by L. T. Vargus
The one named Millie fumbled frantically with the lighter in her hand.
“I’m trying. My thumb is sore from pressing this stupid thing over and over,” she complained. Finally she got the lighter to flame again. She lit the two candles the girls held out to her, and then released the button on the lighter.
“Here,” Darger said, handing Millie the already lit candle in her hand.
“But I—”
Darger stooped, grabbed two fresh tapers from the box next to Millie’s feet, and lit them from the dancing flame in the girl’s hand.
“Ohhh,” Millie said.
“We are so dumb,” one of the other girls said, and they all giggled.
Violet helped herself to a new candle from the box and lit it herself. The line started to move much faster now that the girls were able to each light two candles at once.
“Thanks.” Millie smiled with a mouth full of braces.
Darger winked back at her.
“No problem.”
She moved down the stairs from the entrance to where the throng was gathering. A paper bag filled with sand and a candle had been placed on each step. More luminarias led off to the right, the golden lights dotting the darkness, lining the path that led to Fiona Worthington’s final resting place. Above the sidewalk, more glimmering lights seemed to float in mid-air in the distance. She knew it was the beginning of the procession, led by Fiona’s family, and that their hands held the lights aloft. But from here, the blackness blotted out the people. Only the gleam of their candles could be seen, as if carried by spirits.
It was beautiful, and yet there was that ghostly quality to it. Violet felt a shiver run down her spine.
She found Luck and Loshak huddled together under a crabapple tree across from the auditorium. Neither one of them could stop their heads from swiveling around in constant assessment of the crowd.
“It’s a good thing you’re not supposed to be undercover,” she said.
“What’s that?” Loshak asked.
“You guys are so obvious. You might as well have COP and FBI tattooed on your foreheads.”
Loshak opened his mouth, poised to argue, when a black and white squad car parked a few yards away suddenly roared to life: flashers on, siren screaming. It accelerated out of the parking lot and Darger didn’t have to peek behind her to know that the entire horde had turned to look.
“What the hell?” Loshak said.
Before any speculation could even be uttered, they heard more sirens and saw the telltale strobe of red and blue speeding by.
The three of them exchanged glances, and then Casey took off in a jog toward the parking lot. Darger and Loshak followed.
By the time they reached him, he was already firing up his van, his radio still in hand.
“What is it?” Darger asked.
“Officer involved shooting.”
Loshak hesitated for not a moment.
“Let’s go,” he said, heading for his car.
Chapter 83
The Prius judders over the gravel. Rips through the lot aggressively. Flinging sharpened stones with every turn.
He needs to be quick. Needs to finish this and be gone. Can’t dally a while like he usually does.
He pads over the rocks to the rear end of the car. Kneels. Finger and thumb working at the loosened screws on the license plate. It takes him less than a minute to switch out the stolen plate for the real thing. He hates it. Hates the idea of driving around with the real license plate on the car. Something that would trace back to his mom. But he has no choice for now.
Maybe the cop ran his plate. Maybe not. But the possibility changes everything.
The police radio makes no mention of the Prius or the plate. A panicked voice reports the officer down. And the chatter that ensues is hard to follow. He can’t be sure.
He slides open the aluminum garage door. Tosses the plate into the unit.
Now to finish his project.
She never stirs. When he wraps her in blankets. Plucks her from the car. Slides her into the chamber. Lowers her to the cement floor.
Not a twitch. Not a tremble. Just the flimsiness of slack limbs. Of dead weight. These are the moments he fantasizes about. When they are at his mercy entirely. When they submit to his domination. When they just lie down and die for him.
That is how it’s supposed to be.
He rolls her onto the plastic sheeting. Face down. Lifts her head. Feels for the right spot with his blade. Guiding its edge with his index finger.
He hesitates for a moment in that position. Feeling one last rise and fall of her chest. He flicks his wrist and forearm. Makes one quick incision underneath her chin. A slit.
And she leaks. He holds her head up. To keep the wound open. Bursts of spray emit from her throat. Steam rising from where the red warmth drains and slaps the plastic.
Gallons. That’s what it seems like. He can never prepare himself for the sheer quantity of fluid.
And just when it seems poised to go on forever, it begins to slow. Her heartbeat grows weaker. The pace fades. Fades. Stops.
The whole thing is over quickly.
He lowers her face to the plastic and releases her. Then he turns her over so he can see. Takes a step back. Eyes locked on that tiny figure. And everything is terribly, terribly quiet.
The stillness is overwhelming. Almost unbearable. It feels so final. So momentous. So complete. He has to check and make sure his own heart still beats. Frozen fingers jabbing at his neck. Adjusting their placement. Frantic to find some sign of life.
Yes. It is there. The vein still throbs. The blood still rushing through him. He’s still alive. Still well.
He watches her for a long time. Waiting, he thinks. For what, he doesn’t know.
Her flesh glistens. The thin layer of sweat still wet on her skin.
He hates to leave. It doesn’t feel right.
The idea of bringing her along occurs to him. As crazy as it might seem at first blush, it makes sense as he ponders it. He has switched the plates. That could greatly lessen his chances of getting pulled over again. If he does get stopped by police once more tonight, he’s probably sunk either way. Even cops as dumb as the ones around here would have to figure it out at that point. Wouldn’t they?
He’s not quite willing to leave the gun here, either. The murder weapon. The gunshot residue on his hands. No. They’d have him.
He can’t do the usual thing, though. Can’t spend time with her.
He has to leave town. Now.
Chapter 84
The scene was only a few minutes from the university district. When they arrived, the entire street was lined with police cars and ambulances. The radiating pulses of colored lights were almost dizzying as they approached the area that had already been cordoned off with yellow tape.
Luck ducked under the line and held it for Loshak and Darger to follow. Chief Haden approached and Darger knew from his face it wasn’t good.
“It’s him,” the Chief said.
“Who? What the hell happened?” Luck said.
His eyes were wide, taking in the cruiser on the shoulder with the door open and the pool of blood on the ground, and the yellow numbered markers already being placed by crime scene techs when they discovered something of importance.
“The goddamn Doll Parts Killer, who else?” Haden said, biting off each word.
For a moment, she allowed herself to hope that the blood belonged to the killer and not to whomever had been driving the black and white. It didn’t last long. Like Luck, Darger saw a mix of panic and horror on Haden’s face.
Loshak intervened.
“Hold on. Start at the beginning.”
Chief Haden took a breath and went into report mode, which seemed to center him some. He explained the sequence of events in an even voice. Officer Novotny pulled over an unknown subject and was shot twice at point-blank range by a small caliber firearm. Officer McAdoo arrived at the scene moments later, called it in, and awaited paramedics.
&
nbsp; Throughout Haden’s retelling of events, each dramatic moment was punctuated by a “Jesus!” from Luck.
“Novotny?” Loshak asked.
“He didn’t make it. He was gone by the time the EMTs arrived.”
They were all quiet for a moment while it sank in. Once again, it was Loshak who spoke up and broke the silence.
“And why do we think it’s our guy?”
Haden fixed him with a haunted stare.
“Because when McAdoo found him lying in the puddle of his own blood, the first thing Novotny told him was that the guy had a girl in the car.”
Loshak deflated like a punctured balloon.
“Shit.”
“There’s one more thing,” Haden said.
He gestured for them to follow, and they approached one of the waiting ambulances.
Officer McAdoo sat in the back while a paramedic took his blood pressure. She recognized him from the first task force meeting. He wore a shell-shocked expression, eyes glassy and far off. His fingernails were caked with dried blood, and there were red-brown smears on his cheeks where more had been wiped away. Darger’s eyes went to the wet spot on the concrete only a few yards away, and suddenly all of it was a little too familiar. She felt something bitter rise in the back of her throat.
“Hey, Mac,” Haden said.
McAdoo turned when his name was called, though his focus didn’t quite fix on them.
“Chief,” he said flatly.
“Can you tell them what Novotny told you? About the plane?”
McAdoo blinked and some of the fog seemed to clear.
“A silver plane,” he glanced back and forth at each of them, as if he wanted to be sure they all understood.
“Plane?” Loshak said.
“On the parking pass,” McAdoo said. “Orange with a silver plane. It’s an airport parking pass of some kind. That’s what he said. He always notices little things like that. Always—”
He broke down into sobs before he could get the rest of the words out. Loshak stepped up onto the back of the ambulance so he could lean in and put a hand on McAdoo’s arm.
“Hey, it’s… You did good.”
They took a few paces away from the ambulance then, forming a small circle.
“A plane,” Luck repeated. “Like he’s a pilot or something?”
Darger smeared a hand over her forehead.
“Could be that,” she said. “Could mean any number of things. Pilot, baggage handler, flight attendant. Fuck, he could work at the Cinnabon for all we know. Or maybe he’s a frequent flier.”
She inhaled as something else struck her.
“Jesus, what if he’s someone that flies all over the place on business. What if he does this other places?”
“We need to figure out what airports in the area use an orange parking permit with a silver plane,” Loshak said. “Now.”
“I’m on it,” Luck said, getting out his phone and moving off from the group to make a call.
The Chief’s phone rang, and he answered before the first ring was through.
“Haden.”
His already stony face grew harder, the craggy lines in his cheeks seeming to deepen.
“Where at?”
There was a pause.
“And it’s been how long?”
He turned to observe the techs buzzing around the crime scene with evidence bags and cameras.
“Alright, here’s what I need. Nobody gets into the car for now. Nobody. If it is a crime scene, we don’t want family disturbing things. I’ll send a team over, and in the meantime, no one touches anything inside that car, got it?”
He hung up the phone and stared down at the ground for a moment, composing himself.
Finally he looked up and said, “We might have an ID on the girl.”
“That fast?” Darger asked.
“Worried family member. Says her sister was supposed to stop by, even called to ask her what she wanted from Starbucks, but then never showed. It’s been two hours. She watches the news, has seen the stories. But she was hoping for the best. She and a neighbor drove through town, just to see. Anyway, they found her SUV, abandoned in the Starbucks, latte or cappuccino or whatever the hell still sitting on the roof.”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Normally we wouldn’t even think of taking a report this early, but as soon as I heard what Novotny said about a girl in the car, I told the desk sergeant to prioritize any calls about missing girls.”
“You got a name?” Loshak asked.
Chief Haden’s face softened for a moment.
“Sandy Metcalf,” he said.
Loshak and Darger exchanged a look, and she knew they were thinking the same thing.
If Sandy Metcalf wasn’t already dead, she would be before the end of the night.
Chapter 85
He knows he should go home to his tomb. Knows that he should lie low for a while. Get some sleep. But he can’t do it. He’s too keyed up. Edgy. Gritting his teeth.
He grips the wheel like he’s trying to choke the life out of it. Hands twisting now and then. Fingertips pressing so hard that the nails turn a pale yellow. The color of maggots.
He rides around Columbus again. Flipping around on the radio to try to check the news stories tonight for any mention of the Prius. Finding mostly commercials.
It’s strange to be back in the city. The endless sprawl of concrete. Of that strange gray liquid poured onto the ground and hardened into a stone-like mass so that nothing can grow here. And somehow he feels that in his chest. Like all of that industrial material hovers over him. Threatens to crush him under its weight.
His fingers dab at the touchscreen without thought. Flicking through the endless commercials and terrible music playing on every radio station. Finally something catches his ear.
“In breaking news, a police officer has been slain in Athens County,” the compressed voice says from the speakers.
His fingers twitch against the touchscreen. Catching themselves short of pressing the scan button again.
“A member of the APD was shot dead during a routine traffic stop this evening. Authorities are not releasing the officer’s name, and no further details are known at this hour.”
The remaining news stories blare on. Nothing important. He turns the radio down a moment so he can think.
So that was it for now. Not much information. Is that good? He doesn’t know. Not yet. It might not mean anything. Still, it could be worse. No mention of the Prius. No mention of the possible connection to the Doll Parts case. It could be a hell of a lot worse.
He drives through suburban areas now. A narrow street. Lined with trees. All of the houses nearly identical. Little boxes. Cramped as hell. The streetlight illuminates the harsh reality.
This isn’t as bad as the worst parts of town. There the awnings nearly touch in some places. Tiny slits of alleyways running between the buildings. Barely wide enough to accommodate an adult.
Here there are little yards between the houses. Grass and boxwoods to decorate the boxes.
And this is it. The great dream. The masses of humanity huddling right on top of each other. Squatting together on their little islands of grass amid the endless concrete. This is what we’re supposed to want. Apparently. It’s what we’re supposed to slave after. A house. A car. A wife. Some kids. Just like the folks in the box next door. All the next doors stretching out to infinity.
A tremor rips at his shoulders. He thinks he’s going to be sick. Waits for the vomit to spray out of him. For the projectile spew gushing over the dashboard. But it never comes. He feels empty on the inside. That negative space spiraling where his innards should be.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
He wants to go home. To lie down on his bed. He knows he won’t sleep. Not tonight. But maybe lying down would help in some way. Maybe some peace or calm could be possible if he kept still for a little while.
But no. He drives. On and on he presses forward. Some part of h
im can’t stop. Can’t go home.
The traffic thins as he drives. The people go home little by little until the streets are mostly vacant. Until the city is mostly dead.
But he is here. And he is awake. Alive. The wires in his head still frying. The knobs and dials still cranked all the way up.
And the night doesn’t end. Doesn’t fade. This darkness is infinite. It just goes on and on and on.
Chapter 86
By the time they got back to the motel, it was past 3 AM. Darger didn’t even try to sleep. She was so wound up on adrenaline, she knew it would be pointless.
From the scene, they had moved to the station, taking over a conference room to make calls to the local airports. They spent the next several hours making dozens of calls, trying to find someone at one of the airports who would tell them anything about the parking permits in use. Unfortunately, because it was late, they struggled to even get a live human on the phone. When they did reach an actual person instead of some kind of automated system, they were inevitably transferred to the line of “someone that might be able to help” who only worked normal business hours. More answering machines.
They had no choice but to wait until morning. It was a fact that sat well with no one. Least of all, Detective Luck. She knew — despite orders from Chief Haden to the contrary — that he was probably pacing back and forth across his living room at that very moment, making calls. He still thought there was a chance to save the girl. It didn’t matter that even if they’d found the right airport, they’d still have to sift through God-only-knew how many names.
This time the knock came on her door. When she opened it, Loshak stood on the other side.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“Hell no.”
“Well, I come bearing gifts,” he said, raising the bottle of Hennessy in his hand.
She unwrapped the disposable cups and held them out while Loshak poured. Before they drank, Loshak lifted his cup.
“To Novotny.”
They drank. The warmth of the liquor spread over her tongue and down her throat. A pleasant burn that tingled in her chest and stomach.
