Violet Darger | Book 7 | Dark Passage

by Vargus, L. T.

  He stopped. Took a few deep breaths.

  He snaked the walkie talkie out of his pants pocket. Thumbed the button to try it again.

  “Is anyone up there? I’m stuck in the dark down here.”

  Still no response. Thinking about it now, the crew had really thinned out in recent weeks. He’d rarely seen some of the regulars, though at first he’d assumed they were just working different shifts. He didn’t know what to make of that.

  And then a picture flashed in his head. A memory. He saw the current dig site as he’d last seen it. Rubble piled into wheelbarrows. Shards of stone still littering the ground. That wounded concave place in the wall where they’d freshly blasted out more rock.

  The camera in his mind panned toward one of the walls and zoomed in, and he saw then what it was showing him. A curved glass shape hung from the craggy surface, set beneath the string of lights. Motionless.

  He turned around. Picked up the pace as he headed deeper into the caves. He knew now what he needed to do.

  Chapter 35

  Cora huddled in her cage, wrapped in one blanket with the other spread underneath her. She listened for a long time but heard nothing else in the distance. No more clicks. No echo of shambling footfalls. Just the quiet.

  A dull fear still thrummed in her chest, rippled over her skin in creeping waves now and again. It wasn’t the panicked terror she’d felt when she’d watched Chase bleed out upstairs, or when the cowboy had dragged her to the basement and thrown her down this hole. This was a creeping dread, a lingering sense of powerlessness, of defeat.

  In digging out the blankets rumpled in the back of the cage, she’d found a gallon milk jug full of water and drank. The cool water felt good on her lips, on her tongue, in her throat. Something about that simple act of drinking brought with it a sense of normality, reassuring.

  She took another sip now. Wiped a dribble off her chin. Held the plastic jug up and shook it gently, trying to gauge the water level.

  The jug hadn’t been full when she’d found it, and now it was down to just under halfway. She’d need to conserve going forward. Make it last.

  She wanted more than anything to raise her voice. Project it down that gaping tunnel before her. Say something else to Lily. Ask her the first of the several thousand questions clanging around in her head, probably.

  Somehow, though, her voice wouldn’t quite leave her throat. The words quivered there, prickling on her vocal cords, like the string of a crossbow drawn taut in her larynx, ready to let its bolt fly. Her lips even moved, but for some reason the language wouldn’t budge.

  It was too soon, maybe. She didn’t want to rush it. The other girl would know better when it was OK to talk again, when it was OK to breathe again. She should follow Lily’s lead.

  She rolled over from her side to her back. Felt the hard metal of the bars dig into the flesh along her spine, those rigid wires trying to draw creases into her skin.

  The blanket draped over her was heavier — wool, she thought. The one underneath was fleece, softer and thinner. Working together they made her neither comfortable nor warm, but they were better than nothing.

  She listened to the silence. The quiet seemed to grow whenever she paid attention to it. Elongating. Stretching out into something stark and striking. Something vast. Uncaring. Unknowable.

  This time, her voice slipped out before she could even think to stop herself. It chimed like a bell in the stillness, clear and bright, shattering the silence.

  “Lily?”

  The sound trailed away. Trembling then gone. Swallowed by the tunnel.

  No response.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. She licked her lips. Tried again.

  “Lily? Are you awake?”

  Again the quiet plucked her words from the air. Devoured them.

  The silence intensified. Made her skin crawl on her arms and legs, cold settling over her until her limbs were numb with it. Made her mouth drop open and suck shallow breaths.

  Lily wasn’t responding.

  Chapter 36

  Ambrose called the next morning, Darger’s phone buzzing against the table right as she and Loshak were finishing up their breakfast.

  “Just got the call from the Harmons’ neighbor. They pulled into the driveway about twenty minutes ago. I figure by the time we get over there, they’ll have had a chance to settle in a little before I ruin their day.”

  “We’ll meet you there,” Darger said.

  She hung up and shoved the last third of her lemon poppy seed muffin into her mouth.

  “You’re allowed to eat in the car, you know,” Loshak said, raising one eyebrow as she washed the huge mouthful down with the remnants of her coffee.

  “This is more efficient,” she said when she’d swallowed enough to be able to speak again.

  “It’s more something, that’s for sure.”

  She dusted the crumbs from her hands and stood.

  “You ready?”

  Loshak blinked.

  “You’re awfully eager for someone who’s on their way to inform a family of a loved one’s horrific death.”

  “I can’t change that their daughter is dead. But they might be able to tell us something that helps us figure out who did this.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, they arrived outside the Harmon home, a red brick colonial house with neatly trimmed hedges lining the front walk, located in the middle-class suburb of Elkins Park.

  Detective Ambrose was already there, parked on the street across from the house. Loshak pulled into the spot behind him, and the three of them climbed out.

  “How’s the DMV search going?” Darger asked.

  “Slow as molasses,” Ambrose complained. “Apparently they’ve been having tech issues over there all week. Every few hours their database goes offline, and we have to wait while they reboot everything.”

  They followed Ambrose up the walk. He paused a few feet from the front steps and pointed at two small impressions in the concrete walkway.

  “Shit. Will you look at that?”

  The markings in the cement were handprints, and underneath, two names in the messy scrawl of children. Chris and Bailey. Ambrose cringed.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  He proceeded up the steps and across the porch to the door. Three percussive thuds rang out as he rapped his knuckles against the wood frame. A few seconds later, the inner door opened. A woman nudged the screen door open a few inches. She had dark hair and eyes. A middle-aged version of the girl Darger had seen in the photograph.

  “Yes?”

  “Mary Harmon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Ambrose with the Philadelphia police. These are my friends from the FBI, Agent Darger and Agent Loshak. Bailey is your daughter, is that correct?”

  “Well… yes. What’s this about? Is Bailey in some kind of trouble?”

  “I think we’d better come inside.”

  She held the door open, and they filed into the house. Darger caught a whiff of cinnamon, and she imagined Mrs. Harmon in the middle of baking some muffins when they’d come knocking.

  “Is your husband at home?”

  “Lance?” Mrs. Harmon called out. “Could you come out here, please? A policeman and some, um, FBI people are here. They say it’s about Bailey.”

  She directed them into a formal living area with two leather sofas facing off beside a fireplace. “Could I get you something to drink?”

  There was a chorus of no-thank-yous as all three of them declined.

  A tall, thin man entered from the other side of the room. He had gray hair and wore small round-framed glasses. Ambrose repeated the introductions from earlier.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Harmon asked, frowning and taking a seat on the couch.

  He seemed more openly concerned than his wife, who’d put on a cheerful mask as soon as Ambrose had told her he was police.

  “When was the last time you saw Bailey?” Ambrose asked.

 
“Oh… two months ago,” Mr. Harmon answered. “Maybe three?”

  Mrs. Harmon jumped in.

  “And you know, Bailey has had her troubles in the past, but she’s changed. All of that is behind her. She’s changed. So whatever might have happened, however you think Bailey might be involved, well… I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding.” Mrs. Harmon’s hands fluttered about as she spoke, like a pair of nervous birds. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? Not even a bottle of water?”

  “No, Mrs. Harmon. And I think you should sit down for what I’m about to tell you.”

  The woman lowered herself to the sofa beside her husband.

  Darger braced herself. This was the part of the job that every law enforcement officer she’d ever spoken to said was their least favorite. Notifying family that the worst possible thing had happened. A loved one, gone forever.

  Ambrose fussed with his tie and took a deep breath.

  “We found some remains.”

  “Oh my God—” Mrs. Harmon muttered.

  “We believe they belong to your daughter.”

  Mrs. Harmon began to sob softly. Mr. Harmon reached out and rubbed his wife’s back.

  “What happened?” Mr. Harmon asked.

  “We’re not sure yet,” Ambrose said. “The particular circumstances have left a lot of questions for us. That’s partly why we’re here. And you’ll have to make an official identification at some point, of course, but for now—”

  “Will we have to go to California to do that?” Mr. Harmon asked.

  “Sorry? California?”

  “Well, isn’t that who notified you?” Mr. Harmon asked. “The California State Police or…?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” Ambrose glanced over at Darger and Loshak. “As I told your wife, I’m from Philadelphia PD. My colleagues here are on loan from Washington D.C. by way of Quantico, Virginia. I’m not sure why law enforcement from California would be involved.”

  Mr. Harmon blinked.

  “Are you saying the remains you found were here? In Pennsylvania?”

  Mrs. Harmon stopped crying so abruptly it almost looked like pressed a pause button on her face mid-sob, her eyes going wider.

  “Yes,” Ambrose said.

  Mr. And Mrs. Harmon exchanged a look, and Darger noticed both of them relax. Mrs. Harmon actually let out a little chuckle.

  “Well, we can tell you right now that there’s certainly been some kind of mistake.”

  “How’s that?” Ambrose asked.

  “Whoever you found, that can’t be our Bailey. She’s not in Pennsylvania.”

  “No?”

  “No. She’s out in California. With Bo.”

  “Who’s Bo?”

  “Bo Cooke. Her ex… well, I guess he’s her boyfriend again now. There’s been a lot of back and forth on that over the years, but…” Mrs. Harmon waved her hands in the air. “Never mind all that. Honey, is the letter still in the credenza?”

  “It should be.”

  The couple bustled over to an antique desk in the front entryway and started rifling through the drawers, murmuring to one another as they did.

  “These are all bills.”

  “Try the second drawer.”

  Ambrose let his eyes slide over to the agents, but they were no help. Darger was equally confused and could only shrug.

  “Here it is,” Mrs. Harmon said. “Oh, and then there’s the postcard. Where did we put that?”

  “I think it’s in the kitchen with the rest of the mail we brought in,” Mr. Harmon answered. “I’ll go grab it.”

  Mrs. Harmon returned to the living room and handed Ambrose an envelope. He studied the front. It was addressed to the Harmons and had been postmarked about six weeks earlier.

  Ambrose pulled out a brief handwritten note on a piece of stationery with a pink rose motif, careful to only touch the very corners. When Ambrose finished, he passed the letter to Darger, and she held it so that she and Loshak could both read it.

  “Mom and Dad-

  You won’t see me for a while. Bo got a special assignment in California, and I am going with him. I know you will worry and that is why I didn’t call to let you know. I can’t tell you much about it, but I’ll be well taken care of. I hope you can trust me that I’m making the best decision for myself. Bo will be paid a lot of money for this job but he will be very busy so I might not be able to call but I will try to write again. I’ll see you soon and tell you about my adventures.

  -Bailey

  P.S. Pet Tonks for me.”

  Mr. Harmon came in and handed over a postcard featuring the HOLLYWOOD letters in Los Angeles. This one was postmarked just four days prior.

  “This came while we were on vacation.”

  The note on the back of the postcard was brief.

  “Enjoying the sun!

  -Bailey”

  “And you’re sure this is your daughter’s handwriting?” Ambrose asked.

  Mrs. Harmon let out a giddy-sounding laugh.

  “Well, of course!”

  “And this Bo guy she went out there with,” Ambrose said, dangling the postcard by one corner, “could you describe him for me?”

  “Oh, let’s see.” Mrs. Harmon’s gaze floated up to the ceiling. “He’s two years old than Bailey. Light brown hair. Lean and kinda tall, though not as tall as Lance. So maybe six feet? And I believe his eyes are green.”

  Darger felt the hair on her arms stand on end. Her description was a dead-on match for John Doe One.

  “What kind of work does he do exactly?”

  Mrs. Harmon glanced over at her husband, biting her lip.

  “They were very secretive about it, to be honest. Some kind of gig with this reclusive millionaire. Sounded like a Howard Hughes type. So rich he’d gone a little cuckoo, you know?” Mrs. Harmon squinted. “I think he was some kind of inventor.”

  “No, I thought it was oil money,” Mr. Harmon said.

  “Whatever it was, he demanded a certain amount of confidentiality, apparently.”

  “That’s why the letter didn’t really worry us,” Mr. Harmon explained, and then his smiled tightened. “Well, aside from the fact that she was going out there with Bo, who hasn’t always been the best influence.”

  Mrs. Harmon patted her husband’s knee.

  “It’s not really fair to blame Bo.”

  “No. It’s not,” he said, sighing.

  “There are some things we should explain about Bailey.” Mrs. Harmon cleared her throat. “She was top of her class all through middle and high school. Straight As. We thought she’d be valedictorian. And then… there was the accident.”

  Mrs. Harmon’s chin began to quiver and her husband took over.

  “Bailey was in a car accident with some friends. A bad one. Five girls in the car. Bailey was the only survivor.”

  Shaking her head, Mrs. Harmon whispered, “She had so much guilt. It changed her.”

  “It wasn’t only the guilt,” Mr. Harmon said. “She also suffered a traumatic brain injury. They weren’t sure she’d be able to walk and speak for some time. They were wrong about that, thank God. But after… her personality was different. She was a quiet, well-mannered girl before the crash. After? She was much more impulsive. She started partying. Doing drugs. I’m not denying that the shock of losing her friends was part of that, but the compulsive behavior came out in other ways that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the guilt. She started shoplifting, for example. Silly little things. I think the first time she got caught, it was for some pens. Those… gelly roll pens or whatever they’re called. She stole a seven dollar pack of pens when she had a twenty in her wallet. There was simply no reason for her to steal them other than that she wanted to.”

  Darger cleared her throat.

  “I’m sorry if this is a strange question, but did the accident require any surgery?”

  “Oh yes. She had extensive cosmetic surgery. The whole left side of her face was crushed.”

>   If Darger had any lingering doubt about Bailey Harmon being their Jane Doe Two, this had erased them.

  “Anyway, we’ve done what we’ve can. Sent her to rehab twice. Four different therapists. Nothing worked for long. Not until she found The Children of the Golden Path.”

  “She talked to you about her experience there at the, uh… camp?” Darger had to stop herself from blurting out the word “cult.”

  “Oh yes. The progress she made there… it was like seeing the old Bailey,” Mrs. Harmon said.

  “That’s why we were so upset when she told us she’d left.” Mrs. Harmon’s hands squeezed into fists. “I begged her to go back. I even called Curtis, but he said—”

  “You know Curtis?” Darger asked.

  “Oh yes. We talked to him in-depth when she invited us to the Harvest Festival last fall. We had to know how he did it. And of course we wanted to thank him for giving our daughter back. The idea that she’d leave was… worrying.”

  Mr. Harmon folded his hands tightly in his lap.

  “Frankly, without that stability, we were certain she would fall right back into her old habits. But she assured us that everything would be fine. Bo had this new job and all…”

  “Was Bo a member of The Children?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Harmon answered. “Bailey mentioned that he’d once referred to Curtis as a snake-oil salesman. That made her quite angry.”

  “Did you meet any of her friends from there? Trinity or Puck?”

  “Oh yes. Bailey refers to Trinity as the sister she never had.”

  “What about a man named Worm?”

  Mr. Harmon’s jaw tightened.

  “He was there. At the festival. Personally, I didn’t care for the way he looked at Bailey.”

  Mrs. Harmon chuckled.

  “He thinks that about every boy who’s ever looked at Bailey. She’s always been a daddy’s girl.”

  Darger noted the use of present tense. At some point, Ambrose was going to have to break the news. Again.

  “Tell us about Bo,” Ambrose said. “And about this job.”