by L. T. Vargus
The stainless steel was frigid against his palm and thumb. He almost pulled his hand away out of instinct, but he caught himself. Time to be done with it.
He thumbed the button and pulled the door open, holding his breath. It took a second for his eyes to focus on what was there.
Feet. A girl’s feet.
He squeezed his hand into a fist a few times and then reached in for the identification form — essentially a paper card in a laminated plastic pouch that lay between her ankles. The cold reached up to his elbow, threatening to go further, but he pulled the card free.
“What was her name?” Sam whispered from across the room. “Sienna or something.”
“Sierra Peters,” Tyler read from the card. “It’s her.”
He took a breath, his eyelids fluttering. They’d done it. The rest would be easy.
“Get your phone ready,” he said to Sam, and then he turned to slide the shelf of corpse out of the meat fridge.
He wanted to yank the thing out and be done with it, but she was heavy, and it was too weird.
The drawer wheels squeaked as the naked body slid out on its metal tray in slow motion. The flesh of her legs was very pale, with bruises around her knees so dark they almost looked more black than purple. His eyes snapped away from the patch of pubic hair right away, but he found no comfort in looking at her breasts, like a pair of sunny side up eggs stretched over her chest. None of these horrors prepared him for what came next.
His hand jerked away from the shelf right away when he saw it, a gasp torn from his throat. By the time he gathered himself enough to realize what he was doing, he found that he was standing halfway up the basement steps. He had no memory of sprinting out of the room and through the hall to get there, but he knew he must have.
He stopped, legs parted with a foot on each step. He blinked a few times before he could convince himself to go back.
The image came back to him. The stumped neck. The empty length of tray where her head should be. Jesus fucking Christ.
When he got back to the storage room, Sam was shooting video with his phone.
“You OK?” his friend said, stopping a moment to observe Tyler. For once, he knew enough to not laugh. He even closed his mouth for a moment.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
Sam went back to his cinematography, and Tyler looked at the naked, headless girl. The buzz of the fluorescent bulbs seemed louder now. They seemed to vibrate in his chest.
“We should cover her,” Tyler said.
“What do you mean?”
“The tabloids will give us more if she’s covered. A headless girl is one thing. They can go with the whole serial killer thing and sensationalize it. A naked headless girl, though? That’s too much.”
A thoughtful look came over Sam’s face.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Tyler put two pairs of gloves on before he’d touch her. He draped a sheet over the corpse, running it under her arms so it might even look like a dress from the right angle. Then he folded her hands on her belly, almost like a real funeral pose.
Sam smiled as he fingered his phone to get the money shot.
Chapter 39
It was a brief service with less than a dozen mourners. Violet had left a message with Sierra’s mother letting her know the time and place. She’d hoped Patricia might change her mind and attend, but she never showed. Loshak and Luck were there, along with Donaldson, the Sheriff, and a few other law enforcement personnel who got word and wanted to pay their respects. Even Janssen made an appearance, to her complete surprise.
The funeral home had recommended a local minister named Tabitha Watson, whom Darger suspected had plenty of experience officiating the funerals of strangers and nonbelievers. The funeral director asked Violet to choose three songs for the service. Figuring Sierra’s tastes would have leaned to the somewhat contemporary over anything classical, Violet selected Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel, Jeff Buckley’s cover of Hallelujah, and Angeles by Elliott Smith. After the first song, Pastor Watson read from Psalm 69:
“Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul.
I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.
I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.
Let not the waterflood overflow me, neither let the deep swallow me up, and let not the pit shut her mouth upon me.
Hear me, O Lord; for thy loving kindness is good: turn unto me according to the multitude of thy tender mercies.”
As her eyes meandered over the small crowd, Violet wondered if she’d made a mistake. Should she have taken Loshak’s advice and invited the press? Even if they’d gotten no new leads from it, didn’t Sierra deserve more than this?
Her gaze fell on the peonies laid over the casket. How many mourners had come for Fiona Worthington?
Stupid question, she told herself. It wasn’t a competition.
And still, she couldn’t stop comparing the two. The snapshots of Fiona on horseback. Her room kept perfectly intact, with her trophies and awards proudly displayed. The fresh cut flowers placed on her bedside table. And then Sierra’s mother, who had seemed the most animated during their brief interview when she wondered if they’d recovered the moonstone ring.
It wasn’t just the material things Sierra had lacked. It had been a sense of home. A sense of family.
A sense of love.
Violet was so deep in thought she barely noticed when Hallelujah played, and when Pastor Watson began reading again, she assumed at first it was another Psalm. It was only when she got to the lines: “What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle,” that Violet’s head snapped to attention. Goose bumps prickled over her arms.
It was a Rumi poem. She recognized it because she’d once read it during a eulogy herself.
A surreal feeling came over her then, and she very much wanted the service to be over. She needed air. Clean air. Her jacket felt hot and cumbersome, and she resisted the urge to fidget.
Pastor Watson finished with the poem, and Violet tried to calm herself. She went through her calming exercise. Name, birthday, favorite color, but when she glanced up and saw the coffin at the front of the room, she lost any ground she’d gained.
Violet closed her eyes, hoping for a reprieve. Instead she saw blood on the pavement, dark red pools coagulating into jelly. Breath rattled in her throat as she inhaled, and though her head was bowed now, eyes fixed on her hands and the death grip they had on the folded program for the service, she saw Loshak turn to face her.
He leaned in.
“You alright?”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded and murmured, “Mmhmm.”
Finally, Watson introduced the last song and thanked them all for being there to honor Sierra Peters.
The guitar came in, the rapidly fingered notes resonating over the speakers. The song built to the bridge and peaked, holding the room breathless for a beat and rolling back from there.
And that was it. The small group dispersed. It was over. It was done.
Violet rose and went to the head of the chapel to thank Pastor Watson and the funeral director again for their assistance. She paused at a table set up with a coffee machine to fill a paper cup at the water dispenser. It was pleasantly cool in her mouth. Crumpling the emptied cup in her fist, she tossed it into a nearby trash bin and made for the door. It was propped open with a potted palm, and she could already feel the breeze coming in. She slid her sunglasses on and welcomed the sunlight beating down overhead.
Darger had her nose stuck in her bag as she rounded the corner of the building on her way to the parking lot. She was trying to dig her keys out and having a heck of a time of it. The key ring was new, the feel of it unfamiliar to her probing fingers, not to mention buried under all the flotsam and jetsam she kept in her bag.
She heard the scuff of shoes on pavement, and w
hen she looked up, she found Detective Luck leaning against his van, watching her.
“Detective Luck,” she said.
“Special Agent Darger.”
She hadn’t talked to him since the dubious kissing incident. She’d even chickened out when she gave him the funeral details, sending a text instead of calling. So far he hadn’t mentioned it, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up. And that was that.
“No sign of her mom, huh?”
Darger shook her head.
“She wasn’t home when I called. I suppose there’s a chance she never got my message, but…”
“It was nice that you did it, anyhow.”
Violet shrugged.
“I have something for you, actually,” Luck said, opening the door of his van.
Violet waited while he sifted around between the seats, coming back with an envelope, which he handed to her.
“From me and a couple of the guys at work,” he said.
Inside the envelope was a stack of $20 bills. She didn’t count it, she just let the flap fall closed and held it out to him.
“I can’t take this.”
“Why not? We wanted to pitch in.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
She couldn’t explain why, but it felt odd for there to be cash changing hands over funeral costs.
“It’s a lovely thought, really, I just…”
“Well if you won’t take it, then donate it somewhere in her name.”
Darger looked up, trying to see Luck’s eyes behind the lenses of his aviators.
“OK. I like that.” She put the envelope in her purse. “Thank you.”
“Got dinner plans?” he asked, and she tried to keep her face impassive, forbidding her cheeks to blush or her eyelashes to flutter.
“I don’t.”
He spun his keys on his finger with what she had to assume was practiced nonchalance.
“Would you care to join me?”
“Alright,” she said. He gestured at the van to indicate he’d drive, and she went around to the passenger side.
As he navigated the Luckmobile out of the parking lot, Darger did her best not to wonder whether this was supposed to be a date or not. But trying not to wonder was half of wondering, and so she failed.
It was after a funeral, and that seemed to her an inopportune time for a date. Then again, he had specifically waited for her in order to ask her to dinner, it seemed. Wasn’t that the very definition of a date?
Maybe he felt bad, didn’t think she should be alone after the service. He was only being chivalrous, perhaps.
Jesus, why did she even care that much?
“Where are we going?” she asked, thinking maybe the venue might offer a clue.
“I know some places. I’m sure they’ll seem quite humble compared to whatever hoity-toity establishments you’re accustomed to.”
She glared at him over the edge of her sunglasses, and he winked at her.
“Any special diet considerations I should know about? Food allergies?”
“Yes, actually. On Fridays, I only eat things that are green. Wheat grass smoothies, kale salad, steamed soy beans, etc.”
Now he eyeballed her, trying to decide if she was being serious.
“Kidding. Nothing like that, and I’m not picky.”
“You like shawarma?”
“Yes,” she said and decided that the garlic and spice content made for unlikely date fare.
Not a date then. Fine. Now she could relax.
It was a small place near the university campus, and judging by the line of young people picking up carry-out orders at the front register, a popular place among the students.
Their waitress was a small girl with her hair pulled back into a French braid. Despite her slight physique, she issued commands like a drill sergeant.
“How many?” came out more like an order than a question.
“Two,” Luck said, and she led them to a table next to a window. Darger was glad for that after the somberness of the funeral home.
The food arrived quickly after they ordered, and they avoided talking much in the interim. Violet supposed funerals left most people feeling a bit introspective.
They’d been eating steadily and quietly for a few moments when Luck broke the silence.
“So?”
“It’s good. Really good.”
Darger dipped her falafel sandwich into a little cup of Lebanese garlic sauce and took a massive bite.
Luck smiled at her, looking genuinely pleased.
Darger noted a table of two men in one of the back corners of the restaurant. They were casually dressed and engaged in friendly conversation, but every five seconds, almost on the dot, one or the other glanced up and let their eyes do a quick search of the room.
“I see you’ve chosen another place favored by your fellow boys in blue.”
“What?”
“Like half the guys in here are cops.”
Luck craned his neck around. At a different table, two men immediately recognized him and raised their hands. Luck waved back.
“OK, so there are a couple.”
Darger sipped at her tea, trying to disguise her smirk.
“So what?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just an observation.”
“And isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black, Special Agent Darger?” he asked, gesturing at her with a French fry before popping it into his mouth.
“How is that?”
“How is it not? Your so-called ‘just an observation’ is meant to suggest that I can’t turn the cop part of me off, right? That I don’t know how to just… relax and be a normal human being.”
“No. An observation can just be an observation.”
“Now that,” he said, wiping grease from his fingers onto a napkin, “is the biggest bunch of bull I’ve ever heard. At least when it comes to you. I see you over there, watching everything, making little mental notes, brain going a mile a minute. I bet you profile in your dreams.”
Darger tilted her head to one side, blinking thoughtfully.
“You know for all your talk about not having much experience, you’re a pretty good detective.”
He looked surprised that she’d paid him a compliment, and she thought his cheeks maybe went a little pinker.
“Thanks,” he managed to mumble, and then seemed to suddenly find the stack of pita bread on his plate fascinating. It was a while before he recovered from his bout of bashfulness.
“So, at the risk of asking the most cliche question possible,” he said, “what led to you becoming an FBI agent?”
Violet plastered a polite smile on her face, the one she kept always at the ready for when someone asked that question.
“Why did you become a detective?” she threw back, raising an eyebrow.
“The same reason half these guys do,” he said. “Runs in the family.”
“Well, I guess you could say the same for me,” she said, lying through her teeth. “So who was it? Your dad?”
Luck nodded, frowning into his hummus as if it might hold some existential truth.
“Was he a detective?”
Raising his eyes to meet hers, he shook his head.
“Nah. Highway patrol.”
“And let me guess. You used to sneak into his room where he kept his badge and uniform, and you’d put it on and go stand in the mirror, pretending it was yours. Flashing it at your reflection and practicing your tough guy policeman voice.”
She sat up a little straighter and looked him in the eye, squinting one side a little like she was in an old Western.
“Detective Luck. Athens PD. Freeze and put your hands in the air,” she said, throwing her voice a little in an attempt to sound male.
Luck laughed.
“Um, no. But I’m starting to get a better picture of you as a kid.”
Violet smiled and sat back, rubbing at her cheek. She liked Luck. Liked his laugh and the hint of crow’s feet at the corner of
his eyes. Proof that he hadn’t lost his ability to smile on the job. She didn’t like lying to him. But it was better this way. For all parties involved.
“You up for a drink after this?” he asked.
“At La Chambre Coude?”
Darger bent her arms and wiggled her elbows up and down. Oh good Lord. She was getting punchy. But the prospect of getting drinks made it seem again like this maybe-possibly-could-be a date, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, that gave her a little thrill. A warm, fluttering lightness in her chest.
“Sorry. I thought The Elbow Room might sound fancier in French,” she said, clasping her hands together so she couldn’t pick at her nail polish.
Luck ignored her outburst of dorkiness, thank God. He only shrugged, one corner of his mouth curving upward.
“Unless you’d rather go somewhere else.”
She flapped a dismissive hand in the air.
“Nah, it’s fine with me.”
“Alright, but don’t go spouting any of that French stuff in there. We’re simple folk around here, and that kind of outlandish extravagance will likely get you kicked out.”
Ice cubes tinkled as Violet set her glass down and gave him a hard stare.
“You’re never going to let me forget that one, huh?”
“No ma’am,” he said with a wink.
Chapter 40
There is no way around it. Rot is beginning to take hold of her flesh. Fouling the meat.
The head rests on a wooden rocking chair in the living room area of his studio apartment. It stands upright but tilted to balance its weight on the stumped neck bone and the rounded back of the cranium.
The mouth hangs open all the way. Like she reclines in a dentist’s chair. Every tooth visible and reflecting light. Her tongue white and strangely spongy looking. Her gums have receded to the point that it’s a wonder her teeth haven’t fallen out.
Maybe that will be the first thing to go. It’s inevitable. Isn’t it? She will crumble. She will fall apart.
He looks at her again. Really looks.
The skin around the eyes droops unnaturally. Little puckers in the complexion like a silk shirt that needs ironing.
