by L. T. Vargus
But it did wake her a little from the daze the nightmare had left her in. She could feel the pounding of her heart beginning to slow as she drank, the manic drumbeat in her chest changing tempos.
The metal cap squeaked when she screwed it back on the bottle. It was a small noise that seemed much louder in the silence of the hotel room.
Darger went to the window and pushed the thick curtains aside. It was the middle of the night, but this part of town was still wide awake. As high up as she was, the people down below looked like barely more than specks. Ants moving around under the glittering lights along the street.
It was fitting for Stump to be held here, she decided. A whole town built on games. Games of skill. Games of chance. Not to mention the spectacle.
And underneath it all—
She stopped mid-thought. Froze with her hands pressed to the thick glass of the window.
A game, she’d kept saying. Stump’s game.
But was it really a game?
Or was it a riddle?
Darger whirled around, snatching her phone from the nightstand. Opening her email, she clicked on the message Prescott sent a few hours ago. The one with the copy of the interview recording attached. Darger’s first instinct when the email had come in was to delete it all, but she’d refrained.
Now she sat down on the edge of the bed and downloaded the file. Pressed play.
Her spine straightened when Stump started talking about that night.
“I was going to see what was underneath.”
“Five seconds left. Where are the bodies?” her own voice intoned, less a question now than a demand.
“No, see you’re asking the wrong questions. You’re supposed to ask, ‘Underneath what?’”
“Time’s up. Where are the bodies?”
“And the answer is: Underneath everything. Under flesh and blood. Under moon and stars. The universe. Life itself. The hidden things, buried under the lies we tell ourselves. The lies we live.”
Her thumb hit the pause button.
Underneath, under, under. He’d said it practically three times in a row.
She pressed play again, kept listening.
“…the hidden things, buried under the lies…”
Underneath.
Hidden.
Buried under.
He’d kept harping on this at the end, when he knew she was losing patience. Knew she was about to storm out and end the interview.
Because he had known. He had an uncanny sense for that kind of thing, didn’t he? An animal cleverness that could predict the movements of his prey, could read their thoughts in their eyes and body language.
And it was exactly like Prescott said. She’d given him exactly what he wanted.
So the hidden thing she was looking for — the evidence he claimed would lead them to the names and locations of more victims — was buried beneath something.
But what?
She went back to the beginning of the interview and started again. This time, she heard it.
“…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.”
Jesus. He’d even referred to it as a “gift.”
Darger stopped the recording and dropped the phone onto the bed beside her. Then she sank down until her elbows rested on her knees.
Not there, she thought. Please don’t make me go back there.
Darger’s stomach curdled at the thought of that place.
After a few moments, she picked up the phone again and dialed Prescott.
The older woman’s voice sounded groggy when she picked up, but Darger barely noticed.
She closed her eyes and muttered, “We have to go back to the murder shack.”
Chapter 8
The “Murder Shack” was the nickname the press had given to Leonard Stump’s cabin, the one where Darger and Emily and Nicole had their final stand-off with him.
In reality, it was hardly a shack. It had all the modern conveniences — hot water, electricity, even satellite internet, apparently. The inside had been quite cozy throughout, with carpet, curtains, and a modern and spacious kitchen. In fact, if the demise of countless young women hadn’t been met there, it would have been a very normal house. The kind of place most people would line up to book on Airbnb.
But Leonard Stump’s Murder Shack had a better ring to it than Leonard Stump’s Cabin Retreat or Leonard Stump’s Mountain Getaway. The reporters had to get a little creative. These headlines weren’t going to clickbait themselves, after all.
A leaning For Sale sign stood by the mailbox at the turn-off from the main road, looking like a nice gust of wind might take it down for good. The realtor who had given Darger the house key earlier that morning assured her that he didn’t think the place would sell.
“I had a lot of calls about it when it first went on the market. It was only after the fourth or fifth walkthrough request that I realized they were just gawkers. Weirdos that wanted a sneak peek inside the Murder Shack,” he’d said.
He was a short, wiry guy about ten years older than herself, she figured. World Series of Poker hat, wraparound sunglasses indoors, tucked-in polo shirt. And he was a talker, like Coonan.
“I caught one couple trying to steal the knobs off the kitchen cabinets. Said they’d heard about collectors that would pay good money for a souvenir like that.”
“Jesus,” Darger muttered.
“Yeah. Plenty of people are curious enough to want to look through the place, but I don’t think any of them have the cajones to actually live there. I guess I can’t blame them,” he said with a shrug. “It’s the niece of the people that owned it that asked me to sell it. You know, they never found the bodies? Of the old couple that actually owned the house, I mean. They think Stump befriended them somehow. I guess they were good Christian folk, and they offered to take him in. Of course, they didn’t know who he was. And then wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, he kills them and moves in.”
“I know the story,” Darger said, but the realtor was on a roll now.
He crossed one sun-browned leg over the other and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts.
“No one knows exactly when it happened, either. He was cashing their Social Security checks all that time. And the niece says she got signed birthday cards every year. Can you imagine? All this time thinking Auntie Marcia and Uncle Terry are sending you a card, but it’s really Leonard Stump, forging their handwriting or what have you. You know he kept girls locked up inside a little box in one of the bedrooms?”
“I do,” Darger said, wanting badly to reach out and snatch the key off his desk.
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Maybe he kept them locked up for a while. Had them sign the cards. A whole bunch so he had a stockpile of them. Or maybe he kept them for longer. Let them out when he needed something. To sign a check or a card or whatnot.”
After reaching up to adjust his World Series of Poker baseball cap, he finally handed the keys over.
“You’re sure you don’t mind going up there on your own? The turn-off can be a real bitch to find.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve been there before.”
The man had frowned for a moment, not sure how to interpret that. Then his eyes went wide.
“Oh my goodness. You’re… you’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Lord almighty, and I was just standing here blathering like a fool. I hope I didn’t say anything that offended you.”
“Not at all. We’re all good here?” Darger said, holding up the keys.
“Oh. Yes. Yeah. Just, ummm… you know, bring them back when you’re done.”
There was an embarrassed flush on the man’s cheeks, and Darger imagined he was replaying all the tabloid prattle he’d been spewing in his head. Darger almost felt bad for him.
She knew people couldn’t help it. Serial killers were treated as entertainm
ent. In movies, in books, on TV. And the fictional versions made some sense to Darger. The movie villains were a safer version of reality, complete with charming one-liners and signature catchphrases. Words to be plastered on t-shirts and mugs.
It was when the fascination and reverence bled over into the real-life killers that Darger got uncomfortable. It didn’t surprise her that people seeking murderabilia had flocked to the Stump cabin. There were entire websites dedicated to the collection of mementos and possessions and even things like teeth and locks of hair that had once belonged to serial killers.
Her rental car wound up the dirt lane that led to the cabin, spewing out plumes of dust in its wake. When Darger rounded the final bend and caught her first glimpse of the house, her foot involuntarily slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a grinding halt in the gravel driveway.
Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach, but she tried to shake it off.
It was just a house, she told herself.
That was all.
Just a house.
It was a lie, she knew. This was one house that wasn’t only a house. Not to her. She’d almost died here. And the truth was, she wasn’t really over it.
She wasn’t sure she ever would be.
Was getting shot in the head something you got over? When she was eighty, with a grandchild on her knee, would they ask about the scar under her hairline, and Darger would say, “Oh, this old thing?”
She thought not.
She’d arrived ahead of the others, which she realized now was a good thing. She could take a look around and get her bearings without an audience.
Her plan hadn’t actually included going inside the place, but she found herself climbing out of the car and heading straight for the front door.
The key slid into the lock. With a turn of the wrist, the deadbolt retracted. Darger grasped the handle on the door and pushed it open.
She hesitated at the threshold, gazing into the shaded place through the doorway.
It was time to face her fears. Memories or not, there was no reason to be afraid of the place now. She didn’t believe in ghosts or haunted houses. Nothing here could harm her. Leonard Stump was behind bars wearing a ridiculous smock like he was about to get a wash and style at a salon or something.
Darger stepped inside. The interior of the cabin was eerily still. The lack of furniture and other decor made the place feel disused and empty.
Proceeding down a long hallway, Darger passed the kitchen and doors for two of the bedrooms. At the end of the hallway was a heavy steel door.
She paused before it, running her thumb over the screw holes that had once held a double-keyed deadbolt in place. Holding her breath, she pulled the door open and peered into the windowless back room. It was smaller than she remembered. In her dreams, the room was always large. Cavernous, even.
The woodstove still squatted at one end of the room, but the old fashioned school desks were gone. Probably stored in an evidence locker somewhere.
Darger breathed in through her nose, noting the dankness in the air. That was the other thing in her dreams. The smell. The room always smelled of smoke and blood.
Despite the mostly innocuous feeling the room held now, she had no desire to enter it. She turned away from the door, leaving the dungeon-like space behind. Just as she moved back into the hallway, a shrill sound rang out.
She jumped a little before realizing it was only her phone.
Letting out a nervous chuckle, she pulled the phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen.
There was a voicemail notification, and the log showed a missed call from Loshak.
She tried to swallow, but her throat went dry.
How did he know?
Darger tucked the phone away. Cell service was hit-or-miss out here, which explained why the call had gone straight to voicemail. Better to call him back later, when she was back in town with more reliable service.
It was a convenient excuse, and she knew it. But Darger couldn’t imagine explaining where she was at this moment, and she didn’t want to have to lie to him.
Yes, it was better to leave all of that for later.
Her legs had been moving on autopilot while she dealt with the phone, and when she looked up, she found herself standing in front of the bathroom.
She stared at the place on the wall where the towel bar had been ripped from the plaster. Jagged holes glared back like empty eye sockets. Like the void she pictured behind Stump’s eye patch.
There was a dent in the bathtub where the enamel had been chipped. She didn’t remember how that had happened, but there’d been quite a struggle in here. Many struggles over the years. Maybe it had always been there.
She thought she could see a thin line of blood where the tub met the tile floor. A spot missed by the trauma clean-up crew. Dark brown, almost black.
You could never really clean up something like that. Not all the way. There were always traces left behind. She thought she could feel that in here. It was like the killing floor of a slaughterhouse. Too many lives had drained away down that bathtub pipe. This house had been fed on blood.
No wonder no one wanted to buy it.
A wave of nausea hit her then.
Why had she come inside the house? To prove she could?
She half-ran to the front door and banged out of the house, wanting fresh air. The brightness of the desert sun blinded her.
“Taking a little trip down memory lane, Agent Darger?”
Darger held her hand over her eyes as a shield and peered over at the voice.
A familiar woman with dark skin and jet black hair was leaning against the hood of Darger’s rental car.
“Something like that,” Darger said.
She didn’t bother explaining that it technically wasn’t Agent Darger anymore. She was tired of doing that.
“Ah. Well, it’s good to see you again. Sheriff Corby wanted me to send his regards.”
Detective Castellano held out her hand. Her nails were clean, short, and unpolished. No nonsense, just like the detective herself.
The bun perched at the nape of her neck didn’t so much as quiver as she swiveled her head around the property.
“Is Dr. Prescott here?”
Darger shook her head.
“Too bad. She’s got quite the reputation.” Castellano’s eyebrows flicked upward. “I was looking forward to meeting her.”
Darger said nothing, though she’d been surprised at how little interest Prescott had in visiting the cabin herself.
“I’ll put in a call to the Sheriff,” she’d said when Darger called to tell here where Stump’s clues led. “He’s assured me we’ll have any resources we need, we only have to ask.”
“And we’ll need permission from the property owner,” Darger said.
“Consider it handled,” Prescott assured her. “You might as well pick up the keys, just in case. I’ll call the real estate office handling the property. They’ll have them ready for you.”
“You’re not coming?”
“God, no. My field days are long past. You’ll be able to handle it on your own, I expect?”
“Sure,” Darger said. “Fine.”
The whine of an engine climbing the last steep section of the driveway suddenly interrupted the more peaceful sounds of birdsong and a few crickets.
A white minivan came to a crunching halt in the gravel. In the passenger seat sat Dr. Elaine Siskin, a forensic anthropologist who specialized in excavating skeletal remains. Darger recognized her from her previous visit to Vegas. The doctor and four graduate assistants exited the minivan that was no doubt packed with their equipment.
After introductions were made, Darger crossed the rocky yard and gestured that the rest of the group should follow.
“I’d suggest starting here,” she said, pointing a finger at the burned-out shed.
Standing before it now, Darger remembered the smell of the gas. The sound of it sloshing against the side of the small building befo
re she set the whole thing on fire.
Blackened scorch marks marred the wood siding where the flames had touched, but the structure seemed to have remained intact. Scarred but standing, much like Leonard Stump.
The hinges on the door screeched as Darger wrenched it open, and a few flecks of ash and blistered paint peeled away, floating to the ground like loose feathers.
Only a small amount of dim light was let in by the soot-smeared window on the far side of the shed. Darger squinted into the dimness and flicked on her flashlight.
She aimed the beam around the room. It was bare now, emptied of its contents. And yet she was sure this was where Stump was telling her to go.
Darger thought again of the last question Stump asked her.
Aren’t you curious what’s hidden beneath it all?
Darger turned back toward the door of the shed to face the forensic anthropologist.
“I hope you brought shovels.”
Chapter 9
Castellano and Darger stood by and watched Dr. Siskin and her assistants as they worked.
“Remember the first principal of excavation. John?” Siskin said, loosening a section of dirt with a square-nosed shovel.
John was one of the assistants, a short man shaped roughly like a bowling pin, Darger thought.
He nudged his glasses.
“Follow the strata.”
Siskin’s head bobbed up and down once.
“And if you observe a lack of stratigraphy?”
“Then you should excavate in horizontal layers of no more than fifteen centimeters.”
The doctor pointed to an area marked by a grid of string.
“Excellent. You can start using the trowel and sieve to go through this corner.”
Despite the shade offered by the shed, it was hot, dusty work that only got hotter and dustier as the hours wore on. They were all covered a fine layer of reddish dirt before long.
Darger went back to her rental and hauled out a disposable cooler filled with ice and bottled water. Siskin and her team took turns digging up the hard-packed earthen floor. When they came out for a break, Darger handed each of them a cold bottle of water.
Around noon, another vehicle arrived on the scene. It was a red Ford Fusion with something strapped to the roof. As Darger approached the car, she saw that it was a light-up sign for a local Vegas sandwich shop. A scrawny kid who couldn’t have been a day over seventeen climbed out. He stared down at his phone, brow furrowed in confusion.
