Читать онлайн книгу «No Darker Place» автора Debra Webb

No Darker Place
Debra Webb
They want revenge. They need each other.Detective Bobbie Gentry has one objective: to stop the serial killer who robbed her of her husband, her child and her life. Nick Shade understands Bobbie's pain–and her desire for vengeance. He's on a mission of his own, and the murderer known as the Storyteller is next on his list. Nick knows that the best way to find his target is to stick close to Bobbie. But as she becomes more and more reckless in her attempts to lure the Storyteller out of hiding, he has to make a choice. Will he protect her from herself even if it means passing up the chance to take out one more monster? As for Bobbie, she's forced to decide just how much she can trust this stranger who knows so much about her. And both of them are about to learn whether or not two broken people can save each other.


They want revenge. They need each other.
Detective Bobbie Gentry has one objective: to stop the serial killer who robbed her of her husband, her child and her life. Nick Shade understands Bobbie’s pain—and her desire for vengeance. He’s on a mission of his own, and the murderer known as the Storyteller is next on his list. Nick knows that the best way to find his target is to stick close to Bobbie. But as she becomes more and more reckless in her attempts to lure the Storyteller out of hiding, he has to make a choice. Will he protect her from herself even if it means passing up the chance to take out one more monster? As for Bobbie, she’s forced to decide just how much she can trust this stranger who knows so much about her. And both of them are about to learn whether or not two broken people can save each other.
Praise for the novels of Debra Webb (#u2ef781e5-dc56-5d2d-b98d-c0ecc3b52fea)
“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
No Darker Place
Debra Webb


www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Every day is a gift. Every moment of life should be appreciated and never taken for granted. But life can be hard sometimes. Sometimes it can take us to very dark places. During those times having someone to hold your hand, to simply stand beside you is an incredible blessing. This book is dedicated to my amazing husband. During more than four decades of marriage we have enjoyed many wonderful times and a few not so wonderful. Not once has he wavered. He has gone to every dark place with me and held my hand, giving me strength in the most difficult of times. Nonie, I will always love you.
Acknowledgments (#u2ef781e5-dc56-5d2d-b98d-c0ecc3b52fea)
When I was a little girl my grandmother would tell me the most intriguing ghost stories. I’m convinced she is the reason I love creating stories filled with mystery and suspense today. Mary Talkington Proctor, my grandmother, was small in stature and big in heart. She washed clothes by hand, cooked on a woodstove and always spoke her mind. Though she never lived or visited more than a few miles beyond her birthplace, her imagination wandered far and wide. I will always miss her and cherish the memories we made together.
Born and raised in small town Alabama, I love writing stories set here. When I chose Montgomery for the Shades of Death series the first of many research trips was scheduled. My dear friend Lisa Day played the part of chauffeur and assistant. Despite the occasional foray into dubious territory, we had an amazing time. Lisa is the kind of friend every woman should have—reliable, honest and simply awesome.
There are many people I want to thank. Officer Frederick J. Brewer for rescuing us that very first night in Montgomery when we had a flat tire. Thanks to Terry at Firestone for getting us squared away the next morning. A big thanks to Chief Bryan and Captain Atchison of the Montgomery Sheriff’s Office; and a special thanks to Lieutenant Barnes and Lieutenant Dean of the Montgomery Police Department.
As always I can’t imagine taking this journey without the amazing Marijane Diodati, who is relentless and incredible and I adore her. A big shout-out to my fantastic Street Team—truly good friends and the absolute best cheerleaders. A very special thanks to Denise Zaza for always believing in me.
Finally, please know that any errors or additions to the facts are mine and mine alone. Authors sometimes take creative license when writing a story. For instance, a coroner’s office and an FBI field office might be added to the setting. Certainly any inspiration for characters is always taken from the very best of those I encounter and the very worst my twisted mind can conjure! Happy reading!
Contents
Cover (#ue80bdeae-f49e-5ee0-902e-5d67ee96fae5)
Back Cover Text (#u95c367f9-80b3-5213-8207-bcae190a4179)
Praise (#u50cb5958-524f-5ea1-8109-66f8c068da0a)
Title Page (#uad9f335e-8a3a-51f8-9c0f-2baaf938b89f)
Dedication (#u1f37984a-cf4c-5051-8442-bfc53d632a18)
Acknowledgments (#ufad115da-d839-567a-93e0-73fb79925822)
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Over and over she cursed herself for the path she chose to take.
The pain a reminder of those devastated for her sake.
One (#u2ef781e5-dc56-5d2d-b98d-c0ecc3b52fea)
“What other dungeon is so dark as one’s own heart!”
—Nathaniel Hawthorne
Vaughn Road, Montgomery, Alabama
Friday, August 26, 10:30 a.m.
Detective Bobbie Gentry wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Despite the early hour she was melting right here on the sidewalk like a forgotten ice-cream cone. The weather forecast called for a high of 101 today—the same kind of record-breaking temps the capital city had been experiencing for fifteen grueling days in a row.
The line of thunderstorms that had swept through about the same time her phone rang that morning hadn’t helped one bit. Steam rose from the simmering asphalt, disappearing into the underbellies of the blue-and-white Montgomery PD cruisers lining the sidewalk. The meteorologist who’d insisted milder temps were on the way had seriously overestimated the cool front accompanying this morning’s storm. The rain had done nothing but ramp up the suffocating humidity.
She’d been a cop for ten years, a detective for seven of those, and she’d learned the hard way that relentless heat made people crazy. Like the father of four currently holed up in the modest ranch-style home across the street.
Carl Evans had no criminal record whatsoever—not even a parking ticket. According to his wife, the checkup he’d had three months ago showed him to be in good health. Their middle daughter had been diagnosed with a form of childhood leukemia a year ago, and they’d gone through a serious financial crisis a couple of months back, but both issues were under control now. The husband had no problems at work as far as his wife knew.
And yet he’d arrived home at two this morning with no explanation for where he’d been and with no desire to discuss his uncharacteristic behavior. At seven, he’d climbed out of bed, promptly corralled all four of his children into one bedroom and told his wife to call the police.
Bobbie’s radio crackled. “No go. I’m coming out,” vibrated across the airwaves.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered as crisis negotiator Sergeant Paul York exited the house and double-timed it to her side of the police barrier. York was a small, wiry man of five-eight or so, the same height as her. His less intimidating size and kind, calming presence made him damned good at his job as a facilitator of nonviolent resolutions. Those same traits, however, belied his unquestionable ability to take charge of a situation and physically contain the threat when the need arose.
“What happened?” she demanded, bracing her hands on her hips. She was not going to have a hostage die on her watch. The fear she refused to allow a foothold kept reminding her that these hostages were children.
This wouldn’t be the first time you allowed a child to die.
Not going to happen today.
“He won’t talk to me.” York tugged at his black tie, his gray shirt still crisp despite the rising humidity and immeasurable frustration. “His wife refuses to leave the house as long as the kids are in there.”
“Who can blame her?” Bobbie exhaled a blast of exasperation. Before York had arrived on the scene, she’d spoken to Mrs. Evans by phone. Anna Evans insisted she had no idea what had set off her husband. To her knowledge, he had never owned a weapon, much less used one. He was a CPA at Latimer, Latimer and Burton, for Christ’s sake. He’d worked there since he graduated from Vanderbilt two decades ago. His wife was completely stunned by his actions.
“Did he give you any idea what he wants?” Bobbie needed something here. Evans surely had a goal he hoped to attain or a statement to make. How the hell could a purportedly humble CPA cause this damned much trouble?
“He wouldn’t say a word.” York’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “Not a single word.”
SWAT Commander Zeke Miller held up his hands as if he’d experienced an epiphany. “We’re wasting time. He could kill those children while we’re standing out here with our thumbs up our asses. It’s time we went in.”
Bobbie rolled her eyes. What was he thinking? The polar opposite of York, Miller was a big, muscular guy with an ego to match. His reputation for playing hard and fast was well-known, but this was her crime scene, and she wasn’t going the guns-blazing route. At least not yet.
“And get those kids killed for sure?” Bobbie argued, ignoring the fear gnawing at the edge of her bravado. “Evans has them standing around him in a huddle. Your guys can’t get a clear shot at him. A flash bang could freak him out and prompt a shooting spree. And you want to go charging in there?” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, daring him to challenge her assessment. “Is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with that scenario?”
Miller glowered at her, but neither he nor York had a ready response for her assessment. There was no easy way to do this, and everyone present understood that unfortunate fact.
“Where the hell is Newton?” Miller demanded. “We need a senior detective on the scene. Are you even cleared for a situation like this, Gentry?”
Despite the fury his words ignited, Bobbie smiled. This chauvinistic hothead was not going to get the better of her when four children’s lives depended on her staying calm and collected. “My partner’s daughter is getting married this weekend, so he’s not here. You’ve got me, and I’m as fit for duty as you, Miller. Deal with it.”
His arrogant sneer warned he wasn’t going to let it go so easily.
“We got movement at the front door!” a uniform shouted.
Renewed adrenaline rushing through her veins, Bobbie turned toward the house as the front door slowly opened. Please let it be the children coming out. As much as she wanted everyone present to believe she was as strong as she once was and that she had everything under control...doubt nagged at her. What if she failed? What if someone died—again—because of her mistakes?
No looking back. Focus, Bobbie.
Barefoot and wearing a white terry-cloth robe, Anna Evans stepped cautiously onto the narrow porch, her hands raised high and her red hair tousled as if she hadn’t combed it since climbing out of bed. Her face was as white as the robe she wore. She was immediately surrounded by Montgomery PD uniforms and ushered across the street.
“One less potential victim,” Bobbie muttered. What the devil was this guy doing? He’d made no demands. He refused to interact with the negotiator. Any time a perp took a hostage and waved around a weapon, he wanted something.
The distant ache in her skull that had started the minute she’d received the call expanded into a dull throb. She resisted the urge to yank free the clasp holding her long brown hair off her shoulders so she could massage the pain away. No need to illustrate to all present that her headaches were still around. The whole department already watched her every move to see if she would crack under the stress. No matter that she had been back to work for four weeks without falling down on the job, she was still the detective who had shattered like delicate, handblown glass thrown against a wall seven months ago. The whole damned world knew that a couple of surgeons and shrinks, as well as a good half of the year, had been required to put her back together again.
Stay sharp, Bobbie. No letting the past intrude.
Once behind the police barricade, the uniforms released Anna Evans, and she almost collapsed on the pavement before they could catch hold of her again.
“We need a medic,” Bobbie shouted. She moved toward the woman. “Are you injured, Mrs. Evans?”
She shook her head, her eyes red and swollen from hours of crying. “Are you Detective Gentry?”
“Yes, ma’am. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.” The woman appeared unharmed and reasonably composed for a terrified mother. Let this be a good sign.
Anna Evans drew in a shuddering breath. “He says he’ll let the children go if you—” her pleading gaze latched on to Bobbie’s “—come inside and talk to him.”
“I can do that.” The sooner those kids were out of harm’s—
“The hell you say!” Miller roared. “That’s all we need is another hostage in there!”
“Hold up, Miller.” York turned to Bobbie. “We can do this,” he offered in the modulated tone negotiators were trained to use. “I’ll go in with you.”
While Miller launched another protest, Anna Evans hugged her arms around her trembling body and moved her head adamantly from side to side. “He said you have to come alone, Detective Gentry. Unarmed and alone.”
“Not going to happen, Bobbie,” York stated, his voice hard now. “You’re—”
Bobbie held up a hand for both men to shut up. “Did he say anything else, Mrs. Evans?”
Fresh tears welled in her puffy eyes. She shook her head. “Just that he...he would let the children go. Please.” She wrung her hands together in front of her as if she intended to pray. “Don’t let my babies get hurt.”
Bobbie removed her service weapon from its holster at her waist and passed it to York. “I’m going in.”
“I’m calling Chief Peterson,” Miller warned. “The rest of the department might believe that you being his college buddy’s daughter and all gives you free rein in this town, but I don’t. You’ll play this by the rules exactly like the rest of us.”
His accusation made Bobbie want to unleash the volatile emotions simmering just beneath the surface of her carefully schooled facade. Montgomery was the second-largest city in the state, but the department was like a small village. There were few secrets. Eventually everyone got the lowdown on everyone else—especially as it related to the chain of command or any perceived special favors. She’d understood from day one that the time would come when someone would have the balls to say those words to her face.
Bobbie snatched her cell from her belt and offered it to him. “Go ahead, Miller. Call the chief. He’s in my favorites list under Uncle Teddy.”
“Enough of that nonsense,” York growled, his fierce gaze focused on Miller.
Since Miller didn’t take her up on her offer, Bobbie snapped her phone back onto her belt. “I’m going in.”
“Think about what you’re doing, Bobbie,” York called after her. Next to him, Miller made good on his threat and put through the call on his own cell.
Bobbie didn’t look back. She headed across the street. If any hope whatsoever existed that Evans would let those children go, she was willing to take the risk. A twinge of pain twisted in her right leg and started to keep time with the throb in her head. She ignored it. She would do some extra stretches tonight before her run.
Assuming she was still alive. As long as she got those kids out of there little else mattered.
If you get yourself killed, who’s going to get him then?
She hushed the nagging voice as she hustled up the sidewalk. At the end of the block, television cameras and the eagle eyes of reporters would be straining to see what Montgomery’s most damaged detective was doing next. Let them gawk. She didn’t care what they wrote about her.
Shouldering the weight of York, Miller and the rest watching, she opened the front door and slipped into the living room. The interior was as quiet as a tomb. One would never know that half a dozen MPD cruisers, a SWAT van and crisis negotiation vehicle, along with a horde of reporters, were on the street. Not to mention two ambulances prepared to provide medical care if the shit hit the fan.
As she crossed the living room and entered the hall, she called out to the man responsible for all the excitement this sweltering summer morning. “Mr. Evans, it’s Detective Gentry.”
She paused at the door to the first bedroom on the left. Oddly, the man had chosen a bedroom at the front of the house, giving SWAT a reasonably clean view between the slats of the partially open blinds. Had he planned on committing suicide by cop and chickened out at the last minute?
Never take a gun in your hand unless you’ve got the guts to use it. The words of wisdom her father had shared so often after she announced her intent to follow in his career-cop footsteps echoed inside her. If they were all lucky, Evans lacked the courage to use the weapon he’d waved around at his wife. Shielding himself with the children was certainly the act of a coward.
“I’m here to talk, like you asked,” she reminded him when Evans failed to respond. She wiped her sweating palms against her trousers and braced for his move.
The doorknob turned, and Bobbie held very still, her breath stalling just shy of her lungs. The steel of the backup piece strapped to her ankle suddenly felt hot as blazes and far too heavy.
A small face peered up at her from the narrow crack made by the barely open door. Bobbie’s heart fractured as memories of another child she couldn’t bear to think about attempted to intrude. Seeing this little boy’s face sent a jolt of urgency through her. What was this guy doing? How could he risk the lives of his own children?
Like you have room to talk.
“Come in,” Evans called, “and I’ll send the children out.”
The little boy drew the door open wider, and she stepped into the bedroom. She confirmed the four children—three girls and one boy, all still dressed in their pajamas, trembling and red-faced from crying—appeared to be uninjured. Her tension eased marginally. The walls of the room were a soft pink. The twin beds were unmade, cartoon character bedcovers hanging this way and that. Dolls and a plastic tea set littered the floor. In the center of the room, between the two beds, the children stood in that ominous circle around their father. She easily spotted the daughter with the health issue; she was thinner and paler than the others. After numerous rounds of cancer treatments, she’d lost her hair, but it was growing back now and was almost as long as her little brother’s. Poor kid. Evans should be ashamed of himself for putting her through this kind of bullshit.
Booting aside her anger for the moment, Bobbie lifted the sides of her jacket from her torso. “I’m unarmed just like you requested, Mr. Evans.”
The small boy, three or four years old maybe, who’d opened the door stood next to the huddle, staring at Bobbie. She purposely kept her attention away from him. Those memories of another little boy, not much younger, kept whispering through her mind.
Can’t look. Can’t look.
When Evans said nothing, she gently prompted, “It’s time to make good on your promise and let the children go, Mr. Evans.” It would go a long way in turning this crappy day around if the guy stuck by his word. She might even be able to breathe again, and maybe the world would stop expecting her to fail every time the pressure was on.
Ten endless seconds passed before he spoke. “First, close the blinds,” he ordered.
Bobbie walked to the window and did as he asked. Miller would go ballistic and the no-more-negotiations clock would start ticking louder. She hoped like hell Evans understood he was on borrowed time.
“What now?” Careful to keep her hands up, Bobbie readied to tackle Evans. So far she hadn’t spotted his weapon.
“Go outside and wait with your mother,” he said to the children.
The older girl reached for the small boy’s hand and herded the others out the door. When the sound of the front door slamming behind them echoed through the house, Bobbie felt as if an elephant had been lifted off her chest. Sensing the shift in her tension, Evans lifted the .38 clutched in his right hand and aimed it at her.
Take it slow. Get him talking. “How can I help you, Mr. Evans? We all want to see a favorable resolution to this situation. Your wife and children need you.”
Carl Evans was a tall, thin man. He sat cross-legged on the floor in his T-shirt and boxers. His face was pasty from the long hours at the office; his shoulders sagged from slumping over a desk. As if he felt the weight of her assessment, he sank back against the bed behind him. What had taken this forty-three-year-old number cruncher down this ugly path?
He shook his head. “It’s too late for happily-ever-afters, Detective.”
“It’s never too late, Mr.—”
“Just listen,” he cut her off. “I don’t have much time. What I did was...wrong.”
No shit. “Tell me what happened, and maybe I can help.”
“You need to listen!” He jerked at the loud sound of his own voice reverberating in the small room.
Bobbie’s tension cranked up a few more notches. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”
“It was necessary.” He shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t stop to consider how it would end.”
The muzzle of the weapon angled downward as he spoke, his attention shifting inward. All she had to do was keep him talking, and when his aim strayed far enough, she would make a move. Less than four feet separated them. Keep talking, pal.
“I did what I had to do,” he said, his voice resolute even as his hands shook. “I would do it again. Anything to save my little girl.” He fell silent for another moment. “I didn’t think you would be hurt—not really, I mean. I had no idea...”
Bobbie’s attention swung from the muzzle to the man’s face. “Me?”
His lips quivered. “I was desperate. The treatments for my daughter had taken everything. My credit options were maxed out. The house is already triple mortgaged. I couldn’t pay for the new treatments, and my family was going to be homeless.” His head moved from side to side with a weariness and resignation that were palpable. “The insurance company claimed the new treatments—the ones that might save her life—are experimental, so they won’t pay. I would have done anything.” He searched her face as if looking for understanding, his eyes glimmering with emotion. “I had no choice.”
“You love your children. No one can fault you for that, Mr. Evans.” She felt badly for the family, especially for the kid, but the man wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. What did this have to do with her? “What can I do to help?”
He scrubbed his face with his free hand. A sob tore loose from his throat. “I need my family to know it was for them. Tell my wife I checked the life insurance policies. She and the kids will be okay.”
Oh hell. “I’ll make sure they know,” Bobbie promised. “But, Mr. Evans, whatever trouble you’re in, you don’t have to do this. Your family needs you. I can help you.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he steadied his aim at her. Anticipation coiled in her muscles.
“You can’t help me. You are the reason he came looking for me.”
Suddenly there was not enough air in the room. “Who came looking for you, Mr. Evans?”
“He’s coming for you, Detective Gentry.”
A chill as cold as ice settled in her belly. “Who’s coming?”
His gaze, clouded with defeat, locked on hers. “He was right. Your eyes are the palest blue I’ve ever seen.”
A shudder quaked through her before she could grab back control. How could he know that? Her mouth went so dry she could scarcely form the words. “I don’t understand, Mr. Evans.” Her heart rammed harder and harder against her sternum. “Who’re you talking about?”
“He said he has to finish your story.”
The words rocked her with the strength of hurricane-force winds. He couldn’t mean...
“This is the end of my story.” Evans jammed the .38 into his mouth.
Bobbie lunged for the weapon. She needed him alive.
The bullet exploded from its chamber, charging through his skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed the pink-and-white cartoon character comforter and matching sheets.
She dropped to her knees. “Jesus Christ.”
Deep breath. Bobbie shook her head. Torn between desolation and elation. Seven long months she had waited, and finally he was here.
But why like this? Her chest ached with the agony brought against the Evans family.
Why drag anyone else into her private hell? To shock her? Fury hardened her against the softer emotions.
Blood trickled from Evans’s mouth and nose. Poor bastard. Bobbie closed her eyes and tried to banish the image from her retinas.
The front door banging against the wall announced SWAT’s entrance into the house. Bobbie got to her feet. It made her sick that a man had died, leaving behind a wife and children, to serve the whims of the psychopath who had already destroyed too many lives.
She drew in a deep breath as determination roared through her. Now it seemed he was back, and it was her turn to destroy his life. He just didn’t know that part yet. Anticipation joined the determination.
Come and get me, you son of a bitch.
Montgomery Police Department
320 North Ripley Street, 6:45 p.m.
“The chief is ready to see you now.”
Bobbie stood. She’d flipped through every magazine in the lobby during her twenty-seven-minute wait. Apparently Chief of Police Theodore Peterson wasn’t concerned that she had other things to do, like hound the lab to see if they had gleaned anything from Evans’s computer. Or maybe conduct the interview with the one unavailable colleague who would be returning from business in Birmingham in about half an hour.
“Thank you, Stella.” Bobbie flashed a smile and headed for the door to the top cop’s inner sanctum.
Her time was being wasted because the SWAT commander had tattled on her for making him look bad. Arrogant bastard. Miller had probably blown the whole incident out of proportion. She had Miller’s number. He didn’t like having women—especially a younger woman—order him around. If her partner had been the one going into that house, no one would have said a word. Some things never changed.
“Bobbie!” The chief tossed a report aside as she walked in. “Close the door and have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” She did as he asked, settling in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. She worked hard to appear relaxed, but inside about a half a dozen emotions were battling for her attention. The Storyteller had sent her a message. He was back. Finally. For months she had worried that he’d slipped beyond her grasp. The idea of him escaping was unbearable. She could not allow that to happen.
“We need to talk.”
Bobbie snapped her attention back to the chief. Theodore Peterson was a towering hulk of a man. He’d been a lineman for the Crimson Tide with her father under Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. Forty years later, he’d lightened his playing physique by a few pounds and his hair had gone from blond to gray. Still, Theodore—Teddy to his family and closest friends—was an intimidating figure and a genuinely handsome man. As chief of police he was respected by friends and enemies alike. Even those who disagreed with him couldn’t argue with his outstanding record of keeping the citizens of Montgomery safe and happy at the same time. Not an easy feat.
He removed his reading glasses and studied her for a moment. Tension trickled through Bobbie. She had known this man her whole life. The deep frown lines he wore told her he was far from pleased at the moment.
“I’m having trouble with this one, Bobbie.”
“I’m not following, Chief.” Don’t let him see what he can’t possibly know. Other than relaying the message to his wife, she hadn’t told anyone what Evans said to her. The Storyteller’s message was meant for her alone.
“According to your statement, Mr. Evans asked you to convey his regrets to his family.”
“Yes, sir. He did.”
“Had you and Mr. Evans met before?”
Bobbie shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I did speak with his wife when I first arrived on the scene. She probably mentioned my name, which would explain why he asked for me.”
The chief grunted a noncommittal response. Dread started a slow churn in her belly.
“Clearly Mr. Evans suffered some sort of breakdown,” she added for good measure.
“Clearly,” the chief agreed. He picked up the paper he’d moments ago put aside. “Based on this report from the lab, I have reason to believe any detective on the scene would have had to round you up for Mr. Evans.”
Well damn. She’d been pacing the floor waiting for news from the lab. She’d hoped to see it before anyone else for exactly the reason the chief no doubt now understood. Carl Evans’s actions hadn’t been any more random than his request for her presence had been. “Is that the report on Mr. Evans’s computer?”
The chief nodded. “Evans’s first cousin is a nurse. You might remember her, Gwen Adams?”
Surprise registered before Bobbie could suppress the reaction. “Of course I remember her.” Frustration threatened to resurrect the headache she’d suffered earlier. Or maybe it was just hearing the name. Gwen Adams was the private nurse who had taken care of Bobbie all those months as she recovered. What did Gwen have to do with any of this? Bobbie hadn’t seen her in four or five weeks, not since the day before the orthopedist signed off on her release to return to work. “Has she been interviewed?”
“We’re trying to locate her now. She’s not answering her cell or home phone. Since she didn’t show up for her shift at the hospital today, we’ve issued a BOLO.”
A new thread of tension wove its way through Bobbie. Choosing her words carefully, she shrugged as if she didn’t see how Gwen’s absence and Evans’s suicide connected. Frankly, she didn’t...yet. “How is she involved? Is she helping with the little girl who has leukemia?” Valid questions.
“According to Evans’s wife, Adams has been immensely helpful during their daughter’s illness.” He waved the paper. “But that doesn’t explain the troubling aspect of this report.”
Bobbie consciously relaxed her shoulders once more, and then her facial muscles. Whatever Forensics found on that computer, her only reactions could be surprise and disbelief. She hoped the chief was about to give her something she could use rather than more questions. Deep inside a new fear trickled its way into her bones. Don’t let Gwen be in trouble.
“Evans’s most recent internet search history showed he had been reading everything he could find on you, Bobbie.”
Bobbie pretended to mull over the news, and then she turned her hands up in a so-what gesture. “Who hasn’t? I’ve been the local freak show for a while now. Returning to the job put my name back in the news. Gwen probably mentioned me.”
“Your medical records—specifically the ones from this year,” the chief went on, his tone reflecting his unhappiness with her indifferent attitude, “were on his computer. We believe those records were provided to him by Adams.”
Damn. Bobbie blinked and hummed a sound she hoped suggested confusion rather than the slow, icy climb of uncertainty up her backbone. “Maybe Evans intended to sell info about me to some reporter or one of those publishers who’s been pestering me about a book deal.” She lifted one shoulder in a stilted attempt at a shrug. “I can’t see Gwen being involved in something like that.”
The chief nodded. “Those were my first thoughts, considering around the same time he transferred the files to one of those personal cloud storage services, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit was made into his bank account.”
Bobbie gave another wooden shrug. “Well, there you have it. The man had a sick child, and he needed money. Is there any way to tell who bought the files?”
Her blood pounded in her ears. It was him! Any doubts she had were gone now. One way or another she would make him pay for what he had done to her...for all the lives he had destroyed. She would not rest until he was dead.
Again the chief studied her for several seconds before responding. “Mrs. Evans mentioned something her husband said this morning that we believe sheds a little light on the other party involved—the buyer.”
Anna Evans had been too devastated at the scene to give a statement. Whatever the chief had learned, he couldn’t possibly know what Evans said to Bobbie before blowing his brains out.
“Before getting up this morning Evans tossed and turned, according to his wife. He kept muttering the same phrase over and over. He wants to finish her story.”
Bobbie flinched. Damn it. She clenched her jaw against the anticipation, fury and determination twisting inside her. Do not let him see.
“That’s it?” the chief demanded, making no attempt to hide his outrage. “No shock? No anger or fear? Just a little tic?”
“The whole country was privy to what happened to me,” she fired back. “Carl Evans as well as everyone else in Montgomery had it shoved down their throats day in and day out for months.” Deep breath, Bobbie. One by one she quieted the emotions pressing against her chest. And then, more calmly, she added, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“You might start with what Evans said to you in that house.” His gaze narrowed with blatant suspicion. “What he really said.”
“If you’ve read my report, you know what he said.” She hoped he couldn’t see the lie in her eyes. This man had known Bobbie her entire life.
The chief folded his hands atop his desk and sighed loudly. “I promised your father on his deathbed that if you ever needed anything, I would make sure you were taken care of.” Bobbie opened her mouth to protest his use of the father card, but his sharp glare had her snapping it shut once more. “Eight months ago Gaylon Perry almost killed you. If he’s back...”
The air evacuated her lungs. Just hearing his name spoken aloud set off a chain reaction of voices, sounds and images that rushed rapid-fire through her mind before she could block them. Not a day—not an hour—passed without some thought of the monster sweeping through her brain. The memory of him was imprinted on her very DNA. The way her mind worked had changed because of him. She ate, slept and breathed differently because he was with her every minute of every damned day. And still the sound of his name was like having her entire body dunked in ice-cold water. It stole her breath and shocked her system.
With effort, she steadied herself. “Surely you know if I had any insights about the Storyteller, I’d be the first to share them. We’d have the FBI in here pronto.” She produced an unconcerned expression. “Besides, he hasn’t taken a victim since my escape. The feds think he’s dead. You know and I know that if he was still alive, he would have taken one by now.”
She had damned sure tried to kill the son of a bitch. But she knew he wasn’t dead. Deep inside, she could still feel him. He was out there...waiting for the right opportunity. He wanted to finish what he’d started. Come on, asshole.
“I hope that’s true, Bobbie.” The chief leaned back in his chair. “As for the FBI, I’ve already made the call.”
Which meant she didn’t have a lot of time. Urgency hummed in her veins. “Well, then, I guess we’ll know soon enough whether it’s really him. Anything else?”
“You don’t feel the need to amend your report in any way?” he pressed.
Telling him won’t help. “No, sir.” She stood. “I should get over to the lab and pick up a copy of that report.” Once the feds confirmed a connection to the Storyteller, she wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the investigation.
“I’d like you to take a few days off, Detective.”
“What?” She should have seen that one coming. “This is my case, Chief. Maybe Gwen reminded Evans about what the Storyteller did to me, and that gave him the idea to try using it to make the money he needed. Plenty of people have offered to buy my story. Maybe he sold the info to some rag. Desperate people do desperate things. Until we have proof the Storyteller is involved—”
“Apparently,” he cut her off, “you’ve forgotten what Gwen Adams looks like.”
He opened a folder and displayed a snapshot of the nurse who had worked closely with Bobbie for six long months. Gwen’s long dark hair spilled over her shoulders. She was tall and thin, with pale skin that refused to tan. Bobbie’s heart dropped. Like her, Gwen matched the profile of the Storyteller’s preferred victim.
No. No. No. She would not believe the worst yet.
Bobbie shook her head. She’d felt confident the Storyteller wouldn’t risk taking another victim—unless it was her. “You can’t be sure Gwen isn’t in hiding. If she’s involved, she did break the law.” No matter that her intentions might have been noble. Bobbie’s head was really throbbing now. The knowledge of what the Storyteller would do to Gwen if he had taken her twisted in her gut like a wad of fishhooks.
The chief rose from his chair. “No buts, Detective. Until we locate Adams and uncover exactly who Evans was working with, you are on paid administrative leave. Now go home. I don’t want to see you here again until we understand what we’re dealing with.”
“What about—”
“Until I say otherwise,” he cut her off, “I want to know where you are and what you’re doing every minute. I’m assigning a surveillance detail. Don’t give them any grief.”
Bobbie stowed the rant she wanted to launch and squared her shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
Holding back the anger and frustration, she walked out. How could she find the Storyteller if she was on admin leave? Maybe she didn’t have to find him. If what Evans said was right, he was already here. All she had to do was make sure he had the opportunity to come a little closer.
A damned surveillance detail would complicate that goal.
As she bounded out of the building, she reassured herself that the cunning psychopath would find a way. After all, he was here to finish her story.
It was what the bastard did between this second and then that scared the hell out of her.
Where the hell are you, Gwen?
Two (#u2ef781e5-dc56-5d2d-b98d-c0ecc3b52fea)
Coosa Street, 8:50 p.m.
Bobbie paced the sidewalk outside Central, one of the city’s most celebrated restaurants that overlooked the Alley, an equally prominent downtown entertainment district. When she’d called, Newt had urged her to come inside, but she couldn’t. She shouldn’t even be here.
This is what desperate people do, Bobbie. Just like poor Carl Evans.
She peered through the expanse of windows and scanned the crowd inside. Smiling guests were huddled in clusters of conversation. Chatter and laughter spilled out onto the sidewalk every time the door opened. The popular dining spot was a preferred venue for elegant social gatherings from campaign fund-raisers to wedding rehearsal dinners. Newt was here for the latter. His daughter’s future in-laws had chosen Central for the rehearsal dinner. Almost a decade ago Bobbie’s in-laws had done the same.
If only she had known then what she knew now.
“Another life.” Bobbie exiled the memories as she leaned against the old brick building that more than a century ago had been a warehouse. The location so close to the freight depot and waterfront made for prime real estate then and now. Smart entrepreneurs had helped turn Montgomery’s historic downtown district into the most happening scene in the city. Tonight was a perfect example. The foot traffic was heavy, even for a Friday night. Unlike her, most people had social plans at the end of the workweek.
Guilt nagged at her. Interrupting Newt’s evening was wrong. So damned wrong. She pushed away from the wall with the intention of leaving. Desperate or not, she shouldn’t have come here like this. Her partner was too good to her. She had no business taking advantage of him this way. Tonight was a special time for his family.
“Whoa, where you going, girlie?”
Bobbie’s chest tightened at the sound of his voice. She stopped and turned to face the man who was more like a father to her than a partner, even if she had tried a dozen ways to distance herself from him these past months. Her family was gone. She refused to hold anyone else that close anymore.
The risk for pain was too great. Coward.
However hard she tried, she couldn’t quite deny or ignore the deep attachment she felt for the man. The tension clamped around her ribs eased a fraction. The charcoal double-breasted suit Newt wore had probably set him back a full month’s pay. The red tie provided a nice contrast to the light gray shirt. He’d had a fresh haircut, maintaining his vintage salt-and-pepper flattop. He looked good. He looked happy. A little more of her tension melted away.
“Is my tie crooked or something?” Howard Newton adjusted the silk accessory.
She hadn’t realized she’d been staring for so long until he spoke. “Sorry. I got distracted for a minute.” Her lips twitched with the unexpected need to smile. It had been so long since she’d wanted to smile she’d forgotten how. “You look great, Newt. Really great.”
Grinning, he strolled over to where she stood. “I try.” He pulled her into a hug. “I love it when you smile, even just a little bit.” He drew back and searched her face. “It reminds me that the real you is still in there.”
She looked away. “This is the real me, partner.” Forcing her gaze back to his, she added, “The girl you used to know isn’t coming back.”
As usual when they hit this particular wall, he changed the subject. “Why don’t you come inside and have a drink with me. Have you had dinner?” One eyebrow reared up his forehead. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten all day.”
He’d win that bet. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Really, I shouldn’t have interrupted your evening.”
He made a scoffing sound. “Trust me—I was ready for a break. They’re just drinking and chatting in there now. Besides, if you’ll recall, you were invited, but you said you couldn’t come.” He patted his pockets and grimaced.
Bobbie scowled at him. “I thought you quit smoking for good this time.” They had been partners since she’d made detective. He’d quit three times during those seven years.
“I did—I swear,” he promised. “I need a stick of gum or a mint.”
Bobbie shifted her purse around and dug for the Tic Tacs she carried. “The chief put me on administrative leave.”
Her partner accepted the box of mints and shook out a couple. “Yeah, he called me.” He popped the mints into his mouth.
The urge to kick something came and went, thankfully without her acting on the impulse. To occupy her hands, she stuffed the box of mints back into her bag, and then clutched the leather straps. “It’s my case, Newt. Miller had no right running off at the mouth—”
“Bobbie,” he said gently, “we both know this isn’t about your pissing contest with Miller. This is about Perry.”
She turned away from him, watched the couples and families strolling along the sidewalk. Her surveillance detail idled in a no-parking zone on the opposite side of the street. She wanted to scream. “There’s no proof the Storyteller is involved. For all we know, this could be a copycat looking to grab the headlines.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, Bobbie Sue?”
Frustration knotted tighter. She should have known better than to take that approach with Newt. Foolishly she’d hoped to keep him and the whole damned department out of her private war. “Go back to your party. I should go home.”
“Hold on a minute.”
Reluctantly, she turned to him once more. He wore his stern face—the one her father used to wear when she’d gotten into trouble at school. Nothing too serious, just the occasional playground or lunchroom scrape. Even as a kid she was never able to tolerate a bully. Didn’t matter how big he or she was, Bobbie refused to accept the role of bystander. She had to get involved, had to stand up for the tormented and the intimidated. More often than not as a teenager, her blackened eyes had nothing to do with makeup trends.
But you couldn’t be a hero when it counted most. The fist crushing into her chest prevented a decent breath.
“Peterson and I were there,” Newt reminded her, “in that cabin in the woods where that bastard held you.”
She stared at the cobblestone sidewalk, unable to look at the hurt in his eyes—the same hurt that coiled like barbed wire inside her, ripping wider the wounds that would never completely heal.
“We took turns sitting next to your bed every day and night for weeks in that hospital,” Newt went on, despite the knowledge that she did not want to hear the words. “First waiting for you to wake up, and then for you to be well enough to come home.”
Bobbie squeezed her eyes shut. He was also the one who gave her the news that devastated her as nothing else in this world could have.
Jamie’s gone, Bobbie. He died three days after you were abducted. I’m so sorry. We kept it out of the news to protect you.
Her baby was dead, and that, too, was her fault. She forced the haunting memories away.
“I’m the one who moved in with you after you tried—”
“You made your point.” His words were like salt grinding into those old, festered wounds. Bobbie cleared her throat of the emotion wedged there. Keeping the truth from Newt was the hardest. He deserved better from her. “Maybe the Storyteller has resurfaced.”
“I’d say that’s a given. Peterson is worried sick.” Newt sighed and tugged his tie away from his throat. “And, frankly, so am I.”
“You think I’m not.” She shook her head. Her partner and the chief wanted to treat her as if she were incapable of handling the pressure, much less any potential threat. If the bastard had Gwen, Bobbie had to do all in her power to find him before it was too late. “No matter how terrifying the idea is, I can’t sit on the sidelines. I need to work this case—it’s my case.”
“What you need, girlie,” he countered, “is to be extra careful.”
She gestured to the cruiser across the street. “I’m reasonably confident careful isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Just promise me you’ll take every precaution until we figure this out.”
“We?”
“Owens assigned the case to Bauer and me. Tomorrow, as soon as my daughter and her new husband are carted off to the airport in that two-hundred-dollar-an-hour limo, we’re meeting at the office. He’ll bring me up to speed.”
Ridiculous! She should be on this case, damn it. Newt was her partner, not Bauer’s. “How’s your wife going to take you ditching her as she watches your youngest offspring drive off into the sunset? Don’t you think maybe she’ll need your shoulder tomorrow evening?”
“Trust me, if this wedding goes off without a glitch, she’ll take a couple of Xanax and go to bed for the rest of the weekend.”
Bobbie rolled her eyes and heaved a big breath. “This sucks—you know that, right?” She had walked out of that hospital the last time for one reason and one reason only—to get the Storyteller. Peterson was not going to take that away from her. Of all people, her partner should understand.
Newt stared at her for a long moment, visibly torn about what he wanted to say next.
Bobbie scowled at him. “What?”
“There’s someone you may want to talk to. He’s here. I’ve seen him. I didn’t want to mention it and get you upset.”
“Who?” LeDoux, the FBI agent in charge of the Storyteller investigation, couldn’t be here already. Even if he was, Bobbie had no desire to ever lay eyes on the man again. He had purposely put her in harm’s way last year. No, that was wrong. He’d asked for her; the decision to work on the Storyteller case had been hers.
“While you were in the hospital the...second time,” Newt explained, “a man visited you. His name is Nick Shade, or at least that’s what he goes by. You won’t remember him. He was there the last day you were in the coma.”
She ignored the whispers that tried to intrude. “Who’s Nick Shade?”
Newt shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone really knows. He didn’t say a lot about himself. I talked to an old buddy of mine, Dwight Jessup, up at Quantico. Jessup says the feds are familiar with him. They just don’t acknowledge him—which is code for they’re not giving the guy credit for what he does.”
“What does he do?” Newt’s story had taken a turn toward totally confusing, and her patience was wearing thin. She felt like a caged tiger. She needed to do something besides this incessant going back and forth, accomplishing nothing at all.
“Some call him a hunter,” Newt went on. “Others call him a ghost. Anyway, Jessup said Shade was unofficially connected to dozens of arrests. As long as he doesn’t get in their way and he’s useful, they let him do what he does without interference.”
An unsettling feeling stirred deep inside her. “So why was he at the hospital when I was there?”
“He heard you survived the Storyteller, and he wanted to talk to you.”
Bobbie laughed, a dry, weary sound. “Did he not notice I was in a coma?”
Newt held her gaze for a moment, his expression suddenly clean of tells. “I can’t explain it, but even before I called Jessup, I had this feeling that Shade was okay. I let him sit with you for a few minutes.” He held up his hands as if he expected her to rail at him. “Don’t worry. I checked him for weapons, and I was watching through the glass the whole time.”
“He just wanted to look at me or something?” That was creepy.
Newt shrugged. “Guess so.”
“You said he’s here—do you mean in Montgomery? Now?”
After surveying the street, her partner nodded. “I’ve spotted him around. Yeah.”
“You think someone hired him?” She couldn’t fathom any other reason for the guy’s appearance. Still, he couldn’t possibly know what Evans had told her, and the lab analysis of the victim’s computer had barely made it to the chief. Not one word about the possible Storyteller connection had been released to the media. “Is he like a private investigator?”
Newt shook his head. “Word is he can’t be hired.”
“You said some call him a hunter. So what does Shade hunt?”
Newt hesitated for five seconds before answering. “Serial killers. The ones no one else can find.”
North Montgomery, 10:50 p.m.
Five...more...blocks.
Bobbie charged forward in the darkness, running harder along Fairground Road. The pain had faded two miles back, overpowered by the endorphins that finally kicked in after three grueling miles. Slowing to a jog, she made the turn onto Gardendale Drive. Air sawed in and out of her nose and mouth in an attempt to keep up with the racing organ in her chest. Her muscles felt warm and fluid, as if she could run forever.
She’d pushed to five miles tonight rather than her usual three. The too-familiar twinge in her right leg served as a reminder that hardware held it together. No matter how young and strong the endorphins made her feel, she was still Bobbie Gentry—thirty-two and broken inside. Somewhere deep in the darkness she kept hidden from the world, memories of the woman she used to be dared to stir.
She hadn’t been that woman in 246 days.
She is never coming back.
Cursing herself for the lapse in restraint, she banished the echoes of the past as she walked the final block. Two of the three streetlights were out of commission. Didn’t matter. She knew the area by heart. The line of unremarkable houses in sad need of routine maintenance. The narrow, unkempt lawns used as parking lots for the multiple families crowded into the compact two-bed, two-bath rentals. Same old, same old. Very little changed in this neighborhood.
Three doors from hers the brindle pit bull named D-Boy surged forward, testing the heavy-duty chain that secured him to the porch post. The dog issued a low, guttural growl before he captured her scent and recognition registered.
“Good boy,” she murmured. He whimpered and whipped his tail back and forth. She made a mental note to check his water bowl before going to bed. The single mother of three who lived in the ramshackle two-story left her kids at home alone more often than not. Making sure the chained animal had food and water was even lower on her list of priorities. Some people shouldn’t have kids or pets. Then again, Bobbie had no right to judge anyone.
Her legs felt a little rubbery climbing the steps to her front door. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her left arm as she jammed the key into the lock. A long, hot shower was on her agenda, and then she planned to review the lab reports from the Evans case. The chief could take her off the job for a few days, but that wouldn’t stop her. She had friends at the lab. Andy Keller, the new tech, had been delighted to email her the report when she’d called. Of course, she hadn’t mentioned being off the case.
The MPD cruiser assigned as her surveillance detail edged up to the curb in front of her house. She didn’t know the two uniforms in the car. If she wanted to play nice, she would offer them coffee. Maybe later. It wasn’t their fault the chief had gone all overprotective today. Bobbie understood from experience that his need to keep her safe wouldn’t be going away anytime soon. The man would do all within his power to keep her out of the line of fire. If not for Lieutenant Owens, her division commander, she might be jockeying a desk. After spending nearly six months in physical rehab and psychiatric counseling in order to be deemed fit for duty once more, the chief had barred her from field duty. Somehow the lieutenant had convinced him the move was a mistake. Bobbie had worked hard to make certain her division commander never regretted backing her up.
Now here they all were back at square one. She hoped Owens could calm down the chief this go around. It was bad enough word of his overreaction would spread through the department like a new strain of summer flu. Guys like Miller would use the chief’s resolve to protect Bobbie as proof she received preferential treatment. So not true. If anything, the chief held her to a higher standard. Since there was nothing she could do about it one way or the other, she ignored office politics most of the time.
Confrontations like the one today made following that self-imposed rule difficult.
She opened the front door and stepped inside. The cool air instantly enveloped her, making her shiver. Before closing the door, she held her breath and listened for a few seconds. The incessant low hum of the air-conditioning unit underscored the silence. The blinds throughout the house were shut tightly, leaving the interior nearly black. She inhaled deeply, sorting through the lived-in house smells for anything new. Clear. She shoved the door shut with her foot as she hit the switch for the narrow entry hall’s overhead light. With a few flicks of her wrist she secured the two dead bolts.
Room by room, she moved through the house. Bedrooms and closets. Clear. Bathroom and kitchen. Clear. She turned on the rear floodlights, parted the blind on the back door and scanned the yard. Nothing to get excited about. Grass that needed to be mowed, a rickety picnic table left by previous tenants in bad need of an overhaul. Bobbie exhaled a tired breath as she shut off the floodlights and then checked the dead bolts on the back door. Time for that shower.
She hesitated, toed off her running shoes and dragged the elastic band from her ponytail. For a moment she closed her eyes and indulged in a slow massage of her scalp. The headache was long gone, but she felt the tension in her shoulders and neck gaining a second wind. She stretched her neck and groaned. The shower was going to have to work some serious magic tonight. The prospect of standing under the flow of steaming water until she emptied the water heater had her weary body moving in that direction. After the shower and a cold beer, she intended to check D-Boy’s water bowl, and then—
A solid rap on the front door derailed her train of thought. She stalled, the cold of the hardwood floor seeping through her damp socks. Why would anyone drop by at this hour? Couldn’t be about a case because she was on leave by order of the chief. Wouldn’t be her partner since he was no doubt home by now, getting some rest before the big day tomorrow.
Another round of bangs, this time hard enough to shake loose the peeling paint on her shabby door and have it drift down around her visitor’s feet like dingy gray snowflakes. Could be the cops outside, but why not call if they wanted to talk to her? She checked the screen of the cell phone strapped to her upper arm. No missed calls.
Bobbie bypassed the door, her steps silent, and eased to the living room picture window a few feet away. When she’d first moved in, she’d cut out a tiny section of one plastic slat in the cheap blind as a way to see a visitor without becoming an easy target bellied up to the door. The overhead porch light, dimmed by the hundred or so bugs that had found their way inside and died there, stayed on 24/7. The faint glow allowed her to confirm the visitor was male. Her pulse rate bumped up a few beats. Dark hair, too long to be a cop, unless he was undercover. Tall, six feet or so. Thin. Broad shouldered.
He suddenly turned his head and stared directly at her as if he’d felt her scrutiny.
She drew back. What the hell? Giving herself a mental shake, she moved toward the door. The living room was dark; he couldn’t possibly have seen her. At the door she decided to leave her backup piece in the holster strapped around her ankle for now. Considering there were two uniforms parked in front of her house, she didn’t expect she would need to use it. She leaned toward the door.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” No point beating around the bush.
“Nick Shade. We need to talk.”
Surprised and more than a little intrigued, she peered through the peephole she’d installed. So this was the guy Newt had told her about. He was younger than she’d expected. “Let’s see some ID.”
He withdrew his wallet and stuck his driver’s license in front of the hole. Nicholas Shade. Atlanta, Georgia. She harrumphed. Thirty-five. He wasn’t much older than her. Did she open the door or not? Newt’s Quantico contact hadn’t given him anything concrete on Shade other than a generic assessment that he was one of the good guys. Shade might be after nothing more than the inside scoop on the Storyteller in hopes something she knew would be useful to him. He wouldn’t be the first to show up at her door. She’d had reporters, publishers and private investigators come knocking. Just because Shade supposedly tracked down serial killers didn’t mean he wasn’t in it for the money. A man who couldn’t be hired had to be making a living somehow.
Even so, why would he appear now? As of the ten o’clock news Evans’s connection to her hadn’t been made, but that would change soon enough, and then her street would be littered with reporters once more. Any member of the media familiar with the Storyteller would give just about anything for an exclusive from his only surviving victim. If that was the reason Shade was here, he needed to get in line somewhere besides her front door. This was her hunt.
“Call your partner if you have any questions,” Shade suggested, taking her delay for uncertainty. “We’ve met.”
“Did my partner send you here?” His showing up only a couple of hours after Newt mentioned him was a little convenient.
“No one sends me anywhere.” Shade stared at the peephole as if he sensed her watching him.
Who the hell was this guy? She released the dead bolts and opened the door. “What do we have to talk about?”
Dark eyes assessed her. “May I come in?”
Not a chance. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it right where you stand.” She bracketed her hands at her waist and blocked the doorway.
He glanced over his shoulder at the cruiser on the street. “I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say in private.”
The tension that had started in her neck rushed through her chest, spreading quickly through her limbs. “Are you carrying?”
“No.” He held his arms up and turned all the way around for her to see.
The shirt and jeans hugged his body. He wasn’t carrying unless, like her, a small backup piece was strapped to his ankle. “Let’s see what kind of socks you wear, Mr. Shade.”
He lifted one foot and tugged up the pants leg, and then did the same with the other. Black socks and matching hiking boots, both of which fit too snugly to conceal a weapon. “Satisfied?”
“Fine, but make it fast. I take issue with having my time wasted.” She stepped back and allowed him inside before closing the door. “What is it you have to say?”
The weight of his gaze settled on her. When he continued to stare without speaking she fought the impulse to fidget. His eyes were more black than brown and impossible to read. He wasn’t thin as she’d first believed, more lean. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off muscled forearms. The broad shoulders she’d already noted filled out his cotton button-down shirt with no room to spare. His jeans were well-worn, as were his boots. Her attention drifted back up to his face, where those dark eyes watched her steadily. Rather than be put off by her sizing him up, he seemed to expect it. As undeniably handsome as he was, with that square jaw and classic straight nose, there was something distant about him...something untouchable and more than a little unsettling.
She rubbed at her neck. Enough with the silent treatment. Had he intruded on her evening to stare at her or to talk? Maybe he only wanted an up-close look at the anomaly who’d escaped the Storyteller while losing everything else in this world that mattered. Her irritation flared. “I don’t know what you want—”
“I need the full details of what happened inside Carl Evans’s home.”
Bobbie made a halfhearted sound that failed the definition of a laugh by any stretch of the imagination. “If you’re looking to verify the manner of death, I’ll be happy to set the record straight. He stuck the muzzle of a .38 into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Any other questions, Mr. Shade?”
Something flickered in his eyes, too quickly for her to read. “I’m well aware of how he died, Detective. I’m interested in what he said to you while you were alone together.”
Now she understood. Shade was on a digging expedition. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the press release the same as the rest of the world. Now, if that’s all you wanted...” She gestured to the door.
Rather than leave, he moved a step closer. “You asked me not to waste your time—maybe you can refrain from wasting mine. What did Evans say to you before he pulled the trigger?”
“I’m certain you’re aware I can’t comment on an ongoing case.”
He watched her closely, analyzing her answer, her expression, as well as her body language. “Did the exchange between the two of you have anything to do with his recent interaction with Gaylon Perry?”
Bobbie froze at the mention of his name. How could he know what Carl Evans had been doing? “Why would Evans be involved with the Storyteller?”
Shade’s penetrating gaze narrowed. “I’ve been briefed regarding the findings on his computer, Detective.”
Impossible. “This conversation is over, Mr. Shade. If you have more questions, you can direct them to the department’s community liaison officer.”
She reached for the door.
“Carl Evans was a pawn. Perry used him to get information on your recovery. He’s active again. Doesn’t that concern you in the least?”
Shock moved through her, tracing the fault line in her heart. He could not possibly know any of this for a certainty. He had to be guessing, hoping for a telling reaction. Whoever this guy was, she wanted him out of her house. All she had to do was open the door and send him away. Somehow her body wouldn’t take the necessary action.
“Perry used him,” Shade went on when she remained still. “And it cost Carl Evans his life. Gwen Adams may be next. Whatever you believe or don’t believe, you need to understand this is only one of many steps toward the Storyteller’s final goal—finishing what he started with you.”
What the hell? Did he read minds, too? Bobbie struggled to quiet the whirlwind of emotions threatening to develop into a raging storm inside her. Don’t let him see. “Good night, Mr. Shade.” Just open the fucking door. Her fingers tightened on the knob but refused to turn the damned thing.
“I see what’s driving you, Detective Gentry,” he warned, his voice dangerously low. “It shows in every move you make. Your need for vengeance is blinding you. You should think long and hard about the danger to yourself and to others before you proceed.”
A flood of outrage spun her around to face him once more. “You’ve done your homework. Good for you. You’re damned straight I want him to pay for what he did to me.” Her fingers curled into fists. “For what he did to all the others. Come back when you have something original to talk about, Mr. Shade.”
“He stole everything from you.”
The words were uttered so softly and yet they pierced her like the sharpest knives. She closed her eyes, unable to conceal the pain burning there. He’s seen too much already.
“He crushed you, shattered your entire world. Knowing he’s still out there can’t be easy. It would be completely understandable if you wanted nothing more than to lock yourself away and hide in fear.”
Bobbie blocked the images his words triggered, summoned her goddamned MIA courage and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re mistaken if you think I can give you any answers. Now.” She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “I’ve had a long day. I need it to be over.”
When she reached for the door once more, he flattened his wide palm against it, blocking her move. “You’re the one who’s making a mistake, Detective.”
If she managed to hold back the hurricane of emotions another thirty seconds, it would be a miracle. She grasped the doorknob tighter as if it were the anchor that prevented her from spiraling out of control. “Leave or I’ll have you hauled away for harassment.”
“We both know you’re not the slightest bit afraid,” he went on, ignoring her edict.
He was so close she could feel the heat of his words against her skin, blocking her ability to do anything except to listen.
“You maintain a public Facebook page without turning off the location services when you post. You go to work, and you come home. You’ve pushed away all the friends you once had, unless you count your partner and the chief of police. I suspect you only interact with them because you have no choice.”
A new rush of anger roared through her. She hated herself for permitting him to see her emotions. She hated him for making her lose control. “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”
“I know all I need to. You have a home in a tidy, middle-class neighborhood on the east side, yet you rent and reside in a house in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. You run alone every night well after dark.”
“That’s right.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m more than capable of defending myself if the need arises.”
“I’m sure you are.” His gaze slid down her body and back up once more, pausing on her lips when they trembled. “You carry a piece strapped to your ankle, a sheathed knife at your back and a mini–stun gun tucked in your bra.”
She stiffened. How the hell did he know all that?
As if she’d asked the question aloud, he said, “I’ve been watching you. At some point during tonight’s extended run, you adjusted each of your hidden weapons.”
She put up her hands in a wait-a-damned-minute gesture. “First, you have no business following me around. Second, I arm myself because I’m smart, not because I’m afraid.”
“I got that last part loud and clear. You’re not afraid of anyone, and you’re certainly not hiding from the Storyteller. You’re baiting him. You want him to find you.” He leaned closer still. “Tell me, Detective, what do you think your chances are of surviving him a second time?”
For one fleeting instant she couldn’t move, and then she drew back, putting much-needed distance between them. “So you’re psychic and a shrink, too, are you?” She told herself to make him leave. She told herself to stop talking and to open the damned door. She apparently couldn’t do any of the above. “What would you know about how it feels to survive the worst a monster can do to you?”
His jaw tightened a little more. “Trust me,” he murmured in that dangerous whisper of his, “I know that feeling very well, and I don’t need to be a psychic or a shrink to understand that if you wanted to avoid trouble you wouldn’t live here. You’d have a monitored security system and a mean-ass dog.”
“I don’t have time for a dog.”
“Time has nothing to do with it.” He gave a dry chuckle and dropped his hand from the door. “You can’t have a dog because you won’t risk allowing another living creature to get close to you. You won’t take the chance that someone else—not even a dog—will get caught in the cross fire of what you have to do.”
She couldn’t contain the tremors any longer; her body shook in spite of her best efforts. She pointed to the door. “I want you to leave now.”
He manacled her forearm and stroked the pad of his thumb over the scarred underside of her wrist. “Take my advice, Detective—don’t try to do this alone.”
She tugged at his hold, and he released her. “Go!”
He reached for the door, grasping the knob with long fingers. “One more thing—try not to get anyone else killed.”
A full minute lapsed after he’d gone before she managed to lock the door, her hands shaking. Fury warring with the other emotions he’d resurrected, she marched to the bathroom. She hung a towel over the shower curtain bar and turned on the water. She withdrew the stun gun from her sports bra and placed it on the counter next to the sink, and then the five-inch blade and sheath from her waistband at the small of her back. The fact that he had so easily spotted all three alternately outraged and frustrated her. She ripped the holster holding the .22 from her ankle and placed it next to the other weapons. By the time she’d peeled off her running clothes and socks, steam had started to fill the room, and tears rolled in rivers down her cheeks.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror a previous tenant or maybe the owner had hung on the wall. Her right calf was marred with scars from the surgery. Little distinct bumps where the hardware was positioned still showed. Jagged scars marked her arms, her breasts, her thighs and belly from the torture she had endured. If she leaned closer to the mirror, she could see the thin, barely noticeable line where the Storyteller had kept a nylon rope fastened around her neck. Plastic surgery had taken care of the worst of the scarring there. Vanity had nothing to do with her decision to have that particular elective surgery. Erasing that hideous scar had prevented the inevitable shocked looks and sympathetic questions from anyone she encountered.
She turned to face the mirror over the sink so she could see her back...and the story he had begun on her flesh. Flowing strokes of black ink tattooed the words describing her agony onto her skin.
Over and over she cursed herself for the path she chose to take...
She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories, and yet those memories were the very reason she refused to allow the words to be removed. She didn’t deserve to have them removed...to be free of what they meant.
Who the hell did Nick Shade think he was? Damn it, she had every right to want vengeance. She climbed into the shower and let the hot water blast over her. Hard as she tried she could not clear her mind of the voices...the images...the pain.
She slid down the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees. For the first time in months she sobbed. She sobbed so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. She never cried for herself. It was pointless. A waste of energy. She cried for all the victims and their families. She cried for her son—her sweet, sweet little boy—and her husband. She cried because she had failed to keep them safe.
Shade was right...she wanted to get that bastard. She wanted to make him pay... She wanted to watch him scream in agony for hours on end. And then she wanted to watch his body bleed and seize and twitch until he took his last breath.
She turned her palms up and stared at her scarred wrists.
But Nick Shade didn’t know everything.
She couldn’t have what she really wanted just yet.
What she really wanted was to stop waking up in the morning to face another day without her baby...without the man she had loved with her entire being...without the life that had been stolen from her. What she wanted was to never again dream of what might have been.
What she wanted above all else...was to die.
But Gaylon Perry had to die first.
Three (#u2ef781e5-dc56-5d2d-b98d-c0ecc3b52fea)
“I know what you must be asking yourself right about now,” Gaylon said, a smile stretching across his lips as he tightened the noose he’d made around her slender neck. He draped the short remaining length of nylon rope along her chest. “Did I spend all those grueling hours at the gym for this?”
Registered Nurse Gwen Adams shivered, her soft green eyes going wider and her nipples peaking into hard points as his gaze raked over her body. Despite the relentless heat, fear caused her body to shake as if she were stretched out spread eagle on a bed of snow rather than the piss-stained mattress he’d picked up on the street in one of Montgomery’s derelict neighborhoods.
His personal taste leaned toward those who hadn’t spoiled their bodies with tanning beds and pointless body art. No annoying tan lines or wasted ink to disrupt the satiny, white skin stretched smoothly over toned muscles and interrupted only by rosy nipples and a neatly manicured triangle of silky hair. A perfect canvas. The lovely perfection would make any man want to burrow between her creamy thighs and plow into her pussy right this instant.
But not Gaylon. His ability to restrain his baser desires was far more sophisticated than that of the average male. Besides, it wasn’t time to give her what she deserved just yet. Preparations had to be made first. He sighed. All good things come to those who wait. His loving mother had ensured that adage was deeply ingrained in him during his formative years, and Gaylon had learned his lessons well.
He’d allowed his baser needs to lead him once, and look at what it had cost him.
Exiling the memory, he reviewed the essential steps he had taken. He’d placed the mattress on the floor well away from the only window that wasn’t boarded up. A table and a chair, both of which he would need in the coming days, were picked up at a thrift store. In the corner was a five-gallon bucket he’d purchased at the hardware store for waste. If his guest relieved herself anywhere but in the bucket at the appropriately scheduled piss breaks she would clean it up with her hands and mouth. The unpleasant mistake was rarely repeated. His guests were generally quite obedient.
This morning he’d brought the tools required to finish his work inside and stored them in the other room. The two-room board-and-batten shack had no electricity, and the rusty tin roof leaked. “Off the grid” was an apt description. More important, there were no neighbors. The closest occupied house was more than three miles away. Though ideally he selected a location deeper in the woods to do his work, this abandoned hovel would do quite well.
He tapped his lips with his fingers, suppressing a knowing smile. A remote location was part of his modus operandi, or so those who profiled him said. His MO and signature were carefully detailed in their haughty reports. What a spectacular waste of human resources.
All these years those who attempted to dissect and analyze him had gotten so very much wrong. The chances of the FBI catching him with their fancy profiles had been somewhere in the vicinity of zero before he made his one ruinous error. Anger flared inside him. Prior to seven months ago, no one had known his identity. Not one of his victims had survived to tell. Not one body had revealed the first significant clue about the Storyteller. He’d been far too careful...until he allowed a mere impulse—sheer lust—to best him. The relentless need had grown too insistent and too urgent to deny. He’d acted on that irresistible impulse, and it had swallowed him completely, sucking him into an uncontrollable frenzy. He’d become lost to anything but the blinding need until reality had spit him out onto the floor of that desolate cabin, bleeding like a stuck pig and gasping for air like a fish out of water.
Now his face was plastered all over the internet and in every post office in the country. The anger spread through him like a raging wildfire. Not to worry, that costly error would be rectified as soon as he was finished here. Then he would disappear. A nice tropical island with no extradition treaty. Perhaps he would create a new MO, develop a more intriguing signature, and this time there would be no lapses in judgment...no distractions.
All good things come to those who wait.
Gaylon moved to the side of the mattress. He sat down, and his lovely nurse struggled to draw away, but her restraints prevented her from doing so. “I’m going to remove the gag. If you scream, I’ll hurt you like you’ve never been hurt before. Do you understand?”
She nodded, a fresh wave of tears trickling from her eyes. Pathetic creature.
He tugged her panties from her mouth. “There. Now, I want you to tell me the story again.”
Moving her head up and down like a shaken bobblehead doll, she swallowed and then cleared her throat. “Can I have a drink of water?”
“After the story.” Irritation furrowed his brow. Every time he removed the gag she wanted something. She’d been here barely twenty-four hours. He hadn’t even started preparing her, and all she could do was make requests. She should be pleading for her life—not that pleas for mercy would help. Gwen Adams was going to die.
As aware of her improbable odds of survival as she might be, it was human nature to cling to hope. The foolish instinct made his work far more interesting and vastly more entertaining.
“Where...” The word croaked out of her dry throat. She cleared it some more. “Where would you like me to start?”
“At the beginning. From the moment you saw Detective Gentry in the ER.”
“It was just over two weeks after she escaped.” Her lips trembled, and she averted her eyes as if she feared her words would anger him. “January 31.”
He smiled. “She was in very poor condition.”
The nurse nodded, the movement stiff and uncoordinated. “She had spent two weeks in the hospital in Meridian, Mississippi.”
Gaylon had held Detective Gentry in an abandoned cabin about twelve miles outside Meridian. Even now, his body hardened at the memory of fucking her...of tasting her blood. He’d never had a cop before. She had been his most challenging and most satisfying prey. If only he’d been able to finish her story. “They had to do surgery while she was in Mississippi,” he prompted, not wanting a single detail left out.
“Yes.” Adams licked her lips. “The femur was fractured, but the worst was the fibula. It had to be reassembled and stabilized with screws and a rod.”
His heart raced as his mind replayed him standing over Gentry and crushing those bones in a fit of rage. He rolled his hand so the woman staring at him with such sheer terror in her eyes would continue the story.
“She had three fractured ribs and one toe that had to be partially removed from the frostbite.”
He squeezed his toes together inside his sneakers. His own injuries had been life threatening. Running through those woods, blood leaking from his chest and his ability to draw in air compromised, had been terrifyingly exhilarating. It was only by utter force of will that he survived long enough to reach help. His mother had always called him determined. Ah, but determination was merely one of his tenacious traits.
“Numerous lacerations were infected and required attention,” Adams continued, her voice growing faint with understanding that those very words described the fate awaiting her. “One spot on her left breast required removal. The tissue loss was repaired with a small amount of fat and skin from her buttocks.”
She fell silent, her body trembling.
“Then the doctors in Mississippi sent her home,” he said, urging her beyond the more mundane details. Why was it that no one knew how to tell a good story anymore? His students had been utter morons. True storytellers were a nearly extinct breed. Such a pity.
“She was released, yes.” Adams executed another of those awkward nods. “She was back home in Montgomery for barely a day when her partner found her near death.”
“Found her where?” Gaylon demanded. She knew better than to leave out the best parts. Her lips trembled with renewed fear. How utterly tedious. “I’m waiting, Nurse Adams.”
“In her little boy’s bedroom.” Adams drew in a halting breath. “Later, when I was taking care of her, Bobbie told me about that day. She was supposed to go directly into rehab, but she’d insisted on spending one night at home first. She said as soon as she was at home alone she’d gone straight to her baby’s room and slit her wrists. She wanted to die. She didn’t want to go on without her family.”
Gaylon savored the words for a moment before he prompted, “So she lost a lot of blood before she was found.”
“It was a miracle she was alive. She’d lost more than enough blood for her heart to simply stop beating.” Her mouth worked for a moment before more words came out. “She was in a coma for five days.”
“A coma? Why?” He knew the answer already, but he wanted to hear her repeat the splendid details. He couldn’t have written a more compelling story himself. Perhaps since it was his work that inspired her actions he could be considered the director.
“She’d given up.” Her voice sounded distant now, as if she was remembering the day a grief-stricken patient had shared her most painful thoughts with a trusted medical professional. “She didn’t want to wake up. But for some reason, on the fifth day, she opened her eyes and started trying to live again.”
“Bravo!” Gaylon clapped enthusiastically, making her jump. “Detective Gentry survived.” Providing a second chance for her as well as for him. He hesitated, pondering the last part. He’d been so excited when he read the medical files and listened to Adams tell the story the first time that he hadn’t thought to ask a very important question. “Why do you suppose she changed her mind? Did her family sway her decision?”
Gaylon knew better. Bobbie Gentry didn’t have any family. There were her in-laws who blamed her for their son’s and grandson’s deaths. She had the chief of police, who was a lifelong friend of her father, and she had her partner. Such a sad little detective. She hardly had anyone to care about her since she’d pushed all her friends away. He couldn’t wait to dismantle her mentally and physically all over again. Piece by piece, and this time he would destroy her completely. He would watch the life drain from her body as he finished her story.
“Either Chief Peterson or Detective Newton had been with her day and night.” The nurse blinked, licked her lips again. “Maybe one of them said something that finally got through to her. I don’t know.”
“No priest visited her? Maybe it was all those people praying for her,” he mocked. He recalled the many requests for prayers in the local news for poor, poor Detective Gentry.
“She never mentioned church while I was working with her.” Adams’s body was trembling harder now. Fear that her unreliable memory would anger him was no doubt coursing through her veins. “I can’t be sure.”
Gaylon knew the answer. Bobbie Gentry was like him; she never had time for such trivialities. Her husband, the man who failed to protect his family, had gone to church and taken their child. Bobbie had only attended on special occasions if work didn’t get in the way. Her work was her religion, her weapon her cross.
Gaylon understood every part of her. He had become thoroughly obsessed with her during those weeks when she participated in the joint task force with the FBI to find a heinous serial killer who could not be found. He’d wanted to possess her so badly that he’d thrown caution to the wind and taken her like he’d taken no other victim.
All those witless profilers had been running in circles. He’s deviated from his MO! He’s never taken victims without waiting the usual year. What fools! Admittedly, he had acted impulsively last year. With the loss he’d suffered, he had been undeniably weak. But he was beyond that now. Now he would finish what he’d started.
He reached down and stroked Adams’s lean rib cage. She shuddered deliciously. His cock stirred. Another hardworking, dedicated woman. Despite being a full-time home health nurse, Gwen still picked up every available shift at the hospital. She was saving up to buy a home. Poor thing. He wondered if Chief Peterson had paid her well to take care of Bobbie. Gaylon hoped so; after all, accepting the extra work was going to cost her so very, very much.
“There...there was one other visitor,” she said suddenly.
He drew his hand away, giving her a moment’s reprieve. “What visitor? You never mentioned another visitor.”
“I just remembered. It was on the last day she was in a coma.” Her brow creased in concentration. “Her partner was sitting with her that day. He told me to take a break. When I came back, he was waiting in the corridor outside her room and there was another man inside. I assumed it was a family friend, so I took a few more minutes and went to the bathroom. When I came back, the door was open and this man I’d never seen before was sitting next to her, holding her hand.”
“Holding her hand?” Rage coiled hard and fast. “Who was this man?”
“I don’t know. Detective Newton started talking to me. I guess the man left while we were talking.”
“What did this stranger look like?” Gaylon thought he knew everyone who had come into contact with his detective since he touched her. If there was another man and he got in Gaylon’s way, he would die in the same tragic manner as her husband had. Bobbie Gentry belonged to him. Only he could finish her story.
“He had longish dark hair, maybe down on his collar. He was tall. I only got a glimpse of his face, and then his profile.” She shook her head, instinctively tugged at the restraints binding her hands above her head. “I don’t know. Bobbie’s partner must have known him. I never saw him again.”
Gaylon had watched Bobbie running tonight. He noticed a man he couldn’t place at her door. He’d assumed this was a cop from her department. Perhaps not. “If I bring you a picture, would you recognize him?”
She blinked back a new rush of tears. “I think so. I’ll try.”
He trailed a finger between her nice breasts. “You’re doing very well, Nurse Adams.”
A sob tore from her throat. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Now, now. You know I’m going to hurt you—the only question is how much.”
The sound of whimpering had her twisting her head around to see where it came from. “What was that?” Her worried gaze collided with his. “Is someone else here?”
“That’s none of your concern.” His cock hardened again as he thought of what he had in the other room and the way it was going to hurt Bobbie. “Now be quiet before I change my mind about how much I need you.”
Gaylon stood and walked to the window. He peered beyond the dirty glass. In the distance he could just distinguish the taller of the buildings that was downtown Montgomery.
In her wildest imagination, Bobbie Gentry could not possibly conceive what was coming.
Four (#u2ef781e5-dc56-5d2d-b98d-c0ecc3b52fea)
Economy Inn, West South Boulevard
Saturday, August 27, 1:30 a.m.
Nick Shade taped another photo of Detective Bobbie Gentry on the wall. He stood back and surveyed the new additions to the timeline he had created. The data he’d collected during this hunt were far more extensive than he usually gathered. The instinct he’d recently started to ignore warned again that he had ventured too close on this one.
What the hell had he been thinking going to her house?
He plowed his hands through his hair. He hadn’t been thinking. That was the problem. But had there really been a choice? He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Gaylon Perry had proven significantly more resourceful than he had anticipated. For such a singularly focused killer, whose carefully choreographed world had been so abruptly turned upside down, Perry had regained his balance and scurried out of reach in the blink of an eye.
Nick could only watch and wait for his return.
Fury tightened his jaw. “I knew you’d come eventually.”
Nick studied a photo of the forty-year-old English teacher. His generic brown hair and eyes were less than memorable. His soft jaw and weak chin along with a slim build disguised his physical strength. Classroom videos showed a soft-spoken man who interacted comfortably with his students. Those same students, as well as Perry’s colleagues at the high school, considered him to be kind and compassionate. And yet fourteen murders, not counting Gentry’s husband, had been attributed to him. The community of Lincoln, Nebraska, was still reeling from the news. Parents were sickened at the idea that their impressionable teenagers had been taught by a sadistic serial killer.
According to the statements Gentry had given, Perry had mentioned other murders. A total of twenty-three. Based on his sophisticated signature, Nick felt confident that number was closer to right than the one previously thought. The Storyteller’s first victim, as far as the cops knew, had been dumped in a quiet Louisiana town when Perry was twenty-seven. He had followed that pattern annually until last year. The MO was simplistic, yet it was that very simplicity that had protected Perry for so long. Each year between June 1 and mid-July, he took a victim from one of the southern states, kept her for three to four weeks, torturing her relentlessly before tattooing a sadistic poem on her back and then murdering her. The body was immediately dumped in another state. Each step was carefully planned and executed.
Nick considered the photos of the crime scenes where the bodies were discovered. Perry did more than dump his victims. He posed them in prominent places so they would be found quickly while his poetic masterpieces were still fresh. No one, not the FBI or any other law enforcement agency, had come close to identifying him, much less catching him, until Detective Gentry survived, providing a break in the case.
Even before Nick had known his name, he had understood one thing with complete certainty. As long as he was still breathing, the Storyteller would return to Montgomery for the one that got away.
“What have you been waiting for?” Nick rubbed at the tense muscles in his neck. He’d been in Montgomery watching Gentry for nearly four months—since her release from the rehabilitation center. His gaze narrowed with the only possible conclusion. “You waited for her to go back to work, didn’t you, you sick fuck?”
Perry would see having the damaged hero cop resume duty before he murdered her a more dramatic and poignant chapter in his killing history. Nick’s gaze settled on the photo he’d snapped of Gentry entering the Criminal Investigation Division last month on her first day back. She’d worn a pair of dark trousers and a matching suit jacket. Muted pink blouse. Rubber-soled loafers. No jewelry. No scarves or other accessories. Her stride had exuded strength and confidence. Watching her from afar, no one would have suspected she had spent long, grueling hours in physical therapy day in and day out for months to regain that strength and confidence. Not to mention the hours of psychiatric counseling. Continuing the counseling was a condition of her return to work. Nick had watched her leave the department psychiatrist’s office each week knowing she had played the part everyone wanted to see. She presented the picture of strength and determination except when she thought no one was watching.
Those were the moments he couldn’t get out of his head.
He reached out and traced her face. “Why did the FBI ever let you anywhere near this case?”
She was a perfect example of Perry’s typical victim. She was tall and thin with long, lush brunette hair that sharply contrasted her pale skin. Her facial features were delicate and finely sculpted. Her eyes were an uncommonly pale blue. Perry wasn’t particular when it came to the color of the eyes, but each victim had a uniquely light hue and eyes slightly larger than average.
Gentry’s eyes brought to mind a clear blue sky. Nick blinked away the notion. How long had it been since he’d noticed the sky beyond assessing coming weather conditions? He couldn’t remember. Research and tracking his prey consumed his nights and his days. One case became another, and then another. Home was wherever his work took him—the desert or the mountains, under a city overpass or in an abandoned house deep in the woods.
Nick moved to the map of Montgomery County he’d tacked to the wall. Every minute he didn’t have eyes on Gentry, he was poring over aerials of the area using Google Earth and driving to remote locations similar to those Perry had utilized before. If Nick was lucky, he would find Perry before he made a play for Gentry.
His phone sounded a warning. Nick reached for it and checked the status of the tracking device he’d planted on Gentry’s car. “Can’t sleep either, eh?”
He snatched up his keys and headed for the door. Apparently neither of them was going to get any sleep tonight. He wasn’t surprised. She went for middle-of-the-night drives several times a week. Detective Gentry went to great lengths to make herself available for the taking. Nick suspected Perry wanted her to suffer a little more before he obliged her and made a move.
“You won’t get away this time.” However else he had screwed up on this one, Nick would see to it that Perry didn’t escape.
The streets of Montgomery were quiet. Most of the bars and clubs would be closed by now. He checked the blinking dot that represented Gentry’s progress and took the necessary turns. When he spotted her black Challenger, he shook his head. The police cruiser was right on her tail. He thought of the neighborhood—a neighborhood known for serious drug and gang problems—where she currently resided.
“You like punishing yourself for surviving—don’t you, Bobbie?” He didn’t have to wonder how she explained that one to her psychiatrist. He’d slipped into the doctor’s office and read over his notes more than once. I need the space to get back to who I am.
“Liar.” She still owned the house she and her husband built before their son was born. She had closed the place up four months ago. The cars she and her husband had driven were still in the garage. A lawn service kept the exterior maintained. Gentry had taken nothing, not even her clothes from the home. She’d bought a new muscle car and moved into the Gardendale house to “find herself.”
He shook his head as he watched her taillights in the distance. “I’ve got you all figured out, Bobbie.”
Trouble was, learning her so well had cost him. Too early just yet to tell how much.
She made a left onto Commerce Street. After parking on the Dexter Avenue side of Court Square, she emerged from her car. The cruiser parked a few yards beyond her. Nick eased to the curb half a block away. Gentry walked to the fountain in the center of the square. Montgomery’s historic downtown district centered on the 1880s fountain, but the fountain’s historic significance and the goddess of youth statue that topped it weren’t the reasons she had come.
It was in this cobblestoned square that Perry had left his last victim before abducting Gentry. Alyssa Powell’s body had been posed at this fountain on December 3. Perry’s decision to make a second abduction in one year and to leave that victim here had forever changed Gentry’s life.
She walked around the fountain, once, twice, and then she surveyed the deserted square. Nick exhaled a heavy breath. She was doing all within her power to draw out the Storyteller, and obviously she no longer cared if anyone knew. The surveillance detail hindered her efforts toward her goal, but that was only temporary. She was a smart, determined lady. When she was ready to ditch the detail, she would make it happen. Nick had to make sure she didn’t do the same to him.
The first time he saw her she had given up. Perry had murdered her husband, and her child had died as a result of the abduction. The torture Perry had inflicted left Gentry vulnerable, but it was the loss of her family that had destroyed her, and she simply hadn’t possessed the wherewithal to go on.
Nick had just finished a hunt. He’d been physically and mentally exhausted, but the news that a victim had survived the Storyteller was too significant to ignore. The Storyteller had been on his top-ten list already. After seeing Gentry and hearing her story from her partner, Nick had made his decision. The Storyteller would be next. He’d been tracking him since.
Gaylon Perry wasn’t the most intelligent serial killer he’d hunted, but he possessed incredible willpower. He allowed himself one theatrical event each year, and then he returned to school in the fall and carefully maintained his seemingly normal persona until summer rolled around again. Last November his mother’s death had caused him to act out of character, to make a move beyond his meticulously maintained boundaries. Then a second trigger had prompted a dangerously impulsive move.
That trigger had been Bobbie Gentry.
Since Perry had taken several broad steps outside his established MO, maybe Nick should move his grid search closer into the city. Perry would want to be near her. He would need to see Gentry often. To relish her flagrant actions of invitation. Her every move was like foreplay to the serial killer who had already come so very close to ending her life.
Nick wanted to shake her. She had to know she couldn’t do this alone.
As if she’d felt his censure across the night, she climbed back into her Challenger and drove away. Her official shadow rolled behind her. Nick allowed some distance and then he followed. She returned to her house on Gardendale and backed into the driveway. Nick watched until she was inside and the house went dark again before he returned to his motel.
Once he was between the sheets, he closed his eyes and waited for exhaustion to take him. Between now and then one face and one voice would taunt him. He hadn’t slept a single night without thinking of Bobbie Gentry since back in February, when he’d held her hand in that hospital room and made that damned promise.
She wouldn’t remember and he couldn’t forget.
In that sterile room all those months ago he’d watched her sleep, absorbing the pain and desperation emanating from her weak and broken body. He had known then that Perry would come after her again. She would be the key to stopping the sadistic bastard. From that moment Nick had learned all he could about her. He’d searched the home she’d shared with her husband and child; over and over he’d watched the videos they’d made. He knew her every move, her every look, her serious side as well as her playful one. The nuances of her voice and the sound of her laughter. He understood her vulnerabilities, few though they were, and her infinite strength.
The woman he had spoken to tonight was nothing like the one captured in those videos with her family and friends. He thought of the way she had smiled before...the way her eyes lit with happiness in the videos. The light was missing from her eyes now, and he was yet to see her lips form a real smile.
Something about her—something he couldn’t quite name—haunted him. Reached a place inside him that no one had touched in a very long time. The longer he remained near her, the more powerful that inexplicable link became.
He never permitted personal involvement to develop during his hunts. His life as well as his sanity depended on maintaining distance. Somehow in the past few months he’d lost the ability to distance himself from Bobbie Gentry.
Something he and Perry had in common.
Five (#u2ef781e5-dc56-5d2d-b98d-c0ecc3b52fea)
The hum of her cell phone vibrating woke Bobbie. She reached toward the floor and snatched it up. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again in an effort to force her bleary eyes to focus. She hadn’t come to bed until after four. It was... 7:30 a.m. glared at her from the screen of her cell. Groaning, she rubbed her eyes and read the name flashing beneath the time. The boss.
Bobbie bolted upright. “Morning—” She cleared her throat. “Ma’am.”
“I need you at the office ASAP, Detective.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Owens ended the call and Bobbie stared at the phone. Had the chief forgotten to tell Lieutenant Owens about the admin leave? Doubtful. Something was up.
Bobbie pushed to her feet; her right leg protested. She winced and made a path down the hall to the bathroom. One glance in the mirror confirmed she looked as bad as she felt. Good thing she’d showered after her run last night. She dragged a brush through her hair and wrestled it into a ponytail. She washed her face, rolled on deodorant and took care of other necessary business.
She reached for the door and froze. For the first time since she left the rehab center she found herself without a weapon. Her Taser, her knife and both her handguns were still in her bedroom.
Fear expanded in her chest, sliding over her muscles, creeping along her limbs and lodging in her throat. The Storyteller was alive and he was close, and she was in this damned bathroom with no window for escape and no weapon. Sweat coating her skin, she steadied herself and struggled to suck in air around the swelling fear.
Bobbie flattened her hands against the door and closed her eyes. Listen. You know his footsteps. You know the sound of his breathing. She forced herself to quiet. Slowed her respiration. Her heart and pulse rates followed suit. The roar of the blood in her ears hushed. Then she held her breath. The low hum of the air coming from the floor vents...and silence.
Drawing in a gulp of air, Bobbie concentrated on the doorknob. Slowly her hand descended to wrap around it. Braced for battle, she twisted the damned thing and jerked the door open. No one jumped at her. No sound of running footsteps echoed. Nothing but the darkness and the stale air being circulated by the old HVAC system.
“Coward,” she cursed herself as she stormed back to her bedroom.
Just another secret she kept from the world. Bobbie Gentry was a coward. Without at least one of her weapons she was nothing but a sniveling scaredy-cat. No matter that she’d taken every defense and hand-to-hand combat class she could find between here and Birmingham, she was still a coward.
The world knew the Storyteller had taken her family, but they didn’t understand he’d taken something else from her as well...some vital piece she couldn’t name.
Doesn’t matter. She peeled off the T-shirt and shorts she slept in and tossed them onto the bed. She didn’t need that piece to do what she had to do.
Stepping into a pair of panties, she scanned the floor for her shoes. The black leather loafers lay next to the closet door. She pulled on a sports bra and grabbed a pair of socks. Yanking the plastic from a freshly laundered suit, she surveyed the row of pullover blouses that were basically alike except in color. Scooped neck, short-sleeved, functional. She grabbed a white one. The navy suits and black suits were all the same. Serviceable and comfortable.
Dressed, she threaded a regulation leather belt through the loops on her trousers, and one by one stationed her police-issue Glock, cell phone and badge around her waist. She grabbed the black leather shoulder bag that held the rest of her life, including Tic Tacs, latex gloves, an emergency tampon, sunglasses, wallet and her keys, and stepped into her loafers. She headed for the door. At the living room window she checked the street, noted her surveillance detail at the curb. Only one uniform this morning. He lifted a McDonald’s coffee cup to his lips, and her own need for caffeine awakened.
There would be coffee at work. She didn’t want to take the time to stop at a drive-through en route. Now that her head was clear of sleep, she realized the call from Owens meant new developments. If her presence had been requested despite being on admin leave, something big had gone down—something related to the Storyteller.
Outside, the young officer flashed her a smile as she loaded into her Challenger. “Nice ride.”
“Thanks.” She started the engine, grateful for the quiet exhaust system. When she’d bought the Hellcat, she’d immediately taken it to a shop to tone down its roar. She wanted the speed and agility but not the growl of the beast under the hood. With this vehicle, if the need arose, she could outrun basically anything else on the road.
Traffic was light. No kids hurrying along the sidewalk headed for school. Jamie would have started pre-K this fall. The realization sank like a massive rock in her gut. She blinked away the burn in her eyes and forced her attention back on the passing surroundings. D-Boy lifted his head and watched as she rolled past. She’d filled his water bowl and taken him a treat around midnight last night. He was a good dog, but she didn’t need one.
Nick Shade’s image intruded on her thoughts. He’d been watching her. She’d seen him at the fountain last night. There was a darkness about the man. She lacked enough detail to make a valid assessment beyond the fact that he disturbed her somehow. Just another obstacle and potential distraction she didn’t need.
She rolled to a stop at the intersection behind a vintage Camaro as black as the car she drove. The Camaro waited for an opportunity to turn left on Fairground Road. She’d seen it around the neighborhood. Probably belonged to a member of Quintero’s thug gang. One of these days the guy was going to get what was coming to him. He ran the illegal activities on this side of town. Everyone knew it, but no one could prove it. He and Bobbie had butted heads more than once.
When five then ten seconds passed with no traffic and no movement from the Camaro, tension slid through her. She reached for the gearshift to move into Reverse, but the passenger-side door of the Camaro opened and a man emerged.
“Speak of the devil.” What the hell did he want?
Javier Quintero approached her passenger-side window and leaned down to stare at her. “I need to talk to you, mami,” he said, the glass muffling his voice.
She powered down the window. “We have nothing to talk about, Javier.”
He unlocked the door and got in.
Bobbie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Your friend—” he hitched his head to indicate the cruiser behind her “—is causing my eses discomfort.”
Like she cared what his homeys suffered. “Get out of my car, Javier.”
In her side mirror she watched the officer emerge from the cruiser. She swore as she powered her window down.
“Ma’am, is everything all right?” Officer Delacruz, she read his name tag, already had one hand sitting on the butt of his weapon.
“Everything’s fine.” She offered one of her fake smiles. “Just chatting with a neighbor. Wait in your car, Delacruz.”
The painfully young officer, who shared absolutely nothing but a Hispanic heritage with the gangbanger currently occupying her passenger seat, glanced at Javier before giving her a nod and heading back to his cruiser.
“You see what I mean?” Javier complained. “This is bad for business.”
There were a number of things Bobbie could have said just then, but she decided in the interest of time she would give it to him straight. “You know that serial killer who almost killed me?”
Javier nodded. “I remember. He’s one sick motherfucker.”
On instinct, Bobbie checked her mirrors. “He’s back, so the chief put a tail on me.”
Javier laughed out loud, showing off his gold-and-silver grill. “Your jefe thinks that little boy back there is going to protect you, mami?”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“You tell your chief this is my neighborhood,” Javier said, ignoring her comment. “That fucker comes up in here—”
Enough. Bobbie slid her Glock from her belt and jammed it in his face. “Get out of my car.”
His mouth eased into a big grin, stretching the scar on his cheek where someone had sliced his face the last time he was in prison. “Don’t tease me, mami. I get hard when you play with me like this.” He flicked out his tongue and traced the muzzle.
She gritted her teeth. “Get out.”
The smile vanished and his brown eyes bored into hers. “Tell your chief that Johnny Law needs an unmarked car. He’s fucking with my cash flow and I don’t like it.”
With that demand he exited her car and climbed back into the Camaro. The driver spun out, tires smoking and squealing. Bobbie shook her head and rolled to the intersection. She hoped Delacruz hadn’t pissed his pants.
Criminal Investigation Division, 8:15 a.m.
Bobbie entered the building and waved to the sergeant stationed at the visitor’s registration desk. If she was lucky, there would be some fresh coffee somewhere in the building. She rounded the corner and bumped into Bauer.
“It’s about time you got here, Gentry. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
Detective Asher Bauer was average height with a well-muscled build maintained by his obsession with the gym. His need to heft weights was matched only by his determination to keep a year-round tan and a trendsetting club wardrobe. The sandy-blond hair and sleep-deprived gaze completed the party-player look he appeared to fancy. If he was smart, he’d find something for those bloodshot eyes. Since his fiancée died he was determined to spend his off time deep in a bottle of Jack and screwing anyone who would spread her legs. Bobbie wished she could find the right words to make him see alcohol and casual sex weren’t the answer.
At least he hasn’t slit his wrists the way you did.
Bobbie closed out the thoughts and produced another of her standard fake smiles for the guy. “As soon as I get coffee, I’ll go to the LT’s office.”
Bauer moved his head from side to side. “Go to the conference room. I’ll bring your coffee. Peterson’s in there, too.”
“Black, no sugar,” Bobbie reminded him before changing directions and heading for the conference room.
Whatever was going on, the chief’s presence confirmed it was a high-profile situation like the Storyteller. Why else would they have called you?
Anticipation seared through her veins and her fingers itched to draw her weapon and hold on to it just in case. The door to the conference room was open. Peterson sat at the head of the table, Lieutenant Eudora Owens to his right, Sergeant Lynette Holt next to her. Across from the LT were Montgomery County Sheriff Virgil Young and Special Agent Michael Hadden from the local FBI office.
All looked up when Bobbie entered the room. “I guess I’m the last one to the party.” She reached for a chair.
“Not quite, Detective.”
Her pulse bumping into a faster rhythm, Bobbie turned to the man standing in the open doorway. Special Agent Anthony LeDoux. Resentment, bitterness and no small amount of dislike stirred. She clenched her jaw and tamped down the surge of emotions.
LeDoux was only four years older than her. He had been on the Storyteller case since the eighth victim was left at his front door. At the time he’d been a brand-new profiler and his work had apparently drawn the Storyteller’s attention. LaDoux’s light brown hair was shorter now than it was last December when she’d first met him, and the wedding band he’d worn back then was missing.
“Why don’t we get started?” the chief suggested, impatience radiating in his tone. Peterson didn’t care much for LeDoux, either, and he didn’t mind showing it.
Bobbie shifted her attention to those gathered at the table. “What’s going on?” She didn’t ask why she was here, she was just grateful not to be left in the dark.
“Lieutenant Owens will brief us,” Peterson said, his somber gaze now resting on the Major Crimes Bureau commander.
Bobbie sat down next to Holt. Bauer showed up and took the seat beside her. Thankfully the cup of coffee he sat in front of Bobbie smelled drinkable, which wasn’t always the case around here. Many of the detectives in CID were former military who’d done numerous tours of duty overseas, and their definition of full-flavored coffee was something strong enough to eat a hole in the cup.
“About five this morning the car belonging to Gwen Adams was discovered in the driveway of a vacant home on Highland Avenue,” Owens announced. “Her purse and keys were still in the car. No sign of her cell phone. Witnesses say the car has been there since yesterday morning or the night before, but none saw the driver or anyone else in or near the vehicle. It wasn’t until this morning when the Realtor came by on his way out of town that anyone realized it shouldn’t be there. We’ve had no hits on our BOLO on Ms. Adams, and her boyfriend, Liam Neely, is missing, as well. Based on the number of calls made between Neely and Carl Evans during the forty or so hours before Evans’s suicide, we’ve listed Neely as a person of interest.”
Equal parts pain and anger welled inside Bobbie. If the Storyteller followed his usual MO, he would torture Gwen relentlessly and rape her repeatedly. Bobbie closed her eyes. She had to do something. Gwen had worked so patiently with her during her recovery. She refused to give up even when Bobbie was at her lowest. The chief could keep her on admin leave, but Bobbie had to help find Gwen before it was too late. Before the bastard did those things to her...
Whispers and images attempted to invade her thoughts. Strong-arming those ugly memories aside, she glanced at LeDoux, who was busy flipping through pages of reports. To Owens, she said, “Obviously you’ve decided her abduction is the work of the Storyteller.” Bobbie didn’t know why she’d bothered with the statement. Of course it was the Storyteller.
“Actually,” LeDoux cut in, “I made that call.”
Another wave of tension washed over Bobbie as she met his gaze. “Based on what?” Was there more he wasn’t telling her, because he couldn’t possibly know what Evans had said to her?
To say she despised LeDoux would be a vast understatement. He had known having her on the task force last December would push the Storyteller’s buttons. He’d been desperate to see movement on the case. But then, she couldn’t hold him responsible for getting her family killed. She had quickly realized the Storyteller would be drawn to her since she fit the profile of his preferred victim and she’d stayed on the case anyway. Both she and LeDoux had hoped to be the one to bring the infamous serial killer to his knees. Apparently—she glanced at the bare ring finger on his left hand—they had both paid a price.
“Based on my recommendation,” Chief Peterson announced.
“Why am I here?” Bobbie asked this question directly of the chief. She could feel Lieutenant Owens glaring at her. Didn’t matter. The question was a valid one.
“Because I wanted you here,” LeDoux answered.
Bobbie turned back to the agent, his words reverberating inside her. This time she couldn’t keep the anger from her voice when she spoke. “I should have recognized the MO.”
“That’s enough, Detective,” Owens warned.
“We believe,” LeDoux began, “Gwen Adams is being held somewhere in Montgomery County. Perry will want to stay near you, Bobbie.”
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgment.
“Chief Peterson called me yesterday as soon as the Carl Evans case broke,” LeDoux continued, speaking to the room at large. “Considering the transfer of Detective Gentry’s medical records and the research Evans had been doing on the internet, it’s clear this case is related to the Storyteller investigation.”
“With Perry active again in our jurisdiction,” Owens picked up from there, “we have to assume he has returned for you, Detective.”
All eyes at the table moved in Bobbie’s direction. She shrugged. “Why else would he resurface and risk getting caught?”
“Precisely,” the chief punctuated. “Which is why I believe it would be in your best interest to go into protective custody.”
Bobbie had wondered when that suggestion would come up. She was not running from Perry. The only way to stop him was head-on. The one chance Gwen had of surviving was if they found him quickly enough. Bobbie stood and placed her badge and her service weapon on the table. “I’m done here.”
A rap on the open door drew the room’s collective attention in that direction. The desk sergeant looked from the chief to Bobbie. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a lady at the desk who refuses to leave without seeing Detective Gentry. She says it’s urgent.”
Shoving her weapon and her badge back into place, Bobbie was at the door before anyone else at the table moved. The sergeant stepped out of her way, and then hurried to keep up with her. With every step, she hoped a little harder that the woman would be Gwen...that maybe she hadn’t been taken by the Storyteller.
“Did she give her name?” Bobbie asked the sergeant.
“She wouldn’t tell me anything except that she needed to see you.”
By the time they reached the lobby, the rest of those gathered for this morning’s trap to force Bobbie into protective custody had caught up.

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