Violet Darger (Book 1): Dead End Girl

by Tim McBain

  Produce. Consume. Repeat until death.

  No more. Block it out.

  He tells himself these words over and over: Just listen to that wave in the air. Feel it. Let the old appetites swell in your gut.

  And obey the pictures beamed into your head. Forget all else.

  So he keeps going. Keeps driving. Keeps pressing forward.

  There is no comfort here for creatures like him. No rest to be had.

  So seal him in this car and turn him loose on the city. This box on wheels. This coffin he drives around in. Watch his obsessions blossom into something worth remembering.

  He drives on and on. The light swelling in the sky.

  He pictures the Prius racing down a hill into a line of cars waiting at a stoplight. Jamming the accelerator. Hitting top speed. The bang of the impact. His body jolting. The metal splintering. Glass shattering. The last thing he’d see is his car turned into a missile. Delivering death to as many people as possible. Crushing their bodies in their seats. Grinding blood and meat into the upholstery. And then the steel coffin closing in on him. Folding him up. Compressing his flesh and then piercing it. Cracking his bones. Pinching everything into something dark and tight and small.

  The spectacle of it all makes him smile. Two puffs of laughter hissing between his teeth.

  So how did this happen? How did he become this way?

  It was always there. It was always everywhere. Around everyone. That’s what he thinks.

  Written in the sand. And spread across the stars. Etched into the spirals of our DNA.

  Always. Forever.

  Chapter 63

  Gasping for breath, Darger jolted awake. She felt at her neck, sure she’d find the flesh torn open and sticky with blood. But no. She was fine. It was only another nightmare.

  She dreamed often of the night Zara was killed. Sometimes Darger had a gun of her own, which she pulled from her bag. But when she pulled the trigger, there was an innocuous click where the bullet should have been. That was if she was able to pull the trigger, of course. In some of the dreams, she couldn’t even do that right. Once, the gunman had been her stepfather, which made no sense considering he’d always been more than kind to Violet, and she had no reason to fear him. Another time, the masked man stabbed Zara instead of shooting her.

  This morning’s twist was that Violet tried to rush the man when he pointed the gun at Zara and demanded her purse. She couldn’t get her arms and legs to move right. It felt like she was trying to jog underwater, her limbs slow and heavy. The man suffered no such decreased speed. He turned the gun and shot Violet instead.

  Knowing Loshak’s preference for hard copies, Darger showered, dressed, and headed out to the local supermarket to buy a copy of the local newspaper that would be running the latest story about the Worthingtons and the memorial. Also donuts. If she was going to be up this early, then there damn well better be donuts.

  It was the front page story in the local paper, The Athens News. Nearly every other area paper had or would run their version as well. The Worthingtons had been generous with their time, agreeing to do over half a dozen interviews before the vigil.

  Darger grabbed a box of assorted donuts on her way to the checkout. While she waited in line, she perused the story. The headline read: Slain girl’s mother: ‘She was so much more than a victim.’

  Darger skimmed the article for Lois Worthington’s quotes:

  “It’s painful to see her boiled down to something so ugly. I cringe every time I read her name and then ‘third victim of the Doll Parts Killer.’ She was so much more than that.”

  “It’s just hard because she had so much more to do and to give. People won’t ever know her as the brilliant woman she was. Her name will always be a footnote as part of these horrible crimes.”

  “She was funny and smart and kind. She had so much enthusiasm for everything she did. She never did anything halfway. It was all or nothing.”

  Details regarding the vigil followed, and Darger didn’t have to read those. She knew the schedule forward and backward.

  Next to the article was a large photograph. In it, Lois Worthington gazed out her living room window. Next to her, seated on the arm of the couch, was Emily, hugging the stuffed elephant to her chest.

  The caption read: Lois Worthington ponders the loss of her eldest daughter. Beside her, Emily Worthington clutches her older sister’s favorite stuffed animal, which the family plans to leave at Fiona’s grave site after the candlelight vigil on Tuesday.

  Loshak beamed when he saw the story. Maybe it was the nightmare from that morning, or maybe what had happened with Casey, but Darger had a knot in her stomach she couldn’t seem to shake.

  “You did a damn fine job coaching the Worthingtons. Almost got me with that BS about the elephant,” he said and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “And I knew it was bogus.”

  “Donut?” Darger asked, extending the box toward him.

  He peeked into the depths of the folded cardboard and wiggled the fingers on his left hand.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The only sounds for some time were the chewing and swallowing of fried and glazed dough. Darger licked a smear of sugary goo from her finger.

  “What’s with you?” Loshak asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You have a puss on. Like something’s eatin’ at you.”

  Springs squeaked as he sat on the corner of one of the beds.

  “I didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

  “Butterflies in anticipation of our big day tomorrow?”

  Loshak almost pulsed with a manic energy. It was by far the most animated Darger had seen him.

  “No, but I can see you’re excited.”

  Loshak rubbed his hands together.

  “This could be it. I mean, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but… I just have a good feeling about this.”

  Darger said nothing, but she couldn’t help but feel quite the opposite.

  Chapter 64

  When aimless driving loses its charm, he gets back to his projects. He doesn’t stop to sleep or eat. He finds her. And he follows.

  He weaves through traffic. Staying well back from her SUV but keeping her in view at all times. A red Rav4. Less than a year old.

  He knows with a high level of certainty that she is going to the gym on the edge of town. She does so four days a week around this time. This is her routine.

  He floors it to make it through a yellow light and keep her within his view. The car jerks. Lurches at his touch. But it remains soundless.

  The Prius is so quiet. Dead silent most of the time. It largely runs on the battery. The gas engine only kicking on to recharge it every few minutes. It’s more like a large computer than a car, he thinks. Still. It has that going for it at least. The quiet.

  At the next intersection, he pulls up alongside her. Braves a glance.

  This one is older than most of his projects. She is tall. Scrawny to the point of being bony. Teeth bleached. Hair dyed an unnatural shade of blond. Almost yellow.

  This combination excites him somehow. This grooming pushed past normalcy. Pushed to the extreme. He doesn’t know why. There is something fake about it that he finds stimulating. Something that makes her beyond clean. A different kind of pure.

  Will this be it? Will it be her? He doesn’t know.

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  He never knows when it will happen. It just does. He follows and follows and follows. And he never plans it. Never tells himself that today will be the day.

  The opportunity just appears. And he takes it. Sometimes it’s the first time he follows a particular girl. Others he has followed for months and never made a move on.

  And that’s fine. Fate plays a role. He accepts that. So far it hasn’t steered him wrong, has it?

  The green light flicks on. The whole world moves again. Cars spilling down the streets.

  They reach the gym three blocks later. He circles in the lot a while after she p
arks. Not settling into a spot of his own until she gets out.

  She rises from the vehicle. Drops her keys into her purse. Walks toward the building on light feet like a cat.

  She is so tan. Skin glowing orange like Fanta. There are moments when he thinks she’s not right. That she doesn’t quite fit what he wants. But when she is out in the sun — when he can see the strange color of her — he knows she will be his.

  The sliding doors part, and she disappears into the doorway. There’s always something exhilarating about that moment when she steps out of his field of vision. The idea that he might lose her washing over him. Making him sweat. Making his desire more intense.

  And now he waits. He squirms a little in his seat. Leans his back this way and that. But stretching is impossible in the Prius.

  His lower back is sore. Stiff. His spine all compressed and tight from being stuck at the same angle for so long. He tries adjusting the seat. It doesn’t help.

  How long has he been in this car? He doesn’t know. More than a day. He’s pretty sure of that. He’s eaten just once. A bag of crap from the Taco Bell drive through. Some hours later he pissed into the paper cup that had previously held his Pepsi. Emptied his full bladder. A surprising amount. Chucked it out the window on Nichols Road.

  His back spasms. The muscles twitching and clenching up. Sharp pains jolt through his flesh in lines perpendicular to his spinal column.

  Jesus. Should he get out? Stretch out? It’d feel incredible to fully extend his legs. To stand upright. To reach his arms up over his head and let all that pressure on the lower lumbar region go. He could feel the pleasure in his imagination. Each vertebrae pulling free of the one below it with a slow rise like a suction cup detaching.

  But it’s such a risk. An upmarket gym like this? They’d almost surely have security cameras in the parking lot. Probably fairly high-res ones at that. Something that could tie him to the victim later. Actual facial recognition.

  No. Not happening.

  He waits.

  He stares up at the sign above the gym door. Three figures: one running, one lifting a barbell, one swimming. It’s not lit up right now, but the silhouettes still seem to glow.

  He found her here. His current project. Picked her out of the crowd. He’d sat in the parking lot several times without luck. And then she appeared. Gliding out of that doorway some months ago. Her skin was a different shade of fake tan at the time. A ruddy undertone. Almost the color of an overcooked hot dog.

  He waits and waits and waits. Watches the people file in and out of that sliding glass doorway.

  Will she be the one? Will today be the day? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know.

  Maybe it’s the same with the memorial. Will he go there Tuesday night? Drive by? Hide himself among the mob of police and family members?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  Chapter 65

  The day before the memorial, Darger, Loshak, and Luck met with all the personnel that would be assisting with their sweep of the vigil.

  “We’re particularly interested in the larger, dark-colored sedans. Buicks, Crown Vics, you know the type,” Luck said. “Navy blue, black, maybe dark green or gray.”

  “But get the mid-size and compacts too, if you can,” Loshak said. “And be on the lookout especially for something orange attached to the rearview mirror.”

  Sheriff O’Day and Chief Haden were present, so Darger made an effort to keep her comments to a minimum.

  “You can use your bodycams to get most of the plates,” she said. “But if you think you have one that seems promising, it doesn’t hurt to write it down as well. We’re going to have a lot of plate numbers to sort through by the end of this.”

  Loshak raised his palm in the air.

  “The most important thing to remember is that this is a recon mission only. The last thing we wanna do is spook the guy before we know we have enough evidence to nail him.”

  “That’s right,” Luck agreed. “We don’t need any John Wayne’s here.”

  He pointed at Detective Porto, who sat toward the back.

  “Aside from our own John Wayne Porto, of course.”

  There were cheers and applause and laughter at that, the loudest of all coming from Porto himself.

  With the meeting adjourned and the group dispersed, Luck handed Darger and Loshak each two pieces of paper.

  “What’s this?” Loshak asked.

  “A list of guys who Fiona went to school with. Four graduating classes worth from her high school, and anyone registered for any of the same classes in both undergrad and grad school. The second page is the same list, but narrowed down to those with a criminal history.”

  “Not bad, Detective,” Loshak said. “We can crosscheck these guys with any plates we get from the memorial. See if anything matches up.”

  “Thank you, Agent Loshak.”

  Darger scanned the names on the second list. Ryan Abbott, Anthony Barber, James Clegg, Tony Federer. It went on and on. She hoped that Loshak was right about his gut feeling that the memorial would be fruitful.

  “Agent Darger?” Luck said. “I was hoping I could have a word.”

  “Sure,” she said. Having some notion of what Casey wanted to talk about, Darger told Loshak to head back to the hotel without her.

  “Don’t stay out too late, kiddies,” Loshak joked. “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  Violet followed Casey to his van and climbed into the passenger seat. He put the key into the ignition but didn’t start it right away.

  “What do you say we get a drink first? Somewhere quiet, so we can talk.”

  “I guess that means The Elbow Room is out, then?” she said with a smirk.

  “Yeah, if I know Porto, he’s downing tequila shots and insisting they fire up the karaoke machine so he can get pumped up for tomorrow.”

  “Good God,” Darger said. “I can’t believe we’re going to miss that.”

  Casey winked at her.

  “Another time, Agent.”

  They landed in a brewery near the university. It was all exposed brick and weathered wood, and instead of a crowd of cops, it seemed mostly inhabited by college students. They each ordered a pint from the bar plus a basket of truffle fries to share and found a small table in the back where it was a bit quieter than up front. Darger took a swallow of the Dark Farmhouse Ale and eyed the other patrons. They looked so young, she could hardly believe they weren’t in high school. Had she looked that young when she was 21?

  Their glasses were half empty when Casey exhaled loudly and started to fidget with his shirt cuffs.

  “So about the other night…” he started.

  Darger cut him off.

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Casey.”

  “But I do. I want to. Just listen,” he said. “You probably already guessed that I haven’t dated much since my divorce, and the truth is more like I haven’t dated at all since then. I haven’t worked out yet how and when I’m supposed to mention these things, but I know it’s not supposed to happen like it did. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. Really.”

  “Her name is Jill, by the way. My little girl.”

  “How old is she?” Violet asked, knowing it was the polite thing to do.

  “She turned four in August,” Casey said, smiling.

  The amusement faded as he swirled the beer left in his glass, gazing into the turbulent golden liquid.

  “Her mother… my ex… she was a nurse. Worked at one of the nursing homes in town. She hurt her back lifting a patient and wound up hooked on painkillers. Once she got started on those, she branched out. She’d take whatever she could get her hands on. Xanax, Klonopin. She admitted she’d tried meth a few times, even.”

  Violet felt a crushing guilt come over her as she remembered how angry Casey had been when she was dismissive of arresting Sierra Peter’s dealer, Jimmy Congdon. No wonder he’d gotten so upset.

  “It’s easy to blame her addiction for ending the marria
ge. But the truth is, I didn’t notice anything was going on because I was too busy. Or maybe the real truth is that I didn’t want to notice anything going on. There were signs, of course. And I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake. I know better.

  “Anyway, it went on for a while before I picked up on it. And even then, it took her wrapping her car around a tree for me to wake up.

  “We convinced her to go to rehab. We started going to Nar-Anon meetings — me, her parents, even my sister came to a few meetings. Things were good for a couple of years. She got pregnant. We had a healthy baby girl. I thought we’d finally gotten things back on track, and then her dad had a heart attack. Him dying was like hitting a reset button. I came home from work one night and found her stoned out of her mind on Klonopin. Hadn’t changed Jill’s diaper the whole time I’d been gone. And I realized then, she couldn’t be around our daughter like that. I couldn’t trust her to be around our daughter. I gave her an ultimatum. Get clean or get out. But this time, she didn’t even stick it out for the full treatment. She bounced after ten days.

  “I tried to give her some time to get her shit straightened out, but eventually I filed for full custody of our daughter. At first I thought her mom was really going to fight me on it, but we ended up coming to terms with the fact that it was the best thing to do. She’s been a godsend, too. Jesus, if I didn’t have Claudia, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  He took a long drink then.

  “So that’s it. The mess behind the flawless and unblemished facade of Detective Casey Luck,” he said, gesturing to his person with a wry smile.

  “Flawless and unblemished, huh?”

  He adjusted the knot in his tie.

  “I think I pull it off OK.”

  “I give you an A minus,” she teased.

  “Better than any grade I ever got in school. I’ll take it.”

  Cold rain poured down from a leaden sky when they left the pub. Thankfully, the Luckmobile was parked right out front. They skipped across the sidewalk and dove inside as quickly as possible, hopping over the puddles at the side of the road. Violet wiped raindrops from her forehead and cheeks.