Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1)

by Alyson Larrabee

MacGregor looked at his son. “Shane, your mother was abusing you. I was about to start divorce proceedings and sue for sole custody right before she died.”

  “Dad!”

  “Then she died so suddenly and in such a horrifying way that I chose not to reveal the whole truth. I was preparing to file for divorce, sole custody, and ask for a restraining order. I had already decided on a lawyer and was going to set up an appointment for later that week.”

  Thomas Flagg stood up. “John, it might help us find Harper if we know everything.”

  “You’re right, Tom. It’s time to tell the truth about my first wife, Natalie.” He turned toward Shane. “She started out with slapping. It’s never okay to hit a child, and you were only a baby. I never caught her doing it, but I suspected. One side of your face would be redder than the other. You flinched when she reached for you. More and more often, you seemed to have mysterious bruises, and she’d always have a story ready. You had stumbled over the edge of a carpet or fallen down some stairs. One time there was a pattern of bruises around your upper arm, and it looked suspiciously like a handprint. She claimed that you had been about to fall down some stairs, so she grabbed you by the arm to save you.”

  Shane sat unnaturally still and listened. Gabriel watched the boy’s facial expression change from surprise to horror.

  MacGregor went on. “You were never overly clumsy when I was with you. I never witnessed any of these so-called accidents. A couple of skinned knees, a typical stumble here and there. Nothing unusual for a toddler and nothing like the injuries that occurred when you were with your mother.”

  “What else, John?” Gabriel prompted.

  “I’m not sure where to start. There were so many signs. Shane’s language development was delayed. He was almost four years old when his mother died, and he could barely string a few words together. Of course, he always had a pacifier in his mouth, which makes it difficult to talk, but every time we took it away, he was so miserable, we’d relent and give it back to him.”

  “Brittany was the same way. I used to joke that she’d be packing a binky in her lunchbox when she went off to school,” Gabriel added.

  “Shane suffered from night terrors. He’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night, and if Natalie went in to comfort him, he didn’t quiet down. He cried harder. Then she’d come back to bed and tell me the pediatrician had told her to let him cry; children need to learn to soothe themselves to sleep, without adult intervention. It broke my heart to lie there and listen to him sob. Finally I’d go into his room to pick him up and comfort him, and he’d tremble in my arms. I used to take him down to the sofa in the living room and fall asleep with him lying on my chest. That was the only thing that would quiet him down. Natalie was always furious with me whenever I did this. We were constantly arguing about it.”

  “When did you decide to take action?” Gabriel asked.

  “I confronted her multiple times, but each time, she denied abusing Shane. She refused to try family therapy. So finally I talked to our pediatrician. He referred me to a lawyer. I didn’t want to press criminal charges. I just wanted her out of our lives, but it wasn’t that simple. Shortly before the killer took her, she dislocated Shane’s elbow. She had been yanking too hard on his arm because he refused to leave with her when she went to pick him up from daycare.” John MacGregor turned toward his son.

  “When I got home from work that day, Shane, you were whimpering and crying. Your arm was hanging limply by your side, and you screamed when I came near you. I scooped you up and brought you to the hospital. Natalie ran to the door and yelled to me that you were faking it just to get attention. She said there was nothing wrong with your arm. The emergency room staff disagreed. As soon as I arrived at the hospital, they rushed you into x-ray.”

  MacGregor paused to wipe a tear from the corner of one eye. As soon as he regained his composure, he continued.

  “Your arm had been dislocated at the elbow. They splinted it and gave us a sling. God, how you hated that sling.” MacGregor smiled. “I had a hell of a time making you keep it on. When we got home from the hospital, your mother knew it was all over. I was ready to have her arrested and hire a divorce lawyer. Shane’s doctor said he’d testify, and so did our daycare provider. They promised to back me up. Then she took off with you.”

  “Just like that! She took off? How could that have happened? Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “I was getting ready to leave and take you with me, so I went upstairs to throw some things in a suitcase. I was only gone for a few minutes. While I was upstairs, she took you and flung you into the car and sped away without packing anything. She must’ve stopped to buy a few essentials when the killer assaulted her in the store parking lot. He took your mother’s life, Shane, but he may have saved yours.”

  “Do you think he knew? Could he be some kind of vigilante killer?” Gabriel asked.

  Thomas Flagg spoke up. “I doubt it. Rosemary would never have hurt Harper. She wasn’t an abusive parent. She was overprotective, if anything.”

  “My guess is that you’re right, Thomas. He couldn’t be a vigilante. My wife was also a devoted mother. She adored Brittany.”

  Flagg added, “It’s unlikely child abuse had anything to do with the killer’s victim selection, but . . .”

  “But what, Thomas?” Gabriel asked.

  He answered, “But Matthew Phelps had a broken arm, so we can’t rule it out. I think we need to talk to his father. See if we can uncover the whole story. The Phelps family might be hiding something, out of shame or embarrassment, like you did, John.”

  “I’m so sorry, Thomas. I wanted my son to have a fresh start. I thought we needed to put it all behind us.”

  “It’s okay. It wouldn’t have made a difference sixteen years ago, because Gabriel and I weren’t in the same situation. His wife wasn’t abusing Brittany. Rosemary never raised her hand to Harper. Our marriages were fine.”

  “It’s the Phelpses’ kid’s broken arm that might make my story important,” MacGregor pointed out.

  “Possibly. It’s good you came clean, because it’s hard to tell which details are going to be helpful and which ones are insignificant. We need to know everything and then go over it all carefully. Again and again. If we don’t run out of time,” Flagg said.

  Gabriel tried to reassure him. “We won’t. We’ll get her back, Thomas, and soon.”

  “Dad, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, Shane, but your mother was so young, only twenty-five, and she died such a horrible death. At the time I wanted to protect her memory and protect you. I couldn’t see any good coming out of revealing such a sensational story. I didn’t want the media pounding on my door, asking questions about my marriage and my child, exploiting the most private details of our lives. You and I needed to be left alone to heal, to rebuild our family.”

  “This explains a lot. Why you never talk about her. Why there are no pictures of her in our house. Why you married again right away. Why you wouldn’t allow me to ask questions about my mother or her murder.”

  “I wanted you to be able to start over, in a loving home, with loving parents. You were only four years old.” John MacGregor sunk down on the couch and put his arm around Shane.

  “I was four.” Shane stared blankly at the wall above Thomas Flagg’s head. “I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember my mother hitting me. I don’t remember her at all.”

  “Maybe you’ve repressed the memories. It’s a form of emotional self-preservation,” Flagg said.

  “Did you ever try hypnotizing Harper to see if she could call up any repressed memories?” Shane asked.

  Thomas laughed softly. “Yeah, we tried. She couldn’t be hypnotized without drugs, and I wouldn’t let the doctor use them. I drew the line there.”

  “Good for you, Thomas. They couldn’t hypnotize her through natural methods?” Gabriel asked.

  “Nope. She’s so stubborn. She held onto conscious thought with both
fists, with all her strength. And she’s unbelievably strong minded.”

  “So she wouldn’t cooperate?” Gabriel asked.

  “No, she cooperated. She wanted to be hypnotized. She wanted to remember. We tried a couple of hypnotists. Harper’s just one of those people who can’t go under.” Flagg wiped a tear from the inside corner of his right eye with his thumb.

  “Like you just said, she’s a strong kid, Thomas. I’m sure that very stubbornness will help her survive,” Gabriel said.

  “Try it on me.” Shane jumped up. “Find a hypnotist right now. I was older than she was when I saw the killer. I might remember something I repressed, along with the memory of my mother.”

  His dad asked, “Shane, what if you remember what your mother did to you? And what if afterwards you can’t forget no matter how hard you try?”

  “I’m willing to risk it. For Harper.”

  “Let’s go,” Gabriel said.

  “I know someone. A personal friend. I’m sure he’ll help. Dr. Karl Fowler is a highly respected psychiatrist, trained in hypnotherapy. I’ll call him right now.” Flagg was already flicking through the contacts on his phone. Within seconds he was speaking with Dr. Fowler.

  As soon as he finished setting up the meeting, he stood up. “He agreed to meet us at my office right away. Let’s go.”

  When they got to the station, Fowler was already there.

  “We need to begin right away, Shane. We can’t waste any time.” The hypnotist ushered Shane into Flagg’s office, then turned to his friend and said, “Thomas, give me a quick update on the case, and then you three can wait outside. Shane needs to relax and focus on the important steps of the hypnotic process. The less people in the room with us, the better.” Flagg and the doctor had a quick conversation about the most recent and most important events in the case, and then the three men stepped into the hallway and Fowler closed the door to the detective’s office.

  When they emerged a half hour later, Dr. Fowler announced, “I was able to successfully hypnotize Shane, and he talked about his past. But only his memories from age five and older. He can’t recall anything about his mother or the killer. He described a man with a hood pulled close around his face, something we already knew. We have no way of knowing if it’s a repressed memory from sixteen years ago or a recent memory related to the flat-tire incident.”

  “Thanks for trying, Karl.”

  “I wish I could’ve been more helpful. Most people don’t have very many detailed, anecdotal memories from before the age of five or six. Four years old is too young for those kinds of memories to be accurately recalled. Shane either remembers nothing about his early childhood, which is normal, or he has repressed the horror so deeply it will never surface.”

  Shaking the doctor’s hand, Flagg said, “Thanks again for dropping everything to meet with us.”

  “No problem. Please, if there’s anything else, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Damn.” Shane pounded his fist against a nearby wall. “Damn.”

  Gabriel put his arm around him. “It’s okay, Shane. You did your best. None of this is your fault. Let’s all go home and get some rest. Then maybe our minds will clear, and we might remember something. Anything. Like Thomas said, even if it seems insignificant, it might help.”

  “You guys go home. I’m gonna stick around awhile, call Jessica Phelps’s husband, see if he’ll answer a few more questions.” Flagg squared his shoulders, turned his back to the others, walked into his office, and closed the door behind him.

  Gabriel knew Harper’s father wouldn’t rest until he found his wild and stubborn daughter. If the roles were reversed, he’d be equally obsessed. He actually felt sorry for Thomas Flagg. But not sorry enough to set Harper free.

  Chapter 29

  Harper

  Trust Me

  All of the food and water’s gone. I’ve been sleeping off and on but have no idea how long I slept or what hour of the day or night it is. Darkness is the warden, and silence is the guard in this harsh prison. Staunch and rigid as the concrete walls that surround me, the absence of light and sound will control my every thought if I let it. Two fifths of my senses are useless, as dead as the inscrutable skeletons on the crusty old shelves that line one impenetrable wall of this fortress. Sound and light exist only in my imagination. What I wouldn’t give to hear a breeze shuffle the heavily leaved branches of a summer tree right now. Or even better, a familiar human voice, anybody’s but his.

  I want to see the sun again. More than I’ve ever wanted anything before in my life, I want to be outside in the daylight. I want to be with my dad and my grandma. And Shane. I need more food and water and something warmer than what I’m wearing, but I refuse to ask him for anything. Finally, anxious, hungry, cold, and disoriented, I doze off once more.

  He wakes me from a fitful sleep by shining the flashlight straight into my face from a careful distance away. “How long do you think you’ve been down here, Harper?”

  I squint and shield my eyes with one hand but still can’t see anything except blinding white light. “A few days? I can’t really tell.”

  “Good. That’s part of my plan. I want you to feel disoriented.”

  “Well, you’ve succeeded. What else do you want?”

  “I want you to call me Gabriel. I want to come close enough to touch you. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to change your mind. About me. I want you to trust me.”

  “And then what? Will you let me go?”

  “Maybe you won’t want to go.”

  No chance of that. I keep this thought to myself, though, and play along. “Step one: if you want me to trust you, put the gun away.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  When he says the word “yet,” I perk right up and feel hopeful. He must intend, at some point in time, to come near me without the gun. If he wants me to trust him, maybe I should start gradually pretending that I do. So he’ll trust me. An ambush right now would be a mistake anyway. First I need him to cut off the ankle cuffs so I can make a run for it. And he’s not stupid. He’s not going to do it anytime soon. I need to be patient if I want him to trust me. I have to use intelligence and skill. And I need faith. I need to believe I can succeed, or I never will.

  Because I’m a terrible actor, though, accomplishing any of this is going to be tough. I’m not a very good liar, either. I’d rather simply beat the shit out of Gabriel than be patient and come up with a plan to deceive him. I’d rather confiscate his pistol by force and blast him between the eyes. But I know that instead I have to charm him. Convince him I’m on his side. Get him to allow me some freedom. Then maybe I can escape. Right after I end his rotten, twisted life.

  When he lowers the flashlight beam and it’s not blinding me anymore, I notice he’s carrying another box. He puts it down on the floor, a few feet away from where I’m sitting, points the gun at me, and shines the flashlight on it. Then backs away slowly. While my tormentor is moving farther away, inch by inch, I fight the urge to beg him to stay. Maybe that’s what he’d call progress. Maybe I should beg. He’s not a fool, though. My transformation into a compliant hostage can’t be sudden. It has to be gradual and believable. I wait until after he lowers the flashlight to crawl over and open the box. In the dim light, I paw through the contents. There’s more food and water. I open and examine everything. By sniffing, nibbling, and touching each item, I discover that the box is filled with simple, healthy food: fruit, cheese, hummus, whole-grain crackers, and raw baby carrots, but no ranch dip. There are four bottles of the same cold, delicious water, too. The last thing at the bottom of the box makes me smile. It’s a big, warm sweatshirt. I grab it out of the box, pull it over my head, shove my arms into the sleeves, and pull up the hood. Ahhh. So much better.

  When my head emerges from the depths of the soft garment I’m in total darkness again, but at least I’m warmer. I push up one sleeve and reach back into the box to locate a bottle of water, then quickly twist the cap open and gulp down five s
lugs. After my thirst is quenched, I start in on an apple. The first bite’s the juiciest, most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. After three slices of the creamiest cheddar cheese in the world and a handful of crackers, I sit down to think.

  It’s so much easier to focus now that I’m warm and my stomach’s full. I need to conjure up a role model for charming. Who do I know that’s good at charming? Not my dad. He’s good at intimidating people, not charming them. Maybe Grams on one of her better days. Then I remember, once again, what my father said about my mother’s smile. How it could dry anyone’s tears. And I ask myself, “What would my mother do?”

  She was a sweet and gentle soul. A kindergarten teacher. She loved children and puzzles and art. The more I think about her, the more sure I become. She would know how to charm Gabriel. Too bad he killed her before she ever got a chance to smile at him.

  “What would you do, Mom? How would you convince him to trust you?” My questions echo through the darkness.

  She answers me. Turn yourself into someone else, Harper, but not all the way. Soften up. But don’t lose your brave, true self in the process. Above all, be careful.

  In this horrible, dark place a tidal wave of grief washes over me. And I’m sucked under by a sense of loss that’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. She never regained consciousness after he took her. She didn’t have time to be afraid. He didn’t lock her inside this cold sepulcher for days with no light and no sound. She didn’t suffer the way I’m suffering. But even though it’s torturous down here, I have hope. My mother might not have experienced this particular type of hell, but also, she never got a chance to feel hopeful, to plan an escape. Out of all his victims, I’m the only one who’s ever had this opportunity. And I can’t waste it. I owe it to those who came before me. The women who died down here. As a tribute to them, I need to get the hell out. I fall asleep picturing my mother. Not her death, but her living, breathing self. The woman who dried children’s tears and worried about my health constantly. I drift off thinking about her. Another part of the plan comes to me first in a dream.