A Lullaby in the Dark

by Billie Reece

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  A movement beyond the gate catches my attention. A news van rolling in. Lieutenant Gordon walks in that direction. “I’ve got it.”

  “Thanks.” I go back to the scene.

  The sun shifts, moving toward late afternoon. It will be dark soon.

  A footprint and an ATV. Not a lot. Hopefully the “care package” will give back something useful.

  Two days. That’s how long Thomas Quillen kept Mary, Rachel, and Opal alive after each set of parents received their personalized package.

  Two days. The clock has already started ticking.

  The sound of someone chewing has me glancing over to see a cow working the cud in her mouth as she stares at me. “Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” I raise my voice to the nearby officers. “Someone get rid of this thing. This is a crime scene!”

  Not a single officer moves.

  My death glare makes one uniform leap forward. A young twenty-something officer just out of the academy. He jogs past me, grabbing the thick collar and checking the ID tag stapled into the cow’s ear.

  “Belongs to Basinger,” he says, already pulling out his walkie.

  I watch him as he calls it in. Young, sure, but carries himself as someone much older. Tall and fit with dark brown hair. The exact type I would have crushed on in college.

  That thought throws me off for a second.

  He finishes the call and I ask, “What’s your name?”

  “Tucker Elder.”

  “Are you local?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I drain the last bit of coffee. “Do you know the Stevens family?”

  “I do. My sister and Danielle Stevens go to school together.”

  “Good, I’m heading over there now. I want you to go with me.” I wave another officer over to handle the cow.

  Tucker clears his throat. “I’m off work in fifteen minutes.” He’s quick to follow that with, “I would work overtime, but I can’t. I have to get my sister from the sitter.”

  “Can’t your parents do that?”

  Something flashes across Tucker’s face. “No. It’s my responsibility. I can maybe ask the sitter to work late.”

  “Yes, do that.” While the cow gets handed off and Tucker places a call, I walk back down the trail toward the gate.

  Caroline emerges from the trees. I glance at her hopefully. I’m not sure how she does what she does, but it works.

  “Danielle Stevens wasn’t scared,” she says. “No struggle. She didn’t feel threatened. It appears she went willingly with her abductor.”

  Nine

  The Stevens family lives in a new townhome community, gated and well cared for. Light blue homes with dark blue doors. They bought a corner lot, giving them a small side yard. Each townhome has a single car garage and a parking pad big enough for an additional vehicle. Visitor spots dot the community.

  News vans and police vehicles fill those visitor spots, spilling out into the street as well. The number 200 marks their home on a plate mounted above an exterior light.

  A couple of uniformed officers stand in front of Stevens’s home. The officers were told I was coming and when they see my Dodge, they lift the orange cones blocking the home and wave me onto the parking pad.

  The excitement level of the journalists picks up with my arrival. I turn my car off, glancing over at Tucker. “You ready for this?”

  He nods. “I am.”

  “Let me do all the talking. You listen and be present. Take notes.” I open the car door and step out into the mess. The questions come fast.

  “Can you give us an update?”

  “What are you doing to find the little girl?”

  “What evidence do you have?”

  I ignore them as I cross in front of my Dodge and step onto the brick walkway that leads to the front door.

  A familiar voice booms deep and southern, distinct above the others. “Detective Covington, is it happening again?”

  That voice stops me. I glance back. My eyes make contact with a tall, silver-haired man. Colonel Sanders. It’s who I always think of when I see him. He holds an old-timey microphone out with a cable attached to a recorder. His silver mustache twitches with a smirk.

  Colonel Sanders’s real name is Lawrence Inglebird, a freelance journalist and all-around nosy human being. Unfortunately, this makes him good at his job. He’s got an eye for a story and the details. He covered The Lullaby Man back when I was in the thick of it. He asked a lot of difficult questions, specifically about the accident that left Thomas Quillen in his current condition.

  Is it happening again?

  Why did he ask that question?

  I raise my voice so everyone can hear my response. “Why don’t you pretend to be human beings and give this family some peace?”

  Without a glance at Lawrence Inglebird, I turn away and walk the rest of the way to the front door.

  Inside the home, introductions are made. I sit on a cushion of a green fabric couch. An expensive couch, but also comfortable. The type of couch that a family can snuggle in and watch TV.

  Mrs. Stevens stands tall and sturdy with a pixy cut. The dark under her eyes and the blood-shot whites tells me she’s had little to no sleep. She bustles around with nervous energy, getting everyone coffee and biscotti. I want to tell her to switch to herbal tea.

  Instead, I thank her kindly and let her do what she needs to do.

  Finally, she sits straight and on the edge of a green fabric love seat that matches the couch. Her fingers knot in her lap. They unknot. They knot again. Her eyes dart over to the window, then back to me. They blur with tears. She closes them, sniffing, and straightens her back even more.

  She’s trying to hold herself together.

  Opening her eyes, she looks at Tucker. “Your coffee okay?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Mrs. Stevens nods. “Good. Good. Because I have juice. Does anyone want juice?”

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  If Mrs. Stevens is a bundle of energy, Mr. Stevens is the exact opposite. He sits beside her on the love seat, slouched down. His elbow is propped on the armrest with his palm planted solidly in the side of his head. As if his skull is too heavy to hold up on its own.

  He has a haunted expression I’ve seen too many times before. He’s blaming himself.

  He wears jeans and a tee that looks days old. In contrast to his wife who appears ironed and put together.

  There are no coasters but the coffee and side tables are the rough types made for use. I place my coffee directly onto the wood of the side table. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Mrs. Stevens gives a quick, “Yes, of course.”

  “We’re tired of questions,” Mr. Stevens mumbles. “Why aren’t you out there looking for Danielle?”

  “We are,” I assure them both. “We’re doing everything we can to get your daughter home safe.”

  He exhales. “I know you are. I’m sorry.” His hand falls away from his head to land into his lap.

  “I understand this is difficult to re-live,” I say. “But the details and questions are important.”

  Mr. Stevens scoots up, reaching over to take his wife’s hand. “What do you want to ask?”

  Tucker sits on the cushion beside me and without asking, he produces a small notebook and pen.

  “The gate to this community,” I begin. “Is it frequently open? When I arrived, I pulled right through.”

  Mr. Stevens nods. “It’s always open. I don’t know why we have it.”

  “The package that arrived on your doorstep.” My eyes go between them. “Who found it?”

  “An officer,” Mrs. Stevens says. “People have been leaving flowers, cards, baked dishes. It was there with everything else.”

  Tucker pauses mid-scribble. “Delivery person?” he mumbles.

  The Stevens look at him.

  I clear my throat. It’s exactly what I was thinking too.

&n
bsp; “That was this morning,” I clarify. “What time?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Stevens exchange a look. “Around seven,” they say in unison.

  I go through the timeline in my head. “So, shift change at seven. The new officer brings the things left outside to the inside of your home. You look through them and that’s when you spotted the cabbage patch doll.”

  Mrs. Stevens shivers and her hand squeezes her husband’s. “There was something about it. I got a bad feeling right away. It was old and musty, dirty.”

  “Does it belong to Danielle?” I ask.

  “No,” Mr. Stevens answers.

  “It’s more something I would have had at that age,” Mrs. Stevens says. “I may still have one or two in storage.”

  “If you can let me know for sure on that.” I keep looking at Mrs. Stevens. “You saw the doll first and then the envelope?”

  Fresh tears moisten her eyes. “I thought it was a card of support.” Her voice goes high, the sentence ending with a sob.

  Mr. Stevens wraps his arm around her.

  “Which one of you opened the envelope?” I ask.

  Mr. Stevens gestures to his wife. If the doll upset her, the thought of the envelope and the photo inside undoes her.

  The tears come big and heavy, contorting her face with raw agony. “I didn’t realize what it was,” she sobs.

  If she’s hiding something, she’s a good actress. The grief is real.

  Not that I suspect either of them, but I can’t help myself. I’m more of a guilty until proven otherwise type of thinker.

  I allow them a few moments to cry and console each other. Tucker drinks his coffee, not uncomfortable with the emotion. I like that.

  I offer an apologetic smile. “Just a few more questions.”

  From the front pocket of her pressed pants, Mrs. Stevens pulls out a fresh tissue and blows her nose. Mr. Stevens uses the neck of his wrinkled tee to wipe his face.

  “Mr. Stevens, you were with Danielle. Can you walk me through that?” I ask.

  “We went for a hike with Nan, that’s our black lab. She’s with my mom. She wouldn’t stop barking with all the activity outside.” He sniffs. “Friday after school. The trail is just outside of town. We go there a lot. Rarely see anyone. Gives a chance for Nan to be off the leash.”

  He takes a breath, centering himself. “She ran into the trees. Nan, that is. We shouted, but she wouldn’t come out.” He pauses, and I see it there again on his face. He blames himself.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I would have done the same thing.”

  “Danielle is allergic to poison ivy and I didn’t want to take any chances. I went in looking for Nan alone, but I was yelling back at Danielle the whole time. We talked to each other. I knew she was there.” His voice cracks and this time Mrs. Stevens is the one who wraps her arm around him.

  “I shouted,” he croaks, tears blocking his voice. “She shouted back. I shouted again. And then…and then…she didn’t.”

  He takes a moment, this time using the sleeve of his wrinkled tee to wipe his face. “I knew something was wrong. I ran back as fast as I could and she was gone.” On the small loveseat, he turns to his wife. “I promise it was only a couple of minutes. I swear.”

  “I know,” his wife responds softly.

  They sag against each other.

  Mrs. Stevens makes eye contact with me. “They say he was probably hiding in the trees?”

  “That’s our theory at the moment,” I tell her. Shifting my attention back to Mr. Stevens, I ask, “You didn’t see anything? Hear anything?”

  He pulls away from his wife, shaking his head.

  “What about the walk?” I ask. “Did everything seem okay with Danielle?”

  “She was quiet and to herself,” Mr. Stevens says.

  Tucker glances up from his notes. “That doesn’t sound like Danielle.”

  “No.” Mr. Stevens frowns. “She typically over shares her entire day.”

  “That’s true,” Mrs. Stevens agrees.

  “And did you ask her about that?” I glance over to Tucker’s notepad, making sure he’s getting all of this.

  “I did.” Mr. Stevens nods. “She said she was fine.”

  “Did anything happen here at the house?” I ask.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Stevens bristles.

  I keep my voice calm. “An argument between parents and a child is normal. I’m just asking questions.”

  She shoots to her feet, surprising everyone. “This is The Lullaby Man, isn’t it? He’s done this before. All of this.”

  Mr. Stevens tries to take her hand to quiet her, but she bats him away.

  “The doll. The photo. The envelope.” Her voice rises. “It’s all the same!”

  “Thomas Quillen is The Lullaby Man and he has been caught and sentenced. We believe the person who took Danielle is a copycat of The Lullaby Man.”

  Her mouth opens, and Mrs. Stevens takes several loud breaths. “He killed them. The Lullaby Man killed those girls. He didn’t return them. He killed them.”

  I hesitate. “Yes, that is true. But this is not the same man. We’re not sure yet of his intentions.”

  Mr. Stevens lunges to his feet. “His intentions?” His hands ball into two fists. “What the fuck does that mean?” he bellows.

  Tucker goes to get up as well, and I shake my head.

  He looks up at Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. Quietly he says, “We’re doing everything we can. Okay?”

  The fury that had propelled them both to their feet gradually dissipates. Mrs. Stevens is the first to sit back down. She threads her fingers around her husband’s wrist, giving a tug. He sits back down as well.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Stevens whispers. “I’m just…I’m just…”

  “We understand,” Tucker quietly says.

  “Yes, you do,” Mrs. Stevens agrees. “After what happened with your parents, we know you do.”

  Tucker smiles awkwardly, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he goes back to his notepad.

  “I’m a mother, too,” I share. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I can make a promise. I absolutely will not stop until we find out who abducted Danielle. I will bring her home.”

  The Stevens’s say nothing, but both seem relieved with my words. Mr. Stevens takes a moment, grinding his fingers into his eyes before saying, “What other questions?”

  I glance down to Tucker’s notepad, again making sure he’s taking down the details. “You said Danielle seemed quiet. Was there anything that she did say that rang an alarm bell?”

  Mr. Stevens takes his fingers away from his eyes. He blinks at me as if just realizing something. “Fred. Danielle asked me about Fred.”

  “The man next door?” Mrs. Stevens asks. “Why was Danielle asking you about Fred?”

  I interrupt. “Fred who?”

  “Fred Xanders,” Mrs. Stevens answers me, then looks at her husband again. “What about Fred?”

  “She wanted to know if we liked him,” he says.

  Mrs. Stevens looks to the wall on her right. She frowns.

  “Directly next door?” I ask. “Does he rent or own.”

  Mr. Stevens shrugs. “Own, I expect. I hear him working in the attic, sawing and nailing.” He glances over at his wife, still looking at the wall. “Danielle asked first if I liked him and then she specifically asked if you did.”

  Mrs. Stevens jerks her head around. “What? Why would Danielle ask if I liked Fred?”

  “I don’t know. I pressed her a little and that’s when she got all focused on me finding Nan.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Mrs. Stevens shakes her head. She looks at me.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I say, though my senses prick to high alert. “We’ll have a chat with him, though.” I stand up. “Can his house be accessed from the rear? I don’t want to go out the front and over that way. News, and all.”

  “Now?” Mrs. Stevens’s voice pitches high.

  “
Yes, now.”

  Ten

  Through their living room sits a kitchen and a sliding glass door that leads out to a decent size brick patio. Being a corner townhome, they have a small side yard stretching to the right. To the left sits a white partition-like fence that half-way separates the Stevens’s backyard from Fred Xanders.

  Small bushes border the brick patio with ivy as ground cover beyond that. Then comes a six-foot-tall fence that offers privacy from the community behind made up of new single-family homes. They were likely all built at the same time.

  A big silver cat strolls across the patio. Tucker squats down, offering a hand. The cat goes right into a rub. Tucker laughs, scrubbing it behind the ears, before checking the collar and standing back up.

  “Belongs to N. Courson. Must be a neighbor,” Tucker says. He smiles down at it, now weaving around his legs. “Aren’t you the cutest?”

  I’m allergic to cats, so I opt to move away. The last thing I need is a swollen face.

  I step off the patio and across the ivy toward the partition like fence separating the two properties. I look down the line of townhomes. All the fences stop halfway, allowing easy pass through.

  Pausing, I look around the Stevens’s small backyard. It seems odd not to have toys out for Danielle. It could be an HOA thing.

  From here, I look up at the back of each townhome. First the Stevens’s with all windows filled with partially opened blinds. Then to Fred Xanders with all windows decorated in thick dark curtains, closed and sealed tight.

  I glance at Tucker. “What happened to your parents?”

  His eyes widen, caught off guard with the abrupt question. “Died in a boating accident. Thirteen months ago.”

  Leaving him to care for his younger sister. “I’m sorry. You should’ve told me when I asked you to come with me.”

  “It’s okay,” Tucker quietly says.

  I survey the pass through before turning away. “Let’s get you home to your sister and then I’ll come back.”

  He frowns. “Are you kidding? You think Danielle might be in there, don’t you? As soon as they told you about Fred Xanders, you were up and ready to inspect. I’m going with you, detective.”

  A small smile creases my face. “Do you know this Fred Xanders?”