Five Days Post Mortem: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (Violet Darger FBI Thriller Book 5)

by L. T. Vargus

  “That saves us having to get a warrant. I’m sure you’re probably already thinking the same, but I think we ought to call in SWAT on this. Maybe you have a connection with the State Police, but the FBI SWAT teams are very good, and I’m sure the Portland team could be here in under an hour if I put in a call.”

  “That’s not necessary. We have our own regional tactical team.”

  Darger knew what that meant. Part-timers. And it wasn’t that part-time SWAT teams couldn’t do the job. But this wasn’t an ordinary suspect.

  “Under the circumstances, given the seriousness of this investigation, I think it might be a more prudent call to bring in a dedicated team.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Miss Darger,” he said, and again, she realized how much she missed being called Agent instead of Miss.

  Darger gripped the phone a little harder, knuckles turning white. She had to tread carefully here.

  “I’m sure your team is excellent. But we don’t know Dustin Reynolds’ state of mind. Or if he’s armed.”

  “And our team is trained to deal with any scenario.”

  “I have no doubt. But there’s a real chance that Dustin Reynolds is a very disturbed, very dangerous man. And I think it would be best if—”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to cut you off right there. As I said before, I appreciate your input, but I really need to put the call in to our guys if we’re going to make this happen.”

  The phone clicked. He’d hung up on her.

  Darger’s fist slammed into the dashboard.

  “Goddamn it!”

  So that was why he’d made her promise to sit on the house. He was worried she’d run in, guns a-blazing, and steal his thunder.

  She’d been giving Furbush the benefit of the doubt, because they’d been working so well together. But it was always only a matter of time before the truth came out. Before the departments started jockeying for position, readying themselves for the big moment when they got to claim credit for catching the bad guy.

  “Everything OK?” Fowles asked.

  “Peachy,” Darger said, then had a thought.

  Margaret Prescott.

  She snatched her phone up from where she’d dropped it in her lap and dialed the number.

  “Violet,” Dr. Prescott said. “How are things going?”

  “Well, there’s good and bad news. The good news is we think we finally tracked our primary suspect down. The bad news is that Chief Furbush is insisting on using his local tactical team to storm the house.”

  “And?”

  “And I tried to impress upon him the importance of using a full-time team. State Police or even the FBI’s team from Portland. This isn’t a job for weekenders.”

  “I’m not sure what you think I can do about it.”

  “You could try talking some sense into him.”

  “I thought I already made this quite clear, Miss Darger. You are a consultant on this case. Nothing more. You have absolutely no jurisdictional authority. You are a civilian. You are not law enforcement. As such, it is your job to consult and then get the hell out of the way.”

  “This isn’t about me. I’m trying to prevent a bunch of small-town cops from charging in and getting their heads blown off by a potential psycho holed up in a hunting cabin.”

  “And my response is this: You are to keep your head down and to stay out of the line of fire. I did not hire you to be a top gun.” Dr. Prescott’s voice was hard. “Now, was there anything else? I’m going to be late for an appointment with my acupuncturist.”

  Darger hung up.

  Chapter 35

  After breakfast, you clear the plates and crawl back into bed. Ready to sleep that little bit more, as is Callie.

  With the shades pulled tight, shadows dominate the room. Swirling darkness smothers everything, growing thicker and blacker as you move deeper into the space like a cave.

  Here, in this room, the night never needs to end. It can be extended indefinitely. You like that.

  The cold sheets slowly go warm against your skin. Heat that builds in stages. Cold to cool to warm to toasty. A slow swelling in temperature like someone bringing up a dimmer switch in slow motion.

  You cuddle again. Hugging and squeezing.

  The lack of light purples her face, her smile beaming a brighter shade — more lavender than plum. And the dark makes the edges of her features indistinct in a way that becomes sort of maddening if you stare at it too intently. A twisting gloom over her face like smoke that won’t keep still. The shapes just keep shifting.

  Still, she is here. With you. In your arms.

  And touching her, that incredible warmth comes over your body. That sense of security that seems the only thing that can still all the bad thoughts in your head, that seems to erase any notion or care about a reality outside of this room.

  She brings you back to a simpler version of yourself and keeps you there. A childlike version without worries. Without dark impulses.

  This moment surrounds you, envelops you, the beautiful and vexing experience of life and love, the immediate joy of living that can sometimes drown everything else out.

  Again you are struck by the overwhelming desire to stop time. Freeze it. Pause all things and live in this moment forever. An endless night you can spend together.

  She rolls so she’s facing away from you and you loop an arm around her, settle against her once more. The big spoon and the little spoon.

  And she is all you really need. She is everything.

  You swallow and realize there’s a lump in your throat. Your eyelids flutter, lashes flicking at the edges of your vision like moth wings.

  Sometimes, in moments like these, your love of Callie grows so heavy in your chest that you could burst into tears. It’s too much. Too big to bear.

  You can feel them there, the tears, little itchy things in the corner of your eyes. Wet and heavy. Right on the cusp. The beads of water aching to spill down your cheeks.

  And you worry that if and when that ever happens — the spontaneous waterworks bursting forth from your eyes — you won’t be able to stop it. You’ll just cry and cry for eternity. Reduced somehow to something less than before, less than a child even. Something else. No longer human. A weeping lump that lies in bed all day, pulls the blankets up over its head and trembles there. A blubbering mess. Lost in a way that can never be found.

  But you hold it in. You hold all of it in somehow.

  You take a breath. Hold it for a beat. Let it out. Little tremors rattling your chest all the while.

  And the moment gets bigger. Swells up like a marshmallow in the microwave.

  Something is happening here. Something sacred. You can feel it in the heat in your cheeks, in the shaking abdominals in your core, in the wetness clinging to your lips.

  She feels so good in your arms. So good, you never want to let her go. So good, you almost wish you could meld with her. Fuse your bodies together so you’d never be apart.

  You sit up a little. Grip Callie’s shoulder. Turn her to face you. Going to kiss her, you think.

  And the blade just appears there between you.

  A butcher knife in your hand.

  Its tip presses into the middle of Callie’s torso. Moving. Fluttering there like a bird for a moment just beneath her ribcage, its shape shifting in the dark.

  The point pierces her. Drives right into her like she’s made of soft cheese. A long slow inward stroke, and you can feel how sharp it is in the ease of its progress. Can feel it entering her unobstructed. Unperturbed.

  Electricity shoots all through you. A flash so bright it blinds you for a second. Fills your eyes with dark.

  Confusion.

  In that moment when your vision cuts out, all of reality whittles to the feel of the knife sliding into her. So slow. It keeps going long after what seems possible. Feels like it’s about 3 feet long, but it just keeps fucking going into her.

  And you hear it. The sound of the knife. The tiniest rasp that reminds
you of a paper cutter.

  Did you bring it from the kitchen after cooking? Have it here with you, stowed under your pillow this whole time?

  Did you know you were going to do this all along? For days? Weeks? Months?

  The knife seems to move on its own. Do what it wants to do. Still sliding in on that first cut. Going deeper, deeper, deeper.

  Penetrating.

  Impaling.

  And there’s wet and hot and red gushing over the metal, over your hand, onto the sheets. It rushes out thinner than what seems right. Flows like water, like wine, like red Faygo brought up to body temperature in a sauté pan.

  And her mouth opens in slow motion. Wider. Wider.

  Lips wet. A big capital letter O occupying most of her face.

  And her eyes blink. So big. So big. Magnified by the water pooling along the bottom eyelids.

  Your own eyes flick over hers. Making eye contact but somehow not. She’s not there now. Not all the way.

  There is no connection there. Nothing between you.

  Just a small scared animal and a big strong one. Maybe there’s something natural in that. A gap between you too big to comprehend let alone bridge.

  Her mind cannot process this, cannot fathom what is happening. Somehow you know this when you look into the vacancy in her eyes. The emptiness.

  Already her skin feels so cold. Wet and shiny with an even sheen of sweat.

  Shock, you know. She is in shock.

  And maybe you feel it, too.

  Your heart hammers in your chest, its rhythm pounding in your temples, in your neck. And you can feel your breath thrusting in and out between clenched teeth. Ragged as hell.

  This is happening to both of you, isn’t it?

  A thing that is happening.

  She gags a little now. Choked sounds from deep in her throat. Retching sounds.

  And now a bloody bubble pops on her lips.

  Wet mouth moving.

  Teeth red.

  Little whispered syllables seeping out of her at the end, but you can’t understand, you can’t understand at all.

  Chapter 36

  Furbush and the others arrived about forty minutes later. When Darger saw the other vehicles approaching, she took out her sidearm and double-checked the mag.

  “Didn’t Dr. Prescott give you explicit instructions to let the law enforcement officers do the shooting and breaking down doors?”

  Darger stared at him.

  “Sorry, but your phone is really loud. I kind of heard everything.”

  She kept staring.

  “Seriously, how can you stand having it that loud? It has to be doing serious damage. Painful to even witness.”

  Removing her jacket and tossing it in the backseat, Darger tucked the Shield back into its holster.

  “I know she thinks that it’s better for her — better for Prescott Consulting — if one of her consultants isn’t involved in a potential shootout. I can appreciate that. What I can’t appreciate is letting a bunch of greenhorn cops walk into a death trap because their idiot Chief wants to play commando.”

  “Maybe we should both just stay in the car, and let them handle it.”

  Darger shook her head.

  “OK, then I think I should go with you,” he said.

  “Fowles, you’re not even armed.”

  “I have a gun.”

  “Where?”

  He lifted the lid of the console between them, pointed to a lockbox.

  “Everyone goes through firearm training and is certified for concealed carry at Prescott Consulting. It’s policy.”

  “Well it’s not doing you much good in that box.”

  Fowles pulled the case out.

  “I never could get used to it. Made me nervous to have it around all the time. I kept imagining that I’d set it down somewhere and forget about it, and then some kid would walk up and start playing with it and blow his own head off.”

  “This is your argument for letting you come along?”

  “You asked why I wasn’t carrying it.”

  “And your answer is that guns make you nervous. So yeah, I’m going to have to insist that you stay in the car.”

  Just before she closed the door, she leaned back in and said, “You’re not allowed to die yet.”

  To Furbush’s credit, he didn’t try to keep Darger from tagging along. In fact, she didn’t even have to ask to borrow a vest. He just handed one to her without a word when she approached the back of the black SUV.

  “Now before one of you young guys gets a little too enthusiastic and goes lobbing a stun grenade through a window, this is not a dynamic entry,” Furbush said to the men clustered around him. “We will surround and call out. The property owner has given us a key with permission to enter. Is that clear?”

  There was a round of rigorous nodding and yes, sirs, and then they were moving out.

  It all seemed to happen fast from there.

  They approached the cabin as one group. As they closed in on the squat little building, half of the men split off to secure the back of the place.

  Darger followed Furbush onto the front porch. The boards were old and weathered, some half-rotted through. She did her best to avoid the spots that looked the most likely to crumble under her weight.

  Over the radio, the leader of the rear group signaled that all was quiet on their end of the cabin.

  Chief Furbush pulled the front screen door ajar and banged his fist against the rustic wood storm door.

  “Sandy Police. Anybody home?”

  They waited. Nothing happened.

  Darger was positioned near one of the grimy windows. She could see through a crack in the drapes, but it was dim inside. She could make out what looked like a dingy metal sink. Must be the kitchen area. She detected no movement.

  A tingle started in her scalp and traveled down her spine. She shook it off, trying to convince herself that it was only nerves and not a premonition that things were about to go very badly.

  Furbush knocked again.

  Still there was no answer.

  “Key?” Furbush said.

  One of the men handed Furbush the key. She had a hard time telling everyone apart with the helmets and matching tactical gear, but she could read the patch on his chest. Mantelbaum. He’d been one of the uniforms asking questions when she’d presented her profile.

  “Sandy Police,” Furbush announced again. “We have permission from the homeowner to enter and are doing so now.”

  Furbush blinked and sweated as he inserted the key into the lock. The deadbolt clunked as it slid out of the way.

  Just before he turned the knob, he glanced over at his men and gave a nod. His gaze paused when it met Darger’s. He smiled nervously, but she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. She wondered if he was now regretting not letting another SWAT team handle this.

  Furbush nudged the door open with his foot and stepped aside to let the first two men through. Darger slipped inside behind Furbush, hugging the wall on the right side of the door as she entered, sweeping the corner and far wall with her weapon drawn.

  She didn’t breathe or blink. Watching for movement, listening for any sound.

  The first two men held the door while she and Furbush proceeded further into the place. It was mostly one large common room, with walls of rough pine decorated with an impressive collection of antlers and pelts. A battered old velour couch faced a woodstove on one end, and the kitchen/dining area occupied the other. Passing the sink she’d spotted through the window, Darger noted an open box of half-eaten pizza. It was moldy and covered in flies.

  It was starting to look like no one was home, but there were two doors toward the back. Probably a sleeping area and a bathroom, Darger figured. They’d need to clear them to be sure.

  A strangled cough shattered the silence. Darger flinched before she realized it had come from behind her.

  Just one of the other guys. She almost laughed, and while she didn’t allow herself to fully relax yet, she d
id finally take a breath.

  She turned, wondering why the others weren’t moving forward to clear the other two rooms.

  Chief Furbush held a hand to his nose and mouth, face wrinkled in disgust. A beat later, the fresh-faced kid, Mantelbaum, was running for the door. He doubled over the railing and retched.

  And then the smell hit her.

  The rancid stench of rotting meat.

  Her eyes met the Chief’s. They didn’t need to say anything.

  They crept to the far end of the cabin, still taking precautions because that was protocol.

  But Darger knew that neither one of them had any illusions now. They would not find any living occupants here.

  They cleared the bedroom. It wasn’t large, but with bunks stacked three-high on each side, could sleep six.

  Furbush halted in front of the bathroom. His eyes swiveled sideways to look at her. She nodded and covered him.

  He reached out a hand and gave the door a shove.

  Hinges groaned. And then another sound. The hum of flies, buzzing in the air and knocking against the window with faint tapping sounds.

  In the bathtub, a bloated corpse in an advanced state of decay oozed and stank, lying face down from the looks of it.

  There were so many flies and maggots on the body, it almost appeared to writhe and squirm on its own.

  Darger’s eyes watered from the odor, even though she wasn’t breathing through her nose. The stench of putrefaction felt oily and unctuous in her mouth.

  Flies circled everywhere now, released from their bathroom prison. Darger waved one away from her face.

  “I think we just found Dustin Reynolds.”

  Chapter 37

  The sun looked like a sphere of liquid fire as it melted below the tree line, leaving behind clouds streaked with orange and yellow.

  Darger sat on the trunk of the downed tree in the driveway of the Reynolds property. The crime scene processing team had kicked all unnecessary personnel out of the small, stinking cabin some time ago, and Darger couldn’t really say she was all that disappointed. The nose has a way of getting used to most smells, but she had yet to experience her senses reaching the point where she really, truly didn’t notice the stench of decay.