The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  Marianne saw his face now. A man in his thirties, thin and cord-like, eyes sunken. She thought she recognized him.

  “We’re almost home. You should rest.”

  He stuffed the chloroform-laced rag over her nose and mouth. She writhed and tried to hold her breath so the drug wouldn’t pull her into the depths of sleep again.

  The man was relentless. He filled the open door with his body, shielding anyone from seeing. He remained preternaturally still as he leaned over her body. To the proprietor glancing through the window, it would appear as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Just the man grabbing an item from the backseat.

  Marianne couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She gasped and inhaled, a duck-call gag that made her head swim.

  The lights went out for Marianne.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Gardy’s room was a pleasant surprise. The fireplace was artificial, nothing more than a space heater with an animated light that looked like a flame if you used your imagination, but Bell couldn’t sit close enough while she waited for her body to warm. She wore sweatpants and a George Mason basketball t-shirt, the shirt long enough to cover her knees while she sat cross-legged on the floor.

  Gardy slipped his shoes off and lounged on the bed. Beside the nightstand, a potted tree branch reached toward the tall ceiling, lending a rustic vibe to the decor. The walls were white stucco, and logs bordered the ceiling to create the appearance of a log cabin. Gardy, who flicked on the television and found the Ohio State - Oklahoma football game, couldn’t be bothered with the decor.

  A half-eaten pizza and container of wings lay on the floor. Palatable, but not New York City quality.

  Gardy had contacted Quantico and relayed the security cam footage. The technicians were attempting to clean up the image and make a definitive call on whether it was Logan Wolf, but backup was en route to Pronti already. Gardy’s proverbial net was about to be cast. The backlash would come when Weber caught wind of the situation and questioned why Gardy was in Kansas without his approval. True, the deputy director of CIRG had tasked Gardy with catching Wolf, but that was before the sniper bullet excavated an inch of flesh from Gardy’s shoulder in California.

  Bell finally started to warm when her phone buzzed. She reached into her pocket and saw another message from her mother. The dread rushed back at Bell.

  “Something wrong?”

  Gardy studied her from the bed. He lost focus easily lately, seemed to space out, as though his mind constantly replayed his near-death experience.

  “I need to make a call. Do you mind?”

  “Of course, not.”

  He returned to the football game, yet Bell sensed his eyes following as she slipped into the bathroom.

  The bathroom was clean but minuscule. Barely enough room existed to stand between the toilet and sink, and the shower was a glorified phone booth with a sprinkler attachment. The fan and light ran off the same wall switch. Though the fan’s rattle made it difficult to hear, Bell was thankful the sound cloaked her conversation from Gardy.

  She stared at the call screen for a long time. The sensation felt similar to standing on the end of a tall diving board, heart racing as her toes curled over the edge. The longer she waited, the more she wanted to back away and never again try anything so crazy.

  Her breath shuddered as she exhaled. Fingers trembling, she placed the call.

  The phone rang twice before her mother picked up.

  “Scarlett? Where have you been? I tried to call you twice.”

  “Sorry, Mom. I was in the air the first time, and the service is terrible here.”

  “Wait, I thought you were on vacation this week. Don’t tell me the FBI forced you to work again. Where did they ship you this time?”

  “It’s not important. I’ll be home in a few days, and the vacation time will still be there. I have until January to spend it.”

  “It just seems like they never let you breathe. It’s not healthy, Scarlett. There’s more to life than—”

  “I know, Mom. Please. We discussed this.”

  Tammy Bell sighed. Bell could almost hear her mother bite back the next retort.

  “You’re right, dear. I won’t say another word about it.” Bell wondered how long the detente would last. “You got my message, I hope.”

  Bell stammered. She couldn’t bring herself to listen.

  “Oh, never mind. This isn’t the sort of news one wants to hear in a voicemail.”

  Please, get it over with.

  “The tests came back fine. Dr Meehan says it’s a polyp. Something called an adenoma, lots of men Dad’s age get them.”

  A thousand pounds fell off Bell’s shoulders. Her legs felt weak, and she sat on the edge of the toilet with her head between her knees. The gurgle that came out of her throat was part-laugh, part-sob.

  “Scarlett? You still there?”

  Bell sniffed.

  “Yeah. Right here, Mom.”

  “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “I’m just happy Dad is okay. So the doctor said it was benign?”

  “Yes. He’ll keep an eye on it for a while, make sure nothing changes.”

  There was a joke in there somewhere—the doctor keeping an eye on her father’s colon. Relief left her too drained to laugh.

  Small talk filled the rest of the conversation. A new Costco went up a few miles from their house. Mrs Urtz had a new poodle, and the darn thing barked if a leaf fell off the tree.

  Bell was surprised they’d spent fifteen minutes talking when the call ended. It was the most amicable exchange she’d had with her mother in weeks.

  Gardy had the laptop on the bed when Bell returned. He quickly shut the screen and became interested in the football game again.

  “You didn’t get sick in my bathroom, did you?”

  “I made a phone call.” She eyed the laptop suspiciously as he slid it into the case. “Caught you looking at porn again.”

  “What…no…I never…”

  “Uh-huh. You’re keeping a lot of secrets lately, Gardy.”

  His eyes strayed to the laptop, then to the television.

  “How so?”

  “This case, for one. Here I am in the middle of nowhere when I should be on a beach with a piña colada, and up until an hour ago I had no idea why.”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t risk Weber—”

  “To hell with Weber. I never would have said a thing to him had you told me you’d picked up Logan Wolf’s trail. So come clean about the laptop. What’s so important that you won’t let me see?”

  “Bell, you don’t need to see.”

  “I can handle it, whatever it is.”

  Gardy shrugged and removed the laptop. When he opened the computer, her breath caught in her throat. The browser was open to a tabloid website called The Informer. The headline read, FBI VIXEN HOT ON WOLF’S TRAIL. A closeup photograph of Bell took up the majority of the front page.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I didn’t want to show you.”

  “FBI Vixen?”

  “Well, they got the FBI part correct.”

  She slugged him in the shoulder.

  “I recognize the picture, Gardy. That’s downtown Milanville after Meeks murdered the businessman. Christ, I remember the guy who took the photo.”

  “Gavin Hayward,” Gardy said, clicking on the byline. A smug male with a toothy grin smiled out from the screen. “He made a mint writing about the case after Wolf went rogue. And he seems to know your every move.”

  Gardy clicked back to the article and scrolled down the page. There was a photograph of Bell in Coral Lake taken from a long distance and blown up. She recognized the Finger Lakes village. In the picture, Bell stared pensively at the water.

  “He’s following us.”

  “He’s following you, Bell.”

  “We’re a team. You were there, too.”

  “Ah, but sexy vixens sell tabloids, not middle-aged men.”

 
; His eyebrow shot up. If he snickered, she’d make sure he limped for the next month.

  “You think there’s any way he knows we’re in Kansas?”

  “How could he? We’re off the books, so even if he has an informant inside the FBI—”

  “—but if he has my address—”

  “That’s classified information.”

  “It didn’t stop Wolf from figuring out where I live.” A chill ran down her body. “My God, what if Hayward harasses my parents?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Look, Hayward isn’t dangerous. He’s an exploitive sleaze bag, and we need to ensure he doesn’t compromise our investigations. My concern is Wolf reads The Informer.”

  “That explains how Wolf found me in Milanville.” A light turned on in her head, and she snapped her finger. “We could flip this around and use Hayward as bait.”

  Gardy steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the tips.

  “Right. Give Hayward bad intel and draw Wolf to a location of our choosing. The trouble is Hayward is a bullshit artist. He’ll see through the facade.”

  Bell crossed her legs and chewed her lip.

  “We’re so close to catching him this time, Gardy.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Marianne sprung awake when a door closed. She stared up at a filthy water-stained ceiling. A sagging crack ran down the center and branched toward the corner. The room was dim. Ambient light spread from another room.

  She tried to lift her head, but it was too heavy, and her head collapsed and sank into a couch cushion which smelled of ancient dust and body odor. The ceiling spun. She wanted to vomit. The gag was removed as were the ropes from her ankles.

  Marianne didn’t know where she was until her head cleared. She was inside the house of the man who kidnapped her. The sudden realization got her moving, and she swung her legs off the couch and pushed against the cushions. Her body, still under the barbiturate-like influence of the Chloroform, refused to cooperate. The urge to wretch came again, and she clutched the armrest until the room ceased its infernal spinning.

  A shadow crept across the floor. The man was outside the room. Listening.

  A standing cabinet had been shoved against the front door. She didn’t think she had the strength to move it.

  When she glanced back to the floor, the shadow was gone. A glass clinked from the kitchen, then a drawer opened. She pictured the man with a butcher’s knife, and her mind leaped to the discovery of dismembered bodies in open farmland. Bled out. A few body parts missing from each victim, taken by The Skinner.

  Consciously, Marianne refused to believe this man was The Skinner, but the depths of her mind screamed it had to be him.

  A burning scent came from the kitchen. The man was cooking eggs. She could hear the grease splatter and flame hissing.

  Quickly, she looked around the room for a weapon, something she could defend herself with. There was nothing. Only two lamps on stands in the sparsely furnished room. No television, no phone. That made her wonder if her own phone was in her pocket. She checked and found her pockets empty. The phone, she recalled, was on the kitchen counter inside her house.

  Grabbing hold of the armrest, Marianne pulled herself to her feet. Her knees wobbled, but the cushions blocked her legs and saved her from toppling. Another dizzy spell rocked her back on her heels. After it passed, she stepped toward the entryway.

  She waited at the corner, careful to ensure her own shadow wasn’t cast upon the floor. The frying sounds continued from the kitchen, the clink of spatula on pan. Somehow this lent her a small measure of comfort knowing he was human and needed to eat. A human could be reasoned with.

  Except the other women tried to reason with him, didn’t they? A prickle of fear scuttled down her neck.

  A staircase ascended from the hallway. If she couldn’t budge the cabinet, she’d take her chances upstairs. Climb through a window or find a place to hide.

  His footsteps came quickly down the hallway. She darted back to the couch on cat’s paws and sprawled on the cushions. Her eyes closed a moment before he turned the corner.

  Goosebumps covered her body. He was watching her. Only a few steps away.

  Marianne held her breath until she was certain he was gone. She never heard him leave. It struck her how silently the man moved.

  The weakness from the Chloroform lingered like old flu symptoms that clung long after the disease abated. Exhaustion. Confused thoughts. She felt it in her arms and legs, but it resided most in her neck. It took great effort to push herself off the couch again. Her heart did gymnastics as she moved toward the wall. One quick burst was all it would take to get her across the hall and to the stairs. She gambled he wouldn’t notice.

  The kitchen was quiet now. Too quiet. The vent fan hummed, and the downstairs was thick with the smell of his cooking.

  Her neck hairs prickled, and she swung her head around. A man stared through the living room window, but it was too dark to make out features.

  Marianne didn’t react at first. She thought it was her own reflection before she realized the ghostly figure didn’t mirror her own movements.

  The scream caught in her throat a moment before The Skinner’s hand cupped her mouth.

  She yelled and tried to bite down, but his grip was strong. His free hand reached around with the Chloroform-laced rag.

  He smothered Marianne’s face. Her legs went limp.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  The phone shocked Bell out of a dream she couldn’t remember. The hammering of her heart told her she didn’t want to.

  Gardy’s number lit her screen.

  “Bell, were you asleep?”

  She rubbed the grit from her eyes and fumbled for the light switch. Damn unfamiliar motel rooms.

  “What…what time is it?”

  She answered her own question when the clock came into focus. Two in the morning.

  “Time to roll. We have a potential abduction.”

  “Wolf?”

  “My gut says yes.”

  Ten minutes later she stumbled into the cold night, eyes heavy and shying away from the lampposts. Gardy wore a grin as he leaned against his rented Escalade. He held two Styrofoam cups of coffee.

  “Wait, how did you manage to get coffee? You just called.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “With the way Molasses moves, I could have driven to the city and back and gotten us Dunkin.” He handed her a cup. “You drink, I’ll drive.”

  Unlike her own bargain basement rental, the Escalade kept the cold at bay and doused the wind. The silence was loud until Gardy fired the engine and turned onto county route 36.

  Gardy reached into his bag and handed the iPad to Bell. A driver’s license photo appeared on the screen.

  “Marianne Garza, age forty-two, of Pronti, Kansas. She was supposed to drive to Oklahoma City and fly to Florida in the morning. A neighbor drove past her house an hour ago and noticed a window was smashed. Knocked on the door, but Garza never answered.”

  “Any chance she already left?”

  “Car was still in the driveway. The sheriff’s office is trying to contact family and friends and find out if anyone saw or heard from Garza tonight. Meanwhile, Lowe is on the scene, and he’s pissed.”

  Bell swiped the screen. A map displayed Garza’s residence.

  “Because we didn’t move on Wolf after studyng the security camera footage.”

  “Right. It’ll be my head when he tells Weber.”

  “But Quantico hasn’t determined if it’s Wolf in the picture.”

  “Hard to argue with the evidence, Bell. Bodner swore it was Wolf, and you were pretty sure.”

  Gardy shook his head and slapped the steering wheel.

  “I had a chance to go after Wolf and I froze.”

  Bell put the iPad away.

  “Don’t do that to yourself, Gardy. I could look at that footage a hundred times and never be certain. Besides, a dozen agents couldn’t cover an
entire town, not even a one-horse burg like this one.”

  The outskirts of Pronti were devoid of streetlights. The black was so complete Bell worried the sun would never rise.

  The lights atop the sheriff cruisers came into view as they turned down a dirt road. The vague suggestion of a silo stood back in a field, and in the dark, it looked like a monstrous beast poised over a sleepy farm.

  Red and blue flashers cut the night in front of Marianne Garza’s residence, a green, two-story with a small barn and animal pen around the back. The front window was broken.

  One deputy, a tall male with a pocked face and sideburns, nudged his partner.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the government serial killer experts.”

  The deputy made air quotes around experts and spoke just loud enough for Gardy and Bell to overhear. They sneered and turned back to the scene.

  Bell edged closer to Gardy.

  “We have our work cut out for us.”

  “Did you expect a welcoming committee?”

  Sheriff Lowe stood beside the porch steps. A woman in sweatpants and a winter coat stood with her arms crossed, bouncing on her feet to stay warm.

  Lowe’s attention shifted from the woman to the approaching agents. He didn’t appear happy to see Bell and Gardy.

  “This is Allison Hinchey, Garza’s neighbor.”

  “Hello,” Hinchey said, offering her hand to Gardy and Bell.

  “She’s the one who saw the broken window and reported Garza missing.”

  “That’s our farm a mile up the road.” Hinchey pointed into the night. All Bell saw was darkness on the horizon. “I deliver milk and eggs to Marianne once a week. I usually get here by eight, but I ran late tonight on account of my youngest falling ill and didn’t make it here until after midnight. She’s got an old cooler out in the barn. I figured the eggs and milk would keep on the porch with it being so cold tonight, but I didn’t want to chance it, so I grabbed the flashlight and started around back. The window caught my eye before I got far.”

  “So you knew Marianne Garza would be gone for the weekend?” Bell asked.