Some Choose Darkness

by Charlie Donlea

  “Do you have a name for this woman?” Frank asked quickly, then paused to control his excitement. This was the first real lead he’d come across while searching for anyone who might be connected to Angela Mitchell during her adult years. “If she’s a relative, we may be able to add her name to the civil suit.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Jefferson said, paging through the file until he removed a single slip of paper and pushed it in front of Frank. “Last name was Schreiber. She was one of our on-call nurses. Not sure this is the correct address anymore. That was a number of years ago.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Chicago, October 29, 2019

  THEY DROVE TOGETHER AND FOLLOWED THE CAR IN FRONT OF THEM, which held the social worker and the parole officer. Thomas Mitchell had inherited the cabin in 1994 when his uncle died. Rory had tracked the property the best she could from her father’s paperwork. The uncle had died of pancreatic cancer and had willed the cabin to his nephew. Rory’s father had placed the cabin into a trust. A rental company had taken good care of the place, and according to the financial documents she found in the file, the property had provided a nice source of income over the years. It was a two-bedroom A-frame just outside of Starved Rock State Park, about an hour from the city.

  Located so close to the park and the Illinois River, the cabin had been easy to rent over the years. The rental income had been self-sustaining and allowed the management company to stay current with upkeep. Rory’s father had dismissed the management company the previous year, and had carefully documented his monthly trips to keep the cabin updated, surely anticipating his client’s arrival.

  When they reached the outskirts of Starved Rock, the social worker slowed in front of her. Rory assumed she was consulting her GPS. The lead car took off again, and Rory followed it through winding roads on the north side of the park. They traveled across bridges, where short waterfalls fell over bluffs and where evergreen pines rose up into the clear October sky. Had she not been on a journey to see the future home of a suspected serial killer, the setting would be majestic.

  After fifteen minutes of slow going, stopping at each intersection before deciding which direction to turn, Rory and Lane arrived at the entrance to a long dirt driveway canopied tightly by foliage that had started to morph to fall colors. A mailbox stood isolated, just to the side of the drive, and Rory figured she could check off at least one of the judge’s requests. If anyone wanted to send The Thief a letter, he’d receive it via the United States Postal Service.

  She turned onto the driveway and followed the social worker along the uneven path for a hundred yards. The cocooned driveway eventually opened to a clearing in which stood a cedar-sided A-frame cabin. The piece of land was impressive. Rory’s mind imagined an aerial view of the property, which was cut into a densely forested area. The clearing where the cabin stood was five acres of grass and gravel and clay that butted up against the thick forest around it. The end of the driveway led in a circle around the cabin. As Rory drove the loop around, she spotted the river through the trees off to her right. A path was cut in the forest, and a set of stairs led down to a dock that ran out into the water.

  “Well,” Lane said from the passenger seat, staring out his window, “you can’t argue that this is anything but the perfect place for a suspected serial killer to hide for the rest of his life.”

  Rory shook her head. “And I was thinking how beautiful this place had been for the families that rented it all these years.”

  “No you weren’t. You wouldn’t reconstruct deaths for a living if you were really thinking that.”

  Rory pulled around the cabin and parked. She grabbed her thick-rimmed glasses from the dashboard, put them on her face, and pulled her beanie hat down her forehead. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said, opening the car door. “This place is creepy as hell. Be right back.”

  Rory climbed from the car and met Naomi Brown, the social worker, at the front of the cabin, inspecting the residence as she did. Rory had the key, which she had found in her father’s office.

  “Have you been to your client’s home before?” Naomi asked.

  “He’s not my client, exactly,” Rory said, shaking her head and adjusting her glasses. “No, I haven’t seen the place.”

  The social worker looked at Rory for a moment. It was the confused look Rory often received and always hated.

  Rory twirled her finger in the air and pointed at the cabin. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

  “There is a list of requirements,” Naomi said. “Including a functioning landline, a current U.S. Postal Service address, and other items. It’s mostly a formality, but since the judge is agreeing to this unique living arrangement, we need to check all the boxes.”

  “Then let’s check them,” Rory said as she climbed the steps to the front porch. The wooden boards creaked under her weight. She inserted the key in the door and pushed it open. Ezra Parker, the parole officer, snapped photos of the outside before entering. Inside, they found a well-kept home furnished the way any rental property might be, with a couch and chairs positioned around a stone fireplace in the front room. A kitchen was off to the left, and another room for dining. A screened-in porch on the back of the home offered a view of the sprawling acres that led to the forest, through which the river was visible and reflecting the October sky. Stairs led upstairs to two bedrooms.

  The group took thirty minutes to inspect the place. Naomi Brown checked all the boxes to show that the home met the judge’s requirements. Ezra Parker snapped all the required photos.

  “Until your client acquires an automobile,” Naomi said, “there is a convenience store half a mile down the road.”

  Rory nodded. She had a sudden desire to leave the place, realizing that her authority over Thomas Mitchell’s finances would likely require her to help him with purchases, such as a car. As they headed to the front door, they noticed the red footprints they had all tracked in from outside. Rory looked down at her combat boots, noticing for the first time that they were covered in a crimson dust.

  “Sorry about that,” Naomi said. “We should have removed our shoes.”

  “What the hell is it?” Rory asked, lifting her foot to examine the bottom of her boot.

  “Red clay,” Ezra said. “It’s common around Starved Rock. The soil is saturated with it. It gets everywhere. Your car will be a mess, too.”

  Rory looked at the bloodred footprints.

  “Time to go,” she said. “I’ll call someone to clean the cabin before his release.”

  CHICAGO

  November 1981

  THREE DAYS OF PHONE CALLS HAD GONE UNANSWERED BEFORE FRANK decided to make the drive out to Peoria and have a look himself. Angela Mitchell had been discharged from Bayer Group Juvenile Psychiatric Facility in 1968, thirteen years ago, and it was very possible that whoever had once lived at the address Dr. Jefferson provided no longer did so today. But since it was his first legitimate discovery he’d come across while looking for any trace of Angela Mitchell in her adult life, prior to marrying Thomas Mitchell, it was worth the drive.

  He made the trip on Saturday morning when traffic out of the city was light and the drive time was just over two hours. He drove past acres of harvested cornfields—not very different from his drive out to Bayer Group the other day. Tractors sat parked in the middle of the fields, and silos rose up occasionally on the otherwise-flat horizon. When he turned onto a long stretch of two-lane road, address numbers were stenciled on roadside mailboxes situated next to long, stretching driveways that led to isolated homes nestled on large plots of land, each property far from its neighbors. He found the address that was listed in Angela Mitchell’s file.

  The driveway was winding as he turned onto it. Dogs appeared from behind the house as he pulled his car to the end of the drive, barking and following the car as he came to a stop. Frank slowly opened the door. Two German shepherds greeted him and barked for his attention, both jostling to position their heads under his hand. He obliged b
y petting them while he stared at the farmhouse.

  The front door opened and a woman walked onto the porch. She stared down at him. Frank held up his hand in an amicable wave and walked toward her. The dogs barked and followed, jumping and leaning into his legs.

  “They won’t hurt ya,” the woman said from the porch. “Leave the man alone! Go on, get in the backyard!”

  The dogs barked and abandoned their playful assault and disappeared behind the house. Frank walked to the foot of the porch stairs.

  “Ms. Schreiber? Do I have the name right?”

  As Frank approached, he got a better look at the woman, who he guessed was in her late fifties or early sixties.

  “Yeah, that’s me. What can I help ya with?” she asked. “You selling encyclopedias or vacuum cleaners or some such?”

  “No,” Frank said with a laugh. “My name is Frank Moore, I’m an attorney. I’m here to ask a few questions about Angela Mitchell. Or Angela Barron, to use her maiden name. I believe you knew her?”

  Frank saw the woman’s face go slack. Her jaw loosened and her mouth opened. Her eyes widened as if Frank had pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at her. She took a step backward, her free hand reaching for the door handle.

  Frank lifted his hands. “I’m just here to talk.”

  “I got nothing to say. Now get off my property or I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m not here to cause any trouble, ma’am. I’m looking into a civil lawsuit that might help Angela’s family.”

  “I want you to leave my property.” Her eyes were wide and feral. “Right now!”

  The woman’s demands turned the scene quickly into something Frank had not anticipated.

  “Okay,” Frank said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his business card. “If you decide you want to talk about Angela, give me a call. My number is on this card.”

  “Tubs! Harold!”

  At the sound of their names, the dogs barreled from behind the house. This time, their demeanor was aggressive. Their playful yelps had morphed to growls. Frank dropped his business card as he backpedaled. The dogs nipped at his ankles as he hurried to his car, and then they bared their teeth with vicious snaps, once he had locked himself inside. His forehead was slick with perspiration as he started the engine and glanced back to the front porch. The woman was gone, but Frank saw the curtains in the front window bend slightly.

  The white speck of his business card caught his eye. It was lying on the ground where he had dropped it. He pulled a U-turn and headed up the long drive and away from the barking dogs. He knew he had discovered something, but Frank Moore had no idea what it was.

  CHAPTER 23

  Chicago, October 29, 2019

  THE CHINA DOLL RESTED ON THE PASSENGER SEAT AS RORY DROVE south out of the city. She took the Kennedy Expressway until it turned into I-94, then followed I-80 east for a short spurt to exit at Calumet Avenue. She pulled into the town of Munster, Indiana, fifty minutes after she left her house in Chicago. Three Floyds Brewery was long closed when she turned into the parking lot. The last time she’d been to the brewery was in May for Dark Lord Day, a ticketed twelve-hour event where stout lovers got the only chance of the year to buy their favorite beer. Rory attended because it was one of the rare public events she enjoyed, because beer flowed liberally, and Lane had expressed interest. She didn’t go for the reason everyone else did—to stock up on Dark Lord, although she did that, too. For most regular folks, when their Dark Lord supply was gone, they had to wait until the next year to find more. Rory, thankfully, was not a member of the regular folk.

  She grabbed the doll from the passenger seat and stepped out of the car. Her breath was visible in the chilled night air. She pulled her beanie hat low on her head, adjusted her glasses, and started toward the building. The parking lot was lit by a single yellow halogen bulb at the top of the tall post in the middle of the parking area. As she walked along the blacktop, the golden glow of the halogen mixed with her still-red footprints to create an orange trail away from her car. Rory noticed the strange footprints and stomped her combat boots to rid them of the last of the red clay that remained from Starved Rock earlier in the day. The memory of the bloodred prints she had tracked through the cabin gave her a shiver. Hence, the trip to Munster to settle her nerves. Her fridge at home was empty.

  She walked to the side of the brewery and knocked on a gray metal door. It opened almost immediately.

  “Rory the Doll Lady,” a large man said. His thick beard dribbled down to his chest and was striped with gray. He wore a 3 Floyds Brewing Co. ball cap. “You almost made it six months.”

  Rory had left Dark Lord Day in May with what most would consider a year’s worth of stout. But she had been on hiatus for most of that time, and her alcohol consumption always increased when she was on a break. And the most recent developments in her life had caused her to prematurely run through the rest.

  “Kip,” Rory said. “Always nice to see you.” She held up the doll. “Simon and Halbig. It’s German, rare, and in pristine condition.”

  The large man took the doll and inspected it like he knew what he was looking at. He stroked his long beard.

  “Can I find this at Walmart?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Taylor’s been begging for one. She heard about the doll I gave Becky over the holidays.”

  Rory knew Kip had handfuls of grandchildren. Always looking to one-up his rival grandparents at birthdays and Christmastime, restored china dolls had been his go-to gift for the past two or three years. They were rare and expensive and could not be one-upped by his competition. Rory wasn’t sure what she’d do when Kip ticked off all his granddaughters to charm with her rare dolls. She’d have to ration her Dark Lord like everyone else. Until then, she bartered.

  “Retail?” Kip asked.

  Rory shrugged. “Probably four hundred.”

  “And what are you asking?”

  “Two cases.”

  “Straight up?” Kip asked.

  “I’m feeling generous.”

  Kip stroked his beard once more while he looked at the Simon & Halbig doll. “You got papers on it?”

  “Come on,” Rory said, reaching into the pocket of her gray coat and producing the original papers describing the doll. She’d picked it up the previous year at auction for next to nothing. It had been in terrible condition with multiple fractures running through the porcelain and clumps of missing hair. Rory had expertly managed the fractures, erasing them to near invisibility. She relied on Aunt Greta to come up with a solution for the bald patches on the skull, which, of course, the old lady did. When Rory handed the doll over tonight, it looked brand-new. Had she returned to the same auction hall where she found it, unloading it would bring a payday far north of $400.

  Kip nodded as he took the papers. “Be right out.”

  A few minutes later, they walked across the parking lot. Kip pushed a dolly with two cases of stout stacked on it. He loaded them into Rory’s car and closed the trunk. Rory climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. She rolled down the window when Kip knocked.

  “You walk through a pumpkin patch on your way here?” Kip asked, looking at the orange, lunarlike footprints around the car.

  “Not a pumpkin patch,” Rory said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “But a real frickin’ mess, that’s for sure.” She attempted a smile. “It’s why I’m here at midnight, let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Yeah. When I got your call, I figured you were in bad need of a fix.”

  “It’s beer, Kip. Not heroin.”

  “A fix is a fix.”

  Kip reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of Dark Lord, frosted from having come straight out of the cooler. He produced a Swiss Army knife from his other pocket. The Dark Lord emblem was inscribed across the front of it. Peeling it open, the double-side blade shined on one side with the sharpness of a scalpel. The other side sported a bottle opener. Kip popped the cap and handed it
to Rory through the window.

  “Watch yourself on I-80. Goddamn state troopers got eagle eyes.”

  Rory smiled and took the ice-cold bottle. “Thanks, Kip. I’ll see you in May.”

  “Here,” he said, handing her the Swiss Army knife as well. “I know that doll’s worth more than a couple cases of beer.”

  Rory nodded her thanks, then pulled out of the brewery’s parking lot and onto Indiana Parkway. A few minutes later, she was on the highway with her cruise control set at one mile per hour slower than the posted speed limit. She sipped her Dark Lord and enjoyed the ride back to the city.

  * * *

  Rory found herself parked in front of her father’s house. It was close to one in the morning. She was becoming unhealthily fixated on the woman from 1979. Angela Mitchell had somehow reached back across the years to grab hold of some part of Rory’s consciousness. Like a tuning fork that has been tapped, the vibration from the mystery surrounding the woman was at once barely audible but yet impossible to ignore.

  At first, she failed to understand why Angela Mitchell had such a hold on her. Or, at least, Rory wouldn’t admit it. To do so required self-reflection, and the acknowledgment of her own flaws and idiosyncrasies. Baring her soul had always been difficult, even if she were doing so only to herself. The connection had started when Rory learned that Angela was autistic. The link had strengthened when Rory read the descriptions that painted Angela as an introverted woman on the outskirts of society, someone who never truly fit in and who had few, if any, close relationships in her life. A woman who had been too scared to go to the authorities even when she suspected her husband was a killer. Since she had learned that Catherine Blackwell believed Angela Mitchell could still be alive, Rory’s mind was in overdrive. That her father had once searched for her, and perhaps had spent much of his life looking, had produced an unhealthy obsession with Angela Mitchell. From the low vibration in her mind, a single question formed: What did her father find? It was too much for Rory to neatly pack away, compartmentalize, and forget about. Rory knew she would use all her skills and talent to reconstruct Angela’s whereabouts.