by Dan Padavona
Bell’s voice seemed to drift away from her. The officers were losing interest already, some moving their eyes to their laps, where they doodled on notepads or checked their phones. She realized she wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t know but was nonetheless struck by their lack of decorum. The female officer, a young, stocky woman with a buzz cut—Suarez, the officer Bell saw at the beach—leaned over and said something to the heavyset troublemaker in the back row. They shared a grin.
“Our target, or the unknown subject as we commonly refer to him, is between thirty-five and forty-five and the product of an abusive upbringing. He is highly uncomfortable around crowds…”
It occurred to Bell she was also uncomfortable in front of crowds, at least when required to speak. She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants and cleared her throat again. The silence from the back of the room was disinterested and hostile.
“…and his unreliable mode of transportation forces him to hunt within a confined radius.”
“I don’t see how this helps us capture Tom Thumb.”
More laughter. It was the troublemaker who’d spoken.
“Tom…Thumb?”
“The killer. You just described half the population of Sunset Island. Maybe you enjoyed the boardwalk, but once you get outside the tourist zone, the entire city is nothing but degenerates and rundown houses. And now we have a growing gang element to deal with. If I were a travel agent, I’d tell every customer to check out Hilton Head or Myrtle Beach. It’s only a matter of time before Sunset Island’s issues spread to the boardwalk, and then we’ll have a bigger problem.”
Nods of agreement and conversation followed.
“Gentlemen, please,” McKenna said, raising his arms. “And ladies.”
“Speak for yourself,” the female officer growled, and this got the entire room laughing.
“Let’s allow Agent Bell to complete her profile.”
She’d lost them completely if she ever had their attention at all. As they continued to talk over McKenna, Bell glared at Gardy, who raised his eyebrows. Neither the police chief nor the lead detective held sway over the officers.
Bell yanked the microphone off the stand and brought it close to her mouth.
“Excuse me.”
Her proximity to the microphone caused a well-timed shriek of feedback. Several of the officers ducked and covered their ears. The room’s cacophony dropped to a few lingering whispers.
“Thank you. The officer in the back. What did you say your name was?”
The heavyset man glanced around the room as if he wasn’t sure Bell meant him. Then he shrugged at the female officer beside him.
“Rivera.”
“Officer Rivera, you referred to the killer by a name. Can you repeat it for the rest of us?”
“Tom Thumb.”
She glanced at Gardy, who shook his head to show this was news to him. The police chief palmed his forehead. It was Detective McKenna who approached Bell and leaned his head over the microphone.
“I apologize on behalf of the department. Apparently, we have a few creative officers in our midst. Tom Thumb is their nickname for the killer.”
Bell narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t get it. The killer stole a finger, not a thumb.”
“Take good notes,” the female officer said. “Officer Rivera just predicted his next trophy.”
The room found the joke funny. Bell didn’t.
“What you call him privately is your own business.” Bell strode forward until she stood a few feet from the officers. She didn’t need the microphone, which dangled from her left hand. Somehow her voice sounded louder without amplification. It seemed to carry from the heavens as it bounced down from the ceiling. Her eyes shot a hard warning across the room and landed on Officer Rivera, who shifted in his seat. “However, if your pet name escapes this room and makes it to the media, you will undermine our efforts and turn this investigation into a laughingstock. And that is something the FBI will not take kindly to.”
She waited until the only sound in the room was her own breathing.
“Are we clear?”
They were.
The rest of Bell’s briefing was met with rapt attention. When the profile was finished, she turned the microphone over to Gardy and McKenna, who fielded questions for several minutes. Bell’s adrenaline thrummed at peak levels. She crossed her ankles to keep her legs from trembling, pleased by the new climate of cooperation in the room and wondering where she’d summoned the courage from.
The meeting was about to wrap up when McKenna’s phone buzzed. He held up a finger and stepped away. Seated at the front of the room, Bell didn’t think much of the interruption until Chief Tanner’s phone rang. Now a low murmur ran through the crowd as the officers checked their phones. The noise built into an excited clamor, which didn’t end until Tanner pocketed his phone and grabbed the microphone.
Tanner hadn’t yet spoken when Gardy leaned into her.
“We’ve got a problem.”
“Now what?”
“The National Hurricane Center issued their new forecast. Ana is headed right for us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A pall of overcast hangs from the sky as Longo slumps low in his seat. The truck is parked in the middle of the lot, hiding in plain sight.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he hears heels click against blacktop and ducks down. A woman pushes a shopping cart past the truck, and then she is gone. He must be patient. He checks the clock and sees it is ten. Dolores, the store manager, is about to go on break.
Right on schedule, the glass doors slide open and Dolores strides through, hurrying to her car. She will be gone for a half-hour. This is Longo’s only chance to slip into the store unnoticed and retrieve the lunch box.
A notepad lies upon the passenger seat. Gwen Devereux’s work address, which he discovered using a Google search at the public library, is scribbled on the top sheet. He turns the pad face-down.
Pulling a baseball cap over his head, he exits the truck and shuffles toward the entryway. Waits until a man and woman enter together and slips behind the couple, head lowered as he follows them past the checkout lines. They veer toward the produce aisle, and suddenly Longo is exposed. He keeps his head down and turns when he sees Rick Youngsly, the produce manager, walk toward him. If Youngsly recognizes him he gives no sign.
At the end of the produce aisle, Longo turns and stops. Two stock boys replenish an end cap. He doesn’t know their names, but they’ve seen his face before. As they turn in his direction, he swerves into the toy aisle. Walks forward. Hears the familiar voices of coworkers.
The snack aisle appears, and he rushes forward to find a fat woman in flip-flops pawing through the pudding and Jello cups. He stops beside the pretzels and feigns interest as she continues to browse. It takes an unbearably long time before she moves on.
Longo reaches the middle of the aisle as the woman turns the corner. He catches her glancing back before she vanishes. He checks to ensure no one watches, then he shoves the snack containers aside. Yet he can’t find the lunch box. His heart hammers. It was here. He moves a few paces and tries again, wrecking the neat stacks of jello and pudding cups.
Voices bring his head around. A man holding a child’s hand waddles toward him. The boy points to the snack he wants, and the man shakes his head and says the sugar will make the boy’s teeth fall out. Yet they continue to browse. The man sees Longo and squints, pulls the crying boy away and shoots accusatory stares over his shoulder.
When they are gone Longo shoves his hand inside the stacks and into the shadows. Feels nothing hidden behind. Then he remembers being on a ladder. Yes, the lunch box was farther up, too far to reach standing on his toes. He knows where the step ladder is kept, but he can’t go into the back without being seen. Instead, he climbs onto the lower shelf. The frame whines under his weight. It won’t hold him for long.
He shoves the snacks aside, and the lunch box is not there. This can’t
be.
Cups rain down and crack open as he becomes frantic. Someone took it. That’s the only explanation.
He stumbles backward and bumps into the shelves of potato chips. His head swims.
Glancing to each side, Longo feels the walls closing in. The store seems brighter as though a hundred spotlights shine upon him.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
A stock boy with glasses and a moonscape of acne sees him. Longo turns his head and walks away when the boy approaches. More shouts from behind, followed by a call for security.
He rounds the end cap and runs shoulder-first into a woman carrying a cake. The dessert falls from her arms and splatters as she tumbles against the shelves. Angry voices from those who saw pursue him down the aisle.
He runs, heedless of anyone who gets in his way. People with alarmed faces move aside as he muscles between overstuffed shopping carts. Longo fights through the jam, sees the exit doors and runs faster. The checkout workers point and yell. They think he stole something. Did they see his face?
He collides with one of the automatic doors and rattles the glass. The door jitters as it slides open. He squeezes through and angles for the truck, for safety, dodging a vehicle which screeches to a halt in the fire lane.
A curtain of rain slices between the truck and the Island Mart as if God aids his escape. He climbs into the cab and turns out of the parking lot before the pursuit catches him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Sunset Cafe sat in a nook between Barnes and Noble and a movie theater complex. It was normally overrun by the lunch crowd at this time of day, but today it was empty except for the forty-something man working behind the counter, and even he eyed the clock with anxious desperation.
Gardy struggled to pull the door shut after he and Bell pushed inside. Though they’d only been out of the car for a few seconds, their hair was wet and water poured off their windbreakers.
While Gardy pulled out a chair near the window, Bell wiped the rain from her face at the counter.
The man wiped his hands with a towel and smiled.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll take a hot herbal tea, please. What do you want, Gardy? My treat today.”
Gardy glanced up from his phone and asked for black coffee.
Bell guessed the man behind the counter owned the cafe as he was the only person present despite the peak hour. He ran his finger down a ledger, silently moving his lips and adding figures in his head. His honey-brown, curly hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore thick-lensed glasses that slid down his nose. The cafe smelled of dark-roast coffee and pastries. Running her eyes over the display, Bell promised herself she’d behave.
“Good thing I have insurance.”
She glanced up.
“Good thing, indeed. I’m surprised you’re open. You didn't want to make a run for the border?”
“Risk and reward,” he said, winking. “On one hand, this is the only cafe open on the block. On the other hand, time is ticking against me.”
Thunder roared in agreement.
“Will you leave the island?”
He leaned his arms on the counter and stared thoughtfully at the wall.
“I guess not. I have a condo two miles inland, so I’m not worried about the storm surge. It’s the city that concerns me. Once that water comes ashore there’s nothing to hold it back.” He handed her the drinks. “What about you?”
“We’re here for the duration. Hey, we can take these to go if you want to close early. It might not be a bad idea.”
“No worries. Take your time. I need to finish the books before I lock the doors.”
Bell pulled out a chair across from Gardy. He raised the coffee and nodded. Bell sipped the tea and singed most of the flesh off her lips, then decided discretion was the better part of valor and let it cool.
He sipped his coffee and moved his eyes between Bell and his phone, never holding his gaze for more than a second.
“The fiasco at the police department. That was on me.”
The memory of how the officers acted made her cheeks burn.
“It didn’t seem like they wanted us there.”
He bobbed his head a few times and watched the trees sway outside the window.
“It’s the cops, not McKenna or the chief. The same old unnecessary turf war—they think we’re here to steal the case and swoop in for the glory.”
“I don’t see how that makes it your fault.”
Gardy gulped his coffee and exhaled.
“McKenna pulled me aside beforehand and told me to expect resistance. I should have said something to you.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“At least you would have known what you were in for. Anyway, as you already guessed, none of those cops put much faith in what we do. Profiling. That fat cop who gave you trouble?”
“Rivera.”
“Yeah, him. He’s sort of the circus ringleader, and he puts profiling right up there with crystal gazing and tarot cards. I don’t blame him for having doubts. Despite the research, most of what we do is more art than science. But he should have shown you respect, and I should have stood up for you. Sorry about that.”
Bell tapped her finger on the table and watched the proprietor work. Gardy noticed her lost in thought and folded his arms on the table.
“Bell?”
She shook the cobwebs free and looked at him.
“Yeah.”
“Seems like something else is bugging you.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Are you profiling me, Agent Gardy?”
He snickered.
“Guess I can’t turn it off. But you didn’t answer my question, which in itself suggests guilt.”
She shrugged and slumped back in her chair, thoughtlessly running her finger along the side of the cup.
“Remember when I told you my parents were coming to visit?”
“On the flight back from Coral Lake, yes.”
“I kinda threw them out.”
He leaned forward.
“Whoa. What happened?”
Bell blew the hair off her face.
“Things finally came to a head. My injuries were the catalysts, but it brought out all of their angst over me working with the BAU. We fought over it for a few days. It got nasty over dinner one night, and Dad said women weren’t cut out for law enforcement.”
Gardy winced.
“That led to a lot of shouting and arguing about traditional jobs for women.” Bell put air quotes around traditional jobs. “I was pretty worked up by then, and I said things I shouldn't have said. Then I threw them out. Told them if they can’t respect me working with the BAU they needed to leave.”
“Ouch. I hope you worked things out.”
Bell shrugged. She felt tears building behind her eyes and angrily pushed them back.
“That was six weeks ago. I haven’t heard from them since.”
“Be the bigger person. Call them. They’re wrong, Bell, but they’re still your parents.”
A Ryan Adams song played over the speakers. Bell was thankful the music shielded their conversation from the proprietor. A renegade tear crawled from the corner of her eye and flowed across her cheeks. She let it mingle with her rain-soaked hair.
“Enough about my parents. Back to the present. This storm is royally screwing our case.”
“You mean Tom Thumb.”
“Don’t start with that nonsense.”
Gardy grinned.
“It is kinda catchy.”
“Sure, if you're into dismemberment.”
“The way I see it, Ana puts everything into a holding pattern. The killer isn’t likely to hunt new victims in the middle of a category-four hurricane.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Think about the possibilities. The hurricane will take down communication lines. Cell towers and such. What better time to—”
Gardy held up a finger when his phone buzzed.
S
he drank her tea while he talked. The liquid had cooled below molten levels but was hot enough to warm her chest. His eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers.
Bell mouthed, “What is it?”
He held her eyes as he spoke on the phone.
“Yeah…okay…give me the address.” He pulled a pen and notepad from his pocket. “Fulmer Parkway…got it. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She gathered up her bag as he ended the call.
“Where are we going?”
“To someplace called the Island Mart. Someone found a severed finger.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The horizon was black when Gwen Devereux tilted the Venetian blinds and peeked out the window. The last she’d heard, the hurricane was expected to strike Georgia and spread bands of thunderstorms and heavy rain over Sunset Island. So maybe that was why the sky looked so dark and the palm trees were swaying as though frightened.
Gwen owned DesignForce, a rapidly expanding web design firm she hoped would turn its first profit next quarter. Now she wondered what would happen if a catastrophic storm struck the island and wiped out her business. Her worries didn’t help the headache she’d battled since last evening. Making matters worse, Oscar hadn’t come home this morning. Normally this wouldn’t concern Gwen, for the cat sometimes hunted the beach for two or three days before returning to her door. But the weather worried her. Unlike many people who believed animals possessed a sixth sense for predicting natural disasters, Gwen was pragmatic. The cat didn’t know a storm was coming any better than she did.
She sat in front of her computer and nervously slid the mouse around. Thunder groaned over the sea.
As she clicked on the latest forecast, Cheri glided over in a rolling chair.
“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Ana. The hurricane is heading for Sunset Island.”
“That can’t be. I checked and…”
The website refreshed, and she saw the massive storm spinning off the Atlantic seaboard. The new track catapulted the storm straight over Sunset Island. Gwen pressed her hands against the sides of her head, ruffling the black, curly locks.