Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1)

by Alyson Larrabee

  She was young and attractive, like his first three victims, but the deed hadn’t thrilled him like the old days. He craved those encounters with the upper-middle-class suburban women, in their sparkling new minivans, with their squalling babies strapped into state-of-the-art, built-for-ultimate-safety car seats. Nothing could keep their mommies safe from him, though. Ah yes. It was good to be back. Worth the risk. Life was no fun without this. If he could stick to the four-minute rule he would get away with it again and again, too. At least for a while.

  With Jessica, it had taken less than four minutes to conk her over the head, snatch his souvenir, head for the van, toss her in, and take off. If he wanted to be labeled a serial killer, he had to take souvenirs. Trophies. So far he had two pinks and two blues. Three from sixteen years ago and one new one. None of the press releases, past or present, mentioned his souvenirs. Maybe the cops still hadn’t caught on.

  Back at his house, after the most important part, Gabriel had gathered the pale, limp ragdoll that used to be Jessica Phelps, and the tarp she was lying on, into an extra-large, heavy-duty trash bag, carried it out to his van, and took off into the night. When he arrived at his destination, he whipped the bag out of the van, dumped it, and took off. In less than three minutes this time. As he relived the experience in his imagination, more goose-bump raising laughter rolled up and out of his throat. Except no one was there to hear it and get the goose bumps. What a shame. He chuckled as he headed back home.

  When he had accomplished three of these killings, things would probably get a little too hot with the police. That’s what happened before, all those years ago. He’d have to take another break, which would be boring but necessary. Drive up to the cabin. Do a little hunting for some in-betweens. He grinned at his own joke. The murders that brought him real satisfaction were the real thing. The ones that merely kept him from going insane on a day-to-day basis were his in-betweens—not as much fun, just a little exercise to keep him in shape for the main events. Something to help him stay sane.

  And now one of the babies he’d left motherless had grown into a beautiful young woman. He began indulging in his favorite pastime: thinking about Harper Flagg. Imagining ways to meet the teenage girl without arousing any suspicion. Stopping to ask her for directions while she was out running would be so gratifying. His supply of daydreams would be well stocked. He could relive a moment like that over and over again for weeks. Her face misty with a thin layer of perspiration. Her voice barely winded as she answered him. When Harper ran it looked effortless. But it wasn’t. She worked hard. He’d seen it for himself, through the binoculars.

  Unfortunately, asking her for directions would be too risky. Kids these days were taught to be wary of strangers who asked for directions. Worse than offering them candy. He giggled again when he thought about trying to lure Harper into his car with a Milky Way. He hated junk food. For Harper, he’d use an organic granola bar with flax seeds and almonds, not candy. He just wanted to talk to the girl, not poison her.

  As the first lavender light of day spread across the horizon, a more enlightened idea occurred to him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to share these amusing thoughts with someone? Someone like Harper. She was disciplined and smart, like him. She’d understand his humor. She’d be a perfect companion. They could work out together. He was a fitness freak. You couldn’t keep to the four-minute rule if you weren’t in the best possible shape. And Harper was on her high-school track team. Staying in top shape was like breathing to her: natural and necessary.

  If he was kind to Harper, he might not have to keep her tied up and locked away for long. She’d want to stay with him when she realized how great they’d be together. They could go on long runs through the woods, lift weights in his weight room, and of course, share his quirky sense of humor. Most of the people he met didn’t think his jokes were funny, but Harper would. She was very intelligent. He had seen her name on the honor roll on the Eastfield news site many times.

  If he had Harper by his side, maybe he wouldn’t need the four-minute rule. He could quit before he got caught and sent to prison forever. He had quit before. He could do it again. He was just lonely right now, and the loneliness compelled him to commit violent acts.

  After this he couldn’t wait another sixteen years unless he had someone to share those years with. If he had to wait alone, it would be too long and torturous. He didn’t think he could do it. In sixteen years, he’d be almost sixty. He needed a solid plan so his life wouldn’t revolve around death and murder. He needed Harper by his side. He’d protect her and keep her safe forever. Safe from people like the Bad Guy. He laughed again as he drove the van into the garage.

  Gabriel felt so hungry when he entered the house that he broke his routine and ate before he showered, laughing the whole time at his own recklessness. Chuckling as he sautéed the bean sprouts with tofu and spices. Grinning like a fool as he steamed the sprouted brown basmati rice in the bamboo steamer. Full-on smiling when he came up with the idea to take some pictures of Harper so he could look at them when he ate his home-cooked vegetarian meals. This afternoon he would go back to the Target where he had kidnapped Jessica and buy a really good camera, one with detachable lenses, for long-distance photography. Of course, he would drive his other car to the store: the Corolla. He couldn’t appear anywhere in the van unless he was accomplishing something important. The van was for special occasions only.

  Actually, no, forget about long-distance photography. Staring at pictures of her was a ridiculous idea. He wanted to meet Harper, face-to-face. He imagined them sitting across from each other and sharing one of his home-cooked creations. Afterward, they’d clear the table, brew some herb tea, and then sit back down to talk about their dreams for the future. The future they’d share once she was his. All he needed was a plan, and he was good at coming up with brilliant plans.

  Gabriel did his best thinking in the shower, so he jumped up from the table and did something else totally out of character. He put his dirty dishes in the sink, not the dishwasher, before he rushed off to the bathroom. Mother would be pissed. Maybe he’d visit the old root cellar and have a chat with her later—goad her about all the rule breaking he had indulged in today. The laugh that traveled up from his belly and then out into the otherwise silent house would have chilled even the most die-hard horror-film enthusiast. This thought made him laugh even harder, so hard he had to pee. Afterward he left the seat up. “Take that, Mother.” Martha Stewart would roll over in her grave if she were dead. Mother would roll over in her grave if she had one. He stepped into the shower giggling like a schoolgirl.

  Chapter 7

  Harper

  Meeting Shane

  I haven’t heard from Shane in three days, and I’ve barely even seen my dad at all. Grams continues to spend a good chunk of time here every night. Now that I’m older, she doesn’t sleep over very often, but we always share one of her home-cooked suppers. Tonight it’s meatloaf smothered in ketchup, whipped potatoes with butter and peas and carrots, followed by chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream and fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies: redundant but incredible.

  After supper, we watch Wheel of Fortune. She kicks my butt and all the contestants’ butts, too. Together we ridicule them for opting to purchase vowels. Grams calls them a bunch of illiterate ass hats. Then comes Jeopardy. We’re a pretty even match tonight, with Grams cleaning up in the sports and TV-show categories and me owning her in literature and history. We’re about evenly stupid when it comes to geography, but the returning champ isn’t. He lives to die another day because the final Jeopardy category is European Mountain Ranges. The answer to the big question is what are the Caucuses Mountains in Russia. Neither Grams nor I have ever heard of them. Tonight’s returning champ has, though, and he bet it all, doubling his money.

  Finally, Jeopardy’s over, and we load the dishwasher together; it’s about eight thirty when Grams hugs and kisses me goodnight. “Are you all locked and loaded, honey?”

  �
�Of course, Grams, no worries.” I pat the pepper-spray canister tucked into the back of my jeans’ waistband.

  “That poor woman. Her poor husband. That poor motherless child.”

  They found Jessica Phelps’s body two days ago in a far corner of the parking lot at the Wrentham Outlet Mall.

  I give my grandma a huge hug. “I hope her baby has a loving grandmother who lives close by.”

  She hugs me back and then swipes a tear off her cheek with the back of one hand. “Harper, baby, you’re the best.”

  “No, you’re the best, Grams. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, one hundred percent. Forever. Lock up behind me and don’t forget to reset the alarm.”

  I watch out the kitchen window as she walks over to the driveway, throws her canvas knitting bag onto the passenger’s seat of the Caddy, crosses in front of the car, hops in behind the wheel, and speeds away. My grandma may be well past seventy, but she still has a lead foot. It runs in the family.

  After pouring myself a glass of milk, I grab a couple more cookies and sit down at the kitchen table to puzzle out my calculus homework. Twenty minutes later I give up and decide to take a zero for the assignment; I hate calculus and I’ve already been accepted to college. Walking into Dad’s office, I grab my favorite book down off the shelf: one I’ve read and reread countless times. The Method and Madness of Monsters by Peter Vronsky. I’m in the middle of the chapter about criminal profiling when my cell phone vibrates inside my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. Instead of a familiar name, it’s a number I’ve never seen before. It might be a telemarketer, but I answer anyway.

  “Who’s this?” I demand without even saying hello.

  “Shane. I thought you were going to call me.”

  “I never said I would. How’d you get my number?” Dad insists that I post no contact info on my Facebook page.

  “I have friends in Eastfield, and one of them knows someone who knows you. It was easy to get your number.” So much for privacy settings. Good old-fashioned word-of-mouth doesn’t have any.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just to talk. No one else understands what this is like for me. They found Jessica Phelps. It’s definitely him.”

  “And he’s going down. Soon.” I don’t mention how my dad’s working on the case day and night. He’s a hunting machine. Barely taking time to eat or sleep. Living on power bars and energy drinks. Forbidding me to come anywhere near the investigation. And it’s driving me insane. I love Grams, but it’s frustrating sitting at home with her every night. I’ve given up trying to focus on schoolwork. At least running track helps relieve some of the pent-up stress. I’m worried about my dad. And I’m pissed. I want to help find the monster that killed my mother, and I want to start now.

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  “Nope. I’d love to meet him face-to-face.”

  “Who are you, Harper Flagg?”

  “I’m that creep’s worst nightmare.”

  “You’re the most unusual girl I’ve ever met.”

  “Except we haven’t met.”

  “Let’s.”

  I stop and think for a minute. Shane’s the only person on the planet who might understand how I feel right now. Except maybe my father. But Dad’s not here and not likely to show up soon. Plus, I’m jumping out of my skin. I’m monumentally bored with barricading myself in the house every night, waiting for news about the investigation. Maybe Shane and I can work on this together. We have a unique past experience in common. And I’m curious about him. Should I give him a chance?

  I ask him, “Why do you want to meet?”

  “We could help each other. Join forces. I can’t think about anything else. My dad doesn’t understand. He’s moved on. He got married again right afterward.”

  He doesn’t say, “Right after my mother was murdered.” But I bet he’s thinking it.

  “You have a stepmother?”

  “Yes. She’s the best and I love her. She’s the only mother I’ve ever known, really. But I’m not allowed to talk about the Bad Guy at home. Dad doesn’t want my sister to get scared. Right now, though, all I can think about is finding out more. I can’t watch or read enough about Jessica Phelps’s murder. I need someone to talk to.”

  “We’re talking right now.”

  “Let’s meet in person. What harm can come of it?”

  “Ugh. I don’t know.” Am I ready to let Shane MacGregor and all his feelings into my life? I need to focus on the investigation. The investigation, which my father has closed me out of.

  “If you’re too scared, I understand. It’s a very frightening situation.”

  That makes up my mind. “Come on over.” And I give him my address. If nothing else comes of this, at least my father will rush home when he checks out his spy equipment and sees a guy entering the house. I haven’t seen Dad in over twenty-four hours. Maybe he’ll actually share some newly discovered facts about the case with me after he shows Shane his weapons collection.

  Thirty minutes later the doorbell rings. Evidently Shane MacGregor doesn’t like driving over the speed limit. Either that or he was out of state when he called.

  I look through the tiny peephole in our front door to make sure it’s him. And it is. He’s staring over his left shoulder toward our driveway. After disabling the alarm system, I unlock the door and open it.

  Whoa. I almost take a step back but stop myself in time. My eyes snap open so wide I have to blink twice to get them under control. My hands are practically dripping sweat and I’m smiling so hard my right cheek starts twitching. I can’t match my breathing to my heartbeat. Everything’s off sync. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. Maybe it’s because he’s resting his hands on the top of the doorframe, and leaning toward me, like he owns the space we’re both standing in. It’s not my space or even our space. It’s his. Even though Shane’s hands are on the top of the doorframe, his elbows are bent. He has the wingspan of a pterodactyl, and he’s about six four. I didn’t expect him to be this big. And he’s staring at me as if I’m a freakish specimen in some mad scientist’s lab, like a two-headed rat in a jar or an eyeball floating in formaldehyde. Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous.

  After a few torturous seconds of silence, Shane breaks eye contact first, smiles, and reaches out his hand. I place my hand in his for just a moment then let go.

  “Let me guess. You’re a basketball player.”

  “Yes, but you could’ve figured that out by looking at my Facebook page.”

  I must’ve been smiling like an idiot for a while now, because my cheeks feel weirdly numb. I have to think of something to say, something polite and welcoming. Instead I do what I always do when I’m nervous, turn into a smartass. It’s like some kind of tick. I can’t help myself. “Sweet ride.” His elderly Honda Civic is parked at the end of our driveway. “No wonder it took you so long to get here.” Ugh, could I be any ruder?

  Shane’s not fazed, though. His smile relaxes into a more natural-looking one. “Not everyone can afford a Camaro. I saw the pictures on Facebook. Now that’s a sweet ride.”

  “My dad bought it for me on my sixteenth birthday.” I move aside so he can enter the house. “C’mon in.”

  He ducks as he walks through the doorway. It’s the automatic habit of a tall person. My father always does the same thing, and Shane’s a couple of inches taller.

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “He’s hardly ever home lately because he’s working on the case.”

  “I saw him on the news.”

  “That’s the only time I get to see him lately, on TV.”

  “Any new leads?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  I walk toward the kitchen, and Shane trails after me. When I glance back at him, he’s gawking at a framed photograph of me as a baby, sitting on my father’s shoulders. Dad’s holding one of my bare feet in his right hand, and he has his left arm around my mother. Both of my palms are resting on the dome of his prematu
rely bald head. My grandmother hung the picture up. She took it a month before my mom died. I explain none of this to Shane because I don’t like to talk about those days. I can’t remember anything about that time in my life.

  Shane points at the picture. “Your dad looks different there than he does on the news.”

  “He’s a lot younger and skinnier. He wasn’t a detective then. He owned an Internet start-up.”

  Shane nods. “My dad never talks about how much the murders changed him. I have no idea what he did back then. He’s the superintendent of schools in Raynwater now. I always assumed he used to be a teacher then moved up the administration ladder. You know how it is.”

  No, I don’t know how it is, but I say, “Yeah, I guess.”

  I have no idea what it’s like to have a father with a normal career. One who goes to work every morning, comes home every evening, does yard work, and plays golf on the weekends. We have never gone on a family vacation. We never even go out to dinner.

  “Your dad never remarried, huh?”

  “Nope.” I should qualify my answer by saying not for very long anyway, but Shane probably wouldn’t get the joke. Plus, I don’t want to seem too cynical to someone I just met.

  My father did in fact remarry. Three times. But none of those poor women lasted more than a few months.

  Who can compete with a beautiful, golden-haired ghost who never ages? Never bitches at him? Or complains or nags? Or stays at work too late? Or maxes out a credit card? No one. That’s who. I’ve had three stepmothers since my mom died. I never got to know any of them well enough to miss them.

  Wait. That’s not entirely true. I still miss Judie, Dad’s most recent wife. Her homemade pizza was the best. And her chocolate caramel trifle was to die for. She lasted the longest. But we don’t keep in touch. I sent her a gift the first Christmas after she left. Judie was easy to find because she had moved back to her hometown. All I did was look through a couple of phonebooks at our local library. I rode my bike to the store and then to the post office to mail the gift I’d chosen. I bought her a cookbook, a lame choice and not very imaginative. She never responded. Maybe it got lost in the mail and she never received it.