Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1)

by Alyson Larrabee

  “Is Harper there? Can I talk to her?”

  “You’re on speaker.”

  “Harper, honey, we were so scared for you!” I can hear the tears in her voice. “You have to come to dinner. I need to hug you to make sure it’s true that you’re finally safe.”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t leave Dad home alone with no food in the house. He won’t eat. Grams isn’t flying home until tomorrow, so it’s up to me to make sure he eats.”

  She sniffles and tells me, “Bring your father with you. Emily and I want to meet him.”

  “Are you sure? He’s pretty intense.”

  “Life’s intense, Harper. It’s okay. There’s way too much food here, and it will go to waste. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t come for dinner tonight and bring your dad.”

  I laugh. “I don’t want you to be mad at me. Thanks so much. As soon as he shows up, we’ll hop in the car and be right over. I’m starving.”

  “You kids are always starving.” She laughs, and her voice sounds way better than it did a few seconds ago when it was clogged with tears.

  Shane says, “Well, Mom, I guess we’ll all be there for dinner,” and then clicks his phone off, puts his arms back around me, and starts kissing me again. But only for a few minutes, because the front door opens and my dad barges in. We bolt up off the couch.

  He’s not alone, either. There’s a puppy flapping around his ankles, tangling a leash around him so Dad has to reach down and free himself.

  “Meet Sammy. He just rode up from Tennessee on the puppy bus. The shelters are full of these little guys down there.”

  Dad unhooks the leash, and a furry blur of energy makes a beeline for me. I squat down, and Sammy jumps up and licks my face. Dog slobber. Awesome. I lean in closer, and he covers my face with stinky puppy-breath kisses.

  “He’s a mixed breed, but mostly redbone coonhound.” Dad folds his big arms across his chest and smiles.

  As if to prove my father’s telling the truth about him being a hound dog, Sam stops licking my face, backs up, and lets loose with a long, loud howl.

  “You’re right, Dad. He’s definitely a hound.”

  Shane laughs. “C’mere, Sammy boy. Come on over here!” He bends way down and claps his hands. The dog rushes over, and Shane scoops up the long-legged, short-haired bundle of slobber. The puppy nuzzles Shane’s cheek, gives it one big sloppy lick, and then quiets down in his arms.

  “Dad, you got a dog.”

  “Yup. Always wanted one. I picked him out on a pet adoption website about a week ago. I wanted to surprise you and prove to us both that I wasn’t giving up hope. I knew you were alive and you’d figure out how to escape. I felt confident that you’d come home to me and Sammy.”

  I run over, jump up, and wrap my arms around Dad’s neck.

  He bends down to accommodate our height differences and laughs. “Plus, you’ll be going off to college soon. It might get lonely around here.”

  I release him from the stranglehold. “A coonhound. Wow.”

  “They’re good trackers. I’m gonna fence in the backyard and start training him. I’ll get a bunch of books. I already found a lot of good websites. Some of the guys on the force have trained police dogs, and they’ve offered to help. When he’s ready, Sam can come to work with me. Help out at the crime scenes.”

  “The MacGregors invited us for dinner and I already accepted. What will we do with him?”

  “I don’t know. If we leave him here alone, he needs to be crated, and I haven’t had a chance to go to the pet store to buy a crate yet.”

  Shane speaks up. “Are you kidding me? Emily will never forgive us if we don’t bring him.” Sam licks his face again, and Shane kisses the dog’s floppy right ear then places him gently back onto the floor. “Do you like chicken parm, boy?”

  Sam backs up, squats down on his haunches, stretches his face toward the ceiling, and howls his distinctive, louder-than-hell howl. How could such a huge sound come out of such a small creature? The neighbors are gonna love him.

  The Last Chapter

  Harper

  Dad bought me the latest, newest, state-of-the-art smart phone immediately, and I got to keep the same number. Which was good, because all of my friends kept calling. I became kind of a celebrity, due to the whole kidnapping thing.

  The excitement has died down now, though, and I’ve been able to carry on with a reasonably normal life. I graduated from high school with honors. None of the teachers insisted that I make up any of the work I missed, one of the perks of being held hostage by a homicidal maniac. Pretty much the only perk.

  Dad and I have been taking Sam for long runs together. He has this awkward galumphing gait that melts my heart; his ears flop all over the place, and his paws are huge and clumsy. His long, skinny legs are always a little off sync. Dad never went out and bought a crate. Sam mostly sleeps with me and occasionally with Dad, when he feels like practicing for when I’m away at college. We’re his pack now. He has a middle name, too. He’s Samuel Langhorne Flagg, after the famous American author, Samuel Langhorne Clemens, better known as Mark Twain. My mother started the tradition of naming family members after famous authors about eighteen years ago, and it’s a good one, so we’re sticking with it.

  Dad has already begun training Sam to do some tracking, and that crazy hound dog is actually good at it. I’ve been helping with his lessons when I’m not too busy at my summer job as a lifeguard and training for the River Wind University track team, which I’ll be joining this fall.

  Shane left for the Cape with his mother and father and Emily at the beginning of July. They spend a couple of months down there together every summer. I’m invited to visit any time, and it’s only an hour’s drive, forty-five minutes in the Camaro. I could get there even faster in the Hellcat, but the FBI wouldn’t let me keep it. I haven’t visited the MacGregors’ yet, but I promised them that I would soon.

  Shane said he’d visit me here in Eastfield, too, but he hasn’t yet. I think it’s best to take things slow, especially after everything that’s happened. We’re young, and there’s plenty of time. He hasn’t pressured me to pick up the pace of our relationship. When he said he was a patient man, he spoke the truth. It would do him no good to bitch at me about it, anyway, because I’m pretty obstinate. And I have no intention of changing, because that very stubbornness saved my life. Anyway, it’s the flipside of Shane’s patience. He’s flexible and willing to compromise, and we complement each other. Even when we’re arguing, it’s fun. I’m looking forward to spending more time with him in the future. And I’m looking forward to college. I’m starting to feel less anxious and more relaxed about life.

  It’s been almost two months since I looked into the rearview mirror of the Hellcat and saw Gabriel, hobbling after me as fast as he could limp, firing a pistol right-handed.

  Maybe I should be surprised when he calls, but I’m not.

  “Harper.”

  I still dream about him sometimes. And in these nightmares, his hollow voice echoes toward me from an unending tunnel of eternal darkness, interrupted only by the occasional dim glow from a bobbing flashlight. Unfortunately, though, I’m awake now, and his voice is coming out of my cell phone. I hope he’s far away. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s figured out a way to hide his location from whoever’s tracking my calls.

  “Tell Detective Thomas Jefferson Flagg he won’t be able to trace this. I got a bunch of throwaway phones. Hid them in different locations. I’ve got signals bouncing off multiple cell towers. Technology has always been a friend to me. For all you know, Harper, I could be hulking around in your neighbor’s shrubbery. Been there. Done that.” He laughs that awful laugh. “Or I could be in California. Based on our last encounter, I suspect you hope it’s the latter.”

  I don’t respond. I realized when my father let me keep the same number on my new phone it was partly because he knew that if Gabriel was still alive, he’d call. Dad wanted the cops to have a chance to trace it, so they
could try to catch him. Plus, they simply need to know. Did the infamous killer die in the explosion, or not? Turns out the answer’s or not.

  “On second thought, Harper, you don’t need to tell him about my call. I’m sure he’s listening. Hello from me, Thomas. And for the record, I know nothing about those bodies in the backyard. I saw it on the news. Seems like I might have had an ancestor or two with murderous tendencies.” I picture the way his bone-chilling, white-toothed grin splits his face and never crinkles the skin around his glacial eyes. The phrase drop-dead gorgeous jumps into my mind, and a wave of fear scuttles across my scalp like a centipede, huge and many-legged but almost weightless. Again, I get my emotions under control and don’t make a sound.

  Undeterred by my silence, Gabriel keeps talking. “Did you give me up for dead? Boom. Gone, like the house and the garage.”

  Even though I’ve spent a lot of time wondering about that, I refuse to answer. Everyone stopped searching for him after a couple of weeks. The trail was pretty cold by then. We thought maybe he blew himself up when he detonated all those explosives.

  “No one was looking for an old woman, wearing a purple knitted hat and driving a 1997 Lincoln Town Car, very slowly. But don’t even try to look for me. The car, the disguise, and the fake ID are long gone.”

  His plan was brilliant, but I refuse to compliment him. He continues, in a quiet voice, not bragging, just matter-of-factly reporting more of the details.

  “I didn’t want to resort to plan B but ended up having to, because you didn’t cooperate.” He laughs and then continues. “You probably thought I was lying about being a bad shot, but it’s true. When I shot at the car, I only wanted to scare you. I figured if bullets were flying past you left and right, you might panic and pull over, maybe even turn around. However, my aim’s so miserable, I think I actually hit the rear windshield by mistake.”

  He’s right, of course; he did indeed hit the windshield, but I’m not going to confirm anything he says. I picture him limping down the driveway, taking aim with his right hand, trying to send a few wild bullets my way just to scare me, but then actually hitting the car instead. I almost smile. The clumsy irony of the situation is satisfyingly weird. The infamous Bad Guy, an expert on everything from planning the perfect crime to executing it without leaving any physical evidence, can’t shoot straight. He’d be better off bringing a knife to a gunfight.

  “I guess I was the one who panicked. Why would you ever turn the car around and head toward the source of the gunfire? Quite simply, I was desperate. Desperate to keep you, Harper.”

  My half smile disappears, and that imaginary centipede with all those cold, speedy little legs, each one as delicate as an eyelash, races down the back of my neck. I might never feel warm or safe again.

  “Fortunately, I came to my senses and was able to execute plan B successfully.”

  I want to ask him why he didn’t chase after me in one of his other cars, but the answer’s obvious. The risk of capture was too great. I’d also like to know why he didn’t at least attempt to destroy the root cellar, but I refuse to speak to him. I don’t want him to feel encouraged. I don’t want him to call me again. And I hope he never comes after me. He seems to sense what I’m thinking.

  “Don’t worry, Harper. I would never hurt you the way you hurt me.”

  Still I refuse to speak.

  “My heart’s broken, and my jugular notch will never be the same. But it was worth it. Just to have you for a few weeks.” His voice sounds hoarse when he adds, “Thank you.”

  I know what he means. He’s thanking me for injuring him no more than necessary.

  “Why didn’t you finish the job, Harper?”

  Once again, I refuse to speak. I can’t answer his question anyway. I have no idea why I merely rendered him temporarily helpless when I could have killed him. I don’t know why I didn’t trade an eye for an eye: his life for my mother’s. I certainly could have. In a way, I’ll never forgive myself for not killing Gabriel. Then again, I’d never forgive myself if I had taken his life, either. A murderer’s life.

  The child whose small fingernails scored those grooves into the root cellar door stopped me. The teenager who taught his little brother to read stopped me. The young father who loved and tried to protect his daughter stopped me. The man who held me in his arms outside, during a raging thunderstorm, and promised to keep all the windows in the house open stopped me.

  I wait to hear what he’ll say next. His breathing sounds deep and ominous, as if he’s preparing to deliver a profound speech. Then he hesitates. There’s no perceivable exhale. Is he holding his breath? Waiting to see if I’ll finally answer him? Once again, I resist the urge to ask any of the many questions that have plagued me since my escape. For a couple of heartbeats more, I listen carefully, but hear only silence.

  Finally, he says, “I have doubts about those other men in your life. Whether or not they can keep you safe, Harper. Give Thomas and Shane a message from me. Only I can truly keep you safe, and I will. That’s a promise.”

  He pauses, maybe because his injured throat still pains him. Maybe because he expects me to respond. But I don’t. After a few seconds he says, “I haven’t shared all of my secrets with you yet, Harper. I’m looking forward to our next chat.”

  Then he ends the call. Dead silence.

  My dad bursts through the front door, scoops the cell phone out of my hand, and leads me out to the car. We head down to the station, and the questions begin.

  Now that we all know he’s still alive, everyone wants to know the same thing. Even Gabriel himself wants to know. Why didn’t I take his life when I had the chance? Why didn’t strong, fearless Harper Flagg finish off the infamous killer?

  Of course the FBI wants to know. When they questioned me that night in the hospital, they came right out and asked. Repeatedly. They would have water boarded me if my dad hadn’t interrupted the interrogation. At first they were subtle. They disguised the question, in an effort to sneak it into my subconscious and squeeze out an unguarded answer. Then they asked it outright. They slapped me across the psyche with their directness, demanding an answer. He killed your mother. Why didn’t you kill him?

  Gabriel, himself, wants to know. Why didn’t you finish the job, Harper?

  And even though my father fought to rescue me from the FBI’s cruel and intrusive grilling, I can read the same question in his eyes. Why didn’t you kill the man who took your mother away from us?

  Watching Dad attempt to stifle the question that burns in his heart is more emotionally torturous than anything the FBI agents said to me. My father, the person I look up to more than anyone else in the world, wants to know, too. Why didn’t I kill Gabriel Stone and end his reign of terror? End the murders. If I had killed him, I would’ve been saving lives. He’s psychologically programmed to kill, and he’ll kill again. No one can rescue him from the dark side of his own nature.

  My own powerlessness and insignificance has me stumped. That’s why I haven’t answered anyone’s questions. Not the authorities’. Not Dad’s. Not Gabriel’s. No matter who has asked me, I can’t respond. Because I don’t know.

  No matter how long and hard I think about it, I can’t come up with an answer, but I do have a few theories.

  My father taught me to kill, but my mother taught me to care.

  Even though Gabriel kept me locked up inside the Stone family hellhole, I saw his humanity.

  Also, maybe it’s simply because . . .

  He’s a killer and I’m not.

  A few weeks after what we’ve all been referring to as The Call, I’m sitting up in bed, leaning against my favorite pillow when Dad walks in. He’s been careful of me lately, since I came back from the dead. Life is different. We couldn’t just pick up where we left off before Gabriel took me. My father’s face doesn’t look like a careful face right now, though. He looks intense and determined. He doesn’t pull over my desk chair and sit down, like he usually does when he comes in here. He doesn
’t visit my room often for bedside chats, only when something has happened that we really needed to talk about, like when I was choosing a college or when I punched someone in the eye and got suspended from school.

  Sammy’s with him tonight, so at least I’ll have some support if the topic of conversation rattles me. I seem to be pretty easily rattled lately, but the puppy’s presence always helps. I pat the bed beside me and say his name, and he hops up, turns around a few times, paws at the blankets, and then finally stretches out and lays his head down. Dad laughs, nudges my legs over with his butt, and sits down, so I’m wedged in between them.

  He starts right in, staring straight into my face so there’s no escape. “I went down to the root cellar today, Harper. I stood inside and closed the door. I wanted to see what it was like.”

  Interesting choice of words, seeing as you can’t “see” anything in the root cellar once the door’s closed.

  I put the book I’ve been reading face down on my lap, open to the page where Boo Radley rescues Scout on Halloween. Someone’s chasing after her, and she gets tripped up inside her costume and falls down. I look up at Dad’s face. “Why’d you do that?”

  “I wanted some insight into what’s going on inside that complicated head of yours. I needed a snapshot of what it was like in there.”

  “And?”

  “It was dark.” He looks at me like he can see the darkness that is always there, inside my mind. Now he knows my secret, even though I’ve been working hard to keep it from him. I’m not in the root cellar anymore, but the root cellar’s in me. And I can’t get rid of it, no matter how hard I try.

  I want to turn away from the intensity of my father’s gaze, but if he thinks I’ve been weakened by this experience, he’ll pity me, or worse. He’ll get even more overprotective. I’ll have no freedom or independence at all. And I would hate that as much as I hate the dark.

  “Yes, it was dark.” Before all this happened I might’ve given him some attitude, Yeah, it was dark down there. You don’t miss much, do you? But a lot of the sass has gone out of me. Smartass words still pop into my head once in a while, but I usually blow them out in a hopeless, quiet sigh. I don’t have the energy or the desire to give anyone any crap anymore.