Gone Dark

by C. J. Lyons

  For a slaughterhouse, it didn’t smell of meat—rather, it smelled like ammonia and bleach. Guess that made sense; you’d need to keep the place as clean as possible to pass health inspections. She stopped, staring at the drain in the center of the floor.

  “Whole place is built like that,” Warren said. “So you can hose it all down and clear it of any contamination.”

  She glanced up from the drain to the solid metal door at the rear of the room. “That leads into the actual killing floor?”

  “Yep. No one’s been back there for years.” He pulled the key ring back out and selected one. “Want to see?”

  “No, thanks.” The kids had never gone back there, so there was no reason she should—even if she were inclined to visit a slaughterhouse. “Mr. Kutler still lives here?”

  “No. Once his wife left him and took Jack, he moved down to Florida. Said this was Jack’s place now to do with what he liked.”

  “Jack comes back here?”

  “Sure. Football games, holidays, I’ll see him around. Never know when he’ll stop by to pay his respects at Hank’s grave. Sometimes he’ll stand a round in Hank’s name at the Lucky Penny—just show up for a day or two and vanish again.” He shook his head. “Kinda surprising, you ask me. I were him, I’m not sure I’d ever come back here.”

  TK had the feeling Warren wasn’t just talking about the slaughterhouse and the scene of the crime.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After she dropped TK at the Craven County sheriff’s station for her meeting with Lieutenant Warren, Lucy drove east into the foothills to the trailer court Cherish had once called home.

  She’d spoken to the manager yesterday—his name was Yates, and on the phone his accent had been so thick she’d imagined him as overweight with a thick beard that muffled his words. Instead, when she approached the doublewide labeled Office, where she’d found him waiting for her on the deck, a small fan plugged into an extension cord and propped up on a beer cooler, aiming a stream of air into his clean-shaven face, she found he wasn’t fat at all, rather the kind of skinny that no amount of eating could pad, with high cheekbones and a dark complexion that spoke of part Cherokee heritage.

  “Mr. Yates? I’m Lucy Guardino. We spoke yesterday.”

  He raised a chipped porcelain mug and spat a steam of tobacco into it. “You want to know about the Walkers. Tessa and her girl and granddaughter.”

  Although he made no move to invite her to join him, Lucy pulled the other folding canvas chair close and sat down. “Yes. I’m interested in anyone who knew Cherish Walker.”

  “So you said. But you’re not a cop.” His tone was laced with suspicion.

  “No, sir. Have you seen Cherish? Has she ever returned?”

  “Not if she knows what’s good for her. Not after what she did to those Kutler boys.” He spat again, but this time it was less about reducing the load of tobacco juice between his cheek and gums and more about punctuating his feelings about Cherish. “No one around here is forgetting that, not anytime soon.”

  “Cherish lived here with her grandmother for over two years. Maybe she snuck back to take something of her old life with her?” Lucy wasn’t hopeful; she simply wanted to get him talking.

  He snorted. “Wouldn’t have had anything to take. What I didn’t sell, I burned. Long before she ran off.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Perfectly within my rights. First of the month came along and no rent, so I padlocked the place. Two weeks later, the grandmother died. Lease was in her name, so I confiscated their possessions. Not like the girl was ever coming back again—she was either going to prison or foster care. Cleaned out the place and had it rented again by the end of the month.”

  “Did you keep anything? Anything I could see?”

  “Nope.” He aimed another stream of tobacco juice into the mug. “I’m a business man, ain’t nothing personal. I liked Tessa, the grandmother. She weren’t at all like Cherry or her mother. Those Walker girls, they was wild. No surprise they ended up the way they did.”

  “You knew Cherish’s mother?”

  “Sure. Tessa had her trailer here ever since they sold off the last of the family land back in ’78 or thereabouts. Her old man worked one of the last copper mines—those boys all died young. Toxic fumes or some such. Tessa, she had no choice in the matter, not with all the money they owed. Had to sell up and go begging for any job she could get. But that girl of hers, would she take charity? Not from the likes of me.” He hitched up his T-shirt, revealing a straight-edged scar running along the side of his belly. “That’s how a Walker girl repays you when you offer them charity. Come to think on it, she did this here when she was about the same age as Cherry when Cherry shot them Kutler boys.”

  “Cherish’s mother stabbed you? Was she arrested?”

  His laugh seemed more nervous than amused as he looked down and tucked his shirt back in. “I ain’t the kind of man calls the police for every little squabble. Barely needed any stitching.”

  “Exactly what kind of charity did you offer her?” Lucy was careful to keep her tone neutral.

  “Nothing for her to get so riled up about. Just a chance to make a little money—help her mom out, put food on the table, keep a roof over their head.” His shoulders straightened in righteous indignation. “And look what happened to her daughter. Them Kutler boys trying to help her out after she wrecked her bike, and as soon as she gets her hands on a gun, she shoots them for their trouble.”

  The way he described the crime, it made Cherish seem either psychotic or…a desperate victim fighting for her life. “Why exactly would Cherish do that, do you think?”

  He stared at her like she was an idiot. “Why? The Kutlers were rich. She wanted their money, of course. Her mother died same way, double-dealing her man. I’m telling you, those Walker women, they hate men—never turn your back on a Walker girl.”

  “Her mother’s dead?” Lucy asked. “We couldn’t find any record of her.” At least not since she’d been admitted to the burn center in Chattanooga when Cherish was twelve.

  “Oh, yeah, she’s sure as certain dead. Boyfriend was one of those Reapers—motorcycle gang used to run up and down these mountains before the feds busted them. Anyway, they robbed a liquor store over in Chattanooga. Got away with a few hundred and all the booze they could carry.” He leaned forward, close enough that Lucy could smell the rancid tobacco wafting from his mouth. “Out in the parking lot, they start arguing over a bottle of whiskey. She wants it, he won’t let her have it, she stabs him—just like she did me—her boyfriend shoots her dead, hightails out of there, cops on his heels, and she’s lying dead in the mud. Buried her as a Jane Doe. Boyfriend made it out okay—rented a place to him and his new woman a few months later.”

  “When was this? Did Cherish know her mother had died?”

  “Month or two after Cherry shot the Kutler boys. I mean, that’s when I found out. Doubt anyone would have bothered to track down a next of kin, not when they didn’t even bother to find out her real name. Besides, she’d already given up on Cherry years before. You know how Cherry got those scars on her arms, don’t ya?”

  “She was burned in a fire when she was twelve.”

  He made a scoffing noise, coupling it with another spitful of tobacco juice. “Cabin her pa built for them, before he went off to war and got himself killed. After that, her ma was useless. Just fell apart. Couldn’t work, couldn’t even get herself dressed most days. Lost her job. Doctor gave her pills, then more pills, then she began to drink, and then she found herself a new way to forget her pain—meth. The Reapers ran the meth trade, and she hooked up with them. Ended up burning down her own cabin. Cherry wasn’t in the cabin, but she ran back and pulled her ma out of the fire.”

  “Pretty brave for a kid.”

  “Saved her ma, sure. But left two men inside to burn alive. I heard tell she bolted them in, no way out. Fact is, I’ll bet she started the fire herself. I’m telling you, those Walker women…” H
e shook his head as if he’d run out of words to describe the man-hating, murderous Walker women.

  “That’s when Cherish moved in with her grandmother. Here.”

  “Yep. I let the girl come—but no way in hell was I letting her ma anywhere near. Guess she wasn’t too interested—took off with the Reapers straight from the graveyard after they buried their buddies. Rode off on the back of one of their bikes and never looked back.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Most of that first day I was at the detention center, they kept me locked in that same windowless room. Isolation, they called it. Observation. For my own good. Until they were certain I was “stable.”

  They said it was so they could do “wellness checks.” Which translated to waking me as soon as I fell asleep. By that afternoon I was so disoriented, hung over, sleep deprived, and terrified that I would have confessed to anything. If the cops had returned or anyone asked.

  They didn’t.

  It was just me and four blank walls and my own nightmare memories of what had happened at the slaughterhouse. No one would tell me how Jack was—if he was even still alive—and no one let me call my gran, though they said she’d taken a turn and couldn’t talk, so now I was worried she was dead or dying from the shock of hearing what had happened. All I could think about was that it was all my fault. If I hadn’t gotten into that truck, gone with Hank and Jack, grabbed for the gun…

  I sat on the bunk, rubbing at the burn scars on my arms—the skin there doesn’t feel like normal skin when it’s touched, it tingles with tiny lightning strikes of electricity. The doctors said that was a good sign, meant the nerves were still alive, just damaged. Took me months to get used to it enough to sleep through the night—every time I moved, the air would hit or the pillow or the sheets and I’d jerk awake with the shock. Now, though, it’s kind of comforting, a pain that I control. Makes me feel less numb. Reminds me I’m alive.

  Finally, the detention center staff decided I was “stable” enough to be let out for dinner. One of the staff, a woman not much older than me, showed me to the commons room where the other kids—she called them residents—hung out between their classes—yeah, we still had school, a teacher came in every day—and work duties. There were fake leather couches with duct tape covering holes in the upholstery; a bunch of plastic patio chairs; a few tables where kids sat working puzzles, drawing, and doing homework; and one TV bolted to the wall behind a scratched Plexiglas cover that made the picture look frizzled.

  The other kids drew most of my attention. There were guys and girls. They pretty much all looked older than me except for one guy who was maybe my age. They were black and white—a few more white kids, but that made sense since Craven County was mostly white. The boys outnumbered the girls; no surprise there, I guess. But the girls seemed harder, with their deadeye stares and tight lips. The boys were relaxed, like this was some kind of summer camp. The girls—they were sharp, focused like when you’re hunting and the deer senses danger, the way it looks before it bolts, every sense on fire.

  I’ve been around mean girls before at school, mostly just kept out of their way and stayed off their radar, but now I realized those girls were Barbie dolls compared to these girls. And I was definitely on their radar, their glares lasers targeting me.

  “Who’s the newbie?” one of the white girls called out from her seat on the couch where a black girl was braiding her hair. She was like a queen, holding court. Queen of the vampires, I thought, from the way her smile bared her teeth until the points of her incisors rested on her red, red lips.

  “Folks, this is Cherish. I expect you to treat her with respect and show her the ropes,” the counselor said. “Dinner in ten.”

  The counselor left me standing there, now the center of their attention. The only person who didn’t seem to care about me was another staff member, sitting on a chair in the far corner. He barely glanced up from his phone, and when he did it was to acknowledge his colleague, not me.

  The white girl stood. She had long blonde hair twisted into an intricate pattern of teeny-tiny braids that must have taken forever. The black girl stood up beside her—she was shorter and younger than the blonde but looked ready to fight. Then another white girl joined them. I took a step back; not sure why. It was as if an invisible fist had punched me from across the room. They hated me, and I had no idea why.

  “I’m Brenda,” the blonde said. “Let me show you around, Cherry.” She used the nickname I hated, the one the kids at school used. I was a freshman, had only been at the high school for a little over a month, but I couldn’t remember seeing her. How did she know me?

  Before I could protest, she sidled up to me, taking my arm in hers as if we were best friends. The other two girls followed close behind us, pressing their bodies against mine, herding me. A few of the boys glanced up, and one laughed before plopping onto the couch Brenda had just vacated. His laugh reminded me of Jack’s, and I shivered.

  “This is the rec area, that door leads into the dining hall, over there is the gym, and there’s the class room—oh, Cherry, you’ll love our library. People from all the churches donate all sorts of books to help us see the light and rehabilitate.” Brenda’s voice turned sing-song, as if she were preaching. The other girls giggled, and one of them pinched my butt so hard I jumped. “Mr. Richard, we can show Cherry the library, right? It won’t take long, I promise.”

  The counselor waved his hand, granting permission, without looking up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Richard.” Brenda’s voice dripped with sugar. She opened the door to the library and held it for us as the other two girls shoved me inside.

  It wasn’t a large room—about the same size as my cell but without a sink and toilet. The walls were floor to ceiling lined with shelves, and the shelves were filled with books. In the center of the room was a reading table surrounded by chairs. I would have loved this room. If I wasn’t busy getting punched in the kidney.

  The first blow took me by surprise—not the punch as much as how well positioned it was and the sudden flash of pain. As I turned, someone kicked my leg out from under me, and just like that I was on the floor, gasping to breathe. One girl yanked my hair so hard I felt strands rip free of my scalp while the other kept her knee in my back like a fulcrum, ready to break my spine if I tried to resist.

  Brenda scooted a chair to sit above my face. She twirled a rusted nail about two inches long in her delicate, long, princess-vampire fingers. “We heard about Jack and Hank. Jack says you’re trying to make it all Hank’s fault.”

  I gasped—not from pain but from relief. Jack was alive, and well enough to talk!

  She leaned down, tracing the nail from my lips up to my eye. “There must be two dozen Bibles in this library, maybe more. The church folks all think everything we need is in the Good Book. Maybe it is.” The nail was now pressed right below my eye, so hard that tears were leaking out. “Ever hear of an eye for an eye, Cherry?”

  One of the girls behind me snickered while the second one, the one holding my hair, wrapped her free arm around my throat, choking me.

  “You’re going to tell the cops you were drunk and high and stupid, and that whatever you told them last night was a lie. You’re going to tell them the truth—that it was all your fault. You freaked out. You grabbed the gun and shot Jack and Hank. They didn’t do anything wrong. It was all you, Cherry. Stupid little you. You’re only fourteen, they’ll blame it on the Molly and let you go.”

  Molly? That was ecstasy—no wonder I’d felt so strange. They’d drugged me? Why? Stupid, Cherish, you know why. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Brenda sensed my attention drift. She poked the nail into my eye—I blinked and it hit my eyelid, but it still hurt. The pressure on my back eased as her friend swung around and pried my eyelids open. Brenda’s face filled my vision. The nail was so close I couldn’t even focus on it, but I felt it with each heart beat, so close it was almost touching my eyeball.

  “Maybe you’re the kind of girl we can
’t trust to do the right thing. Maybe we need to show you a lesson first? Let you feel half the pain that Jack is feeling right now?” She pressed the nail even closer. I held my breath, held my entire body as still as possible. Pain shot through my eye as the tip of the nail scratched it. I couldn’t scream, not without the girl’s arm tight around my throat.

  Then she eased back the tiniest bit. “No. I think we can give you one last chance. Right, Cherry? You’re going to tell the cops the truth. It was all you. All your fault. All your stupid little schoolgirl crush—taking drugs, thinking it would make Hank and Jack like you, notice your pathetic skinny ass. Jack and Hank had nothing to do with it, right?”

  She paused, the nail hovering an inch away. Far enough that I could safely nod my head.

  Brenda flounced to her feet and touched her hair, hiding the nail in her braids. “All right, then. Let’s go. Can’t be late for dinner, right? Today’s mac and cheese. Yummo.”

  The other two girls hauled me up. I was doubled over, not sure if I was going to vomit from the pain in my eye or my back or my head. The eye was the worst, the light stabbing at it like a cattle prod. We stumbled back out to the commons area.

  “Mr. Richard?” Brenda was saying. “I think maybe Cherry’s still hung over or high or something? She says she might puke, that she doesn’t feel too well.”