Gone Dark

by C. J. Lyons

  I had to swallow twice to find the spit to talk. “I kept my word. I didn’t say anything.”

  “Not yet, you didn’t. But it’s a whole other ballgame now that you’re facing adult time. You’re a kid, Cherish. No way in hell can we trust you to keep silent, not facing hard time, life without parole. Because sure as certain, as soon as Jack Kutler opens his mouth on that witness stand, you’re going to be found guilty.”

  He was right. These past few weeks since I’d turned down the plea deal, all I could think of was what Sylva had told me: better to be put on trial for telling the truth than sentenced to a life living a lie.

  If it came down to it, if anyone gave me a chance to tell them everything that happened that night, I would. Not in open court, where the Reapers would hear and then kill my mom, but maybe to a cop I could trust—I’d even considered Warren for the role, silly me. Luckily, I’d realized I could never trust anyone local. But the FBI or the DEA? They could go in and save my mom, arrest the Reapers, and set me free.

  In my mind, it all spun out like a TV show or movie, ending with Mom and me together, hugging as explosions filled the sky behind us and the bad guys were handcuffed and led away.

  A stupid, childish fantasy—quickly blown away by the reality of Warren and his semiautomatic. “How long have you been working for the Reapers?” I asked.

  His cheeks blossomed red, eyebrows colliding as he scowled. “I don’t. Everything I do is to protect the people of Craven County. If that means turning a blind eye to some of the Reapers’ business dealings—”

  “Like with the Kutlers?” I guessed. “They were doing more than dealing drugs and girls, right? They were disposing of bodies back in the slaughterhouse.”

  “Where better? They had all the tools and privacy you’d need. They’ve been taking care of bodies for generations—since back in the day of revenue men and carpetbaggers. And would still be at it if not for the twins’ stupidity.”

  “So you know I’m innocent.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. You’re lucky I’m around to keep the Reapers honest—otherwise they would have had you killed already. But the deal with you and your mom, that’s just one piece of the puzzle. I also had to negotiate a truce with the Kutlers—Jack’s being an ass. The only reason he agreed to the plea deal you turned down is he wants to kill you himself, but if anything happens to you and it comes back to him, then the Reapers have no choice but to step in and deal with him. See what I’m saying? It’s a delicate balance. For two years, I’ve protected the folks of Craven County from the Reapers, made sure they kept their violence and most of their dealings far away from here, but now you and the Kutler boys are threatening to upset everything. I’m sworn to protect the peace—but I can’t do that if you talk, Cherish.”

  I wasn’t ready to move forward; my mind was still trapped in the memory of that night. “Why did the boys have me there? Why did the Reapers bring my mother there? Was it to kill her? Dispose of her body?”

  “No.” His voice softened. “Cherish, your ma, she works for the Reapers. You know that, right?”

  My nod was intended more to rearrange my thoughts than to answer him. Stupid me, I thought working for the Reapers meant doing their washing or cleaning up after them. Of course the kids at school knew exactly what my mom really did, but I’d always blocked out their name calling.

  “She’s a whore.” The words felt like a slap as soon as I said them. A blow so hard the rest of the world rocked and swayed. “But that night—did she come to rescue me? With Gran sick, maybe Mom didn’t want to risk me going into foster care? So she came…for me?” My voice faltered, my hopes crashing against Warren’s granite expression as his gaze hardened.

  “She didn’t know you were there. The Kutlers, they owe a lot of people money—gambling debts. The boys aren’t supposed to get any girls from Craven County, that’s the deal. They’re meant to recruit them outside the county, not here at home.”

  “Recruit?” I remembered hearing on the news about a gang in Charlotte—kids younger even than Jack and Hank—forcing their own girlfriends to become prostitutes. Gran had shaken her head, said all the decent men had gone and died in the war, and now my generation was lost.

  Warren’s gaze shifted away from me to the pistol in his hand. “We don’t have much time.”

  “If you kill me,” my voice was a tight thread, unspooling into a thin whisper, “what will happen to my mom?”

  “There’s no reason for the Reapers to hurt her, as long as you’re not a threat.” He sighed and lowered his gun. Then he raised his other hand, a set of car keys dangling from his fingers. “There’s another option. It’s a junker, but it’ll get you out of here. Parked down behind the bakery on Walnut.”

  I stared at his offering, not trusting him. “This is a trick. A way so you can kill me without anyone suspecting. Keeping you and the Reapers out of it.”

  “I could do that here and now if I really wanted to. Everyone would be happy—except maybe Jack Kutler. I tell you, that boy’s got some twisted thinking. No wonder he and Hank were so happy to take over running the slaughterhouse from their old man.” Even though I hadn’t taken the keys, he holstered his pistol.

  “Are you saying I should go to the Reapers? Be with my mom?” I had a fleeting fantasy of me rescuing her. “That way they won’t have to worry about me talking.” Or they could just kill me themselves. Mom wouldn’t let that happen…unless they killed her, too. My mind whirled with possibilities and consequences.

  Warren frowned at the idea. “There’s no free rides with the Reapers. Everyone earns their keep. And there’s only one way for a girl like you to do that.” He gestured with the keys. “Take them, Cherish. Leave.”

  “I should just go?” After all these months of being locked up, other people telling me when to eat and sleep and open a door, I was overwhelmed by the idea of freedom.

  “It’s your choice. If you keep silent, I can keep the Reapers from coming after you—at least as long as Stone is running the show. For your ma’s sake, you’d best pray the feds never catch up to him. If anything happens to him, you and your ma are as good as dead.”

  “You as well.”

  He sighed. “Me as well. And a lot of the peace-loving folk here in Craven County. You remember what it was like a few years ago—back even before the Reapers took over your cabin? You were just a little girl, but I’m sure you heard about the shootouts, the killings that came with the drugs.”

  I nodded. With my dad gone, I’d been scared all the time back then, and those stories had only made things worse. I’d hoped they were just that—stories to scare little girls, keep them awake at night, but obviously they were real.

  “It was like the wild west around here. Too many bodies for the morgue to even keep cold. Until Stone and I brokered a deal, a way to restore the peace. It’s a fragile thing. But if you can keep your mouth shut, it just might hold. For awhile, at least.”

  I took the keys. I had no intention of using them—I still suspected a trap—but it was better than any plan I had. And God help me, once my fingers closed around the freedom those car keys promised, I wasn’t thinking of my mom. She’d made her choice. I didn’t think of the innocent people of Craven County or even exactly what it would mean—being on the run, staying quiet for the rest of my life. All I could think of was Sylva, waiting for me down in New Orleans.

  All I knew was the faint surge of hope that I’d have a life, be free to go where I wanted, be with who I wanted, instead of rotting away behind prison bars.

  “Think hard, Cherish. It won’t be easy. Can you do it? Can you help me hold the peace? Keep your ma safe?”

  “Yes.” And my second deal with the devil was sealed. If only I’d had any idea of the price we would all end up paying.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Her dad had wanted her to stay home, but Megan insisted that he drive her to Beacon Falls. There were too many gaps and holes in the case. She needed to go back throu
gh everything one last time before presenting her case to Valencia.

  She locked herself in her small office and tackled the original files, sitting back and reading—cover to cover—every report. Not highlighting passages that proved Cherish’s guilt like she had earlier, not trying to built a case one way or the other. This time she tried to do what her mother would do: see the whole picture.

  She decided to work backwards, to give herself a fresh slant. First came the judge’s ruling dismissing the charges. It was long and boring—she had to borrow a legal dictionary from Valencia—but what it boiled down to was that without Cherish’s confessions, there was not enough evidence. Next came the research Justice for Youth had done to build their motion to have Cherish’s confession dismissed: medical and psychological expert opinions, case summaries and citations, interview transcripts. Then a lengthy dissertation on the ramifications of the 2012 Supreme Court ruling outlawing juvenile life without parole.

  Then she stumbled onto another document, one she’d overlooked the first time through because it had nothing to do with the actual legal case: a private investigator’s report from 2010. Submitted by a Cliff Starkey. Good name for a PI. Sounded like a character from one of those old Humphrey Bogart movies Mom and Dad loved.

  First she skimmed through the report—easy to do since it was only eight pages long. Cliff didn’t color his facts with any fancy interpretations, trying to pad their impact. She liked that about him. A straight shooter, this Cliff Starkey.

  Except…the final conclusion didn’t feel like a conclusion at all. It read as if his investigation ended early. She flipped over the final page—Cliff was a paper guy, despite mentioning using some high tech databases in his search for Cherish—but there was nothing there except a notation of final payment received. Weird.

  Something else bugged her about Cliff’s report. The guy was thorough—he’d interviewed Cherish Walker’s case worker, probation officer, two of the detention guards who’d had the most interaction with her, and the courthouse deputy who’d been guarding her when she escaped. He’d also talked to several dozen possible witnesses along her escape route, accessed any surveillance cameras possible, as well as reaching out to homeless shelters and churches within a hundred-mile radius. Each interaction had been meticulously recorded on index cards and then collated and photocopied to create his report.

  So what was she missing? She stared at the report wishing she had a window, a view to distract her. No, that would just make her angry that she wasn’t outside enjoying the nice weather instead of being trapped in this musty room filled with the detritus that was all that remained of Cherish Walker’s old life. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and imagined escaping police custody, going on the run, a fugitive, hiding, scared, no money, no transportation, nothing but the second-hand clothes on her back, headed out into the Tennessee mountains. Cherish had been Megan’s age when she’d run off—could Megan have survived?

  Probably not. Were they wasting all this time looking for a dead girl? Was that what bothered her about Cliff’s report, that he’d been so focused on finding Cherish alive?

  She opened her eyes, her gaze on the report’s cover sheet with Cliff’s logo, contact info, case name, and date. Report for JH McCabe, Esquire, regarding Cherish Anne Walker, submitted June 8, 2010.

  Three years after Cherish’s escape. Then she sat up. No, that wasn’t what bothered her. It was the date. 2010.

  She grabbed the report and banged out of the office, her footsteps thudding on the hardwood floors as she rushed into the conference room where Wash was working. “What year was the Supreme Court ruling making juvenile life without parole unconstitutional?”

  “2012,” he answered, without looking up from his keyboard.

  She sailed the cover sheet over his monitor so it covered his keyboard. “Then why was Mr. McCabe and his Justice for Youth group searching for Cherish in 2010?”

  He jerked his chin up at her. “What? Are you sure?” Then he picked up the cover sheet. “The only other data I have from before the SCOTUS finding comes from law enforcement’s search for Cherish. Why would a nonprofit be looking for her two years before there was a reason for them to be involved?”

  Wasn’t that what she’d just said? Grownups, always needing to digest things so slowly—like waiting half an hour before going swimming after eating. But then she realized Wash wasn’t processing what she’d told him, he was formulating a plan of action. He handed her the paper, his fingers dancing over his keyboard using a VOIP to dial Cliff Starkey’s office number.

  “Starkey here.” Megan liked that Cliff answered his own phone—and his voice was rough and gravelly, just as she’d imagined it.

  “Mr. Starkey, this is George Gamble of the Beacon Group.” Wash was short for Washington, his middle name, Megan remembered. “We’re reviewing a case you investigated with the possibility of pursuing it further, and we’d appreciate any insights you may have to offer before we decide.”

  “Which case?”

  “Cherish Walker. Back in 2010. She was the girl who—”

  “Yeah, I know who she is. So JH McCabe is still on the warpath, looking for her? Good for her, staying clear of that creep.”

  Megan blinked and glanced at Wash to see if he’d caught that. He leaned into the monitor even though he couldn’t see Cliff Starkey since the call was voice only. “Excuse me?”

  “Listen. I’m not going to break any confidences here, you understand. But if you’re wondering why I dropped the case, it was because I wasn’t about to risk my license being an accessory to murder.”

  “Murder? Mr. McCabe—”

  “Isn’t Mr. McCabe. I take it you haven’t done a full background check on your possible client yet. Let me save you a little trouble. JH stands for John Henry. And McCabe is his stepfather’s name. The name on his birth certificate is Kutler.”

  Megan grabbed Wash’s shoulder, her other hand clapping over her mouth before she said anything. “He’s Jack Kutler, the surviving twin,” Wash said.

  “Fooled me at first, too. The plastic surgeons did a helluva job with his face and fake eye, but it’s him. When we thought I might have a real lead, something the feds and cops had missed, he offered me half a mil to bring the girl directly to him and then forget all about her—without reporting the capture of a wanted fugitive to the authorities. That’s when I dug deep and realized what he really wanted with Cherish Walker.”

  “Revenge.”

  “Eye for an eye,” Cliff said. “Only I reckon that will just be the start. JH McCabe is insane—and I don’t use that term lightly. He’s been in and out of mental hospitals for the past decade. You’d best steer clear of him.”

  Wash cleared his throat. “Thanks. We will. But this possible lead—did you find Cherish and warn her?”

  “No, sad to say, it didn’t pan out. Not that I would have necessarily let her go—there was a twenty-thousand-dollar reward. Although after meeting McCabe, I was starting to have doubts about her guilt. I got busy with other things, had to pay the bills, but I always meant to give her case another try. Guess if McCabe’s still looking, she hasn’t turned up yet. It might be best to let sleeping dogs lie, though, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do. Thank you, Mr. Starkey. You’ve been a tremendous help.” Wash hung up and tilted his chair back onto two wheels.

  “McCabe made it all up,” Megan said. “He never wanted to save Cherish—does Justice for Youth even exist?”

  Wash was busy dialing. “Yes. We’ve done work for them before. They’re legit. As is their report on Cherish—her charges were dropped. We verified that before we took the case.”

  “So he stole their info to get us to find her for him.”

  He held a hand up as a phone was answered. “Justice for Youth.”

  “Hello, this is George Gamble from the Beacon Group. I’m trying to reach JH McCabe. I believe he’s one of your associates?”

  There was a lengthy pause. “No, not an associate,
I’m afraid. But he’s a donor. Perhaps that’s where you saw his name—he’s listed on our honor roll.”

  “Does he volunteer for you at all? Perhaps by providing legal services?”

  “Legal services? Mr. McCabe? No, sir. He’s not a lawyer. But maybe he paid for one of our lawyers to take on a case?”

  “Oh, of course. My mistake. I’ll call his cell directly. Thank you.” Wash pushed back from his keyboard, lips pressed together.

  Megan pivoted to stand in front of Wash. “We have to call my mom. She has no idea she can’t trust McCabe. If he’s as crazy as Cliff says, then he might not care about hurting anyone who gets between him and Cherish. She could be walking into a trap.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lucy remained at her seat while Sylva moved to the far edge of the terrace, near the café’s entrance, to wait for her appointment with the person claiming to be Cherish’s mother. Unlike during her talk with Lucy, Sylva now looked nervous, adjusting her seat, glancing into the dining room, then past the terrace entrance to the walkway leading to the parking area. She dropped her napkin once and knocked over the bowl with the sugar packets before stirring one into her tea. Lucy was afraid she would bolt before the meet ever took place, but then a man appeared on the walkway.

  Sylva stared at him, looked back into the dining room, and then rose to meet him. Lucy stood as well. What the hell was JH McCabe doing here? Then she realized: the lawyer must have set up the fake online profile as another means of reaching out to Cherish.

  He and Sylva met, McCabe taking her elbow and steering her away from the terrace. Lucy followed. No way in hell was the arrogant attorney going to stiff the Beacon Group, claiming that they’d had nothing to do with finding Sylva—Lucy got here first, and she wasn’t about to let McCabe off the hook.

  She rounded the corner into the parking lot. There was an Escalade idling in a handicapped spot beside some trees that shaded it both from the sun and from easy view. McCabe appeared at the rear of the vehicle. Sylva was nowhere to be seen. Lucy moved past the other cars blocking her view and approached McCabe from the driver’s side.