“It wasn’t…” Thinking about petunias isn’t working. Emma reaches for her inner gyroscope. “It sounded really straightforward in the media. It wasn’t.”
“It never is,” Bell says. “There was a standoff, right? And Huxton shot himself.”
“He…” Her breath is thin, like she’s at high altitude. “He was, um…”
“I understand. You don’t have to go over it. It’s okay.” Bell looks at her, looks away. “It was messy, right? Every situation like that is messy.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t need me to explain. The relief of that makes her light-headed, but Emma keeps her eyes on him. She finds the sight of his profile steadying. “You get through it, though.”
“That’s right. You get through it.”
This small agreement between them is calming. Which is good, because at the end of this road there is Beckley, and Emma’s nerves are plucking at her. She reminds herself this was her choice. She chose to do this, and she’s sure the reason why will come clear in time.
For now, the late May air is rushing by her from the open window, the sun warming her face and shoulders, and they’ve got the war-wound talk out of the way.
They’re coming into the outskirts of the town, so there’s more traffic. Emma looks out at the colors in the foliage by the roadside and presses her palms flat onto her knees. “Why do you think Cooper sent us to McMurtry first? I mean, we could’ve seen Gesak, or Campinelli. Their prisons are both closer to Quantico by about a hundred miles.”
Bell reaches to turn down President Reagan’s voice on the radio, his focus not straying from the road. “Beckley is only medium security, with a work camp. McMurtry is one of the younger subjects, and he’s in a more comfortable environment. He might be less hardened, easier for us to talk to. I mean, Cooper said he spent some time complaining about the toilet paper.”
“Mouthy. Great.” Emma grimaces. Not that she’s expecting any of the subjects to be Mr. Personality.
“If he’s talkative, that’s better for us. We just need to direct the flow of the conversation.” Bell lifts one shoulder. “But hey, I’m just spitballing about Cooper’s motivations. Maybe he picked the file closest to his desk.”
“I don’t think he would do that,” Emma says slowly. “He’s particular. And I get the impression he’s reasonably good at his job.”
Bell nods, checks his side mirrors as they come off the interstate. “He knows this assignment is going to be tough. It’s in his best interest to ease us in with a softball subject before we get to the hard stuff.”
“You said you’re a Marshal candidate, but you seem to know a lot about FBI procedure.”
“Like I said, I know the life. My dad used to talk about working with other agencies. He admired the bureau. Said they trained hard.” Bell shrugs again. “I’m used to law enforcement. I guess it must seem weird to a civilian.”
Emma snorts. “My dad is a third-generation farmer and my mom’s a grade-school teacher. They watch The Love Boat, not Hill Street Blues—they’re about as far from law enforcement as you can get. The only time I ever dealt with the FBI was after Huxton.”
“There’s a Waffle House up here on the right,” Bell says, indicating with his chin. “I’m gonna pull over. So did the FBI treat you okay after Huxton?”
Bell seems like a true believer so she doesn’t want to be too critical of the FBI, but she can’t help a certain sharpness of tone. “They were polite. Respectful. But they were still trying to figure out what went wrong. They questioned me pretty thoroughly. And then they kept coming back with more questions when I just wanted to put it all behind me.”
As she gets out of the pickup, Emma feels that twitch in her legs again—she’s spent too much time in cars over the past three days.
“So did they figure it out, why Huxton wasn’t arrested earlier? What went wrong?” Bell locks the truck, shrugs on his jacket as they walk.
“They had some circumstantial evidence but nothing solid.”
“The same thing that went wrong with Bundy.”
“I haven’t read much about Bundy. He was smart, right? Educated? Huxton wasn’t smart like that, but he had animal cunning—he covered his tracks. And the FBI didn’t know about the mountain house. They were chasing their tails.” That sharpness again. But Emma likes her sharpness—it’s kept her alive. “Then two more girls went missing. And then he caught me.”
“And you brought him down.”
“It was a group effort.” She pulls open the door to the restaurant.
They order coffee and food, and Emma uses the bathroom. It’s clean enough. They eat at the counter. The pie is not as good as she hoped, so she smothers it with cream.
“So, this interview,” Bell says, finishing his waffles. “We got a plan for that? Or did you want to play it by ear?”
Emma hesitates. “Not sure.”
“Are you going to cope with the interview okay?”
She hasn’t wanted to express those doubts to herself, so she’s surprised Bell picked up on them. “I don’t know. I hope so. Are you?”
He nods. “It’ll be uncomfortable. But I usually find I feel better going into an uncomfortable situation if I’ve got a plan. Then I’ve got something to fall back on if I need it.”
“A plan like what? Good cop, bad cop?”
“Maybe. Do you think that’d work with a guy like McMurtry?”
Why is Bell deferring to her on this? Emma blinks with the realization: It’s because he thinks she’s an expert. Three days of horror in a serial killer’s basement—that’s all it takes to make you an expert. Jesus. She toughs out the urge to vomit or cry, takes a breath. Chases the last of the cream around with her spoon, considering the question.
“I think McMurtry will have had plenty of adult officers trying to nail him down with questions. I think we should keep it conversational.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” Bell smiles softly. “I don’t know how to run good cop, bad cop anyway. That was more my dad’s thing—he and my mom used it on me more times than I can remember.”
Emma’s voice gentles. “You were close with your dad?”
“Yeah.” He looks at his plate. “It’s kinda weird, doing this. Wearing his suit, working the job. But it’s what I always wanted.”
“Is your family okay with you going into training, after what happened to your dad?”
“I guess.” Bell leans his forearm on the counter and sips his coffee. Even without the tie, he really couldn’t look more like a cop if he tried. “My mom’s fine with it. She understands. One of my sisters keeps getting on my case about it, though.”
“How many sisters?”
“Two. Both younger.”
Gotcha. Emma raises a finger. “One older.”
“Your family getting by okay, after what happened?”
She shrugs. “They’re okay.”
“And how do you get by?” Bell keeps his eyes on his coffee when he asks, as though the question isn’t important.