He wolfs down the rest of the pie in three bites. Chews. Swallows. Washes it down with the scalding black brew.
And Jim stands. Approaches the woman behind the counter.
Their eyes lock, some invisible beam snapping his pupils to hers as though by way of electromagnetic force.
He doesn’t think. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate.
He lets the words, Jim’s words, come pouring out of his mouth.
“I come down here all the time. I started thinking about that, you know? And I didn’t know why that was. Ain’t like the food is so great. No offense. But I see you when I’m down here, and I like seeing you. Really like it. So I guess that must be it.”
He hesitates a moment there. Lowers his sunglasses to the tip of his nose so they can make real eye contact before he blurts out the climax of his speech — a move he thinks the cocky hero might have pulled in a 1980’s action movie, back when movies still kicked ass.
“Bottom line, what I’m trying to spit out is this: You wanna get a cup of coffee with me one of these days? I can take you someplace a little nicer than this.”
He shrugs one shoulder as he speaks, exuding nonchalance, and he sounds strong. Sounds confident. Sounds just like a man who knows what he wants and is well accustomed to getting it, sounds just like the Jim they all know and love around these parts.
But her smile falters harder than before, even the moisture on her lips suddenly seeming to die back to a faint dampness. That inviting lushness wilting all at once. Her head starts shaking a “no” before she speaks the rejection.
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t date customers. Official company policy, you could say. Had a couple bad experiences.”
Her eyelids crinkle up as she talks, her makeup cracking a little. She looks much older now.
Jim blinks hard once. Slides the sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose. Then he nods. Thumps the counter lightly with the heel of his hand.
“Oh. Right on.”
He doesn’t sound deflated. Doesn’t sound particularly invested. Doesn’t sound vulnerable at all.
The waves of lava inside lurch up the walls of his skull, ache only to burst forth in a molten tidal wave, to melt, to burn, to destroy.
To incinerate.
To kill everything he touches.
He somehow remains upright, though he can’t feel his legs as he walks back to his table and leaves his usual tip.
Chapter 23
The SUV rips out of the diner’s parking lot and scuttles up a hill. His foot jams the accelerator. The vehicle turning savage at his touch, a hateful machine, growling like some psycho dog frothing at the fucking mouth.
He still sees her, Betsy, appearing there in his mind’s eye, stupid makeup cracking like old stucco around her eyes, and he still wants her just as bad as ever.
Jim wants and cannot have. Not supposed to work that way, is it?
He grips the wheel tighter. Feels the skin at his knuckles pulled taut. Feels the vibration of the churning engine in the meat of his hands.
Rage. Pain. A fire inside.
In moments like these, he thinks pain and anger are the same thing coming out in different ways. Pain is bleeding internally, all the wet red gushing and sloshing around inside that bag of skin. Wounds no one can see. Wounds that cannot heal. Like dry rot in a wall.
Anger takes the same feelings and turns them outward, fuels the aggressive part of him that wants to get hands-fucking-on with whoever made him feel this way.
Shank. Bludgeon. Kill.
Attack. Attack. Attack.
Cover the whole world in gasoline, acetone, ethanol.
Set the fucking night on fire.
He catches his reflection in the rearview. Peels away the sunglasses. Looks himself in the bloodshot eyes.
The world does not care about you. It would never accept you as you are. So fuck it. Let it burn.
Now he slows, drifts to a stop at a red light, and the hair on his forearms stands up tall. Overwhelming to suddenly go still after all that rushing forward. The car’s growl trims back to a muted purr. Sounds good now that he got that damn belt fixed.
Feels empty to stop pressing onward. Hollow. All things turning weightless. Like nothing that happened back in that diner was real. Like his wounds themselves aren’t real. Just more figments in his head to keep him company.
Imaginary friends, right? Just hangin’ out with Jim.
Wait. He clenches his jaw as the question occurs to him: Is Jim his only friend? Maybe. Maybe so.
No. Fuck that.
Fire. Fire is the only friend he will ever need.
He licks his lips. Turns from the windshield to face the screen out the driver’s side window instead, like changing the channel.
The sun rises from the east, a blushing red rising from the ocean at the horizon. Fitting, he thinks.
Seeing red. Inside and out.
And looking out the window at the sky gone scarlet, he knows now. He knows just what to do.
The light turns green.
Go.
Chapter 24
The sunlight reflecting off of the LAPD building changed the strange glass cube from silver to gold that afternoon. Darger met up with Officers Klootey and Bishop in the parking lot behind headquarters and followed them to a parking garage where they climbed into Bishop’s personal vehicle — a spotless Honda CRV, red, with the new car smell still intact.
“Gonna be a long shift. We should grab some grub,” Klootey said.
“I have to stop for gas anyway. We can load up then.”
“Nah, man. I’m talking about real food. There’s an In-N-Out on the way,” Klootey said, then turned in his seat to face her. “You like burgers, Agent Darger?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“That settles it. To the In-N-Out, my good sir.”
Bishop winced.
“In-N-Out is so sloppy.”
“That’s what’s good about it.”
“Yeah, but this is a new car. Tanya will have my ass if I mess up our new ride.”
“Jeeee-sus,” Klootey said, rolling his eyes. “I’d call you pussy-whipped right now, but I wouldn’t want to offend the lady.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Real nice, man.”
“I’m fucking serious, Bishop. You’ve gone limp-dick on me. You come out for Friday night brewskies and leave after one beer?”
Darger started to feel a bit uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation. She would have wondered if they’d forgotten she was in the backseat had Klootey not just mentioned her.
“I told you we were meeting her parents for brunch in the morning.”
“Brunch! Fuck me, dude. This is exactly what I’m talking about. Ever since you got engaged, it’s like…” Klootey’s face darkened.
Darger got the sense of a married couple bickering, when it started out good-natured and suddenly turned bitter. She held her breath, bracing herself for an awkward shift in mood.
“It’s like what?”
Klootey blinked, as if sweeping away whatever he’d been about to say next. Then he grinned and socked Bishop in the arm rapidly, reminding Darger of one of those punching nun toys.
“I’m just saying, I miss the Bishop that used to kick ass instead of kissing ass.”
The car jerked to the left as Bishop raised his elbow to try to defend himself from Klootey’s punches.
“Knock it off, dickhead! I’m trying to drive.”
Despite the fact that Klootey relented, Bishop scowled over at his partner.
“I’ll get you your goddamn In-N-Out, but if I hear one more word about me being whipped, I’m gonna pull this car over and show you what a whipping is.”
A demonic smile spread over Klootey’s mouth.
“Whatever you say, man. But I don’t know how you’re gonna manage to whip anyone’s ass when your balls are locked securely in your girlfriend’s purse. Hey, maybe you can ask her to let you get ‘em out — like before this supposed whipping, I mean — but I doubt she�
�ll let you. From what I can see, your girlfriend runs a pretty tight ship.”
Shaking his head, Bishop signaled for a right turn.
“She’s my fiancée. And you’re an asshole.”
Klootey only cackled in response.
At the gas station, Bishop got out to pump gas, and Darger accompanied Klootey inside to procure beverages and snacks. There was nothing worse than a stakeout without ample food and drink.
Mountain Dew was Klootey’s beverage of choice. He stocked up on half a dozen 1-liter bottles of the stuff, though she presumed he would split them with his partner. Darger stuck with water. As tempting as something caffeinated was, she had to consider her bladder. The guys could guzzle their Mountain Dew all afternoon long, and when nature called, all they had to do was find a secluded corner in which to relieve themselves. Darger wasn’t so lucky.
But she’d done enough stakeouts now to know her limitations. As long as she stuck to water and paced herself throughout the evening, she’d be fine.
Along with the water, she grabbed a bag of peanut M&M’s and some potato chips and met up with Klootey at the register.
“Listen, don’t go flashing those peanut M&M’s in front of Bishop. Ever since his neutering, he’s been very sensitive at the sight of any nuts and balls and so forth. Grapes. I even saw him tear up over a bag of baby carrots once.”
“Got it. I’ll be discreet.”
The smile on his face vanished, and he leaned closer.
“So hey, I’m glad I got you in here alone,” he said, glancing through the front windows of the gas station in the direction where his partner stood pumping gas. “Bishop’s a great guy. My best friend. But he did two tours on a tank crew in Iraq, and his ears are all fucked up. You ever hear the main gun of a tank being fired? Thing’s basically a cannon, so imagine standing right next to that thing when it goes off. You gotta speak up when you talk to him. And really enunciate, you know?”
Darger nodded.
“Yeah. Thanks for the heads up.”
“Not a problem,” Klootey said.
Back on the road, Bishop made good on his promise to stop for burgers. Darger and Bishop ordered their burgers “animal style,” which came with pickles, grilled onions, extra sauce, and a bit of mustard fried with the patty. Klootey opted for the 3x3 — essentially a triple cheeseburger.
Five minutes later, they were parked a block away from Ivan Sablatsky’s house. Plucking the radio from the mount on the dash, Klootey contacted the surveillance detail already in place.
“This is Bobcat, in position at the corner of Drake and Mount Olive.”
The radio crackled and then a voice said, “Roger that, Bobcat. Cobra, you can take off now.”
Down the street, a dark gray Ford Fusion pulled from the curb. As it passed by, Luck waved at them from the backseat.
Bishop raised an eyebrow at his partner.
“Bobcat?”
Shaping his fingers into claws, Klootey imitated the sound a growling cat would make. He grabbed for the paper bag of food and rifled around for his burger.
“You said you didn’t care what our codename was.”
“That was before I knew you were gonna pick something like Bobcat.”
“You got a problem with bobcats in particular?”
“Just seems lame.”
“This from a guy who’s worried sick about eating burgers in his crossover, saying in earnest, and I quote, ‘Tanya will have my ass.’ End quote.”
Bishop grumbled something, but Darger couldn’t make out the words.
Klootey handed out the food, each of them receiving a paper-wrapped burger and cardboard sleeve of fries.
“Y’all are nasty with that ‘animal style’ nonsense,” Klootey commented. “Mustard does not belong on a burger.”
Ignoring him, Bishop angled so he could see Darger in the rearview mirror.
“So how come you aren’t taking your own shifts?” Bishop asked, mouth full of half-chewed French fries. “You and Luck, I mean.”
Darger took a bite of her burger. She’d had In-N-Out a few times before, and in the interim, she always convinced herself that maybe it wasn’t as good as she remembered, not as good as the hype. But she was wrong every time.
She swallowed the food and took a drink to help wash it down.
“I probably shouldn’t say anything, but we were explicitly asked to play tag-along.”
“Why? Doesn’t the FBI do surveillance?”
Darger suddenly remembered Klootey warning her about Bishop’s hearing loss. She’d forgotten until now.
“We do,” she said, speaking more loudly.
“So they can’t be worried you’re gonna fuck it up somehow.”
Shaking her head, Darger picked up a fry, then thought better of it. It was easier to speak clearly if her mouth wasn’t stuffed with food.
“I think it’s more about who gets all the credit when we bring this guy down,” she said, making sure to enunciate each word.
Bishop took a long pull from his drink.
“Who gives a fuck about credit?”
With a shrug, Darger said, “Not me.”
“You’re telling me we’re doing round-the-clock surveillance, and we could have a whole extra team to take one of these shifts. But instead, the higher-ups want to saddle you and Luck with babysitters to make sure you don’t try to steal all the glory?”
“Pretty much.”
“Ree-diculous.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Darger said, tearing off a hunk of cheeseburger with her incisors.
“Can I ask you something, though?” Bishop said.
Darger chewed and swallowed.
“Sure.” Her voice was loud and clear.
“Why are you yelling?”
A loud hissing sound emanated from Klootey’s mouth. It was a moment before Darger realized he was laughing.
“Aw, man,” Bishop said, shaking his head. “The hard-of-hearing joke again?”
The laughter shifted to coughing. Klootey must have inadvertently inhaled some of his food in all the hilarity.
Bishop ate a fry and stared at his partner.
“You really are an idiot.”
This nor the choking dampened Klootey’s amusement. He continued half-coughing, half-chuckling for the next several minutes.
Chapter 25
They’d been parked outside the Sablatsky residence for three hours with nothing to report. The In-N-Out was long gone, the wrappers and cardboard cartons from the fries stuffed into the takeout bag. A faint aroma of fryer grease and onions permeated the car.
Darger took a sip of water. She didn’t have to pee yet, so that was good.
The bright yellow of the bag of M&Ms caught her eye. She looked away, but she could hear the candy inside, begging to be eaten. She wasn’t really hungry, but she was bored. And that was the real reason you brought ample snacks on a stakeout.
The plastic crinkled as she tore the bag open. She grabbed a handful and set the bag in one of the cup holders in the front console so everyone had easy access. Soon the car was filled with the sound of three mouths pulverizing chocolate, candy coating, and peanuts. The noise reminded her of footsteps on a gravel path.
Suddenly the radio on the dash squawked.
“We’ve got eyes,” the voice said. “The subject has exited the residence.”
The chewing in the CRV stopped. No one breathed.
“He’s on foot, heading toward the street. He’s carrying something,” the voice continued.
Darger and the two policemen stared intently out through the windshield, waiting for him to come into view. A moment later, they got their first glimpse of Ivan Sablatsky in the flesh.
He was on the shorter side of average height, muscular, and he carried a plastic shopping bag tied at the top in one hand.
“I think we caught him taking out the trash, boys,” the voice on the police radio announced.
Indeed, Sablatsky proceeded to the bin near the curb, flipp
ed open the lid, and tossed the plastic bag inside. He closed the lid and headed back toward the house.
Darger continued to study him for as long as he was in sight. His brown hair was trimmed into a tight crew cut. Below that, a well-kept goatee. She knew from his driver’s license that he was 26-years-old and had green eyes.
When Sablatsky disappeared from their view, Klootey swiveled in his seat to face her.
“What do you think?”
“About him being our guy?”
“Yeah,” Klootey said, taking a few M&Ms and tossing them in his mouth. “From a profiling standpoint.”
“The thing that stuck out most for me was that he seemed very neat. The crew cut. Fussy-looking facial hair. That takes some upkeep. And did you see his belt?”
“Looked like one of our duty belts.”
“Yep. Classic law enforcement wannabe,” Darger said.
“But why would law enforcement appeal to him? Or any of these guys?” Klootey asked. “You said before it’s not uncommon. But I mean, they’re criminals, right? Outlaws. Isn’t wanting to be a cop like the opposite of that?
“Sort of. And maybe even that sense of irony is what appeals to them,” Darger said, leaning back against the seat. “The idea that they could be in this respectable position in the community while also committing heinous crimes. Look at Joseph DeAngelo, the guy accused of being the Golden State Killer. Thirteen murders, over fifty rapes, and at least a hundred burglaries, all while he’s a police sergeant in charge of a task force focused on burglaries. It’s like they’re getting away with a little something extra.”
Loosening the cap on her water, Darger drank before continuing.
“But the main attraction is the power that comes with being a cop. You get guns, fast cars, and best of all, authority. Cops are to be obeyed. And for someone that feels a chronic underlying sense of insecurity, that would be very appealing.”
Klootey stared at her for some time, squinting slightly, like he was deciding just how much of this profiling malarkey to take seriously. Finally he shrugged and let his gaze slide back to the M&Ms. He snatched up a palm-full of candy and shook them in his fist so they rattled.
“Not to brag, but I’ve actually got a profiling system of my own. The pop-psychology version, I guess you could say.”
Violet Darger (Book 6): Night On Fire Page 13