Dark Before Dawn

by Monica McGurk

  I stood in front of Macey, frowning. I needed her to look the part. I pulled the camisole back down to reveal some skin and fluffed her hair.

  “Now, Macey,” I began, my tone stern. “Luke is in trouble because of you and what your parents did. He can’t be here with you now, but he asked me to take care of you. To help him—to help yourself—you’re going to have to do what I ask. Luke would want you to. You understand me, Macey?”

  She didn’t look up; she just nodded, once.

  “Luke had you pretend with those men back in Atlanta, right? Had you act for them, for the videos?”

  She nodded again.

  “This time you’re going to have to do it for real. There are men in these trucks. Men who are lonely. Men who could use the company of a pretty girl like you. You’re going to do whatever they ask. You’re going to let them do whatever they want to do to you. You just tell them it will cost them a hundred dollars, cash. Otherwise, you are not to talk to them under any circumstances. Just speak if you are spoken to. You got that, Macey?”

  She whimpered, afraid.

  I shook her hard. “They don’t want a crybaby, Macey. Luke told me you were mature enough to handle this. That you loved him enough to be able to help him. That hundred dollars will help him a lot, Macey. Can Luke count on you?”

  She dragged her arm across her face to wipe away the tears.

  “No crying. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Okay. Good girl. Because you’re being a good girl for me, I’m going to give you a little something to help your nerves. Would you like that?”

  She whimpered softly. “Please.”

  “Stand still.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the syringe. She winced as I put it into the fleshy part of her upper arm and plunged the drug into her system.

  “See?” I said, withdrawing the needle. “Luke asked me to take care of you, and I am. Nothing to it.”

  She rubbed the sore spot on her arm.

  “Okay. Ready, now? I need you to walk, slowly, between the rows of trucks. I’ll be standing over here, out of the way, but I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  She began walking, a little wobbly, parading herself in front of the trucks with her eyes glued to the asphalt.

  “Lift up your head, Macey,” I coached from the shadows. “Look straight ahead—nobody wants a spoilsport.”

  She wound through the first row and moved back, walking to the next. My human senses were on full alert, knowing that I needed to get her into one of those trucks before the drugs completely sapped her strength.

  Finally, one of the trucks flashed its headlights.

  I had a buyer.

  “Stop right there,” I shouted across the lot. “See that truck? The one that flashed its lights? No, not that one. The red Peterbilt next to it.”

  She turned to face the truck.

  “Go up and knock on the driver’s side door. Let him tell you what he wants, and you tell him what it will cost. If he agrees, climb up on the passenger side. I’ll be waiting right here for you.”

  She hesitated just a moment too long.

  “Luke will be so proud of you, Macey. He will be so happy that you love him so much. He’ll be with you at the end of our trip, you know. And then I can tell him how brave you were for him.”

  Hearing that, she squared her shoulders and walked over to the truck.

  Funny how you could get a girl to go through hell just by promising her heaven on the other side. I watched her, feeling an almost parental sense of pride. I was pushing my baby out of the nest, and she, trusting or afraid—it really didn’t matter which—was spreading her wings.

  What she didn’t know yet was that she would climb down from that truck and do it all over again. Over and over and over again, until I said she’d done enough for the night.

  Shrieking pain whipped through my body as I watched the door close behind her. I turned on my heel, going back to move the car, and Rorie, to a less conspicuous space where I could keep watch. As I did, I wondered—had Hope and Michael figured out yet what was really going on? Did they realize that the hand moving behind the scenes, wreaking destruction upon Macey and their precious Rorie, was really me?

  I certainly hoped so. I chuckled, embracing the pain even as it made my eyes roll back in my head, white and desperate in agony.

  It was nearly dawn when Macey finally stumbled into the backseat of the car—our home away from home.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Rorie breathed as her friend collapsed on the seat.

  One eye was swollen shut. Fingerprints—red, ugly welts—encircled her slender throat like a necklace. Her blouse was torn, and blood dripped down her leg. I could see Rorie shut her eyes in a vain attempt to try to shut out the reality of what had just happened to her friend.

  And I could imagine what she was thinking: when will it be my turn?

  I had been careful to park in the back of the lot, away from all the traffic, keeping us out of the way. From this isolated spot, I knew nobody would notice Rorie pounding against the glass and screaming until her voice gave out. Nobody along the route seemed to find it odd—two young girls, barely dressed, huddled in the backseat, driving cross-country in the company of an older man.

  But even so, I knew Rorie was no fool and would be planning her escape. So I quickly slid behind the wheel and locked the doors before she had a chance to act.

  She gave a tiny cry of frustration, pressing her face against the window as we pulled out of the truck stop, another chance lost.

  Macey shifted on the seat next to her. “Rorie?”

  “What is it, honey?” Rorie asked, smoothing the hair off of her forehead.

  “I miss Luke,” she mumbled through her stupor, pulling her legs in tight and curling on the seat in fetal position.

  I smiled, imagining the flash of anger running through Rorie. But the girl buried whatever she must have been feeling, perhaps missing her own loved ones; instead, she took Macey’s hand and stroked her hair, bidding her to sleep.

  “I know, honey. I know.”

  I continued to drive.

  thirteen

  HOPE

  My mother was dead.

  I buried her, of course, in the tiny plot of red Georgia clay that held my father, in the forgotten cemetery that had the audacity to call itself New Hope. The one thing I could cling to was that in death, finally, they had been reunited.

  Tabby paused, her voice catching as she read, her long black minister’s robe fluttering in the wind.

  For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep. For this we declare to you by a word from the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord.

  “First Thessalonians, chapter four, verses fourteen through seventeen,” she concluded.

  I pushed away the thoughts that sprang unbidden as she read the verse, forcing myself to focus on my best friend, who had stoically demanded that only she should be allowed to preside over my mother’s funeral. She closed her Bible and pushed up her glasses to wipe away a tear. Wearily, she lifted up her head to look at the assembled crowd. “Let us return Mona now to ashes and dust, her soul finally reunited with the Lord.”

  As I stood before the gaping hole, waiting to throw the first handful of dirt upon my mother’s casket, I thought of what my mother had said just before she died—how she’d claimed to see my father. How she’d looked at Michael and said that he and my father were there for her—to what? Escort her to the other side?

  And why had Michael been sent to her aid, when he hadn�
��t known to come to mine in the first place?

  I looked up from the ground, seeking some reassurance in Michael’s eyes. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking hard across the cemetery.

  I followed his gaze and saw them all lined up in the back of the gathered mourners, their faces sober. Gabrielle. Raph. Enoch. Arthur, who’d gone down trying to fight off the Fallen Angels who’d attacked my mother and sister, was the only one absent. My heart gave a tug at the thought that he, too, was a casualty of this war between angels—albeit, I hoped, a temporary one.

  I looked more closely at the phalanx of angels, trying to discern what had captured Michael’s attention, parsing their every movement and hoping to understand how this loss had ever come to pass. Enoch seemed truly grief-stricken, dabbing at his face with a ratty hankie and leaning heavily into his cane. Underneath his Army-surplus jacket, he had dressed up for the occasion, wearing a tuxedo T-shirt imprinted with a bow tie and lapels. His effort brought a wistful smile to my face. Raph, however, in typical fashion, stood still, his hands crossed impassively before him, his hooded eyes hiding whatever he may have felt. Gabrielle, on the other hand, seemed bored—her gaze wandering over the assembled crowd. For an instant, our eyes locked. She stared at me, her eyes frank, and I suddenly realized she wasn’t sad or remorseful at all.

  Frustrated, I squeezed Michael’s hand. He finally dragged his eyes away to give me his attention. Now, more than ever, I yearned for his comforting presence; to feel his warmth ebbing and flowing through me; to hear his thoughts pulsing through my blood as I listened to the whispers of his heart. But I couldn’t help feeling like even after all these years, I still couldn’t fathom him—I was just as far from understanding him as I ever was.

  When the attendants took up their shovels, I turned and began making my way through the assembled crowd, leaning heavily on Tabby’s arm while Michael hung back. The mourners—some my own friends, some my mother’s, and some Tabby’s family—pressed their hands in mine and touched my shoulder quietly, not knowing what to say. In their eyes, I was alone now. Slowly, they broke away in small clusters, stepping carefully through the ruined graveyard back toward the parking lot, until Tabby, the angels, and I were the only ones remaining.

  None of the mourners had said anything to me about Rorie’s disappearance: it was already public knowledge, but too horrible and fresh for anyone to mention.

  The wind rustled through the bare branches of the oak trees surrounding the cemetery, a lonely reminder of the changing of the seasons. I shivered, pulling my coat close.

  “Raph.” He bowed his head as I acknowledged him. “Gabrielle.”

  “Hope,” she said, with a slight bow of her head. My eyes narrowed as I took her in—impeccable as always, still without a trace of grief marring her face. She gave a slight toss of her long, blond hair. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Are you?” I challenged.

  Her eyes widened, startled, and she lifted her chin slightly.

  “Of course I am. Why would I not be?”

  Before I could answer, Michael came up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off.

  “I’ll meet you all back at the carriage house,” I said, my voice strangely flat to my own ears, and I walked away, pulling Tabby behind me.

  It was disorienting to come home to the carriage house and see the burned-out shell of our own home up the driveway, the lingering smell of ash and soot ever present. The tiny kitchen was filled with gifted casseroles—sweet potatoes, gumbos, collard greens, grits done five ways—the bounty of the South, the way good people in my hometown expressed their sympathy and care. That I was the only one here to eat it was irrelevant. It was what one did when one was a good neighbor. Tabby and I piled them carefully in the refrigerator and freezer, setting aside the handwritten notes that had accompanied them, and settled down at the counter.

  I looked at my watch. It was scarcely 2:00 p.m., and I was already exhausted. Ollie sidled up to me and whimpered, pushing at my free hand. Absentmindedly, I scratched him behind the ears.

  “You did good, Tabby. Thank you. Though I think Mom would have been disappointed in your lack of ‘flair.’” I forced a grin, remembering my mother’s appreciation for Tabby’s unique sense of style and penchant for drama. “You were practically sedate.”

  Tabby drew herself up in feigned offense, peering imperiously down at me where I sat huddled on the stool. “You underestimate me, sister. I just chose to pay homage to your mother in my own way. Not for show, but for real, so that only she’d know it. And now, you: look, and be amazed.” She pushed her glasses over her head and unzipped her long black preacher’s robe. With a flourish, she let it drop to the floor. “Ta da!”

  I stared, confused. Her entire outfit seemed to be made out of newsprint.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “I got copies of every single scholarly or news article written by or about your mom and had them made into this.” She swept an arm dramatically over her skirt and jacket. “A Chanel pattern, of course. It seemed only fitting.”

  My mouth dropped open in awe as she twirled.

  “See down here?” She gestured toward the hem of the skirt. “This was the interview she gave to The Economist. And this?” She ran a finger down the length of her arm. “Harvard Business Review. They did a case on her, did you know that? Her own HBR case. This one here?” She patted her shoulder. “This is a picture of her ringing the bell on Wall Street. Come here, Hope, you’ve got to check it out. There were more than forty articles. And that’s not counting the ones about your disappearance or your dad’s death.” She pulled me to my feet, dragging me close to her crazy newsprint outfit. “Look at them all—Business Week, Consulting Age, Forbes, Wall Street Journal.” She was stabbing all over her dress now. “Econometrica. The Financial Times. Journal of Management Studies. Even the mind-numbingly boring-sounding Journal of Financial Economics. I used that one for the lining.” She flashed me a view of the inside of her jacket. “Your mom was brilliant, girl. She was a trailblazer, and these articles prove it. But what she was most proud of was you and Rorie.” She pulled me in for a tight hug. “I don’t need to read any newspapers to know that.”

  A lonely tear squeezed out of my eye and dropped onto Tabby’s shoulder, dissolving the print in a blurry smudge. I hugged her back, so hard that her lovingly made couture creation gave with a rip.

  “Oh no! Your dress!”

  She laughed. “Nobody expects a paper dress to last forever. I’m just glad it made it through the ceremony. That said, I am a little worried I’m going to dissolve into a sweaty, inky mess if I don’t get out of this. You okay if I go change?”

  I nodded, sniffing back a tear and a laugh. Only Tabby.

  “When I come back, we’re going to talk about what you’re going to do about Rorie—and about Michael. Okay?”

  I nodded, relieved to be able to unburden myself and grateful for Tabby’s presence.

  “There’s nothing good about having to say a funeral service, Hope. I’m just glad to be the one to do it for you. She was like another mother to me, too, you know. Just like you’re my sister— even if you are a little crazy sometimes.” She let a mischievous smile steal across her face. “I’ll be back faster than a Kardashian at a designer sidewalk sale.”

  When she returned, she’d stripped out of her official trappings and changed into a cozy sweater and jeans, a pair of leopard-spotted clogs adorning her feet. She perched herself on the stool next to me and peered at me through her cat-eye glasses. “Spill it. What are you thinking?”

  I slumped in my seat. “Where do I even start?”

  “Why don’t you start with why Michael isn’t here with you, hmm?” She skewered me with her most pointed look. There was no point in avoiding the conversation.

  “I asked him to give me some time alone. I needed to think.”

  “About what?”

  “About whether I can trust him. Whether, if it came to choosing s
ides between me and the other angels, he’d choose me.”

  Tabby let out a low whistle. “Why are you even asking yourself such a question, Hope?”

  “How can I not?” I cried, nearly choking. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white. “He didn’t even show up when I needed him the most, Tabby! None of them did. They didn’t live up to their promise to protect Rorie,” I said, the words twisting bitterly on my lips. “Not one of them, except for Arthur. They’ve offered no real explanation for it, either. All I know is that if they had been there when Rorie needed them, she’d never have fallen into Lucas’s hands. And my mother would still be alive.”

  “You can’t know that for sure,” she said evenly.

  “No. No, I can’t. But I believe it in my heart. The only problem is—”

  “—that you don’t believe you can find Rorie and rescue her and Macey without them,” Tabby said, finishing my thought. I sank into my chair, grateful to not have to explain my reasoning. “Agent Hale isn’t giving you much hope, then?”

  I shook my head. “Missing persons statistics put low odds on finding her now. Hale thinks she’s moved outside his jurisdiction. GBI has done all they can, so it has to move to a higher level. But nobody—no state nor federal body—is going to prioritize looking for two lost little girls. Not with everything else they have to deal with.”

  “But Lucas—or Luke, whoever he is—he’s wanted for murder, isn’t he? Not just for your mother, but for the Jacksons, too. Isn’t your office going to do something? Surely that demands some attention? Some resources? Shouldn’t the DA’s office have to do something?”

  I was too tired, now, to let the outrage that fired Tabby’s body work its way on me. I simply stared at her fists, impotently balled up on the counter, and shook my head.

  “Apparently not. Not anything more than they’d do for any case like this, anyway. The irony of it is that because of my family’s past history, the DA thinks it’s a vendetta of some sort against my mother. In other words, the risk Lucas poses to others is low. So it’s up to me and whatever urgency Social Services can muster up for a missing foster child—which isn’t, apparently, that much. As for my office, well …”