Danielle Girard - Chasing Darkness

Chasing Darkness

By Danielle Girard

Also by Danielle Girard

Savage Art

Ruthless Game

ForMom and Dad,
who raised four smart, independent kids and taught us each to carve the pathbest for us. Youve done good. And yes, I have included myself with the smartones.

Acknowledgments

I want to first thank Department of Justice special agentKaren Norwood for spending time to show me what she does. Everything she toldme was accurate and honest; if I got it wrong, its entirely my fault. I alsowant to thank the talented authors who took time away from their own projectsto offer their honest criticism of mine: Joanne Barnes, Taylor Chase, DianaDempsey, Lisa Hughey, Malia Martin, Monica McLean, and Sonia Rossney. And thankyou for the extraordinary love and support: Chris, Claire, Nicole, Tom, Steve,Blake, Bob, Donna, Sue, and Marcie. And to Helen Breitwieser and Genny Ostertagfor your insight on and passion for these books. You make them real.

June26, 1993

WalnutCreek, California

SamChase left the house at 6:50 A . M . for her three-mile loop. The run was the single partof her day that remained consistent, five days a week. Twenty-four minuteslater she would be home again. Twenty-four long, torturous minutes that shewould spend cursing the fact that she could never find a rhythm. Shed metrunners, people who loved to run and talked about the high they got from itlike it was a drug. Sam had never understood that. For her, it was all painfrom start to finish. She did it because she had to and that was it. Five daysa week, three miles each time. Then she could settle into bed at night with abowl of ice cream and a book and not feel guilty.

Onemile in, she passed John Muir Elementary School and waved hello to anotherrunner she often saw on her loop. He wore yellow nylon shorts, the kind withthe slits up the sides that, in his case, exposed sinewy legs. As he movedforward, his legs created tall, staccato arches, the motion graceful andsmooth, unlike the shuffling, flat shape of her own strides.

Throughthe row of sycamore trees that lined the schoolyard, Sam could make out a fewsummer school kids just starting to sprinkle onto the playground. Theirbrightly colored outfits contrasted with the dull gray pavement of the yard. Onthe far side, a pack of them stood beside the fence. Their parents dropped themoff as early as seven oclock and could pick them up as late as six wheneverschool was in session. It was a great service for the parents, but it had to behard on the kids to be at school for so long. Still, they were shouting andplaying kickball and hanging upside down from the jungle gym with the energythat only children could have at such an early hourand without the help ofcaffeine.

Samran by, noting the slow progression of cars heading toward the freeways. Shethought about the upcoming day and her meetings. Anything to avoid thinkingabout the ache in her side and the numbing pain in her thighs. She reached thehalfway mark and picked up the pace on her way back, eager to be home. As shedid every morning, shed set the timer on the coffee machine before she left,and she looked forward to the smell of freshly brewed Mocha Java as she walkedin the front door.

Thewind picked up, and she could smell eucalyptus and lemon verbena, their scentsintensifying as the temperature rose. June in Walnut Creek was hot, this Junehotter than usual. September and October, the months of Indian summer inNorthern California, would be scorching. Hot was fine by Sam. The heat clearedher head. And the arid heat cleared memories of the damp, miserable South ofher youth.

Roundingthe corner by the school, Sam caught sight of an adult standing on the edge ofthe playground where the kids were gathered. The prickle of adrenaline spikedin her neck and shoulders. She took two steps forward and changed her course.Something about the khaki coat and the hunched form of the shoulders wassuspicious. Silent alarms rang in her head as she pushed herself further,faster. She heard a childs high-pitched scream and shot forward.

Shecould see the kids staring at the man with looks of horror. What had he done?

You!she screamed when she was within thirty feet.

Theman spun around and Sam could see his pale nakedness beneath the coat. Hequickly shut his coat and ran. He was six-two, maybe six-three, Caucasian withscraggly black curly hair that hung just over the collar of his coat. Theshadow on his face suggested he hadnt shaved in a while, and she cursedherself for not spotting him sooner.

Hewore clunky work boots and between the shoes and holding himself through hiscoat, she was on him before he reached the other side of the street. Shegrasped his shoulders and swung him around, tripping him and landing him on theground, face up. Before he could move, she rolled him onto his face, broughthis right hand behind his back, and jerked it up toward his head.

Heyelped.

Hesmelled like chocolate and cologne and she knew hed had candy to offer thekids. All the good perverts kept treats. Dont move, you sick bastard. Whatsyour name?

IdontI dont know

Shejerked his arm harder. Whats your goddamn name?

Gerry.Gerry Hecht.

Youbeen arrested before, Gerry?

Uh,no. No, I

Trappinghis arm under her knee, she grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Im afucking cop. Dont lie to me. Have you been arrested before?

Yeah,yeah, he grunted. A couple of times.

Samlet his hair go and smiled. Then this time makes three.

Afteran hour of waiting for the proper authorities to show up and answeringquestions and completing paperwork, Sam walked in her front door just as thephone started to ring.

Thewoman said, Samantha Jean Everett?

Thesound of that name, her old name, rose like thick tar in her throat. She hadntused the name since shed left the South. It had been almost twelve years. Whois this? she asked, hearing terror behind the harshness in her own voice.

Myname is Francis Mason. Im with Child Protection Services in Jackson,Mississippi.

Samstared at the phone, trying to remember a caseany casethat had involvedsomeone in Mississippi. There hadnt been one. She would have remembered. Justthe word Mississippi burned like flaming crosses in her mind. What do youwant?

Thewoman cleared her throat. Im calling on behalf of Polly Ann Austin.

Samgripped the phone in terror. Whats happened?

Theconstant buzz and whir of planes overhead, mixed with the booming loudspeakercalling out passengers and flights, made it difficult for Sam to think. Behindher she could hear a voice welcoming passengers to San Francisco InternationalAirport and directing them to baggage claim and ground transportation. Familiesswarmed around her, reuniting in a dance as foreign to her as the apprehensionknotted in her gut. College students returning home for the summer, siblingsand cousins, aunts and uncles visiting. Even after all these years, the lowdrawl of Southern accents in the crowd made her slightly nauseated.

Onlyyesterday everything had been normal. Curled in the navy flannel sheets thatcovered her bed year-round to fight off a constant chill, Sam had cut herselfoff from reality with a book, the way she loved to do when she could find anevening away from work. Last night she had been in the middle of Joyce CarolOatesBlack Water , a modern re-creation of the Chappaquiddick incidentwith a Kelly instead of Mary Jo. Sam read, feeling her grip on the book tenseas the senator pressed Kelly down, killing her to free himself. Sam knew whatthat felt like. Shed felt Kellys fear. The only difference was, it hadntkilled her.

Herfocus back in the present, Sam found Gate 31 and waited as the people moved offthe plane. She stood off to one side, the squeals of families barely audibleover the pounding of her heart in her ears.