by Chris Mooney
Chris Mooney
* * *
FEAR THE DARK
Contents
Day One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Day Two
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Day Three
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Day Ten
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Day Eleven
Chapter 83
Epilogue
Follow Penguin
PENGUIN BOOKS
FEAR THE DARK
Chris Mooney is the internationally bestselling author of the Darby McCormick thrillers and Remembering Sarah, which was nominated for an Edgar for Best Novel by the Mystery Writers of America. His books have been translated into more than twenty languages. He teaches writing courses at the Harvard Extension School and lives in Boston, Massachusetts, with his wife and son.
For Jen, my moon and my stars
‘I didn’t mean to kill her, Sarah. It just –’
‘Happened. I know,’ she says in that quiet, soothing voice that made me fall in love with her all those years ago. She swallows and forces a smile. ‘I understand. You don’t have to explain yourself.’
We’ve done this dance before – too many times, I’m ashamed to admit. And, while I’m genuinely sorry each and every time, I also genuinely believe Sarah does, in fact, understand. This isn’t wishful thinking on my part. We’ve been together a long time, Sarah and I; there are no secrets between us. Besides, Sarah couldn’t keep something from me even if she wanted to. She’s not a good actor, for one, but the reality is that she’s not capable of deceit. Doesn’t have it in her. She’s too meek, still wears her heart on her sleeve. One look at her face and I know what she’s feeling. Thinking.
We’re sitting together on the living-room couch, the place, it seems, where we always end up having this conversation. I knock back the rest of my bourbon – my third – and stare into the fire, wondering, again, if there is such a place as hell.
‘It just got away from me. Again.’
‘I know,’ she says quietly. ‘Still, maybe you should have –’
My glare stops her cold. The firewood snaps and hisses.
‘Should’ve what?’ I prompt, aware of the heat climbing into my voice. Sarah knows better than to beat a dead horse. I’ve already apologized. The subject is closed. Done.
She takes another delicate sip of her white wine and stares down into her glass, like there’s an escape hatch hiding somewhere at the bottom. I see how I’ve hurt her, and I take our glasses and place them on the coffee-table. Then I snuggle up next to her and take her hands in mine. Her smile is tight – not out of fear but because even now, after all this time together, she’s still embarrassed about her crooked teeth.
‘You’re beautiful,’ I say.
She reddens and stares down at my hands. The skin is still pink and sore from the hot water and the vigorous scrubbing with the brush. It took a good twenty minutes to remove the blood – especially the blood caked underneath my fingernails. I was so angry, so consumed by rage, that I forgot to put on the gloves. I need to be more careful next time.
And there will be a next time. We both know it.
Sarah clears her throat. ‘A walk,’ she says timidly.
‘What?’
‘We should take a walk. The fresh air will do us both some good.’
‘Honey, it’s the middle of the night. And it’s freezing out.’
‘I don’t care.’ The tentative smile on her face is as fragile as an eggshell.
My heart sinks when I break it. ‘I’m exhausted,’ I say gently. ‘Maybe tomorrow night.’
She puts on a brave face. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘Thanks for understanding.’
She nods, keeps nodding.
I cup her face in my hands, fighting back tears. She swallows, nervous.
‘You mean the world to me. I love you. You know that, right?’
‘I do,’ she says.
And I believe her.
I kiss her forehead. ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’
I smile. Kiss her gently on the lips. She crinkles her nose, like she’s caught a whiff of a bad odour.
‘What is it now?’ I ask sharply.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, go on. Say what’s on your mind.’ I feel the anger, how it’s already moved past the point of no return. I can’t help it – can’t stop it. ‘Say it.’
‘Shower.’ Her voice is barely above a whisper. ‘You should take a long, hot shower.’
‘Because I stink? That what you’re trying to tell me?’
‘No. It’ll relax you.’
‘I’m too tired.’
‘I know, baby,’ she says, and my anger retreats like dirty water swirling down a drain. She knows I love it when she calls me baby. ‘It’s just that you’ve got blood in your hair again.’
Day One
1
Darby McCormick felt her muscles relax and her stomach unclench when the helicopter’s landing skids touched down. She was so happy – so damn relieved – she wanted to kiss Ricky the Pilot and his ridiculous Magnum P. I.
Ricky had fought major crosswinds since taking off from Denver. An hour later, when he began the descent to the helipad belonging to the Colorado State Trooper’s station in Castle Rock, there had been several tense minutes when she was sure the chopper was going to spin out of control and crash into the nearby trees.
Darby thanked him and took off her headset. He didn’t cut the engine; he had to fly back to Denver. She opened the side door to a blast of cold, grabbed her suitcase and rolling forensics kit, and stepped outside, ducking underneath the spinning blades. Hair blowing wildly across her face and shoulder
s, she made her way to a forest-green Jeep Wrangler, the only civilian vehicle parked in the back of the station.
Coop came out of the driver’s door and made his way around to the front of the Jeep to greet her. His camel-hair overcoat and navy-blue suit jacket were unbuttoned, and, as the copter took off and the rotor wash blasted against his clothes, she saw the Glock 23, one of the standard side-arms issued to federal agents, tucked inside his black leather shoulder holster.
Coop had been working for the feds for a little over a year now. When his job at the private forensics company in London had been ‘made redundant’ – polite and fancy British speak for we’ve just laid your ass off – the Bureau had swooped in and hired him. No big surprise there. Coop was considered one of the best fingerprint experts in the country.
What did take her by surprise was the thought that popped into her head: this was the first time she’d seen Coop in well over a year. He still looked the same – hard and fit – but his blond hair was now cut shorter around the ears and neck to conform to federal regulations. As she drew closer, it amazed her how little he seemed to have aged since she’d met him nearly fifteen years ago. Not only had Coop won the genetic lottery (he was often mistaken for the blond-haired Tom Brady, the New England Patriots quarterback), but he had also been blessed with what she called the Dorian Gray gene – he was the kind of man who, like George Clooney, only got better looking with each passing year.
Coop took her suitcase as the helicopter climbed into the air. ‘Didn’t think you were going to make it,’ he yelled over the roar of its engine.
‘Didn’t think I was going to either. That storm hitting Ohio screwed up flights all over the country. I got out of Florida just in time.’ She pushed the aviator sunglasses back up her nose and brushed the hair away from her face as she followed him to the back of the Jeep. ‘Why’d you book me a copter?’
‘Quicker than driving to Denver to pick you up.’ He opened the hatchback and placed her suitcase inside, then her forensics kit beside it.
Coop shut the door. The bright afternoon sunlight highlighted the intensely deep colour of his heterochromatic eyes: one was green, the other blue.
‘You’re looking a little green around the gills,’ he said. ‘Bumpy ride?’
‘There were definitely a few moments when I was sure I was going to toss my airport breakfast burrito. Try not to hit any potholes along the way.’
He flashed his winning smile. ‘It’s great to see you.’
‘You too. It’s been way too long.’
Coop embraced her. She kissed his grainy cheek and hugged him back, surprised at how fiercely she still missed him. She pulled away before it went any further.
‘How far to Red Hill?’ Darby asked after he’d climbed behind the wheel.
‘About an hour.’ He slipped on a pair of Oakley sunglasses, put the car in gear and started making his way out of the station’s back lot. ‘We arrived yesterday, around noontime. Been to Colorado before?’
Darby shook her head. ‘First time.’
‘Air here’s real thin, and it’s even thinner in Red Hill. Town has the highest altitude in the state: 9,700 feet above sea level. It’ll take a few days for our lungs to adjust, so we’ve been told to drink plenty of water or we’ll suffer from altitude sickness.’
‘Noted. Speaking of Red Hill, I couldn’t find much on the internet, just that it was an old mining town.’
Coop pulled on to the road. ‘The place is like … You see The Shining? The movie, not the TV mini-series thing.’
‘I saw the movie when I was thirteen and didn’t sleep for a week. Why?’
‘You remember the scene that opened the movie? That aerial shot of Jack Nicholson’s shitty VW chugging its way across a road that snakes through an immense forest, tall pines stretching for miles in every direction? That’s what Red Hill reminds me of. Nothing there except woods and snow – lots of snow.’
‘And a psychopath who’s killed four families in a year.’
‘And that.’ Coop rolled his head to her, smiled. ‘You’re looking good. Nice and tan.’
‘Florida sun will do that, even to a pale Irish girl like me. And look at you, dressed in your big boy clothes.’ She chuckled. ‘Never thought I’d see the day.’
‘We’ve come a long way together, haven’t we?’
‘We certainly have, Special Agent Cooper.’
He took the exit for the highway. It was half past twelve, and the January sun was hard and bright in a cloudless sky. Everywhere she looked she saw flat lands covered in snow.
‘You think you’re going to stay there? In Sarasota?’
Darby shrugged.
‘Don’t care for all that sand and sunshine?’
‘I don’t like to be tied down anywhere,’ Darby said, and then changed the subject. ‘I read over the case files you sent. Not much there. Same pattern every time. Guy binds the family with plastic zip ties to the dining-room or kitchen chairs set up in one of the bedrooms. Covers their mouths with duct tape. Strangles the women and suffocates the men with a plastic garbage bag.’
‘He uses a glass-cutter on a downstairs window or on a sliding glass door to let himself in.’
‘What about evidence?’
‘Smooth glove prints. No DNA or fibre evidence.’
‘I’d like to read the evidence and lab reports.’
‘Copies are being made as we speak.’
‘Who handled the evidence?’
‘State lab in Denver. Our lab says they’re pretty good.’
‘And, what, you disagree?’
‘Not a question of agreeing or disagreeing. Lab is only as good as its equipment and its people, you know that. Since I haven’t seen these techs in action, who knows what they might’ve missed?
‘The evidence from the previous crime scenes – the duct tape, garbage bags and zip ties – was sent out FedEx to our lab yesterday. Toolmarks section asked to examine one of the windowpanes he cut through. That was sent out this morning.’
‘One thing jumped out at me,’ Darby said.
‘The thing with the beds.’
Darby nodded. ‘Each attack happened at night, and the vics were found dressed in their bedclothes. When the police arrived, all the beds were made.’
‘Could be we’re dealing with a new strain of pervert, some guy with severe OCD issues who feels compelled to make the bed, maybe even does a little light housekeeping before he leaves.’
Darby laughed. ‘Still, the whole making-the-bed-before-he-leaves thing? I don’t know what the hell to make of that.’
‘Neither does Hoder.’
Darby straightened up in her seat.
2
Darby turned to him and said, ‘Hoder as in Terry Hoder, the head of Investigative Support?’
‘Do I detect a note of excitement in your voice?’ Coop asked.
‘He’s very well respected.’
‘And a tabloid staple. What’s the name they gave him again? “Hoder the Hunter”?’
‘They just call him “The Monster Hunter” now.’
‘How incredibly original,’ Coop said drily. ‘If you’re nice to me, I’ll get you his autograph for your scrapbook.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me Hoder was going to be here?’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘A handful of times, years ago. I took some of his courses at Quantico as part of my doctorate.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘For a fed, he didn’t strike me as a total asshole.’
‘He isn’t. A total asshole, I mean.’ Coop grinned. ‘Actually, he strikes me as a straight shooter, no BS.’
‘If Hoder’s working on this, why am I here?’
‘Because he specifically asked for you. He was impressed with the work you and I did in Boston, so he thought it would be a good idea to get the Wonder Twins back together.’
‘Worst superheroes ever.’
‘I know, right? Guy can transform into anything h
e wants, and each and every time he chooses to turn into water or an ice cube. Then again, what else can you expect from a guy who wears purple tights?’
Darby laughed.
Coop said, ‘In the back you’ll find an envelope holding your ID and some forms you’ll need to sign – your consulting fee, per diem, all that fun stuff. You also have to sign a non-disclosure agreement. It’s standard. FBI don’t want you spilling any of our top-secret detective methods should you give an interview or be inclined to write a book.’
‘Hoder’s got everyone in ISU at his disposal. Why hire me as an outside contractor?’
‘Because you’re smoking hot?’
‘Besides that.’
‘Well, it might have something to do with the fact that you cracked both of the two serial cases you worked on – one of which, I may add, eluded my new employer for three decades.’
‘Both those cases didn’t exactly put your new employer in the best light.’
‘Sure as hell didn’t. And yet the Bureau hired me, and now they want to hire you. Hoder is a superstitious guy; he’s hoping you can work your particular voodoo in Red Hill. Course, it didn’t hurt when I told him you’re the smartest chick I know.’
Darby shot him a look.
‘Sorry, I know how much you hate that word,’ he said. ‘I meant to say “broad”.’
‘Much better.’
Coop was joking the way he always did – his expression and tone dancing along the edge of a smirk, using sarcasm to cover up his true feelings.
The last time they’d worked together was well over two years ago: the Soul Collectors case. In the aftermath, words were exchanged. Promises made. She returned to Boston, and Coop flew back to London to break it off with his live-in girlfriend.
When days turned into weeks, Coop waiting for his girlfriend to return home from a business trip, Coop waiting for the right moment to drop the bomb, Darby realized that there was nothing to keep her in Boston any more. Her job at the Crime Lab was gone, her parents were dead, and Coop … she loved him but she didn’t want to own him. She decided to sell her condo and all its furnishings, and then, using a small portion of her considerable savings, purchased the best motorcycle ever made: a Triumph Bonneville T100 Special Edition, inspired by the one Steve McQueen drove in the movie The Great Escape. The Triumph was the only thing she owned now, her life condensed into whatever she could fit inside the bike’s small rear trunk and pair of hard-shell saddlebags. She lived her life out of motels and hotels.
