Lone Wolf

Book 5: Victor Loshak

by L.T. Vargus, E. M. Smith, Tim McBain

Genres: Horror; Mystery; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The package arrives first class. A manila envelope bulging with bubble wrap. With the top slit open, what lies within can just faintly be seen: A swath of human flesh sealed in plastic.

When a popular podcaster receives a disturbing package in the mail, FBI profiler Victor Loshak heads to Denver to investigate. The grisly contents of the bubble mailer are unlike anything he’s seen.

Somewhere out there is a victim without a face.

Feds swarm the scene. The US Postal Inspection Service tracks down the point of the package’s origin. Special Agent Loshak works up a psychological profile to assist the task force’s investigation.
Just when they’re making initial progress, they get word: A second package has arrived.

A letter opener shaped like a cutlass slits the top of the envelope. The flaps open wide like a mouth.

The scope of the case quickly balloons. Multiple packages at multiple locations. Each carries another gruesome payload, wrapped in plastic. Forensic details quickly confirm more than one victim.

Loshak can only ride along as the task force scrambles from scene to scene. Working. Documenting. Trying to catch up.

At last, some progress arrives. Multiple points of shipping origin emerge, all of them fairly local. The search for suspect and victims alike begins to tighten.

But the key to solving the case remains shrouded: Why would a person commit such atrocities?

Loshak will once again have to enter the mind of a killer, let the darkness in, understand the motives from the inside. As always, the cost will be high, and the danger will be higher.

This pulse-pounding thriller will grip you until the final page. Fans of Michael Connelly, John Sandford, and Harlan Coben should check out the Victor Loshak series. Scroll up and grab Lone Wolf now.

 

Release date: February 29, 2024

Publisher: Smarmy Press

Sample

Prologue

Andi Wayland wrestled the Rubbermaid tote from her hip onto the railing of the stairs. The podcast mail was crazy heavy this week. Inside the tote, the envelopes and packages bumped and slid around, making it awkward as hell, too.

She felt like Sisyphus shoving the tote up the railing, but it was better than having the thing bumping against her thigh the whole climb. Last time it had left bruises.

When she made it up the first flight of stairs, she paused to catch her breath, her internal monologue spewing out a stream of sarcastic complaints.

Who cares if it’s a three-story walk-up, they said.

The apartment is amazing, they said.

Such a great neighborhood, they said.

They were half-hearted gripes, really. Because being forced to lug a giant bin of fan mail up these stairs every few days was a good problem to have. All Murder had started out with one listener, and that had been her dad. Nowadays, the podcast had close to a million subscribers, an active community, and incredible organic growth every quarter.

Thinking about her passion project in terms of quarterly growth made her feel just a teensy bit soulless, but hey… Patreon and ad reads were what paid the bills. And living in the hip area of Denver’s world-famous Dairy Block did not come cheap.

She was huffing and puffing by the time she got to the third floor. Sweating through the delicate, gauzy material of her shell top. Definitely needed more cardio. Or better yet, she needed to start sending her assistant to get the mail.

Andi pinned the tote to the wall with her knee while she unlocked her door, then swooped over the threshold with it, letting its momentum carry it inside and barely missing her overweight tabby.

“My bad, Sanford, look out. Lots of snail mail today.”

She caught a whiff of something rank and initially assumed the culprit was Sanford’s litter box. He had a habit of taking a crap without burying it, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d spend a good five minutes scraping his paw against the wall and the floor and the side of the washing machine — anywhere but the inside of the litter box itself, really — before deciding his work was done.

But after a second sniff, she determined it was definitely not cat shit she smelled. This odor was more putrid.

That was when she remembered cleaning out the fridge that morning, and the ancient container of refried beans she’d discovered, way in the back, tucked behind a jar of marinara.

She tossed the beans in the garbage and had taken the bag straight down to the dumpster, but apparently, the stench had been powerful enough to linger even still.

There was a candle warmer on the small table beside the door. Andi reached over and turned on the switch, hoping the fragrance of the candle would banish the enduring stink of the rotten beans.

She squinted at the label, which declared that the scent was called “The Zodiac Killer” and listed the notes as “a dark and enigmatic blend of amber, sandalwood, vetiver, and vanilla.” Andi didn’t know what any of those had to do with the Zodiac and found the scent to be kind of “generic cologne,” personally.

She also couldn’t help but wonder if there was a big market for serial killer-themed candles, but since it had been made and sent in by one of their fans, she mostly just felt appreciative that their listeners cared that much.

The short hall to her kitchenette was lined with posters from old horror and grindhouse movies. Vibrant shades, delivering violence and gore in high contrast. The bold lettering spelled out titles like Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things and I Drink Your Blood.

With a grunt, she heaved the tote onto the table and dropped her keys next to it. Leaned over and slapped the paddle switch on the wall. The natural light in this place was practically non-existent. Sometimes it felt like living in a cave. Next on her upgrade list was an apartment with a huge bank of windows, in a location where the buildings next door didn’t block the sun.

The tabby twined around her legs, his big belly actually forcing her to spread her feet farther apart. His vet had used the term alarmingly obese at his last appointment. Not very nice, but not an inaccurate description, either.

She stooped to scrub her fingers over his face, thumbs sliding over the soft, glossy ‘M’ pattern on his forehead. He really was a pretty cat, he just liked to overindulge a bit too often.

Apparently, attention wasn’t what Sanford had been looking for. He let out an impatient, rolling meow and nipped at her hand.

“Dude. I fed you before I left.”

He really drew out the next complaint. Sometimes she swore he actually understood her.

“Do you want to die early? Because that’s what will happen if you keep eating like this.”

Sanford waddled to his bowl and loafed there on the floor, yowling.

“God. Fine. Let’s just find out what’s in the box first.”

Maybe if she kept pushing back the feeding times, they would eventually get to the once-a-day feedings the vet recommended.

Tuning out Sanford’s hangry squalling, Andi upended the tote, spilling out large envelopes, both of the manila and white variety. Some padded mailers. A few small boxes. Letters in standard-size envelopes. Brightly colored stationary, a weird number of them neon pink.

All Murder did have a disproportionate number of female listeners. Something about serial killers really drew in the ladies.

She skimmed a few letters and a thank-you card from a woman who was disturbingly grateful for highlighting Chad Daybell.

That episode was already a few years old, but still the most popular one to date. Before that one, Andi had just been glad to get an occasional affiliate commission or two from one of those companies peddling make-at-home subscription meals. But within six months of Episode 24, which was titled “One Foot in the Grave,” the All Murder Patreon had enough subscribers that she could afford to quit her job and really focus on the show.

Sanford’s wail wavered, then broke off. Ran out of air. He licked his chops, then got back to it.

“Maybe you’re the one who needs cardio, Sanfy. Did you ever think of that?”

Was it any wonder that she overfed him when she had this diva attitude to contend with? The fans loved it when Sanford made his occasional appearances on the podcast; the audio tech did not.

Andi added the Chad Daybell thank-you card to the Standard Response pile for an assistant to deal with—maybe send some stickers and a newsletter—and moved on.

The padded mailers and manila envelopes were mostly fan art. Those would need to be scheduled for spotlights on the social media pages, mentioned in the “Shout-Outs” segment of the show. There were a few sketches of the podcast crew, some really awesome reimaginings of the All Murder logo, and several portraits of the infamous killers they talked about every week.

She paused over a photorealistic drawing of Richard Ramirez done entirely in blue ballpoint. A shiver rolled down her spine. Something about the eyes really got under her skin.

Even for someone as deeply entrenched in the true crime world as she was, it was slightly disturbing to think somebody had spent hours rendering the Night Stalker in such loving detail. There was just no other way to describe it. Nobody with a mere passing interest could’ve captured that predatory gleam in his eyes.

And she wondered what she always wondered when she opened these homages to the most violent criminals in their nation’s history: Who were the people drawing this stuff, and were they OK?

She kept a few pieces of really top-notch fan art framed and scattered among the horror and true crime posters, but they weren’t there for her. The apartment was basically the studio/work room for the podcast, set up to be “on brand.” They’d brought in a legit interior decorator back when they started filming the video version to help design the place.

A sharp pain in her calf made her yelp.

“Hey!”

Sanford meowed and trundled back to his bowl.

“Asshole,” she muttered.

She had one mailer left to open, the biggest one of the pile, all bulging and thick, but clearly she wasn’t going to get any peace and quiet to do it in until the monster in the room was dealt with.

She abandoned the last mailer on the table and grabbed the plastic container of cat food off the shelf. The kibble jangled into the metal bowl, tiny nuggets of compressed chicken and rice or salmon and some other grain. She couldn’t remember which flavor she’d bought him this time around. It was one of those top-of-the-line science diets, though. Maybe if she bought something cheaper, he wouldn’t love it enough to gorge on.

With a chirrup of satisfaction, Sanford stuck his face in the bowl. The phrase “set to with a will” came instantly to Andi’s mind. No idea where she’d heard that one. Sounded like something from a regency romance.

She shook her head.

“The things I do for you.”

Back at the table, she reached for the remaining mailer. Paused.

Another trace of stanky bean smell assailed her nostrils. Jesus, how long was that stench going to hang around?

She had taken the garbage down to the dumpster, right? She distinctly remembered doing it.

She toed open the under-sink cabinet, confirming that not only was the trash bin empty, she hadn’t even put a fresh bag in yet.

Is it me? she thought. Maybe the bean funk is clinging to my skin, permeating the fibers of my clothing.

But when she lifted her blouse to her nose and inhaled, it just smelled like fabric softener.

She cracked the window over the sink and picked up the final mailer, still puzzling over the persistent odor. The large envelope crinkled with bubble wrap, both built into the packaging and filling the interior. Whatever this fan had sent must be fragile. They got non-paper art now and then. Ceramic plates made to look like the ones old ladies hung on their wall, except with idyllic scenes of pastel axe murder, or Blair Witch-style stick creations.

This… this she wasn’t sure about. There was so much bubble wrap that she couldn’t see through to the thing at the center, and she couldn’t tell anything by feel. The bubbles rustled and bulged beneath her fingers as she unwound layer after layer.

Whatever this thing was, it definitely wasn’t getting damaged in shipping.

Color became discernible through the layers as she unwrapped. A whitish-yellow-gray on one side. Something reminiscent of melted cheese. Gruyere, maybe, or a slice of American. Grab some turkey and rye, and she could have lunch with Sanford.

The other side was mottled with a darker brownish-pink. Kind of like old hamburger. Much less appetizing.

The end of the bubble wrap fell away to reveal a layer of cling wrap, the thin film sliding under her fingers on the red side, sticking a little better to the pale. She still couldn’t tell what she was looking at. It didn’t make any sense.

It was the mouth and eye holes that gave it away.

“Oh, duh. Mask.”

That explained the rubbery feel and Jell-O-like wiggliness whenever she flipped it over. Somebody had sent in a Halloween mask. Maybe even homemade—that would be pretty original as far as fan art went. They would have to feature this one in the next “Shout-Outs” for sure.

She skimmed her nails over the saran wrap until she ran across the little bump that indicated the fold. Picked at it. It was really stuck on there.

Finally, a corner stripped away from the rest, something weirdly reminiscent of dropping a piece of bacon into a pan in the sound. Maybe she was hungrier than she’d realized.

As the plastic wrap came away from the mask, the putrid stink she’d been smelling wafted up from it. Stronger now. A mix of roadkill and sushi. Juice dripped out of it, pitter-pattering like rain on the forgotten bubble wrap.

At the back of her mind, Andi realized she was gagging. The stench. The dripping. The feel of that thing against her palms.

It wasn’t latex. Wasn’t a mask at all.

It was skin. Human skin.

The flesh shook wetly in her hand as she started trembling. The tote, envelopes, and piles of letters appeared and disappeared through the mouth and eye holes.

A face.

She was holding a human face in her bare hand.

 

 

Chapter 1

Camera flashes glinted against the plastic wrap stretched over the detached face. Techs circled around, photographing and filming. Documenting every detail.

Somehow that splayed flap of human skin seemed to take up the entire table. A wad of discarded bubble wrap sat nearby, opened letters stacked to either side, a big gray and green tote behind.

But the face was the showpiece. The main attraction. Everything else faded into the background.

Loshak stood at the edge of the remodeled kitchenette, watching the CSIs work.

“So did you have to do a lot of fancy talking to get the top brass to let you come out here?” Spinks asked from beside him.

“Not at all.” Loshak smirked a little. “ASAC Morris took one look at the case notes you sent me and agreed the FBI should offer assistance due to the quote, ‘unusual nature of the package.’”

“‘Unusual nature of the package, huh?’” Spinks repeated, glancing over to where the techs were working. “That’s a bit of an understatement.”

“I’m just lucky Morris didn’t barf on my loafers. The desk jockeys tend to have weak stomachs and are only too glad to have someone like me between them and the really weird cases.”

They parted to make way for a tech with a clipboard.

“OK, so… Dahmer,” Spinks said, lifting one finger from his cardboard coffee cup and pointing at the poster on the wall. “Then you’ve got your Bundy. And don’t forget Green River’s Gary Ridgway. I didn’t even know you could get his poster. I could’ve had him up on my wall in twenty-four by thirty-six this whole time.”

Loshak tipped his head left and then right as if he were considering the options.

“You’ve got to have a specific palette to pull off this look.”

He glanced away from the techs documenting the scene long enough to indicate the color choices in the kitchenette-cum-podcasting studio. Reds. Blacks. Garish colors that spoke to the ancient parts of the human mind. Colors that screamed danger, violence, death.

Spinks shook his head.

“Honestly, I’m a little disappointed in the lack of Leatherfaces. No monument to horror is complete without one.”

“There was one in the hall as we came in,” Loshak said.

The reporter let out an aha, eyebrows stretching up toward his smooth brown scalp, and strode back out into the hall.

Loshak turned back to the whirlwind of activity. Spinks was playing it cool, but he also hadn’t so much as glanced in the direction of the face since they had come in. Loshak understood. There was something deeply disturbing about being in the same room with an object that had once been a part of a human. Recently too, if the coloration and apparent lack of significant decomposition was any indication.

Just last month, Loshak had been in an antique store with Jan when the owner had taken them aside to show off her pride and joy — the scalp of a cavalry soldier from just after the Civil War.

But the scalp hadn’t had the same power of place this face had. Loshak had already walked by it twice when the proprietor pointed it out to them. He had glimpsed the small handwritten index card in the corner of its display case, filed away the information, and dismissed it. Jan had been looking for Corningware, not mummified scalps.

The face, however, couldn’t be ignored. Even when Loshak squared his shoulders in the opposite direction, he could feel it there, like a constant low vibration or a radiator putting off heat. It was almost like the face itself was dangerous. Like for his own protection, he had to keep track of where it was at all times.

So what was the difference? he wondered. Why had he been able to casually brush the scalp aside but not the face? Because it was so fresh?

He shivered a little at the word.

Fresh meat.

“Alright, I’ve figured it out,” Spinks announced upon his return. “They went with the Dewey Decimal style of interior decoration. In here we have the Non-Fiction section.” He indicated the walls covered in posters of serial killers, then pointed at the stub of a hallway. “And out there we have the Fiction section. It’s a simple, yet bold style that makes a statement. Some might say the ultimate statement.”

The reporter was doing one of his bits. Loshak knew the pause was meant for him. You couldn’t have a comedy duo without a straight man. Since he also knew it made Spinks feel better to joke around at a time like this, he obliged.

“And what statement is that exactly?”

Spinks raised his hands, coffee clamped between his thumb and forefinger, and spread them in the air like he was framing a lit marquee.

“Scare me.”

Loshak grunted.

“I was thinking something along the same lines.”

He hooked the flaps of his suit jacket back and stuck his hands on his hips before he went on.

“Podcasts like this All Murder one have become incredibly popular in recent years, but they’re just the latest iteration of the cavemen telling scary stories around the fire. The danger is removed, but the thought of it still sends a shiver down the spine. They offer a look at death from a safe distance.”

“Ah yes. Living vicariously through the death of someone else.” Spinks took a sip of his coffee. “I’m going to find a way to use that when I write the book about how you solved this one.”

“If we solve this one.”

“Come on, partner, don’t be modest. Special Agent Victor Loshak always gets his man.”

Loshak shook his head.

“You’re forgetting one very important detail: This time, we’ve got a face with no body. That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, but how hard could it be to match it to a body? It’ll be the one missing this area.”

Spinks made a circular motion around his face.

“Ah see, you’ve been spoiled by our previous cases,” Loshak said. “Those bodies were more or less handed to us by killers who either explicitly wanted us to find them or at least made no attempt to hide their crimes. It’s a different puzzle altogether when the killer doesn’t want a body to be found. There are an infinite number of hiding places to choose from. Landfills. Condemned buildings. Lakes and rivers. Remote wilderness. And that’s not even taking into account the possibility of it having been buried, fully dismembered, or otherwise altered and disposed of in an attempt to keep us from ever ID-ing it.”

He couldn’t help but picture it: Somewhere out there was a dead body with its face cut off.

The question was: where? In a dumpster, surrounded by rotting trash? At the bottom of a reservoir, weighed down with cement blocks? Tucked into a shallow grave in someone’s crawlspace?

The truth was, it could be hidden anywhere. And yet he understood the reporter’s presumption that the body would have to be found. It felt deeply wrong — impossible, even — imagining that a crime this grotesque and shocking might go unsolved. That they might find a face and nothing else.

“I’ll tell you what we need,” Spinks said, barely hiding the grin behind his coffee cup. “More information.”

Loshak snorted.

“That we do.”