by Rita Herron
The resurgence of White’s crimes would add to the hype. These photos would appall the masses, but up the sales to a blockbuster hit.
And that would mean fame and fortune for him.
A flash of Darcy Mae’s pale face in his mind made his pulse sing. He envisioned her begging for her life, screaming not to die, crying hysterically as she spotted the wooden box crafted for her, and realized its intent.
Another flash, and he saw her in the grave, clawing at the wooden coffin. Heat suffocated her.
There was no way out for her now.
Her fate had been sealed, just as his had the day of his heart attack.
He’d realized the value of timing. If he wanted to achieve the fame he craved, he had to act. Sacrifices had to be made. The fastest way for him to achieve his dreams was to break another major story.
The Grave Digger had to be reborn, and the police had to be challenged. And others would lose their lives.
But this time Booker wouldn’t crack the case.
He would.
Then he’d win a Pulitzer, and be famous forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THREE DAYS SINCE Darcy Mae’s kidnapping. Brad rammed a hand through his hair. If they didn’t find her, it was the day she would die.
The clock ticked away the hours, the minutes, until Brad feared she would be taking her final breath.
The police still had no idea where to look for her.
He had attempted for two days to question White’s brother’s former wife, but hadn’t been able to contact her. This morning, he’d finally found someone at the house.
He squinted through the blinding rays of the sun as he drove toward Duluth. Lisa remained quiet, almost pensive by his side. The morning temperature had already climbed to nearly a hundred. The heat was draining the air-conditioning inside his vehicle, making the leather seats and steering wheel fiery to the touch. Dried grass and wilted flowers begged for moisture, but the latest water restriction had been posted, and it wasn’t pretty. The ban was more extensive—no watering, not even the odd-even day schedule that had been in effect for the past few weeks.
What was happening to Darcy Mae Richards now?
Was she sweltering in the heat? Had the killer brutalized her by now? Or had he already placed her in the ground, leaving her to suffocate?
Brad wiped at the sweat, swallowing back the images while he forced himself to climb into the killer’s head. As their profiler, Special Agent Karen Slater, had said, understanding the perp’s mind helped find the killer.
But the way this guy had varied his pattern kept throwing Brad off.
He mentally ticked over the details for the thousandth time, hoping to jog some new clue. The victims of the first GD had been brunettes, up until the time he’d taken Lisa. Kidnapping and killing her had been about revenge, keeping her silent, while the others fed his need for control.
Now, the victim’s hair color was anyone’s guess. According to Agent Slater, that meant that his hatred had grown to encompass all women.
There were other differences, too. First, a woman who might have been on the jury that convicted White, but who hadn’t actually served. Then a nurse from the hospital where he’d died. And now a nurse from a different hospital.
If the killer believed Joann Worthy had sat on the jury that convicted him, his motivation made sense. And if he thought Mindy had been in the E.R. or on duty the night White died, Brad could understand that as well.
But where the hell did Darcy Mae Richards fit in?
Lisa sighed and leaned against the palm of her hand. “If William’s brother wanted revenge, why wait four years instead of assuming his identity and crime spree when he was first incarcerated?”
Brad shrugged. “That’s a good question. Maybe White’s death triggered his desire to carry on his legend.”
“But if they were close, why didn’t the brother show up at the funeral?”
“Another good point. Maybe this visit will tell us more.” Either that or it was a wild-goose chase. But they had to exhaust every possible lead.
He punched in Rosberg’s number to check on the exhumation of White’s body. The captain assured him it would go through, and that the coroner was set to work the minute he received the body. He’d already requested dental records to confirm the ID.
Brad guided the car through Duluth, another quaint town, this one with a theater on the corner of Highway 120, a salvage store in the heart of downtown, and boasting handmade signs in purple and white advertising the Wildcats, the high school football team, which had a longtime rivalry with Norcross. On Pleasant Hill Road, a shopping mall had been built, along with strip shopping centers, car dealerships, a farmer’s market and a supersize Wal-Mart.
Duluth had once been a railway hub, with tracks still running through the center.
It was a chilling reminder that the killer might be lurking in one of these homely little towns, hiding out unnoticed in some abandoned house or building.
“Have the police checked for empty houses here and in Norcross?” Lisa asked.
Brad nodded and turned into an older subdivision. Neatly kept lawns strewn with children’s toys, sandboxes and swing sets told of young children and a basketball court in one corner held two teenage boys shooting hoops.
Brad parked the car and they climbed out, heat sizzling from the sidewalk. When he knocked on the door, footsteps sounded inside, then a small, frail lady with white hair appeared in the doorway, leaning on a cane.
Brad frowned. “I’m looking for Haddie Clemens.”
“That’s me.”
He must have misunderstood. “I’m sorry, I…was told you were married to a man named White once.”
“No, Clyde,” the woman said with a wry chuckle. “That was my daughter’s husband. Hang on.” She wobbled to the staircase and yelled upstairs. “Zizi, there’s some folks here to see you. Get yourself down here now.”
A minute later, a haggard looking woman with ratty brown hair and mismatched clothes shuffled down the steps. She needed serious dental work, and wore a pair of out-of-date Coke bottle glasses. “Who’re you?”
Brad introduced himself and Lisa.
Zizi’s bloodshot eyes widened, looking even more distorted through the thick lenses. “You’re that girl that William kidnapped, ain’t you? The one that testified against him?”
Lisa nodded, and Brad clenched his hands by his side. “We recently learned you were married to White’s brother. Do you know where he is?”
“Sure do,” Zizi said. “Over at the cemetery.”
Brad arched a brow. “He’s visiting his brother’s grave?”
“Hell, no, Clyde never visited that sorry piece of shit. Not after what William did to their mama.”
“What do you mean?” Brad asked.
“Clyde said he beat her up one too many times.”
“He killed his mother?” Lisa asked.
Zizi nodded. “Don’t think anyone knew, though. William blamed her death on his old man. Old man was found dead the next day. Got drunk and ran his car off the Chattahoochee Bridge.”
Brad wasn’t surprised William White had killed either of his parents, especially his mother. It fit with his profile.
And if Clyde had known and had protected him, would he do it a second time? Maybe Clyde had been with William when he’d abducted Lisa….
“You said Clyde was at the cemetery?” Brad asked.
She folded her arms and smirked. “Been there ten years now.”
“You mean he’s buried there?” Lisa asked.
“That’s right.”
Brad took a second to assimilate that information. “What happened to him?”
Zizi blew out a tired breath. “Died just like his old man.”
Suspicious sounding, Brad thought. “Did anyone look into their deaths?”
Zizi shrugged. “Naw, they were both drunks. Everyone figured they had too much liquor in ’em and lost control.”
But what if t
heir deaths hadn’t been accidental? If William White had killed his mother, then his father, maybe he’d killed his brother as well. Then the police could have added three more murder charges to his file.
Not that it mattered now.
But White’s brother obviously wasn’t their man.
Still, someone had visited William and pretended to be Clyde White. Who had used his name to impersonate him, and why use a disguise?
* * *
THE BRIGHT REDS and oranges faded to a grayish hue over the lake as Vernon slipped on gloves, then jimmied the bedroom window where Lisa had slept. His craving for her mounted with every second. He hesitated as his feet hit the floor, inhaled deeply to absorb her scent, then studied the room, remembering how she’d looked asleep on the double bed, with her beautiful silky hair fanned across the pillow. He had been so close. Had touched that hair. Had wanted her so badly he’d nearly creamed his pants.
Shame heated his neck at the thought. He had to learn control. When he finally got the chance to be with her, he didn’t want to disappoint her.
Evening shadows fell across the room, the heat lifting slightly as a breeze from the lake floated into the room. The bed had been carefully made, a last ray of light dappling an old-fashioned chenille bedspread similar to the one his mother had draped over her own iron bed at home. When he was a child, it had reminded him of his sweet little grandmother. She’d baked pies, cleaned the house until it smelled like lemon polish and always had a soft spot for him.
But his mother had been a slut. A good-for-nothing, two-timing, big-haired whore who’d had a different man every night. She hadn’t cared what the man looked like, only that he laid his money on the scarred end table beside that bed before she spread her legs for him. And that chenille bedspread had been stained with her ugliness. So much that Vernon had hated the sight of the yellowed, frayed fabric. The thready knots that had once been pretty had been picked to death, the fringe around the bottom ragged and uneven where she and her men friends had defaced it.
That spread symbolized every vile and dirty thing about her.
A hiss of disgust escaped him, and he ripped the chenille spread from Lisa’s bed.
His beloved Lisa deserved better.
He carefully retrieved the satin comforter from outside the window, then unfolded it across the bed, smiling at the crisp white material. He imagined Lisa’s long legs stretched out on the shiny, slick bedding. White for virginal. Purity. Innocence.
Yes, Lisa was the opposite of his mother.
She was a teacher now. He liked that about her. Liked the fact that she had a homey little place in the mountains. That she took care of little children. That she picked apples in the orchards and baked pies and canned jelly.
She was the marrying kind.
Exhilarated again by the scent of her lingering in the room, he moved toward the suitcase she’d left open on the wooden chair in the corner. A pair of jeans lay on top, neatly folded, then two T-shirts and a soft nightshirt in lilac.
His fingers trembled as he picked it up and pressed it to his cheek. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the fragrance, imagined touching her skin. He wanted her to wear this lingerie for him. When he finally opened his eyes, he glimpsed a pair of black panties. A red pair lay folded beside it, a pink thong tucked below. His blood ran hot, the air around him growing more humid as sweat beaded on his lip.
He clutched the garments in his hands, then, mindless of the danger, slipped off his gloves so he could feel the delicate material between his fingers. Unable to help himself, he lifted them and smelled the slinky, forbidden underwear, smiling at the fresh clean scent. Then he rubbed them across his cheek, his body hardening as if he held Lisa in his arms and could feel her tender kisses.
Lisa had stolen his heart four years ago. It had always belonged to her.
And it was time that he showed his face and told her.
Then he’d thank agent Booker for leading him to her.
And if Booker interfered, he’d take Lisa and run away.
She would be his forever.
And Booker couldn’t stop him.
* * *
TIME WAS RUNNING OUT for Darcy Mae Richards.
Fear vibrated in every bone in Lisa’s body, just as it had four years ago when she first realized William had kidnapped those other women.
His face flashed into Lisa’s mind as they’d driven around the town, searching for old abandoned buildings and houses, hunting for anyplace a killer might have stashed Darcy Mae. While Brad phoned in a request for the prison security camera photos of the inmates’ visitors, Lisa once again contemplated how she could have been so naive. The psychiatrist had assured her that William was a sociopath, a pathological liar who had fooled others before, too. That he had no conscience, so much so that he could have probably passed a polygraph test without even blinking twice.
Knowing that on a logical level didn’t alleviate her sense of responsibility or her distrust of men.
Except she did trust Brad.
She’d known he would save her, and he had.
Of course, she’d felt like a fool for not believing him the first time he’d hinted that William might be dangerous…but she’d quickly learned he was right.
She studied the tight set to his jaw now, the fine lines around his eyes. The first time she’d met him he’d acted cold. Insensitive. Intimidating. A man who could care for no one.
Now she saw beneath that surface. He’d had a difficult youth. He wanted to save all these women. Maybe that drive had something to do with his childhood, maybe not. She didn’t know the details yet, but she wanted him to open up to her, to share his painful past.
He was hurting now. Blaming himself for Mindy Faulkner’s death. Worrying about her. And struggling with his guilt.
God, she understood about guilt.
“I also want a warrant for medical records on a Vernon Hanks,” Brad said into the phone. “He might have had plastic surgery. I need his doctor’s name and any other information about him, an address and phone number if you can find it. And a photo of his face after plastic surgery. Thanks.”
He hung up and turned to her. “Are you all right?”
Lisa nodded. “If Vernon had surgery in the Atlanta area, my father might be able to help you. Maybe he could pull some strings. He knows most of the physicians on staff at all the major hospitals, and some at the teaching ones, as well.”
Brad hesitated. He and her father had a strained relationship during the trial. She’d felt the tension, although she hadn’t quite understood it.
“You’re right,” Brad hissed. “He may refuse to talk to me.”
“No. He’ll want to help find this killer.” Lisa punched in her father’s number, then, seconds later, informed his assistant that the two of them would stop by.
It took over half an hour in the blistering heat and traffic to reach First Peachtree Hospital. On the drive, Brad had phoned to find out if Darcy Mae had ever worked at First Peachtree, but she hadn’t. Grasping at straws, he also checked to see if Joann Worthy might have worked in one of the offices. Surprisingly, he learned she hadn’t, but that she had volunteered at a small private hospital in Buckhead. Hmm, the three of them had been associated with hospitals. But what did that mean?
Irritable drivers honked and cursed at two fender benders that blocked the right-hand lanes of I-85. Brad took advantage of his siren to bypass the worst, then swerved into the hospital parking lot and cut the engine.
Lisa hadn’t seen her father in months, and her nerves zinged as they entered the main lobby. Brad’s hand went to her back, gently coaxing her into the elevator, as if he sensed her anxiety level rising.
Seconds later, she greeted Gioni Kerr, her father’s longtime assistant. Lisa was almost certain they’d been having an affair, and wondered why her dad had never married the woman. It was obvious Gioni would do anything for him.
“Gioni, this is Special Agent Brad Booker.”
“Yes, I remember him
from the trial.”
Lisa nodded. She’d forgotten Gioni had been there, holding up her father, supporting him while he’d grown more distant from Lisa herself.
“Your father’s waiting on you,” Gioni said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, it’s too hot,” Brad said.
“How about some water or a soda,” Gioni offered.
Brad declined again. Lisa craved a glass of cold water, but her hands were suddenly shaking too much to handle a glass. She entered her father’s office, gauging his reaction. He sat behind his desk, looking austere in his pin-striped suit and a tie, his computer screen blinking with a screen saver. He must have had consultations or appointments today instead of surgery.
“Dad.”
“Lisa.” He gave Brad a withering look of disdain. “Agent Booker, what are you doing here?”
Lisa started to explain, but Brad spoke up and quickly brought him up to date on the investigation. “Someone visited White in jail and impersonated White’s brother. I’ve requested the prison security files to compare faces and get a name.”
“You think this man Vernon Hanks might be the copycat killer?” her father asked.
“It’s possible,” Brad said. “He was infatuated with White and Lisa.”
Her father’s gaze darted to her, questioning. “Have you seen him lately?”
“No.” Lisa licked her dry lips. “But he might have had plastic surgery. That’s why we’re here.”
“So, you wouldn’t necessarily recognize him?”
“That’s right,” she replied.
“I’ve already requested a warrant for his medical files,” Brad said, “but we have another woman missing and the clock is ticking, Dr. Langley. If there’s any way you can help us cut through some red tape and find out about Hanks’s surgery, it might help. We need a picture, too, if you can obtain one.”
