by L. T. Vargus
Stump gathered two fists full of tarp and began dragging Darger away. The vinyl crinkled and rasped over the floor, a sound that grew smaller, trailed away, as they moved.
As they neared the doorway, Stump adjusted his grip. The tarp shifted. Billowed and collapsed. Closed around the body so it disappeared like a child hiding under a blanket.
He grabbed and mashed two more handfuls of tarp in his mitts, and the agent’s face appeared again. Bobbed to the surface. Tilted into a semi-upright position as the slant of the tarp lifted her top half like a hospital bed.
Just before she passed through the doorway, Nicole got a look at her face.
Darger’s eyes were open but blank. No more light in them. Nothing at all.
Chapter 54
Footsteps clatter into the room. Thumps trailing toward her, growing closer with each impact.
Between the beats, the floorboards squeal out little whisper sounds. Muted whimpers that seem to hold their notes. Stretch them and bend them. Tiny screeches. A straining of the wood.
Emily feels these whines almost as much as she hears them. A shifting. A vibration in the floor beneath the box.
At last there’s a final step — a thump that is louder and closer than the rest — and both noises cut out.
Silence.
She holds her breath. Tries to listen over the thunder of her pounding heart.
Nothing.
So much of her wants to scream, to call out to anyone who might be there standing over her, but she stops herself. Bites her lip. She doesn’t know why. The impulse to remain silent fires in her, and she obeys.
If it’s him, maybe it’s best to lie low for a while. To avoid his notice for as long as she can. Like maybe she can disappear. Hide in this box until he goes away. Hope that someone — anyone — eventually comes along and finds her. It’s not a likely scenario, she knows, but what does one hope for when locked in a wooden crate?
She thinks back on the sound of the footsteps, replays the memory in her head. The thuds. The squeals. The sudden stop once they got close.
From inside the box, it’s hard to get a read on noises, to discern the nuance, to place them into any kind of context. Was it a conflict of some type? A fight? Was it someone moving on light feet, attempting to keep quiet? Someone storming in, perhaps some anger in their movements? These are distinctly different sounds, but she wouldn’t be able to distinguish them. Not from in here.
Being in the box warps all of her senses, all of her thoughts. For all she knows, the footsteps were a dream. An auditory hallucination. Or maybe she was sleeping and just woke up. It’s hard to tell the difference in here, she thinks.
She stares up at the eggshell ceiling, but it remains indifferent. Unchanging. Offers no clues one way or the other. No guidance.
When her heartbeat slows — quieting, at last — she hears it.
Heavy breathing.
It’s close. So close. They are probably looking down at the box right now, whoever it might be.
A man, she thinks, though it’s hard to be certain.
No. She can’t think that way. Can’t let the doubt paralyze her.
There is no certainty to be had in a situation like this. She has to trust herself, trust her senses, trust her instincts. It’s all she can do.
Through the filter of the box, the breathing is very quiet, but her gut tells her it’s a man. A man in an agitated state, in fact.
The footsteps resume. Somehow indistinct at first — more sounds she cannot place — but soon it comes clear that they trail away from her.
The thuds soften until they disappear.
Chapter 55
Mark directed Claire and Loshak down the hall, conducting them like a maestro with waves of his gun. He’d grabbed two beers out of the fridge and pinned them to his chest with his free arm.
The floorboards creaked underfoot, long squeals that filled the narrow corridor where the three of them walked in single file. It gave the procession an eerie feel.
But then they turned right through an arched doorway, and the confined space opened up into a cozy living room.
A sage green couch sat in the center of the pale wood floor, big puffed up pillows forming the back cushions. Looked comfortable, Loshak thought. A paler green love seat angled off its left corner, not quite a matching shade but close.
The walls were the color of cream, conveying just that faint tint of yellow to the white that was somehow softer — less harsh — than a plain white wall.
All told, it was a neat space, Loshak thought. Even though he had been in this room before — had spent a total of maybe two or three hours interviewing Claire there over three visits — nothing about it seemed familiar now. He remembered her well, of course, remembered the things she said about Stump, even remembered the expression on her face as she said some of them, the way she angled her eyes up and to the right as she tried to pull fresh details from those awful memories, but the room itself he remembered not at all. Funny how the brain could hold onto every morsel of the things it thinks it will need and discard the rest.
Mark waved the two of them toward the couch, and they sat. The gunman milled in the doorway a moment longer, fiddling with how to set down his beer.
The living room. Well, it could be worse.
Marching to the orders of your would-be killer could be unnerving, but Loshak thought the living room would be OK. That was the most public area of the house. If he planned to kill one or both of them, he might take them someplace private — a bedroom, basement, or closet perhaps — a place where he felt alone, where it felt like no one might see.
With his beer sorted, Mark plopped on the loveseat and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He cracked open a pale yellow can of Coors, sucked on the mouth of it for a beat. When he detached his face from the aluminum tube, he gave a satisfied gasp, shook his head a little.
“Best part of waking up,” he said, as much to himself as them.
As soon as they sat down, Loshak’s headache came roaring back. He’d forgotten about it for a while. Too distracted by the drama, the strategy, the barrel of the gun pressed to his skull. But now intense throbs of pain bludgeoned his brain over and over.
He pinched a thumb and forefinger at the bridge of his nose, pushed upward on the pressure point there, but it was no help. No relief.
Worse than the headache was the dejection currently settling over him. He felt it in the gritty sting in his eyes, in the ache of exhaustion in his feet and ankles. He’d squandered so much progress in his negotiation with Mark, was back where he started, maybe worse off. For the first time, he thought this situation might get away from him, that it might end on a sour note after all.
And in a strange way none of this came as any surprise. He’d always thought the Stump case was the one that threatened him directly — for twenty years now he’d felt it in his guts. Never did he think it would come this way, and yet the inevitable danger surrounding Stump had found him nonetheless. After all these years, it had found him, had beaten him down.
Mark’s lips looked juicy, dripping wet with Rocky Mountain Kool-Aid. The fact that he was drinking again was another blow, another strike against Loshak’s plans.
He’d gotten his hopes up for a while, but there was no way around it. Things looked bleak.
The indications of progress flashed through Loshak’s head, those moments when Mark had lowered his gun, when the hatred had left his face, his features melting back into plain shapes, into a placid surface. He’d talked the gunman down, gotten almost all the way there, only for his efforts to come undone when that little chirp rang out of the phone. A goddamn text message.
Now Loshak had no gun, no phone, and Mark was drinking again. He immediately updated his mental list: No gun. No phone. No hope.
But no. That wasn’t true. He couldn’t think like that.
Mark glugged down the rest of his first can and popped the top on the second. A perpetual smile curled the corners of his mouth, even
as he drank, and that manic energy seemed to well in him once more, fresh alcohol flooding into his bloodstream, killing a new round of brain cells, bringing on a new wave of euphoria, of energy.
He was refueling, Loshak thought. Not only refueling his beer buzz, but refueling his hatred, his aggression, his animosity, hostility, and fatalism. Liquid courage. Bottled violence.
Not good.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I got into it with Mick Ferns?” Mark said.
Was he talking to Claire? To Loshak? Neither? He went on.
“We’d been partying out in the desert, and we were on our way back home in Mick’s truck. Middle of the goddamn night, you know. So we was coming up on the city proper, but we weren’t there yet, and I had to piss like crazy. Bladder full up to my fuckin’ lungs. Wasn’t gonna make it another two minutes, OK? So he pulled over, and I got out on the shoulder and pissed in the sand.”
Loshak squirmed in his seat, eyes glancing around everywhere. He tried to think of any way out of here, but his eyes kept drifting back to the gun bobbing along with Mark’s words.
“Mick, though, he had a reputation for being a crazy motherfucker. He was this huge guy. 6’8”, like, Undertaker lookin’ son of a bitch, always gettin’ in fights. A brawler. A cutthroat, right, but fucking shady as hell on top of it. He ripped people off is what I mean — especially when he was real fucked up, which he was that night.”
He slurped his beer, punctuating the story’s preface with a dramatic pause.
“So just as I shake those last few drops free and put my dick back in my pants, I turn, and he’s there. Mick. And he has a knife on me. I’m talkin’ one of those, like, Crocodile Dundee hunting knives. Gigantic. Serrated on one side. Must have had it under the seat in the truck. Christ knows where he got it.
“So I’m not even zipped up, and Mick just says, Wallet. That’s it.”
Another dramatic pause to take a drink and burp.
“See, I had this factory job at the time, an automotive deal, runnin’ steel exhaust pipes through benders, makin’ $18 an hour back when that was more money than it is now. So I typically had $500 or $600 cash on me, the bulk of my most recent paycheck. Sometimes closer to two paychecks’ worth. I didn’t advertise it or nothin’, but people like Mick have some kind of radar for these things or something. They just know when there’s a wad of cash nearby, and they’re like raccoons spotting something shiny and getting all lustful for it, getting all greedy, groping after it with their grabby little hands.
“Anyhow, like I said, I’ve turned, and I’m facing Mick, but I’m not lookin’ right at him. I’ve got my head all hanging down, eyes facing the ground, got my hands raised palms up. I’m looking as non-threatening as possible, you know. I mean, I don’t want to upset the guy with the huge knife, right? I’m talking all soft, and even though I’m lookin’ at the ground, I’m watching him. I’m watching him. And as soon as I see that little bit of tension release in his shoulders, I crack him right in the throat as hard as I can.
“He goes down to his knees. Knife goes flying. He’s gagging, got both hands on his neck. I think I, like, jammed his Adam’s apple way in there or something. Got it stuck. What’s the word? Lodged it. Lodged it back in his pipes. So he’s massaging at it, trying to pop it back out.”
Mark eyed Loshak and Claire on the couch, perhaps realizing that the story had reached its abrupt ending.
“I don’t know. It was fuckin’ hilarious. I grabbed the knife and threw it as far as I could, way out in the scruff. Mick got to where he could breathe again, and we drove home like nothing happened. I tell you what, though. He never tried to fuck with me again. Not ever.”
He took another big drink.
Of course. Of course the insecure male would tell a story that painted him as the tough guy, as the brave one, as proving his masculinity through violence. Once more Mark reveled in his control over a situation, just like he was doing now, holding them at gunpoint.
Loshak bit his bottom lip, pain flaring there for a second. He knew what he needed to do now, though he didn’t know why.
He stretched a little, straightened up in his seat.
He didn’t always understand the impulses that flowed out of his mind, but he’d learned to trust them.
The agent broke into applause, his heavy claps echoing funny off the walls, creating a thin fluttering that sounded like a bird’s wings. The smile faded from Mark’s mouth, and a series of parallel creases took shape on his forehead.
“I have to say, I’m really impressed, Mark,” Loshak said. “Really impressed and a little surprised, frankly. I didn’t figure you had it in you. Didn’t think a wife beater like you could ever have that kind of courage in him. To sucker punch someone bigger than you like that? I mean, wow. Truly, truly impressed.”
Loshak didn’t break eye contact as he said these words. He stared straight at Mark, and he knew his eyes weren’t smiling at the gunman the way his lips might be. He knew his eyes offered no mercy at all.
And when Mark didn’t say anything, Loshak let the silence linger, let it grow awkward. Mark’s clenched mouth moved like he was chewing, looked like he wanted to speak and couldn’t bring himself to, couldn’t find the words.
Good. Let him stew in it. If there’s one thing a bully doesn’t know how to do, it’s dealing with someone who’s not afraid, not looking the other way.
Loshak cleared his throat.
“You ever brag about that? Hitting Claire? Beating on someone sixty pounds lighter than you? Or is it just sucker punching drunks that warrants the full-blown story treatment? You don’t think we’d be quite as impressed with your other efforts?”
Mark stood now, and he pointed the gun. He gestured for Loshak to stand, but when the agent leaned back in his seat instead, Mark’s face turned bright red and then seemed to quickly darken toward purple. It looked like he wasn’t breathing at all, lips pulled back in a grimace, frozen that way.
“A man never stands so tall as when he stoops to strike a woman. Am I right, Mark?”
Now Mark snorted in wild breaths. Lips pulled down at the corners to expose his bottom teeth.
“Stand up,” he said, his voice coming out strained, almost Cookie Monster-ish, Loshak thought.
The agent stood.
And the gun extended between them, shaking.
Loshak read the lines in Mark’s face. There was anger there, but a softness, too. His vulnerability was showing through the mask at last. His fear. After all that huffing and puffing, he was, of course, too scared to act.
Every batterer is a coward deep down, after all.
Loshak swiveled his stance, angled himself nearly perpendicular to Mark. He took a breath, cool wind rushing to fill him. He felt the thudding of his heart pick up speed.
It was time to finish it. The now or never moment.
Loshak lurched forward with ape-like aggression. Pushing off with an explosive first step.
He launched his chest and arms into the side of the gun as though he were tackling the weapon, driving it straight toward the wall.
The force tipped Mark into a careening stagger. Yanked the gunman’s arms like strings. Jerked the top of his torso along with the momentum like some stretchy child’s toy.
They crashed into the dead end of the drywall. The impact rocked both men back a step. Bounced them off the wall gun first.
As they struggled, Loshak hugged the side of the gun tightly to his chest. He snaked both arms around it and ripped at it with his mitts, trying to strip it from Mark’s hands like a strong safety forcing a fumble.
And the gun jerked to life between them. The muzzle blazed and cracked, the weapon bucking like an angry fish in all four of their wriggling hands. Something wild trying to escape their clutches.
The shot went wide.
Glass exploded around them. An eruption of sound. Violent. The front window dropping all at once, raining forth a cacophony of high pitched tones as the shards piled on top of each other.<
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Claire screamed, her throat wide open. Her voice going ragged and shrill.
And maybe it was these distractions. The gunshot. The glass. The scream. The weapon thrashing like a living, hateful thing in both of their hands.
But Mark let go.
The gun came free. Wrenched into Loshak’s fingers. Sole possession.
He stumbled back two paces, the tug-of-war cutting out abruptly and almost costing him his balance.
And as soon as he hit that second backward step, he launched himself forward again. Adjusted the weapon in his hands as he moved.
He smashed Mark’s nose with the butt of the gun. The cartilage collapsed like a rotten peach. Crushed to the bony pit. He felt the squish of it, the tattered flesh caught between the metal and that snubbed piece of bone.
Blood poured out of Mark’s face like a spigot. He cupped both hands at it. Smeared both of them red up to the wrist.
All the fight had drained from Mark’s face now. His eyes were wet, the eyelids almost greasy. A toddler’s frown pushed his bottom lip out.
Loshak reached for the forgotten Glock in Mark’s waistband. Plucked it free. Holstered it.
Mark made no move to stop this. He just dabbed at the mix of blood and tears gushing down his chin, painting a red goatee there.
And still the fire in Loshak’s gut could not be squelched. He wanted to bash away at the face before him. To just smash it with the metal in his hand until it wasn’t a face at all. A bloody jelly laid over a skull.
He lifted the gun again. Poised it over his shoulder.
But he stopped himself. He took a few breaths. In and out, slow and even.
The hatred’s flames still raged, but he could imagine them being over — could imagine them passing at some point — and there was some relief in that.
He turned, at last, to check on Claire.
She cowered in the corner. Folded up against a rocking chair. Bawling.
He went to her. Knelt. Put a hand on her shoulder.
Again, he tried to catch his eyes with hers. To make a non-verbal connection to her just like he’d done on his way in the door.
