Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller

by Lynn Hightower

  ‘I’ll clear out a drawer.’

  ‘Let’s bump it up a little. I’m ready for a two drawer commitment.’

  I ring off, smiling, and Leo follows me into the kitchen. I fill his water bowl, which is bone dry. Leo brings me a tennis ball and I toss it absently, wondering if my favorite black sweater is clean, making grocery lists in my head. Leo dashes back into the kitchen with the tennis ball and drops it into the bowl of fresh water before he takes a drink.

  I fill the tea kettle and light the gas stovetop, and it isn’t till I’m rummaging for tea bags that I see a puddle of dried yellow liquid on the floor. There are snout marks on the window and I see that Leo’s toenails have made new inroads into the freshly painted kitchen door.

  I peer out through the shutters, which are mounted slightly crookedly, discount ones I’ve installed myself. There is something taped to the window of my kitchen door.

  The FBI is no longer looking over my shoulder, so I don’t have to worry about fingerprints and forensics. Leo butts my leg with his head, trying to get out on the little porch, while I peel a familiar brown envelope off the glass.

  Moths circle the base of the porch light and I look up and down my quiet street. People are home from work now, many of them eating dinner. There is light in my neighbors’ windows, a glow from the living rooms and kitchens. Their cars are tucked into driveways and little detached one car garages. Little orange carts crammed with paper and plastic are out on the curb. My neighborhood is prone to recycling, and most of us are environmentally correct.

  Nothing looks out of place. I see no signs of the predator.

  I close the shutters and lock the door. Prop myself against the wall. I have no way of knowing if Reginald Harvey is watching, but I feel his eyes at my back. Even as I pull the flap open on the envelope, tearing it as I go, I can feel the stiffness of a photograph.

  I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to look at this picture and go back to the bad places inside my head.

  I put the envelope on the counter top. I give Leo his nightly ration. I tell him what a good guard dog he is and pat him on the head.

  The publicity from the kidnapping has only just blown over. There is still an avalanche of photographs on the Internet and in the newspapers, showing the outside of the cave and the RV. The articles themselves have died down, news stories obsessed with details. The mattresses with pillow top cushioning and memory foam where Caro and Andee slept. The shower stall with a wide angle water head that gave the illusion of standing in a rainstorm, though that was due more to a lack of water pressure than particular design intent. There were estimates of the initial price of the RV, though these were only guesses. The owner of the RV has been blessedly reclusive and uncooperative. But even with imprecise figures, it is clear it was more expensive than my little house.

  A newspaper in England offered a large sum of money for an RV tour and unlimited photographs, and Caro and I were relieved when the request was refused. Some details are too personal for the world to chew over. The thought of strangers pawing through our private moments once again is almost too much to bear.

  The next wave of attention was predictable. An onslaught of congratulatory editorials and opinion blogs that sang the praises of everyone involved for standing up to the appetite of the media, thwarting the kidnappers’ hunger for attention. In truth, neither Harvey nor Purcell seemed to crave the limelight, preferring to go about their twists and turns in the shadows and the dark. I believe that if anything could turn Harvey worse, it would be a breaking story of his search for redemption and inner peace.

  I turn off the tea kettle, and reach instead for the wine. I give Leo a rawhide bone, turn the gas logs in the fireplace to low flame. I take the envelope and a file from my office and Leo and I settle companionably, me tucked up on the couch, Leo at my feet.

  The file arrived via e-mail, sent at three in the morning the day after Cletus Purcell was killed and Reginald Harvey disappeared in the cave. According to the e-mail address it came from the real Dr Goodwin.

  I take a sip of wine and set my glass aside.

  Dr Goodwin wrote in something of a hurry. I get the impression of a man of intelligence, masculine sensitivity and a careful integrity that compelled him to send me information, though his mind was on other things.

  Dear Mrs Miller,

  Russell Woods gave me your e-mail address. I understand that you have something of a conflicted work history with him. I hope it is OK that I got in touch.

  I’ve attached a picture file that will interest you. Formatting is JPEG. If you have problems downloading, let me know. Included are copies of photos from a police file regarding death of Harvey’s mother, and Harvey family photographs that have just come to light. In particular, please study the shot of Harvey’s mother and Harvey himself, aged approximately thirteen months.

  Mother’s photo should be of particular interest.

  Run down of Harvey’s parents: father beat Harvey’s mother to death when Harvey four years old. Harvey found curled up next to mother’s body by neighbor who heard crying and became concerned. Approximate time spent with mother’s corpse – twenty-eight hours.

  Father died in jail. Paternal grandparents turned Harvey over to foster care age eleven.

  Neighbors at time report mother, Cecily Jenkins Harvey, kind loving parent. In process of divorcing Harvey’s father, who at time of her death on unauthorized leave of absence from temp. construction job as steelworker in Detroit.

  Regards,

  Dr Jonathan Goodwin

  Forensic Consultant

  There are two pictures in the file, saved to JPEG format as promised, which I have no problem downloading or opening. The first is from a police file and shows Harvey’s mother curled sideways, her head half on and half off a braided wool rug. Her facial features are a blur of caked blood and displaced flesh. She wears a dress of French blue, belted, with large covered buttons down the front. The third button has been ripped away, and the dress is a color wheel of blue and the red brown of dried blood. A heart-shaped locket hangs sideways from her neck. One long narrow foot is bare, the other half in and half out of a black, embroidered shoe. Her hands look delicate, fingers slim. The ring finger of her left hand, encircled by a thin gold band, has been bent backward and broken. Though it is hard to tell from just a photograph, there is no clear sign of swelling. My guess is she died within moments of the break.

  It is the second picture, a happy moment with baby Harvey, that makes me gasp out loud.

  Harvey’s mother is wearing the same blue dress she died in, though here it is crisp and freshly ironed. She is smiling and shielding her eyes from the sun. She balances Harvey on her left hip. He is just round enough to be cuddly. He has been tucked into a long-sleeved white tee shirt that snaps at the shoulder, and matching little overalls made of the same blue material as his mother’s dress. He squints in the sunlight, smiling like he has just been tickled, a wide open, pink-gummed grin.

  It is his mother who draws my gaze. His mother, who looks enough like me that she could have been my twin.

  A second e-mail from Goodwin says he believes the uncanny resemblance between myself and Harvey’s mother at the time of her death is what triggered Harvey’s obsession, and made sense of his need to come to me for absolution.

  I have emailed Goodwin with my questions. I’d like more detail on this line of thought. Goodwin has yet to respond. I wonder if Harvey is privy to our communication. I wonder if he lurks over our shoulders, aware of every message we send.

  In the end, it is not Goodwin’s insight that connects the dots.

  There is one picture in the envelope Harvey left taped to the window of my kitchen door. Along with a slip of yellow notepaper, torn from a legal pad, written in the familiar green ink.

  GOOD EVENING, JOY. YOU LOOK HAPPY THESE DAYS. YOU AND HAL GETTING ON?

  NICE BUNGALOW. NEEDS WORK, OF COURSE, BUT WHAT CURB APPEAL!

  I HAVE NOT BEEN INSIDE.

&nb
sp; LEO WAS NOT VERY WELCOMING, AND I HOPE

  IT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY TO INVADE THE SANCTUARY YOU HAVE FOUND.

  WE NEVER FINISHED OUR CONVERSATION. YOU OWE ME THAT, AT THE LEAST.

  MEET ME AT OUR FAVORITE BRIDGE IN KENTUCKY. TOMORROW NIGHT, DUSK, WHEN THE TOURISTS LEAVE.

  MAKE SURE YOU WAIT UNTIL DARK.

  The note is taped to the picture, and I peel it away.

  My fingers tremble. I take slow, deliberate breaths. Leo materializes at my elbow and nudges me with his bucket-sized head.

  A minute ago the idea of meeting Harvey would have been ludicrous, as inevitable as it suddenly seems. It is the picture that convinces me. We will have to meet.

  And what, exactly, will I tell him? That we live in a dark and wounded world? That the nature of sin is tied to the nature of life, and I’ll have to get back to him later when I figure out how?

  I press the picture to my heart. Leo snuffles the tears on my face.

  ‘Look, Leo. See this? The pregnant lady is Reginald Harvey’s mother. And that sturdy little three-year-old with the big smile? That’s Harvey before his life went bad. And that pretty lady? The one holding Harvey’s hand and smiling so radiantly? That’s my mother. Look how young she is. How happy.’

  Leo tries to lick the picture and I pull it away. ‘We should go to bed,’ I tell him. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’

  I fill my glass full of the wine, hoping it will help me sleep.

  FORTY-THREE

  There is little light left in these late afternoons, before the darkness falls. The sun goes down early in November, and December is a mere two days away. So much is in my mind as I climb the familiar steep path up to Natural Bridge. I was raised in Kentucky, and like most who grew up here, I’ve walked this trail before – with my parents, with Marsha, Aunt Cee and Uncle Don, with my first love from high school, with Joey, my son.

  Leo is swept away by the kaleidoscope of smells and the feel of sandy soil and dry leaves on the pads of his feet. He is torn between guard duty, the need to keep me in sight, and the puppy inside who wants to run.

  Leo carries a saddlebag style dog pack strapped to his belly. I have tucked two flashlights, my cell phone, dog treats and water bottles in the pockets of the pack. It only occurs to me now, as he bounces ahead on the trail, to worry about what might happen if he wanders into a creek.

  I am no longer shivering inside my hooded pullover as the climb warms me up. Leo, a cold weather dog, is tireless on the path ahead of me and wanders on the trailside, following his nose.

  I do not want to think. I focus on the crumble and crunch of dead, dry leaves, the reddish soil, the trees. My stomach pulses with nervous flutters. I long for this night to be over, and to return to the comforts of my new home. I picture myself curled up on the couch with Hal, fire logs glowing, Leo and Hal’s dog Cindy Lou stretched out beneath our feet.

  Leo and I arrive, at last, at the base of the arch, and pass through a narrow section between two sheer walls before we make the final ascent. The bridge is a natural sandstone arch, seventy-five feet long and sixty-five feet high, and there is always a wind blowing when you stand at the top. As claustrophobic as I am, I dread high places more. I watch Leo anxiously, relieved but not surprised to find him surefooted and unafraid.

  I hesitate before I step out on the bridge, feeling the wind that blows the hair gently from my face. I am early, but Harvey is waiting.

  He stands on the opposite side and lifts a hand to acknowledge my presence. I can see from here that he is leaner by a handful of pounds, comfortable in worn blue jeans and hiking boots. He wears a thin, high-necked black sweater beneath a powder blue denim shirt that hangs tails out, unbuttoned down the front.

  I walk out with little stops and starts of hesitation, and he meets me halfway across. His eyes light up as soon as he sees me up close, and for just a moment I know him as Goodwin, the man who understands everything I’ve been going through, who will help to keep my granddaughter safe. I gut the feeling the minute it comes, reminding myself it is camouflage. I look for the tell-tale nictitating membrane, the predator who lurks in his eyes.

  ‘Hello, Joy.’

  ‘Mr Harvey.’ My throat is quite dry.

  ‘Thank you for trusting me enough to come up here tonight.’ He holds a hand out to Leo, who studies him with eerie shepherd focus and no inclination to make friends.

  ‘I’d like to know about the picture you left.’

  Harvey nods. ‘It’s the kind of thing you have to talk about face to face. And I wanted to make sure we could talk without interruptions from people like Russell Woods.’ He tilts his head, smiling. ‘And, to be completely honest, I just wanted to see you. I feel better when I’m around you, Joy. Like I’m homesick, and you’re the home.’

  I wonder if this is part of the manipulation, another layer in the role he plays. And yet, haven’t I wanted the exact same thing? To be like I was before Carl died? To be free of the things I have done?

  ‘Home for a killer is nothing less than who you used to be and can never be again. We both know that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put you in that category, Joy.’

  I sit carefully in the center of the bridge. ‘Do you mind if we sit? I feel nervous standing out here in the dark.’

  Harvey smiles from the side of his mouth and settles about two feet away. Leo stays on his feet watching Harvey, no more than an inch from my back.

  ‘So tell me, Mr Harvey. What magic wisdom is it you expect me to have?’

  Harvey gives me a puzzled look, as if I haven’t quite caught on. I turn away and watch the final flare of the sun, the way the sky goes purple, then pink. It is almost like a fountain of fireworks, sunset at the top of the mountain. It flares intensely for a handful of moments, then drains like lightning into clouds. An instant ago the sky was washed in color; now it is full-on dark.

  ‘Tell me, Joy. The truth, please.’

  It is mesmerizing the way Harvey looks at me, how casually he sits, how utterly relaxed. And the thing I look for passes over his eyes, giving me a glimpse into the lion, the serial killer, the predator at my side. I feel my fingers trembling, the beginnings of sweat.

  ‘You kept it up, after Carl died. The ministry, your faith. But then when Joey died, you stopped. Did everything turn upside down when your husband died? Did the murder of your son just finish the job?’

  ‘Are you really looking for redemption, Mr Harvey, or are you wanting validation instead?’

  The tiniest frown shows in two groove-like wrinkles over the bridge of Harvey’s nose. He runs a thumb along the edge of his teeth. ‘Would you say it’s true that God is responsible for evil, if God is responsible for me? Isn’t it possible that Dr Goodwin’s theory is correct and I’m nothing more than an apex predator, fulfilling the necessary destiny of the bad?’

  I rub my forehead. ‘The laws of balance hold that your capacity for bad is matched by your capacity for good, and it’s simply a choice you make.’

  He laughs explosively. ‘Are you saying I’ve got the makings of a saint?’ After a while his smile fades and he tilts his head. ‘Expert opinion holds that my brain is abnormal. Which means I don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Scientists and priests are dangerous, Mr Harvey. I have a book for you to read. Written by someone who’s not only trained in psychology, but someone who’s been in the mess.’

  I unzip the left saddlebag of Leo’s pack and hand the book to Harvey.

  He holds it close in the dark. ‘Man’s Search for Meaning.’

  ‘Written by Viktor Frankl,’ I say. ‘Like I said, he was a psychiatrist. He also survived the Nazi death camps. There’s a section in there I’ve marked. The story of a certain Dr J., also known as the mass murderer of Steinhof.’

  ‘My kind of guy?’

  ‘Just listen. He was on staff then, in the largest mental hospital in Vienna. His job was to carry out the Nazi euthanasia program, the final solution, as they used to say. And he was
a fanatic. No mercy. He personally made sure that every single psychotic patient was gassed. After the war, he was snatched up by the Russians. They put him in the Lubyanka – a notorious prison in Moscow.’

  Harvey is watching me as if he is memorizing every word I say.

  ‘And there,’ I continue, ‘he was a model prisoner. Moral, kind, caring toward all the other prisoners, a good man from that time forward until the day that he died.’

  ‘And the moral of this story?’ Harvey says.

  ‘He changed. He had practiced evil. He then chose good. It’s proof for you, Mr Harvey. Every human being has the freedom to change at any instant. You are not the victim of your genetics. You have a choice.’

  His eyes narrow. He is considering.

  ‘One more question, Joy. I know that when you talked to Cletus that day in Wal-Mart, he told you he and your husband were supposed to meet up here on the bridge. That’s where he’d arranged to get the final payoff. Scheduled for the night after you were supposed to be killed. I know your husband supposedly committed suicide that same night, jumping off this bridge. But what I want to know is what happened that night. I understand how personal my question is. But I’m curious to find out how much you might be like me after all.’

  I wonder what I should tell him. I decide upon the truth.

  FORTY-FOUR

  ‘The night I was supposed to be killed, as you say, I didn’t go home. I took Joey to a friend’s house, made sure she understood he was to stay there till I got in touch and that he was not under any circumstances to go to school or to call his dad. And me? I headed straight up here, to the bridge.’

  ‘To kill your husband,’ Harvey says.

  I shake my head. ‘To find out if it was really true. That he’d hired a hit man to kill me. That’s what things were like in my world back then, Mr Harvey. I had trouble believing, no matter how much evidence there was, that my husband would pay for my death.’