by L. T. Vargus
When she reached the baggage area, the crowd seemed agitated. As she wove between the clusters of her fellow travelers and picked up bits and pieces of their conversation, she realized it should have been obvious why.
“Guy’s a fucking coward, you ask me,” Darger overheard one man saying. He was a bulky man in a rumpled, travel-worn suit, who stood with his spine ramrod straight and his chest puffed out like a strutting rooster.
“Who is?” the man next to him asked. He had a slighter build and kept reaching up to fiddle with the knot in his tie.
“Fuckin’ sniper. Jesus, haven’t you been watching the news?”
“Oh yeah,” the fidgeter said. “Right. I just-”
“I mean, if he’s any kind of man, he wouldn’t be skulking around in the shadows. Pickin’ off random folk as they drive home from work? Coward.”
The smaller man tugged at the neck of his shirt.
“Right. I guess so.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the rant continued.
“Even the goddamned jihadists are at least willing to die for their cause. But this guy? He doesn’t have the stones. He’s a pussy.”
The fidgeter, sensing now that he was being talked at and not to, didn’t bother responding this time.
“You want a fight? I’ll give you a fight, brother. Man to man. But no. He’s after innocent civilians, doing nothing but going about their daily business. It’s fucking sad. And you know what? I guarantee you something. In the end, we’re going to find out that this guy is a loser. Bitter at the world for his own shortcomings. Too gutless to just do us all a favor and off himself. No, he’s gotta take us all down with him.”
His companion cleared his throat, perhaps relieved that the diatribe had seemingly come to an end.
“Fucking coward,” the bigger man muttered one last time before falling silent.
The group shifted and murmured, and Darger thought she could feel their restlessness infecting her like something contagious. Like the grooming behavior in a group of monkeys. The flock is nervous, so I should be too.
She swallowed and stood straight, resisting the impulse to fidget or check her watch. Finally, the soft babble of voices was interrupted by the shrill cry of an alarm, warning that the rotating conveyor belt was about to start moving. A mechanical whir filled the air as the luggage carousel started up, and the first bag soon slid through the gray flaps over the small door at one end.
Darger waited, keeping an eye out for the length of bright orange yarn she kept tied to the handle of her bag to distinguish it from the rest of the small black suitcases. She fought the tide of anxiety that rose each time a black bag trundled by that was not hers. It was here. She had to be patient.
The herd thinned, finding their luggage and moving on to greener pastures. Only a handful of bags remained in the rotation now. She couldn’t hold back the flood any longer. Dear God, what if her bag was lost, and she was stuck in this ghastly dress for eternity?
She felt herself beginning to plunge into a pit of desperation when she saw it glide through the plastic flaps and join the rest of the circling bags. As she stooped to grab it, someone called her name.
“Darger!”
She turned to see Loshak crossing the terrazzo floor, his mouth set in a grim line. He looked stressed.
“You got your bags. Good. Got a car waiting upstairs. Let’s roll,” he said and took off in the direction he’d come.
Darger extended the handle on her suitcase and hurried after him. She caught up at the escalator.
“I don’t know what you have planned, but I’d like a chance to stop in at the hotel-”
He cut her off.
“No time. And I hope for your sake that you got some sleep on the plane.”
The same grave expression was still on his face, but this time she saw something else as well. A sharpness in his eye. He was on high alert.
“Why? What’s going on?”
His chest rose and fell with a sigh.
“There’s been another shooting.”
At the top of the escalator, they stepped off and headed for a set of automatic doors. The doors whooshed open and the balmy Georgia air wasted no time introducing itself. The humidity was so thick she felt like she was swimming through it. Darger reached down and undid her coat, and she caught a wayward glance from Loshak.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said. He blinked a few times and then added, “I was only wondering where your date was, is all.”
“My date?”
There was a strained expression on his face as he said, “For the prom.”
The tense set of his mouth loosened a little, and then she heard the unmistakable hiss of Loshak’s laugh.
“Hysterical,” she said.
This elicited another round of wheezing laughter.
“It’s perfect. Just what I wanted, really,” Darger continued. “To show up at a crime scene dressed like a blob of mint toothpaste.”
Loshak’s chuckles subsided, and he eyed her as they approached a large black SUV. The engine was idling, and Darger could see two silhouettes occupying the front seats.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Darger. You look more like a… pistachio cupcake.”
“That reminds me,” she said, reaching for one of the jacket pockets. “I got something for you in Colorado.”
She removed her hand from the pocket and flipped Loshak the bird. He responded with an impish wink, then helped her load her suitcase into the back of the Chevy Suburban.
Inside the vehicle, Darger assessed their party. The man in the driver’s seat wore a black suit and a plain gray tie. The top half of his face was obscured by a pair of sunglasses, but beneath that she saw a strong jaw and a square chin. His hair was dark and cropped close to his head. He did not smile. She figured him for about her age, early thirties.
In the passenger seat sat a black woman in a nylon FBI jacket. She was older than the man, probably in her mid-forties, with a smattering of freckles dotting her cheeks and forehead. When she turned to extend a hand to Darger, dozens of braids swung about her shoulders like a curtain.
“I’m Karla Dawson from the Atlanta field office,” the woman said. “And this is my partner, Ethan Baxter.”
The man regarded her from the rear view mirror, nodding once. He did not turn to shake Darger’s hand.
So much for southern hospitality.
“We’re glad to have you joining the team,” Agent Dawson said, probably trying to make up for her partner’s aloofness.
The man’s hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel. A tell, perhaps, that he didn’t agree with Dawson. There was definitely a strained feeling in the cabin.
Darger tried to lighten things with a joke.
“Does he ever shut up?” she asked, aiming a thumb at the silent driver.
After a beat, Agent Dawson let out a deep, resonant laugh. Baxter didn’t so much as smirk. And while Darger couldn’t see his eyes, she swore she felt him glaring at her from behind the shaded lenses. Not much of a sense of humor either, it seemed. Something about his whole demeanor reminded her of a bratty six-year-old being forced to share his toys with another child.
Whatever his problem was, she didn’t have time to worry about it. She reached for her seatbelt and buckled it across her chest.
Satisfied that all passengers were secured, Agent Baxter guided the Suburban down through the spiraling levels of the parking structure.
Darger cleared her throat and spoke up.
“So what do we have?”
“A clusterfuck of epic proportions,” Loshak said, running a hand through his gray-blond hair.
Agent Dawson gave her a quick summary, swiveling in her seat so she could make eye contact with Darger as she spoke.
“There are fourteen victims from yesterday evening’s attack. Eight dead, last we heard. Several of the wounded were not out of the woods as of this morning. The crime scen
e spans almost a mile of freeway. Once he started shooting, there were multiple chain-reaction crashes. So on top of the shooting, we have a massive pile-up on one of the busiest stretches of highway in the country.”
The ticket booth drew near. Rolling down the window, Agent Baxter flashed his ID at the attendant. The yellow arm of the gate rose, and then they were sailing out of the artificial midnight of the parking garage and into the blinding light of day.
Loshak took a breath and picked up where Agent Dawson left off. “That brings us to this morning. Guy unloads in the parking lot of a busy supermarket. Stalking from car to car, shooting at anyone and everyone he comes across.”
“Jesus. How many?”
“Three killed, five wounded. Would have been worse, but a good Samaritan jumped him.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, a seventeen-year-old kid, actually. Honorable Mention All-District Strong Safety.” Seeing the glazed look in Darger’s eye, Loshak added, “Football. Got in a few good punches from the sound of it. And wrestled the gun away from him.”
“We got his gun?”
“One of them, anyway. I imagine he’s the type to keep quite a collection.”
“Description?” she asked.
Agent Dawson shook her head. “He was wearing a ski mask, so we only got enough to say average build, probably white.”
Darger noted then that Agent Baxter had yet to utter a word. She didn’t know why, but the whole too-cool-for-school routine was starting to irk her.
Get a grip, Violet, she thought to herself. You have a job to do.
But she had a feeling that Agent Baxter was going to end up being a real pain in her ass.
Chapter 6
The sheet covering the woman’s body had been solid white once. Not anymore. Now it was awash with red. One of the bottom corners hung into the pool of congealing blood. Through osmosis, the crimson stain spread upward, wicking through the white threads, the fabric soaking it up.
Darger couldn’t stop staring at it. The shade of red changed the further it got from the source, growing lighter, fainter.
A pair of feet clad in white canvas sneakers poked out from under the sheet. The woman was sprawled in an awkward position with the upper half of her body slumped in the backseat of her Honda Fit, like she’d tried to crawl inside after being shot.
Two crime scene techs bustled by, carrying a measuring tape. The parking lot was flooded with first responders — two fire engines, three ambulances, and easily twenty police cars, not to mention FBI, ATF, and a task force from Homeland Security.
Overhead, she could hear news choppers hovering.
The medical examiner was running through the list of injuries sustained by the victim, but Darger could barely hear him. He murmured clinical terms like “severed aorta” and “hypovolemic shock.” Words that right now, in the midst of all the carnage, were meaningless to her.
Her mind was clouded with her own thoughts. She imagined the people going about their day. This woman, coming to get eggs and milk and bread. That man, coming to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy. Had the killer watched them before he started? Did he stand in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike? Did he set his sights on someone in particular? A carefully chosen victim? Or did he stride up without hesitation and just… begin the massacre?
Massacre. The word echoed in her mind. There was no other word to describe what happened here.
The scene left her speechless. How could anyone do this?
She felt a rising anger in her chest. That someone would get enjoyment from this destruction. This chaos.
And now she understood the man at the airport. The one ranting in the baggage claim about how unmanly the shooter was. He was angry. Angry at the wrongness of it all. Angry at the fear he felt in his own heart.
Her eyes roved over the cars parked in the lot. She picked a vehicle that seemed right. A dark green GMC Yukon with a patch of rust emanating from below the gas cap. That would do. And then Violet began to picture it as if she were the killer. Sitting in the driver’s seat. Parked off to one side, partially obscured by a canopy of crabapple trees. Surveying the lot. Waiting for a moment of peak activity. Maximum impact. Highest fatalities.
In her lap, a semi-automatic handgun. She lifted the pistol, ejected the magazine, and double-checked that it was full. She knew it was, but couldn’t resist confirming one last time. It was part of the ritual. And besides, she liked the feel of a gun in her hand. The cold, hard sound each movement elicited. Snick, scrape, clack. Metal on metal.
Satisfied, she reinserted the magazine and gave the gun a tap against her palm. She disengaged the safety and racked the slide. Her heart rate was accelerating now. It was time. She could smell it in the air like the ozone before a thunderstorm.
Only one final preparation. She reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed the black ski mask. She stretched it over her head, adjusting so that her eyes lined up with the holes properly. A cursory glance in the rear view mirror confirmed what she already knew: she was ready.
Her hand found the door handle without fumbling. The door peeled open. She swung one leg down and then the other, boot heels hitting the pavement with barely a sound. Her motions were fluid. Certain. She felt a sort of electric charge running through her now, as if she were a machine on autopilot, each move perfectly balanced.
She held the pistol at her side, finger already on the trigger. Ready to strike. But first, she needed to get closer. Wanted to get closer. That’s what this morning was all about.
Movement to her right caught her eye. A gangly kid in a white tank top and athletic shorts, chugging from a bottle of sports drink. He would be the first.
Darger stalked between cars, her footsteps confident, her path clear. The kid was ten yards away, then five. The gap closed. The kid didn’t even look up from his phone to peer at the shadow that fell over him. The darkness that had come to blot out the sun.
Darger did not speak. She simply raised her right arm and fired. The bullet missed and shattered the front window of the store, the surge of adrenaline coursing through her causing her aim to go a little high.
The kid barely had time to react. His eyebrows came up and then his face was blown open by the second bullet, flesh and bone exploding into a spray. His body went limp and collapsed forward, liquid glugging from the Powerade bottle as it hit the ground. He was dead before he’d even had a chance to wonder at what was happening
With the sound of the gunshot, the atmosphere of the parking lot changed. Most people screamed and ran. Others froze, searching for the source of the sound, unsure of what they had heard.
An elderly man saw her coming, opened his mouth as if to protest when her hand came up, but he was silenced by two bullets. One to the chest and the other to his neck.
She emptied the rest of the clip without really aiming at anything or anyone in particular. She didn’t really need to. There were so many people in the lot, she was guaranteed a few hits. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Reload.
The last target was a woman, early fifties, loading groceries into her Honda. The sunlight hit the part in her hair, illuminating a speckle of gray hairs where her roots were growing in. It lit her head like a beacon. Like a lighthouse shining above the sea.
Before she could pull the trigger, someone bumped against her, and Darger blinked twice, snapping out of it.
Loshak drew his sunglasses down and studied her for a moment.
Before he could ask, she said, “I’m alright.”
His head bobbed once, and he moved on.
Her thoughts wrenched free from the spell that had come over her. Time to change perspectives.
Her gaze lifted to take in the scene as a whole. The neat grid of parked cars. The endless rows of glass and chrome and metallic finishes glinting in the morning sun. The heat distortion rippling off the asphalt. The smell of fried food coming from the Wendy’s across the way.
The end result was the same, and yet this fel
t much different than a serial killer. Why? Was it the fact that the murders were done in the open? For the world to see? Plenty of serial killers coveted the attention their crimes received, but this was something else.
Glancing back at the small crowd, she thought she detected something different even with the reporters. They looked… grim. She thought back to wading through the news vans and cameramen during the mess in Ohio, during their hunt for the Doll Parts Killer. The media folk she’d crossed paths with then had an almost hungry gleam in their eyes. A desperation to get their own piece of the action. Not so with the crews out today.
Scared. That’s what it was. They seemed scared.
And there weren’t many civilian gawkers, she noticed. A serial killer drew them like flies, but this guy repelled them.
Everyone felt like they could be next. Even she felt it. The vulnerability of being out in the open. Like he could be watching.
He probably would have been, too, had he not been attacked by the good Samaritan. He would have fled after that altercation. Gone back to whatever hidey-hole he was currently calling home.
What would his home be like? The first thing that popped into her head was a run-down trailer in the middle of nowhere. A “No Trespassing” sign nailed to every tree and fence post. A fence, yes. And a gate. He’d drive a rusty pick-up truck with a Confederate flag bumper sticker.
Careful, she thought, stopping herself. She was letting anger cloud her assessment. Letting her bias against the crime lead her down a road full of cliches.
After all, he was probably just like her. Just like most people. Working or middle class. Late twenties to middle thirties. He probably lived in a clean apartment with white walls and beige carpet and drove a mid-sized sedan. An office job. The picture of American mediocrity.
That’s what he was so pissed off about, wasn’t it? How meaningless his life felt. How boring and pointless.