Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller (12 page)

‘I don't live in Arkansas.'

‘You don't live in Arkansas?'

‘My daughter-in-law lives in Arkansas. She lives here, in Fort Smith. Her name is Caroline Miller, the dog's name is Ruby, and Melissa Hunter said she was here.'

‘Your daughter?'

‘The dog.'

Sharon went back to chewing her thumb.

I took a slow breath. ‘I'm absolutely positive the dog is here, and I'd be so very grateful if you'd find her.'

Sharon wrinkles her brow but goes gamely back to the computer, and her questions are brisk. ‘How long has the dog been in the shelter? If it's over—'

‘Three days, that's all.'

‘And animal control picked her up?'

‘No. There was a family emergency. The police dropped her off.'

‘Oh. Oh oh oh. Now I get it. Hold on a sec.' Sharon went back to the computer keyboard, and I moved to the glassed-in wall to scan the dog cages.

‘She won't be in there.' Sharon gave me a quick glance over her shoulder. ‘Those are up for adoption. We keep the other ones in another room. Ah, OK. Here we go. It says I am to release the dog to Joy Miller. That must be you, am I right?'

I nod my head, but realize she's looking at the computer and not me. ‘Yes, I'm Joy Miller.'

‘I'll have to see some ID.' She gives me a quick look, sounding defensive. ‘There's a fee.'

I sign forms and haul out my debit card. Sharon is surprisingly brisk with the paperwork, and comes out from behind the counter. I follow her, scraping one fingernail nervously along the tooth marks Leo has made in the leash. We go down a hallway that smells of antiseptic and enter a room with concrete floors and cages. This room smells of dog and desperation. Three slots down and I see Ruby, curled in the back of her cage. I focus on Ruby entirely and make no eye contact with any other dog.

‘
Ruby.
'

She is ignoring the schnauzer in the next cage who is trying to get my attention. There is fresh water and a food bowl which is full of dried kibble. Ruby is technically awake but her eyes have an otherworldly look, as if she has gone away in her head.

‘Ruby?' I say again, softly.

Sharon bites the tip of one finger. ‘Are you sure you have the right dog? She doesn't seem to know you. Usually they get real excited when their owners come.'

I crouch down in front of the cage. ‘Hey girl, hey Ruby. Remember me? It's Joy.'

Ruby inches forward and sniffs the finger I poke into the cage. Her tail begins to wag, and she rises painfully to her feet. She noses me through the wire mesh of the cage and whimpers. Her eyes brighten and the aura of depression disappears.

‘Oh, hey,' Sharon says. ‘There you go.'

She unlocks the cage, and I kneel down and hug Ruby, who licks my neck, my ears, my face. I try not to look at the dogs we leave behind, but they call to me, barking, whining. Ruby walks easily by my side, and I don't bother to attach the leash. She sticks to my left leg like Velcro, and when I stop at the front desk she leans against me and I stroke her head. Sharon is once more at the computer.

‘Is this everything?' I ask.

‘We only give the Welcome Kits to the adoptions.'

‘No, no, I just was wondering if there was some kind of file or paperwork …'

I trail off. Sharon is busy, and Ruby is yearning for the door.

Ruby trots happily into the parking lot, but has trouble jumping into the back of the Jeep. She whines and circles the open hatch at the back, and the front of the car. I try lifting her, but she is monstrous heavy, and I finally open the passenger door up front. She props her paws on the seat. I lift her hind end, and she scrambles into the car. Teamwork.

I brush dog hair off my shirt and Ruby covers me with dog kisses while I reassure her that she's safe and will be going home with me. Caro's mother has irritable cats, and Ruby stays with me when Caroline and Andee are in town, so we're tight, me and Ruby. I open Leo's bag of pig ears, and hand one to Ruby who takes it gently in her mouth. Ruby has very nice manners. It took me a week to train Leo not to take my hand with the treat.

Ruby stretches out across the transmission and puts her head in my lap. She holds the pig ear in her mouth. We are on our way.

I watch for the nearest McDonald's. It is part of a secret tradition, during those visits to Kentucky, that the three of us, Andee and Ruby and I, have lunch at Mickey D's. Caroline has never asked me
not
to take Andee to McDonald's and I am not foolish enough to ask.

I feel better immediately, with Ruby by my side. She connects me to Andee and Caroline, and knowing she is safe and secure was worth the drive of seven hundred some odd miles.

Still, I am a little flat with the disappointment. Evidently I misunderstood the significance of the humane society call. I was so sure there would be some sort of message from the Dark Man, something to set things in motion so I could bring Caro and Andee home safe. I must be getting paranoid – seeing portents and messages in the turn of a breeze.

I am two miles down the road, absently stroking Ruby's neck, when I notice the loose stitching on her collar, a circular tube of leather like the one Leo wears. But I remember from last summer's visit that Ruby's collar was worn and soft and very loose, the same belt-like style that is the norm. This collar is brand new and the seam along the side is coming apart.

There is a McDonald's on the right two lights down the road. I pass through the drivethrough window and park, then wrestle Ruby for the collar while she noses the bag of food. I break the cheeseburgers into smallish pieces, and Ruby inhales everything except two pickles. Once all of the food is gone, each crumb of bun nosed out, and the wrapping sufficiently licked, Ruby moves to the other side of the car, making snout marks on the window.

There is a pair of nail scissors in my purse and I use them to snip the heavy threading that holds the collar together. As I work to unravel the stitching I see signs – nicks in the leather, a difference in thread from one section to the next. It's enough to start my heart pounding. I was right all along. The Dark Man is reaching out.

I have peeled two inches of leather apart when I see the edge of yellow paper rolled up in the leather tube. I use the scissors to tease it out. There are two sheets that have been torn from a yellow legal pad, probably the same pad as the original note that arrived with the pictures of murdered evangelists. And the writing is in green Sharpie.

I wonder if all of the notes were written on the same day. One for my package of pictures, one for Caro's newspaper articles and this one to lie in wait for me. Did the Dark Man switch Ruby's collar the night he took Caro and Andee away? Are there other notes out there, carefully placed, to guide me through his malevolent maze?

Can anything good come from doing exactly as he says? I don't know what else to do. The Dark Man will tell me what I want to believe – that if I obey, Caro and Andee will come home safe. It is hard to overestimate the power of hearing what you want to hear.

I unroll the paper. Like the other notes, the writing is in neat block letters.

There are three paragraphs of instructions that follow, informing me that a laptop computer has been hidden in a box next to the chimney in Caro's attic. It is programmed and ready to go.

The second page has an e-mail address, a user name and a password. It is time, at last, for the Dark Man and me to talk.

T
he long-suffering Ruby snoozes in the Jeep, pig ear tucked beneath one paw, while I stop at the public library. The library is no more than a block from Caroline's bungalow – a large brick building, fairly new, across the street from a park that is shaded by old trees. A small train runs on a track that circles the park perimeter, with rows of seats for children who want to ride. Caro once told me that fifty cents buys two trips – undoubtedly the best deal in town.

The public computers are on the second floor, and I mount a sweeping split staircase. There are a handful of terminals available, only one in use, and I go to the work station that is the greatest distance from everyone else. I log on in what I hope is sufficient anonymity, and take the note pages out of my pocket, unfolding the second page that has the e-mail address. My user name is
Sanctuary
and my password is
Inspired
.

I am nervous. Whatever it is the Dark Man wants will not be in my power to give.

The library computers have a wireless connection, but the wait is an agony of slow. I chew my bottom lip. Two seats over a man settles in and begins habitually clearing his throat. Two women are whispering in the book stacks a few feet away. My account comes up, and I enter the password. It does not go through – my fingers are shaky. I enter the password again, slowly this time, making sure to get it right.

I have six messages. I am entreated to take medication so that I can satisfy any woman, enlarge my penis, buy cheap diet pills and consolidate my debt.

At last, though, is the message I look for and dread.

And my reply:

S
pecial Agent Harris of the Arkansas FBI doesn't look anything at all like Russell Woods, so that's one prevalent theory shot to hell. All Feds don't look alike. But
think
alike? That may be what started the rumors. Because Special Agent Harris, a thin man with a brownish buzz cut, is looking at me with an unfriendly face.

I am sitting opposite his crapped-over desk, which looks like someone tossed forms, files and paper into the air and let them drift randomly back on the top. Nevertheless, being in an actual office is a step up from an interrogation room.

‘Why didn't you inform Agent Woods of the dog situation before you came out here?' Harris leans forward, elbows on the desk. His head seems small for his body.

I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. Up until now it has not crossed my mind to call my attorney, Smitty Madison.

‘Can we get past the
stupid
questions and move on to the ones that make sense? I'm not trying to antagonize you, Agent Harris, but we're kind of on the clock.'

He glares at me. I look over at the pictures on the walls. Harris is clearly ex-navy. He wears a wedding band, but there are no photographs of his family. Just a framed picture of the Destroyer he served on during his years in military service, no doubt near and dear to his heart.

Harris points a finger. I don't like people to do that, but I endure.

‘Mrs Miller, are you aware of what's at stake here? I can have you arrested for obstruction of justice just for violating the crime scene.'

I hold my hands out. ‘Let's get on with it, shall we? If you want to arrest me and put me in handcuffs, go ahead. I'd prefer to call my attorney first. I just bring that up because with handcuffs on it's going to be hard to dial.'

Harris sighs. ‘Don't make things more difficult, Mrs Miller. Let's do it like this. You go and wait in one of the interrogation rooms. We'll make you comfortable; get you coffee, whatever you need. And I'm going to send somebody out to your daughter-in-law's house to connect up with the kidnapper on the web cast which –' he checks his watch – ‘is three hours and some odd minutes from now.'

I lean forward. ‘You read the note, Agent Harris. The kidnapper specifically asked for me and told me not to bring in the FBI.'

He places both palms on the desk, as if preparing to rise. ‘You think? Most kidnappers ask for me by name.'

‘How many victims have you gotten killed during your career, Agent Harris?'

He doesn't even look at me. Just crosses the room, stands patiently by the door, waiting for me to comply. ‘I can have you removed, Mrs Miller, if that's what you'd prefer.'

‘Do what you have to do. But you're not going to find that computer.'

He stands very still, eyes narrow. ‘What makes you say that?'

‘I'm just making a prediction, Agent Harris. I think when you go up to the attic to find the laptop, it won't be there. But that's just an opinion.'