The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  She opened the door and he handed her an envelope. She scanned the return address and frowned. The letter had come from someplace called Red Falls, New York. The sender’s name, William Friend, immediately struck her as fraudulent.

  The man was halfway to the steps when she called him back.

  “Are you certain this is for me?”

  “You’re Scarlett Bell, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her confused. She pointed at the sender’s name.

  “What I mean is I don’t recognize the sender.”

  “It’s probably from a marketing firm. I’m sorry to admit we deliver plenty of those. Do you want to return the letter?”

  Bell held the envelope to her face and studied the name and address.

  “No. I’m sorry for holding you up.”

  “Not at all. Have yourself a nice day.”

  She kept looking at the envelope as she shut the door and sat at the table. The food was getting cold, but Bell didn’t think she could eat. Not until she read the letter.

  She yanked the tab and tore the package open. The letter was nestled between two pieces of cardboard. She fished it out and read.

  Dear Scarlett,

  I trust life beside the sea has cleansed you of the nightmares. But not all dreams can be washed away by nature, nurture, or sleeping pills.

  You spent your whole life running, Scarlett. Understand the monsters never stop chasing, and sooner or later you must catch your breath.

  I can help you face the monsters, dear Scarlett.

  One day soon, I should hope to know you better. We have so much to learn from each other.

  Sincerely,

  Logan Wolf

  KILL SHOT

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The inside of the trunk is dark, save for the pinprick of circular light dotting his forehead. The trunk smells of spent fuel and old tires, the stench part of his skin.

  The heat grows stifling. Makes it difficult to breathe. Outside, the California sky is a picturesque reflection of the Pacific. Students dart in erratic parabolas, and a crow squawks and picks at spilled french fries on the sidewalk.

  He slides the muzzle through a drilled hole, and everything goes black inside the trunk. He places his eye to the scope and scans the students convening outside the James Arts and Sciences Building.

  Four points intersect upon a circle in the scope. Perfection.

  Most of the students disperse as two girls with backpacks hurry past the car. They can’t see him, don’t realize he conceals himself mere yards from them.

  One student remains. Seated at the top of the concrete stairs, the boy leans against the building. He wears headphones, a backpack laid upon the ground beside him. His hair is brown and curly, skin tanned, a pair of sunglasses wrapped around his face as he checks his phone.

  Inside the trunk, the shooter feels nauseous. Skin clammy like something dark and gelatinous crawled over his body. The scope frames the boy. From here, the shooter can almost see the boy’s eyes and smell the oily vape scent on his sweatshirt.

  A smirk spreads across the shooter’s face. He imagines the boy in his dorm room shooting digital adversaries during a Call of Duty marathon.

  This is not a game. The boy is about to find out.

  The gunman’s heart races. Makes his head swim and feel unnaturally light, as though it might float away if he opens the trunk. He knows this is bad. He must calm himself and make his heart rate slow.

  He breathes deeply. Exhales.

  Checks the scope again. Finger twitches on the trigger. The sitting target hasn’t moved.

  The time of truth arrives. If he doesn’t go through with the shot, he never will. He’ll return to his home as a nobody, another failure who doesn’t follow through with plans and promises.

  The shooter prepared for this day and spent months practicing. His aim is exemplary.

  Across the parking lot, a vehicle with a loud motor approaches. Music thumps through the windows. The rock-and-roll guitars rattle his chest.

  He times the beat. Waits for the bass kick. Squeezes the trigger.

  The rifle bucks against his shoulder.

  He swings the scope across the quad, then back to the boy who sits in place. Did he miss? He couldn’t have missed from this range.

  He scans the sidewalk and sees a blonde girl remove her earbuds and glance around in alarm. To her, it might have been a vehicle backfiring or someone setting off a firecracker. When the blast does not come again, she cautiously sticks the earbuds in and looks around one more time before moving on.

  The gunman watches the boy slump over as though asleep. Blood trickles out of the hole in his stomach.

  Red hate courses through the shooter’s veins. Nobody notices the dead boy. The world is a desensitized animal that deserves to be put down.

  Slowly, the shooter cracks the trunk open. The lot is empty of people. Vacant and lifeless.

  He slips out of the trunk and ducks beneath the car tops, then slides behind the wheel and cranks the engine.

  The air conditioner blows hot air against his face as he backs the car out of its parking space. He is halfway across the lot when the first scream shatters the day.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The sun was down, and the purple-blues of dusk tinted the darkening sky over the Chesapeake Bay.

  An ocean breeze played through the screen door as Special Agent Scarlett Bell sat at the kitchen table, her partner, Neil Gardy, leaning over the letter. Gardy wore latex gloves. His forefinger and thumb clutched the corner of the note.

  Two hours had passed since the FedEx delivery boy handed the envelope to Bell. She’d had no idea who the sender, who referred to himself on the return address as William Friend, truly was. Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of learning the letter came from the nation’s most notorious murderer, Logan Wolf, a former Behavior Analysis Unit special agent who butchered his wife and became a serial killer. For five years, Wolf had eluded the FBI, including his former BAU colleagues charged with tracking him down.

  “Here, slip these on,” Gardy said, handing her an extra pair of gloves.

  “But I’ve already touched the letter. My prints are all over the envelope.”

  “Humor me.”

  Bell read the letter again, as frightened and confused as she’d been after she tore the envelope open.

  Dear Scarlett,

  I trust life beside the sea has cleansed you of the nightmares. But not all dreams can be washed away by nature, nurture, or sleeping pills.

  You spent your whole life running, Scarlett. Understand the monsters never stop chasing, and sooner or later you must catch your breath.

  I can help you face the monsters, dear Scarlett.

  One day soon, I should hope to know you better. We have so much to learn from each other.

  Sincerely,

  Logan Wolf

  “He seems to know a lot about you, Bell. What’s this about nightmares and sleeping pills?”

  During her first year as a BAU special agent, Bell didn’t divulge her childhood trauma to Gardy. She brushed the blonde hair away from her face and set the letter down. The time came to be truthful with her partner.

  “When I was nine-years-old, my best friend was abducted and murdered.”

  He watched her silently, eyes inquisitive as if seeing her for the first time. In his middle-forties, her dark-haired partner was among the most experienced and respected field agents in the BAU.

  “Her name was Jillian. For about two years we were inseparable. The neighborhood kids claimed they’d seen a stranger down by the creek, but we played there a lot and never saw anything. It felt like those urban legends kids tell each other. They wanted to scare us. The creek was a shortcut between our house and Jillian’s, so when she left after dinner, I didn’t think much of it when Jillian headed toward the water.”

  Bell was quiet for a time. Living by the ocean seemed to wash away the old nightmares, lent her a pe
ace she hadn’t experienced in the twenty-three years since Jillian’s murder. Now the old feelings were back, the sense of dread she couldn’t shake.

  “Mrs. Rossi called my mother after Jillian didn’t come home. I realized what had happened as soon as I heard Mom’s voice in the kitchen. It was almost deja vu. As if I’d recognized all along something bad would happen to Jillian.”

  She slid the letter across the table. It came to rest, harsh and glaring beneath the kitchen light.

  “You were a kid, Bell. Don’t blame yourself.”

  Bell shrugged and rested her chin on her palm, eyes tilted warily at the note as if it were a sleeping tarantula.

  “They found her body dumped along the creek bed. I didn’t want to believe it was true. The calling hours were more like a weird dream than something real. The body in the casket didn’t look like Jillian. It was someone else. A mistake. A few weeks later the nightmares started. In the dream she was at my house, ready to leave, and I tried to tell her not to walk by the creek. Kids saw a stranger and it was too dangerous. But the words wouldn’t come out. Other times I dreamed the stranger chased me along the creek. I always woke up when he grabbed me. That nightmare won’t die.”

  She didn’t tell him Jillian’s death was her impetus for becoming a BAU agent—the unwavering stare across the table told her Gardy already knew—nor did she divulge the nightmares were so frequent she no longer recalled if the abductor had truly chased nine-year-old Bell or if she’d only dreamed it happened. A year of therapy and hypnosis with Dr. Morford yielded no conclusive answer.

  He picked up the letter and leaned it toward her.

  “How could Logan Wolf know any of this?”

  Bell shook her head. A serial killer had uncovered her address and intimate details about her life.

  Gardy carefully slipped the letter into a plastic bag and zipped it shut.

  “We don’t have a choice. We need to bring this to Weber.”

  Bell bristled. The Deputy Director of the Criminal Incident Response Group was the last person Bell wanted involved with the case. He despised Bell, didn’t trust female agents. Now he’d learn her secrets and use them against her.

  “In the meantime, I want an agent watching your condo at all times.”

  “What? No. That isn’t necessary, Gardy.”

  He closed his eyes and inhaled.

  “It is necessary. This isn’t a run-of-the-mill criminal we’re talking about. This is Logan Wolf. And he knows where you live.”

  “He won’t come after me.”

  Gardy turned the letter in Bell’s direction.

  “Oh? So this is just fan mail, I assume.”

  “The vibe I get isn’t that he wants to hurt me.”

  “I hope you aren’t buying this dear Scarlett nonsense.”

  “Of course, not. He’s trying to put a scare into me. Considering everything he learned about me, he probably found out we’re tasked with capturing him.”

  “All the more reason to take one of us out of action. We’re not doing things your way this time, Bell. A killer like Logan Wolf. It’s way too dangerous.”

  Bell slouched in her seat. In one fell swoop, Wolf had stolen her idyllic home and dredged up her worst nightmares.

  Gardy’s phone rang. He held her eyes as he answered.

  Indignant and frustrated, Bell rose from her chair and padded to the refrigerator. The fish dinner was plated inside and covered with plastic wrap. She picked at the cold meal, wondering how this evening could have gone so wrong. The wind through the screen ruffled Bell’s hair and suddenly made her feel vulnerable. She crossed the living room and shut the sliding glass door. The ocean sounds disappeared.

  “That was Weber,” Gardy said as he pocketed his phone.

  Had Gardy told Weber about Wolf?

  “There was a murder at an arts and sciences university called Vida College. Ever heard of it?”

  Bell cupped her elbows with her hands and rubbed away the chill.

  “It’s just outside of Los Angeles, isn’t it?”

  “You know your universities.”

  “A friend of mine went there for dance. What are we looking at?”

  “A male student was shot in the head. Appears to be a sniper situation.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yep. The college requests BAU assistance. Plane leaves Dulles at 11:35.”

  Bell looked at the clock. That gave her a half-hour to pack and another hour for the commute.

  “Okay, I’ll meet you at the terminal at—”

  “Oh, no. I’m not leaving you alone.”

  She huffed.

  “This is crazy, Gardy.”

  “Is it? Just because Wolf sent a letter doesn’t mean he isn’t in the area.”

  Bell walked to the window and looked down at the beach. Footprints trailed along the water.

  “You’re overreacting.”

  Gardy folded his arms and leaned against the table.

  “Maybe so, but I’m not leaving until you’re safely out the door. And since I need to stop at my apartment, too.” He glanced at his watch. “That gives you fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes? That’s not enough time.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Women.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Gardy gave his Muttley-the-cartoon-dog snicker, amused by the incredulity twisting her face.

  “The clock is ticking.”

  She stomped to the bedroom and threw a few changes of clothes into her travel bag. In the bathroom, she grabbed toiletries and the bottle of sleeping pills. On the way out of the bedroom, she flicked off the light and stood in darkness for a moment. Still and quiet. She could see Gardy’s shadow on the kitchen floor as his worry blanketed the room.

  He led the way to the parking lot. Night settled over the coast, the sickle moon sharp.

  Bell took one look at the minivan and chuckled.

  “What?”

  “A Honda Odyssey?”

  “So?”

  “What are you, a soccer mom?”

  He clicked the key fob. The minivan chirped and flashed its taillights.

  “It’s functional and roomy.”

  She recalled the Accords they’d rented on their last two cases.

  “I knew it. You really do own stock in Honda.”

  “Are you getting in or not?”

  The overnight bag thrown over her shoulder, Bell opened the door and climbed in.

  “If you hand me a bag of Capri Sun, I’ll kick your ass.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The Vida College Dean of Students, Dana Steinman, walked briskly across the quad toward the white-and-gray-faced Arts and Sciences building. Bell and Gardy flanked Steinman. The students cut a wide berth around the trio.

  “Nobody expects something like this to happen here,” Steinman said. Bell saw her purposely look away from the blood-stained slab of concrete above the steps. “I’m getting pressure from parents to close the school, and we’re only a few weeks from midterms. This is a small liberal arts college. How is this possible? We don’t experience the political discourse you expect at a larger university.”

  Bell turned sideways to avoid three students who stared at their phones while they walked.

  “Has that been a problem at Vida College? Political discourse?”

  “Last April a fringe group called the White Wall shouted down students attending the spring diversity festival. No physical violence. Just a lot of posturing.”

  Gardy climbed the steps and knelt beside the red splotch of concrete.

  “Seems strange such a group is allowed on campus.”

  “We don’t allow hate speech on campus, Agent Gardy,” Steinman said, her glare sharp. “Frankly, their view of the world makes me sick, but so far they’ve done nothing more than attend rallies and make themselves seen.”

  High atop the steps, Bell overlooked the quad. The air felt searing as if the devil breathed between the buildings. She expected campus pro
tests and students rallying together. Instead, everyone walked with their heads down and scurried from one building to the next as if they feared another shot would slice through the momentary peace.

  “But the White Wall might be involved,” said Bell.

  Despite the warm end to summer, Steinman rubbed the chill off her arms.

  “The thought occurred to me. The boy the shooter targeted, Eugene Buettner, volunteered at the Cultural Diversity Center.”

  “Was he particularly outspoken?”

  “If by outspoken you mean did he advocate for minority students at Vida College, then yes. Students should express themselves freely without fear of backlash.”

  “Dean Steinman, has a member of the White Wall ever pushed the limit on what the college finds acceptable? Maybe he or she runs a private website. An inflammatory manifesto out of the college’s jurisdiction.”

  Steinman thought for a moment.

  “No, not that I know of, but I’ll make it a point to have our IT department look into their activities.”

  Gardy snapped a series of photographs on his phone and turned to survey the quad.

  “What about campus security? Have they zeroes in on where the shot was fired from?”

  “I’m afraid our security department is rather small and unequipped to deal with an investigation of this magnitude, which is why we lean on the village police for support. Speaking of which, here comes Detective Ames now.”

  An African American woman in a beige suit hurried up the steps. She wore a scowl as the wind tossed her curly hair around.

  “Sorry I took so long. Traffic is a bear. You must be Agents Gardy and Bell.”

  Ames shook both of their hands and nodded at Steinman.

  “Cheryl,” said Steinman, moving aside to make space for the detective. “Our office is swamped, and I should get back.”

  “Of course.”

  “Call if you need anything. Agents Gardy and Bell, thank you for affording us your expertise. Please let me know what you find.”