Five Days Post Mortem: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (Violet Darger FBI Thriller Book 5)

by L. T. Vargus

Darger couldn’t help but analyze the conversation. Was he consciously avoiding any mention of last night?

  Well, if he didn’t want to broach what went down last night any further, then neither did she. It was probably better that way.

  “Ah, well that little birdie just saved me the cost of an Uber. So be sure to thank him for me.”

  She grabbed her bag from the bed, double-checked that she had everything she needed, and went back to the door.

  “I’m ready, if you are.”

  Fowles led the way down the hallway and into the elevator.

  As the doors closed and sealed them into the confined space, Darger couldn’t help but feel a surge of agitation.

  She inspected Fowles for signs that things were off between them. A clue to their botched evening. But he didn’t even seem a little bothered or nervous. Or maybe he was just good at pretending.

  The polished doors parted, depositing them into the lobby of the hotel. Outside, Fowles gestured at the dark smudge on the horizon, the same stormy front Darger had noticed earlier.

  “Looks like rain.”

  Commenting on the weather, Darger thought. Classic small talk.

  Had they discussed the weather before? Darger didn’t think so. So maybe Fowles did feel some awkwardness under that cool veneer. Avoiding the heavy subjects. Back to the basics. Acquaintances rather than friends.

  Then they were in the car, and the silence seemed to press in on all sides. Why had she accepted a ride from him? She should have lied and said she’d already called a car, and it would cost her a fee to cancel. Now she was stuck in chitchat Hell. Doomed to comment on the weather, bitch about potholes, and say things like, “Any big plans for the weekend?” It was like going to the dentist without all the fun of having a stranger put their hands in your mouth.

  But even that inane blather was preferable to this oppressive silence.

  Her eyes cast about the car, looking for something, anything that might spark a topic for conversation.

  The car was full of Fowles memorabilia. It shouldn’t be hard. She noted the stack of books at her feet and nudged them with her toe so she could read the spines. Starting at the bottom of the stack, she scanned the titles.

  The Insects: Structure and Function

  The Tao of Watercolor

  The Blowflies of North America

  Principles & Practice of Neuro-oncology

  Bugs, art, more bugs, and brain cancer. She stared at the top book, trying to figure how it fit among the rest.

  Finally, she gave up and lifted the uppermost book into her lap.

  “OK, you’ve got bugs, and you’ve got art. That makes sense. But how does cancer relate?”

  He shrugged.

  “It doesn’t really. Other than that I study the first two and have the other.”

  Darger lost her grip on the heavy medical textbook, and the thud it made when it hit the floor seemed deafening in the silence.

  She looked him in the eye, sure he was joking. Not much of a joke, really, since it wasn’t funny at all. But when she stared into those cornflower blue irises, she knew he’d been speaking the truth.

  “You have cancer?”

  “Grade four glioblastoma.”

  “Grade four… that’s…”

  “About as bad as it gets. Terminal, actually. I was supposed to be over a year ago. So technically I’m a ghost.”

  He said all of it with an air of nonchalance that Darger couldn’t quite comprehend. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he seemed… almost chipper about it all.

  Sensing that she was having a difficult time processing the information, he patted her arm.

  “Sorry if I seem a bit blasé about it. My sister says I’m not allowing myself to grieve, but the reality is that there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’ve never been the type to fixate on the things I can’t change in the world. She’s a lawyer, so that concept is entirely foreign to her. In her opinion, everything is negotiable, even terminal cancer.”

  “Is it painful?” Darger asked, not thinking. Her mouth was running on auto-pilot while her brain wrestled with the idea of Fowles being at death’s door.

  “Not really. I’ve been remarkably asymptomatic since surgery, despite the fact that the tumor has spread.”

  Another stretch of quiet settled over the car. Darger watched the restaurants and shops of downtown Sandy flick by without really seeing them.

  Eventually, Fowles interrupted the lull.

  “I’m surprised Dr. Prescott didn’t mention it.”

  “I’m not,” Darger muttered.

  Fowles laughed.

  “She is a curious creature.”

  “That’s one way of saying it,” Darger said.

  * * *

  Darger was still reeling when they reached the station. The apprehension and awkwardness that had overwhelmed her earlier were gone. She felt strangely empty now. Dazed and numb. Like she couldn’t quite process it.

  Chief Furbush bustled out of his office to greet them as they came through the front door.

  Darger glanced over at Fowles, who was commenting on the wet-looking weather forecast again. She was struck by how healthy he seemed. He didn’t look like a dying man. Thin, yes, but not emaciated. His physique looked more fit than frail, some masculine bulk to him. How could it be real? And how could he act so normal, knowing that tomorrow he might be dead?

  Did Furbush know? She watched the two men interact. She thought not. It probably wasn’t the kind of thing you went around telling people you’d just met. Fowles had only told her because she’d asked about the book in his car.

  Swallowing, Darger summoned enough focus to ask if the private investigator had called yet.

  “Not yet,” Furbush said. “But I’m hoping to hear from him any minute now.”

  The Chief turned and headed for the conference room.

  “Come on in and grab yourself a coffee and a donut. Take a moment before the day truly begins.”

  He gestured to a plastic clamshell case of assorted donuts — sprinkles, chocolate-covered, powdered sugar.

  “Usually I’d grab a dozen from Moe’s, but they’re redoing the place. Had to settle for Fred Meyer.”

  As Furbush turned away to pour a styrofoam cup of coffee, Fowles nudged Darger with a bony elbow. She turned to look at him, and he winked.

  The confusion on her face must have been clear, because he leaned in and muttered, “No comments or special opinions about donuts from Fred Meyer?”

  It was a moment before she realized he was referencing the comment she’d made about grocery store donuts the day before.

  “Oh. Yeah,” she said and mustered a weak smile in return, not fully able to enjoy the inside joke.

  The phone at the front desk rang, and they heard Marcy answer.

  “Sandy Police Department. How can I help you?” After a brief pause, she said, “Just one moment, please.”

  Her shoes clacked over the tile floor.

  “Chief? A Mr. Lawrence Snead is on the line.”

  “That’d be our PI,” Furbush said, dusting powdered sugar from his fingertips.

  He took a final slug from his cup to wash the remainder of his donut down and reached for the phone on the conference room wall.

  “This is Chief Furbush.”

  What followed was a lot of mmhm’s and uh-huh’s. Darger tried to analyze his tone and body language in hopes of determining whether it was good or bad news, but she was still too distracted by the Fowles revelation to glean much.

  Furbush finished the conversation with a, “Well, I certainly appreciate it.”

  He hung up the phone and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

  “He found two more addresses, but they were even more out of date than the one we had for Portland.”

  “Shit,” Darger said.

  “He said he’d keep on it. Has a few tricks of the trade he can use, but seeing as we just talked to Dustin’s parents yesterday and asked about him, he wants to let things set
tle for a few days before he tries anything. If Dustin’s hiding out, he doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion.”

  Now she felt a strange tightness in her chest. An almost panicked feeling.

  Darger excused herself and found the bathroom. She locked the door behind her just as the first tears sprang to her eyes.

  Jesus Christ.

  What the hell was wrong with her? It was just a little roadblock in the case. Nothing to have a meltdown over.

  But she knew she wasn’t crying about hitting another dead end. She was crying about Fowles.

  It felt like a bit of an overreaction. She’d only known him for two days. But something about it had rattled her, got its claws in good and deep.

  What kind of fucking universe was she living in? A kind, giving woman like Shannon Mead has her life stolen by a psycho. A brilliant scientist like Fowles given mere months to live. It wasn't fair.

  It wasn't fucking fair.

  She was crying hard now, tears and snot flowing from her face.

  What a crock of shit life was.

  And maybe it didn’t matter how long you knew someone. It wasn’t like she’d never teared up at tragic stories about strangers in the newspapers. Felt a certain stab to the heart after reading a particularly grim police file. Been overwhelmed with grief for the victims and families in her own cases.

  Darger took a long, deep breath, gathering her frayed nerves into something resembling calmness. And then she spent some time putting herself back together. Wiping the moisture from her cheeks, dabbing any mascara smears from under her eyes with a wad of toilet paper. Checking to make sure her face wasn’t red and splotchy.

  How was she going to get through the day when she felt like this?

  She didn’t know, but she had to try.

  Thankfully, the others were back on the internet, hunting for any possible connection to Dustin Reynolds when she finally came out. They barely noticed her return.

  But then Fowles swiveled in his chair, took one look at her, and frowned.

  “Are you feeling OK?”

  “What?” Darger swallowed guiltily and tried to appear perky. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  Furbush was studying her now, too. She squirmed under their scrutiny, certain they could tell she’d been crying.

  “Fowles is right. You look a little peakèd.”

  “I’m just frustrated, is all,” she said, brushing them off. “Dustin Reynolds didn’t just disappear into thin air. There has to be someone that knows where he is.”

  Furbush was still studying her.

  “Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

  “I had some instant oatmeal.”

  “Well that’s your problem. Instant oatmeal and donuts? That’s not the right way to start the day. You need protein.”

  “I feel fine. Really.”

  Ignoring her, Furbush called out through the open door.

  “Marcy? Hold down the fort, will you? We’re going over to The Early Bird for breakfast.”

  “I don’t think—” Darger started to say, but Furbush cut her off.

  “Can’t run on an empty tank. You never know what kind of inspiration a hearty breakfast might stir up.”

  Sensing it was pointless to continue arguing, Darger got to her feet and trailed Fowles and Furbush to the door.

  Chapter 32

  You make Callie breakfast in bed. Hash browns and a fried egg on a bed of sautéed spinach and mushrooms. The shredded potatoes take up about two-thirds of the plate. Just the way she likes it.

  There is something strange about cooking while she sleeps. Something hushed and reverent.

  You stand over the hot stove. Frying pans spitting at you a little.

  The warmth shimmers over the cooktop. Reaches out to touch the flesh of your cheeks. It feels good on a cold morning like this.

  You like cooking for Callie. A lot of couples don’t enjoy nurturing each other this way. Not these days. But you think expressing affection by taking care of your partner is among the purest forms of love.

  It makes you happy to serve her, to work for her, to present her something you made with your own two hands.

  There is meaning in it. Significance.

  So many people take themselves too seriously for that, maybe. Too intellectual or hip to want to play the caretaker role.

  Or maybe they merely want to consume their partner, reduce them to an image that exists for their convenience. An object to bring them entertainment and gratification.

  Some people can get stuck so far up in their own heads that they kind of forget other people are real all the way, especially the people closest to them.

  Whatever the reason, modern people seem to feel resentment when they have to do something for someone else. Maybe we’re that addicted to feeling powerful, imagining ourselves as the heroes of our own story. Even the slightest sacrifice makes us feel small, makes us feel powerless, makes us want to lash out.

  But for you, it’s the opposite. You have all of these feelings for Callie. Intense, uncontrollable, passionate emotions that swirl about deep inside of you.

  You look for any way you can to get them out, to articulate them. The urge to convey them is not even purely to communicate the information to her so much as a need to reveal this part of your soul to the world, to expel it, to assert this aspect of yourself out loud.

  You’re not great with words. Not an artist or anything. Cooking is one of the tiny pinholes you can try to squeeze those feelings through, try to express all of your soul through.

  You hand her the plate on a tray that nestles over her lap, and she scoots to a sitting up position in bed to accept it.

  A little smile curls at the corners of her mouth, and her eyelids flutter in a way you see as bashful, like maybe she thinks she doesn’t deserve this.

  This offering. This effort. She feels it might be too much for her, too good for her.

  But she’s wrong. You’d give her the world if you could.

  Thankfully she doesn’t want that. She wants food. Likes it. Really, really likes it. Hash browns, especially.

  She appreciates your gift as fully as you meant it, as one plate of love from you to her.

  And you eat. And life makes sense.

  For a little while, anyway.

  Chapter 33

  The Early Bird was a dingy small-town diner like a hundred others Darger had been in, right down to the wood plank walls featuring historical photographs of the town.

  They paused at the sign that told them to Please Wait To Be Seated until an older waitress with cherry-red hair led them to a booth near the back.

  “I know the Chief here would rather die than drink decaf,” she said, winking at Furbush, “but what about you two youngsters?”

  Darger didn’t hesitate.

  “Regular is great.”

  “I’ll actually take some hot water for tea,” Fowles said, which elicited a suspicious look from the waitress.

  She dealt the trio menus like she was a blackjack dealer at the Bellagio, and when it came time to recite the specials, she rattled them off so fast, Darger might have mistaken her for an auctioneer.

  “I’ll be back with the coffee.” She narrowed her eyes at Fowles. “And the hot water.”

  As she headed for the kitchen, Fowles lowered his voice and leaned in, like he was about to share a secret with them.

  “I think our waitress might suspect me of being a communist.”

  Furbush smirked.

  “Well, that’s what you get for ordering something fancy in a town like this.”

  “See, I don’t understand that. In England, tea has no class significance. It’s consumed universally, rich or poor.”

  “Ah, but you said it right there. In England,” Furbush said. “One of the most prominent and symbolic acts of rebellion in our country’s history was the Boston Tea Party. After that, it was considered downright unpatriotic to drink tea.”

  “OK, but that was over two centuries ago.”

&nbs
p; “Doesn’t matter. Once tea was out, it was out for life. Done with tea. No debate. No looking back. That’s where coffee came in. In fact, it was in a coffee house that the Declaration of Independence was first read aloud to the public. No lie.”

  “A historian, eh?”

  If Darger wasn’t mistaken, Furbush blushed a little at that.

  “I dabble.”

  Fowles let his eyes drift across the table to meet hers.

  “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Do you find drinking tea to be an un-American trait?”

  He smiled, and it registered dully that he was trying to draw her into the conversation.

  She could have played along with the joke and accused Fowles of being a traitorous Pinko bastard. Or she could have pointed out that it was unlikely to be a historical or cultural thing at all, and merely the fact that waitstaff hated when people ordered tea because they have to wait for the hot water — and servers hate waiting for anything. On top of the waiting, the tea also comes with all of these little accessories: the teapot, the lemon, the milk, a selection of tea bags. It was fussy and three times more complicated than fetching a cup of coffee.

  But his effort was a hopeless one. Darger could barely manage more than a two-word response. Couldn’t seem to get her brain into conversation mode.

  So she said none of these things, and instead muttered only, “No.”

  To avoid further attempts at luring her into the discussion, Darger buried her face in the menu. She didn’t have much of an appetite, but she doubted Furbush would find that an acceptable excuse considering he dragged them all here because she looked a little “peakèd.” She’d have to order something.

  She scoured the menu for something she’d be able to choke down. Something soft maybe. Her eyes stopped on the blueberry pancakes, but then she remembered the overly-sweetened glue masquerading as oatmeal she’d already eaten. Anything sweet and doughy was out.

  She moved onto the section focused on eggs, but realized that neither runny yolks nor a rubbery scramble sounded appetizing. She was quickly running out of options.

  Finally, she landed on a heading for breakfast sandwiches. The only one that didn’t have eggs on it was the BLT, so it won out by simple process of elimination.