The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  The Jeep’s tires spun divots of mud, then caught as Bell engaged the all-wheel drive. The SUV shot forward and nearly blasted through the front door before she spun the wheel. She wondered if the owners were home and if they’d find humor in surviving a category-four hurricane only to have a pair of FBI agents drive a stolen Jeep through their living room.

  They swerved around the side of the house and cut through the backyard, narrowly missing the solarium. Bell thought she saw the face of an alarmed woman in the glass as Gardy cursed and asked her if she’d lost her mind.

  The Jeep rounded the house and started down the opposite side of the yard. They evaded the worst of the flood, and Bell noticed the Atlantic Way intersection off to her right. But the yard sloped treacherously on this side of the mansion, and as the ground fell out from beneath the wheels, Bell experienced vertigo, the sensation of plummeting on a rollercoaster.

  “Brakes, brakes!”

  The brakes did her less good than Gardy’s yelling. The terrain tore away like baby back ribs off the bone, and she didn’t so much drive the Jeep as hang onto the steering wheel for dear life while they hurtled toward the unforgiving macadam.

  The front tires bounced off the road. Bell’s teeth clicked together, and her neck snapped against the seat back as the vehicle fishtailed. She straightened the wheel before the water ripped them backward.

  Gardy’s face was white, breath flying in-and-out. As she angled toward Atlantic Way, Bell saw Gardy glare at her. He said nothing, and somehow that made it worse. She knew he was furious though his anger was temporarily cloaked by sheer terror. It mattered not. She navigated the flooded roadway and cut a path toward Gwen Devereux.

  In the mayhem, she never noticed the wind letting up. A few breaks of blue cut into the battleship-gray sky. The storm still shoved the Jeep like it was a child’s toy, yet the worst was behind them. They were going to make it.

  “Okay, slow down now. The house is somewhere around the bend.”

  Bell’s hands shook as she nodded at Gardy. It hardly seemed possible anyone lived at the end of Atlantic Way. To the left, the ocean stormed up the beach. On the other side of the road lay empty plots and undeveloped land, all submerged in standing water. She dodged a tree blocking their lane, then the road twisted and concluded at a dead end.

  A copse stood to their left, the trees twisted and mangled, the ground littered with debris. The beach house was behind the tree line. A black F-150 was parked along the curb.

  “Stop here,” said Gardy. “That’s Longo’s truck.”

  Bell stepped out of the Jeep. Thinking the same thing, they were careful to nudge the doors shut and avoid attracting attention.

  Sticking to the truck’s blind spot, Bell approached the F-150’s driver side, with Gardy a few steps back and angling to the right. Both had their guns drawn. The truck’s windows were tinted, but Bell could see the inside panel. Her mouth was dry when she swung around the door.

  The cab was empty.

  They climbed over the curb and sloshed through the mud, using the copse as a shield. Gardy, hair soaked and hanging against his head like leeches, led Bell forward.

  A thump beyond the trees brought Gardy and Bell to a halt.

  They locked eyes a moment before Gwen Devereux screamed.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Bell circled behind the beach house while Gardy approached the front stoop. The wind tunneled between the copse and the home, ripping Bell backward as she fought toward the back door. Half of the deck was gone. The ocean was almost past the steps. The back door hung open and banged against the house.

  She stood with her back to the wall, gun raised and heart hammering. Counting to three in her head, she swung into the entryway.

  “Freeze!”

  Longo stood behind Gwen, clutching her waist with one arm, the opposite hand holding a knife to her throat. He blinked as though he couldn’t process Bell being here.

  “Don’t…don’t come any closer. I’ll kill her.”

  She believed he would. He swallowed hard and darted his eyes between Gwen and Bell, a rat caught in a trap. Or a hungry rat leering over smaller prey.

  “You don’t want to do that, Derek.”

  He blinked again, surprised she knew his name. His eyes turned confused and swiveled erratically. At any moment, Longo might swipe the blade across Gwen’s throat. Despite her accurate profile of Longo, she didn’t know how he’d react in the heat of the moment.

  Gwen shivered. Her clothes were drenched and bloodstained. The woman’s face looked unnaturally gray.

  Bell took a breath, then another. She needed to think this through.

  Over his shoulder, she spied the hallway and the front door. She hoped Gardy was already inside the house. At the angle Longo stood, he’d spot the door opening and probably kill Gwen in panic before either Gardy or Bell fired a shot.

  An idea occurred to her.

  “Put the gun down,” Longo said. A trickle of drool curled down his lip.

  Bell took a small step sideways. Just enough to change his line of vision, force him to turn his head away from the front door.

  “Put it down or I’ll cut her.”

  “Okay, Derek. I’m putting the gun down.”

  Gwen shook her head and uttered, “No.”

  As Bell carefully knelt, she maintained eye contact with Longo. This was a helluva risk. Nothing prevented him from slicing Gwen’s throat when Bell dropped her weapon, nor could Bell defend herself if Longo attacked her next. His tongue ran across scabby lips as she gently placed the gun on the floor. He held his breath. Bell removed her hand from the Glock, and Longo inhaled sharply.

  Bell’s knees felt weak as she stood up. A smile formed in his eyes.

  “There you go, Derek. Why don’t you let her go now?”

  He shook his head.

  Where was Gardy?

  Bell’s eyes tracked automatically to the hallway. Longo noticed and swung his head around. The blade pressed hard against Gwen’s throat, folding her skin over the edge. He might panic and mistakenly cut the woman.

  “I’m right here, Derek.”

  He turned back to Bell but shot paranoid glances over his shoulder, unconvinced the hallway was empty.

  “That’s right. It’s just the three of us.” She allowed for several seconds of quiet. Ocean water trickled over the kitchen threshold while the back door continued to slam against the house. “But it could be just the two of us.”

  She had his full attention now. Her clothes were soaked through, and when she shrugged out of her jacket, the white blouse left little to the imagination. Longo’s tongue flicked out again. Lizard-like.

  “I know why you like her.” Bell jerked her eyes at Gwen. “She reminds you of someone, doesn’t she?”

  Longo didn’t reply. Just stared. An empty shell, a cipher craving something unattainable to fill his nothingness.

  “Your mother?”

  Bell needed to be careful. This was dangerous territory. He looked like kindling about to catch fire.

  “What I don’t understand, Derek, is why you want to be with a woman who reminds you of someone who treated you poorly.”

  His fingers tightened around the hilt.

  “Stay calm, Derek. Look at me. Don’t you realize you’re allowing your mother to win again? She hurt you, didn’t she? Controlled your life and never let you breathe. But that part of your life is behind you. You call the shots now. Just you, Derek. But if you hurt her, you’ll go to jail. You don’t want that. That freedom you waited for your whole life will disappear forever. Why go back to letting others rule over you?”

  Longo’s grip relaxed. Gwen slumped against his body now. If he let go, she’d crumble.

  Not daring to look over his shoulder, Bell relied on her peripheral vision to observe the hallway. The path to the front doorway was cloaked in shadow.

  “Forget your mother. She can’t control you anymore. Instead, look at me. I think you’ll agree I look nothing like her. Wouldn�
�t you rather be with someone like me? Someone young, someone who never hurt you?”

  The corner of his eye twitched. She watched his teeth grinding behind closed lips.

  “I promise you this. The moment you let go of your mother’s memory and choose me, you’ll gain the power you always craved. Real power.”

  A darker presence interrupted the shadowed hallway. Gardy caught her eye and slid along the wall, mere steps from the kitchen and directly behind Longo. No way the madman could see the agent approach.

  The problem was Gardy couldn’t shoot. Not with Gwen and Bell directly aligned with Longo.

  Bell breathed deeply. Willed herself not to look at Gardy and give him away. With every inch the agent gained on the killer, Bell feared the floor would squeak or Longo would sense Gardy’s presence.

  Gardy was poised beside the refrigerator now, the faint outline of his shadow drawn along the wall.

  “Let your mother go and take me, Derek. Until you do, you’ll never be free.”

  As she said it, Bell swiped her foot against the Glock and kicked it across the kitchen.

  Longo grinned.

  He let go of Gwen and lunged at Bell with the knife. Bell dropped to the floor as gunfire exploded.

  Three shots pierced Longo’s back and formed ragged holes as they exited his chest. Red sprayed the walls and splattered Bell’s face.

  Her ears rang from the blasts when Longo’s dead weight hit the floor inches from her head. Gwen lay on her side, sobbing. Gardy checked the woman first, then dropped to one knee beside Bell. He kept the Glock fixed on Longo, whose back hitched as he drew in jagged, slushy breaths. Gardy tore a piece of cloth off the killer’s shirt and pressed it to the open wound on Gwen’s back.

  Gwen looked at Bell. The woman closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Bell sat behind her desk at Quantico, nervously drumming her feet despite the lack of music. Phones rang in neighboring offices, and she heard the voices of fellow agents congeal together like traffic on a distant highway.

  The clock read five minutes until noon. She had half a mind to grab her bag and take an early lunch, but that would leave Gardy alone with Weber and only postpone the inevitable.

  Her phone rang. Two sharp blips that caused Bell to jump in her seat. She picked up the phone, and Weber’s administrative assistant told Bell he was ready for her.

  Gardy was already seated in one of two chairs facing Weber’s desk. The agent’s eyes lifted off his lap momentarily and met Bell’s. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, a signal that Bell shouldn’t say anything.

  It was no secret that Don Weber, Deputy Director of the Critical Incident Response Group, set his eyes a few rungs up the ladder. The silver-haired, sharp-featured fifty-one-year-old would be Director of the FBI within a few years. Now he licked his thumb and forefinger and paged through Gardy’s report, staring at the paper as if the special agents weren’t there. He stopped on one particular page and hissed through his teeth.

  Bell didn’t know where to fix her eyes. Staring at the report might be akin to snooping, yet she didn’t wish to see the pallor and defeat on Gardy’s face. So she gazed at the various plaques adorning the walls, staring at the diplomas and awards but not seeing them. The walls might have been blank white.

  Weber flipped another page and slapped it down. He would fire Bell, but she didn’t care anymore. She risked her life to take murderers off the street and opened the door for new nightmares to haunt her. And for what? So a politician could critique her every step and threaten her job on a whim?

  It was Gardy she worried about. Her partner, the most talented agent she’d encountered during her brief career, was married to the job. The irony was Gardy should have been sitting in Weber’s chair. No one in the BAU was more qualified to be Deputy Director of CIRG, and there wasn’t a field agent who didn’t pray he’d take Weber’s place.

  Bell felt Weber’s glare before she brought her eyes back to him. His hands were folded on the desk, jaw working from side-to-side as if contemplating who to condemn first.

  “Don, I—”

  “Save it, Agent Gardy.” Gardy seemed to shrink a few inches in his chair. “You’ll have your chance to speak later.”

  This was too much. Bell opened her mouth, but Gardy warned her with his eyes to let it go.

  “Neither of you deserve to represent the BAU.”

  He looked from Gardy to Bell as if daring either to protest. Spreading the papers across his desk, he sighed.

  “I got off the phone with the Sunset Island Police Department an hour ago.”

  Another pregnant pause. For God’s sake, if he wanted to fire her he should get it over with.

  “To say you’re both lucky would be an understatement. Detective McKenna was particularly pleased with your contribution to the case, and he confirmed the hurricane cut off the lower third of the island, leaving the two of you as the only options to pursue Derek Longo.”

  Weber threw up his hands.

  “But stealing a private vehicle and nearly crashing through a residence?”

  Bell sat forward.

  “It was the only way around the flood—”

  “I’m well aware of that, Agent Bell. There’s no excuse for risking multiple lives, including yours and your partner’s. You’re damn fortunate you weren’t charged with trespassing after stealing keys from a repair shop. And it seems the owner of the Jeep Grand Cherokee couldn’t be happier that his vehicle was utilized to save Gwen Devereux and apprehend a killer. Apparently the guy refuses to wash the mud off the grille. Says it’s like a badge of honor. I believe he used the term street cred.”

  Bell bit hard on her tongue to keep from laughing. Gardy faked an itch and covered his mouth with his hand.

  Weber sat back in his chair with his fingers interlocked behind his head.

  “Why are you still here?”

  Gardy glanced at Bell.

  “I don’t understand. What happens now?”

  Weber looked as if he chewed something sour. He gathered the papers together and slid the report across the table.

  “What happens now, Agent Gardy, is you tighten up this report and resubmit by 0900 hours tomorrow morning. And this time choose your descriptions a little more carefully. Try not to make the BAU look like a clown car hurtling into a crowd of innocent bystanders.”

  Gardy slipped the report under his arm.

  “And the second you’re finished, you’re to start on this.”

  Weber opened a drawer and produced a second folder. He handed it to Gardy, who opened the folder and scanned the documents. Bell saw Logan Wolf’s name.

  “Director Weber?”

  Weber looked at Bell, annoyed she was still in his office. To this point he’d focused his vitriol on Gardy. He aimed his anger at her.

  “Yes, Agent Bell?”

  “Does this mean Agent Gardy and I are to continue working together?”

  The Deputy Director’s eyes were sharp when they fixed on Bell.

  “For now, yes. I’m tasking the two of you with capturing Logan Wolf and ending this media frenzy once-and-for-all. Should you fail, the both of you will be scrubbing barnacles off ships at the marine fishery.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  At summer’s end, the Chesapeake Bay is home to Ruddy Ducks, Sanderlings, and the Northern Gannet. On a quiet afternoon, should you stumble upon a slice of beach not overrun with tourists, you might encounter all three species plus a diverse number of other birds.

  Bell broke the lease on her apartment and purchased a condo on the coast. It meant an extra half-hour commuting to Quantico, but she couldn’t have made a wiser decision.

  Thirty minutes before sunrise every morning, she rose early and ran along the water. Except for the occasional fisherman or person walking their dog, the beach was empty. Peaceful. She loved the feel of wet sand on the soles of her feet, the cool shock of the water when the tide rolled over her ankles.

  Since moving to
the coast Bell no longer required sleeping pills, and her sessions with Dr. Morford improved. The nightmares of Jillian Rossi’s abduction rarely came to her these days, nor did the prevailing dream of a murderer chasing nine-year-old Bell along the creek. She hoped her childhood friend was finally at peace.

  Learning Derek Longo’s mother mentally and sexually abused her son came as no surprise. Young Derek was eventually removed from his home and placed with a great uncle shortly after his eighth birthday, but by then it was too late. The damage had been done, the first steps already taken down a dark pathway into madness.

  The first week of September, when the summer heat slackened and the first Canadian geese of the season appeared, Bell received a phone call from Gwen Devereux. The conversation was awkward initially, Bell unsure what to say to the woman. Instead, she let Gwen talk, and slowly Bell was drawn into the conversation. Gwen was rebuilding along the South Carolina coast.

  “Aren’t you worried about hurricanes?”

  Bell heard Gwen smiling through the phone.

  “Storms don’t frighten me, Agent Bell. Why cower from thunder when we can laugh in the rain?”

  And yet storms had a frightening way of springing up unexpectedly. At any given time, between twenty-five and fifty serial killers were active in the United States.

  Bell stood at the counter, slicing scallions as the black bass fillet seared in the pan. The sliding glass door to the third-story porch was open to the screen, allowing the salty ocean air to mingle with the succulent smells inside the kitchen. All was silent along the beach except for the gulls and the waves.

  She tossed the scallions into a bowl and mixed in extra virgin olive oil, lime juice, and cilantro. When the mixture was to her liking, inspiration hit, and she shifted items in the food pantry until she located the poppy seeds. The perfect addition.

  The bass was plated and topped, her mouth watering from the smells, when the doorbell rang.

  Bell peered through the peephole and was surprised to see a FedEx deliveryman outside her door. He was young for a deliveryman, in his mid-twenties at most.