Violet Darger | Book 7 | Dark Passage

by Vargus, L. T.

  The flesh was still pliable, going cool now, but still warm, all things considered. He looked into the eyes. Or tried to.

  Another hissing breath spurted from his nose. This time it was definitely laughter.

  The dead man’s peepers were pointed in different directions now. One angled up and to the right. The other pointed straight down. He looked like a broken Howdy Doody doll or some creepy thing from a thrift shop.

  Jesus. Wrong place at the wrong fucking time, hombre.

  Those pinchy crab fingers released the cheeks. The skull plopped down in the blood with a slap and a slurp, splashed a little.

  He knelt down fully now and took his blade to the fleshy skin just along the jaw.

  Chapter 44

  Cora tried to extend her cramping legs, but the cage was too small. No matter how she contorted herself, she couldn’t stretch her aching muscles. No relief.

  Her water was gone now. She tilted the jug to her lips anyway. Tried to spill any remaining drops into her maw. If even one droplet fell, she couldn’t feel it on her tongue, which now felt like a microwaved sponge had been shoved into her mouth.

  “Lily!” she hissed, taken aback by the shrill intensity in her voice.

  No response. Never any response.

  She’d almost believe that she’d imagined Lily now, that her panic-warped brain had created a voice to keep her from succumbing to the silence all around. But she was pretty sure the girl had been real, had been there, even if she wasn’t now.

  Another flare of pain shot up from her feet into her calves like a bolt. The cramps clenched the muscles as hard as they could. Made her toes curl.

  She gritted her teeth. Twisted within her nest of blankets. Lay down flat on her back and tried to stretch her legs into the opposite corner.

  It didn’t help much.

  Little puffs of frustration came out of her nose now. A staccato wheeze. She knew if she didn’t reel that in, it’d mean more tears, and she didn’t want to waste water that way. Not any more of it, at least.

  She closed her eyes. Forced herself to take a deep breath — in through her nostrils and out through her lips. Slowly. And then another deep breath and another.

  She wasn’t sure how long it’d been now. Two days or maybe three, she thought. She’d slept for a lot of it, though the rest didn’t seem to do her any good, leaving her eyes feeling sandy and stinging.

  It didn’t help that the sleep was always fitful. Populated with violent dreams. Knives piercing abdomens. Throats cut. Blood spilled.

  Stab. Slash. Thrust. Slice.

  Chase taken away from her. Plucked from this plane and thrust into oblivion.

  She rubbed her legs. Fingers pinching at the sore muscles though the massages only seemed to hurt, never seemed to help.

  The ache had gotten in deep. Settled into the meat of her legs and neck. It wouldn’t just go away.

  She stopped rubbing when she heard the noises.

  Little pops echoed down the tunnel in staccato bursts, sounding hollow.

  Footsteps.

  Someone was coming.

  Chapter 45

  Darger walked the snaking trail back toward the dry fountain. As soon as she saw the scowl on Loshak’s face, she knew it wasn’t good news.

  “Tracing the bourbon isn’t going to be as cut and dry as we first thought,” he said, fiddling with his phone.

  Darger was impressed with how much progress he’d made using his phone since being back with Jan. There was a time when she could barely get him to answer a simple phone call, let alone use the internet on the damn thing.

  “So is it not that rare or what?” Ambrose asked.

  “Oh no. It’s rare. It’s so limited that you have to enter a lottery every year to even have a chance of buying a bottle directly from the distiller.”

  “That’s even better,” Ambrose said. “We just need the names of the lottery winners.”

  Loshak grumbled.

  “He didn’t get it through one of the lotteries.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the distillery sells the bottles at MSRP, which is nowhere near the two grand Danny said he paid. That means he most likely bought it second-hand.” Loshak sighed. “He could have bought it anywhere. There are websites that sell it. And there are groups of collectors that do private sales amongst one another.”

  “In other words, harder to track,” Darger said.

  “Hard, but not impossible.” Loshak set his phone down beside him. “It’ll take more time than we were probably initially thinking, that’s all.”

  Darger clenched her fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. She glanced in the direction Danny had gone.

  “I wish he hadn’t taken off like that. We could have asked him a few more questions,” she said, talking more to herself than anything.

  Ambrose shook his head.

  “Kid was in a state. Only time I’ve ever seen a witness that jumpy was either paranoid schiz or a tweaker. Though I suppose I can understand,” he said. “You ever been underground?”

  Darger considered the question and remembered a family trip to Glenwood Caverns.

  “I did a cave tour once, but I was so young I remember the pictures more than the actual experience.”

  Ambrose nodded.

  “Makes you feel small. Powerless. Like an ant. Imagine being in one of those tunnels and worrying about what happens if it collapses?” He shrugged. “Then all your friends end up dead, and you’re convinced that you’ll be next. I guess I’d be on edge, too.”

  “Speaking of caves, you know the first doomsday cult in America took shelter in caves right here in Philadelphia way back in the 17th century,” Loshak said. “The Cave of Kelpius in Fairmount Park. They called themselves a few different names including ‘The Mystic Brotherhood.’”

  Part of Darger’s mind had been wandering while Loshak spoke, and now she whipped her head back around to face him.

  “Wait a minute. Maybe it’s not the Rip van Winkle that’s the key.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe it’s the other stuff he drinks…” Darger got out her notes, checking the name of the other bourbon Danny had mentioned. “According to Danny, Cowboy regularly buys Heaven Hill Bottled-in-Bond by the case. I’m guessing it’s not quite rare enough that someone buying a single bottle would necessarily be traceable. But a case? And we know, at least once in the last few months, that Cowboy sent Worm out to pick up a case.”

  “And that it wasn’t in Pennsylvania,” Ambrose said. “Danny said Worm had to cross the state line to pick up the order. Liquor stores in the state of Pennsylvania are run by the state. So my guess is that he can pick up a case for cheaper if he buys out of state.”

  “So we need to start talking to the all liquor stores near the state line,” Loshak said.

  Ambrose was already pulling out his phone.

  “I’ll call the station and have them put a list together.”

  While Ambrose made the call, Darger sat down next to Loshak.

  “What do you make of all of this?” she said. “I thought this case was weird at the beginning. But the deeper we go, it just keeps getting weirder.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there.” Loshak absently mussed his hair with one hand. “We’ve got starved bodies. A cult. A missing handyman named Worm. An enigmatic billionaire known only as Cowboy. And he’s hiring people to dig tunnels under his house. Possibly as some kind of nuclear bunker. Or possibly to run drugs to the Mexican border.”

  Darger snorted.

  “Don’t forget the part about how much he’s paying. If Danny, Bo Cooke, Worm, and Stephen Mayhew were all getting paid $1500 a week, that’s over twenty-thousand a month. And Danny seemed to believe there’d been a bigger crew at some point in the past.”

  “You know, the first thing I thought of when he started talking about the tunnels under the guy’s house was this thing out in Maryland,” Loshak said. “There was this kid — very bright, but more tha
n a little eccentric. He was also obsessed with the notion of some kind of impending apocalypse. Roped some guys into digging out a bunker under his house, though I don’t think he hid the purpose. Anyway, it all came out because there was a fire in the kid’s basement and one of the guys digging ended up dying.”

  “Christ,” Darger said. “I mean this kid sounds mentally ill.”

  “Yeah. But you think this Cowboy guy sounds completely sane?”

  “Good point.” Darger crossed one leg over the other. “But why the secrecy? Blindfolding the people he brings into dig just seems… odd.”

  Loshak shrugged.

  “A lot of these end times types are convinced that part of the deal will be fighting off all the people that didn’t see it coming. Didn’t prepare. So maybe he’s covering his bases. Making sure no one knows too much about his underground refuge.”

  Loshak cocked his head to one side before he went on.

  “Or maybe they stumbled on something they shouldn’t have. Sounds like this Cowboy guy has all manner of odd and outright illegal things going on.”

  Ambrose strolled over, tucking his phone back into his jacket.

  “You two in the mood to do some phone banking?” he asked. “I can offer to repay your help with a gourmet meal of lukewarm pizza and a Dixie cup of Pepsi.”

  “Make it a Dixie cup of Coke, and we’re in,” Loshak said.

  Chapter 46

  The first thing Ambrose did when they reached his station house was to get someone from the state liquor control board on the phone to have them look into any orders for a case of Heaven Hill BIB in any of their stores. The representative called back and informed them that no such orders had been placed in any of their stores.

  “What we expected,” Ambrose said. “But I had to check anyway, just in case.”

  They went back to their other task, which was pulling the numbers for all liquor stores within half an hour’s driving distance from the Pennsylvania state line. They came up with a list of 164 stores and divided it amongst themselves.

  Hours passed as they made call after call. Sometimes the calls were quick — many of the liquor stores were small mom and pop affairs. If it happened to be the owner who answered, they could often tell Darger off the top of their head whether they’d ordered a case of the Heaven Hill recently since they were responsible for putting in all the orders with the supplier. So far, the answer had always been no.

  Other stores were chain affairs. Darger would be put on hold and connected with a manager who had a lot of questions. Explaining that she was an FBI agent was usually enough to get them to check their logs. And still she struck out, again and again.

  A few minutes after five o’clock, Officer Primanti came in with a tall stack of pizza boxes in his arms.

  “Primanti,” Ambrose said. “My man.”

  He took a slice of pepperoni and mushroom from one of the boxes and took a bite.

  “You wanna know why Primanti is always running these little errands? Bringing us coffee and pizza and whatnot?”

  “Why?”

  “He wants to be Homicide, one day. I told him the best way to do that is to kiss a little ass now and then.” Ambrose clapped Primanti on the shoulder with a free hand. “But our boy here is a Grade A Brown Noser. He takes sucking up to a whole new level.”

  Primanti blushed.

  Ambrose's phone rang, and the jovial expression on his face soured as soon as he saw who it was calling.

  “Fucking mayor again. Jesus wept.”

  He ducked into the hallway, and Darger couldn’t help but notice that Primanti seemed relieved. She gestured to her work station.

  “You wanna do some real homicide work?” she asked. “Make some calls while I eat?”

  “Really?” Primanti's eyes glittered with eagerness. “Sure.”

  Darger handed him her sheet and gave him a quick rundown of what to say.

  When Ambrose came back in from his call, his eyes immediately zeroed in on the pair.

  “Did you pull a Tom Sawyer on Officer Primanti?” he asked, crossing his arms. “You get him to whitewash your fence?”

  “It’s good experience.”

  He snorted.

  "Is he paying you for the pleasure, too?” he said, chuckling.

  Darger finished her pizza and took the seat next to Primanti. He was still on a call, so she took the next number on the list.

  The manager of a store named Veni Vidi Vino put her on hold for a solid ten minutes, only to click back on the line to say they didn’t have any receipts for a case of Heaven Hill.

  “Sorry,” the woman said.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  Darger hung up and grabbed another slice of pizza. She took a bite and chewed as she dialed the number for Lasko’s Liquor and Spirits, located in Brandywine, Delaware.

  Darger repeated the words she’d said a few dozen times now, explaining that she was an FBI agent looking for a store that had sold a case of Heaven Hill sometime in the last six months or so.

  “One second,” the girl said, and Darger was glad when she didn’t put her on hold. “Oh yeah. Here it is. About four months ago.”

  Darger sat up in her seat, heart thumping.

  “Can you tell me if the same customer has ordered a case before?”

  “Mmm… yeah. Pretty regularly. Every four to six months, it looks like. Going back… years. Wow. I guess they know what they like.”

  “Great. I’ll need the name and address on the order.”

  “Of course,” the girl said. “Do you have a pen?”

  There was a little yelp from the girl, and then a man's voice came on the line.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Violet Darger. I'm an agent with the FBI.”

  “Is this a joke? Some kind of crank call?”

  “No. I’m working a homicide case with Philadelphia PD. If you’d like, you can speak with the lead detective.”

  “Philly PD? What’s that got to do with us? We're located in Delaware.”

  “I understand that, but we really need to locate the person who bought that case of bourbon and—”

  "Yeah... I don’t think I should be handing out this kind of information to some random person over the phone. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

  “This is for a homicide investigation, sir. I’m only asking you to do the right thing. The easy way, you could call it. But if you want our task force to come down with a warrant and make a scene by seizing all your computers and paperwork in front your customers, we’d be happy to oblige.”

  The line went silent for a beat, and then the man’s voice came back, all the piss and vinegar from before having drained out of it.

  “Keith Heider. 377 Hidden Valley Lane, Glen Mills.”

  When Darger went to thank him, he’d already hung up. That was just as well, she thought.

  She repeated the address to the others in the room.

  “How far is that?” Darger asked.

  “Not far at all,” Ambrose said, pulling out his phone. “But this time we’re definitely going to need a warrant.”

  Chapter 47

  Keith “Cowboy” Heider’s house was nestled at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac in an area utterly sprawling with them. The home was largely indistinguishable from the others in a ten or so block radius. Large and modern. Slate vinyl siding butted up against pale stonework. Curving asphalt driveway that led to a massive garage. The landscaping was mostly comprised of small trees and neat shrubs in the front and taller pines in the back, with a row of spiky exotic grasses thrown in to accent the borderline between the two spaces.

  Looking at the Google Maps satellite view of Walden Woods gave a dreary grid-like impression of this place. Little boxes dotting the streets in neat rows, turning to loops and whorls like fingerprints when it came to the symmetrical subdivisions like this one. All of them looked packed in tight on the satellite image, like a mouth full of teeth, but in person the homes had more space than Darger ha
d been expecting.

  Her rental car was parked across the street, set on a diagonal from Heider’s place, and she angled her head that way. Her eyes flicked to the rearview, where the two other unmarked cars were, then slid back to the house.

  Loshak sat in the passenger seat, crunching on chips from a tiny bag of Doritos.

  “What’s with the fun-size bag?” Darger said, not breaking her gaze from the house. “Packing a sack lunch these days, Agent Loshak? I kind of figured you’d be all about your AARP discount or whatever. Hitting the diners. Chatting up the waitresses of a certain age.”

  Loshak dug out another handful of neon orange chips.

  “I got these from the vending machine at the station,” he said. “And you call yourself a detective?”

  Darger snorted out a laugh.

  “You want me to keep reading this guy’s bio?” Loshak said, after downing a few more chips. “Or would you rather continue busting my balls about my admittedly wee bag of Doritos?”

  “Can you start over?” Darger said, still chuckling at wee. “I was kind of focused on the house.”

  Loshak sighed and let the bag of Doritos plop down on his lap. He fumbled to scroll up on his phone, using his pinky finger to avoid touching it with any of the digits stained orange with nacho cheese powder.

  “OK. Keith Heider, 38 years old. Alias Cowboy. He served in the Marine Corps way back in 2001. Got kicked out nine months after he enlisted. Bad conduct discharge. We’re still waiting on the official records for the details on that, but the current speculation is that it was drug-related. Makes sense to me.”

  Darger’s gaze flitted from window to window up at the house as Loshak spoke. Based on the white truck parked in the driveway, they had hopes that Cowboy was home. But they wanted to get visual confirmation of his presence before they called in the SWAT team. An early raid could tip him off that they were onto him, send him on the run. The task force higher-ups all agreed on that point — they wanted to be absolutely certain they got him on the first try.