by L. T. Vargus
Abusive to his mother or not, losing dad was not a good thing — not for him and not for Luke. Their dad had been the defender, in the community and at home.
They grew up in a rough neighborhood — a violent, thieving, awful place. Rape and murder happened monthly. Home invasions and muggings were closer to weekly. Some of it was gang related. Almost all of it was drug related. The narcotic of choice fueling the crimes changed over the years as heroin, crack, and meth went in and out of fashion, but the violence remained the same.
And the two scrawny boys took beatings often. No dad. Mom working two jobs. It was like the predators could smell that they had no one looking out for them. Like blood in the water. They got their shit stolen repeatedly — wallets, shoes, and even toys — until they were big enough to stave off attackers or at least run away.
Thinking back, it was probably around fifteen years old that Luke went fully psycho, Levi thought.
A shoving match with one of their mother’s boyfriends pushed him over the edge. He tried to slit the guy’s throat with a kitchen knife. Technically, his brother had cut Russel’s throat. It broke the skin at least, the blade kissing the flesh just enough to draw little red lines, zigzags stretching from one ear to the other.
Levi helped his mom wrestle Luke away before he could spill the man’s blood onto the welcome mat and all over their shoes. It was a close thing. And everything was different after.
Before that incident, they got it worse at home than they did on the street. Mom’s string of loser boyfriends beat on both of them. Black eyes. Busted lips. Rib cages mottled black and blue and yellow. One guy — a mean drunk named Kenny — even put a cigarette out on the back of Luke’s hand when he was nine. The losers came and went, none staying around for more than six or nine months. That was the one thing that pretty much all of her boyfriends had in common — they reveled in beating on the boys.
But everything changed after the close call with Russel’s jugular. Luke stopped taking shit after that, and he made sure Levi didn’t have to, either.
“The world will make you eat shit your whole life if you let it,” he’d said at one point. “You gotta kick it in the teeth until it backs the fuck down.”
The next guy who tried to mug them got his head kicked in. A fractured skull. Three days in a coma. He came out of it and survived, but he was too scared to press charges.
The story got around. It cemented Luke’s reputation, and all of the predators kept their distance. Now when scuffles erupted, it was if and when Luke sought them out.
Levi could still remember what Luke said about it some months later.
“It was like before that, I didn’t exist. Now I do.”
Maybe that’s what they were still doing in a way — kicking heads in to assert their existence, to prove that they were here, that they were alive, their hearts full of napalm. To prove it to the world and to themselves. Except they’d traded up in terms of weapons, swapping fists and feet for a rifle, a handgun, a sawed-off shotgun.
A semi screamed by on the highway, the pitch of its engine standing out from the others, catching his attention. He let the memories go and looked over at the hilltop some ways off.
Still nothing. For now.
Chapter 18
Holy Smokes BBQ was located in an unassuming building on the edge of the city. Nestled between a BP gas station and a municipal parking lot, the place had a definite greasy spoon feel to it, complete with a neon light declaring the restaurant to be OPEN. A giant fiberglass pig adorned the roof, decked out in angel wings and devil horns.
Darger could see smoke rising from behind the restaurant, the scent of burning wood and charred meat mingling into a drool-inducing aroma. She supposed she should have expected casual when it came to barbecue. But it wasn’t exactly the kind of place she would have pegged as a favorite of Agent Baxter. She had a hard time imagining him in anything but his full suit and tie. Judging by the other patrons, Holy Smokes was more of a board shorts and flip-flops type of establishment.
Despite the humble appearance, the line of hungry people waiting to place an order stretched almost out the door.
“Popular place,” she commented.
“Used to be kind of a secret, but I guess they got featured on that show. Diners, Dives, and… something or other. Anyway, it’s pretty much packed every day around noon now. Even worse on the weekends.”
Darger sniffed the air again, taking in the mouth-watering odors wafting about.
“Well, it smells good. That’s for sure.”
“You ever had Georgia barbecue, Agent Darger?”
“We do have barbecue in Virginia, you know.”
He scoffed. “So you’ve had chicken mull?”
“Chicken what?” Darger asked.
Baxter smiled enigmatically. It was possibly the first time she’d seen his mouth do anything but frown or sneer.
“Exactly.”
When it was their turn at the counter, the cute young thing behind the register grinned up at Agent Baxter. She had honey-colored eyes and one perfect dimple per cheek.
“Hello, Mister FBI,” she said. She batted her eyelashes from underneath the brim of a visor embroidered with the restaurant’s name.
“Afternoon.”
He nodded politely, barely seeming to notice the girl’s shameless flirting. Arrogance or obliviousness? Maybe a little of both. Darger had met more than a handful of good-looking people who were so used to the extra attention the world gave them that they developed a sort of blasé lack of acknowledgment of it.
“Two Butt Plates with slaw and chicken mull,” Baxter said, ordering for her without asking. It took some cheek, but ultimately, she didn’t mind. Everything on the menu looked good, and when she was away from home, she always trusted a native’s judgment.
They found an empty table near the front with a 5-star view of the auto parts store across the street.
“What you said earlier… about putting out feelers?” Ethan said. “Gave me an idea.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’m hesitant to ask anyone tied to the FBI. Too much risk of it getting back to Fitzgerald. I’m sure it will come as a great shock to you to learn that we tend to lock horns fairly frequently.”
Darger almost snorted sweet tea out of her nose, thinking back on how she’d imagined almost exactly that image during their argument about the biker gang the day before.
“Right.”
“But I might know someone outside the FBI that I trust to be discreet.”
“Someone in another agency?”
“You could say that,” he answered.
“ATF? Or a local cop?” Darger said, then realized he was probably being intentionally vague. He had no reason to reveal his source to her.
Agent Baxter didn’t dignify her guesses with any kind of response, and they were soon interrupted. Instead of calling the name on the order like she did for everyone else, the dimpled counter girl brought the order out to their table. Darger doubted the special treatment even registered with him.
The girl set the trays down. Each one was laden with so much food, Darger could barely see the styrofoam plate underneath. Steam coiled above a bowl full of some sort of primordial ooze. The aforementioned chicken mull, Darger supposed.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Baxter said, and the girl flashed a glowing smile at him.
“I confess that I came over with an ulterior motive.”
“Oh?”
“I was wondering what cologne it is that you wear. You smell so good,” she said, biting her lip.
Darger looked on, amused and curious. It was such a blatant pick up, she wanted to see how he handled it. To start with, she didn’t know how the girl could possibly smell him over the various meat and sauce scents drifting through the place. She lifted a fork-load of slaw and shoveled it into her mouth. It was crunchy, creamy, and delicious.
“Oh, I don’t wear cologne. I guess it’s just my natural musk,” he said in absolute ser
iousness.
Darger choked as she tried to stifle a laugh at the same moment she was swallowing her mouthful. Both Baxter and the girl turned to regard her. She buried her face in her napkin to continue her choke-laughing with a little privacy.
“Excuse me,” she finally gasped. “Wrong pipe.”
Her outburst must have ruined the moment, or maybe the girl suddenly remembered she had a job to perform. With a final wistful glance at Agent Baxter, she turned on her heel and traipsed back to her post behind the register.
“You are ridiculous,” Darger said after the girl had gone.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Your natural musk?” she repeated.
“What?”
Darger chuckled and licked her spoon. “Where to begin…”
“It’s the truth,” he said. “I don’t wear cologne.”
She could see a little color in his cheeks now. Like he was annoyed or embarrassed. Violet leaned closer to whisper.
“She was hitting on you, dummy.”
He frowned. “How do you know?”
“How do you not? It was obvious.”
Baxter forked a piece of pork butt and studied her. The combined effect of his chewing and the ruminating look he now gave her brought to mind a particularly intelligent-looking cow.
As he sawed through another piece of pork with his knife, he said, “Anyway, she’s not my type.”
Darger couldn’t resist.
“You have a type?” She sipped at her tea. “Wait, let me guess.”
She squinted as she considered him.
“You’re what, 6’1”? 6’2”? So your type is gonna be 5’10”. Works out six days a week. Naturally blonde, bottles need not apply. Big, white teeth to set off her impeccable tan. College-educated, but once you get married you’ll expect her to give up her career to be a full-time housewife and mommy. She had some ambition before that. Law school, med school, astronaut.”
He stared at her for a long time, not even the faintest flicker of a smile in his steely gray eyes. Had she offended him? He really needed to lighten up.
“Is this seriously what you do?”
He shook his head, disappointed.
“I can’t believe the Bureau pays to fly you all over the country to spout that kind of nonsense.”
Ouch, she thought, regretting every word. She’d only been teasing, really. Well… mostly. But apparently Agent Baxter wasn’t the teasing type.
They ate in relative silence after that. There was the occasional scrape of a plastic knife or the crinkle of a napkin, but the banter ceased. When she’d had her fill, Violet wiped her fingers on the paper napkin spread in her lap and took a long drink of sweet tea.
“Well?” Agent Baxter asked.
So he was still talking to her, at least. She had begun to wonder if he was giving her the silent treatment after the discussion about his “type.”
“I concede your point. Georgia barbecue is not Virginia barbecue.”
He raised his fork in the air.
“But did you like it?”
She tipped the now empty styrofoam bowl of chicken mull toward him.
“I know you Southerners are sticklers about manners, and that is the only thing that kept me from jamming my face into this bowl to lick it clean.”
The rare smile returned, transforming his face into something softer. Warmer. He really was pretty handsome when he smiled, she had to admit.
Had he forgiven her for mocking him earlier? She still wasn’t certain if he’d been insulted or if he just didn’t appreciate her sense of humor.
He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and dropped it on top of his tray.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Sure.”
They crossed the parking lot, heat distortion rippling from the baking macadam.
“I have a favor to ask,” she said.
The interior of the Suburban was stifling after sitting out in the heat for an hour, even with the windows cracked. Baxter cranked up the AC, and Violet directed one of the vents directly at her face.
“What’s that?”
“I never got a chance to check out the first scene,” she said. “Could you take me there?”
“I can drive you past it, but it’s a freeway, you know. Can’t really stop and take in the scenery.”
They rolled through a residential area, white picket fences and petunias passing by in a blur.
“What about where he shot from?”
“The hill overlooking the freeway?”
Darger nodded.
“I’ve seen it on a map, but I’d like to be there in person. To see it how he saw it.”
“What time do you have to be back at the call center?”
Darger glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes after 1 PM.
“Not until four,” she said.
“Should give us plenty of time to head out there and back,” he said and hung a left at the next cross street. “I have to make a quick stop before we go.”
They passed a squat house made of tan brick. A moment later, they went by an identical brick cube. And then another, and another. Even the scrubby little yards with the gravel driveways were the same.
“Imagine coming home after a few too many drinks and trying to figure out which house is yours,” she said, thinking out loud.
Ethan shot her a look that she could only interpret as disapproving.
“Not that I would ever do something so… irresponsible,” she said.
He didn’t reply. The car slowed and rolled up to the curb in front of one of the brick dwellings. This one happened to have one distinguishing landmark: a rather large statue of Mary cloistered under half an upended bathtub. Violet had seen bathtub Madonnas before, but never one this large. Or perhaps the house being so small was what made the statue appear oversized.
Violet had been wondering if this was Ethan’s neighborhood. After seeing the statue, she was certain it wasn’t. Even if he were a religious zealot, no way would he have that thing in his yard. Now that she thought about it, this whole neighborhood had a very un-Baxter vibe to it. She tried to imagine who he might know that would live here. His enigmatic contact perhaps?
He turned off the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt.
“Is this the guy?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
Violet paused with her thumb on her seatbelt release button.
“Whoa. I thought we were teammates now. BBQ buddies.”
“Just stay here,” he commanded.
The hard, unfriendly tone was back in his voice. Maybe he hadn’t forgiven her for the teasing after all.
He exited the vehicle and crossed the crispy-looking grass on the front lawn, then entered the screened porch area and disappeared from view.
“Damn,” Darger said.
Agent Baxter’s reticence about his source only increased her curiosity. She was just naturally nosy that way.
She tried to imagine who it could be. An ex-biker? An old lady on the outs? Would a biker guy or gal be the type to install an Our Lady of the Bathtub in their front lawn?
She didn’t have long to ponder the mystery. Baxter had barely been inside for two minutes when he was striding back to the car.
“That was quick,” she said as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Yep,” was all he said.
Agent Bastard, we meet again, she thought to herself as he started the car.
Chapter 19
As they drove on to the scene of the first shooting, Darger noted a distinct darkening of the sky off to the west. The low bank of clouds hugging the horizon there had a bruised look. A storm was coming.
Agent Baxter took a right onto an unmarked service road. It was unpaved, a gash of dirt running up and around a small hill that overlooked the freeway. Despite being a stone’s throw from downtown Atlanta and in clear view of the freeway, it had a remote feel to it.
“He must have picked this spot out pretty carefully
.”
He grunted in what she thought might be agreement.
“I bet most people that drive past the entrance to this road never even notice it,” she continued. “But he did.”
Baxter brought the Chevy to a stop just shy of the police tape still strung between two bushes. It shuddered and swayed in the breeze that warned of the oncoming weather.
“I don’t know if anyone mentioned it to you, but Lake Street bridge is a — well, I don’t like using the word popular — spot for jumpers.”
“Jumpers? You mean suicides?” she asked.
He dragged a knuckle over the edge of his prickly jaw and nodded.
“Have you run any of the names? What if he’s a family member of someone who—”
“Already on it,” Baxter said. “I can email you the list if you’d like.”
“Yes, please. And thank you.”
She was appreciative that he’d offered to share and felt like maybe they’d regained some of the ground lost when she’d teased him about his “type.”
“That stuff I said earlier — about the kind of woman you date — I was only screwing around. I meant no offense.”
He shrugged.
“None taken,” he said. “And for your information, my last girlfriend was a short brunette who taught the seventh grade.”
Last girlfriend, Darger noted, wanting to point out that maybe she wasn’t his current girlfriend because she wasn’t actually his type. But for once, Violet had the sense to keep her mouth shut.
“Although, I did date a blonde pre-Med in college,” he admitted.
“Ha!” Darger clapped her hands. “How you like them profiling-nonsense apples?”
Baxter smirked and started to climb out of the car. He angled his head to look in at her.
“You know what they say about blind hogs,” he said.
Darger paused, one foot out the door. She didn’t know what they said about blind hogs, but she supposed she was about to find out.
She did not.
There was a loud peal of thunder. From their position on the hill, the crack and rumble of it echoed ominously over the terrain.