The Coldest Fear

by Debra Webb

  And Nick’s. He was the primary reason she had survived.

  “Weller?”

  She nodded. “In addition to more than forty murders in the past, he orchestrated several murders in Montgomery during the past eight days. I believe Weller is attempting to lure me into some twisted game he’s determined to play out in your backyard. If I’m right, then he may have been responsible for the murders of your two newest victims. I don’t know about the children. None of this is his usual MO but I’ve learned recently that isn’t always relevant.” She took a breath. “I’m not sure I could possibly find the right words to convey to you the depth of Weller’s knowledge and insights into other killers—or the depraved acts he’s capable of carrying out.”

  “I read the report on him that hit the wires Tuesday night.” He shook his head. “That’s the first I’d heard of him.”

  “Do you know if he ever consulted on any cases in Savannah? Before your time, maybe? Prior to being outed as a serial killer himself, he often consulted with the police and the FBI on difficult cases.”

  “I have no idea.” Durham blew out a disgusted breath. “I left Savannah right after high school. I only returned three years ago. I’m still catching up on the past sixteen years. Hell, I got the call about the Sanderses just after midnight. A noise disturbance was reported around eleven-thirty. When uniforms showed up the front door was open and the television was blaring. If one of my uniforms hadn’t needed to take a piss and literally stumbled over one of the damaged statues with bones falling out of it, we probably wouldn’t have noticed the remains until daylight. By four this morning I was digging out this damned cold case file. Sometime around my tenth cup of coffee I found the reference to you. My head has been spinning ever since.”

  “Was the 911 caller male or female?”

  “Male.” He rubbed at his temple. “One of the neighbors. He’s been interviewed, but he didn’t see anything. The noise woke him up and he called it in.”

  Bobbie digested the information for a moment. “I wish I could give you more. What I’ve told you is my best assessment based on what you have so far.”

  She decided not to mention Nick or the woman LeDoux told her about. Durham seemed like a nice guy, but right now it was best not to be too trusting even with kind strangers who were cops. She’d trusted Steven Devine. After a decade in Birmingham PD, he’d transferred to Montgomery PD a month ago to replace her partner. Fury tightened her gut.

  “If someone in my department added your name to the case file,” Durham said, drawing her attention back to him, “I need to figure out who the hell he or she is. I’ll get the Records Section working on that ASAP.” He stared out over the cemetery. “If this Weller character is the one who wants you involved in this case, there must be a reason. You think your department will have a problem with your sticking around in an advisory capacity for a few days?”

  Bobbie laughed. “That’s another complicated story, but the abbreviated answer is no. I’ll bring my chief and my lieutenant up to speed as soon as I have a better handle on what’s going on.”

  Durham shifted back into Drive. “Well, let’s get started then. The sooner we figure out this mess, the sooner we can stop it.”

  Five dead children.

  Bobbie closed her eyes as they headed back to the crime scene.

  What the hell are you trying to show me, Weller?

  He’d warned her that every ounce of courage and tenacity she possessed would be required to survive what was coming.

  Bobbie glanced at the man behind the wheel. If Weller had started this, Durham had no idea just how bad things were going to get.

  Nine

  East River Street

  2:30 p.m.

  “How’re you today, Ms. Balfour?” Amelia Potter smiled as her oldest client settled at the table. The elderly woman refused to allow anyone to assist her into or out of a chair. She contended that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

  “I’m just peachy.” Ninety-four-year-old Camille Balfour propped her umbrella against her chair and then loosened her scarf to let it drop from her head to her shoulders. “Every morning I wake up is a blessing.”

  “A blessing, indeed.” Amelia had already washed her hands so she picked up her deck. The worn cards felt like an extension of her. She’d found this deck twenty-five years ago and she’d used it since. A good deck of tarot cards was like an old, dependable friend. Part of the magic was in the relationship. “I hear those great-grandchildren came to see you this past weekend.”

  Camille’s smile chased away the ravages of age, lifted her sagging jowls and brightened her eyes. “You better believe it. Lauren graduated from medical school back in May and Gwyneth will graduate next spring. She’s going to be an attorney. Two smart girls.”

  “Just like their great-grandma.”

  Camille reached across the table with one hand gnarled by the progression of rheumatoid arthritis and clasped Amelia’s. “I’m having visions again.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “I’ve been worrying about you all week.”

  Camille had never been a reader of the tarot. She’d never traded her knowing for money the way Amelia did, but not all were blessed with family money. The truth was until Camille had confided in Amelia that she felt things, she’d never before confessed aloud her abilities for fear of reprisal from her late husband, from his family and the community. She had held firm to her station in life and never permitted the slightest impropriety. It was the way of things with her generation.

  Amelia set her cards aside and patted the dear woman’s hand. “Why in the world would you be worrying about me?”

  Camille chuckled. “You know I’ve always had a soft spot for you, Mia.”

  No one called her Mia except Camille. Amelia’s parents had kicked her out of their home outside Atlanta when she was sixteen. She didn’t hold it against them. She’d allowed herself to get involved with drugs and the wrong people. Three years of dealing with her issues had worn down her parents. It was a miracle she had survived her own recklessness. A sad smile tugged at her lips. If she hadn’t come to Savannah and ended up pregnant, she might have lost her life to those damned drugs.

  Her little boy had saved her. Her heart squeezed painfully. If only...

  Cold fingers tightened on her hand. “Mia, someone is coming and whoever it is she won’t let me sleep. I keep seeing her running through the woods with you. The trouble is right behind the two of you and I...” She shook her head, her rheumy eyes shining with emotion. “I’m terrified for you, Mia.”

  Amelia smiled at her old friend. “For thirty-seven years you’ve helped me. Whether it was a safe bed to sleep in or a hot meal in my belly, you watched out for me until I could watch out for myself.” She didn’t mention how Camille had ensured Amelia was accepted at one of the best private rehab facilities in Georgia all those years ago or how she’d cosigned with her at the bank when she purchased this shop. Her friend was well aware of all she’d done. “It’s time for me to watch out for you. You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I’m doing just fine.”

  The Gentle Palm had a steady clientele. Amelia had paid the final payment on the shop last month. It was hers now. Her little apartment on the second floor was all she would ever need. She didn’t own a car but she didn’t need one. When she wanted to go somewhere she took the bus or the train, but she rarely left town anyway. Her clients depended on her and she wanted to be available for them. Amelia had all she needed right here in Savannah.

  For the past ten years she had been helping Camille with her gardening. Though the Balfours had money to spare and a loyal housekeeping and gardening crew, Camille trusted no one except Amelia with her roses. Her lovely home on Gordon Street faced Monterey Square. The house had been in her family since the day it was built in 1879. It was enormous and beautiful just like the heart of the
lady squeezing Amelia’s hand so hard right this moment.

  “She has hair as dark as night,” Camille murmured, “and the bluest eyes. She’s come for you, Mia. There are bones all around the two of you.” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “All around you. Then I see the water and the red, red blood.” She exhaled a shuddering breath. “I can’t make the images go away.”

  “Come along.” Amelia stood. “We should have a cup of tea. We can do your reading later.”

  Camille didn’t argue. She struggled to her feet, somehow weaker now. To Amelia’s surprise, the elderly woman leaned on her as they made their way to the kitchenette in the back. Camille prided herself on her independence. Her sudden show of uncertainty and weakness was very much out of character. Amelia’s heart clutched with worry.

  “A cup of hot tea will do us both some good,” Amelia promised.

  When Camille was seated at the small table in the back of the shop, Amelia moved to the stove and reached for the kettle. Thankfully it wasn’t until her back was fully turned to her friend that the trembling showed in her hands.

  Camille was right. Amelia had experienced a similar warning in her dreams. But the stranger wasn’t coming...she was already here.

  Yet it was what Amelia had read in the newspaper that really terrified her.

  Dr. Randolph Weller was still at large.

  Ten

  Habersham Street

  3:45 p.m.

  A few cardboard file boxes represented the lives of five children. Now two adults—possibly the two who had murdered those children more than three decades ago—had been added.

  Bobbie reached for the bottle of water she’d been nursing since Delores had forced both her and Durham to eat a sandwich she’d ordered from the deli down the street. Chicken salad prepared the usual Southern way with mayonnaise, pickles, eggs and celery. Bobbie had realized after the first bite that she’d been starving.

  Falling into those old bad habits.

  During the long months of recovery after she escaped the Storyteller, she’d forgotten to eat more often than not. Even after she’d returned to work, her partner had to remind her to grab breakfast or lunch.

  You gotta eat to stay strong, girlie.

  God she missed Newt. Her life had been turned upside down and then shaken. And just when she’d thought she might be able to pull it back together to some degree, a new wave of tragedy had hit like the aftershocks following a major earthquake. Only this time Bobbie wasn’t going to fall apart the way she had the last time.

  You will not win, Weller.

  She and Nick had stopped the Storyteller as well as Steven Devine, a man—no, not a man, a monster—who had posed as a cop for nearly a decade. They would stop Randolph Weller, too. Then Bobbie intended to take her life back—starting with Nick.

  Durham walked back into his office and plopped in the chair behind his desk. “The coroner confirmed we only have four sets of remains. No extra pieces, no missing pieces.”

  Bobbie sat up straighter. “So one of the missing children is unaccounted for.”

  The entire homicide unit and the forensic squad had spent the past twelve hours searching the pet cemetery and the grounds of the Sanders home as well as the clinic. Tomorrow the FBI agent who’d helped with the case all those years ago, though retired now, was coming to Savannah along with the local field agent currently holding the position he’d vacated. Bobbie hoped the retired agent would recall if Weller had advised on the case or some other case in Savannah during or near that time frame. There was nothing in the three boxes that suggested he had, but Bobbie’s name being in that case file didn’t make sense otherwise.

  She surveyed the case board Durham had built. Alice Cortland, five; Heath Wilson, five; Braden Cotton, four; Noah Potter, three; and Brianne Durham, three, all went missing on the same night, October 25, thirty-two years ago. All but Noah Potter were from wealthy, influential Savannah families.

  She shifted her attention to the lieutenant. “How long will it take forensics to determine which child is still out there?”

  Durham set his elbows on his desk and scrubbed at his jaw. The man was exhausted. Bobbie knew that place all too well. “Depends on how many had been to the dentist before they went missing. Some folks don’t take their kids to the dentist until they’re at least school age. Any documented injuries prior to their abductions could potentially help. Which means we have to bring the parents into this before we have enough answers to give them all closure.”

  Never the best avenue. “Do we have anything new from the lab or the coroner’s office?”

  Bobbie wished she had said you instead of we. Durham had invited her to stay and advise, but this was his case.

  Durham reached for a folder. “Nada.”

  “Have you looked into any similar cases during that same time frame, say within a hundred-mile radius?”

  If this was a serial killer, it was unlikely these children were his only victims. There was always the chance the murders were simply a mass killing. The question was why these children? Why that particular day? And why hadn’t anyone come forward with information about the killer? Few mass murderers got away clean. Someone usually saw or heard something. The fifteen minutes of fame was typically the mass murderer’s objective.

  “There were a couple of human sacrifices over in Charleston during that same time frame. Ritual killings. But the kids were older. Rhodes suggested in one of his reports that it was possible these children had suffered that same fate. He and the detective as well as the boys from the GBI who worked the case over in Charleston compared notes.” Durham shook his head. “But since the bodies were never found the way those in Charleston were, nothing came of it as far as I can tell.”

  “Did anything happen during that time that might have caused Sanders to go off the deep end and abduct all these children? Any personal issues with the parents of the children?”

  “About three weeks before the children disappeared—” he reached across his desk for another file “—a twelve-year-old girl was raped and murdered.” He checked the label on the folder. “Christina Foster.”

  Bobbie accepted the folder he offered and flipped through the grim contents.

  “There was a witness who said she saw Treat Bonner, a local seventeen-year-old, with Christina before she disappeared. Her body was found three days later. A couple weeks after that it was determined he wasn’t the rapist, but the folks in the community already had him tried and convicted before he was even charged. Bonner was intellectually challenged, which made him a bit of an outcast. He spent a lot of time walking the streets around his neighborhood. Kids made fun of him and his way of reacting was to try to scare them. People were desperate for a boogie man to blame the girl’s murder on and Treat Bonner fit the bill.”

  “Is he still alive?” Bobbie wasn’t sure how he could help, but it was a lead worth following.

  Durham shrugged. “No one knows. Before he was cleared of suspicion, he disappeared. Some said his mother sent him away to avoid murder charges and never allowed him to return after he was cleared.”

  “What do you say?”

  “Based on the number of documented times she showed up demanding to know why no one was looking for her son, I’d say she had nothing to do with his disappearance. Both the FBI and the GBI came to the same conclusion.”

  The Georgia Bureau of Investigation appeared to have worked closely with the FBI and the local cops when the children went missing, but the result was the same: unsolved.

  Bobbie asked, “Would the Sanderses have been involved? Maybe they were friends of the Bonner family or the Foster family.”

  “Rhodes never found a connection beyond Sanders being a local veterinary who treated some of the kids’ pets and that he attended the same church as the victims’ families.”

 
; “So all the children attended the same church?”

  “All but the Potter boy.”

  The Potter boy was the anomaly amid the children who’d gone missing all those years ago. The Cortlands, Wilsons, Cottons and Durhams were all occupants of the same tax bracket in addition to attending the same church. The same could be said of Christina Foster. Noah Potter didn’t meet either criteria. Nor did Treat Bonner.

  “What about Potter’s parents?” Bobbie shouldn’t have been surprised when she read Amelia Potter’s name in the file. Was her connection to this case the reason Zacharias had sent her a photo of Nick? Did he believe Nick could help her find the killer or killers who’d taken the children? If the Sanderses were the killers, who killed them? Could the identity of their killer be somehow connected to Nick?

  Another theory hit Bobbie hard. Bill and Nancy Sanders had been murdered. Was the photo being sent to Potter some way of connecting Nick to those murders? Would the FBI find the intercepted package among LeDoux’s belongings and use it against Nick?

  “There’s only Amelia,” Durham said. “The boy’s father died before he was born. The two were never married so the child was given his mother’s name.”

  Bobbie decided to keep the information LeDoux had given her about Potter to herself. At this point she could see no reason why Durham needed that potentially detrimental information.

  “What about the Bonners?” she asked. “Are either of the parents still alive?”

  “The Bonners are still around, yeah. They don’t get out much. The father was injured in a construction accident just before Treat was born. A few years later he had a stroke. He’s bedridden. Can’t do anything for himself or even speak. Mrs. Bonner’s had it pretty rough. Treat was their only child.”

  “The Fosters?”

  “Christina was an only child, too. A heart attack took the father years ago. The mother is still alive. She’s in an assisted living facility over in Macon but she has advanced Alzheimer’s.”