Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller (20 page)

I take myself back fourteen years, almost to the day.

‘I've always called him the Dark Man.' I give Goodwin a sideways smile. ‘The first time I saw him was in the produce section at Wal-Mart, fourteen years ago. I was picking out strawberries. I couldn't find any I liked the looks of, so I moved on and found a box of clementines. Joey and I had discovered clementines the year before and we were crazy about them.'

‘I don't even know what they are,' Goodwin says.

‘Small, sweet, like tangerines but seedless. They're grown in Spain.' I close my eyes, thinking. Finding my way back. ‘So there I was in my own little world, completely occupied with the grocery budget, the cost of fruit and how much produce I can buy. I wasn't even aware of the Dark Man standing beside me until he tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if clementines were the same as tangerines.

‘It startled me. And I didn't like it that he touched me, even if it was just a tap on the shoulder. There was something repellent about him, something hard. He was a tall man, really skinny and greasy. His face looked mean. His eyes were black and the way he looked at you … it was kind of flat, but creepy. He had black eyebrows and oily black hair, long and combed back. He was dressed kind of rough. An old flannel shirt, cheap trousers. Scuffed up work shoes, a dirty painter's cap. There were smudges of different paint colors all over his pants.

‘“Clementines are sweeter,” I told him. “And they don't have seeds. They're better than tangerines, when you can find them.”

‘I remember how he just stared at me, like he was watching my lips move but not paying attention to the words. And he didn't buy any clementines. That's when I noticed that he didn't have any groceries, or a basket.

‘At this point my internal creep-o-meter hits the high red end of panic. I couldn't tell if he was hitting on me or just weird, but it didn't really matter. It was one of those times where the ingrained habit of being polite is a serious handicap. That's something I had to learn when the cable show started up. I shoved my basket in the other direction and headed to go check out.

‘He followed me and it was blatant. I picked up speed, kind of walk-running, and he stayed right behind me. I could just picture him breathing down my neck in the checkout line, and following me to the parking lot and my car. So I turned around and faced him.

‘“
Go away
,” I told him. “
Stop
following me. Leave right this minute or I will go straight to that counter over there and ask them to call store security.”'

‘No doubt he was terrorized,' Goodwin said dryly.

‘The
look
he gave me – I can't even describe it. The way it was so intent, the way he lowered his head. And then he grabbed on to my basket.'

‘That must have scared you.'

‘Oh, believe me. I was shaking. But it's not like I was attached to the fruit. I took off, and I was spooked enough that I was going to make sure the store manager called the police. But right when I was turning, I could see that he was reaching into the pocket of his shirt and unfolding a piece of paper. And he gets something else out of his pocket – a photograph.

‘“This is your schedule for the next four days,” he says. “I can read it to you if you want.”

‘I just stood there, so he kind of squints at the paper and starts reading.

‘“Tonight you're a guest speaker at New Hope Chapel. Tomorrow night you have the revival in Berea. Sunday you're the guest preacher at a church in Midway.” Then he stops reading and looks at me. “You work hard at this, don't you? Here, take a look at these pictures I got. This is you, and this is your son.”

‘And sure enough, he's got a copy of my week's itinerary exactly like the copy in my briefcase. Only mine is still crisp and neat, and his is brown-stained with coffee and smells like cigarettes. And the pictures are wrinkled and dirty, like he's pulled them out and looked at them a lot. All of his stuff has paper clip marks in the upper left hand corner, like somebody put it together for him.

‘“Where did you get these?” I honestly didn't think he'd tell me. I remember my heart beating so hard and I was panicky because of the picture he had of my son.

‘“Your husband gave them to me, Mrs Miller.”

‘I stood there and stared at him. And he points to the McDonald's in the front of the store.

‘“Let's go over there and get us a cup of coffee. It's full of people, I can't do nothing to you there. You're going to want to listen to what I got to say.”

‘He had Joey's picture, so I couldn't just let it go. We got coffee and sat down. The table was sticky. Catsup smears.

‘“Your husband's name is Carl,” he says. “Two months ago he hired me to kill you.”'

Goodwin cocks his head to one side. ‘Did you believe him?'

I shake my head. ‘No. Not at first. I thought he was some pervert trying to extort money. There were some pretty hardcore people who crawled out from under the rocks when I started the cable show. It was early days, but I was starting to get wary.

‘I decided the best thing to do was to play him. Listen to everything he had to say, then call the police. This would be a new one for the stalker file. I knew if he actually made a threat there would be a better chance of prosecuting him, and this one I wanted locked away.

‘“You don't believe me?” he says. I guess my attitude was pretty clear. So he pulls a pack of Camel cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He's pretty casual, in no kind of hurry. Takes his time lighting the cigarette and starts to smoke. “Your husband paid me eight thousand seven hundred dollars as a cash down payment. That sum of money ring a bell with you?”

‘He starts drinking his coffee then, completely relaxed. I can still see it. The steam rising up from the Styrofoam cup and me wondering how he could drink it so hot.

‘I remember closing my eyes, kind of deflating. Eight thousand seven hundred dollars was the exact figure missing from the ministry accounts. Marsha had been trying to track it down all week.

‘He finishes about a third of his coffee and then he starts flicking cigarette ashes into his cup.

‘“I get another eleven thousand three hundred when you're dead,” he tells me. “Which is supposed to happen tonight, by the way, after you preach. You'll be driving a black Trans Am.”

‘“That's my husband's car.”

‘“He's going to switch before you go. He'll take the Jeep Cherokee and leave you the Trans Am. I'm supposed to make it look like a car jacking. Tomorrow he and I are meeting at Natural Bridge State Park, on the bridge itself, at seven p.m. That's where he'll give me the rest of the money.”

‘“And what about Joey? He's supposed to be with me tonight. Am I supposed to believe that Carl paid you to kill our son?”

‘“The way your husband put it to me, Mrs Miller, was he
preferred
me not to hurt your son. Joey, right? Saw him score that goal at the soccer game Saturday. He's a pretty good player, goes all out.” He lights up another cigarette. “I told your husband I don't leave witnesses. He said he'd try to make some excuse to keep the boy home. Either way, though, I'm supposed to go on and do the job.”

‘“Why are you telling me this? You want money from me? You want me to pay you? Because I'm not going to give you a cent.”

‘He nodded at me, like I was saying just what he thought I'd say, like I was repeating the dialog he'd already written and rehearsed in his mind.

‘“Thing is,” he says, “I've been going to a lot of your shows. You know. Where you preach. I was there just to get a bead on you, but I admit you got me thinking.”

‘“Thinking about what?”

‘“About good and evil. I've got a lot of bad inside me.”

‘
The way he said that.
Like it was everyday chit chat. Even now it gives me a chill. And I knew I should say something encouraging, something about how he had good in him too. But I just didn't see any good in those flat, black eyes.

‘“I'm not telling you everything I done in my life,” he said. “You don't want to know. Most of it's stuff you'd have a hard time even thinking about, much less knowing in detail. But since I started really listening to you, I can't sleep anymore. I'm trained as a house painter, it's what I do when I'm short of cash. I'm thinking I'll try and stick to that. I just wanted you to know that you're the one started the ball rolling. The rest is up to me.”

‘“And that's all?”

‘He gave me a little sideways glance. “Thought you might want to keep an eye on that husband of yours.”'

‘W
hat happened next?' Goodwin asks.

‘That's it. That's the last time I saw Purcell. That's my big connection to this case.'

‘It puts an interesting light on things.' Goodwin rubs his chin. ‘Do you think it was sincere? This big religious epiphany?'

‘These guys are beyond manipulative, you know that. But still. I can't get my head around it. Why did he call it off? Why did he warn me?'

‘So he kept his word.'

‘I'm sitting here, aren't I?'

Goodwin reaches for a doughnut. ‘For what it's worth, Mrs Miller, I'm convinced. I think he's serious about looking for a way out of
who he is
, to
who he can be
.' He takes a napkin and wipes chocolate off his mouth. ‘According to the police report that Woods dug up, your husband, Carl Miller, committed suicide by jumping off Natural Bridge. You think Purcell had anything to do with that?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Why didn't you go to the police? I take it you didn't?'

‘No. I didn't. When I got home it all happened like Purcell said it would. Carl tried to switch cars with me. He tried to keep Joey home. So I took my son and stayed with a friend, trying to think what to do. The next thing I know the police are on the doorstep telling me Carl is dead.

‘Maybe if I'd gone right to the police, Carl would still be alive. But I needed to think. I wasn't sure they'd believe me. And there was that money missing from the business accounts. It was going to turn into a big fat mess. I was worried about what would happen with the ministry. How it would affect Joey, if it all came out.

‘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.'

I
t 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.