Violet Darger | Book 8 | Countdown To Midnight

by Vargus, L. T.

  He stopped running. Froze there a second. Head looking up and then down. He was still a good fifty feet from the asphalt of the alley below. Maybe more.

  Darger swallowed in a dry throat.

  Jesus, is he thinking about jumping from here? He’ll shatter his legs like candy canes.

  Instead Huxley dove to his right. Hurled himself into an open apartment window there.

  Fitch gasped. Spitty sounds whistling between his top and bottom teeth.

  The bomber’s torso disappeared into the opening. Swallowed up. But his waist caught on the windowsill.

  His legs dangled there a second. Wriggling. Squirming.

  And then the void sucked them inside like two spaghetti noodles.

  CHAPTER 63

  Loshak stepped into the stainless steel chamber of the elevator. Jabbed the LOBBY button on the panel and watched the opaque plastic light up around the letters, glowing that pink-orange shade of salmon flesh.

  Then he stepped back. Nestled his shoulders back against the wall.

  The elevator door slowly shut, and a second later the box seemed to suck downward. Loshak tilted his head to watch the floor numbers count down in slow motion.

  Part of him thought he should be embarrassed for not making the leap along with the others. Embarrassed that he’d even warned Darger not to do it. But deep down he knew he had nothing to be embarrassed about. He was an old man. Even in his prime, he’d been no elite athlete — always more brains than brawn. He knew that. He had no problem leaving all that rooftop chase stuff to the young hot shots. Anyway, the elevator was air-conditioned.

  He tapped his fingernails against the steel handrail as gravity slowly slurped the elevator car downward. Sharp metallic clicks ringing out. The cold metal felt good against his skin after being exposed to the sun.

  Then he thought about what he was doing. A handrail? In a public building? Probably covered with sneeze residue and traces of fecal matter.

  He ripped his hands away from the metal and rubbed them on his Kevlar vest. Wished he had one of Spinks’ moist towelettes handy.

  When the elevator hit the ground floor, the doors opened and Loshak hustled through the lobby. He weaved around black leather furniture and moved for the brightness beyond the glass, eyes already locked on the SWAT trucks huddled outside.

  He pushed through the front doors. Raced over the sidewalk. As he stepped down from the curb, his foot plunged ankle-deep into a pothole, soaking his sock and the cuff of his pant leg with muddy water.

  “Shit,” he muttered to himself, arms flailing in frustration.

  OK. Maybe now he should be embarrassed.

  He kept moving. Shoe making a sloshing noise with each step, leaving a trail of sodden footprints on the blacktop.

  He zipped toward a cluster of black-clad SWAT officers who looked vaguely authoritative. One lifted a radio — Loshak realized it was Agent Fredrick — and then he heard Fitch’s deep voice squawk from its speaker.

  “Subject just entered a window in the apartment complex over here. Corner of Sanford and Bowne. We’re in pursuit.”

  The SWAT officers all lurched to life then. Moving toward the building in question.

  Agent Fredrick did a double take when she saw Loshak coming along.

  “Agent Loshak. I assumed you went with the others.” She studied him for a moment, frowning. “Why don’t you take off your helmet and vest?”

  Loshak only stared at her outstretched hand. Christ. Was he really just a useless old man now? Ready to be put out to pasture?

  He imagined them snickering behind his back as he’d strapped into his gear earlier. Look at old man Loshak. Still going through the motions.

  Then Fredrick held out a headset.

  “We’re setting up a temporary command center at the 109th precinct, a few blocks from here. Our raid is turning into a chase, and I could use a contact there helping to keep things coordinated. Someone with easy access to maps, satellite feeds from the news chopper. That kind of thing. Hopefully we won’t need it, but now that this thing has gone mobile, we’ve got to be ready to change gears on the fly.”

  OK. That made sense. Loshak nodded along with the words, trading his tactical helmet for the proffered headset.

  “I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER 64

  The old lady ripped wads of wet laundry out of the washer and shoved them into the dryer. Socks. Underwear. A couple of ratty towels.

  The TV blared in the living room, getting louder as Burt cranked the volume. Some newscaster babble practically screaming. Distorting as it pushed the speakers to their limits. She huffed and then yelled to be heard above it.

  “Burt! Instead of turning the volume on the TV all the way up, why don’t you adjust your damn hearing aid for once?”

  After a beat the old man’s usual refrain sounded out through the apartment.

  “WHAT?”

  She closed her eyes. Squeezed a clump of dewy socks tighter, hands balling into fists, a little moisture dribbling down onto the open dryer lid. Wet socks. A makeshift stress ball, she thought.

  The volume on the TV lowered slightly.

  “Suz?” he called. “You say something?”

  Damn him. It was one thing if he wanted to go through life deaf, but the grandkids were coming today. He should be present for that.

  Suzy was about to repeat her hearing aid request when the man crawled through the window.

  He sort of fell into the room as much as anything. Slithering over the sill on his belly. Balling up on the linoleum floor like some animal that walked on all fours. Untangling his limbs and picking himself up.

  He looked right into her face. Eyes wide. Almost innocent-looking.

  Suzy shuffled back from the gaping maw of the dryer. Sank back toward the doorway. Dropped a few of the socks as she did.

  He stepped forward. Just one step.

  Instinctively she threw a wet sock at him. Flung it forward like a chest pass in basketball. Pushing with both hands.

  It flopped against his chest. Fell to the floor with a limp splat. Left a moist mark on his t-shirt.

  They both stopped. Dipped their heads to stare at the soggy sock imprint on his shirt. Then stared at each other.

  Suzy’s jowls quivered. The soft skin along her chin and neck shaking like a Jell-O mold.

  Her voice seemed to grow inside of her. Building up like steam in her chest. Rising. Taking a surprisingly long time to actually reach the surface and spill free.

  “Blast him, Burt! It’s a prowler!”

  She could just see her husband out of the corner of her eye. Still perched in front of the blaring TV.

  He didn’t exactly spring to her rescue.

  The old man shifted in his La-Z-Boy. Cocked his head to one side and then the other. He lifted his voice in that way only someone hard of hearing does.

  “WHAT?”

  The old lady backpedaled through the kitchen. Hands clutching her chest. Wads of loose skin dangled from her upper arms like a pair of turkey waddles.

  Huxley stalked forward. Slow and steady. Hands up. Every movement delicate. Almost like he was afraid to spook her. Afraid she might lurch for some shotgun just out of sight.

  “Burt! It’s a creeper! Cold cock him!”

  The old man tilted his head again. Brought his middle finger to his ear. Twiddled with the hearing aid lodged there.

  “You say something, Suz?”

  “My God, Burt. Do something! He means to ravage me.”

  “No,” Huxley said, a hint of disgust in his voice.

  The prowler picked up speed then. Turned sideways to sidle past the old woman. Slipping through the doorway.

  He reached the open beyond her. Darted across the living room. Hurdled the coffee table. Let himself out the front door and into the hallway.

  Burt looked from the open doorway to his wife and back.

  He fingered the remote control on his arm rest. Muted the TV.

  “Who da hell was that?” he
said, his voice finally approaching a normal volume.

  Suzy picked up the newspaper from the coffee table. Rolled it up. Swatted Burt on the head a few times like he was a misbehaving dog.

  “You idiot!”

  Burt held his hands out, trying to fend her off, but she kept on the attack.

  Cords stood out on the old woman’s neck. Lower teeth exposed.

  “Wait,” Burt said, no longer dodging the rolled-up newspaper she wielded.

  He sat forward in his chair. Pointed at the TV screen. “It’s him.”

  The photo from Huxley’s driver’s license hovered over the left shoulder of the news anchor. A shadowy border ran around the perimeter of the picture. Made him look all the more sinister. Jagged red letters declared him the “Celebrity Bomber” under the photo.

  The old couple read the closed captioning, a stream of text crawling beneath the newscaster’s chin. It described the attempted SWAT raid underway. Announced that they’d now go to live footage of the scene in progress.

  They watched in eerie silence as the screen cut away to the hovering helicopter cam. It soared over their block. Drifted in slow motion. Angled its lens down at the rows of asphalt and concrete.

  The bright and hollow sky formed a glowing border against the concrete edge, the line where the towers gave way to the heavens. The wind whipped all the flags around. Everything on the ground shimmied a little from the moving air, but the helicopter’s shot stayed smooth like a Steadicam.

  The SWAT trucks still huddled in their positions in front of the apartment building. But the officers themselves were racing down the street on foot, black-clad and helmeted so they looked like ants with assault rifles swinging before them.

  Burt stood. Pointed.

  “Suz. That’s… that’s our street. That’s our building. Right there. They’re… they’re running this way.”

  Suzy clucked. She whapped Burt on the back of the head with the newspaper again.

  “The goddamn bomber was in our apartment, you dumb son of a bitch. I told you to cold cock him, didn’t I? You could have been a hero! But noooo—”

  A series of thuds behind them interrupted her rant. Stopped her rolled copy of the Times in midair.

  Their heads swiveled back toward the kitchen doorway. Watching. Listening.

  It sounded like more thudding in the laundry room. Hands and feet clattering on the linoleum.

  “Another bomber?” Burt whispered.

  Suzy whapped him again.

  A man and a woman appeared in the doorway of the laundry room. The man was huge and dressed like the SWAT officers on the TV. The woman wore dress clothes and a bulletproof vest that said ‘FBI’ across the chest. More thumps sounded behind them.

  “Where’d he go?” the FBI agent said, her voice flat.

  Both old people pointed at the open door.

  CHAPTER 65

  Darger didn’t wait for further explanation. She bolted for the door. Tore it open. Led the small brigade of SWAT officers out of the apartment.

  They piled out there into the hall and stopped. Held still.

  In unison all their heads swung to the right and then the left. Scanning. Listening.

  No signs of Huxley either way.

  The rows of apartment doors stretched out before her. Seemed endless in this moment.

  Darger swallowed. Felt some uneven lump bob in her throat. Fresh tension settled over her neck and shoulders.

  The speed and noise and relentless drive of the chase had given way to this — a quiet moment of uneasiness, of confusion. Her skin crawled in the eerie quiet of this vacant hallway.

  Huxley could have ducked into any one of these apartment doors. Or he could have hit the stairs and made his way two flights down by now.

  Fitch muttered something into the radio. Talking low and fast, like maybe he didn’t want Huxley listening in if he were near.

  Hopefully the cavalry was in the process of surrounding the building already. Blocking the exits. Perhaps securing the ground floor. Of course, Darger knew it was optimistic to think that. They’d probably just now gotten confirmation of the address. But maybe they’d make it in time.

  Without speaking, the crew fanned out to search both ends of the hall. Darger and Fitch moving left. The others heading right.

  Cautious steps jabbed forward. Made soft scuffing sounds on the thin layer of carpet out here.

  Heads swiveled. Eyes scanned everywhere.

  A quiet intensity seemed to occupy this time and space like a trembling wave in the air. Darger could feel its prickle on her skin like static electricity lifting the hair on her arms.

  She listened for any kind of footfalls in the distance but heard nothing. The carpet would deaden the sound some, but if Huxley were running, she would hear it. If he were even on this floor anymore.

  “Stairs are this way,” Fitch said. “Let’s roll.”

  As she turned, Darger’s mind whirred. The idea that Huxley might barricade himself in an apartment flashed there once more. She could picture it. Him holed up in a random unit, huddling behind some futon, his hand cupped around some old lady’s mouth even now.

  But no. It wouldn’t make sense. Once the SWAT officers surrounded the building, he’d be trapped like a rat in a cage. No way out. No hope for escape.

  Huxley was too smart to let that happen. Too crafty. His only hope was to get to the ground — to get out — before the backup could arrive and secure the exits. And he would know that better than anyone.

  Fitch used one massive forearm to bash the heavy door of the stairwell open. Funneled them into an off-white stairwell that smelled like sawdust. Stale. Shaded and dingy.

  And then they were on the steps. Feet pounding down the declining slope. Racing, racing.

  Their footsteps clattered louder as they picked up speed. Echoed in the narrow stairwell. Heavy boots clomping against the laminate stair treads. All those clapping sounds tumbling over each other like swelling applause.

  They wrapped around a landing onto another staircase. The battering rhythm of their footsteps changed with the turn, slowed, then settled back into a galloping groove.

  Hot breath plumed against Darger’s teeth. Heart hammering in her chest.

  The careening chase had flushed her face with heat. Plumped beads of sweat along her hairline, sent them streaming into her brow, down over her cheekbones.

  She curled around the protruding handrail at the next landing. Another floor down. Closer now. Closer and closer.

  Two more staircases put them on the ground floor. The door to the lobby jolted out of the way at Darger’s touch.

  And then they ran toward daylight. The sun gleamed into the glass doors at the front of the place, lighting up the fronds of potted plants and stretching glowing patches over the cement tile floor.

  The light was blinding after being closed off in the murky stairwell.

  Darger could see movement outside the building, but she couldn’t make out the details. Just a shapeless writhing in the glare.

  She didn’t slow. Didn’t think. She ran for the door, raced for the brightness. Pushed two sets of glass doors open. Found herself vented out onto three concrete steps.

  And then she saw what was writhing.

  A crowded city sidewalk lurched and throbbed with pedestrians. Bustling people packed shoulder to shoulder, the tightly jammed bodies snaking past each other in all directions. Everyone in a hurry. Everyone preoccupied.

  Cars whooshed past. Horns blared. All the voices on the street collected into a many-throated drone. Reminded Darger of standing near a cornfield, hearing all the bugs trill and warble together, a perpetual call, endless and meaningless.

  None of the heads turned to face the small mob of law enforcement gathered on the concrete steps. Even with the rifles in their hands, no one noticed them.

  This was New York after all. No one cared.

  Darger scanned the crowd. Watched the bodies cluster at the corner, waiting for traffic to stop. Watche
d the torsos twist and tilt and jockey for position in the throng. Sharks swimming in their constant swells.

  She looked for his face, for his tightly cropped dark hair, for his red t-shirt. Eyes darting, flitting, fluttering over the roving horde. Waiting for something to pop out. Anything.

  Too many faces. Too many people.

  Huxley wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER 66

  Darger pushed into the teeming mass of humanity. Felt like she was wading into an angry sea, fighting her way through the current.

  Waves of human bodies flung at her. A surging flood of knees and elbows that kept crashing, thrashing, swerving, crushing. Limbs flailing every which way.

  The sounds of the mob grew louder as she moved. Car engines growling. Brakes squeaking. Rubber soles pattering at the pavement, scuffing here and there.

  Voices chattered everywhere. Cacophony. Something aggressive in it all. Hard voices. Strident tones. Like you had to project an edge at all times to make it out here, to even stand a chance.

  Darger waded deeper into the crush. Slipped through the mosh pit. She thought if she could get to the curb, she might be able to stand on a bench or newspaper box and get a better view, but progress was slow.

  The collective body odor seemed leathery to Darger up close. Animal skin. The stench rising from all those bodies to cook in direct sunlight. A little smoky. A little tarry. Mingling with the funk of that faint garbage smell this neighborhood always had.

  Fitch screamed into his radio to get backup here pronto. The crowd noise kept swallowing him up, so Darger could only make out about half his words. Something about getting eyes on Huxley with the news chopper before they lost him for good.

  That was smart, Darger thought. Turning the nuisance news helicopter into another set of eyes? Maybe the media could do them some good for once.

  Her own eyes drifted up to the little slice of blue between the towering buildings, scanned the hollow sky, just for a second. Nothing there yet.