Violet Darger (Book 2): Killing Season

by L. T. Vargus

  He’d probably picked the supermarket on purpose. First, people often shopped near their homes, in their own neighborhoods. It was within their inner circle. Familiar. Safe. On an animal level, it was where they got food. Sustenance. Like a watering hole on the African plains.

  Damn. There she was, thinking Leonard Stump thoughts again.

  Except it was true, wasn’t it?

  Here was the herd of zebra, approaching the oasis. And somewhere in the long grass, a predator stalked.

  But at least the lion and the jaguar killed to eat. It was survival.

  She wouldn’t be surprised if he fancied himself some kind of kin to a big cat or a wolf. But this man killed for sport. For vengeance. It was anger. Desperation. He wanted the world to hurt.

  There was nothing animal about that, Darger thought. That was pure human.

  Chapter 7

  Loshak gestured at her from the shade of an awning, and Darger crossed the way to meet him.

  “Any initial thoughts?” he asked.

  “I think you had it right when you called it a clusterfuck of epic proportions.”

  He nodded, a half-smile playing on his mouth even if his eyes looked grave.

  It was then that Darger noticed Agents Baxter and Dawson standing a few yards away. They were having what looked to be a heated discussion. A lot of hand-waving and head-shaking.

  “What do you think that’s all about?” Darger asked with the barest tick of her head.

  Loshak scratched at his temple.

  “I’m sure you’ve already sensed that we’re not exactly wanted here, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean Agent Bastard over there?” She’d come up with the nickname on the ride over, in between being 100% focused on the job at hand. “What’s his deal anyway? Did you take a dump in his All-Bran or something?”

  “All-Bran?”

  Darger scrunched her shoulders into a shrug. “Seems like the kind of guy that would eat something boring like that for breakfast. Every day. Plus, it could be that his sour disposition is a result of constipation. The extra fiber would do him good.”

  Loshak plucked his sunglasses from his shirt collar and slid them over his eyes.

  “Whatever his problem is, you’ve seen enough of it by now. Delicate egos. Territorial BS. FBI politics. The usual nonsense.”

  When Darger looked up again, Agent Dawson was approaching. Baxter followed behind, looking like he’d been sucking on a lemon.

  Loshak was right. She had seen enough of it. She’d seen so much that she was getting a little sick of it now. Never mind that they were always ready to drop everything to fly out wherever they might be needed. They were all supposed to be working together.

  Darger filled her lungs, counted to three, and let out the breath. She needed to focus. Agent Baxter’s shitty attitude was his problem. Not hers.

  “I had a question for you, if that’s alright?” Agent Dawson said, resting her hands on her hips.

  Agent Baxter stayed a couple steps behind his partner, not quite willing to join their little huddle. Even so, he emitted a sigh loud enough for all to hear. The set of his mouth gave him the appearance of seeming perpetually unimpressed with everyone and everything in his surroundings.

  “Ask away,” Loshak said.

  “Is it unusual for him to change tactics like this? To go from sniping to shooting up close? It seems like an awfully big shift,” Agent Dawson said.

  Loshak removed his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it unusual. Nothing about this type of crime is usual. I’d use the term ‘unique.’ The shift to face-to-face violence suggests an emotional escalation. He’s like a rage addict. The same dose won’t do it for him the second time around. The frantic beating of his own heart as he crouched on that hilltop wasn’t enough. He wants to see the terror in their faces as he pulls the trigger. Wants to revel in the destruction up close and personal,” he finished, replacing his sunglasses on his face.

  “Well,” Agent Dawson said, taking a moment to find the words. “That’s a comforting thought. Will he keep escalating?”

  Darger and Loshak exchanged a glance. They both nodded.

  “These guys… they tend to keep going until they get caught. I think a good lot of them are hoping for suicide-by-cop. Though this guy apparently wants to drag it out. Inflict the maximum amount of destruction,” Darger said.

  “What about the kid that tried to stop him? Any chance that’ll give him second thoughts? Change his mind about continuing on with his plan, I mean?”

  Loshak took that in for a moment before answering.

  “Maybe. But I doubt it. He might get more cautious for a few days. Lay low. But the rage in this guy, it’s not liable to burn itself out. If anything, he might be emboldened by the fact that he made it through the conflict. Proved his mettle and all that. We’re talking about someone who will be very difficult to catch, very difficult to stop. And he will only push the scale of these attacks to something grander, something even more dramatic. You think he seems dangerous now? Think bigger.”

  Agent Dawson turned back to the parking lot and extended her arm toward the scene.

  “How do you get bigger than this?”

  Loshak had a fist to his mouth. Darger knew what he was thinking, but she got the impression he didn’t want to be the one to say it.

  She licked her lips. Cleared her throat.

  “A big public event. Or kids. Or both,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Darger could see in Agent Dawson’s face that she was horrified at the suggestion.

  “He’ll probably contact us or the media and threaten us first. With a note. Or an anonymous call. He’ll say he’s going to target a large sporting event or a concert, blow up a hospital, take a school bus hostage. Something like that.”

  “Why would he contact us first? So we try to stop him and kill him in the process? Suicide-by-cop, like you said before?”

  “It’s the same reason he’s doing all of this,” Loshak said. “Because our collective fear makes him feel in control. The threats and the violence are the way he reassures himself that he has power, and we — the general public, all of us — are the props he needs to actualize this control fantasy. It’s not real for him until he can watch us squirm.”

  Agent Baxter’s voice cut in.

  “This is all based on the pattern of the guys in DC?”

  “Pardon?” Loshak said.

  “Isn’t that what the DC snipers did? Left notes? Threatened to kill kids?”

  Loshak sniffed.

  “They did. But this profile isn’t based purely on that one case.”

  “No? You might as well be quoting from the case file to me. And I can guess where the profile will go from here. You’ll say he’s a fringe anti-government type, radicalized by his military history. Because war turns us all into psychotics, right?”

  Darger was a little surprised at how calm Agent Baxter looked throughout his rant. Given the amount of venom he was spouting, she would have expected at least a touch of foaming at the mouth. But his face remained as placid and unimpressed with the world as ever.

  Darger’s attention flicked over to Loshak, curious to see how he’d handle this. His eyes narrowed, but they were more inquisitive than threatening.

  “Look, we’re not here to take anything from anyone. We’re all on the same team.”

  “Like the way things went down in Ohio last fall?”

  Agent Dawson tried to cut in, her voice a warning tone. “Ethan.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Loshak said, and now Darger thought she detected a note of anger.

  “I’ve seen the press, the feature in Vanity Fair,” Baxter said, forming the words as if they had a bad taste.

  Darger felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. The article about her, that’s what he was talking about. Practically sneering. Was that why he’d been such a dickhead since they’d a
rrived? Jealousy and resentment? Fear that she and Loshak would get all the credit?

  “It’s not hard to figure out how your unit operates,” Baxter continued. “If you get it wrong, you’re nowhere to be found. On to the next city to spout your theories while we get left behind picking up after you. If things work out, you guys are there at center stage, taking your bow, doing photo shoots for glossy magazines.”

  “Look, if you’re that worried about getting your fucking picture in a magazine, I suggest you go see a modeling agent,” Darger said, practically lunging toward him.

  Before Baxter could say anything in response, Loshak was pulling her back by the forearm.

  “Violet, hey,” he said, “let it go.”

  She was still locked on Agent Baxter as Loshak dragged her away. She shook free from his grip and stalked off to be alone. It wasn’t until she’d taken a few steps that she realized she was shaking.

  Arrogant prick, she thought, squeezing her hands into fists.

  Everywhere they went, it was just more bureaucratic baloney. More pissing contests. How had Loshak put up with it all these years?

  Her foot crunched through some of the glass from the shattered front window of the supermarket, and she turned to stomp back the way she’d come. When she whirled around, Loshak was there.

  “That was bullshit,” she said, not waiting for him to speak. Her voice wavered with emotion. “Neither one of us was even on the DC sniper case.”

  “Forget it. It’s not about that anyway,” Loshak said, smoothing the sides of his hair. “I swear to Christ it’s contagious.”

  “What is?”

  “The chaos that comes from a crime like this. Stirs everything up,” he said.

  Loshak turned to scan the horizon, one arm crossed over his chest, the other hand clenched into a fist and pressed to his mouth.

  “You think he’s watching?” she asked.

  “Had things not gone awry with that football player, I’d put money on it. But I think that probably spooked him enough to duck and cover. For a little while at least.”

  He waved a hand indicating that she should follow.

  “If you’re ready to go, Agent Dawson offered to drop us off at our hotel.”

  Darger nodded, hoping that meant Agent Baxter wouldn’t be along for the ride. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to resist punching him in that big movie star chin of his.

  Loshak was right again. It was going to be one of those trips.

  Chapter 8

  The adrenaline waned in time, the numb of the shock faded, and the humiliation settled over him in waves. Embarrassment. Shame.

  The Jeep weaved through the traffic, its movements restless, agitated. There was nowhere to go, he knew, but he hurried to get there nevertheless. He drove on as the day wore into the afternoon, winding his way around the city, licking his wounds.

  He tongued the jagged split in his lip, still tasting the salty blood there. The wound had ceased bleeding from what he could tell, his gum line no longer ringed in red when he bared his teeth in the mirror, but it still stung to lick and jab and prod at the torn flesh like he did.

  Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop.

  The pain. That sharp tendril snaking its way into his chin and cheek with every movement. It felt right somehow. The hurt inside brought out into the real world and injected into the lining of his mouth, made corporeal, made concrete.

  The Glock-18c had been a holy grail of sorts — a fully automatic version of the gun that was technically illegal for civilians to buy or own. Luke had been the one who told him about it, way back before any of this started, before either of them had even fired a gun, and it had become something of an obsession for the two of them.

  The Jeep stalked up to a red light and waited. Waited. He watched an overweight woman in the Volkswagen Jetta alongside him, her eyeliner smeared, her mouth working, jaw chawing endlessly like a grasshopper’s. Even through the glass, he could almost hear the gum smacking.

  How could he let it happen? Some kid plastering him like that? Disarming him. Flinging him to the ground like a rag doll and grinding him into the pavement. A goddamned kid.

  He ground his teeth a moment, and then went back to flicking his tongue over the gash in his lip.

  Losing that gun of all guns. The rage welled in him when he pictured it there, nestled under the gas tank of the Mazda.

  Forever out of reach.

  He still remembered the day they got it. They were so excited. Like kids. They couldn’t resist. They fired a few rounds in the backyard just to feel it. He shot through a bush at the back of the yard, the bullet disappearing into the empty lot beyond. Luke thought that was particularly hilarious. Just shooting a bush.

  When it was his turn, Luke set an empty Dr. Pepper can on the picnic table and fired, the exit wound curling shards of the metal outward, a little explosion preserved in aluminum.

  It was the first time either of them had fired a gun outside of the range, and it got Levi’s heart banging pretty good. Loud as fuck, too, of course, so they scrambled inside right away out of fear of a neighbor calling it in.

  But they had something now. Something that could do real damage.

  They had power. Real power. For the first time. Power made all the more alluring by the fact that the gun was illegal, undocumented, obtained through back channels.

  Some part of him wanted to go back for it, wanted to at least drive by on the very slight chance that the police had overlooked it, but no. It was hopeless and far too risky. He’d lost it.

  The light flicked to green, and the Jetta throbbed to life next to him. The overweight grasshopper woman sped away, veering off to the left. His Jeep lurched forward a beat after she was gone.

  He couldn’t be sentimental about the gun, about any of this. In a way, he should consider himself lucky, shouldn’t he? That kid came close to ending it right there in the parking lot — damn close — but Levi had found his way out of it. He was still here, still going, and one gun made no difference one way or the other.

  The plan could still go on, could go bigger and bigger still. He could move on. Move forward. It’s what Luke would want.

  Again a red light made him wait, made him restless. He watched an ugly couple sing along with their stereo, tilting their fat heads in unison, smiling a little at each other. He wished he could brandish the sawed-off shotgun right here and now. Just roll down his window as if to ask for Grey Poupon and open fire. He licked his lips at the thought, palms and fingertips itching for the feel of the weapon, the jerk and throttling vibration as it blew the ugly people away. All of them, preferably. All of the ugly, stupid people all around him.

  When the traffic got moving again, the fire inside died back if only a little.

  He drove on, replaying the events in the parking lot in his head over and over again, steeling himself for what would come next — what would have to come next.

  He was pretty sure of what he’d do, even if thinking about it made him sick.

  Chapter 9

  Agent Dawson eased the Suburban up in front of the hotel entrance.

  “I’d like to apologize on behalf of Ethan. He was part of a sniper team in the Marines, so I think he’s taking this all a little personally. Which is why he probably came off a little… strong-willed.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is asshole-ish,” Darger said and Loshak shot her a withering look from the front seat.

  “Let’s just drop it,” he said.

  Darger knew he was right. As usual.

  “Apologies, Agent Dawson. I mean no offense to you, of course.”

  Dawson nodded.

  Darger hopped out, eager to be out of the car. Violet caught sight of the frilly hem of her dress as she hauled her suitcase out of the back. And doubly eager to finally be out of the frou-frou gumdrop dress.

  “I’ll call or text if there are any developments before the meeting,” Dawson was saying as Loshak climbed down from the passenger seat.
<
br />   “Thank you, Agent Dawson,” Loshak said. “We’ll see you then.”

  The SUV began to roll down the drive, and Darger set her sights on the hotel lobby. In less than ten minutes, she could be showering — better yet, soaking in a bubble bath — and then putting on fresh clothes in colors that did not belong in an Easter basket.

  Loshak tugged at her sleeve.

  “Come on, Darger. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  She planted her feet, resisting. She was still stuck on thoughts of luxuriating in the bath tub.

  “It’s almost noon. Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?”

  Loshak hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Sign says breakfast all day.”

  “Well, I’m not really hungry,” she said.

  Hands on hips, Loshak studied her from behind his ever-present reflective shades.

  “Bull. When was the last time you ate?”

  Darger looked up and squinted at the glare of the sun.

  “Does the little packet of pretzels they gave me on the flight count?”

  Loshak scoffed.

  “Not on your life.”

  There was a voice in her head that wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Loshak to quit fussing over her like a mother hen. But she knew that wasn’t really what it was. It made sense, getting some food in her. Plus, she hadn’t had any coffee this morning. That was likely the main source of the grouchy voice.

  “Oh alright,” she said and followed Loshak past the hotel entrance and into the restaurant.

  Loshak pointed at her with his fork.

  “What’s up with you?”

  Darger didn’t look up or stop buttering her toast.

  “You mean aside from the bloody massacre we just picked over? Or the part where the lead agent inferred that we’re a couple of histrionic hacks?”

  After washing down a bite of egg white omelet with a gulp of orange juice, Loshak shook his head.

  “Nah, you’ve been acting squinky since you got off the plane.”

  “Squinky? Is that your professional diagnosis, Doctor?”

  He narrowed his eyes.