Collecting Shadows

  COLLECTING SHADOWS

  Gary Williams & Vicky Knerly

  SUSPENSE PUBLISHING

  THE NOVELS OF

  GARY WILLIAMS & VICKY KNERLY

  Series

  Death in the Beginning (The God Tools: Book 1)

  Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools: Book 2)

  End in the Beginning (The God Tools: Book 3)

  Novels

  Indisputable Proof

  Three Keys to Murder

  Manipulation

  Collecting Shadows

  Short Story

  Before the Proof - A Samuel Tolen Short Story

  Please visit us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/WilliamsKnerly

  COLLECTING SHADOWS

  By Gary Williams and Vicky Knerly

  DIGITAL EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Suspense Publishing

  COPYRIGHT

  2017 by Gary S. Williams and Vicky W. Knerly Partnership

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Suspense Publishing, Digital Copy, January 2017

  Cover Design: Shannon Raab

  Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/ OG Photo

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is dedicated to all those who were adversely affected by Hurricane Matthew in early October 2016, especially those where Vicky lives in Melbourne, Florida and where Gary lives in St. Augustine, Florida.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Research for this novel was extensive, and we have a host of people who deserve our deepest gratitude. In particular, we’d like to give special thanks to Flagler College professor and author, Dr. Leslee Keys; Flagler College professor emeritus and author Dr. Thomas Graham; Flagler College Director of News and Information, Brian Thompson; college professor and docent at Memorial Presbyterian Church in St. Augustine, Florida, Jay Smith; former employee at Memorial Presbyterian Church in St. Augustine, Florida, David Stanevich; The Cummer Museum of Arts & Gardens Registrar, Kristen Zimmerman; the owners of Kirkside Apartments, Wolfgang and Miki Schau; and the fine folks at the St. Augustine Historical Society Research Library. Any errors in facts (which are not intentional) are solely the responsibility of the authors.

  Thanks to our team of reviewers: Jeff Williams, Les Williams, Susan Parker, Janice Lake, Sonya Ashton, Meme Bernholz, Kimberly Morrison Mintz, Mille Sorger, Mark Sorger, Margie Hawks, Allison Pilliod, Barbara Wood, Linda Herrera, Deborah McGraw, Michelle Marchant, Judy Coady, Rhonda K. Lovett, Courtney Lococo, and Coleen Moulton.

  As always, thanks to our publicist, Diane Buckner, for doing what she does so well. It’s been a fun ride so far, and we look forward to continuing into the future.

  A very special thanks to Shannon Raab with Suspense Publishing who added immense value to the story with her constructive criticism, opinions, and insight.

  We would like to thank our families and friends for their unending support and encouragement.

  Lastly, we would like to acknowledge all our readers who continue to come along with us into our fictional worlds. Know that we deeply appreciate each and every one of you.

  PRAISE FOR COLLECTING SHADOWS

  “A clever tale, set in the oldest city in America, that draws from St. Augustine’s long and storied past. It’s like a travelogue through the town, and its unique history, with many of the coolest places worked into the mystery. The novel is seductive, sophisticated and authentic. And once you’ve finished reading, you’re going to want to come for a visit.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times and #1 Internationally Bestselling Author

  “The writing team of Williams and Knerly have done it again, seamlessly blending historical fact and modern fiction into an intellectual puzzle that keeps the reader eagerly searching for the next piece.”

  —Lisa O’Neill Clark, Author of the Southern Comfort Series

  “One of the best historical thrillers I’ve read in a very long time. The blend of historical fact is seamless. It never slows!”

  —J.M. Leduc, Award-Winning Author of the Sinclair O’Malley Series and Trilogy of the Chosen/Phantom Squad

  “A recipe of sheer adventure, mystery and suspense, the writing team of Gary Williams and Vicky Knerly have produced this unforgettable tale that readers will not be able to put down. A cat-and-mouse game of epic proportions set in the beauty of St. Augustine, ‘Collecting Shadows’ is one of the best books 2017 will see. 5-Stars!”

  —Amy Lignor, Bestselling Author of the Tallent & Lowery Adventures and The Angel Chronicles

  COLLECTING SHADOWS

  Gary Williams & Vicky Knerly

  1

  St. Augustine, Florida. Tuesday, December 5, 1950.

  One last look at the old place before it was gone. That was all he wanted.

  Seventy-six-year-old Lucius Mast left his small house on Cincinnati Street just before 11:30 p.m. The late fall air was brisk, and he was glad he wore a light jacket. He ventured south, staying to the neighborhood streets, guided by the moonlight. The roadways were quiet.

  He soon crossed Orange Street and reached the neighborhood known as the Flagler Model Land Company. Keeping to the sidewalk, Lucius crossed the street where the church office, or manse, stood on the corner. Most of the homes he passed were dark, Christmas lights had been extinguished, and residents had long since retired for the night.

  Beyond the manse, Henry Flagler’s Memorial Presbyterian Church rose in the darkness, its lighted dome towering over the nearby houses, rising like a heavenly beacon in the night sky. When he reached the corner of the church grounds, Lucius turned right and passed before the south entrance to the magnificent church Mr. Flagler had erected in 1889 as a memorial to his daughter.

  Just beyond, another structure was struck by the glow of the moonlight. Kirkside, with its large white columns and lofty gable, came into view.

  Lucius recalled how he felt on the first day he started working there so long ago. It was January of 1894, ten months after the winter home Henry Flagler built for his second wife, Ida Alice, had been completed. Lucius, 19 at the time, was an inexperienced servant trying to learn his way around the 15 rooms. Everywhere he looked, he saw expensive furniture and decorations. He could still smell the marble-tiled floors, the long, thick drapes, and the remnants from long-ago fires in the fireplace. Lawdy, he had never seen such a grand place, nor could he have imagined how much money it had cost to build.

  He gazed at the mansion longingly, saddened to see it now. Time had not been kind to Kirkside. The empty residence now belonged to a relative of Henry’s third wife, Mary Lily Kenan, and had fallen into a state of disrepair in the 37 years since Mr. Flagler’s death. The local paper had reported that, instead of making necessary repairs to the tune of $20,000, the relative had decided to tear it down and parcel out the land. The demolition was scheduled to begin tomorrow.

  Lucius had craved one last look at the old mansion, even in its failing state.

  He stopped before the overgrown garden, ga
zing up at Kirkside, feeling nostalgic. While most would remember Mr. Flagler for his great hotels, church, and railway system, Lucius would always remember the man for the two years he had served here. Work hard, and Mr. Flagler treated you right; and that’s what Lucius had done. Even as a colored man, he was treated no differently than anyone else Mr. Flagler employed.

  The fact Kirkside would be demolished tomorrow fell heavy on his heart.

  Lucius lowered his gaze. In the shadowed courtyard, he noticed the empty stone pedestal. Strange, the object which normally sat atop the pedestal was gone.

  This caused a flood of memories to return regarding the branded items, followed by a troubling thought: If one was gone, what about the others?

  There was no time to hesitate. In the morning, the demolition would begin. The secret would be lost forever if he didn’t act.

  He looked around to make sure no one was watching. For an old man, Lucius was in good shape. He trotted over the courtyard lawn past the empty pedestal. The moonlight helped to guide him as he circumvented the garden and passed between the Corinthian columns, up the steps to the front door. He eyed the windows on either side, but they were visible from the street. He eased left where the veranda wrapped around the corner of the structure and paused before he edged up to a side window. He realized it had been 55 years since he’d last been here, yet even in the dim light, the outer walls of the mansion and the smell of the wood were unmistakable. They held a grandfatherly appeal, as if Mr. Flagler had poured his entire soul into the home.

  Lucius pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around his right hand. In a way, he hated to do it to the old glass, but he had no choice. With a quick thrust of his fist, the pane shattered. The sound was louder than he hoped. He turned toward the road, watching for movement. Valencia Street remained quiet. Lucius slowly popped out the last remaining shards of the window pane. He dug into his pocket and retrieved a book of matches. Gingerly, he stepped through the window, pushing the curtains apart. Once inside, Lucius struck a match. The nearly empty interior came alive in the faint glow.

  Seven minutes later, Lucius departed through the same window he had entered. To his surprise, he discovered that every item he was looking for, was gone. Someone had taken them.

  “Hey, colored man! What are you doing there? That’s private property!”

  Lucius jumped. He turned to see that a white man walking his dog had stopped and was staring at him from the sidewalk. Lucius scrambled from the porch, dashing toward the road and away from the man.

  The small dog barked ferociously.

  “Hey, you! Stop!” the fellow yelled again.

  Lucius kept moving. He ran as hard as he could westward on Valencia Street. He could hear the man calling after him, but he soon outdistanced himself from the voice and the barking. Still in a panic, he turned south, now at a slow trot. He was growing weary as sweat gathered on his clothes. He suddenly realized he’d left his jacket. He didn’t dare go back for it.

  The town roads remained dark and quiet as he crossed King Street. He was headed away from his house on purpose. It was a small town, and the white man with the dog looked familiar. If the man recognized Lucius, the police might be waiting for him at his house. There was no way folks would believe a colored man had broken into the mansion without stealing something. He’d be sentenced and locked up in jail before morning. His only hope was to get to his son Carlyle’s house in the Lincolnville area of town.

  Lucius slunk carefully along the streets, staying to the shadows. He was terrified and his feet hurt, but he forced his tired body onward.

  He thought about the items taken from Kirkside. Just a week before, in a newspaper article, Lucius had seen a photograph taken from inside the mansion. The pieces had still been there, which meant in the last seven days someone had taken those specific items.

  Panting, Lucius reached his son’s house. As expected, the lights were off. He pulled himself up onto the porch. Even in the brisk air, he continued to perspire. He removed a dirty handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed his brow. He tapped lightly on the door and waited. When there was no response, he knocked harder: still no response. He rapped with more force. Lucius glanced around nervously, concerned he might wake the neighbors. Finally, an interior light came on.

  ****

  It was after midnight as Carlyle waddled down the stairs, tying his robe around his ample waist. In the distance, a police siren rang out. He reached the first floor and flipped the foyer light on. “Who’s there?”

  “Carlyle, it’s Dad. Let me in.”

  “Dad?” He opened the door. “What you doin’ here so late?”

  His father stepped inside, took the door from Carlyle and closed it abruptly, as if he feared something or someone might follow him into the house. Then he raced up the stairs without a word. Carlyle followed after him. “Dad, you in trouble?”

  The siren in the distance grew louder.

  Carlyle had a hard time keeping pace. On the landing above, his 22-year-old daughter, Arlene, stood in her nightgown.

  “Grampa, what you doin’ here?” Arlene asked.

  Her grandfather didn’t answer. Instead, he reached the landing and darted into the guest bedroom. He spun inside the doorway, staring back at Carlyle and Arlene. “I need to stay here tonight. I’ll explain in the morn—” he cut his words off. The sirens seemed to be coming up the street. A strobe of red light cut through the second-story hallway window. His face filled with worry. “Don’t let them know I’m here.” He slammed the bedroom door closed.

  “Dad, are the police after you?” Carlyle tried to open the door but found it locked. He looked at Arlene, then at his wife, Wanda, who now stood nearby with her arm wrapped around their 10-year-old son, Mackey.

  There was a loud banging at the front door. “Police. Open up,” came a harsh voice.

  Wanda’s gaze turned to fear. “That man has brought trouble to our house.”

  Carlyle froze, unsure what to do.

  The pounding intensified as the voice became louder. “We know your father is in there. Open the door, or we’ll break it down.”

  Wanda spoke, “Carlyle, you’d best open that door right now. We didn’t do nuthin’. If they want your daddy, you can’t risk the lives of our children.”

  Lord, what’s he done? Carlyle thought as he descended the stairs feeling the weight of his inner conflict.

  When the door came crashing inward, the decision was taken from his hands. A burly white man in a gray suit, wearing a fedora, entered with his gun drawn. In his other hand, he held a jacket. He was followed by two uniformed police officers. They spotted Carlyle on the stairs where he had frozen in place.

  “Boy, where is your father?” the burly man growled, aiming his pistol at Carlyle.

  “What you want with him?” Carlyle asked in a shaky voice.

  “We found this jacket with your father’s name on the inside collar. It was laying inside Kirkside where a window’s been busted out. A man saw a Negro fleeing the scene in this direction. Now tell me where he is before we rip this place apart.”

  Carlyle’s mouth went dry. He began to tremble.

  He heard Arlene shout from above, “Mom, no!”

  “He up here. In this bedroom,” Wanda yelled down, pointing toward the bedroom door. She had come to the railing and pulled Mackey behind her.

  The burly man and the two officers rushed up the stairs.

  “Please don’t hurt him!” Carlyle pleaded as they slammed him into the wall on their way past him. “He’s old! He didn’t mean no trouble!”

  Carlyle gathered himself and followed them up the stairs. The trailing officer wheeled around and aimed at Carlyle. Carlyle stopped at the top of the landing, hands in the air. Wanda and Mackey backed away from the bedroom door, but Arlene stood her ground, boldly blocking the way.

  The policeman in charge said, “You may be a fine-lookin’ dark woman, but you know I won’t think twice about shooting a Negress, young lady, so y
ou better get out of our way.”

  “Away from the door, Arlene!” Carlyle yelled at his daughter. He prayed that his father had escaped through the bedroom window by now.

  Arlene stood in place defiantly, tears streaming down her face. “I won’t let you hurt Grampa.”

  Wanda went to her daughter, grabbed her by the arm, and ripped her away from the door. Arlene struggled to break free, screaming and crying, but Wanda was a large woman and wouldn’t release her grip.

  The burly man tried the handle but found it locked. He nodded to one of the officers, who then holstered his gun and charged the door. It caved in, ripping off the hinges. All Carlyle could do was watch in horror while the second officer held him at gunpoint. The two men burst into the room as his father dashed for the window and lifted the sash.

  The gunfire was deafening. Carlyle would remember the ungodly noise for as long as he lived. He watched the man who raised him slump to the ground, bleeding. Mackey began sobbing. Arlene broke free of her mother, bolted into the room, and crouched over her grandfather. When Carlyle tried to go to his father’s aid, he was halted again by the officer. “You sonofabitches.” Carlyle spewed with rage. “He didn’t do nuthin’, and you shot him.”

  The burly man in the gray suit walked from the room and got into Carlyle’s face. “If he didn’t do anything, then why’d he lock himself in this room and try to escape?” He holstered his weapon. Brushing past Carlyle, he headed down the stairs.

  Carlyle went to the bedroom doorway and watched in agony as Arlene cradled her grandfather’s limp head in her arms. The tears streamed down her face, but she paused when she saw his lips move. She seemed to regard him, then lowered her head to hear what he was whispering.