Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1)

by Alyson Larrabee

  He rushed back to the guest room. Norah had flopped off the bed and was wriggling toward the door like a giant, duct-taped worm. He lifted her up off the floor, placed her back on the bed, and instructed her to listen quietly and lie still while he explained why she had to die. In a calm, patient voice, he outlined Nora’s fate. He made her nod after every sentence. She stared at him with terrified eyes, and dipped her quivering chin up and down to indicate she understood.

  As fast as possible, and in simple terms, he told her how seriously she had offended him. How her ridiculous impersonation of the Bad Guy hadn’t fooled anyone. How a careless amateur like her could never effectively imitate his brilliant and elegant style. How she had been incredibly stupid to even try, and how she was about to regret it.

  After about a minute, Nora began to overdo the nodding. She looked like one of those bobble-headed dolls. That would be a great moneymaker! A Bad Guy victim bobble-headed doll. It would have wide-open, terrified eyes and duct tape over its mouth. This time he did laugh out loud. But Nora didn’t join him. Even if he told her why he was laughing, an idiot like Nora could never appreciate his humor.

  The second he saw her mug shot on the TV news he’d known she was a total bimbo. Right now she was proving just how ridiculous she really was. Her blonde head bobbled away as she attempted to communicate understanding and agreement. Obviously, she thought cooperation would save her life. Think again, Nora. He chuckled. Then quickly slipped behind her, whipped the blade across her neck, and finished the job.

  After Nora had bled out, in her dead mother’s guestroom, on the twin bed she had slept in as a child, Gabriel placed the pacifier next to her face. He took a last look at the binky, lying on the only part of the white lace pillowcase that wasn’t saturated with his victim’s blood.

  “There,” he whispered. “Erin’s better off without a mother like you.”

  And he fled the ghastly scene.

  Outside, in the bushes beside Verna Whittier’s cozy, ranch-style home, he stripped off his bloody clothes, tucked them into a trash bag, and put on the clean clothes he’d stashed there earlier. He didn’t want any forensic evidence in the car. Thanks to TV shows like Criminal Minds, he knew exactly what to do. He flung the trash bag into the trunk, then hopped behind the wheel and took off.

  When he reached his favorite stretch of Route 138, Gabriel stopped the car, checked the clock on the dash, jumped out, and ran deep into the swamp to dump the bag of soiled clothing. It took 255 seconds for him to jog back out, though. He had broken the four-minute rule. He was disappointed in his performance. To lift his spirits, he drove home the long way, so he could cruise by the Flaggs’ house again.

  The unfamiliar soccer-mom van was still parked out front. Maybe Thomas Flagg had gotten spooked and brought in an undercover police officer to help watch over Harper while the killer was on the loose. Detective Flagg could bring in the whole National Guard; Harper would never be safe from Gabriel. They would be together soon.

  He had big plans for the beautiful young high-school student. She wouldn’t see or hear him coming when he approached her. And it would all go down soon. “Very soon, my pretty one,” he hissed into the darkness. Then he laughed a special, light-hearted laugh, the kind he would share with Harper once she was his.

  Chapter 14

  Harper

  Dad’s Version of Protective Custody

  My father and Mr. MacGregor have decided that neither Shane nor I are safe anywhere. The killer has already approached Shane, and they’re afraid I’m next on his list. No one’s willing to take a chance with our safety, so together, our dads concocted a plan. Mr. MacGregor and Shane have moved in with us. Shane’s dad’s been sleeping on the couch in the living room to keep watch, kind of like a sentry. My father plans to take a shift on the couch, too, on alternating nights when he’s not working. I’m not allowed to do sentry duty because I’ve made too many stupid comments about wanting to come face-to-face with the killer and too many suggestions about using myself as bait. They’re afraid I’ll sneak out and go looking for him, so part of the sentry’s job is to keep an eye out for me. Make sure I don’t try to escape in the middle of the night.

  Turns out Mr. MacGregor’s quite comfortable around firearms, which is good, because part of being the sentry involves having a loaded pistol in the drawer of the side table next to our couch and being ready and willing to shoot it if you have to. He served in the army when he was younger, so he knows how to fire a weapon. We’re ready for any type of home invasion. We have a plan. All we need now is for the killer to sneak into our living room.

  Shane’s been sleeping in the guestroom and commuting to Rocky Hill until the cops catch the killer because he wouldn’t be safe in the dorm and we need him here. To help guard me, which is ridiculous.

  By Monday night, the news is out. Most of the details of Nora Hazel’s debacle have been made public. Her mug shot’s been flashed around online and on TV, and I’m tired of looking at her stupid empty-headed stare. It’s getting late, and we all need to get up early tomorrow. Mr. MacGregor settles down on the couch with some magazines and the remote, and Shane, Dad, and I go upstairs to get some much-needed rest.

  Except after a half hour of trying, I still can’t get to sleep. I tiptoe in to peek at my dad, and he’s out cold. I try a quiet cough to see if he’ll stir, but he doesn’t. The poor guy’s exhausted. I’ve never seen him sleep so soundly. As I listen to his loud, even breathing, I resist the urge to go over and tuck him in.

  On the way back to my room, I peek into the guestroom to see if Shane’s awake, and he’s sitting up, reading a biology textbook in bed. He spies me spying on him and smiles.

  “C’mon in, Harps. I’m just reviewing what I read yesterday. I have a bio test tomorrow.”

  I take two careful steps toward him, select a spot on the edge of the bed, down near his feet, and carefully park my butt. “I can’t sleep.”

  “I know. Too much excitement. My adrenaline’s pumping.” He closes the book and puts it aside.

  “I wish we could go back to the firing range.”

  “Me too. That was fun.”

  “Target practice would be too exciting right now, though. We need to wind down.”

  “I know. De-stress, relax. Do you have any cards? Or Scrabble? We could play Scrabble.”

  “I would, except I’d kill you at Scrabble. I’ve been reading on a college level since I was four years old, and I’ve never lost a game of Scrabble.”

  “You’ve never played against me. I bet I can beat you.”

  “What should we bet?”

  “How about the loser has to give the winner a back rub?”

  “Okay.” No boy has ever given me a back rub before, but I don’t want to seem like a stupid high-school girl. Maybe back rubs are a college thing. I should probably get a little experience in that area before I go to college, which will be in only a few months, so I agree to the back-rub wager.

  I run out to the hall closet and grab the Scrabble box. Shane leans forward and plumps up the pillow behind his back, and I settle down cross-legged, facing him with the board between us on the bed. We each pull a letter from the bag. His is G, but mine’s D, so my turn’s first. I easily form a five-letter word across, ending at the center of the board, and score double word and letter points. My opponent makes a six-letter word going down, which earns him two triple-letter scores.

  He finally catches on to my secret strategy halfway through the game. “You just made the word fulcrum. It has two Us.”

  “Obviously, we can both see that it has two Us. It’s right there on the board.”

  “You’ve been hoarding those Us. Haven’t you?”

  “So what if I have?”

  “You’ve been counting down the letters, and you always know what’s left. Like some kind of Vegas card shark.”

  “The Q hadn’t shown up yet, and I didn’t want to take a chance that you had it. So I kept the Us until after you played it. You know, so
you’d have less options for forming a high-scoring word.”

  “You did that with a couple of other letters, too.”

  “It’s not against the rules.”

  “I’m still winning.”

  “There’s a certain element of luck that skill, strategy, and an extraordinary vocabulary can’t make up for.”

  “Even knowing exactly which letters haven’t been played yet at all times can’t make up for the luck of the draw. Right, Harper?”

  “Occasionally it can, but you’re pretty good.”

  “Only pretty good?”

  “Okay, really good.” And I hate admitting it. “Usually no one can beat me, and you’re winning . . . so far.”

  “Against a brilliant strategist, too. Lucky me.”

  “Sometimes I dream up strategies and practice them if I’m having trouble falling asleep. I play both sides of the game in my head. I’ve memorized how many of each letter is in the game. And I practice counting down as each letter gets played. There’s a kid from the chess club at school who can beat me, but nobody else can.”

  “I can. Admit it. I’m right up there with that kid from the chess club.”

  “Are you good at chess, too?”

  “Not so much. I’m better with words than nonverbal strategies.”

  “Good to know. Maybe our next challenge should be chess. I happen to be good at Scrabble and chess.”

  “Stop bragging and make your move.”

  Shane’s right. Not only is he good at Scrabble, but as the game progresses, he gets almost all of the high-point letters when there’s still enough double- and triple-score spaces left on the board to use them effectively.

  The game’s almost over. There are no letters left in the bag, and he’s over fifty points ahead. All my letters are vowels except an L, which is only a two-point letter. Even if I score a double or a triple word, which is impossible at this point, I won’t win. I yawn, stretch, and announce, “It’s getting late, and I’m finally sleepy. Let’s play again tomorrow.”

  “Oh no. For a self-proclaimed genius, you’re ridiculously obvious. I’m way ahead, and you know I’m gonna win. I want a back rub tonight, not tomorrow. To help me relax. So I’ll be able to fall asleep.” Shane grins a seriously annoying grin. “Quit stalling. You’re going down, Harps. I don’t care if you earned your PhD when you were four. I’ve got you.”

  And he’s right. He has me. He wins easily and quickly. After we clear away the board, he takes off his shirt and rolls onto his stomach. I’m inexperienced at the art of massage, but I’ve studied the photographs and read the details of about a bazillion autopsies. And human anatomy’s the same, whether the body’s dead or alive, so I start right in, kneading his latissimus dorsi, then work my down to his lower back muscles. His pale, creamy skin feels smooth and warm, but his muscles are all knotted up and tense. After a few minutes, I work my way up again, to his trapezius muscles. He groans softly. When I get close to the area below his armpits, he flinches and giggles.

  “You’re ticklish!”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.” And I prove it by digging my fingers into his ribs, under his right armpit. He rolls over and grabs my wrist.

  “Tickling was not part of the wager.”

  “No, but it’s fun.”

  “For the tickler maybe; not so much for the ticklee.” To prove it, he tickles my ribs with his free hand. I grab at his wrist, attempting to free myself, but I’m laughing so hard it makes me weak. Shane’s too quick and too strong, and I’m too ticklish.

  “Okay, Okay. I give up.”

  He lets go of me. “Promise?”

  “Yes. Did you know you can’t tickle yourself?”

  “Of course. You’re not the only smarty-pants in the room. I think I just proved that.”

  “Ugh. You’re never gonna stop rubbing it in, are you?”

  “Never. I beat the child prodigy. Fair and square. And now you owe me. So pay up.”

  “It’s because tickling is a surprise attack on a sensitive area and you can’t surprise yourself.” I’m stalling because he’s annoying me. I hate losing.

  “I knew that, too. Only schizophrenics can tickle themselves. They lack some kind of prediction thing, in their brains. There’s a disconnect. Because of it, they can surprise themselves.”

  “I did not know that.”

  “I guess you’re not as smart as you thought you were. I beat you at Scrabble and Tickle Trivia.”

  “Good thing there’s no such game as Tickle Trivia. You made it up. Now roll over. I need to finish your back rub. Your muscles are wicked tense.” Perched beside him on the bed, I start massaging his shoulders again, nice and easy. It’s better than listening to him show off. Maybe if he relaxes enough, he’ll shut up.

  Gradually, I increase the pressure and he sighs. “You’re good at this, Harper. You have strong hands, but you’re gentle.”

  “She gets that from me, Shane. It’s hereditary.” My father has suddenly appeared in the doorway of the guestroom, wearing striped pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt from his college days at Rocky Hill.

  Shane rolls over and sits up so fast he almost knocks me off the bed. “Sorry we woke you up, sir.”

  “I bet you are, Shane.”

  “I didn’t realize you were a Rocky Hill alumnus.”

  “Well, I am. But we can talk about that tomorrow. Harper, go back to your room and go to sleep. It’s late. You have school in the morning, and we all need to be alert. You both need your rest.”

  I slink off to my room, fall asleep quickly, and dream about back rubs and tickling. At one point, I wake myself up because I’m giggling softly in my sleep. I flip the pillow, roll over, and drift off again immediately afterward. I don’t remember ever feeling so relaxed. You’d think I was the one who’d won the back rub.

  The next morning, Dad wakes me up earlier than usual. “Honey, I have to go to work. Just got some terrible news. I need to get over to the crime scene.”

  “Is it another copycat?”

  “No. We’re pretty sure it’s the real thing. Nora Hazel and her mother. You need to be super careful today. He’s never killed two people at once before and left the bodies at the scene. We’re sure it’s him, though.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Can’t talk about it. Classified info. But he’s escalating, and you have to be careful. Mr. MacGregor’s going to drive you to school before he heads off to work, and he’ll be armed. I’ve got a couple of guys over at the Rocky Hill campus keeping an eye on Shane for at least the next few days. I don’t want either of you to spend any time alone. Understand?”

  “What did he do to them, Dad?”

  He brushes a few stray strands of hair away from my face. “He brutally murdered two helpless women, honey. Broke into the house while they were sleeping. Nora was a moron, but nobody deserves to die like that. I gotta go.”

  And he’s off. I shower quickly, dress, and run downstairs. Shane’s dad’s sitting in the living room, sipping coffee and watching the news, waiting for me.

  “Shane left about fifteen minutes ago. I’ll drop you off at school. Your dad says the high school has excellent security, so you’ll be safe while you’re there.”

  “I’m not worried. How will I get home?”

  “Shane can pick you up. His last class will be over by 1:30.”

  “He should drive my car because it’s fast, and he should keep his pepper spray in the glove box.”

  “Your dad’s got that covered. Shane has two undercover cops in the car with him, too. They’re dressed like college students. Don’t worry. He’ll take excellent care of himself and the Camaro.”

  “I’m not worried about the car.” I love my car, but it’s a car. If anything happens to it, we have insurance and it can be replaced. But Shane can’t be replaced. I picture him flinching and wriggling on the guestroom bed, laughing like an idiot, rolling away from my tickling fingers. Then I flash back to a flat tire in the dark and a
menacing stranger.

  Mr. MacGregor covers my hand with his own. “Stop worrying about Shane. He’ll be fine. He’s a big, strong guy. And he’s being careful. Plus, there will be two cops with him at all times, watching out for anything unusual.”

  Just then the anchorman on the morning news announces, “A bloodbath in Eastfield, believed to be the work of the Bad Guy.”

  Shane’s dad snatches up the remote and clicks off the TV.

  “Please. I’ve been following these stories forever. I need to know the details.”

  “Those damned media people are so insensitive.”

  “That’s their job: to make the story as sensational as possible. I don’t like it, either, but I can handle it. I need to find out more about the killer. The more information we have, the better prepared we’ll be to deal with him if he tries anything.”

  “You’re a brave girl, Harper.” Mr. MacGregor looks at his watch. “But we have to get going now. Have a little breakfast. You can’t face the day on an empty stomach.”

  I glance at the clock in the kitchen and realize we’re pressed for time. So I grab a banana, some peanut butter crackers, and a small bottle of cranberry-raspberry juice. Then my chauffeur and I climb into his shit-box minivan and head out.

  Chapter 15

  Gabriel

  Plan A

  The killer waited a few seconds and then pulled out, keeping a discreet distance between his car and the MacGregors’ minivan. He didn’t care for the color of the dark-green, nondescript compact he’d purchased recently, but it was comfortable and would blend in with the forest if he ever had to park near the swamp on Route 138 again. A few well-placed streaks of mud on the license plate made the letters and numbers unidentifiable. He knew the police would be checking parking-lot surveillance cameras later today. He was going to be up to no good, and the authorities would be looking for him. He wanted them to be confused and literally clueless. If his next double disaster went down as planned, the manhunt for the killer would intensify. But Gabriel felt pretty confident no one would remember an average-height guy in a dark-green compact. He was wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses, so most of his face would be shielded when he got out of the car. People knew about the hooded sweatshirt, so this look would be less suspicious, especially during the daylight hours on a beautiful, warm spring day. Lots of guys would be wearing baseball hats and sunglasses. He’d blend right in, a typical runner, out enjoying the perfect weather, just like everybody else.