Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller

by Lynn Hightower

  ‘And then Carl was dead. So I kept quiet and went on with my life.’ I look up at Goodwin. ‘So there you go. That’s my deep dark secret.’

  Goodwin gives me a sad little smile. ‘So Purcell saves your life really. Maybe your son’s as well. That’s how he sees it. And now he wants the favor returned. The answer to the big question. Can he be redeemed?’ Goodwin scratches the back of his neck. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard for you to put something together to make him happy.’

  ‘Something like the truth, or something like what he wants to hear?’

  Goodwin just smiles at me. ‘I guess that’s your call.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll let the girls go, once he gets his questions answered?’

  ‘Not really. But it’ll do to flush him out.’

  THIRTY

  It is a sadly small gathering in the sanctuary for Marsha’s funeral, though Cee’s half sister, Chloris, does make it in from Detroit. The number of mourners is swelled by a sturdy turnout of law enforcement.

  I scan the faces, looking for the Dark Man, but it is Goodwin that I find. He is sitting on the right side of the sanctuary, maybe ten rows in. His suit looks new, a navy blue that is almost black. He wears a stiff white shirt that looks like he took it out of a plastic package this morning. His tie is powder blue. He’s either had a haircut or discovered gel. Either way, he is crisply dressed, properly somber, and although he is far from obvious I can see him watching, sizing people up as they come in. He sees me and nods, and I appreciate his presence even though I know it’s all about the business at hand.

  I recognize Agents Jones and Woods and tag the drawn, watchful faces of two men and a woman I don’t know. They are looking for the Dark Man as well. We all watch television. We all know he’ll be drawn to attend.

  Yesterday afternoon the local media discovered my hiding place. I have been off the circuit and I’m rusty. It did not occur to me to register in my hotel under an assumed name. One advantage of having the FBI at Marsha’s funeral is their hard-line ability to keep the media chained. Their professional stiff-armed toughness is a blessing when they’re on your team.

  I sit in an anteroom that looks on to the sanctuary of Second Presbyterian Church where Marsha, a vague Presbyterian, kept a connection that was tenuous at best. The service is set for ten a.m., and it is already ten fifteen. Were it not for the presence of the FBI we could all fit into the cozy second floor library, which would be more comfortable, and comforting to the soul.

  I look to my Aunt Cee for the signal to begin. I check my watch. I am unable to catch her eye. She wears a chunky brooch pinned to the shoulder of her dress – the jewelry of generations past. She leans against my Uncle Don, and the two of them form a human teepee of grief. They seem so much older than I remember, and it isn’t just grief. My relatives have aged and grown tired while I’ve hidden away the last seven years.

  Marsha would be gratified to know that I have been shopping. As of yesterday my wardrobe consisted of a khaki skirt, some well worn Levis, a white silk blouse, two plain black tee shirts and a worn and well washed pair of Keds. I had various items of socks and underwear, but even for me the wardrobe was on the skimpy side.

  In a whirl of expense that Marsha would have enjoyed, I doubled the tally with the addition of slingback heels, a black sheath dress, stockings, a matching set of bra and panties and a simple pair of real pearl earrings that I have always wished for but never owned. It occurred to me to hide the earrings as soon as I bought them, but then I remembered that Marsha would not be ‘borrowing’ from my wardrobe anymore.

  My bank account is dwindling. Living in a hotel and owning almost nothing means a myriad of unplanned for expense. And I still have the continuum of before-crisis bills. I still have to pay the mortgage, though the house itself is gone. I wonder if I’ll have to sue my insurance company, and how many years we’ll be tied up in court. It’s aggravating the way so much in life seems to boil down to shopping and paying the bills.

  Photographs of Marsha are displayed on the table by the casket, which will remain closed. There are four baskets of flowers lined up by the podium. I imagine that I catch a whiff of fragrance. I imagine how Marsha looks right now, beneath the coffin’s tightly shut lid. She’ll be wearing the lavender dress she mentioned in the instructions in her will. Her hands, though they look like cooked meat, will clasp a spray of white cymbidiums, fragrant, and soft to the touch. She will rest on a liner of satin, in her favorite color of pink.

  Someone taps my shoulder and I look up to see Uncle Don.

  ‘Cee says it’s time to begin now, honey.’ He pats my shoulder and shuffles away, with the usual sideways sway.

  As soon as I walk to the pulpit, the drone of soft conversation fades. The microphone, as always, is set up to accommodate a tallish man. I make adjustments and my voice echoes into the cavernous sanctuary.

  I have stood before mourners countless times, and have no need of my notes. I am relieved to find my voice remains steady and calm. It wavers only slightly when I scan the congregation and focus on Uncle Don and Aunt Cee, watching me from the dark place of their pain.

  I am good at funerals and I give them the best that I’ve got, then step aside with a certain relief. Someone’s teenage daughter is scheduled to sing. I am trapped up front in the public eye, sitting in one of those throne-like chairs. The singer goes with ‘Jesus Is Calling’. Her voice is young and soft, almost unbearably sweet. The organist plays carefully so the music does not overpower the purity and tone. Something in my mind clicks and I look back at the table by the coffin. I squint, trying not to be obvious, but there is a brown envelope next to the display of pictures. An envelope that wasn’t there before.

  I leave my seat, taking care to avoid eye contact with anyone – particularly relatives of the girl who is singing and agents of the FBI. I’m aware that people are staring, and the organist, well into the second refrain of the hymn, looks up at me, a question in her eyes. She is in her forties, vaguely familiar, and her dress is that annoying color called royal that can’t decide if it is purple or blue. I smile and nod. Whisper ‘Good to see you again’. She looks perplexed, but my air of being in charge carries me through, and she continues on with the music.

  Once I am close I can see I was right: there’s an envelope on the table that wasn’t there before. I suppose a wiser woman would have left it for handling by the FBI, but I know the Dark Man well enough that if he has left this envelope, it is something I do not want my aunt and uncle to see.

  In a few quick steps I am back on the second level and out of general view. I pause in the small anteroom where the choir congregates before the service and tear the tightly gummed seal of the envelope. There is a single photograph inside and my hands shake when I hold it up to the light.

  Marsha is tied, hand and foot, and her eyes are closed, though she seems aware and awake. The fire hasn’t reached her yet, but it is close. The picture is blurred by smoke, and dear Marsha could be an advertisement for whatever product she has used to hold her hair in place. I want to laugh and cry when I see that she is wearing the delicate silver bracelet I bought years ago on a trip to New Mexico. She is also wearing the turquoise sweater I gave her last Christmas and her usual pair of khakis, and she has somehow lost her left shoe.

  The handwriting on the back of the photo is familiar to me now, written in the usual green ink.

  YOU DIDN’T TRUST ME.

  I TOLD YOU NOT TO BRING IN THE FBI.

  FRESH START. AWAITING YOUR ANSWERS.

  YOUR GIRLS WANT TO COME HOME.

  ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, THEY WILL.

  Suddenly I have to sit. My aunt and uncle can just barely see me from their vantage, and the people in the side pews are watching as well. Russell Woods is heading my way.

  Aunt Cee blows me a kiss, graceful acknowledgement. I know that she is tortured by the last sight of her daughter as she died in the ICU. Her thoughts are held by the vision of flayed pink flesh, and the ravages of burns. She
asks for so little in the face of events – only to remember Marsha in happier times, before she was devoured by fire and pain.

  I would burn this picture if I could, but Russell Woods is already prying it from my hands.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I am sound asleep in the overstuffed plaid chair in the living room of my suite when Leo puts his head in my lap. I wake suddenly, and my pen and notepad slide to the floor. According to the digital readout on the cable box, it’s seventeen minutes past seven a.m. I spent the night watching the Disney Channel with Leo and Ruby, working on my reply to the Dark Man.

  Purcell, I tell myself. His name is Cletus Purcell.

  I flip the page on the legal pad, and read over what I have written.

  Dear Mr Purcell,

  Referencing your request for salvation:

  No one can know the heart of another. You have gone to enormous effort to put my back to the wall, as if it were my insight, and mine alone, that might set you on the pathway to God.

  Clearly you are intelligent and self aware.

  For those of us who agonize over nature versus nurture, you present the ultimate dilemma. Yet justice systems the world over take the stand that you know right from wrong, and this awareness combined with your actions would rate you very high on any scale of evil.

  Are you an apex predator, created through the inevitable process of evolution to play the part of a keystone sub-species of man, your function that of controlling the human population? Are you a victim of faulty neurological function, no more able to control your actions than a man without legs can walk?

  My guess is you want the world to feel your pain, and you take pleasure in hunting, having made the decision to be a predator instead of prey.

  On the assumption that your questions are based on genuine interest and not another of your manipulative tools, I can tell you only this:

  Taking the path to salvation will be just as dangerous for you as you fear. Every essence of your being has gone into the creation of who you are today – your subconscious made this decision and sees it as necessary to your survival. It is your armor, and it keeps you safe. Drop it and you risk annihilation. You will be defenseless from the danger of your past.

  So the good news is of course you can find salvation. The bad news is that it’s up to you. It was your choice, and only your choice, to veer so far off your path. God is the one who will love you. The one who will judge you is you.

  Regards,

  Joy Miller

  Evangelist (retired)

  I harness the dogs in collars and leashes and take them out for their Walkies. Leo is exuberant, and crow-hops at the door while he waits for me to slip my keycard in my pocket. One thing I forgot to buy on my shopping trip was a jacket. I’ve already started keeping a list. I think of at least three more things every day.

  The dogs and I head toward the staircase at the end of the hall. The housekeepers are already in force, and there is a bin of dirty laundry four doors down. A door across the hallway opens and a man in a suit, attaché laptop in hand, eyes Leo warily on his way to the elevator.

  Dr Goodwin is supposed to come by today, I’m just not sure when he’ll appear. I picture the two of us pacing my hotel room, wads of rejected paper littering the floor.

  I know that what I have written is risky. But I have no doubt that Darrin, Jimmy and Gloria told the Dark Man everything they thought he wanted to hear. He’s heard the platitudes, he’s heard the promises, maybe what he needs now is the truth.

  I have no intention of getting tangled up in what truth is either. He’ll get the gospel according to me.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I am in the dining room off the hotel lobby having my complimentary breakfast and watching outside as the leaves come off the trees. I catch sight of a man who looks familiar, and realize it is Dr Goodwin when he walks through the lobby doors. He is casual today – jeans, instead of khakis, and a powder blue sweater and dark navy windbreaker. I put my biscuit down and wave at him.

  ‘Dr Goodwin? Johnny?’

  Everyone within hearing distance stares at me except, of course, Goodwin himself. I go after him, catching up just as he opens the doorway to the stairs.

  ‘Hey. I’m down here.’

  ‘Joy? How are you? Look, I’m sorry just to drop in like this. I should have called before I drove over. But Woods showed me the note you found yesterday. And that terrible picture.’ He touches my shoulder. ‘We agreed that we need to get things moving, and get that e-mail out to Purcell.’

  I brush crumbs off my shirt. ‘That’s OK. I told Woods yesterday I’d get right on it, and I spent most of last night working it up. Look, I’m over in the dining room having breakfast. Why don’t you come and get something to eat?’

  He rubs his chin, thoughts elsewhere. ‘Sure, OK. You’ve got it written up? Your answer?’

  ‘I finished it late last night. I’d like you to take a look, if you would. Tell me what you think. I may have erred on the side of honesty. Why don’t you go on in to the buffet, and I’ll run upstairs and get my notes? My table’s at the back, right next to the coffee machine.’

  He follows me dutifully to the dining room, and I point to the table where my coffee is growing cold.

  By the time I return from my room upstairs, Goodwin has settled with coffee, pineapple juice and oatmeal. He takes a pair of reading glasses from the inside jacket of his windbreaker. He is intent and absorbed, while his oatmeal grows gelatinous and cold.

  Eventually he sets the notepad aside. He sits quietly, staring straight ahead.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask him.

  He narrows his eyes. ‘It’s … unexpected. Not what I thought you’d say. It will give him something to think about.’

  ‘Do you think it’s too harsh?’

  Goodwin looks at me curiously. ‘It has a certain integrity. Look, Joy, if telling him what he wants to hear was a good idea, I don’t think all those other evangelists would be dead.’

  ‘Maybe I should damp it down a little.’

  ‘Leave it, for now, anyway. I still have to run it by Russell. He’s not very happy with you right now.’

  ‘He’s never happy with me.’

  Goodwin places his spoon neatly against the plate. ‘I’m sorry, by the way. That picture can’t have been fun for you.’

  ‘It was horrible. For a man who says he’s trying to find redemption, Purcell seems to get a lot of pleasure from my pain.’

  Goodwin gives me a second look. ‘There’s another way to consider it – that it gets you off the hook with Russell and Mavis Jones. I think he takes a certain care with you, Mrs Miller.’

  ‘You define kidnapping my daughter-in-law and granddaughter as taking care? Thank you, by the way, for being there. At the funeral.’

  He leans toward me just a little. ‘I was glad to be there for you, Joy. But you know I was working as well.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that.’

  ‘And just so you know – even though that place was crawling with agents, nobody saw a thing with the envelope until they caught sight of you picking it up.’ He grins, just a little one. ‘You kind of took them by surprise. You seemed so sure of yourself, going down there to get it, it took them longer than it should have to react.’

  ‘At least my aunt and uncle didn’t see it.’

  He stands. ‘I’m going to head out and run this by Russ. If he likes it, we’ll send it out. It’s certainly going to stir things up.’

  ‘You don’t think—’

  ‘That it will put your girls in danger? I’m sorry, Joy, I think they’re in even more danger if you don’t. I’ll get back to you, later today, and let you know how things stand.’

  ‘Please do, anything at all, any details. I’m going to be a nervous wreck all day. And I don’t know if Russell Woods has told you, but I have a speaking engagement at Spindletop, the car will pick me up around five tonight. You’ll get to me before then, won’t you?’

  He tears the sheets of writing
off the legal pad and folds them into his jacket pocket with his reading glasses. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  I am at the halfway point with my makeup when I hear the knock at the door. I frown at the clock. I am expecting the driver from the Sanctuary group, though he’s not due for another twenty minutes at least. He or she has committed an escort faux pas – one calls the room, or asks the front desk to do so. You don’t just show up at the door.

  I am at a critical point with my mascara. Both Leo and Ruby are barking, which agitates me and makes my hand unsteady, and the sooty black color not only coats my lashes now, but the bridge of my nose as well. I wipe the smears away with a Q-Tip, and look at the scatter of tiny black boxes. They’re ripped wide open and spread across the bathroom counter, sporting the silver white stamp of Chanel. I’m out about half the amount of my mortgage payment, if you add the cost of the makeup and new clothes.

  I’m wearing the same dress I bought for Marsha’s funeral. Black, with three quarter length sleeves, and a straight silhouette. I like this dress, which is a good thing – it’s the only one that I’ve got. Life is amazingly simple when you don’t have any stuff.

  More knocking at the door, which sets Leo off worse than before. I cross in stocking feet to look through the peephole. Johnny Goodwin stares back. My fingers tremble as I undo the lock.

  ‘Dr Goodwin? What’s going on?’

  Goodwin has an air of frenetic energy. His hair is windblown, and the shoulder seam of his windbreaker has a new tear. He glances over his shoulder to the hallway, then exhales deeply, catching his breath. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ I step aside.

  ‘It’s happening, Joy. It’s going down tonight.’

  ‘Purcell? They’ve found him?’

  ‘Woods sent your e-mail. They tracked Purcell when he picked it up. We’re pretty sure we’ve nailed the location where he’s holding the girls. There’s a SWAT team on the way as we speak.’ Goodwin puts a hand on my shoulder, as if I need steadying. ‘It was a risk, Joy, those things you wrote. We knew it when we sent the e-mail out, but no matter what you do, it’s always a crapshoot with this kind of guy.’