Dead Little Darlings

by Herron, Rita

She knew she had some kind of hold on him. Hard to deny when his cock hardened the minute she walked into a room.

  He expected her to grab her coffee and go. She wouldn’t give him time to pump her for information. But he had to ask one more time.

  He feathered a strand of hair from her cheek with his thumb. “Where did you say you were going?”

  She chuckled. “Nice try, handsome.”

  He caught her hand before she lowered it to his belt. “Seriously, Marilyn, I want us to talk. I—”

  She fused her mouth with his and kissed him deeply, cutting off his words. A second later, she dropped to her knees in front of him and took him in her mouth.

  God . . . That woman had a vicious tongue on the job.

  And a wicked one on his body.

  He dug his hands in her hair and moaned, then forgot he was supposed to be unraveling her secrets . . .

  Marilyn had been keeping secrets all her life. Maybe one day she would confide in Ryker.

  But not yet.

  If anyone discovered the story she was investigating, she might lose her edge. And this one was too important to risk by sharing a single detail with Ryker.

  Besides, she sensed he wanted to talk about more than work. About . . . personal things. Lately, she’d even thought he might broach the subject of taking their relationship to a deeper level. That he might even use the word . . . love.

  God . . . she wasn’t ready for that conversation. She might never be.

  How could anyone love her after what she’d done?

  Outside, the rain had temporarily ceased, but dark storm clouds rolled across the sky, gathering as if to plan an attack, a reminder that meteorologists were tracking another hurricane. Wind whistled through the windows, hurling leaves across the road, and making the palm trees sway and bend.

  She shivered, wishing she was back in bed with Ryker. Or in the pool swimming laps at the gym. But she had a short window of time to visit her source before heading to the TV station. And his days were numbered.

  A cold sweat enveloped her, and she clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. The storm, the wind, the lightning . . . déjà vu of another night. That horrific evening that filled her nightmares.

  Dammit. She couldn’t rely on Ryker to be her safe place. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself. She had a job to do, and she would fight past the terror the storm ignited to do that job.

  Dabbing away the perspiration from her forehead with a tissue, she checked the street to make certain no one was around. All her life she’d felt like someone was watching her. When she was little at school. As a teenager. And when she worked a case.

  For the moment though, she didn’t see anyone suspicious.

  She veered into Daryl Eaton’s driveway, then followed it around the side of the house to the back and parked beneath the canopy of the live oak. Shrouded in Spanish moss that hung like spider webs, it gave the dilapidated house a ghostlike feel.

  The overgrown yard and dead weeds added to the morose atmosphere.

  Fitting for the man who lived here.

  She snagged her umbrella, then slid from the car, walked up to the back door and let herself in. Eaton no longer locked it. He didn’t have the energy.

  The kitchen was dark, the scent of something burnt strong as she entered. A tub of margarine sat melting on the Formica counter, a fly buzzing around it. The coffee pot was half full, the sludge thick and smelled charred as if it had been sitting for days.

  A caregiver came in a couple of times a day to check on him. She must have missed this morning. Or . . . she was running late. Which meant Marilyn’s visit was limited.

  She bypassed the dirty counter and table, easing into the living room. It was dark, smelled of cigarettes and a musty odor that made her stomach roil, but she pushed past the queasiness.

  Her shoes clicked on the battered wood floor as she made her way to the bedroom. The curtains were drawn, the air thick with despair, the man she’d come to see hunched in the bed beneath a half dozen worn blankets. His wheezing breath punctuated the dank air.

  She stepped inside, hating the dreary darkness. Yet the man deserved to live—and die—like this. Alone. Suffering.

  Eaton attempted to turn his head toward her then broke into a coughing fit. With a trembling hand, he reached for the bottle of pills on his nightstand.

  She picked them up, then turned the bottle in her hands and studied it for a moment. A smile curved her mouth as she looked back at Eaton.

  His hair was almost gone, the few strands that were left sweat soaked and oily. His hands were thin and frail, liver spotted and wrinkled. The skin on his face sagged around deep sunken eyes that possessed evil.

  The memory that had haunted her since she was six years old rose to taunt her.

  Mama had to work again tonight. Waiting tables paid the bills.

  “Sit in the corner and read like a good girl,” Mama said.

  Marilyn didn’t want to sit in the corner. And she wasn’t a good girl.

  She wanted to explore the Village. Go to the playground. Walk the pier and see if the crabbers had their buckets filled.

  The evening crowd drifted in for dinner. It was late summer, and the place was packed. Good for Mama’s tips. But that meant she worked day and night and didn’t have time for Marilyn.

  Mama hoisted a tray of fried fish and French fries on one hand and another tray of sweet iced tea in the other and carried them to a back table. Three chubby women cackled and laughed as they dug into the food. Mama turned to take an order from a family of eight at the next table.

  Marilyn slipped out the back door where the delivery trucks parked. The sky was dark, a storm brewing.

  She’d sneak out and be back before it rained.

  Noises from the tourists echoed around her. Kids ran and chased each other on the playground. People gathered on the benches overlooking the ocean eating ice cream. A skinny boy with red hair stood fishing by an old man with gray hair and a cane. The man dropped his rod, and the boy picked it up. The old man smiled and rubbed his hand through the kid’s hair.

  She wished she had a grandpa and a grandma. But her mama didn’t like to talk about that. She wouldn’t talk about Marilyn’s daddy either.

  Marilyn played a game when she was in the Village or at a restaurant. She’d watch the daddies, and pick out one she liked, then pretend he was her father. Pretend he was chasing her at the playground or building sandcastles with her on the beach.

  The ocean breeze felt cold and stung her cheeks as she passed the pier. Lightning streaked the sky.

  Painted red and white, the lighthouse stood taller than the ancient trees. Mama said it had been there for almost two hundred years.

  They’d climbed the steps inside together and looked out over the ocean. You could see for miles and miles. At night Mama told her stories of ships lost at sea being guided back to the island with its light.

  Marilyn imagined pirates attacking boats from days gone by like the pictures she saw in the books at the library. Then soldiers from the war as they fought and landed on the island.

  The wind picked up, the palm trees bending. Rain began to splatter the ground. She had to go back.

  Movement from near the shore caught her eyes. A canoe. It slowly drifted near the rocks, then a young girl jumped out. The water was up to her knees, but she shoved and pushed the canoe onto the shore. She was huffing for a breath, and her thin gown was soaking wet. Her eyes darted behind her, then all around as if looking for someone.

  She looked scared.

  Thunder clapped. Then rain fell, harder and faster. Marilyn ducked beneath the tree for cover.

  The girl scooped a bundle from the canoe floor and cradled it in her arms. A baby. The girl had a baby!

  Marilyn frowned. The girl looked like a high-schooler. She was skinny and
her gown was torn. She pressed the baby against her, sobbing as she ran toward the lighthouse in the rain.

  Marilyn wanted to go after her. To help her. Maybe she should get her mama.

  Her fingers dug into the tree bark, then she started to run toward the girl. But a big hulking man stepped into the shadows. Marilyn froze. So did the girl.

  A chill went through Marilyn. Did the girl know him?

  Then the man grabbed the girl and dragged her inside the lighthouse.

  Rain soaked Marilyn’s clothes and hair, and her feet dug into the mud. But she didn’t care. She had to help the girl. Marilyn ran to the next tree and then the next until she could peak inside.

  It was dark, but a streak of lighting lit the inside. Her heart pounded. The man had his hands around the girl’s throat. He was choking her!

  Marilyn screamed, but she was so terrified that no sound came out.

  The girl spotted her and cried, “Help me.”

  Marilyn told herself to run at him. She could beat him with her fists. Maybe then the girl could escape.

  But her feet wouldn’t budge.

  A second later, the girl sagged against the man.

  Fear clogged Marilyn’s throat. She had to get help.

  But she heard the man growling. He was coming outside!

  His beady eyes raked across the lawn, then shifted her way. Her body trembled. What if he saw her?

  Terrified, she jumped behind a tree to hide.

  For a minute, he stood there looking. He took a step toward her. His hands balled into fists. He was coming for her!

  Fear gripped her.

  Lightning streaked the sky. The rain came down harder.

  He suddenly turned and ducked back inside. When he returned, the girl hung in his arms like a rag doll.

  He threw her over his shoulder and hurried to an old car near the lighthouse. Opened the trunk and tossed the girl inside.

  Then he ran back into the lighthouse and came out with the baby. He carried it to the car, put it in the front seat and then jumped inside. The glow of a cigarette lit the darkness. Then he sped off.

  “Marilyn, where are you?” her mother shouted.

  Mama’s voice. She was mad.

  “Marilyn!”

  Marilyn had to tell her what she’d seen. Maybe the girl wasn’t dead. Maybe she could save her and the baby . . .

  The man in the bed grunted, dragging her from the memory. Eaton looked pitiful and weak, his breathing wheezy. He was knocking on death’s door.

  She’d been trying to glean a confession out of him for weeks, but his dementia kept interfering, and so far she had nothing.

  He coughed then gave her a pleading look. “Pills . . .”

  He stretched his hand toward her. An image of that same hand wrapped around the girl’s throat taunted her. He was the lighthouse keeper.

  She slid into the chair beside his bed, then set the prescription bottle on the nightstand just out of his reach.

  “Let’s go over this again. Tell me about the night you killed that girl at the lighthouse and stole her baby . . .”

  Chapter Two

  Ryker strode into the Savannah Police Department, adrenaline from his lovemaking session with Marilyn still charging through him. Yet curiosity was eating away at him.

  Marilyn was always hush hush about her stories, but lately she’d been more secretive than ever. If he didn’t know how focused she was on work, he’d think she was seeing someone else.

  But he didn’t think that was the case.

  Not with the way she’d fucked him this morning.

  She must be onto a big story. If it had to do with the Keepers, if the justice-seeking group was still active and planning more vigilante killings, he needed to know. While he was sympathetic to the Keepers cause, he didn’t condone taking justice into one’s own hands. He worked in law enforcement after all.

  Rules were in place for a reason, and he followed them.

  By becoming vigilantes, the Keepers became criminals themselves and part of the problem.

  His commander, Captain Benjamin Henry, motioned for Ryker to meet in his office. Henry was a big man with a barrel belly and a thick beard. He was also the kind of man who demanded the best from his team.

  Ryker bypassed the bullpen where other officers were busy, then made his way to the captain’s office.

  “Congrats on your work on the Keepers case.” Captain Henry extended a beefy hand, his ruddy face breaking out into a smile. He knew Ryker’s background, how far he’d come. That work was Ryker’s priority.

  Ryker shook his captain’s hand and murmured thanks. “Do you have a case for me?”

  “Actually I want you to meet with the forensic specialist and ME about those bones found in the marsh at Seaside Cemetery a few weeks ago. They finally have an ID.”

  “Shouldn’t that information go to the Cold Case unit?” Ryker asked.

  Henry grunted yes. “The FBI have an agent with their Cold Case division who’s being featured on some new true crime show, Cold Cases Revisited, and are asking for our cooperation. Since you’ve collaborated with the feds on the Keepers investigation, I’m assigning you as the police department’s liaison.”

  “You mean she’s another reporter?” Jesus. Marilyn was enough trouble.

  “No, she’s a federal agent, one who’s passionate about cold cases. Make my life easier and agree, Brockett.”

  Ryker bit back a curse. He hadn’t earned his ranking by defying his superior.

  Besides, he was curious about those damn bones. “All right. But if a more pressing case comes up—”

  “You’re on it. Like I said, you’ll be working with Agent Manson so she’ll assume the lead on the cold cases.”

  Ryker nodded. “Understood.”

  “Agent Manson will meet you at the ME’s office.”

  Hopefully Manson was a professional and didn’t mind grunt work. Cold cases usually meant no computer files. No social media or on-line presence back then. Old-fashioned legwork, digging through libraries and interviewing people from the past, definitely presented challenges.

  The captain’s phone rang, and Ryker read it as his cue to leave. The commander was never one to chitchat. Neither was Ryker.

  He left the building, glad the rain had ceased for the moment. He drove the few blocks to the medical examiner’s office, parked and went inside. Maybe one day he’d develop an immunity to the smell of formaldehyde and body odors that permeated the autopsy room. But he wasn’t there yet.

  Today they wouldn’t be looking at a recent death though. The remains found at Seaside Cemetery had been there so long they’d deteriorated to the point that nothing was left but bones. The heads had also been removed from the bodies, and stolen a few weeks ago. Thankfully, Special Agent Wyatt Camden had recovered them, which made the identification process easier.

  He knocked on the chief ME’s door, and Dr. Patton let him in. He shook Patton’s hand, and Patton introduced him to Agent Manson.

  Damn. Long, wavy auburn hair framed a heart-shaped face. He had to admit she was attractive, although she didn’t spark his interest the way a certain blonde did. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. Marilyn had been on his mind too damn much lately.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, studying the agent further. Her eyes looked pensive, pained, as if there was a story behind them that she didn’t want to tell. He bet the camera loved her.

  Another knock and Dr. Eve Lofton, the forensic anthropologist Dr. Patton had requested to help analyze the bones, appeared in her lab coat with a folder in her hands.

  Introductions were made, and they all settled around the table. Dr. Lofton spread several pages in front of her, along with three photographs.

  “The victims recovered from Seaside Cemetery are all female, ages fourteen to sixte
en at the time of their deaths. Two are sisters and have been dead about twenty-five years. I’m still working on the third girl’s ID.”

  She tapped the photographs one by one. “This one we’ll call Jane Doe for now.” She moved to the second picture. “This is Candace Darling, age sixteen.” She moved to the third. “And Deborah Darling, age fourteen.”

  Agent Manson shifted. “What else can you tell us about the Darling girls?”

  “Judging from the bones, the sisters suffered physical abuse for an extended period of time. A couple of the injuries appear to have happened at a young age, say three or four.”

  Ryker’s stomach clenched.

  “Cause of death?” Agent Manson asked.

  Emotions darkened Dr. Lofton’s eyes. “Still working on that. The numerous injuries, coupled with decomp and timing, are complicating the matter.”

  Dr. Lofton shifted. “But I can tell you this. Judging from the number of fractures and indentations on the bones, the girls suffered.”

  “Probably abuse from one of the parents or a relative,” Ryker said automatically.

  Dr. Lofton shrugged. “That’s your department, Detective. I just examine the bones.”

  Ryker clenched his jaw. Yes, finding answers was his job.

  This case might have happened years ago, but nothing pissed him off more than child abuse.

  He’d put up with beatings himself when he was a kid. When he’d been too little to fight back or . . . leave.

  Had these girls been killed by an abusive parent? Or had they run away to escape the abuse, then ended up falling prey to another monster?

  Marilyn studied the bastard in the bed, willing him to confess his sins.

  As a child, she’d imagined the man who’d killed that girl as a beast. That he was hideous and scary looking.

  Instead Daryl Eaton looked like a normal old man. He’d actually been handsome when he was younger, at least in photos of him as the lighthouse keeper.

  But Daryl Eaton was a cold-blooded murderer.

  Although he professed to be a born again Christian. She didn’t believe that for a second. “You worked as the lighthouse keeper, didn’t you?”