Darkness on the Edge of Town

From New York Times Best-Selling Author J. Carson Black

Used to be kids played outdoors until time for dinner, now social media’s the new game in town. These days, they play on their smartphones. But with more freedom comes greater danger. Mobile devices are a conduit into a child’s life, not just for friends but for those who intend harm. This is the message of J. Carson Black’s Daphne du Maurier Award-nominated thriller, DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN.

When Laura investigates the murder of a fourteen-year-old girl found in a town’s park bandshell, she knows immediately what she’s up against: a cunning sexual predator. But why is she plagued by the abduction of a schoolmate eighteen years earlier?

In a runaway case that propels Laura from a lavish Tucson estate to the secretive heart of a northern Florida town, she must confront the ghosts of her own past. Then another child goes missing—and Laura must race the clock to find her.

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Book Excerpt

Chapter One of Darkness on the Edge of Town by Thriller Author J. Carson Black

VAIL, ARIZONA

Francis X. Entwistle showed up in Laura Cardinal’s bedroom at three in the morning, looking world-weary.

“Don’t get up, Lorie. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. A bad one’s coming.”

Frank’s complexion was pale and there were shadows under his eyes. In life, his face had been dull red from the high blood pressure that had killed him. A bottle of Tanqueray gin sat on the window table and the tumbler in Frank’s hand was about a quarter full. Laura didn’t own any tumblers and she didn’t drink gin.

Laura wasn’t entirely surprised that her old mentor was sitting in the straight-backed Mexican chair in her bedroom four months after his wife had buried him. Maybe because she knew she was dreaming. Or maybe because he was her last link to her parents, and she didn’t want him to be gone for good. Frank Entwistle leaned forward, the nightlight from the bathroom illuminating the scroll of white hair above his side part. “You’re gonna have to pay attention and keep on paying attention.”

He stopped to scratch the tip of his nose. Laura Cardinal realized the absurdity of the situation: Sitting in her bed at three in the morning, watching a dead homicide cop scratching his nose.

“I’m talking about the kind of thing, you aren’t careful, could come back around and bite you in the ass. The key word here is vigilance.”

She wanted him to clarify what he meant by that, but he was starting to fade.

He held his glass up in a salute. “Watch your back, kiddo.”

When she caught the case the next day, there was no doubt in Laura’s mind that it was the one Frank Entwistle had alluded to.

It was the weekend, and she was at her little house on the guest ranch where she lived rent-free. The owner, a friend from high school, liked the idea of having a criminal investigator from the Arizona Department of Public Safety living on his property.

The dream about Frank Entwistle remained with her, vivid and unsettling. It didn’t feel like a dream. When she got up this morning, she sleepwalked into the bathroom. In the dim glow of the nightlight, she saw a ring on the table left by a sweating glass. Instantly she was wide awake, her heart rate going through the roof, until she realized the real culprit was Tom Lightfoot. Tom never remembered to use a coaster.

It was Tom who had been on her mind all morning, Tom who had preoccupied her since he left two days ago on a packing trip to New Mexico.

This was because of the note stuck to the refrigerator: “Maybe we should live together – T”

Not “Love, T,” she noticed. The word “love” scared her anyway, so she wouldn’t hold that against him. What she did hold against him was the fact that he had blindsided her, leaving that note on her refrigerator and then creeping out of town. She couldn’t reach him in the back country. She couldn’t say they’d only been together two and a half months, that his house was just over the hill, that just because he spent every night with her anyway, he shouldn’t think he could move in. Living together was a whole different proposition from sleeping together. The last man she had lived with had been her husband, and that had not turned out well.

What bothered Laura most, though, was the part of her that leaped at the thought.

Restless, she went outside to water, the day already hot enough she had to run the hose awhile to avoid scalding the plants. Her mobile rang and she retreated into the shade with the phone.

It was Jerry Grimes, her sergeant. “You busy?”

“What’s up?” Knowing that whatever plans she had for a quiet weekend were about to be blown out of the water.

“Bisbee PD has asked for an assist on a homicide.”

As she listened, Laura forgot about Tom’s note. Frank Entwistle had warned her it would be bad, and it was. A fourteen-year-old girl had been found dead in a small town south of here.

“Mike’s talked to the chief down there, and we all agree,” Jerry said. “You’re the lead investigator on this. So don’t take any shit.”

He always said that, although Laura had never taken any shit yet. She knew the pep talk was just his way of showing support for her, a woman doing a man’s job. But being called in to assist on investigations in other jurisdictions—mostly small towns—Laura knew that petty politics were far more obstructive to an investigation than any effect her gender might have.

“Victor will meet you there as soon as he can. You know where the ADOT yard is this side of the tunnel?” Jerry said. “They’ll have someone from Bisbee PD there to escort you in.”

Fifteen minutes later, Laura turned her Toyota 4Runner onto Interstate 10 going east, dread pressing into her throat.

Fourteen years old.