A Lullaby in the Dark Read online

  A Lullaby In the Dark

  Detective Kate Covington Book One

  Billie Reece

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Monster

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Copyright

  One

  Eugene Stevens’s life collapsed in the middle of nowhere.

  He pulled his truck up to the metal gate. His eight-year-old daughter was already out, clambering up and over to stand triumphantly on the other side.

  “I win!” Danielle cheered, breaking into a dance.

  Smiling, Eugene let Nan, their black lab, out of the truck. She raced over to the gate, pawing at the ground to be let through.

  He lifted the latch. The gate swung inward. Nan bulleted ahead, running for no other reason than the unbridled joy of being off the leash. She detoured off into the pine trees that lined both sides of the trail, quickly vanishing from sight.

  “Nan!” Danielle called.

  “She’s fine.” Eugene pulled the gate closed, latching it back. “She’s been exploring these woods for years.”

  His daughter fell in step and together they set off along the trail. Now that they lived in a new gated townhome community they were hurting for trail choices. This one was their favorite. The downside was they had to travel ten miles through Iris, Tennessee to get to it. Not that Iris was ever too busy, but ten miles could be an eternity when you had a hyped-up daughter and an equally hyped-up dog to tend with.

  But once they got there…bliss. Miles of open trails, forestry, and grand Smoky Mountain views. Best of all, rarely anyone in sight. In all the years Eugene had been coming here, he’d come across a few hikers, trail runners, and dirt bikers. Typically, he had the place to himself.

  Today was looking that way too.

  Far off on the right, a water tower glinted in the spring sunshine. Beyond that, a paper factory whispered with activity. In the surrounding pines, birds chirped with happiness. Underneath his hiking shoes, pine needles crunched.

  Up ahead, Nan exploded from the trees, skidding to a stop. Tongue pulsing in and out with her heavy breaths, she checked to make sure they were still there before diving across the trail into the next set of trees.

  “See, she’s fine.” Eugene gave his daughter a playful nudge, and Danielle giggled.

  They walked a few more minutes, rounding the gentle curve in the trail. While he was enjoying the quiet, it wasn’t like his daughter not to be talking. She was a girl who chattered constantly.

  “Everything okay, kiddo?”

  Danielle didn’t look at him. “Yep.” Leaning down, she picked up a stick and waved it in the air like she was conducting an orchestra. She’d started violin lessons this year and was loving it.

  They continued in silence for a few more minutes. Above them a buzzard circled, scoping out possible prey.

  “Dad?” His daughter still didn’t look at him. “Do you know Fred?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  Eugene dug through the crevices of his brain. Was Fred some new kid in school?

  Danielle glanced up. “The man next door.”

  “Yes, of course, I know Fred. Why?”

  “Do…do you like him?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so. I don’t know him that well. Seems nice enough I guess.”

  His daughter went back to conducting the orchestra. “Does Mom like him?”

  “Why are you asking me this?” Eugene stopped.

  Danielle kept walking. “No reason. Just wondering.”

  He cocked his head. “Well, that’s a weird thing to wonder.”

  “Where’s Nan?” His daughter suddenly asked, her gaze darting to the trees.

  “She’s fine. She’ll come when—”

  “Nan!” Danielle shouted.

  Eugene sighed.

  “Nan!” she shouted again, her voice going shrill. She cast a desperate look at her dad. “Where is she?”

  “Nan! Come, girl!” He whistled.

  Nothing moved in the trees. The canopy of leaves and branches cast the forest with shadows. They still had two good hours of sunlight left.

  “What if she’s lost?” Danielle whined.

  “She’s fine.” Eugene tried one last time. “Nan!”

  They waited. Trees creaked with a cool breeze, but no Nan appeared.

  “Crap,” he muttered. “I’ll go in and look.” The last thing he needed was for Danielle to come across poison ivy. She had the worst allergy to it. “You stay right here in case she comes out.” He looked both ways up and down the trail to find it still empty.

  Tears filled his daughter’s eyes. “What if she’s hurt?”

  Eugene gave Danielle a reassuring smile. “If she’s hurt, I’ll carry her out and we’ll go straight to the vet. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t move from this spot. I’ll be right back.”

  Danielle nodded. “I promise.”

  “Goddammit,” Eugene hissed, clutching his cheek where a branch whipped him. “Any sign?” he yelled back to Danielle, as he’d been doing every few yards.

  “Nothing yet!” she shouted, her voice muffled by surrounding woods.

  He cursed Nan. He cursed the branches. He cursed the birds. For extra measure, he cursed a butterfly. Then he felt bad about that and apologized. He trudged onward, his shoes crunching over pine needles.

  Steps later, something moved on the right, rustling wild patches of fern. He searched, praying it was Nan. A squirrel appeared, vanishing up a tree.

  Eugene cursed the squirrel. Overhead the sun shifted, casting more shadows. “How about now?” he shouted.

  His daughter didn’t respond.

  “Hello?” He raised his voice. “Any sign?”

  No response.

  “Danielle!”

  The wind kicked up, groaning and creaking the trees. The wind died. The forest fell silent.

  Eugene didn’t know why he ran. There was nothing to suggest anything had happened. Realistically, his daughter simply hadn’t heard him. Something had distracted Danielle, that was all.

  Yet, he ran in a blind panic. Fueled by fear, he pushed his way through the branches, stumbled over fallen limbs, and slid on a bed of pine needles. Heat and urgency gnawed his insides.

  “Danielle!”

  Eugene hurtled from the trees some tw
enty feet from where he went in. He had a clear view of the spot where he’d told Danielle to wait, now void of his eight-year-old daughter. Still, he rushed over in case he missed something. Maybe she stepped into the trees.

  But there on the ground lay her conducting stick, the orchestra now silent.

  “Danielle!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the forest. “Danielle!”

  From behind came a sound. Eugene sobbed in relief, spinning to see. His momentary slackened muscles tightened back up. He froze. Nan stood there, her tongue lolling.

  Something deep in his chest knotted. He sprinted down the trail. “Danielle, please!”

  No answer came. Nan trotted up beside him. Eugene stopped. He glared at the lab. “You stupid dog! This is your fault! Yours!”

  Nan lowered her head.

  He sighed. His voice softened. “Go find her.” His hand fumbled in his back pocket for his phone. He swiped a shaky finger over the screen. No signal. Shit.

  “Go.” Eugene’s voice cracked, willing Nan to understand. “Go find Danielle.”

  Two

  I wait for the door to buzz open, then continue through it and along the inhospitable corridor of East Tennessee State Hospital. At the end, I turn left, move through another door, then down a flight of stairs. My feet lead me on auto-pilot, having made this journey countless times.

  It doesn’t escape me that I’m entirely too familiar with a maximum-security psychiatric hospital home to violent murderers, rapists, and other vile scum. Once upon a time, I knew little of those vile scum but fifteen years on the job has taught me otherwise.

  At forty-five, I’ve seen things that would make the average murderer cringe.

  Another door blocks my path. I come to a stop, staring at the mesh of thick wire. When it doesn’t open, I fix the camera mounted above it with an impatient look. As I do, I catch sight of myself in the convex mirror bolted into the corner. My blonde kinky hair curls away from my face, one of those curls going in the wrong direction. I twirl it with my finger, forcing it back into line.

  The door buzzes. I pull it open and continue through.

  They know me here. Hell, I’m more of a regular than the doctors.

  A reception desk sits off to the left, shielded by Plexiglas. Wedging the folder that I carry under my arm, I sign in.

  “Running early today,” the elderly man says. Every time I come he seems to have lost weight. I hope he’s not sick.

  “Yep,” I agree.

  Down the corridor a door opens. A clean-shaven Indian man in his thirties steps out. “Detective Kate Covington?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Shroff. May I have a word?”

  Unlike the elderly receptionist, Dr. Shroff is new. With an efficient air that comes across rude, he sits behind a desk as I close the office door. He motions for me to sit as well. My first inclination is to remain standing, but I make myself take the chair.

  The office is small and neat. Functional. Unimaginative. Uncluttered. Like something ordered straight from an Office Depot catalog. Four filing cabinets line the back wall, each labeled according to the alphabet. A-C. D-F. G-J. And so on.

  “I’m new here,” he says and I detect a slight British accent. “I was going through the records and I see you frequently visit.”

  I don’t agree. I don’t disagree. I just wait to see the point.

  “I have to say, I don’t think it’s appropriate.”

  “Appropriate?”

  Shroff is easily ten years younger and likely trying to make a name for himself. Make sure people know they can’t run over him. I respect that, to a point.

  “Thomas Quillen is a patient here,” says Dr. Shroff.

  “He’s also a convicted serial murderer of young girls. Too, he’s a key witness in an ongoing investigation.”

  “He was caught. He stood trial. What is so ongoing about that, Ms. Covington?”

  “Detective Covington,” I correct. I stand like I wanted to in the first place. “Thomas Quillen has vital information that will allow us to fully close the case. That is the reason why I am here.”

  Taking my lead, Dr. Shroff stands too. He moves behind his leather chair, pushing it in. “Your frequent visits are borderline harassment.”

  Harassment? I lean forward.

  Mesmerizing. Alluring. Focused. Scary. Those are the words my ex used to describe my dark green eyes.

  I channel the focused, the scary even as I stare down the younger-than-me doctor. “Until he gives me the information I need, it’s an ongoing investigation. After that, I will joyously never give that maniac another thought.”

  Dr. Shroff’s fingers flex into the back of his chair. He inhales slowly, stalling for time to gather his comeback.

  I wait.

  “I know you’re well thought of in the department,” the doctor says. “I know you’re important. You’ve made a name for yourself.”

  I shake my head. I don’t need this new doctor to inflate my ego. It’s not how I work. Plus, I’m done with this conversation.

  His fingers flex even more. “I’ll be speaking to your superior about this.”

  “You do that.” I turn to leave. “Just as soon as Thomas Quillen gives me what I need, you’ll no longer see me in your halls.”

  “And how is he supposed to do that?” Dr. Shroff demands.

  I pause in the doorway. “Oh, I’m good at my job. I’ll get what I need out of him.”

  Three

  Minutes later, I sit in a molded plastic chair, gazing upon the face of evil. He smiles vaguely, his eyes shimmering with vacancy. I don’t buy the act, no matter what the doctors say.

  Thomas Quillen. The Lullaby Man, as the media had dubbed him back when he abducted and murdered three girls. He tried two more and it was their statements that led to the nickname. Because he had such a “gentle and raspy singing voice”.

  He sits in a plastic chair like mine, slouched in a white jumpsuit. Food stains the front, and from the crusty yellow, I’m guessing mustard. A tiny bit of gray stubble covers his cheeks. They’ll shave him today, or tomorrow. His face never gets much more bristle.

  His head remains bald with the injury on the right prominent. That injury is the reason why he’s here and not behind bars.

  We’re in his private room, a drab four-walled structure with a single bed, a dresser, a desk, and two plastic chairs. Save for the chairs, the well-worn metal furniture has been bolted in place. There is no window, only a painted grassy and sunny mural.

  There shouldn’t even be that.

  Four feet of space separate us with the desk to my right. I open my folder. “I hear you’ve been in a good mood. I hope that means you’re ready to help.”

  Thomas furrows his brow. His lips touch together several times, struggling to form words. “I-I’ll try.” His voice comes out soft and raspy. It makes my skin crawl.

  I produce a photograph from the folder and lay it on the desk. A blown-up image of a little girl dressed in a ninja outfit. Smiling proudly, she strikes a karate pose. I don’t need to look at the photo, it’s burned into my brain. “Ava Neal. Age four.”

  Thomas’s eyes go to the photo. He smiles kindly and I grit my jaw so I don’t lunge across the four feet and punch him.

  “Wh-what a sweet g-girl,” he whispers.

  I count to five. “Yes, a sweet girl loved by her parents, her grandparents, and her older sister. She’s dead now.”

  A frown flickers across Thomas’s face. With the tip of his long index finger, he touches the photo, prodding it a little. “Are you s-sure?” he murmurs.

  I lean in, my voice hardens. “Yes. Now tell me what happened. Where’s the body?”

  Thomas lifts his gaze away from Ava Neal and looks at me. As usual, nothing flickers in his hazy blue depths. “I-I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.” I place another set of photographs down. Ava Neal playing in a sandbox. Ava baking cookies. Ava dancing.

  Thomas watches with a concentration like he
’s playing a matching card game. I allow him time to take the happy photos in and then I place the last one down. A black and white image of Ava Neal cowered in the corner of a closet with tears streaking her dirty face.

  As with the others, Thomas studies it with deep concentration. Then he rears back as if just realizing what he’s looking at. “N-no. I don’t l-like that one.”

  “I don’t either.” Reaching inside the folder I produce his other victims, all little girls. “I don’t like any of them.”

  Thomas fixes his gaze on the grassy and sunny mural over my shoulder. I shift into his view. “Look at the photos,” I say and he shakes his head.

  I snatch them up one by one. “We found Mary. We found Opal. We found Rachel. Too late, but we found them. We gave their families peace.” I pick up the black and white one of Ava Neal.

  For a while, I thought we would find Ava alive. But then in a moment of clarity, Thomas Quillen confessed to her murder, too, just like the other three. “We didn’t find Ava. Tell us where she is. Let us give her family peace.”

  Thomas’s lips touch together in rapid succession, again struggling to form words.

  My teeth grind. “Cut it out.” I snap my fingers in his face and his eyes flutter. “Tell me what you did with Ava Neal.”

  His lips stop moving. He frowns. A good ten seconds tick by. Finally, he blinks—once, twice. His face relaxes. He smiles vaguely as if just recognizing me. Then Thomas lifts his index finger and traces the puckered skin of his skull. Without looking again at the photos he rasps, “Is the n-ninja one yours?”