Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller

by Lynn Hightower

  ‘I want Joy alone when she’s on camera. I don’t want any chance she’ll look at one of us, if something comes up.’

  ‘For this you give me a whole ten minutes’ notice?’

  Buckman taps his cheek with a long acrylic nail. ‘That’s why I asked for you, Sal. I wanted someone who can deal.’

  One of the CATs, the youngest male, makes a funny noise. Pacino glances my way and his frown eases.

  ‘Do not be looking so worried. This will be OK.’ He looks across at the noisemaker and raises an eyebrow. ‘Get the move on, Atkins. Where is Bose? All of you, get on it. Everything to go into the kitchen – you have three minutes.’

  The team is quick, their fingertips moving over the equipment like a confident caress. I back up to get out of the way.

  ‘New stuff?’ Buckman says. There is something edgy in her tone.

  The word stuff makes Pacino wince. ‘Not so new we don’t shake out the bugs already.’

  A man in his thirties with comb tracks in his hair, Bose, I think, looks at me over the top of an open briefcase. ‘Just confirming. You have no e-mail from this guy?’

  I have withheld the e-mail. I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘No metadata, then.’

  I don’t answer because I don’t know what metadata is. Would the Dark Man know if I gave them metadata?

  ‘Too bad for that,’ Bose says. ‘It brought down the BTK killer.’

  Pacino snorts as he moves a case into the kitchen. ‘This one is too smart for that, Bose. He gives us the laptop right out of the box.’

  Agent Buckman is in the living room talking loudly on her cell phone, making something very clear to someone. The CAT agents buzz back and forth between the dining room and kitchen, moving and adjusting the equipment.

  ‘Mrs Miller, if you please.’ Pacino waves me to the dining room and points to a tiny square lens at the top of the computer screen. ‘This laptop, now, she has a camera. You see them, they see you. You got to—’

  Agent Buckman has come up behind him and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Get on with it, Sal. She’s been briefed.’

  ‘Am I stepping on your toes that you need to show me the teeth?’ Pacino waves a hand. ‘I am helping to catch this kidnapper. And, excuse me, please, but what is that scratching noise? It sound to me like mice in the ceiling.’ He looks over at me. ‘You got mice in the ceiling? Big ones?’

  ‘It’s the dogs. They want in.’ I head for the kitchen door. Ruby is on the porch, head low, panting hard. Leo crowds her out of the doorway.

  Buckman looks over my shoulder. ‘The older one. That’s Ruby?’

  I nod.

  She leans across me to let Ruby in. She gives Leo a quick pat, then closes the door, leaving him outside on the steps. I get the feeling she knows who knocked over all the living room chairs.

  I fill Ruby’s water bowl and she laps loudly, slinging droplets on to my ankles. I should put a bowl out for Leo.

  There is a shriek from Pacino. ‘I say to you that animals stay outside in the fence. Do you know what the dog hair can do to electronics?’

  ‘You’re the computer expert, Sal, not the animal wrangler.’ Buckman clucks her tongue at Ruby. ‘This old lady isn’t going to bother you. I left the scary one outside.’

  A tinny alarm sounds and Buckman taps a button on her watch. ‘It’s time.’

  EIGHTEEN

  It is the delicate and familiar prettiness of Andee’s heart-shaped face that I focus upon. The darkness beneath her eyes, the pale and pasty tone of her skin.

  ‘It’s really you,’ Caroline says, and she sounds breathless, a little hoarse.

  I am struck by how oddly elongated they look, Caroline and Andee, as if they are surreal, ghost portraits, caricatures of their true selves. It startles me, how ill they seem, though it may be due in part to the odd effects and camera angles of computer video.

  ‘Nina is crying,’ Andee says. Then, as an aside, ‘I told you she would come.’ Andee looks straight at the camera. She is perched on her mother’s lap, the top of her head tucked under Caroline’s chin, and the two of them give the impression of being glued together. ‘You’re coming to get us, aren’t you, Nina?’

  Such faith. My throat tightens so that I cannot talk, and Andee puts her face right into the lens, so that her features balloon into a weird monstrosity, illuminating the pores of her skin.

  ‘Andee,’ Caroline says gently, pulling her daughter away.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I tell them. ‘I promise you, I’m coming.’ And hearing the words come out of my mouth with such conviction, I believe it too. I will find them. I will bring them home.

  I can’t stop myself from touching the screen, and I see that Caro is doing the same.

  ‘We’ve got ten minutes,’ she says. She has lost weight – I can see it in her face and her throat. Her hair looks slept on, her clothes crumpled, at least the shirt, which is all I can see.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  She nods. ‘But he’s probably monitoring, don’t you think?’

  ‘Are you OK?’ OK is a silly, inadequate word for all that I want to ask.

  But Caro seems to understand. ‘We’re OK for now.’

  I take this to mean that she is as afraid as she ought to be.

  ‘Do you know where you are?’ I ask her.

  ‘It’s dark here. All the time,’ Andee says. She is sucking two fingers, which I have not seen her do since she was three.

  ‘We drove a long way,’ Caroline says, ‘after he took us. All night. Half a day. Then he brought us in blindfolded. Wherever we are, it’s cold and quiet. Sort of muffled, if that makes any sense. They’ve put us in some kind of RV.’

  ‘It’s got a baffroom,’ Andee says.

  ‘Good thing,’ I tell her. She almost smiles.

  ‘We have food and water.’ Caro’s chest heaves, and she is more breathless with every word. ‘Outside the windows, it’s always dark. We can’t see anything.’

  ‘What do you hear? Planes? People? Traffic?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s always quiet. There are never any noises at all. I don’t know what day it is. How long have we been gone?’

  ‘Three days, give or take. This is Thursday. He took you in the middle of the night on Monday.’

  Caroline swallows. ‘It seems longer. Is anyone looking for us?’

  ‘Everyone is looking for you. And I’m going to find you. Do you believe me?’

  Andee nods but Caro keeps swallowing. I can almost see the outline of the scream she keeps shoved in her chest.

  ‘Quickly, Caroline. Details. Anything. Do you know who took you?’

  ‘A man. Tall, and he’s got dark, greasy hair and he’s very … tall … I said that.’ Caro frowns and shrugs. ‘We can’t break the windows, they’re boarded up. We don’t see anything, we don’t hear anything. No particular smells, other than a kind of basement feeling. Sort of damp and musty. It’s like—’ She shrugs suddenly, and wisely she does not speculate. I remember a terrible kidnapping that happened when I was a child, a woman who was put in a coffin and buried alive.

  ‘I’m sure it seems that way because they’ve boarded up the windows,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah.’ Caro moves a hand to her throat and even on the distorted visual of the computer camera I can see the crookedness of her wrist, how it cants slightly off center, the joint thick and heavy. I remember how delicate and slim her wrist was, before my son broke it in three different places.

  ‘Did you go to the police?’ Caro’s voice is trembly, and I sense a warning.

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘No law enforcement. I’m doing everything just like he said.’

  ‘You can’t call them,’ Caro tells me, though I think she wants me to do exactly that. Is it my imagination, the plea in her eyes?

  Caro jumps, and Andee hides her head in her mother’s shoulder. ‘Footsteps. He’s coming.’

  I hear a whisper from the kitchen and look up to see Ruby being pushed in my direction. I forgot about th
e dog. I call Ruby over, and she comes immediately, shoving her nose into my lap.

  ‘Andee, Andee, look who’s here.’ Ruby snuffles and squirms and I pull her higher to make sure she’s in front of the lens. ‘Speak, Ruby. Speak.’

  ‘Mommy, look, it’s Ruby. Oh, Ruby Ruby hello.’

  Tears stream down Caro’s face. ‘Ruby.’

  ‘Caro, listen to me. I’m going to make sure everything turns out OK.’

  ‘I know. I know you will.’ Caro’s voice is so tight it is unrecognizable.

  ‘Trust me, Caroline. Be ready.’

  Caro looks over her shoulder, then glances back at me. I see her nod, mouth the word OK.

  A shadow looms behind Caro and Andee. The view is hazy, but I get the impression of a man, very tall. He bends over Caro, and I see the ski mask. The screen goes dark.

  My stomach is tight and painful, and my throat is so constricted I can no longer speak.

  In spite of the mask, I’ve seen just enough to recognize the man that I know and remember. He is keeping his face covered, so they will not be able to identify him. Does this mean if I do what he says he will let them go?

  It is eerily seductive – believing when they tell you what you want to hear.

  NINETEEN

  I am alone in Caroline’s backyard, sitting on her porch swing crying gustily. My cell phone rings, and I see Agent Russell Woods’ number on the caller ID.

  I swallow hard, and answer. ‘Anything?’ I ask. The dogs mill nervously around my feet.

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. But I’ll let you know the minute we get something.’

  ‘You’ve got something now, you’re just not telling me.’

  ‘I wish that were true.’ The defeat in his voice seems genuine.

  All that equipment, all the hope. I trusted the FBI and I betrayed the Dark Man and now they’re gone and I’m second guessing. Buckman and the FBI CATs have taken the laptop and all of the equipment.

  ‘Look, I just got off the phone with Agent Buckman. She said you were really great.’

  Buckman gave me a pep talk before she left about results very soon. But Pacino headed out with a worried look that I can’t get out of my head.

  ‘She promised you would call me and let me know what was going on.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing, Mrs Miller. You’re going to have to hold on for a while. Give us a little time. We’ll get your girls home safe. They’ve survived the first seventy-two hours. According to our statistics, that’s a very good thing.’

  ‘Did you make that up?’

  ‘Look it up on the Internet, if you don’t believe me. It’s probably out there somewhere, everything else seems to be. Now listen. We need to know where you are every minute, and we need to know if he gets back in touch. You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I understand. What about Buckman? Can she still work on the case?’

  ‘She’s back on her regular detail. Harris will handle the Arkansas end and I’ll take it from here. When are you heading back this way?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Give me a call when you get to town.’

  ‘OK. And you’ll call me if—’

  ‘I will.’

  He won’t. I’m not stupid. That’s not how these things ever work.

  That night, I dream of my son. I have not seen him, even in my dreams, for such a long time. And though I am sound asleep on the living room couch, in my dream I sit on the porch swing, Leo and Ruby at my feet.

  It begins with footsteps. The gate to the backyard opens, and I can see the figure of a man. It is not until he is through the gate and around the tree that I see it is my son.

  ‘Hello, Mom.’

  ‘Joey?’

  I start to stand, but he leans over and gives me a hug. He is solid, and he looks so good. So healthy. So handsome and strong. I hear cicadas in the hedges, and smell the scent of the aftershave my son always used to wear.

  ‘Joey, how can you be here?’

  ‘You mean, since I’m dead?’ He winks at me. ‘It’s OK, Mom, I just thought you needed to see me. And I wanted to bring you these.’ He hands me a bouquet, three pink roses surrounded by nine white.

  The scent of roses is so strong and sweet I can still smell them when I wake.

  TWENTY

  It is a long way home to Kentucky, a hard and tedious drive. I’m a sponge to the quiet. Leo and Ruby are snoring softly, stretched out together in the back.

  Not long after a very late lunch, I cross the state line from Tennessee to Kentucky. An hour later I’m on the Bluegrass Parkway – a lonely stretch of road, no more than a couple of places to gas up your car, and limited, static-filled radio reception.

  Another hour and I’m on the outskirts of Versailles. I make a point of cutting my speed. Patrol cars circle like sharks in Woodford County.

  I now have my pick of radio stations. News from the BBC will see us home. I am cruising New Circle Road, just a few miles from the house, when the news of the nation gives way to local events. The governor is courting the relocation of a large manufacturing plant with tax incentives, and tuition at state universities is going up again. The Lexington Fire Department is battling a blaze at the south side residence of local evangelist Joy Miller. It is believed, but not confirmed, that Miller has died in the blaze.

  I move from the left lane to the right lane and pull to the side of the road. I listen to an obituary-flavored run down on the highlights of my adult life.

  Local evangelist Miller, I learn, was the guiding force behind the Joy Miller Ministries, and once had a popular show on cable television, which in its heyday was widely watched over a region of thirteen states. Miller made headlines seven years ago when her son, Joey Miller, her only child, was shot and killed by his estranged wife Caroline, who was five months pregnant at the time. Miller’s life had been struck by tragedy seven years before with the death of her husband, Carl, an apparent suicide. Miller testified at the trial of her daughter-in-law, and was considered the pivotal factor in the jury’s verdict of not guilty. Immediately afterwards Miller suffered a breakdown, and never appeared in public again.

  In other news, the price of oil was going up.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I smell it before I see it, smoke clouding the air. I brake for the stop sign that is less than a mile from my house. The dusky light of fall is just giving way to a night of darkness and no moon. I turn left from Wilson Downing Road, and left again, to the street where I live.

  I have been afraid of fire since the seventies when the Beverly Hills Supper Club burned. I remember photos of bodies on the lawn, newspaper reports of refrigerated grocery trucks used as temporary morgues. The death toll reached one hundred and sixty-five, setting off a domino of lawsuits.

  Ruby sits quietly, watching out the back window, but Leo paces from side to side and slams into the partition between the cargo hold and back seats no matter how gently I brake. He lets out a low grumbly growl when he sees the men who mill purposefully around the fire engine and police cruiser in front of what’s left of our house.

  I park in the street near my favorite neighbor. Leo is barking and Ruby joins him. The police officer is waving a hand at me and yelling but I can’t hear a word he says. There is a fire engine in my driveway, and I look, but Marsha’s car is not on the street. I feel nearly weightless. Relief. I have been reported dead, but not because Marsha was in the house.

  I leave the back windows down two inches, lock the dogs in the car and step out. The police officer who has been shouting at me looks angry.

  ‘Ma’am, unless you have business in this area, we’re asking everyone—’

  ‘This is my house. Was my house.’ I lean against the hood of the car and it radiates heat – I’ve driven over seven hundred miles. I try to take it all in.

  My house smokes like a cigarette butt that won’t go out, a blackened, gutted shell. Part of the roof is intact, and so are over half the outside walls. Everything is badly scor
ched, and I can see the glow of burning embers and coals.

  ‘Your name, please, ma’am.’ The police officer is young. He has short dark hair, brown, hungry-looking eyes, a look of intelligence in his face.

  ‘Joy Miller. They reported me dead on the radio just a few minutes ago.’

  He nods at me. ‘Yes, ma’am. Can I see your driver’s license, some form of ID?’

  My purse is locked in the Jeep with the dogs. It is embarrassing how much trouble I have trying to get the purse out, while leaving the dogs inside. The policeman watches Leo warily, and shoves the door shut quickly when my purse and I are free.

  He takes a quick look at my license, gives me a sad smile. ‘Glad you’re OK, Mrs Miller. And sorry about your house. You got insurance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He tucks my license into his clipboard. ‘I better call this in.’

  I look at the house again over my shoulder. It is hard to believe, though I can see it and smell it, and I heard it on the news.

  Leo is barking again, but I don’t hear Ruby. I tell Leo to hush. I trip over the broken concrete of the curb and stumble on to the lawn, which is soggy with run-off from the hoses. The curb was intact when I left for Arkansas. Crushed, no doubt, by one of the fire trucks, maybe the one that left deep ruts in the grass.

  What smoke and flames do not destroy, water and axes will. I hear someone call out as I head for my sagging, splintered front door.

  They have rigged up high power emergency lights, and portions of the interior are illuminated, as alien now as another planet. My living room has morphed into a blackened garbage dump and vapor rises like a haunting.

  A hand on my arm stops me before I go through the door.

  ‘Ma’am? You can’t go in there—’

  ‘I’m Joy Miller, and this is my house.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’ The firefighter is grimy with soot and sweat. Age and physique are swallowed by the androgyny of the gear, the helmet, the dirt.

  Another man approaches – he wears a uniform and carries a radio, but he’s not weighed down by the tools. He is talking low into a radio and has the air of the man in charge.

  He stops in his tracks and his smile is radiant with relief. ‘Joy?’