by Debra Webb
He shook his head, then stared up at Bobbie. “I saw the man.”
Bobbie’s heart thumped hard against her sternum. Was he talking about the dream? “When?”
“Not the first time when I heard him saying the bad words. That night. When my mom and dad...” He shrugged those skinny little shoulders. “I didn’t want to tell you. I was afraid he’d find out I saw him and come back and get me. Like in that movie I watched with my sister. She said the witnesses get killed most of the time.”
Bobbie nodded. “I won’t lie to you and tell you that never happens, Sage.”
His eyes grew even rounder.
“But,” she added, “we’re keeping you safe until we catch him so you don’t have to be afraid. The truth is, you can help your sister by telling me the whole truth about that night.”
He blew out a big breath. “I woke up. It was quiet so I figured everyone was asleep.”
Bobbie held her breath and waited for him to continue.
“My parents weren’t in their bed. I went to my sister’s room and she wasn’t in her bed, either.”
“Did you go looking for them?”
He moved his head up and down. “It was dark upstairs, but I could hear the TV in the living room. I thought maybe they were watching a movie. Sometimes they watched movies real late, especially if it was one I wasn’t supposed to see. I made it to the stairs and that’s when I saw him.”
“Where was he?”
“In the living room.” He swallowed hard. “He was carrying my mom.” He shrugged. “She was asleep or something.”
Cold seeped deep into Bobbie’s bones. “Did he see you?”
Sage shook his head. “He didn’t look up.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Not at first, he was wearing a mask.” Sage turned the video game controller over in his hands. “He stopped for a minute. That’s when he pulled off the mask and wiped his forehead like he was sweating or something. He almost dropped my mom doing it.” Sage shuddered. “Before he went down the stairs he looked over at the back door and then at the front. I guess the siren outside surprised him or something.”
“Siren?” Bobbie tensed. “You heard a siren outside?”
He nodded. “You know, the ambulance kind of siren. Like there was an accident or somebody sick.”
“I know what you mean,” she said hoping to urge him on.
“The man,” he said, “he held real still until the sound went away. I couldn’t move. I felt like I was frozen. I knew if he looked up he’d see me.”
Bobbie forced in a breath. “Can you remember what he looked like?”
Another nod bobbed his head up and down.
Adrenaline ignited hard and swift. She needed a sketch artist right now. Bobbie reached for her phone. “I’m going to call someone to help us draw his picture.”
Sage peered up at her, his eyes wide with worry and uncertainty. “I can show you what he looked like.”
“Okay.” Bobbie lowered her phone. She looked from Sage to the newspaper and magazines on the table. “Show me.”
Rather than pick up one of the magazines or papers as she’d expected, he got up and walked across the room to the armoire that held the television. He pointed to the screen. “He looked like that.”
Blood roaring in her ears, Bobbie pushed to her feet and made her way to where he stood. “Like what?”
He pointed again. “Like him.”
Sage Parker pointed at her partner... Steven Devine.
Eighteen
Boultier Street
8:40 p.m.
His back to the wall, Nick watched a drop of sweat slide down the longneck bottle of beer. The dimly lit bar was packed. Then again, what had he expected on a Saturday night? Bodies were crammed against the bar and overflowing the booths lining the graffiti-filled brick walls. Nick had arrived early to claim a booth in the corner farthest from the entrance and the bar. The location wouldn’t escape the noise but it was unquestionably private.
Most of the day he’d followed Bobbie around. When she’d returned to CID at four, he’d decided to meet the unexpected source who had contacted him. Nick was suspicious by nature, but the call had raised all sorts of red flags. At best, he could obtain a good deal of information in one fell swoop; at worst, he was wasting his time. Seemed like a decent risk to take. And, frankly, he was curious why the man would call him. He no doubt had a self-serving agenda. The question was whether or not his agenda would prove beneficial to Nick’s own. The sooner the assassin sent to take Nick out was found, the sooner innocent people would stop dying. The part that bothered him the most was the two missing women. There was little he could do about the murder victims since they were dead before he arrived. But the two missing, there was still a chance he could save them.
A waitress arrived with two more beers like the one Nick was still nursing. “Your friend said he’d join you in a moment.”
Nick scanned the crowd. No one broke from the swarm of bodies or even looked his way. The possibility that this was some sort of setup nudged his instincts. A bar stool turned and the man seated there stood. It wasn’t until he met Nick’s gaze that he was sure it was LeDoux. Apparently the special agent had arrived even before Nick. Half-empty beer bottle in one hand and a four-or five-inch stack of magazines in the other, he strolled over to the booth, bumping everyone he passed as if he’d had a few too many already. Tonight LeDoux was evidently incognito. He wore faded jeans, sneakers and a pullover sweater that was either from a local thrift store or was his longtime favorite, along with a baseball cap.
He plopped down in the booth and placed the magazines on the table. “Your beer is hot.” He abandoned the empty bottle he’d been holding and reached for a fresh one.
Nick pushed his half-full bottle aside and picked up the cold one. “I didn’t know you were a car buff.” He gestured to the stack of hot-rod magazines.
“Everyone needs a hobby.” He drew down a slug of beer, then slid the stack to Nick’s side of the table. “Even a hunter like you.”
“When did you get into town?” Nick kept his gaze on the man, looking for tells. He wasn’t the least bit nervous, more resigned. He sat back in his seat, shoulders down, face impassive.
“As soon as I learned Bobbie had visited your old man.”
Nick didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “What do you want?”
They might as well get to the point. He preferred not to have Bobbie out of his sight for too long. He’d added tracking software to her phone. The best hacker on the planet had taught him how to break into any brand of smartphone. Occasionally it was the only way to accomplish the desired result.
“To help.”
Nick laughed. “I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but I am.” He leaned forward. “Skeptical, that is.” LeDoux had not been assigned to the Nigel Parker case or the abductions. The FBI was involved, yes, but not LeDoux. Nick didn’t have the whole story since his source at the FBI was suddenly mum on the subject but something was going down with LeDoux. “What do you want?” he repeated.
LeDoux held his gaze. “I think Weller is up to something.”
“You go to all this trouble—” he gestured to LeDoux’s getup “—and you can’t come up with something more original to say?” Of course the bastard was up to something.
“He’s been keeping tabs on Bobbie.” LeDoux downed another slug of his beer and then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater. “Did you know that?”
“Did you notice this before or after she paid him a visit?” Nick met his unflinching stare and asked what, in his opinion, was the bigger question, “What are you up to?”
The stare-off lasted another ten seconds. “Maybe the same thing as you,” LeDoux confessed.
So Special Agent LeDoux was wa
tching Bobbie, too. “How’s the wife?”
This time LeDoux flinched. “My ex-wife is just fucking awesome. She’s already engaged to a former friend of mine.”
“That’s too bad.” Nick sipped his beer and decided to do a little digging. “Things must be slow in the BAU if you’re in Montgomery without an assignment.”
“Who says I’m not on assignment?” LeDoux waved down the waitress and ordered another beer.
He wouldn’t meet Nick’s gaze now, which was telling enough. “Whatever the reason for your visit, I prefer to work alone.”
“That might not be such a good idea this time.” The waitress placed another beer in front of LeDoux. He thanked her. “Besides, you worked with Bobbie.”
And he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head since. “She gave me no choice.”
Bobbie Gentry had proven to be the most stubborn woman Nick had ever met. No matter that she’d lost everything, she’d refused to give up on finding the bastard who’d stolen her life.
“I can keep the Bureau off your back.”
The statement surprised Nick. He knew the feds watched him. They had since he turned in his father. They’d never given him any reason to be concerned or taken any steps to prevent him from going after the next name on his list—until the Storyteller. Now, for some reason, he was under new scrutiny.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I believe in what you’re doing.” This time LeDoux looked straight at Nick when he said the words.
“Isn’t what I do undermining your job security?” After all, Nick accomplished the same goal at a meager fraction of the cost.
“That doesn’t matter to me.”
LeDoux looked away again. The words had sprung from bitterness. Somehow the agent had become disillusioned with the job. It happened. FBI agents, especially profilers, were like doctors: they had enormously high divorce and burnout rates. But why his sudden appearance in Montgomery? And why keep an eye on Bobbie—unless it was a personal interest?
“I’m afraid,” Nick warned, “you’ll have to convince me this arrangement would be mutually advantageous.”
“Before you make up your mind—” LeDoux tapped the magazines “—a little reading material you might find interesting.”
Nick pulled a couple of bills from his pocket and tossed them on the table. He stood and picked up the stack of magazines. “I’ll be in touch.”
He melded into the crowd, zigzagging through the throng of bodies until he reached the front entrance. His grip tightened on the magazines as he surveyed the street. He wasn’t entirely convinced this meeting wasn’t a setup.
When he reached his truck without incident, he climbed in and locked the door. Rather than have a look at what LeDoux had given him, he drove away from the crowd and the lights of the city. He wound around until he was certain no one had followed him, and then he drove to Bobbie’s neighborhood. He rolled into the carport of the house two streets over from hers. The house was deserted and the carport looked shaky at best, but it kept his vehicle out of sight.
Before getting out, he turned on the flashlight on his phone and flipped through the pages of the magazines, one by one. A smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head. Case reports had been slipped between the pages. Each one roughly outlined Nick’s involvement in the takedown of a serial killer. The reports dated as far back as nine years but many were missing. These reports, he suddenly realized, only covered the hunts where the target chose to take his life rather than face justice. No question the FBI was building a case against him. It wouldn’t be difficult for the reports to be altered to indicate the targets that had opted for suicide had been murdered instead.
At the bottom of each report the sources used to compile the data were listed. One name stood out on each page.
Randolph Weller.
All this time the FBI had been following Nick’s work, he’d assumed it had been about him being Weller’s son. He had been wrong. It had been about feeding Weller’s sadistic need to monitor his activities. What else had the FBI given him to keep their pet monster satisfied?
Nick gathered the magazines along with his backpack that contained the material he had already collected and made his way through the dark yards until he reached Bobbie’s. He unlocked her backdoor and D-Boy greeted him. Nick silenced the alarm and locked the door. He needed to build his case map.
The second bedroom was empty save a few boxes. He set his materials aside and arranged the boxes like a table in the far corner of the room. He separated his materials into individual stacks and then he began. He taped each report and photograph on the wall, building a history for each victim.
Each step took him on a journey—like a map—into the life of a victim.
The more he knew about the victims the better he would understand the killer.
Nineteen
Gardendale Drive
10:50 p.m.
They sat in her driveway saying nothing for a good ten minutes.
“It feels like everyone is looking at me differently now.”
Bobbie turned to her partner. “He was trying to explain what the killer looked like the best way a ten-year-old can. You were the only male around. You have dark hair like the man he saw carrying his mom. You probably have a similar build. This is good. Now we know we’re looking for a Caucasian about your size and age with dark hair. This could provide the break we need to find Fern and Vanessa alive.”
“The way he looked at me.” Devine shook his head, the movement barely visible in the dark. “When you opened that door, he was terrified that I might come in the room.”
“He would have been terrified of any male coming in the room,” she reminded him. “He’s scared and confused. His whole life has been stolen from him.”
Bobbie knew a little something about how that felt. The pain that accompanied the memories of her lost life was different now, duller, deeper, but it was still there. Like she told the Parker boy, it would take time for the worst to pass.
“Bauer and Holt.” Devine heaved a big breath. “They were just beginning to be friendly, like I was a real member of the team.”
“That’s about Newt.” Bobbie had experienced those feelings in the beginning. She felt guilty about liking or respecting Devine. It was as if she had accepted that Newt could be replaced so effortlessly. “Losing him is still so new. Watching you step into his place and do a good job is difficult. Embracing you is like we’ve forgotten him.” She met Devine’s gaze, hoping he could see the smile on her face. “You’ve made it too easy to like you. Being a damned good cop doesn’t hurt, either.”
“I appreciate you saying so, Bobbie.”
“Enough already. No one believes Sage Parker saw you in his house. Think about it, now we not only have a general description of our killer, we also learned about the accident EMS responded to just before midnight on Wednesday. That helps narrow down the time frame the killer was in the house.” She reached for the door. “It’s all good. Now go home. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“Would you like me to walk you to the door?”
Bobbie laughed. “I know you didn’t just ask me that.”
“It’s late.” He shrugged, looking away. “My parents raised me to be a gentleman.”
“I’ll be fine.” Bobbie got out. “Good night, Devine.”
He called good-night to her as she closed the door. Before she reached the hood he’d already started the engine and turned on the lights, giving her a well-lit path. She unlocked and opened the door, the absence of the security system’s warning told her Nick was already here. D-Boy bounded to the door to greet her. She locked up and gave his head a rub.
She tossed the small leather shoulder bag she carried onto the sofa and went in search of Nick. He wasn’t in the kitchen. As she moved toward the
hall she spotted the light on in the spare bedroom. Her pulse reacted to the anticipation that seared through her veins. Nick was here and she was responding to his presence as if he were a potential lover rather than a resource on this baffling case. Just plain dumb, Bobbie.
He looked up from his work when she paused at the door. “You’re home.”
No matter that she knew he didn’t mean home in its usual sense, his announcement tugged at her on a very basic level. She resisted the impulse to shake her head. Where was her mind?
“I am.” She surveyed the room. The boxes she’d stacked haphazardly now sat neatly on one side of the room.
Her gaze swept over the wall where he’d created his case map and her breath stilled in her lungs. Like the one he’d built in his room at the Economy Inn two months ago, photos and reports lined the wall. He’d started with the Parkers and all he had found on the family as well as names and background info on anyone who might have motive to commit the murders and abduct their daughter. Next up were Slade Manning and Vanessa Olson. Bobbie crossed the room, again stunned at the depth of the information he had collected. His case board, or map as he called it, was considerably more comprehensive than the one she and Holt had built.
She turned to him. “Will it do me any good to ask how you got your hands on these?” She indicated an FBI report and then another and another. “I would think by now you know you can trust me enough to share.”
“I don’t reveal my sources.” He taped a final document on the wall near the Parker collage. “You’ve been looking for this.”
Bobbie moved closer and had a look. It was tox screen results. Both Heather and Nigel Parker were positive for fentanyl. “Where did this come from?”
“The feds stepped in and put a rush on the results. Your department should have it tomorrow. Since the feds have no interest in Manning, his results aren’t in, but we can safely assume the same will be found.”
She shook her head. “You’re not going to tell me who gave this to you, either.” It wasn’t a question. She knew he wouldn’t. Nick Shade had not found and stopped dozens of serial killers by operating fast and loose. He had rules and he never deviated.
