Into the Abyss

by L. T. Vargus

  “Can’t go in dressed like what?” a voice demanded loudly from near the front desk.

  Closing her locker, Darger let her gaze roam in the direction of the squabble. A woman in a form-fitting denim halter dress and platform flip-flops crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the guard behind the desk.

  “There is a strict dress code for visitors, ma’am,” the guard said, pointing at a poster on the wall detailing the rules.

  REMEMBER TO WEAR APPROPRIATE CLOTHING! the poster proclaimed, italicizing and capitalizing for emphasis as though this particular rule could only be yelled in a gym teacher’s bellow. Below the command was a list of requirements.

  Shirts and blouses: no tube tops, no sleeveless tops, no cleavage, no loosely-woven or sheer material, no hoodies or coats. Pants and slacks: no zippers, no cargo pockets, no short shorts. Shoes: no stiletto heels, no open-toed shoes. Appropriate dress is at the discretion of on-duty guards.

  “This isn’t fair,” the woman argued. “I drove an hour and a half to get here, and I was not informed of this.”

  “It’s all outlined in the visitor registration packet, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t read all that. There’s like twenty pages! This is bullshit.”

  “Ma’am,” the guard started to say, but Denim Dress was not having it.

  “If I knew y’all were gonna be a bunch of Nazis about my clothes—”

  “Ma’am, if you don’t lower your voice and refrain from the use of profanity, you’ll lose all future visitation privileges.”

  “What profanity? I didn’t use no fucking profanity!”

  The guard behind the desk was reaching for the phone — Darger presumed to call for reinforcements — as she and Prescott got in line for the security checkpoint.

  Coonan had finally finished his call and jogged over to catch up with them, mumbling some excuse about the crop of first-year attorneys in the DA’s office.

  “These kids look like they’re barely out of high school, but they’ve already got their sights set on my job. Mettlesome little shits.”

  He shook each of their hands in turn, really pumping Darger’s arm up and down. She wasn’t particularly fond of Coonan. He struck her as arrogant and overly-ambitious. Then again, so were most lawyers. And he was as determined as anyone to see that Stump got the maximum penalty for his crimes, so she tolerated his haughtiness.

  “When Margaret told me you wouldn’t do it, I thought we were sunk. Stump has been quite insistent that you’re a non-negotiable part of this deal.”

  “And reassure me again that you’re not considering a plea?”

  “No way, no how. There was an informal poll a few months back in one of those Sunday newspaper magazines. They asked a bunch of folks whether they were in favor of the death penalty. Came back with something like 55% for it and 38% against. The rest were ‘Unsure.’ Then they ask the same people whether or not they were in favor of the death penalty for Leonard Stump specifically. Sixty-eight percent in favor, a 13 point swing. Can you believe it?”

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  “The public, right? Bunch of hypocrites. But hey, that’s good for us. The voters want him to fry, then my boss wants him to fry. Not literally, I mean. We don’t have the electric chair in Nevada, unfortunately. Just the old-fashioned lethal injection out this way. Kind of lacks the colorful verbs, you know? We’re going to ‘administer poison’ into his veins. Not quite as powerful as ‘frying him’ or ‘stringing him up,’ right? Blindfolding him and sticking him in front of the firing squad? Now that’s dramatic. Even gassing him sounds better than injecting him. Then again, if the needle was good enough for Gacy, I say it’s plenty good enough for Leonard Stump. In any case, he’ll be just as dead after all.”

  In front of her, Margaret was removing her wallet and placing it in a bucket that would pass through the X-ray machine.

  “What do you think his angle is, then? If not for a deal?”

  “Who knows. All I know is that if we uncover more bodies, we come out heroes, and he’s given us a whole bundle of extra ammo against him. If you ask me, he wants to inflate his persona. Get his name higher in the ranks on those Wikipedia pages that sort killers by body count. Or maybe he thinks the addition of more bodies will buy more time before trial. He might think he can string everyone along with the promise of more information like Ted Bundy tried to do. But our case is rock solid as it is. The longer he gives us, the more we polish this case to a high sheen.”

  Darger was next in line for the metal detector. She placed her shoes and belt on the conveyor for the X-ray machine and stepped over the threshold. Given the all-clear on the other side, her hand was stamped with invisible UV ink by one of the guards.

  Along with a dozen or so other visitors, they were led down a long corridor to a holding area outside of the central control room. Guards bustled behind the glass, eyes darting over the dozen computer monitors showing various security feeds throughout the jail.

  A tall guard with a head so shiny it looked like a crystal ball came into the holding area and checked over the paperwork for a grandmotherly-looking woman with two young children. After scanning their hands for the special UV stamp, he had the control room buzz him through one of the doors and led the family to the visitation group.

  He returned a moment later and began the process again for the next visitor, a Latina woman Darger figured couldn’t be older than 25.

  Darger’s group was the last to be processed. The heavy metal door buzzed and slid aside, and they followed the guard down another hallway.

  Halfway down, Darger caught a glimpse of the main visitation room as they walked past it. It had rows of square white tables with four built-in stools and vending machines along one wall.

  They were led to a smaller room further down the passage that was usually used when attorneys visited their clients at the jail. It was furnished in a hideous green and orange color scheme, and unlike the main visitation room, this room was not monitored by jail staff.

  “It’ll be a few minutes,” the guard told them. “Since he’s an escape risk, he has to be double-shackled during all escorts.”

  Prescott smiled with all of her teeth.

  “Take your time.”

  The room smelled like old sweat, and anything that could be fastened down was: the chairs, the table, the garbage bin. Even the phone in the corner was secured to the wall with bolts as thick as Darger’s thumbs.

  She was surprised to see Prescott pull a digital recorder from her pocket and set it on the table. Electronics of any kind were usually among the items that were forbidden from entering the inmate areas.

  “They’re letting you record the interviews?”

  “Special permission from the Sheriff.”

  Darger wondered what Prescott had offered the Sheriff’s office to be given such allowances and found herself asking the question out loud.

  Prescott smiled knowingly.

  “Oh, I simply asked nicely.”

  Darger scoffed.

  “You think they’d let me bring in my gun if I asked nicely?”

  That got a chuckle out of Prescott, but Darger had only been half-joking. She stepped to one of the chairs and sat down.

  Behind her, she could hear Prescott murmuring to Coonan in a low voice. Coonan whispered something back, and then they moved closer to where Darger sat.

  “Do you want to discuss the plan?” Prescott asked.

  Darger raised an eyebrow. So far, Coonan seemed to be deferring to Prescott, which wasn’t exactly what Darger had been expecting. The prosecutor was usually the one calling shots in this kind of arrangement.

  “The plan?”

  “It’s just that I’ve been careful to let Stump set the tone for things so far. It’s a way of letting him think he’s got some small amount of control,” Prescott said, leaning her hip on the edge of the table. “Not that we’re trying to tell you how to handle it. I’m sure you’ll know how to play it.”

  Befo
re Darger had a chance to respond, to tell Prescott she had no plans to “play” in any way with Stump, the echo of the clinking chains reached their ears. Prescott immediately straightened.

  “That’s him,” she said, an unmistakable tinge of excitement in her voice.

  She adjusted her collar and reached up to twist one of the gold jelly bean earrings, which Darger couldn’t help but think should have been stowed in the locker along with her other “valuables.” But apparently Prescott was used to playing by her own rules here.

  Darger stared at the wall of beige cement blocks at the far end of the room, steeling herself for what came next.

  Chapter 5

  The door swung open, and Leonard Stump shuffled into the room, shackled at his wrists and ankles. The tall guard guided him on one side, a shorter, stockier man on the other.

  Stump wore a bright orange jumpsuit with matching orange socks and a pair of slide-on sandals. Over that was an odd, over-sized quilted smock in sage green. Darger had heard prison staff refer to such a garment as a “turtle suit,” and she knew it was an anti-suicide device. The thickness of the material prevented inmates from rolling or folding it to fashion a noose.

  Darger could have told them that Stump wasn’t suicidal. He had too much self-preservation for that. But it wouldn’t have mattered. She knew the anti-suicide measures were a precaution the jail took for any inmate accused of a serious felony. The last thing anyone wanted was for Leonard Stump to duck justice and “take the easy way out.”

  Anyone but Darger, actually. She would count the world a better place without Stump in it, regardless of how his death came about. Some would say there needed to be a trial. That it was “how justice worked.” That Emily and Nicole and even Darger herself should get their day in court. A day to confront the man who abducted and tortured them. That the families of the victims deserved that as well.

  But Darger didn’t care about any of it. It was just another circus. No number of tearful victim statements would get through to Stump. He wasn’t going to suddenly develop remorse, be rehabilitated, be changed at all by anything they could do.

  Only death would break him.

  She noticed subtle differences in him, though. He looked thinner than she remembered, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

  Perhaps poor Leonard wasn’t sleeping well in prison.

  And of course there was the eye patch, the result of being stabbed in the face by Emily. Darger couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at that. Now there was a piece missing on the outside to reflect the piece of humanity missing on the inside of Leonard Stump. He’d survived somehow, but he’d never get his eye back. It only seemed right that this man who had taken so much from so many have something stolen from him in turn. The eye alone was nowhere near payment enough, but it was something.

  A few days of stubble stood out on his chin, and the hair on his head was too long and wispy looking. It made her think of the dried-out grass in the so-called lawn outside the jail. If he were someone else — anyone else — she might have felt a stab of pity. But she had no pity for this man. Not after the things he’d done.

  And she knew that any charitable feelings she might conjure up for him would have been misplaced. No matter how dried out and used up Leonard Stump looked, Darger knew there was a vicious animal inside with a wicked survival instinct. Feeling pity, compassion, or tenderness around a man like Leonard Stump could get you killed.

  She did not tense at his presence, nor was she relaxed. She was still, yes. One might even say calm. But she was also ready.

  Darger didn’t have her gun, but she had other things. Her hands and feet, for starters. Elbows and knees, too. One might argue that there was nothing to fear — Stump was chained, for crying out loud, and surrounded by correctional officers to boot — but that person would be a fool. Stump was not a man you let your guard down around. Stump was a man that required contingencies.

  He was the kind of man who would gladly accept a beating from the guards if it meant getting the chain strung between his wrists across Darger’s throat. Even if only for a few seconds, just to prove he could.

  So she ran through the options in her mind. If he were to lurch for her, where to hit him first? A knee to the groin was the obvious choice, but the suicide smock was so thick, it might cushion the blow. The throat then. She’d punch him in the throat and then go for his remaining eye. Claws fucking out.

  Stump had his animal brain, and Darger had hers.

  The guards helped Stump settle into the molded plastic chair, and Darger realized for the first time that his orange and green ensemble matched the room. The thought made her smirk.

  “Look at that. A smile. For me?” Stump said.

  Darger let the amusement slowly fade and allowed her focus to settle on a scarred bit of flesh visible at one side of the eye patch.

  Stump stared at her. His gaze felt like a tick crawling over her skin. A disgusting prickling of the flesh. She kept her own eyes glued to the scar on his face, unwavering.

  They’d been going about it all wrong, Prescott and Coonan. Letting Stump think he had any control was a mistake. They were giving him exactly what he wanted. Indulging him like a spoiled child.

  The silence must have started to get to Coonan. It was no wonder. He was a talker. The kind of person that couldn’t stand to let a moment pass by empty of words. Probably a guzzler of caffeine in all its various forms.

  The attorney cleared his throat and said, “We’ve made good on our end of the agreement. Now it’s your turn.”

  Beside her, Prescott twitched in her seat. Maybe he wasn’t deferring to Prescott as much as Darger had assumed.

  “No need to be hasty. It’s been ages since Violet and I saw one another,” Stump said, never letting his eye stray from her face.

  “The deal is she has to be in the room. She’s here.”

  “Doug, I think we can spare a few minutes—” Prescott started to stay, but Stump interrupted as if she weren’t even there.

  “Don’t be stupid. As lovely as she is to behold, I obviously didn’t ask Violet here just to look at her.”

  “But… You… That wasn’t the deal!” Coonan blurted, face reddening.

  Stump closed his good eye and tilted his face toward the ceiling.

  “I think I’d feel more comfortable if the lawyer wasn’t here.”

  Coonan scoffed, but Prescott raised her eyebrows at him.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you waited outside,” she said.

  His face went a deeper shade of crimson.

  “You’re not serious.”

  Prescott patted his elbow.

  “We’ve got this under control, Doug.”

  The man stood, his chest heaving once, suit jacket inflating and deflating, before he turned to leave.

  Darger studied Stump as he watched Coonan leave the room. There was a glint of amusement in his eye.

  When the door closed behind the prosecutor, Stump sighed and let his singular gaze fall on Darger again.

  “Now… where were we? Ah yes, I was saying how long it’s been since we saw each other.”

  Prescott held her hand in the air.

  “I think we should probably set a few ground rules—”

  “It’s fine,” Darger said, her tone flat. She wanted this over. “Where are the bodies?”

  “Ah! She speaks,” Stump said. “How are you these days, Violet?”

  “Marvelous. Where are the bodies?”

  The hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth.

  “Manners, Violet. What do you think of my new look?” he asked, gesturing at the eye patch.

  “You look like someone’s grandpa dressed up like a pirate for Halloween.”

  He chuckled.

  “It’s too bad she didn’t finish the job,” Darger said. “Emily, I mean. If she only would have pressed the blade — the one that took your eye — those last few inches into your brain.”

  “She is a pistol
, that one. How is Emily? Are you two in touch? And what about Nicole?”

  Darger ignored the question.

  “How does it feel? To have been bested by three women. Three half-dead women. We beat you.”

  Stump let his gaze flit up to the ceiling, a thoughtful expression pursing his lips.

  “Bested,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “In that particular moment, perhaps I was. And yet I survive.”

  “Living the good life here, are you? Locked up and smocked up for a few more months, I figure. Then they put you down like a dog. No offense to dogs.”

  Prescott reached out and put a hand on Darger’s forearm, redirecting her.

  “We’re getting a bit off-track here.”

  She was right. Darger didn’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary. She needed to get the names, and then she could get the hell out of here.

  “You asked me here for a reason. So tell me where the bodies are. Or who they are.”

  Stump closed his eye and leaned against the back of his chair.

  “This is going to look bad, but… My memory isn’t what it used to be. I was never very good with names as it was, but you know they think getting stabbed in the eye did some brain damage?”

  You are so full of shit, Darger thought, shaking her head.

  “You have thirty seconds to give me a name or a place, or I’m leaving.”

  She started a mental countdown, though the threat didn’t even seem to register with him. Instead, he launched into a recollection of that night. The night he shot her. The night he lost his eye.

  “Do you dream about that night? Because I do. I dream about it, and it’s like I’m traveling in time, the recollection is so vivid,” he said and drew in a breath. “And the strangest thing is, I knew that night was going to be special somehow. And it was, only not how I thought it would be.”

  His hands rested in his lap, and when he adjusted them, the chains of his cuffs clanked together.

  “I can still see you skulking around outside the house like a wraith, your skin glowing blue in the moonlight. I couldn’t believe my luck when I spied you peeking into my little storage shed. That fortune would favor me with this gift.”