With all that publicity, Darger prayed they’d get a lead sooner rather than later. She tried not to think about how the Olympic Park Bomber had managed to remain at large for five years, hiding out in the mountains of North Carolina, only venturing among mankind to pick his meals out of dumpsters.
A little chill rippled over her skin as she thought about it now, looking out the window.
Tyler Huxley was out there somewhere. Hiding. Plotting his next move. Watching from somewhere no one could see.
“We’ll find him,” Loshak had assured her. “It’s only a matter of time. He can’t hide forever.”
But what if they didn’t find him? The question seemed to echo in her skull.
So did a tiny voice in the back of her mind that kept trying to say it was her fault. That she’d made a mistake, not going after Huxley when she had the chance. But no. She’d saved Fitch’s life. The doctor in the emergency room had told her so.
“He was likely minutes from death when you stopped the bleeding. Maybe less.” He had glanced back at the curtain cordoning off Fitch’s bed. “I couldn’t believe he was even awake then they wheeled him in here.”
If she had to do it all over again, she’d make the same choice. Because Fitch being alive was one of the few pieces of good news they had, at this point. That and the fact that Amelia Driscoll was going to survive her attack.
Still, they’d lost four of Fitch’s men, which brought Huxley’s victim count to six, counting Gavin Passmore and Agent Dobbins.
The sun was dipping below the tree line when Darger finally parked her car on the street in front of her house. She couldn’t wait to get inside. To shuck off her grimy travel clothes. To take a long hot bath and sleep in her own bed.
Sleep. She almost wept at the idea of getting a full night’s sleep, uninterrupted.
She’d managed a few hours of off and on slumber on the lumpy hotel mattress, a restless kind of sleep which had done nothing for her sore and aching body. Her cracked ribs had throbbed in time with her pulse all night long.
Darger climbed the front steps, pausing before the door to pull out her keys. She slid the key into the lock, but before she could turn it, the door kind of just swung open on its own.
She stopped. Listened.
This wasn’t right. Couldn’t be right. There was no way she’d left the door unlocked.
Her hair pricked up little by little. Insects crawled over her skin.
This was wrong. Something was wrong.
Her hand drifted toward the partially open door. Hesitated just shy of the wood.
An image of the bomber flashed through her mind. Tyler Huxley. Bony shoulders twitching inside that red shirt as he ran.
Was it possible?
Be rational, she thought to herself.
How would Huxley know who she was or where she lived?
Her landlord, maybe… except he hadn’t called or texted. Unless there was some kind of emergency, he wouldn’t just let himself in like that.
Besides, where was his car? Her eyes strayed to the curb. Scanned for the big obnoxious Hummer the landlord drove, a hulking forest green box with wheels. Her vehicle was the only one parked outside.
OK. Well… someone had obviously broken in. She doubted that person was still here, but…
Darger’s fingers found the butt of her gun. Slipped it from her holster.
She took one step inside. Pushed the door. Watched it glide out of the way.
Her eyes scanned the interior of her apartment, searching for anything out of place. Anything that might have been taken or rifled through. Her gaze landed on a package just inside the door. A plain box with no address or postage marks on it. The heavy feeling of dread in her gut intensified.
Jesus, Huxley really had been here.
And he’d left her a present.
She stutter-stepped backward through the doorway. Wheeled around to face the street.
She should call Loshak. No, 9-1-1 first. Then Loshak.
But first she had to get away from the house. Away from whatever was in that box.
And then she heard something. A clatter coming from the kitchen. She turned back.
He’s still here.
Darger’s palms went cold. The Glock suddenly heavy and awkward at the end of her arm.
Huxley was in her apartment.
She swallowed.
Took a shaky breath.
Then she tiptoed forward. Crossed the threshold again. Feet light and soundless.
She had to take him by surprise. Couldn’t give him a chance to make any kind of move. Not this time.
She picked her way toward the kitchen. Choosing her steps. Trying to remember which floorboards squeaked and which didn’t.
When she reached the kitchen doorway, she flattened herself against the wall. Closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
She could still hear him in there. Running water. Opening cabinet doors. The fucking creep.
Darger counted to three. Exhaled. Whirled into the kitchen, gun raised.
“Freeze!”
The man there spun around, eyes going wide when he saw the gun aimed at his chest.
“Oh shit.”
“Owen?” Darger hissed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He held a wooden spoon aloft.
“I was going to surprise you.” He gestured at a pot on the stove filled with what looked like marinara. “I made dinner.”
Darger didn’t realize she still had her gun pointed at him until he cleared his throat.
“Could you uh… point that thing somewhere else? Hell, I knew sneaking in here would get a big reaction, but… I was trying to be romantic.”
Darger’s shoulders slumped. She set the gun on the counter.
“Jesus. I’m sorry. I’m just a little… tightly wound.”
“Things went bad, huh?”
“Really bad.”
“I caught some of it on the news. They have any idea where he might go?”
She shook her head.
“Well, his face is plastered on every news outlet from here to Alaska. They’ll find him sooner or later.”
“That box by the door?” she asked, still feeling aftershocks of paranoia. “That’s yours?”
“Sure is.” He stirred the sauce on the stove and then turned to raise an eyebrow at her. “Oh… you didn’t think it was… did you?”
Darger shrugged.
“Christ, you really are tightly wound.” He moved over and pulled out one of the stools. “Here. Sit. You want some wine?”
“God, yes.”
Owen poured her a glass and set it in front of her. She took a sip. Waited for the alcohol to start untying the knots in her nerves. She watched him putter around the kitchen for a few minutes. Running water into a pot for the pasta. Rinsing fresh basil leaves. Slicing a loaf of Italian bread.
“What did you do with your boat. And your cat?”
“Clancy’s at my mom’s. As for the boat…” Owen sighed. “Well, remember the engine troubles I was having when you all were down there?”
“Yeah.”
“I got the part I’d been waiting on. Did the repair. Got her running again. Did a leisurely cruise up to the Florida Keys. And then she died on me again.” Owen tore open the end of a box of pasta. “Mechanic said, in his opinion, that I’m at the point where I either need to rebuild or replace the entire engine.”
“Ouch.”
He nodded.
“So I decided to take a little break from the sailing life.” He swung around to face her, leaning his back against the refrigerator. “To be honest, I think I might be through with it.”
“Really?” Darger was genuinely surprised to hear this.
“Really. At least as a full-time thing. Think I’ll sell the boat, and if I ever get the urge again, I’ll rent instead of buying.” He scratched his chin stubble. “Honestly, I was getting kind of restless. Turns out a life of luxury is fuckin’ boring.”
“It’s OK,” Dar
ger said, trying not to smirk. “You can admit that what you really couldn’t stand was being away from me.”
Owen laughed.
“Hold on, now. I thought I was the cocky one in this relationship.”
Darger thought about how spooked she’d been when she discovered her door open with the mysterious box inside and was suddenly relieved to have Owen here. The notion that Huxley was out there somewhere was too unsettling to face alone.
She pushed herself up from the table and went over to him. He was dumping dry spaghetti into the boiling water, and his back was to her. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the space between his shoulder blades.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“I know.”
Now it was her turn to laugh, and it came out muffled because of the way her face was pressed against him. He swiveled around, snaking his arms around her waist and giving her a squeeze.
“Careful. I’ve got two cracked ribs.”
“Sorry.” He loosened his grip. “So it’s cool that I just showed up like this, unannounced? You’re not going to kick me to the curb?”
“No, but I’m going to make you earn your keep.”
A sly smile spread over Owen’s face.
“I assume you mean sexually,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
Darger choked out a laugh.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m talking about manual labor. My washing machine has been making a weird noise, and the toilet flapper leaks.”
Owen’s smile faded, which only made Darger laugh harder. Too hard. There was a twinge of pain in her ribs, and she groaned.
“You shouldn’t have made that comment about a life of luxury being boring,” she said, clutching the sore place.
“Well, I suppose there are worse fates than being Violet Darger’s manservant.”
For some reason, that brought to mind an image of Fitch writhing on the ground, the lower half of his leg gone. She winced. Worse fates indeed.
“You alright?” Owen asked. “Did they give you any pain meds?”
“It’s not that. It’s just…” She swallowed. “What if we don’t find him? Huxley, I mean.”
“You will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Owen tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Because once you get your teeth in something, you’re like a Doberman. Ain’t nothing in the world gonna make you let go.”
The center of Darger’s forehead creased.
“Um… thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” Owen kissed the top of her head. “Now who’s hungry?”
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thanks so much for reading Countdown to Midnight! Want more Darger books? Leave a review, and let us know.
- A Note From the Authors -
In a way, I've been on the path toward writing this series since 1995 when I read Red Dragon by Thomas Harris. It not only scarred my impressionable psyche, it also made me want to spend the rest of my life writing creepy stuff.
So this is our delve into the murky waters of the serial killer thriller. Not many books do the genre justice, I'm afraid, but I can promise you that we put our hearts into it. I can't wait to hear what you think.
I'm excited to report that we've got a lot more Violet Darger headed your way. More Loshak, too.
But that's where you come in.
Unfortunately, Amazon won't automatically flag you down when there's a new book in the series. Don't miss out!
Take one of the following actions to make sure you're always among the first to know what Darger and Loshak are up to:
1) Sign up for the Vargus/McBain email list here, and get a free copy of the Darger short, Image in a Cracked Mirror. More details follow below.
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MORE FROM THE AUTHORS
- The Violet Darger series -
Dead End Girl (Book 1)
Image in a Cracked Mirror (A Violet Darger Novella)
Killing Season (Book 2)
The Last Victim (A Violet Darger Novella)
The Girl in the Sand (Book 3)
Bad Blood (Book 4)
Five Days Post Mortem (Book 5)
Into the Abyss (A Violet Darger Novella)
Night on Fire (Book 6)
Dark Passage (Book 7)
Trouble in Paradise (A Violet Darger Novella)
Countdown to Midnight (Book 8)
Book 9 coming soon…
- More Books by Tim McBain & L.T. Vargus -
The Victor Loshak series
The Charlotte Winters series
The Scattered and the Dead series
Casting Shadows Everywhere
The Clowns
The Awake in the Dark series
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
L.T. Vargus grew up in Hell, Michigan, which is a lot smaller, quieter, and less fiery than one might imagine. When not glued to her computer, she can be found sewing, fantasizing about food, and rotting her brain in front of the TV.
If you want to wax poetic about pizza or cats, you can contact L.T. (the L is for Lex) at [email protected] or on Twitter @ltvargus.
Tim McBain writes because life is short, and he wants to make something awesome before he dies. Additionally, he likes to move it, move it.
You can connect with Tim via email at [email protected].
LTVargus.com
Violet Darger | Book 8 | Countdown To Midnight Page 30
