Oliver jerked up the remote and switched off the TV. “Please tell me you got an address?”
“I do, but you won’t find Carl Bedford there. He died a couple months ago in prison, where he was serving two life sentences.”
Oliver holstered his 9mm and sprinted toward the door. “Where’s Holland?”
“When I spoke with him earlier, he was getting ready to head to Panama City Beach.”
“Thank you, Nancy.” Oliver ended the call, opened the door, and nearly ran into Jason.
Jason backed up a step, probably to avoid being plowed down by an adrenaline-filled Oliver. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Oliver sailed right past him. “It’s an urgent matter, Jason. Lock up when you leave.”
Without waiting for a response, Oliver hurried to his small SUV and slid behind the wheel.
The heavy Destin traffic was on point as usual, eliciting a string of obscenities from Oliver.
He passed as many cars as he could until he found a break in traffic.
Snatching up his cell, he put in a call to Holland, who answered immediately. “Where are you?”
“Leaving Fort Walton. I just hung up with Nancy.”
“Wendel Bedford is our guy, Richard.”
Holland didn’t miss a beat. “I’m willing to bet the farm on it. His father killed his mother when Wendel was only eight years old. And in the same fashion that Wendel is killing these women.”
“The father dying in prison, that was the stressor,” Oliver pointed out.
Richard grunted. “Serial killers don’t normally hunt so close to home. Odd that this one does.”
“I’m guessing it’s because that’s the area his mother was murdered in. He’s reliving it.”
“You’re probably right,” Richard agreed. “I’ll wait for you at the Elberta city limits. SWAT is en route.”
“See you there.” Oliver pressed the end call button and returned his phone to the console.
* * * *
Oliver pulled off to the side of the road where Richard and SWAT waited.
Holland gave the signal to move forward and then pulled out onto the road.
Oliver followed.
The drive to the Bedford home took less than five minutes once they left the city limit sign.
A two-story house in need of a paint job came into view. Large oak trees surrounded the house, with moss hanging from their branches, giving the place an ominous look.
Oliver normally loved giant live oaks, but not today. They gave too much shade, too many places to hide.
An empty chicken coop sat to the left of the house, near a large unpainted barn. An old blue car was perched to Oliver’s right, sporting two flat tires and enough pollen to fell an elephant.
But it wasn’t the car that held Oliver’s attention as much as the tan Ford truck parked in the drive. The same truck Oliver had seen Wendel climb into, back at the medical examiner’s office.
Oliver exited his car, bulletproof vest in place and 9mm in hand.
He crouched his six-feet-three-inch frame low behind SWAT and followed them onto the porch.
“FBI,” Oliver barked, giving the nod to SWAT when the door didn’t open.
They kicked it in, rushing inside like ants from a disrupted mound.
“Clear,” Holland called out, from the living room before heading toward the kitchen.
Oliver took the stairs, his weapon trained in front of him.
The adrenaline pumping through his veins was a high he hadn’t realized he’d missed until that moment.
Holland was right. Oliver was born for this. It wasn’t simply something he decided to do; it was who he was.
He swung his weapon to the left and mounted the top of the stairs with his back to the wall.
A soft sound reached his ears, sending his adrenaline spiking through the roof.
Oliver kept his gaze trained on the three doors on either side of the hall in front of him.
“Clear!” someone else called out from downstairs.
A screen door slamming below told Oliver that either SWAT or Holland had exited the back of the house to check the barn he’d seen upon arrival.
Keeping low and his gun trained in front of him, Oliver crept down the hall to the first door on the left.
He carefully turned the knob, threw the door open, and swung the arm that held his weapon inside, ahead of his body.
The room was empty, save for a few boxes and end tables. He eased the door closed.
Moving on down the hall, he checked the next room on his right. It was a small bathroom, and empty as well.
The last door was closed, just as the others had been.
Holding his breath, Oliver gently turned the knob and threw the door wide.
There, tied to a four-poster bed, was a nude blonde woman whose eyes were swollen shut. Her rounded, slightly protruding belly told Oliver she was likely with child.
They’d had no idea that another woman had gone missing. If the FBI hadn’t arrived when they did, Bedford would no doubt have killed her.
“P-please,” she whispered, her voice dry and raspy.
Oliver held a finger to his lips, though he doubted she could see it, and did a sweep through the room.
Determining all was clear, he holstered his weapon and yelled toward the open doorway, “We need a medic up here!”
Rushing to the side of the bed, Oliver quickly released her left arm from its binding and then moved to the right. “Shhhh, it’s all right now. I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”
Once free, the woman swung out, catching Oliver in the face with her fingernails.
With a hiss, Oliver jerked his head back away from her flailing claws until he found an opening.
He wrapped his arms around her, to prevent more damage to his face, and spoke as gently as he could. “Easy there. My name is Oliver. I’m with the FBI. You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.” But he knew she wouldn’t. She would never be okay again.
She finally stopped fighting. Out of relief or exhaustion, Oliver couldn’t be sure.
And then the trembling began. She shivered in his arms, tearing at his normally hardened heart.
Oliver grabbed a blanket from the other side of the bed and wrapped it around her. “An ambulance is on the way. You’re going to be all right. Can you tell me your name?”
“M-Missy. M-Missy Davis.”
“Missy Davis,” Oliver softly repeated, his gaze touching on some bruising around her neck.
Rage filled him. Rage for Missy, rage for the others lying in that morgue…and rage for April, that he hadn’t found her in time.
Oliver sat there for what seemed an eternity, gently rocking Missy Davis in his arms.
He knew he cooed words that made little sense, but it seemed to calm her. And for some unknown reason, it calmed…him.
Chapter Twenty
Once the ambulance left with Missy Davis, Oliver’s rage took on a life of its own.
He pulled on some gloves and studied the room where Missy had been bound to that bed. Other than some small blood spatter on the sheets, probably from Missy, there was no other evidence from Bedford’s previous victims.
Holland had searched the barn and found the vehicles, purses, and wedding rings from the women lying in the morgue. He’d also found the chains, saws, and axes used to dismember them.
After meticulously going through the room Missy had been held in, Oliver did a walkthrough of the rest of the house.
A half-used jar of mayonnaise, some unopened sandwich meat that was out of date, and a few other random condiments resided in the refrigerator.
The freezer was bare, as were the cupboards.
The living room looked like any other house, other than a small wooden chair that sat directly in front of an old television that appeared to be from the early nineties. Come to think of it, Oliver thought, so did the wallpaper.
He trailed across the room to the only bathroom in the house. Pulling
the shower curtain back, he discovered a bar of soap and bottle of off-brand shampoo. There were also two washcloths draped across a bar inside the shower stall.
A toothbrush rested along the back of the sink, next to a half-used tube of toothpaste.
Oliver dropped to his haunches, opening the cabinet door beneath the sink. There, amidst some mothballs, shaving cream, and razors, sat an open box of tampons.
Pregnant women wouldn’t need tampons.
Oliver surged to his feet and hurried out the front door.
He strode over to where Holland stood speaking to the local police chief. “There’s a girlfriend.”
“You’re sure?” Holland’s eyes narrowed in interest.
“I found an opened box of tampons under the bathroom sink. Pregnant women don’t use tampons. But someone does.”
The police chief faced Oliver. “Could be from anyone. A prostitute, a coworker from his past.”
“No.” Oliver shook his head. “A prostitute would have had them in her purse. She wouldn’t have shown up with an entire box and deposited them under his sink. And a coworker? I’m not buying it. A coworker would have taken them with her. There were also two washcloths in the shower. Could be both his, but I’m willing to bet it’s a girlfriend.”
The police chief eyed Oliver. “His closest neighbor is nearly a mile up the road. They couldn’t tell us anything, other than the fact that Wendel keeps to himself.”
“Does he have a job?” Oliver questioned, his gaze sweeping the area.
The chief shook his head. “The neighbor said he was working at the local hardware store in town, but they haven’t seen him in there for a couple of months.”
“Probably since his father’s death,” Oliver pointed out. “So, he has no money, no food in the house. And that’s his truck sitting in the drive. How is he surviving?”
Holland spoke up. “He may be collecting a social security check from his ole man.”
“Then why no food in the house?” Oliver questioned aloud. “Someone’s feeding him. And my guess is a girlfriend.”
The police chief nodded. “You may be right. I have the dogs coming. We’ll search the surrounding woods, just to be sure he’s not hiding out there somewhere.”
Oliver shifted his gaze to Holland. “I’m going to head to the hardware store. Maybe someone there can tell us something helpful.” He spun toward his car.
Holland caught up with Oliver just as he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “I’m going to talk to the prison warden where Carl Bedford was housed, see if there was any correspondence between father and son.” Holland glanced at his watch. “I’ll send Merv to the hospital to see what he can find out from Missy Davis.”
Oliver shook his head. “I want to talk to Missy Davis. I’ll go to the hospital once I leave the hardware store.”
Richard held his gaze for long moments. “Okay. Get going.”
Oliver closed his door and backed out of Wendel Bedford’s drive.
* * * *
“Can I get your name?” Oliver stood at the front counter, speaking with the owner of the hardware store where Wendel used to work.
The short middle-aged woman pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Names Mildred Jones. What can I do for you?”
Oliver produced his credentials. “Oliver Quick. I’m with the FBI. I need to ask you some questions about one of your employees. Wendel Bedford.”
“Is Wendel in trouble?” Her eyes widened.
Oliver kept his voice calm and reassuring. The last thing he wanted was for Mildred to pick up the phone and warn Wendel of the FBI’s presence. “We just need to ask him some questions. Do you know where we might can find him?”
“He worked here for nearly eight years. Never late or missed a day. But then his daddy died a couple months back, and Wendel asked if he could take a few days off to handle his affairs. He never returned.”
Oliver returned his credentials to his pocket. “Do you know where we can find Mr. Bedford?”
Mildred appeared to mull over his words. “Did you check his home?”
“We did. Anywhere else he might hang out, someplace he frequents?”
“He used to date this one gal he seemed to be serious about. She would bring him to work sometimes if his truck wouldn’t crank.”
“Do you happen to remember this girl’s name?”
“Mandy. No, Marsha.” Mildred backed away from the counter and ambled over to a filing cabinet to tug open a drawer. “I believe he listed her as an emergency contact.”
She pulled a paper free and switched out her glasses for a pair that hung around her neck. “Yep, that was it. Marsha Walker.” She handed the paper to Oliver. “Her phone number is on here but no address.”
“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Jones.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Oliver had Nancy on the phone the minute he pulled out of the parking lot of the hardware store. “Get me an address.”
Nancy worked her magic in under two minutes. She rattled off the address, ending with, “I’ll notify Holland and SWAT. Be safe.”
Ending the call, Oliver programmed Marsha’s address into his GPS. She lived four miles from the hardware store.
He punched the gas and shot out onto the highway at a high rate of speed. Oliver had him… He had Wendel Bedford in his grasp.
His phone vibrated from the console, and Richard’s number appeared on the screen.
Oliver pressed the speaker to keep the GPS live while he answered the call. “Quick.”
“We’re on our way,” Holland immediately announced. “How far out are you?”
“A little less than four miles.”
“We’re leaving the Bedford place now. Wait for backup, Quick. We have to assume that he’s armed.”
Oliver pressed the end button. Retrieved his weapon and checked the magazine. Wendel Bedford was going down…dead or alive.
Images of the dismembered women began to swirl through Oliver’s mind. Margery Osborne, twenty-eight years old, six months pregnant. Wendel Bedford’s first victim.
Janette Beasley. Twenty-seven years old. Seven months pregnant. Bedford’s second victim.
Carrie Colvin. Victim number three. Five and a half months pregnant.
Missy Davis, victim number four. Only twenty-six years old, and six months pregnant. The only one to survive the nightmare of the Dockside Killer.
Missy’s life would forever be changed, altered by the demented mind of a serial killer. She’d been beaten, tortured, and presumably raped, judging by the evidence at the scene.
Oliver shuddered to think of the nightmares she would endure; nightmares that would haunt her throughout the rest of her days.
“You have arrived. Your destination is on the left.” The sound of the GPS brought Oliver out of his tormented thoughts.
He slowed the SUV to a stop behind a white older model compact car parked in front of a small red-brick home.
Flowers were planted across the front in neat beds of red cedar mulch. The yard appeared freshly mowed, and a couple of large green ferns hung from either side of the porch.
With weapon in hand, Oliver eased from his vehicle and slowly moved in, his gaze glued to that house.
Holland and the SWAT team suddenly slid to a stop along the road.
They exited their vehicles and had the place surrounded in under sixty seconds.
Holland spoke to the SWAT leader. “Get ready to move in. But be careful. That’s Marsha Walker’s car. She’s most likely inside.”
The guy nodded his understanding, speaking into his earpiece and motioning for his men to move forward.
One of the windows in the front of the house suddenly shattered, sending everyone in the yard taking cover.
Richard crouched down behind the white car alongside Oliver, his weapon at the ready.
And then a voice rang out, full of anxiety and panic. “I’ll kill her! Back off or I swear to God, I’ll kill her where she stands!”
Oliver glanced at Holland.
“Wendel?” Oliver called out, keeping his head tucked low. “We have the place surrounded. There’s no way out and nowhere to go!”
Silence.
Oliver kept his head down and inched back to his SUV parked behind Marsha’s car. He retrieved his cell phone and dialed Marsha’s number.
He could hear the phone ringing inside. After a few more seconds, it went to voicemail.
Hoping to figure out where in the house Wendel could be, Oliver tried to reach out once more. “Wendel? Why don’t you let Marsha go?”
“I’m not falling for that!” Wendel shouted back. “If you’re not gone in the next five minutes, she dies.”
Oliver knew what he had to do. He pressed a button on his cell, dropped into the pocket of his slacks and moved back behind Marsha’s car with Holland. “Get everyone out of here, Richard.”
Holland’s head snapped around. “You’re not going in there.”
“I have to. I can talk him down.”
“No,” Richard hissed, his eyes narrowed in anger. “He’ll kill you the second you walk through that door.”
Oliver stared back at Richard for a long moment and then surged to his feet, his weapon in the air.
“Dammit, Quick,” Richard growled at Oliver’s retreating back.
Oliver blocked Holland from his mind, his heart pounding with adrenaline and more than a little fear. Richard was right, of course. He very well could die going into that house. But an innocent life was at stake. And Oliver knew without a doubt that Bedford would kill Marsha before allowing the FBI to take him in.
“Wendel? I’m coming in,” Oliver announced in a loud, strong voice. “I’m unarmed.”
The curtain moved in the broken window. “You stay right there!”
Wendel’s voice took on a manic tone, leaving Oliver to second-guess his move to enter that house.
“The house is surrounded, Wendel. There’s no way out. The FBI isn’t going to let you walk out of there alive. But I can help you.”
“Why would you want to help me?”
“I don’t. But I do want to see Marsha Walker released.”
Oliver Quick Page 9
