by L T Vargus
“You know, it sucks though,” Spinks said as they stepped inside the cab stand. They were the only ones waiting. “Not finding anything at all. It’s like we were so close, but then we lost it.”
Loshak thought about telling Spinks all the things he’d been thinking — the long shot theory that the car following them had something to do with Whitley, something to do with Kansas City. The words clustered there on the tip of his tongue, but he let them go. Better to not stoke the reporter’s paranoia, not without tangible evidence.
“You can’t lose something that was never there,” Loshak said, after a beat. “Another lead will turn up if we keep looking.”
Spinks bumped his arm. “Look at you, being all optimistic.”
Loshak shrugged, but didn’t say anything else.
“Guess I scared the optimism off,” the reporter said, looking out at the traffic.
“Not sure I ever had any,” Loshak said. “I like to think I’m more pragmatic.”
Loshak heard the crunch of a skull, but it was just a cab rolling over some ice. It pulled up beside the stand and stopped, waiting for them to climb in. Loshak let out an involuntary grunt of pain when he went to pick up his suitcase. Spinks shooed him off of it like a mother hen and loaded it for him.
“I can be pragmatic, too, you know,” the reporter said as he climbed in.
Loshak got in beside him and slammed the door.
“That’s up for debate.”
Planting his hands on his hips, Spinks stared out his window at the passing traffic, a tight scowl on his face. His normally smooth baritone hardened, became serious and slightly nasal. “We’ll find a new angle. Gather new information before we jump to conclusions. See what shakes loose.”
Loshak snorted. “I don’t sound like that.”
“I beg to differ, my friend.”
Loshak didn’t get a chance to argue the point. The driver asked where they were going, and Spinks sat forward to give him directions to their hotel. The reporter had gathered up Loshak’s clothes and brought them to the hospital, but hadn’t really thought about his own things until they started talking flight times while they’d waited for the doctor.
That made Loshak feel a little guilty, having to be the one taken care of, watched over. But when Darger had been shot, it hadn’t seemed strange or even like a chore to hang out at the hospital and keep watch over her. It was just what partners did. And Spinks was his partner. They were in this together.
He patted his pockets, looking for his phone. Jan had probably texted him last night, and obviously he hadn’t been in any condition to respond. Hopefully if she’d seen anything on the news about the Chicago shooter case, it hadn’t mentioned an FBI agent in the hospital.
“Where’s my phone?”
Spinks sat back in his seat. “They didn’t find it. Walsh probably dumped it somewhere during the, uh… confrontation.”
Loshak nodded absently.
“I need to call Jan when we get to the hotel. Let her know everything’s fine.”
“Why wait?” Spinks handed over his phone. “You can call her on mine.”
“Thanks.” Loshak started dialing, then stopped. Jan’s name had popped up with her contact information. He looked at the reporter. “You have Jan’s number?”
Spinks put his hands up. “Hey, you’re not always the most obliging guy in the world when it comes to taking care of yourself or telling people how you’re doing. We both like having a reliable source to fact-check with.”
“Did you already tell her I was in the hospital?”
Spinks nodded. “Soon as we knew you were stable, I called her.”
Loshak hit the Call icon.
“Well, at least she didn’t hear about it on the news.” While the phone rang, he wondered whether Spinks had told her anything about Walsh, about what happened. The confrontation, Spinks had called it. A nice, sterile word for the savagery.
“Jevon?” Jan answered, a note of fear in her voice.
“No, it’s me,” Loshak said. “I lost my phone, so Spinks let me use his.”
“Oh.” Relief came through loud and clear in that one syllable. Knowing she’d been worried about him made his chest warm. “Are you OK, Vick? I mean, really alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Couple bumps and bruises. Discharged with a perfect bill of health otherwise.”
Jan hmphed. “I’ll believe that when I see the medical charts.”
Loshak felt a smile tugging at his face.
“Well, my cholesterol isn’t going to win any awards, but other than that, I’m doing pretty good for a guy my age.”
“When are you coming home?”
The drugs and the exhaustion must’ve really been doing a number on him. Hearing Jan call their old house home like they were back together made his face hot and the backs of his eyes prickle. He turned away from Spinks like he was looking out the window and blinked rapidly.
“Tonight was the earliest flight we could get,” Loshak said when he could talk normally. “I should be home at about eleven.”
Epilogue
The sound of cars and semis whooshed past in the distance, tires burning up roadway like the interstate hadn’t been closed just the night before. It wasn’t snowing anymore, and nobody could stand to sit around doing nothing on a day when the sun was shining, even during the winter apparently.
Life moved on. Nothing good could last.
Down in the woods off the freeway, Frank stood in shin-deep snow, staring down at a disturbed patch of black dirt. This good earth. He’d heard somebody say that once, but he couldn’t remember where. But yeah, it was good. As good as he could manage considering the circumstances.
He tipped back the pint bottle of Jim Beam, pouring the stinging liquor between his teeth. It burned across his tongue and settled in his chest, making a warm spot.
“Sorry I can’t take you home to Jersey, you big knucklehead,” Frank said. “You understand. Comes with the job.”
He swallowed hard, speechless for a moment.
“At least the fucking ground wasn’t frozen yet. So, that’s one thing.”
He took another long drink, finished the bottle off. He’d sweat most of it out while digging, anyway.
“You were a good guy. You know that, too, I guess.”
Frank crouched down and shoved the bottle into the dirt a little. A glass gravestone.
“Yeah. I would’ve—” He had to clear his throat. “You know I would’ve taken you in, no matter what happened to me afterward, right? Fuck the cops and the doctors and everybody. I would’ve got them to fix you, you just didn’t wait around long enough, you dumb shit.”
For a second, he was living through it again, seeing Vince’s last moments play out in front of him. The way the bleeding slowed down to almost nothing. How gray his face had been. How the big lug’s breathing went from that hoarse gorilla snuffle to a slow wheeze, then stopped altogether. Dead in the backseat, just a few blocks shy of the hospital.
How he, Frank, had pulled over and burst into tears. That had been a shocker. Sitting there in the snowy street crying his eyes out over Vince.
“You didn’t fucking wait like I told ya,” Frank said, shaking his head. “You never fucking listened to me.”
He pawed at his nose with the back of his wrist.
“Anyway…” But minutes passed, and no more words came.
Frank turned around and trudged back toward the Buick. It didn’t feel right leaving his friend out there in the cold ground. He wanted to go back. At least stay with him a little longer. But a little would turn into hours, and the longer he was there, the more likely he was to attract suspicion. This was part of the life. Everybody knew that going in. Even Vince.
“He wouldn’t have gone back to stay with me,” Frank said. Knowing every word was a lie brought him dangerously close to tears again.
He climbed into the car, glad to at least be out of the wind. The whiskey and the work had kept him warm, but it couldn’
t block the wind. His head was pounding from the constant icy gusts right into his ears.
Frank slammed a fist on the dash.
“Why the fuck did you even send us out here?” he yelled at the windshield. “Why?”
Chasing around some self-righteous Fed on a witch hunt. Losing Vince for nothing.
Somebody had to pay for that. For Vince. For everything.
Frank didn’t yet know who was about to get the bill, but he knew they would pay. Somebody was going to pay in full.
Author's Note
Thanks so much for reading Silent Night! Want another Loshak novel? Leave a review and let us know.
- More Loshak -
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- The Victor Loshak series -
Beyond Good and Evil (Book 1)
The Good Life Crisis (A Novella)
What Lies Beneath (Book 2)
Take Warning (A Novella)
Silent Night (Book 3)
Book 4 coming soon…
- More Books by E.M. Smith -
The Agent Juliet series
Broken Bones
- More Books by Tim McBain & L.T. Vargus -
The Violet Darger series
The Scattered and the Dead series
Casting Shadows Everywhere
The Clowns
The Awake in the Dark series
See where it all started for Loshak in the Violet Darger series…
Her body is broken. Wrapped in plastic. Dumped on the side of the road. She is the first. There will be more.
The serial killer thriller that "refuses to let go until you've read the last sentence."
The most recent body was discovered in the grease dumpster behind a Burger King. Dismembered. Shoved into two garbage bags and lowered into the murky oil.
Now rookie agent Violet Darger gets the most important assignment of her career. She travels to the Midwest to face a killer unlike anything she's seen. Aggressive. Territorial. Deranged and driven.
Another mutilated corpse was found next to a roller rink. A third in the gutter in a residential neighborhood.
These bold displays of violence shock the rural community and rattle local law enforcement.
Who could carry out such brutality? And why?
Unfortunately for Agent Darger, there's little physical evidence to work with, and the only witnesses prove to be unreliable. The case seems hopeless.
If she fails, more will die. He will kill again and again.
The victims harbor dark secrets. The clues twist and writhe and refuse to keep still. And the killer watches the investigation on the nightly news, gleeful to relive the violence, knowing that he can't be stopped.
Get your copy now:
Dead End Girl on Amazon
- About the Authors -
E.M. Smith came by his redneck roots honestly, his barbwire tattoo dishonestly, and his sobriety slowly. Recovery isn't a sprint, according to his friends, it's a marathon. That's probably why he turned into such a fitness geek when he quit drinking.
L.T. Vargus grew up in Hell, Michigan, which is a lot smaller, quieter, and less fiery than one might imagine. When not glued to her computer, she can be found sewing, fantasizing about food, and rotting her brain in front of the TV.
If you want to wax poetic about pizza or cats, you can contact L.T. (the L is for Lex) at [email protected] or on Twitter @ltvargus.
Tim McBain writes because life is short, and he wants to make something awesome before he dies. Additionally, he likes to move it, move it.
You can connect with Tim on Facebook or via email at [email protected].