Dead By Morning

by Beverly Barton

  “We’re in Aiken.” Derek stood up and headed for the bathroom. “We’re at the Holiday Inn Express.”

  “Hmm . . .” Sanders remained silent for a full minute, then said, “This puts you approximately two hundred miles from St. Simons. The quickest route should get you there in four hours. If you and Maleah leave within the next fifteen minutes, you could be there no later than seven this evening.”

  “Doesn’t the agency have anyone closer who could check things out while we’re en route?” Derek asked.

  “We have already sent someone up from Jacksonville to keep an eye on Mr. Durham until you arrive.”

  “That’s great. Give me the address and—”

  “Barbara Jean has sent you the information you need. Check your e-mail.”

  “Right. Okay. Maleah and I will be on our way in a few minutes.”

  He should have known that Sanders would be one step ahead of him. The man had an uncanny sixth sense. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Sanders had some psychic abilities of his own. In the past, Derek had often wondered why, if Dr. Meng possessed the empathic psychic talent Griff believed she did, Griff didn’t put her gift to good use for the Powell Agency. When he had finally posed the question to his boss, Griff had explained:

  “Yvette was once forced, by a madman, to use her special talents completely against her will. I would never use her in that way. I have rarely asked her to help me. How and when she uses her empathic abilities is her choice.”

  Derek used the bathroom, washed his hands and splashed cold water in his face. He had shaved and showered before lying down for a nap. His slacks and shirt had been wrinkled, so he’d folded them and placed them in a plastic bag. He put on a pair of jeans and a clean cotton shirt that he’d taken from his vinyl suitcase. Then he stuffed the bag containing his dirty clothes inside the suitcase and zipped it closed. He picked up the holster containing his personal weapon—an 8-shot 45 Colt XSE. He seldom carried a weapon, but considering what had happened in Apple Orchard, he had decided to take his pistol out of his suitcase. After strapping on his holster and lifting his jacket from the back of the desk chair, he felt inside the coat pocket. He hadn’t realized until he had removed his jacket before taking a shower that, after he had opened Maleah’s door for her, he had slipped her key back into his pocket.

  He put a tip for the maid on the bed, left his room, vinyl carryall in hand, and walked the few feet to Maleah’s door. He knocked softly. When she didn’t respond, he inserted the key and unlocked her door. Damn it, she hadn’t put on the latch or double bolted the door. He entered, intending to remind her that she had neglected to take the proper safety precautions, but stopped immediately when he noticed the room was semidark. He set his bag on the floor, walked quietly over to the bed and looked down at a sleeping Maleah. She wore only her panties and bra, her hair was still partially damp, and she lay sprawled in the middle of the bed, the sheet covering one leg and hip.

  He shouldn’t be standing there looking at her. If she knew how much he was enjoying seeing her like this, she’d chew him out big time. But what man in his right mind wouldn’t take advantage of the moment? After all, Maleah was a gorgeous woman, even if she seemed oblivious to the fact. Or maybe she was in denial. Most women wanted men to find them attractive. Not Maleah. For the most part, she wanted men to leave her alone. He didn’t suspect sexual assault in her past as the reason. No, she wasn’t afraid of men and didn’t seem to dislike men in general. But she carried a major chip on her shoulder when it came to taking orders from a man, sometimes even Griff.

  “Maleah,” he called to her. “Hey, wake up, Blondie.”

  She stretched languidly, the movement shoving the sheet off her completely. When she turned flat on her back, Derek swallowed hard. Her breasts were high and round and full, straining against the pink lace bra. And beneath the sheer pink bikini panties, dark blond curls created a triangular patch.

  “Maleah . . .”

  She opened her eyes, looked up at him and smiled. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.” He realized she was still half asleep.

  Suddenly, as if just realizing Derek actually was standing there looking down at her and that she was half naked, she grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her chin. Glaring at him, she asked, “How did you get in here?”

  He held up the key card. “I accidentally put it in my pocket after I unlocked your door earlier.”

  “You should have knocked.”

  “I did. You were sleeping like the dead and didn’t hear me.”

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  He tried not to grin, but couldn’t keep his mouth from curving into a closed-mouth smile. “Uh . . . not long.”

  “I assume you have a reason for invading my privacy this way.” She jerked the sheet off the bed as she stood and wrapped it around her.

  “Sanders called. Albert Durham is in St. Simons Island, Georgia.”

  “Is he alive?”

  Derek chuckled.

  “What so funny?”

  “I asked Sanders the same thing.”

  “And his answer?” she asked.

  “As far as we know Durham’s alive. Sanders sent a Powell contact up from Jacksonville to keep an eye on Durham until we can get there.”

  “Give me ten minutes.” Maleah disappeared into the bathroom, clutching the sheet just above her breasts as she dragged it with her.

  Derek turned on a couple of lights, pulled a fivedollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the bed for the maid. He glanced around the room, checking for any personal items, and found none. Apparently, Maleah had left her suitcase in the bathroom after her shower.

  Seven and a half minutes later, she emerged, completely dressed, her hair dry and swirled up into a loose bun, flyaway tendrils framing her face. She’d even put on some blush and lip gloss.

  “How do you do it?” Derek asked

  She stared at him. “How do I do what?”

  “Manage to always look so beautiful?”

  At first, she glared daggers at him, but then, as if unable to stop herself, she smiled and finally laughed. “I’ve learned not to take anything you say seriously. You get too much pleasure out of yanking my chain, don’t you?”

  “If you say so.”

  He opened the door and held it for her. Each carrying their own bag, neither in a talkative mood, they took the elevator down and quickly checked out.

  By 2:40 P.M., they were headed for US-278 E.

  Poppy loved her grandmother, the one constant in her life, the one person who never changed and seemed to love Poppy unconditionally. It wasn’t that her mother didn’t love her. She did. But she had other priorities. At forty, Vickie looked thirty, thanks to strict dieting, strenuous exercise and a little Botox here and there in strategic spots. Why her mom hadn’t handed her over to Grandmother years ago, she’d never understand. Maybe as revenge against her husband’s family, the people who had never approved of her as proper wife material for a Chappelle. Poppy did know that Grandmother had taken Vickie to court and an ugly legal battle had dragged on for nearly a year. But in the end, the court had awarded custody to Vickie, with generous visitation privileges for her grandmother. So, she had spent a couple of months every summer since then in Savannah, as well as every other Christmas, Thanksgiving, and birthday.

  Sometimes, she dreamed of coming here to live permanently, but that wouldn’t happen. When she graduated from high school, she would go off to college and be in charge of her own life. It would be her choice when to visit her mother and when to visit her grandmother. Her trust fund would pay for her college education, but the bulk of that small fortune would not be hers to do with as she chose until she turned twenty-five.

  “Why such a sad face?” Grandmother asked.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Are you worried about something?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, just thinking about when I’m older and I go off to college.”

  “That’s a cou
ple of years from now,” Grandmother reminded her. “I much prefer to concentrate on the here and now, on today. Our guests will be arriving at seven. You should go upstairs soon. A lady should take all the time necessary to make herself presentable.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You are going to wear that lovely blue chiffon dress, aren’t you? I asked Heloise to lay it out for you and . . .” Grandmother Chappelle smiled as if she had a delicious secret to share. “I took my sapphire earrings from the safe. They’re in your room, on your dressing table. I would very much like for you to wear them this evening.”

  “Oh, Grandmother, the sapphire earrings. I couldn’t. I mean they were an anniversary gift from Grandfather.”

  “I’m not giving them to you, Poppy. I’m only loaning them to you.” Grandmother smiled. “But one day they will be yours . . . when I’m gone.”

  Poppy threw her arms around her grandmother and gave her a big hug. “I love you so much.”

  Staunch, prim and proper, stiff-upper-lip Carolyn Chappelle hugged Poppy, then shoved her away and cleared her throat. She turned around, but not before Poppy saw the tears in her grandmother’s eyes.

  “I’ll wear the blue chiffon,” she said. She had seen the new dress Grandmother had bought for her and she hated it. It looked like something that girls wore forty years ago.

  “And you’ll wear the sapphire earrings.”

  “Of course I will.”

  Poppy rushed through the house and up the back stairs, taking them two at a time. She needed plenty of time to prepare for this evening, to psych herself up to “party” with the Chappelle family’s friends. When in Savannah, her goal was always to make Grandmother proud of her.

  For most of the four-hour trip, Maleah had concentrated on driving while Derek went over the reports from the agency, with updated information on Albert Durham, that included a recent publicity photo. The guy fit the general description of the man who had visited Browning at the Georgia State Prison. Derek shared the info with Maleah, giving her the condensed version, which left her too much time to think about other things. She couldn’t forget the way Derek had looked at her that morning just before he left her alone in her hotel room. For half a second, she had thought he was going to kiss her. And she kept replaying in her mind the moment that afternoon when she had awakened to find Derek staring at her almost naked body. But what bothered her the most was that she kept hearing Derek ask, “How do you do it? Manage to always look so beautiful?”

  Thankfully, those introspective moments didn’t last long. Powell Agency business kept them both occupied. Barbara Jean and Sanders had also sent updates on the Wyman Scudder and Cindy Dobbins murder investigations. The Macon PD weren’t giving out any pertinent information, but the Powell Agency not only had been able to discover the secretary interviewee’s name, but had already sent an agent to Macon to question her about discovering Scudder’s body. The info on Cindy’s murder had come straight from Sheriff Lockhart. As they had expected, no arrest had been made, and the killer was still at large.

  So, where was the Copycat Carver right now? And who would be his next victim?

  Derek had received several text messages from the agency’s contact who had driven up from Jacksonville to keep an eye on Durham.

  And Griff had called Derek. After their brief conversation, Derek had remained silent for a good while. Finally, Maleah’s curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d asked, “What did Griff want?”

  Derek hadn’t answered immediately, as if he had been debating about what to tell her. “The Powell Agency took a phone call from Jerome Browning a couple of hours ago. He left a message for you.”

  Maleah had braced herself. “What was his message?”

  “Griff’s handling it, so don’t go ballistic, okay?”

  “Damn it, tell me.”

  “Browning said to tell you that he’s eager to see you again. And . . . he sends his regards to your brother Jack and his wife and son.”

  “That slimy, lowlife son of a bitch. He’s threatening Jack and his family. My family!”

  “Griff has talked to Jack and alerted him. And he’s sending around-the-clock agents to guard Jack and Cathy and Seth. And like Griff said, so far the copycat hasn’t warned us who he planned to kill next, so this probably isn’t a warning from him, just part of the game Browning is playing with you.”

  “God, I hope Griff is right. If anything happens to—”

  “It won’t. They’re safe. Griff is going to make sure of it.”

  With the combination of daylight savings time, St. Simons Island being in the Eastern Time Zone, and the date being late June, nightfall didn’t occur until around nine o’clock. They reached the F.J. Torras Causeway in Brunswick before seven that evening, sunset nearly two hours away.

  Derek knew that Maleah wanted to go to Dunmore, Alabama, where her brother and his family lived, that she wanted to guard them day and night, wanted to be the one to keep them safe. But he also knew that she would continue the investigation and allow Griff to send in other agents to Alabama because their best chance of finding and stopping the copycat was somehow connected to Jerome Browning. And Browning had chosen Maleah as the mouse in his cat and mouse game.

  “Durham went fishing this afternoon.” Derek relayed the latest information from their contact watching Albert Durham. “Since then, he hasn’t left home.”

  “At least we know he’s alive and well and we’ll be able to question him.”

  “Yeah, but you know something’s off about that,” Derek said.

  “Like the fact that Durham was relatively easy to find?”

  “Right. If he’s the copycat killer, he wouldn’t want us to find him, would he?”

  “It’s possible that the copycat has been using Durham, too, just as he did Wyman Scudder and Cindy Dobbins.”

  “If that’s the case, then Durham is in danger. The copycat will be coming after him next.”

  Maleah turned onto Demere Road, following the GPS directions toward Beachview Drive. “He was one step ahead of us in Macon and came in right behind us in Apple Orchard. If Durham isn’t the copycat, but just another pawn in his sick game, then maybe we can save Durham’s life.”

  “If Durham isn’t the killer and the copycat knew where to find Durham, then why didn’t he come to St. Simons Island straight from Apple Orchard?”

  “Maybe he did,” Maleah said as she turned onto Ocean Boulevard. “He may be here right now, watching and waiting for the opportunity to strike. It could be that the only thing standing between Albert Durham and certain death is our Powell contact who’s watching him.”

  Derek shook his head. “If the copycat is already here, why didn’t he kill Durham when the guy left home to go fishing? Even if he knows we’ve got somebody watching Durham, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him. We were with Cindy last night when he killed her.”

  “Yeah, but he took us by surprise. That’s not the case today.”

  “My gut is telling me that there’s a missing piece to our puzzle.”

  “Maybe Durham is that missing piece,” Maleah said. “Maybe he can fill in the blanks.”

  “We should be able to find out pretty soon,” Derek told her when he saw the Beachview Drive rental come into view.

  “Is that it?” She slowed the SUV in front of a pale peach stucco cottage overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

  “That’s it.”

  She pulled into the narrow drive and parked behind the late model Mercedes. “Durham’s car?” she asked, as she shut off the ignition.

  Derek nodded.

  “Where’s our guy?”

  “See the white panel van across the road?”

  Maleah searched for the vehicle when she got out of her SUV, found it, and waited for Derek to join her before approaching the cottage.

  Side by side, on full alert, aware of every sound, every scent, every flash of movement, Maleah and Derek walked up to the front door. Maleah rang the doorbell. Derek scanned
the area from the rocky shoreline and sloping sandy beach to the wooded area behind the house.

  They waited. No response. Maleah rang the bell again.

  Derek heard movement inside the house.

  “Somebody’s in there,” Maleah said.

  Derek nodded.

  And then the front door opened. A pair of inquiring blue-gray eyes looked each of them over quickly and then asked, “May I help you?” His voice had the raspy quality associated with a lifetime smoker.

  “We’re looking for Albert Durham,” Maleah said.

  “You’ve found him. I’m Albert Durham.”

  He vaguely resembled the debonair gray-haired gentleman in the publicity photo that had no doubt been airbrushed. Apparently Durham had shaved and gotten a fresh haircut before the photograph had been taken. But then, the man who stood in the doorway was on vacation, which probably accounted for the new growth of beard and the shaggy hair.

  “I’m Maleah Perdue and this is Derek Lawrence. We’re employed by the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency,” she explained as she and Derek showed the man their Powell Agency identification. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about Jerome Browning,” Maleah said.

  “Who?”

  “Jerome Browning, the serial killer known as the Carver. The man you interviewed for the biography you’re writing.”

  “I have never heard of a Jerome Browning,” Albert Durham said. “And I can assure you that whoever he is, I am not planning to write his biography.”

  “Are you saying that you have never visited Jerome Browning at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville, Georgia?” Derek asked.

  “I’ve never met this man Browning and I’ve never even heard of Reidsville, Georgia. And I have never visited anyone in prison, not in Georgia or anywhere else.”

  Chapter 17

  Damn! Double damn!

  Maleah believed Albert Durham. He didn’t know Jerome Browning, had never met him, and was not writing his biography. One glance at Derek told her that he, too, believed Durham. So where did that leave them? Definitely with more questions than answers.