The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  The terrible sounds chased Marianne down the dark and unknown road.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Earl Grendell had twenty-three years experience driving for Briggan’s Trucking, and over those many years he’d never seen the roads this bad at the end of October. And it wasn’t just the road. The visibility dropped to a few hundred feet as an unearthly ground mist drew a curtain around the sleet and rain.

  He was somewhere on County Route 36, a mile outside of a little town named Pronti, when the weather worsened. Snow grains, sleet, fog, freezing rain. It made him wax nostalgic over ninety-five degree days in July when heat rippled off the pavement and seared your nostrils if you bent too close.

  He didn’t see the stop sign spring out of the fog until he was right on top of it. The big 18-wheeler slid through the four-way stop at sixty mph and jetted down the road, kicking up sleet and rain.

  His heart was a permanent part of his larynx now, fingers bone-white as they clutched the wheel. He muttered silent thanks to the man upstairs that another vehicle hadn’t crossed the intersection. People fretted over hurricanes and earthquakes and tornadoes, but for Earl Grendell’s money, there was nothing more dangerous than driving on a sheet of ice.

  The way forward was a blur of storm and macadam, the road more a suggestion than something tangible. Sometimes the swirling storm almost conned him into driving off the road. At least the land was flat in Kansas. If a bad winter storm caught you in the mountains, the wrong move would take you through a guardrail and down a ravine.

  Earl thought back to his second year behind the wheel. Old Harlan Nichols jackknifed outside of Norman at seventy, and that was the end of old Harlan. But that had been freezing rain in the middle of January when you expected the weather to be a bitch. Not in October, for God’s sake.

  Before the near-accident at the four-way stop, Earl’s eyes had grown heavy. Not anymore. He figured he could drive to Dallas on adrenaline alone. He’d be damned if he admitted it aloud because the kind folks at Briggan’s would have been more than happy to take him up on his offer. Our drivers rest every six hours was written in gentle cursive on the back of the trailer. That was a load of hooey. You stopped every six hours to gas up until you delivered the load, or you found yourself in the unemployment line.

  Earl rubbed the murk out of his eyes as he put the sleepy town in his mirrors and entered farm country. For the next twenty miles, it was nothing but silos and the thick scent of manure. He thumbed the power button and scanned the radio for a country station. The old stuff—Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson, not the pop garbage that passed for country today. Hell, if Eminem rapped with twang, they’d call it country.

  He was halfway through the dial when a pallid figure darted into the road. It waved its arms and ran toward the grille with a lunatic death wish, and for a second he believed she was a witch or specter. But it was only a woman, he realized. No jacket, just a hooded sweatshirt to shield her from the storm. What the hell was she doing in the middle of the road this far out of town?

  Earl pumped the brakes and felt the back end slide. Jesus-on-a-totem-pole, the road was black ice. He turned into the skid and thought about Harlan again and how the windshield had turned the old man’s forehead into spaghetti. The cab came around, and Earl screamed like a baby as the truck barreled sideways at highway speeds.

  Though she couldn’t have heard, Earl bellowed for the woman to get out of the road before the trailer cut her in half. Then the front wheels caught the ditch and threw the trailer past him like a bullwhip. His teeth clicked together, and a horrible squeal sliced holes in the silent night as the tires shredded.

  When the truck finally came to rest, Earl panted with his fingers locked around the wheel. A putrid rubber scent mingled with the storm. His heart wouldn’t slow. He didn’t dare look at what the trailer had done to the crazy woman. Instead, he stared at a distant silo and prayed for an opportunity to go back in time, reverse fate and pretend this never happened. Old Harlan got off easy. This was vehicular manslaughter. He’d do hard time when the sheriff—

  The knock on the cab door scared him enough to smack his skull against the headrest. The crazy woman.

  For the second time tonight, he closed his eyes and thanked the man above. A fevered chuckle crawled out of his throat.

  You dodged a bullet, a voice seemed to say inside his head.

  The woman begged him to open the cab. He did.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  “Do you expect me to believe Marianne Garza’s abduction is the work of another serial killer, potentially The Skinner, when I saw Logan Wolf with my own eyes on the security footage?”

  Sheriff Lowe stood bull-legged on Garza’s lawn, hands on hips with his hat drawn down to his eyebrows. The grinning deputies stood behind Lowe like jesters to their king.

  Bell interjected.

  “You have to understand. Wolf’s profile doesn’t fit—”

  “I don’t have to understand shit. All this profile mumbo jumbo is academic garbage. Fortunately, law enforcement only requires common sense, and I’ve got enough common sense to know if someone goes missing when a known serial killer is in town, you make the serial killer your number one suspect.”

  To Bell’s astonishment, Lowe spat on the ground. It was as if she’d stumbled onto the set of a bad western. The deputies nodded and muttered agreement.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what the two of you are up to. Covering your asses. If we’d gone after Wolf last night, we wouldn’t have a missing person on our hands.”

  The dispatcher’s voice came over Lowe’s radio. He snatched it off his waist without removing his eyes from the two agents.

  “Lowe here.”

  The sheriff strolled away to keep the conversation private. The deputies looked like a firing squad as they glared at Bell and Gardy. Whatever the conversation was about, the sheriff became animated.

  When he was done, Lowe bolted back to them.

  “Well, now. Seems the two of you dodged a bullet. Marianne Garza is alive.”

  Bell glanced at Gardy.

  “Local trucker named Earl Grendell nearly ran her over on county route 36. Says Garza claimed she was abducted and taken to a farmhouse a few miles outside of Pronti.”

  Gardy’s hands twitched.

  “Does she know the address?”

  “No, but our guys made sense out of her statement and narrowed the address down to a residence on Triphammer Road.” Lowe tapped his forehead. “And that’s what you call good old-fashioned police work. Pay attention, agents. We’re about to take down the famous Logan Wolf.”

  The dashboard clock clicked over to four in the morning as Bell and Gardy followed the parade of trucks and flashing lights through Pronti.

  Bell checked the GPS and watched Gardy.

  “What do you make of this development?”

  “I’m sure of one thing. It’s not Wolf’s house.”

  “You think it’s The Skinner, don’t you?”

  Gardy’s fingers drummed the wheel. His eyes were slitted, skin pale. He looked like death warmed over.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Trust your instincts. I do.”

  He looked at her. Their eyes met and held for a second. He nodded.

  It took ten minutes to reach the farmhouse. No road sign marked Triphammer Road, and the bulk of the drive was dirt and stone made slick by the storm.

  Bell climbed down from the Escalade, and as she took in the farmhouse, she knew they’d found the right place before they set foot on the grounds. The house looked at-once derelict and stoic, an old beast who’d witnessed too much pain and hardship. A sagging porch fronted the house, and the windows flared with light like devils’ eyes searching the night.

  A commotion came from the front lawn. Deputy Keene and another officer knelt over a dark shape on the ground. Bell ran to catch up to Gardy.

  A wiry figure lay in a heap. His throat was slashed, head inside a sack.

 
; Lowe wheezed and pulled up. A triumphant smile curled his lips.

  “What did I tell you? That’s Logan Wolf’s work, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Keene stared bullets into Bell as he worked the sack off the victim’s head. The man was emaciated yet muscular, his eyes lifeless sunken holes. Nothing made sense.

  Gardy grabbed Bell’s elbow and pulled her away from the others.

  “There’s no mistaking it anymore. Logan Wolf did this.”

  “What about Marianne Garza?”

  “For now, all we have to go on is she escaped. This doesn’t add up.”

  Sheriff Lowe directed his deputies to search the property. Two approached the front door while another pair circled around the back.

  Bell stuffed her hands into her pockets and hurried over to Lowe while an approaching ambulance blared its siren from the end of the road. Gardy yelled for her not to do this, but Bell was finished playing games with the backwoods sheriff.

  “Sheriff, did Garza describe her attacker?”

  Lowe laughed without mirth.

  “She’s asleep at County General, agent. What does it matter? Logan Wolf did this.”

  “Then who is the dead man?”

  Lowe looked flummoxed. He turned and pointed to the farmhouse.

  “I reckon he’s one Lucas Hunt of Pronti, Kansas. It’s his name on the deed.”

  “Does this make the least bit of sense to you? Logan Wolf kidnapped Marianne Garza?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Then he brought her to an occupied residence and killed the owner while Garza ran into the night.”

  Lowe shifted uncomfortably.

  “Don’t confuse the point, ma’am. We’ll piece all of it together. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a murderer to catch.”

  “Wait, Sheriff. Agent Gardy studied Wolf. Wolf doesn’t make mistakes. No way he’d let Garza escape.”

  “Doesn’t make mistakes? Then how come his mug showed up on the security camera? Admit it, Agent. You couldn’t catch Wolf, and you’re jealous that we’re about to steal your glory.”

  Gardy hugged Bell to stop her from going after Lowe. The sheriff waddled up the steps with a gun in his hand. The second step from the top screeched and snapped, and the lawman’s leg disappeared through the stairs. Keene rushed over and helped Lowe to his feet. The sheriff had a noticeable limp as he staggered to the front door and leaned against the wall, catching his breath. He glared warily at the broken step as though he’d stepped into a hungry crocodile’s jaws.

  Bell and Gardy ascended the stairs, keeping to the ends where the steps appeared sturdy. More sirens approached. If Wolf was on Hunt’s land, they’d surround him soon.

  “Look at this place,” Gardy said when they stepped inside.

  The stained and cracked ceiling seemed skeletal. The house felt cold to Bell, not in terms of temperature, but demeanor. If walls could talk, she didn’t wish to hear what they had to say. Keene and a hobbling Lowe climbed the stairs. Gardy bobbed his head toward the kitchen, and she followed him down the hallway. The kitchen was empty of people. A closed door stood in the corner.

  Bell looked back at him.

  “The basement?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  The door opened with a groan. Dust flickered down from the joists. Gardy led the way with the Glock in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Bell reached up and snagged the pull string to turn on the light.

  An ancient water heater leered over one corner. A blue flame puffed beneath. Gardy found the wall switch near the washer and dryer and flooded the cellar with light. Boots on steps brought Bell’s head around. Deputy Keene followed them with his own flashlight, ostensibly to keep an eye on the agents.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Deputy,” said Bell, “wouldn’t it be better to spread out and cover more ground? That is if you intend to capture Wolf.”

  “Sheriff wants me to check out the basement.”

  “And if we search the attic, will he want you to—”

  Gardy touched her arm.

  “Don’t. We’re better off working together.”

  Keene brushed past and lowered his shoulder as he bumped into Gardy. Gardy bit his lip.

  Bell leaned close to his ear.

  “You were saying?”

  Though the basement was well-lit, the deputy held the flashlight above shoulder level and aimed the beam at a pile of discarded items in the back of the basement—a musty rag, a pitchfork with a missing tine, two work boots, a dusty coffee maker, and a broken shelf. Bell wondered what Keene was looking for.

  She turned and saw another door tucked behind the water heater. She needed to squeeze past and scrape away a cobweb to reach the door.

  “Not so fast,” Gardy said, blocking the door with his hand. “Take it slow for once.”

  He reached for the handle, and Bell took a position beside the door. To his credit, Keene drew his own weapon in case something monstrous sprung out of the dark.

  The door opened to an alcove. Tacked to the wall were a dozen or more photographs of women. Bell recognized Garza from the picture in her living room.

  Keene muscled his way past them and shined his light across the photographs.

  “What’s all this?”

  Bell’s head spun.

  “Memoirs, trophies. That’s Garza on the right.”

  Keene reached for the photograph but Gardy stopped him. It wasn’t a good idea to touch evidence.

  “I can’t believe Logan Wolf lived under our noses all this time.”

  Gardy’s eyes moved over the pictures. His mind slowly pieced the puzzle together.

  “I don’t think so. Get Sheriff Lowe, Deputy.”

  Haunted, Keene fell back against the wall and leaned there.

  “Sure…right away.”

  “He’ll want to compare these photographs with the missing persons database and known murder cases. We just discovered the home of The Skinner.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  The coroner and a slew of crime techs were on the scene when Bell and Gardy descended The Skinner’s front steps. A handful of FBI agents had arrived from the Kansas City and Oklahoma City offices. A piece of rope and several bones were uncovered from the old barn behind the house. Lucas Hunt’s body left the scene in a bag.

  Jerome Tyner, a senior agent and old friend of Gardy, had taken charge of the scene. Lowe resisted initially, but Tyner, who stood several inches taller than Lowe and possessed a commanding, baritone voice that would have led castle raids during Medieval times, quickly persuaded the sheriff he was in over his head.

  Dressed in a dark blue FBI jacket, cap, and a pair of oversized eyeglasses, Tyner folded his arms before Gardy.

  “The search teams are combing a two-mile radius around the farmhouse in case Wolf is on foot. It’s mostly open field and farmland from here back to Pronti, not a lot of cover, so we’ll find him if he’s out there. In the meantime, the two of you need sleep. I’ll have one of my guys—”

  “I’ve got it, Jerome.”

  “You sure, Bon Jovi?”

  Bell cocked an eyebrow.

  “Bon Jovi?”

  Tyner chuckled and thumped Gardy on the shoulder.

  “His nickname since the academy days. What better name for a rock star than Bon Jovi?”

  After the levity, the humor left Tyner’s eyes, and he squared his shoulders with Gardy.

  “You stepped in it big this time, Gardy.”

  “I’ll catch hell back at Quantico.”

  “Maybe not. I’ll give Weber a call later and smooth things over.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Jerome.”

  “The hell I don’t. Do you know how long we’ve been looking for The Skinner? Here he was right down the road all along. That’s a helluva catch.”

  Gardy looked off to the horizon. The first grays of daylight were spreading out of the land.

  “Except I didn’t catch him.”

  “Yeah. About that. Why do you figu
re Logan Wolf murdered The Skinner?”

  “A better question is why he brought Garza here in the first place.”

  “Maybe Wolf gave her to The Skinner? Some weird gift from one psycho to another.”

  Gardy’s breath puffed little clouds in the cold.

  “Whatever the reason, they tied her up and cut her free. I can’t wrap my head around it.”

  “You suppose they were working together and had a falling out?”

  Gardy shook his head.

  “That doesn’t feel right to me, and I don’t think Bell is buying it, either.”

  Tyner studied Bell, the curiosity evident in his eyes. Bell knew her reputation preceded her, the uncanny ability to enter a killer’s mind and unravel his darkest secrets, and it always made her uncomfortable. The truth was she was at a loss on this case. She started this case searching for Logan Wolf and never could have guessed the night would end with The Skinner dead on a lonely plot of land in the middle of Kansas.

  “Your expert opinion, Agent Bell. Garza didn’t escape. The ropes were cut. Why would Wolf or Hunt cut her free and allow her to escape?”

  “Could be it was part of the thrill. They wanted to stalk her first.”

  Yet that didn’t feel right, either. The answer felt forced, almost negligent as though she viewed the case through tunnel vision.

  Gardy tapped Tyner on the arm.

  “I better get Bell back to the motel before she turns into a pumpkin.”

  “Get some sleep, my friend. We’ll need you at full strength this afternoon.”

  “Thanks for coming out, Jerome.”

  “You’re still the rock star, Gardy. Damn. The Skinner case finally closed, and Logan Wolf next.”

  Tyner shook his head and grinned as they slogged to the Escalade. Lowe, looking neutered now that Tyner was here, touched the tip of his hat when they walked past.

  Gardy said little during the drive into Pronti. The weather cleared and left a gelid glaze on the grass as the sun peaked into the mirrors. A few times Bell opened her mouth to tell Gardy he’d done the best he could and needed to stop being hard on himself, but the angry glare he directed through the windshield told her this wasn’t the time. Then the Pronti Inn appeared, and they labored up the steps toward their beds when the rest of the world was waking up.