Colde & Rainey (A Rainey Bell Thriller)

by R. E. Bradshaw

  Possibly reading Rainey’s assessment of the town’s bleakness in her expression, Captain Wise offered, “Not much left of it, but at one time, this was a hopping little place. I suppose we’ll wait around for the cities to grow into us. Some more hip folks will move in, renovate the old homes, and open up quaint village shops down Main Street. At least, that’s what the Mayor keeps telling everyone.”

  “You live here?” Rainey asked, turning her attention back to the men at the table.

  “My wife and I were both born and raised right down the street, just a couple of blocks,” Wise answered. “We came back home when I retired from the Air Force. I do a little part time work for the Sheriff to keep from driving Harriet crazy at home.”

  “Was taking a class at Quantico part of your work for the Sheriff?” Rainey remembered Wise in class and grinned at him. “Are you the new cyber crimes expert for the county?”

  Wise chuckled. “As you can attest, computers baffle me, but I did learn quite a bit. I appreciated your help and patience. The instructor is an old buddy of mine. I audited the class for pretty much the reason I took the part time work with the Sheriff—to stay busy.”

  Rainey filled her father in. “I assisted some of the less computer-savvy members of the Captain’s class as part of my training time in the cyber crimes unit.”

  “He might have mentioned something about that,” Billy said, just as a rotund little woman stepped to the table to take their orders.

  Billy, Rainey, and Wellman Wise were the only occupants in the dining area. A few old farmers sat at a countertop nearer the kitchen, nursing coffee and swapping tales. They were identifiable by the dirt embedded in the cracks of their well-worn brogans and the tanned-hide appearance of their deeply wrinkled necks. They each had a pale stripe of skin across the forehead, where Rainey imagined a soiled feed and seed cap usually blocked the sun. A quick visual survey of the hat rack by the door confirmed her suspicions.

  The woman with the order pad appeared to be a rosy-cheeked grandmotherly type, until she opened her mouth and snarled down at the table occupants. “We got a hot plate and a cold plate, no substitutions. If you want a burger, you’re too late. I’m out of meat. Preorders beat you to it. Water, iced tea, or coffee, and no it ain’t fresh. Made it this mornin’. Wise, you want the usual?”

  “Doris makes up for her lack of personality with a talent for cooking a good plate of food. Hot or cold, you will not be disappointed. I’d shy away from the coffee though.”

  Doris curled her snarling lip around, “Wiseass, you can kiss mine.”

  Wise chuckled and said, “The usual will do just fine.”

  In Rainey’s experience, food in this type of diner was heavily steamed, boiled, or fried. The high cooking temperatures offered some protection from food poisoning, she surmised, and ordered the hot plate just in case Doris’s nasty attitude carried over to her kitchen cleaning habits.

  Once Doris had everyone’s order, she exited, saying, “I’ll be back when I get back.”

  Wise slapped his thigh and laughed aloud. “She’s ornery, but a damn fine cook. Don’t let the looks of the place fool you. Half the town and most of the senior class from the high school down the road will be here within the hour to pick up lunch.”

  The bells over the door jangled as a teenaged girl slouched in. Rainey watched the dark-haired, pale-faced, young woman hang up her coat and then peek from under her bowed brow to see if anyone had noticed her entrance. She saw Rainey watching her and shrugged further into her slouch, just as Doris reentered with drinks for the table.

  “It’s about time you drug up,” Doris spat at the young woman. “Start them burger patties ‘fore those kids get here.”

  “Sorry, Mom. The test took longer than I thought it would,” the girl said.

  Doris shook her head. “It’s always something, Leda, always something,” she said, as she turned her back on her daughter.

  The girl made eye contact with Rainey again, as she stepped behind the counter. This time she seemed to be saying, “Do you see what I have to live with?”

  If Rainey understood anything, it was the dynamics of bad mother-daughter relationships. She and Constance had been going at it for as long as she could remember. Rainey had not resided with her mother since she was fourteen, but that didn’t make their relationship any better. She sympathized with young Leda and silently wished her a way out of town. “Distance. That’s your only chance,” Rainey thought, watching the girl disappear behind the swinging kitchen doors.

  Doris put three glasses of sweet iced tea on the table, though Rainey had ordered water. She didn’t bother to complain, or rather, she had no time to do so. Doris was gone as soon as she got there. The bells clanged again and more customers entered. Three tall, blush-cheeked, athletic young men pushed through the door, still laughing at a joke no one inside the diner heard.

  “Fallon is the funniest guy ever on Saturday Night Live,” one of them said.

  Rainey remembered the original cast and chuckled at the poor deprived youth of the day. Her father and Wise were talking about some fugitive Billy had been trying to flush out for a few months. Rainey wasn’t particularly interested in the pursuit of some career criminal named Chauncey Barber. Her people-watching habit kept her busy. It had been honed on many stakeouts and refined during her recent behavioral science training at the academy. Rainey could tell a lot about a person, just by how they walked into a room.

  The three new diner occupants carried themselves with the swagger expected from young men of their age and obvious social status. They were handsome in their leather and wool letterman jackets. The large entwined H and J on their chests glinted with gold-plated achievement pins and marked these young men as exceptional—in case there were doubts as to where they stood in the high school food chain. These were the alpha males, the top dogs, hometown heroes with whom girls like Leda never stood a chance.

  Rainey noticed Doris was kind, maybe even a little sweet, when she spoke to the new customers, “Hello, boys. Have a seat. Leda will have those cheeseburgers right out,” and then with a whoosh of the swinging kitchen doors she disappeared again.

  The three old farmers at the counter brightened at the young men’s arrival and added their welcomes. One simply dipped his head in a silent show of fine regard. The other two spoke in rapid succession.

  “Good to see you, boys.”

  “How many points you gonna score tomorrow night, Skylar?”

  The shortest of the teenaged trio, by only a few inches, but handsomest by far, showed his perfectly aligned teeth behind a dimple-bracketed, Hollywood-worthy smile and responded, “Well, Mr. Harris, I hope I score just enough to help the team win the game.”

  The taller ginger-haired teen spoke up, “Don’t worry. He’ll get that season scoring record. Now that Ely’s out, it’s a done deal.”

  “Shut up, G.” The one named Skylar rebuked his larger friend, adding, “It’s not about that.”

  The last of the trio joined in, punching G in the shoulder. “Yeah, it’s about winning the conference, dickwad.” He noticed Rainey at the table, adding quickly, “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “No problem,” Rainey assured him.

  The three boys moved on to one of the booths lining the back wall, as Doris whooshed back through the doors, heading for Rainey’s table. The old gal was quite the marvel, balancing three dishes with two hands, including silverware rolled tightly in a white paper napkin. She clanked a plate and serving set down in front of each of them, pulled out her order pad, and started tallying up the ticket.

  Rainey looked down at a steaming mound of ham, cabbage, and little red potatoes, with a splash of pickled beets in the middle of the pile. The beet juice ran trails of deep red veins down the cabbage leaf quarters and pooled at the edge of the plate. Rainey blinked away another unwanted image and tried to focus on Billy’s plate of chicken salad on a bed of lettuce, sliced tomatoes and boiled eggs on the side, served with two packages of saltine c
rackers. She had to focus on the details of the here and now—any detail would do—anything other than the horrific ones her mind seemed to throw at her with no notice and without provocation. Control. Rainey needed to gain control and master the locks on the mental boxes she created to store those images.

  Doris’s shrill voice brought Rainey fully back to the room, as she slapped the ticket down by Wise’s hand, “If you want more crackers or refills on your tea, fetch ‘em from the counter over there,” she said. “I’m busy.”

  Evidently, the service Doris was to provide had just ended. The rest, a customer had to find and fend for themselves. Doris moved on to chat with the teens in the booth, but not before Wise thanked her for his “usual,” which turned out to be a plain ham sandwich on white bread with a pickle on the side.

  Wise smiled over at Billy. “The wife won’t let me have white bread. It’s the only decent sandwich I can get anymore.”

  “One more of the many reasons I do not have one of those,” Billy said.

  Rainey chuckled and picked up her fork, as she said, “There’s not a decent woman that would have you. Ernie is the only reason you’re semi-civilized.”

  “Ernie is not civilized,” Billy said of his longtime office manager and friend, Ernestine Womble—the only woman he seemed able to tolerate for more than a week or two.

  Wise interrupted the family banter with, “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked your father to bring you here.”

  “I was not aware that you had,” Rainey answered, while slicing off a piece of ham.

  Her plate no longer harbored unwanted imagery, just smelled delicious, and the first bite confirmed that Doris could indeed cook a mean plate of food.

  “Need to know basis. I didn’t think she needed to,” Billy offered as an explanation for why he dragged her an hour and a half from home on the first day of a much-needed vacation.

  Rainey shot him a closed-lip smile while she chewed. Billy Bell was secretive and a bit paranoid, in her estimation. He had raised her to share the same feral cat defenses, cautious and suspicious, constantly checking her surroundings.

  “Have fun,” he would say, “but always, always be aware. If you see them coming, you got a chance.”

  These traits served both of them well in their chosen professions, but made for interesting relationship dynamics. Neither father nor daughter could sustain a romance beyond the “get to know me” stage. No one was getting in that vault. Luckily, as far as her father was concerned, Rainey didn’t “need to know” more than he was willing to tell most of the time.

  Wise reached under his jacket and produced an envelope. He placed it next to Rainey’s plate. “Billy told me you attended that school shooter conference up in Leesburg last July. I wish you’d have a look at this and tell me what you think I’m dealing with. What personality type wrote it?”

  Rainey swallowed a forkful of cabbage and ham, then picked up the envelope and took out a folded sheet of copy paper. Unfolding it revealed a page covered with doodles and scribbling, including some that obscured parts of the single-spaced typed paragraph at the top. The copier even picked up the creases in the paper where it had been folded and refolded dozens of times.

  “You know one writing sample isn’t enough to make a recommendation, right? Kids blow off steam, say things they shouldn’t. It takes more than a few written rants and some violent imagery to make a school shooter.” She pointed at one of the black ink doodles depicting a heavily-armed stickman mowing down a row of stick figures, blood dripping, piles of stick body parts at the stickman assassin’s feet. “But I can see why you have cause to be concerned.”

  Wise nodded. “I didn’t think this was run of the mill angst. That paragraph will make the hair stand on the back of your neck.”

  Billy leaned over to see the page. “Anything that would make Wise’s hair stand up, makes me curious.” He read over Rainey’s shoulder.

  I kill who I don’t like, I waste what I don’t want, I destroy what I hate. My belief is that if I say something, it goes. I am the law, if you don’t like it, you die. If I don’t like you or I don’t like what you want me to do, you die. Dead people can’t do many things, like argue, whine, bitch, complain, narc, rat out, criticize, or even fucking talk. So that’s the only way to solve arguments with all you fuckheads out there, I just kill! God I can’t wait till I can kill you people. I don’t care if I live or die in the shootout, all I want to do is kill and injure as many of you pricks as I can, especially a few people, like:

  Skylar Sweet

  Gordon Terrell

  Adam Goodwin

  Burgess Read

  Benjy Janson

  Ely Paxton

  Cassie Gillian

  “& Ellie” was hand-written beside the name Ely, along with “fuck you….shutup….and die” at the bottom of the list of names.

  “Whew,” Billy whistled. “I do hope you have eyes on this child.”

  Wise was focused on Rainey when she looked up from the page. His brow rose in question, but he said nothing.

  “Is this a test?” Rainey asked, only slightly amused at the links the old boys would go to rattle the new girl. “Did your friend at the bureau put you up to this?”

  A confused expression replaced Wise’s questioning one. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  Rainey refolded the page and slipped it back into the envelope. “This is copied from an online rant written by Eric Harris, one of the Columbine shooters. The names aren’t right, but the words are almost verbatim, except for some spelling corrections. Nice touch with the creepy artwork.”

  “You recognized where that came from in the time it took to read it. I’m impressed,” Billy said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Wise said, not really listening to Billy. “I knew it. I knew that kid didn’t write that.”

  Rainey froze in the middle of sliding the envelope back to Wise. His reaction was sincere. He had no idea what she was talking about and she could say the same about his declaration. Wise dug into his other inside breast pocket for another envelope, which he then held out for Rainey to take.

  “My friend at the bureau did suggest I contact you, since you were close by, but no, Special Agent Bell, this is not a test.”

  She opened the second envelope to find another piece of copy paper. This page contained a single paragraph decorated with an inked illustration of a black bleeding heart, a dripping dagger thrust through it. The artistic style resembled the drawings from the first envelope, however, the thoughts contrasted greatly.

  As Lancelot to Guinevere, until she comes to me, I shall wait, guarding her honor from the shadows. One day, she will know that I am the only one who sees how special she is and that fate has brought us together. She will know our souls are bound as one. I see her pain and I will save her. I will save us both. If I could only break free of these self-doubts. Who am I kidding? I can’t save her. I can’t save myself. I am what they say, a weakling, a runt. You know what they do with runts on the farm. They kill them, so they don’t waste the feed. I’m a drain on society. I am a waste of feed. I want it to end.

  Billy didn’t whistle this time. He just shook his head. “That boy’s a bit overly dramatic and has read entirely too many English romances.”

  Rainey stated clinically, “Depressive personality, inward loathing, unrequited love, self-depreciation—typical teenage angst or a cry for help? It’s hard to tell without more information and a thorough workup by a mental health professional. I see none of the same contempt for humanity or blaming as in the first one.” Noting the smug look on Wise’s face, she asked, “How can I help you, Captain Wise?”

  “Like I said, I do a little part time work for the Sheriff. He asked me to take a look at this case, make sure nothing was missed. There is a shy fifteen-year-old in custody—well, in a coma and in custody. He isn’t going anywhere for a long time. He’s accused of double homicide and attempted murder. He was shot in the head and chest by one of his intended vict
ims, ten days ago.”

  The bell above the door jangled every few minutes as more town-folk and students came and went. Wise lowered his voice. What he had to say, he appeared not to want the others to overhear.

  “By some miracle, he survived. The first note was found in his pocket at the scene of the crime. The second, and many more like it, were found on his computer, in notebooks, on scraps of paper all over this kid’s room, his locker, in books, but nowhere did I find another hair-raiser like that first one. It led me to believe someone else might have been involved.”

  “So, you don’t think he simply borrowed Harris’s words from the Internet? He may have felt it but been unable to express that level of rage. Maybe he admired Eric Harris for doing so,” Rainey suggested. “Like lyrics to a favorite song, we often find that type of transcribing in a school shooter.”

  “I didn’t hear of any school shooting,” Billy said.

  “He never made it to the school. He went next door to kill the neighbors first. The daughter, Ellie, she shot him after he had already pulled the trigger on her mother and father. Ely, her twin brother, was wounded in a struggle with the gunman. We’re pretty sure Ellie was the object of the shooter’s affection and that’s why he went there first.”

  “What about his own parents?” Rainey asked.

  “Alive, well, and completely shocked at their son’s behavior,” Wise answered. “So are the family therapist, his school counselor, his teachers—nearly everyone that knew him says they are surprised Graham would do something like this. I tend to agree, but the evidence points to him and him alone.”