He hesitates, as if he’s confused about where to begin, so I help him out. “Why a knife? You have a gun, but as far as I know, you’ve never used it.”
“I don’t like guns.”
“Why not?”
“Too noisy.”
“What about a silencer?”
He looks down at the cup of tea in his hand and then back up at me. “I’m not a very good shot.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m actually a terrible shot.”
“You could practice. You could get better.” I probably shouldn’t be encouraging a vicious killer to improve his skill with firearms. Not the wisest advice I’ve ever given.
“I’ve always succeeded pretty easily and quickly with anything I’ve tried to master. Sports, running, cooking, academics, technology, the sciences, math, literature, business, investments, turning money into more money.” He pauses and takes a breath and then goes on listing his accomplishments. “How to make money and hide money, disguises, reading body language, imitating body language, understanding human nature. And I’m self-taught. Autodidactic. I was homeschooled because I got kicked out of school when I was six.”
“Six! What the hell did you do, Gabriel? Steal all the crayons?”
“I set fire to the playground. During recess.” He smiles at me. It’s an embarrassed smile, but it’s real. The skin around his eyes crunches up again, and long, vertical brackets crease his perfect cheeks, framing his grin. It must be the smile only Michael saw. And maybe after that, Brittany. Now me.
I chuckle. “Good job, Gabriel, a fire on the playground. Dream big!”
“Yep.”
“You know that’s one of the three characteristics of a future serial killer.”
“I was never a bed wetter. And I like animals. I’d rather sit through The Notebook again than cause a poor little animal to suffer even one second of pain.”
“You watched The Notebook ?”
“Twice. Once on a date and then again, with Brittany.”
We actually share a laugh over this. “I hate that movie. Every time I went to a sleepover, all the other girls wanted to watch it.”
“Brittany and her friends loved it, too. Must be a teenage girl thing. She even read the book. And reread it; it was one of her favorites.”
“There’s a book?”
“Uh huh.” He nods his head and smiles his real smile again.
“I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than read it.”
He laughs.
I laugh, too. Just a couple of friends making fun of a cheesy, romantic movie.
Then, as quickly as it began, the laughter ends. Gabriel’s eyes frost over, and he looks like the dangerous murderer who’s been keeping me locked up in a pitch-black dungeon.
I don’t want to go back inside, so I try to distract him. “Are you going to tell me another story?”
“Once upon a time . . .”
“Not funny.”
“Okay, it’s just hard to decide where to start. As far back as I can remember, my mother was locking me up in the root cellar. My memories begin when I was almost four. I think she started before then, though. And she didn’t stop until Michael came along. She shook me until my brain rattled and slapped me up until then, too. And I couldn’t hide my anger. The looks I gave her must’ve given her pause, because she began to keep her distance as I went through adolescence. I think eventually she became afraid of her own son.”
“And before that? Before she was afraid to go near you?”
“There was a bin meant to store root vegetables in, but she used it to store a five-year-old boy instead. As I grew taller, I developed painful leg cramps from the position I had to curl up into for long periods of time. I already told you about the claw marks on the door. The first few times she locked me in there, I ran screaming after her and scraped at the door with my fingernails after she shut it. But every time I resisted, she’d punish me worse. If she came to let me out and I wasn’t curled up in the bin, she’d leave me in there longer. I learned to stay inside the box for hours, no matter how painful the position felt.”
“You were just a little kid. How did you cope?”
“I was always a good reader. It came so naturally to me that I don’t even remember learning to read. It seems like I’ve always just known how to do it. When I was alone in the dark, I used to think about all the books I’d read. I’d turn the pages with my memory. I was only in the first grade when I got kicked out of school and she decided to homeschool me. That’s when everything got worse. Because I wasn’t in school for part of the day, she had less tolerance for my little-kid behavior. I was home all the time and I annoyed her more often. So she locked me up more often.”
“What about before you got expelled?”
“I liked school. I liked first grade and I liked my teacher. She didn’t imprison us in a cold, dark, silent place if we misbehaved. To me, that equaled kindness. Life at school was predictable. Life at home was not. My favorite thing was the school library. Even though we were only in first grade, they let us take books home. My favorite was an elephant joke book. I read it over and over until I knew every joke by heart. When my mother locked me in the root cellar, I would sit in the vegetable bin and picture the illustrations and tell myself the jokes. It kept me from going crazy.”
I want to tell him he is crazy; the elephant book hadn’t really helped much. But I don’t. Instead I reach over and cover one of his hands with mine. I give him a very sympathetic look and manage to squeeze out a tear or two. He turns his hand over and grips mine gently. “I knew you’d understand, Harper.”
Of course I understand. He’s had me locked up in the same godforsaken hellhole for days. I did the exact same things to keep from going out of my mind. Read books and plot revenge. I don’t point this out to him, though. I just keep smiling like a mindless idiot and hoping for more freedom and more information about the murders. I also keep hoping for the right time: an unexpected moment when I can kill or wound him and make a run for it.
Not yet, though. When he herds me back into the cave and locks me in, I know I have more planning to do—more acting to do—before I can move in close enough to injure him, to render him helpless, to end his life. We haven’t reached the ultimate level of trust yet. I’ve had several opportunities today, when his guard might have been down enough and I was almost close enough to strike. But I can’t fail. I need to be absolutely sure before I try anything. If he’d only cut off the ankle cuffs, I could do it.
Today, I matched a few more pieces of the puzzle together and then stepped back and saw how they fit into the dark and twisted landscape of Gabriel’s life.
He feels empathy toward damaged children because his own childhood was so painful. He feels their pain. He wants to protect them.
But the feeling of control he experiences when he kills is just as important. He thinks he can control what happens to the children by murdering their abusers. He’s also enjoying the control he has over my body right now, but he can’t control my mind. I’ve listened to these episodes of his life story. I’ve sympathized. His early life was horrific. His mother was a demon. As he narrates each chapter of the saga, I feel sorry for him. But I’m still planning to betray him, attack him, and escape. I’m scheming all the time. Carefully. Meticulously. I have my mother’s patience to guide me. The patience of a kindergarten teacher. The patience of a woman who put together 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzles.
I’ve also learned a lot about the art of patience from Shane. A guy who drives slowly and carefully wherever he goes. A guy who’s willing to wait for me. I hope.
And, of course, my father. I have learned patience and perseverance from a man who has been hunting the same killer for sixteen years. I’ve had good teachers—good role models. I should be able to do this. I can’t fail. Because, if I slip up, I might die. Or worse. Have to stay with Gabriel forever. And then I would finally lose the essential part of myself he hasn’t gained control over . . . yet. My
mind. He’s bigger and more powerful and has dominated me in every way except one. He hasn’t crushed my desire to be free.
I need to hear the rest of the story. I need a full confession. As soon as Gabriel Stone finishes telling his final tale, I’ll be ready. And when his trust in me is complete and he least expects it, I’ll pounce.
Chapter 35
Harper
The Next Day
When Gabriel finally locks me back up in the root cellar, I think I know what time of day it is. Judging from the position of the sun, it was definitely morning when he brought me outside for the picnic, maybe as early as six o’clock. By the time he led me back into my dark prison, it was probably close to nine. Hopefully, I can start keeping better track of time now. As soon as he leaves me alone in the cave, I lie down on my blanket nest, but before I drift off, I go over everything he told me about himself. I turn it into a movie and watch it over and over again on the big HDTV screen of my mind until I finally fall asleep.
When I wake up I do some exercises to stay in shape, so I’ll be able to run fast when I need to. Plus, it helps pass the time. I do everything I can to stay strong. My only limitation is the plasticuffs around my ankles, but I can do core strength work, and I can hop around to stay aerobically fit.
For days, I’ve been doing this exercise routine I designed for myself. I might have skipped the first day, I think. It’s hard to tell because of the everlasting impenetrable darkness. I’m pretty sure I started sometime after the first long sleep, though. And I’ve continued at regular intervals because I’m determined to stay strong and fast.
I’m more motivated today than before, because of my little field trip. I have hope. I saw the outside world and want to live in it again more than I’ve ever wanted anything before in my life.
When I’ve exhausted myself with sit-ups, pushups, crunches, and tons of jumping in place, I feel confident that I’ve had an effective workout. I drink a bottle of water and eat some crackers and cheese, then snuggle up in my blankets with my flashlight to read for a few hours. Finally I fall into a deep sleep for what seems like a long time and wake up feeling rested. A little while later, the padlock rasps against the iron door handle again.
Like yesterday, he arrives at the break of day and offers me the sunglasses to shield my eyes. I’m allowed to clean up with the warm hose water, too. As always, he’s thoughtful and gentlemanly. The food tastes better, and the view of the meadow and the forest beyond looks even more beautiful than I remember. I decide to risk trying something new. I hug him when I say thank you. He hugs me back and seems very pleased.
Thankfully, he doesn’t try for any more physical closeness. During these days of captivity, a particular fear has haunted me. I’ve been terrified that Gabriel wants something from me that he’s planning to take by force. I’ve tried not to dwell too much on this, but it creeps into my mind nonetheless.
Today, blessed by the warmth of the morning sun, I feel a huge sense of relief when he hugs me back and doesn’t linger or move in for a repeat hug or worse. I had to try. I had to know. And now I do. Gabriel Stone really is a gentleman. He’s not just lying in wait or playing a part. If it weren’t for the murders, he’d be a real stand-up guy, a catch even. He’s handsome, kind, hard working, wealthy, and intelligent. Not funny, though. He thinks he has a great sense of humor. He cracks himself up with these incredibly weird, psycho comments. Gabriel’s always laughing at his own jokes. But he’s not funny. He’ll never be funny to anyone except himself.
Chapter 36
Gabriel
A Matter of Trust
After she removed the sunglasses, Harper stood still in the quiet light of dawn and looked at him with eyes that had never been young. He knew it was his fault, too. He had destroyed any hope she had ever had for a normal childhood. When she hugged him, the killer promised himself he would spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
He couldn’t remember ever crying as an adult, but he’d had to fight off tears when he was inside the warm circle of Harper’s arms. As a very young child, locked in the root cellar, he had cried, but not since. Not when Michael died. Not even when Brittany died. Certainly not when Mother died, with his strong young hands gripped around her stupid neck. If he ever allowed himself to feel the sorrow brought on by Michael’s and Brittany’s deaths, he’d drown in it. So instead, he clung to his anger, wearing it like armor, using it like a weapon, keeping it polished and clean and ready for battle at all times.
He’d decided to tell Harper about the Bad Guy today. He owed it to her. The story of how he had grown into a serial murderer. Why he felt compelled to kill.
Gabriel chose to reveal this part of his story outside, where the glow from the rising sun illuminated each separate strand of Harper’s glimmering hair. He loved looking at her and wished he could cut off the plasticuffs, because she was even more beautiful when she moved. But he wasn’t ready to risk it yet. Soon, though. She was beginning to trust him, and that meant he could start to trust her as well.
He had spread the clean quilt on the grass once again, in full view of the meadow beneath the hill and the forest beyond. The dew on the grass shone silver in the early light of day. Gabriel took Harper’s hand to steady her as she shuffled along clumsily. He could carry her, but it seemed wrong. He didn’t want to ruin the moment by forcing her to suffer the indignity of being carried. She was proud and strong and confident, and she had suffered enough indignity. All the torment and humiliation of Harper’s imprisonment would soon be over. She would stay with him willingly, and he would take care of her. Keep her safe from people like himself. Something her own father had failed to do. Gabriel could do it, though. He would accomplish what Thomas Flagg couldn’t.
He continued to hold Harper’s hand as she lowered herself onto the quilt. As soon as he let go, she picked up a plastic container of strawberry yogurt, opened it, and began spooning the creamy mixture into her mouth. After the last bite, she licked the back of the spoon and the lid. He laughed.
“You can have another one, you know.” Gabriel picked a yogurt up and handed it to her. She ate it a little more slowly than she had eaten the first one.
“Thank you.” Harper smiled without showing her teeth.
“You’re very welcome.” He poured some tea from the thermos into a mug, spooned in some organic local honey, and handed it to her.
She held the rim against her closed lips and breathed in. The steam veiled her eyes. When she finally took a sip and the cloud of steam dispersed, he noticed for the first time that her eyes weren’t pure brown. There were flecks of green and gold in them. Gabriel wondered if anyone else had ever noticed. He was more observant than most people. But he wasn’t here to think about Harper’s eyes. He had an important story to tell today. It would take a long time to tell the whole tale the way it should be told, without leaving out any details. He thought about exactly where he should begin.
Chapter 37
Harper
The Dawning of a Killer 1999
Gabriel has brought out mugs for the tea today and poured us each a steaming cupful. Leaning forward, I bend my knees up under my chin and balance the tea on top of them so it will warm both my knees and my jittery hands. Staring into those glacial eyes through the fragrant tea mist, I signal that I’m ready, and he takes a sip of his tea and begins.
“You better get comfortable, Harper; it’s a long story.”
I nod, stretch my legs out, put the cup down, and ease back onto my elbows. The morning sun wakes up every pore on my upturned face and bare arms until my body sings with warmth. I’m surrounded by a beautiful, pitch-perfect aria of daylight instead of the cold and silent blackness of hell. Life is good, for now.
This time I do something that I’ve been practicing during the long, dark hours alone in the root cellar. I don’t just listen; I watch it happen, like an episode in a popular Netflix series, the kind that goes wildly viral due to word-of-mouth and social media attention. I’ve moved beyond
reading books in my head and playing games of Scrabble. Now, during the seemingly endless hours I spend alone in the dark, I stream episodes of my captor’s life story onto the big, HDTV inside my mind, watching and rewatching them, hoping I’ll be able to replay them again and again until I arrive at a point where I can relate all the details in a way that will hold up to a judge and jury’s scrutiny.
As he tells me the next episode in his life story, Gabriel’s description and narration become scene after scene of a can’t-tear-yourself-away drama. His voice disappears as a narrative voice and only appears again as dialogue spoken by the main character in the hit series: a good-looking, fit, well-dressed man in his early twenties, obviously wealthy, used to being admired and pandered to, especially by women. He’s grown so accustomed to all this that he’s bored by it. His unvarying facial expressions and the calm, flat tone of his voice make him appear aimless and emotionally disengaged. At this point in his life, the main character’s younger brother has been dead for more than five years, and he was the only person the young man ever loved. If you stare long enough at the man’s icy but socially acceptable mask you can spot a trace of the ever-waning hunger for that love. The hope that dies a little more each day. It’s not even a spark anymore, only a weak glimmer among the crumbling embers.
At the beginning of this episode, a third-person narrator explains via voice-over that the main character of the story is a tragic hero whose little brother was the victim of a violent crime. This sad and angry young man has profited, over the past few years, from a lot of very smart investments he made with a ton of cash he found in a safe built into the floor of his mother’s closet. He has these profits stashed everywhere, smallish amounts in local banks and larger amounts in difficult-to-trace offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland. He’s also hidden some of it back in the floor safe where his family had kept it squirreled away for so many years. He has investments, property, and cash, none of which will bring his little brother back.
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 24
