by Debra Webb
Randolph Weller’s arms were manacled to the belly shackle at his waist. Beneath the table his ankles were chained together, and then to the floor. The table was long and narrow. A chair sat on either side. Four other chairs waited at the south end of the reasonably large room. There were no windows. Only the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights illuminated the space.
Bobbie didn’t wait for Weller to speak as he seemed satisfied to study her for the moment. She took the final few steps, pulled out her chair and sat down directly across from him. She had Googled Weller and read all she could find on the investigation that took place fifteen years ago after his own son turned him in. Weller’s gray hair had receded with age. Unflattering lines carved across his forehead and creased his mouth. His skin was ashen from the lack of sunlight, but it was his eyes that disturbed her the most. Deep, dull hazel that looked more gray than hazel, like the headstones in the old cemeteries back home. Those eyes hadn’t stopped analyzing her since she entered the room.
“Please accept my sincerest apologies for staring,” he said, his voice deeper than she’d expected and oddly soothing. “You are a remarkably beautiful woman.”
Bobbie barked a stiff laugh. “I’m sure you didn’t ask for this meeting to flatter me. What is it you have to tell me?”
“I can see why my son became so obsessed with you.”
Bobbie kept her jaw locked tight, opting not to respond in word or expression. If he wanted information about her and Nick’s relationship, he could ask his son.
Who are you kidding, Bobbie? The two of you barely know each other.
Images of Nick’s hands on her skin flickered one after the other through her mind, making her pulse react.
Weller smiled as if he’d read her mind. “Your eyes are simply incredible, Bobbie. May I call you Bobbie?”
Her heart abruptly stumbled. Another serial killer had been fascinated with her eyes... I couldn’t resist you. “I’m not here to make small talk with you, Weller. You said Nick is in danger. Explain your concerns and I’ll do what I can to help.”
Weller stared at her for long enough to have her wanting to shift in her seat. She refused to let him see that he unsettled her the slightest bit. The man was far too perceptive and decidedly different than she’d anticipated. His voice wasn’t merely deep it was elegant, like dark, rich silk. His brilliance was as well-known as his heinousness and yet even the way he sat, despite being shackled in that generic chair, gave him an air of sophistication. There was something about the set of his mouth that reminded her of Nick and she loathed the idea that anything about this psychopath did so.
“Bobbie Gentry.” He seemed to savor her name as if tasting a new wine. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Your father had a crush on the lovely country music singer with that same name? You have the trademark long dark hair and the exquisite high cheekbones.”
Evidently he intended to get around to what he wanted to tell her about Nick in his own time. Considering his only visitors were FBI agents who wanted to pick his brain, she imagined he hoped to indulge in the rare opportunity to socialize. She could waste time fighting him or just play along.
“Actually, Gentry is my married name. My husband and I used to laugh about the irony since I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“Your dead husband.”
Bobbie flinched. He knew damned well her husband was deceased. “I’m confident you’re aware he was murdered by Gaylon Perry.”
“Your mother died when you were such a tender age,” Weller went on without responding to her comment. “Is that why you spent more time at work than at home with your own child? Did you want to protect him from the kind of pain you suffered when you lost your mother?”
Fury ignited so fast inside her she barely stayed in the damned chair. “I won’t play head games with you, Weller. Say what you have to say or I’m gone.” Bastard. Snippets of her life before a monster just like this one had stolen it sifted through her mind.
“Now, now, Detective. Surely you can do me the courtesy of showing respect. After all, you’re the reason my son will likely die sooner than later.”
Her traitorous heart did another of those stuttering stumbles. “You keep talking about how much danger he’s in yet you’re not telling me anything. I can’t help Nick unless I understand the potential danger.”
“For years he lived in the shadows,” Weller began, his voice low, his gaze distant. “I suppose I inspired his need to rid the world of my kind, one killer at a time.”
“It’s nice to know your perceptive powers are as keen as ever, Doctor.” She poured all the contempt she could summon into the words. The bastard murdered Nick’s mother and allowed him to believe she’d abandoned him. Damn straight his actions motivated Nick to become the hunter he was.
“Touché, Detective.”
She waited for him to continue when she should be back in Montgomery looking for a missing girl and interviewing persons of interest in a double homicide. Her gut twisted at the idea that a ten-year-old boy was now an orphan and his sister could very well be dead or dying. No matter that the job was all she had, sometimes she hated it. More than anything, she hated the sadistic killers like the one seated less than three feet away.
“Nick has always been particularly careful not to get involved on a personal level.” Weller sighed. “Until you. Now he has dug himself a deeper grave than even he knows.” He paused for effect. “Since I’m quite certain he won’t listen to me, I’m hoping he will listen to you.”
Bobbie considered his words for a moment. “Who do you believe has targeted him?” Despite her efforts to control her respiration, her heart beat faster and faster as she waited for his response. The list of questions she’d intended to ask had vanished. She could only think of how she might possibly help Nick.
“I doubt you’re aware of what I’m about to share, and I’m certain our fine friends at the FBI will be quite interested in hearing.” He glanced up at the camera in the far corner. “I’m certain they’re listening even now.”
Bobbie didn’t have to wonder. An inmate like Weller wasn’t allowed a private conversation except with his attorney. He was too smart not to know this. Whatever he had to say, he wanted those listening to hear.
“Like any other community, professional or personal,” he began, “there are communications between those who share, shall we say, an admiration for the art of death.”
“Like murdering your wife and burying her in the backyard?” Bobbie bit her lips together. The words had burst from her mouth before she could stop them. She knew better. She’d been a cop long enough to understand how this worked. Antagonizing the man wouldn’t help her gain any ground with him.
His gaze was razor sharp when he met hers. “There are things I’m not proud of, Bobbie, and the crude manner of her death is one of them. If I could do it over again, it would have been far more civilized.”
Jesus. What a twisted piece of shit. “I’m sure your son would appreciate the sentiment.” The barb was intentional this time.
Ignoring her remark, he went on, “There is a council of sorts. An esteemed group of highly educated overachievers. The Consortium they call themselves.” The beginnings of a smile touched his lips. “At one time I was quite revered among its members. Sadly time changes all things.”
“A consortium of serial killers.” It wasn’t a question. She just wanted to make sure she heard him right considering her head had started to spin at the mere concept.
“Correct. They share the occasional weekend conference. Primarily to discuss territorial issues and the need to clear up a situation that might pose a threat to one or more of their members.”
“Like Nick.”
“Precisely. He’s taken several high-level killers out of the game in the past decade or so. The Consortium has reason to be concerned.”
&n
bsp; “They want to stop him.”
“They will stop him,” Weller corrected with a succinct nod.
The certainty in his words sent a spear of ice deep into her chest. “How do you suggest I prevent that from happening?”
Delight or something on that order twinkled in his eyes. Bobbie was immensely grateful Nick had gotten his dark eyes from his mother. This man’s were utterly soulless and far too seeing.
“You would sacrifice yourself toward that end?” The idea seemed to amuse him.
“I’m a cop,” she returned, “it’s what I do.”
“I’m not quite sure you comprehend the scope and magnitude of what I’m conveying to you, my dear Bobbie.”
“Why don’t you break it down for me then?” A blast of fury had her clasping her hands in her lap. She would not permit him to see how easily he rattled her.
“The Consortium is made up of the world’s most cunning and manipulative minds. They haven’t been caught for a reason. They take great care in every move. They cultivate connections that contribute to their success. Absolutely nothing is left to chance. They cannot be stopped.”
Bobbie wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the conversation. She wanted to get up and walk out. Somehow, she couldn’t do either. How was she supposed to help Nick from a danger she couldn’t measure much less find?
“Then why bother telling me?”
“Nick needs to see that he cannot win. It is imperative that he give up this quest and disappear before they find him.”
Bobbie shook her head. “He’ll never do it.”
“Then you must help him see the error of his thinking.”
“I have no idea how to reach him.” She had the number he’d used to call her but she’d never attempted to contact him. She imagined he changed numbers frequently. “How am I supposed to get a message to him?”
“Now,” Weller said, smiling as if she were a child and had just said something completely foolish, “the answer to that question is one you already possess. The message was relayed to both you and my son this very morning in a rather unoriginal however gruesome manner.”
Now she understood. “Seppuku.”
“Well done, Bobbie,” he conceded with a nod. “The Seppuku Killer was the first Nick took out of play.”
“The Seppuku Killer committed suicide.” Even as she said the words, she understood the man staring at her was privy to something she was not.
“The FBI had been looking for him for years,” Weller countered. “An anonymous tip gave the authorities his location. He merely made the choice to take his life rather than face the consequences of his lifestyle.”
“If Nick provided the anonymous tip, why would he leave a killer armed?” The Seppuku Killer had been holding a samurai sword when the police arrived. Nick would never send the police into a trap.
“My son almost always gives his prey the option of taking their own lives or facing prosecution.”
Before she could respond, he added, “He has never taken a life. That’s why he left the military and never pursued a career in law enforcement.”
“He won’t risk taking a life under any circumstances for fear of becoming anything like you.” She hadn’t intended to say the words aloud, and judging by the look on Weller’s face she’d hit the nail on the head.
“He’ll come to you, Bobbie. He will want to protect you. The Consortium has waited a very long time to find a weakness it can manipulate to reach him. You are that weakness.”
Before she could summon a response, he added, “Understand that they will show no mercy. He will suffer greatly before he dies.”
Dread or uncertainty—maybe both—expanded in her chest, but she refused to let him see it. Instead, she tossed the ball back into his court. “What plan of action would you propose I take to stop them?”
“You cannot possibly. All you can do is stop him. He will listen to you. He will do whatever necessary to protect you.”
Bobbie shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ve overestimated our relationship. We hardly know each other.”
“I know my son. In all these years he has not allowed himself to draw so close to anything or anyone...until you.”
She’d heard enough. Bobbie stood. “If I can reach him, I’ll pass along the warning.”
She turned away from Weller’s too-seeing eyes and headed for the door. She needed air. The very scent of the bastard on the other side of the room was making her feel ill.
“Make no mistake, Detective Bobbie Gentry.”
She paused at the door and slowly faced him once more.
“Do not romanticize your relationship with my son. However desperately he wants to be a hero, there will come a day, soon I fear, when he will be forced to kill. When that time comes he will learn the deep, dark secret he has denied for so long.”
Rather than give him the satisfaction of a response or a moment longer to analyze her, she turned her back and banged on the door.
“Once he has experienced taking a life,” Weller continued.
She didn’t want to hear another word. She pounded on the door again. “I’m done in here.” Open the damned door.
“He will not be able to resist killing again and again.”
Weller’s warning followed her out the door.
Gardendale Drive
10:30 p.m.
Bobbie slowed to a walk as she turned up the sidewalk to her house. D-Boy rushed to the front door ahead of her and waited, panting, tongue lolling after the long run. Bobbie stepped up onto the stoop and jammed her key into the lock. Before opening the door, she reached down and scratched the animal behind his ears. “Good boy.”
The brindle pit bull had belonged to a former neighbor. The single mother and her children had moved last month and she’d happily agreed to let Bobbie have the dog. For the most part Bobbie had been taking care of him since the day he moved into her neighborhood, and now he belonged to her. The first order of business had been a trip to the vet for a checkup and for shots. She had learned that he was two years old, had no health problems and showed no signs of abuse. Every evening since bringing D-Boy home she had worked with him, teaching him simple commands of obedience. So far he was an attentive student and a quick study.
Inside the door she silenced the security system and listened to the sounds of the place she called home. Though the day had seen a high of sixty degrees, it was only about forty outside now. The absence of the steady hum of the air conditioner left the house silent. The vague scent of scrambled eggs and butter from the breakfast she’d prepared that morning lingered in the still air. The security system was another new addition. The chief had been so happy when she had it installed that he’d insisted on paying for the first year of service. Rather than argue with him, she’d surrendered to his need to be the protective uncle. She’d learned over the years to choose her battles carefully.
Ever patient, D-Boy stared up at her. “Go ahead, boy,” she said, giving the animal permission to have a look around. Once he’d padded through the two bedrooms and one bath, he trotted to his water bowl in the kitchen. The first night she’d brought him home he’d watched her check the house and he’d been performing the duty himself since.
Nick had told her in August that she needed a dog. At the time she couldn’t possibly have allowed anyone or thing into her life. As if she’d spoken the thought aloud, D-Boy hustled back to where she stood. Water dripped from his mouth as he studied her expectantly. He was accustomed to her full attention in the evenings. Her unexpected trip to Atlanta had disrupted their routine.
Bobbie smiled. “I could use a drink myself, buddy.”
Door locked, she headed to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. D-Boy followed close on her heels. She checked his food and water bowls and then she latched the doggie door she’d had installed in
the back door. Though she doubted anyone would get beyond the door with D-Boy in the house, no need to leave an open invitation. A quick shower and she intended to hit the sack early. Today had been a long one and tomorrow was stacking up to be even worse.
Her thoughts ventured to the meeting with Randolph Weller. The man was pure evil. How had such a sick bastard created a son his complete opposite?
He will not be able to resist killing.
Bobbie refused to believe that DNA made monsters as some believed. Maybe the twisted genes passed along tipped the scales in rare cases, but she rejected the idea that it started there. Every person was unique. No matter that Weller was a killer, that didn’t mean his son would be one any more than her mother’s singing like an angel in the church choir gave Bobbie the ability to carry a tune.
Weller might be an expert on human nature but he couldn’t see the future.
She flipped on the hall light as she made her way to her bedroom. At the door to the spare bedroom that had until recently remained empty, she paused. D-Boy glanced back at her and waited. Seven or eight boxes sat in the room, a couple of them open. The familiar ache that started deep in her chest was one she was reasonably certain would be with her the rest of her life.
The boxes contained important things from her old life that she couldn’t bear to part with. Her son’s favorite blanket. Her husband’s beloved vintage Foo Fighters T-shirt. Photo albums and videos. The locket that had belonged to her mother and her mother’s mother before her. The folded flag from her father’s funeral.
Bobbie Sue Gentry was thirty-two years old and those few boxes, about two feet by two feet each, represented the best of her life to date. Her old life. She couldn’t live that life anymore, couldn’t be that woman. Most people didn’t understand. Sometimes she thought Bauer might, but maybe not. Those boxes were all that remained of her early history, her marriage and her family.
She turned away from the door and continued on to her bedroom. Her old life was dead and buried. Her penance for survival was to carry on. Why not devote her life to being the best cop she could be? Perhaps one day it would include something more than her job, but not now. The idea that she could even conceive such a notion was relatively new and still a little hard to swallow.
