by Herron, Rita
“You have to be careful,” Ryker said. “If he fathered Deborah’s baby, he may have killed her to keep it quiet.”
“I know that,” Marilyn said. “But I want to know exactly what happened. If she gave birth, she was alive for months after she disappeared. Where was she all that time?”
“Good question,” Ryker muttered. “If you’d told me you were going to see him, I would have gone with you.”
Marilyn bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Ryker. I guess I’m so accustomed to working alone that I didn’t think. Besides, you have your new partner now.”
A hiss from Ryker. “Yeah, well, I don’t think that will last once this case is done.”
Marilyn checked her watch. She hoped not. “I’d better go. I need to get a rental car tonight.”
Ryker’s breath rattled out. “Jesus, Marilyn, please watch your back.”
Another smile. “I promise I will. And you’ll be the first to know what I find out from Richway.” She hung up and hurried to the rental car desk.
A few minutes later, she plugged the address for Preston Richway into the GPS and followed it. The rehab center where he worked was a residential treatment center, but he should be finished for the day.
A slow drizzle of rain fell from the sky, a sign of what was to come. Delray was a hip little town that seemed to draw young people with its restaurants, bars, parks, and public beach. Snowbirds flocked to the area for the winter and its pleasant temperatures, but with the impending inclement weather, the streets were nearly deserted tonight. At this point, residents weren’t evacuating. That should give her some comfort, but the trees thrashing back and forth made worry knot her stomach.
Forget the storm. You’re so close to the truth. Find it and maybe you can sleep without that baby’s cry echoing in your head.
Marilyn drove through the heart of the town, then veered onto a side street that led to a condominium development built between Delray and Boynton Beach. The older looking high rise offered a view of the water and was set back from the road for privacy. She parked, then checked Preston’s address, and battled the wind gusts as she made her way to the front door.
Stepping inside the building, she walked to the desk and asked for Preston Richway.
The woman behind the counter buzzed Preston’s condo. Marilyn held her breath, half expecting him to tell her to get lost, but was surprised when the woman pointed for her to go up. “Third floor. Unit 31 A.”
Marilyn nodded, then rode the elevator, anxiety and hope mingling as the doors opened, and she stepped into the hallway. She found Preston’s door and rang the bell. Seconds later, he responded and invited her in.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she said.
“Jeremy called. I’ve been expecting you.”
So he knew the reason she’d come. Was he ready to talk?
He led her through a small entryway to a living room which was open to the kitchen. The furnishings were contemporary gray and white, although the dark gray sofa and recliner looked inviting and gave the room a cozy feel.
She quickly surveyed him while he retrieved bottles of water and set them on the glass coffee table. He was early forties, tall with an athletic build, his dark hair short and neat, a heavy five o’clock shadow adding an aura of mystery about him. She imagined him as a cocky teenager and could see why he’d been so popular with the girls. He was still handsome, although a dark sadness permeated his eyes.
He sat down on the sofa and studied her. “Jeremy said they found Candace and Deborah Darling’s bodies.”
“Yes.”
He screwed the lid off his water and took a deep drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “They were both murdered?”
“Yes.”
He released a sigh. “Was it the father?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The police are looking at more than one person of interest.”
“Who do they suspect?”
Marilyn hedged. “It’s early in the investigation. They’re talking to everyone who knew the girls and their family.”
Preston leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his jaw clenched. Her gut told her that he wanted to say something but was holding back.
“Preston, I won’t print or report anything that you tell me without your permission.”
He swallowed hard, then stared at her as if he’d placed her under a microscope.
She spoke softly, hoping to earn his trust. “Jeremy told me there was a party at your house the night of his accident.”
“That was supposed to be such a fun night,” he said, his voice cracking. “But everything went wrong.”
Pain and regret laced his tone, stirring Marilyn’s sympathy. But she refrained from showing it. Preston might be involved in the girls’ deaths . . . although he was not the man she’d seen strangle Deborah. That man had been much older. Eaton’s age.
“Tell me what happened, Preston.”
A heartbeat of silence, then he released a wary breath and leaned back against the sofa. “You promise you won’t go public with this?”
“I promise. I want to know who killed the girls. I don’t think it was you, was it?”
Preston shook his head. “I . . . hated them, but I didn’t kill them.”
“Why did you hate them? What happened?”
He shifted, then ran a hand over his face before looking back at her. “I had the party. Jeremy and our other friend had scholarship offers, and we wanted to celebrate. We got a bunch of beer and our friends showed up and it was all fun. I didn’t think I’d had that much to drink, but I was young and stupid, and must have had more than I thought. I passed out on the bed in the back room.”
Marilyn waited quietly, hoping he’d continue.
“Sometime later, I woke up and . . . they were there.”
“You mean Deborah and Candace?”
“All of them,” Preston said in a choked voice. “Deborah, Candace, Mellie and Aretha.” A far away look settled in his eyes as if he was lost in the memory. “They were all over me. I was so weak and dizzy that I tried to tell them to go away, but they shoved my pants down and . . .”
“They raped you,” she said softly.
Emotions clouded his eyes. “I know that sounds ridiculous. I was a guy. I was stronger than them.”
“Except that you were inebriated.”
“Yeah.”
Compassion for him broke through her resolve. “Preston, Jeremy said that he only had one beer, then he chugged water from his water bottle before he started driving. Have you considered the possibility that he was drugged? And that you were too? That that’s the reason you were so dizzy that you couldn’t stop the girls?”
His gaze jerked to hers. “My counselor suggested that,” he admitted. “I just felt so . . . ashamed. Like who would believe four teenage girls raped me? I was bigger than them. An athlete for God’s sake.”
“That’s the reason you didn’t come forward and file charges?”
He nodded. “Our friends saw me and Jeremy drinking. We were both players back then. Everyone would have assumed I got drunk and slept with the girls. I could hear the teasing, that I’d had an orgy.”
“You never told anyone what they did?”
He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Not for a while. But it ate at me, and I finally told Jeremy. He was a mess though, working through physical therapy, dealing with being paralyzed.”
“That was a tragedy,” Marilyn agreed.
“I became seriously depressed. I started drinking and doing drugs, anything to dull the pain.” His voice grew gruff. “Finally my mother found me passed out over the toilet one night. I almost OD’d.”
“And you admitted what happened.”
He nodded.
Marilyn clasped her hands together. “How did she handle it?”
He muttered a sarcastic sound. “Not well. She went ballistic, blew up at me, blamed me for being so stupid I let it happen.”
Female victims faced accusations and guilt all the time. It was one reason they didn’t come forward or testify. Prosecutors shredded them on the stand.
No justice there.
“That must have been difficult,” Marilyn said quietly.
He made a low sound in his throat. “It made me more ashamed. So I drank more. Finally I was spiraling out of control, and she made me go to rehab.” He looked up at her. “I was angry and resented her for it, but it was the right thing for me, the best thing. I got counseling and learned to accept what happened and to forgive myself.”
“You know it wasn’t your fault, Preston, don’t you?”
He gave a grave nod. “On some level, yeah. But they picked me because I was rude to them.”
“They chose you because you were popular and they were troubled,” Marilyn pointed out.
He shrugged. “Rehab saved my life. Literally. I decided to turn that bad incident into a driving force to help others.”
“That’s admirable,” Marilyn said. “Your mother must be proud of you now.”
Another pained look crossed his face. “Not really. My mom . . . she was so filled with rage and bitterness. She never looked at me the same after that. Eventually we just stopped talking.”
Being estranged from his mother was obviously a sore spot. But while he was opening up, she had to press on. “Did you have any contact with the Darling girls or Mellie Thacker or Aretha Franton after the rape?”
He shook his head no. “I missed a lot of school because I was so depressed and because of the drinking and drugs. Then Mellie moved away and so did Aretha. And then the Darling girls disappeared.”
“So you had nothing to do with their disappearance?”
“I told you I didn’t talk to them after the night of the party,” he said, his tone hardening. “But I was glad they were gone.”
She gave him an understanding look. “There’s one more thing,” Marilyn said. “The Darling girls and Mellie and Aretha made a pregnancy pact.”
Preston jerked his head up, his eyes widening. “What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Hell, no, that’s sick.”
“It’s also the reason they raped you,” Marilyn said. “They thought if you and Jeremy were drunk, you’d sleep with them.”
Preston’s face twisted with emotions as the implication sank in. “What exactly are you saying?”
His shock seemed so genuine that her heart ached for him. “Preston, Deborah and Candace were both pregnant when they disappeared.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Caroline studied her face in the bathroom mirror. Sometimes she didn’t know who she was anymore.
She hadn’t been with the agency long enough to be burned out. But this case had gotten under her skin just like the stories of the Keepers had.
She identified with them. Had spent hours talking to Carrie Ann Jensen and Cat Landon and visiting the secret Chat Room where the Keepers gathered.
Although as a federal agent sworn to uphold the law, she couldn’t show her sympathy for the group. Or her alliance.
But she had wanted to help them. Had wanted to take up their cause herself.
Her own secrets haunted her.
In that room with Harold Darling, she’d come close to losing her cool as if her demons had gathered in that room to bait her. She stared at her hands which were white from clenching them into fists. As she’d listened to Darling, the temptation to snatch him by the neck and choke the truth out of him taunted her.
But . . . some inner voice screamed at her to wait out his story. To get to the truth first. Judging and doling out sentencing on her own without irrefutable proof that he was a vile man who’d battered and killed his daughters would be wrong.
And now . . . what?
She was beginning to think that he might be telling the truth.
For some reason, his anguish had actually seemed sincere as if he was truly mired in grief.
She’d been drawn to that grief and anguish. Had even felt a tug of compassion for him.
She splashed cold water on her face, then straightened and looked at her reflection again.
When she’d first decided to tackle this case, in her mind the Darling girls had simply been victims. But the more she learned, the deeper the ugliness ran, like rotting floorboards underneath a house that eventually made the entire structure crumple down.
Her phone buzzed with a text. One of the Keepers wanting to be filled in.
She quickly texted back. Not yet.
The other woman would know what she meant.
She pasted on her professional mask, turned and went to meet Ryker.
Chapter Twenty-four
Ryker fought irritation that Marilyn hadn’t asked him to go with her to Florida. If she got herself killed, he’d never forgive himself.
Caroline was another stubborn lady. She’d ducked into the ladies room, claiming she was getting a migraine. But something else was going on with her. She didn’t seem to want to share with him any more than his girlfriend did.
While he waited, he checked in with the analyst about the search for that dark sedan.
“There are dozens and dozens,” the analyst said. “I’m trying to narrow it down.”
“How about Lloyd Willing? Did you find anything on him?”
“He was the groundskeeper at the Village and lighthouse for twenty years. Married with three kids and five grandchildren. Nothing suspicious.”
“Keep looking for the car.” He hung up and phoned the ME. “I know you barely received the bones of Phyllis and Polly Darling, but wondered if there’s anything you can tell me.”
“The forensic anthropologist says that Polly did sustain a blow to the head which most likely caused her brain to bleed and led to her death. It’s hard to say at this point whether she was struck intentionally or if she was pushed or simply fell.”
A blow to the head was consistent with Darling’s story.
“How about Mrs. Darling?”
“That’s more complicated. Dr. Lofton is still working on her. But there were no signs of physical abuse, strangulation or gunshot wounds.”
So she could have mixed pills and booze like Darling claimed.
Ryker’s phone was buzzing with another call so he thanked the ME and connected.
“It’s Lieutenant Granger from the crime lab. We’ve been processing the forensics found at Eaton’s place. There were three sets of prints. Eaton’s. Marilyn Ellis’s. And another set belonging to a different female.”
“Have you identified those last prints?”
“No, they aren’t in the system. But we found the name of Eaton’s caregiver. Prints could be hers.”
She might have been the last person to see Eaton alive. “Send me her name and contact information. I have to talk to her.”
“On its way.”
Ryker hung up and saw the message come in. Gayle Burton, 225 Pebble Drive. Seahawk Island.
He rushed toward Caroline as she exited the ladies room. “I have a name and address for Daryl Eaton’s caregiver.”
“What does that have to do with the Darling case?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
They hurried out to his car. On the drive to the island, he relayed Marilyn’s theory.
“She thinks Daryl Eaton was the man people called the Punisher?”
“Yes,” he said. “She suspects he’s connected to the Darling sisters’ deaths.”
Ryker sped over the causeway, then turned down a side road leading to an older group of apartments near the Village.
“Do you think she’s onto something?” Caroline asked.
Ryker shrugged. �
��You may not like her, Caroline, but Marilyn is damn good at her job. And as tough as she seems, she really wants justice for victims.”
Agent Manson simply studied him, her lips pressed into a grim line.
He noted the numbers of the buildings and that the parking lot was half empty. These apartments were run down and needed a significant facelift before the hurricane. Since then, they’d fallen into serious disrepair.
He parked near Gayle’s building, cut the engine and climbed out. Caroline joined him, and they walked to the door together. The blinds were closed, the place dark.
She rang the bell, and when no one answered, he tried the door. To his surprise, it squeaked open. He and Caroline exchanged looks and drew their weapons.
In the entry, he paused to listen for sounds that someone was inside, but there was only silence. The interior was dark, so he pulled his penlight and shined it across the foyer, then he inched inside the living area. The place was empty.
“Looks like no one is here,” Caroline murmured.
Ryker refrained from comment as he paused to listen again. Silence. He eased across the room then glanced into the kitchen. Empty. A small hall led to a bath and bedroom.
Nothing inside. No furniture or signs that anyone lived here.
“What the hell? Are you sure you have the right address?” Caroline asked.
Ryker checked his text again. “This is it.”
“Then she either moved out and took everything with her—”
“Or this place was just a front,” Ryker finished.
“You think the name Gayle is an alias?”
Ryker shrugged. “It’s starting to look that way. If she was lying about who she was, perhaps she had reason to kill Eaton.”
Agent Manson’s brows lifted. “And now she’s on the run.”
Marilyn gave Preston time to absorb her statement. Face pale, he walked across the room to the window and stared outside. His shoulders shook with emotion.
“You didn’t know about the pregnancies?” she asked softly.
He turned back to her. “No. Like I told you, I never spoke to any of those girls after the night of the party.”
