The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  The girl glances at the manager again. He’s busy berating an employee for screwing up an order. Shielding her hand from view, the girl locks eyes with a female coworker and points at Meeks, mouthing nervous words.

  Meeks barely notices. He swivels around and takes in the restaurant. Over thirty people, some alone and suffering over their meals, others talking about football and the weather and other insipid topics. Families. Children crawling through tubes like rodents.

  The M82 sits in the trunk. He can walk to the car and return with the rifle in seconds. Open fire on the women and children first. Let the world know how far he’ll go.

  “Excuse me, mister.”

  A middle-aged man wearing a Dodgers cap and a blue windbreaker looks at him expectantly. Meeks doesn’t know what the man wants until he cocks his head to the side, a signal for Meeks to move down the counter so the man can order. Meeks proceeds to pick up his order and hears the man let out an exasperated breath.

  Meeks glares at the man.

  “You wanna say something?”

  The man doesn’t say shit.

  The bag is open on the passenger seat when Meeks turns onto the thoroughfare. He stuffs handfuls of fries into his mouth and chews, washes the slop down with the shake. The sun is down, and the first stars gleam over the mountains as he cruises into suburban hill country. With Milanville behind him, Meeks opens the window and invites the fresh air inside. It blows his hair around, makes his sweat-slicked flesh tingle.

  Chewing the rubbery hamburger, he thinks about the counter girl and the arrogant man in the baseball cap. If he turns the MKS around, they’ll still be inside the restaurant. He can follow them, find out where they live.

  He pictures shooting them from inside the trunk and feels dissatisfied. It’s not personal enough.

  Better to approach them. Out in the open. Revel in their terror when he aims the rifle.

  The MKS coasts down a street lined with upscale homes. Bikes lay dormant on driveways. The night breeze carries the yells of children through his window. They aren’t on the street. Probably playing in the backyards as death rolls through their neighborhood.

  And that’s when it hits him. Shoot a nameless businessman or out-of-town student and people reply, “It can’t happen to me.”

  But kill them where they live and sleep, and they’ll fear his name forever.

  Meeks pulls to the curb and lets the car idle under a white alder. He pops the trunk, removes the M82, and places it on the passenger seat.

  He’s in dangerous territory. What if a cop drives by?

  The thought sends a charge of energy through Meeks. Yes, bring the police. Bring the FBI. They’ll all die at his hands.

  Meeks pulls the M82 out of the dark when he spies the two teenagers.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The dimly lit call center seated eight phone operators. Only three were currently at their posts, the others mingling in the hallway or grabbing food in the break room. The sun’s glow descended behind the mountains, setting the western horizon afire.

  Bell glimpsed the sunset and went back to her notes, tapping a pen against the table in thought. Upon arriving in California, she felt certain the shooter was a student. Mention of the White Wall ratcheted up her suspicions that an operative from a fringe campus group had gone rogue. Yesterday’s murder in the center of town, along with the warning shot fired outside the County Coroner’s Office, suggested it wasn’t a student. The campus murder was one of opportunity.

  That another murder hadn’t occurred today didn’t comfort her. It was a matter of time. A ticking bomb hidden within Milanville.

  “You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

  Megan handed Bell a cup of coffee and sat across from her. The female officer was a rookie with the Milanville Police Department, fresh out of college, bright-eyed and enthusiastic.

  “Oh, my God. You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

  The cup warmed her hand, the aroma rich. She perked up before the steaming liquid reached her lips.

  “Anything new on the shooter?”

  Bell shook her head.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “That’s probably a good thing.”

  The call center felt like a waste of time and resources. Barely a dozen calls had come in since dinner-time, and those ran the gamut between paranoia and pranks. One caller, who sounded ten-years-old, claimed Billy the Kid was the killer. An elderly woman fretted over her neighbor, who suspiciously kept to himself and spent long evenings working in his garage. When Megan prodded for more details, she learned the woman and neighbor had a long-standing feud over the property line.

  Most of the reports were false alarms as Bell predicted. Warn the community a killer is at-large, and they will see him in every shadow.

  A large screen television on the wall displayed Channel-12’s special on the Milanville shootings. A Berkley psychology professor named Thompson was on the screen. The audio was set low.

  Bell could have screamed if Gardy were in the room. All evening she had the sensation of something important happening on the horizon. The cramped room and shriek of the telephone made matters worse.

  She checked her phone and saw no messages. Dammit, Gardy.

  The phone rang at Megan’s station. She gulped her coffee and held up a finger. Bell followed the officer to her station and sighed when it became apparent it was another dead end call.

  “You really think he’ll call? The shooter?”

  Bell’s shoulders slumped. No, she wasn’t sure of anything.

  “Yes, sometime soon. The problem is it might not be tonight. He might call a week from now for all we know.”

  Megan opened her mouth to ask another question when the phone rang again.

  “Ugh. Well, here goes nothing.”

  Bell paced with the coffee cup in her hands. She froze when she heard the anxiety in Megan’s reply, and then the woman was waving her hand and pointing at the phone. The shooter.

  A headset was attached to the phone. Bell pulled it over her ears and leaned against the desk. The connection crackled with static, and Bell jiggled the cord until the call sounded clear.

  “Can you tell me your name, sir?”

  Megan’s voice.

  “You think you’re safe in your homes, but you’re not. I can reach out…reach out and take you anytime I choose.”

  “Am I speaking with the man who killed the student at Vida College?”

  Megan met Bell’s eyes in question, and Bell nodded that she was doing a good job. At the same time, she grabbed another phone and brought the receiver to her ear. Punched in the number and recognized Harold’s voice at Quantico.

  “I need a call traced.” She needed to speak quietly so the caller wouldn’t hear. Bell snapped her finger and rolled her hand, signaling Megan to keep the caller talking. It was confusing listening to the caller in one ear and Harold in the other. She gave the phone number to the agent who typed it into his terminal.

  “Hold on.”

  “Come on, come on,” she mouthed.

  Megan continued to speak.

  “Can you tell me where you are?”

  “The girl will be the first example of what I’m capable of.”

  “What girl? Could you tell me her name, sir?”

  “She could be any girl. Your sister, your daughter. The pretty girl next door.”

  Megan looked up as Bell pulled her laptop over and opened the screen. Bell fumbled the headset and caught it, the cord tangled around her ankle.

  “Harold?”

  “I’m working on it. Give me a second.”

  Several seconds later, a map of Milanville appeared on the laptop. Bell scanned the map. It took a moment for her to recognize street names. The call emanated from the western edge of the village.

  Harold came back on the line.

  “Bell? It’s a cell phone. The closest I can get you is a two-block radius, but there’s a neighborhood in the center. No name tied to the phone. He�
�s using a burner.”

  “I got it, Harold.”

  She put the phone to her chest and wrote the coordinates on a notepad, tore the paper off and handed it to a male police officer named Yates. The officer hurried to the back of the room and relayed the information to dispatch.

  “Can you narrow the radius?”

  “Not from here,” said Harold. “I’m calling the cell company now.”

  “I’ll stay on the line.”

  The caller said something about a dog, then the line went dead.

  Megan placed the receiver down and ran her hands through her hair.

  “Sorry. I should have kept him longer.”

  “You handled him perfectly. We have his location.”

  Megan’s face brightened as Bell dialed Gardy’s number. After a few rings, he answered.

  “We got him, Gardy. The Hammond Lane neighborhood on the west side of Milanville.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The air had a chilling bite for September when Colleen said goodnight to Nick. The long-haired boy smelled of cologne and sunscreen when he leaned in and kissed her lips, and this pleased her.

  She wrapped her arms around his strong shoulders and kissed him back, running her tongue along his lips until he opened his mouth and accepted it. They stood together for several moments, feeling their bodies coalesce. Wary of peeping neighbors, she broke off the kiss.

  He frowned.

  “You sure I can’t walk you home?”

  Her father didn’t trust the older boy and forbade his seventeen-year-old daughter from dating a college student. Allowing Nick to walk her home was an invitation for her neighbors to catch them and report back to Colleen’s parents, who were out to dinner.

  “You better not.”

  “Let me meet your parents. I’ll win them over with my irresistible personality.”

  “Yeah, I can’t see that working.”

  He shrugged.

  “I tried, but you can’t hide me forever. When can I see you again?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Can I at least call to make sure you made it home okay?”

  Grinning, Colleen stood on her tiptoes and tweaked his nose.

  “You better, Prince Charming. But give me fifteen minutes. I need to take out Digger.”

  He kissed her again, a warm peck on the forehead. Then he winked and turned down the sidewalk.

  She watched him go for a while. His Corvette was parked at the end of the block and cloaked in darkness. Soon the night swallowed him.

  The sidewalks were empty. Usually someone was out walking their dog or sitting on the porch. All she heard were kids playing hide-and-go-seek in the backyards.

  The news stories about the shootings came uninvited to Colleen the way memories of a horror movie creep up at the edge of sleep. But she was safe in the neighborhood. The killer struck in high-profile areas like the university campus and the center of downtown.

  A car gunned its motor and crawled down the lane. Colleen lowered her head and walked faster. A few seconds later it passed. She didn’t recognize the car, whose dark coloration blended with the night. The vehicle stopped along the curb beyond her house, and she slowed her pace, waiting for the door to open. It didn’t. The vehicle took off down the street and rounded the corner onto Linsdale.

  The night took on a sharper edge and became a dangerous thing. She jogged, arms folded, cold and scolding herself for not bringing a jacket.

  Their porch light burned halfway down the block. The other houses lay dark. Dead.

  Dew wicked her sneakers when she crossed the lawn. Digger barked while she jiggled the key in the lock. She shot another glance at the empty street and closed the door behind her. The dog, a beagle and terrier mix, jumped at her legs and ran in excited circles.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  Colleen threw the deadbolt and laid the keys on the banister. Digger yipped and followed at her heels while she padded to the kitchen. She poured a kibble snack into his bowl, and the dog dived into the food before she finished. Darkness pressed against the window as she grabbed the leash and waited beside the back door. Digger looked up with a goofy smile and returned to his food. When he finished, he scampered across the kitchen and wagged his tail at her feet.

  The door opened, and the night’s chill followed.

  “Let’s make this quick. Okay, Digger?”

  The dog leaped each step and ran into the yard, snout buried in the grass. Hopping from foot-to-foot to stay warm, she waited impatiently for Digger to finish his business. Across the yards, she saw the same car creep past the Henderson’s house. Headlights dimmed. She waited for the vehicle to reappear on the other side of the house. It vanished.

  Digger was pawing at the ground now, living up to his name and trying to root out some creature he’d sniffed out. She gently tugged his leash.

  “Come on, buddy. I’m freezing my assets off out here.”

  A car door opened and clicked shut outside the Henderson’s house.

  A stand of pines bordered the yards and concluded at a dry creek. When Colleen was younger, she pretended the pines were the redwood forest. Tonight, the trees formed at black, craggy wall that blotted out the stars and loomed over the yard like a faceless monster.

  A branch snapped. Digger stopped and froze. Two faraway sirens broke the silence.

  “I think we’re done, Digger. Let’s go inside.”

  The dog growled. A guttural snarl.

  She tugged harder on the leash. The dog pulled against her, barking and lunging toward the trees.

  Colleen heard shoes swishing through the grass before she saw the man emerge from the black. She yanked the leash as Digger pulled against her. The dog snapped at the stranger, only a dark outline against the night.

  The long muzzle centered on Colleen. The blast deafened her ears a split-second before her chest burst.

  And then the night went black.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Chief Harrington entered the call center and approached Bell.

  “You sure it’s our guy?”

  “It’s him.”

  He brought the radio to his ear and scanned the note for the shooter’s location.

  “Yeah…I want a helicopter over the Hammond Lane development on the western side of the village. And give me roadblocks on Schuyler and Linsdale. No one gets out of that neighborhood until we check every vehicle.”

  Chief Harrington met her eyes in question, and she raised her thumb.

  “Good work, Agent Bell. Let’s make sure this bastard doesn’t wiggle through the net.”

  She followed him out of the building and across the parking lot. Along the way, Harrington barked orders into his radio. Good. They’d surround the shooter soon. Hem him in.

  A siren cried across town and was immediately joined by a second. That was a mistake. She should have stressed the officers keep their sirens off until the neighborhood was blocked off. Now the shooter knew they were coming, and it was a race to trap him before he escaped. Harrington’s twisted mouth told her he recognized the error.

  Bell dug for her keys and remembered Gardy had the Outback.

  “Hop in,” Harrington said beside his cruiser.

  She was almost to the passenger door when the shot echoed down from the hills. From this distance, the sound was subtle and blended with ambient noise from the village. She might have missed it had her focus not been razor-sharp, ears fine-tuned and monitoring the environment for gunfire.

  The chief met her eyes over the roof. Then he shouted instructions into his radio as she slid into the passenger seat.

  The ride toward the Hammond Lane development seemed to take forever. Despite the sirens and flashing lights, vehicles cut in front of the cruiser and impeded their progress. Harrington pressed the horn to clear one glut, then another formed ahead of them.

  The shooter was on the move, slipping through their fingers before they snatched him.

  ***

  His tendons are cra
cked whips, eyes preternaturally honed from the adrenaline pumping through his body.

  Meeks giggles. A nervous, excited laugh that tickles his chest and demands release.

  In his mind, he sees the girl’s face. The fish-eyed panic as he aims the M82.

  BOOM.

  The other shootings can’t compare. Up close. In the girl’s own yard. The entire neighborhood heard the blast and must be in a full-fledged panic. They all fear him. This is what he wants.

  He takes the MKS around the first turn and sees a police car on Schuyler. Meeks keeps the headlights off. They can’t see him when he stops under a tree and watches. The cruiser angles his vehicle across one lane as another police car pulls up behind. Two cops step out of the second car and help the first officer place a roadblock across the lane. Nobody gets in or out.

  Meeks drums his fingers on the wheel. The engine purrs. He feels it in his spine.

  He carefully pulls the car off the curb and executes a three-point turn, but worries the brake lights will attract the officers’ attention.

  The only remaining option is Linsdale, which is blocked by more cop cars. Another vehicle waits at the checkpoint as an officer approaches the driver’s window.

  Meeks touches the M82. Runs his fingers along the muzzle.

  If he maintains distance, he will win a shootout. Might kill the police before they figure out where he’s firing from. But that will attract more cops, and should they close in on Meeks, the M82 will be at a disadvantage. He trained for deadly accuracy, not speed.

  He backs away, a roach trapped under a glass. Scans the homes as shadows move past the windows. Take a hostage? No. Every cop in Milanville will surround the house.

  One house stands out. A white two-story with a detached garage. A for sale sign hangs in the front yard and rocks in the wind. A plate-glass window reveals an empty living room. Next door, the driveway is empty and a solitary light shines in the living room. The light is on a timer, he thinks, the owner out of town.

  Meeks backs up until the MKS is even with the vacant house’s driveway and turns in. Nobody watches him from the street.