Blood Runs Cold

47

The pretty red pines were dead pines. They broke up the green all across Colorado’s forests; millions of acres ruined by mountain pine beetles working their way through to southern Wyoming, a steady assault by a miniature army.

It was ninety degrees with a red-flag wildfire risk across Garfield County. Ren had left Gressett and Todd discussing the price of hay and driven east through Glenwood Canyon under clear skies and beating sun. Next she took a right down a wide dirt track until she reached a gate with a No Trespassing sign. It looked like any old rancher’s gate, but it had a sensor that worked with the card she had clipped to her mirror. Ren drove through and carried on a mile further, into a clearing. She jumped out of the Jeep and pulled three black cases from it, laying them on a wooden table set up close by.

The first time Ren had fired a live gun at Quantico, she thought she would hit the target. She blamed the delusion on her three older brothers who had battered a competitive streak into her from the time she was seven years old.

She walked across the hot dry earth to the target frames and pinned up four, side by side – the standard black outline of a man holding a gun in his right hand. An unarmed man could never be shot – even a paper one. Today he would represent the pervert at Hot Springs who’d taken pictures and exposed himself to a little girl earlier that morning.

Ren had one month to go before her fourth and final weapons proficiency test of the year. She had to follow scores of ninety-four, ninety, and ninety-two on the previous three. Another score over ninety was the only result that would make her happy.

She loaded the MP5 magazines and took out a Heckler and Koch MP5, a ten-millimeter fully automatic submachine gun, custom-made for the FBI. She put on ear protectors and walked up to the twenty-five-yard line. There was something satisfying in watching that red dot hover on her target. Ren blew all four heads full of holes. She fired another round, then replaced the targets with fresh ones – her paper men had lost their inky heads.

She loaded the thirteen-round magazines and took out her Bureau-issued Glock 23. She started at the twenty-five-yard line, shooting prone, kneeling and standing, then moved up to fifteen yards, seven, then three. Again, the heads were blasted.

Her shirt clung to her body in the heat. But it was the first day that week that she hadn’t regretted her new shorter hair cut. At least her neck could breathe.

The next case held a Rock River Arms M-4 rifle, her best friend in rural Colorado – deadly close-in or at several hundred yards. She loaded the magazine with two-two-threes: small, thin golden bullets; beautiful and stable until they hit the human body, then rapidly becoming unstable. Two-two-three. She couldn’t hold them without thinking: Paul Louderback.

Ren went through another course of fire with the M-4, then took the targets down, packed the guns up and put them in the back of the Jeep. Her cellphone beeped with a text message. It was Helen: Are you on your way?

Oh shit. To Denver. Two hours’ drive. Ren texted her back: Wrk stuff. So sorry. Cld we meet b4 my meetng 4 5 mins? 2pm.

Y.

Y. I’m so sorry.

OK.

By the time Ren reached Denver, violent winds had been whipped up by storm clouds rolling in from Central Plains. Hail pounded the car – deafening and relentless. A Denver afternoon could move from sunbathing to drowning and back again in twenty minutes. The previous week, the skies had dumped enough hail to trap people in their cars and flood the viaducts.

Helen had been waiting for ten minutes. Two hours and ten minutes. Ren sat holding a coffee, wondering if she really was in the humor for Helen.

‘So, how’s work?’ she said.

‘Ugh,’ said Ren.

‘Come on,’ said Helen. ‘I haven’t seen you all summer, you’ve talked to me only a handful of times. Have you been quiet … or just too busy?’

‘Working.’

‘OK, working. But what else?’

‘Look, I’m fine.’

‘How’s Glenwood?’

‘Well, I’m in the wonderful position of having a different personality clash with each of my colleagues. And it’s a small office.’ It’s Tiny.

‘Hmm.’

‘I mean, it’s fine. But it’s not Safe Streets. In Glenwood, I just get in there, do my work and leave.’

‘Are you seeing Billy?’

‘No.’

‘Are you OK with that?’

‘Not really. But I was afraid it was going to screw things up for me. And him.’

‘Have you met anyone else?’

Ren shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Have you been going out?’

‘Kind of.’

‘With who?’

‘I’ve made a few friends, so I’m hanging out with them.’

‘New friends?’ said Helen.

Ren nodded. ‘Some guys, nice guys, I met.’

‘OK.’

‘Platonic.’

‘Think about what has happened to you over the last few months,’ said Helen.

‘What do you mean? I’ve solved a lot of Jean’s cases, I’ve worked hard –’

‘Can you hear yourself?’ said Helen.

‘What? OK, I worked. I love my job. Big deal.’

‘And what about everything else? It wasn’t long ago that you left your boyfriend, you slept with a C.I., you moved locations again …’

Ren said nothing. She raised her face to the ceiling and held her breath.

‘Part of you thinks you’re such a bad person, Ren, that bad things should happen to you, your relationships should be fraught, your decisions should bring pain, you should not be happy … I don’t know.’

Ren stared out the window, running her finger back and forth under her watch strap.

‘It may not be affecting your work now,’ said Helen, ‘but it will.’

Ren released a heavy, weary breath as she stood up. ‘I’m tired, Helen. I’m exhausted. I have too much on. Can’t I just have someone to talk to when I need it?’

‘Of course,’ said Helen.

‘Nice shoes, by the way.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I love shoes,’ said Ren, ‘But if I hear one more time “Oh, you’ve big shoes to fill” – meaning Jean Transom’s …’ She paused. ‘I’ve big feet, you know?’

‘Well most people have a perception of other people that comes from lots of different things,’ said Helen. ‘Yes, Jean sounds like she was a talented agent. But so are you. Just because she was – how do I put it? – more …’

‘Normal …’

‘Well, whatever you want to say, but I guess more what people would expect an agent to be. From what you’ve said, she was quiet, soft-spoken, earnest. And you’re more … out there. Doesn’t mean you’re any less professional.’

‘I know that. The importance of being earnest …’

‘Look, anyway, why do you care?’

‘I actually don’t know. Jean wore comfortable shoes. And maybe I don’t do comfortable shoes.’

‘You don’t do comfortable, period. You don’t like being comfortable, do you? It’s too boring. Your worst nightmare.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I don’t think I can listen to any more wisdom.’

Helen smiled.

‘But, thanks,’ said Ren.

‘OK,’ said Helen. ‘Look after yourself.’

In the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets office, Gary Dettling stood at the top of the bullpen beside a map of Jefferson and Summit Counties. Red pins surrounded the Denver metropolitan area and green pins stretched west along I-70.

Ren walked in. ‘Let me guess – red: places where Colin Grabien has been rejected by women in a bar. Green: places where Colin Grabien has been rejected by women in a bar.’

Colin pointed toward the board. ‘Red: places where Ren Bryce has …’ He paused.

‘Not quick enough,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks for playing.’

‘Your hair,’ said Robbie. ‘What did you do? I loved your long hair.’

‘Hate to break it to you,’ said Ren. ‘But you’re not at the forefront of my mind when I’m in the hair salon … Actually, neither was getting a good hair cut …’

‘What were you thinking?’ said Colin.

‘Guys, come on,’ said Gary. ‘The red pins here represent our random robbers – a mixed bunch of amateurs.’

‘So they’ve all been caught, obviously …’ said Ren, smiling.

‘Our Glenwood visitor appears to be mocking us,’ said Cliff. ‘Perhaps she feels that, without her, we are nothing.’

Ren nodded.

‘And to continue,’ said Gary. ‘The green pins represent the Val Pando crew. To recap – the first was Arvada, the second here in Denver on Colfax …’ The rest were off I-70 heading west.’ He moved his finger along the map. ‘In order of geographical location, east–west: Idaho Springs, Georgetown, Silver Plume, Grand Junction. But as we know, the robberies weren’t carried out in that particular order.’

‘Because that wouldn’t be very smart,’ said Ren. ‘So – six green pins since this all started back in January.’

‘It was bam, bam, bam at the start and now it’s slowed,’ said Robbie.

‘Excuse me for a moment,’ said Gary, checking his pager and walking out the door.

‘Why are you here?’ said Colin.

‘Because Gary asked me to be here,’ said Ren.

‘Secret meetings,’ said Robbie.

‘Oh, please,’ said Ren. ‘And it’s not exactly secret, is it? Like Colin is secretly insecure because his adolescence was Superbad …’

Colin’s eyes went to slits.

‘What do you mean, “super bad”?’ said Cliff.

‘It’s a movie,’ said Robbie.

‘Featuring the hilarious tale of an endless search by three teenage boys to get laid,’ said Ren. ‘Endless …’

‘Yeah, we all know what you were in high school,’ said Colin. ‘The –’

‘– one who would have sat with you in the lunch room if she had only known your pain,’ said Ren. ‘OK … gotta go.’

‘Are you coming out with us later?’ said Robbie.

‘I don’t live here any more, remember?’ said Ren.

‘We need you, man.’

‘I need you guys,’ said Ren.

‘Come on. What did you do?’ said Robbie.

‘What? To be banished from the kingdom? I ate a poison apple.’

‘You talk a lot of crap,’ said Colin.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Ren. ‘Jean had to be replaced.’

Robbie looked at her. ‘Yeah, but by you?’

‘Look, I’m tired of talking about it,’ said Ren. ‘I will be back here. I’m sure. Soon.’

Halfway to Glenwood, Ren wondered if it all fell apart, could she work as a bus driver for the Colorado Mountain Express. Each time she met with Gary, she hoped he would bring out champagne and cake and tell her she was coming back. She would drive the two hours from Denver to Glenwood thinking how great it would be to be back at her desk firing rubber bands at Robbie or humiliating Colin Grabien at the firing range. She wanted to see Cliff’s sweet face in the morning and get hugs from him when he left in the evening. She sang along to her iPod; her mournful, missing-you playlist.

Gary was teaching her something. But she was getting tired of showing up for class. He still wanted her opinion, he still needed her opinion. And he gives nothing back.

Her cellphone rang. She punched the button to answer it. The Jeep swerved a little.

‘Mistress Bryce?’

‘High Sheriff Gage?’ said Ren.

‘What shit are you listening to now?’ said Bob.

‘“I Ain’t Missin’ You At All”,’ she sang, turning off the music. She paused. ‘And it’s not shit. Everyone loves that song.’

‘OK, OK,’ said Bob. ‘Maybe it’s just hard to sing …’

‘I ain’t missin’ you at all,’ she sang again.

‘Well, you won’t have to for much longer.’

‘Why?’

‘We found a body on Quandary Peak.’

‘Another –’

‘No. We found Jean Transom.’