“I’ll get you back pretty quick,” Frank said, as he steered the car back out into the street.
“I hope so. I’ve got a hell of a lot to do.”
“I just want to take you back over the route you went with Angelica that night,” Frank explained. “Maybe something will come together in your mind.”
“Yeah, okay,” Stan said. “No problem.”
It took nearly half an hour to get back to Grant Park. The long rains had cooled the air considerably, and the moisture on the leaves seemed almost icy beneath the streetlamps.
“I just want to retrace your movements that night,” Frank said, as he pulled the car over at the corner of Sydney and Boulevard. “She turned right at this corner, isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“This is where she turned,” Stan said confidently. “I’m positive about that.”
“Then what?”
“She headed up this street until she got to the end of the park,” Stan told him, “then she turned left.”
“Did she turn off anywhere?” Frank asked.
Stan shook his head emphatically. “No, she went all the way down the length of the park.”
“Then what?”
“She circled the park.”
“How many times?”
“Three, I think, maybe four. I don’t know for sure.”
Frank pressed his foot slowly down on the accelerator. “All right, let’s do it,” he said.
The car veered left off Cherokee and headed down the park. At the end, Frank turned left, then at the far corner made another left.
“Now this is what she did, right?” he asked at each turn.
“That’s right.”
Frank headed down Boulevard, this time from the opposite direction, circling the park entirely.
“That’s what she did,” Stan said, as Frank eased the car onto Cherokee again.
“And she did it about three times?” Frank asked.
“That’s right.”
“Did she act like she was looking for someone?”
“No.”
“She was staring around, glancing left and right?”
“No. She kept her eyes on the road.”
“Okay,” Frank said. “What happened next?”
“She drove down into the park.”
“Where?”
“Wherever it is, if you’re trying to get down to the Cyclorama,” Stan said.
Frank drove around the park once again, then turned left down the winding road that led to the Cyclorama.
“Where did she park exactly?” he asked.
Stan pointed to the left. “Over there, by that fence,” he said.
“Facing it?”
“Yes.”
“Show me exactly.”
“Where that sign is,” Stan said. “She parked right in front of it.”
Frank eased the car into position. A huge sign all but blocked his vision. It was white with red lettering:
CYCLORAMA RESTORATION
DEPARTMENT OF PARKS
CITY OF ATLANTA
“I must have read that sign a hundred times that night,” Stan said, as Frank brought the car to a halt.
“How long did she stay here?” Frank asked.
“It’s hard to say. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a little more.”
“You said she kept looking out her rearview mirror, is that right?”
“Yes.”
Frank glanced at his own rearview mirror. The curving road which led down to the Cyclorama was clearly visible within it.
“Did any other cars come down the road while you were here?” he asked.
“No,” Stan replied. “It was just Angelica and me.”
“You didn’t see any other light?”
“No. Nothing.”
Frank drew his eyes from the mirror and looked straight ahead. Behind the sign there was nothing but a muddy’field. He could see the discarded materials used in the restoration, piles of cement blocks, wood slats, yards of torn and rain-soaked cloth. He could see the north side of the building, blank and white, with nothing but a small door at the rear. A large pile of torn and paint-splattered drop cloths lay outside the door. Various crates and empty paint cans were scattered about the grounds, along with the jagged, broken parts of metal scaffolding. It looked like a place that had been pillaged of every scrap of value and then left to the rain.
“So you two sat here for about ten minutes,” Frank said.
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“We left,” Stan said. “She floored it. I mean she peeled out of here. I remember seeing a spray of gravel thrown up behind us.”
“Peeled out?”
“Yeah, and really loud, too,” Stan said, “enough to wake the whole town up.” He motioned to the right. “She whirled around this lot and just highballed it out of the park.”
Frank hit the ignition and drove the car back up to the main road.
“Which way did she turn?” he asked.
“Left.”
Frank made the turn. “Did you circle the park again?”
“No,” Stan said. “She drove to the end of it, then she turned left and headed straight down that road.”
“Good,” Frank said. “It’s coming back.”
“I just remember going straight,” Stan said.
Frank drove on, heading the car in the way Stan had indicated. He turned left at the edge of the park, then went almost its full length, passing under a single traffic light.
“She turned here,” Stan said, pointing to the right.
Frank made a right onto Ormewood Avenue.
“She went straight, like we are now,” Stan said excitedly. “This is getting to be interesting. Is this what it’s like to be a cop?”
Frank kept his eyes locked on the road ahead. “No,” he said. He continued to move forward, passing under one traffic light, then another, until the car nosed up a small hill, and then over it.
“I remember this,” Stan said suddenly.
Frank eased his foot off the accelerator. “What?”
“We went over this hill.”
“How do you know?”
“It has a little dip at the bottom,” Stan said. “That’s where we turned.”
Frank let the car cruise slowly down the hill. He felt the dip, like something hard and blunt pressed against his belly.
“Next right! Next right!” Stan cried. He looked at Frank excitedly. “That’s the street. The one she went up and
