Gone Dark Read online

  Megan’s smart and strong. She can take care of herself. Lucy tried to soothe the anxiety and paranoia tap-dancing up and down her every nerve ending. She’d faced serial killers with less fear.

  “I’m sure she’s fine.” Nick’s voice came from her cell phone, barely carrying over the music and the sounds of laughter and shouting coming from behind the house. “Remember to give her a chance.”

  A chance? Megan was fifteen; coming to this party—which was supposed to have been supervised by adults—was her chance. As far as Lucy was concerned, she’d failed it. Missed curfew, hadn’t called, didn’t answer when Lucy tried to text and call her, and clearly Megan had misjudged her so-called friends. And where were the parents? Lucy had phoned the mother yesterday; she’d promised everything was under control. Just a summer pool party. Burgers on the grill, games of Marco Polo, some music and dancing. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be here the whole time.

  Two girls stumbled out of the house, giggling even as one spun away to vomit into the shrubbery lining the walkway.

  Right. Nothing to worry about.

  “I think she’s out of chances,” Lucy muttered as she hung up. The second girl tried to help her friend by holding her hair out of her face, but instead fell, knocking them both into the hydrangeas and the puddle of vomit. They squealed and laughed, not even noticing Lucy.

  She strode up the path and through the open front doors. The house had a quasi-Frank Lloyd Wright style to it, with angled high ceilings and exposed beams framing large windows and an open floor plan. From the foyer she could see all the way into the rear of the house where the kitchen stood, and more large windows and sliding doors leading out to a pool and patio. The pool’s underwater lights were on, casting weird blue shadows on the figures cavorting in the water.

  The lights were off in the front room and all of the furniture was shoved back, creating an impromptu dance floor filled with girls gyrating to the harsh, throbbing noises and misogynistic lyrics that passed for music nowadays. The boom of the bass line vibrated through the floorboards, up through Lucy’s sneakers. She’d left the house so fast she hadn’t stopped to put her ankle brace on and was already regretting the loss of its comforting stability.

  Couples along with lone boys sprawled on the furniture, watching the dancers or engrossed with each other. The smell of marijuana and cigarettes clouded the air, mixing with aftershave, beer, and pheromones. Lucy used her phone as a flashlight, scanning the crowd, drawing scattered curses. Megan wasn’t there.

  As she moved through the throng of dancers, one of the girls grabbed her and tried to get Lucy to join her, her eyes glazed over, practically whimpering when Lucy detached herself from the dancer’s embrace. More than marijuana and alcohol, Lucy diagnosed. MDMA or one of its many variations? Damn. She knew she should never have let Megan come tonight, even though she was certain Megan would never use drugs herself, and she’d long ago given her the roofie talk along with a detection stick that looked just like a regular coffee stirrer.

  Megan was smart. But she was also fifteen. For the first time, Lucy regretted having let the school advance her a grade when they moved to Pittsburgh from Virginia. Looking around at the scowls and leers from the almost-men draped over the furniture or standing against the wall, stalking the dancers’ movements with predatory gazes, she realized that even though these other kids were only a year or two older than Megan, it was a huge difference. Especially the boys. They radiated such arrogance, confidence—how many times had Lucy faced those exact same expressions across from her in an interrogation room?

  Don’t be paranoid, she heard Nick’s voice in her head. Just because your life is filled with the one percent of humanity’s dregs, don’t pre-judge the rest of us. She tried to look at the boys through Nick’s psychologist’s eyes. He was so much more forgiving and understanding than she was. But then one of the guys pushed off the wall and intertwined his arms around the dancing girl who’d tried to stop Lucy. He effortlessly separated her from the crowd, ending with her pinned against the wall, his gaze challenging Lucy as he ran his tongue along the girl’s bare throat and slid his hand up under her shirt.

  Lucy stopped, almost diverted from her mission, but no. Megan first. Then she’d deal with the rest. But she did inch her T-shirt up, exposing the nine-millimeter, flashing the kid a grin as she took a photo of him with her phone. He backed away from the girl, hiding his face.

  She crossed into the kitchen. The lights were on here, revealing a chaos of plastic cups, spilled beverages smearing the floor with a slick and sticky coating, and various snacks scattered over every surface. A couple was making out against the refrigerator, and from the laundry room behind them another couple’s shadows danced along the walls. She took a few steps to make sure Megan wasn’t there, then went through the open sliding doors to the brick patio and the pool.

  Out here the music shuffled from reggae to Beach Boys to hip-hop. A few kids splashed in the pool, couples filled the hot tub, a quintet of boys surrounded the keg urging one another to chug, and more couples occupied every chair and lounger. The backyard stretched out to the forest in the distance. Some partyers had spread out blankets, their forms barely visible in the moonlight.

  Her anxiety worsening with every step, Lucy wove her way through the labyrinth of teens, searching for but not finding Megan. She received more than a few curses and threats as she interrupted several couples, always asking the girls if they were okay with what was happening, trying to assess their sobriety and ability to give consent while reminding herself that she was no longer law enforcement, merely a concerned civilian parent. The girls all seemed sober enough to consent—several proved that with extremely imaginative if anatomically incorrect vocabulary.

  No one knew where Megan was. The closest Lucy got was a muttered “I think she’s with Emma.” Reassuring, since Emma was Megan’s friend; not so reassuring as Emma was the one who’d invited Megan to the party. Emma was sixteen, with red curls and freckles that used to make her look younger than Megan—at least until last year, when she’d begun to develop and now had the figure of a twenty-something compared to Megan’s relatively flat-chested, athletic build.

  There was a small toolshed at the far end of the pool. Lucy flashed her light into the windows; only pool equipment. But she heard voices out back, low and urgent. One of them Megan’s.

  “I told you, we’re leaving,” Megan was saying as Lucy rounded the corner, coming up behind her.

  Megan had one arm wrapped around Emma’s waist, while Emma swayed and braced herself against the shed, her head drooping as if it were too much work to keep it upright. Facing them was a boy of maybe seventeen, wearing only swim shorts and a lecherous grin.

  “How you gonna do that?” He sidled closer to Emma. “Emma doesn’t want to go, do you, baby?”

  Emma nodded, almost tipping her entire body into the boy’s chest. Megan yanked her back. “Leave her alone.”

  Lucy stepped forward, the boy’s eyes widening as he spotted her. His expression morphed, but it was difficult to read in the dark. He swung his shoulders back, thrusting out his chest, muscles rippling, chin up, making it clear as he slunk back into the shadows that it wasn’t defeat or surrender but a strategic retreat.

  As if Lucy gave a shit. “Megan, Emma. We’re going. Now.” A high-octane mix of anger, anxiety, and adrenaline sent her words cracking through the night like gunshots.

  Megan whirled. “Mom? What are you doing here?”

  “Taking you home.” Lucy moved to support Emma’s other side. Both girls reeked of rum. Megan wore a T-shirt over her bathing suit, but it was sopping wet, clinging to her. Emma wore only her rather skimpy bikini. Neither girl had shoes on, slowing their progress, but Lucy had other concerns to distract her.

  “I tried to call, but I lost my phone,” Megan started, as they guided Emma across the lawn and around to the front of the house. Lucy winced at the way her words slurred.

  “You’re drunk. We’ll talk about
this tomorrow.” They reached the Subaru. “If you’re going to be sick, do it now while I call the police.”

  “The police?” Megan protested, as Emma slumped to her haunches, dry-heaving. “Mom. You can’t. They’ll blame me. Everyone will hate me.”

  “Help your friend.” Lucy pivoted away and dialed.

  Emma began vomiting and Megan quickly followed, a rancid puddle of rum and food sluicing from the grass onto the gravel. At least it wasn’t inside the car, Lucy thought. As soon as she hung up from the police, she dialed Nick.

  “She’s safe.” She started with the good news. “Drunk as a skunk, lost her phone, puking her guts out, and grounded for the rest of her natural-born days, but safe.”

  Chapter Three

  “This is child abuse,” Megan declared as they drove to Beacon Falls the next morning. She was wearing sunglasses and a woeful expression despite the aspirin and fluids Lucy had insisted upon. “Couldn’t I just be grounded alone at home? In bed?”

  “Except you wouldn’t be alone. You’d be with the TV and Internet and your phone—no, wait, I forgot, your phone is at the bottom of a pool.” That much she’d gotten out of Megan before Megan fell asleep last night. Lucy had stayed up all night watching her, remembering a college roommate who’d almost aspirated when she’d vomited in her sleep. Two decades later, the smell of Southern Comfort still made Lucy gag. “You’re coming to work with me. Think of it as an unpaid internship.”

  Nick would be home tomorrow night. Together they’d decide how to handle the remainder of Megan’s punishment. She was usually such an easy kid to handle—once she’d gotten past that awful pre-teen hormonal sniping and whining phase—that Lucy was at a loss now, torn between anger that Megan hadn’t called her sooner, horror at what could have happened given how drunk she was, and relief that nothing worse had happened.

  “If you pay me for working here, I could buy a new phone,” Megan suggested, as they pulled past the gatehouse and onto the estate.

  Lucy didn’t bother answering. They both knew she’d get Megan a new phone—Lucy was too protective not to make sure Megan had a means of constant communication. Not that it had helped much last night. Maybe she’d get her one of those old-fashioned flip phones they advertised for seniors, the kind that barely even sent texts. Load it with tracking software Megan couldn’t circumnavigate. The thought lightened her mood a bit.

  She parked beside Wash’s van. Megan lowered her head to look over the tops of her sunglasses. “This is where you work?”

  The ancient Queen Anne-style mansion was the ancestral home of the Fraziers—among the first white settlers in western Pennsylvania, they’d established a trading post here, fought alongside the Iroquois against the British, and had saved countless from the treacherous falls beyond the bluff where the mansion stood with the warning beacon they’d kept lit. Now the Beacon Group worked here as a non-profit, assisting law enforcement to identify missing persons and solve cold cases local authorities didn’t have the resources to handle. Few people understood that—particularly in small, rural jurisdictions suffering from budget cuts—it was much too easy to get away with murder, despite the police’s best efforts.

  When the police or families of victims hit a dead end in their quest for justice, they came to the Beacon Group. In the past few years the requests for assistance had exploded, leading the Beacon Group to hire Lucy to coordinate their field investigations.

  Lucy got out of the car, tempted to slam the door, but instead cradled it shut with the palm of her hand, mindful of Megan’s hangover. When she looked up, an elegant black woman with silver hair was approaching from the mansion’s front door: Valencia Frazier, owner of the Beacon Group.

  “She looks a little young for a recruit,” Valencia said, appraising Megan. “Not to mention a little worse for wear.”

  Lucy had called Valencia this morning and explained the situation, planning to take the day off. It had been Valencia who’d suggested Megan might appreciate the consequences of her actions after a day or two spent working with the Beacon Group.

  “Especially the case we have coming in,” she’d added. “It deals with all the worst things that could happen after an evening of drinking and poor judgment.”

  “Nothing sexual?” Lucy asked. Megan had already learned way too much about sexual violence, despite Lucy’s over-protective nature; too many of her FBI cases had made it to the headlines, complete with salacious, graphic details.

  Lucy sometimes worried she’d scarred her daughter by simply doing her job—even though she tried her best to leave work at the office and keep her home a safe haven. Still, work always seemed to spill over those barriers, including a hit man killing Lucy’s mother and almost killing Nick and Megan. That had been in January, six months ago. Lucy had been injured and was still rehabbing her ankle—the official reason for her leaving the FBI—but it was working through the grief and guilt that swamped her when she least expected it that was truly difficult.

  “Nothing sexual, at least not from the records I’ve received,” Valencia had told her. “But one boy left dead and another who lost an eye. Just because of a few drinks too many and poor judgment. The perpetrator was a girl about Megan’s age.”

  This morning Lucy had run the idea past Nick, and he’d said a little tough love wouldn’t hurt, but she still wasn’t convinced. She hated the idea of involving Megan in her work, even if it was to teach her a life lesson. But she’d decided to give it a try—Megan would spend the day filing and scanning the paperwork that accompanied cold cases; at least she wouldn’t be left home alone.

  Lucy made the introductions. “Valencia Frazier, this is my daughter, Megan Callahan.” They had given Megan Nick’s surname; another way of distancing her family from Lucy’s work. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her now, but she’s pretty good with the alphabet. I was thinking a few days in the file room?”

  Megan rolled her eyes so high Lucy could see them above the rim of her sunglasses. “If I’m stuck here all day, couldn’t I do something not so boring?”

  Valencia took Megan’s arm. “We’ll see, young lady. Your mother has entrusted you to my care for the day. How about we start with a tour, and you can tell me all about yourself?”

  As the two walked away, headed toward the bluff with its spectacular views, Valencia glanced back at Lucy and gave her a smile. Megan was in good hands. Lucy watched until they turned the corner and left her sight, and then headed inside to greet her team.

  Chapter Four

  I knew it would take the county sheriffs a while to get over the mountain in the storm, but our volunteer fire department is better than the ones in most big cities. Over the years, they’ve saved our little unincorporated hamlet from dozens of fires stupid hikers and weekend nature lovers accidentally set while visiting the national forest. Since the nearest hospital is over in Cleveland, they also run the ambulance crew. Good thing, because our population is skewed to both sides of the bell curve: very young and very old. Between the war and the unemployment and the lure of meth, an entire generation in between has vanished. My mom and dad included.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, holding Jack’s hands, unable to do anything to help him except lie about Hank being okay. I couldn’t risk putting pressure on his wound—the eyeball was clearly gone, but what if that was his actual brain beneath the burble of blood, and I hurt him more? I wiped the blood away before it could trail into his mouth or ear and tried to talk to him, keep him from going into shock; told him everything was going to be all right. The CD ended, abandoning us to a silence so deep I wasn’t sure I’d ever climb out again.

  Jack mostly babbled—talking about the football game tomorrow night, about how mad his dad would be when he found out he and Hank had stolen his gun and booze, asked me to hide his and Hank’s drugs, kept telling me not to let his mom see him like this… Finally sirens sounded, the storm still strong enough that their wail was punctuated by the rattle of the tin roof above us. Jack squeezed
my hands tight, pulling me down to his ruined face, his good eye rolling around until finally it focused on me. “We was only trying to have a bit of fun. Why’d you do it, Cherry?”

  His words burned like acid. I pulled back so hard his bloody grip on my arm slipped and I went flying back, jostling him. A moan escaped him just as the firemen thundered inside. The firefighters—men I’d known my entire life—stared at me like I was a thousand miles away, too small and insignificant for them to take notice of. They swarmed over the room, checking on Hank; a quick shake of the head from one of the medics and they hustled their equipment over to Jack, separated me from him, their radios crackling as they called the hospital. One of them—a teacher from the elementary school who once upon a time had taught me my times tables—checked me over for injuries, then used his bulk to keep me in the far corner where I couldn’t see past him as his partners worked.

  It was all over so fast—and suddenly I was left with my old math teacher and two more firemen who covered Hank with a yellow plastic tarp. Jack was gone, on his way to the hospital in Cleveland, most likely heading from there to the trauma center in Chattanooga. The men talked quietly, never making eye contact with me except when I moved toward the dingy bathroom, hoping to start scrubbing myself clean of the stench of blood and vomit and piss—Jack’s, not mine—and gun powder.

  “You need to wait,” my old teacher told me, his hand on my arm but his gaze aimed high above my head, never meeting my eyes. “The sheriff will be here soon.”

  “Wait?” My mind hadn’t made it past his first sentence—it was like swimming through mud, his words slipping away faster than tadpoles. I rubbed my palms up and down the burn scars on my arms, but that only made a sticky mess, releasing more of that iron smell that made me gag.