Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1)

by Alyson Larrabee

  “It’s too late for your stupid promises! One mistake was too many. You took my mother away from me. I was just a baby.” The words spill out before I can stop them. I don’t want to antagonize him. I need him to think I’m on his side, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  Without turning to face me, he says, “I know it’s too late. But I’m hoping you’ll let me try to make it up to you, Harper.”

  I want to say, by drugging me? And kidnapping me? And holding me prisoner down here in your family crypt? That’s your big plan to make it up to me?

  But I’ve regained some self-control and don’t say anything. I need to convince him I’m compliant so he’ll allow me more freedom. Enough so I can get close to him and act out the final steps of my escape plan. Keeping silent when I feel outraged will be worth it in the end.

  He’s still standing there, with his back to me and his shoulders slouched. Good, his posture indicates that I’ve humbled him. So I ease up. Instead of taking it further, I ask a question. “What about Shane’s mother? Was she abusive?”

  He turns toward me. “I know she was. I was sure back then, when I killed her. And I’m positive now.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’ve been helping to investigate your disappearance, Harper. Detective Thomas Jefferson Flagg called me, and I met with him and the MacGregors.”

  “You saw my dad?”

  “Yes, and Shane and his father, too.”

  I try to speak but can’t. I don’t want him to see me cry again, so I breathe in deeply and think about my escape plan. And what I’ll do to Gabriel’s handsome face the first time I get a chance.

  He fills the pause in the conversation. “MacGregor confessed he’d been holding back information which might have been helpful in the initial investigation sixteen years ago.”

  “What information?”

  “He was getting ready to divorce Shane’s mother and file for custody of their only child, on grounds that his wife had been abusing Shane.”

  “So you’re some kind of vigilante?” I try to quell the sarcasm in my voice and fail.

  He steps toward me, looks into my face, and explains, “I guess you could say that. Shane might not be alive right now if it weren’t for me. He definitely wouldn’t be the basketball player he is today if I hadn’t saved him from his own mother.”

  “She was that bad?”

  “She had already separated his elbow joint once.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Shane’s father told us all about it when we had our big meeting the other night. Plus, I was there when John MacGregor brought his son into the hospital, sixteen years ago.”

  “Why were you at the hospital?”

  “I used to hang around a lot of hospitals, pretending to be a pharmaceutical consultant. I did it for years. I started out by posing as a consultant to gather information about the investments I was making in the big drug companies. That’s how I became a millionaire. I made a lot of smart investments with my inheritance. Ironically, I now know enough about drugs to actually be a real pharmaceutical consultant, but I don’t need the money anymore.”

  “So you were at the hospital, posing as a consultant, when Shane’s father brought him in?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t talk to John MacGregor. I got my information from one of the nurses who was on staff that night. She was very willing to share the outrageous story of the handsome, distraught young father and his helpless little boy. Shane was only four. They had to slip his elbow joint back into the socket. Poor little thing screamed bloody murder when they did it.”

  “How did you know his mother was responsible?”

  “I watched her do it. I needed to be sure I was killing someone who deserved it.”

  “So you followed her?”

  “Yes, and I saw the whole thing, through binoculars, from my parking spot near the babysitter’s house. She was dragging him out of the house by his arm because he didn’t want to leave. He was afraid to go home with his own mother. She pulled him all the way down the front stairs. His feet were almost a foot off the ground at one point. He screamed and cried out from the pain, but she wouldn’t stop. He kicked and wiggled, but he was too high up to touch the stairs with even the tips of his sneakers. I knew right away she had seriously injured him.”

  I flinch with every word as Gabriel describes the incident.

  He continues. “I was watching the MacGregor house when Shane’s dad carried him out to the car. I figured they were going to the nearest hospital, so I sped over there and watched more of the drama unfold. I’d already witnessed what his mother had done to him earlier in the day.”

  “He was only four years old?”

  “Yes, and he could talk. I heard him screaming, ‘Mama. No!’ He would’ve been able to tell people the truth about his mother soon. She didn’t want that. His days were numbered when I saved him. His dad wasn’t acting fast enough.”

  “So you saved his life when he was a child, but recently you’ve tried to kill him twice. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I only tried to kill him. When it was time, however, I couldn’t bring myself to murder the child I had worked so hard and risked so much to save sixteen years ago. Both times I balked at the last minute. When he had the flat tire, I got in my car and drove away. When I stabbed him, I had big plans. My knife was supposed to slide between two ribs and straight into his heart. But I changed my mind at the last second. Not in time to keep from slicing open his arm, though.”

  “That was quite a slice.”

  “It could’ve been a lot worse. He’s fine now, right?”

  “Yes, he’s fine, except for the scar.”

  “I feel really bad about that, Harper. I don’t want to hurt innocent people, especially the people you care about.”

  “Do you honestly think you haven’t hurt them?”

  “You know, your father didn’t have to send your grandmother away. I never would’ve harmed her.”

  “Excuse us for not realizing what a stand-up guy you are. You’d never hurt a nice old lady.”

  He ignores my sarcasm. “I’m going to leave now—go out and do some errands. I’ll see you tomorrow. Is there anything you want?”

  “Yes, I want to know why you killed your own wife.”

  “Maybe you’ll be able to figure it out, if you think about it. Marianne was the worst of the bunch. I was poor Brittany’s only hope. My little girl never would have survived long enough to start kindergarten if I hadn’t stepped in and married her mother.”

  “But then Brittany died anyway.”

  “She would have lived a long and happy life if she had called me for a ride home that night. I would’ve done anything to help her, no questions asked. But I didn’t get the chance, and she made a horrible mistake.”

  My head’s spinning with questions. I try to stop the confusion inside my skull long enough to decide which one to ask first. “What about Nora Hazel? Did she abuse Erin?”

  “Not sure. Probably. She neglected her. Left her alone in a Walmart parking lot, for god’s sake. Ran off with some twenty-year-old guy.”

  “But the punishment for cheating on your husband shouldn’t be death.”

  “She left her baby behind. By herself. In a parking lot. Anything could’ve happened to that poor kid. I had to make sure Erin would end up with her father. He seems like an okay person. I couldn’t be sure who’d get custody if they got a divorce. Do you know how hard it is to legally separate a child from its natural mother?”

  “No.”

  “Almost impossible. And do you know how long it takes to get a kid away from an abusive mother?”

  “No.”

  “Too long. The social workers and the lawyers and the judges take too long. Do you know how many kids die, every year, at the hands of an abusive parent before the courts can take them away?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. But if only one kid dies, it’s too many.”

  “You
have no right to assume the role of judge, jury, and executioner.”

  “This isn’t about my rights. It’s about the rights of abused children. Statistically, when a young child is murdered, it’s usually the work of a parent. The US has the highest rates: eight out of every hundred thousand kids for infants, two and a half out of a hundred thousand for preschool-age children. The real numbers are probably worse, but the medical examiner can’t always tell if a child fell or was pushed, and some of their bodies have never been found.” *

  Finally he turns and walks out, and I can tell from his uncharacteristically slow pace and slumped shoulders that he’s thinking about Michael.

  Chapter 34

  Harper

  Waiting for the Next Visit

  Stumbling forward in the hellish darkness, I strive but fail to reach him before he closes the door. Overcome with a sense of hopelessness, I press my wretched face against the scored planks, but he’s out of earshot when I moan, “Don’t go, Gabriel.”

  The splinters in the rough grooves prickle against my cheek. One by one I trace the ragged indentations with the tip of an index finger. It’s too difficult and too dark to count them. And there are too many.

  Half shuffling, half hopping, back into the depths of the cave, I collapse on my blanket nest. He left too many questions unanswered. Drifting off to sleep, I list them. How did he get away with killing his own wife? Who lied to provide him with an alibi? And what about my mother? Why did he target her? I’m positive she never abused me. Only Gabriel can answer the questions my father and I have been researching for sixteen years. Here’s my opportunity to find out everything: exactly what he did and how he got away with it.

  I’m still going to escape. And I still hope to kill him in the process. If my plan works, I’ll finally get a chance. But first he needs to fill in all the details. I know why he killed, but I’m not sure about all the hows. Exactly what events led up to each death?

  I’m growing addicted to his presence. When Gabriel enters the root cellar, I can feel the synapses in my brain quicken. My heart chirps and flutters like a bird in a puddle of rainwater. My ever-advancing sense of despair began to retreat when Gabriel started to tell me his life story. And now I can’t wait to hear the next chapter.

  All through our twisted story time I stared at his perfect face and didn’t allow my attention to wander for even a fraction of a second. I need to remember every word, every detail, gesture, facial expression, and all of his body language. If he manages to survive my escape, when we finally have him in custody, my testimony will help convict him. Plus, like the great Sun Tzu said, “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.” I need more psychological ammunition if I want my escape plan to work. I need to win this battle.

  I’m dying for him to show up in the dungeon again.

  Evidently he’s as anxious to talk as I am to listen, because I don’t have to wait long. My favorite storyteller arrives at what I think might be the break of dawn. This time, though, he’s pointing the gun at me again. I thought we were done with that. I thought I had made some progress on the road to gaining his trust. I guess I was wrong.

  Eerily, he seems to know what I’m thinking. “Sorry about the gun, but I thought you might like to come outside. It’s a beautiful morning, and the light’s not too bright yet. Your eyes might have some trouble adjusting at first, though. Be careful.” He tosses something down at my feet, and I pick it up. Sunglasses.

  “Put them on.”

  I perch them up on the bridge of my nose. They’re too big, and they keep slipping down, but I don’t care. I’m going outside. I can’t wait. I start to follow him out and fall to my knees in the dirt. In my enthusiasm, I underestimated how fast I could move with the plasticuffs on my ankles.

  He turns around but doesn’t race over to help me. Not yet. I need to build up more trust before he’ll come closer. Then I get an idea. Maybe if we touch a couple of times and I don’t try anything, he’ll let his guard down.

  Pretending to struggle, I attempt to get up and fall back down onto my butt. He steps toward me, pockets the pistol, and places a gentle hand under my left arm. Sucker. He’s strong and easily lifts me up off the packed dirt floor. Then he stands there, holding my elbow while I deliberately totter a little. He carefully supports me with one hand, until I’m steady on my feet.

  “I’m so sorry, Harper.” Then he does something completely unexpected and out of character.

  He moves my right arm over his shoulder and reaches his left arm around my waist. We walk out into the early morning sunlight together. And I don’t grab for the pistol. Not because I don’t want to kill him anymore. But because he’s holding onto both of my wrists. And he has a really strong grip. In order to go for the gun, I’d have to free both my wrists and if I fail, then what? I need to try a few things first, stuff like what I just pulled, create moments where he’s physically close to me. Even though he’s gently supporting me right now, his grip’s so firm it’s almost painful. If my strategy works, he’ll move in closer more often and be more relaxed and off guard when he does. Then I’ll pounce, but not before. Plus, I want to know how the story ends. There’s a lot more information coming my way. Details we’ll never find out if he’s dead. Details he might not confess if I only wound him and my actions result in his capture. He’ll most likely clam up and lawyer up right away. So I’m going to excavate everything from the depths of his excellent memory. I need to listen attentively and ask the right questions until the tale ends.

  It’s so much easier and less awkward to walk with him supporting me. We take a short walk away from the root cellar, down a path, to a grassy area where there’s a hose and a towel, a washcloth, a bar of soap, and some shampoo lying on the freshly mowed lawn. From this distance, the house looks old but impressive. Big, with a beautiful wraparound porch and lots of windows. Gabriel releases me, quickly steps out of reach, and pulls out the gun again.

  With his other hand he picks up the hose nozzle and turns on a trickle of water. “Go ahead. Feel it.”

  “Nice. How come it’s so warm?”

  “It’s easy to hook up hot-and-cold running water to an outside faucet.”

  “This feels incredible!” I’m shocked by my own sincerity. I’m not acting. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

  “Go ahead. Wash your hair. Clean yourself up. I won’t look.”

  And he keeps his word, standing far enough away so he can hear me and react if I rush him. A gentleman serial killer. Who knew?

  I thank him again.

  He answers with his back still turned, “You’re welcome. I have another surprise for you, too.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not saying. Like I just said, it’s a surprise. Now try taking the sunglasses off for a little bit and enjoy your bath.”

  I take my sunglasses off, and after a minute or two of squinting, my eyes begin to adjust to the sunlight, but they’re still watery. Yanking my pants down to my knees, I wash as much of my body as I can and then rinse out my hair. Afterward I dry myself off and tuck the towel around my chest. “You can turn around now. Will you throw my T-shirt in the laundry?” I’d love a clean bra, too, and underwear, but I’m too embarrassed to ask.

  Gabriel’s not embarrassed, though. “I thought of that. Here.” He walks over to a pile of clothing lying on the grass nearby, picks up the top two items, then hands them to me and turns around again. The T-shirt’s a little big, but that’s okay. Unfortunately, clean underwear and pants are out of the question right now, because of the ankle cuffs, so I clean the ones I’m wearing as best I can, figuring that they’ll dry eventually, especially if I get to stay out here in the sun for a while. Even with no clean jeans or underpants, his gifts are a huge improvement. The bra’s a sports bra, so it fits. I guess he didn’t want to estimate cup size. I put everything on and tell him he can turn around.

  Then he gives me a new sweatshirt and a comb. It’s a pretty warm morn
ing, so I don’t put the sweatshirt on, but I comb out my hair in the sun, and it feels incredible to be clean and outside in the open air.

  “You must be hungry. Follow me so you can see the other part of your surprise.”

  I shuffle along behind him, barefoot, with my pants legs rolled up and my ankles still bound together. Gabriel walks over to an old shed and then turns to smile at me. I manage to smile back. Then he goes behind the shed and I follow.

  “Wow!” Tufts of freshly mown grass prickle my toes, and the warm, familiar odor of plant life calms me. I’m instantly happier than I’ve felt in a long time.

  A meadow of early-blooming wildflowers lies beyond the grassy area, and an old forest of evergreens, huge oaks, beech trees, birches, and maples borders it on three sides. The whole scene seems too bright and too beautiful to be real. But it is.

  Gabriel has a clean quilt spread out on the grass, along with a picnic of strawberries, oranges, bananas, cereal, milk, eggs, and, best of all, hot tea in a thermos. The tea’s herbal, but I don’t mind. After being locked up in total darkness for days, subsisting on minimal rations, I can’t decide which I’m more excited about, the food or the view.

  Definitely the view. It makes me want to run so badly my feet twitch. If I think too much about the last time I ran free and fast, the dark will win. So I stop myself.

  Gabriel and I sit down together and share a healthy breakfast.

  “Thank you. This is delicious, and it’s beautiful here.”

  “You’re welcome again. Now I suppose you want to hear some more of my fascinating life story.” He smiles, and the warmth reaches his eyes. The blue darkens a little because his eyelids are scrunched up, and this makes his stare less frightening.

  “Yes, please.” I pop a sweet red strawberry into my mouth and grin back at him, hoping my smile reaches my eyes, too, so he won’t be suspicious. I’m not faking the sincerity of my thank yous. The shower felt great, and the food’s awesome. But I still have big, vicious, painful plans for Gabriel. I just need to know him better and time it right. I’ll never get a second chance if I fail.