Gone Dark

by C. J. Lyons

  “I’m sure it wasn’t,” she said. “Let’s track him down and set up an interview. In the meantime, we’ll focus on the courthouse guard, the Reapers, Sylva Wright, and whoever is pretending to be Cherish’s mom.”

  TK nodded and turned to call Warren to set up the visit with Gleason. Lucy focused on Wash. “You said Megan is the one who found the fake social media profiles?”

  He looked away. “Yeah.”

  “How exactly did she do that? She’s grounded from electronics. And knowing how to set up a fake profile? Or did you help her with that?”

  “Kids know about catfishing,” he said, evading her real questions. “Plus I’m sure you’ve warned her about it, right?”

  His lips tightened, and she knew he wasn’t going to betray Megan’s confidences. Which meant there was something to betray. As soon as she got home… “Okay, thanks, Wash.” Then she realized she hadn’t heard from Nick. “Nick already picked her up, right?”

  “Yeah, they just left.”

  “Just now?” Nick should have been there hours ago. Of course, the cell reception in Craven County was fickle at best, but she hadn’t received any messages. With her luck, they would ping her phone in the middle of the night now that she was in an area with half-decent coverage.

  “Yeah, his flight was delayed by the weather. Didn’t you hear? That hurricane, Delilah? It’s shifted east. It’s playing hell with air traffic—it’ll be worse tomorrow once it touches land and heads north. You guys should plan on staying put after your morning appointments because it’s headed your way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  While Lucy left early the next morning to drive over the mountain for her meeting with Sylva Wright, TK remained behind to finish interviewing the people on their list in Craven County, starting with former courthouse guard Lionel Gleason.

  She guessed it was a good sign that Craven County’s violent crime rate was so low that their SWAT lieutenant could spend so much time playing host to two outsiders, but she had the definite feeling that there was more to Warren’s generosity in once again volunteering his services as chauffeur.

  “You’re keeping tabs on us,” she accused him later that morning, when he picked her up at the motel coffee shop. “Reporting back to the sheriff.”

  He didn’t blink. “Would you like someone poking around in your business in your jurisdiction, getting your folks riled up over things that happened eleven years ago?”

  Put that way… “I understand why you’re doing it. Just saying you didn’t need to keep it a secret.”

  “Guess I figured it didn’t need saying. Thought it was pretty obvious.” When they reached his cruiser, he opened the rear door for her and arched an eyebrow when she hesitated. “Still the rules.”

  Climbing into the rear seat, she sniffed—he’d sprayed it with some kind of air freshener. Didn’t mask the stench—rather, it enhanced it in a weird chemical way—but it was the thought that counted.

  “Tell me about Gleason,” she asked, as they turned onto the two-lane highway, heading east. It was mid-morning, but the sun had only just cleared the peaks before them. Warren flipped open a pair of sunglasses and lowered his visor. “Did you work with him?”

  “Technically, the courthouse guards are all sworn deputies, but they’re mostly older, looking to finish out their years until they retire. Know what I mean?”

  “Wallflowers. They dress like the real thing, cash a paycheck, but spend most of their time propping up a wall.”

  Warren nodded. “Right. I never knew the guy except to nod to when I was at the courthouse on a case.”

  TK smiled. At least she was getting more than the yes-no answers he’d treated her to yesterday. Warren was warming up to her—must be her sunny disposition. Next thing you knew, she’d be riding up front, rules or no rules.

  “Where’s he live now?” They’d reached the turnoff for Hartfield, but Warren kept going straight, the two-lane highway devolving into a narrow, twisting road without a shoulder or a guardrail. And yet, peppered among the craggy ledges and steep, forested slopes, she’d catch glimpses of large houses—the mansions Warren had mentioned yesterday.

  “Up the river. He likes to fish.”

  They turned onto another road that hugged the side of the gorge, following the river. The houses here were small, older cabins and frame-built homes that had high water marks staining the trees surrounding them. Most had docks angled out over the water. No whitewater here; the river was wide enough that it grew calmer, with quiet eddies behind large boulders. Several men in waders were fly-fishing, spaced apart yet clustered together, aiming for the same still water.

  Warren slowed the car, peering at the fishermen. “He’s not there. Strange. He’s usually out on the water at first light.”

  “He knows we’re coming. Maybe he waited.”

  “Guess we’ll see.” He steered the car around one final bend, coming to a stop in front of a neatly kept log cabin with a green tin roof. Warren waited a minute before leaving his seat and opening the door for TK in the back.

  “Gleason,” he called.

  TK followed his lead, staying near the car in plain view of the house. But no one came to the door, and no curtains fluttered at the windows. “Maybe he is out fishing,” she said. “And we just didn’t see him.”

  Warren said nothing; just motioned for her to stay. He approached the house, one hand on the butt of his gun, and knocked loudly. Then he peered in the windows.

  TK moved to the side of the house, ignoring his glare, and headed to the rear. There was a large deck overlooking the water—so close that you could practically fish from it, she thought. Beyond it was a small dock with a flat bottom boat swaying against the pilings it was tied to. Beside the dock, a large weeping willow stretched out over the water, its fronds dancing in the breeze.

  And beneath it, face down in the water, arms and legs spread-eagled by the current, was a man.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lucy spent the drive over the mountains to the resort on Lake Hiwassee rehearsing what she might say to Sylva. She’d downloaded tracks of Sylva’s music to listen to on the way, hauntingly lyrical ballads that incorporated Arcadian French, Negro spirituals, and even a hint of Native American harmonies. Sylva’s vocals were entrancing, and the toe-tapping Cajun Zydeco styled-songs made even Lucy, forever rhythmically challenged, want to dance. Nick would love them. She made a note to buy a CD or two and have Sylva sign them for her to give to him. Music was the only thing Nick hoarded, refusing to throw away any format: CD or old-style vinyl, even glitchy cassette tapes he’d recorded as a kid.

  That might be a good way to break the ice, Lucy thought, as the road wound along beside the lake that appeared on the map as a sinewy Chinese dragon sprawled possessively over the North Carolina side of the mountain range. Finally she pulled up to the gates of the resort, paid five dollars for the privilege of entering the public areas, and arrived at the restaurant overlooking the lake. On the western side of the mountains the clouds had been gathering, whipped up by a fierce wind, but here the sun was shining, reflecting from the water where several small sailboats and kayaks were visible.

  Lucy was early, allowing her time to choose a seat on the far end of the terrace where she could pretend to watch the boats while actually watching the entrance and the people inside the restaurant. Old habits, Nick would say—even as he held the door to allow her to enter a public space before him. Not out of gallantry, but because she needed to assess a situation before putting him or Megan at risk. She often wondered how the old-fashioned gesture had come into being—had women been held in such low regard that men had used them as human shields by allowing them to enter a potentially dangerous space first? Nick argued that it was the opposite, that by revealing the presence of innocent noncombatants, men had signaled to each other that a higher code of conduct was now in effect.

  Her coffee had just arrived when she spotted a woman striding past the other diners, heading her way. Syl
va Wright was only twenty-eight, but she carried herself with the confidence of a much older woman—no, not just older…wiser. An attitude earned through experience, not youthful callousness. Lucy nodded to her and gestured to the seat opposite.

  “Ms. Guardino?” They shook hands. “Thanks for coming up. We’re playing a wedding this weekend and they’re putting us up here. Not that I’m complaining.” She leaned back, assessing Lucy. The waitress approached, and Sylva ordered sweet tea while Lucy stuck with her coffee.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Lucy said, once the waitress had left. “I know this must be rather awkward—and like I said on the phone, I’m not looking for you to break any confidences.”

  She paused, waiting for Sylva to fill in the blanks, but the younger woman merely smiled and nodded. Expecting Lucy to show her hand first—exactly how Lucy would have played it herself. Lucy decided to take a gamble and go off script. “I like your music. I know you’re based in New Orleans now, but you grew up around here, right? Any native American influences? I thought I heard some of their melodies in your music. Along with Gaelic and Cajun French and African-American.”

  Sylva nodded, a wistful smile creasing her lips. “My mother’s family’s part Cherokee, part freed slaves who sheltered with the Nation. My aunts and cousins still live on the res just north of here. My dad’s family worked the copper mines and smelted iron—they’re Scotch-Irish. When I moved to New Orleans, I fell in love with the Cajun traditions. Guess you could call my music a cultural melting pot.”

  Lucy noticed how Sylva relaxed while discussing her music. But as Lucy glanced across the lake to the foothills of the Blue Ridge, the mental map in her mind unfurled, another piece of the puzzle that was Cherish Walker falling into place. “When Cherish escaped, she didn’t go south, did she? She went north. No one would follow her onto the Cherokee Reservation—given that it’s sovereign territory—or have any reason to look for her there. She was safe with your family until you could bring her to New Orleans and start over.”

  To Sylva’s credit, the other woman didn’t do more than blink. Lucy was fine with that; she wasn’t here to incriminate, she simply wanted Sylva to understand that Lucy was serious about finding Cherish.

  “I need you to get a message to Cherish,” she continued. “She needs to know that the original charges have been dropped. You can check with Justice for Youth if you don’t believe me—or Cherish can.”

  Clearly Sylva hadn’t heard the news. She frowned, and covered it by taking a sip of her iced tea. “If what you say is true, wouldn’t Cherish still be facing charges for escaping custody?”

  “Those were dropped as well. But she should know—you should know—that the DA could refile the original homicide charge if they chose.”

  “So nothing has really changed except there’s no more bounty on her head.” Her gaze grew distant, and her tone echoed with sorrow. “If she wants to live her life freely, she’s as good as walking into their trap. They’ll just lock her away again.”

  “Doesn’t she feel caught in a trap now? Ten years living as a fugitive—that has to take its toll.”

  Sylva eyed Lucy. “You have no idea. Ever know anyone with agoraphobia? Fear so intense that you panic at the thought of stepping past your doorway? Terror at the thought of the wrong person recognizing you? Constantly hiding, skulking in shadows woven by your own lies, afraid you’ll stumble and forget which lie you’re living today?”

  Lucy gave an inward shudder. What Sylva was describing was a lot like what Lucy had gone through after her mother was murdered and she’d injured her leg. Grief combined with PTSD, Nick had diagnosed. It had been like living in a dark cave with no light left in the world, and had kept Lucy a virtual prisoner for months. She couldn’t begin to imagine living like that for a decade. “She’s lucky she had you. You were her lifeline.”

  “Sometimes it feels more like an anchor chain. Only we’re both at the bottom of the ocean. Drowning.”

  “That’s why you wanted to meet her mother?”

  She jerked her chin up. “You know about that?”

  “I know Cherish’s mother is dead. What I don’t know is who you’re meeting or what they really want.”

  There was a long pause. “You could have told me all this over the phone.”

  “I could have. But would you have believed me?”

  “Why should I believe you now?”

  Now it was Lucy’s turn to smile ruefully. “Because you’re smart. You did your homework. Lord knows, it’s easy enough to find me online.” One of her greatest regrets was the way the media had turned her private life public. The more sensational the case Lucy broke, the more they seemed to feel the right to own her life…leaving her as trapped, in many ways, as Cherish Walker.

  “All right, then. What do you want? Besides hoping that I can somehow get a message to Cherish.”

  “I’d like to stay. Watch. See who you’re meeting with.”

  “And you’re certain it can’t be Cherish’s mother? She’s really dead?”

  “We’re still working to confirm it, but as best we can tell, yes. She died while Cherish was still in custody.”

  “So it was all for nothing, then.”

  Lucy waited.

  “You know she’s innocent, right?” Sylva finally continued. “It was self-defense. I don’t know the whole story—and she’s never told me, so don’t even ask. But the one thing I do know is that everything Cherish did, she thought she was protecting the people she loved.”

  “Her family? But her grandmother died a few weeks later—she could have recanted her testimony, forced a plea bargain.” Lucy paused. “Her mother… Somehow she thought she was protecting her mother by confessing?” Cherish’s mother had been with the Reapers by then—and from the rumors she and TK had gleaned, the Reapers had been running the drug and prostitution trade in Craven County. Could the Kutlers have been involved as well?

  She thought about a quiet young girl, with no adult supervision, no one anyone would even take notice of if she went missing. Cherish had initially said the Kutlers had driven her bike off the road. Youthful stupidity, or something more calculated?

  “How well did you know Jack and Hank Kutler?” she asked Sylva.

  Sylva recoiled, wrapping both hands around her glass to anchor her. “Well enough to know they weren’t what they pretended to be. Those boys would have given the Devil himself a run for his money.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Watching Sylva meet with the woman named Lucy, I was a nervous wreck. It was the first time in a decade that I’d left the relative anonymity of New Orleans to accompany her and her band to Asheville. So much cooler, she told me, as we slept with our windows open to the mountain breeze. Nice to be near home, she said.

  All I could think was, we were too close to home. To people who might know me, might remember me. To the Reapers. Maybe to my mother?

  That last hope was why I’d finally agreed to come. For eleven years, I’d kept my word; held my silence. Remained hidden, in the dark, afraid every single day that they would find me. Terrified my mom would pay the price.

  Those first few years I’d lived life like a haint: sleepless, barely eating for nerves, racked with fear that some day there’d be a knock on the door or footsteps behind me, followed by a gunshot I’d never hear. Seemed like if I were the Reapers, that’d be the easy way out.

  Sylva said I was being paranoid, that I didn’t mean that much to the Reapers—after all, they’d had plenty of time to cover their tracks from that night, and what could I actually say to hurt them anyway?

  After the first few years I realized—and Sylva often reminded me—that the Reapers had no reason to try to track me down except for the bounty still on my head. I’d kept my end of the deal; there was no reason for them to spend the time and energy. If I screwed up, they already had all the leverage they needed to use against me: my mother. Sylva even suggested that my mother wasn’t really in any danger—that she’d stayed with
the Reapers because that was exactly where she wanted to be.

  Those were the nights when we’d argue, and she’d remind me how young I’d been, how easily manipulated. She never understood how delicate the situation was. That me and my mom were just two strands of an intricate web that could fray and break at any time. It was the only thing we ever argued about, and after ten years, I knew it was the only thing that could break us.

  I had to choose: Sylva, or a promise a terrified young girl had made on the night she almost died.

  Sylva had guessed most of what had happened that night, but not all of it. And I couldn’t tell her—every time I tried, the words literally would not pass my lips. There was simply too much at stake, magnified by a decade’s worth of worry and fear. She knew the Reapers were involved, and had figured out my mom was at risk. That the Kutler twins and their family weren’t the saints everyone thought they were. But of course, I never told her about the person at the center: the Peacekeeper.

  Back then, I wasn’t even sure myself he was involved. Not until that morning at the courthouse bathroom when I’d gone inside to change, only to find Deputy Warren waiting for me.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” He’d pushed off the rear wall of the tiny room, his words thundering at me almost before I could close the door. “Turning down the plea bargain? Do you have any idea how hard I had to work to make that happen? To get the Reapers and the Kutlers on board?”

  I froze, clutching my bundle of new-to-me clothes. Glanced behind me at the door.

  “Don’t worry about Gleason. He works for the Reapers—the reason he got the assignment of escorting you. I were you, I’d be more worried about the decision you and I are facing now, Cherish.” He drew his pistol. “Seems to me, I can end this all right here and now. I’d be a hero, stopping a violent felon from escaping.”