Sacrificial Ground

25

By nine o’clock the next morning, Frank was at the Cyclorama. He pulled the badge from his coat and dropped it on the desk. It gleamed like pure gold beneath the lamp.

“I’d like to see David Curtis,” he said.

“Mr. Curtis is busy at the moment,” the man said. He was wearing a blue uniform with a badge emblazoned on the front, a large tin one that carried the name of the security firm he worked for in bold letters.

“Where is he?” Frank asked.

“The rotunda.”

“Go get him,” Frank said.

“Mr. Curtis don’t like to be disturbed when he’s working,” the man said.

Frank snapped his hand up to the badge and ripped it off the coat.

“Hey, man!” the guard cried.

Frank tossed the badge onto the floor. “Don’t get the idea that little piece of tin means anything. You can buy them at a toy store.”

The guard fingered the rip in his coat. “They’re going to shit when they see this, man.”

Frank grabbed one of the large buttons on the guard’s coat and tugged down on it. “How do I get to the rotunda?” he asked.

The man glared at him helplessly. “Just go through the room behind me, and then through them double doors.”

Frank let go of the button, then stepped around the desk and walked through the double doors of the rotunda.

It was very large and very dark. He could see the terrible fury of the battle of Atlanta as it spread out in miniature before him, a vision of desperate struggle in the smoking ruin of the South’s premier city. He could almost feel the heat of the flames, hear the roar of the cannon. An air of pain and terror hung over the display, loss and grief like a black shroud in the tiny trees.

“May I help you, sir?”

The voice came from a tall, slightly stooped man who stood next to one of the models, a Union soldier almost half his size.

“I’m looking for David Curtis,” Frank said.

“I am David Curtis,” the man replied.

“On the sign outside, it says that you’re in charge of the Cyclorama restoration.”

“Yes, I am,” Curtis said. “But if you’re looking for work, I’m afraid that all of our positions are filled.”

“I’m not looking for work,” Frank told him. He pulled out his badge.

Curtis leaned forward slightly. “What’s that you’re holding?” he said. “In this light, and with my eyes …”

Frank stepped over to him. “Frank Clemons. Police.”

The man squinted at the badge. “Oh, yes.” He walked a few feet away and hit a switch. A steely gray light suddenly flooded the rotunda. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

Frank nodded.

Curtis walked back over to him. “Now, what is all this about the police?”

“I’m investigating a murder,” Frank said. As he glanced around, he realized that he was standing almost in the dead center of the battle. It seemed to rage ferociously below him, a world of smoking air and exploded buildings, horrifying even in miniature.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Curtis said quietly.

“What?”

“This place.”

“Yes, a little.”

“Sometimes I feel like ducking quickly, to avoid a musket ball that’s hurtling toward me.”

It was a landscape of hellish misery, and as Frank’s eyes lingered on it, the misery itself seemed to gather around him in a cloud. It was as if every streak of pain and cry of grief had been collected in this room, all the folly of a million years suddenly rolled into one heartbreaking ball.

“My God,” he whispered.

Curtis looked at him curiously. “You’ve never been here, have you?”

“No.”

“Most people see it from up in the stands,” Curtis said. “It’s quite different when you’re down here.” He tugged Frank gently by the arm. “Come, we’ll go to my office now.”

Frank followed him slowly into a small room at the rear of the rotunda. It was cluttered with tiny figures of soldiers and military equipment, tiny flags fluttering in an invisible wind, patches of smoldering earth, stands of burning trees.

Curtis sat down behind his desk. “Now, you said something about a murder?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “A young woman.” He handed Curtis the picture of Angelica. “Her.”

Curtis brought the photograph very close to his eyes. “I broke my glasses yesterday,” he explained. “I’ll have a new pair by this afternoon. But for now, I’m a bit handicapped.”

“Do you recognize her?” Frank asked.

Curtis shook his head. “No. Who is she?”

“Angelica Devereaux.”

“Oh, yes, it was in the paper a few days ago.”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “Her body was found not too far from here.”

“Really? I thought the paper said that it was found off Glenwood.”

“You have a very good memory,” Frank said.

“Yes, I do.” Curtis handed the picture back to Frank. “Was the paper wrong?”

“No,” Frank told him, “but I’ve been tracing her movements in the days before her death. One night, she came here.”

Curtis looked surprised. “Here? But the Cyclorama is closed until the restoration is finished. She wouldn’t have been able to get in.”

“She didn’t come into the building,” Frank said. “She parked in the lot outside.”

Curtis smiled quietly. “Oh, I see. Well, that’s not unusual. The park is open to everyone. That’s the way it should be.” He looked at Frank pointedly. “You, of all people, should know that recently the parks have been taken over by the less wholesome element of the city.” He smiled cheerfully. “But now we’re taking them back. It’s happening all over. New York City. Boston. Everywhere. And in Atlanta, part of that effort involves the restoration of the Cyclorama.”

“But she seems to have come here for a reason,” Frank said.

“What reason?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said. He pulled out his notebook. “Are you here at night, Mr. Curtis?”

“Sometimes,” Curtis said. “I love this work. It moves back into history.”

“How about other people?”

“What other people?”

“The ones you work with?”

“Well, a maintenance crew comes in at around seven, but they’re usually gone by nine.”

“How about security?”

“Only during the day.”

“Why?”

“It’s for personal security,” Curtis explained, “in case some derelict might try to get in.”

“But you’re not worried about break-ins at night?” Frank asked.

Curtis smiled. “There’s nothing to steal here,” he said calmly, “except a vision of human history. And of course, that’s not something that can be stolen.”

“How about other workers, do they come in at night, the artists you use on your restoration?”

“Sometimes,” Curtis said. “They have a key to the rear entrance.”

“But all the workers use it?”

“Of course.”

Frank wrote it down, then looked up. “She knew this area very well,” he said. “And we don’t know how she came to know it.”

Curtis looked at him closely. “So you don’t think the body was simply dumped?” he asked.

“It was dumped,” Frank said, “but that doesn’t change the fact that she knew this area.”

Curtis shook his head slowly. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Clemons.”

“Did you ever see a red BMW parked in the lot outside?”

“No,” Curtis said, “but that doesn’t mean much. I wouldn’t have noticed it. I would notice a vintage automobile, something old and with a lot of character. But these new sports cars? No, I wouldn’t notice them.” His eyes fell back toward Angelica’s picture. “Beautiful face,” he said softly.

“She didn’t always look the way she does in that photograph,” Frank told him.

Curtis looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“She sometimes dressed differently. Sometimes fixed her hair in a completely different way.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know,” Frank said.

Curtis looked at the photograph again. “So sad. One life.” He glanced up at Frank. “That’s the tragedy. That we have only one life, and it’s so short.” He smiled solemnly. “That’s what I think when I walk through the diorama. All those people, dying.” He shook his head mournfully. “When you think of them as a group, the death gets lost. But when you think that each one is losing his or her one and only life, that, Mr. Clemons, is almost too much to bear. “ He picked up one of the small figurines on his desk and turned it slowly in his hand. It was a Confederate soldier, his gray uniform torn by musket fire, his arms thrust back and frozen in an attitude of sudden and astonished death. “Who was this man? And why did he die like this? That’s the real mystery.” His eyes shifted over to Frank. “This is my dead body, and I think of it just as you think of that girl’s. “ He placed the figure back on his desk. “I wish I could help you, but I never saw her. That’s the hard, dull fact.” He stood up. “I’ve a lot of work to do now, Mr. Clemons, so, if you’ll—”

“One more thing,” Frank said. “Do you know a woman named Miriam Castle?”

Curtis looked surprised to hear her name. “Yes. Why?”

“She mentioned to me that she sometimes gets work for local artists.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Did she get any from you?”

“You mean to work on the restoration?”

“Yes.”

“She tried to get some work for Derek Linton,” Curtis said, “but he wouldn’t work on the project. It was some objection, something about how it glorifies war.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well, we have about three local artists who are working on the Cyclorama,” Curtis said. “By local, do you mean artists who live in Atlanta?”

“Yes.”

“That would narrow it down to two,” Curtis said. “All the rest are imported.”

“But you have two from the city?”

“Yes.”

“And did Miriam Castle recommend them?”

Curtis thought about it. “No, I don’t think so. She was very keen on Linton, but I don’t think she brought up anyone else for this particular project.”

“These two,” Frank said, “who are they?”

Curtis pulled a sheet of paper from his desk. “Everyone who works on the project is listed here.” He handed Frank the paper. “I hope this helps you.”

Frank’s eyes moved down the column of names and addresses. Many were from out of state, specialists brought in from Washington, Boston and New York. Only six were local artists. One lived in Doraville, one in Marietta, and yet another in Hapeville, a southern suburb of Atlanta. Two of them lived in the city itself. And one of these lived on Mercer Place.

Frank looked up from the paper. “Who is Vincent Toffler?”

“He worked mostly on touch-ups,” Curtis said.

“Worked? He’s not here anymore?”

“His part of the project was finished about a week ago,” Curtis said.

“Is this Mercer Place address where he still lives?”

“As far as I know.”

Frank wrote the address down in his notebook. “How well do you know him?”

“Not well at all.”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

“In his personnel file.”

“Would you mind if I took it with me?”

“Not at all,” Curtis said. “He’s finished here, anyway.” He walked to a single, freestanding file cabinet and pulled out a picture of Toffler. It showed a tall, lean young man with curly blond hair. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. There was a paintbrush in his hand.

“Thanks,” Frank said as he pocketed the photograph.

“My pleasure, Mr. Clemons,” Curtis said. “Here, let me show you out.”

Frank turned his head out toward the front of the building.

“No, no,” Curtis said quickly. “We’ll use the rear entrance.” He took Frank’s elbow and tugged him gently to the right.

They went out the side door on the north side of the building. The drop cloths were still piled by the single cement step, and as Frank glanced toward the parking area, he realized that Angelica had parked in an almost direct line of vision from the door.

“If one of your artists were working late,” he said to Curtis, “would he use this door to go in and out?”

“Yes,” Curtis said, “the front is locked after five.” He glanced about the park, then up at the high gray wall of the Cyclorama. “This restoration is going to benefit this whole area of the city,” he said.

“It could use it,” Frank said, as he started walking toward his car.

“This neighborhood has quite a history, did you know that?” Curtis asked.

Frank shook his head as he walked on.

“Much of it was a burial ground,” Curtis said. “We learned that during the excavations.”

“What excavations?”

“When the first piping was put in,” Curtis said. “That’s when certain areas were uncovered. Workmen found a great many bones.” He nodded in the general vicinity of Waldo Street. “Especially over there, in the area beyond Boulevard.” Curtis’ eyes darkened. “The workmen reported it to the police. They weren’t archeologists and anthropologists, after all. It was an odd find. So many bones. Human bones. “ His eyes shifted back to Frank. “All female. All from teenage girls.”

Frank began to feel dizzy.

“So rather than an ordinary burial ground,” Curtis went on, “we think it was probably a place of sacrifice. There was no evidence of trauma, no fractured skulls, for example. We think their throats were cut.”

In his mind, Frank could see the young girls as they flailed about on the ground, bleeding slowly to death. He could feel the blade as it sliced through their long brown throats, and the wave of warm blood as it washed down their naked chests. The high wail that came from them seemed to struggle upward into the air around him.