I bend over and nudge the bottle of water into his hand. He twists off the cap and drinks deeply. Sitting down closer to him this time, I urge him to continue. “Go on.” He hesitates, so I add, “please.”
And he begins.
He’s such a good storyteller that the story unfolds in my imagination as if I’m reading through the scenes in a novel or watching them on a movie screen.
When Gabriel was about eleven years old, he noticed that his mother was growing fatter. She waddled around the house, constantly cursing her state of obesity. Then one day she wedged herself into the car and left. She didn’t return until more than a week later. She had stayed away overnight before, but never for this long. After a few days, he started to worry but didn’t know if he should try to call someone. He never knew what would set off her violent temper. Even if he knew whom to contact, the thought of making her angry scared him. He’d have to act soon, though, because he was running out of food.
He decided to wait a couple more days and then head out on foot to find help. Maybe even run away. Find a new family to stay with, people who lived in a nice house with a big yard and no root cellar. But before he had a chance to make a plan and act on it, she returned, looking a lot thinner and holding a tiny bundle in her arms. A newborn baby, all swaddled up in blankets. Gabriel’s brother, Michael.
He never knew his father. And he didn’t know who Michael’s father was, either. Most likely, they were not the same man. His mother never brought guys home. He had never seen any evidence of her having a real relationship with anyone. She rarely spoke to people on the phone, and no one ever came over to their house. No friends. No boyfriends. No family members. But sometimes she went out at night and didn’t come home until late or not at all. Once in a while she was gone for a couple of days.
Even though the brothers shared the DNA of only one parent, and that parent was crazy and abusive, from the second Gabriel laid eyes on his baby brother, he knew what love was. When he looked at the tiny baby, for the first time ever he felt his chest swell with warmth and his mouth turn up in an unintentional smile. Whenever he was near Michael, his hands gravitated toward the small bundle with the wrinkly red face and the loud cry, and he felt the urge to lift the child into his arms and hold him close.
The second they got home from the hospital, his mother set the baby down in Gabriel’s old crib, in the tiny room he had slept in as a baby. She left the infant there, alone, to cry his heart out, at the top of his tiny lungs. Gabriel couldn’t stand listening to the raucous wailing. Finally, he climbed the stairs, went into the nursery, and peeked into the crib. His brother’s small face had turned a frightening shade of crimson. Everything but the baby’s mouth was all scrunched up and squeezed together. His toothless maw gaped open, and he flailed his scrawny arms and legs around in unnatural-looking, jerky motions. Gabriel was afraid that the miserable, helpless little creature might die, and this thought terrified him. He found the courage to wrap the child in a blanket, pick him up, and cradle him against his bony, eleven-year-old shoulder. Instinctively, he started to sway back and forth and softly pat the baby’s fragile back. Michael stopped crying. To Gabriel, this seemed like a miracle.
At this point in his life, he hadn’t set foot off the Stone family property for five years, but when Michael arrived, Gabriel started feeling less angry and hopeless. He asked his mother to show him how to take care of the baby and asked her for a library card. She agreed and gave him rides to the library often. He signed out books about early childhood. His mother promised him that if he took over the childcare duties, she would never lock him up in the root cellar again. She began to leave the two boys home alone more often. She’d leave food for Gabriel and formula and diapers for Michael and take off for days at a time. He didn’t care as long as he and his baby brother had what they needed.
He learned how to mix formula, sterilize bottles, and change diapers. He shelved his plans to run away—at least for a while. He wanted to stay home and protect Michael. And he did just that, for five years.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the long, shiny gold chain his mother always wore around her neck. Two keys dangled from it. By spying on his crazy mother, Gabriel learned that one key unlocked the family safe, which was built into the floor of her bedroom closet. “Mrs. Stone,” as she chose to call herself, didn’t believe in banks, and neither had her father or grandfather before her. Probably not her great grandfather, either. Gabriel planned to steal the keys, take all the money, and run away with Michael. First, though, he needed to figure out a way to get hold of them. She never took the necklace off. She even wore it to bed and into the shower.
The smaller key unlocked the safe in her closet floor; the slightly larger one fit the padlock on the door of the root cellar. When Gabriel thought about that second key, he descended into a nightmare world from which there was no escape. Only Michael could reach him and bring him back from the horrific place inside his own head, where it was always darker than a moonless midnight. Because Michael loved him.
Gabriel was the only one who had ever fed and diapered the child. He was the only one who ever played with Michael, or sang to him, or dried his tears, or read to him. Their mother came and went. She continued to supply them with formula and diapers and food. The boys were actually happy. Gabriel finally grew too big to drag out to the root cellar, so even if she changed her mind about the promise, she couldn’t lock him in there. Plus, if he was in the root cellar, who would take care of Michael? He managed to keep his little brother reasonably quiet and away from their mother as much as possible. Life was better than it had ever been for the teenage boy who would grow up to be a killer.
Mrs. Stone got away with not sending the boys to school because they were supposedly being homeschooled. Under Massachusetts state law, homeschooling parents don’t have to follow very many regulations. They’re required to submit a curriculum and lesson plans, which have to be approved by the town’s public-school superintendent. Also, homeschooled students have to take occasional standardized tests. Gabriel was good at those, and his mother was good at producing impressive documents, outlining her creative and rigorous curriculum and lesson plans. She wasn’t stupid, just bat-shit crazy. So no one ever came to the house to look in on them. Social services and public-school departments are always understaffed. Whoever was supposed to check in on Michael and Gabriel was probably relieved to have all the paperwork submitted on time and completed so impressively. The Stones were at the bottom of everyone’s checklist of concerns.
In reality, their mother’s idea of homeschooling was to bring them to the library and, once in a while, to the bookstore. Gabriel always had tall stacks of books on his nightstand and on the kitchen table. And he read them all. He was a good reader and a fast learner. He made lists of the books that he wanted, and his mother went out and got them or she brought the boys over to the library so they could choose for themselves.
She liked to go shopping, and she bought lots of educational toys and games for her sons. They had a rock collection, a telescope, maps, charts, building blocks and a chemistry set. Gabriel’s mother soon discovered that caring for two curious young boys was time-consuming and labor-intensive. So she left them to their own devices. Literally. The chemistry kit contained all of the ingredients for basic, rudimentary incendiary devices, and the label read “not suitable for children under the age of twelve.” Gabriel also managed to get hold of matches and isopropyl alcohol. His mother gave him anything that would keep him and Michael busy so they wouldn’t bother her. Even when Gabriel singed off his eyebrows, she didn’t take his dangerous playthings away. He always wore safety goggles and his eyes had escaped injury. His eyebrows would grow back, so no big deal. He always made Michael watch from a safe distance when he was blowing stuff up or setting it on fire. Gabriel loved his little brother more than he loved himself.
Eve Stone didn’t care what either one of her sons did, as long as they didn’t bother her, and they learned how
to stay out of her way, in order to survive.
Gabriel wanted to go to college, and he had the same goal for Michael. He wanted to be an elementary schoolteacher. When Michael was only two, his big brother began teaching him the ABCs and how to count. The little boy caught on quickly, just like Gabriel had when he was younger.
Their mother had told them that if they called Child Protection Services, someone would come to the house and take them away from her. Worst of all, Michael and Gabriel would be separated. So they never used the phone to contact someone and tell the truth. They could never be separated, no matter what. Gabriel would never take that chance. He needed to stay with Michael, to teach him and protect him. Michael was his only light in the darkness. He had brought Gabriel back to life. When he was with his little brother, he felt loved and gave love in return.
Michael was a sweet, affectionate child. He adored his older brother and feared his mother. The kid was a fast learner.
When Gabriel turned sixteen, talking his mother into letting him get his driver’s license was easy because it would mean less work for her. He’d be able to go grocery shopping and do some of the other errands as well. She signed him up for driver’s ed, delivered him to the classes twice a week, and took him over to the RMV when it came time to take the test. He passed the first time. She felt secure because she knew he’d never take off and leave Michael. But her oldest son had big plans to escape and bring his little brother with him. Teenagers think they’re invincible. Gabriel’s sixteen-year-old ego was inflated with false confidence. He was convinced that anyone who could pass the driving test so easily could pull off a great escape. No problem.
Too much confidence and a giant dose of teenage impulsivity led to Gabriel’s downfall. He learned a tough lesson about careful planning, and he learned it in the hardest, most painful, most permanent way.
One day, shortly after Gabriel passed the driving test, he grabbed all of the cash and the car keys out of his mother’s purse, stole the car, and drove south, toward Cape Cod. Before he left, he promised Michael he’d return for him as soon as he made enough money to support them both. The sixteen-year-old figured that, for a genius like himself, it wouldn’t take long to pile up some serious cash.
But he couldn’t find a job. After a few days of living in a tent, in Massasoit State Park, about a half hour’s drive from his house, he started to get anxious. He was hungry and cold and almost out of money. He’d used up most of the cash to buy some camping equipment. Worst of all, he was worried about Michael. He felt like part of him was missing when his younger brother wasn’t around. Michael was his heart, the only person Gabriel had ever loved, and the only person who had ever loved him.
So one day, not too long after he’d run away, Gabriel went out to find the nearest payphone so he could call his mother to see how Michael was doing.
His mother picked up after the fifth ring and screamed into the phone, “He’ll be dead by the time you get here!”
Gabriel didn’t bother to go back and get the tent. He jumped into the car and sped home.
The tires screeched when he raced up the driveway and slammed the car into park. He left the engine running and the car door open, ran in, and found Michael’s limp body lying on the kitchen floor. He was too late. Their mother had shaken her own child as hard as she could. Hard enough to smash his brain violently against his skull over and over again until he died. He was five years old, too small and weak to defend himself. Gabriel’s beloved little brother was dead.
“This is all your fault! He’d be alive if you hadn’t left!” She was screaming and crying at the same time. Snot dripped out of her nose, and her crimson face was hideously distorted. She stretched her mouth open as far as it would go, drooling and spitting out hatred and fury as she spoke, but Gabriel couldn’t respond. He just stared at her and imagined how petrified Michael must’ve been when he looked up and saw the horrifying spectacle of their mother’s monstrous face. Her terrifying hatred was the last thing his little brother ever saw.
“Say something! God dammit! Don’t stand there like an imbecile! What the hell am I supposed to do now?” she screamed.
After a minute or two had passed, he found his voice and answered, “Let’s bring him out to the root cellar.”
He cradled his brother in his arms like he had when Michael was a baby. Gabriel wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come, because he didn’t feel sad. He felt a rage so cold it numbed him.
His mother trailed behind him, all the way down the path that led to the root cellar. She’d switched from fury to repentance, and her high-pitched voice whined excuses as she strove to explain. Gabriel was unable to process even one word of what she was saying.
When they arrived at the door, he stepped aside so his mother could unlock the padlock. She reached inside the neckline of her dress and pinched the gold chain between her forefinger and thumb. Gingerly, so as not to break the delicate piece of jewelry, she leaned over and unlocked the padlock. Gabriel carried the small body of his brother into his own personal hell, the place he hated almost as much as he hated his mother. Mumbling quietly, so Eve Stone couldn’t hear, he promised to avenge Michael’s death while he gently arranged the little boy’s body on the shelf.
He crossed his brother’s thin arms and closed his eyelids, one at a time. The child’s flesh was already growing cold. Gabriel wished he’d thought to bring his favorite quilt, so he could tuck him in, the way he had every night of Michael’s life up until a few nights ago.
After he kissed his brother’s forehead, he turned and strangled the life out of his mother with his bare hands. It took longer than he thought it would for her to die, but he persevered until his muscles ached from the strain and he was certain she’d never breathe again.
He placed her body on the shelf and curled her into a fetal position, the way he’d been forced to curl up so he’d fit inside the box. After he finished arranging her corpse, he yanked the necklace off her neck, pocketed the chain and the two keys, turned, and walked out. He locked the door behind him, went back into the house, packed up a few things, and brought them out to the car, which was still running. He reached in and turned off the engine then took the key to the safe out of his pocket and went upstairs to his mother’s bedroom closet to claim his inheritance.
There were piles and piles of money inside the safe. Tons of six-inch-thick packets of bills, all of them bound together with elastic bands. Gabriel grabbed two of his mother’s suitcases and filled them with every last bundle of money. Some of the elastic bands were so old, they crumbled when he lifted the packets up, so the money inside lay in scattered heaps. After he’d filled both of the suitcases to capacity, he went up into the attic, where he found one more suitcase, three dusty canvas duffel bags, and a couple of mildewed old backpacks. When he’d finally packed up every last bill, he loaded everything into the car, filling both the backseat and the trunk with suitcases, duffel bags, and backpacks stuffed with cash. He was a strong kid and as tall as a full-grown man, but still, he had to half carry, half drag the largest of the three suitcases.
Gabriel drove back to the state park, where he lugged the first suitcase into his two-man tent, turned on a flashlight, and began to count. After he passed $150,000, he stopped to rest and fell asleep. He still hadn’t even finished counting half of what was in the first suitcase, or started on the second.
Chapter 33
Harper
Progress
By the time my captor ends his tragic story, the last few sunbeams of the day have faded to a quiet glow. “When I returned from my ‘camping trip,’ I found some names and addresses from the Massachusetts Department of Education in my mother’s desk. I wrote some letters, forged her signature, and sent them off to the authorities. Basically, I informed them that the Stone family would be moving to Maine, and my mother would continue to homeschool her children as soon as the family was settled in their new house. No one ever tried to check up on us. Like I said before, every state ag
ency is understaffed and overworked. I got away with murdering my mother. And I also got away with a humongous amount of cash. End of story.”
He stands up and brushes off his pants.
“All of my victims abused their children, Harper. I’ll tell you more about it the next time.”
“My mother never abused me.”
“If that’s the truth, I apologize.” He looks away from me, toward the exit.
“You murdered my mother. And you think a simple apology’s enough?”
“Hey, I murdered my own mother. Don’t take it personally.” His loud, empty laugh echoes through the darkening chamber.
Just like that, he’s turned back into the ruthlessly awkward Gabriel Stone I met about a week ago. I think it was a week ago, but it’s hard to measure time in this wretched dungeon.
Then suddenly, the mask slips once again, and he becomes human. His proud chin sinks toward his chest, and he admits, “I’ve always wondered if your mother was a mistake. I don’t like being wrong.” He lifts his face but doesn’t make eye contact. “I followed her for weeks. Observed her behavior carefully. Maybe not long enough or carefully enough, though. Maybe I was wrong about her. But not about the others. I saved those babies’ lives.”
“You committed all those murders because you were too late to save Michael.”
“Funny how it’s so simple.” He turns his back on me and walks toward the exit. I think about jumping him and making a run for it.
Before I have time to even struggle to my feet, he turns to face me. “With your mother, I had to make a quick decision. I was a beginner then, an amateur. I admit that I may have acted before I had all the facts. It won’t ever happen again.” He pivots like a soldier marching toward battle and continues to head for the exit.
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 22