Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Further Titles by Lynn Hightower
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Further Titles by Lynn Hightower
THE PIPER*
The Sonora Blair Series
EYESHOT
FLASHPOINT
NO GOOD DEED
THE DEBT COLLECTOR
The David Silver Series
ALIEN BLUES
ALIEN EYES
ALIEN HEAT
ALIEN RITES
The Lena Padgett Series
SATAN’S LAMBS
FORTUNES OF THE DEAD
WHEN SECRETS DIE
*available from Severn House
EVEN IN DARKNESS
Lynn Hightower
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Lynn Hightower.
The right of Lynn Hightower to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Hightower, Lynn S. author.
Even in darkness.
1. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 2. Women television personalities–Fiction. 3. Recluses–Fiction. 4. Suspense
fiction.
I. Title
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-07278-8351-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-499-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-496-6 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For my magical, outrageous, steel magnolia mama – Joyce – who always knew I was going to be a writer.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Robert, my husband, and Alan, Laurel, and Rachel. Rebecca, Brian, Katie, Isaac, David, Arthur, Wes, Arnaud & Julien.
To my agent, Matt Bialer, and Lindsay Ribar and Stephanie Diaz at Sanford J. Greenburger.
To Sheila Williams.
To Kate Lyall Grant, at Severn House, and Anna Telfer, Michelle Duff, Piers Tilbury.
If I take the wings of the morning, and settle at the farthest limits of the sea
Even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.
If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,’
Even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.
Psalms 139: 7–12
ONE
What brought me out of my dreams?
I think at some level I became aware of dark things. Something restless beneath the supposed serenity of a life I lived moment to moment. I liked to think I was free. That my past was the least important thing about me. But the universe is a thing of checks and balances, and your shadow follows.
There are times I think the Dark Man will be the source of my salvation, but there is never any doubt that he is a curse. My curse. If I had the chance for a lifetime do-over, I would never have gotten into the evangelism business. It is easy to forget what a dangerous job religion can be.
Caroline Miller is missing. Along with her daughter, my granddaughter, Andee Miller. Andee, whose eyes, the shape of her nose, the way she has of tilting her head to one side when she does not quite believe you – these things she gets from my son. Thus from me.
The Dark Man is back. And I know it is the Dark Man who has taken them.
Seven years ago, Caro was married to my son. Seven years ago, Caro killed my son. Seven years ago, I was a witness for the defense at her trial, testifying fervently on her behalf just before my … I believe the euphemism is breakdown.
Those days seemed full of the kind of events that happen only to other families. At times like that, nothing feels normal. Perhaps by that I really mean right. There is no question that the things that happened to us, to all of us, were not right.
I am awake again, to my life. Present in the moment. Seven years of winter, functional but frozen, hiding and hibernating, aware, but not afraid. If I miss anything about those years, it is that one thing. Not being afraid.
You might think seven years of drifting would pass slowly, but the time flowed like water draining out of the tub when you want to linger in the bath. I could sit and stare at a blank wall for hours, meditating like a wizened monk. The rapture of true meditation comes easily to me, and feels like a guilty pleasure. I find it seductive and addictive – surrendering to the wall.
It has been fourteen years since the Dark Man first approached me – a man squeezed by a mystifying welter of darkness and will, conflicting with revelation and light. There are times that I wish he’d gone through with his plans, and not let me stop him.
The Dark Man is a sociopath. I don’t know his name, but I will, and soon. I’ll get the name along with everything else. The FBI is trying to find him. So is every deputy sheriff, news reporter and vigilante in the stat
e. He is the man of the moment, guilty of crimes that turn the strongest stomach.
And the only person who knows how to find him, is me.
TWO
I woke that morning at five a.m., I really can’t say why. It could have been the significance of the date – the seventh anniversary of Joey’s death. But I had never woken so early any other year on this day.
I lay quietly, alone of course, my mind straining, body sluggish. I rolled over and looked at the clock. Five twenty-two. The alarm would not go off for another hour. I remember wondering if I was up so early because of the energy supplements I had taken. Caro had sent them to me. The perfect formula for people who suffer from low thyroid. Caro eats organic, and is on the cutting edge of homeopathy. She often sends me things. They often do exactly as she promises.
And that was it. The only unusual thing. Until the mail came.
Marsha brought it in. She always does when she’s here, which is more often than she should be. I think she is lonely. She is the kind of mean-spirited person other people avoid, myself included, even though she is my cousin. She hides her unkindness beneath a layer of treacly voice tones and faux jokes – the refuge of many who say things that are unpleasant. I was just kidding. Can’t you take a joke?
I think she is aware how much I dislike her going through the mail. It is one of the reasons she does it, to annoy me, to have power over me, and also because she is obsessively interested in every detail of my life.
She is the accountant for Joy Miller Ministries, not the secretary, so technically the mail is not her province. As I work out of my home, some of the mail is business oriented, and some of it is personal. She goes through my things, too, upstairs in my bedroom, through my closet, my makeup drawer, my jewelry. I wonder if she knows that I know.
I often think of firing her. But she is loyal to the cause (her words, not mine, as the cause is me, or rather, my ministries) and I don’t pay her as much as a new accountant would cost. And the ministries are winding down. I don’t take in very much these days. The heyday of cable television and continuous revivals and preaching gigs are like the memory of a woman I once knew very well, but have lost touch with. It doesn’t seem like it could ever have been my life. My cousin Marsha stays employed through the benevolence of my inertia, plus she keeps the IRS off my back.
She stands in the foyer of my house, studying postmarks, holding envelopes to the light. She seems unconcerned that I am standing right beside her with my hand out. She frowns over a thick brown envelope marked personal.
‘What’s this?’ she asks. Her eyes are hungry.
I just smile and take the mail. Why do I smile?
‘Do you want me to come in tomorrow, Joy? I’ve got a hair appointment at ten. Sorry, but it was the only day Rena had free.’
I don’t believe her. Her schedule is six hours, nine to three, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Of course, I am not her only client. I’m just the one foolish enough to put her on a salary instead of an hourly rate.
‘Just come in afterward and stay late,’ I say.
Marsha is already headed out the door, but this stops her and she looks at me over her shoulder. ‘Stay late?’
I nod.
‘Oh?’
Even then, before I opened that brown envelope marked personal, something inside me was waking up.
As soon as Marsha is gone I kick off my shoes. This is part of the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ritual. Get rid of Marsha, get rid of shoes.
Outside, my dog Leo is barking. I will wait until he is quiet before I bring him in. I cannot go out while he is barking, because that would give him the message that barking is a good thing – barking gets results. Leo is fourteen months old, a lean eighty-three pounds, and I am still training him.
I tear the envelope open. The return address is my address, though I didn’t send it. My name and particulars are printed on simple white labels, and the word PERSONAL is stamped in two inch red letters. On the back, another red stamp says PHOTOS – DO NOT BEND.
Inside, I find a stack of four by six color photographs. There are three sets, clipped together with oversized black binders.
The top picture shows a man standing behind a pulpit. He wears a suit and his hair is combed and gelled into an understated pompadour, which immediately makes me tag him as a Southern Baptist. One of those sticky white labels has been stuck along the bottom of the picture, obscuring the back view of a packed and attentive Sunday morning congregation. Printed on this label is a name. THE REVEREND JIMMY MAHAN.
Mahan. Jimmy Mahan. I know this name.
We were in school together. He was two years behind me, working on a religion degree.
I bring the picture close and squint. I recognize the name but not the man. If I know him, if he is the Jimmy Mahan I used to know, he is changed or I’ve forgotten his face. He has a girth on him and though it is hard to tell from the picture, he looks like one of those red-faced men who sweat. And indeed in the next picture he has taken out a handkerchief to mop his face. Different suit. This one grey. The first navy blue.
He is playing golf in the next shot. I don’t recognize the golf course but the terrain reminds me of South Carolina, maybe Georgia. Pine trees, needles in sandy soil. His shirt is Kelly green, short-sleeved, and he wears white shorts, which seems less than wise. His pompadour is higher here, and he does not seem to be sweating. Early spring, sunny and cool.
The next shot disturbs me. Mahan is asleep in a brown recliner, mouth open. There is the arm of a matching recliner and an elbow in the corner. A woman? His wife? The shot seems intrusive. I wonder who took it and how. Why.
The next picture up sends rivulets of shock tingling down my spine. I hear a voice, my voice. Oh God. Oh shit. My heart is pounding. I sit down on the floor.
I am suddenly remembering something about Jimmy Mahan. How they used to call him ‘the mouth that roared’. He was skinny then, a medium sort of height, as I remember. Quick-moving, loud-talking, a laugh that used to echo in the hallways. People would roll their eyes and say his name. Fondly. Or with irritation. Usually with irritation.
I cannot find the skinny guy with the big laugh in this picture. But the man with the pompadour and the tear-stained face looks oddly brave, braver than I would be with my head jerked back, my neck exposed and a gun jammed hard to my throat.
I am propelling myself backward, scooting on the floor until my back is against the wall. I draw my knees up and look at the next picture.
Mahan’s throat has been ripped open, a piece of something like pink pipe cleaner sticking up, and if I had not seen the gun in the other picture I would have thought that Jimmy Mahan had been attacked by some animal, a lion or a wolf, something that had ripped his throat out in a death-lust frenzy.
This one has a label. THE REVEREND JIMMY MAHAN, AFTER DEATH. There is writing on the back of the picture, in green ink, bold, like a Sharpie.
HE CHOSE US IN HIM BEFORE THE FOUNDATION OF THE WORLD, THAT WE SHOULD BE HOLY AND BLAMELESS BEFORE HIM. IN LOVE HE PREDESTINED US TO ADOPTION AS SONS THROUGH JESUS CHRIST TO HIMSELF, ACCORDING TO THE KIND INTENTION OF HIS WILL.
I am experiencing a strange double vision. Part of me seems to be viewing myself, huddled against the wall, staring at these pictures. The other is studying this final shot – Jimmy Mahan’s face splashed with Jimmy Mahan’s blood. There is nothing left of his chin. His hair, parted on the left, has flopped over one eye. One dead eye. And I remember this – that Jimmy Mahan was vain about his hair. I remember how he used to wear it long, and toss his head back, thin white wormlike fingers pushing the hair from his eyes whenever he answered a question in class, or made a point in discussion.
There are more pictures. There are two more sets.
I realize that Leo is quiet now. I should go and get him, bring him into the house. I should call the police. Although if the police are coming, maybe I should leave Leo out. He will jump on them and bark and he is scary-looking, despite his teddy bear heart, but he’s been out
too long as it is, he’s probably thirsty.
He barks again, as if he knows I am thinking about him. I can’t go now, not until he is quiet, but I can’t leave him barking, he is no doubt disturbing the neighbors. I can lock him in the bathroom while the police are here. It will only be a problem if one of the police officers needs to use the bathroom, but that would be unprofessional, wouldn’t it? Maybe I should vacuum the living room before they come, because Leo sheds, he sheds a lot.
I scream. A long scream that hurts. Why did these pictures come to me? Who sent them? Who put my address in the top left corner, and my address in the center, as if I’d sent this packet to myself? I scream again, but I don’t feel better.
Who?
Why?
And why me? Me? Me? What did I do?
Is this some sort of a confession? The televangelism used to pull in the nuts, but those days are over, nobody remembers. I don’t know anybody who would do something like this.
Except, wait. Maybe I do.
THREE
Leo knows I am unhappy. A dog always knows.
I wonder absently why I live in this house. I don’t like this house, I never liked this house. My husband, fourteen years dead – he’s the one who picked this house out, this is the house that he wanted, and more house than we could afford in those days. In any days, really. I’ve been house poor most of my life. Why do I still live here after all these years?
There are two more sets of pictures. It surprises me that I have not at least given them a quick glimpse. I have as much human curiosity as anyone else. Maybe more.