Dark Hope

by Monica McGurk

  A pain in her neck woke her up. The little lamp on the side table still glowed, beating back the darkness. The magazine, still open to the page she’d been reading, was draped across her stomach. She shifted, and her joints protested.

  She looked down at her watch: 5:00 a.m.

  Annoyed, she pushed off her blanket and stood up, padding to the kitchen. She’d fallen asleep without arming the alarm system, which was still glowing green from the keypad. She frowned. She’d told Hope a million times to activate the alarm before she went to bed.

  She went to the back door and flicked on the light switch before looking into the garage.

  Still empty.

  Something is not right, she thought, real unease sweeping through her. She slammed the door and started first walking, then running to the staircase.

  “Hope!” she yelled as she took the stairs two at a time. “Hope, are you awake?”

  In the back of her mind, she imagined Hope laughing at her for being afraid. Or chastising her for waking her up so early. But when she opened the door to Hope’s bedroom, she found it just as she had left it.

  She crumpled to the floor, dumbfounded. Hope was not the kind of kid who didn’t come home at night. She was not the kind of kid to rebel—not against normal rules, anyway.

  “There has to be a logical explanation,” Mona whispered to herself. “There has to be.” She pushed down the feelings of panic she remembered from when Hope had been abducted, chiding herself for being so weak.

  She traced her steps back to the couch where she’d fallen asleep, and she fished her cell phone out from between the cushions. Her fingers danced over a few buttons to speed-dial Hope. It rolled right over into Hope’s voice mail.

  Mona’s mind raced. You can’t panic, she thought to herself. Think, Mona. Who would know where Hope is? Who could she be with?

  Michael. But I don’t know how to reach him.

  She practically ran to her laptop and searched for his number and address, but came up with nothing.

  Tabitha? She put that thought firmly out of her mind. She didn’t want Tabitha’s family to think she didn’t have a handle on her own daughter.

  Mrs. Bibeau? She sighed with relief. Mrs. Bibeau always kept tabs on Hope, might even have talked to her. And if she had gone with Michael, Mrs. Bibeau surely would have noticed.

  She looked at the kitchen clock again. It was only 5:15. She couldn’t call or go over to her neighbor’s house this early, could she? She went to the front door and peeked out. The windows at the Bibeau house were still dark. She sighed, resigned, and settled in to watch the house.

  The kitchen and porch lights went on at 6:30. Mona, still in the sweatpants she’d put on the night before, was at their door by 6:32. Her hand floated over the doorbell, hesitating. Somehow, it seemed more civilized to knock at this hour.

  She rapped firmly on the door, praying they didn’t think she was crazy.

  The door swung open wide. Her neighbor was clutching the neck of her bathrobe, her hair pulled off her face.

  “Mona, my goodness. You’re up early.” She paused, taking in Mona’s disheveled appearance. “What is it, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Come in here,” she said, clucking in her motherly way as she pulled Mona in the door.

  Mona was barely inside the door when she burst out, “Do you know where Hope is?”

  Mrs. Bibeau tilted her head as she considered the question. She moved to the coffeepot and poured a cup.

  “What do you mean, Mona?” she drawled as she passed a cup to Mona.

  Frustrated, Mona stomped her foot. Patience, she reminded herself. “She didn’t come home last night, and I’m starting to think that she hasn’t been home for a few days. She hasn’t responded to my calls or texts. I was hoping you might have talked with her and know what happened.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mrs. Bibeau soothed, ushering Mona to a chair and making her sit. “I think you must be working too hard. Of course I know where Hope is. Don’t you remember? You called me and told me she was going to visit her father back in Alabama for a few days.”

  Mona’s heart froze, but Mrs. Bibeau continued on, oblivious.

  “It’s so generous of you,” she said. “The way y’all had worked it out in advance. All because you didn’t want her to spend her birthday alone.”

  Mona dropped the coffee cup. It broke into shards on the tile floor, splattering coffee across the room.

  “Oh, my!” Mrs. Bibeau jumped to her feet, flustered. She looked around the room, trying to remember where her mop was, her brain still clicking into gear at the early hour. “It’s all right, now. Don’t you worry, Mona, I’ll clean that right up. You sit right there.”

  “I didn’t call you,” Mona barely whispered.

  “What’s that, dear?” The older woman stopped. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I didn’t call you.” Mona’s voice was clear and strong, her meaning unmistakable.

  “Why, of course you did. You called me just—when was it now? Just two days ago. I have it right here.” She walked over to her desk. She quickly rummaged in a little basket and perched a pair of reading glasses on her nose before leaning over the phone. “You even asked me to keep an eye on the house while it was empty. See, I’ll just scroll through the numbers and find yours.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ticking of the clock and the small beeps as Mrs. Bibeau scrolled through her calls.

  “Well, that’s funny,” she said in a quiet voice. “I don’t see your name or number here, Mona.”

  “Let me see,” Mona said, nestling up to her neighbor and peering at the phone.

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Bibeau continued. “Here are all the calls from that day. And I have all your phone numbers programmed in here. But I don’t see it. Did you call me from your client’s phone?”

  “You don’t have any international numbers here,” Mona said, impatiently scanning the call log. “What time did you get this call?”

  “Well, let me think. I was just back from the Ladies’ Art League, and was getting ready to go to tennis. So it must have been about three o’clock?”

  Mona scrolled through the calls, looking for the right time. She paused, her finger hovering over the buttons of the phone.

  “Three o’clock, you said?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Three o’clock.”

  “There’s only one call at that time. And it came from Hope’s cell phone.”

  Mrs. Bibeau leaned closer to the phone, peering through her glasses. “That can’t be. I just know I talked to you.”

  “It wasn’t me. It was Hope. Her father must have put her up to this,” she said, biting the words through her anger.

  “Well, I never,” Mrs. Bibeau said, straightening herself up. “I never dreamed it wasn’t you, Mona. I swear she sounded just like you.” She clucked her tongue again, this time in disapproval. “I am just shocked, shocked, I tell you, that your husband would do such a thing. And manipulating that poor girl, too. He should be ashamed.”

  Mona’s anger was growing from a small flame to a roaring fire. She could barely hear Mrs. Bibeau now. She moved to the door, her attention already turned to other things.

  “I need to call my lawyer. I may have to ask you to speak with him. But first I need to call Don.” She slammed the door behind her, already framing the conversation with her husband in her head. She could think of nothing but her sheer rage as she took up her phone.

  Her hands were shaking as she dialed his number. He picked up on the third ring.

  “This is D—”

  “How dare you!” Mona interrupted, giving full voice to her rage. “It’s bad enough you even contacted her behind my back, but to talk her into coming down with you, and lying about it!”

  “Mona! Mona!” Don tried ineffectually to cut in. “Slow down. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know damn well, Don, what I’m talking about. Put her on the phone.”
/>   “Put who on the phone?”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Don. I have played nice with you. All these years, I have bent over backwards, I—” Mona paused and took a deep breath. “Just put Hope on the phone.”

  “Hope’s not here, Mona.” Her husband sounded confused.

  “Well, where is she?” Mona demanded.

  “Isn’t she in Atlanta, with you?”

  There was a long silence. Mona could hear some distant radio station, background noise to their call, buzzing in her ear.

  “That’s not funny,” she said.

  “I’m not trying to be funny. She’s not here.”

  “Tell me you haven’t gone behind my back. Go on, tell me.”

  Don sighed, sending a trickle of static across the line. “I won’t deny it. I went up there to see her, found her running one afternoon.”

  “I knew it!” Mona spat angrily. “I knew—”

  “But that was weeks ago!” Don continued, his declaration causing Mona to break off. “I haven’t seen her or talked to her in weeks. Just like the court order said.”

  More silence danced across the line.

  “Mona, do you not know where Hope is?”

  Mona didn’t answer.

  “Mona? Is Hope missing?”

  Mona rushed her answer. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I just got home early from a trip and she wasn’t here.”

  “How long have you been back?” he demanded, a new, harder edge to his voice.

  “Since last night,” she admitted reluctantly.

  Don muttered something under his breath. It sounded like “I knew it,” but Mona couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m coming up there,” Don declared. “I’m coming up there to help you find her.”

  Mona shifted gears, trying to reassert her control over the situation, as if it was just a catfight between her warring, merging clients.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said coolly. “I think it best you stay where you are.”

  “Like hell I will!” Don shouted. “This is exactly the reason I demanded custody in the first place. You’re never there, Mona, you’re never home. You have no idea what she’s up against—”

  “That’s enough, Don.” She cut him off abruptly, her voice husky. She didn’t want to hear another repetition of his crazy conspiracy theories. She fought back the tears that threatened to well over. “You stay where you are. The police will want to talk to you.”

  She paused one last time, weighing whether or not she should say what she was thinking. She decided it was time, high time, she spoke her mind as far as Don Carmichael was concerned.

  “You better not be hiding her,” she added, her voice rough from fear and anger and exhaustion. “You better not be hiding her, because I will bring the book down on you. I will make sure they know every crazy idea running around inside that head of yours. And I will make sure you never, ever see your daughter again.”

  She hung up the phone, bowing her head and leaning up against the wall. How had it come to this? After all these years, all the pain and effort she had gone to, how had it come to this?

  One solitary tear trickled down her cheek. She dashed it away and shook her head.

  “Get it together, Carmichael,” she whispered to herself. She looked about her, wondering how she had made her way down the dark cul-de-sac and come to be standing in the middle of her kitchen. Then, squaring her shoulders, she picked up the phone and swiftly dialed a number she knew by heart.

  She cleared her voice as she waited through the ringing on the other end of the line. “Clayton, I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend, but are you in town today?”

  She nodded as her managing partner responded.

  “Good, I need to see you. In the office. I think Don has kidnapped Hope.”

  fourteen

  For a full ten minutes after Michael left, I simply sat and stared at the hotel phone that rested on the shiny, mirrored bedside table. I could call my mom. I could call my mom and tell her everything, and she could come and rescue me.

  At first, I told myself I was waiting to be sure that Michael was really gone. Then, I realized I was waiting because I knew, deep down, that there really was no point. I knew that there was no way out. Even if I reached my mom, we might be gone by the time she—or anyone else she could muster—could get here. And even if she did find me, I still wouldn’t be safe. Until the Key was destroyed, I was still the Bearer. Still the one who would open up the Gates of Heaven to the Fallen Ones.

  Still a threat. It was stamped there, the Mark on my neck declaring it for anyone who cared to see.

  No, there was no way out, other than the path I was on. A snippet of a Robert Frost poem crept into my mind, a remnant from a barely remembered English class that seemed oddly appropriate. The best way out is always through.

  “Right, Henri?” I said out loud, waiting for him to reassure me. But Henri didn’t answer, leaving me to make the decision myself.

  I heaved my body off the floor and dragged myself to the closet. A new outfit was hanging right in front of me. Jeans. A T-shirt. And a sweatshirt. I didn’t know if this is what Michael had meant by “getting dressed,” but I was going to beg forgiveness, not ask permission. I snatched the clothes from the closet and went, resigned, into the bathroom to get ready.

  A soft knocking at the door woke me up. I fumbled in the cold bathwater as I jolted awake.

  “I don’t think even Bathsheba took as long to get ready as you have,” Michael’s voice said, ringing clearly through the door. My sleepy mind fumbled as I tried to come up with a snappy retort, my cheeks hot, only to be cut off by his chuckle. “There’s no rush, but you can come out whenever you’re ready, Hope.”

  I looked at the clock. I’d been in the bathroom for an hour and a half. The water had felt luxurious, stripping away the grit and grime of our desert hike. As I’d relaxed into its warmth, I’d let down my guard and slipped into the first deep rest I’d had since the night Lucas had tricked me with his phone call.

  “I’ll be right out,” I said ruefully. I didn’t really want to leave my sanctuary; I was afraid of which Michael I’d find when I crossed the threshold, my friend or my kidnapper. But I didn’t have a choice. I sloshed my way out of the tub, wrapping myself in the big fluffy towel and quickly patting myself dry.

  I threw on the T-shirt and jeans I’d brought in with me and ran a comb through my hair. I looked at my reflection and made a face. The sunburn on my nose and cheeks contrasted against the bruises on my neck, which were turning a nasty shade of purple. I had white rings around my eyes from my sunglasses, and with my sopping wet hair, I bore a distinct resemblance to a waterlogged Chihuahua. Nice.

  Oh, well. There was nothing I could do about it now, anyway. I squared my shoulders, preparing myself for whatever Michael could throw at me, and opened the bathroom door.

  “Happy birthday, Hope,” Michael said softly from across the room.

  I walked through the door and caught my breath. Michael had opened the drapes, baring the night sky to us. We were far from the neon of the Strip, but a carpet of twinkling lights spread below us and up to the mountains. Michael had dimmed the room lights so that nothing would overshadow the view. In the middle of the room, an intimate table for two had been set with candles, china, and crystal.

  Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a look of amusement on his face as he watched my reaction. “Do you like it?” he asked intently. My heart gave a little thump.

  “Like it? I love it,” I breathed, still taking it all in.

  His body seemed to uncoil with relief, and he walked toward me, breaking into a grin as he came to my side.

  “I thought you deserved a special dinner after all you’ve been through. Especially for your sixteenth birthday.” He casually placed his arm around my shoulders and leaned in to peck me on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Hope.”

  I felt my knees weaken as the warmth of his breath tickled at my ear, intensely aware of his
light grip on my arm.

  “I can’t believe you remembered,” I answered, leaning into him.

  He tensed and pushed me away before removing his hands. “The phone call from your mother certainly helped.”

  I stepped aside so I could pretend I was the one who’d pushed away. “I don’t know how you had the time to plan this,” I said, speaking quickly to cover up my embarrassment at his rejection.

  “The magic of concierge service,” he said drily. “They do a good job here. Of course, the fact that every time you were asleep I went and dropped a hundred grand playing craps didn’t hurt.”

  I felt my eyes bugging out as he mentioned the staggering sum of money. “Just how much money have you lost since we’ve been here?”

  He shrugged, his mouth twisting wryly as he tried to avoid the question. “Enough to make me very popular with the management of several hotels, plus a few Chinese foreign nationals.”

  I punched him playfully in the arm. “You aren’t getting away with it that easily. Seriously, tell me how much.”

  He cocked an eyebrow as he decided whether or not to tell me. “A couple million,” he coolly admitted. “And I’m sure there will be more.”

  My head was spinning. “So, you’re buying your way into the syndicate?”

  “And into a few niceties here at our hotel, yes.”

  “And you’re doing this how, again?”

  He bowed neatly. “Angel financing, at your service.”

  I shook my head, still unable to believe it. “It just shows up when you need it. Like that paperwork?” He nodded, so I continued. “What happens to it all when you leave again? Does it just disappear from their till, as if you’d never existed?”

  He laughed out loud. “Leave it to you to ask something like that. In truth, I do not know—I’ve never stuck around to find out. Come on, let’s eat.”

  He took my hand and led me to my chair, pulling it out for me and helping me to settle in. I turned to thank him again and caught my breath. The contrast in his appearance after all the time he’d posed as my father only made it harder. My body trembled as I scanned the long, lean lines of his muscular torso and legs. He was dressed in an old, broken-in pair of jeans and a soft white sweater that clung to every angle as he moved. His blond hair had somehow grown a little longer and was almost shaggy now, one stray lock hanging over his crystalline eyes.