Alex Barclay 4-Book Thriller Collection: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss, Harm’s Reach

‘No. You’re right there,’ said Gressett. He stared at her and she could see a late-breaking realization. ‘That was probably last touched by Jean Transom. There it is. January 12th – the day she left on vacation.’

Ren’s smile faded. ‘Well, that’s very sad.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Gressett. ‘So, first of all, welcome.’

Gressett turned away and gestured around the room. ‘I know you’ve been here before, but the bathroom’s across the hall. Jean’s desk … which will be your desk … is right here, so you’ll be the first person people see when they come in.’

‘Let’s hope that doesn’t affect business,’ said Ren, picking up on the look that told her he wasn’t quite sure of the wisdom of the placement.

‘I’m here,’ he said, pointing to a desk almost behind hers, at a right angle and nicely out of sight of any visitors. ‘Todd’s there. Gun room is there. Coffee machine’s there. Bureau computer there. Secret computer there.’ He smiled. ‘Office supplies – on the shelves right beside you.’

‘What are the Crayola for?’

‘Kids.’

‘You get a lot of them roaming around?’

‘Only if they’re in on a tour from school, or if they’re –’

‘Witnesses … and need to draw the suspect. Yup, he had real skinny arms and legs and a big round head. Circles for eyes … No, no other features …’

Gressett smiled, but she wasn’t sure if he got the joke. Ren suspected they would share lots of strange smiles in the future.

‘Let me take you to lunch, your first day,’ said Gressett.

Very kind. ‘Thank you,’ said Ren. ‘That would be great. I will have to go back to Breck this afternoon to pick up some things.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Gressett. ‘Right – Juicy Lucy’s – the best in Glenwood.’

Ren had eaten there before. At least she agreed with him on food. She overlooked a lot for food.

Three hours later, she was slumped in a chair opposite Bob Gage. He was sitting at the edge of his desk in a boxy gray suit.

‘Hello, our little heroine … defector,’ said Bob. ‘Glenwood – what the hell?’

‘That tie – what the hell?’ said Ren.

‘Someone told me it was cool. I can’t remember …’

‘Maybe because the conversation happened in 1984.’

‘Possibly.’

Ren let out a breath. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she said.

‘You will come back to us for a drink or two,’ said Mike.

‘You bet,’ said Ren. ‘But I’m being yanked out of the middle of something.’

‘You are.’

‘I know. But it’s wrong,’ said Ren.

‘Why do you think it happened?’

Oh, I wish I didn’t have to lie. ‘I have no idea. Resources …’

‘The Feds? Can’t spare one little agent?’

‘Hey, I’m indispensable.’

‘Glenwood has ground to a standstill?’

‘Maybe.’

Ren laughed, hugged them both and left.

The Firelight Inn was quiet, the dining table cleared and re-set for the following day’s breakfast. The only person Ren could see was one man sitting on the sofa checking his email. He didn’t look up. Ren went to her room and packed everything. Her chest was tight with the familiar sensation of blocked emotion. She remembered someone once telling her, ‘Your body knows how to breathe; don’t try to control it.’ Maybe there was a reason Ren wanted less oxygen going to her brain. Maybe she just wanted it to stop, she just wanted everything to shut down.

She left a check on her bed, left the keys in her bedroom door and said goodbye to the Firelight Inn. It was a beautiful blue and golden day. Seeing everyone on the street made her want to turn right around and stay forever. There were no rules on where she could live. She could commute to Glenwood, she could commute to Denver. But she owed it to Gary Dettling to make the effort in her new position. He was watching her back, he always had, he knew things no one else did and, in his caring intimidation, he reined her in.

She was crying by the time she hit Main Street – for herself, for Jean, for Billy, for Vincent and for a man she had never known but who had died beaten and alone. Through a blur of tears, she saw Salem Swade standing, laughing, outside the Gold Pan. He always got a free breakfast at the Gold Pan. If she could have hugged him goodbye, she would have. She and Salem could be the town crazies together. She looked at him in the rearview mirror. Right now, a penniless, damaged man with a brokedown cabin for a home looked happier than she did. It warmed her heart that he could mine those nuggets somewhere inside himself.

In the sunlight, something shone in the passenger footwell. Ren looked down and saw the second set of keys to her room. A sign. But she kept driving and when she got to the red lights that opened the road to Highway 9, she turned back for one last look.

Breckenridge. Boom and bust.

PART TWO (#ulink_aaffce09-98b7-5b79-9084-e0f1bbff35e3)

Chapter 47 (#ulink_281085d9-02e2-5424-9b3c-e6672af0e1b3)

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.