Gone Dark

by C. J. Lyons

  He hung up, frowned at TK through the rearview mirror, and seemed to make up his mind about something. Then he switched the ignition on and wove his way past the other vehicles, turning back onto the narrow mountain road, now covered with mud sluiced down from the mountainside it hugged.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Across the valley, up to the Kutlers’ place.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  He was silent for a moment, concentrating on steering as visibility diminished to a small swath lit by the headlights, barely extending out from the vehicle. “Nothing. You said you wanted to meet Jack Kutler. Looks like he’s come home, is all.”

  TK didn’t trust his sudden cooperation—Warren had been adamant about their not “bothering” any of the Kutler family. She grabbed her cell and cursed. No reception, not winding through the narrow gorge. She kept it out, though, watching for bars. Finally they climbed out of the gorge and she had one flickering bar. She tried Lucy. No answer; it went to voice mail. “Hey, Warren and I are headed to the Kutlers’ farm. Call me when you get this.”

  She hung up but still clutched her phone, barely registering the violence raging beyond the car. Something didn’t feel right. Gleason dying right when they were coming to question him, the one person who’d last seen Cherish Walker before she’d vanished. He’d been questioned multiple times and his story had never changed before—so what had happened now that would force someone to kill him? Because no way in hell did she believe his death was an accident.

  Then she spotted a new voicemail left by Wash. It must have been caught in cyberspace while she was out of range and only now had the chance to download. She clicked to listen. “It’s me. Lucy isn’t picking up. You guys need to know—McCabe isn’t who he said he was. Well, he is, but it’s not the whole story. McCabe is his stepfather’s name. He’s really Jack Kutler. I’m not sure where he is right now, so keep an eye out. Call me and let me know you guys are all right. Thanks.”

  She tried to call him back but kept getting a recorded message that service was temporarily down. Warren’s radio crackled with activity: reports of mudslides, flooding, a possible tornado sighting, and finally an instruction for all units to use the radios since the cell tower serving their patrol area was down.

  TK pocketed her now-useless phone. If McCabe was Jack Kutler, then why would Kutler call Warren and invite them out to his house? Maybe he assumed they already knew who he really was? After all, taking your stepfather’s name was no crime. But then why not just come out and tell them he had personal reasons to find Cherish Walker? Did Justice for Youth know McCabe was Kutler? Maybe all this was an elaborate plot to use them to get to Cherish.

  But what did he want with TK? She was no closer to finding Cherish—Lucy was the one following their best lead. And why call Warren? McCabe could have just have easily called Lucy or TK.

  They took a turn too fast, and the wheels spun against the slick mud. Warren slowed down, puddles splashing up on either side of the car as he eased them past downed tree limbs. Then the lane opened up to a clearing, the shadow of the mountain casting them into darkness. There were two other vehicles in front of them: a black SUV and a yellow Prius.

  They parked beside the slaughterhouse.

  “Wait here,” Warren said.

  He climbed out of the car, the storm quickly erasing him from view, as TK pounded futilely against the rear door. “Let me out!”

  No answer except for the roar of the storm.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jack tackled me from behind and looped a length of chain around my neck. The sheet metal false wall I’d been holding clanged shut. I tried to twist free, grabbing at the chain choking me. No matter how hard I kicked or struggled, Jack merely laughed. He arched me backwards, my feet off the ground, not even able to scream now as he yanked the chain tight, sliding a hook through it to create a noose. It ground into my fingers as I frantically tried to claw it open and find room to breathe.

  Then came a clanking noise and I was swinging free, my toes barely scraping the ground, dangling from the hoist. Jack spun me around to face him—I was too short, still wasn’t at his eye level, but that didn’t stop him from kissing me, my mouth open, gasping for air, his mouth bruising against it. His hands slid along my wet clothing, stroking, grabbing, taking possession. Fury burned away my fear and I stopped struggling.

  Now wasn’t the time to be afraid, I realized. Now was the time to stall. Give Sylva time to escape. And the best way to keep Jack’s focus on me? Fight back.

  I bit down on his trespassing tongue. When he jerked back, I flung my head forward, cracking my skull against his nose. He gave a satisfying grunt of pain and I followed up with a knee to his groin—which was a total failure without the leverage of standing on firm ground. The movement sent me spinning as the chain followed the railing.

  Jack roared and rushed me as if I were a tackling dummy, propelling both of us deeper into the length of the building. We came to a stop at the next station along the butchering line. He straightened, backed off a step, and then slapped me so hard that I spun like a piñata. I still had both hands clutching the chain at my throat, pinned tight, no way to block his blows as he followed up with a clumsy fake kung fu kick to my side and then a fist to my belly.

  How long? was my only thought as I twisted and spun helpless. The pain meant nothing as long as it gave Sylva time. Besides, this was just the pre-game warm up—nothing he did caused any real damage; he was just having fun, a cat playing with the bird whose wings he’d broken.

  “Told you I’d show you my beef, Cherrygirl,” he said in a singsong, as he pushed me along the track. “Me and Hank, we’re going to show you everything we know about butchering. We’ve perfected our method. I’ve got my knives sharp, waiting to make you scream.”

  I debated giving him what I knew he wanted: the hysterical sobbing of a victim. But if I was going to die here, it would be on my terms, not his. I clamped my teeth tight and kept quiet. It only infuriated him more, but that also made him careless as each move he made sent me further along the railing. All I needed was a place where I could plant my feet—then I could work my hands around to the hook digging into the back of my neck, undo it, and free myself.

  We were almost to the rear of the building, deep in the shadows since Jack had kept the lights back here turned off. He knew the place well enough to move with confidence, dancing up to the first level of scaffolding to shake my chain from above, threatening to tighten the noose. I had no idea what part of the cow the next butchering station was meant to remove, but whatever it was, there was a trough, maybe six inches high, covered with a metal grate. Exactly what I needed.

  Jack vanished into the shadows, singing some weird song, as if calling for his knives. He kept talking as if Hank were here, carrying on both sides of a conversation I couldn’t follow even if I’d had the strength to try. Now that my feet were planted, taking my weight off the chain, I was focused on tugging the noose off my head.

  Once I was free, I scooted into the space beneath the lowest set of scaffolding, hoping to hide in the shadows until I found a way out. Sylva and Lucy should be long gone—I’d left the keys in the Prius, so the only thing slowing them would be the storm.

  Jack returned, doing a strange dance-rap combo that I remembered as his touchdown celebration from all those years ago. He still thought Hank was alive, still thought he was the high school football star, I realized. I held my breath—it hurt to breathe, my neck bruised from the chain—as I crept beneath him. His celebration moves rattled the scaffolding, sending rust and mud down over me. Inching deeper into the shadows, I focused on silence.

  Then a bright light stabbed into the space in front of me, blinding as it reflected from a shiny rack of knives. I scooted back but now all of the lights came on, accompanied by Jack’s laughter.

  “Cherrygal, dumb as a cow,” he chanted and I realized he’d herded me here, exactly where he wanted me. He leapt down
from the scaffolding, arms spread wide, long knives clutched in both hands. I had nowhere to run, and my back was pressed to the cement block wall. Just like that night all those years ago.

  I still had my folding knife. After cutting Lucy and Sylva free, it would be dull as hell, but better than nothing. I slid my hand around my waist to my back pocket, grasping it, carefully opening the blade. Jack faked to one side and then lunged to the other, coming closer and closer with each step. The light filtered through the scaffolding’s grated floor, casting warped shadows over his features, making him look like a twisted monster.

  He took another step, close enough for me to see that it was no illusion of the light. His eyes had gone wide, his teeth were bared, blood covered the lower half of his face—I’d broken his nose, adding to his macabre appearance—and the light winked from his oh-so-shiny knives.

  I drew in a deep breath, to hell with the pain, and braced myself, focusing on exactly where I’d aim: his left groin where there were several major arteries and veins. Anywhere higher and I’d be at a disadvantage with his greater height, plus I’d open myself up to his attack if I aimed high. Low and dirty it was.

  One more step, I told myself, watching his hands. Just one more step…

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lucy had no choice but to leave Cherish behind, despite Sylva’s protests. She half carried, half dragged Sylva up the chute and back through the corral to the door leading outside. The rain drove down in sheets, slicing through the air, almost horizontal. Bending over double as the mud threatened to twist Lucy’s own bad leg out from under her, they fought through the storm toward the cars.

  It wasn’t until Sylva nudged her that Lucy looked up and saw a third vehicle parked behind the SUV and the Prius. A sheriff’s car! They struggled toward it, and she spotted a figure pounding against the rear window—TK.

  Lucy opened the front door—unlocked, thank God—and lowered Sylva onto the driver’s seat and clicked the rear door release. TK flew out of the back seat.

  “It’s Warren,” TK shouted over the might of the storm. “He’s involved somehow. He was taking me to meet Jack Kutler, and then left me here.”

  “Kutler’s inside with Cherish.” Lucy turned to Sylva. “Did he leave the keys?”

  She searched and shook her head. “No. Will the radio work without them? We could call for help.”

  “Phones are down,” TK said. “But the radio was working before.” When Sylva tried, though, nothing would turn on.

  Lucy saw that there was a gun rack adjacent to the passenger seat, but it was empty. “Pop the trunk. There might be more weapons.” The trunk opened, and she and TK ransacked its contents. Plenty of ammunition, an AED, and first aid kit that TK handed to Sylva, some riot gear; but no weapons. She did grab two flash-bang grenades and a handful of road flares, sharing them with TK.

  She turned to Sylva. “Take the Prius. Go for help.”

  “No. I’m not leaving Cherish.”

  “TK and I will help Cherish.” They each took one of Sylva’s arms and helped her through the mud and rain to the Prius. The car was up to its hubcaps in mud; Lucy hoped it wasn’t stuck.

  “Don’t trust the sheriffs,” TK added. Sylva was struggling to position the seat so her damaged leg wouldn’t be in the way. “Get the State Police.”

  “Is there time for that?” she asked, turning the ignition on.

  “Just go.” Lucy backed away and turned to TK. “We would have heard Warren come in behind us through the side door. Which way did he go?”

  “To the front. The office. He has keys.” She had to shout to be heard above the wind. Behind them the Prius was slowly turning around, slip-sliding over the mud.

  Lucy’s bad ankle skidded out from under her, but TK caught her with an arm around her waist. Together they began to hobble toward the front of the slaughterhouse. Before they’d made it halfway across the lot, the ground began to shake, vibrations echoing up to rattle Lucy’s bones. The wind shrieked, and the sound of wood striking metal crashed through the air.

  They stopped. The lower half of the mountain, where the trees had such a precarious hold on the earth, was sliding down, a tsunami of mud aimed at the slaughterhouse.

  As I lunged toward Jack, gambling everything on an all-or-nothing attack, the building shook and a strange thudding pounded against the metal roof. Jack whirled, his head hitting the bottom of the scaffolding, and my knife sliced his flank; not exactly the killing blow I’d intended. The noise grew louder, like fireworks going off directly overhead, one booming explosion after another. I took advantage of Jack’s distraction to spin away before he could grab me, and I scrambled back down the scaffolding toward the front and the exit.

  Suddenly, a blast of wind and rain struck me from behind. The lights flickered, some of them exploding in a burst of sparks, and everything went dark. The roof heaved, a kite tugging at its string, the far end buckling as the thuds became a rush of noise. The entire building shuddered; it felt as if the mountain were coming down on top of us.

  I kept floundering through the dark, tripping over grates and vats and equipment as I fled. The roof at the far end caved in, and trees tumbled in through the void, along with a rush of mud that cascaded in like a waterfall. The faint sunlight escaping the storm made it all look so surreal, reflections echoing in every direction. The noise was deafening, and it wasn’t until I tripped and fell onto my back that I realized there was water covering the floor, several inches already, rushing and grabbing at anything it could reach.

  Throughout it all Jack was screaming and shouting abuse, raging at the storm. He climbed out from under the scaffolding and up to the next level, his arms spread wide as he spewed thunder meeting thunder.

  Then came another shriek of sound, this one the sound of metal tearing, ripping itself apart. A segment of the roof split apart, releasing a fresh wave of water and mud directly onto Jack’s head, tossing him down from his pulpit. Machinery fell along with the top tier of scaffolding. Lengths of sheet metal flew through the air. The water rose as I huddled beneath the scaffold, metal raining down around me.

  Finally the maelstrom eased. The only sounds remaining were the rain battering what was left of the roof and Jack’s screams of anguish—worse than any cow being butchered. I eased my way out from under the scaffolding—it had buckled, blocking my path forward—and stood in the weird, dim light, considering my options. I could just make out Jack. He’d crashed down to the floor and was pinned there by debris, barely able to keep his face above the surging water.

  It would be easy to kill him. Easy to leave him to die. God help me, those were the first two thoughts that flashed through my exhausted brain. Sylva was safe. Knowing that, Jack had no power over me. But I still had to live with myself—more than that, I had to be worthy of Sylva. And she would never approve leaving a helpless creature to die. Besides, Jack deserved to face the world for his crimes—and I deserved for the truth to finally be heard.

  Grabbing a length of metal pipe to use as a lever, I sloshed my way to where Jack lay, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish. He’d dropped his knives; one was still nearby, a six inch boning blade, so I took it and slid it into my belt. Just in case.

  I crouched down to study the problem, deciding where best to leverage the debris to raise it without causing any more harm. I turned to Jack, who was watching me with silent suspicion. “Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “I don’t think so, Cherish,” came a voice from behind me.

  I whirled to see Warren holding a shotgun aimed at me.

  “Back away,” he ordered. He was close, only six feet or so away. No way he could miss at that range.

  “No. He’ll drown.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  He must have realized how unbalanced Jack was, must have wanted to cover his tracks—permanently. Which meant I would be the next casualty of the storm. And who would argue otherwise? A brave deputy risks his life to try to r
escue a fugitive from justice, only to find that he’s too late. Such a tragic tale.

  Like hell. The pipe I held was only about four feet long, but if I timed it right and reached far enough… I gave up thinking and calculating and lunged, swinging the pipe like a baseball bat. Warren ducked his head, reflexively twisting his body away, and the shotgun went off, missing me to strike the cement block wall. The pipe hit his elbow so hard he not only dropped the gun, he went down to one knee. He tried to reach for the gun at his belt, but his hand dangled, the arm obviously broken.

  He scooted back, his face twisted in pain, and reached across his body with his good hand, trying to get to his gun.

  “Stop!” a woman shouted from the shadows behind us. I looked up to see Lucy, along with another woman, this one my age. The second woman darted forward, placing a boot against Warren’s chest and holding him down in the mud and muck as she took his gun, handed it to Lucy, and then searched him.

  “Cherish, are you all right?”

  “Sylva?” I panted, my throat tight with worry. God, it hurt to talk.

  “She’s fine. Let’s get you out of here.” Lucy stumbled forward, favoring her left leg as she stepped over debris swirling through the floodwaters. Her partner hauled Warren to his feet and handcuffed his good hand to his belt.

  “Jack—” I turned around. Jack had given up the struggle and let his head fall back, his mouth and nose now under water. His face was relaxed and shone white in the shimmering light, one eye shut, the other eye open as if watching me.

  I fell to my knees, pushed his head up, and felt for a pulse.

  But it was too late. He was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Nick was catching up at his office, leaving Lucy to deal with Megan—who for some reason was even more out of sorts, despite the fact that she’d helped to crack the case. Nick thought maybe it was the fact that Lucy had been in danger, again, but Lucy disagreed. She’d seen Megan worried and anxious. This wasn’t that. More like disappointed… as if somehow, Cherish Walker finding a relatively happy ending wasn’t the outcome Megan had expected.