Gone Dark

by C. J. Lyons

“It was rum and Coke. Not like smoking pot—even though that’s almost legal.”

  “Almost legal doesn’t count. Your mom said some of the kids were doing other drugs.”

  “Not me. And she knows that. She just expects me to always be the perfect one, the one who never screws up, who follows the rules—it was even worse when she was still in the FBI. I couldn’t even look at a boy without her running a background check.”

  Valencia steered them into the garden, where shade trees provided relief from the sun—and Megan’s pounding headache. The air was scented with roses and lilies. “What would you do differently if you were a parent?”

  The question surprised Megan. No one had ever asked her anything like it before, not even her dad. “I would have trusted my kid to do the right thing.”

  “Which is exactly why your mom let you go to the party in the first place, right?”

  “Yeah, but—I’m not a baby. I didn’t need rescuing.” Megan slumped down onto a nearby bench. “I was so embarrassed. Bad enough she came for me and Emma, but then she called the cops. I’ll never be able to show my face again—and this year is the first year I’ll be able to go out for varsity. As if anyone would want me on their team after last night.”

  “So your life is basically ruined by your mother’s one bad decision?”

  Megan sighed. “No. That’s not fair. I should have called her—and I would have, if stupid Dylan hadn’t thrown me and my phone in the pool.”

  What made it even worse was that stupid Dylan was the only reason she’d wanted to go to that stupid party in the first place. None of those kids were her friends other than Emma—but she’d had a crush on Dylan all year. Not that he’d ever even looked at her before last night. Her cheeks burned. Not that he’d ever even look at her again except to laugh at her.

  “I had a feeling there was a boy involved,” Valencia said. “Let me guess: Dylan is a bit older than you? Probably told you that you were old enough to have a little rum mixed into your cola?”

  Megan nodded, her eyes closed behind the shelter of her sunglasses. “It was stupid. I was stupid to think—” She sniffed. “Anyway, it wasn’t me he was interested in. He was just using me to get to Emma. God, she was so wasted, she was ready to—” She broke off. It wasn’t her place to betray Emma’s confidence, even if Emma had been so drunk she wouldn’t remember how Dylan had grabbed her and pushed Megan—and her phone—into the pool when Megan tried to stop him. But Megan would never forget the way Dylan and all his friends had laughed at her. Including Emma.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, something she never could have done with her mom. Lucy was much too restless to sit still—always had to be somewhere, doing something, solving someone’s problems. Sometimes she wore Megan out. Sitting here with Valencia was kind of nice, even if it did make her miss her grams. She blinked hard; sometimes thinking of Grams and how she died still made her cry.

  Finally Valencia asked, “Do you want to go inside and talk to your mother?”

  “No.” Megan leaned back, enjoying the sensation of the breeze shifting the flowers’ fragrances around her. “You said this case she’s working on is about a girl my age?”

  “Younger, even.”

  “What happened? Was she—” Megan let Valencia fill in the blanks of all the terrible things that could have happened to girls featuring in any case Lucy worked on. Girls she’d been competing with all her life. Victims.

  Megan was no victim. She was working on a black belt in Kempo and a purple belt in jujitsu, and she’d won marksmanship trophies for her shooting; a few months ago she’d delivered a baby while bad guys were chasing them down a mountain. Which should make her feel like the winner compared to the kids her mom was always being called away to help.

  But somehow it never did. Lucy still left, and even though Megan knew her mom loved her more than anything, that she’d lay down her life to protect Megan and her dad, it didn’t take the sting away. Especially when Megan’s imagination filled in the blanks left by what little she heard about Lucy’s cases, making those victims seem somehow prettier or nicer or smarter or more deserving of Lucy’s attention than her own daughter.

  Used to be she’d get angry or sulk when Lucy got caught up in a case. Or she’d work to be as independent as possible, telling herself it didn’t matter if Lucy wasn’t there, Megan didn’t need her. But a chance to actually help? To be involved, not just watching from the sidelines, risking being run over when things went wrong like they had in January when her grams was killed?

  “This girl wasn’t killed or harmed,” Valencia answered Megan’s question. “Eleven years ago she was accused of shooting two people and escaped custody. We’re trying to track her down.”

  The girl Lucy was searching for wasn’t a victim but a villain? Even after screwing up last night, Megan could definitely win that competition. Plus, she could show Lucy she wasn’t a baby, that she could be trusted. “Tell me about her case. What’s her name?”

  “Cherish. Cherish Walker.”

  Chapter Seven

  As Lucy listened to McCabe explain Justice for Youth’s fight to have basic legal rights granted to juveniles, she couldn’t help but dissect the way she’d reacted the night before with Megan. How on earth had her own mother put up with Lucy during those tumultuous adolescent years? Especially as they’d both been reeling with grief after the death of Lucy’s father. Lucy had spent her adolescence stuck in the anger phase of mourning; blaming her mother, blaming her father, blaming herself. She’d acted out much worse than a few drinks at a party—it was a miracle she’d made it through those years alive, much less without getting arrested.

  But her mother had never given up on her. Not even when Lucy hit her low point—a night partying with older boys that had somehow ended up with Lucy making out with two of them in the graveyard, where they would be assured of privacy. The only reason both boys hadn’t mistaken her blurry, not-quite-black-out drunken come-ons as consent and had sex with her was that she’d thrown up on them, and they’d abandoned her to return to the party in search of other less noxious female companions. She’d woken the next morning half naked and sleeping in her own vomit on top of her father’s grave. The fear and shame of that night had finally driven out her anger. Until last night, when all those feelings had come rushing back.

  McCabe droned on and on about how children were routinely denied their rights without even being allowed to confer with their parents, let alone a lawyer. “Do you realize that the feds had to take over the juvenile system in Memphis because they refused children access to a defense attorney? Talk about a failure of due process!”

  He waxed indignant about the ten-year-old in California who had waived his Miranda rights after shooting his abusive father but had no understanding what a ‘right to be silent’ was, much less the consequences of his actions. “He actually asked the arresting officer, ‘How many lives do we each get?’ Thought his dad would come back, like in the cartoons or video games.”

  According to McCabe, in Craven County, Tennessee, where Cherish Walker had been arrested, children still weren’t always allowed access to a defense lawyer unless they—the children—agreed to pay for them. Unlike adults, who were given a public defender free of charge, juveniles were often denied that right by judges. All Lucy could think about was how unfairly she’d judged Megan last night. God, she wished it had been Nick there instead of her. He would have known exactly what to do and say.

  “We understand how difficult it was for you to appeal Cherish Walker’s case, Mr. McCabe,” TK said, interrupting the attorney as well as Lucy’s parental guilt fest. “But how does that help us to find her now? Today. Eleven years later.”

  McCabe blinked, closed the folder in front of him, and straightened it, but unable to align it with the curved edge of the table, he had to settle for using his briefcase as an anchor point instead.

  “She was fourteen when she escaped custody,” Lucy said. “Her only known family, her grandmo
ther, had just died. So who did she know? Who might have helped her? Where would she have gone? If we can trace those early steps, it might help us to find where she went from there.” The state police and local law enforcement would have covered the same ground, but you had to start somewhere.

  McCabe cleared his throat, mentally shifting gears from his dissertation on legal theory to messier real life facts. “It’s all in the reports. Other than the courthouse security officer, no one reported speaking to her that day—at the courthouse, in the transport van, or the juvenile detention center. The staff all said she was quiet, kept to herself, didn’t draw attention. Which is exactly how she escaped. No way she could have planned it. It was her first appearance in adult court. She had to change into civilian clothing so the potential jurors wouldn’t prejudge her. It’s a rural county in the mountains east of Chattanooga—they weren’t used to dealing with juvenile prisoners, especially not young girls. The guard let her use a private bathroom to change in while he stood outside. But there was a disturbance down the hall—a man attacking a girlfriend who was there to take out a restraining order. The guard only turned his back for a minute, he says, but she was gone. Walked right out the door. No one even noticed her. And she hasn’t been seen since.”

  “No one that the investigators spoke to has seen her,” Wash put in. McCabe’s gaze jerked over to where Wash was sitting behind his computers. “I mean, she doesn’t have a cloak of invisibility. People have seen her and spoken to her. We just need to find the right ones.”

  “Exactly why I’m here.” McCabe was older than Wash by only five or six years, yet his tone dripped with disdain. “You’re the experts. Although if the federal marshals and state police couldn’t find any witnesses, I’d love to hear how you intend to.”

  Which brought everyone’s attention back to Lucy. Who was still leafing through the file, searching for a lead that hadn’t already been trampled into dust. She looked up, met McCabe’s gaze, and smiled. “We’ll start by talking to the other people no one seemed to notice—the people you’ve been fighting to give a voice to. The other kids housed in the detention center.”

  “Why?” McCabe asked, a note of irritation in his voice. “I just explained that the escape was a spontaneous opportunity, not planned. Which means she wouldn’t have confided anything of interest to her fellow inmates.”

  “They lived with her for months. And if they don’t know anything, we’ll talk to the people in school with her, at her church, her neighbors, anyone who knew her.”

  TK leaned forward. “You mean treat her like a victim. Build a psychological profile of how she came to be there that night so you can understand what she’d do after she escaped.”

  McCabe bristled at that. “She may have been released on a technicality, but she’s no victim.”

  “You said her charges were dismissed,” TK said.

  “Without prejudice. Which means the prosecutor can retry her if he chooses. Although he won’t be able to use anything from her confession since the judge threw that out. But there’s plenty of other evidence against Cherish Walker.”

  “Like her prints on the gun and John Kutler, the eyewitness,” Wash put in. McCabe glared at him and he regrouped. “Sorry, no pun intended. The testimony of the surviving witness, I should say.” Then he paused. “He is still alive, right? Recovered from being shot in the face like that—could he even testify, or does he have brain damage?”

  “Of course he’s alive,” McCabe snapped. “Last I saw John Kutler, he was a productive member of society, following in his father’s footsteps, taking over the family business.” A hint of a smile edged through his stern expression. “Unlike Cherish Walker. You need to keep that in mind. She’s not the victim here. She’s a fugitive from justice.”

  “That your organization worked to free?” TK retorted. She leaned back, her arms crossed over her chest, obviously not as enthusiastic about this case as she had been.

  “Cherish Walker was denied her constitutional rights. Justice for Youth worked to rectify that miscarriage of justice, and in so doing helped to change the system for all juvenile offenders. Thanks to us, in rural counties like Craven County, public defenders are now mandated to meet with clients before a juvenile can decide to waive their Miranda rights—that way, at least they’ll be waiving them with full knowledge. Police are being trained in non-coercive, age-appropriate interview techniques. Cherish Walker’s case has helped change juvenile law throughout the state. Soon maybe even the country.”

  “But you want us to bring her back to face a trial for murder?” TK asked. Her tone was sharp enough that Lucy glanced at her. TK ignored her to exchange glares with McCabe.

  “We’re not law enforcement,” Lucy intervened. “We can’t force anyone to go anywhere. But we can hopefully locate Cherish and let her know that for now the charges have been dismissed and she’s free to live her life.”

  A strange shudder rolled through McCabe, and he forced his attention away from TK and back to Lucy. The lawyer seemed passionate enough about the legal challenges he’d conquered but not as comfortable dealing with real life people and their inexplicable, inconvenient lives. “Exactly. Once you find her, you’ll put me in contact with her, and I can explain her legal options and advise her on a course of action. And finally, after all these years, justice will be served.”

  Chapter Eight

  While Deputy Warren restrained me in the back seat of his police car, enough rain sliced inside the cruiser to leave puddles in the contours of the plastic seat. Despite the seat belt he fastened around my body, with my hands cuffed behind my back, I was helpless to keep from slipping with each swerve and curve and bump in the road. Adding to my misery was the stench swaddling me like a wet towel, threatening to choke my every breath. By the time we left the valley and turned onto the highway leading to the sheriff’s station, I’d collapsed into a shivering, drenched, cramped, bruised shadow of a girl.

  I didn’t care about any of that. My suffering paled in comparison to what Jack and his family were going through. As the car sloshed its way through the storm, I took advantage of the quiet and the darkness that cloaked the rear compartment and finally allowed my tears to flow. My memory was still muddy, but flashes had returned, lightning strikes of brilliant clarity that revealed my guilt. All my fault, was all I could think as I sobbed silently, my face turned away from Warren and toward the window, facing the storm outside.

  When we finally reached the station, a beige stucco building that also housed our post office and government offices, Warren removed me from the car without a word. He hadn’t spoken to me at all the entire trip but had simply glowered at me occasionally in the rearview mirror. He escorted me inside to a small room with no furniture except a steel bench along one wall with a railing above it and a sliding window like in a dentist’s reception area. Depositing me on the bench, he moved my handcuffs so that my left wrist was free and the right one was now attached to the railing, and then he flicked a few errant raindrops from his shoulders and strode to the window. “Got one for processing. Female. Did a pat down, but she’ll need a full body, plus photos and evidence collection. The detectives leave for the scene? Or do they want to start with her?”

  A man’s voice, presumably a desk sergeant sitting beyond the window, answered. “They’re going to meet the coroner at the scene. Said you should wait here with the subject until they’ve had a chance to get your report.”

  He leaned against the window, rolling his eyes at me. “Sarge, can’t the female duty officer stay with her? I left Jasper back there controlling the scene; he’s going to need some help.”

  “You mean you want to get back there and work the scene with the detectives. I know you want to move up, Warren. So do they. But a case like this, you gotta be a team player. Would you rather join the Sheriff at the hospital, waiting with the boys’ parents?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Warren scowled at me from across the
room until the interior door buzzed open and a female deputy entered. He nodded to her and went inside, leaving me with her. The rest was a whirlwind—not helped by the fact that my brain was still numb from whatever Hank had given me to drink. I was beginning to wonder if maybe there’d been more than vodka in that orange juice. I felt so very far away from my body and the rest of the world, like if I stretched my free arm as far as it could go, I wasn’t sure I’d ever reach the wall I was leaning against.

  When I closed my eyes against the vertigo, my world filled with bloody visions—not just Jack and Hank, but Gran and my mom as well. Even after I opened my eyes and stared at the stark fluorescent light overhead, long enough for tears to blur everything blank, I still heard their screams. All my fault… Whatever happened from here on out, it was all my fault.

  The lady deputy—I never did see her name clearly—led me to another featureless room where she made me stand on a paper sheet and undress. She took photos of every inch of my body, scraped beneath my fingernails, swabbed my hands, and after giving me a pair of white plastic overalls that swallowed me whole, took my mug shot pictures and fingerprints. She asked me about a possible sexual assault and I shook my head no—then I realized she was actually not talking to me but to Warren, who had joined us at the fingerprint station. “No signs of it on scene. If she’s claiming it, we can send her for a rape kit after the detectives finish.”

  She shrugged and handed me back to Warren, wrinkling her nose at the stink still emanating from my tangled hair. He led me down the hall to an interview room with a table bolted to the floor and a plastic chair on either side. There was a railing across the table, and he attached my handcuffs to it. “The detectives will go over this again, but let’s get Miranda out of the way.”

  It took me a minute to remember that Miranda wasn’t a girl but the speech police gave you on all the TV shows and movies when they thought you were guilty and arrested you. In real life it was even more confusing. First he read from a card, and then he asked if I understood and said to sign and initial a piece of paper. I hesitated because I understood the words but not what they actually meant.