Scarlett Bell Box Set 2 Read online

  Contents

  CHASING THE DEVIL

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Devil's Hour

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CROWN OF THORNS

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  DEAD WATERS

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  THE REDEEMER

  CHAPTER NINETY

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE

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  Author's Acknowledgment

  Why Novellas?

  Copyright Information

  About the Author

  CHASING THE DEVIL

  CHAPTER ONE

  He’s in the fog behind her.

  Closer.

  To one side, the creek giggles like the souls of lost children. To the other, gangling weeds turn devilish in the dark.

  The distant bicycle appears in the mist, and Scarlett Bell hurries. Chest tight with lost breath and terror.

  It’s dangerous to look back, yet she does.

  For a moment, he appears. She holds back a scream, for there is no face on her pursuer. Only a smooth patch of skin where the eyes, nose, and mouth should be. He is more monster than man.

  Her legs pump harder. Sprint for the bike. For safety. His footsteps keep pace. Gain on her. The man is too strong, too fast for a child to outrun.

  Cold, slithery fingers touch her neck. Like the undead appendages of a nameless beast rising out of the creek bed.

  The scream inside her dream pulled Bell awake. She was stunned by her surroundings at first, not the stifling darkness of her bedroom’s blackout curtains but the dim, soothing light of Dr Morford’s office. A ticking clock kept beat with the daylight, which slipped around the curtains and reminded her that night is not forever, and slowly her heartbeat conformed to that of the clock. Her hands ceased trembling. Breathing slowed.

  “Sorry. Did I scream?”

  Balding and almost a foot taller than Bell, Dr Morford stroked his goatee and examined her over his glasses. These moments often made Bell feel like a lab rat, or maybe a strange animal on display at the zoo.

  “No, you were quiet as a mouse.”

  Bell rubbed her temples. A thin sheen of dampness coated her hair. A cold sweat.

  “Did you see him this time, Scarlett?”

  A tremor of fear rolled through her body as she recalled the faceless man in the fog.

  “Just a shapeless face.”

  “No mouth or eyes again?”

  “None.”

  Bell’s hands curled into fists, nails dug at her pant legs.

  “You did well, Scarlett. Don’t expect answers overnight.”

  “Overnight? We’ve been at this for over a year, and I still don’t know who he is or if any of this happened. For all I know, this is just my imagination convincing me a nightmare I had when I was nine actually occurred.”

  “Tell me what you saw when the man appeared. What time of day was it?”

  Bell recounted the hypnosis-induced nightmare. The darkness suggested it was well after sunset, but that made no sense. In the past, she’d dreamed her childhood friend’s killer chased her during the early morning before most of the neighborhood rose from bed.

  Morford slid his glasses atop his head and crossed one leg over the other. Leaning to one side of a lounge chair, he chewed the end of his pen in thought.

  “I’m curious, Scarlett. Have you discussed your dreams with your parents?”

  “God, no.”

  “No?”

  “Why would I drag my parents through that again? You have to understand what it was like for them. For all of us. After the killer murdered Jillian, the neighborhood…changed. We weren’t allowed to play without supervision, and our parents aged twenty years overnight. Especially Mom and Dad.”

  “Because you were Jillian Rossi’s closest friend.”

  “Yes. We played together and followed the creek to-and-from our homes. It could have been me he caught.” Bell bit her lower lip. “I wish it had been.”

  Morford wrote something on a notepad.

  “Why do you wish it had been you who died?”

  Bell looked at the dust motes dancing before the curtained window, seeing another place and time.

  “If you had
seen Jillian’s parents…after her death, it was as if they weren’t alive anymore. Like they were husks. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  “And yet if it had been you who died, the same fate would have befallen your parents.”

  She gave a meaningless nod. She understood this on a conscious level. Understanding didn’t lend her relief. As a BAU criminal profiler with the FBI she faced monsters daily and was equipped with the ability to process darkness better than an adult Jillian would. Maybe that wasn’t fair. Bell envisioned Jillian as an adult and wondered if she would have taken up the sword as Bell had and become a field agent, sworn to avenge her best friend’s death.

  “My parents haven’t spoken about what happened to Jillian in a long time. Why open the closet and release the skeletons again?”

  Morford wore an ironic smile.

  “You’re a profiler, Scarlett. You know better than anyone that your parents never stopped thinking about Jillian or worrying over what happened. Are you certain you never told them the killer tried to catch you?”

  “Or that I dreamed it happened.”

  “The descriptions you give are unusually vivid for a dream.”

  Bell laughed without mirth, a dry, dead-leaf sound.

  “I’m told I have an overactive imagination.”

  “It serves you well. Your record is exemplary.”

  And yet serial killer Logan Wolf eluded Bell and managed to stalk Bell to California, Kansas, and to her oceanside Virginia home without her knowing. It took her months before she learned Gavin Hayward, the lead reporter for the nation’s largest tabloid, The Informer, followed her from case-to-case and photographed Bell.

  Pain caught her attention. She’d dug her fingernails into her thighs again.

  “Is it possible I’ll never know if the killer chased me or if it was a nightmare? I was nine, halfway through grade school. I have sharp memories from when I was younger, so I should remember.”

  Morford crossed the other leg and glanced at the clock. To a new patient, it might appear Morford was disinterested, even rude. After a year of therapy, she recognized this mannerism as deep thought, consideration. For goodness sake, she was interpreting her psychologist’s actions and playing the role of profiler.

  “Whether it was real or dream, fight or flight could explain why you don’t recall what happened. Jillian’s murder is an open wound, so imagine how it feels to a child—too much to process. Naturally, the mind chooses flight and builds protective walls. Otherwise, the damage is too much for a nine-year-old to handle. Whether it was a dream or an actual experience, your mind strives to suppress the memory.” Morford clicked the pen off and placed it in his lap. “But physical proof is irrefutable. If Jillian’s murderer attempted to abduct you, surely you told your parents. I trust a police report exists.”

  When she failed to reply, Morford set the notepad on the table.

  “I believed we could determine the truth through hypnosis. It’s time for a different approach. Speak to your parents, Scarlett. The truth cannot be more terrifying than your nightmares.”

  Bell closed her eyes and fell back against the couch.

  This wasn’t the answer she wanted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The last leg of the drive home took Bell down the coast. With the calendar having changed to March, the sun was noticeably stronger and baked the car’s interior, even on cool days. The Atlantic sparkled and crashed behind grassy dunes, the off-season beach sparsely populated but beginning to fill with fishers and boaters. Temperatures climbed into the sixties, and the osprey were back and nesting near the shoreline atop dead trees, telephone poles, and docks. By mid-June the seasonal restaurants would reopen, heralding the influx of vacationers.

  Bell navigated the car around a bend and saw the roof of Lucas’s beach house peek over a dune. She caught herself gripping the steering wheel too tight and inhaled. Slow and deep, ballooning her stomach before she exhaled as Dr Morford taught her. Though no reason existed for Lucas to incite anger or anxiety—they’d talked out their differences, and Lucas assured Bell he wasn’t jealous she shared the same room with Gardy during cases—a barrier existed between them. A glass wall that allowed sight and prevented touch. Conversations felt forced and awkward. She’d believed nearly two months would be sufficient to break the ice coating their relationship..

  She contemplated swinging into his driveway, then continued down the road until the beach house vanished from the mirrors. A black Explorer idled near the back of the lot when she brought her vehicle to a stop in front of her apartment. She locked the car and waved. Though it was impossible to see beyond the tinted windows on a sunny day, she perceived movement and knew he’d waved back. She didn’t know who was inside the vehicle. Different FBI agents watched her building on a 24-hour rotation and would protect her until they captured Logan Wolf. A horrendous waste of resources, Bell thought. Wolf hadn’t contacted her since she refused to develop a profile of his wife’s killer. The evidence pointed to Wolf, and logic told her the FBI was correct in targeting the former BAU agent, but she wasn’t sure he‘d killed his wife. Unlike most killers who murdered their spouses, he seemed broken by her loss. Dying inside.

  The key slipped into the lock, and the door opened to a shadowed apartment and the cool breath of air conditioning. It took a while for her eyes to adjust as she squinted at the mountain of mail, most of it junk from apparel stores she never frequented. She removed a postcard from the pile and grinned. Her parents lived only three hours away, and her mother routinely sent texts and emails, but Tammy Bell had an affinity for postcards and sent one to Bell monthly. This card featured a green palm tree leaning over impossibly blue waters, and Bell smirked. This was a postcard you sent from a vacation in the Bahamas, not from your cozy house in Bealton, Virginia while Dad oiled the door hinges. Bell read it over and tucked it away with a silent promise to call her parents later.

  Bell aimed the remote at the television and turned on the news, background noise to keep her company while she finished the morning chores. In her bedroom, she checked the news aggregator on her laptop and typed the search terms she used every day: missing, child, abduction, murder, river, creek. The search results always yielded noise and false alarms, but a new headline filled her body with ice.

  Missing Child’s Body Discovered at Lutzke Creek.

  Opening the story, she scanned the text until she determined the location of Lutzke Creek. A small Georgia town called Erwin. In a separate window, she typed the town’s name into Google Earth. It took a long time to load, then a three-dimensional image filled the window. She zoomed in, taking note of Erwin’s proximity to the coast. Fifteen miles. Now she viewed Erwin from street level. Erwin could have been any small town in America, including Bealton, except the swampy terrain and tropical foliage choking out competing flora marked the area as southeastern. A chill crawled down her back.

  An unbidden view came to her. The killer’s perspective. So much seclusion offered by the jungle-like environs. Here, dumping a body without being seen would be easy, especially if done in the dead of night.

  She clicked the article and brought the window to the forefront. Bregan Dane, age ten. Too close to Jillian’s age.

  The girl, last seen playing near the creek, went missing five days ago. Search crews combed the town and surrounding wilderness and found no sign of Dane as though someone plucked the girl from the earth. A group of teenagers discovered the girl’s body along the creek bed last night. The teens likely partied by the creek, Bell reasoned. The location was remote enough to avoid prying eyes, and in the dark, no one would see them drinking unless they slogged across a hundred feet of boggy field.

  Automatically, she reached for her phone and typed in Gardy’s number. She stopped herself before pressing send. Technically, she was on administrative leave, a fancy way of saying Bell couldn’t return to work until the psychology evaluation came back clean. In less than a year, she’d killed three men: serial killer Alan Hodge, sniper Wi
lliam Meeks, and William Schuler, who murdered three women over several horrifying days. The rapid escalation of Schuler’s killing spree still shocked Bell.

  She didn’t blame the FBI. Don Weber, the Deputy Director of CIRG and Bell’s immediate supervisor, needed to be certain she was fit for field work, and the lack of progress with Dr Morford and constant nightmares weren’t helping her case.

  Bell copied the article into a Google document. She’d saved several others over the last year, a few promising leads, most dead ends. Bregan Dane’s murder cut closest to the bone. The anxious intensity which overcame her at the onset of a new hunt returned to her now. Logan Wolf had told Bell Jillian’s killer was still loose. Active again. How Wolf obtained this information she could only guess. Strangely, she trusted the madman’s judgment.

  Bell sat back in her chair, fingers steepled against her chin. Her heart raced, skin clammy. She instinctively reached for the Glock-22 and remembered the FBI confiscated the weapon, pending the psychological evaluation.

  Bell needed to convince Weber to reinstate her and send a team to Erwin. If only he would listen.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The tabloid lies open on the passenger seat of his car. Like the wings of an ancient beast.

  Though the focus of the article is Scarlett Bell, the young profiler for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, he is the story’s antagonist. Emotions quiver through him—excitement over his stardom, anger at the woman’s insistence she will solve Jillian Rossi’s murder and put the cold case to rest.

  The decades between his first kill and present day dulled his memory as though it bobbed at the bottom of a swamp, concealed by oily waters. Jillian Rossi. He’d almost forgotten her name, though the girl’s face remained permanently etched in his memory. They say the first time is best. Drug users call it chasing ghosts. The hunger never abates.

  His eyes fix on Bell’s picture. Follow the supple curves of her body. Mature women do little for him, yet she draws him for reasons he doesn’t understand. He rubs his thumb across her face, imagining the soft warmth of her flesh and how it would feel to touch the profiler.

  A child’s yell pulls his attention back to the park. Two young girls, one blonde, one redhead, both in skirts. And a boy. He estimates their ages between eleven and fourteen. The redhead shoves the blonde toward the boy, a flirtatious game that results in laughter and the blonde twisting away before she falls into the boy’s arms.