Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“School!” Tatum shouted. “It’s school.”

“Right.” Harry sounded excited as well. “So . . . she’s telling us she’s buried in a school?”

“That makes sense . . .” Tatum hesitated. “How would she know where she’s buried?”

“Maybe she heard some school noise before she was buried.”

“That’s probably it,” Tatum agreed. “I’ll get people looking into it right now.”

“Great, keep me updated.”

“Uh-huh,” Tatum said, hanging up. He was about to hurry out of the room, then paused.

Zoe had been trying to search for a link between Debra and the killer. Could that be what she meant?

It was that feeling of indecision again. The wrong decision could waste precious time, cost Zoe her life. He decided to follow both leads. He’d tell Foster and Lyons about the school, get them to search for Zoe in local schools. That was the more likely scenario.

And he’d look into Debra’s school life on the off chance that this was what Zoe had meant.

Chief Christine Mancuso talked on her phone nonstop, the video playing on her screen. She’d muted it long before but couldn’t bring herself to turn it off. It felt like by turning it off, she’d be betraying Zoe somehow, abandoning her to the darkness.

She’d just gotten off the phone after a long conversation with the special agent in charge of the San Antonio Division. He’d sent six of his top men to San Angelo, and his analysts were working around the clock to find Zoe. Words, Mancuso guessed, that were mostly aimed to reassure her or to cover his ass. Maybe both. But it was all she could do. Talk to anyone who could help.

She dialed Tatum again to get an update, but the line was busy.

Then the phone rang in her hand.

“Hello?”

“Is this Agent Mancuso?” the voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“This is Chief Mancuso.”

“Oh, Chief, right. This is Mitchell Lonnie from the Glenmore Park PD. Remember me?”

It took her a moment to place him. Pretty boy, sad green eyes. “Yeah, Lonnie, I remember.”

“Listen, I’m watching the video—”

“Me too, Lonnie. I don’t have any update right now—I’m sorry.”

“No, listen. I figured out something. Zoe’s trying to tell us something. She’s blinking letters and—”

“School,” Mancuso cut him off. “She’s blinking the word school .”

Silence stretched. “Right,” Mitchell said at last.

“I know. I had Zoe’s partner and three analysts tell me that already.”

“I just want to help.”

Mancuso shut her eyes, frustrated at herself. “I know,” she said, her tone softer. “Thanks. We’re doing everything we can.”

And that was the real snag. Lonnie or her or anyone around her couldn’t do anything. Zoe was beyond their reach in almost every way, and all they were able to do was watch.

In complete and utter darkness, Zoe kept on acting her routine. Thrash in panic for thirty seconds, count to ten, blink her message, rest for a minute. And again. Panic, pause, blink, rest. Panic, pause, blink, rest.

She had no idea if anyone was seeing her. Had no idea if they got the message. She knew she would have to stop soon. She was consuming too much air.

But for now, she kept going, blinking into the abyss and hoping.

He began to suspect something the fourth time she went into a screaming fit. Her moments of hysteria were too regular. Almost like they were regulated somehow. With a woman like her, it almost made sense that even her loss of control would follow some sort of pattern, but still.

He watched as she jerked and bucked, shaking her head. Her eyes were shut, but something was wrong. He’d seen several women in these situations, including her, and she was acting . . . off somehow.

She stopped. And then began that nervous blinking again.

No, not nervous. Something else. Methodical.

He watched closely, feeling his gut sink. It was some sort of signal. How had he missed it before? He’d been too consumed with his private emotions and lust, too engaged with her fear.

She’d played him.

He quickly paused the video, killing the feed. Then, after a moment, he read the comments below the video.

School! She’s blinking the word school!

This video is so fake

I think it’s schoon.

It’s definitely school.

I keep getting lost in the count

FAKE

School

Yeah, school

Hundreds of people had noticed it before him. He was close to panic, but then he forced himself to calm down. School? What did that even mean? Did she think she was buried in a school?

He shook his head, bemused. There was nothing there. It was a good thing he’d figured it out before she managed to signal anything else.

The man who opened the door for Tatum looked terrible. Bloodshot eyes, pallid skin. His smell reminded Tatum of the way his aunt had smelled in the days before she’d died in the hospital. It didn’t matter how much the nurses had aired her room and cleaned her; they couldn’t clear the stench of death’s proximity.

“Mr. Miller?” Tatum asked.

The man nodded, a weary what-the-hell-do-you-want nod. Tatum caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

“I’m Agent Gray from the FBI.” He flicked his badge, though Miller didn’t even glance at it. “Can I have a few minutes of your time?”

“Sure,” the man rasped. “Is this about Debra?”

“Yeah. I wondered . . . do you have Debra’s yearbooks?”

He expected some questions, maybe an angry reaction, but Mr. Miller just nodded and motioned Tatum to follow him inside. The house was dark, and the same smell clung to every corner. Tatum found himself taking shallow breaths.

Mr. Miller led him to a room that could only belong to Debra herself. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was bathed in light—a large window was positioned above the bed, and though it was dusty, it let the sun in. There was a depression on the bed, as if someone had sat on it recently. Tatum was willing to bet that Mr. Miller had spent a lot of the past twenty-four hours there, grieving for the daughter he’d found out was long dead.

A small bookcase stood in the corner with some books, albums, scrapbooks, and four yearbooks.

“Can I take them?” Tatum asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” the man said. “But feel free to look through them.”

Tatum didn’t argue. He took the last one, from 1993.

“Do you want to drink anything, Agent Gray?”

“Just water, thanks.” Tatum was already flipping the pages one by one. He had no actual plan, nothing to go on, but he figured it would be easy to peg the weird kids. The ones who dressed differently, who didn’t appear in group photos, who didn’t smile in their own photograph. That would be a good place to start.

One thing was clear: Debra had been incredibly popular. She’d been stunning, appeared in endless photos, and in the most cliché manner had been a part of the cheerleader squad. A lot different than the woman she’d become just before the killer had found her—an abused drug addict.

Tatum paused as a familiar face caught his eye. A photo of a grinning African American teenager. Samuel Foster.

Of course. Tatum could kick himself. Foster had said he knew this girl from school. He’d just wasted valuable time, when he could have done this with Foster all along, get firsthand knowledge about any of those kids. He was about to put the yearbook away, thank Miller, and return to the station, when another face drew his attention. A boy with a pair of large spectacles and messy curly hair. The name underneath the picture was Clyde Prescott.