The Woman in Darkness

by Charlie Donlea

  The tremor returned to her hands as she slowly turned the necklace over and strained her eyes to look for an engraving. She held the necklace up to the light that spilled through the window until she could clearly see the engraving on the back: SR 7-29-57.

  Angela Mitchell’s world ended that day in her garage. Some indecipherable correlation formed in her mind between the morning she had attempted to move the couch to the trash and today. Her life had been on a downward trajectory since then, and this morning, it had finally crashed in a fiery explosion.

  She slowly looked back to the shelves in front of her and, without consciously knowing what she was doing, rummaged through other containers. She went through one box after the other until she came to a plastic carton that held Christmas decorations. She slid it from overhead, placed it on the garage floor, and lifted the lid. Inside were strings of Christmas lights tightly wound, sitting on top of an object that she could not immediately identify. Pulling the strings of lights from the box, Angela found a purse underneath. It was nothing she had ever owned. With a feeling of foreboding in the pit of her stomach and with trembling fingers, she unzipped the purse. Makeup and lipstick greeted her. A crumpled pack of Pall Malls and a lighter. A small wallet. She pulled the wallet from the purse as the cigarettes tumbled to the floor. She dropped the purse and turned the wallet over in her hands. She was light-headed. Her peripheral vision was blotched with dancing stars. She thumbed the driver’s license out of the wallet and saw a picture of a blond-haired woman. Angela recognized her immediately as Clarissa Manning, the first victim who had gone missing in May. Angela had created an extensive biography on her, like she had on all the others.

  Angela had no way of fully understanding the horrors she had stumbled onto in the storage room at the Kenosha warehouse, but early waves of comprehension began rolling onto the shores of her mind as she thought of the dual nooses and again about the news reports detailing the bruising on Samantha Rodgers’s neck. She couldn’t bring her mind to understand what might have transpired there.

  As it all came to her, and while she stood with Clarissa Manning’s ID card in one hand, Samantha Rodgers’s necklace in the other, a rattling noise screamed for her attention. Angela’s vision was still tunneled as she stared at the relics that belonged to the missing women. She finally had the answer to why she had been on edge all summer. She finally knew the reason why the long-dead obsessions and compulsions from her past had risen from the graves where she had buried them. As much as she tried to convince herself, it had nothing to do with the stranger from the alley, or with Bill Blackwell. Her sense of fear had been so acute this summer because she had been so close to the man responsible for taking the women.

  The clattering noise continued until it finally pulled Angela back to the present. She stared wide-eyed at the back wall of the garage until her mind eventually processed the noise she was hearing. It was the rattle of the garage door opener overhead engaging the chains, the squeak of the springs as they twisted the door upward, and the rumble of Thomas’s Ford truck approaching up the alley.

  He was supposed to be in Indiana. He was supposed to be surveying a future job site. Angela looked down at her feet, the rushing of blood loud in her ears. There, on the garage floor, was the open plastic container, the lid slid to the side. Three strings of Christmas lights were haphazardly stacked next to it, and Clarissa Manning’s purse, which had landed upside down, spewed its contents of makeup, lipstick, cigarette lighter, and loose change. The picnic basket and its cover, which had spun to a stop several feet away, lay there, too.

  The rumble of Thomas’s truck grew louder as the garage door continued to rise.

  CHAPTER 18

  Chicago, October 26, 2019

  RORY SAT IN THE BOOTH ACROSS FROM THOMAS MITCHELL. SHE knew from her father’s file that he was sixty-eight years old, but the man across from her looked younger. Deep crevices ran from his nostrils, around his lips, and died somewhere near his chin. But otherwise, his face was chiseled and young-looking. If Rory didn’t know better, she’d guess he was in his early fifties.

  His expression was stoic when she sat in front of him, his handcuffed wrists resting on the table, his fingers folded as if in prayer, and an aura of patience emanating from him. He lifted the phone and placed it to his ear. Rory did the same.

  “Mr. Mitchell, my name is Rory Moore.”

  “They said my attorney was here to see me.”

  “I’m sorry to inform you that Frank Moore passed away last month. I’m his daughter.”

  Rory noticed something in the man’s eyes, whether it was emotion or simply contemplation was difficult to determine.

  “Will this delay my release?”

  “No. I’ve taken over the case and am handling the details.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  Rory hesitated, just like when Judge Boyle asked her the same question.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “I worked occasionally with my father, and I’ve met with the judge who is overseeing your parole.”

  Thomas Mitchell said nothing, so Rory went on.

  “The judge and my father were negotiating the terms of your parole. I’m familiar with the details.”

  Rory opened the file in front of her.

  “You have some assets.” She pulled a page from the stack. “Just over eight hundred thousand dollars remain in your account. If you’re smart with your money, it should last for the rest of your life.”

  He nodded.

  “My father had financial power of attorney. Those rights have transferred to me, and the judge has asked that I help you get established financially after your release. The world of banking has changed since you were a free man. The judge has asked that I help you with your finances for the first year and a half after your release.”

  “What about my living arrangements? I don’t want to live in a halfway house,” he said. “Frank was working on that for me.”

  “The judge has granted your request to live in the home located near Starved Rock. I see that you inherited the cabin from an uncle in 1994. My father placed it in a trust for you and it’s been under management ever since as a rental property. The judge has ordered me, along with your social worker, Naomi Brown, and parole officer, Ezra Parker, to inspect the residence before your release.”

  “Fine,” The Thief said. “Please make sure the heat is on.”

  Rory paused at his subtle attempt at humor.

  “Have you been to this cabin before?”

  “When I was a kid. I was surprised my uncle willed it to me. But I’m happy to have it, and Frank has kept it anonymous.”

  Rory had paged briefly through her father’s work related to the inherited property. It made sense now that he had placed it in a trust to keep the owner nameless.

  “There is a long list of requirements you’ll be expected to follow during your first twelve months of release.” Rory pulled another page from the folder. “You’ll need to meet and speak regularly to your parole officer. You’ll also be assigned a social worker, who will make sure you are getting settled. There is a list of doctors here that you will be required to see. An internist who will run regular drug testing, and a psychologist you will be required to meet with every other week. All of this is set up to help reintegrate you into society.”

  “There’s not going to be any reintegration. I’ll have folks trying to hunt me down. And if any of them find out where I’m living, it’ll be the end of me. Frank anticipated this and took measures to assure my privacy. And for the same reason, I doubt it would be helpful to make me find work. No organization will want me, and I’ll run into the same problem of people finding me. I have plenty of money to live a quiet life, which is what I intend to do.”

  “The judge has waived the work requirement based on your age, notoriety, and your financial means. Paperwork that covers all of these stipulations will be delivered to you for your signature. Once the papers are signed, the parole will move forward. Your release i
s scheduled for November third. Questions?”

  “Yeah. What happened to Frank?”

  Rory observed the man through the glass. The way he said her father’s name felt personal.

  “He had a heart attack.”

  “Damn shame.”

  Rory squinted her eyes behind her thick glasses. “You and my father seem to have had a close relationship.”

  “We did. He was my attorney, and other than the people on the inside, he was the only one I was regularly in contact with.”

  Rory wanted to ask what her father had done for Thomas Mitchell for forty years. It was more than appeal and parole hearings. She wanted to ask why this man had paid her father nearly $200,000 in retainer fees.

  As if The Thief had read her mind, he said, “Listen, I’m sorry to hear about Frank. He was the closest thing I had to a friend. But I’ve got to concentrate on getting out of here, and keeping myself anonymous after I do. Can you help with this?”

  His friend. Rory’s phone vibrated in her back pocket. Then again, and again. Three notifications in a row. She offered Thomas Mitchell a forced smile, retrieved her phone from her pocket, and looked at the screen: Rory. Very interested in talking with you about Angela Mitchell. I’m in Chicago and would love to meet, Catherine Blackwell.

  Rory had nearly forgotten about the message she left in the comments of Catherine Blackwell’s Facebook page. She looked back to Thomas Mitchell. There was a woman still looking for justice forty years after this man had killed his wife. Rory’s fingers itched with the urge to type a message back to Catherine Blackwell.

  “Your parole is still scheduled for next week,” Rory said, looking up from her phone. “Nothing’s changed.”

  Thomas Mitchell nodded his head, hung up the phone, and pressed the call button underneath it. A moment later, a guard appeared and ushered him away.

  CHICAGO

  August 1979

  THOMAS PULLED HIS TRUCK INTO THE ALLEY AND PRESSED THE auto matic garage door opener. As he approached the back of his home, he saw the top of the trashcan strewn into the middle of the alley. He stepped on the brake and shifted the Ford into park, then climbed out and retrieved the top. When he placed the lid back into place, he noticed that the newspaper he had deposited in the trash earlier in the day was gone. He rested a rock on top of the can and looked across the small backyard to the kitchen window, where he’d left Angela less than an hour ago. His senses were on fire since the night of her birthday when he’d found her in the garage. After twenty minutes on the Kennedy Expressway this morning, he felt something was wrong. He decided his trip to Indiana could wait. Things might be falling apart at home, and he had to deal with it.

  Climbing back into his truck, he pulled into the garage and immediately noticed the boxes and cartons on the shelf were out of place. He knew this part of the garage well. It’s where he hid his treasures. Now, as he stared at the shelving, he knew he’d made a mistake by leaving things unattended. Since she’d been through the boxes, who knew what she might have found?

  He killed the truck’s engine, climbed from the cab, and closed the truck’s door. Thomas stood in front of the shelf and took inventory. He could tell that she had moved things around, but was unsure what, exactly, she had gotten into. As he started toward the utility door that led to the backyard, he noticed quarters, dimes, and pennies scattered across the floor. Turning back to the shelf, he reached for the clear plastic box that held three strings of Christmas lights and one of the girls’ purses. He had placed it there immediately afterward, but hadn’t disposed of it yet. It was difficult to get rid of their things. He liked to savor them for a time, until The Rush was gone. He should have kept the items at the warehouse, but there was a perverse pleasure in keeping their personal items so close to his home.

  Pulling the box from the shelf, he opened the lid and found the three strings of lights wound in tight circles resting on top of the purse, just as he had left them. He leaned his waist against the box and pinned it to the shelf so his hands were free, then moved the lights and picked up the purse. Unzipping it, he poked around at the contents. Cigarettes and a lighter. Random makeup. He fingered the wallet and then lifted it out. It was a thin item, with a zipper that led to a small compartment for loose change, and slots for charge cards. Thomas looked down at the floor and the strewn quarters and dimes.

  He turned the skinny wallet over and noticed an empty slot on the front where a driver’s license would be slid for easy access. He thumbed through the pockets inside, and continued to poke around the purse but was unable to find the girl’s ID card. He leaned his body slightly to his right, keeping the box pinned to the shelf, and peered through the curtains of the utility door to survey the back of his home. He could see into the empty kitchen.

  His forehead wrinkled as he considered the possibility of his wife having discovered his secret. The implications would be disastrous. He dropped the purse back into the box, not bothering to rezip it. He dropped the wallet haphazardly on top of it, and then tossed the lights in. Sliding the box back onto the shelf, he next reached for the picnic basket and threw the lid to the ground. He ripped the tablecloth out of the basket and found it empty.

  Dropping the basket onto the ground, Thomas exited the utility door of the garage, walked across the backyard, and turned the knob on the kitchen door. It opened.

  “Angela,” he yelled as he walked inside.

  No answer.

  “Angela?”

  He heard a metallic thud in the basement and headed for the stairs. He took them quickly. When he reached the landing at the bottom, he saw a light in the laundry room. The dryer was running, and the lid to the washing machine was open as water filled the bin and Angela tossed clothes in.

  He startled her when he approached and she let out a piercing shriek. Her body shook and she crumpled to the floor of the laundry room.

  “Sorry,” Thomas said. “You didn’t answer when I called.”

  Angela looked up, running a hand through her hair.

  “The washer and dryer were running. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Sorry to startle you,” he said, reaching down and helping her to her feet. He looked around the room, assessing the situation. “The back door was unlocked. I thought we talked about keeping the doors secured.”

  “Oh,” Angela said. “I must have forgotten to lock it.”

  “Did you go out?”

  “Yes. This morning. I took a bag of garbage out.”

  Thomas remembered the trashcan, the missing newspaper, and the top that had rolled into the middle of the alley.

  “What are you doing home?” Angela asked.

  The washing machine made a thundering sound and started gyrating as the barrel engaged and splashed water around. Angela noticed and closed the lid to muffle the sound. The dryer hummed and gave off heat.

  “I decided to go tomorrow,” Thomas said.

  Angela nodded. He sensed her anxiety, a different kind than normal.

  “Come upstairs,” Angela said, picking up the empty laundry basket. “I’ll make you some lunch.”

  Thomas watched her hurry across the basement and up the stairs. Alone in the laundry room, he looked around again. He sensed in his gut that something was wrong. He lifted the lid to the washing machine and saw the drum filled with water and the agitator twisting the submerged clothing back and forth into a frothy foam. He stood for another minute and listened to the sounds around him. Finally his gaze came to rest on the dryer. He listened to it hum, and then identified what was wrong. It wasn’t a noise that had piqued his suspicion, it was the absence of one. The dryer hummed quietly, but he heard nothing tumbling inside. No clanking of buttons and buckles on the metal interior. No thudding of wet clothes falling from top to bottom as the drum spun.

  He reached down and opened the dryer door. Dry, hot air mushroomed out of the machine. When it passed, he looked into the dryer. It was empty.

  CHICAGO

  August 1979

 
IT WAS THURSDAY MORNING, THE DAY AFTER THOMAS HAD ARRIVED home unexpectedly and surprised her in the garage. Twenty-two hours since she saw Clarissa Manning’s face staring back at her from the driver’s license she had found hidden in the shelves of her garage. Less than one full day since she had identified the mysterious necklace she had found weeks ago as belonging to Samantha Rodgers. Were there other pieces of jewelry there, too, belonging to the other women whose biographies she had compiled? Angela had spent most of Wednesday night pretending to sleep while her mind imagined the women’s possessions hiding on the garage shelves.

  Like a slowly building pressure cooker, her paranoia grew each hour. She was convinced that Thomas knew about her discoveries. She had put the containers back on the garage shelf so haphazardly that he had to suspect she had been snooping through them. Thomas had canceled his trip to Indiana for today, and hadn’t gone to work. His concern about Angela seeing the doctor had been replaced now by a different preoccupation—the garage. She watched him all morning through the kitchen window, pulling at her lashes and pinching her eyebrows. Thomas would appear every so often in the frame of the utility door when he walked from the back of the garage out to his truck in the alley, arms filled with boxes and cartons.

  She ran through the moment when the garage door had started opening the morning before. Somehow managing to get things back on the shelf, Angela had rushed into the kitchen and thought briefly of locking herself in the bathroom, to claim illness. Surely, she had been sick enough over the past couple of weeks for it to be a believable ruse. But she chose the basement and the laundry room instead. With the washer and dryer running she could pretend not to hear him come home, and then could feign being startled when he finally found her. It had provided her with an extra few minutes to hide Clarissa Manning’s driver’s license, which she had slipped down the front of her pants. Samantha Rodgers’s necklace had gone into the washing machine, along with the clothes that had been on the floor. Her skin had bubbled with itch and burn when she left Thomas alone in the laundry room. He had stayed there for a minute or two after Angela retreated upstairs, and she had worried that he would reach into the foaming water and somehow retrieve the necklace.