Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1)

by Alyson Larrabee

  “Where’s the baby now?”

  “Social Services picked him up and brought him over to the station. Then they called the father and told him to meet them there. We don’t know yet if the woman’s still alive, but I doubt it. During the original investigation, they figured out that he killed his victims within an hour of abducting them. If he’s sticking to the same plan, she’s already dead.”

  He says “she’s already dead” as if she went out to lunch or something, because he’s back in detective mode now, all calmed down and full of facts, no emotion, nothing subjective. “No one saw him. He left nothing behind. Forensics just got here, but they won’t find anything. He’s back and he’s flaunting his invisibility. Again.”

  “He can’t be invisible, Dad.”

  “I know. He just seems it. Harper, I gotta go. I’ll call again as soon as I can.”

  “Bye. I love you.”

  “Me too. One hundred percent. As soon as you get home, take the pepper spray out of the closet.”

  “Sure. Do you really think he’ll come after me, though?”

  “Probably not, but I’ll feel better if you have it with you.”

  “Will do.”

  “Over and out. Stay safe, baby.”

  Yeah. I’ll stay safe, unlike the killer’s current victim. I know exactly what’s already happened to that poor woman. He snuck up on her, knocked her unconscious, and left the baby behind, in the car seat. Then he carried the poor kid’s mother off to his van. Once she was inside, he bound her wrists and ankles, gagged her, and drove to a secluded spot to finish her off. Later on, he’ll stuff her into a trash bag and dump her in a different parking lot.

  He did all those things to my mother, and shortly afterward, he abducted and killed two more women the same way. All three of his early victims had children who watched from their car seats. My mother was his first. A couple of weeks later he killed another woman. He waited two more weeks to kill a third. Then he took a sixteen-year vacation from slicing up young moms on the go.

  The FBI has several theories about what happened to him. He may have been arrested for something else and sent to prison. Or maybe he took his act abroad: a bilingual serial killer. Perhaps he simply changed his MO, his modus operandi, his specific method of doing evil things to people.

  Wherever he went, he’s back now. And that’s all that matters.

  My mother’s killer has struck again. The Bad Guy’s back. Game on.

  Chapter 3

  Gabriel

  Home Again, Home Again

  Gabriel trussed-up his first Bad Guy–style victim in sixteen years, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and sat back on his heels to admire his work.

  “This should get Harper’s attention,” he whispered.

  The duct tape and plastic zip ties were simply a precaution. He knew from experience; once he’d cracked them on the head, they never regained consciousness. They barely even stirred when he pressed the knife to their throats. It only took one flick of the wrist, a fast, hard tap to the skull, and they were out. The sap was a flat leather weapon shaped like a beaver’s tail and weighted with lead on one end. Small, easily concealed, and lethal. Old school, but still effective. He always tried not to shatter the skull or lacerate flesh, but occasionally the skin split a little, never very much, though. His goal was to render them unconscious and then finish them off with the blade later, not beat them to a bloody pulp with the sap. Jessica Phelps looked good. No visible contusions or blood. She should be out for at least ten more minutes, which was more than enough time.

  He left his limp prize in the back of the van, slid the heavy door closed, hopped into the driver’s seat, and took off. While he was driving away, he thought about the little boy he’d left in the dark parking lot, alone. As soon as he finished off the child’s mother, he’d turn on the news and keep track of the story until he was sure Matthew Phelps was safe. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to one of the babies.

  Chapter 4

  Harper

  Don’t Be Afraid; Be Ready

  After school I race full speed through the hallway, firing off a quick text to the track coach. Feverish. Not exactly a lie. Going home to rest. Definitely a lie. I twirl the combination lock on my locker as fast as possible, right-left-right, and grab the handle. A large palm thunks down, next to my head. I don’t flinch or look up because I’m made of steel and I know who it is. Mark Cosgrove. Biggest, loudest douche in the whole school. Ignoring him, I jerk the handle up and fling open the door. He grabs it with his other hand and opens it wider, making it impossible for me to ignore him. He has me boxed in, and I have to be civil. Deep breaths. I’m not afraid, just trying to control my anger.

  Last year I wasn’t so civil. My run-in with Mark cost me a three-day suspension from school. He had recently asked me out a couple of times, and I had politely declined a couple of times. I underestimated how much my rejection had hurt his feelings. Even though I added a “thank you” to my “no” both times, he felt the need to retaliate. One day, shortly after I’d said “no, thank you” for the second time, he and his friends were gathered around the girls’ locker-room door after school. I needed to enter quickly because I was running late for track practice. As he moved out of the way to let me through, he delivered the punch line of a “rated explicit” blonde joke to his friends. The punch line of his eloquent and witty tale involved the use of the word “tits.” As he spoke this offensive word aloud, he ogled mine, head bent down and thrust forward, from less than a foot away. His friends thought this was hilarious, but I didn’t find him funny at all. So I punched him in the eye.

  I could’ve knocked him unconscious if I’d wanted to, but he hadn’t totally pissed me off. He had only annoyed me, so I held back. The next day you could barely see the dark, puffy ring around his eye. It wasn’t even black, only light gray. My intention was to shut him up, not annihilate him. Still, I got suspended and he got nothing. Not even suspension from the football team. Not even for one game. I missed an important cross-country race and two practices.

  When the principal reviewed the videotape from the hallway surveillance camera, Mark looked relatively innocent because there’s no sound on the black-and-white tapes. I was the only one who got in trouble because I was the only one who punched somebody.

  Soon after this incident, Dad showed up at the Cosgrove’s front door and explained to Mark’s parents how the comments their son had been making in my presence, comments that had been overheard by several witnesses, would likely constitute sexual harassment in a court of law. Mr. and Mrs. Cosgrove decided not to file assault charges against me.

  However, I wasn’t allowed to drive my car for two weeks. I have a silver Camaro SS. Dad gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday, and the deal was this: if I could prove I was a safe driver, he would buy me a car. And he did. But he also reserves the right to take it away if I do something like punch someone in the face and get suspended from school. So for two weeks, my grandmother chauffeured me everywhere in her big old 1995 Cadillac. Sometimes I got a ride from one of my friends. Dad made his point. I should never use my self-defense skills unless I actually need to defend myself. From an authentic physical attack. I can’t just haul off and slug someone who’s annoying me. My father lectured me for about an hour. I still remember his closing argument:

  Harper, danger and violence are regrettable necessities. We only punch hard because the bad guys do. We only have big guns and fast cars because the bad guys have them. Don’t take it lightly. Don’t ever use force or weapons frivolously.

  His parting line was, “Next time, use your words.”

  So now I always try to follow his advice. I behave responsibly and use self-control. Mostly because Dad will take away my car if I don’t. I still think Mark had it coming, but I’m not going to argue with my father about it. And I’m not going to pull anything like that again. I always exercise admirable self-restraint, and I have the freedom to drive my c
ar whenever I want to.

  After extracting a few things from my locker, I look up at Mark and smile without showing any teeth. I’m not going to speak first and I’m not going to touch him. This happens about once a week, and I’m pissed that he’s pulling this shit today when I’m in a hurry, but I have to be patient. Peaceful resolution is the name of the game here. I need to be a nonviolent assassin. This quasi-aggressive behavior must be his way of saving face because a girl shut him up with a well-placed punch. I will allow him to save face, but I will not allow him to intimidate me. If he touches me, I’m going to flip him onto his back before he can blink. But he keeps his hands to himself. Damn. I’d love an excuse to flatten him. Finally, one of his friends walks over and pulls on his arm.

  “Let’s go, dude. Leave her alone. You’ve got more important stuff going on.”

  “Yeah, way more important.”

  Ooh, that stings, dick face. I’m not important to a big, loud-mouthed douche like Mark Cosgrove. What a monumental disappointment. I don’t insult him out loud, though. I only think about it. I’d like to deflate his fragile ego, but I have “more important stuff going on.” Finally my self-appointed nemesis tilts his chin up and takes his time backing away. Probably because he’s afraid I’ll kick his stupid fat ass if he turns around. As soon as he puts a safe distance between us and finally shows me his back, I slam the locker door shut, and fly out to the parking lot.

  A couple of good-looking guys are standing next to my car, admiring it. When I run up and click open the door, the cutest one says, “Nice car.”

  I hop into the drivers seat, and smile up at him. “Thanks.” If it were any other time I might attempt to get to know him better, but I’m in a hurry today, so I just wave and drive off. Based on my dating history, it wouldn’t work out anyway.

  When my father isn’t busy neglecting me because he’s hunting down murderers, he’s obsessively overprotective. I’ve been on a few dates but never had a boyfriend. Whenever a guy comes over to hang out, Dad magically appears. Barges in, introduces himself, and then gives the guy a tour of his weapons collection. He unlocks his walk-in safe and shows off his bo staffs, nunchaku, throwing stars, and other stuff. Usually, shortly after they’ve taken the tour, they stop texting and calling. Bottom line: my car’s a guy magnet until the guy meets my father.

  I still haven’t figured out how he always knows exactly when to come home. He’s never home. Only if I’m hanging out with a guy. Then he’s all over the house: relaxing in front of the TV, popping popcorn in the microwave, whipping up a batch of oatmeal cookies, walking into whatever room we’re hanging out in, and offering us lemonade. Stuff he never does. He’s not that kind of a dad. He’s not that kind of a human.

  I’ve checked for hidden microphones and cameras but haven’t found any. Maybe my father has a sixth sense. Nah . . . the equipment’s just tiny and incredibly well hidden. I haven’t given up looking for it yet.

  The upside of Dad’s overprotectiveness has been his insistence that I become an expert at self-defense. Rule number one when the killer returns is: don’t be afraid; be ready. Arm yourself.

  Sometimes I drive like the speed limit isn’t the law but merely a suggestion. This is one of those times. It takes me five minutes less than usual to get home from school.

  I burst into the empty house, reach down inside the neck of my T-shirt, and pull out the gold chain that always hangs around my neck. The chain was my mother’s. The key dangling from it was a gift from my dad. It unlocks the closet in his room. In the same closet is another gift from Dad.

  I’d rather have a handgun, but I can’t get one until my twenty-first birthday. Damn Massachusetts gun laws. Until then I have to make do with a police-model pepper-spray canister. It’s about four and a half inches tall and contains pepper spray, mace, and tear gas. With it, you can shoot a twelve-foot stream of this highly effective concoction straight into your attacker’s face. There’s dye in the canister, too, so the police will be able to identify whatever ass hat decides to mess with me. He’ll be easy to identify anyway, because after I shoot him between the eyes with a shit-ton of agony-causing chemicals, I’m going to run over and kick the crap out of him. His face will be all bloody and bruised and covered with dye. No one will have any problem identifying him.

  Normally I don’t carry the pepper spray around. But now that the killer’s back, I’ll always have it on me, unless I’m at school.

  The public schools of Massachusetts don’t allow students to arm themselves with any type of weapon. Even when you’re not inside a public school, you actually have to have a Firearms ID card just to carry pepper spray, unless you’re over eighteen. As soon as I turned fifteen, I got my FID, and I’ve practiced regularly with the spray canister since then. It’s tucked into the waistband of my pants, above the small of my back, like a gun. That way, in one smooth motion, I can pull it out fast and aim at my attacker. It’s best to practice in a dark room. Reach back, whip it out, and fire a twelve-foot stream into his face. The Bad Guy’s face. I can’t wait.

  I unlock my father’s closet door, yank it open, and stare at the pyramid of brand-new sneaker boxes. There it is, the box with 100% Forever written in black permanent marker on the end, right below the size label: 13.5 Regular. My dad has big, fast feet and he likes expensive shoes. I open it, toss aside the lid, and disentangle the three-hundred-dollar sneakers from their cocoon of tissue paper. The pepper spray’s shoved into the toe of the right running shoe.

  Wishing it were a pistol, I tuck it into the back of my jeans, run to the garage, jump into my car, and take off for the firing range, full speed ahead. I can’t carry a handgun, but I can practice for when I’m older. A lot of cops hang out there, and everyone knows my father. There’s always someone who’ll sign me in.

  After pushing a few buttons on the car radio, I finally find a station broadcasting the news. The announcer’s fast monotone recites the facts: “Massachusetts State Police Detective Thomas J. Flagg is at the scene now. A member of the homicide division of the state police detective unit, Flagg is an authority on serial killers and a consultant to the FBI. He was also the husband of the late Rosemary Flagg, murdered in September of 1999, by the serial killer the press dubbed ‘The Bad Guy.’ The facts about today’s kidnapping bear a close resemblance to the details of the abduction that led to Mrs. Flagg’s death sixteen years ago. To this day, her murder remains unsolved.”

  He doesn’t mention me because Dad has warned the media that they’ll never get any information from him about any of his cases if they come near me. But sometimes I like to imagine what they’d say if he hadn’t warned them off: Detective Flagg is also the proud father of Harper Flagg, a senior at Eastfield High School. Harper’s a track star and an honor student and has been accepted into the criminology program at River Wind University, where she’ll start college this fall. One day she hopes to make it all the way to the FBI. Sixteen years ago, when she was only a baby, she watched a madman carry her mother’s unconscious body away. The poor kid doesn’t remember a thing about that night.

  I was the only witness to his first crime. No matter how hard the cops tried to coax the details out of me, I couldn’t tell them anything.

  They kept asking, “What did he look like?”

  No answer.

  “Who took your mama?”

  No answer.

  Wrapped in my father’s arms, hoarse from wailing at the top of my lungs, I was almost asleep when they tried one last time. “Who took your mama?”

  Finally, I whispered an answer. “The Bad Guy.”

  The media got hold of it, and this silly, generic term became his nickname. How understated considering his spectacular, meticulous style and his success record. He must have been disappointed.

  Sixteen years ago, the cops pieced together the details of the Bad Guy’s first murder without my help. Based on almost no evidence, they theorized that he snuck up behind my mother when she was bending over to buckle me into the car seat.
Then he whacked her over the head. He must have hit her pretty hard, because they found a few drops of her blood on one of my shoes.

  After he knocked her unconscious, he raced over to his van and tossed her into the back. Bent her ’round backward, hogtied her hands to her ankles, covered her mouth with duct tape, and drove somewhere private to finish her off.

  Did she suffer? I go over the details in my mind every night before I fall asleep. It works better than counting sheep. Or praying. No one’s god can bring her back.

  The moment he arrived back at his lair, he killed her. There were no signs of struggle on her body, so he probably did it while she was still unconscious. From behind, he slit open her carotid artery with a gruesomely sharp knife, gripped in his left hand. She bled out in ninety seconds. Never regained consciousness. Once she was dead, he wrapped her up in an extra-large, heavy-duty trash bag, along with the clear plastic tarp he used as a drop cloth, loaded her back into his van, drove to a different store parking lot, and dumped her where she was sure to be found. Either he was invisible or he knew exactly how to avoid being seen.

  He didn’t handle her much before or after she died, pre- or postmortem. He worked fast and left no traceable physical evidence behind. Brilliant.

  She never saw or heard him. She never knew what hit her. She didn’t have time to feel afraid. So, no, she didn’t suffer. She left that job for my dad. And he’s good at it.

  He shrank the seven stages of grief down to two, starting with denial and ending with murderously pissed off. He skipped all the other steps because they were a waste of time. He had more important things to do. Miles to go. Stuff to accomplish. Killers to hunt. My personal theory: he thought if he worked hard enough, he could become the kind of detective who could solve a case like ours. Where the other cops had failed, he would succeed. And nail the Bad Guy to a wall. No one else would ever have to die the way Rosemary Flagg had.