by L. T. Vargus
His eyelid fluttered. The good one. Darger wondered if the other eye could even blink. Maybe they’d sewn it shut. Did they do that? Or was there just an empty pit under the patch? A black socket that stared out at nothing.
“There was a feeling in the air. Something palpable... Almost something I could taste. A foreboding, you could say. And whatever it was, I would see it. Would witness it. In the biblical sense, you know.”
“Where are the bodies?” Darger asked, still counting down in her head.
“I was going to see what was underneath.”
“Five seconds left. Where are the bodies?”
“You’re asking the wrong questions. The question you’re supposed to ask is, ‘Underneath what?’”
“Time’s up. Where are the bodies?”
“And the answer is: Underneath everything. Under flesh and blood. Under moon and stars. The universe. Life itself. The hidden things, buried under the lies we tell ourselves. The lies we live. A revelation. A truth. Something real. Something beyond the black seas of infinity that surround us and drown us. Something primal and raw and perhaps spiritual. I’d like to think so, at least.”
Darger stared at the pale, gaunt face. Whatever it was they had hoped to learn here, it was clear Stump wasn’t going to cooperate. She turned to Prescott.
“I’m done.”
“Wait,” Prescott said, but Darger was already out of her chair, heading for the door.
Coonan stood fidgeting just outside the door, and he perked up at the sight of Darger coming out.
“You got it already? Jesus, that was fast.”
Darger didn’t slow as she passed him by.
“There’s nothing to get. Just an old man with an eye patch spouting half-remembered Nietzsche quotes. I told you, this was all a game. You got played.”
The heels of her boots thudded out a rhythm as she marched back toward the central control room. Behind her, Coonan hissed complaints at Prescott, who had followed Darger out of the interview room.
“You told me you’d have things under control. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”
“Look, this isn’t a cakewalk for her, you know,” Prescott whisper yelled. “Just give her a minute, for Christ’s sake.”
As surprised as Darger was to hear Prescott coming to her defense, she didn’t pause or turn back to look at them. She only stopped walking because she’d reached the locked door to the control room holding area and had to wait for someone to let her out. For the moment, however, the guards inside were ignoring the door.
She waited a few seconds, snippets of Coonan and Prescott still arguing behind her now an unintelligible slur of whispers. One of the guards had his feet up on the desk while the other jabbered away nonstop. Darger couldn’t hear them through the layers of glass, but she imagined him complaining about something inane like sports betting. Something like: I had it made until Landry dropped that pass in the fourth quarter. Unbelievable.
A panicky, claustrophobic sensation squirmed and swelled in her gut until it felt like a spider was crawling up her throat. She couldn’t take it any longer. She wanted out of here. Away from Stump.
She reached out a fist and banged it against the glass.
That got the attention of the guards. The two she’d been watching both swiveled around in their chairs to face her. Darger made an impatient gesture at the door, noting the way the chatterbox’s mouth hardened into a tight line. Prison guards weren’t used to having people tell them when and where to open doors. So he took his sweet time.
She could hear the telltale clanking of chains as Stump was helped to the door of the interview room.
Darger wanted to scream at the guard to hurry up but knew it wouldn’t help anything. The windbag was shuffling over to the door control as if his legs were shackled at the ankles, too.
Finally he reached the control panel and jammed a knuckle into a large silver button.
The door slid open, and Darger was through in a flash. But it was too late. The door still hung ajar for Prescott and Coonan, and Stump’s voice echoed down the bare hallway to reach her.
“Aren’t you curious, Violet? I have so much to show you. Aren’t you curious what’s beneath it all?”
Chapter 6
“Well that didn’t go as planned,” Prescott said.
Darger said nothing. She stared out the window at the passing palm trees and tourist traps. What had she been thinking when she agreed to this? Her instincts — her instant gut reaction — had told her it would be a mistake. Her subconscious had even doubled down on the warning, providing her with her first nightmare in months. But she’d talked herself into the sacrifice nevertheless, let herself believe she’d actually be able to do some good by enduring some face-to-face time with Stump. What a joke.
All she wanted now was to get to the hotel. She felt grimy and stale after the interaction. She could use a shower, wash that industrial stank of the jail off her skin. And then she’d figure out if she could get a return flight to Virginia sooner than originally planned.
“I really talked you up to Coonan, you know,” Prescott was saying in an overly casual voice. “He was a little dubious about giving Stump anything, but I told him you’d get it done. To have you storm out like that doesn’t exactly reflect well on me.”
Darger gave the barest shake of her head. Was Prescott expecting her to apologize?
“Unfortunately, Dr. Prescott, I don’t give so much as a partial fuck how this makes you look in front of the ADA. Or anyone else for that matter.”
Prescott stared at her for a long moment, not speaking.
Now she’d done it, Darger thought. She could definitely forget about working for Prescott Consulting now.
The older woman leaned forward and muttered something to the driver. The car pulled closer to the sidewalk and eased to a stop.
Darger blinked. Was Prescott about to kick her out of the car? Well, shit. That seemed like a bit of an overreaction, but then Prescott probably wasn’t used to her subordinates swearing at her, especially not in creative ways. What would a partial fuck even be? A handjob or some such thing? Maybe. Some kind of second base deal.
“Let’s go,” Prescott said, gesturing at the door on Darger’s side.
“What?”
“I’m buying you lunch. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”
Out the window, Darger caught a glimpse of the sign for the restaurant, Downtown Terrace Kitchen & Bar.
She wasn’t hungry, but she was also sort of relieved Prescott wasn’t stranding her in the middle of downtown Las Vegas, left to raft her way through the endless waves of tourists on her own. Darger pushed the door open and climbed out.
Inside, the hostess flashed a bleach-white smile and led them to a table.
“Can I get you ladies anything to drink?” she asked, passing them each a menu.
“A Diet Coke, please,” Prescott said then leaned in and gave Darger a little wink. “Aspartame is my one guilty pleasure.”
Darger frowned, baffled. First Prescott had defended her in front of the ADA, then scolded her privately about walking out on the interview. Darger cursed her out, and now Prescott was whispering conspiratorially about soft drinks like they were at a slumber party? What the hell was going on?
The confusion displaced her anger, left her at a loss.
She realized the hostess was still standing beside the table, waiting on her drink order. Darger turned to the hostess, blinking.
“Sorry. Could I get an iced tea?”
The hostess’s teeth remained on full display.
“Sure thing, hon,” she said. “I’ll go grab those drinks, and Gretchen will be right over to take your order.”
Prescott opened her menu, ice-blue eyes flicking back and forth over the laminated surface. Darger made no move to study her own.
“You realize you gave him exactly what he wanted. Stump, I mean. Storming out like that, it let him know he’d gotten to you.”
Th
e rage returned all at once, like an explosion of fury in Darger’s chest.
“No, you gave him exactly what he wanted by arranging the meeting in the first place. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“Are you going to look through your menu?” Prescott asked, not pausing in her perusal.
Darger glared across the restaurant at the window looking out on what appeared to be a stage for live performances.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well you need to eat something.”
The hostess returned with their drinks then. Bubbles climbed the glass sides of Prescott’s Diet Coke.
“I’ll grab something at the airport,” Darger said when the toothy girl had left again.
She expected Prescott to look up. To ask what she meant by “the airport.” To beg her to stay.
“A salad, at least,” Prescott said, ignoring her comment. “Something.”
Gretchen arrived to take their order.
“I’ll have the Steak Frites. Rare,” Prescott said.
Darger opened her mouth to tell the waitress she was fine with her iced tea, but Prescott caught her eye, and Darger found herself muttering, “The Terrace Salad.”
Prescott surprised Darger by changing tactics again while they waited for their food.
“You know, you’re right. I owe you an apology. My asking you to come here was more than just a teensy favor. It’s no small thing for you to be here, I realize that.”
Folding her hands under her chin, Prescott continued.
“I can try to understand what your experience was like. But I wasn’t there. For the rest of us, we hear what happened to you, and it’s like opening a book. Reading an intriguing story. And when we’re finished we can shut the covers, set it aside, and move on. But you lived it. It’s always open in your head. There’s no closing those pages for you.”
Prescott held her eye, and Darger felt unable to look away. The words hit her somewhere deep inside.
“Stump asked if you dream about that night. I bet you do.”
Darger attempted to shrug and managed the barest twitch of her shoulder.
Their food arrived then, which seemed to break the spell somewhat. Darger blinked away the tears she’d been holding back and stared down at her salad. Why had she ordered salad?
“Ultimately, I think this could be very good for you. Seeing him in jail. Chained up. Under lock and key. He’s just a man, after all,” Prescott said when the waitress had gone.
With the way Prescott mooned over him, Darger wasn’t sure she was the one who needed to be reminded that Stump was just a man.
She chewed a mouthful of greens and chimichurri and watched Prescott saw into her bloody steak with a serrated knife.
“When it comes right down to it, any interaction with him is of value. I mean, just observing the way he fixated on you. My God. He’s quite smitten.”
Darger scoffed, nearly choking on a slice of tomato in the process.
“You’re not serious.”
Waving her steak knife in the air, Prescott shook her head.
“Not in the traditional, non-sociopathic sense. Of course not. He’s not capable of love or the usual romantic notions. Not capable of warm feelings of any kind, as far as I can see. But there’s an obsession there. An infatuation. That’s significant. It’s probably the closest he can come to feeling something for a person.”
“Well gosh, aren’t I just about the luckiest girl in town?” Darger said.
Prescott let off one of her patented hyena cackles.
Darger swatted at a grilled shrimp with her fork, but eventually she couldn’t hold it back any longer. She started to laugh, too.
It felt good. Like she’d been holding her breath for half the day and finally could let the air in again.
“Now that I think about it, maybe we can make your little tantrum work in our favor,” Prescott said, skewering a piece of dead cow with the tip of her knife.
Her use of the word “tantrum” irked Darger, but she ignored it.
“What are you talking about?”
“Think about it. We let him stew for a day, maybe two. Make him think we really have given up on him.”
Darger let her fork fall on her plate with a clatter.
“No. I was willing to give this a chance. Singular. One. I did that. Now I’m done.”
Prescott smiled across the table at her before popping a French fry into her mouth.
“Come on, Violet. Don’t be such a party pooper.”
* * *
Darger paced the length of her hotel room, annoyed. Prescott had persuaded her not to fly back immediately, but only after acknowledging she had no power to force Darger to talk to Stump again.
“The room is already paid for,” Prescott said as she handed Darger the keycard. “You might as well enjoy it.”
Darger wasn’t an idiot, though. She knew Prescott was insisting she stay in town because that left a chance for Darger to change her mind. But she wouldn’t. She meant what she’d said. She was out, and nothing Prescott said or did would convince her to go back.
If Prescott wanted to waste her time playing mental chess with Stump, that was her prerogative. Darger had no interest in going any further down that rabbit hole.
Flopping on the bed, Darger reached for the “Smart Remote” that controlled the TV. She turned it on, flipped through the channels. She paused on a superhero movie sequel, trying to decide if she’d seen it before. She’d seen the first one, years ago, but she didn’t get out to see new movies much lately. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a movie theater at all.
After the movie, she went down to the pool and swam laps, just for something to do.
For dinner, she ordered lobster mac and cheese from room service. What the hell? Prescott Consulting was footing the bill, and Margaret was always preaching that Darger should take advantage of the perks.
She watched another movie while she ate. To Prescott’s credit, she left Darger alone for the rest of the night, aside from sending an email with a copy of the recorded interview. She must have sensed that Darger didn’t want to be bothered.
It was barely past sunset when Darger yawned and decided to turn in. She was still exhausted from traveling, not to mention the Stump fiasco.
She closed the curtains, turned out the lights, and crawled into the bed. Then she noticed that the digital clock on the bedside table was so bright it cast the whole room in an eerie blue-white glow. She got back out of bed and snatched a towel from the bathroom and used it to cover the clock’s display. Satisfied with this new level of pitch black, she climbed under the covers.
As soon as her head hit the pillow, her mind began to race.
What was she doing with her life? Her hiatus from the FBI couldn’t go on forever. She’d have to make a decision at some point, and soon. And what about Prescott Consulting? If she left now, would that mean she was walking away from the position Dr. Prescott had offered her?
She let out a frustrated sigh. Her brain had a knack lately for dredging up her deepest anxieties when all she wanted was sleep.
Closing her eyes, she focused on pushing the nagging thoughts away. One thing at a time. Tomorrow she’d see about getting an earlier flight back home. The rest she’d figure out later.
For now, she would sleep.
Chapter 7
Darger blinked, staring into the endless black abyss in front of her in a still half-asleep daze. It was so dark. The streetlight across the way usually offered a bit of dim light through the curtains at night. Just enough illumination to banish the pitch blackness.
No wait… that wasn’t right. She wasn’t in her apartment. She was in a hotel room. In Las Vegas.
She remembered now. The too-bright digital clock. The trip to the bathroom to cover it in white fluffy fabric.
She knew she should just close her eyes and go back to sleep, but she couldn’t resist torturing herself by seeing just how few hours there were left b
efore she had to get up.
Reaching out a hand, she went to knock the towel away from the clock face. But something strange happened. Where she’d been expecting empty space, she suddenly encountered a hard, flat surface. A wall.
A wall where there shouldn’t be a wall.
She pressed her palm against the surface. Rough wood, by the feel of it.
Icy cold rippled over her skin. Fear. Her breath caught in her throat.
With a fingertip, she traced a line up the surface of the wall to a corner. More wood closed her in from above. Her finger kept moving and just as she’d feared, she discovered another corner, another wall.
A box.
A wooden box.
And underneath her? Not the mattress like she’d thought, but sand.
She was in the box.
Stump’s box.
She started to struggle. Beating her fists against the coffin-like lid. Kicking out with her feet as much as the confined space allowed.
Thrashing. Flailing.
Mind utterly blank of thoughts. No words. Only the terror. The panic.
Gasping for air now. Hyperventilating.
She’d pass out if she didn’t get her breathing under control, but she felt powerless to stop it. Panic attack. Total loss of control.
The clock on the bedside table said 2:21 AM when Darger woke from the nightmare. She must have flung the towel away as she thrashed herself awake.
She was still gasping for breath. Heart racing.
The back of her neck was sticky with sweat. Hair clinging to her clammy skin.
So much for getting out before Stump could get in her head. He was already in there, rearranging the furniture. Vandalizing the place. The fucker.
There was a bottle of fancy sparkling water on the dresser. Glass bottle and everything. Darger climbed out of bed and reached for it, taking a drink. It had been cold when they’d brought it up with her dinner, but now it was room temperature and partially flat. The strange mineral taste from the carbonation clung to her tongue.