The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  “Same hair color and style,” Gardy said, moving his eyes back-and-forth. “Similar facial features, though the woman on the monitor appears younger. Can you zoom in on her face?”

  Thames drew a box around the woman’s face and clicked the mouse. The closeup was blurry and pixelated, obscuring her identity.

  “That’s as good as I can get it.”

  “Try a different camera.”

  “What you see is what you get. She’s only visible on camera three.”

  At Gardy’s instruction, Thames unfroze the video. The woman appeared to jump from monitor-to-monitor as multiple cameras followed her progress through the store. Longo crept behind, stalking the woman. Watching the madman hiding amid the aisles, creeping closer to the shopper, sent a chill down Bell’s spine. As if she watched a horror movie, a part of her wanted to shout at the screen and warn the woman.

  After grabbing a medicine bottle, the woman hurried to the counter. Bell bit her lip in frustration. The security camera near the pharmacy was close enough to get a reasonable view of the woman’s face, but she kept her back to the camera the entire time.

  A few seconds later, the view switched to the checkout.

  “Please tell me she paid with a credit card,” McKenna said, bending over the monitor.

  When the woman pulled cash from her wallet, McKenna cursed and spun around, hands on hips.

  While she paid, Longo bolted toward the back of the store and passed between four monitors before smashing through the double doors. He’d gone after her. Did Longo abduct the woman?

  After Thames restarted the footage, Bell shouted at the security guard to go back a few frames. There. The woman’s face was captured by the camera at the front of the Island Mart. Bell’s face leaned inches from the monitor now.

  “Zoom in again.” The security guard drew another box, and the woman’s face filled the monitor. “We got her. Can you print it?”

  Thames nodded, and a few seconds later, the printer hummed and spit out the photo.

  Gardy grabbed the picture and handed it to McKenna.

  “I need this woman identified. Can you get her picture on the news?”

  “Sure. We’ll set up a hotline number. ”

  “I like our chances,” Bell said, shrugging into her windbreaker. “With the hurricane coming people will watch the news.”

  “Until the power goes out.”

  “Which is why we need to move on this now.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Gardy placed his hand on the security guard’s shoulder.

  “There’s the fire lane. Don’t you have an angle on the parking lot?”

  Thames shook his head.

  “Sorry, this is all I have.”

  Bell and Gardy shared a glance. They could have identified the woman by her license plate.

  When they came back through the store the aisles were vacant, the shoppers having purchased their supplies and fled. Sunset Island was a ghost town.

  Gardy rushed to catch up to Bell.

  “Slow down. We’ll find her.”

  “It needs to happen fast, Gardy. Longo took her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Gwen ran for the phone first. Found it on the kitchen table as the front door rattled against the intruder’s force. She dialed 911 and immediately looked for something to defend herself with. A steak knife lay on the counter, and she grabbed it as the receiver crackled in her ear.

  The call disconnected at the same time the front window shattered. She heard him crawl over the pane as the storm winds hunted through the living room, whipping the curtains into a lunatic frenzy.

  Indecision paralyzed her. He’d cut her off from ascending the stairs, leaving the hurricane’s building fury as the only option.

  She grabbed the doorknob and pulled. A freight train of winds slammed the door open and threw her against the wall. The kitchen was a confusion of loose papers and driving rain as she fought the force driving her backward.

  Longo’s hand closed on her shoulder. She screamed and turned, slashing the knife against his chest. A thin ribbon of blood colored his shirt as he retreated toward the refrigerator. She came at him with the knife again, and he brought something from behind his back.

  The club struck Gwen on the side of her head. Her knees buckled, and as she battled to stand, the weapon thundered down on her neck.

  She collapsed on the kitchen floor. Legs and arms flat and outstretched. Eyelids fluttering as the storm peppered her body with soaking rains.

  She felt him clutch her ankle. He dragged her through the hallway and to the staircase. Then he bent and lifted her into his arms and slung her rag doll body over his shoulder.

  Gwen was unconscious when he tossed her onto the bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Somehow Longo’s house was exactly as Bell envisioned and yet completely different. The brown siding sagged over the crumbling foundation like a decaying tooth, and a lightning-bolt fissure ran across the living room window. The interior presented a sparse organization she hadn’t expected, the table bare and the wood floor recently swept.

  The power was off. Ana turned afternoon into the darkest of midnights. Flashlights knifed through the darkness and swept around corners as the officers continued their search. Occasionally a beam slashed across Bell’s face and temporarily blinded her. The confusion and dark made it seem like they were inside a haunted house, groping blindly at the walls and searching for an escape.

  The stairs squealed underfoot as they climbed. Ancient flower print wallpaper covered the walls. A faded rectangular outline marked where a picture once hung.

  The bedroom stood upstairs at the end of a long corridor. They passed the bathroom, then a spare room, empty except for an old mattress tipped against the back wall. The closet door stood open. Gardy aimed his flashlight and confirmed the boogeyman owner wasn’t inside.

  Though the officers had cleared the house, Gardy and Bell approached the room with guns drawn. Her mouth was dry as they swung into the room, Gardy first with his gun aimed left, then Bell sweeping the Glock right. The windowpane rattled, and Bell swung her gun toward the sound. The wind wanted to come inside.

  Bell breathed again and lowered her weapon. Gardy caught her looking and shot her a nervous smile. She could hear the officers’ footsteps downstairs, their disembodied voices muffled. They seemed a million miles away.

  A worn shirt and jeans were strewn across the bedspread. To Bell, it appeared Longo had left in a hurry.

  The pillows were yellowed with age, the sheet threadbare along the edges and fraying. Beside the bed stood a nightstand with a picture on it. Gardy had already picked up the photograph.

  “Look at this. It’s him, don’t you think?”

  The picture’s color was faded and bleeding, the corners curling beneath the glass. The boy in the picture looked about five-years-old. He squinted and shielded his eyes from a harsh sun. Comparing the beady eyes and pudgy facial features with a recent photograph of Longo obtained by Detective McKenna, Bell saw the resemblance.

  “That’s Longo. I wonder who the woman is. The mother, I think.”

  Above the child stood a stern woman in her forties or fifties. Her eyes were caught halfway between the photographer and the boy, as if she expected him to misbehave the moment she looked away. A vintage, overly modest dress which oddly looked made in the 1930s fell to her ankles. Bell got the impression the woman’s grimace was permanently etched on her face. What struck her most was the long, dark curls falling down to her shoulder.

  “Look at the hair, Gardy.”

  He angled the picture so it caught the light.

  “Just like Longo’s targets.”

  Though the woman’s mouth was drawn and twisted with derision, the long, slender face and high cheekbones were a fair match for Clarice Hopkins and the mystery woman from the Island Mart.

  The closet wasn’t organized so much as it was barren. Three shirts hung from hangers, eerily moving on their own
as the storm shook the old house. The dresser held a few changes of clothes. Two of the drawers were empty.

  Bell felt a measure of comfort when they joined the officers downstairs. She couldn’t put a finger on why the house felt so creepy to her. It seemed to hold secrets in its walls, as though it was hostile, a conspirator to the crimes it witnessed.

  Those feelings of comfort evaporated when they descended into the basement. The death scent was the first thing to hit her. Then the blood splatter on the concrete walls and the bare, crumbling floor. A bloodstained knife lay on a worktable alongside a spool of rope and a discolored gag. The crime scene techs were still working. She didn’t want to get in their way.

  Though Bell collected little tangible evidence which would help her catch Longo, she felt closer to picking up Longo’s trail. A sixth sense.

  McKenna spun around at their approach. It seemed Bell and Gardy weren’t the only ones feeling spooked.

  “I’m keeping two officers on the scene just in case Longo comes home. Otherwise, we’re wrapping up operations here. Let’s hope the woman’s photo gets traction with the media. In the meantime, we’ll reconvene at the station and ride out the storm.”

  “Detective, we have a description of Longo’s truck and his license plate. I think Agent Gardy and I should look for him.”

  McKenna narrowed his eyes at Bell.

  “I don’t recommend you try. The low-lying roads are flooded, and the full brunt of the storm hasn’t reached us yet.”

  “He’s close, Detective. Our profile says he hunts in a small radius.”

  The detective glanced at Gardy, who shrugged as if to say once Bell made a decision there was no convincing her otherwise. McKenna blew air through his lips.

  “Okay, but Officer Repasky will take you in the police truck. That rental won’t hold up to hurricane winds.”

  Bell winked at Gardy.

  “You see? I told you we shouldn’t have rented another Accord.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The beach house makes a strange grating noise when the wind blows. Like an old door creaking open. The storm doesn’t frighten Longo. He is barely aware of its presence. A petulant dog yapping at his heels. He has everything he wants. Solitude. A beautiful home. The woman asleep on the bed.

  Gwen. She looks like a Gwen, he thinks.

  Her breaths are so shallow it is difficult to know if she is alive. He bends over her body and hears the gentle susurrus of her breathing. Longo holds no fear of her suddenly lashing out, not with her ankles and wrists bound by rope.

  A banging noise brings his head around. A loose shutter flaps against the house. He will need to fix it when the weather clears.

  “Gwen.”

  Longo chokes on her name. It comes out hoarse.

  He says her name again, but she doesn’t stir.

  Gwen looks peaceful. If she stayed this way, he would allow her to live. They could have a wonderful life together, the two of them by the sea. But deep in his heart, where the harsh realities of life fester and ooze, he knows it cannot be. There will be pleading and screams. She will fight him and try to escape, and he will be forced to still her heart. Yes, his original plan to preserve an entire body on ice will work. Then they can have a long and peaceful relationship.

  Content in knowing she is sleeping soundly, he explores his new home. In the hallway, his shoes make the floorboards whine. The bathroom is small and clean and features a shower stall. The feminine mauve color doesn’t bother him, and he thinks he will keep the style as is.

  Plush carpeting covers the stairs. Makes his footsteps silent.

  The shattered living room window lets in swirls of rain. Grabbing a blanket off the couch, he covers the television and drapes the end over the antique coffee table.

  He crosses to the kitchen when something crashes upstairs.

  Longo takes the stairs two at a time and finds Gwen writhing on the floor. She’d fallen off the bed and smashed a glass nightstand. The corner caught her back, and a red splotch soaks through the back of her shirt as she moans.

  Too much noise. It confuses him, makes heat flare on his cheeks.

  The moaning and thrashing continue. When he demands she stop yelling, Gwen suddenly notices him in the room and screams. Her cries are piercing. Like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  At this moment, he understands what he must do. Killing her is inevitable. She will never learn to obey or be comfortable in their relationship.

  From his back pocket, Longo removes the club.

  She sees what he intends and instinctively turns to her stomach, helpless to defend herself with her wrists bound behind her back.

  He strikes the top of Gwen’s shoulders. She cries and pleads.

  All he wants is for her to be quiet.

  Longo curses and brings the club down on the back of her head. Gwen’s legs twitch and go still.

  For a long time, he stands above her broken body and listens to the storm. A high-pitch whistling noise slides over the roof. Somewhere over the ocean, thunder booms.

  Then Longo hears a buzzing sound as the lights flicker off.

  The power is dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Officer Gerald Repasky wore a lampshade mustache and spoke with a southern drawl. Repasky looked directly at Gardy in the shotgun seat while he talked, making Bell nervous the officer would lose control of the vehicle.

  A wire cage separated the front seat from the back, Bell the prisoner on this trip. Apparently other officers rode in the back, for the floor was littered by an empty potato chips bag and a half-drank bottle of Pepsi, which buzzed with fizz as it rolled between the cage and door.

  The wipers sloshed through an endless curtain of rain. Bell could barely see the buildings as Repasky drove away from the beach and into the derelict section of the island.

  “That was the old IBM plant,” Repasky said, pointing to a sprawling gray building which took up half of the block. “A few years ago the city tried to convert it into apartments, but the idea didn’t take. Now it’s just an empty building kids tell scary stories about. They're right. Driving by gives me the willies.”

  Bell kept searching for the elusive black F-150. She knew the odds of finding it were slim, but Longo had to be close.

  A Denny’s billboard lay on its side. Pieces of the sign blew around in the street.

  “And that was the high school before they moved it out past the bridge. South Carolina state football champions in 1997.” He displayed his fist, adorned by a gaudy ring. “I played linebacker. Second on the team in tackles my senior year.”

  He went into his brief collegiate career when another piece of signage smashed against the windshield. Repasky did the worst thing possible, slamming the brakes, and the next thing Bell knew the tires hydroplaned, the truck fishtailing down the road at over thirty mph.

  Repasky cranked the wheel into the skid until he gained control of the vehicle. Then they drove forward at a slower speed, Repasky decidedly less talkative and white-knuckling the steering wheel.

  Gardy’s face was pale, his right hand glued to the Oh, Jesus handle and his left arm braced against the dash.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Bell leaned forward.

  “Focus on your breathing. You’re fine.”

  Repasky shot an over-the-shoulder glance at Bell.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Why don’t we go back to the station?”

  Bell noticed a piece of sign lodged in one of the windshield wipers.

  “Another ten minutes. If we don’t see the truck by then, we’ll head back.”

  Repasky sighed.

  “Okay, you’re the boss. But I don’t see how we’ll find him in this weather. You want me to keep going straight?”

  “Actually, I think we should turn around. The woman from the Island Mart didn’t live in this area of town.”

  Repasky’s eyes found hers in the mirror.

  “How can you tell?”

>   “She wore a designer shirt and jeans. That’s a good indicator she lived on the upscale side of the island.”

  “But not a guarantee.”

  “No. Until we know differently, we play the percentages.”

  The officer executed a U-turn and took them back toward the resort district, where they came upon an intersection with a dead traffic light that danced and swung with the building storm. Repasky turned right, and they proceeded down a narrow street which Bell doubted could accommodate a second truck driving in the opposite direction. But that wasn’t a problem. The police truck was the only vehicle on the road.

  Repasky grabbed his radio and asked dispatch about the road conditions near the beach development. The dispatcher confirmed the flooding was worse near the beach.

  The storm drains were clogged with debris and overwhelmed. The water was halfway up the tires. The truck churned ahead, Bell leaning forward expectantly as Gardy scanned driveways for Longo’s F-150.

  They were almost to the beach when the storm exploded. Rain shot horizontally at the windshield, blinding Repasky. A stop sign broke off the post and whacked the grille.

  Gardy gave Bell a nervous snicker.

  “That’s what you get for wishing the weatherman got decapitated.”

  “I never said I wanted to see him decapitated—”

  The wind struck the side of the vehicle and lifted the truck off the ground. They crashed down on the tires as Repasky shouted over the roar of rolling thunder. Then the truck slid sideways as if driven by the fury of a vengeful god. Bell couldn’t see anything but rain.

  The front of the truck tipped. Bell had the sensation of falling off the end of the world, the truck teetering over a black chasm. She gripped the cage as the front end slammed down.

  They were in a ditch, the rear wheels spinning. Repasky threw the transmission between drive and reverse. It made no difference. They were stuck in the middle of a hurricane with water rising over the hood.