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:
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?
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.
‘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.’
‘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:
