The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  Gardy gritted his teeth.

  “We know that, Harold. Tell me where it is now.”

  They heard him punching keys at his computer terminal. An exasperated huff, followed by more typing.

  “I’m not getting a signal. Could be her battery died.”

  Was he to believe Bell left her motel in the middle of the night without her wallet and key card, and the phone battery was dead?

  “Keep trying to reach her.”

  “It’s possible she’s out of cell range or turned off the phone. I’ll call you as soon as I locate the signal.”

  The farm plots and ramshackle houses looked the same as they crisscrossed the checkerboard of connecting roads. Gardy didn’t know what he was looking for. He only knew he couldn’t sit inside his hotel room and assume Bell would show up. Memories of The Skinner’s graveyard came back to Gardy, and he felt nauseous. He needed to search Hunt’s property on the off chance Wolf took Bell to the scene of his last murder. Gardy didn’t want to know what they’d find.

  Tyner was in contact with his FBI crew and the sheriff. Additional vehicles searched for Bell through Pronti. Gardy didn’t expect Lowe’s department to lend a hand, but Tyner held sway over the sheriff.

  “Stay calm, Gardy. We’ll find her soon.”

  Gardy didn’t think he could live with himself if they didn’t. They turned toward Hunt’s farmhouse when Lowe’s voice came over Tyner’s radio.

  “We took a call from a resident at the Pronti Inn. Herbert Miller, room 217. Says he saw a guy in a black coat and pants enter Agent Bell’s motel room a little after sunset. Sent a cruiser out to get a better description and see if anyone saw a vehicle.”

  Tyner looked at Gardy.

  “Sounds like Wolf.”

  Until that point, only in Gardy’s darkest thoughts did he truly believe Wolf took Bell. He’d constructed walls around his fears and fortified them well with logical explanations for his partner’s disappearance, but Lowe’s news tore those walls down and left him isolated and afraid.

  Gardy pressed the accelerator. Harold needed to find the signal before time ran out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  Water droplets echoed through the warehouse. The roof was leaking.

  Bell swiveled her eyes down the aisles as Logan Wolf led her back to the chair. When the moment came to run, she wanted to know the precise path to the exit doors. No missteps or mistakes. She hoped the doors weren’t chained.

  “Sit.”

  Bell slid into the seat. Her back ached from slumbering on the uncomfortable chair, and bruises throbbed along her neck. Though she didn’t recall the attack inside the motel room, she ascertained he’d clutched her from behind and cut off her carotid artery. A choke hold meant to put the victim to sleep.

  “How did you get into my motel room?”

  “A second-rate motel key card reader wouldn’t stop an ingenious ten-year-old, Scarlett, let alone a BAU agent.”

  “You’re not a BAU agent anymore.”

  His face changed. Anger? Pain? It was difficult to tell in the dark.

  “No, I am not. Tell me, Scarlett. Do you believe in your skill as a profiler, or is it all hocus-pocus? A parlor trick?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your ability to step into the mind of a psychopath. That is how you find them, is it not? Alan Hodge, for instance. A nasty individual if there ever was one. Murdering young girls right under the sheriff’s nose. He’d still be at it if you hadn’t found him.”

  “My partner was as much responsible for apprehending Hodge as I was.”

  She felt the phone in her pocket. It would take only a few seconds to locate the power button, but Wolf watched her every move.

  “Ah, your partner, a fine agent. How is Neil Gardy these days? I trust he is well and recovered from the gunshot. If the chips fall in his favor, he will run the FBI before his career comes to a triumphant conclusion.” Wolf paused. “But it was you who did the dirty work and rooted out the killer. Gardy merely took the credit.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. Good police work and evidence gathering might explain how you caught Hodge and the others. Was it a key piece of evidence or the proverbial smoking gun which led you to one of the most feared serial killers of the last decade? Or was it your skill as a profiler? The magic trick.”

  Bell’s eyes slid toward the escape route.

  “There is no need to run, dear Scarlett.”

  “Why not? You’ll murder me, anyway. What if I refuse to answer your questions?”

  Wolf bent so his face was even with Bell’s. She noted he kept his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to lunge if she tried to escape.

  “I swear I will not kill you. I don’t intend to harm the famous Agent Bell.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Only the truth. Did your profiles lead you to Hodge and Longo?”

  She nodded after a moment, and he straightened.

  “A curious claim. There are many who assert profiling as nothing more than sleight of hand. In 2002, a study conducted by Kocsis, Hayes, and Irwin demonstrated a group of profilers—”

  “Failed to outperform police work. Yes, I am aware of the study. The profilers’ accuracy also fell short of chemistry students, though questions exist regarding the test methodology.”

  Wolf grinned, a smile which displayed too many teeth.

  “Very, very good. Though I’m not surprised you are well-read on the subject. Do you agree with their assessment?”

  “No. A number of BAU agents are sufficiently skilled in delivering accurate profiles.”

  “Sadly, not everyone has the ability.”

  Bell bit her tongue. She didn’t want to speak badly of her coworkers, but what Wolf said was true.

  “No, not everyone does.”

  “You do.”

  Wolf circled Bell. The hairs stood on her neck when he passed behind. She imagined the blade sliding free of its sheath. A quick swipe across her throat. She slid her hand inside her pocket in an attempt to turn on the phone, but he rounded the chair too quickly.

  “Academics forever seek to discredit rather than further the science.”

  He passed behind again, and Bell shifted her weight. If she was quick enough, she could stand and kick the chair into his groin. Buy herself a few steps toward the exit doors before he recovered.

  “And yet forensic evidence and police work failed to produce Renee’s murderer,” said Wolf. His wife. She needed to be careful. Say the wrong thing, and Wolf would snap. “Demonstrate your profiling ability. Humor me.”

  “How?”

  “What’s your profile of the elusive Logan Wolf? Tell me something no one else could possibly know.”

  Bell squirmed. In the year she’d spent brainstorming psychological profiles, she couldn’t get a firm grasp on Wolf. The belief she lacked a crucial bit of information always muddied the picture.

  “I’m…not sure.”

  “Come now, Scarlett. You can do better than that.”

  Her tongue ran along her teeth. A picture popped into her mind as she glared at Wolf. She felt certain she was right. But the truth might push him over the edge.

  “Your wife.” She saw Wolf’s spine go rigid. A dangerous look flashed in his eyes. “You don’t carry a picture of her. Not in your wallet or on your phone.”

  Wolf’s teeth clenched.

  “Why?”

  Bell swallowed.

  “Because you don’t want her around when you commit murder. It’s like she can see you if her picture is nearby.”

  Wolf shifted. He looked like a beast unleashed in the darkness.

  “Most impressive. But I will warn you not to use my wife’s name again when you profile me. A confession. I never doubted your ability, only wished to confirm you believed, too.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Because, Scarlett. I want you to catch a killer.”

  Wolf grinned, and Bell retur
ned his smile.

  “Then put out your hands, and I’ll take you to Gardy now.”

  Wolf laughed, a sound like old parchment paper burning.

  “You have a sense of humor. I can appreciate that. Renee had a wonderful sense of humor.”

  “You’re wasting time, Wolf. We both know how tonight will end. Be done with it.”

  “You misunderstand my intentions. What if I told you, dear Scarlett, that you will leave the warehouse on your own accord with your phone and weapon?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “I meant what I told you. I want you to catch a killer for me. My wife’s killer.”

  Bell read his eyes. If Wolf was lying, he had a helluva poker face.

  “Explain.”

  “What I am about to say will shock you. Keep an open mind. As a token of good faith, here is your weapon. I took the liberty of removing the magazine, you understand.”

  “Then the gun is hardly a token of faith.”

  “You will have the magazine soon.”

  She quivered as Wolf reached down and slid the Glock into her holster.

  He turned from her and strolled into the shadows, his hands clasped behind his back as if unsure how to begin. The water continued to drip from the ceiling.

  Bell slipped her hand into her pocket. A moment of panic followed when she couldn’t find the power button. The phone was upside down. Her fingers skimmed the edges until she found it.

  Bell pressed it down as he turned.

  Hoping the dark cloaked her hands, she slowly edged them from her pocket. He was close to her now.

  “On July 21 of the year 2013, I returned home after a trip to Houston. The Brindisi case. You may have read about it.”

  “Yes. You thwarted a mob hit.”

  “It was after ten when I arrived at my doorstep. And when I entered the kitchen…”

  His voice went dry. To Bell’s astonishment, he sniffled.

  “I…found her on the kitchen floor with her…”

  His shoulders rose and fell as he struggled to compose himself.

  Bell instinctively touched the gun though it was no use to her. Wolf was losing control.

  Come on Gardy, she prayed. I sent you a homing beacon.

  “I did not murder my wife.”

  “If you didn’t murder Renee, who did? “

  In the dark, she saw red in his eyes. His face glistened with tears.

  “I don’t know who murdered my wife. If I did, I would track him to the four corners of the earth.”

  “You fled the scene.”

  “Because the so-called experts at the FBI concluded I was the killer, though the only forensic evidence tying me to the murder can be explained by my having lived in the house for ten years. It’s almost enough to make you believe someone at the BAU wanted me out of the way. You don’t believe me, do you? Amend your profile, Scarlett.”

  Bell slid to the edge of her seat. The next time he turned, she’d make a run for the exit.

  “You murdered your wife on the night of July 21, 2013. Slit her throat. Placed a bag over the head, most likely so you wouldn’t have to see her eyes. Her accusation. Since that time, you’ve relived the fantasy repeatedly by murdering—”

  “Men?”

  This was the snag neither Bell nor Gardy unraveled. Why switch to killing men?

  “Yes.”

  “Does that make sense to you?”

  “No.” Wolf began to nod, but Bell cut him off. “But then again, I’m not a psychopathic killer.”

  He growled and slammed his fist against a metal rack. A box tumbled over the side and spilled its contents on the floor.

  “Nor am I.”

  “The FBI tied you to multiple murders over the last five years. Witnesses saw you near the crime scenes. Can you look me in the eye and claim you’re not a murderer?”

  The walls seemed to shift inward. Wolf stalked closer, and for the first time, Bell appreciated how strong and imposing he was.

  “Yes, I killed those men, And for that, you should thank me.”

  A siren rang out over Pronti, at least a mile away but approaching quickly. Wolf squinted at her. His hands moved to his pocket. When he found it empty, he leaned his head back and laughed.

  “Well played, Scarlett. It seems you got one over on me. But you made a grave mistake—”

  Bell made her move. She was out of the chair when Wolf shot into her path and blocked her. This was it. He would kill her now.

  He clutched her by the shoulders. His grip was firm. No chance to power free.

  “What more can I do to earn your trust? Still, you betray me. You have your phone and gun. Go now before there is trouble.”

  “You lied to me, Wolf. The gun is useless without the magazine.”

  “You have everything you need, Scarlett. I know who murdered Jillian. I can find him for you.”

  Bell’s throat hitched. The psychopath who killed her childhood friend was never identified.

  Wolf vanished down the rows and into the shadows. The door edged open, letting in a sliver of light from the lamppost. Then he was gone.

  You have everything you need.

  The approaching siren was joined by two more as she pondered what he meant.

  She reached for the Glock. The magazine had been inside the gun the entire time.

  CHAPTER NINETY

  She was a zombie walking. No more alive than the bones excavated from The Skinner’s barn.

  Flashing lights blinded Bell as she stumbled with Gardy’s assistance to the ambulance. When she arrived, Gardy and a male paramedic with facial stubble and a buzz cut sat her down outside the vehicle. The paramedic shined a light into her eyes. She didn’t blink.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Scarlett Bell.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes, we’re in Kansas.”

  He asked her for the date, and she answered correctly. They ran a battery of tests, checked her reflexes and blood pressure. Bell was in perfect health.

  Except she was dead inside.

  The paramedic wanted her to ride in the ambulance to the hospital, but she refused. Gardy glanced at the man and shrugged. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her.

  A small group of deputies and FBI agents massed outside the warehouse. Tyner barked orders into his radio as the cruisers canvassed the area. It didn’t matter. Wolf had disappeared by now. They wouldn’t find him.

  “What happened in the warehouse? Bell?”

  She slowly turned her head toward Gardy. His face was drawn. He looked as if he’d aged ten years tonight.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She slumped forward and shook her head, her blonde hair sweaty and veiling her face.

  “No.”

  A look of confusion contorted Gardy’s face.

  “What did he—”

  “He told me he knew who killed Jillian.”

  “Bell…you don’t believe him, do you?”

  How could she tell Gardy that she believed Wolf? She chewed her lip and kept the truth to herself.

  “Bell, it’s what he does. He’s playing mind games with you.”

  Gardy brushed the hair from her face and flinched when he saw the rekindled fire in her eyes.

  “Is he, Gardy? He could have killed me at any point. In the motel room, while I was unconscious, when I tried to escape. All he did was ask for help.”

  Gardy narrowed his eyes.

  “What did he ask you to do?”

  “He wants a profile, I think.”

  “A profile of who?”

  “The man who killed his wife.”

  Gardy dropped his head and stared at the pavement. His hands rubbed at the back of his neck. She knew what he thought. This was another one of Logan Wolf’s twisted games. But to what end?

  “Quid pro quo, Gardy. I give him Renee Wolf’s killer, and he hands me the man who murdered Jillian.”

  “For God’s sake, Bell. Listen
to yourself. Logan Wolf murdered his wife, and he’s left a trail of bodies across the country for five years running. Don’t let him inside your head.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “He admitted to all the murders except his wife’s.”

  Gardy took a deep breath. Over his shoulder, she saw Keene and Lowe watching.

  “He’s either lying or guilt-ridden. The human mind uses defensive mechanisms to conceal ugly truths. You see it every day. Five years is a long time. He may have convinced himself he wasn’t capable of taking the life of a loved one, but the evidence is clear.”

  “No, the evidence is circumstantial.”

  “Bell, please don’t say you believe him.”

  “I don’t trust him, but we’re not seeing the whole picture, Gardy. Until we do, we’ll never catch him.”

  Gardy rose to his feet and buttoned his jacket against the cold.

  “I’ll catch him, Bell.”

  Bell looked at him for a while, shivering. Her mind drifted among the past days’ haunts. The scare over her father’s tumor, discovering The Skinner beheaded, the barn, the warehouse. Seeing Gardy revitalized and back on the hunt grounded her, pulled her back to the present.

  She nodded.

  “Then I want to be there when you do.”

  DEAD RINGERS

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  Special Agent Scarlett Bell wished she could bottle this moment and keep it forever.

  She leaned her head on Lucas’s shoulder and closed her eyes as a cool spray blew off Chesapeake Bay. Overhead, a pair of seagulls squawked and circled.

  He cupped her hip with his hand and nudged her closer, and she sighed contentedly as the Virginia sun, mild for the first week of January, slid over her body. The warmth lent the sensation that they were cheating winter, a season which turned raw and cruel along the coast. Weather like this wouldn’t become commonplace for another three months, yet here it was during the coldest month of the year. Summer trapped in a bottle. Their time together was short and would soon end.

  “You should tell them you’re sick,” he said. “Play hooky.”

  She touched his lips to quiet him and ran a hand through his sandy-brown hair. Thirty-years-old, Lucas Crawford was two years younger than Bell. She’d met the software developer while jogging along the beach on the first morning of November, when the mornings turned crisp and the wind off the ocean peppered her legs with goosebumps. On the verge of financial independence, Lucas lived in a quaint little beach house a half-mile south of Bell’s apartment. He’d invited her over for dinner every week since, where they grilled fresh-caught fish and ate on the deck while the naval ships crawled across distant waters.