“I have a good idea. You want me to open up a vein and bleed all over the place.”
“Yes, that, too,” he admitted. “I want your blood . . . your sweat . . . and your tears. Your tears most of all. So, do we have a deal? I can give you the real Albert Durham, served to you on a silver platter.”
“How do I know you aren’t lying? You just told me a few minutes ago that you have no idea who he is. Remember? Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“You won’t know if I’ll be lying to you when I tell you about him,” he agreed. “But isn’t it tempting to give me what I want in exchange for the possibility that I can tell you who is killing people connected to the Powell Agency and maybe even why he’s doing it? Also, I could tell you why he chose to copy my kills, but I suspect you already know that.”
“Yes, I already know.”
“Think about my offer. You have twenty-four hours. If you’re willing to pay the piper, I’ll play you a beautiful tune.” He glanced up at his guard. “We’re finished here. I’m ready to leave.”
The guard looked at Maleah. She nodded.
Browning stood. “See you tomorrow, sweet Maleah.” He winked at her, then turned and fell into step alongside the guard.
The man once known as Anthony Linden finished a series of push-ups, lifted himself from the hotel room floor, and grabbed a bottle of water from the nearby table. He had run five miles in the warm Savannah sun this morning before returning to the hotel to exercise. His body was a well-maintained machine. With perspiration moistening his face and chest, he looked at himself in the mirror. For a man of any age, he was in remarkably good shape. For a man of forty-five, his body was in excellent condition. He picked up a towel from the edge of the bed and wiped his face and chest, and then draped the towel around his neck.
After twisting off the cap, he brought the bottle to his mouth and downed half the contents before pausing. He continued sipping from the bottle as he walked into the bathroom.
He was expecting a guest in less than an hour, just enough time to shave and shower.
He sat on the commode, removed his running shoes and damp socks, and then stood and stripped out of his jogging shorts. After turning on the shower—hot and steamy—he yanked a towel and washcloth from the rack. He laid the towel on the closed commode lid and took the washcloth into the shower with him. He had left his razor and shave cream on a ledge in the shower when he had cleaned up last night.
He took his time shaving, careful not to nick himself, and afterward washed his face, rinsed it, and then lathered his body. As he thought about his expected guest, his penis hardened. Before a kill, he liked to have sex. If he had any pre-kill rituals, they would be to eat a good meal and have a good fuck.
After drying off, he slipped on a dark blue silk robe and slid his feet into a pair of black house slippers. His profession as a death technician paid well and afforded him all of life’s little luxuries, including a high-priced call girl.
Just as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, he heard a soft knock on the door. He checked the clock on the bedside table. Right on time. He appreciated punctuality.
He opened the door to an attractive brunette, long legged, slender, her breasts high and firm, obviously the result of implants.
“Mr. Hambert?”
“Yes, please come in, Ms. Smith.”
He closed and locked the door behind her. When she turned around and smiled, he downed half his whiskey in one gulp, set the glass on the coffee table and then unbelted his robe.
“Do you want me to undress now?” she asked.
“No, not yet,” he replied.
She nodded.
He removed his robe and tossed it on the nearby chair. His hard, erect penis projected outward.
“Come here,” he instructed.
She came to him. He took her hand and brought it to his erection.
“Get down on your knees.”
She did.
He clutched either side of her head. “Open your mouth.”
“I really don’t need instruction. I’ve done this before,” she told him.
“I want complete control. I decide how much you take into your mouth and how far I shove my dick down your throat. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
“After I come, clean me with your tongue.”
“Yes, of course.”
When she licked him from tip to shaft, he closed his eyes and savored the feel of her wet tongue on his penis. First a blow job, just to release the tension. And later, after lunch, he’d make the little whore really earn her money.
Chapter 23
While Derek had waited patiently in the warden’s office, he had struggled to concentrate on the crossword puzzle in yesterday’s Savannah Daily News. Warden Holland had picked up the copy off his desk and offered it to Derek before he’d left for an early lunch.
“Don’t worry about her,” the warden had said. “Ms. Perdue is just fine. There are two guards present at all times and Browning is handcuffed and shackled.”
“I’m not worried about her physical safety.”
“Yeah, well, something tells me that Ms. Perdue can hold her own against that wily bastard.”
Derek hoped the warden was right. In a fair fight, he’d put his money on Maleah every time. But Browning wouldn’t fight fair. He was a no-holds-barred kind of opponent. He’d use whatever methods necessary to get what he wanted.
And just what did he want from Maleah?
Did he want to hurt her? Humiliate her? Make her beg for mercy?
Yes, all of the above. He was the type who derived pleasure from killing, and since he couldn’t kill Maleah, he would have to settle for emotionally wounding her. The thrill of the kill would be replaced by the thrill of complete control.
Staring at the folded newspaper in his hand, the puzzle facing him, he turned his ink pen backward and tapped the end against his teeth. In the past half hour, he’d filled in less than a dozen slots. Ordinarily, he would be finished with at least a third of the puzzle by now.
Immediately after he heard the sound of footsteps, the door swung open and the guard escorted Maleah into the warden’s office. Derek jumped up, tossed the newspaper into the chair and pocketed his pen.
“Thank you,” Maleah told the guard, and then turned to Derek. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I’m ready,” he said.
She went back out the door and down the hall before he caught up with her. He wanted to ask if she was all right, but didn’t. Instead, he fell into step alongside her and kept his mouth shut. When she was ready, she’d talk. Until then, he’d wait.
They were a good five miles away from the penitentiary before Maleah spoke again. “I stink at reading body language.”
Of all the things he thought she might say, that hadn’t been one of them. “He played you, didn’t he?”
“Like a fiddle.”
“But you knew enough to realize he was playing you. Give yourself credit for that.”
“He wanted to play a game of ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine,’ but he wanted to see twice as much of mine as he was willing to show me of his.”
“He thinks he can get you to pay double for everything he gives you. He’s playing hardball, just as we expected he would.”
“It’s not even two for one. It’s more like he’ll give me one for every three I give him.” She clutched the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“What did he say about Durham?”
“At first he claimed he didn’t know what I was talking about, but then he gradually changed his story. He said that he and the fake Durham made a deal. He gave Durham details about his kills and Durham provided him with a new lawyer and a lady friend to visit him. By the end of our conversation, he told me that not only had he already known the Albert Durham who visited him was a fake, but that he could tell me who he really is and why he’s killing people associated with the P
owell Agency. He even claimed he could tell me why the copycat chose to copy his kills.”
“We know why—because of you,” Derek said. “By choosing to emulate Browning’s kills, he accomplished more than one goal. He deliberately connected his MO to the murder of a Powell agent’s former boyfriend, but not just any Powell agent. He chose Nicole Powell’s best friend. And he offered Browning more than a new lawyer and a woman to visit him. He offered Browning a special gift—someone who had loved one of his victims—you.”
“So, I’m the prize, huh?” Maleah loosened her tight grip and ran her cupped hands over the steering wheel from the top to the bottom and then halfway up again.
“Offering to bring you to Browning was the copycat’s ultimate bargaining chip, the one thing Browning wanted above all else—a new victim.”
Maleah shivered. “Lovely thought.”
“There’s something else to think about,” Derek said. “What if Browning has already told you everything he actually knows?”
“Are you saying that Jerome Browning is a diversion, that the copycat is using him, that we’re wasting our time concentrating on Browning?”
“Yes and no. It’s all a sick game to Browning. How much he actually knows, we can’t be sure. My gut’s told me all along that Browning knows very little about the copycat, who he is or what his motives are. The copycat could have told Browning to string us along, to divert our attention. Then again, Browning might know something that he doesn’t even know he knows.”
“But if there’s even a slight chance that he knows anything that can help us track down the copycat, it’s worth whatever we have to pay, right?”
“What you have to pay, you mean. He wants his pound of flesh from you.”
“He wants my blood, sweat, and tears,” Maleah said. “Mostly my tears.”
“That’s what he told you?”
She nodded.
“Don’t go back to see him.” At that moment, Derek would have liked nothing better than ten minutes alone with Browning. Man-to-man.
“What?” Maleah cast him a quick sideways glance.
“He’s stringing you along. He has no idea who the copycat is. He can’t give you the fake Durham’s real name because he doesn’t know it. And there’s no reason why the copycat would have shared anything about the reasons for his kills, especially if it turns out that he is a professional assassin, as I suspect.”
“But you said Browning may know something he doesn’t know he knows.”
“Are you willing to put yourself through more of Browning’s shit on the off chance you’ll learn something useful?”
That’s it, try to talk her out of it. You know Maleah, the harder you push, the harder she’ll push back. You’re using the wrong tactics.
“Damn it, Derek, I’m not some fragile hothouse flower that can’t withstand a little rough treatment. You’ve got me confused with my mother. No one controls me, tells me what to do or manipulates me. I’m not afraid of Browning.”
Her mother? What is she talking about?
“Never underestimate someone who kills for the thrill of it,” he told her.
Groaning, Maleah gritted her teeth.
“And as for confusing you with your mother, need I remind you that I never knew the lady,” Derek said. “But if she was a fragile woman, easily controlled by others, then you learned a valuable lesson from her, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to say that about my mother. It just slipped out. And yes, I learned from her example the type of woman I did not want to be.”
“Parents can teach us all sorts of lessons, both positive and negative. You learned from your mother what kind of woman you didn’t want to be and I learned from my mother and father what kind of man I didn’t want to be.”
Maleah glanced at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“Happy Lawrence is a man-eater. Apparently, she’s the polar opposite of your mother. There’s nothing fragile or vulnerable about Happy. She’s made of carbon steel. She’s a master manipulator. She wields a great deal of power and has no problem destroying anyone who stands between her and what she wants, even her own husband.”
“My God! You sound as if you hate her.”
“There was a time, years ago, when I hated her,” Derek admitted, realizing he had already said far more than he should have. He never discussed his mother with anyone. “Now I’m apathetic toward Happy. I see her as seldom as possible, but since she is my mother, I show her the proper respect when I’m forced to be around her.”
“And your father?”
“He’s dead. He died when I was a kid.” Derek never talked about his dad either, but for some reason he felt compelled to add, “He was a weak, spineless mama’s boy who went from letting his mother run his life to letting his wife put a ring through his nose and drive him to drink and suicide.”
“Oh, Derek . . .”
He forced a fake laugh. “You see, Blondie, I’m as fucked up as you are. Childhood scars and all. You’ve got control issues. I’ve got commitment issues.”
“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
“Flip sides of the same coin, huh? Maybe even soul mates.”
Now where had that stupid thought come from—soul mates? Get real, Lawrence, Maleah’s not the type to fall for romantic nonsense.
“I don’t believe there is such a thing as soul mates,” she said quite matter-of-factly. “Flip sides of the same coin, possibly. I do know one thing, the more I get to know you, the more I realize you’re not who I thought you were. All I’ve allowed myself to see is that rich, handsome playboy image you deliberately project to the world. That’s not who you are at all, is it?”
“Nope. No more than the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar image you project is all there is to you.”
“That’s not just an image, you know. It’s actually part of who I am . . . or who I try to be.”
“Yeah, I know. That rich playboy image is part of who I am, too, but only a small part. I use it as a protective shield between me and the rest of the world.”
“Especially women?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“You have no intention of ever being like your father and allowing a woman to put a ring through your nose, right?”
Derek chuckled. “Right. And you don’t intend to ever be an easily dominated, fragile hothouse flower.”
Maleah smiled. “God, you’ve profiled me, haven’t you? And yourself, too.”
“Yeah, I guess I have. But can’t you see the weird two sides of the same coin analogy? Male and female. For both of us, it’s all about control and commitment. We both see making a commitment to another person as giving up control.”
“But it is, isn’t it? At least for people who have such a strong need to be totally in control of their own lives. I know other people can make marriage work. My mother and father did. Jack and Cathy have.”
“Nic and Griff,” Derek suggested.
“I’m not sure about those two. I think maybe it’s a constant struggle for control with them.”
“But neither controls the other. They’re both too strong to allow that to happen.”
“I don’t know. Should being in love and maintaining a healthy marriage be that much of a struggle?”
“For people such as Nic and Griff who are aggressive and independent and passionate, I can’t imagine it being any other way. It would be the same for us.” Now why had he said that? “I didn’t mean—”
“For us?” Maleah asked, almost choking on the question.
“Not for the two of us together,” he corrected. “I meant if you or I were married to someone our equal—also aggressive, independent, strong, and passionate—it would take work to make a relationship work.”
“Oh . . . yes, I see what you mean.”
“Hey, it’s past lunchtime,” he said, intentionally changing the subject. Their conversation was becoming too much like true-confessions to suit him. “Wh
y don’t we stop somewhere for a quick bite to eat. You barely touched your food at breakfast.”
“Is food all you ever think about?”
“Ah now, Blondie, that’s a loaded question.”
She groaned. “Forget I asked. You men are all alike. Food and sex.”
“Food and sex. Sex and food. Yeah, that pretty much sums up all of us men.”
Maleah laughed.
God help him, he loved the sound of her laughter.
“Please come in,” Griffin said. “And close the door behind you.”
Sanders did as Griffin had requested.
His old friend stood by the windows, his gaze absently fixed on something outside, his rigid stance expressing the depth of his anxiety. Sanders knew Griffin almost as well as he knew himself. They understood each other in a way no one else did, not even Yvette.
“Who is he?” Griffin asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I would think he is someone who knew Malcolm York, perhaps admired or even loved him.”
“To our knowledge, York had no family, other than a few distant cousins. His parents were dead. He had no siblings, no nieces or nephews. And no children.” Griffin turned and faced Sanders. “Is it possible that someone could have actually loved a monster like York?”
“Perhaps this person was an admirer, someone who knew York quite well.”
“It couldn’t be anyone from Amara, could it?” Griffin settled his gaze directly on Sanders. “We didn’t leave any of the guards alive and the other prisoners hated York as much as we did.”
“Perhaps he is someone York encountered in his travels? Or he could even be one of the guests who visited him on Amara.”
“Are there any of those special guests still alive?”
“At last count, only two,” Sanders replied.
“How long has it been since Byrne contacted us?”
“More than two years. At that time, he had tracked down Sternberg.”
“Then you’re right, there are two of York’s associates who are still alive. Otherwise, Byrne would have been in touch.”
Griffin went to the portable bar, picked up a bottle of The Macallan, the twenty-five-year-old Scotch whisky his favorite, and poured the amber-red liquor into two glasses, filling each halfway. He held out a glass to Sanders.
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