by L. T. Vargus
“Sorry to interrupt,” Loshak said, “but could someone explain what you’re talking about?”
“The Nameless Brotherhood,” Baxter said.
Fitzgerald pressed his lips together in an angry pout.
“Who’s that?” Loshak asked.
“Local motorcycle club,” Baxter answered. “One-percenters all the way and the biggest illegal arms dealers in the metro area.”
Darger didn’t know much about bikers, but she knew enough that the one-percent label was a reference to an old quote that said 99% of motorcyclists were law-abiding citizens. The remaining 1% were outlaws, and it was a badge of honor some clubs wore quite literally on their vests.
The silver pen tapped out an angry beat on the edge of the podium.
“And what exactly do you suggest, Agent Baxter? That we waltz into their clubhouse and ask if they’ll set aside three decades’ worth of actively fighting law enforcement to do us a little favor?”
Baxter twitched one shoulder. An annoyed tic, Darger thought.
“Obviously I was thinking we’d be a little more discreet than that. Start pulling in some of the guys on the fringe, see if they’ve heard anything.”
“At this time-”
“Time,” Baxter interrupted, “is exactly my point. We don’t have it. So why pussyfoot around when we have a solid lead we can actually do something proactive with?”
The words came out strained. Agent Baxter was trying his damnedest to keep his emotions in check and nearly failing.
How very interesting, Darger thought. She would have pegged an uptight son of a bitch like Baxter for a bootlicker, but judging by this exchange, she would have been wrong. Agent Baxter’s esteem went up a hair in her mind. She supposed the contrarian in her couldn’t help rooting a little for the rebel.
ASAC Fitzgerald didn’t raise his voice, but his tone was firm and absolute.
“That’s a hard no, Agent Baxter. I don’t think anything more needs to be said on this topic.”
With that, they were dismissed. Fitzgerald gathered his notes and hurried out of the room, phone already pressed to his ear.
As Darger and Loshak exited the conference room, Agent Baxter called out.
“Agent Loshak,” he said, “can I trouble you for a moment?”
Darger hung outside the door, turning to the bank of windows that lined the hallway. No need to wonder why she hadn’t been invited to the clambake.
This end of the building overlooked a wooded area with a creek winding through it. It wasn’t a half bad view.
“What’s your take on the biker angle? From a profiling point of view, I mean.”
Darger wasn’t looking, but she imagined Loshak fluffing his hair with his fingers.
“From a profiling angle, the gun could have come from anywhere.”
“No,” Baxter said, “I’m saying, what if he’s a member of the motorcycle club?”
“Wouldn’t fit,” Loshak said.
Darger smirked to herself. Never one to parse words, ol’ Loshak.
“Why not? He hates law enforcement and the government. Check. He’s anti-social. Check. These guys are scumbag extraordinaires. Drugs, guns, girls. They peddle it all. Definite ties to the Aryans, though they like to keep that under wraps. What I’m saying is… maybe that’s where all this started. The violence. Maybe he’s developed a taste for it. Built up an appetite, so to speak.”
Darger watched a hawk being chased by two smaller birds. They flapped along after the larger bird, pecking and dive-bombing at every opportunity. She wondered why the hawk didn’t fight back.
“This is a summation of rage that he’s been bottling up for a long time,” Loshak was saying. “If he were in a gang, he’d have too many opportunities to… sate his appetite, to use your term.”
She heard a puff of breath expelled in frustration.
“What about you?” Baxter asked.
It was a moment before Darger realized he was addressing her. She pivoted away from the window.
“Me?”
“Do you agree with Agent Loshak’s assessment?”
Well, well, well. So now he wanted her opinion… after Loshak shot his little pet theory down. How interesting.
“Sorry,” she said, though she wasn’t. “I have to agree with Agent Loshak. I also don’t see him as the type to join a group like that. Any group, really. His experience in the military would have really soured him on that. He’s probably mostly a loner now.”
She watched the bundle of muscle on either side of Agent Baxter’s jaw clench. Someone didn’t like being told he was wrong. After the way she’d seen him dressed down by Fitzgerald, she decided to throw him a bone.
“That being said, I wouldn’t rule out him associating with people in such a group. Friend-of-a-friend. That kind of thing.”
She shot Loshak an apologetic look, not sure if he’d take that last part as a contradiction to his assessment. He gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Fair enough,” Baxter said, then excused himself.
Darger waited until she and Loshak were alone before she asked, “What was that all about?”
“Hm?”
“All that Nameless Brotherhood stuff. I mean, I’m with you in terms of him not being a member. It doesn’t feel right. But if that is a likely source for the weapon, it just seems like Fitzgerald was pretty quick to write it off.”
Loshak was gazing down the empty corridor, seemingly lost in thought. She was starting to wonder if he’d heard anything she’d said when finally, he spoke up.
“We’ve got plenty to sort through already,” Loshak said. “Diving headlong into this whole biker thing is premature.”
She opened her mouth to say more, then decided against it.
Chapter 11
Shapes moved in the dark places where the streetlights couldn’t reach. Shadows stirring on porches here and there. Some part of his brain could discern the movements as animal — as human — even if his conscious mind didn’t understand how. It was a part of his lizard brain that just knew things, knew how to hunt, how to kill.
The whole area looked much different than he’d remembered. So much had changed since they were kids.
The Jeep crept through a suburban neighborhood now. McMansions and upscale apartment complexes and trees and neatly cropped landscaping replaced the concrete sprawl of the city. Tufts of exotic grasses poked up from behind sculpted shrubs and beds of red wood chips. Every yard looked as manicured as the front of a dentist’s office, Levi thought. Weirdly artificial.
The humidity blew in through the window like bad breath, hot and thick against his face. It clung to his skin, slicked him in its soggy heat, pressed its fever deeper and deeper into him.
God forgive him for what he would do next. What he’d promised to do next. God forgive him.
He mopped the back of his hand over his top lip, already moist with sweat, and in that moment he smelled the vodka on his breath. It took a lot to be able to do this, the kind of drunk that obliterated even the faintest inhibitions. The adrenaline kept his mind and movements sharp, though. Funny how it all worked together, he thought. The cocktail of chemicals sloshing around in his brain. You can’t have a brutal killing machine without a few stiff drinks.
The sawed-off lay across his lap, ready and waiting. He pressed the heel of his left hand into the stock now and then, just to feel it maybe.
He checked the time. 10:19 PM. If it got much later, he didn’t know if he’d find what he needed. And surely part of him wanted that, he knew. Part of him wanted to puss out. To stop at the highway and grocery store incidents. To leave it at that.
But he wasn’t done yet.
The progression was accomplishing what he wanted — what they wanted — and now he would take the next step.
If you kill people on the highway, they’re scared to head out on the road.
If you kill them in a parking lot, now they’re scared to leave the house.
If you kill them in their hom
es, though, they have nowhere left to hide.
The throb of the traffic waned as he crept deeper into the suburbs, fewer and fewer cars accompanying the Jeep on the streets, and that sour taste ascended his throat once more to coat his tongue.
He was close now. Very close. He could feel it.
He watched the shadows again, peering through the darkness for what he needed to find, what this mission required.
He promised. He promised he would.
And maybe part of him even wanted it. A part that was embarrassed about getting tackled back at Publix. A part that wanted to reassert that demonic power he’d felt, the fleeting moment when he wielded death at the end of his arm, dealt it from the barrel of his gun, the moment when he felt like Luke.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, the muscles in his throat twinged, and for a split second he thought he might be sick, but it didn’t come.
And then he saw it. Saw her. Feminine curves in silhouette, the shadowy figure framed in the yellow light streaming through the doorway.
He pulled over, mopped his hand over his sweaty lip again, watched for lights in the rear view.
He saw nothing on the road. No one.
He watched her there, alone, just standing from the looks of it. Like she’d been waiting around for his arrival.
His arms and legs were numb as he stepped from the car. Distant and strange. All of his consciousness filtered down to the beat of the blood in his temples, that tart pizza sauce taste in his mouth, and the field of vision focused on the doorway where the pregnant woman stood.
He didn’t want to, but he’d promised.
Apart from turning her head a little, she never moved, never turned to run, never backpedaled off the threshold upon which she stood.
And he leveled the shotgun at her. Felt its heft settle into his hands. His finger finding the trigger. Squeezing.
Flame plumed from the snubbed barrel. The boom split open the night. Loud and deep and violent.
The recoil throttled him, wrenched at the muscles in his arms and chest, tried to push him back.
And the shadow figure dropped. At first he could only see the wetness of her chest in the dark. A shimmering black surface. Moving liquid on her front. Flowing. Like the churning water of a river.
But the light found her as she went down. Revealed her at last. The red showing now where the buckshot tattered her flesh. Opened her up.
She sat up partially. Lifted her head. Their eyes met. Locked onto each other.
Her eyelids fluttered. He saw no real understanding in her gaze. Only shock. Confusion. Fear and remoteness.
Noises crackled from her lips. Meaningless syllables whispered.
She leaned against the doorway. Her chest heaving. Her blood seeping. Gushing. Faster and faster. She looked so small. Those terrible wounds. So vulnerable. Bleeding and dying and confused.
He took a breath. Racked the shotgun. Finished her.
Red spattered the wall. A violent final twitch.
It was a mercy. He knew the second shot was a mercy. But it didn’t feel like it.
And then his numb legs carried him away from the scene. Hurrying. He felt like he was hovering. Floating.
And he was in the Jeep. Shifting gears. Gliding back onto the street.
Drifting away and away and away.
He was panting, he realized. Pink splotches flickering before him.
Three and a half blocks later, he had to pull over to vomit into the gutter. Vodka and fruit punch spurting out of him.
The nausea didn’t depart with the puke. It stayed. Dug itself deeper into his abdominals, into his skull.
The sickness only got worse. Something beyond sickness, something beyond bodily suffering.
Damnation, he thought. This was the physical manifestation of damnation — a divine sickness unto death and beyond.
Suffering without end.
Maybe God truly was merciful. Maybe He could forgive almost anyone for almost anything.
But Levi knew in his heart that God would never ever forgive this.
Chapter 12
The flashing lights of the police and other first responders cut through the black of night, tinting everything in a strobe of red and blue. Loshak caught sight of the scene from half a mile away. As he got closer, he pulled the car to the side of the road. Loose stones pinged up from the shoulder, ringing out against the undercarriage. He parked and stepped from the vehicle.
“Agent Loshak,” a familiar voice called.
He turned and saw Agent Dawson and Agent Baxter climbing out of their Suburban down the street. Dawson raised a hand in greeting and paused to wait for him.
Loshak didn’t bother locking the rental. He pocketed the keys and jogged across the asphalt to catch up with her. Agent Baxter had already gone ahead without them.
Agent Dawson’s eyes did a quick search behind Loshak and came up empty.
“Agent Darger isn’t with you?” she asked.
“Nah, I left her at the hotel,” he explained. “She’s been up for going on forty hours. Figured she could use the extra shut-eye.”
Dawson shrugged and led the way toward the nexus of the crime scene.
She’d be pissed, of course, Loshak thought. He’d get all manner of grief from her tomorrow morning. But it was the smartest move. She was running on what, three hours of sleep? At most. And this shooter wasn’t showing any signs of letting up. They’d have to pace themselves, or they’d burn out before the end.
The end.
What was the end? Where was he headed with all this? Toward more death and destruction, surely. But why hadn’t they received any contact? Where was his manifesto? This type always had one. Maybe not written down, but it would be there. A list of wrongs committed against him. A case laid out against humanity. His warped reasons for perpetrating these crimes.
As if any sense could be brought to this.
Loshak followed Dawson up the sidewalk to the front of the house. Free-standing screens had been set up around the perimeter to block the view of news cameras, and they had to turn sideways to step between two of the barriers. As he did so, a uniformed officer bowled through the gap holding a hand over his mouth. He made it a few stumbling steps past Loshak before throwing up into a patch of daylilies.
Loshak and Dawson exchanged a glance before proceeding. That was never a good sign, and he readied himself for whatever horrors lay ahead.
The first thing he noticed was the blood. A tremendous amount of blood. It pooled around the body, seeped over the boards of the front porch, dribbled off the top step in thick, gummy drops.
The body sprawled over the threshold of the open front door. From the height of the blood spatter on the door, he’d shot her once as she stood in the doorway, and again after she’d fallen and lay slumped against the door frame.
She had not been covered yet. The crime scene photographer was still taking pictures.
A large, jagged wound covered most of the chest. Flaps of skin were indistinguishable from the torn bits of her dress.
And the face… well, it wasn’t much of a face anymore. Everything above the lower jaw was a mess of shredded tissue and bone fragments.
But the most disturbing part was the unmistakable swell of the woman’s belly.
“How far along was she?” Loshak asked.
Agent Baxter was muttering something to Agent Dawson, and he broke off to answer.
“Almost eight months,” he said, the faintest crack in his voice.
Loshak didn’t blame him. Nor did he fault the uni for losing his lunch over this one. The body was in bad enough shape, but the fact that the victim had been pregnant added a deeper level of profanity to the whole scene.
The amount of gore, the yellow light pouring out from the interior of the house, the incessant strobe of the police lights — all of it gave the feel of a cheap haunted house. Except that it was real. Loshak wasn’t looking at corn syrup and chicken guts.
No sir. Tonight the horror was 100% gen
uine.
Chapter 13
As soon as Levi entered the motel room, Luke jolted upright from his seat and moved to the window.
No hello. No how are you.
He just stared out at the parking lot, head twitching back and forth like a squirrel, cigarette dangling from his lip.
Levi moved to one of the beds and sat, lying back after a few seconds. All of the muscles in his neck and shoulders released, some small euphoria accompanying the slack feeling, and it occurred to him that he’d rather not move again, if possible.
The room was a dump. Wood paneling everywhere. Bedspreads worn and frayed. One corner of the carpet featured a dark splotch that smelled faintly of puke, so they’d steered clear of that.
Images flickered on the TV screen, a seemingly endless stream of commercials, though at least the sound was turned down.
Bored with that, he swiveled his head to watch the figure standing in the window, seeing the twitchy face in profile.
He and Luke looked so much alike that it was weird to look upon this other. It was like looking in a mirror that somehow thinned him out, etched intense lines around his brow and eyes, painted tribal tattoos onto those sinewy arms all roped with veins. Luke was the version sprinkled with crystal meth, educated in martial arts classes, perpetually stubbled and clad in a wife beater.
In contrast, Levi looked like the wholesome version, the clean-cut rendition, baby faced, muscles somehow smooth in appearance instead of fibrous, like he was raised on a strict diet of milk and pot roast in Utah or something.
“Anybody follow you?” Luke said, smoke coiling out with his words.
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because we’re in some bullshit motel in the middle of nowhere. You’re the one lookin’ out there. The Jeep is the only car in the lot, isn’t it?”
Luke nodded and Levi went on.
“No one’s out here. No one wants to be. I mean, I didn’t see any headlights on the road for the last ten minutes or so.”
Luke didn’t answer. He sucked on his cigarette, blew smoke against the glass, and peered out at the gravel lot.