The resulting fast-moving fire, fed by a drought that had lingered for the last two years, took over six hundred lives. A thriving port town, Fulton Falls had once rivaled its northern neighbor Savannah for supremacy. The fire had pretty much put the kibosh on that. Fulton Falls recovered, but has lagged behind ever since. A pulp mill and the Glynco Naval Airbase, later taken over by Homeland Security, became Fulton Falls’ main employers, with shipping lagging a distant third.
The decayed remains of old Fulton Falls was one of the most depressing things I’d ever seen. A couple of buildings glowed similar to the old library, appearing whole from the outside. One was a pub, in which the sounds pointed to a full-on brawl going on inside. Another ‘live’ building proved to be the original First Baptist Church. A doleful mixture of groans and sobs emitted from its open doors. I decided I liked the pub better.
There was a lot of the pitiful sound of weeping down here, rising above the mumble of traffic in the world above us. Mourning apparently continued, as souls bemoaned lives not lived to the fullest and ended too young. The odor of the underground town, alternatively dank or burnt or, especially beneath the grates overhead, laden with motor oil and gasoline, wasn’t exactly a pleasure to inhale.
Dan brought me to the old City Hall, one of the brighter structures. A building that lived on despite physical ruin, it presented itself with gleaming white columns and stately red brick. Men wearing old-fashioned suits and hats of various bygone eras mixed freely with more modern men and women. I recognized Judge Anthony Monroe, who’d presided over Fulton Falls’ criminal court until only a year ago when he’d died in his
private chambers of a sudden stroke. He rested a companionable plump hand on the shoulder of a spare black man as they spoke in low, sober tones.
“What’s above us now?” I asked, frowning.
“The courthouse.”
“Which one?” We had two courthouses in Fulton Falls. The older had been built soon after the fire and these days officiated paranormal residents’ legal concerns. The newer, built only twenty years ago, was concerned with human law.
“The Old Courthouse. Judge Monroe presided over that one until the new one went up and para justice was separated from human.” Dan’s lips tightened as Judge Monroe caught sight of him. The two men exchanged stiff nods.
“This isn’t much of an afterlife,” I observed, my mood definitely shading to blue. “This place is so depressing.”
“That’s why I stick to the library. You’ll find mainly those who died in the Great Fire down here. Most ghosts haunt the place of their deaths, their old homes, or follow loved ones around.”
The heaviness in his voice got me wondering for the first time how Dan had died. “What about you? Where are your people?”
“My family moved away.”
Getting personal information from Dan was like pulling teeth. But hey, I’d given him sex, so he could satisfy my curiosity. “Children?” I pressed.
“Two boys.”
I noticed Judge Monroe scowling at us. What was his problem? “Do you ever check on them, see what they’re up to?”
Dan glanced up at the judge and took my hand. Pulling me down the street, heading back in the direction of the library he said, “I caused them enough pain in life. They don’t need me hanging around after everything that happened.”
I looked at his careworn face, wondering if I should pursue my questions after all. Something dark had appeared in Dan’s eyes. Inquisitiveness is one of my failings, but I did manage to change my line of interrogation. “You must have died young.”
He nodded. “I was thirty-eight. That was pretty young to go from a heart attack.”
I stopped in the middle of the street. “Wow Dan, that’s ridiculously young. How awful. Don’t you think your family would want to know you’re okay, so to speak? I mean, you could get a message to them, right?”
His voice stayed steady, but the darkness in his eyes grew. “I died in prison.”
I blinked. Okay, there were lots of things that could put a guy behind bars. And Dan didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would knock over a liquor store or beat on his wife and kids. Definitely a white-collar offender.
“Can I ask what were you doing there?”
“I killed a man.”
His statement was too bald to be a lie. He looked at me, and I fought a shudder. Dan a killer? But he’d done nothing to make me feel endangered.
Self-defense? Involuntary manslaughter? Had to be.
“You’re not a murderer.” My firm tone buoyed me.
“Actually I am.” The darkness in his eyes overwhelmed him, and I saw pain, deeper than any I’d ever known, flood his face. “My business got into trouble, and the IRS agent in charge of my case was looking to shut me down. I would have lost everything. My family would have been out on the street. When the agent came and started up with the questions and warnings, then offered to look away for a bunch of money I didn’t have, I snapped.”