Oliver Quick

by Ditter Kellen

  “No way, man. If I let her go, I’m a sitting duck!”

  Oliver continued inching forward, his weapon held high above his head.

  He stopped about fifty feet from the house and slowly lowered the 9mm to the ground where Bedford could see. “Trade her for me. I’m an FBI agent, a better hostage.” Oliver remained focused on the slightly parted curtain of that broken window.

  A long silence ensued, and then, “I’ve unlocked the front door. Come in slowly, with your hands in the air.”

  “Let the hostage go,” Oliver answered, his feet rooted to that spot.

  “Not until you’re inside and checked for weapons.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Oliver slowly took his suit jacket off and dropped it to the ground next to his 9mm. His heart was hammering hard enough he could feel it in his throat. “I’m coming in.”

  Wendel didn’t answer, but then Oliver didn’t expect him to.

  Moving carefully and methodically toward the front door, Oliver stepped up onto the porch and gripped the knob. It turned easily in his hand.

  He eased the door open, exhaled an anxious breath, and stepped inside. “Wendel?”

  “Lock it behind you,” Wendel demanded from a room deeper in the house.

  Turning the lock, Oliver held his arms out to his side and lifted a foot to move forward when a rotted stench reached his nose.

  Wendel Bedford appeared in front of him, a revolver in his hand. He jerked his chin toward the living room. “In there.”

  Oliver did as he was told. “Where’s Marsha Walker?” But he knew. He’d smelled her rotted corpse the moment he’d entered the house.

  Bedford moved around behind him, pressing the revolver against his back. “Put your hands behind your head.”

  Something inside Oliver shut down. If he died that day in Marsha Walker’s house, Bedford would die with him. The FBI would put enough holes in Wendel Bedford, they’d be able to read the paper through him when it was over with.

  “Go to the couch,” Wendel demanded in a low voice.

  Oliver did as he was told. He walked slowly forward until his knees bumped into the pale blue sofa.

  Wendel gave him a shove. “Sit.”

  Taking a seat on the surprisingly clean sofa, Oliver tried to block out the smell of Marsha’s rotting body, instead keeping his attention focused on Bedford. “Why did you kill Marsha Walker? Did she find out about the murders?”

  “Shut up!” Wendel snapped, his weapon trained on Oliver. “Don’t try to get in my head. You don’t know shit about me.”

  Oliver watched as Wendel’s gaze flicked to the broken window. The curtain was parted just enough, he had a clear view of the front yard.

  “I know that your father killed your mother in front of you, after suspecting her of cheating.”

  “She was cheating,” Wendel snarled, his attention once again on Oliver.

  Oliver took advantage of the flash of pain he noticed in Bedford’s eyes at the mention of his mother. “Was she?”

  “Yes! Daddy wouldn’t have lied about that.”

  “But he did lie, Wendel.”

  Wendel’s face became mottled with rage. He stepped in closer and pressed the revolver to Oliver’s head. “I’ll kill you where you sit.”

  Oliver knew he risked his life by lying to Wendel about his mother, but something deep inside him wouldn’t allow him to stop.

  “We had your mother’s body exhumed, Wendel. The DNA of her unborn child matched your father’s. The baby belonged to him.”

  Wendel shook his head, his eyes growing wilder by the second. “That’s impossible. Daddy wouldn’t have killed Mama if that kid had belonged to him.”

  “But he did. He only told you that to keep your loyalty. He knew how much you loved your mother.”

  Oliver was wading into unchartered territory. He had no idea what kind of relationship Wendel had had with his mother before her death. But Wendel’s expressions told Oliver he wasn’t far off the mark.

  He continued to push. “Did he show you proof of your mother’s affair? Did you see DNA results that her unborn child belonged to another man?”

  Wendel wiped at the sweat on his forehead with his free arm. “I didn’t need to see them. I trusted my daddy with my life.”

  “What about your mother? Was she abusive, cruel to you?”

  Something akin to pain flickered in Wendel’s eyes. He backed up a step. “You’re just trying to get inside my head. I know how you cops operate.”

  “I’m not a cop, Wendel. I’m an FBI profiler. Why do you think your father really killed your mother?”

  Wendel backed up another step. “I told you. She—”

  “Was it because she found out about the women he kept in the barn behind the house?”

  Wendel wiped at more sweat on his forehead, the gun wavered in his hand. “There were no women kept in that barn!”

  “Are you sure about that? Three women have been missing from the surrounding counties to Elberta, for over thirty years,” Oliver lied. “Their bodies never found. Yet none have come up missing since your father was imprisoned. Not until you began taking them. Do you really think that’s a coincidence?”

  Oliver watched the play of emotion in Wendel’s eyes. His shaggy blond hair stood on end, and his forehead continued to bead with sweat. “No. It’s not true. None of it is. Mama was a whore who deserved what she got. She ruined my daddy. He loved her, gave her everything. But she couldn’t keep her legs closed. She—”

  “The baby belonged to Carl Bedford. DNA tests don’t lie, Wendel.”

  Wendel eyes grew wild with rage. He steadied the revolver and pulled the hammer back. “I said shut the fuck up!”

  “Now, Richard,” Oliver hissed low.

  A shot rang out, deafening in its intensity.

  Wendel gave a short, quick jerk, his weapon firing on impact. His knees buckled, and his body dropped heavily to the floor.

  It took a moment for Oliver to register that Wendel had been shot, and another to realize, he’d been shot himself.

  Pain seared his shoulder. He remained rooted to that couch, his gaze fixated on the huge hole in Wendel’s forehead.

  SWAT came barreling through the front door with Richard tight on their heels.

  Holland rushed to Oliver’s side. “I should kick your ass for this.” He opened his mouth once more before his gaze moved to the blood seeping through Oliver’s shirt. “You’ve been shot.”

  Oliver pushed to his feet and began unbuttoning his shirt, while Richard continued to speak.

  “Coming in here alone was stupid, Quick.”

  “I know.”

  “Calling me before entering was the smartest thing you’ve done all day.”

  Oliver had taken a huge risk on going in that house. He knew that. He also knew that if he hadn’t called Richard’s cell before deciding to go in, he would likely be dead alongside Bedford, right now. “I was praying like hell the call went through.”

  “It did. I heard everything.”

  With a nod, Oliver gritted his teeth and peeled off his bloodied shirt. A deep gash marred his upper arm, bleeding profusely.

  “You need to go to the hospital,” Richard demanded before moving off down the hall toward the back of the house.

  Oliver followed.

  They came to a closed door a few feet past the bathroom.

  Richard drew his weapon, twisted the knob, and threw the door wide.

  The stench hit Oliver full in his face as his gaze landed on the large bed in the middle of the room.

  The rotting corpse of a nude blonde woman lay splayed out in the center of the bed. Her hands and feet were bound to the bed posts, and her milky-colored eyes were stretched open in terror.

  “That has to be Marsha Walker,” Richard unnecessarily pointed out.

  Oliver continued to stare at the frozen horror on her face. “But why kill Marsha? She was probably the only person who cared for him.”

  “He was
a psychopath, Oliver. Who knows why they do any of the things they do? You’re trying to put logic to the illogical. Just be glad he won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

  Oliver turned and pushed his way through the officers now coming down the hall. He needed fresh air something fierce.

  No matter how many times Oliver had witnessed the sight of a dead body, it never got easier.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You’re very fortunate, Mr. Quick. I’ve written you a prescription for antibiotics along with some pain medicine that will help with your discomfort.

  “Thank you, Dr. Herring.”

  The corner of the doctor’s mouth lifted. “Actually, I should be thanking you. At this rate, you alone could keep me in business for many years to come.”

  Oliver half laughed, half groaned. “Let’s hope not.”

  Dr. Herring hung the clipboard at the foot of Oliver’s bed. “Yes, let’s hope not.” He turned and walked away.

  The curtain was abruptly jerked back, and a pale-faced Angie stood there, staring at Oliver in shock. “You’ve been shot?”

  Oliver studied her pretty face. “Only a little.”

  She moved in closer and peeled the edge of the bandage back on his arm. “More stitches. You’re going to resemble Frankenstein before this is over.”

  Oliver watched as her gaze strayed to his bare chest, and a spark of desire appeared in her blue-green eyes.

  Her cheeks pinkened and she cleared her throat. “You’re very lucky that bullet wasn’t a few inches to the right. You wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

  “I know,” he murmured low, unable to tear his gaze away from her face. “And you’re very lucky I refused to be taken to a hospital in Alabama, else you wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing me again.”

  She replaced his bandage while fighting a smile. “How very narcissistic of you, Mr. Profiler.” She turned to go.

  “Wait.” Oliver sat up higher in bed. “Have dinner with me this weekend.”

  She stopped with her hand on the curtain and then turned back to face him. “I have my son this weekend. I promised I would take him to get pizza.”

  “I like pizza,” Oliver found himself saying.

  Angie sent him an uncertain smile. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Well, if you decide it’s a go, my cell number is in your system.”

  She outright chuckled at that. “I know. I programmed it into my phone the night after I saw you in the hospital parking lot.”

  That seemed like a lifetime ago to Oliver, with everything that had happened since then.

  A few minutes after Angie left, a nurse Oliver hadn’t met before appeared next to his bed. She went over instructions on how to care for his wound and then handed him his prescriptions along with the clipboard she held. “Go over everything to be sure it’s all correct and then sign at the bottom.”

  Oliver didn’t bother reading the forms. They all said the same thing. And he’d definitely filled out his share of them in his life.

  He simply scrawled his name on the appropriate line.

  Once the nurse left, Oliver pulled on his pants and shoes. He kept the hospital gown on to keep his upper body covered and then trailed off down the hall to the waiting room where Richard sat reading a magazine. “Where’s my car?”

  “I had it towed to your condo. I can give you a ride home.”

  Oliver sent him a grateful look. “I appreciate that. I also appreciate you giving me a ride to the hospital and not making me have to take the ambulance.”

  Richard pushed to his feet. “I’m not an idiot, Quick. I know exactly why you wanted to come here instead of a hospital in Alabama.”

  Oliver lifted an eyebrow. How the hell did Holland know of his interest in Angie?

  “I know you better than you think,” Richard quipped, already moving toward the automatic doors.

  Oliver followed suit. The pain in his arm throbbed to the beat of his heart as he trailed across the parking lot to Richard’s black SUV.

  “I’m going to see Missy Davis,” Oliver informed Holland on the drive back to his condo.

  Richard kept his gaze on the road. “What for?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to check on her… see if she needs anything.” He picked up his 9mm and returned it to its holster.

  “She’s not your responsibility, Quick. You saved her life. What else can you possibly do?”

  Oliver didn’t answer. Mainly because he couldn’t form one. He wasn’t sure what it was about Missy Davis that set her apart from the others. Perhaps it had to do with the fact she’d survived, and Oliver needed to know she could live with what she’d been through.

  They arrived at Oliver’s condo a few minutes later.

  Oliver thanked Richard once again, relieved to see his rental car sitting in its designated spot.

  He climbed from Richard’s vehicle, snagging his keys from his pocket as he went. He couldn’t wait to shower and change into some clean clothes.

  His door wasn’t completely shut.

  Pulling his weapon free, Oliver pushed the door open and quietly stepped inside.

  Nothing seemed out of place, other than the fact his bedroom light was on.

  Oliver crept slowly forward, keeping his gun trained in front of him with his good arm.

  Reaching his bedroom, he swung his arm in a wide arc through the open doorway, his body following suit.

  The room was empty.

  Still, Oliver kept his 9mm firmly in his grip and checked the closet as well as the bathroom.

  The next few minutes were spent with Oliver clearing his condo, room by room.

  He holstered his weapon, locked the front door, and made his way back to his bedroom.

  An envelope lay on his dresser next to a picture of April. It was addressed to SA Quick.

  Oliver quickly grabbed a pair of surgical gloves and pulled them on.

  He didn’t have to open the envelope to know who it was from.

  The Silencer had been in his home.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Oliver stared down at the envelope in dread. He was afraid to open it, afraid not to.

  He picked it up to find the back hadn’t been sealed, and inside was another handwritten note.

  Carefully tugging the paper free, Oliver opened it.

  I find it fascinating that April’s clothing is still in your closet. What does it feel like to love someone on that level, Oliver? I saw on the news once, where you accused me of being a sociopath. Perhaps you are correct, as I have never known the sort of love you still display so passionately for your dead wife. You think me a monster, but had I known that April was pregnant, it might have made a difference. I am not the monster you perceive me to be. I simply lack the emotional connection that average men are born with. Do you know that I have never cried? I have tried, on numerous occasions, to no avail. The tears simply will not come. Do you think babies are born sociopaths, or is it something that develops from a trauma great enough, the mind shuts down emotion as a survival technique? Interesting thought.

  Sincerely, S.

  Oliver dropped the note on his dresser, his stomach lurching, and his eyes watering from rage.

  The Silencer had never opened up to him before. Why do it now?

  Jerking his cell phone from the pocket of his slacks, he put in a call to Richard. “He’s been in my home.”

  “What? Who’s been in your home?”

  “The Silencer.”

  “I’m calling it in. Don’t touch anything until I get there.”

  Oliver ended the call.

  Laying the handwritten note back onto the dresser top, Oliver moved like a zombie to the bar next to his kitchen. He poured himself a scotch and took a seat on the closest stool to wait for Richard’s arrival.

  * * * *

  “They’re nearly finished dusting everything.”

  Richard’s approach brought Oliver’s head up. “What?”

  “The deputies. They’r
e almost done here.”

  Oliver poured himself another drink. “They won’t find anything.”

  “Probably not, but we have to try.”

  “What does he want, Richard? Why is he contacting me this way?”

  Holland sat on the stool next to Oliver. “He’s infatuated with you. That much is obvious.”

  “But why? He’s never contacted the spouses of his previous victims.”

  “Maybe he feels remorse over April’s pregnancy.”

  Oliver lowered his drink. “He can’t feel remorse. He’s a sociopath.”

  Then a thought struck him. He lifted his head and met Holland’s gaze. “The note. He wrote in the note about April’s pregnancy. That wasn’t public knowledge. It was never mentioned in the papers or on the news. No one besides me, the detectives who worked the case, and the ME knew.”

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying it could have been one of our own?”

  Oliver surged to his feet. He began to pace along the front of the bar. “How else do you explain his knowledge of April’s pregnancy?”

  Holland stood as well. “I don’t know how he knows, but to accuse one of our own?”

  Oliver glanced at the prescriptions lying on the bar, his shoulder throbbing uncontrollably. “I should have gotten those filled.”

  He stumbled into the kitchen, in search of the bottle of pain pills he’d gotten from his previous injury.

  “What are you looking for?” Richard muttered, stepping into the kitchen.

  “My pain pills.”

  Richard nodded toward the top of the refrigerator. “Is that them?”

  Oliver plucked them down and popped one in his mouth. He chased it down with a healthy swig of scotch. “I need to speak with the medical examiner.”

  “First thing in the morning, once you’ve slept off the scotch and narcotics. Besides, he’ll be asleep at this hour.”

  Oliver absently nodded, his mind whirling with thoughts of everyone who’d worked the Silencer case.

  He poured another drink.

  “Easy, Quick. You wanna wind up in the morgue next to Bedford? Because that’s where you’re headed at this rate.”