Книга - The Coldest Fear

The Coldest Fear
Debra Webb


A killer with nothing left to lose…Afraid or not, Detective Bobbie Gentry has a monster to confront. The pain of losing her family and nearly her life to a criminal's vile hunger is still fresh, but now the landscape is different. Now she's not alone. Now she has Nick Shade to trust. Nick treats the terror of his past with vengeance. He's dedicated his life to hunting serial killers, and he'd give up his last breath to save Bobbie. When a string of killings bloodies Savannah's elite society and causes cold cases to resurface, Bobbie is captured in a city more haunted than Nick's inescapable nightmares. And as the murderer strikes close, Nick and Bobbie will need to become even closer if they're going to survive.







A killer with nothing left to lose...

Afraid or not, Detective Bobbie Gentry has a monster to confront. The pain of losing her family and nearly her life to a criminal’s vile hunger is still fresh, but now the landscape is different. Now she’s not alone. Now she has Nick Shade to trust. Nick treats the terror of his past with vengeance. He’s dedicated his life to hunting serial killers, and he’d give his last breath to save Bobbie. When a string of killings bloodies Savannah’s elite society and causes cold cases to resurface, Bobbie is captured in a city more haunted than Nick’s inescapable nightmares. And as the murderer strikes close, Nick and Bobbie will need to become even closer if they’re going to survive.


Praise for the novels of Debra Webb

“A hot hand with action, suspense and last, but not least, a steamy relationship.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Debra Webb’s name says it all.”

—New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose

“Compelling main characters and chilling villains elevate Debra Webb’s Faces of Evil series to the realm of high-intensity thrillers that readers won’t be able to resist.”

—New York Times bestselling author CJ Lyons

“A well-crafted, and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb

has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham on Traceless

“A steamy, provocative novel with deep, deadly secrets guaranteed to be worthy of your time.”

—Fresh Fiction on Traceless

“Debra Webb’s best work yet. The gritty, edge-of-your-seat, white-knuckled thriller is peopled with tough, credible characters and a brilliant plot that will keep you guessing until the very end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard on Obsession

“Interspersed with fine-tuned suspense...the cliffhanger conclusion will leave readers eagerly anticipating future installments.”

—Publishers Weekly on Obsession

“Webb reaches into our deepest nightmares and pulls out a horrifying scenario. She delivers the ultimate villain.”

—RT Book Reviews on Dying to Play


The Coldest Fear

Debra Webb







As a parent, I can think of few things more terrifying and heartbreaking than having my child in pain or suffering with a serious illness. In fact, I try particularly hard not to think of those other things—the death of a child or having a child go missing. So very many children go missing each year and far too many are never found. This book is dedicated to all those who know this unspeakable fear. My prayers are always with you.


Contents

Cover (#ude5779f4-f4c0-5ff2-9e37-f89c34e6512d)

Back Cover Text (#uca3f07f3-0dd1-5698-b894-c9b4f7a4fe7b)

Praise (#u9782b670-b626-55ec-8ed2-e6aa752c34d1)

Title Page (#u0fa2d9d5-5afe-56d2-acea-b1a7558070a0)

Dedication (#ud4269720-992c-5942-8101-fc299a883555)

Quote (#uf06a02e3-1944-5e71-baa4-c4afc0e846e1)

One (#uf9bd3826-a74e-582d-8df2-1bf7818e79a2)

Two (#u30036e2d-286d-55b9-bd1b-4ce949b03a97)

Three (#uc81ef630-5bdb-5253-8ee8-af4f8f2b7f87)

Four (#u4e93a777-6451-5c0d-8b2d-63a749f3d748)

Five (#ue51e5c53-3392-522d-bf6b-4874a25af2f9)

Six (#u09e5b825-740b-500a-8ae4-ebbeb50824da)

Seven (#ue6fae406-2cb8-5d7d-b326-c4a55743b2dc)

Eight (#u924c9f2f-7f2c-5b94-8521-1b92518a278a)

Nine (#u3d908542-2554-5f67-a74b-d9cca1cf222e)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“Always do what you are afraid to do.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson


One (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Savannah, Georgia

Tuesday, October 25, 5:20 p.m.

Life had been difficult for Allison Cortland, particularly the past thirty-two years.

She stepped, one by one, out of her shoes. The grass was cold even with the setting sun doing all within its power to extend a little lingering warmth and light as it dropped behind the trees on this late October day. The task was an impossible one. There would never be enough light to chase away the cold, cold darkness encompassing Allison’s small world.

Shouldering out of her jacket, she let it fall to the ground as she stared out over the still water. Her father-in-law had given Allison and her husband this lake house forty years ago as a wedding present. He claimed he had lost the desire to visit this special place after his wife died. Allison hadn’t understood at the time. The water, the dense woods and the lovely cottage-style home were so peaceful, how could anyone not feel happy and serene here?

In time she had learned the harsh, painful truth that some losses could not be healed by anything in this big wide world.

The crisp breeze sent goose bumps spilling over her skin as she tossed her elegant silk blouse to the ground and reached for the side zipper of her trousers. Her husband often teased her about her obsession with beautiful clothes. Edward showered her with exquisite jewelry and she had always appreciated his generosity, yet there was something cold about jewels. Give her silk and cashmere any day.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—took that deep chill from her bones. Not once in these past thirty-two years had she felt truly warm. She lifted first one foot and then the other from the legs of her pants, leaving the light gray wool twisted on the grass. Reaching behind her, she unfastened her bra and let it fall. Her panties followed that same path. Her nipples stiffened in the cold air. Not even the many lovers she had discreetly taken over the years had been able to warm her.

On this night thirty-two years ago Allison Hall Cortland’s life had drained from her body, no matter that her traitorous heart had continued to beat. She dipped a toe into the icy water. Closing her eyes she put one foot in front of the other, stepping into the water.

All these years, no matter how much alcohol she consumed, no matter the various prescription medications she tried, nothing ever expelled the aching nothingness that had invaded her very soul. For any parent there existed no greater agony, no more devastating blow than losing a child. It was unquestionably the coldest fear that haunted every mother’s heart.

The chilly water rose above her chest, washed over her shoulders and lapped at her chin. All these years she had muddled through this cold, empty life for him. Her husband needed her. They had faced the horror, as best they could, together. They had survived together. Despite the ways in which each of them had privately struggled to conquer their pain, they had slogged through the months and years...together.

As if Fate was determined to land one last, shocking blow, two weeks ago the handsome young man to whom she had said “I do” forty years ago was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The numerous specialists could do nothing more. Her husband had a month to live, possibly more, probably less.

Allison sucked in one last breath of crisp night air before the water engulfed her face. If only the bastard had possessed the courage to take his vile secret with him to his grave.

But no. He’d had to confess his sins...he’d had to plead for her forgiveness.

She wasn’t like the others. She couldn’t go on knowing this awful thing and she damned sure could not forgive him. The idea of muddling through another single day with this new weight on her heart was unimaginable.

He had stolen the only reason she had bothered to go on at all.

Allison stopped holding her breath and welcomed the rush of death.


Two (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Atlanta, Georgia

Friday, October 28, 2:30 a.m.

The simple definition of fear according to Merriam-Webster: “an unpleasant emotion caused by being aware of danger; a feeling of being afraid.” Bobbie Gentry hadn’t felt that emotion for her personal safety in 309 days. It wasn’t that she no longer sensed danger or felt afraid, she did. The sense of danger that haunted her was always for the welfare of others.

As a detective with the Montgomery Police Department she encountered plenty of opportunities to fear for her well-being. Cops felt the cold, hard edge of fear on a daily basis. But it was difficult to fear death when all that mattered most in life was gone and the small steps she had dared take toward building a new one had been derailed.

A psychopathic serial killer known as the Storyteller had murdered her husband and caused the deaths of her child and the partner she loved like a father. Nearly a year later she had learned to some degree to live with the unthinkable reality and, wouldn’t you know, along came another crushing blow. A second serial killer had devastated her life all over again. A fellow cop she dared to keep close was brutally murdered a mere two days ago. His killer had left a message for her: This one’s just for you, Bobbie. The same killer almost succeeded in taking the life of her uncle, the chief of police.

Bobbie sucked in a deep breath. How did she muster the strength to keep going? Revenge? Justice? She’d gotten both. The world was free of two more heinous killers and still it wasn’t enough. The expected relief and satisfaction came but the hollow feeling, the emptiness, remained her constant companion. But there was the tiniest glimmer of hope. A fragile bond had formed between her and the man who’d helped her stop the two monsters who had destroyed so many lives, including hers. The development was completely unexpected, but surprisingly not unwelcome.

Nick Shade had given her something she’d been certain she would never again feel: the desire to live for more than revenge...for more than merely clipping on her badge each morning. Now he needed her help—whether he would admit as much or not.

Those who knew of his existence called him the serial killer hunter. Nick was unlike any man Bobbie had known. Brooding, intense, impossible to read and yet deeply caring and self-sacrificing. At twenty-one he had discovered his father, Randolph Weller, was a depraved serial killer with forty-two murders to his credit. Since ensuring his father was brought to justice, Nick had dedicated his life to finding and stopping the vicious serial killers no one else seemed able to catch. Like Bobbie, he’d stopped feeling much of anything beyond that driving need for justice a very long time ago. Maybe that was the bond that had initially connected them—the thin, brittle ties of utter desolation and desperation. Two broken people urgently attempting to make a difference that neither of them could completely define nor hope to quantify.

Yet they’d found something together. Something that felt real.

Whatever they’d found had gone up in smoke three days ago when Randolph Weller escaped the Atlanta hospital treating him for an alleged heart condition. Nick was determined to do whatever necessary to find him—including risk his life. Since Bobbie refused to give up on him or that tenuous bond that had developed between them, she had to find a way to give him the backup he needed.

Her search had brought her well beyond her jurisdiction in the middle of the night to the one person who might know how to find Randolph Weller. Her chief as well as her lieutenant were not happy about her decision.

Sometimes you have to do what you have to do no matter the cost to career and relationships.

Bobbie stared up at the big house perched on a hillside well above the street. Towering trees blocked the moonlight, casting long shadows across the lush landscape. She chugged the last swallow of cold coffee, her third cup since leaving Montgomery, squared her shoulders and tucked the empty container back into the slot on the console. She reached down and checked the backup piece strapped just above her ankle. The truth was it really didn’t matter how far out of her jurisdiction she’d come since she wasn’t in the Peach State in an official capacity.

In fact, there was a strong possibility she would no longer have a place in the department after the actions she’d taken in the past six hours. She’d barely reached the Montgomery city limits when the blue lights in her rearview mirror forced her to pull over. The chief had sent two uniforms chasing after her with orders for Bobbie to report in ASAP or face suspension. There hadn’t been time to convince her overprotective uncle that she had no choice. So she’d offered her police issue Glock and her detective’s shield to the officer who’d pulled her over and told him to consider her on suspension. The officer had refused to take her weapon or her badge, but she felt confident the message had been adequately relayed to the chief.

Bobbie wasn’t backing down until this was done. She would do all within her power to hunt down Weller, the killer who had orchestrated five murders as well as the attack on the chief himself in the past seven days, with or without the department’s blessing.

A caffeine burst shuddered through her system. No more wasting time. She’d wasted too much already. Judging by the home’s dark windows the attorney she’d come to Atlanta to see was either gone or in bed. A smart man would have disappeared the moment he heard the news of his client’s stunning escape.

Bobbie grabbed her Glock from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. She tucked the weapon into the waistband at the small of her back and took care to close the car door quietly. She’d long ago set the interior lights so they didn’t come on when a door was opened. Just another one of those cop things. Right now she was counting on the decade of cop experience she’d built with MPD to keep her instincts sharp despite the lack of sleep and the utter desperation clawing at her.

Lawrence Zacharias was the one person on earth who knew most, if not all, of Randolph Weller’s secrets. He lived in this multimillion-dollar mansion in one of Atlanta’s most affluent neighborhoods, Ansley Park. The community was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and was filled with overpriced homes from charming century-old bungalows to newer, mega mansions like this one. Bobbie hadn’t been surprised Zacharias lived so lavishly. She gazed up at the two-story brick. The tasteful landscape lighting ensured that, no matter the hour, passersby would never miss the full impact of the luxurious estate. More than a dozen limestone steps glowed a ghostly white in the moonlight, providing an eerie path to the towering double front doors that appeared better suited to a small castle.

Zacharias was without doubt Atlanta’s most well-known attorney. Fourteen years ago his representation of serial killer Dr. Randolph Weller had put him on the map. If anyone had the slightest inkling where Weller would go after his escape, it would be his trusted attorney. Bobbie intended to get from the man what the FBI and local police apparently could not.

According to the many text messages she’d received from her chief, she wasn’t thinking straight, which might be true to some degree. She hadn’t slept more than a minute here and there in better than forty-eight hours until she’d pulled over on Interstate 85 at ten-thirty last night. Recognizing that the safety of everyone else she encountered on the road was greatly compromised by her need for sleep, she’d parked at a truck stop with the intention of catching a twenty-or thirty-minute nap. She’d awakened two hours later to the sound of a semi’s air horn. She’d cursed herself the rest of the drive for losing so much time, but she’d done the right thing. Like soldiers, cops fully comprehended the risks of going too long without sleep. Concentration and focus went first. Cognitive impairment only worsened as the hours passed. Even after the extended nap, she was running on empty. But it couldn’t be helped. Stopping wasn’t an option.

She pressed the doorbell and listened as the classic chime echoed through the house. No lights came on. No swishes or clatters of the owner stirring. She glanced back down at the street where she’d parked her Challenger. Nothing moved in the near darkness. Not even the distant sound of interstate traffic that wound around the city detracted from the atmosphere of beauty and wealth cocooning the elegant homes. A soft breeze kicked up, sending a handful of autumn leaves scattering across the cobblestoned porch, the deep russets and browns reminding her of all the shed blood she’d seen this week.

So much blood.

After another stab of the doorbell garnered no response, Bobbie reached up to give the door a firm knock. As soon as her knuckles hit the solid slab of wood, the right side of the looming entrance swung inward. Her Glock was in her hand before she’d mentally ticked off all the reasons the door might have been unlocked and ajar. She eased closer and listened. Quiet. Dark, except for the moonlight filtering over her shoulder and through the open doorway.

Taking a deep breath and then holding it to ensure she didn’t miss the slightest sound, she stepped inside, weapon held at the ready. In the last house she’d entered under similar circumstances she’d discovered a rotting corpse. She barred thoughts of Steven Devine, the cop who’d fooled her and everyone else for an entire month. As hard as she tried to tamp down the memory of his hand on her breast...of him ripping open her jeans, she couldn’t quite accomplish the feat. Sorry bastard. Weller had commissioned Devine to do his dirty work. He’d murdered one of the few remaining people who’d owned a piece of Bobbie’s fractured heart.

If she somehow managed to live through what was coming next, her shrink would no doubt insist she return to weekly therapy sessions. After all, someone as broken as Bobbie Sue Gentry, who’d lost her husband and her child not even a year ago and her partner of seven years just two months back, couldn’t hope to rebound so quickly. Nearly being raped and having a dear friend murdered all within the past forty-eight hours was more than any human should have to bear. She would need months, maybe years of counseling. Or maybe all the loss and devastation had piled so high on the shattered pieces of her heart that she was beyond the point of no return.

Her gut clenched. Could she trust her instincts at this point?

This wasn’t the time for second-guessing. Focus on what you came here to do.

Bobbie closed the massive door and put her back against it. Take a breath. Another. No metallic odor of blood. No lingering scents of a dinner the owner may have had hours ago. Did Zacharias have his evening meal prepared in the kitchen by a personal chef? Or did he eat out?

The oppressive silence sent another shot of adrenaline into her blood. Did any member of Zacharias’s household staff live in the residence? His wife had divorced him years ago and his children had grown up and moved across the country, no doubt to separate themselves from images of bloody, mutilated corpses arranged in grotesque venues for a depraved mind to capture on a painter’s canvas.

She wondered if his money brought Zacharias much comfort when he turned out the lights all alone each night.

Alone...exactly the way you do, Bobbie.

The sound of Nick’s voice whispered across her senses reminding her that for just a little while she hadn’t been alone.

Survey the scene, Bobbie. This was not the time to be distracted.

Why wasn’t Zacharias’s security system singing a warning about the open door? Bobbie glanced at the dark keypad on the wall not three feet away. Evidently he’d left in a big hurry and hadn’t bothered setting the alarm or checking the door.

Or had someone gotten here ahead of her? Someone who wanted more than to ask a few questions?

The extravagant lock on the door appeared undamaged. As for visitors, the feds as well as the local police had questioned him in the past forty-eight hours.

Did you take off right after that, Zacharias?

Seemed strange that a surveillance detail hadn’t been assigned to keep an eye on their one potential lead to finding Weller. She shook her head. Maybe the problem was that the FBI and the task force created to recapture Weller were far too focused on proving Nick was somehow involved with his father’s escape. No matter that he’d been debriefed by the feds scarcely twelve hours ago and cleared of any wrongdoing in Devine’s death by Montgomery PD, the suspicion about his connection to Weller lingered. In part because Nick had spent most of his adult life living in the shadows, finding the killers no one else could. Even trained and experienced members of law enforcement at times feared what they didn’t understand. Nick Shade was innocent of his father’s crimes. He had turned his back on Randolph Weller years ago after finding him in the process of creating art from his two most recent kills. Worse, he’d discovered that Weller had murdered his mother when she learned her husband’s despicable secret. Nick’s entire life up to that point had been a lie.

As true as it was that both Bobbie and Nick had suffered some seriously fucked-up heartbreak, the big difference between them was that she’d at least had a real family who cared about her. Nick had never had anything real. The people who should have taken care of him had let him down.

I will not let you down, Nick.

Bobbie forced her full attention to the here and now. “Where the hell are you, Zacharias?”

There was always the possibility that the feds had been watching the attorney and were even now following him to see if he would lead them to Weller.

The truth was she hadn’t driven all this way simply to see Zacharias. She didn’t even care if he’d taken his millions and fled. Speaking to him wasn’t actually necessary. All she wanted was to find any files on Weller that Zacharias might have in his home office before those files and any other notes were confiscated by the task force on his trail. Zacharias was a brilliant attorney. He had endless connections in Fulton County. The man would know all the ways, including attorney-client privilege, to challenge any attempts to seize his files or warrants to pilfer through his home or his phone records.

“But you can’t outmaneuver the feds forever,” Bobbie murmured. Which was exactly why the man would disappear very soon if he hadn’t already.

She glanced around the cavernous entry hall. She was here, the door was unlocked and the place appeared deserted—might as well have a look around. Zacharias had called her to Atlanta less than two weeks ago. No one could prove she hadn’t been in his house previously if her prints were found.

There could be security cameras.

After bumping three switches with her elbow, the giant chandelier spilled light over the marble floors. The cool gray paint on the walls spread out to meet the gleaming white trim and lent a cold feel to the space. A massive painting of Zacharias and his family, obviously commissioned a dozen or more years ago, served as the focal point. A round table of mirrored glass sat in the center of the hall, directly beneath the chandelier. The large vase stationed there was filled with cut flowers. The once lush and richly colored petals had browned and now littered the tabletop. A man of means living in a house like this one would certainly have a cleaning staff.

Had he sent them all away before he took his own leave?

Bobbie surveyed the room again. No sign of cameras. In Zacharias’s shoes she would have been far better prepared with a surveillance camera in every damned room as well as around the perimeter of the house. On the other hand, an attorney willing to interact with such depraved murderers probably harbored a serious God complex and didn’t want any electronic documentation of his movements or those of his visitors. With his most notorious monster no longer in chains behind those drab prison walls, Zacharias might not be feeling so high and mighty now.

“Mr. Zacharias? Are you home?”

Bobbie moved from the entry hall with its elegant curving staircase leading up to the second floor to the parlor on the right. She rubbed her arm against her side, pushing the sleeve of her sweatshirt down over her fingers before reaching under the nearest lampshade to switch on the light. The expected sophisticated furnishings were gathered around an equally stylish stone fireplace that spanned the full height of the room—at least twelve feet. She listened again before progressing across the entry hall to the next room, a library. Floor-to-ceiling rows of bookshelves stood where the fireplace would be and distinguished the room from its near mirror image across the hall. No sign of a struggle or that anyone had combed through the space. Other than the open front door, all appeared to be in order.

One by one Bobbie advanced through room after room, calling the owner’s name and bumping a light on with her elbow in each one. Clear.

Since she’d found no sign of foul play or of the homeowner so far, Bobbie suspected Zacharias had in fact gotten the hell out of Dodge. His statement about Weller’s escape had played over and over on every available media outlet the past forty-eight or so hours.

I am shocked and saddened by this turn of events. No one will be safe until Randolph Weller is caught.

“That includes you, Zacharias.”

Bobbie imagined he was well aware of the imminent danger. Under the circumstances, she had known finding him was a long shot but she’d had to try. He hadn’t been answering his phone. No-damned-body had been answering their phones—including you, Bobbie. Her calls to Nick as well as to Special Agent Anthony LeDoux had gone unanswered. Her instincts told her LeDoux was in one way or another up to his eyeballs in this, too.

As much as she wanted to trust LeDoux after what they’d been through together, she couldn’t. The secret the two of them shared was like an open, festering wound deep below the surface where no one else could see. Like cancer, eating them up one inch at a time and at the same time making them dangerously reckless.

Like not calling backup in a situation like this one.

Exiling the warning voice honed by years of investigating homicides, she moved deeper into the house. Just off the kitchen and tucked beyond the family room, she found the attorney’s study. Bookshelves lined one wall. Framed photographs of the family that had abandoned him sat in a neat arrangement on one corner of the desk. The blotter was a clean, crisp expanse of white marred only by the fallen blooms from the floral arrangement that sat next to it, a smaller version of the one in the entry hall. To the right of the desk was a set of French doors.

Open French doors.

Shit. Bobbie’s fingers tightened on her Glock. She executed a three-sixty, scanning the room.

No movement. No sound.

For a moment she considered calling it in, but she had crossed the line coming into the house. There had been no true exigent circumstances. Knowing her chief, he’d put out a BOLO on her and the Atlanta PD would be on the lookout for her already.

Check the files in the study and get the hell out.

Zacharias could very well be on a private jet headed for some tropical island whose laws didn’t include an extradition treaty with the US.

Or Weller had taken him.

With the second set of doors left open, foul play was the more likely of the scenarios. No way two doors in this mansion had faulty locks. Even if Zacharias had been in a hell of a hurry, why leave both doors unlocked and open?

Hold on. She hadn’t been upstairs. Was someone up there stealing his Rolexes and platinum cuff links at this very moment? Zacharias could very well be dead in his bedroom. It was the middle of the night after all. Bobbie braced her back against the nearest wall to ensure no one came up behind her. Too quiet. A thief would have heard her calling out to Zacharias.

A spot on the floor near the desk snagged her attention, then another spot and another. Red wine maybe? Not so lucky.

Blood.

She visually traced the pattern of splatters, a stark crimson on the champagne-colored rug. The blood trail led around the large mahogany desk.

Adrenaline stinging her senses, she followed the path her gaze had taken, glancing over her shoulder repeatedly and taking care not to step in the blood. The amount of blood increased exponentially as she drew closer to the other side of the desk, as if the bleeder had lingered there. At this point the urge to fish out her cell and call 911 was fierce, but she ignored it.

Not yet.

Behind the desk the trail of blood became a series of small puddles. The phone that had been blocked from her view by the floral arrangement had been dragged to the edge of the desk, the handset dangling from its curly cord. Blood was smeared on the keypad; crimson fingerprints encircled the handset.

Holding her breath in an attempt to slow the pounding in her chest, she listened for the slightest noise as her eyes traced the path of blood that continued beyond the desk and out the open French doors.

“I repeat, this is nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?”

Bobbie’s attention snapped back to the phone. What the hell?

“If you can hear me...”

She reached for the handset.

“...we’re sending—”

The dispatcher’s voice silenced mid-sentence.

Bobbie twisted and leveled her Glock on whoever had entered the room.

“What the hell are you doing, Bobbie?”

Special Agent Anthony LeDoux. His fingers still rested on the switch hook in the phone’s cradle, severing the connection.

“What the hell are you doing, LeDoux?”

Better question, how the hell had he sneaked up on her like that? Sleep deprivation is making you sloppy, Bobbie.

The agent held up his hands. “How about you put your weapon away and we’ll talk about the reason we’re both here?”

She glanced at the open doors. “We should be looking for whoever all that blood belongs to, not debating our respective motives for breaking and entering.”

“I’ve already looked around inside and out,” LeDoux said. “No one’s here. I’d be gone, too, except as I headed for the back door I heard someone come inside. I hid in the pantry you walked right past. You’re losing your edge, Detective.”

Anger and frustration seared through Bobbie. “Fuck you. Where’s Zacharias?”

“I can tell you that the illustrious task force assembled to find Weller doesn’t have him.” He shook his head, his face tightening with distaste or something on that order. “I can’t believe the son of a bitch wasn’t under surveillance.”

Bobbie glanced at the open doors again before shifting her attention back to LeDoux, only then realizing her Glock was still aimed at his chest. Deciding she wasn’t ready to surrender the upper hand, she held her bead on the FBI agent. His story was a little too pat for her comfort. He just happened to be going out of the house as she was coming in? The only time she had witnessed timing that perfect was at a Broadway play she and her husband, James, had attended when they’d gone to New York City for Christmas the year before Jamie was born.

LeDoux was lying.

So she asked him again, “If Zacharias is gone, who bled all over the carpet? The blood’s not even dry.” Though she hadn’t touched it, she had seen enough to know the dull, blackness of blood that had been spilled and then sat there for a while. Her gaze narrowed. “Who made that 911 call?”

LeDoux laughed. “I got no idea where the blood came from. As for the call, that was me. The phone was already off the hook, I just selected line one and entered the numbers. I figured it was the least I could do.”

A couple of scenarios elbowed their way into her thoughts, neither of which included his story. She restrained the urge to bombard him with the questions pounding in her brain. “You have no idea where Zacharias would go?”

“If I had a fucking clue where he or Weller might be, we wouldn’t be having this friendly conversation.” He sent a pointed look at her weapon.

Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he’d had about as much sleep as she. His jeans and sweater were rumpled as if he’d been wearing them a couple of days. He hadn’t shaved recently and those bloodshot eyes provided considerable insight into the sustenance he’d chosen for survival lately.

“Have you heard from Nick?” Jesus Christ, the blood could be Nick’s. Fear spread through Bobbie’s chest like fire through a drought-stricken forest. Nick would no doubt have come to Zacharias looking for answers.

Don’t you dare die on me, Nick Shade. Too many had died already, damn it.

“Not a word.” LeDoux hitched his head toward the open door. “We should get the hell out of here. Now.”

This didn’t feel right. Bobbie split her attention between the French doors and the agent she didn’t completely trust. “What we should do is have another look around. The bleeder can’t have gotten far without help.”

“You’d better rethink that strategy.” LeDoux nodded toward the phone. The dial tone had turned into a recorded warning: If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try your call again. “Atlanta PD will be rolling by now.”

“We’ll need to give a statement,” she countered. The bloody handprint on the handset, the red smudges on the keypad held her attention for an extra beat. What was she missing here? Her focus swung back to LeDoux. He stood a mere three feet away without a visible speck of blood on his pale gray sweater and faded jeans. No way he’d carried or dragged a bleeding victim out of this house.

“They’ll be looking for someone to blame for whatever happened here,” LeDoux countered. “We both want to find Weller. And we both want to help your friend Shade.” He gestured to the bloody mess. “The questions and the investigation will keep us on-site for hours if not days, and time is our enemy.”

Five then ten seconds elapsed while she weighed her options. He was right that the 911 operator would have already dispatched the police. Standard operating procedure for 911 hang-ups. Bottom line, LeDoux had a valid point about the other, as well. She couldn’t afford the delay.

“Fine.” She lowered her weapon. “We’ll do this your way, but if you’re lying to me, LeDoux—”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Bobbie. Not when it counts.” He held her gaze a moment, then headed for the door.

Maybe she was a fool, but she followed him.

Outside, the blood trail was lost to the darkness. “My car’s parked on the street in front of the house,” she said. “I’ll follow you. Where’re we going?”

LeDoux headed toward the street. “I’ll hitch a ride with you,” he called over his shoulder. “I took a cab.”

Bobbie watched his retreating back until he’d disappeared into the darkness beyond the landscape lighting. There were only two or three logical explanations for taking a cab anywhere. You either didn’t have personal transportation or you were too inebriated to drive. Since LeDoux didn’t fall into either of those categories at the moment there was only one plausible explanation for his actions.

He didn’t want any potential witnesses able to ID his vehicle.

LeDoux had good reason for wanting to find the monster Zacharias had represented, just as Bobbie did. She thought about the blood on the floor in the study. Whether or not LeDoux had killed Zacharias in an attempt to extract information was the real question. His erratic behavior the past week or so provided sufficient reason for her to doubt his trustworthiness...but could she really see him as a murderer?

Either way, he was right about her not having time to be waylaid by the investigation to find out or to be cleared of suspicion.

Without looking back, Bobbie turned off the instincts screaming at her and followed LeDoux.

He was the closest thing to a lead she had.


Three (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Coventry Court, Norcross, Georgia

3:00 a.m.

“We’ve been friends for a very long time, Randolph. I’ve carried out your every request—even the ones I should have categorically denied. I have kept your secrets just as you requested.”

Randolph Weller set his unfinished cup of tea aside. It had grown cold anyway. “I find your pathetic pleas to be quite tedious, Lawrence.”

Lawrence Zacharias’s face paled. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Anything. Anything at all. There’s no need to resort to this barbaric behavior.”

Poor, poor Lawrence. The injury to his forearm had stopped bleeding hours ago, yet one would think he’d suffered a fatal stab wound. The bloody mess left in his study had been the man’s own doing. He’d hoped to send the authorities on a hunt for a killer rather than a fleeing attorney. Frankly, Randolph had expected far more from his old friend. There really was little the man could do now. He was tied to his chair. He could scarcely breathe much less move with the rope wound tightly around his arms, legs and chest. Randolph sighed. Such a waste of true brilliance.

“I fear it’s far too late for posturing and gestures now.” Randolph cocked his head and studied his old friend. “You see, after I spoke to Lucille, I decided to watch you, Lawrence. The courier you hired is in the other room. He told me about the package. Did you know it was intercepted by Special Agent LeDoux?”

When the other man only stared at him with utter defeat in his eyes, Randolph went on, “I’m certain you didn’t. When I learned the addressee, I understood exactly what you’d done. You see, Lawrence, when you decide to betray a man like me, there are certain steps you should not trust to anyone save yourself. If you had personally handled the package, you might very well have made your flight to Maracaibo.” He shook his head. “Too bad. I understand the governor himself had selected a luxury villa for you. I’m certain you would have been quite happy spending your twilight years there.”

“No one knows where you are—you still have time to disappear,” Lawrence said quickly as if he’d gained his second wind in the race against certain death. “No one knows anything.”

The former was true. Randolph should be well on his way to Morocco. Lawrence had purchased the small desert palace for him years ago. Randolph had always planned to slip away one day. He’d cultivated the perfect pawns to facilitate the move. His son’s obsession with Detective Bobbie Gentry had provided the classic opportunity. Randolph had dreamed of rich, mahogany-skinned men and delicious domestic maids catering to his every whim, including serving as inspiration for his beloved art.

But then a loose end he should have clipped long ago unraveled his well-laid plans and, unfortunately, Lawrence was wrong about the latter of his claims. Someone did know something and now Randolph had no choice but to tidy up that annoying thread before disappearing. If there was anything in this world he wanted as much as the freedom to create his art, it was revenge. It was a rather base instinct but, despite popular belief, Randolph was only human. Where Nicholas was concerned, the absolute best revenge was to ensure he remained steadfast on his current path. Nothing would make Randolph happier than knowing his son would forever remain alone and in the shadows, afraid of who and what he might become. The quintessential tragedy.

“There are two people who know my deepest, darkest secret, Lawrence.” Randolph stood. He unbuttoned the light wool suit jacket. He had to give his old friend credit—he’d had everything Randolph needed waiting for him in that Huntsville, Alabama, storage locker, including transportation. He removed the jacket and placed it carefully on the back of the chair he’d vacated.

“I made a mistake,” Lawrence urged. “I can take care of it. Now. This minute. Let me...let me help you, Randolph.” His words had begun to slur.

Ah, the timing was flawless. The high-powered muscle relaxer would render Lawrence quite helpless. Randolph crossed the room and opened the liquor cabinet. He’d stored the items he would need there, including the half-empty bottle of Scotch he’d laced. The moment was, admittedly, gratifying. Randolph had been in prison for fourteen years, three months and six days, and he still hadn’t lost his touch.

“Dear God,” Lawrence muttered thickly.

Randolph chuckled. “God can’t help you now, Lawrence.” He removed the carefully folded white sheet from the shelf below the whiskey tumblers and spread it on the floor. “You see—” he walked toward his old friend “—God holds no dominion over me.”

Randolph released the knot and unwound the rope. Lawrence slumped forward, tried to move but his body failed him. Still, he grunted and gnashed his teeth.

“Now, now, Lawrence, you know there’s nothing you can do. Why put on this pathetic display?”

Randolph reached under the drugged man’s shoulders and lifted him, then dragged him to the middle of the room. He arranged him, arms stretched out to his sides, legs spread eagle.

“It’s such a shame I won’t have time to capture this momentous occasion on canvas.” He smiled down at his old friend. “You know I’ve always fancied myself quite the artist.” He sighed. “Before Nicholas turned against me I had my own studio. I miss those days.”

A wet spot appeared on the crotch of Lawrence’s trousers.

“Really,” Randolph chastised, “I would have thought you far braver than this.”

The man on the floor groaned pitifully.

Randolph returned to the liquor cabinet and retrieved the final tool he’d stashed behind it.

He approached his old friend once more. “I will miss you, Lawrence.”

Tears poured from the other man’s eyes. The pulse at the base of his throat fluttered wildly.

How very sad and yet intensely titillating.

“See you in hell, old friend.” Randolph hefted the ax. The first blow shattered the elbow as the blade cut through bone and tendon, leaving the forearm detached and hemorrhaging on the floor. The second swing sent blood splattering across Randolph’s face. Muscles and ligaments splayed open at the shoulder like the freshly severed parts of a hog. The humerus easily popped out of the glenoid socket and Lawrence’s body twitched and shuddered. A feeble scream croaked out of his sagging jowls.

Randolph sighed with pleasure as the hot blood slid down his skin. His own blood pulsing with sheer bliss, he raised the ax again.

Thumping and grunting echoed from the other room. Randolph hesitated and glanced toward the wall that separated the two men who would die this day.

He smiled. “Don’t worry, dear boy, you’re next.”


Four (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Bobbie had barely reached the end of the block when she spotted the cruiser in her rearview mirror. The Atlanta PD official vehicle rocked to a stop in the spot she’d vacated mere seconds before. Unable to help herself she’d sat a moment at the intersection and watched the two uniformed officers rush up the steps toward the house. LeDoux hadn’t said a word but she’d felt the tension vibrating from him.

Eighteen minutes later she pulled into the parking lot of the Country Inn and Suites where LeDoux had a room. Definitely a step down from the luxurious four-and five-star hotels the agent typically called home when on assignment. Just another indication of how much LeDoux had changed over the past year. He didn’t wear his scars on his skin the way she did, but they were there nonetheless.

“You’ll need a jacket or something,” he said. “Unless you’re planning to leave your weapon in the trunk.”

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation or the burden of so many murders so close together but her mind felt as if her head were under water. Every thought, every reaction was far slower than it should be. Agreeing to come to this hotel with LeDoux was likely another sleep-deprived decision she would regret.

He works for the FBI, Bobbie. He used you once...

Considering she didn’t have a better plan, she popped the trunk and climbed from the driver’s seat. She glanced at LeDoux as she grabbed her overnight duffel bag from the back seat. There were a lot of people she’d let down. Her son, her husband, her partner, her friend, the chief. Special Agent LeDoux was guilty of that egregious sin the same as she was—all the more reason she shouldn’t trust him, except he had certain connections she didn’t.

She moved around to the trunk and dug out the windbreaker she kept there for emergencies. Dragging on the jacket, she reluctantly admitted to herself that whatever LeDoux had or hadn’t done, she owed him. He had protected her that once when there was no one else—when it counted. He had allowed the monster to take him instead. His screams echoed deep in her soul. Bobbie shook off the haunting memories.

“We have to go through the lobby to get to the room,” LeDoux explained as if the silence or her lack of a response had gotten to him and he needed to speak just to make sure they were both still alive.

The two of them were like the walking dead—ghosts. Mere shadows of their former selves moving among the living. The breeze she’d noticed earlier felt colder now. She zipped the jacket and secured the car. “How long have you been in Atlanta?”

She hadn’t seen LeDoux since late Tuesday night, some fifty hours ago, when they’d met at a crime scene in Athens, Alabama. Weller’s latest victim had been chopped into pieces and then displayed like a broken doll that had been reassembled by a two-year-old. Had LeDoux come straight to Atlanta after that to question Zacharias?

“About twenty-four hours.”

So what had he been doing between Tuesday night and yesterday? At some point this past week she’d gotten the distinct impression he was on thin ice with his superiors. Something else they had in common.

When he reached for the entrance door, she asked, “Are you on the Weller task force?”

He hesitated, his gaze settling on hers. “Not officially.”

Before she could ask the next question poised on the tip of her tongue, LeDoux headed through the lobby. The clerk, young and female, smiled as they passed. LeDoux gave her a nod. The clerk grinned, checked out Bobbie and then looked away. Whatever else he was, LeDoux was an attractive man with plenty of charm when he chose to use it. When he and Bobbie worked together the first time, he’d had a wife. She’d had a husband and a child. Ten months and a couple of vicious serial killers had changed everything.

Without speaking, they took the stairs to the second floor. LeDoux stopped at room 216 and swiped his keycard, then held the door open for her. Bobbie stepped inside, tossed her bag on the floor and surveyed the room. Window on the far side. Drapes pulled tight. Desk, chair. Small sofa. King bed.

One king bed.

“You take the bed,” he said, noting her gaze there as he locked the door. He crossed the room and rummaged in the mini fridge, found a bottle of beer and collapsed on the sofa.

“If you’re not officially on the task force, then you’re tracking Weller on your own.”

He shrugged. “Aren’t you doing the same thing?”

Rather than answer him, she pitched another question at him. “You’ve watched Zacharias since you arrived?”

Her real question was pretty clear. How did he get away or get himself injured and maybe dead with you watching? God she needed a shower. And sleep. It was three-thirty in the morning. She couldn’t think clearly anymore. Maybe she hadn’t been thinking clearly in a long time.

Rather than answer her question, he opened the beer and chugged a long swallow. When the need for oxygen overrode his desire for alcohol, he lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand.

Finally he said, “The local cops interviewed Zacharias on Wednesday, as did the Bureau. I tried to question him this morning—” he glanced at the clock by the bed “—technically yesterday morning, round eight. He wouldn’t talk to me. Just before dark, five-thirty maybe, a local courier service picked up a small package at his front door. I followed the guy to see where the package was going. By the time I got back to Zacharias’s house he was long gone or he appeared to be.” He shrugged. “I took advantage of the unoccupied house for sale across the street. I’ve been watching his place since, waiting for him to come back or for the right opportunity to get inside. At some point I guess I fell asleep. When I woke up I saw your car and decided to find out what you were up to.”

“So you lied to me earlier,” she accused, “when you said you were already in the house when I arrived.”

He waved off her charge. “There wasn’t time to explain all the nuances involved so I ad-libbed.”

Bobbie let his lie go for the moment. The way he referred to the Bureau—as if his decisions and theirs were mutually exclusive—reiterated her feeling that Agent LeDoux’s career was like hers, teetering on the brink of disaster. Bobbie crouched down and dug through her bag for the clean underwear she’d packed.

“So you never saw Zacharias when the courier went to the door?”

“I did not. I suppose anyone could have given the guy the package.” He downed another long swallow of beer. “But I never saw anyone else go in or come out of the house.”

She tucked the panties into her back pocket and got to her feet. “Who was the package addressed to?”

He lifted his shoulders in another listless shrug. “Who knows? The courier refused to tell me the name.”

“You stopped him?” Jesus Christ. LeDoux really was flirting with the edge.

“I followed him to the service center parking lot, showed him my credentials and told him I needed to see the package. He told me to get a warrant.”

“Did you inform the agent in charge of the task force?” The package could be headed to wherever Weller was hiding. Anticipation had her pulse pounding. “This might be a major lead in finding Weller.”

Rather than answer, LeDoux finished his beer and went for another. Images of Weller’s numerous victims filtered one after the other through her mind like flipping the pages of a macabre family album. Randolph Weller, aka the Picasso Killer, wasn’t just another serial killer. He’d spent most of his adult life as a celebrated, highly respected psychiatrist whose secret hobby was mutilating the corpses of his victims and then painting macabre scenes of the carnage. More shocking, the sick son of a bitch had served as a consultant to the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit—still did, or at least he had until he escaped. Weller was also a father. Images of Nick flashed through her mind. Unlike his father, Nick had spent his adult life stopping the most ruthless serial killers, the ones no one else appeared able to find. He’d found the one who’d stolen Bobbie’s life. The Storyteller. She flinched. Hoped LeDoux hadn’t noticed.

“The Bureau has no fucking idea where he is.” LeDoux grunted. “They’ve torn Atlanta apart. Can’t find him.” He shook his head and downed more of his beer. “Zacharias gave them zip. He’s sticking by his attorney-client-privilege bullshit.”

“What about the package, LeDoux?” she repeated, impatience swelling inside her.

He lifted a bleary gaze to hers and exhaled a big breath. “He wouldn’t tell me who the recipient was, but—” the hint of a smile tugged at his lips “—for a hundred bucks he gave me the address.”

“Where?”

The smile made a full appearance. “The same place I’m headed after a few hours’ sleep. Savannah. I would’ve left already but I guess I was actually waiting for you. I knew you’d show up eventually.”

“Savannah?” She ignored the remark about him waiting for her. Why would Weller risk staying in the state of Georgia? Savannah was only three or four hours away. “That makes no sense.”

“Who knows? But I’m damned sure going to find out.” LeDoux laughed, the sound as weary as she felt. “That’s why I brought my car back here and took a cab to Zacharias’s house. In case the courier grew a conscience and decided to report me.”

At least that cleared up her question about how he’d followed the courier and why he didn’t have a rental car.

“You’re here,” he went on, “we have a lead. You going with me?” He tipped up his second bottle of beer and finished it off.

Either LeDoux had gone rogue or his new assignment was to keep her off track. Considering his apparent need to inhale those beers, maybe if she nudged him enough he’d slip up and reveal his true objective.

She chose her words carefully. “The FBI is still suspicious of Nick?”

Just saying the words out loud had anger stirring inside her. Bobbie had no idea exactly how many killers Nick had stopped in the past decade but the FBI wanted to label him a vigilante. The man was anything but. He hadn’t taken a single life...until just over twenty-four hours ago. Montgomery PD had cleared him of any wrongdoing in Steven Devine’s death. If Nick hadn’t stopped the bastard who had used being a cop as a cover for what he really was—a cold-blooded murderer—he would have killed both of them. Devine had already taken five lives, including a fellow cop she’d loved like a brother.

Bobbie pushed the memories of Asher Bauer away. No looking back until this is done.

“There are those who want to take him down,” LeDoux acknowledged, “but they have no proof. All they can do is watch and wait for him to fuck up. They got nothing on Shade and nothing on Weller. You and I are the only ones with a lead.”

She wanted to rant about the injustice of it all. Nick was a hero. “Then I guess we’ll be working together again.” At least as long as it benefited her goal of helping Nick. She didn’t wait for LeDoux to respond. She picked up her cell and headed for the bathroom.

He grabbed her arm as she passed. “We want the same thing, Bobbie. But I’m not sure we can win this.” His thumb rubbed across the scar on her wrist.

“That won’t keep me from trying.” She tugged free of his hold and shut herself up in the bathroom. She placed her clothes, her Glock, the ankle holster with her .22 and her cell on the closed toilet lid and then sagged against the door. She squeezed her eyes shut to block the memories that tried to intrude. The long scars on her wrist burned as if LeDoux had dashed lighter fluid on her skin and lit a match rather than simply touched her there.

The first cut had been long and deep. She hadn’t been able to hold the knife well enough to slash the other wrist so she’d taken the handle between her teeth and sliced as hard and deep as she could. Blood had flowed like a river. The knife had dropped to the floor and she’d slumped against her little boy’s bed and waited for the relief of death.

Only it hadn’t come.

Bobbie opened her weary eyes. Now, despite that horror, she had something more than revenge or just the job to live for. “Where the hell are you, Nick?”

He had no right closing her out like this. He thought he was protecting her, but he was wrong. Forcing herself to move, she turned on the water in the shower and placed a towel over the curtain rod. She watched herself in the mirror as she methodically undressed. Stripping off her sweatshirt first, she dropped it on the floor. Reaching behind her she unfastened her bra, pitched it on the pile. She shucked her jeans and underwear next.

For a long moment she stood staring at her reflection. She made herself inventory the ugly journey she’d taken ten months ago. Every step was carved onto her flesh. The thin line around her throat where a plastic surgeon had repaired the deep groove left behind by the noose she’d worn like a too-tight dog collar for weeks. The marks on her breasts where the monster in her nightmare had cut around her nipples and then sewed them back on like a demented surgeon. The slashes and gouges that had healed into grotesque ridges and shallow craters. The unsightly ridges from the surgery to repair her right leg. The small bulges that gave away the location of the screws and pins that held it together. The things he had done to her on the inside couldn’t be seen, but they were there...always would be.

It was the words tattooed on her back that told the real story. The words she chose not to remove. The words that spilled across her skin in broad black strokes like a tragic monument to all she’d lost.

She had left the story the bastard started on her back to remind her of what she’d done.

Bobbie had chosen to risk her life, but she hadn’t realized until it was too late that she’d put her family at risk, too.

The hot steamy air clouded the mirror, hiding the things she didn’t want to look at. She shook off the pity session and climbed into the shower. As she scrubbed her body and washed the sour smell of worry and desperation from her skin and hair, she considered that the Atlanta PD’s forensic unit would be lifting her prints from Zacharias’s front door. If he was dead she would be a person of interest in the investigation no matter her explanation. Her chief would not take it well.

As much as she didn’t want to hurt him, she couldn’t call in yet. She’d known Chief Theodore Peterson her whole life. He was her godfather. He’d been her father’s best friend, the best man at his wedding. The two had played football together in college, had married the same year, and she’d grown up calling him uncle. Bobbie had to do this and the chief didn’t agree. He wanted her clear of whatever fallout was coming related to Weller’s escape and the inevitable federal investigation into Nick’s actions.

Bobbie shut off the spray of water and climbed out of the shower. As soon as she’d dried off, she checked her cell. Still nothing from Nick. Another missed call from the chief, of course. A text from her sergeant and another from her lieutenant. Both ordered her to return to Montgomery.

Not yet.

She dressed and tucked the phone into her back pocket. Strapped the .22 back to her ankle and nestled her Glock into her waistband. With a deep breath she opened the door and the cooler air made her shiver. Rather than deal with the noise of the hair dryer she took the towel with her to continue rubbing at her damp hair. LeDoux had crashed on the sofa. Four empty beer bottles and an empty bottle of vodka she hadn’t noticed before lay on the floor next to his abandoned loafers.

Bobbie sat down on the end of the bed and watched him sleep as she squeezed the dampness from her hair. LeDoux wasn’t much older than her. She’d turned thirty-two this year; he was thirty-six. His beard-shadowed jaw and the tousled light brown hair that was almost blond added believability to the idea that he was as desperate as she was. The weary man lying only a few feet away was not the hard-ass agent she’d first met last December.

She laughed, a dry sound. Like she was the same naive, ambitious detective she’d been back then. Bobbie tossed the towel aside and went in search of her phone charger. She found it in the bottom of her bag. After scooting aside the night table she was able to unplug the lamp and plug the charger into that slot. Out of habit she checked the lock on the door and turned out the other lights before climbing under the covers. She tucked the Glock under her pillow and kept her cell phone next to her so she could feel it if it vibrated. Maybe she was being paranoid, but if she received a call or a text from Nick—which was highly unlikely but she could hope—she didn’t want LeDoux to know.

Forcing her eyes closed and her mind to quiet, she thought of D-Boy, the dog she had adopted from her negligent neighbor. She missed him. As an adult she’d never had a pet to worry about. She and James, her late husband, had been too busy for a pet and then she’d learned she was pregnant. James had taken up her slack with Jamie, their little boy, during the extra-long hours she dedicated to the job. She missed them both so much. It had taken her a very long time to allow another living creature close. Now she had D-Boy. When she’d decided to come after Nick, she had panicked at first. Who would take care of D-Boy? She couldn’t just leave him locked up in the house, even with plenty of food and water and a doggie door providing access to the backyard. There was no way to calculate how long she would be gone.

She’d called Andy Keller, a lab tech in Montgomery. He was a friend. He’d been only too happy to come pick up D-Boy. He had a pit bull of his own. D-Boy would be fine with Andy.

Bobbie allowed her eyes to close and stopped fighting the need to shut down.


Five (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Coventry Court, Norcross, Georgia

6:05 a.m.

Nick Shade pulled on a pair of gloves and knocked on the door. The small brick house was the last in a cul-de-sac, with a yard bordered by trees on three sides. The two neighboring houses were empty, faded for-sale signs leaned precariously in the neglected yards. The driveway of his destination was empty and there was no garage. Overall, the condition of the house was poor at best. The only light or sound inside was a television set to the early-morning news broadcast from an Atlanta station.

If Lawrence Zacharias was in hiding, he’d picked a damned good place for camouflage. No one would look for the affluent, high-powered attorney in these living conditions.

Nick rapped on the door again. Their meeting had been scheduled for six. Either Zacharias was still en route or he wasn’t coming.

Fury twisted in Nick’s chest. Zacharias had ignored his calls and then, around midnight, he’d called to say they needed to meet in person. Zacharias had insisted he must pass along in person information imperative to Nick’s future. If the son of a bitch had ditched him, Nick would hunt him down no matter where he tried to hide. And when he found him, there would be no forgiveness.

If this was a distraction to keep Nick from catching up with Weller, Zacharias would pay for that misstep, as well.

One way or the other, he would end this cat-and-mouse game with Weller.

Nick made his way around to the rear entrance of the house. A small covered deck surrounded by the trees that grew denser behind the house allowed for a reasonable amount of privacy. When the door opened with nothing more than a twist of the knob, a new kind of tension filtered through Nick. He used the flashlight on his phone to confirm the lock had not been tampered with. Not just any lock either. Nick frowned. The door was secured with a state-of-the-art deadbolt set—only it was unlocked.

Inside the meteorologist on the newscast was giving a rundown of the day’s weather. Nick closed the door behind him and listened. No sound beyond the television. He inhaled a deep breath and analyzed the scents permeating the space.

Blood. Human waste. Both smelled fresh.

Defeat nudged him. No matter that he’d arrived on time for the meeting, he was too late.

He scanned the room with the flashlight app. No blood or evidence of foul play in the kitchen. As ramshackle as the house looked outside, the inside was clean with generous amenities. The fixtures were high-end. Nick wondered if Zacharias had used this place as a getaway during the more notorious days in his career.

He had a bad feeling the attorney’s career and likely his life were over.

He moved into the main room and there on a white sheet in the center of the room was Lawrence Zacharias. Weller had gotten here first. He’d taken Zacharias apart as he did all his victims. Nick’s jaw tightened with hatred. Weller started with an arm or a leg. All four limbs were separated at the joints, elbows and knees. Then, the stubs were chopped from the body at the main joint. The torso was divided in half and, finally, he removed the head. Before his incarceration, Weller had only taken victims to use in his art projects. He mutilated their bodies and spread the parts on a white sheet in some grotesque manner and then he painted the scene on a painter’s canvas.

Nick hesitated. One of Weller’s victims hadn’t been an art project. His wife—Nick’s mother—had discovered the kind of monster her husband was. Weller had murdered her and buried her in the backyard when Nick was only ten years old. For the next decade or so he had believed his mother had deserted him...that she hadn’t loved him enough to take him with her.

Just another reason to hate Weller.

Nick searched the house, knowing full well he would find nothing to help in his hunt for the bastard. Weller would have taken anything relevant with him. The only bedroom revealed another victim. This one a younger man. The younger victim’s shirt had survived mostly intact as his body had been chopped into pieces. The previously white polo shirt sported the logo of a well-known courier service.

Moving through the house a second time, Nick found nothing other than the smattering of possessions that apparently made Zacharias feel at home whenever he visited this place. A framed photo of his family sat on a table. Now the family that had deserted him was rid of the scourge on their name.

Nick slipped out the back door and into the darkness. The darkness had always been his closest ally. It was the one thing he could count on. He reached the car he’d parked three blocks away and climbed inside. His only recourse now was to attempt picking up Weller’s trail again. The murders were barely a couple of hours old. He wouldn’t have gotten far.

Several hours ago Bobbie had arrived in Atlanta. She’d gone to Zacharias’s home. The tracking software Nick had installed on her phone gave him her exact location every minute of every day. It wasn’t the same as being near her, but it made him feel better to know where she was and, to some degree, what she was doing.

If she steered clear of him maybe she would stay safe. Bobbie deserved a real life. He could never give her that.

His cell vibrated and Nick checked the screen.

Dwight Jessup.

Jessup was Nick’s resource within the FBI. Their relationship was a tenuous one, but Jessup had not let him down in the six years since they literally ran into each other on an investigation in Minnesota. Nick had been watching his target for weeks when Jessup showed up and accidentally plowed into the house where Nick had set up surveillance. An icy road had been the culprit. Jessup had also facilitated Nick’s way into Bobbie’s life.

He had no business being a part of her life now.

“You have something for me?” Nick asked, going straight to the point.

“The Atlanta field office is about to bring in Anthony LeDoux. The word is they think he has knowledge of your or Weller’s whereabouts. I thought you might want to know.”

Nick had suspected LeDoux was on the edge. The agent was almost as obsessed with stopping Weller as Nick.

“LeDoux is in Atlanta?” If he was here, he had a lead. Nick didn’t know why he was surprised—LeDoux was damned good at his job. At least he had been before almost losing his life to the Storyteller.

“Hold on and I’ll give you his exact location. I just saw the alert.”

Nick slid behind the wheel of the Buick he’d bought in Chattanooga in the middle of the night.

“Here we go,” Jessup said. “He’s at the Country Inn & Suites.”

Nick knew where LeDoux was before Jessup provided the physical address.

Bobbie was there, too.


Six (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Something shuddered against her. Bobbie stirred, tried to open her eyes. Too tired. Again that vibrating sensation nudged her. Somehow she pried her eyes open. It was dark. Her heart galloped during the three or four seconds it took for her brain to register where she was.

Hotel. LeDoux.

How would she ever find Nick?

That damned shuddering again.

Phone.

She felt under the cover for her cell. The sound of the shower drew her gaze first to the empty sofa and then in the direction of the bathroom. Light peeked from the crack around the door. LeDoux was in the shower.

What time was it? According to the digital clock on the bedside table it was 6:40 a.m.

Focus, Bobbie. Check your phone.

Text message.

Do not trust LeDoux.

Bobbie blinked and reread the message. Her breath trapped in her throat when her sluggish brain registered the sender’s name.

Nick.

Get away from him! Now!

Bobbie threw back the covers and sat up. She pushed her feet into her sneakers and tucked her cell into her back pocket. She shoved her Glock into her waistband, snatched the charger from the wall, tossed it into her bag and headed for the door. Before walking out she glanced back at the bathroom. The water was still running. The urge to kick the door in and make LeDoux tell her the truth about his intentions assaulted her.

Now! Nick had urged her to hurry.

Bobbie unlocked the door and slipped out.

As badly as she wanted to run she forced herself to walk through the lobby and across the parking lot. She tossed her bag into the back seat of her Challenger, climbed behind the wheel and slipped her Glock into the holster she kept between the seat and the console. At some point she might need to resort to a different vehicle. Her Challenger would be too easy to track. Her chest tightened. The smell of Bauer’s blood still lingered inside it. I’m so sorry.

Taking her time, she rolled out of the parking lot. Instead of heading for the interstate, she drove across the street and pulled into the adjacent parking lot. She chose a spot behind a row of crepe myrtles. She shut off the engine and waited. It was just past seven, still dark.

She stared at her phone and waited for another message from Nick, but nothing came.

Where are you?

She hit Send and held her breath.

Seconds turned into minutes and no response came.

Fingers cold, she placed the phone on the console. Twisting around to dig in her bag, she found the small purse she’d tucked her driver’s license and insurance card into. She pushed it aside and fished through the clothes until she found her hairbrush and a hair tie. It took a minute to untangle her hair and corral it into a ponytail after going to bed with it still damp. Once she’d shoved the brush back into her bag, she relaxed into the seat and watched the street.

Another five minutes passed and then the trouble Nick had warned her about arrived. No blue lights or sirens came. Just the dark, nondescript sedans the FBI preferred along with two Atlanta PD cruisers.

“You son of a bitch.”

Had LeDoux set her up? If she found out he’d killed Zacharias and had relevant insights he was keeping from her, she would make sure he regretted it.

Bobbie scanned the parking lot around her and then the street just to be sure she was still alone. She had a perfect view of the hotel entrance and the official vehicles that had descended on the parking area. LeDoux would be dressed and looking for her by now. If he was the one who’d called in the troops, she would know soon enough.

She waited, the seconds and minutes ticking off like tiny explosions in her brain. 7:31 a.m. Still no movement across the street. Anticipation had her foot stretching toward the accelerator. She should just drive away, but she had to know for sure if LeDoux had betrayed her. If she left now she might never know.

Two months ago when they were both being held hostage by the Storyteller, LeDoux had drawn the danger from her, sacrificing himself to protect her in that run-down cabin in the woods. Why would he suddenly turn on her now? It didn’t make sense.

She glanced at her cell phone. Nick had not responded to her question. He didn’t want her to know where he was. He didn’t want her to get involved. Bobbie shook her head. Of all people, he should understand by now that she was inextricably intertwined in this. As much as he didn’t want her coming to his aid, Nick would never lie to her. For whatever reason, he believed LeDoux was up to something that was not in her best interest.

Bobbie trusted Nick completely.

The entrance doors of the hotel flew open and two of the suits who’d gone in earlier marched out, LeDoux between them. He wasn’t wearing handcuffs but it was obvious he was being escorted out of the building. Halfway to the first of the official vehicles LeDoux stopped and turned to the agent trailing behind him. Bobbie leaned forward to get a better look at the agent. Female. Blond hair tucked into an updo. There was no way to know what she was saying to LeDoux, but it was clear from the body language that the two were arguing.

For a few beats they stared at each other in what appeared to be some sort of standoff. Finally the female agent glaring at LeDoux reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew something. A cell phone, maybe? She offered whatever it was and LeDoux snatched it from her hand. After walking a few yards away, LeDoux held the device to his ear. Definitely a cell phone.

Bobbie’s cell rattled on the console. She jumped. She picked up the device and stared at the screen. LeDoux.

For the space of another round of urgent vibrating Bobbie split her attention between the phone in her hand and the man across the street. Finally, she accepted the call. “What do you want?”

“Listen carefully,” he said. “I don’t know how you got the heads-up that I’d been located, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad one of us is still out there.”

“Are you saying you didn’t know they were coming?”

He glanced over his shoulder. The agents waited, watching his every move. “What I’m saying is this is my one phone call.”

“Are you under arrest?” Had Nick received bad information? Or was this LeDoux’s way of keeping her trust? Wait. That wasn’t likely. He had no way of knowing she was watching, and those FBI agents damned sure didn’t appear to be playing.

“Go to 162 East River Street in Savannah.”

Another call beeped in her ear. Bobbie checked the screen. Didn’t recognize the number. “What’s in Savannah?” she demanded. How could LeDoux be sure the package the courier had picked up from the attorney’s house had anything to do with Weller or Nick?

There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. The female shouted at LeDoux, warning him that it was time to go. As Bobbie watched, she moved toward him.

LeDoux turned his back to the woman. “I lied to you, Bobbie. The courier sold me the package for a hundred bucks. Find Amelia Potter. You have the address.”

“Who’s Amelia Potter? Is she a distant relative of—?”

“Just go.” His free hand went up stop-sign fashion to halt the agent’s approach. “When I finish speaking to my attorney, you can have my phone back and I’m all yours,” LeDoux snapped at the woman.

The agent backed off but they were clearly running out of time. Bobbie cut to the chase. “What was in the package?”

“Only one item,” LeDoux said, turning his back to the agent once more. “A recent photo of Nick Shade.”

While Bobbie absorbed that information, LeDoux dropped his phone on the asphalt and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. The female agent grabbed him by the arm and pointed to the damaged cell phone, her face twisted in anger. Another of the agents gathered the pieces of the broken phone from the ground.

The suits loaded up, LeDoux in tow, and drove away. Atlanta PD followed. Why would Zacharias send a photo of Nick to someone in Savannah? Was this Amelia Potter a distant relative or the front for a hit man or maybe another serial killer? Bobbie’s phone vibrated and she dragged her attention to the screen. Voice mail. Expecting to find another lecture from the chief or someone from her major crimes team, she tapped the screen and listened to the voice mail.

“Detective Gentry, this is Lieutenant Troy Durham from the Savannah Chatham Metropolitan Police Department. We’ve reopened a cold case and we found your name in the detective’s notes.” Durham exhaled a big breath. “Frankly, we’re hoping you can help.” He hesitated for a moment before going on. “If you could give me a call I’d really appreciate it. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

The call ended. Bobbie stared at the screen. She couldn’t imagine why her name would be in the notes of a cold case in Savannah, but the call and the address LeDoux had given her couldn’t be coincidence.

Something was happening in Savannah and somehow it involved Nick.

And her.


Seven (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Century Parkway, Atlanta

12:30 p.m.

Tony stared at the nameplate on the desk. Janet Kessler.

Supervisory Special Agent Janet Kessler.

LeDoux shook his head then remembered the hellacious headache he’d awakened with. Beer didn’t usually give him a hangover but he’d added the vodka. Apparently the lack of sleep and food along with dehydration and the quantity of alcohol had set a new precedent.

He’d been questioned about any contact he’d had with Zacharias and interrogated about Weller’s and Zacharias’s whereabouts. Most of the answers he’d given had been tactical evasions or flat-out lies.

A BOLO had been issued for Zacharias. The blood in his study was presumed to be the missing attorney’s. His driver’s body had been found in the home’s garage, cause of death a nasty blow to the back of the head. The driver’s car had been located in the parking lot of the Paces Ferry Road Home Depot. No blood in the car but there was a suitcase and a briefcase, both of which belonged to Zacharias. Cell phone, passport, money, all sorts of goodies were in the briefcase. He’d hired a private jet to take him out of the country. The pilot had been located and questioned. Zacharias hadn’t shown up for the flight—yet another indication he was dead. Not so surprising, Zacharias’s destination had been Maracaibo, Venezuela. Venezuela had no extradition treaty with the US.

“How cliché,” Tony muttered. Weller would be doing the same. If anyone involved in the search expected any different, they were fools.

Except Weller appeared to have something to take care of first. It was that something that would be his downfall...if Tony could figure out what the hell it was quickly enough maybe he could intercept the bastard.

That was the thing, the Bureau had nothing on Weller. Not one damned lead. At least Tony had Savannah.

After the last round of questioning, Tony had been sequestered to this room—to Kessler’s office. Nothing he hadn’t expected. She was on his short list of insiders who’d given Weller far too much leeway. Some-damned-body in the Bureau had been providing him with reports on his son and all sorts of other classified material. Kessler, Tony felt confident, was nothing more than a pawn—one close enough to keep a close watch on Weller.

Except she’d seriously fucked up.

The door opened and the uptight bitch walked in. Her navy skirt was snugger than it should be, ensuring that anyone who bothered to look noted her taut ass and toned legs. The white blouse showed more cleavage than necessary. The matching navy jacket fit her narrow waist, accentuating her nice tits.

That was the only damned thing nice about her. She wore her blond hair in one of those severe buns that suggested sexual repression, and just enough makeup to demonstrate she had a feminine side even if it was locked down tight to facilitate her climb up the management ladder. According to his research, she would do anything for a promotion. Didn’t mean she wasn’t damned good at her job, just a cold, calculating bitch who didn’t mind stepping over the bodies she left in her wake.

“I spoke at length with your supervisor.”

Yay. “Then you know I’m on administrative leave pending an OPR review.” No point beating around the bush. Supervisory Special Agent Rodney Pitts of the Behavioral Analysis Unit-2 had no doubt given her a complete rundown on his rogue profiler and his issues with the Office of Professional Responsibility.

The thought had no more flitted through his brain when the man himself entered the room. He closed the door and gave a nod to Kessler.

What the hell? Tony had expected that Pitts would be involved in the task force, after all Weller had been his pet project for more than a decade. In fact, Pitts’s rise up the ranks had more to do with Weller’s unprecedented cooperation than the man’s leadership ability. The first two years of Weller’s incarceration he had done little to back up the deal he’d made to lend his powers of analysis to the Bureau. Then suddenly he was all in and Pitts was on the fast track to stardom. The latest rumor was that Pitts would be the next unit chief at BAU. He’d already been offered a lucrative book deal on his work with Weller.

Pitts—above all others—should want Weller back where he belonged. The real question was, what had Pitts been giving Weller in exchange for his collaboration all these years? Tony had a feeling he’d provided the monster with whatever he’d wanted short of his freedom. All Tony had to do was prove it before the quest to uncover that truth cost him his career.

Kessler settled behind her desk and studied her notes while Pitts pulled a chair around so that he faced Tony. Pitts wasn’t that much older than him, late forties. His dark hair had started to gray at his temples but he hadn’t slowed down. A strict workout regimen kept him in shape and his expensive taste in suits ensured he always looked the part of a power player. His team—discounting Tony’s recent fall from grace—was the best in BAU. He had a smoking-hot wife and two perfect kids, despite spending sixteen hours a day at work.

Tony hated him on so many levels.

“It doesn’t look good for you, LeDoux,” Pitts announced. “You’ve had a stellar career with the Bureau until the past year. I’ve done all I can to save your ass, but this latest move may very well be the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Tony shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

Kessler braced her forearms across her desk and leaned forward a bit. “You could start by telling us the truth.”

Though Pitts was ultimately the one who set the rules where Weller’s interactions with the Bureau were concerned, Kessler was the boots on the ground, so to speak, in Atlanta. She took care of any special needs Weller had on a day-to-day basis. Sometimes Tony wondered if she was the reason the sick piece of shit had always seemed completely satisfied with his accommodations—at least until recently.

“I’ve already told you everything I know. Zacharias wouldn’t talk to me and I haven’t heard from Nick Shade. That’s all I got.” Tony turned up his hands. “I’m mostly hanging around to see the fireworks when the real shit hits the fan.”

A showdown was coming and not just the one between Shade and Weller.

“You are to return to Virginia immediately and stay put until the review into your recent actions is complete,” Pitts announced. “Your travel arrangements have been made and two of Kessler’s agents will escort you to Hartsfield and see that you board your flight.”

“No problem.” Tony readied to stand.

Kessler said, “Why don’t I believe you, Agent LeDoux?”

“No idea.” He collapsed in his seat once more. Damn he needed aspirin or, better yet, a couple of beers. If he’d required any additional proof that Kessler was Pitts’s puppet, he had it now.

“The task force is doing everything possible to find Dr. Weller,” Kessler reiterated as if Tony might not understand the situation. “I, for one, am convinced that the combined effort of the Southeast Regional Task Force of the US Marshals Service and the Bureau will locate him. Soon.”

Pitts nodded his agreement. “We will not allow him to get away. Whatever your misgivings, LeDoux, trust me on that one.”

“I can’t tell you how reassuring those words are, sir.” Tony had thrown that statement around himself on numerous occasions with no intention of backing it up. Trust was just a word. A word used to manipulate and appease.

His ire showing now, Pitts demanded, “Is it your intention to destroy your career the same way you did your marriage, Agent LeDoux?”

As hard as he tried to restrain his anger, Pitts had pushed his buttons with that one. “In case you’ve forgotten, my best friend destroyed my marriage when he decided to fuck my too-willing wife. At the moment, I haven’t made up my mind who’s working the hardest to destroy my career, me or you.”

When Pitts said nothing else, Tony stood. He turned his back and headed for the door.

“Just so we’re clear, LeDoux,” Kessler warned, her voice razor sharp. “Weller is mine. He escaped under my watch and I will see that he is captured.”

Tony hesitated and faced her once more. “Don’t worry, I got the message.” He glanced at his superior. “I’m out.”

He should have let it go at that, but some part of him couldn’t resist a final dig. He hesitated at the door and glanced back at the two he suspected were ultimately as instrumental in Weller’s escape as the prison nurse the bastard had chopped into nearly a dozen pieces. “Trust me on that.”

In the corridor, two agents waited for Tony. Without a word they escorted him to the first floor and out of the building. When they reached a waiting sedan, he said, “I’m starving. Any chance we can stop for lunch before we reach the airport?”

The two glanced at each other and then the taller one shrugged. “Why not? All you’ve got now is time, LeDoux.”

He flashed a fake smile. “Lucky me.”

Tony would get back to Virginia eventually, but right now he needed to be in Savannah.


Eight (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Habersham Street, Savannah

1:15 p.m.

Bobbie parked on the street. She’d spent almost as much time watching her rearview mirror as she had the highway during the nearly four-hour drive from Atlanta. She’d tried returning Lieutenant Durham’s call but she’d gotten his voice mail. Since she had no idea what the call was about or the actual identity of the caller, she’d opted not to leave a message. In fact, she’d decided to drive directly to Savannah-Chatham Metro headquarters and make sure Durham was actually who he claimed to be. The address LeDoux had given her would have to wait until she made a decision as to whether or not she was walking into a trap. At this point she didn’t trust anyone except Nick.

Climbing out of her Challenger, she surveyed the headquarters. The building was a collage of the new and the old, the newer part of the three-story brick building’s facade being a deeper red like the Georgia clay for which the state was known. A wide sidewalk led from the street to the steps and created a border around flowering shrubs and sago palms. Majestic oaks draped with moss blocked the afternoon sun. Bobbie climbed the half a dozen steps that rose to the main entrance. The glass doors were decorated with orange pumpkin cutouts and ghosts. Inside a wide counter cut through the center of the lobby, a statue of a big black cat waited on the counter, back arched in fury. On the entrance side of the counter the usual bulletin board loaded with notices and dispatches hung on the wall to the left. Beneath it stood a table covered with informative and instructional brochures. Four chairs lined the wall to the right. Typical police headquarters lobby. Straightforward and practical.

A receptionist looked up from her desk behind the counter. She adjusted her reading glasses. “May I help you?”

Bobbie held up her badge. “I’m Detective Gentry. I received a call from a Lieutenant Durham.”

The sixtyish woman—Delores Waldrop, according to the nameplate on the desk—smiled. “Oh yes. Troy asked me to be on the lookout for your call. I guess you decided coming in person was better. Montgomery, right?”

Bobbie nodded. “That’s right.”

Delores removed her reading glasses and let them fall against her chest, a strand of pearls serving as the neck strap that held them in place. She shook her head. “Sorry. I was under the impression you were a man.”

Bobbie produced a smile. “It happens. Is the lieutenant available?”

The woman’s expression turned somber. “Since you’re here in person, I’ll send you straight on over to his location.” She drew in a heavy breath. “We’ve had quite a startling day. It started just after midnight.”

Deciding it was better not to mention that she didn’t have a clue what was going on, Bobbie nodded as if she understood completely.

Delores stood and moved toward the counter. “You spend your whole life thinking you know someone and then you discover you never knew them at all.” She shook her head as she reached for a tourist-type map of the city from the neat stack next to the sign-in sheet. “All right.” She circled a spot on the map. “This is where we are. You’ll go right on East Jones.” She traced the route and then handed the map to Bobbie. “It’s just a little piece off Skidaway Road. Look for the Happy Pets Veterinary Clinic. If you get to the cemetery on Bonaventure, you’ve gone too far. It’ll take you about ten minutes to get there from here.”

Bobbie thanked her and walked out of the building the same way she’d entered. As she settled behind the wheel, she considered that the sweatshirt and jeans she wore weren’t exactly proper work attire, but hopefully her excuse that she was on vacation would fly. Maybe she could gain some insight as to what was going on and why someone had inserted her name into the situation before the locals figured out her sticky situation. One call to her chief and she would probably be escorted back to the interstate.

She itched to drive by the address LeDoux had given her but she had to do this first. The more time Durham had before she spoke to him, the more opportunity he had to reach out to Montgomery PD for additional information. Whatever she could learn before that happened might help find Weller. She’d spent most of the drive trying to recall a case where a detective from Savannah had called her or Newt—Howard Newton—her former partner. Newt had died two months ago after a run-in with the Storyteller. The hurt sliced through her chest afresh.

Miss you.

Since she couldn’t call Newt and checking in with Sergeant Lynette Holt, her immediate supervisor back in Montgomery, was out of the question, Bobbie had to rely on her memory and so far she hadn’t recalled ever assisting a Savannah detective on any sort of case. If Newt had taken a call from this department he wouldn’t have given her name as a point of contact without telling her.

Although both cities were positioned next to a river, Savannah and Montgomery had little else in common. The many manicured parks and the ornate antebellum architecture made Savannah a definite tourist destination. The city’s label as one of the most haunted places in the world didn’t hurt tourism either. Savannah had a slow, genteel feel about it, far more so than Montgomery. The politics of being a state capitol gave Montgomery a not always pleasant underlying intensity Savannah didn’t suffer. She and James had spent a few days here before Jamie was born—a babymoon, her husband had called it.

Like the receptionist said, the drive scarcely took ten minutes. The half dozen official vehicles and the crime scene tape were visible as soon as Bobbie hit the intersection before her final turn. Two news vans had been pushed back a block from the scene. As she stopped for the uniform at the perimeter, she noted a coroner’s van. Definitely a homicide. Not surprising. For a city so laid-back and steeped in history and tourism, Savannah had an inordinately higher than average violent crime rate.

Bobbie showed her badge to the officer. “Lieutenant Durham is expecting me.”

The uniform stationed at the outer perimeter nodded and pointed to the side of the road beyond the house and the more modern clinic where all the official vehicles were gathered. “Park anywhere over there.”

Bobbie rolled forward, easing off the road and onto the grass. The veterinary clinic had been built next to an older craftsman bungalow, probably historic, much like the ones back home. The typical oak trees dripping with moss surrounded it. The house appeared well maintained and the lawn was nicely manicured. The same was true of the clinic. Pumpkins sat near the doors while witches and ghosts hung from a couple of trees. A sign advertising a church trunk-or-treat was posted in the front yard of the house. She showed her badge again as she approached the inner perimeter of yellow tape that draped around the property. The uniform gave her a nod and lifted the tape.

Since the activity was focused in the grassy area slightly beyond the clinic, Bobbie bypassed the sidewalk that forked, one side going toward the clinic and the other toward the house, and followed the stepping stones around the corner of the clinic. The yard was larger than expected. Dogs yapped in the fenced-in kennels behind the clinic. Between the clinic and the woods was a small park. Wait, no. As she moved closer she recognized headstones. Not a park, a cemetery. The small cemetery could have been any one of the thousands of family cemeteries that dotted the Old South. An old-fashioned iron fence surrounded the space. More of those big old trees with low-hanging limbs shaded the slumbering residents. Bobbie surveyed the first of the small headstones she encountered. Except this cemetery was for pets. The statue of an angel partially covered in moss watched over the rows of markers. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around the iron fence, the breeze making the plastic flop back and forth against the metal.

Two guys in suits, detectives she suspected, as well as a couple of forensic techs dressed in full protective gear stood around a grouping of small statues in the center of the cemetery. Another man, this one wearing protective clothing, as well, knelt next to a broken statue. Now that Bobbie looked more closely, all the statues were damaged in some way. An arm broken off, the head missing. The statues ranged in size from three to five feet—children. The intricately detailed pigtails and wide skirt of a little girl as if she were skipping along. A perfectly formed baseball cap on a little boy with bat in hand. The sculptor certainly showed a talent for capturing the essence of children at play.

She hadn’t spotted a body but there had to be one around here somewhere. As if she’d said as much aloud, a man turned and looked at her. His cowboy boots, jeans and button-down shirt told her little, but the weapon in the shoulder holster, the shield clipped at his waist and the weary look on his face said plenty. This was Lieutenant Troy Durham. The cell phone he held at his ear was likely the reason he had turned from the activity. Maybe to hear better or maybe because he’d received a call to say Bobbie was headed his way.

He tucked the phone into his back pocket and walked toward Bobbie, meeting her a few yards from the ongoing activity. Thrusting out his hand he said, “Troy Durham. Glad you could make it, Detective Gentry.” Confusion or something along those lines furrowed his face. “I apologize for staring, but I had you figured for male and a whole lot older.”

As tired as she was, Bobbie smiled. “And I was certain you would be a little older yourself and maybe a lot shorter.” Durham was probably late thirties. Very tall, blond hair, blue eyes. The way his shirt and jeans fit, it was clear he spent a good deal of his off-duty time at the gym. His current attire made her feel loads better about her own.

He laughed, the sound as fatigued as the lines around his eyes. “I guess I had that one coming.”

“So what’s going on?” If he felt her driving all this way rather than simply calling until she reached him was odd, he kept it to himself.

He glanced back at the damaged statues. Bobbie watched as a trace sheet was spread on the grass and bones—small bones—were placed one by one onto the sheet by a forensic tech or a coroner. Near the statue with the missing head was another trace sheet with a lone human skull placed on it. A child’s skull.

A lump formed in Bobbie’s throat. What the hell happened here?

“Why don’t we go inside where we can speak in private?”

Bobbie drew her attention back to the lieutenant and followed him across the yard. The dogs in the kennels yapped even louder as they passed along the backside of the clinic. Durham led the way straight to the back porch of the house that was apparently part of the crime scene. More of that yellow tape adorned the perimeter. Durham tossed his keys to a passing officer and asked him to bring his briefcase inside. As Durham opened the door another forensic tech exited. Inside, the kitchen was clear of bodies and official personnel. No sign of foul play. No coppery smell of blood. The room was clean save for the scattering of dust used for collecting prints. Apparently, all the trouble was outside.

Durham settled his attention on her once more. “I guess I’m a little confused.”

“Because I’m a woman or because I’m younger than you expected?” Maybe there was another detective somewhere with the name Bobbie Gentry. But it was her cell phone number Durham had called.

“Have you ever consulted on a case in this jurisdiction?”

Bobbie shook her head. “Never.”

Maybe the call from Durham had been sheer coincidence. She thought of the name and address LeDoux had given her. No way. Whoever had given her name and number to Durham wanted her in Savannah as this case broke. But why? Wouldn’t be Nick. Weller? He was the most likely possibility. Could be LeDoux, but that option was doubtful. He’d already given her a reason to come to Savannah.

The officer returned with Durham’s briefcase and keys. Durham thanked him and placed his briefcase on the floor. He dug out a brown file folder. The edges were dog-eared as if the contents had been rifled through a thousand times. He spread the folder on the counter and flipped through a collection of photos—photos of children. The children ranged in age from three to five or six. Three boys, two girls. There was no particular consistency to their appearance. Dark hair, light hair, brown, blue, green eyes. With each photo Bobbie’s heart rate increased and the lump in her throat expanded.

The photos of the children were stamped with the word MISSING. She thought of the broken statues and the bones outside. Not anymore. These children were dead. Their remains were right out that door.

Damn.

A sheen of sweat rose on her skin.

“See here.” Durham pointed to a handwritten note in the file. “Detective Mike Rhodes, the detective in charge of this case back when the kids went missing, mentioned you in his notes.”

Sure enough, there was Bobbie’s name and cell phone number at the bottom of one of the detective’s reports. Her mouth dropped open when she read the date. Thirty-two years ago. Bobbie laughed. “I’m certain you don’t need me to point out that this report is dated three months before I was born. How many people had cell phones back then?”

Durham shrugged, his expression warning he was as stumped as she was. “Honestly, whether this was a cell number or a landline didn’t occur to me.”

“May I?” She indicated the note.

“Be my guest.”

Bobbie gingerly picked up the report and studied the handwriting in the upper portions and then her name and phone number. Whoever had added her contact info had taken great care to match the handwriting.

“This is a copy.” She placed the report back on the folder. “If we had the original we could prove my information was added more recently.” Like yesterday. She examined the pile of documents in the folder. Most appeared to be originals. Why was this one a copy?

“Yeah, I noticed that, too.” Durham considered her for a moment. “Why would anyone want me to call you about this case?”

Where to begin? “Well, Lieutenant, I’m afraid the only explanation I can give you will take some time and it’s complicated. Worse, I can’t guarantee you it’s the right one.”

Durham closed the file and tucked it back into his briefcase. “You had a long drive. Did you have a chance to stop for lunch?”

Food was the last thing on her mind. “I didn’t, but I’m good.”

“Well, I’m not. There’s a hole-in-the-wall café a few blocks from here. Why don’t you fill me in over lunch and my unit will take care of things here for half an hour or so.”

Bobbie would prefer to be out there determining how many sets of remains had been discovered and what they could possibly have to do with Weller, but this was Durham’s case and his town. “Just one question. Is the person who lives here or runs the clinic somehow involved in what’s happening in the pet cemetery?”

“Unfortunately that’s what it looks like.” Durham hitched his head toward the other room. “See for yourself.”

She followed the lieutenant into the living room and then down a narrow hall. At the first door on the left he gestured for her to go in ahead of him. Bobbie stalled in the open doorway. An adult male victim was on his knees in front of the toilet, his body was nude and his head was deep in the bowl. Bobbie leaned nearer to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was. A grayish powder was splattered on the white vinyl floor. Urine had trickled from between the vic’s legs and joined the powdery substance. As she leaned closer still, her eyebrows went up. The toilet bowl had been filled with what appeared to be concrete and the vic’s head had been shoved into the mixture and held there until it hardened.

Bobbie glanced back at Durham. “Homeowner?”

Durham nodded. “Dr. Bill Sanders. He’s lived in Savannah his whole life. He built the veterinary clinic next door. His motto was to never turn away a sick animal whether the owner could pay or not. He was a highly respected member of his church. The first to volunteer whenever help was needed. We’re all in shock.”

“Does he live here alone?” Her mind instantly ran down the possibilities of how this man, Sanders, could be connected to Weller.

“The wife’s down the hall, in the other bathroom. They just got the body out of the tub. The coroner is having a look at her. We called in both coroners for this one.”

Bobbie was surprised they had two coroners. Montgomery was lucky to have one part-time coroner.

“Nancy Sanders was a retired elementary school teacher. No children. Everybody always said the animals were their kids,” Durham went on. “Neither of them ever had so much as a parking ticket. Their killer didn’t seem to be interested in anything of value in the house. Her jewelry is on the dresser. A couple hundred bucks in cash was left in his wallet. Credit cards. As best we can tell, nothing’s missing.”

Like the scene at Zacharias’s home...except with bodies and the remains.

Durham showed Bobbie the way past a small bedroom to the end of the hall where what had likely once been two bedrooms had been remodeled into a master suite. Two men, one carrying a portable jackhammer and the other armed with a large crowbar, filed out of the room. A trace sheet had been placed on the floor near the bed. The female vic, early-to mid-sixties, was stretched out there. Most of her nude body was covered in bits and pieces of gravel-like fragments. The grayish film and fragments coated her hair and face.

“They had to jackhammer the concrete from around her. She was submerged up to her eyes.”

Gruesome way to go. Had the victims, including the children, still been alive when they were encased in that concrete? Suppressing a shudder, Bobbie shifted her attention back to the lieutenant. “Have you spoken to the original detective in charge of the case?”

“He died five years ago. Both the primary detectives who investigated those missing kids back when the case was active are gone now. Last year we started a new Cold Case Unit but they hadn’t gotten around to this one yet.”

“Were the Sanderses persons of interest thirty-two years ago?”

Durham shook his head. “According to the file, they were instrumental in organizing community search parties and raising awareness of what folks should be doing to keep their children safe.”

“Obviously they were instrumental in a whole lot more.”

“Obviously.”

“The remains found in those statues are the children you showed me?”

“We haven’t started the official ID process but we have reason to believe they are, yes.”

“Why were the statues here—in a pet cemetery?” Bobbie assumed the statues had been some sort of tribute to the missing children but it seemed an odd place for a memorial. Besides, the cemetery appeared far older than the clinic.

“The way I always heard it Dr. Sanders insisted he was concerned the community would forget about the children so he created a memorial to them. Three of the five kids who went missing brought their pets to his clinic. That pet cemetery had been in his family for generations.” He glanced at the dead woman on the floor. “This is completely crazy.”

Murder was always heinous, but when it involved a child it was unspeakable. What did this decades-old case have to do with Weller? Or Nick? Or her, for that matter? There had to be a connection, otherwise Bobbie would not have been drawn into the investigation. “Lieutenant, I’m guessing you know who Dr. Randolph Weller is and that he recently escaped the federal prison in Atlanta.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with this.” He shrugged, glanced around as if to ensure no one was listening, then added, “But I damned well intend to find out. You ready for that lunch now?”

“Sure.”

Bobbie assumed he had his reasons for wanting to keep their discussion off the record. Durham claimed his briefcase, informed another detective that he needed to take a break and then he ushered Bobbie to his vehicle, a silver Chevy Tahoe.

The barking dogs had her glancing back at the kennels.

“We fed all the animals this morning,” Durham explained as he opened the passenger-side door for her. “As soon as we’ve removed the bodies and the...remains, we’ll contact the owners to pick up their pets.”

When they’d driven a couple of minutes, Bobbie recognized they weren’t heading back toward town. Instead he drove to the Bonaventure Cemetery and parked.

“I hope you meant it when you said you weren’t interested in lunch because I couldn’t eat right now if my life depended upon it.”

Bobbie considered the man. “Is there someone in your unit you don’t trust?” She glanced around. “I’m sure you didn’t bring me here to show off one of your famous tourist spots.”

He shook his head. “The detectives in my homicide unit are the best. This case has haunted Savannah for a long time. The idea that those missing children were right under our noses all these years is hard to swallow. Jesus. Bill Sanders sculpted those statues and dedicated them to the children.” He looked away. “How sick is that?”

“People show you the face they want you to see.” She had learned that lesson the hard way. “Sometimes it’s very different from who they really are.”

Durham exhaled a heavy breath. “Right now my main objective is to keep the whole thing quiet until we understand what the hell happened.”

Bobbie had a feeling that keeping this investigation quiet would not be in any way easy. She imagined most of his department was composed of locals who had known those kids or who knew their families.

“And frankly,” Durham added, “I’m struggling with who may have tampered with this file. No offense, but what could you or this Randolph Weller possibly have to do with my case?”

Where to begin? Keep it simple and to the point. “Nearly a year ago I worked with the FBI on a joint task force to stop the Storyteller. Heard of him?”

Durham nodded. “He was—oh hell. You’re the victim who survived.”

Bobbie cleared her throat of the lump still lodged there. “That’s me.” The image of those small bones back there flashed over and over in her head. “He murdered my husband. He was the reason my little boy and my partner died.”

“I’m sorry.” Durham shook his head. “I’m even sorrier you had to see what we found in that cemetery.”

Bobbie stared out the windshield at the headstones of the famous cemetery standing tall beneath the moss-draped oaks. “I’m a cop. We see things.” She turned to him. “The Storyteller’s dead, but what happened with him drew another serial killer’s attention my way.”

And Nick’s. He was the primary reason she had survived.

“Weller?”

She nodded. “In addition to more than forty murders in the past, he orchestrated several murders in Montgomery during the past eight days. I believe Weller is attempting to lure me into some twisted game he’s determined to play out in your backyard. If I’m right, then he may have been responsible for the murders of your two newest victims. I don’t know about the children. None of this is his usual MO but I’ve learned recently that isn’t always relevant.” She took a breath. “I’m not sure I could possibly find the right words to convey to you the depth of Weller’s knowledge and insights into other killers—or the depraved acts he’s capable of carrying out.”

“I read the report on him that hit the wires Tuesday night.” He shook his head. “That’s the first I’d heard of him.”

“Do you know if he ever consulted on any cases in Savannah? Before your time, maybe? Prior to being outed as a serial killer himself, he often consulted with the police and the FBI on difficult cases.”

“I have no idea.” Durham blew out a disgusted breath. “I left Savannah right after high school. I only returned three years ago. I’m still catching up on the past sixteen years. Hell, I got the call about the Sanderses just after midnight. A noise disturbance was reported around eleven-thirty. When uniforms showed up the front door was open and the television was blaring. If one of my uniforms hadn’t needed to take a piss and literally stumbled over one of the damaged statues with bones falling out of it, we probably wouldn’t have noticed the remains until daylight. By four this morning I was digging out this damned cold case file. Sometime around my tenth cup of coffee I found the reference to you. My head has been spinning ever since.”

“Was the 911 caller male or female?”

“Male.” He rubbed at his temple. “One of the neighbors. He’s been interviewed, but he didn’t see anything. The noise woke him up and he called it in.”

Bobbie digested the information for a moment. “I wish I could give you more. What I’ve told you is my best assessment based on what you have so far.”

She decided not to mention Nick or the woman LeDoux told her about. Durham seemed like a nice guy, but right now it was best not to be too trusting even with kind strangers who were cops. She’d trusted Steven Devine. After a decade in Birmingham PD, he’d transferred to Montgomery PD a month ago to replace her partner. Fury tightened her gut.

“If someone in my department added your name to the case file,” Durham said, drawing her attention back to him, “I need to figure out who the hell he or she is. I’ll get the Records Section working on that ASAP.” He stared out over the cemetery. “If this Weller character is the one who wants you involved in this case, there must be a reason. You think your department will have a problem with your sticking around in an advisory capacity for a few days?”

Bobbie laughed. “That’s another complicated story, but the abbreviated answer is no. I’ll bring my chief and my lieutenant up to speed as soon as I have a better handle on what’s going on.”

Durham shifted back into Drive. “Well, let’s get started then. The sooner we figure out this mess, the sooner we can stop it.”

Five dead children.

Bobbie closed her eyes as they headed back to the crime scene.

What the hell are you trying to show me, Weller?

He’d warned her that every ounce of courage and tenacity she possessed would be required to survive what was coming.

Bobbie glanced at the man behind the wheel. If Weller had started this, Durham had no idea just how bad things were going to get.


Nine (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

East River Street

2:30 p.m.

“How’re you today, Ms. Balfour?” Amelia Potter smiled as her oldest client settled at the table. The elderly woman refused to allow anyone to assist her into or out of a chair. She contended that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

“I’m just peachy.” Ninety-four-year-old Camille Balfour propped her umbrella against her chair and then loosened her scarf to let it drop from her head to her shoulders. “Every morning I wake up is a blessing.”

“A blessing, indeed.” Amelia had already washed her hands so she picked up her deck. The worn cards felt like an extension of her. She’d found this deck twenty-five years ago and she’d used it since. A good deck of tarot cards was like an old, dependable friend. Part of the magic was in the relationship. “I hear those great-grandchildren came to see you this past weekend.”

Camille’s smile chased away the ravages of age, lifted her sagging jowls and brightened her eyes. “You better believe it. Lauren graduated from medical school back in May and Gwyneth will graduate next spring. She’s going to be an attorney. Two smart girls.”

“Just like their great-grandma.”

Camille reached across the table with one hand gnarled by the progression of rheumatoid arthritis and clasped Amelia’s. “I’m having visions again.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “I’ve been worrying about you all week.”

Camille had never been a reader of the tarot. She’d never traded her knowing for money the way Amelia did, but not all were blessed with family money. The truth was until Camille had confided in Amelia that she felt things, she’d never before confessed aloud her abilities for fear of reprisal from her late husband, from his family and the community. She had held firm to her station in life and never permitted the slightest impropriety. It was the way of things with her generation.

Amelia set her cards aside and patted the dear woman’s hand. “Why in the world would you be worrying about me?”

Camille chuckled. “You know I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Mia.”

No one called her Mia except Camille. Amelia’s parents had kicked her out of their home outside Atlanta when she was sixteen. She didn’t hold it against them. She’d allowed herself to get involved with drugs and the wrong people. Three years of dealing with her issues had worn down her parents. It was a miracle she had survived her own recklessness. A sad smile tugged at her lips. If she hadn’t come to Savannah and ended up pregnant, she might have lost her life to those damned drugs.

Her little boy had saved her. Her heart squeezed painfully. If only...

Cold fingers tightened on her hand. “Mia, someone is coming and whoever it is she won’t let me sleep. I keep seeing her running through the woods with you. The trouble is right behind the two of you and I...” She shook her head, her rheumy eyes shining with emotion. “I’m terrified for you, Mia.”

Amelia smiled at her old friend. “For thirty-seven years you’ve helped me. Whether it was a safe bed to sleep in or a hot meal in my belly, you watched out for me until I could watch out for myself.” She didn’t mention how Camille had ensured Amelia was accepted at one of the best private rehab facilities in Georgia all those years ago or how she’d cosigned with her at the bank when she purchased this shop. Her friend was well aware of all she’d done. “It’s time for me to watch out for you. You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I’m doing just fine.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/debra-webb/the-coldest-fear/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.