Violet Darger (Book 1): Dead End Girl

by Tim McBain

  “Daddy, look. Morty is wearing my hat.”

  “I see that, little bean,” Casey said, squeezing her head as she passed by.

  It was a beat before it all sunk in for Violet.

  Grandma.

  Claudia.

  Daddy.

  This was not Casey’s grandmother. It was his daughter’s grandmother.

  Casey had a daughter.

  God, why had she not thought about it before? That explained why he swore like a nun. He was used to trying to keep his language clean in front of his kid. And the drawings on the fridge? Duh, Darger.

  And then a second realization. Casey had just told her his parents were dead. That meant the woman standing before them was the girl’s maternal grandmother.

  Violet was certain her swallow made an audible gulp noise.

  Casey’s ex-mother-in-law. She hoped ex, anyway, or he’d have a lot more explaining to do than he already did.

  “I feel terrible,” Claudia said, then gestured with a hand toward Violet. “I really hate to interrupt when you’re entertaining.”

  “Oh, God,” Casey said, and Violet could hear the strain of awkwardness in his voice. “I’m being rude, not even introducing you.”

  Darger stepped forward to shake the woman’s hand before he could say more. She probably should have let him handle things, because what came out was, “Darger. Special Agent Darger, I mean. Err… Violet.”

  “Oh, so you’re…” Claudia paused to search for the right words, “a friend from work?”

  “That’s right,” Darger said. She resisted the urge to shoot Casey a furtive glance. It would have been totally transparent, and things were uncomfortable enough as it was. “I’m consulting on one of Detective Luck’s cases.”

  Claudia brought her hand to her mouth and looked pained, but Darger swore she saw a flicker of relief cross the woman’s face.

  “Oh my goodness. This is about those girls isn’t it?” She closed her eyes and waved her hands between them. “Never mind! I know you can’t talk about it. But, oh. How awful.”

  She turned back to Casey.

  “Anyway! I really have to get going. And again, honey. I’m so sorry to drop it on you like this.”

  “Really, Claudia. It’s fine,” Casey said.

  He started to approach, then remembered he was only clad in a towel. He gestured to his half-nakedness.

  “I’d give you a hug, but…”

  Claudia laughed, then raised a hand to Violet.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Darger.”

  “All mine,” Violet said, finally getting up the nerve to look at Casey.

  When Claudia turned to call out to her granddaughter, he mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  Darger could only shake her head.

  “Jillybilly, I’m going now,” the woman called.

  “Bye, grandma!” the little girl shrieked as she ran into the room and threw herself at the woman’s legs.

  Claudia kissed the girl on the forehead.

  “You be good for daddy, yes?”

  The little girl nodded.

  “And if I don’t see you tomorrow, then I’ll see you Monday after preschool, OK?”

  “OK, grandma,” the girl said before careening back into the living room to find the dog.

  After Claudia left, Casey went to get dressed. Violet didn’t know what to do with herself, so she stayed in the kitchen where she was, absently running her finger over the polished surface of the counter.

  She felt a strange lump in her throat, as if she might cry. She didn’t know why.

  She could hear the girl in the living room, cooing at the dog over cartoons in the background. Should she go talk to her? Introduce herself?

  No, Darger thought bitterly. There was a reason Casey never mentioned having a daughter.

  Ah, so that was why she felt so emotional. She felt slighted. Like maybe things weren’t as serious as she thought. And really that was stupid. Why would they be serious? At some point, Darger would have to go back home. And Luck obviously had a life rooting him here.

  What a fool you are, Violet, she thought to herself. Falling for a guy who lived a couple of states away? Who’s the rube now?

  She wondered if she would have felt this way had she not told him about Zara. Something about opening up to him had made it all seem more… real.

  Casey glided around the corner, his head tilted so he could peer into the living room and check on his offspring. Satisfied that she was properly enthralled with the TV and the dog, he went to Violet, putting a hand on each shoulder.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re still here.”

  “What, did you think I was going to go running away, screaming?” she said like the thought hadn’t occurred to her.

  His eyes searched her face, trying to read her, she knew. She made an effort to appear impassive.

  “I’m sorry, you know. That wasn’t exactly how I’d intended for you to find out I have a daughter.”

  He slid his hands down to her waist.

  “I was going to tell you.”

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “Fine? Like on a scale from 1 to 10, you’re only at like a Level 7 Freak Out?”

  “Fine, like fine. Really. It’s not a big deal.”

  She crossed her arms.

  He moved one hand to her elbow, prying it away from where she held it near to her body. His fingers moved down and encircled hers.

  “Well then, why don’t you come meet her?”

  He pulled at her, and she resisted, removing her hand from his grasp.

  “Actually, I think I better get going.”

  She said it lightly, not allowing any trace of resentment into her voice.

  “Violet.”

  He frowned, and the disappointment on his face was clear.

  “Don’t.”

  “It’s not like that,” she said. “We have a lot to prepare for this week, right? I really should go.”

  He gazed down at his bare feet, nodding.

  “OK. I guess you’re right.”

  When he went to kiss her goodbye, Violet turned so his mouth missed hers. Instead, his lips barely brushed her cheek.

  “Goodnight,” she said and disappeared into the darkness beyond the front door before any more could be said.

  Chapter 60

  He waits outside her building. Watches the light shine in her window. There are no other signs of life or movement. Just that rectangle of glow in the dark.

  He looks out over the parking lot. The hulking cars all around his. Concealing him among the pack.

  The streetlights reflect off of the wet blacktop. Clumps of soggy leaves huddling along the perimeter. It rained earlier. The wet still clings to everything.

  His eyes swivel back to the window. Watching. Watching. Waiting.

  Maybe she will show. Maybe not. Probably not. And that’s OK. All he can do is wait. Watch. Let the time go by.

  Observe her routine.

  That’s what it really comes down to. Her routine. Her companions or lack thereof. Those things will determine her fate.

  He cracks the window. Smells the rain. It’s a nice change after so long sealed up in the car.

  The Prius lacks his smell. His scent. It smells clean. Sanitized. That new car reek that he loathes so much.

  He misses his car. This is when that fact always hits him. In these idle moments. The sitting. The waiting.

  The car. The Buick. Dark blue. He’d been right to dump it. The witness had seen it. Reported it. The Daily Gawk article mentioned that specifically. Knowing these things didn’t make it hurt any less to be without it.

  It occurs to him that the Buick is his only friend. His only companion over the past many years. The only one who knows who he really is. What he’s done. Especially now that the head is gone.

  How can he fuse bonds with objects like a car or a severed head so easily and seem to struggle with it in terms of humans? He doesn’t know. None of it makes much s
ense to him. Relationships and what not.

  He stares at the window again. Checks the time. It’s 9:43 PM. Typically her light goes out within a few minutes after 10:30 PM. No visitors. No late night trips. She is very faithful to her routine from what he’s observed. And that’s good. That’s just what he wants.

  Still. He has to watch it play out. Has to trust but verify that her habits remain consistent. Steadfast.

  But the wait leaves time to kill. Idle time. Empty time. Sitting in the Prius doing nothing.

  And then he remembers.

  The muscles in his face go taut. Almost stinging from the excitement. It reminds him of being a kid. Opening a present. A new toy.

  He draws the newspaper clipping from his pocket. Gazes at the picture of Emily Worthington holding the stuffed animal. It’s hard to tell through the distortion of the newsprint pixels. But he thinks she looks very much like her sister. A similar proud smile. An uncanny resemblance in the chin and brow.

  The images of the FBI agents snap into his head. One after the other. Loshak and what’s her name. Darger. Could they be using the media and the families to try to draw him out? Using the sister as bait? Setting up a memorial and making sure he knew all about it. That would make sense. He’d read Loshak’s book. That’s exactly what he said about these serial killer types, right? They return to the scene of the crime. They contact the police or the families under the guise of trying to help with the investigation. Things like this are really common.

  The excited empty feeling in his chest wanes. It’s another trap. Like those little boxes along the curb where the rats get caught.

  It would be a thrill, though. He can’t deny that. To walk among the friends and the families and all manner of law enforcement. To linger there in front of them all. Rub shoulders with them and get away with it. Maybe even to take the prized stuffed animal once all the others had moved on. A trophy to keep. Something to help him remember.

  The reward would be sweet. God. So sweet he could almost taste it. But it didn’t quite match the risk. Did it?

  Something flits in the window above. He catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. Looks up too late to see what it was.

  Shit. Well. The light is still on. That’s something.

  His gut feels empty. Strange. He’s worried there’s a guest. A male guest. The worst of all possibilities.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He watches. Licks his lips.

  Movement again. A figure in the window. The silhouette appearing there. Entering the frame slowly. Is it her?

  No.

  Broad shoulders. Thick arms. A little scruff lining the jaw.

  It’s a man. The routine is beyond shattered. It’s ruined.

  He slams the heels of his hands into the steering wheel. The pain so sharp in them that he can only picture the skin all split open. Flaps of white around red slits.

  He hesitates a moment. Turns them over.

  No wounds. He’s fine.

  A little laugh exits his nostrils. His eyes checking the window one last time. This one won’t work, but it’s OK.

  She is not his only project.

  Chapter 61

  The cruiser sloshed through the layer of rainwater collecting on the asphalt, tires flinging liquid against the wheel well to make a hollow sound.

  “Loshak said he doesn’t think the guy will come back, but… ” McAdoo said. “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it, I guess.”

  “You can’t stop talking about it. I’ll give you that.”

  “Well, what the hell, Novo? We just go back to patrolling? Setting up the radar gun to catch the speeding college kids as they leave campus? It doesn’t feel right.”

  Stifled laughter grated out of Novotny’s throat and sinuses, exiting his nostrils. It almost sounded painful, McAdoo thought, as though his partner had tried his best to hold the laugh in and couldn’t.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Just… This is the first time I’ve ever heard you express interest in any kind of police work beyond doing the bare minimum.”

  “Oh. Right. Hilarious, I guess.”

  Novotny chuckled again.

  “Well, no. I had never really thought about it before is all. The idea that you’re just going through the motions with this job, and it seemed funny somehow, you know? Nothing really wrong with it. You do good work, and most of what we do is handing out tickets, right? But the only things you’ve ever really sounded enthused about before now are your kid and the damn boat you’re going to buy someday, which you also never shut up about, by the way.”

  McAdoo stared at the floor, his eyes peeling open and closed in a series of slow blinks.

  “Well, I guess I’m just trying to fully impress upon you how rad my boat is going to be. That’s all.”

  More laughter escaped Novotny, this time popping free from his lips. Muscles all over his body broke into an involuntary tremor, shoulders bobbing, abdominals squeezing. He had a hell of a time getting the chuckles to cease all the way.

  Once he did, he pulled the can of Skoal from his breast pocket and nestled a brown wad in his lip.

  “Seriously, man. What can we do about it? Go sit outside Burger King in our free time? Would that make you happy?”

  McAdoo thought about it, more slow blinking interrupting his vision.

  “Well… No.”

  “I thought not. So you’re only venting, right? I get that. But there’s nothing to be done beyond doing our job, you know? That’s all there is to it, and you’ve got to let that be good enough. For now.”

  McAdoo grit his teeth for a second. Then he took a deep breath and let it out.

  “I guess you’re right, but you know something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll always be twice the cop that I am. Of course, most of that surplus is nose, but still…”

  More stifled laughter scraped its way out from deep in Novotny’s throat.

  Chapter 62

  He doesn’t belong. Not here. Not anywhere.

  His hands grip the wheel once more. The upholstery warm under his lower back. Almost sticky through his shirt.

  It smells like him in the Prius now. Maybe last night’s desperation did the trick. His musk overpowering the new car smell. Acrid. Leathery. Earthy. A distinct bodily odor. It reminds him of violence in some way he can’t pin down.

  No work today, so he drives around all day. Watches the people. Peeking into their cars as they pass. Peering through panes of glass that may as well be doorways to other galaxies. Spaces and realities so far from his own in so many ways.

  Some of the drivers sing along with their stereos. Some of them worm their hands into greasy paper bags for fries. Shoving empty calories into their faces. Some wear thoughtful expressions. Some look blank as hell.

  None of it means anything. None of it.

  Just creatures passing out here on the highway. Mostly mindless. No different than animals walking the beaten trail to the watering trough. Docile cattle. Too dumb to sense the predator in their midst. The wolf.

  He knows that it was there all along. Whatever it is that squirms and writhes inside of people like him. Before his mom or anyone hurt him. Before all of it. It was always there. That’s what he thinks.

  He can’t remember where the idea for his projects truly came from. One day it was just there. A fully formed picture in his head. Like maybe it was always there, and he finally noticed. Not in him. Around him. Around everyone. Everywhere.

  Like there’s a wave in the air if he listens for it. A broadcast. A voice that will guide him if he gets opened up to it. No. Not a voice. A stream of pictures and feelings. Visceral. Moving. A kind of thought process that predates language. Beamed into his skull from the unknown. From the outside.

  Whatever it is, it knows him. And it knows you. It knows the forbidden things you think and dream and want. It opens pictures of them. Folds them into your dreams. Sleeping first. Then waking. It consumes
your imagination. Your fantasies. The morbid fascinations. Evolution couldn’t erase them. All those prehistoric years of animal violence and hatred that haven’t quite been bred out of you yet. They wake up all at once.

  And they’re hungry.

  And if you feel what’s in the air, really feel it, it will let you throw away your modern self. Throw away the docile self that can only be used to produce and consume. Can only be used to do a job you don’t care about so you can have money to buy things you don’t care about. Can only be used to chat about the weather.

  His modern self is worthless. To him. To everyone. To society at large. This message is reinforced everywhere. Both personally and in the broadest possible sense.

  From the people flinging change at him in the booth and driving off to the dirty looks he gets from his female coworkers. All the kids who made fun of him in school. The girls who laughed at him. Curled their lips in his presence like he was some hideous deformed freak.

  But bigger than that. Bigger. Everywhere.

  From the children starving to death in Africa to the sweatshop workers in China working 120 hours a week for pennies to the homeless people and prostitutes in every goddamn town. “No human involved.” That’s what the police called homicides involving prostitutes.

  No human involved.

  All around the globe the human body is a commodity. In every country. In every city. That’s all it is. A thing to be used up for an owner’s gain. Sold. Consumed.

  Chewed up.

  The way he sees it, we’re already being funneled into the kill chute at the slaughterhouse. We’re already garbage. Already meat served on someone’s plate.

  So throw that self away. Throw it all away. Forget it.

  None of it means anything. None of the work he’s ever done at his string of menial jobs. None of the things he’s ever owned.

  It is meaningless. Nothingness. The negation of.

  He scratches his nose. Watches a Hyundai pass him in the left lane. The girl behind the wheel with a somber look on her face.

  Was all life hollowed out like that?