Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1)

by Alyson Larrabee

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  For Megan

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  The Last Chapter

  Acknowledgments

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

  William Butler Yeats

  Chapter 1

  Gabriel

  Sixteen Years Ago

  She needed to die quickly with as little pain and mess as possible. So poison was out, as was strangulation, manual or otherwise. After all, he wasn’t a sadistic psycho, just an ordinary guy on an extraordinary mission. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with the weapon in his pocket, then picked up the binoculars and scanned the upscale neighborhood again. All the yards were precisely landscaped. Not a blade of grass out of place. Shrubs trimmed. Leaves raked. Quiet. Tidy. Perfect. After the excitement died down, maybe he’d buy a house like one of these. Become a typical suburban dad. Wear a Red Sox cap backward and shop at those huge home improvement stores, examining paint chips for hours, comparing one shade of yellow to another. Like the owners of the colonial across the street must’ve done. He wondered how many days or even weeks it had taken that couple to make their final decision. The clapboards were dandelion yellow. The dark-green shutters matched the well-hydrated grass. And the six-paneled front door was an artfully faded, rusty shade of red. This family’s proud home had what people called curb appeal. Tons of it.

  Would the privileged young wife he’d chosen for his first victim be thinking about opposite sides of the color wheel when he held the knife to her throat? Not likely. Her last thoughts would be about family, friends, love. Things he didn’t quite understand because he’d never had them.

  He slouched down lower in the driver’s seat, took out the knife, fidgeted with it a little more, then slid it back into his pocket. All the while staring at the gray ranch house with the big front yard and willing her to come out. Alone.

  She always had the baby with her, and that made him nervous. The kid could easily ruin his plans. He needed to calm down and think rationally. Everything would be okay. All he had to do was choose a place where the child wouldn’t be heard if it screamed.

  In the yellow colonial, a pale hand shifted a curtain aside then pulled it closed again. He flinched. What if they’d seen him? Not likely. The van was parked in a pool of darkness, far away from the closest streetlight. Even so, the what ifs unnerved him sometimes. Like what if he couldn’t bring himself to kill her?

  Before he could think up anything else to worry about, the front door of the small gray house opened. A frazzled-looking Rosemary Flagg hitched up her baggy sweatpants, pushed a few tangled strands of hair away from her face, and stepped out. Seconds later, a sturdily built, golden-haired toddler waddled through the doorway. At the top step the kid paused, turned around, and descended backward with her butt in the air. When she got to the bottom, she spun around and ran toward the SUV parked in the driveway. Rosemary easily caught up with her, yanked the door open, stuffed her into the car seat, slammed the door shut, climbed behind the wheel, and backed out.

  Victim number one was on the move. Gabriel started his engine but didn’t switch on the headlights. If she suspected he was there, even for a second, it could ruin everything. During the past few weeks, he’d spent hours following her, watching and waiting. If tonight was the night, he didn’t want to blow it by doing something stupid, like turning on the headlights too soon.

  He touched the pulse on his throat and counted out ten slow, calm beats. Then he eased the van out of the shadows and headed down the dimly lit street. When she took a right at the stop sign, the red glow of her taillights disappeared, but he wasn’t worried. He knew she was headed to the local supermarket. For the fourth time this week. Make a list, honey. It might help. Then you won’t have to haul your unruly kid around town at all hours of the day and night. He glanced at the clock on the dash. The store closed in twenty minutes. He knew because he’d staked it out many times, sometimes when she was inside and sometimes even when she wasn’t. Just to get the lay of the land.

  Up ahead, her car slowed down at the corner and took a left onto Main. Time to switch on the headlights, ease up on the gas, and keep a safe distance away. He cruised behind her down several quiet side streets, until she reached an intersection and paused at the red light. When it changed to green, she drove on and he followed, staying three cars behind. His girl was a nice, slow, cautious driver. After all, she had a baby on board, and speeding was dangerous. His loud laugh split the silence of the van.

  Seconds later, she pulled into the supermarket’s nearly empty parking lot, and he followed, switching the headlights off again. Rosemary parked close to the entrance of the grocery store, and he headed off in the opposite direction, toward the wooded area at the edge of the blacktop.

  With one hand on the wheel, Gabriel steered through the deepening shadows. Anticipation hummed through his mind and raced along his skin. The comforting weight of the weapon in his pocket lowered his excitement to a manageable level.

  He cruised along the outer perimeter of the parking lot and chose a place far away from the security cameras. Then he switched off the engine and sat back to wait. The white lines for the parking spaces were barely visible back here in the darkness. Dressed head to toe in black, he was even less visible.

  He swept the binoculars across the deserted lot to gauge the distance between his van and Rosemary’s SUV. She was parked a short distance away, under the lamppost closest to the supermarket, in between him and the store. Perfect. No one would see him when he got out. Her car would block their view.

  He double-checked his interior light to make sure it was off, then opened the door, crept out into the moonless night, and raised the binoc
ulars to his eyes.

  Inside the store, only one cashier was on duty: a teenage girl. She was holding a metallic-pink cell phone up close to her face and poking at the buttons. When the manager appeared, she slid it back into the pocket of her apron.

  Gabriel swung the binoculars back toward the dark parking lot so he could watch Rosemary carry the baby toward the well-lit store.

  Next to the entrance she grabbed a cart and strapped the wriggling toddler into the baby seat. The kid, as usual, put up a huge stink. Kicking. Squirming. Screaming. Gabriel honed in on her little red face and read her lips. “Down! Down! Down!” Soon she gave up on getting down and tried to wriggle out of her jacket. “Off! Off! Off!” Rosemary ignored the temper tantrum and kept pushing the cart along.

  Take the damn jacket off, Rosie. It’s zipped up too tight. Gabriel wished he could run in and do it himself. The kid kept yelling and tugging on the neck of her jacket, but then finally gave up, and the two of them disappeared from sight.

  At exactly 8:50, the manager walked over to the door marked Entrance and locked it. At 8:55, Rosemary Flagg, the last customer of the night, wheeled a full cart up to the checkout, completely unaware that her life was in danger.

  Never once glancing up at the young mother and her child, the cashier chomped away on a wad of gum and scanned the items: a six-pack of paper towels, three rolls of toilet paper, dish liquid, sponges, a bunch of grapes, a gallon of skim milk, two loaves of whole wheat bread, a jar of peanut butter, a large box of animal crackers, and of course, diapers. The girl tossed the groceries into some bags and flung them toward the end of the counter. Rosemary handed over a credit card and began to load everything into the cart. The flimsy, loose seatbelt on the shopping cart bothered him. The baby could stand up, lean over, and fall on her head. Dammit, Rosie, pay attention.

  Sure enough, while her mother was distracted, the little girl wiggled around, stood up, and leaned toward the candy display. He closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to watch her fall, but when he opened them, she was sitting back down in the child seat, cramming a Twix bar into her mouth, wrapper and all.

  Oblivious, Rosemary tucked the credit card back into her purse and smiled at the cashier, who never looked up. Waste of a perfectly good smile, Rosie, he thought. When she finally caught sight of the baby’s chocolate-covered face, she ran over and stuck her finger inside the kid’s mouth to fish out the last few fragments of wrapper. Then she wiped her hands and the baby’s face off with a tissue and gave the cashier a dollar to pay for the Twix. The teenager still didn’t look up. She grabbed the bill, placed it with the others in her drawer, and began to count them so she could close out. Tomorrow, when the cops asked if she’d seen anything unusual, she’d have to answer, No. I was too busy worrying about missing the newest episode of Beverly Hills 90210 if that stupid lady and her annoying kid didn’t hurry up and leave.

  Before Rosemary could push the cart more than a few feet away from the checkout counter, the baby struck again, attacking her purse. Coins, credit cards, Tic Tacs, car keys, all tossed onto the floor. The little hellion was quick, uncontrollable, and laughing like a lunatic. Typical two-year-old. He noticed she was no longer wearing her jacket, either. Persistent little thing, he thought as he watched Rosemary scramble around, gathering up the items.

  Finally the automatic doors slid apart, and his first victim left the yellow-lit safety of the store.

  The manager locked the exit doors and turned his back on Rosemary and her child. Probably in a hurry to go home and microwave his supper. Apathy was Gabriel’s best friend tonight.

  Unaware of his presence, Mrs. Flagg rolled the cart over to the SUV, lifted the rear door, unloaded the bags, and slammed it shut. Then she picked up the baby, who squealed and grabbed a handful of her mother’s hair. One finger at a time, Rosemary pried the sticky little fist open.

  Finally, she hoisted the kid onto one cocked hip and reached for the door handle. This was his cue.

  He tossed the binoculars into the van, tugged the sweatshirt hood closer around his face, and started toward them. With each quickening step, questions and doubts flooded his mind, threatening to drown his confidence. Should I stop now? Find someone else? Give her a second chance?

  No. Too late. Too much was at stake. He had chosen Rosemary Flagg to be the first, and he had to stick to his plan. He’d been following her for weeks. He couldn’t wait any longer. She was it. The time was now.

  Too nervous to breathe, he stood in the shadows and watched her fasten the baby into the car seat. The little girl batted both chubby fists at her mother’s head and yelled until Rosemary stuck a pacifier in her mouth. Gabriel crept closer, so close that he heard the click of the harness when she snapped it shut. The child was safe and secure.

  Once again silence blessed the parking lot. Rosemary stood up and rested a hand on the open car door to steady herself. With one quick swing of the sap, he cracked her skull. Just as she began to collapse, he caught her, slung her over his shoulder, and carried her off into the darkness. Wait. What about the baby? With the child’s unconscious mother still slung over his shoulder, he ran back to the car. She stopped sucking on the binky and stared up at him. He snatched the pacifier and slipped it into his pocket.

  Rosemary Flagg’s golden-haired baby girl sat there staring at him and asked, “Mama?” Then she began to scream.

  Keep making all that noise, kid. Maybe one of those brain-dead fools inside the store will notice you.

  He hustled back to the van, stuffed the young mother inside, and crawled in after her. First he zipped the plastic restraints onto her wrists and ankles, then pressed the duct tape over her mouth, hopped back out, and slid the door shut. Finally he jumped into the driver’s seat and drove off into the night. After he’d cruised through the first two intersections, he glanced at the clock on the dash: nine past nine. It had taken less than four minutes to execute the plan he’d spent weeks perfecting.

  On the way home, he obeyed the speed limit, came to a full stop at every stop sign, and signaled before each turn. Everything had gone well. He was about to get away with murder. So where was the sense of accomplishment he had expected to feel at this point? Why wasn’t he pleased with himself?

  Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Those wide-open, curious eyes. The puzzled look on her face when she said, “Mama?”

  The echo of her screams in the dark parking lot.

  Chapter 2

  Harper

  He’s Back

  When someone dies, we say, “Rest in Peace.” But we don’t mean it. Instead, we should say, “Come back.” Come back and haunt our every waking moment, and when we’re asleep, haunt our dreams. That’s how my father felt when my mother died. That’s how he still feels, sixteen years later. I don’t even remember her. I’m just a passenger aboard his obsessive quest. He spends all his time trying to fill up the bottomless crater her meteoric death blasted open. Even when he’s with me, he’s not. He never lives in the moment. Instead he’s always thinking up ways to protect me from a death like hers. He has purposefully and methodically turned me into an accomplished marksman and a martial arts expert.

  He came down to the basement the other night when I was practicing and told me, “Baby, you shouldn’t be down here alone, landing those flips without a spotter.” But he was laughing when he said it, and he added, “Dear god, you’re fearless.”

  Welcome to my kick-ass life.

  Dad spends all of his time preparing us both for the day when my mother’s killer returns. A couple of years after she was murdered he sold his profitable computer start-up, and began training to become a cop. In just a few months, he changed from a scrawny, energy-drink-guzzling technology geek into a master of martial arts and an expert on weaponry. Now he’s a homicide detective for the Massachusetts State Police Department. He can shoot the head off one of those man-shaped paper targets from fifty meters away, in less than five seconds, run a mile in under six minutes, five miles in thirty-fiv
e, and bench press his weight. His body is his temple now, and it’s the temple of doom.

  When we spend time together, it’s usually at the martial arts studio or my favorite place, the firing range. He promised to take me there today after track practice and I can’t wait.

  Meanwhile, I’m stuck in math class, bored out of my mind. The teacher’s a colossal bitch and Dad should know. He dated her for half a second last year. Maybe if he hadn’t dumped her she’d be less hostile toward the whole human race, but he wasn’t willing to make the sacrifice. I don’t blame him. She sucks. That’s why my phone’s on silent, inside my pocket, when it starts vibrating. If she catches me even glancing at the screen, she’ll confiscate it. I have to wait until she’s facing the smart board before I slide it out to look at the text.

  And there it is. Those tiny but powerful letters highlighted in white on a dark screen. He’s back. Call me. I forget to breathe for a few seconds. Then start again, so I won’t explode. He’s back. No further explanation needed. Dad and I have been anticipating this moment for years. I clutch my stomach, rush to the front of the room, and fill out a bathroom pass. Who cares if everyone thinks I’m about to puke? After sixteen years my mother’s killer is back. I need to talk to Dad. ASAP.

  At about a hundred miles an hour, I sprint down the hallway, slam into the nearest girls’ bathroom and whip out my phone.

  He picks up right away and yells to someone, “I gotta take this.”

  “Dad, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Honey, he’s back. I’m at the crime scene now. Early this morning he took another woman from the same parking lot, and left the baby strapped into his car seat.” I can hear the adrenaline in his voice.

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “I feel it in every bone of my body, in my brain, my heart. In my hands, right down to my fingertips. It’s him, Harper. Everything’s the same. The parking lot. The open car door. The kid’s the same age you were. And when we showed up, he was strapped into his car seat, screaming at the top of his lungs, exactly like you did, sixteen years ago.”