by Dan Padavona
The more controversial ideology allowed for one bottle of alcohol kept on the premises. If you stared the glistening liquid in its golden, alluring eye, you overcame your demon and stole its power. No longer was it capable of following you when you left the perceived safety of your home.
This was the school of thought Marianne subscribed to. She nodded at her adversary and returned to the dishes.
The phone rang as she rinsed the last plate. It was her sister, Melissa, wishing her luck on the trip.
“You sure you don’t need me to watch the goats?”
Marianne locked the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she towel-dried the dishes.
“That’s too far, kiddo.”
“Homer is only thirty minutes away.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got someone keeping an eye on the place. Besides, I’ll be back Monday evening. You’ll hardly know I was gone.”
It was quiet on the other end. She pictured Melissa leaning over with her forehead on her arm, searching for the right words.
“Hey, Sis. Don’t let William talk you down. We both know you turned your life around, so don’t let the bastard get inside your head.”
Marianne plopped down at the kitchen table. This trip was for her daughter. In seven months, Erin would be a teenager. Growing up too fast. And that wasn’t counting the rocket ship ride into puberty and, God forbid, boyfriends and dances and first kisses.
If Marianne didn’t keep it together, she’d miss out on the years Erin would remember forever.
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
She was off the phone when the wind blew the attic window open and toppled a stack of boxes. Wrenching open the garage door, she fished through the toolbox and removed a hammer and nails, knowing if she didn’t nail the pane shut, the wind would blow the faulty window open while she was away and let the rain in.
Marianne was almost to the stairs when she saw the car parked along the shoulder across the road. That was strange as the next nearest residence was a quarter-mile east.
She peeked between the blinds and saw the man cross her lawn.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Bell spotted the sleepy Pronti Inn at the edge of town. Her phone rang as she turned into the lot, and she snatched it from her bag, expecting the caller to be her mother again. Instead, Gardy’s name and a picture of Muttley the cartoon dog popped up on the screen. If he was inside and impatiently awaiting her arrival, she’d personally thank him for transposing two numbers on the address and sending her into the middle of nowhere.
But Gardy wasn’t at the motel.
“There’s a convenience store at the corner of Billings and Main called Morgan’s. Meet me there.”
“Billings…and…Main,” she said as she wrote the name and location beneath the motel’s address. “What’s this about, Gardy? You sent me on a wild goose chase.”
“I don’t want to say over the phone. Just get here, and don’t mention this to anyone at Quantico.”
“Yeah, yeah. I got that part. This better be worth it.”
She ended the call and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Her mother’s message flashed and flashed. Bell turned the phone over. Shaking her head, she took one look at the ramshackle motel before turning out of the parking lot. Gardy had booked his share of unfortunate accommodations during her first year with the BAU, but this place took the cake. The roof sagged as though depressed by an invisible weight, and the doors were paper-thin. She didn’t want to imagine what the inside looked like.
The windshield wipers worked overtime against the sleet and rain. She almost drove past Morgan’s before noticing the sheriff’s truck at the front of the lot. After so much darkness, the bright light blazing through the glass made Bell squint.
Gardy and the sheriff stood on the concrete walkway fronting Morgan’s. Gardy shifted from foot-to-foot as the wind rippled his jacket, his head ducked inside the coat while his teeth chattered. The sheriff was a haggard-looking man with a horseshoe mustache that reminded Bell of Hulk Hogan, except that he was half Hulk’s size, and the horseshoe was brown, not bleach blonde.
When Bell climbed out of the rental, the sheriff took a long drag on a cigarette and blew smoke through his nose. He threw the butt on the sidewalk, stamped it out, and watched as Gardy stepped out to meet her.
“Good. You found the place all right.”
“Why the cloak-and-dagger routine? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
He blew air through his lips and glanced around, then turned his back to the sheriff and lowered his voice so the man couldn’t hear.
“Guy working the counter, Alan Bodner, age twenty-seven of Pronti, Kansas, was on shift last night. Claims a guy he recognized entered the store around ten. Bodner couldn’t place the face until it hit him this afternoon. Says he saw the man’s picture on a crime website. Logan Wolf.”
Bell felt a shock run through her body. She glanced over Gardy’s shoulder at the rail-thin, pimply man working behind the counter. Bodner’s eyes shifted around the store as if they couldn’t keep still.
“You think Bodner’s claim is legit?”
“We’re about to find out. The store saves surveillance footage for forty-eight hours. We’re waiting on the manager to arrive so we can take a look.”
“Okay, but why are you speaking so the sheriff doesn’t hear?”
“Because I don’t want him to know we’re keeping this quiet until we’re sure it’s Wolf. I promised him I’m in contact with Quantico and will call in backup.”
“And you aren’t.”
“No. Weber can’t know either of us is here until we’re certain it’s Wolf. Besides, it would be a huge waste of resources to pull additional agents to Pronti when all we have to go on is the testimony of a convenience store clerk who reads too many crime websites. I don’t want to sneak around like this, but it’s the only way. I haven’t been able to get out from under Weber’s thumb since the shooting.”
“Don’t make me defend Weber. But Gardy, you aren’t fully healed.”
“Getting better every day.”
Bell rolled her eyes.
“If it were me, you’d chain me to a chair and make me do desk work.”
“Sounds kinky.”
“Shut it. So what are you going to tell the sheriff?”
“Nothing yet. Sheriff Lowe would order every deputy to surround Pronti if he had his way, and that would be a tactical mistake. Wolf doesn’t know we’re onto him yet.”
“Don’t be so sure. He’s managed to stay ahead of the FBI for five years.”
“Fair point. One thing is for certain about Wolf. If the deputies spook him, he’ll vanish. I can’t risk losing Wolf on the small chance he’s in Kansas.”
Bell’s teeth chattered as she bounced on her feet.
“We won’t know if it’s him until we look at the footage. Can we go inside now?”
Gardy led Bell to the storefront where the sheriff, who looked perturbed to be out in the cold and taking direction from Gardy, leaned against the glass.
“Sheriff Lowe, this is my partner, Agent Scarlett Bell.”
The sheriff removed his hat before offering his hand to Bell.
“A pleasure, little lady.”
Little lady?
Lowe fixed his hat and stood a little taller now that Bell was present. He practically beamed.
Gardy cleared his throat.
“Maybe we should go inside.”
Thankfully, Morgan’s was warm inside. It was a standard convenience store, divided into four evenly matched aisles stocked with jerky, chips, candy bars, overpriced grocery items, OTC medicines, and motor oil. A neon ice-cold Budweiser sign was affixed to the back wall. The cooler held beer, soda, fruit juices, and milk, and the recently mopped floor reflected their images.
While they awaited the manager, Bell walked the aisles. Gardy and Lowe were at the counter with an intimidated Bodner. She stared at a pack of Starburst and rummaged for po
cket change when the door chimed. A bald man with two greasy strands of hair draped over his head tottered inside. The manager stamped his boots on the mat and assessed Bodner’s mopping job before acknowledging Gardy and Lowe.
“We appreciate you coming down on short notice, Mr. Baughman,” Lowe said.
Baughman sniffled his nose and barely nodded. Bell joined the others and followed Baughman around the corner. The room holding the recording equipment was too small for more than one person. The manager typed one finger at a time on the keyboard until the video monitor on the counter switched from live to recorded footage.
“What time do you need to see, Sheriff?”
“Mr Bodner says the man came inside around seven last evening. Is that right?”
Bodner glanced furtively between Lowe and the agents. He nodded.
The clerk’s estimate was a half-hour off. Baughman replayed the security footage at triple speed. An elderly woman with a cane moved down the aisles and paid at the counter. After she left, the store was empty except for Bodner for a long time.
“You sure it was seven?”
Bodner appeared anxious and confused. Then his eyes brightened.
“He came in after the old lady left. Yeah, I remember now.”
The sheriff grumbled under his breath and sidled over to the display of cigarette cartons.
Bell couldn’t pull her eyes from the monitor. Logan Wolf. The serial killer who discovered her address and stalked her to their last case in California. She’d seen his photograph enough times to memorize every crevice and pore on his face, the black and depthless eyes. The possibility he’d walked these aisles in the last twenty-four hours tingled her skin.
On the security footage, the entrance door swung open, and a man with his head lowered turned away from the counter and cut toward the medicine aisle. Until this point, Bell didn’t believe Wolf had been here. Bodner had made a mistake, saw someone who looked like the nation’s most-feared serial killer. Bell knew it was Wolf though the camera failed to capture his face. The serial killer knew where the camera was and purposely avoided it. She wanted to reach through the screen and grab him before he disappeared.
Gardy stood by her side. He didn’t say a word. Just glared at the screen as the man bent to retrieve an item off the shelf. What was it? A bottle of Pepto Bismol, Bell thought. If it wasn’t Wolf, it was for damn sure a shrewd criminal. The man approached the counter and stood at an angle so the camera only caught him in side profile, then he kept his head down as he paid.
“Is that our killer?”
Bell jumped at Lowe’s voice. He crowded behind them, stinking like an old ashtray.
Bell held her breath. Wolf would need to turn toward the camera when he headed for the door. The alternative was to pirouette and duck low, a move which would snowball suspicion.
Wolf’s turn was swift and graceful. In a split-second, he escaped the camera’s eye and reached for the door.
“Rewind it,” Bell called to Baughman, who’d come out of the room to watch.
He harrumphed and turned back. Gardy followed the manager and instructed him to play the footage as slowly as the recording system allowed. The video quality suffered and appeared blurry when he did so. Bell cursed.
“Stop it. Right there.”
Bell bent close to the screen. The monitor hummed and produced a dusty heat smell.
There was no mistaking the man in the picture. Short black hair, black eyes that bore holes into your soul.
Frozen on the screen was the face of Logan Wolf. The face of death.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Marianne Garza awakened to the scent of spent fuel and stale cigarettes. Her head hurt. When Marianne moved her jaw, the corners of her mouth tore.
For a moment, she thought she’d fallen asleep on the plane, but the trip to Orlando was tomorrow. Wasn’t it? She was tired, bones aching. No, she wasn’t on the plane. Had she spent the evening at Delbert’s and had too much to drink, and now she paid for her sins with a migraine and a tumultuous stomach? Couldn’t be. She didn’t drink anymore, refused to let her daughter down again.
Marianne realized her wrists and ankles were bound. Then she remembered. Like a splash of ice water against her face.
There had been a knock on the front door. A man spoke to her through the barrier and said his car broke down. He needed to use her phone. Though Marianne wanted to help, she wouldn’t let him in. You couldn’t trust anyone these days, and there were countless stories on the news about overly trusting women who were abducted.
So she promised to call the towing garage, and when she walked away from the door, he…
He…
Marianne’s pulse raced as she recalled the window shattering. A black shadow raced across the living room and cut her off from the phone, and as she turned for the door, he grabbed her. Smothered her face with a cloth. A cloyingly sweet scent. Chloroform.
Oh, God.
Her eyes flicked open to the backseat of an old car, too large and noisy to be modern. It was dark. Sleet bounced off the roof and windshield.
The floor mat stank of cigarette smoke and dust. A brown splotch marred the center.
Four thin shreds ran down the back of the driver seat. Four slashes to match a woman’s nails.
She might have been inside anyone’s car. A rapist, a jilted lover out for revenge.
Marianne couldn’t say why The Skinner popped into her head. Once the idea formed it spread cancerous panic through her body. Impossible. Not The Skinner.
An old Hank Williams song played through the radio. A throaty roar came out of the engine when the driver pressed the gas. The muffler was on its last legs. She imagined a plume of smoke puffing out of the tailpipe.
Bound on the floor, she made out his sneakers from beneath the seat. Manure coated his sneakers, and that placed him as someone who lived on a farm, not the elusive serial killer who hunted the plains.
Unable to wiggle her wrists, she searched with her fingers for anything to cut the ropes. There was nothing. No ice scraper lodged under the seats. He’d bound her ankles too tightly and cut off the circulation. Pins-and-needles coursed through her feet and spread up her legs as she writhed.
With the gag across her mouth, she couldn’t speak. Nevertheless, she moaned and pleaded through the cloth. The engine noise consumed her voice.
An idea occurred to her. If she got the blood flowing in her legs and kicked the door…
Old cars had faulty parts. The door might not latch properly. Yet she didn’t know how fast the car traveled. The whir of the tires told her they were moving at highway speeds, too fast to leap from the car.
Torn fabric hung from the roof like a tongue, revealing the metal. Two control panels powered the passenger windows. She guessed he’d locked their use with the master control.
Yet Marianne didn’t need to leap from the vehicle. If she fought her way onto the back seat and kicked out the window, there was a fighting chance someone would notice. She prayed this wasn’t the only vehicle on this stretch of road.
She battled to get her knees beneath her when the vehicle slowed. The blinker ticked, and then the car’s momentum rolled Marianne onto her side as the vehicle swung left. She glanced up at the window and saw nothing but dark sky. A slash of light interrupted the black and left red marks on her eyes. Then more lights.
The car turned again and bucked over a bump in the pavement. She smelled gas before the pumps floated across the windows. A gas station.
The engine cut off and killed the song. Now it was quiet. Just the sound of him breathing and the storm biting at the car.
Feeling him shift around in his seat, she closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She willed herself not to open her eyes. Marianne didn’t wish to see his face any more than she wanted him to know she was awake.
There were people here. The store attendant, at least. A chance to escape.
A cold blast of wind ruffled her hair when the door opened. She listened for his fo
otsteps but heard nothing. She sensed him staring at her through the window.
Marianne lay still for what seemed an eternity before his sneakers scuffed the blacktop and moved to the back of the car.
Be patient. Just a little longer.
He unscrewed the gas cap. The vehicle shook when he shoved in the nozzle.
Tick, tick, tick. The meter rolled as gas poured into the tank. Remaining patient, she clamped her eyelids together and stayed motionless. He could easily watch her through the window while he pumped.
After he finished, she was shocked when she heard him step over the island and walk toward the store to pay.
Her eyes popped open. She knew no other cars were at the island. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have chosen this gas station.
Several thoughts moved through her head—kicking out a window, testing the door latch, wriggling herself onto the front seat and pressing the horn. She had a minute at most.
She bridged and slid her back across the floor, slowly inching toward the door. When she was close, she reared back and kicked. The door rattled but didn’t budge. She tried again and failed.
Marianne battled the bindings and tried to throw herself up to her knees. It took several attempts before she finally got there. By then she was out of breath and sweaty. Crawling onto the back seat without use of her hands proved to be nearly impossible, yet she had no choice. When she successfully rolled onto the seat, she scooted her legs toward the window with growing desperation.
She kicked out and felt the window give. Kicked again, her legs half-numb and unable to generate power.
The back door flew open behind her. She screamed into the gag as he clutched her by the hair.