by Herron, Rita
He gave a small nod, his gaze shooting to the bottle of pain pills. His heart medication sat on the end table, just out of reach as well.
“When I was a kid, my mother worked as a waitress in the diner at the Village,” she said. “I used to love going to the lighthouse. I saw you there one night.”
His brows furrowed as if he might be trying to remember her. Dammit, the dementia was affecting his mind, and so were the meds, adding to her frustration. She couldn’t discern whether he was lying or if he’d truly forgotten what he’d done.
He’d certainly gotten away with his crimes for years without detection.
Knowing his health was declining rapidly, she’d decided to push him to talk. God knows, she didn’t want him to carry his secrets with him to the grave.
“One night when I was six, I saw this young girl in a canoe,” she continued. “She looked pale and weak and terrified when she climbed from the boat and shoved it onto the shore. Then she scooped up a baby from the canoe and started running toward the lighthouse.”
Marilyn paused, studying him for a reaction. He showed none. Instead, it seemed to take all his concentration to breathe.
Marilyn leaned closer to him, her voice a rough whisper. “You know what happened next?”
His gaze met hers for a long tense minute, emotions she couldn’t quite read flaring in his pale gray eyes. “Pills . . . ”
“You selfish bastard, I’m not giving you a pill unless you talk.”
He snatched her arm, his nails biting into her skin. “Please,” he said again, his tone demanding, harsh.
With her free hand, she pried his vile fingers from her arm, then shoved him back onto the bed. “You didn’t care about that girl’s pain. You grabbed the girl like that, didn’t you? Then you dragged her inside the lighthouse and you strangled her.” Anger propelled her from the chair, and she paced in front of him. “You strangled her and threw her in the trunk of your car, then you put the baby in the front seat.” She paused by his bed, piercing him with an accusatory look as she glared down at his feeble body. “What did you do with the baby?”
Eaton tried to sit up, to grab her again, but Marilyn stepped out of his reach. He grunted in frustration then broke into another coughing fit.
The phone on his bedside table trilled, startling her. He glanced at it but was coughing so hard he collapsed back onto the bed.
The ringing died, and the voicemail kicked on.
“It’s Gayle. I’m sorry I didn’t make it this morning, but I’ll be there in five minutes.” Then the phone clicked silent.
Dammit. Gayle was his caregiver. Marilyn had seen her name on a note the woman had left Eaton once before.
She had to get out of here. No one knew she was questioning Eaton, and no one would know, not until she was ready to reveal her story.
His coughing continued, his frail body shaking with the force. “Please . . . my med . . .”
The image of the man throwing that girl’s body in his trunk taunted her, and Marilyn’s heart hardened.
He deserved to suffer. Then maybe he’d talk.
Still, she hesitated. If she let him die, she wouldn’t get answers. And if she killed him, she’d become just like him.
A monster.
“I’ll be back.” She slid the pills close enough for him to reach, gathered her umbrella, then her recorder and notepad and jammed them into her shoulder bag.
His wheezing echoed in her ears as she slipped through the kitchen and out the back door.
“What do we know about the Darling family, Agent Manson?” Ryker asked as he drove toward the family’s house on the island.
“First of all, please call me Caroline.” She consulted her electronic pad where she’d retrieved everything she could find on the Darlings, including the family’s address. “Actually, there were three girls. They disappeared twenty-five years ago on New Year’s Eve.”
Over two decades. The family had probably long ago accepted that the girls weren’t coming home. Then again, some families never gave up the search.
When his father went missing in action in Afghanistan, his mother held onto hope for four years. She only relinquished that hope when military personnel showed up at the door with proof that he’d been killed.
A year later, she’d remarried, a bastard who’d wanted Ryker to call him Daddy. A bastard who liked to use his fists. That marriage hadn’t lasted long. The moment his mother figured out what was happening, she’d thrown the man out. She still felt guilty over bringing the bastard into their lives. They’d both learned a hard lesson.
It had taught Ryker about what kind of man he wanted to be.
“The three girls were reported missing on New Year’s Day,” Caroline said, interrupting his thoughts. “The night before the parents attended a party and didn’t make it home until around three a.m. They went straight to bed and didn’t realize the girls were missing until the next morning when the mother noticed their rooms were empty.”
Every parents’ nightmare.
“Then they called the police?” Ryker asked.
“Not at first. They noticed the girls’ backpacks were gone and assumed they’d walked to the grandmother’s house. They called her, but she hadn’t seen the girls. That’s when they panicked and phoned the police.”
Ryker turned onto the street leading to the Darling’s house. Winter had taken its toll on the grass and trees, leaving them barren and dry, the yards choked with weeds. The neighborhood looked to have been built in the 1950’s, and the houses were showing their age. The last hurricane had destroyed roofs and flooded homes, evident in the construction workers and repair trucks in the area.
“You said the girls took their backpacks?” Ryker swerved to avoid a pothole. “That could mean they left the house of their own accord, that they weren’t abducted, at least not from their house.”
Caroline made a low sound in her throat. “The officer who investigated, a detective named Willard Flagler, first speculated that the girls ran away. Neighbors had reported domestic disputes at the home, and one neighbor thought the girls were being abused.”
“Which our ME just confirmed. So it’s possible they ran away to escape the brutality.”
“And ended up getting killed,” Caroline said in a low voice.
Anger churned inside Ryker at the images the story painted. “Did Flagler suspect the father or mother of foul play?”
“His first notes say he thought the father killed the girls, but he never found any proof.”
“How about the girls’ friends?”
“According to Flagler, they didn’t have many friends,” Caroline told him. “A girl named Aretha claimed she and the middle daughter Deborah hung out, but she never went to the Darlings’ house, and Deborah refused to talk about the alleged abuse. However, Aretha admitted she’d seen bruises on the sisters.”
They needed to talk to Aretha.
“So Flagler never made an arrest?” Ryker asked.
She shook her head. “He had a bad accident during the time he was investigating and was forced to take a leave of absence. Then the case went cold.”
“Have you talked to Flagler?”
“Yes, and to his superior at the time. Neither had anything concrete to add, except Flagler’s boss suspected the accident wasn’t really an accident. Flagler’s car appeared to have been forced off the road. Police never found out who hit him though.”
“Maybe Flagler was close to the truth and someone wanted to keep him from finding it.”
“That was his boss’s theory.”
“How’d you end up in Cold Cases?” Ryker asked.
Caroline’s mouth tightened. “Another missing child case. Never found the baby or evidence of what happened. Still haunts me at night.”
Every detective had a story like that.
Still, t
he pained look in her eyes suggested the case was personal.
Darling’s house slipped into view, silencing his questions, and he steered his focus back to the task at hand. Notifying parents of a child’s death was always difficult, but news that their child, and in this case two children, were murdered made the task even more painful.
The family home was a small red brick ranch with green shutters. A black pick-up was parked beneath an aluminum carport. Mud caked the tires and rims and was splattered across the back of the cab.
“Mr. Darling’s first name is Howard,” Caroline informed him. “The wife was Phyllis. She left a few months after the girls went missing.”
Because she’d known the father was guilty?
“Did she suspect her husband did something to the girls?” Ryker asked.
Caroline shrugged. “According to the report, she claimed he was a great father.”
Hmm. Maybe she’d been too afraid to talk. Ryker parked and reached for the door handle. “What did Howard Darling do for a living?”
“Construction.”
Ryker stepped from his SUV, thoughts racing. The Darling girls’ bodies had been found at Seaside Cemetery, yet the graves had been unmarked. If Darling had killed them, why hadn’t he buried them at one of his job sites? He could have hidden them below a house or disposed of the bodies beneath concrete and they’d never have been found.
Not that they’d been easily discovered at the cemetery. A storm had uprooted many of the graves and shifted the topography of the marsh. Carrie Ann Jensen had pulled the girls’ skulls from the dirt.
He scanned the property as they walked toward the front door. The yard was overgrown and patchy with weeds, and a gust of wind caused a loose shutter to flap against the windowpane. A black cat darted into the bushes by the side of the house.
Caroline climbed the rickety steps and knocked. Ryker followed, his badge in his hand.
It took several seconds, but the door opened, and Howard Darling appeared. He was in his late fifties now, his hair wiry and graying, and a thick beard grazed his jaw. His eyes looked bloodshot, and he stank of sweat and whiskey.
Caroline identified herself and Ryker did the same.
“What do you want?” Mr. Darling asked with a scowl.
“May we come in?” Caroline asked.
The man shook his head. “I don’t like cops. Say what you got to say and then leave.”
Caroline exchanged a look with Ryker, and he stowed his ID. “Mr. Darling, I’m afraid we have bad news.”
The man gripped the door edge. “Did you find my girls?”
Ryker gave a nod. “I’m sorry, sir, but yes, the bodies of two of your daughters were recovered.”
Darling shifted, then looked at Ryker. He seemed to intentionally be ignoring Caroline.
“What happened to ‘em?” Darling asked .
Ryker studied the man. “At this point, all we can tell you is that they were murdered.”
The man’s face paled. “Who did it?”
Caroline cleared her throat. “That’s what we’re going to find out, sir.”
Chapter Three
Howard Darling’s reaction seemed strange to Ryker.
Then again, how was a parent supposed to respond to the news that two of their children had died? There was no right or wrong way. People often reacted to traumatic events in unusual ways.
But even after years had passed, typically the parent showed more emotion than this man exhibited. He also hadn’t asked about the other daughter. That was odd.
Unless he wasn’t shocked to learn the news of his daughters’ tragic fate.
Because he’d been the one who killed them.
Caroline cleared her throat. “Mr. Darling, now that we have evidence of homicide, we’ll reopen the case of your daughters’ disappearances. If there’s anything you remember and want to share with us, we’d like to hear it.”
Darling rubbed a hand over his head, shifting as if uncomfortable. “The girls, you said you found two of them?”
Finally he was asking. Of course, he probably just realized that he’d be considered a person of interest.
This time for murder.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline answered in a neutral tone, “but that’s correct. We don’t have word on your third daughter.”
Darling scraped a hand over his scraggly beard. “Who did you find? Polly? Deborah? Or was it Candace? She was my oldest.”
“We found Deborah and Candace,” Ryker said.
“So not Polly?” The man’s face crinkled. “She was my baby, you know.”
“Yes, we know,” Caroline replied. “Mr. Darling, can we come in and talk?”
His brows furrowed as if confused again, then he gestured for them to enter. Ryker followed the agent inside, quickly surveying the house.
Kitchen was small and closed off with ancient avocado colored appliances. A pot of coffee sat on the counter along with a box of store bought doughnuts. Yellowed newspapers were stacked in a corner in the den, and dirty clothes overflowed a laundry basket in a threadbare chair by the window.
“S’cuse the mess,” Darling muttered as he gestured toward two armchairs facing the sofa. “Used to keep things clean, but after the girls and my wife were gone, didn’t matter no more.”
“Mr. Darling,” Caroline said as she seated herself. “Please tell us about the night your daughters disappeared.”
A weary resignation settled on his face as if he’d recounted his story a hundred times. He probably had, both to the police and to the press.
But after some time, people often recalled details that their shocked induced brains hadn’t focused on immediately following a tragedy. On the down side, sometimes their memories became muddied and they forgot details as well.
Comparing his story to his original statement might offer insight as to whether Darling was lying or telling the truth.
“It was New Year’s Eve,” he began. “My wife and I went to a party at the American Legion in Brunswick. We’d just finished a big drive to gather blankets and coats for the homeless and for veterans.”
A worthy project. Didn’t quite fit with a child abuser, but abusers often presented themselves as respectable citizens in public to disguise the ugliness underneath.
“Go on,” Caroline said with a verbal nudge.
“The girls were supposed to stay home. Candace, our oldest, was babysitting.”
“Did Candace drive?” Ryker asked.
The man nodded. “Just got her license.”
“Did she have a car or access to one?”
Darling shook his head. “We only had one car. We drove it to the party.”
“All three girls were home when you left?” Caroline asked.
He nodded. “Watching TV and making popcorn.”
“Did they have friends over?” Ryker asked.
Darling’s jaw tightened. “No, teenagers didn’t hang out here.”
A tense second ticked by. “Not ever?” Caroline asked curiously.
Darling slanted her a dark look. “They had each other. That was all they needed.”
Strained silence filled the room as they waited on the man to continue.
There were no cell phones twenty-five years ago for them to verify that the girls hadn’t made plans with someone on the phone. But Flagler might have looked at phone records from the landline.
“What time did you and your wife arrive home from the party?” Caroline asked.
“Late.” Darling shrugged. “Phyllis liked to drink vodka,” he said, his voice cracking. “When we got home, she went to bed. My arthritis was flaring up, so I turned in, too.”
“You didn’t check on the girls?” Caroline asked.
Darling glared at her. “Not then. Their door was closed. I figured they were sleeping.”
&n
bsp; “What happened the next morning?” she prodded.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose and released a shaky breath. “I can still hear the tremor in Phyllis’s voice.” Another heartbeat of silence, and then he continued. “I told her not to panic. She thought they might have gone to her mother’s, but she called her and Mamaw hadn’t seen them.”
“Then what happened,” Ryker asked.
“I checked the carport for their bikes. Thought they might have taken a ride.”
He hadn’t mentioned that before. “Were the bikes under the carport?”
Darling twisted his hands together. “Yeah. So I figured the girls were on foot. I drove around for a couple of hours looking for them. Went everywhere I could think. The park, the high school, even the ice cream store. But didn’t see ‘em.”
His voice cracked again. “I hoped they’d be home when I got back, but Phyllis was pacing and crying. Said she’d called the police. They showed up and started an official investigation.” He lifted a bleak gaze to Ryker. “You know the rest. Police searched, and we put up fliers. Some of the school kids even combed the beach.”
“Was there a specific reason they checked the beach?” Caroline asked.
Darling bit his lip, confusion darkening his eyes. “No. We never went to the beach. My wife was scared of the water. But I reckon the other kids like it so they thought maybe my girls went there for the day.”
That made sense.
“Some officer speculated they could have snuck into a boat and rowed out to sea and the boat turned over.” Mr. Darling coughed. “That freaked Phyllis out even more. One of her sisters drowned. She couldn’t stand the thought of our baby girls being swept out to sea and being eaten by sharks.”
Except they hadn’t drowned or been attacked by sharks. And one of the girls was still missing.
Which left a lot more questions to be answered.
Marilyn shook rainwater from her coat as she entered the TV station. The last damn thing this town and the island needed was another freak storm. Two hurricanes in two years was enough.
Eaton’s craggy face flashed in her mind. He’d looked pale, weak. He was going downhill fast.