by L. T. Vargus
The skin sags along her jaw. Pulls into jowls that make her look much older than she is. Or was.
He watches the motionless head from across the room. Rubs a hand at the back of his neck. Feels the little prickle of the hair follicles there.
He hates to think it. To admit what is happening. But it looks like her skin is about to detach from her cheek bones and slide clean off of her face. Like a sheet of skin will flap off and melt into a puddle on the floor. Leaving exposed muscle and bone. Everything wired together with stringy connective tissue.
It seems so inevitable. The way she will come apart.
But he has a plan.
He approaches her and rotates the swing arm lamp on the desk so it points straight down at the face. It makes her cheeks look like they’re glowing pink.
He kneels next to her and opens the makeup kit. He’s no expert with cosmetics. He knows enough to know that a liquid foundation will bring back a more normal human color to her. So that’s where he’ll begin.
He loads the makeup sponge with the stuff and spreads the first swipe over the flesh. Hesitates. The streak of healthy pink skin looks so wrong next to the pale gray that has become the rest of her that he almost vomits. His throat flexes. Acid climbs his esophagus. But he keeps it down.
He lets his eyes go out of focus as he continues. Can’t quite bear to look at that seam where death and the makeup touch unless it’s a little blurry. A little fuzzy.
The smell doesn’t help, of course. She is ripe. Has been for a while now. He thinks he’s gotten used to it some. As much as he can. But it still makes him nauseous at times. It might be unavoidable.
Her shade brightens. An unnatural hue somewhere between peach and pink. Inhuman and strange.
He is painting her. That’s all. It seems less upsetting to think of it that way somehow. Less profane. Like putting a fresh coat on the shed. Covering the wrinkles and flaking places.
He speaks in a whisper as he works.
“They could never understand it. Could they?”
I think not.
“But you do?”
Yes.
He dry heaves again. Tongue spluttering out between his lips. Epiglottis clicking deep in his throat.
His hands freeze for a moment. The makeup sponge holding still on her cheek. Warmth creeps into his face. Embarrassment.
“Sorry about that.”
It’s OK.
“I do this because I love you, you know. Because you’re mine.”
I know. This is the only way.
“Yes.”
The lipstick and eyeshadow go on easier. Faster. And somehow the foundation looks less fake right away once those are in place. Something about the contrast of the mouth. The shape the shadow brings out. She looks feminine and… He searches for the right word. Eyes ticking up toward the ceiling as he ponders it.
Juicy. She looks juicy for the first time since before all of this.
Again, he whispers:
“You look so beautiful tonight. Like a proper lady.”
Thank you.
He tries his best with the mascara, knowing it will get a little messy. Forgiving himself preemptively. Reminding himself he can wash it off and do it over if he needs to.
His hand shakes a touch as he brings it to her face. Applies it.
Not too bad. The darkened lashes make her look dainty again. Bring out a tenderness in her expression. Even if it’s a little sloppy.
He steps back. A great relief washing over him. This could have gone so wrong. Could have come off so ghastly.
But it didn’t.
He closes her mouth and the lipstick adheres the lips together in a pout for a beat. And she looks good. Really good. Better than he ever could have hoped for.
Then gravity flicks its wrist. Her jaw swings free. Falls. Falls. Bounces faintly when it can fall no more. The tiniest bungee effect when the cords pull all the way taut.
Careful to avoid touching the freshly wet area, he cups her neck to lift her and places her onto a cookie sheet. She reclines. Nose pointed toward the ceiling. He uses two cans of chunky soup to keep her from flopping over and smearing her makeup. Clam and corn chowder with bacon.
Lifting the sheet, he walks to the kitchen. Every step measured. Slow and even. The tray wobbling a touch in his arms.
The freezer door swings open. Fog swirling and disappearing in the frosty chamber. It stands empty. Vacant. Ready for its new occupant.
In she goes.
Chapter 41
They passed another group of off-duty policemen on their way out to the van. Luck greeted them with a polite nod.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket before climbing into the vehicle.
“I need to stop off at my house on the way,” he said, sliding on his sunglasses. “Gotta feed my dog. The way he eats, it should take about 60 seconds, tops. I hope that’s OK.”
“No problem at all.”
Luck fastened his seatbelt and rolled up his sleeves before reversing out of the parking space.
“What kind of dog?” Darger asked.
Luck peeked at her over the reflective lenses, looking sly.
“I’ll give you three guesses, Miss Profiler.”
“Oh, you want to play it like that, huh?”
“I can’t help but notice that you’re stalling.”
“Pft. Alright. But if I win, you’re paying for all my drinks tonight.”
“Fair enough.”
Darger tapped a finger against her lip.
“Well, there’s the totally obvious choice for a cop.”
“You have to say it, or it doesn’t count as a real guess.”
“German Shepherd.”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so,” she said, her tone light and dismissive.
Luck snorted.
“Yeah, right. See what happens when you make your little assumptions?”
“Pit bull,” she said, ignoring him.
“Wrong again.”
Damn. The sun was barely brushing the top of the tree line in the distance, and Violet stared at the last golden rays extending over the greenery.
“Black lab?”
Luck made a buzzer noise in his throat.
“Well?”
Looking smug, he said, “You’re just going to have to wait and see now.”
Luck’s place was a small one-story ranch tucked in the middle of a block of similar homes. She guessed the whole neighborhood had probably been built sometime in the 1950s. Each yard had an attached one-car garage and two maple trees out front, and she guessed the interiors featured three bedrooms for the perfect nuclear family.
Inside, everything was as she’d expected. It was very clean, and decorated in what she liked to call “Modern Masculine Minimalist.” The classic bachelor pad of the anal-retentive. She’d bet Loshak’s house or apartment was almost identical. The walls were a neutral gray, the floors a mix of dark stained wood and stone tile. Stainless steel appliances adorned the kitchen along with black concrete countertops. The lone break from the so-called MMM aesthetic was a collection of brightly colored balls, stuffed animals, and pillows strewn about the living room. It was like a child’s toy chest had exploded in the otherwise stark, manly space.
Luck gave a whistle and called out, “Morty!” and then she remembered. Of course. The dog.
From down a hallway, she heard the clickety-clack of nails on the floor. It rounded the corner, seeming to gain speed as soon as its master came into view.
Luck squatted low to meet the animal, and the dog rushed at him.
“Hey, buddy,” Luck chuckled as the dog snuffled and licked him, hopping around on his hind legs with his tail wagging so fast it was a blur.
It was a scrappy, scruffy little thing in a red bandanna. He was barely bigger than a puppy, but Darger couldn’t tell if he was young or just a small breed. One ear stuck straight up, the other flopped over on itself.
“So what is he?” Darger asked, patting the little do
g’s head as he went in for a sniff at her ankles.
Luck scooped a measuring cup full of food into a metal dish. The dog instantly lost interest in Violet in favor of the food.
“Dunno. A mutt of dubious parentage is what I usually say.”
If she had to guess, she would have said part Pug, part Chihuahua.
“How old is he?”
“Don’t know that either,” Luck answered, watching the dog inhale the kibble. “I got him from the shelter. They found him wandering the streets — no tags, no microchip, no nothing. They think he’s probably five or six. I’ve only actually had him a few weeks.”
That also explained the abundance of toys, Darger thought. He would have gone nuts spoiling the new dog.
When the dog had finished with the food, Luck went to a sliding glass door at the back and opened it a crack. Morty scurried outside and trotted around the yard, dutifully marking various landmarks on the way. Luck grabbed a plastic bag from a roll on top of the refrigerator and went out to collect the doggie deposits. Darger smiled to herself, figuring even before he’d gone outside that he’d be the type to never let a dog poo run astray. In fact, she bet herself that instead of depositing the bag anywhere in the house, he’d immediately take it either into the garage or outside. Wherever he kept the curbside trash bin.
Morty led the procession back into the house, and sure enough, Luck went to a door off the kitchen and returned without the bag.
She crossed her arms, thinking of a different wager then.
“You cheated, by the way.”
“Cheated?”
He stooped, and Morty leapt into his arms. Luck stood up, cradling the dog in the crook of one elbow.
“You let me think you had a purebred.”
“No, no, Special Agent Darger. You jumped to that conclusion all on your own. I tried to warn you about making assumptions.”
She reached out to scratch the dog behind the ear, and Morty planted his snout against her wrist for a sniff.
“You never said what you wanted if I lost.”
“I didn’t,” Luck said, something in his voice catching her attention.
When she looked up to meet his eyes, his focus was fixed on her in such a way that her ears started to get hot, and her heart beat a little harder.
He leaned down and kissed her, and the heat in her ears spread to her cheeks and chest.
Morty was still clutched in Luck’s arms, and he squirmed between them. Violet felt a warm, wet tickle on her neck. She giggled and pulled away from Luck and the licking dog.
“I guess he likes you, too.”
“Too?” Violet repeated. “So that means you like me.”
With an outstretched finger, she poked him on the arm.
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he said, setting the dog down and pulling her closer by the hand, “but you’ve grown on me a little.”
He lifted her fingers to his mouth and brushed his lips lightly over her knuckles. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine.
“You still wanna go get that drink?”
“Later,” Violet said, leaned forward to kiss him again.
Before long, he took her hand and they went to his bedroom.
Chapter 42
His apartment feels like a tomb. An L-shaped cavern with books and magazines piled along the walls. Dark. Dank. All the lights off. The curtains drawn as tightly as possible. The muted glow that spills along the edges of the windows is the only illumination.
It reeks of death blended with his own body odor. The putrid stench intertwining with a distinctly masculine musk. Leathery. Faintly acrid.
All of the stuff he’d pulled out of the freezer melts in a garbage bag on the kitchen floor. Hot pockets. Waffles. Little breakfast sausage patties. TV dinners. It will start smelling soon as well. He knows this. And yet he can’t bring himself to make that trip to the dumpster. Can’t bring himself to leave her alone in the cold.
The tomb feels empty with her gone. Even if she’s just tucked away in the freezer. Not truly absent. It’s not the same. Lonelier. More meaningless.
He speaks to the fridge door.
“I miss you.”
There is no reply.
He paces the floor. Socked feet moving from the linoleum to the carpet cratered with cigarette burns. Black blisters in the beige that were there when he moved in. He rounds the bend in that capital L. Passes the mattress on the floor and turns back.
Nausea ripples in his gut as he treks toward the kitchen once more. The loneliness always makes him sick when it comes back full force like this. When reality encroaches on the fantasy.
He talks to the freezer door again. Eyes locked on the veins and wrinkles on that textured surface. Voice tight and small.
“I love you, and I hate you, and I miss you so bad.”
Night falls. He lies in his bed. Blinking in the dark. Staring up into the emptiness.
He rolls over onto his side. Tries to find comfort he knows isn’t there for him.
This separation is only temporary. He’d bought more time by using the freezer. Possibly quite a while. But knowing these things doesn’t make it any less painful. She is apart. Not there. He can feel it in his guts. In the thudding in his skull. In the sweat on his skin.
He knows it’s all in his head. Knows she is a girl he created. That he scripts her every word.
But it’s real when he can believe it. The realest thing he’s ever felt. That he ever will feel.
And it’s real when she’s gone. Whenever they’re apart, the emptiness is right there. All around him. As big as ever. As close as ever.
He sits up finally. Faces the fridge. Whispers into the blackness.
“Goodnight.”
He waits for a long time before he reclines.
She doesn’t answer.
Chapter 43
The atmosphere inside the Elbow Room was different than it had been the first time. There was a strangeness Violet couldn’t put her finger on. She wanted to call it subdued, but then it seemed like there was still an awful lot of chatter going on. Maybe more, even. But the voices felt hushed and almost furtive.
Luck came back from the bar carrying their drinks. As he slid Violet’s over the polished tabletop, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Weird vibe in here tonight.”
Her eyes went wide when they met his.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“What’s up with that, you think?”
Violet lifted her drink and took an unladylike gulp.
“I don’t know, but I’d say we’re probably about to find out,” she said with a subtle nod at the rapidly approaching figure.
“Detective Casey Luck, everyone!” Porto said, clapping his hands in applause. “About to be Ohio’s most famous boy in blue.”
Luck shot Darger a disconcerted look.
“How’s that?”
Porto chortled.
“Ho, ho! You mean you haven’t seen it?”
“Seen what?”
Luck’s lips were pressed into a firm line. Darger could tell he was starting to get annoyed.
Porto smiled, but it looked evil.
“Porto, cut the shit and just tell me what the hell is going on,” Luck said, actually uttering a four-letter word for once.
Definitely annoyed, she thought.
“The Daily Gawk,” Porto said.
Darger got out her phone.
“The Daily Gawk?” Luck said. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Darger said.
“What?”
She held out her phone so he could see the headline plastered on The Daily Gawk’s home page: Doll Parts Killer keeps her head!
“Aw, hell,” he said.
Darger swiped the screen with her finger, and then she felt the bottom of her stomach fall out.
“There’s a video,” she said, not realizing for a moment that the tiny voice speaking was her own.
She did
n’t hit play. The video started streaming automatically.
Grainy, shaky cell phone video showed fluorescent light reflecting off of tile floors. The camera panned slowly to build the suspense. Scanning up from a set of bare feet, over the wrinkles of a white sheet. Hands folded over the chest in the stereotypical funeral fashion. At the sight of the fingers with the blue nail polish, Darger felt a twisting motion in that emptiness occupying her gut. A spiral. She’d wanted them to start paying attention to someone other than Fiona Worthington but not like this.
The camera continued its journey, moving upward from the crossed arms to the pale flesh of the collarbone and then the shoulders. And finally the payoff: where the head should be, nothing but a raw stump. Red meat with a single white bone protruding from it like a finger pointing at the stainless steel tray.
The shock shot tendrils of numb all through her as she watched this fresh profanity, and she felt her balance wobble a little atop her chair, forearms leaning against the edge of the table for support.
But after that initial wave of disbelief, a rage clenched inside of her. Something lean and hard and hateful growing tighter and tighter in her chest. The world just kept finding new ways to defile Sierra Peters, and it made her want to fucking explode.
And then Darger was on her feet. Moving. Her shoulder colliding with Porto and glancing off of his saggy torso, knocking him backward in a drunk stumble.
“Violet,” Luck called after her, but his voice sounded small. Weak.
She didn’t slow down. Pushing through the crowd. Through the steel door.
Casey caught up with her in the parking lot.
“Where are you going?”
“To figure out who took that video,” Darger said.
“Yeah? And how are you going to do that?”
She dug her nails into her palms, holding herself back from directing the rage at him, but just barely.
“It was either taken at the morgue or the funeral home, and the funeral home has a shitload less security than the medical examiner’s office.”
Luck unlocked the van, and they climbed in.
“I told that funeral director to be discrete. God damn.”
She ripped at the seat belt, tugging it across her lap and securing the latch.
