The Deepest Dark

By Joan Hall Hovey

Following the deaths of her husband, Corey, and ten year old daughter Ellie in a traffic accident, author Abby Miller sinks ever deeper into depression. She contemplates suicide as a way to be with them, and to end her unrelenting pain.
In a last desperate effort to find peace, she drives to Loon Lake where they last vacationed together, wanting to believe they will be waiting for her there. At least in spirit. Barring that, the pills Doctor Gregory gave her to help her sleep, are in her purse.
The cabin at Loon Lake was her and Corey’s secret hideaway, and not even Abby’s sister, Karen, to whom she is close, knows where it is. But someone else does. He is one of three men who have escaped from Pennington prison. They are dangerous predators who will stop at nothing to get what they want - and to keep from going back to prison. Having already committed the worst of crimes, they have nothing to lose.
Unknowingly, Abby is on a collision course with evil itself. And the decision of whether to live or die will soon be wrenched from her hands.

“...a highly entertaining thriller that will draw you in with its well written characters and fast paced action. Above all it is full of suspense and an absolute page turner. I warn you not to start reading it unless you have time to read the whole book! I'd recommend it to anyone who enjoys a good thriller and I certainly want to read more books from this author...” ~ Online Book Club

"Joan Hall Hovey is one of those authors I love so much, I literally wait with bated breath for each release. I'll jump on it the minute the new book is out, and I know I'm guaranteed to be thoroughly engrossed in the story, and completely entertained.
THE DEEPEST DARK was no exception to this rule. Beautifully written with a high quality level of prose, you can't do better than a suspense by Joan Hall Hovey!" ~ Aaron P. Lazar

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jun 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781771452090

Joan Hall Hovey

As well as penning Award-winning suspense novels including Chill Waters, Nowhere To Hide and Listen to the Shadows, Joan Hall Hovey's articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications as The Reader, Atlantic Advocate, The Toronto Star, Mystery Scene, True Confessions, Home Life magazine, Seek and various other magazines and newspapers. Her short story, “Dark Reunion” was selected for the Anthology, Investigating Women, published by Simon & Pierre.Joan also tutors with Winghill Writing School and is a Voice Over pro, narrating books and scripts. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada with her husband Mel and dog, Scamp.She is currently working on her latest suspense novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The three dark figures moved quietly among the shadowy, rain-dripping birches, pines, and alders toward the old farmhouse where amber lights glowed in the two lower windows. They crept with the stealth of foxes intent upon the chickens in the hen house, hungry and deadly, already tasting blood. And the Nichols actually did keep a few chickens of their own, mainly for the fresh eggs, but not altogether for that reason. They liked seeing them clucking and pecking about the yard; they were good company and cost only a bit of seed. Once, they had operated their own farm, and a fair-sized one it was, too. These days they kept a small vegetable garden and Ethel Nichols tended the flowers that grew along the walkway and in her window boxes, mainly morning glories in heavenly blue and pansies in shades of lavender and sun-yellow.

In their early eighties now, and in relatively good health, they were enjoying the fruits of their labor in these latter years, including the big screen TV on which they were presently watching an old rerun of All in the Family, one of life’s pleasures that Hartley and Ethel shared. Playing scrabble was also a favorite pastime. (for Ethel especially since she always won) and checkers, definitely more Hartley’s game. The couple enjoyed simple pleasures like taking a walk through the woods, though not so much since Hartley took a fall and broke his hip last spring. He’d had a hip replacement but it didn’t turn out quite the way they’d hoped, and he used a cane now. Their golden lab, Ralph, used to accompany them on their walks, but Ralph got old and died last year and they didn’t have the heart or will to replace him. Although lately, they’d been talking about taking a drive over to the shelter and seeing if they couldn’t find a new furry friend.

They also enjoyed sitting on the porch swing and just admiring the sunset, even if it was a bit of a cliché. And now and then a family dinner, whenever Sally, their beautiful, unmarried, successful daughter who worked in real estate in Halifax, could make it home for a visit. Occasionally Hartley and Ethel talked a little about how nice it would be if Sally met someone special, got married, and presented them with a grandchild. But they didn’t dwell on it. Didn’t push their luck. They were very blessed just as things were, and they knew it.

Ethel and Hartley Nichols had been in love since they were teenagers. And though they’d had their ups and downs like any married couple who had spent more than sixty years together, they were at one with each other and with their place in the universe.

When the commercial came on, Ethel rose from the big stuffed chair across from her husband’s Lazy Boy. She was white-haired, ample of figure, and quick to smile. Cup of tea, Hartley?

He looked in her direction and grinned mischievously. Though his hair had long gone and he walked with a limp, to Ethel he was as handsome as the first time she saw him walking into Mr. Biggar’s class in grade nine. She could still see him as he was then, tall and lean, with a thatch of fair hair fallen over his brow.

Wouldn’t mind having just a tiny slice of that apple pie you baked to go with my tea. An affectionate coaxing twinkled in blue eyes that had faded only a little over the years.

Looking at him, she mentally shook her head. He knew he had trouble getting to sleep if he ate after he’d had his supper. Sure, she said. And it will be tiny, Mister Nichols, you can bet on that. She had started for the kitchen when she stopped in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, thinking she’d heard a noise outside. She listened. Heard it again. A squeaking of the porch swing chain?

Did you hear that? she called into the living room.

Hear what? Didn’t hear nothin’, Ethel.

I’m not sure. Sounded like... oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. The wind.

Hearing nothing further, but still wearing the same uneasy frown on her face, she continued to the kitchen. She was reaching into the drawer for a knife to cut the pie with when she heard the noise again. She looked in the direction of the sound and that’s when she saw the grinning face in the window. Her heart lurched painfully but before she could cry out, something crashed against the back door. It burst open and three men strode into her kitchen, big as life. Three men she had never seen before. Strangers. "Who are...?

The one who appeared to be in charge, the nicest looking of the three if you could get past the smarmy smile, said, Ah, ma’am, we could surely take to a slice of that fine pie on your table there. And maybe some coffee. Oh, by the way, this here is Tattoo, he said, gesturing to the man beside him. He’s got a real name but no need for you to know that. Better in fact, if you don’t.

The big man he referred to was dark and swarthy with a hook nose and beady eyes, like a hawk. He wore a dark jacket over a plaid shirt. The neck was open and she could see the snake coiling up and around his neck and on upward to where its menacing purple-brown head covered one side of his hard face, fangs bared.

Ethel had seen a similar spectacle in a circus side-show once. She tried to calm her heart which was beating a mile a minute.

Dog here right behind me. Odd name, I guess, but you’ve gotta admit, Dog kinda does look like a mutt, doesn’t he? Hair flopping over his forehead the way it does. And those sad eyes. Don’t you think so, ma’am?

As frightened as Ethel was, and she was indeed frightened, she didn’t think his eyes looked sad as much as they looked stupid. And dangerous because of that. A follower. He was the shortest of the three and his foolish grin showed a mouth full of bad teeth. There was a collective stink of wet cloth, body odor, and something else that wafted off them like a cloud of evil, contaminating her kitchen. She heard the squeak of Hartley’s chair as he lowered the footrest. Oh, dear.

The man who had been doing the talking glanced away from the one he called Dog and raised an eyebrow at Hartley who came hobbling into the kitchen just then, his face flushed with anger. You busted in my damn door. What do you fellas want? Get the hell out of...

No, Hartley, no, Ethel begged silently, but before he could even finish his sentence, the biggest man, the one called Tattoo, back-handed him across the face, slamming Hartley into the kitchen wall, sending one of the pots flying off its hook and clanging across the floor. Ethel cried out, feeling as if she’d been struck, too. Her arms reached out instinctively to her husband, and it was then that she realized she still held the knife in her hand. She had taken it out of the drawer to slice the pie. The big man was about to strike Hartley again, and she tried to drive the blade into his back. The blade barely pierced the skin, causing only a superficial wound, but still managed to raise a holler from Hartley’s attacker.

The other man grabbed her by both arms and tried to force her into a chair, yelling into her face to sit down. In his day Hartley could have given either one of them a run for his money. Hartley always could handle himself. Even now he was struggling to get to his feet and fight back, but the man hit him again, with his closed fist this time. When Hartley went down again the man followed up with a vicious kick to his bad hip. Hartley groaned. Ethel was out of the chair and screaming for the man to stop, falling to her knees beside her husband, tears streaming down her face.

The man who had asked for the pie, who had forced her into the chair, the apparent leader of this pack of thugs, said, Sorry about old Tattoo, there, Ma’am. Ethel was crying so hard she could hardly see him.

He can get pretty nasty when riled, the man continued. Your husband shouldn’t have been so inhospitable. He took the knife from her hand. (with a spot of Tattoo’s blood on it) Poor old fella doesn’t look too good. It’s his own fault, you know that’s true. Now if you’ll just muster up that coffee, maybe I can get my friend to calm down.

He’s not breathing, she cried. I have to call an ambulance. Oh, Hartley. She dashed for the phone in the living room, but Tattoo’s arm shot out and he grabbed her by her thin, white hair and yanked her back. Ethel turned and began to beat at him with her small arthritic fists, screaming her rage at him as she did. Tattoo struck her hard in the face and she fell silent to the floor. Then he picked her up and threw her bodily across the room.

Donnie Leaman (Dog) looked away, while Ken Roach looked on helplessly at the railing madman in the kitchen. They shouldn’t have come here, Ken Roach thought. It was a mistake. But too late now for regrets. What’s done is done.

Chapter 2

Abby had a destination in mind and that was the important thing, wasn’t it? Since the accident, she’d had none, no destination, no purpose. She moved through her days on molasses legs and an equally sluggish heart and it was time to either pull herself free or go under once and for all. The emptiness, the pain, was exhausting as if some nameless thing had a hose attached to her soul and was siphoning off her very life force. Someone had suggested a vacation, a change of scene. A cruise maybe. She couldn’t remember who. She didn’t give it a lot of thought at first, and then she began thinking about the cabin in Loon Lake. And here she was on her way there.

She slowed at a stop sign. The rain was coming down harder and she turned the wipers up a notch, waited for a break in traffic, then turned left onto the highway.

Abby pictured the bottle of pills in her purse that Doctor Gregory had prescribed to help her sleep. It was just a matter of making the decision. One day she could be alive, the next, dead. Like Corey and Ellie. They could all be together again. Was that even possible? Or was death the end? She didn’t know. But she wanted to believe that we lived on at least in spirit.

Jazz music played on the car radio, some dark bluesy piece to accompany her mood. The brain-chatter went on: Or do you just go into the ground and that’s it? Was it all some great cosmic joke? She didn’t want to accept that; she’d been such a religious little girl. Back then there had been no question of a God, or Heaven. She supposed much of that had to do with her very Christian grandmother Mina, her mother’s mother, whom Abby had adored. After her mother died of breast cancer and her father left them, (figuratively if not literally) she and her younger sister Karen went to live with Granny Mina. It took two years for their father to drink himself to death.

On her left, a short stretch ahead she could see an Irving service station wavering through the rain. She needed to use the washroom.

She pulled into the lot just in time to see a woman taping a Wanted poster up in the storefront window. After filling the gas tank, she went inside and paid for her purchase.

May I use your washroom? she asked the woman who was climbing down from her step-ladder.

"Sure. Right at the back on your left, she smiled. A warm smile. She had curly salt and pepper hair and wore cat’s eye glasses. They suited her.

Abby used the facilities, washed her hands, and splashed warm water on her face, patting it dry with rough brown paper. When she came back out of the washroom, the woman was behind the counter. Help yourself to the coffee, dear, she said. Freshly made.

Gratefully, Abby poured the steaming coffee into a Styrofoam cup and stirred in a dab of real cream. Thanks. She took a sip. I needed that.

You’re welcome. Don’t know about you, but this rain is getting me down. Awful about those three escapees, isn’t it?

I hadn’t heard. Escaped from where? she asked, feigning interest, something she was getting good at.

Pennington Prison. I just put the flyer in the window. A cop dropped it off.

Abby shrugged inwardly. She had heard something about it. Pennington’s in Ontario, she said. Pretty long way from here. She eyed a pack of Matinees on the shelf and wished she still smoked. Though it had been seven years now since she’d quit, the yellow package called out to her. But she left the store without it. Not sure why. Thanking the woman again for the coffee, she hurried back to her car.

She tossed her raincoat over the back of the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel. Her hair was damp against her neck and she raked it away. She needed a cut, as Karen kept telling her, offering to do it, but Abby wasn’t up to sitting in a chair letting herself be fussed with. What did it matter anyway?

Once she was back on the road the old needle slipped easily back into its groove and she began to think about Corey.

Corey was an only child. He had told her once that his parents always seemed to be in a cold war when he was growing up. They didn’t fight so much as they were silent. She’d met them a few times, and his mother always gave her the impression of being a bitter, sad woman. His father was a quiet man, gruff, unhappy in his own way. He’d served in the Gulf war so Abby thought it might have had something to do with post-traumatic syndrome. Or perhaps they had simply disappointed one another over the years. Who knew in what ways. Not that uncommon, really. She had been lucky in that regard. Her parents, in their relatively brief time together, had been happy. There was lots of laughter and affection in their home. Not perfect always, but good. Corey had wanted theirs to be a happy family, too, and it had been. They had had that. The three of them. The team. Tears welled, blurring her vision, and she wiped them away with the heel of her hand.

Other than the soft music coming from the radio and the whap, whap, whap of windshield wipers, the only other sound was the rain rattling on the windows and the hiss of the tires on the road. About an hour later, she took a right at the sign that said Three Brooks, and the hissing ended and soon there was a soft clawing of tree branches on metal as she was jostled over bumps and ruts on a narrower, dirt road.

She’d almost forgotten what a crappy road this was. As if to underline it, something, probably a boulder, scraped the car’s undercarriage, forcing her to grip the wheel and hold her breath until she was safely over it.

She recalled it was about a two-hour drive. The last time they’d gone to the cabin, Corey had driven. It was a day of blue skies, and wispy white clouds. Ellie was counting Osprey's nests from the back seat. There’s another one, Mom, she cried. Up in the radio tower. Can you see it? Look, Mom.

I miss her voice. The way she felt in my arms, her little girl smell. The silky softness of her hair. Her smile.

For weeks after the accident, hearing the hiss of the school bus’ airbrakes, the chatter and squeals of children being released into the day would send her running to the window, praying it was all a terrible nightmare and that Ellie would be among them. But of course, she never was. Maybe if Ellie hadn’t died too she would have had something to live for. A reason to go on. If only...

Abby had seen the driver of the truck that struck them on TV once. A balding, thin man, with hound-dog eyes. She hated him. Hated him for being alive while Ellie and Corey were in the ground. She knew she needed to forgive the man. Needed that for her own soul. But she couldn’t. Malcolm Fowler was his name. Malcolm Fowler. He had killed Corey and Ellie. He had murdered her life. The man should be executed, she had