by Herron, Rita
On the front of the shelf, a small knob was protruding. She twisted the knob and gasped as two doors opened. Inside the bookcase was a built in desk with a wall above it.
Photographs of the lighthouse, Daryl Eaton and the Darling sisters covered the interior along with articles about the missing sisters.
Sheer panic seized her. Marilyn was looking at all angles. She might be getting close to the truth.
Trembling with anger and fear, she ripped the pictures and articles off the board then shredded them into pieces. But shredding them wasn’t enough. She had to stop Marilyn.
She ran to the bathroom, grabbed a lipstick from Marilyn’s vanity, then stared at herself in the mirror. She looked wild and crazed.
But she was just a normal woman. She’d done what she had to do back then.
She’d do the same now.
She raised her hand and began to write Marilyn a message in her own bold red lipstick.
Stop asking questions, or you’ll die just like the Darlings.
Chapter Ten
Marilyn had one last person to question about Daryl Eaton. Lloyd Willing used to oversee the grounds at the Village, which included the park and lighthouse.
He’d retired years ago and lived on the east beach side. Many of the homes were older, small bungalows or ranches built in the sixties. Investors and homeowners interested in renovating were flocking to the area.
Willing’s property was an older A frame that desperately needed a facelift. Even the yard looked unkempt, indicating the retired groundskeeper had lost interest in maintenance or wasn’t physically able to keep up the property anymore.
The wind picked up, bringing the scent of the marsh and salt water as she approached the house. Marilyn knocked on the door and waited but no answer. She tried the doorbell, but got the same result, so she walked around the side of the house facing the marsh. An older man in jeans and boots stood at the edge with a crabber’s net.
“Mr. Willing?”
He didn’t respond, but the wind was howling, so she moved closer. “Mr. Willing?”
His head jerked toward her, and he pulled the hood of his jacket down, then fiddled with his ear. She realized he was wearing a hearing aid, so crossed the distance.
“My name is Marilyn Ellis,” she said.
He shifted his ball cap. “I seen you on the TV.”
She sighed inwardly. Her Keeper series had definitely garnered her recognition, both positive and negative.
“What you want with me?” he barked.
Marilyn forced a smile. “You used to take care of the grounds at the Village, didn’t you?”
He studied her for a minute, his craggy face weary. “Yeah, had a small landscaping company back in the day.”
“I’m doing a story on the island and the lighthouse and wondered what you could tell me about Daryl Eaton, the lighthouse keeper.” She shaded her eyes from the midday sun. “Were you friendly with Mr. Eaton?”
He went still, his gaze dropping to his crab net. “Eaton didn’t have friends.”
That fit with Agnes’s description.
“Why you asking about him?”
Ryker wouldn’t approve if she spread the news that Eaton was dead. But she wanted answers. “His name is connected to a murder investigation. Was Mr. Eaton violent?”
Willing began winding up the rope to his net. “If you’re asking if I saw him hurt anyone, no. But word was he was dangerous. He held up in that lighthouse like a hermit and rarely came out, especially during the day.”
“I was told he took care of problems,” Marilyn said. “Do you know anything about that?”
His face blanched. “Look, Miss, I don’t want to get involved in anything to do with Eaton.”
“Mr. Willing, if you’re afraid of Mr. Eaton, you don’t have to be.”
His bushy gray eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Why would you think I’m afraid?”
“Because you don’t want to talk about him,” she said “But Mr. Eaton has been ill for months.”
Willing wheezed out a breath, then seemed to relax slightly.
“Tell me what kind of problems he took care of?” Marilyn pressed.
Willing shrugged. “It was just rumors.”
She was tired of everyone dancing around the truth. “Tell me about it.”
Willing rubbed his leg as if it ached. “They called him the Punisher. Word was that if you wanted someone taken care of, he’d do it.”
The Punisher?
“What kind of punishments?”
“That’s all I know. Now go away, lady, and leave me alone.” He pinned her with a warning look. “And don’t go telling anyone what I said or plastering my face and name on the news, or you’ll be sorry.”
Anger shot through Marilyn. “I believe Daryl Eaton killed a young girl and kidnapped her baby. If I learn you hid the truth, I’ll be back. And I will expose him and what he did, and anyone who covered it up.”
Panic flared in the man’s eyes. She understood the motive behind the Keepers’s actions. They were vigilantes who’d targeted perps who’d escaped justice the legal way.
But killing a young girl and kidnapping her child were not the same thing at all. The Keepers had killed truly heinous people.
She turned and walked back to the driveway, but when she glanced back, Willing was lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled into the air as he watched her.
Déjà vu struck her. The cigarette, those menacing eyes . . .
The man in the lighthouse who’d strangled the girl . . . it had been dark, she hadn’t seen his face. But she’d seen the embers of his cigarette glowing when he drove away.
Willing had access to the grounds and lighthouse. Could he have been the man inside the lighthouse that night, the man who’d strangled that young girl instead of Daryl Eaton?
Ryker wrapped his hand around his coffee mug. “Evelyn, who was the girl who reported the bullying?”
Evelyn twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t understand how this can help you. She was only fifteen. She couldn’t have kidnapped and murdered two teenagers her own size and age.”
“Maybe she knows what happened to them,” Agent Manson cut in. “Any detail about where they were going that night could help.”
Evelyn sighed. “Her name was Libby Barrett.”
“Does Libby Barrett still live around here?” Ryker asked.
“Actually she’s a librarian at the public library.” Evelyn sipped her latte. “There was another girl though who was friends with Deborah and Candace. Her name was Aretha Franton.”
Ryker cleared his throat. “Did you talk to Aretha or Libby after the Darling girls went missing?”
Evelyn nodded. “Libby was nervous, but her parents insisted she was home with them that night.” She massaged her temple in thought. “Aretha wouldn’t talk. Her mother was upset, too, and told me and the sheriff to leave her daughter alone.”
Ryker and Caroline exchanged looks.
“The Frantons moved away three weeks later.” Evelyn snapped her fingers. “Oh, and there was another girl named Mellie Thacker who hung out with them. Mellie and her mother left town the week before Christmas and never came back.”
Ryker’s mind raced. “Didn’t you think that was suspicious?”
“Not really,” Evelyn replied with a shrug. “Mrs. Thacker’s landlord said she left a note saying her mother was ill so they moved to Ellijay to take care of her.”
Could be nothing. But both girls leaving town around the same time as the Darling girls’ disappearance was too coincidental to ignore.
“Did you meet Mr. Darling?” Ryker asked.
Evelyn’s eyes fluttered downward. “Yes, he seemed angry, especially at his wife. The girls acted as if they were afraid of him. But . . . that wasn’t all.”
“Go on,” Carolin
e said
“The wife . . . she had a drinking problem.”
Howard Darling had mentioned that she liked her liquor, and that she was drunk on New Year’s Eve.
“The girls wouldn’t talk about it,” Evelyn added. “But I sensed she lost control when she’d had too much.”
Had she become violent enough to hurt her daughters?
Marilyn checked her messages as she parked at the public library on Seahawk Island. Another one from Ryker asking her to call him.
She jammed her phone back into her purse. She would talk to him. Later.
But research had to come first.
Although she had pulled photos and articles of the original investigation and studied them, hoping she’d see something the police had missed. She slung her shoulder bag over her arm, then hurried up the steps of the library building.
A woman who looked to be about forty with red hair, freckled skin and glasses stood behind the front desk. Marilyn approached her with a smile, hoping she didn’t recognize her from TV. According to her nametag, she was Libby Barrett.
But the wariness in the woman’s eyes indicated she did in fact recognize Marilyn.
Still, she introduced herself. “I’m looking for old articles about the missing Darling sisters from twenty-five years ago.”
Libby’s eyes widened. “Why do you want to know about them?”
“Because that case was never solved.” Marilyn hesitated. “Did you grow up here on the island?”
Libby chewed her bottom lip. “Yes, and I attended school with those girls. Then you probably already know that or you wouldn’t be here.” She grabbed several books from the return bin and began sorting them.
Actually she hadn’t, but she’d lucked up. “Were you friends?” Marilyn asked.
Libby shot her a scathing look. “Hardly.” She gestured toward her wiry red hair and glasses. “They called me Four-eyes.”
“Kids can be mean,” Marilyn said in an attempt to win Libby’s cooperation.
The librarian nodded, then stacked the books on a rolling cart. Marilyn followed her toward the shelves. “Do you have any idea what happened to them?”
Libby swung around, anger making her freckles look blotchy. “No, but I hope they got what they deserved.”
“Why do you dislike them so much?” Marilyn asked.
“That’s none of your business,” Libby snapped. “Now, I have to work so leave me alone.”
Marilyn’s pulse hammered. The woman was definitely hiding something. Deciding to give her time before she pushed her again, she headed toward the microfiche room. Although microfiche were becoming obsolete, this small town still kept an archive of articles and documents on file and hadn’t yet updated everything to the digital age.
She found a set of film for the year the Darling girls disappeared, skimmed through the articles chronicling the original search and police efforts, but found nothing new.
The murder she’d witnessed had occurred in late summer. The sisters had disappeared on New Year’s Eve nine months before.
The girl she’d seen killed might be one of the Darlings. The police had always assumed the sisters would be found together, but the girl she’d seen was alone, except for the baby.
Candace was sixteen, Deborah fourteen when they’d gone missing.
She accessed photographs of the Darlings from the news coverage. First she perused the class photo of Deborah. She was pretty with long, golden blond hair and green eyes, her head tilted sideways in a cocky pose that didn’t fit with the image of an abuse victim.
Marilyn massaged her temple, struggling to recall the face of the girl she’d seen murdered. But it had been late and dark and stormy. Was her hair golden blond like Candace’s?
Her memory was foggy.
She scrolled through the yearbook until she located a photograph of Deborah. These pictures were definitely clearer images of the girls. The ones she’d pulled before were grainy and discolored, and taken from a distance.
Deborah had wavy brown chin-length hair. A plain face, big dark eyes. Not quite as pretty as her older sister, and a deep sadness haunted her expression.
Marilyn retraced her steps that night. She’d been at her mama’s diner, had snuck out to the playground. Kids had packed the play equipment, tourists strolling the pier. She’d cut across the grassy lawn to the lighthouse, hidden behind that tree.
Then she’d seen the canoe in the water. The girl paddling for her life. Her dark, brown hair was wet and tangled around her face in the wind and rain.
She studied Deborah Darling’s face again, and her stomach clenched.
The girl she’d seen climb from the canoe with that infant . . . it was Deborah. Deborah who was fourteen years old. Deborah who’d tried to shield a baby—her baby?—from the elements.
Why had she been out in the canoe? Where had she come from?
Marilyn located a map of the area dating back two and a half decades and spotted a couple of tiny islands a mile out to sea. Could she have been on one of those islands?
A dark chill engulfed her. If the baby was Deborah’s, then it was possible the girl had been raped.
By whom? Daryl Eaton?
The baby’s scream had echoed in the wind as the light keeper had carried it to his car. That baby’s cry taunted her now.
Had Eaton killed the baby, too?
If so, and one of the skeletons recovered at Seahawk Island belonged to Deborah, had the baby been with her?
Her lungs strained for air. She had to question Ryker about those bodies.
But how could she probe him for information without divulging her own secrets?
Chapter Eleven
She exited the secret chat room for the Keepers where she’d been lurking for hours. The police and FBI thought they’d shut down the Keepers, but they could never stop them.
They were too clever. Too secretive. Too determined.
Too necessary.
They had tentacles reaching into places no one knew about or ever would. Tentacles that went higher up.
Hearing the plans and thoughts of the others gave her comfort. They were caring, loving women determined to exact justice.
Just like her.
She felt a sisterhood with Cat Landon and Carrie Ann Jensen. And with those poor victims of the River Street rapist and the Skull. Those bastards had deserved to suffer.
The sound of Daryl Eaton’s last breath kept echoing in her head, tapping at her sanity. She poured herself a glass of vodka and tossed it back, then crossed the room to her prized wall and ran her finger over the photographs.
Pictures of the Keepers’ victims. Pictures of Cat and Carrie Ann.
And articles on the deaths and the deals the police had made with both women.
They were like sisters to her.
Her hand shook as she poured herself another drink.
She would not feel guilty about killing Daryl Eaton. And she sure as hell didn’t intend to go to prison for his murder.
Why that reporter had latched onto the story of his death and those Darling girls’ disappearance escaped her. But the trail the reporter was following would eventually lead her into the dark world that hid her secrets.
Sooner or later, Marilyn would figure out the connections. Sooner or later, she’d find out everything.
She guzzled her drink, then snagged her keys and hurried outside to her car before she lost her courage. The warning message she’d left on Marilyn’s mirror earlier wasn’t enough.
Marilyn had to die just like Eaton.
Chapter Twelve
Ryker tried to formulate a possible scenario around the Darling girls disappearance, but there were too many missing pieces.
“Something strange was going on with that foursome,” Caroline said as Ryker parked at the library.
“
I agree. Mr. Darling said his daughters didn’t have friends, but the counselor contradicted that. And two of their friends moved away around the time the sisters disappeared. Maybe Libby Barrett will shed some light on the situation.”
Ryker checked his messages to see if Marilyn had returned his call, but nothing from her.
His mother had called though, wanting him to come to dinner soon. She’d been bugging him lately asking if he had a girlfriend. So far he hadn’t told her about Marilyn. But he’d been thinking about introducing them.
He gritted his teeth. He’d talk to Marilyn tonight. And he wouldn’t let her get away with lies.
A text from the ME appeared, saying he had information. “I need to call Dr. Patton.”
Caroline opened her tablet. “I’ll see if I can find contact information on Aretha Franton and Mellie Thacker.”
Ryker murmured okay then quickly pressed the ME’s number.
“Daryl Eaton’s tox screen came back,” Dr. Patton said. “He died as a result of an overdose of heroine.”
Ryker drummed his fingers on his thigh. “I didn’t see any hypodermics or a syringe on his nightstand or in the house, did you?”
“No. And he didn’t have track marks indicating he was a user.”
“I’ll check with the ERT and see if they found evidence.” Ryker hung up, more questions plaguing him. Why would someone kill a man who was on his deathbed?
Caroline glanced up from her phone. “I can’t seem to find Mellie Thacker, but the analyst is working on it. I tried Aretha’s number and left a message. She lives in Florida.”
Ryker relayed the ME’s findings regarding Eaton. “Looks like he was murdered.”
“Someone must have really hated him to kill him when he was so ill.”
Marilyn’s earring taunted Ryker. She had been there. But she had no reason to hate Eaton.
Did she?
The thought of Eaton raping a fourteen-year-old girl, holding her and her child hostage, then killing her and taking the baby made nausea rise in Marilyn’s throat.