steps that led to tabby sidewalks and brick streets, surrounded the silent and sheltered communal gardens canopied with Spanish moss.

Contrasting with the beauty was a darkness and mystery that saturated the Southern cityscape. A false Utopia that at once compelled and repelled.

When had the darkness started? David wondered.

Before the Civil War? Before Sherman? Or had Sherman 's visit marked the beginning?

Whatever the origins, the darkness had left the city with a strange vibe David couldn't quite put his finger on, but it felt a little like an episode of The Twilight Zone. He just kept hoping Rod Serling would step from behind a building and explain it all to him…

The sun hadn't been up long, but it was already getting muggy. And buggy.

With spring came unpleasantness. Things like sinus headaches. Mold. Wood rot. Palmetto bugs. Which were actually huge, flying cockroaches. Who was anybody kidding?

And rats.

Jesus, the rats. The city was crawling with them. His partner had assured him it wasn't always like this, that the excessive rain and demolition and construction projects had driven the rodents into some of the most touted eating establishments in the city.

They couldn't be poisoned. They'd die in the walls, and wouldn't that be a stinking mess? A couple of restaurant owners had taken to sitting up all night with.22 rifles, blasting the rodents as they made an appearance.

After businesses closed, people gathered outside the darkened windows of Savannah restaurants to watch the rats come out to play. Watch them scurry across tables, knocking down salt and pepper shakers, their eyes glowing. But then, residents had to get then-entertainment somewhere. Local theaters rarely screened decent movies, and the music scene… well, there wasn't one, unless you counted the requisite

blues and jazz that was more the equivalent of free chicken wings.

Spring and warmer weather also brought murder, with the city already breaking last year's record, not that anybody was bragging. Well. Some people may have been.

At the intersection of Abercorn and Gordon, David paused and checked his pager. E. Sandburg, just as he'd suspected. She'd left a message: "Meet me at the morgue."

Quaint.

He headed home, passing a group of young girls jumping rope, chanting a reminder of where he was:

Lady in a black veil Babies in the bed Kissed them on the forehead Now they're both dead.

Red Xs on their gravestones Black Xs on their lips Silver dollars where their eyes should be Mama put a hex.

His apartment was on the third floor of a building called Mary of the Angels.

Once it had housed children orphaned by a yellow fever epidemic that had ripped through Savannah in 1854. After that, it had been the final home to tuberculosis patients during a time when TB was a death sentence.

"Oh, David. This is horrid," his sister had announced when she'd visited the area on a business trip. "Was this the only apartment you could find?"

"It was the first apartment."

Now he unlocked the door and stepped inside, his Siamese cat saying hello, circling his legs and meowing.

Isobel had been his wife's cat. She would be his ex-wife if the lawyers ever got their asses in gear and finished the paperwork. Beth had begged him to take care of Isobel while she lived her new life on death row.

Siamese were supposed to be independent, but Isobel was one of the neediest damn cats David had ever seen. Then again, maybe the traumatic events of the past year had been tough on her too. Maybe she needed a shrink. A kitty psychiatrist.

David took a shower and dressed in gray pants and a white shirt. Shoulder holster and gun. He preferred a.40-caliber Smith amp; Wesson. He liked the weight, liked the accuracy, and liked the way it fit compactly against his body. He finished off with a jacket that matched his pants.

He'd been in Savannah three months and still felt as if he'd stepped into somebody else's life. As he moved through the days, nothing seemed to touch him-nothing felt real. It wasn't just Savannah. Nothing had felt real in a long time.

Antidepressants did that to a person.

Keys.

Badge.

Handcuffs.

And then there were the assholes at Headquarters who'd given him a hard time since his first day in their lovely city. Especially a couple of detectives David called various names, depending on his mood. Starsky and Hutch. Cagney and Lacey. Crockett and Tubbs. Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop.

They'd started the feud.

What exactly did they have against him?

He was from Ohio.

Translation: the North. The big, bad North, where all the obnoxious, rude Yankees lived.

Apparently the Civil War was still going on; the South just hadn't gotten the memo telling them it was over.

Screw them. He should care, but he didn't.

David knew his detachment wasn't acceptable, knew he should see a local therapist, but he couldn't seem to drum up enough enthusiasm to follow through on the idea. And anyway, he'd been evaluated by FBI psychologists and had been pronounced mentally sound. Why would he want to argue with that? Everybody had problems. Everybody was a little wacko.