combi off its right-side tires, tilting it at an angle of twenty degrees. There he hesitated, as if his rage had subsided. Eden heard Bertie again, and now she was receiving mind-pictures, a great jumble, so rapid she couldn't focus on any of them.
Karloff stepped back, head still lowered. The combi fell to the ground, springy on its shocks. Karloff rumbled, lifted his head, shuffled back a few more steps, trunk swinging imperiously. He tapped a six-foot tusk a couple of times on the bonnet of the combi. The flood of images continued in Eden's mind, a life in no particular sequence. She closed her gritty reddened eyes, feeling an end to the elephant's anger, and sighed.
When she looked again through tears washing out the dust, the cloud had settled from treetop height, revealing the sun again. Karloff was walking away, in the direction the herd had fled.
"I believe I've had enough of elephants for today" Etan said in a dust-strangled voice.
"Aye," Pert said. She ran the tip of her tongue around her lips, leaving them muddy. "Wa'n't the auld boy magnificent, though. Woonder wha' upset him?"
"A lion took out his eye," Eden said. "He doesn't like lions."
Pert looked sharply at her. "Elephants fear no creature. And thir wir no lion hereaboot this marnin'."
"Karloff thought there was. A lion. Something like a lion. I'm not sure."
"I need a change of clothes," Pegeen said, woeful again.
Chapter 7
STONE MOUNTAIN, GEORGIA
OCTOBER 14
10:45 A.M. EDT
T he four-man team from Atlanta PD's homicide division assigned to investigate or mop up after the murder of Pledger Lee Skeldon had taken close to fifty statements before it was finally possible for them to meet with Jimmy Nixon's mother. She had been hospitalized shortly after hearing the grim news: shock and an irregular heartbeat. The family lawyer had kept everyone, particularly the media, away from Rita Nixon and her two younger children.
Lewis Gruvver and Matt Ronyak went out to Stone Mountain when the lawyer consented to his client being "interviewed"—not questioned—so APD could conclude the paperwork. Jimmy Nixon continued to linger, on massive life support, at Grady Hospital downtown, but he never would speak again. Everyone wanted a motive, of course, which Matt thought was bullshit. He was all too familiar with senseless killings. And they had twenty-three open cases that were a lot more interesting to work on.
They checked out a car and took Memorial Drive east through a billboard blight to the Clearview address, a two-story brick-and-frame house on a high terrace. The park and the granite dome jutting eight hundred feet above the Piedmont plain was almost in the Nixons' backyard. Mid-October, but summer still had a grip on the weather. The local cops had closed off the Nixons' block on Clearview; phone calls to the house from religious crackpots vowing revenge on the family.
"I went to school near here," Lee Gruvver said. "Redan High."
"Track star, right? The high hurdles?"
"Til I blew out a knee my soph year at Morris Brown. Eight months of rehab. The Olympics came to town; all I could do was watch."
"Tough break," Ronyak said. He was twenty years older than Gruvver, hadn't made detective until he was thirty-six. Gruvver breezed in, college man, second cousin to the Atlanta City Council president. Race-based fast-tracking at APD gave Ronyak the redneck, but Gruvver had proved to be conscientious and astute. A good detective. And anyway, Matt's mother had been half Cherokee.
They were met at the residence by the family lawyer, whose name was Zetella. Rita Nixon was on the patio out back with a neighbor, and her other kids were in psychological counseling.
Before meeting Mrs. Nixon, the two detectives looked over Jimmy's room. His computer had been removed the day after the evangelist was murdered and its hard drive scoured to see where the kid's interests lay when he was surfing the net, but apparently he had no interest in porn or diabolism,
Karloff stepped back, head still lowered. The combi fell to the ground, springy on its shocks. Karloff rumbled, lifted his head, shuffled back a few more steps, trunk swinging imperiously. He tapped a six-foot tusk a couple of times on the bonnet of the combi. The flood of images continued in Eden's mind, a life in no particular sequence. She closed her gritty reddened eyes, feeling an end to the elephant's anger, and sighed.
When she looked again through tears washing out the dust, the cloud had settled from treetop height, revealing the sun again. Karloff was walking away, in the direction the herd had fled.
"I believe I've had enough of elephants for today" Etan said in a dust-strangled voice.
"Aye," Pert said. She ran the tip of her tongue around her lips, leaving them muddy. "Wa'n't the auld boy magnificent, though. Woonder wha' upset him?"
"A lion took out his eye," Eden said. "He doesn't like lions."
Pert looked sharply at her. "Elephants fear no creature. And thir wir no lion hereaboot this marnin'."
"Karloff thought there was. A lion. Something like a lion. I'm not sure."
"I need a change of clothes," Pegeen said, woeful again.
Chapter 7
STONE MOUNTAIN, GEORGIA
OCTOBER 14
10:45 A.M. EDT
T he four-man team from Atlanta PD's homicide division assigned to investigate or mop up after the murder of Pledger Lee Skeldon had taken close to fifty statements before it was finally possible for them to meet with Jimmy Nixon's mother. She had been hospitalized shortly after hearing the grim news: shock and an irregular heartbeat. The family lawyer had kept everyone, particularly the media, away from Rita Nixon and her two younger children.
Lewis Gruvver and Matt Ronyak went out to Stone Mountain when the lawyer consented to his client being "interviewed"—not questioned—so APD could conclude the paperwork. Jimmy Nixon continued to linger, on massive life support, at Grady Hospital downtown, but he never would speak again. Everyone wanted a motive, of course, which Matt thought was bullshit. He was all too familiar with senseless killings. And they had twenty-three open cases that were a lot more interesting to work on.
They checked out a car and took Memorial Drive east through a billboard blight to the Clearview address, a two-story brick-and-frame house on a high terrace. The park and the granite dome jutting eight hundred feet above the Piedmont plain was almost in the Nixons' backyard. Mid-October, but summer still had a grip on the weather. The local cops had closed off the Nixons' block on Clearview; phone calls to the house from religious crackpots vowing revenge on the family.
"I went to school near here," Lee Gruvver said. "Redan High."
"Track star, right? The high hurdles?"
"Til I blew out a knee my soph year at Morris Brown. Eight months of rehab. The Olympics came to town; all I could do was watch."
"Tough break," Ronyak said. He was twenty years older than Gruvver, hadn't made detective until he was thirty-six. Gruvver breezed in, college man, second cousin to the Atlanta City Council president. Race-based fast-tracking at APD gave Ronyak the redneck, but Gruvver had proved to be conscientious and astute. A good detective. And anyway, Matt's mother had been half Cherokee.
They were met at the residence by the family lawyer, whose name was Zetella. Rita Nixon was on the patio out back with a neighbor, and her other kids were in psychological counseling.
Before meeting Mrs. Nixon, the two detectives looked over Jimmy's room. His computer had been removed the day after the evangelist was murdered and its hard drive scoured to see where the kid's interests lay when he was surfing the net, but apparently he had no interest in porn or diabolism,
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