Violet Darger (Book 2): Killing Season

by L. T. Vargus

  The neighborhood was clearly working class. The houses were small, the yards sparse. The statue was what kept throwing her off. For all she knew, she was knocking on the door of Ethan’s elderly aunt. Instantly a 65-year-old spinster with thirteen guinea pigs and a bad case of gout sprang to mind.

  She hoped that wasn’t the case. If this wasn’t the contact Ethan had mentioned, Violet would be back to analyzing conspiracy theory phone messages. She had no idea how else she’d get information on the Nameless Brotherhood. Perhaps Agent Dawson would have ideas if this didn’t pan out.

  Violet went up the four steps that led to the screened porch and rapped the side of her fist against the door.

  The crack and squeak of old floorboards preceded the home’s occupant, and then the main door of the house popped open. Through the haze of the porch screen, Darger recognized the familiar figure.

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

  “It’s me.”

  Owen Baxter leaned against the porch frame, barefoot and wearing what she assumed were his pajamas: a pair of gray sweatpants and a threadbare NOFX shirt. Her first thought was that it was the middle of the afternoon, and he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Then she considered the fact that his twin brother was in a coma, and she should maybe stop being a judgmental bitch for two seconds. He’d probably been up half the night at the hospital, sitting with his mother.

  He fixed her with an expectant look, no doubt wondering what she was doing on his doorstep. He didn’t seem put out, at least. More like a combination of amused and curious.

  Violet had moved down a step when she saw who was answering the door. Standing eight inches lower than him made her feel like a kid selling candy for a school fundraiser. She resisted the urge to fidget.

  “I… must have misunderstood. Sorry.”

  “Misunderstood what?”

  She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and tried not to let her disappointment show. There was no contact here after all. Ethan had only been stopping by to talk to his brother. Damn it to hell.

  “Nothing. Something about the case.”

  “Something my brother was working on,” he said, and it was more a statement than a question.

  She met his eyes. They were a stony blue-gray, just like his brother’s.

  “I can’t really talk about it,” she said. “I should go. Sorry to bother.”

  Whatever Owen’s interest was — innocent curiosity, she figured — it wouldn’t be wise for her to go blabbing about it. She’d already gotten Ethan shot. The least she could do now was keep her mouth shut about his blatant insubordination.

  Violet turned and went the rest of the way down the stairs, the soles of her boots thumping against the concrete. Owen called after her.

  “This is about the Nameless Brotherhood, isn’t it?”

  She stopped in her tracks, feet scuffing over the loose stones of the driveway as she spun to face him. Her eyelids squinted ever so slightly.

  “What do you know about that?”

  “I know that my brother came around asking if I had any information on them. Any contacts that might talk.”

  “And you’d have access to that kind of information because…”

  He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Because I’m a private investigator.”

  “Huh,” she said, struck momentarily dumb by the whirring of thoughts in her head. So his brother was the contact. Why hadn’t Ethan just said so? Why the secrecy? Another question came to her.

  “What would a P.I. know about the Nameless?”

  “Depends on the skill of the P.I., I suppose. I happen to be one of the best, so…”

  The corner of her mouth quirked upward.

  “Certainly not one of the most humble.”

  “Humility is overrated.”

  Violet snorted. She was starting to see the family resemblance again.

  “So what did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t have anything for him when he first asked. I needed to get in touch with some people.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I know where the upper echelon Nameless guys hang out on Friday nights.”

  Bingo. Darger felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. She took a step forward.

  “Where?”

  “I’ll drive,” he said as if it were a legitimate answer to her question.

  “Uh, I think not.”

  Now he was the one smirking. Maybe he thought if he stood there and looked smug enough, she’d change her mind. Fat chance.

  “This is part of an official FBI investigation,” she said. “You’re a civilian.”

  Owen shrugged as if he really couldn’t care less.

  “Best of luck with your investigation, then.”

  With that, he slipped back inside. The porch door snapped shut behind him.

  Darger’s hands balled into fists. What was it with these arrogant, stubborn Baxters?

  She strode back up the steps, holding her face an inch away from the screen. Owen hadn’t bothered closing the door to the house, and she could see him inside, bustling around the kitchen. He bent down, hands shifting things around in one of the cabinets.

  “Just give me the name of the place,” she said.

  “Sorry, Miss Darger, but either we go together, or I go alone. Those are the only two options.”

  Owen dumped a measuring cup full of kibble into a metal bowl on the floor. Dog or cat food, she thought. Sure enough, a large black cat padded into the room a moment later.

  “First of all, it’s Agent Darger. And second, you’re obstructing an ongoing investigation. I could have you arrested.”

  Owen stooped to stroke the cat as it mowed through the kibble.

  “Could you now?”

  She gave him her hardest stare.

  “Don’t try me, Baxter.”

  He returned her glare with a grin that reminded her of a cartoon wolf.

  “I know you’re bluffing. Ethan told me his boss didn’t want him anywhere near the OMGs. That’s why he came to me in the first place.”

  “Did you just say OMG?”

  “Yeah, as in ‘Outlaw Motorcycle Gang.’ Not text lingo.”

  “Oh.”

  “See, this is exactly why you need me there.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I can handle myself, thank you.”

  “Look, all joking aside, I mean it. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill street gang made up of juvenile delinquents. These guys are organized. A lot of them have military experience. They aren’t fucking around,” he said, and then his face hardened further. “Besides, Ethan is my brother.”

  “And what? You want vengeance?”

  “No, I want to know that you’re going to catch this motherfucker.”

  “We will,” she said, adding a silent prayer that they’d catch him before more people died.

  He straightened from petting the cat.

  “Good,” he said. “When should I pick you up?”

  “I didn’t say-”

  “You can keep arguing if you want, Miss Darger. But we both know you’re gonna go along with it.”

  “Oh, do we?” she said, overlooking the Miss for the moment. She had to pick her battles.

  “You would have left by now if you weren’t,” he said, grinning in such a way that she was sure he was gloating. “Might as well come in. You’re making me feel inhospitable hovering there on the front porch like that.”

  The hinges on the door creaked and groaned as Violet entered the house.

  Chapter 30

  Owen moved into a small room off the living room that turned out to be a rather untidy bedroom. The mess only helped in making it look smaller.

  He stooped and lifted a crumpled pile of something from one corner. It turned out to be a battered pair of jeans. He brought them to his nose and sniffed.

  With one surprisingly deft flick of the wrist, he dropped the pants he was wearing.

  More surprising was the fact that he wasn�
�t wearing any underpants.

  “Whoa! Hey!” Darger protested, covering her eyes.

  “It’s OK.” Owen stepped into his jeans looking unconcerned. “I’m not modest.”

  Darger pivoted so her back was to him.

  “Yeah, I gathered that.”

  When she faced him again, he was pulling a plain black t-shirt over his head. He stepped from the room, leaving the clothes he’d been wearing on the floor. Darger considered her own housekeeping skills and figured she wasn’t much better.

  Owen was standing close enough to touch, studying her like there might be a pop quiz later. He paid particular attention to her chest and her ass.

  “You don’t happen to have any leather pants, do you? Maybe a matching fringed vest that shows a lot of cleavage?”

  Darger felt her mouth pull together in a tight, disapproving pout she associated with elderly churchgoing women who made a lot of fudge and passed judgment on pretty much everyone. She forced herself to relax the expression.

  “I’m kidding,” he said, squeezing past her on his way back to the kitchen.

  He toed open the fridge and removed a carton of orange juice. After a long gulp straight from the carton, he paused to catch his breath.

  “Thirsty?” he asked, and she shook her head. The fridge door hung wide open behind him, and she had a sudden glimpse of Owen and Ethan as boys.

  Owen made messes and Ethan cleaned them up. Or perhaps, a little bit the other way around: Ethan kept everything tidy and ordered, and Owen came through like a tsunami disrupting the perfection with his chaos and irreverence.

  She snapped out of it when she realized he was talking.

  “Really if you just had a low cut tank top and some jeans, that should work.”

  He hopped up to sit on the counter, reaching over his shoulder to pull a box of Frosted Flakes from the cupboard.

  “You do a lot of this in your line of work?” she asked. “Playing dress-up?”

  Instead of answering immediately, he shook the box of cereal at her. Another offering, she guessed. Again, she declined.

  “Hey, you gotta make an effort to blend in. And by ‘you’ I mean especially you,” Owen said, gesturing at her with the cereal box.

  “Meaning?”

  “I can smell the bacon on you from a mile away. And if I can, you can bet the Nameless will, too.”

  She crossed her arms and repeated the word.

  “Bacon?”

  The box of cereal was already open, as he apparently hadn’t even bothered to tuck the flaps or roll the bag closed whenever he’d used it last. Owen thrust a hand inside and came back with a fist of Tony the Tiger’s finest.

  “Hey, be glad you don’t have a law enforcement background like my brother. With those guys, it’s practically baked in. You’ve only got a little of that federale pig-stank on ya.”

  “Thank you. That’s… lovely.”

  He winked at her as he tossed the handful of dry cereal into his mouth.

  She frowned then.

  “How did you know I wasn’t a cop before?”

  He gave her a smug little grin while he chewed.

  “I told you. I’m good at what I do.”

  He gave her another obvious looking-over.

  “So, seriously. Got anything more casual?”

  Chapter 31

  She stomped out to her rental car, cursing the Baxter name.

  Had he actually referred to her as bacon? Jesus Christ.

  Sliding into the front seat, she glanced at her reflection in the rear view mirror. And did she really give off vibes of being a Fed that much?

  Whatever. Screw him.

  The clock on the dash caught her eye. 5:04 PM. She could squeeze in about four hours of sleep before she was supposed to meet Owen back here. That was if she hit the sack as soon as she reached her hotel room.

  Her phone rang, and Violet glanced at the screen. Her mother.

  “Hi, mom,” she answered.

  “Oh! You’re actually there! I’m so used to it going to voicemail.”

  Violet sighed, sure her mother hadn’t meant it to sound so much like a criticism. She felt a needle-prick of guilt anyway.

  “How was the family brunch thing?”

  “It was lovely. I wish you could have been there. Everyone missed you, of course. And the food was fabulous. They had lox and bagels, so I thought of you and how you used to just gobble it up when you were little. Do you still like lox?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Her mother chuckled.

  “I was calling to see how your return trip went. You never let me know,” her mother said.

  Violet bopped herself in the forehead with a fist.

  “Shit — I mean, crap. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I know you probably ran straight off into some other pickle you can’t really tell me about.”

  She didn’t know how to respond for a moment. Her mother sometimes surprised her with little insights like that.

  “And there was something else I wanted to tell you, and that is that I bought you a ticket.”

  Violet puzzled over this. For the life of her, Violet couldn’t think of what her mother could be referring to.

  “For Europe,” her mother clarified.

  Europe… Violet recalled her mother mentioning the trip: a two-week bus tour of Spain, France, and Italy. Violet also remembered telling her mom she’d think about it… not that she’d definitely be coming along. And certainly not that she should go ahead and buy a ticket on Violet’s behalf.

  “Mom, I don’t even know if I can—”

  “Don’t fuss about it. I had the miles and needed to use them anyway. So I figured, why not?”

  Violet could think of several reasons why her mother should not have booked a ticket for a trip she’d never agreed to go on, but she said nothing. Instead, she sighed.

  “I have no idea if the Bureau would even grant me that much leave.”

  “But it can’t hurt to ask, can it? The worst they could say is no.”

  Violet tried to imagine being gone from the BAU for two weeks.

  “You work so hard for them, I can’t fathom how they could say no. You deserve a little vacation. Some relaxation time,” her mother said.

  Trapped in a tour bus with her mother and two dozen other bored, wealthy housewives sounded like the opposite of relaxing to Violet. She pressed her fingertips to her head and massaged the flesh over her temple.

  “And when is this again?”

  “End of September. You really should put in your request soon. You don’t want to wait until the last minute.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ll take a look at things and get back to you,” Violet said.

  As they were saying their goodbyes, Darger caught another glimpse of her reflection in the car mirror.

  “Hey, mom. If we didn’t know each other, and you walked past me on the street, what kind of vibe do I give off?”

  Her mother’s musical laugh crackled over the line.

  “What an odd question,” she said. “I suppose I’d think you were… someone important. Someone with power?”

  “Power?”

  “Maybe that’s the wrong word. Authority? But not necessarily because someone else gave it to you. More like it’s something you possess all on your own.”

  “In other words, you’d think I was a badass.”

  Her mom laughed again.

  “I just remember coming home from work once and finding you hunched over a book with the most intense stare on your face. I thought you were doing math homework or something like that. You looked like you were in the middle of diffusing a bomb. But you weren’t doing math homework.”

  There was a stretch of silence.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. Sorry, I can still see you sitting there with your book.”

  “What book was it?”

  “I don’t remember the title, but it was a biography of Ted Bundy.” Her mother sighe
d. “I suppose I should have known then how you’d end up.”

  “You make it sound like I’m some kind of freak,” Violet said, more amused than offended.

  “No, of course not.” After a brief pause she added, “OK, maybe a little.”

  Violet pretended to scoff.

  “You’ll let me know about Europe?”

  Violet nodded, then remembered she was on the phone. “Yep.”

  Violet ended the call and tossed her phone into the passenger seat. Her eyes filled with water as a tremendous yawn overcame her.

  She steered away from the curb, thinking that her problem wouldn’t be falling asleep once she got back to the hotel. The hard part would be crawling out of bed in less than four hours.

  Chapter 32

  Owen must have heard the gravel crunching under the tires of her car, because he was moseying down the porch steps before she’d even turned off the ignition.

  He barely gave her a second look when she climbed out and followed him over to the CR-V, which irked her. Even though he’d only been teasing her, all that stuff about looking like a cop and showing some cleavage had made her especially self-conscious. She supposed it didn’t help that Owen was the kind of guy that had always made her nervous when she was younger. The type that had a sort of offhand way of being charming and flirtatious, so she never knew how serious to take it. Plus, he was good-looking, and he knew it, unlike his brother who didn’t seem to notice — or at least pretended not to.

  The result was that it took her twice as long to get ready, despite the fact that she ultimately settled on a pair of jeans and an army green v-neck tee. But she had applied extra makeup and fiddled with her hair. Now she felt silly that she’d given his comments a second thought.

  His thumb jabbed at the Engine Start button and the car came to life.

  Like some kind of mind-reader, he turned his head and said, “You dress down well, by the way.”

  Irritated at the little thrill that ran through her at the compliment, she murmured a half-hearted, “Thanks.”