Collecting Shadows Page 9

  After school, he gathered with the other history club members in their usual room. It was always fun to see what shirt Cal had on. He thrived on the comedic sayings, and Liam had yet to see him wear the same shirt twice. Today’s version did not disappoint: Beware of the Kardashian Coven.

  More than anything else, he was always happy to have another opportunity to see Bailey, even if she was dating a soccer player.

  During the meeting, they continued their in-depth study of Henry Flagler, with Mr. Mast leading the discussion. Liam appreciated that Mr. Mast didn’t try to drag him into the conversations, but allowed Liam to absorb the information silently.

  “What do we know about Henry Flagler, the man?” Mr. Mast asked.

  Bailey raised her hand. “He saved this town in the late 1800s by building hotels and the railroad. Flagler was loved by the citizens of St. Augustine, who referred to him as ‘Uncle Henry.’ ”

  “Wish I had a stupid-rich Uncle Henry,” Cal remarked.

  There was a chorus of chuckles.

  Mr. Mast added, “He was quite well liked. On a personal level, Henry Flagler was extremely fond of literature. As a man who hated to travel, especially overseas, he used books to take him places he might otherwise not visit.”

  Mr. Mast continued, “There are three known books that Flagler read.” Mr. Mast referenced the paper in his hand. “The first was David Harum, about a New York country banker. The second was The Fortunes of Oliver Horn, a collection of short stories about an artist living in New York City. Lastly, Stage-Coach and Tavern Days, the story of a man venturing across the United States before the railroad.

  “Let’s talk about these three books. Some historians suspect Flagler identified with David Harum because of the business ethics the lead character embraced. Anyone have thoughts about the other two books?”

  One was the first to respond. “The last one, that stage coach book, showed his ‘travel via words and not in real life’ philosophy.”

  “I’ll buy that. What about The Fortunes of Oliver Horn, the artist in New York City?” Mr. Mast scanned the room.

  Liam started to speak but stopped himself. He noticed Mr. Mast staring his way, encouraging him with his eyes. Liam remained silent.

  Random said, “We know he didn’t have a love for classical art, but as we’ve discussed, he was an avid supporter of artists.”

  “Good point,” Mr. Mast answered.

  The discussion continued for another 45 minutes. Liam was surprised at how fast the meeting went when Mr. Mast paused and said, “Okay, that’s all the time we have today. For those of you in my class, I’ll see you tomorrow. For the rest of you, have a great Labor Day weekend.”

  Liam stood along with the other five to leave. Mr. Mast was placing some papers in a folder on the desk when he looked up. “Liam, can you stay after for a minute, please?”

  “Um, sure,” he sat back down.

  Bailey gave Liam a questioning glance as she left the room. Liam shrugged in response.

  Mr. Mast walked to the door and closed it. He came back and took a seat at the desk next to Liam. “What can I do to make you feel more at ease here?”

  The question surprised him. Liam had expected to be reprimanded for his lack of participation in the discussion. “History’s just not my thing. No offense.”

  “None taken. I knew that when I suggested to Mr. Abelhouse that part of your punishment was to join this club. Yet I thought you might develop an interest in a topic so central to this town.”

  “This isn’t my town, Mr. Mast,” Liam said firmly but respectfully. “I’m from St. Petersburg.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mr. Mast said, audibly exhaling.

  “You know? Then you know my past?”

  “Yes.”

  Liam was angry. Everybody has to have their nose in my business. “Then you know about my dad, who made a choice to leave me. Who told you?” This time his tone was harsh.

  Mr. Mast spoke softly, “No one told me. I researched it on the Internet. Do you resent your father for what he did?”

  “Mr. Mast, I respect you, but it’s none of your business how I feel,” Liam said, trying not to get emotional.

  “Fair enough,” Mr. Mast said. He stood, walked back to his desk and opened up his computer bag. He removed a hardcover book. “You and Henry Flagler have one thing in common: Flagler’s minister was once quoted as saying that Flagler did not care for the past. His interest was in the present, but more importantly, also in the future.”

  Liam found this curious. “He built structures which have survived to this day. They’re now revered because they’re from the past.”

  “True,” Mr. Mast smiled, “but he did it with an eye toward the future. His projects, while they often paid homage to historical events through artwork or architecture, were always designed with cutting-edge technology and modern functionality.”

  Liam wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he realized his stance toward Flagler was hypocritical. Flagler was a forward thinker, like himself. The difference was, they were separated by time. Understanding Henry Flagler wasn’t as much about learning history as it was about realizing the man’s vision for the future.

  Mr. Mast walked to the desk and handed Liam the book. “This was recently published on Flagler’s time in St. Augustine, in case you find yourself in need of something to read one night.”

  19

  Stewart Farlan reached St. Augustine before dawn. He steered the rented white Chevrolet Cruze off U.S. 1, taking Saragossa Street. Navigating the narrow street bunched with old one- and two-story houses, he drove slowly until he came to the correct address. He pulled into the sliver of a dirt driveway and drove around the side of the house, parking at the two-story structure in the small back yard. Blanketed by tree cover, the garage had an outside staircase that led to the small apartment above it. Farlan removed a suitcase and a briefcase from the car, took the stairs up, and spooked a stray Calico cat when he reached the top landing. The small animal raced down the steps, streaking past him.

  Goddamn cat. Farlan despised domestic pets. He saw nothing useful about them. Strays, in particular, had no purpose in the world. Next time he saw the cat, he’d take care of the creature.

  He found the keys right where he had asked the landlord to leave them, under the mat.

  The dwelling was sparsely furnished with a desk, dresser, nightstand, and bed. A bureau held a small television. A door at the far end of the bedroom led to a bathroom. The tiny kitchen was in a conjoining room. A single large window looked out over the back of the house which was currently mired in darkness. He knew from the landlord that the main house was unoccupied, which would give him ample privacy.

  He closed the curtains and methodically unpacked, carefully refolding his clothes and stacking them in the dresser drawers, with the exception of his pants, which he hung in the closet. Beneath the hanging pants, he aligned six pairs of shoes. He refused to categorize himself as obsessive compulsive, but he saw great value in order and neatness.

  Farlan placed the briefcase on the desk, opened it, and removed the contents: a computer tablet and a folder. He pulled the chair out and took a seat.

  Farlan came from a long line of treasure hunters. The difference between him and his ancestors was that he had no problem killing to achieve his goal. It was from those ancestors that Farlan had heard stories of a wealthy American who had sent emissaries to Europe and other parts of the globe to deal with black-market art collectors in order to secure priceless works of art and collectibles in the late 1800s. The letter from Henry Flagler’s second wife, Ida Alice, to the Czar of Russia in 1894, suggested that this rumored collector was Flagler.

  His research had revealed that Henry Flagler’s St. Augustine home, Kirkside, had been demolished in late 1950 and into early 1951, but it was said that citizens who admired the millionaire for what he had done for the town had co-opted various pieces of the mansion into their own homes. As far as he could tell, no one had an all-encompassing list
of which residents had taken what pieces of the mansion, although he was able to account for one item he found mentioned online. Ida Alice Flagler’s letter contained specific instructions to the czar: he was to search for the items “in the exact order listed.” Since the one known item wasn’t first on the list, he would bypass it for now and stay true to the order. If he could locate all six pieces of Kirkside, Ida Alice Flagler’s letter provided a method for deciphering the clues.

  Given that it was Sunday, he would use these next few days to settle in, acclimate himself to the area, and learn the streets. Then, on Friday, he had scheduled lunch with Dr. Vestis May, a professor at the local college. He hoped to garner information about the Kirkside items from the long-tenured professor who was said to be an authority on all things related to Henry Flagler.

  Farlan pulled his gun from inside his coat and placed it on the desk beside the papers. He also withdrew the small, oval case from his pants pocket. It was his weapon of choice. Killing another human by gunfire paled in comparison to feeding out the razor thin wire, wrapping it around someone’s neck, and squeezing the last ounce of life from the victim’s body. Even now, just thinking about his last kill—strangling the rather seductive Linzie Boyland in New York—caused a warm sensation. She was no Scottish lass, but she had the curves.

  For the next 10 minutes, he rolled the oval case between his fingers, reminiscing about the kill.

  20

  Over the next few weeks, Liam had good days and bad days. Recurring dreams of his father usually cut his sleep short, and he was normally up and moving by 6:00 a.m. He never told anyone of his unusual sleep pattern for fear of being made fun of. Liam knew he wasn’t like most teenagers. He had realized that a while ago when he preferred to hang out with his father more than with his friends. They had grown very close after his mother’s passing four years ago. Liam’s talent for decoding and deciphering cryptic clues had given them the common interest of geocaching and a way to bond.

  On Thursday, the history club meeting ended early. Bailey scampered toward the door, the first to reach it. Liam thought she was rushing to the bathroom until she whipped the door open with a broad smile.

  Liam felt his heart sag.

  He watched as she hugged and kissed Jason Benjamin. Although Liam hadn’t forgotten about Jason, he had been a ghost, consumed with soccer. In the month that Liam had gotten to know Bailey, this was the first time he had seen them together as a couple. It was hard to watch.

  It was also the first opportunity Liam had to personally thank Jason after the incident in the cafeteria.

  This wasn’t going to be easy.

  They were still hugging and laughing as Liam approached them in the hallway. He was shocked at how small Bailey was in comparison to Jason, and Liam wasn’t much taller than her.

  Bailey caught sight of him. “Oh Liam, allow me to formally introduce you. This is Jason Benjamin. Jason, this is Liam Poston.”

  Jason pulled back from Bailey and proffered his hand. Liam shook it. “Good to finally meet you,” Jason said. “Bailey’s told me a lot of good things about you.”

  Like what? Liam thought. “Good to meet you, too. Hey, I…um…owe you thanks for that whole thing in the cafeteria.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Jason said with a smile. “You would have done the same for me.”

  Liam smiled. If I was 40 more pounds of muscle, he thought.

  “Hey, Liam, you need a ride home? I know your Aunt Rita doesn’t normally pick you up this early. Why don’t you call her and tell her she can stay and close down the shop?” Bailey offered.

  “Yeah,” Jason said, “I’m taking Bailey to her apartment, and she said you’re right on the way, so it’s no problem.”

  Liam preferred not to, but he had no good excuse to decline the offer. “Okay, I’ve got to use the bathroom, and I’ll give my aunt a call before she heads this way.” He wasn’t about to pull out his flip phone in public again. He made most of his calls from the bathroom stall.

  “We’ll meet you outside. We’ll be in the gray Nissan Maxima,” Bailey said.

  In the bathroom, Liam made the call to his aunt. Her tone was lackluster. When he asked if everything was okay, she said she had a slight headache.

  They chatted on the drive home. Despite the fact Jason was a high school jock, Liam found him to be a genuinely good guy. Liam understood why Jason was able to get a girl like Bailey.

  At the same time, the fact that Jason obviously didn’t see Liam as a threat was a bitter pill to swallow and stung his ego.

  By the time Jason and Bailey pulled to the side of his aunt’s shop, Liam was completely frustrated. He just couldn’t hate Bailey’s boyfriend when he was so damn nice.

  He climbed out of the car. “Bye, guys. Thanks for the ride, Jason.” He waved, closed the door, and headed for the front of the shop.

  A car door opened and closed behind him. He watched Jason circle around the vehicle and head in his direction. Jason turned, as if to make sure Bailey couldn’t hear them from the car. “Liam, thanks for letting Bailey show you around. I know she can be a bit much with the whole history thing. With soccer, I haven’t been there as much as I’d like to for her and it’s helped keep her mind off the situation with her parents, especially since her dad has been committed.”

  Committed? Liam’s mind froze on the word. It momentarily thawed enough for him to manage, “No problem, man.” He shook Jason’s hand once more.

  It appeared he and Bailey had both lost their fathers.

  ****

  Rita watched Liam enter the shop. “Hey there, you’ve got some mail. It’s from someone in St. Pete.” She handed him the letter. Pilot stood nearby, watching and wagging his tail.

  He laid his backpack on the ground and opened it. She noticed there was a small photograph inside a letter but couldn’t see the picture.

  Rita watched his expression turn from curiosity to apathy. Liam crammed the paper and photograph back into the envelope and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Junk mail,” he said, grabbing his backpack and taking the stairs with Pilot on his heels.

  21

  At noon on Friday, Farlan walked from his rented apartment to the O.C. Lightner Museum, directly across King Street from Flagler College. The historic district was a compact area similar to a Scottish village in the Highlands, except that the land was flat, and here, tourists flocked, meandering the streets like rats in a maze, without any apparent destination.

  Farlan had learned that Flagler’s companion hotel to the ostentatious Hotel Ponce de León, the Hotel Alcazar, had opened in late 1888. While the Alcazar was a beautiful structure in its own right, it catered to a slightly lower class of guests who were unable to afford the season-long fees of the Hotel Ponce de León. Like its neighbor across the street, the Alcazar had been constructed in the Spanish Renaissance style, sectioned into the hotel in front, a bath area, and the casino with its swimming pool in the rear. The center of the property boasted a decorative courtyard with palm trees and an arched stone footbridge spanning a koi pond.

  After years in operation, the Hotel Alcazar closed its doors in 1932. It was purchased by Chicago publisher, Otto C. Lightner, to house his extensive collection of Victorian-Era collectibles. In 1947, it was given to the city of St. Augustine and was still run as a museum.

  Farlan took the sidewalk along the west side of the structure, paralleling the loggia, a corridor with an open side. Near the back, he saw the sign for the Café Alcazar. He passed through the door, which led into the side of the museum.

  Inside, he found himself in a palatial white room reaching two-and-a-half stories. Before him, what was once the bottom of the massive swimming pool Farlan had read about, the area was filled with tables and chairs for dining. Eight broad concrete arches rose up, three on each side, and one at either end. Two balconied floors surrounded the open café.

  Of the dozen or so tables, about half were occupied. The maître d’ greeted Farlan as he approached.

&nb
sp; “I’m dining with Dr. Vestis May.”

  “Ah, yes. This way please, sir.” He led Farlan to a small table where a distinguished man in his mid-seventies wearing a tie and sport coat sat with his nose in his smartphone. The gray-haired man raised his head as they approached. He rose, extending his hand to Farlan, “Mr. Ainsley, I’m Dr. May.”

  “Grand to meet you, Dr. May.”

  “Scottish?”

  “Aye, as Scottish as they come.” Farlan studied Dr. May. The man had a flat, ruddy face with a hook nose and congenial blue eyes. Close-cropped gray hair prominently marked a receding hairline.

  The waiter arrived to attend to them. He took their drink orders, and was off.

  Dr. May spoke, “You picked an interesting place to meet. It wasn’t enough for Flagler to build this spectacular hotel across from the Hotel Ponce de León, but he also ran with the idea of creating the world’s largest indoor swimming pool. This used to be the deep end.” He paused. “But I digress. I know you’re not here to learn about the history of the pool.”

  Farlan smiled. “Nevertheless, history always interests me.”

  The waiter returned with the bottle of wine and poured a glass for each. He took their order and disappeared again.

  Farlan spoke, “As I mentioned in my email, I’m working with Piedmont Publishing in the U.K. We’re assembling a book on some of the more interesting buildings in the world, and I’m gathering information about Henry Flagler’s mansion, Kirkside.”

  Dr. May seemed confused. “Kirkside no longer exists.”