“Shit! Harper! It’s me!” He covers his face with both hands and ducks down onto one knee.
Seeing him makes me feel like crying again, and I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to feel vulnerable. I need to unleash some serious anger, and, in the process, I need to hurt someone, preferably a violent killer, though. Not Shane.
“What are you doing here? I almost sprayed you in the face with teargas, you idiot.”
“Can I come in?” His normally deep-pitched voice sounds high and shaky.
I tuck the pepper spray back into the waistband of my pants and stand aside. “Do you want to put your car in the garage so no one will slash your tires again?”
“I didn’t take my car. Dad drove. He’d like to speak to you if you’re not too pissed off at him. Look.” He walks over to the window and points.
There’s a clunky old soccer-mom minivan with a huge, rusty dent in one of the rear fenders, parked under the streetlight in front of our house. What is it with these MacGregors and their shit-box cars?
Shane’s dad is sitting in the driver’s seat, talking on his cell phone.
I turn toward Shane. “I’m not pissed off at all, because your father’s right. I’m a loser who’s obsessed with violent death. I shouldn’t be allowed near normal people. I deserved to get kicked out of your house.”
“Harper! That’s so not true.” Shane scoops me up off my feet and collapses onto the couch with me in his lap. He reaches into the waistband of my jeans and chucks the pepper spray onto the living room floor. “My dad was way out of line. You didn’t deserve that.”
Curling up into a ball, I huddle with my snuffling face pressed against his shoulder. Once again my tears soak the fabric of his T-shirt. I can’t hold back my stupid, gigantic sobs. What a colossal ass hat.
“Shh.” His breath warms the tip of my ear. “Shh, Harper. You are kind of a loser. But in a good way.” He wraps his long arms around my whole body, hugs me close, and rests his chin on the top of my head.
I punch him in the stomach.
“Ouch!”
“I barely tapped you. Weenie.”
“Just watch it, okay. None of that martial arts shit. I’m your friend. Remember? We’re going to work on this together. Everything will turn out okay. I’m on your side, Harps.”
I hiccup a few times and struggle to regain control. “I’ll get you one of Dad’s T-shirts. Yours is soaking wet.”
“Can I tell my father it’s okay to come in?”
“Sure.” And I give Shane the alarm code for the front door so he can let Mr. MacGregor in.
I hop off his lap, grab my pepper spray up from the floor, tuck it back into its rightful place, and head upstairs. When I come back down both of the MacGregor men are sitting in our living room. I nod at Mr. MacGregor and hand Shane a clean T-shirt.
He doesn’t leave the room to change. Instead, he stands up and peels off his wet, disgusting shirt right there in front of me, and underneath he’s not as skinny as I thought. He’s ripped, and his creamy skin shines paler where it’s stretched over his muscles. In the soft lamplight, he looks like a polished alabaster statue. An almost-naked statue wearing very low-slung jeans. The elastic waistband of his underwear’s showing, and it’s black with big white letters. Calvin Klein . . . hmmm . . . looks like he wears designer-brand boxer briefs.
My curious eyes roam slowly up to his face, and he smiles at me.
Intense heat spreads across my cheeks.
Mr. MacGregor breaks the silence. “Put some clothes on, Shane. You’re embarrassing the poor girl. Her face is all red.” Then he stands up and steps toward me.
“I’m sorry, Harper. There’s no excuse for what I said. I’m sincerely sorry I hurt you. You poor, motherless child. You’ve been through enough.”
He looks like he’s going to cry, or worse, hug me, so I blurt out as fast as I can, “It’s okay. I’m over it.”
I’m not really sure if I’m over it or not, but this whole thing is getting way too awkward. I have to change the course of the conversation, or this big hulk of a grown man will break down into sobs right here in the living room. The killer has reopened a lot of emotional wounds with his sharp blade.
“I’m sending my wife and Emily to stay with her mother in Rhode Island for a few days. Shane and I want to help. When he told me about the flat tire, I realized we can’t ignore the fact that a violent killer’s out there, and no one will be safe until we stop him. I want to help. I should help. It was wrong of me to pretend it never happened.”
“Excuse me.” My cell phone’s vibrating in my pocket, and I whip it out. Looking up at my guests, I announce, “It’s Dad.”
He’s yelling into his phone. “Holy shit! All hell’s breaking loose down here at the station!”
“What’s the matter, Dad?”
“The cops found Nora Hazel. Alive.”
“Thank god! What about the killer? Did you get him?”
“No. It’s a mess. He had nothing to do with this. I knew something was off as soon as I got to the crime scene. Something just wasn’t right.”
“What was it, Dad?”
“Can’t talk about it. Classified info. I’m coming home.”
And he ends the call.
I turn to Shane and his father. “Dad’s on his way. They found Nora Hazel alive. No sign of the killer, though.”
“Did he let her go?” Mr. MacGregor asks.
“No. Dad says he wasn’t even involved. We’ll know more in a few minutes. Can I get anyone anything? I could use a cup of tea.”
“Does your dad keep any beer in the fridge?” Mr. MacGregor’s had a rough night.
“Sure, I’ll get you one. Shane? Anything?”
“I’ll come help you in the kitchen.”
Shane pops open a beer for his dad and grabs a soda for himself while I fill the kettle and set it on the stove.
He bends down and looks into my face. “Are you sure you’re okay, Harps?”
“I’m fine. But I’ll be a lot better when we finally catch the killer.”
“Yeah, we all will.” He smiles a rueful, close-lipped smile and continues to stare into my eyes.
“Don’t worry. I really am fine. Now go bring your dad that beer. He looks like he needs it.”
“You’re right about that.” Shane chuckles quietly and leaves.
As soon as my tea’s ready, I join the men in the living room. The three of us are sitting around, sipping our drinks, and talking when my father arrives.
Mr. MacGregor stands and introduces himself. “John MacGregor. Shane’s dad.”
“Thomas Flagg. But you must already know that.”
“I’ve sent my daughter and my wife to stay with my in-laws. I realize Shane and Harper are in danger, and I’ll do anything to help. Shane told me about his flat tire.”
“We couldn’t send out a crime-scene team because no crime was committed. But I’m sure it was the Bad Guy. I can’t figure it out, though. What were his intentions? Why didn’t he attack Shane? Did he just want to scare him? Was it some kind of warning?”
“Whatever it was, Shane didn’t feel like he could tell me because I forbid him to talk about his mother’s murder. And that was stupid and dangerous. We need to discuss all the information we have so far.”
“Sounds like a plan, John. That beer looks good.” Dad heads toward the kitchen and calls over his shoulder, “Give me a second. I’ve had a hell of a night.” I follow him. I’ve never seen him like this before. He keeps rubbing one hand over his scalp as if he had hair and could ruffle it. He hasn’t had hair for years. Whatever happened down at the station, it must’ve been awful. Dad grabs a beer out of the fridge, pops it open, and takes a quick sip. I’ve only seen him drink a beer once or twice before. I guess he feels the need to always be ready and primed for extreme action. Sharp. Alert. He barely even sleeps.
“What happened down at the station, Dad?”
“Let’s go back and talk to the MacGregors, honey, so I only hav
e to explain once. It’s nothing our guests won’t see on the late-night news. No need to be rude and keep secrets.” He grabs my hand and tows me into the living room.
After plunking down into our cushiest armchair, my father puts his feet up on the matching ottoman. I’ve never seen him put his feet up before.
“What the hell happened, Dad?”
Before answering, he chugs down half his beer. Then he burps a couple of times, says, “Excuse me,” swallows some more beer, and finally begins to explain. “Right from the start, I noticed something was off about the crime scene. I immediately suspected a copycat.”
“A copycat killer?” I can’t imagine the horror of two Bad Guys on the loose.
“No, not exactly a killer, just a copycat. Nora Hazel’s alive. She used a credit card a couple of hours after her supposed abduction. They picked her up at the Airport Hilton in Boston. That crazy woman left her baby in a Walmart parking lot and took off with the twenty-year-old carpenter who was remodeling her kitchen. She tried to make it look like the Bad Guy abducted her. She fits his victim profile perfectly. Young. Pretty. Baby in the car seat.”
Shane, his dad, and I sit there mesmerized. I realize my mouth’s hanging open and close it.
“Thoughtless and stupid as hell,” my father continues. “She didn’t travel any farther than Boston: about a forty-five minute drive from her phony crime site. Had two boarding passes for a flight to Cancun in her purse. She was scheduled to fly there in the morning with her boyfriend. Thankfully, the poor little kid’s okay.”
“That’s so evil.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“We all thought she was dead.” Shane looks stunned.
“They brought her into the station, and I couldn’t bear to look at her. I had to leave. They can process her without me.” My father stops talking and sips his beer.
“I feel like she’s mocking us,” John MacGregor weighs in.
“You’re probably the only one who understands how much this fucks with my head, John.” Dad starts ruffling his phantom hair again. I’ve never heard him use the F-word before.
“The only good thing is: no matter how despicable she is, she’s still alive.” Shane’s right.
“Her baby has a mother; a mother who might not deserve to be one, but at least she’s still breathing. And the baby’s safe, too. Thank god,” Mr. MacGregor adds.
“Amen.” My father drinks the rest of his beer in a few quick gulps.
“Dad, you said there was something different about the crime scene. Something was missing. What was it?”
“Actually, something wasn’t missing. That’s what tipped me off. But I can’t tell you, Harper.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a way to rule out copycats. The police have kept one detail about the crime scenes a secret. That way we’ll know it’s the same serial killer if he strikes again. The Bad Guy has his own signature. Every time he strikes, he takes a certain trophy away from the scene. I can’t tell anyone what it is. Not even you.”
“Can you give us a hint?” I’m dying to know.
“Harper, this isn’t that Twenty Questions game you used to love. I remember how you insisted on playing it over and over when you were little. Drove your grandmother and me crazy.”
“C’mon. Just one little hint.”
My dad cracks a halfhearted smile. “Nope. The only thing I can tell you is Erin Hazel wasn’t crying. All the other babies, the children of the real Bad Guy’s victims, bawled their heads off. That’s what drew attention to them. It took a while for someone in the parking lot to notice Erin because she wasn’t crying.” He turns toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna grab another cold one. How about you, John?”
“Sure, why not? Thanks, Tom.” No one ever calls my father Tom, but he doesn’t correct Mr. MacGregor. All of a sudden he’s “Tom” and he’s having another “cold one.” This must be what it’s like to live with an actual human being instead of a hardcore criminal hunter.
When Dad returns, he has one beer tucked under his arm and another in his hand. He’s holding his cell phone to his ear with his other hand. He clicks it off, pockets it, and hands Shane’s dad a beer.
“Someone just called the station and asked for me. He left a very cryptic message.”
“Who called the station, Dad?”
“I have no idea. Whoever it was left a message that doesn’t make any sense.” My father shakes his head, gives it a quick rub, sits back down in the most comfortable chair in the house, and puts his feet up again. He takes a few more sips of beer and says, “Ah.”
“What did the caller say?”
“Sorry, baby, classified info.”
I really hate this. I need to know more. And I need to know it now. If I can’t be involved in the investigation in some way, I’ll go crazy. I’m determined to help catch my mother’s killer. My dad’s being really stubborn though, so I give up for now and change tactics.
“Dad, before the killer grabs someone else, we need to set up a trap,” I suggest.
“We are not doing anything. The cops might do something like that. But you won’t be involved, Harper.” He drinks some more beer.
“I could pretend my car’s broken down on the same stretch of Route 138, where Shane was fixing his flat. You could be hiding close by, with a bunch of other cops. I bet he cruises that part of the road all the time. He obviously knows the area well. His murders have all taken place near different parts of Route 138. We could do it. We could catch him.”
“Over my dead body will you ever participate in anything like that, Harper.”
“Mine too.” Shane casts his vote in with Dad’s, and I wrestle down the impulse to leap up and punch him.
“The police will catch the murderer. Your only job is to stay safe, to steer clear of the investigation and anyplace where the killer might be lurking around.” My father sounds dead serious.
I struggle to keep my voice calm and not lose my temper. “He’s lurking around right here, Dad. He slashed Shane’s tire.”
“Outside. Not inside where the alarm is always set.”
“Right outside the house. We’ll never be safe until we catch him, and I can help.”
“Not a chance. Your only job is to lay low and stay out of the cops’ way.”
I ignore him and say, “I know what would work. I could put a lifelike baby doll in a car seat and stand around in the parking lot of a nearby store after closing time.”
“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.” Shane jumps out of his chair and starts toward me. His voice is too loud, and his face has turned scarlet. Mr. MacGregor shoots up and grabs Shane’s forearm to hold him back.
“You’re right, Shane, but you need to calm down.” Dad smiles for a second but then turns toward me, and his expression changes to serious faster than a hawk takes flight. “Harper, if you ever try anything like that, I’ll lock you up in this house with a state trooper out front, and you won’t see the light of day until your mother’s murderer is behind bars.”
My father doesn’t sound mad anymore; he sounds tired and sad, like the part he didn’t say is, I can’t lose you both. So I stop making suggestions for ways to catch the killer. But I don’t stop thinking about it.
Chapter 12
Gabriel
Nora
The killer cruised slowly past the Flaggs’ house a couple of times, but the shade on the big front window was pulled down, so he couldn’t tell what was going on inside. He knew someone was home, though, because a thin stream of golden light formed a bright rectangle around Harper’s hidden life. And four separate shadows kept moving back and forth behind the scrim of fabric. He sensed something had changed. He didn’t know what the new development was, but he knew he didn’t like it. Not one little bit.
Their garage door was closed, and the driveway was empty, but an unfamiliar van was parked next to the curb in front. Company. Who could it be? Gabriel wondered as he headed home.
Then he turned on th
e car radio and heard the news. The Bad Guy had struck again. Except he hadn’t. That was it! That’s why there had been so much movement in the Flaggs’ front room. There was an imposter out there, and Harper knew about it. Gabriel needed to find whoever it was and stop them as soon as possible. He flew up his driveway, slammed on the brakes, shifted into park, and jumped out.
“How dare they?” He howled at the moon like a timber wolf, stormed into the house, snatched the remote off the coffee table, and clicked on the TV. He paced back and forth, surfing the channels until he found some local news coverage of the crime. They didn’t have much information yet. He might have to wait until tomorrow to find out more. Meanwhile, a vague plan crept into his mind. After he discovered who the imposter was, he could fill in the details of his brilliant scheme.
Before he turned in for the night, though, he needed to make a call to the nearest Massachusetts State Police Station, to sympathize with Detective Thomas Jefferson Flagg. “Oooh, Thomas,” he whispered to his empty living room. “You must’ve been very frustrated when you discovered you’d been called to a bogus crime scene.” The would-be Bad Guy had done an amateurish job, too, no doubt. No one was capable of imitating Gabriel’s ingenious style. Whoever had tried would soon pay the price for their foolhardiness.
The killer hustled down the stairs to his basement and took one of five prepaid cell phones off his workbench. He had paid cash for them and worn a disguise, purchasing each phone in a different town. He owned several other prepaid phones, too. Each was stashed in a different location. Whenever he needed to, he used one of the burner phones, changed location, and routed his call through a different network. Untraceable.
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 9
