“Yes, I never go anywhere without it, except when I’m in school. Then it’s locked in my glove box. After track practice, before I get into my car, I tuck it back into the waistband of my jeans. It was locked away in a closet until the killer returned. Now I’m never without it.”
“So you’re thinking he might attack you?”
“Not really, but if he does, I don’t want to miss the opportunity to blind him with pain.”
“Good to know.” He laughs.
“As soon as I turn twenty-one I’m getting a handgun.”
“You know how to fire a pistol?”
“Yes, I can’t own or carry one, but I can practice at the shooting range. Dad and I go there all the time. It’s fun.”
“You’re the most interesting girl I’ve met in a long time, Harper.”
“Don’t any of those college girls over at Rocky Hill like to shoot guns?”
“If they do, I’m not aware of it. The subject has never come up.”
“Do you meet a lot of girls?” I hold my breath and wait for his answer, hoping it will be no. I hate feeling this way. Serial killers don’t make me nervous, but Shane MacGregor does.
“Not a lot. I’m too busy with basketball and studying. I don’t go out and party much.”
“Basketball season’s over.”
“Yeah, but I play year-round. To keep my skills sharp and because I love the game. There’s a local men’s league. We have fun. It’s not as intense as college ball, but it’s still a good workout.”
“I’ve never played basketball, except once or twice in gym class.”
“Let’s make a deal. I’ll teach you how to shoot hoops if you’ll teach me how to shoot a gun. I have excellent paintball skills. I’m sure I’ll catch on fast.”
“Dad can get you onto the firing range where we always practice. But your stepmother might pitch a fit.”
“I’m over eighteen. She can’t stop me. I’m not going to buy a gun and bring it home. I’m just going to shoot one. At a target, right?”
“No, at a person. It’s a special shooting range where people volunteer to get shot. We just fire away at them. But they’re allowed to wear Kevlar.”
“Cool,” he laughs. “I left myself wide open for that one. When can we go?”
The thought of spending more time with Shane makes me feel anxious. And I hate feeling anxious.
“Actually, I’m really busy with track, so it’ll be hard to fit it into my schedule.”
Staring at the stairs, I wish my dad would reappear, but he doesn’t. This is getting awkward. At first I was curious about Shane, so I invited him over. But now he’s standing too close to me. He wants to make plans to do something together. I want to, but I don’t want to. I can’t decide. What’s wrong with me?
“That’s okay. You don’t have to decide right now. I’ll call you Thursday. We can set something up. It was great meeting you, Harper.” He puts one large, warm hand on my shoulder and fixes his blue eyes with their wheat-colored lashes on mine. I stare up at him for what feels like an hour. In reality it’s only about five seconds. I can’t think of anything to say. What an idiot.
Finally, I blurt out, “Your eyes are the same color as the morning glories my grandma and I always plant in the spring.”
Shane grins. “A girl who’s a crack shot with a pistol and plants flowers with her grandma. Sweet.” He chuckles, turns away, and heads up the stairs. I have no choice but to follow. When Shane and I emerge from the basement, my father’s in the kitchen, helping himself to meatloaf and potatoes.
Shane tells him the exciting news. “Harper says you can get me onto the range, and she’ll teach me to shoot.”
“What a great idea, Harper! When’s a good time for you, Shane?” Dad seizes this golden opportunity to make my new buddy feel really welcome.
“Anytime, sir.”
“Honey, you’re free on Saturday, after the track meet, right? Shane can come watch you run, and then the three of us can head over to the range afterward.”
“That’s a bad plan, Dad. Shane’s in college. He doesn’t want to come to a boring high-school track meet.”
“Not at all. I’d love to see you run, Harper. Cheer you on. It’s a great plan, sir.”
“But we can’t head right over to the shooting range. I need to shower afterwards.” What an ass. Big plans. I can’t make it. I have to take a shower. Could I sound any lamer? I think not.
Shane’s new best friend, my effin’ dad, speaks up. “Shane can come back here, and we’ll wait for you to shower. He and I can get to know each other better. Sit out on the porch. Have a Snapple. Shoot the breeze. Chat about the investigation.”
“That’s right! The investigation. Don’t you have to work on Saturday, Dad?”
“I can take a break to watch you run, baby. Don’t worry. They’ll call if they need me. We’ll take two cars to the range. Shane can drive you home if I have to leave in a hurry.”
“Of course, sir.”
If he calls my dad “sir” one more time I’m going to punch him in the eye. And, what the hell is wrong with my father? This murder case has put him over the edge. He’s a completely different person. He hasn’t tried to intimidate Shane by showing off his lethal weapons collection. There was no traditional bone-crushing handshake. And now he’s inviting Shane to spend more time with me: his formerly untouchable, overprotected daughter. I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. So I stand there wild-eyed and gaping, like a dying fish. Smiling, Dad silently opens his mouth, then puts his hand under his chin to close it. I take the hint and close mine, too.
“Good night, Shane. Harper will walk you out to your car. Come back anytime. You’re welcome here without an invitation.” My only parent places his hand on the small of my back and nudges me toward a boy.
Stunned speechless, I walk out into the night with Shane. We make it to the driver’s side of his crappy old Civic without uttering a word to each other. Then he announces, “Your dad’s the coolest. He’s pretty ripped for an old dude. With him in charge, I know we’re gonna nail the killer soon.”
I stare up at him, still silent. He’s standing too close to me again, invading my personal space in a big way. The night air’s cool, and my arms are bare. Shivering, I turn my face away from him and look up. Trillions of bright stars are splattered across the black sky surrounding the pale sliver of a new moon.
Shane strokes my arm. “Harper, you’re cold. Run inside. I’ll see you this weekend.”
I turn and flee, into the house.
Chapter 8
Gabriel
Meeting Shane, Part 2
“Run fast, Harper,” Gabriel hissed. But no one heard him. He was hiding across from the Flaggs’ house, squatting low in a small copse of trees and underbrush. A full-grown man in a small, dark space. Barely breathing. Still as a stone.
As a child, he’d been afraid of the dark, until he opened his mind and his heart and let it in, slowly at first, then free and fast. Now the evil he had always feared lived inside of him, an integral part of his mind and heart, and he wasn’t afraid anymore. He owned the darkness, and, in turn, it owned him. He loved the dark. It had made him strong. The dark had turned him into the man he was tonight. Fearless. Powerful. Alone. Inhabiting the abyss as if he’d dug it himself. Scoop by scoop, custom made to suit him perfectly.
The branches of a nearby thorn bush pricked Gabriel’s arm through his sweatshirt sleeve, but he ignored the discomfort and watched the young girl sprint toward the front door with her honey-colored ponytail waving behind her, a wavy banner of shimmering gold under the porch light. Then she was gone, out of sight. Into her house, where the person her father had become since his wife’s death waited for her.
The murderer switched his focus to the tall, red-haired boy who was backing his car down the driveway. Not enough legroom in that vehicle for a kid his size. But no need to worry, Shane MacGregor would soon have plenty of room to stretch those long legs full out. He’d
be lying on his back, deep in the wilderness, smiling up at the stars with two smiles: one on his mouth and one across his throat.
Gabriel snickered in the bushes and crept toward the sidewalk. When he felt sure no one was looking, he stood up and walked two blocks to where he had parked his car. It wouldn’t take long before the kid realized he had a flat. The killer had poked a slit in his right front tire treads. The air would leak out gradually until the tire was flat enough for the driver to notice. Gabriel needed to get on the road and be there in time to offer some roadside assistance to Shane before help arrived at the scene. Timing was everything. While he was waiting in the bushes, he had used his phone to Google several types of tires similar to Shane’s, so he could study the diagrams and know precisely where to slide the point of his famous knife in, exactly deep enough to cause a slow leak. The leak would get worse when the car started moving.
Gabriel climbed behind the wheel of his inconspicuous black Toyota Corolla and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rolled over smoothly and came to life: such a solid, economical, reliable vehicle. The killer the media was once again calling the Bad Guy pulled out slowly and headed toward Route 138. While the college boy was checking out the flat, Gabriel planned to creep up behind him and finish him off. Then drag his body down a secluded path through the woods and into the swamp.
According to his careful calculations, the tire’s leak should become noticeable near a particularly desolate stretch of road, close to a trail that led into the Great Hockomock Swamp: sixteen thousand acres of uninhabited wetlands, home to hundreds of species of plants and animals, but no humans. The largest freshwater vegetated wetlands system in Massachusetts had tons of dangerous sinkholes and acres of quicksand. A body dragged deep enough into the Hock might never be found.
With any luck, Shane wouldn’t notice the bumpy ride and the telltale hitch in the steering wheel until he was on the most deserted part of Route 138. This dark swath of highway led to both Shane’s family’s home and Rocky Hill University. Gabriel couldn’t miss. The boy would die only a few miles from his parents’ house. The house he’d never see again.
Carefully observing the speed limit, he drove through the attractive residential streets of Harper’s neighborhood. As he passed Grandma Flagg’s tidy little gray ranch house, he smiled and waved, chuckling under his breath. Then he turned up the radio and sang along to his favorite Michael Bublé song: “Haven’t Met You Yet.” No, he hadn’t met the adult version of Shane MacGregor yet, but he was about to. Hello again, Shane. After sixteen years. Even if Shane remembered, he couldn’t have seen Gabriel’s face back then. It had been well hidden by the sweatshirt hood, and it would be again tonight.
Singing softly, he drove on into the night: destination Route 138, right near the entrance to the swamp. When he reached the main road, he maintained a speed of about forty miles per hour. He needed to give his victim time to realize the tire was flat and pull over.
A few feet past the main path into the swamp, he spied a pair of flashing hazard lights. Shane’s car was parked in a good place. He wouldn’t have to move the kid’s body very far, just down the narrow path into the forest, toward the swamp, where it would be completely hidden. It was important that no passersby witness what he had planned for the boy. Four-minute rule. The kid was no lightweight, though, and this worried Gabriel. Shane wouldn’t be an easy-to-carry sack of potatoes like the babies’ mothers. Hesitating, he reconsidered.
Gabriel was in great shape. The weight lifting helped, along with the long-distance running. He felt ready to go. He could do it, even if he couldn’t carry the boy’s body and had to drag it. His corpse would be lying immersed in mucky water within a few minutes. He almost felt bad for the kid, but couldn’t risk letting him stick around. Shane had been standing way too close to Harper tonight. Their alliance could turn into an obstacle for him. The boy had to disappear.
Gabriel turned off his headlights, and his black car blended into the night. Pulling up a few feet behind the Honda, he shifted into park and left the engine idling so he could leave fast. Then he rolled the window down a crack and listened. When you were this close to the swamp, the spring peepers sang louder than a gospel choir on Easter Sunday.
Shane was unaware that a car had just pulled up behind him. Gabriel could tell by his relaxed posture. Plus, he didn’t even turn around. Thanks to the sounds made by the frogs and the passing cars, the kid was clueless.
Next to Shane’s crouching form, a flashlight lay on the ground, illuminating a dim circle of grass and the tire. Gabriel switched off his interior light, then crept out and flicked the blade open. Fast and silent, he moved forward. He visualized leaping onto the kid’s back, hooking one arm around his neck, and sinking the knife into his throat. As always, he had honed the blade’s edge until it was paper thin, but its slice would be far more lethal than a paper cut. A few more steps and he’d be close enough to strike.
Oblivious, Shane struggled with the tire iron.
Gabriel watched him push down and twist the last nut into place. The spare was finally on. The damaged tire lay over in the grass near the Honda’s open trunk.
He longed to say something. A small pleasantry, so he could see the boy’s facial expression and hear him speak, but he knew he shouldn’t risk it. The kid was at least three inches taller than him and almost twenty years younger. Surprise was his most important weapon. Well, that and the knife.
Shane MacGregor’s biceps glowed pale in the flashlight’s beam. He was nothing like Gabriel’s other victims: six fairly small women and one old man. The killer hesitated while he assessed the kid’s size and strength. Then he decided. Shane had to go. Now. Every obstacle on the path that led to Harper needed to be eliminated before he met her face-to-face.
No matter what, Gabriel had to end Shane’s life tonight. He didn’t want this boy showing up when he approached Harper. Earlier, in the Flaggs’ driveway, Shane had touched Harper’s arm affectionately. They had looked into each other’s eyes. It had appeared as if a romance might be developing between the two of them. And Gabriel didn’t want a boyfriend messing up his plans. Harper was often alone, and he liked it that way.
He raised the knife.
Shane jumped up, spun around, and faced him. The murderer folded the knife closed and palmed it.
Gripping the tire iron in his big fist, the redhead stood tall and cocked his chin at the killer.
Gabriel strove to sound relaxed and casual, but his voice came out a little higher pitched than he intended. “Just wondering if you need help. It’s dangerous out here in the dark. This is a very isolated stretch of road.” He cleared his throat and stifled the urge to add, Haven’t you heard? There’s a killer on the loose.
“I’m fine. It’s all done. Thanks anyway.” Shane tapped the tire iron against his right thigh. Then he raised his pale eyebrows and asked Gabriel a question with his eyes. What next?
The tall redhead’s knuckles turned whiter as he gripped the tool even more tightly and stared down the killer.
From under the hood of his black sweatshirt, Gabriel weighed the odds. He’d never attacked from the front before. He’d never killed a full-grown man: a tall, strong, athletic guy, much younger than himself. He’d never attacked anyone who fought back. All the strength training and aerobic workouts he did routinely might not make up for Shane’s youth. The kid was in good shape and bigger than Gabriel. He had a tire iron and he looked like he was ready to use it for something other than changing a flat.
A car streaked by.
Jerking his head a notch to the left, he glanced at the road. When he turned back, the boy’s gaze remained calm and steady. As did his grip on the tire iron. A standoff. Good thing Gabriel had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up to conceal his features. If Shane lived to tell anyone about this, he wouldn’t be able to give an accurate description. The stranger he encountered on the darkest stretch of Route 138 was an average height, average sized adult male, driving a dark car with mudd
y plates. A Good Samaritan who stopped to offer assistance.
Gabriel quickly changed his mind and announced, “Then I’ll be going. Drive safely.” He jogged back to the car, hopped in, and drove away.
About a mile down the road, he hooked a left, into the deserted parking lot of an orthodontist’s office, where he turned around so he could head back and check out the spot where Shane’s car was parked. As he passed the Honda, he slowed down and watched the boy close the trunk.
A few seconds later, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Shane was climbing into the driver’s seat. The kid had made fast work of stowing away the tools and the flat.
Before he’d gone too far, Gabriel snuck one last peek into the mirror and watched the Honda pull out onto the road. Shane MacGregor was safe. For now.
Chapter 9
Harper
Dad + Shane + Me = Awkward
During the track meet, I couldn’t focus and finished five seconds slower than usual. I almost didn’t win the mile. I still can’t figure out why Shane makes me so nervous. Damn my father for inviting him. Five minutes and seven seconds sucks. I usually finish in five minutes flat—never more than a couple of seconds longer. Chugging some Gatorade and shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand, I search the stands for Dad and his new best friend, Shane MacGregor. Simultaneously, they both wave at me. As I wave back, I’m tempted to flip them the finger, but the coach might be watching.
“Who’s that?” Kyle Long’s standing too close to my left side, practically dripping his sweat all over me. Good thing he has a towel around his neck.
“Kyle, you’re dripping. Use the towel. Jeez.” I shift a couple of steps away.
“Sorry.” Wiping his forehead with the towel, he asks, “Who’s that, sitting next to your dad?”
I want to answer, “None of your business.” But Kyle’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t deserve my rudeness. So I say the only thing I can think of. “Shane MacGregor. He’s a friend of my dad’s.” Not completely false.
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 6