Dead Little Darlings

by Herron, Rita

  The car bumped her rear, and Marilyn skidded toward the embankment. She fought to steer her car back on the road.

  “Marilyn, you cut out. Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, but this car is trying to run me off the road.”

  “Find a gas station or a parking lot that’s lit and pull in. I’ll be right there.”

  “Wait,” she said, her pulse hammering. “Listen to me. Those four girls drugged and raped Preston. I think Preston’s mother may have hired Eaton to punish --”

  Marilyn screamed as the car rammed her rear bumper, and her car flew into a spin. She tried to fight it, but lost control. Her brakes squealed, tires grinding for traction. Her car spun, flipped on its side then rolled. She tried to brace herself as she sailed toward the marsh.

  Her head hit the top of the car, and the impact pitched her body forward, then sideways.

  Pain ricocheted through her temple just before the world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Ryker clutched the phone in a white-knuckled grip. “Marilyn!” The sound of a crash made his blood run cold. “Marilyn, honey, talk to me. Are you okay?”

  He snatched his keys and jogged to the door, but just as he did, a knock sounded. He continued to call Marilyn’s name as he opened the door.

  Caroline stood on the other side.

  He threw up a hand before she could speak, and listened on the phone again. “Marilyn, are you there?” Please say you are.

  Silence met his question then the phone went dead.

  He motioned toward his vehicle. “Let’s go. Marilyn’s in trouble. I need a trace on her phone.”

  “I’ll call it in while you drive.”

  Ryker rattled off Marilyn’s phone number as they raced to his vehicle. The rain had temporarily ceased, but dark clouds hovered, ready to dump another deluge. The wind howled, trees swaying. God, Marilyn she was out in this mess, alone, and possibly injured.

  What would he do if something happened to her?

  “Where is she?” Caroline asked.

  “Somewhere near the Village.”

  “I’m on it.” Caroline spoke into the phone while he started the engine and raced from the parking lot. “They’re trying to trace her,” she said a minute later. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Marilyn talked to Preston Richway,” Ryker said. “Apparently the Darling girls, Mellie Thacker and Aretha Franton drugged Preston and Jeremy Linchfield, and had sex with Preston.”

  “Because of the pregnancy pact,” Caroline surmised.

  He nodded and pressed the accelerator. “Marilyn claims Deborah had a baby, that Daryl Eaton strangled her and took the infant.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. “How does she know that?”

  “I told you she’s good at what she does,” he snapped.

  “Does she know what happened to the baby?”

  “No. Apparently, Preston had no idea he’d fathered a child. When his mother discovered he’d been raped, she went ballistic.” He turned onto the road toward the Village. “Marilyn thinks she hired the Punisher to take care of the Darling girls and Mellie Thacker.”

  “Then she killed Eaton because she was afraid he’d confess on his deathbed?”

  “Makes sense.” He rubbed his forehead still trying to assimilate everything Marilyn had confided. Although why hadn’t the Punisher also killed Aretha? Because she hadn’t conceived?

  Caroline looked pale again. “Ryker, if the baby survived, maybe Mrs. Richway knows what happened to it.”

  “That’s possible.” Perspiration beaded on the back of his neck. “ If the baby was Preston’s, that means Mrs. Richway is the child’s grandmother.”

  That could have played out two ways. Either Mrs. Richway wanted the child or . . . she’d wanted to get rid of it.

  Ryker’s mind filled in the blanks. “We’ve been looking for that caregiver Gayle. What if Gayle is really Preston’s mother?”

  “That fits.” Caroline tapped her fingers on her thigh but averted her gaze as if she was thinking. “She had access to Eaton regularly,” she finally said.

  “And she could have injected him with heroine,” Ryker added.

  Agent Manson muttered something beneath her breath. “I’ll find out where she lives.” Her phone buzzed before she could make the call. She put the call on speakerphone.

  “I have the coordinates for Marilyn Ellis’s cell phone,” the analyst said. “Texting them to you now.”

  “Thanks,” Caroline said. “See what you can find on Preston Richway, specifically his mother’s name, contact information and where we can locate her.”

  “On it.”

  “I’ll hold.” She relayed the GPS coordinates, and Ryker swung down a side street toward the marsh. He sped along the narrow road searching all directions for Marilyn’s car. Just as he rounded a corner, he spotted skid marks.

  Water had flooded the street and collected on the sides of the road. He slowed, scanning the land.

  His heart stuttered to a stop.

  Marilyn’s little red sedan was upside down in the overgrown marsh. Water stood half a foot deep and was seeping through the windows. He swerved to the side of the road, threw the SUV into Park and jumped out running.

  Behind him, Caroline called his name. He didn’t wait. He had to save Marilyn. If she was trapped in that car and was still alive, she could drown.

  He jumped the embankment and slogged through the knee high wet marsh grass, his fear escalating with every step. By the time he reached the car, his lungs ached for air, and sweat poured down his back.

  He shoved layers of sea oats aside with his hands and stooped to look in the driver’s window. The car was empty.

  Dear God, where was she?

  He lurched up and began to scan the area. If she was injured, she couldn’t have gotten very far. But she’d said someone was following her . . . Panic streaked through him.

  “Ryker?”

  “She’s not in the car!” he shouted. “Help me look for her.”

  Caroline began combing the area to the left while he searched to the right. Precious seconds ticked by. His boots sank into the wet marsh. Mosquitos buzzed around his face.

  If she’d climbed from the vehicle, she’d head toward the road for help. But if someone had forced her off the road, she might be in big trouble.

  “Over here!”

  Ryker pivoted and jogged toward Caroline. She was bent over, examining the brush. “Looks like drag marks.” She pointed to a flattened section leading across the marsh to a narrow road on the side.

  Cold fear seized Ryker. Where the hell was Marilyn?

  Marilyn’s head throbbed, and her body felt weighted down. What had happened?

  She opened her eyes to orient herself. Where was she?

  It was cold. Dark. The wall behind her was concrete. She felt along the floor. Concrete as well. Only a sliver of light flickered through the crack in the doorway. No voices outside the door. Only the distant sound of wind and rain and . . . the waves. She was near the ocean, but where?

  She rubbed her temple, struggling to recall how she’d gotten here.

  A car crash. Someone had hit her from behind. She’d lost control and rolled into the swampland. She’d blacked out and stirred from unconsciousness suffocating. Water was seeping into the car.

  Then . . . a voice. A woman’s. Calling her name as she dragged her from the car. She’d struggled to see the woman’s face. But the pain in her head was so intense it dulled her vision.

  It was the female voice from the phone. The one who’d threatened her.

  Suddenly the door screeched open. It sounded rusty and old. A shadow stood in the entry. The figure stalked in. A woman. Tall. An angular body. Hair knotted on top of her head. She wore a dark rain slicker and rain boots that squeaked as she entered and c
losed the door behind her.

  The shiny silver of metal glinted against the darkness. God, she had a gun.

  “You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” she said in a crazed voice. “I warned you, but you had to keep nosing around.” She began to pace in front of Marilyn, swinging her arms wildly.

  Marilyn considered tackling the woman, but doubted she had the strength to overpower her, much less relieve her of the weapon.

  “I followed those stories you wrote about the Keepers. I thought you’d be reasonable, that you’d understand. But you’re in bed with that cop, and he won’t listen.”

  Marilyn cleared her throat, but her voice was raw. “Mrs. Richway?”

  The woman jerked to a halt and glared at Marilyn with rage-filled eyes. “How do you know my name?”

  “I . . . pieced together what happened when I talked to your son.”

  “You should have left him alone!” the woman bellowed. “He was shamed enough twenty-five years ago. He doesn’t want this to come out!”

  “You mean you don’t want it public,” Marilyn said. “Your son is a brave man. Keeping silent may have felt like the best choice at the time, but holding all that pain inside eats away at a person’s soul.”

  The woman waved her fist at Marilyn. “How would you know?”

  Marilyn inhaled a deep breath, determined to remain calm. “Because I kept quiet about what I witnessed twenty-five years ago, and it’s haunted me ever since.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Richway demanded.

  “When I was a little girl, my mother was a waitress in the Village. One night I snuck away from the diner where she worked and walked over to the pier, then approached the lighthouse.”

  “You’re just stalling,” the woman snarled. “Making up a story hoping someone will find you. But no one will.”

  Marilyn’s lungs tightened. Mrs. Richway was right. But if she was going to die, she wanted answers about Deborah’s baby first.

  “It’s the truth,” she said, her voice firm. “It was rainy that night, too, and I saw a young girl.

  “A . . . girl?”

  “Yes, Deborah Darling. She was drenched in rain, barefoot and wearing a thin gown. She was crying and scared as she shoved a canoe onto the shore.”

  Mrs. Richway’s face turned ghost white.

  “She was also carrying a baby,” Marilyn continued. “She was trying to save her child from the monster who’d been holding her hostage.”

  The wild-eyed woman shook her head in denial.

  “Then I saw the lighthouse keeper. Daryl Eaton. He grabbed the girl and strangled her.” Tears choked Marilyn. “I wanted to save her, but I was so little and scared. Then he carried her outside and threw her in the trunk of his car.”

  Mrs. Richway covered her hands with her ears. “Stop it! Just shut up!”

  “No,” Marilyn said. “You hired Eaton to punish the Darling girls and Mellie Thacker, didn’t you?”

  The woman’s crazed look said it all.

  Fear threatened to immobilize Ryker.

  “Ryker, listen to me,” Caroline said firmly. “We’ll find her. Marilyn Ellis strikes me as a fighter.”

  Her words splintered the panic paralyzing him. She was right. Marilyn had to survive.

  He was in love with the damned woman and he hadn’t even told her.

  Caroline’s phone buzzed, and she checked it. “Let’s go. We have an address for Mrs. Richway.”

  “You think she took Marilyn to her house?” Ryker asked.

  She shrugged. “If she doesn’t know we’re onto her, she might.”

  They didn’t have time to waste.

  They ran to his car and jumped in. “It’s only a couple of miles from here.” Caroline plugged the address into her phone, and Ryker sped onto the road. Dark clouds rumbled ominously, the wind picking up in speed and whistling through the marsh. The road was deserted, the storm warnings forcing people to stay inside, or evacuate if they lived in the flood zones.

  Seconds ticked by, each one excruciating and intensifying his worries. If Mrs. Richway intended to get rid of Marilyn, she could have already killed her . . .

  He couldn’t think like that. She had to be alive. He needed her, dammit.

  His tires churned water as he sped through the flooded sections and veered onto the road leading to Mrs. Richway’s. At the end of a narrow street, he found her house. A small older bungalow with a sagging porch. No car in the drive.

  Caroline pulled her service revolver, and he did the same as they climbed from the vehicle. His heart hammered as he plowed to the front door. Agent Manson checked the windows and shook her head, indicating she didn’t see anyone inside.

  He knocked on the door and identified them, but didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he jiggled the door. Locked. He kicked it in and stormed inside, gun raised at the ready.

  The house was dark, smelled musty and reeked of cigarette smoke.

  The possibility that they were mistaken about Mrs. Richway crossed his mind. Then the possibility of finding a body, Mrs. Richway’s, or someone else’s, sent a chill down his spine.

  He flipped a light switch and inched inside through the entry to the living area.

  No one was inside.

  Agent Manson gestured that she’d search to the right, and he moved to the left toward the kitchen. Empty.

  “Ryker, you need to see this!” Caroline shouted.

  His breath stalled in his chest. If she’d found Marilyn, he prayed she was alive.

  He jogged to the back room and halted beside Caroline. She stood in front of a wall of newspaper clippings, articles and photographs.

  Pictures of the Keeper cases. Cat Landon. Carrie Ann and Tinsley Jensen. The River Street rapist victims.

  The victims of the Keepers.

  More pictures—the Darling girls. Mellie Thacker. Articles about the Darlings’ disappearances. A newspaper clipping about Detective William Flagler’s accident.

  She’d drawn red S’s across all the girls’ faces. Then double S’s.

  Another series of article and pictures on the opposite wall. This time, all featuring Marilyn.

  Marilyn with double S’s slashing her face that resembled blood.

  Double S’s—the signature of the Keepers.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Ryker and Caroline combed the place for information on the woman. Maybe a second house where she might have taken Marilyn.

  The desk was filled with more articles on crimes that had gone unsolved or unpunished, all involving teenage girls. He also found paperwork from the hospital where Preston had been admitted for therapy twenty-five years ago.

  “There are old withdrawals slips from her bank,” Caroline said. “Large withdrawals.”

  “Payments for Eaton,” Ryker said through gritted teeth.

  “And to a Gayle Burton, her alias,” Caroline commented.

  He dug through the bottom desk drawer and found a journal detailing comments about hiring the Punisher. Making certain the Darlings and Mellie didn’t hurt anyone else was the only way she could overcome the shame. Aretha had deserved to be punished as well, but Aretha was contrite and she hadn’t conceived.

  At one point, Preston had wanted to go public about the rape, because he thought he could help other victims if he did. But his mom had insisted he remain quiet.

  He also had no idea she’d hired the Punisher.

  Then there were notes about Detective Flagler. He’d gotten too close to the truth and was about to expose her. So Mrs. Richway ran him off the road. Although he survived, he had amnesia and needed intensive physical therapy and had retired from the police department.

  Caroline found a photo album in the woman’s dresser. “Look at this.”

  Rage shot through him at the photos of the Darling girls and Me
llie Thacker locked inside a room, pregnant.

  “Where is that place?” Agent Manson asked.

  “I don’t know, but we’ll find it.”

  She flipped to another page and gasped. “This is Deborah Darling and her baby.” Emotions made her voice warble. “And here is a picture of Deborah, dead.”

  “And the baby?” Ryker bit out.

  “The baby’s picture isn’t here.” A tear slid down Caroline’s cheek, showing him a softer side of the agent. The thought of someone harming an infant could shred even the toughest federal agent’s composure.

  “If we find Mrs. Richway, maybe she can tell us where that child is,” he said.

  She sniffed and swiped at her face. “But where is she? Where did she take Marilyn?”

  Ryker scanned the wall of pictures. Just before she’d crashed, Marilyn mentioned the lighthouse. The lighthouse where it all started.

  Daryl Eaton was the lighthouse keeper. That was where she’d seen him strangle Deborah and kidnap her baby.

  He headed toward the door. He couldn’t waste time. Every minute Marilyn was abducted meant she might be closer to death. “I’m going to the lighthouse. Stay and wait for a crime team.”

  “No way. I’m with you.” She rushed beside him. “I’ll call the ERT on the way.”

  The rain had started again. A gust of wind was so strong, the windows vibrated as he jumped in the car.

  He didn’t care if they were in the midst of a full-fledged hurricane. He was going to find Marilyn tonight.

  Then he’d bring her home safe and sound, or he’d die trying.

  Marilyn had to stall. Figure out a way to escape. Mrs. Richway’s psychosis was escalating. “You don’t have to hurt me,” she said. “I understand the reason you did what you did. Every mama wants to protect their child, and your son was in pain.”

  “He was,” she cried. “He was so depressed he wouldn’t even talk to me. He stopped going to class and dropped out of football, and . . . I didn’t know what to do.”

  “But he finally told you about that night, didn’t he? That’s because he loves you and trusted you.”