Rainey with a Chance of Hale (A Rainey Bell Thriller Book 6)

by R. E. Bradshaw

  The hallway smelled and looked like any other hospital. In case Rainey should forget where she was, she listened beyond the beeps and bleeps, under the hushed voices, where the institution lived. There she heard the occasional slap and drag rhythm of leg restraints against the floor, the jingle of waist chains, the clank of a heavy metal door closing them in, her in. Rainey felt the familiar quickening of her innate being’s recognition of being locked inside with thousands of males. No female animal faces that knowledge without a wee bit of panic. Rainey’s training required she focus that fear into heightened awareness.

  She glanced at Danny, as they strode side by side behind their guide. “I forgot how this feels,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been surrounded by this much testosterone. I think I can actually smell it under the antiseptic. It’s like mouthwash and male musk became an air-freshener.”

  They passed under a sign marked “Pharmacy” where rows of chemotherapy bags hung on the other side of the window. The inmates housed here were thinking less about the bars and razor wire outside and more about surviving cancer on the inside.

  Lieutenant Holmes, who rarely commented throughout his escort duty from the front gate, spoke as they passed the pharmacy. “They get better care here than most would get on the outside. Some of them are lucky they landed in here. Law abiding citizens die every day without treatment.”

  “Prison might be the only healthcare option for a lot of people in the near future,” Danny commented, with an unmistakably hostile tone. “Five years for burglary and free cancer treatment sounds inviting to the hopeless.”

  “This isn’t Club Med,” their escort replied.

  Danny fired back quickly, “It’s better than club dead.”

  Rainey thought to herself that Danny may still have his federal credentials, but he had long since lost the bipartisan objectivity required to carry them. He seemed to forget where he was and what he represented. FBI agents aren’t allowed to have opinions about politics publicly, especially not in the current climate and certainly not in a federal facility. Rainey recognized the bitterness and hoped it passed quickly for him. Danny blamed his disdain for his job on the current administration. Rainey suspected the toll nearly fifteen years submerged in the depravity of BAU investigations had a hand in it too. Rainey was thankful now that she got out when she did before it did irreparable damage. She wasn’t so sure Danny had made it out in time.

  “Lieutenant Holmes,” Rainey said to their escort, “how long has Hale been in this wing?”

  She knew she couldn’t ask about Chance’s diagnosis or treatment, but she wanted to distract the officer who, at the moment, eyed Danny suspiciously.

  “Inmate Hale came to Butner Medical to recover from a suicide attempt shortly after his incarceration in Florida in 2010. He was admitted to the addiction recovery program, which he completed successfully in December of 2012.”

  “What’s his prognosis? Are we looking at a dying man’s confession today?” Danny was more direct and seemingly over his unprofessional conduct for the moment.

  “Inmate Hale doesn’t have cancer.”

  Rainey stopped walking, which caused the two men to halt as well.

  She asked, “Then why are we meeting in the oncology wing?”

  “Hale is a trustee assigned to this ward. This is where he is during visiting hours, so this is where you are. May we continue, ma’am?”

  Rainey couldn’t decide if Lieutenant Holmes’s tone was condescending or if he simply lacked congeniality, but since she was inside his facility and Danny was being an ass, she chose to ignore the tenor of contempt in his voice.

  “Yes, please. Lead on.”

  The lieutenant led them to a private room with a sign reading “Medical Consultation” on the door. Two armchairs had been placed on one side of a large desk, with a single wingback leather chair facing them from the other side. Medical diagrams lined the walls—illustrations of skeletal structure and muscle groups, the liver, heart, testicles, and other organs where cancer might lurk. An x-ray viewing box hung on the wall over the desk. In the corner, two dog-eared file boxes labeled “C. O. Hale Legal Docs” in fading black block letters waited for their namesake.

  After showing Danny and Rainey into the room, Holmes said, “I’ll go get inmate Hale,” and closed the door behind him.

  Rainey turned to Danny immediately upon hearing the click of the door latch.

  “Hey, I know you’re done with being a Fed and all that, but we need those credentials and institutional cooperation to conduct this interview. Can you chill out on the attitude a bit?”

  Danny countered with, “Did you see that ‘88’ tattoo on his wrist when he reached for the gate? What does that tell you?”

  “It tells me that we are in North Carolina, the home of NASCAR, and despite white supremacists use of the number ‘88’ to represent ‘Heil Hitler,’ in this case I’m going to go with he’s a Dale Jr. fan.”

  “Why give him the benefit of the doubt? You’re getting soft, Bell.”

  Rainey smiled at him, before explaining, “Maybe because I saw a truck in the parking lot with the license plate ‘LTHOLMES,’ Dale Jr. stickers on the back window, and a number ‘88’ flag on the antenna. Don’t call me soft. Just catch up, McNally.”

  Danny chuckled and said, “I should know to never doubt you.”

  Rainey laughed with him. “Remember that.”

  The surliness left Danny’s demeanor. He offered a mea culpa, “Sorry about the snark. I’ll keep it to a minimum.”

  Keys jangled outside the door. The knob turned and in walked Chance Obadiah Hale, unshackled and completely free to lunge for Rainey’s throat. When his hand came toward her, she instinctively flinched and reached for the Glock absent from her side. She and Danny had locked away their weapons and phones in her car trunk gun safe before entering the prison. After the instinctual reaction, Rainey relaxed her hands to her side.

  “I’m not shaking your hand.”

  Chance smiled and dropped his extended arm.

  “I understand your reluctance to shake the hand of a man you suspect is a serial killer. I don’t blame you.”

  Rainey chuckled, giving no weight to his platitudes, which she suspected were total bullshit.

  “Oh, don’t take it personally, Chance. Some of you guys like to play with yourselves before coming to an interview and get off on shaking hands with a dick-stained grip. I’d rather not share the love if you know what I mean.”

  Lieutenant Holmes escorted his prisoner to the other side of the table, where he seated Chance in the leather wingback chair—the power position in the room. Holmes held out handcuffs.

  “Would you be more comfortable if he were cuffed? He isn’t generally in restraints.”

  Chance added, “I didn’t ask you here to harm you Supervisory Special Agent Bell. I saw in a publication that you had acquired a new title sometime back. You were always so ambitious.”

  The dimple between Lieutenant Holmes’ eyes deepened, as he silently questioned Chance’s use of Rainey’s former title. As far as Holmes knew, she was a private citizen escorted into his facility by an FBI agent. Rainey waved off the cuffs and took a seat in one of the armchairs across the table from Chance, without responding to the lieutenant’s unanswered question. She did not mind confusing him a bit. He had been condescending to her. Rainey thought he deserved a few minutes of wondering who she really was.

  The lieutenant put away his handcuffs and moved toward the door.

  “I’ll be right outside,” he said.

  Rainey began speaking as soon as the door closed. “I’m no longer a federal agent, but you knew that, Chance. The flattery is new from you, but at least you’ve learned some decorum. Since we’ve known each other so long, you can call me Rainey. I’m just plain ol’ citizen Rainey now.”

  “I’m sorry, old habit. I read that you were nearly killed and then left the BAU. Sorry about tha
t, too. You were a good agent, despite trying to hang multiple murders on me.”

  “Life is good. Don’t worry about me,” Rainey responded dismissively.

  He was watching her, hoping his successful manipulation of this meeting would be rewarded with her gratitude. She gave Chance no indication that she wanted to be there, that she had waited for his confession for nineteen years. Rainey may have desired another crack at Chance Hale, but she would never let him think she was grateful for his time. Danny sat down beside Rainey, drawing Chance’s attention.

  “And you must be Supervisory Special Agent Daniel McNally. You are just as you have been described—a big Irish fellow. I was told you were the conduit to this meeting with Agent, I mean Rainey. Thank you.”

  Danny nodded at Chance and pulled a small recorder from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He placed it on the table and pushed the record button, before replying coldly, “State the date, your full name, current location, and acknowledge you are aware of being recorded.”

  Chance showed no annoyance and responded politely, “I am aware this meeting is being recorded and give my consent. My name is Chance Obadiah Hale, and I am a current resident at Butner Federal Correctional Complex, in Butner, North Carolina. Today’s date is March 25, 2017.”

  Danny continued, “You can call me Agent McNally. We won’t ever be on a first name basis. Unlike former Agent Bell, I’m still in the Bureau and must inform you of your rights. You have the right to…”

  While Danny reminded Chance of his rights, Rainey studied her old foe. Chance was no longer a lanky drunk trying to recover. Along with the apparent changes in his vocabulary skills, his self-confidence and demeanor improved with his education and sobriety. For the first time in any of their interactions, Chance was making and holding eye contact with the people in the room. A lot had changed about him, but not Rainey’s suspicions.

  She could see the scar over his right eye. Rainey knew about permanent scars and how every look in the mirror reminded Chance of the vehicular homicide that landed him in prison. At thirty-five years old and off illegal drugs and sober for the last eight years, Chance’s muscles had thickened. He appeared to work out and looked healthy. With clear skin and a blush in his cheeks, prison life had been good to him it seemed. His long hair gone, Chance now wore it trimmed close to his scalp. His once sun-bleached, almost white, hair had darkened to the color of wet sand. The scraggly patches of beard on his jaw and chin were gone. He was clean-shaven and wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He looked more the studious professional than his former beach bum manifestation.

  She realized both men were looking at her.

  “What?”

  “Identify your voice for the record,” Danny said.

  “Rainey Bell, formerly with the FBI and now a private citizen. By the way, nice touch suggesting we meet on the cancer ward. Did you pretend to be dying so I’d rush to get your final confession?”

  Chance smiled. “Always so suspicious of my motives. I assure you, this is better than the interrogation rooms in my old unit. I wanted us to be comfortable. You look great, by the way; a little age and less hair, but still a looker. The woman in black style works for you too, especially the boots and the long duster. You look like you stepped out of a graphic novel, or no, wait, Barbara Stanwyck in that black leather outfit galloping around the Big Valley.”

  He avoided her question by fishing for a compliment on the new and improved Chance Hale. Rainey didn’t take the bait. She knew he would spend as much time tearing her down as complimenting her, the moment he thought she cared what he had to say. Rainey always suspected a skillful manipulator lurked beneath the veneer of the maladroit persona she knew before today. Education, no booze or drugs, and regular meals gave Chance the opportunity to explore this new Mr. Enlightenment guise. Chance Hale 2.0 projected concern for others. That was a change, but it didn’t negate his overwhelming concern for himself. Rainey hid that she noticed anything but the most obvious differences.

  “You wear glasses,” she stated flatly, attaching no emotion to the revelation. It was only a fact.

  Glaring at Chance and with a glaze of contempt on his words, Danny played bad cop and said, “There is no ‘us’ that includes you. There’s you, the convicted murderer, and us, the people leaving here soon if you don’t get to the point.”

  Chance ignored Danny’s bravado like the experienced convict he was and refocused on Rainey. “Thank you for coming. I’m sure you are wondering why I asked to see you.”

  “Could it be the skeleton discovered in the Albemarle Sound last August? Or maybe the unidentified body they found in your old North Dakota home? Could it be you’re preparing for a parole hearing? Whatever it is, talking to me gets you nothing. I have no law enforcement ties or influence. Or have you finally decided to come clean about Alyson?”

  Chance leaned back deeper into the chair. He seemed to be searching Rainey’s expression for clues as to how to play her. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “I—”

  Having seen him measuring her intent, Rainey cut him off. She did not project anger. Her words, measured and delivered flatly, addressed only the facts. Her lack of emotional investment in their relationship would be far more unsettling to Chance.

  “I came here because it is the only way you would consent to an interview with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I believe, as I always have, you know what happened to Alyson. You have carried a secret with you all these years. Look where you ended up. I am not here because you asked to see me. I came because one day you are going to tell what you know about Alyson Grayson’s disappearance. Maybe that’s today.”

  Chance calmly responded, “I know I was less than cooperative about Alyson. I was a punk kid. I was too drunk and high to remember anything beyond her giving me a ride home. I always hoped my brain would one day spit out what happened. I am sorry to say it has not. I can’t provide you or Alyson’s family with answers.”

  Rainey listened to Chance and waited to take control. He wanted her there. That was the only power she held over him today. Once he had finished claiming innocence in Alyson’s case, Rainey stood.

  “Then you have nothing to say that is of interest to me.”

  Chance reached for the breast pocket of his prison issue khaki-brown shirt. Danny reacted, standing immediately.

  “Hands on the table!”

  Chance left the tip of a piece of paper peeking from his pocket and returned his hands to the table.

  “You two really need to relax. I’m not about to ruin my chances of getting out of here. I want to show Rainey the email I received today.”

  Rainey was skeptical. “How do you have access to email?”

  Chance explained, “I work on the chemo pumps. I collaborated with the manufacturer on a modification to improve the pump’s design. I maintain most of the equipment in this unit. I have access to a maintenance department computer. Check with the COs.”

  Danny assured him, “I will.”

  “I’m going to get written up for this email account, but I think it’s important that you see this.”

  Rainey smirked at Chance. “Oh, so you’re martyring yourself for my benefit. You know, by now I would have thought you’d understand, I don’t believe most of what comes out of your mouth.”

  Chance indicated the paper poking out of his pocket with his chin and his eyes, not daring to move his hands again.

  “It came from the dead woman’s account, the one they found in the Albemarle Sound. It isn’t the first threat I’ve received. Trace the email and find whoever sent it. I am pretty sure it’s the killer who has stalked me my entire life.”

  Danny reached over the desk and retrieved a folded piece of paper. He kept his eyes on Chance and handed the paper to Rainey, who opened it and then sank into her chair. She held out the paper to Danny. He looked at an image of the people Rainey loved most in the world, taken at the soccer game a few hours earlier. She didn’t see Danny’s face blanch and then flush red, but
she knew him well enough to know that it had.

  He shouted, “Lieutenant Holmes, we need you in here.”

  Holmes burst into the room.

  Danny pointed at Chance. “I want full restraints on this inmate, now.”

  Without hesitation, Holmes pressed the talk button on his radio, “Unit One to Quad 4. I need full restraints at my location.” Chance did not resist, as Holmes stepped around the desk. “On your feet inmate.”

  Chance stood and placed his hands behind his back, a move he completed from the muscle memory of eight years of penitentiary routine. He focused on Rainey. “Someone doesn’t want me to talk to you. That’s your family in that picture, isn’t it? Did you read the warning in the text of the email?”

  Rainey snatched the paper from Danny’s hand and read aloud the words printed above the image.

  “One came with questions. She can’t ask anymore. You were warned. Who will be the first to go? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.”

  #

  “Hello, this is Mommy’s phone. Who are you?”

  “Weather?”

  “Nee Nee!”

  “Are you supposed to have Mommy’s phone?”

  “Mommy’s not here, so I ans—”

  A rustling noise interrupted Weather’s answer.

  Rainey asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be at Gran’s?”

  “Oh, hi, Rainey. Yes, the kids are still at my house,” Katie’s mother said.

  “I’m sure there is some purely innocent reason for Weather having Katie’s phone.”

  “According to my granddaughter, it accidentally ended up in her tiny little purse. The purse I nearly had to cut the zipper out of to retrieve the phone. Katie is coming to pick it up while they are out and about.”