Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller (8 page)

As soon as I get her settled, Marsha doubles over and there is a film of sweat on her upper lip. ‘You said “shot in the throat”. You're sure? The FBI, they told you that?'

‘They didn't have to. I saw it in the pictures.'

She lifts her head. The pupils of her eyes have gone huge, black holes that crowd the blue irises into the thinnest of circles.

‘Joy. Oh, Joy. I am sorry. I am
sorry.
'

I don't want to feel sorry for Marsha, but I can't help it.

She grabs my arm with both hands, and her fingernails dig into my forearm. ‘I can't believe this is happening, I just can't believe it—'

Her voice is going up octaves, an opera of distress, and she starts breathing faster and faster.

‘
Marsha.
' I peel her hands off my arm, see that her nails have left red and purple dents and in two or three places drawn tiny dots of blood. Marsha and her damn claw manicures. I wrap my pink fuzzy throw around her shoulders. ‘Deep breaths,' I tell her. ‘I'll be right back.'

I smell fresh coffee from the kitchen, which makes one less thing I'll have to do, and I glance back over my shoulder. Marsha's head touches the tops of her knees, and she has wrapped her arms around herself and is crying softly. Almost, I go to her. Almost, I put my arms around her with real affection.

And then with a flash of memory comes a sliver of resentment. This is the same Marsha who took me to the ER with a red hot appendix four years ago. The same Marsha who held up my admittance because she wanted to look at the list of ER doctors on duty before she would let them take me away, the same Marsha who sobbed like a baby when I snapped her head off and told her to let it be. The same Marsha, soothed by emergency room nurses and admitting clerks who ran to get her hot coffee and a comfortable place to sit while I writhed in agony. And somehow, as only Marsha can, my cousin had turned my emergency into a personal soap opera, starring none other than poor little Marsha herself, doing her best for her cousin, who rewards her with brutal unkindness and hurts the tender feelings of her heart.

Right. Coffee. A glass of water. And I'll be on my way.

But the phone rings while I'm pouring the coffee, and I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and head for the office extension. Marsha, miraculously on her feet, moves like a racehorse at the starting bell, and she's picked it up before I've taken more than three steps.

It is a relief to hear how calm her voice is. She's OK now. One cup of coffee and I'll go.

I hear her mutter something, and the clack of her shoes in the hall.

‘Joy?' she says, appearing around the doorframe.

I am already shaking my head and mouthing
no
.

‘It was the FBI. They need to talk to you. They want you to go in to their office right now and answer questions. They want you
immediately
– they said it's urgent.'

I blow air out of my cheeks, not sure what to do. ‘Are they still on the phone? Are they waiting?'

She shakes her head. ‘I stalled. I told them you weren't expected until tonight, and that I'd already tried to get you a little earlier, but that you weren't answering your cell. I set it up for you to go in first thing in the morning, but they made me promise to try to get you in their office today, if you happened to call and check in.'

I frown at her, not understanding, and she puts a hand on my arm.

‘Joy, the things they were saying when they talked to me. Earlier, when they came to my house. They asked me for a sample of your handwriting.'

‘Did you give it to them?'

‘Well, sure. Because they said it was to rule you out. But now that I think about it, it worries me. You need to get a lawyer before you talk to them. Don't go down to that office alone.'

M
y trip to Arkansas is on hold till I talk to the FBI.

The conference room is too hot. The carpet is thin and grey, and I sit behind a large, rectangular, faux wood-grain metal table. There is no window in the room. There are scuff marks on the off-white walls.

I know better than to talk to anyone in law enforcement without an attorney. The reality of my experience in religious counseling is no different from most other professions, in that my university course work could fall under the double heading of
inadequate
and
bad joke
compared to the real life details of the job. I often felt inadequate; I often was. But if nothing else, I was well versed in the axiom that good things happen to bad people, bad things happen to good people, and innocence is no defense against being proven guilty in a court of law.

One cannot underestimate the importance of a confident attorney with a strong presence, and Smitty Madison is exactly that. He grated on my nerves the first two times that I met him, but his ability to annoy people is just one of many traits that I have learned to treasure.

He sighs, checks his watch and winks at me. Standard operating procedure, his look seems to say, and he pats my hand, which is trembling. We have done our prep work. Preparation is one of Smitty's strengths and, obvious as it seems, the majority of attorneys I know tend to wing it. It is the one quality that makes the difference between mediocre and excellent representation.

We don't talk. Smitty has warned me in advance to stay quiet in the interrogation room, having learned, in the past, that there might be people listening in, even making recordings. We have discussed the adversarial attitude of the FBI, but Smitty seems to feel it is standard procedure, and assures me that Caroline's boyfriend in Arkansas is likely getting it worse. My reputation, such as it is, means they will handle me carefully. My ministry funnels significant money to several local causes, including the funding of search and rescue dogs for the Kentucky State Police K-9 Unit. So I am surprised when Smitty leans close and speaks to me in a low tone.

‘I don't like them keeping us waiting like this. It's not how you treat family. They're probably annoyed you brought a lawyer.'

I used to value Smitty's honesty but just now I wish he'd shut the hell up.

I haven't told Smitty everything. I've withheld from him as well as the FBI. I tell myself to stay the course, but part of me wants to turn everything over to the professionals.

If I give the Dark Man everything he wants, will he return Caroline and Andee? It is foolish to trust a sociopath. And yet … I am the one person still alive who knows that his yearning for redemption is genuine.

The door opens and the noise startles me, even though I have been expecting it this last twenty minutes. Smitty pats my hand again. I understand for the first time the psychological advantage law enforcement holds, and why the innocent confess.

Agent Russell Woods surreptitiously checks his fly as he comes through the door. He slaps a thick file down on the table, and I jump. The clack of women's shoes echoes in the hallway, and Agent Mavis Jones scoots in through the partially open door.

Mavis Jones is an unexpected vision. Slender in a deep plum pencil skirt that reaches two inches below her knees, proper in a black silk Oxford-styled blouse. She has very good hair – brunette with auburn highlights, brushed back from her wide forehead, cut to hang thickly and just graze her shoulders. Her face is perfectly symmetrical and her skin positively glows. How is this possible in the FBI?

I remember what Smitty told me – all the gossipy details, divulged to make the agents seem vulnerable and human and me feel strong. Mavis Jones has a slow metabolism and restricts herself to eleven hundred calories a day, except when her work frustrates her – then she gets up in the night and eats bread. If she eats more than three pieces, she is careful to throw it all up. And I already know Russell Woods obsessively checks his fly. I have no confidence in this man and woman, who arrived on my doorstep with bad news and accusations the night my girls were taken away.

Woods and Jones sit across from us, and exchange little nods with Smitty. He gives them a curt good morning. Smitty has told me that in spite of the rumors he does not think Woods and Jones are having sex. They are competitive with each other, very different people with similar, high ambitions, and they keep each other's secrets in an uneasy balance of truce and struggle. If the balance of power shifts, there will be no loyalty, and as partners they are an edgy match. There are rumors that Jones consults tarot cards for every case, but Smitty says the story came from an unreliable source.

Mavis Jones realizes she's left the door open, and shuts it softly while Woods switches on the recorder and officially reads me my rights. Woods pauses and looks over at Smitty, who does not disappoint.

‘I'd like it noted on the record that my client, Joy Miller, is here voluntarily, and is anxious to do whatever she can to aid this investigation. That she is extremely worried and suffering from anxiety about the safety of her granddaughter and daughter-in-law, Andee and Caroline Miller. And that she would appreciate every consideration as a concerned member of the family.'

I listen to this and I like it, and I wonder why it is that people hate lawyers. There is nothing better when you need a hired gun.

‘So noted,' Woods says.

They are dancing – Woods, Jones, my own attorney, Smitty – following rhythms and doing the steps they have all done before. They know each other. They work together. To them this is a job. To me it is my life.

Woods begins with routine questions – my address, my whereabouts on the day that Caro and Andee disappeared. Do I know of any threatening phone calls, any enemies, anything out of the ordinary, before the package of articles arrived? Do I have enemies, stalkers from my days on television, who might be involved?

But I have been out of the public eye for many years. I have little or nothing for them. Nothing to satisfy that edge in their voice. Smitty frowns at his watch.

Woods smiles like a predator. ‘Mrs Miller, tell me about your relationship with your daughter-in-law, Caroline Miller. Would you describe it as cordial?'

‘Yes.'

‘Close?'

I hesitate. ‘Yes.'

‘How often do you talk to Caroline?'

‘Once in a while.'

‘Every day?'

‘No.'

‘Every week?'

‘No.'

‘She answered the question, Agent Woods,' Smitty says. ‘They were close. They were cordial. Sometimes they talked on the phone.'

‘Did you talk to her once a month?' Woods asks.

‘Maybe.' This is making me uncomfortable.

‘Maybe?'

‘Every two or three months.'

‘Every two or three months. And this is a relationship you describe as close?'

Woods makes me nervous. He has the by-the-book ferocity you find in the IRS, and the arrogance that comes with working for the government. A man like Woods has rules instead of ethics, and he will send you to jail, innocent or guilty, so long as the paperwork pans out.

I lift my chin. ‘Yes, that's right.'

Woods stares at me and earns an intense glare from Smitty. Woods shrugs. ‘Have you ever visited your granddaughter at her home in Arkansas?'

‘No.'

‘And they've lived there how long?'

I look at the ceiling, doing the numbers in my head. ‘Andee was about two and a half when they left, so roughly five years.'

‘So in five years you've never gone to Arkansas to visit?'

‘We've made plans a few times. It never quite worked out.'

‘How many times?'

‘Maybe … I think three. Three times.'

‘Why didn't it work out?'

I shrug. ‘Things came up. Her job. Sometimes mine.'

‘It doesn't sound like either of you were trying too hard.'

I bite the tip of my tongue. If it isn't an actual question, and it has nothing to do with the kidnapping, Smitty told me not to reply.

‘Mrs Miller, a young woman and her daughter,
your granddaughter
, are missing. They were taken from their home, from their beds, by a man who did not hesitate to shoot and kill their neighbor just because he got a glimpse of him from the back kitchen door.'

Agent Jones pulls a notepad close and starts writing something. I wonder what it is. I wonder if I am supposed to wonder.

Woods opens the file and takes out a stack of pictures. He lays two of them down, rotating them in my direction.

One is a photograph I have at home on my dresser – Andee's school photo from last year. She is wearing a black jumper and a purple and white striped shirt, and I smile because it's an outfit we bought together on a shopping trip. We had lunch afterwards, at McDonald's. We got cheeseburgers for Ruby, her dog. There was one of those traveling amusement parks in the mall parking lot that day, and we rode the Carousel and the Spider, which made us both sick.

The next shot is a wedding picture. Joey and Caroline – young, happy, blissfully unaware. I have packed those pictures away, the portrait that hung in the upstairs hallway, the eight-by-ten that used to be displayed in the living room, the three-by-five on my desk. Whatever you say about my son, he is breathtakingly handsome in a tux.

I think how innocent they all look in their pictures. How anything could happen to them, and often does.

‘Why are you crying, Mrs Miller?'

I use a knuckle to wipe a tear from my cheek. When I go home today, I'm going to take those pictures out of the box in the attic and put them back up again.

Woods puts two more pictures on the table, snapping the edges and pushing them close. The first shows a man on his back and a dark stain that runs like syrup from beneath his body to the edge of a refrigerator. The toe of the man's right foot points south, resting a few inches from a storm door. The bottom glass is fractured where the bullet went through.

The second picture is a close-up, skillful or lucky. You can see the destruction of the man's left eye, now a dark, blood-crusted hole.