Gone Dark

by C. J. Lyons

  “You’re right. She didn’t come this way. There’s another possibility.” Lucy strode down the steps, and TK and Warren followed her until they were back in front of the courthouse. But instead of stopping, Lucy continued past the building into the park. “No cameras here. No people, either—not in the rain.”

  “But if she tossed her clothing out the window—” TK said. “That’s on the other side of the building. No way could she have retrieved it and gotten over here before the alarm was raised.”

  “She didn’t toss anything out of the window.” Lucy stopped and gestured to TK’s tablet. “Look at the trashcan in the picture.”

  TK frowned. It was a normal white metal trashcan, the kind found in public restrooms across the world. “What am I missing?”

  “Not what you’re missing; what it’s missing—”

  Then TK got it. “The garbage bag. Black plastic, rain proof.”

  “And pretty much invisible if she folded it over the jumpsuit and clothing, and carried it as if it were covering a bag or stack of folders.”

  TK glanced up. The rocky crags above them appeared impossible to navigate. Appeared. But you wouldn’t necessarily need to go up over the mountain to escape—you’d just need to follow the tree line above the gorge, along the path of the river, as it led deeper into the wilderness.

  “What do you think?” Lucy asked her.

  “Difficult. But possible.”

  “No way,” Warren declared, following TK’s gaze. “You can’t tell me a skinny little girl like Cherish turned her back on a chance for a quick escape via a car and instead went into the mountains with no food, no water, no way to start a fire? Armed with only an umbrella and a few layers of clothing? She’d never have survived—that time of year, it got down to freezing at night. We’d have found her body for sure.”

  Lucy turned to him with a smile. “And yet, you never have. Because Cherish Walker was not only smarter than you gave her credit for, she was stronger. She knew how to survive, and how to outlast your search parties—that were looking in the wrong direction. All she had to do was wait you out.”

  TK scanned the steep terrain on the other side of the valley. “The Appalachian Trail runs along there, doesn’t it? Crosses the river?”

  “The trail’s about twenty miles on the other side of the mountain, past some of the most rugged wilderness you can imagine, yeah.”

  “That was her escape route. Get to the trail. Beg, borrow, or steal clothing and a pack along the way. Hike to a road, hitch a ride—there are vans ferrying hikers to hostels and campgrounds, right? Who wouldn’t stop for a tired solo hiker like Cherish?”

  “If I were her, I’d stay on the trail all the way to where it ends in Georgia,” Lucy said. “Not far from Atlanta.”

  “From Atlanta she could go anywhere.” TK smiled at Warren. “It’s easy to be invisible in a city like Atlanta. And by the time she made it there, your searchers would have been long gone, have given up.”

  “Which means,” Lucy added, “that the only question left is: who helped Cherish escape? Because the timing is just too damn perfect. She may have made it out on her own, but someone had to give her the chance to run in the first place.”

  TK nodded. “We need to find that guard, the one who escorted her and was outside the restroom.”

  “Gleason. We questioned him, and so did the Staties,” Warren said. “He never wavered, and there were no signs of a payoff or any other reason why he’d help Cherish. He even passed a polygraph.”

  “Was he connected to her family in any way?”

  “Not that we could find. And believe me, in small town like this, we would have known.”

  “Where’s he now?” Lucy asked.

  “He retired a few years back.”

  “Can you get me a phone number or address? I’d love to talk with him.”

  Warren frowned. “I’ll see what I can do. But I don’t think he’s your guy. If Cherish was as quick-thinking and resourceful as you say, then she probably heard the commotion in the hall, figured it was her best chance, and just went for it.”

  “Maybe. But I’d still like to ask Mr. Gleason his thoughts. He’s the closest thing to an eyewitness that we have—not to mention the last person who saw Cherish before she vanished.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sylva was the tether that kept me sane and grounded those first few months after my gran died. I never even got the chance to talk to Gran, to explain what really happened, to tell her I was sorry for bringing all this down on her. Who knows what she thought of me before she went? No one bothered to tell my caseworker until after she was dead and buried; then he told me, but it was all too late. As if my needing to say goodbye didn’t matter—which in this system built not for justice but for the convenience of the courts, it didn’t. As a juvenile I had no say in anything, only my “advocate” did, the case worker who always got my name wrong and was constantly running late.

  Maybe if my case hadn’t been so high profile—at least for our tiny rural community—or if there hadn’t been so many appointments, meetings with social workers and counselors and psychologists and other kinds of doctors trying to figure out my “intentions” and “maturity level” and “rehabilitation potential,” then I could have done what I always did and quietly faded into the background of the detention center—become invisible enough to grieve in private.

  But there was no avoiding the spotlight as I was constantly pulled out of classes or meals or from the commons area to be searched, shackled, and sequestered in the back of the center’s van, led to my next interview or hearing. I’d return to another search, extra homework, cold sandwiches instead of hot meals I’d missed, and glares from the others along with the occasional beating if Sylva wasn’t around. Although none were as bad as that first—no one wanted to risk Sylva’s wrath.

  She said they were jealous—any escape from the monotony of the center’s rigid schedule was considered a special treat. She was probably right, but I didn’t really care. I just wanted it to all be over with so I could go home to my real life.

  Poor, silly, deluded kid lost in a sea of denial. Sylva tried her best to prepare me, to explain what the adults on the outside who now controlled my life were doing. But I didn’t listen; I was too numb with grief.

  It wasn’t until much, much later, when I had the chance to finally watch all the videos and read all the articles, that I realized how massive the tsunami racing toward me had been. No wonder I’d been swamped when it finally hit…and by then I’d lost Sylva, my lifeline. Eight months after I arrived, she turned eighteen. We had cupcakes to celebrate—Nurse Helen brought them in as a special treat. The next morning, Sylva was gone.

  And I was alone. Still the youngest at the detention center, but no longer the most innocent.

  I think I went a bit crazy. Provoking the others. Although most of my original tormentors had long since been released, cooped up like that, adolescent emotions running high, it was always easy to find someone willing to hurt me. Poor Nurse Helen—the hours she spent patching me up, talking to me, trying to ease my pain with Bible passages and pathetic bromides.

  Then, finally, seeing that nothing could pry me from my self-destructive despair, Helen let me use her phone to call Sylva. For the first time since she’d left, we could talk freely, no worries of recordings or listening ears who could use my words against me later.

  She’d made it to New Orleans, just as she’d always dreamed. She was performing with a street band, and had found a cheap room—large enough for two. As always, she had it all planned. I would set up a booth doing henna tattoos for tourists, she’d keep up her singing, and most importantly, we’d be together. Free. Together. Forever.

  Magic, intoxicating words.

  More tempting than Eve’s snake or any forbidden fruit.

  A chance to start over. A chance for a new life. A chance to make everything right.

  All I had to do was speak my truth.

  Juvenile h
earings were held in the two-story office building that housed our county Children and Youth Services as well as the Family Court. The only thing that made it different from the building where my dentist had his office was that there was a guard and a metal detector at the front door. Of course, since I was already in shackles, we didn’t go through that door; we used the side one and took the back elevator up to the courtroom.

  It wasn’t court like what you see on TV. The hearing room for Family Court was more like a conference room, with the judge sitting at the head of the table. From the conversation between the lawyers and judge, it sounded like there had been a lot of meetings that they never invited me to. I always felt like I was playing catch up with my own fate. Most of the time they never even asked me to speak—and if I tried to ask a question, the judge would tell me to talk to my lawyer, who was always on his way somewhere else and never had time to answer.

  This was also where I met with my probation officer and case manager. They listened to my questions but would tell me they couldn’t answer, I needed to ask the judge or my lawyer. It was like being caught in a whirlpool, Ulysses and his crew navigating uncharted waters. I quickly learned it was best just to say nothing, because nothing I said was going to get me home any faster and definitely could and would be used against me.

  Until the day a month after I called Sylva, when I had my chance.

  “It’s the best offer you’re going to get,” my lawyer—actually, my fourth lawyer, they shuffled around so fast I didn’t bother to remember their names since they never bothered to remember mine—told me. This one was a woman. White, like all the others, and all so young that I knew more of the real world than any of them. “Plead guilty, show remorse, and the judge will sentence you as a minor. You’ll be moved to a regular prison when you turn eighteen, but released just three years later when you’re twenty-one. That’s only three years, Cherish.”

  Funny how her “best offer” math of three years didn’t take into account the almost four years of my life I would spend in juvie before I was granted the pleasure of being transferred to a real prison for three more years. How stupid did she think I was?

  Seven years before I’d be free to join Sylva. I’d spent less than a year in juvie, and I knew I’d never survive seven more years locked up.

  She seemed irritated by my hesitation. “There’s a lot at stake here, Cherish. I worked very hard to make this deal happen. I even got the victim and the arresting officer to sign off on it.”

  “Warren?” I raised my head. Any deal that involved that snake, Warren, had to be poisonous. “He wants me to take the deal? And so does Jack?”

  “All you have to do is plead guilty and explain to the judge how sorry you are and that you accept the consequences of your actions. Then, in seven years, you’re a free woman.”

  I pushed her pen aside.

  “Cherish, if you refuse this deal, the judge will charge you as an adult. You’ll be facing life without possibility of parole. Do you understand that? Spending the rest of your life behind bars? Not juvie; real prison. Forever. Every single day until you die. No chance of getting out.”

  Tempting. It was all so tempting. Except…it was also a lie.

  I was so sick of lying. Of hiding behind silence. Sylva had taught me better—had showed me that being invisible wasn’t a strength but a weakness, a temporary escape from my problems. She’d taught me to be strong, to risk, to be vulnerable, that fighting back didn’t need to hurt anyone—that the truth could be a powerful weapon.

  So many things she’d taught me that I didn’t understand until that very moment when I was faced with my own choice. She’d had the courage to live her truth despite the fact that it cost her everything, her freedom, home, and family—she could have lied, hidden behind a story, and her family would have embraced it and welcomed her back home. But she’d refused, choosing to speak out even when no one wanted to hear.

  Truth is truth, she’d tell me as we lay together in the dark. It’s the one thing no one can ever take away from you, Cherish. I’d rather be put on trial for telling the truth than sentenced to a life living a lie.

  I was weak, I admit. I actually took the pen up, my hand shaking, ink splattering the virgin white paper…but Sylva’s voice filled my mind; her strength, her beauty, her faith in me. No one had ever believed in me like that, not the way Sylva did. More than belief—acceptance. She saw the real me, the one hiding behind the silence and lies.

  I hurled the pen across the room with all my might. “No.”

  Finally, I was ready to tell the truth—but could I trust anyone to listen?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lucy drove them to their motel—the closest one was forty-five minutes away in Cleveland—and checked them in while TK went to grab some takeout for dinner. By the time she returned to Lucy’s room, Lucy had Wash on video conference and was updating him on their progress. Apparently McCabe had been hounding Wash for news after Lucy had ignored his nine calls and seven texts.

  “TK,” Wash called out when she moved into his line of sight and began to open up containers brimming over with ribs and barbeque, “I heard you got to visit a slaughterhouse. Sure you’re up for ribs?”

  Lucy inhaled the savory aroma and could barely resist the urge to dig in and forget about the case.

  TK smiled at the camera. “That place definitely gave me the creeps—but not enough to give up my chance at decent ribs and brisket.”

  “I was just telling Lucy about the progress Megan’s made—that girl has a knack, I’m telling you.”

  “She and Wash found Cherish’s roommate from juvie,” Lucy explained. “A woman named Sylva Wright. Along with a possible lead on Cherish’s mom. Only problem is, they have a meet set for tomorrow morning at a resort in North Carolina on Lake Hiwassee.”

  “Warren said he’d arrange for me to talk to Gleason, the guard. I can keep hanging with him if you want to check it out,” TK said, after she wiped BBQ sauce from her mouth. “I think he’s finally starting to warm to me.”

  “Enough to let you carry your pistol?”

  “Enough to maybe let me ride up front with him instead of in the back seat.”

  “Did you track down anything on Cherish’s mom’s connection with the Reapers?” Lucy asked Wash. To TK, she said, “The trailer park guy said she took off with the Reapers a few years before Cherish went to jail. He said another Reaper told him she was killed in an armed robbery, buried as a Jane Doe.”

  “I got nothing,” Wash answered. “It’s like she vanished—about six months after Cherish’s arrest. And when I say vanished, I mean like blank slate.”

  “Fits with what he said. So maybe she is dead.”

  “Then who’s meeting with this Sylva?” TK asked. “Or do you think Cherish has been hiding out with her mom and they’ll all be there?” Then she frowned. “No, that makes no sense.”

  “We think someone faked the mom’s social media profiles, and is trying to get Cherish to take the bait,” Wash answered.

  “To what end?” Lucy asked. “Reapers who think Cherish knows something? Or want her to pay back her mom’s debt to them?” She shook her head. Motorcycle clubs had their own rules, and long memories when it came to payback and revenge. “I have a friend still with the Bureau, Jake Carver. He was undercover with the Reapers and helped take them down. I can reach out and see if he knows anything about Cherish’s mom; maybe find out who filled the power vacuum in the Reapers once their leaders were convicted.”

  “These MCs are so well-organized, sometimes the leaders run them from their jail cells,” Wash said. “But I don’t get what the Reapers would want with Cherish. She was just fourteen—what could she know that would hurt them now?”

  “Keep looking,” Lucy said. She turned to TK. “Did you find anything else we should be following up on?”

  “I wish. Warren and I drove all over this damn county, talked to the detention center workers—the ones still around—and even found one or two kid
s who were there overlapping Cherish’s stay. No one had anything good to say about Cherish. They all said the Kutlers were practically saints, and she’d better not show her face around here, especially after getting away with murder. Their words, not mine. Actually their words were a lot more colorful. But other than shooting the Kutlers, no one actually remembered anything about Cherish—I doubt they’d recognize her if she knocked on their doors and asked to stay for supper. Even her social worker and the psychologist who spent hours evaluating her mental status, the best they could give me were generic memories.”

  “Let me guess,” Lucy put in. “She was quiet, kept out of the way, never said much.”

  “Exactly. And these were the people paid to advocate for her, who should have been searching for any detail to sway the judge. I know it’s been a decade, but no one could be that forgettable.”

  “Maybe it’s just that her crime was so much more memorable?” Wash suggested. “Like that was the legend that everyone talked about, so no one paid much attention to the girl who pulled the trigger because they were focused on the victims?”

  “Oh, everyone remembers the victims, believe me,” TK replied. “Hank could out-throw, out-run, and given a chance, out-fly Superman before Cherish killed him. And Jack, well, he pretty much walks on water—” She paused. “Funny, though, a few folks mentioned he’s had problems. No specifics, just a few sighs and things like He could’ve made so much of himself, if only—that kind of thing.”

  “McCabe said he was working at his dad’s financial firm in Nashville,” Lucy said. “So he can’t be doing too badly.”

  “Still,” Wash added, “getting shot in the face, losing an eye, probably a bunch of surgeries and rehab and all that, I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

  They all stared at Lucy. No, at Lucy’s ankle. She’d come close to losing it back in January, and was still struggling six months later. Where would she be in a decade? she couldn’t help but wonder. Would she still need the brace? Be back using the cane? Maybe things would go badly with all the hardware the surgeons had left behind, and they’d need to amputate after all.