by Debra Webb
“Please,” she beseeched. “He needs me. My husband needs me.”
Enough. Randolph stood. “Come to me, Lucille.”
Without moving off the sofa, she peered up at him. The plea for mercy in her eyes a waste of his time as well as her own. “I’ll take him and go away. Please don’t do this.”
“He should have died all those years ago like the others. It’s time he did.”
“No,” she cried.
He reached for her, she tried to scramble away but she was not nearly fast enough. A few quick slams of her head into the table’s sleek marble top and she stilled. He entwined his fingers in her hair and dragged her through the living room to the kitchen. He opened the side door and pulled her down the two steps to the small, attached garage. There was no car parked inside, but there were numerous boxes of junk. Randolph had already cleared a spot and placed the necessary items he would need there.
“Dear, dear Lucille, you thought you were so smart.” He stretched her out in the middle of the cramped space. “I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the proper setting to prepare a true work of art, but I’ll do the best I can.”
He picked up the ax. “Did you really believe I wouldn’t come back to take care of this personally?” He watched her for a moment, enjoying her desperation as her head moved from side to side in an attempt to regain control of her faculties. “If only you’d kept your mouth shut, none of this would have been necessary.”
Randolph raised the ax and brought it down on the knee, shattering the patella, sliding through ligaments and cartilage and separating the femur and tibia. Blood spurted and Lucille tried to scream, the sound a feeble howl.
Randolph closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the pulsing pleasure of her fear. There was no fear purer than that which came with the knowledge that death was imminent.
He raised the ax a second time.
Twenty-Eight
Habersham Street
Monday, October 31, 9:30 a.m.
A US marshal and a GBI agent; Ellis, the FBI agent from the local field office; Special Agent Angela Price from BAU; and the Chatham County sheriff as well as half a dozen members of Metro circled the table in the main conference room. Bobbie had chosen a chair at the back of the room near the door. Troy had stood his ground about her inclusion in the meeting. His chief had backed him up. Troy had boldly asked her to sit next to him with the others but she had declined. A seat close to the nearest exit was a far better position in her opinion.
Savannah’s Chief of Police Jim Cafaro glanced repeatedly at Bobbie during the briefing from the federal agents at the table. She had anticipated her name would come up and the feds hadn’t disappointed her. Price was the profiler who had come from Quantico to work with Montgomery PD when the Storyteller returned. But she wasn’t the only one painted with the broad brushstrokes of their suspicions. While Bobbie’s motives weren’t to be trusted, Nick was portrayed as a criminal.
Troy spent far too much time countering their remarks with examples of how Bobbie had proven invaluable to the investigation so far. She didn’t actually agree with him but she appreciated his backing her up.
According to the report Ellis read from, the feds hadn’t found any connection between Weller and the missing children either.
So why are you here, you bastard?
Better question, why the hell hadn’t Weller contacted her again? She’d come to Savannah as he’d obviously wanted. What did he want from her now? If Weller had made contact with Nick, he hadn’t mentioned it.
Sleep had eluded her last night after the meeting with Nick.
It would be so much easier to be angry with him if she didn’t so thoroughly understand his position. Whether he admitted it or not, he was afraid. His father had convinced him that he, too, would one day feel the urge to kill. Nick had taken great care to never put himself in a position where he might have to take a life. His decision to come to Montgomery to help her had put him in exactly that position where it was either kill or be killed for both of them. Afterward he had retreated back to the shadows and was determined to stay there. Bobbie worried that as soon as Weller was stopped, Nick would disappear completely.
The possibility that she might never see him again was not one she was willing to accept.
Bobbie’s phone vibrated and she reached into the pocket of her borrowed coat to check the screen. LeDoux.
Since the folks around the table were deep in debate as to whether or not Weller was even in Savannah, Bobbie was able to slip unnoticed from the room. Delores waved at her as she hurried through the lobby. Bobbie gave her a wave back. She couldn’t help thinking about the affair. So many secrets.
Outside the cool air reminded her that the year was slipping away. Thanksgiving and Christmas would be here before she knew it. Cold settled in the center of her chest at the realization that this would be her first significant holiday season without James and Jamie...without Newt. And Bauer. A year of terrible firsts.
The thought made her feel so very alone.
But you have Nick...for now.
LeDoux waited near her Challenger. She checked the street and hurried across it.
He glanced around. “We should sit in the car while we talk.”
Bobbie unlocked her car and slid behind the steering wheel. LeDoux settled into the passenger seat. He looked as if he had been wearing the same clothes since they ran into each other three days ago in Zacharias’s house. Like her, he also looked as if he hadn’t slept much since that early morning run-in either.
Had it only been three days? It felt like weeks.
“Shade won’t respond to my calls.”
“Maybe he doesn’t trust you.” She was still on the fence as to whether or not she trusted LeDoux. Telling him that she and Nick were working together again was more than she was prepared to share.
When the silence dragged on, she glanced at the purportedly fallen agent. He stared straight ahead.
He said, “It’s Rodney Pitts, my superior. I think he uses Kessler to do his dirty work, but he’s the one.”
Bobbie stared at him until he met her gaze. “What do you mean? Pitts hasn’t been here. His name hasn’t even been mentioned. And Kessler went back to Atlanta. She doesn’t believe Weller is involved.”
LeDoux shook his head. “First, don’t believe anything she tells you. She’s the one who kept Weller happy with basically whatever he wanted, except his freedom, of course. Second, it’s Pitts who runs the show. You haven’t heard his name or seen his face because he keeps plenty of degrees of separation between himself and the dirty work. He’s too smart to set himself up to go down. If anyone goes down, it’ll be Kessler.”
“Do you have any proof of this?” If either agent was involved, there had to be one hell of a motive.
“You’ll just have to trust me on that one.”
Bobbie laughed. “Like I’m going to trust you without some sort of proof. The last time I trusted you, I was almost dragged into your troubles by your friends in the suits.”
“I like how you got a heads-up.” He turned to her then. “You couldn’t have done me the same courtesy?”
“Why would Kessler or Pitts have facilitated Weller’s escape and then pretend to want him captured? Without proof, all you have is an unfounded allegation.”
“I didn’t say either of them facilitated his escape. To the contrary, Kessler—under Pitts’s direction—did whatever necessary to keep him comfortable and cooperative in prison. Now he’s out there. If he’s found, he’ll likely reveal how the two facilitated his needs. Not such a good stepping-stone for their careers. I don’t think they want Weller found, I think they want him dead.”
“I have no problem with that ending.” The sooner Weller was erased from this planet, the better for all mankind.
“They won
’t stop with Weller,” LeDoux argued. “They’ll want to take out anyone he might have told or who might have figured out what they’ve done. Like Shade.” He met her gaze once more. “And the two of us.”
Suddenly his theory made way too much sense. “Not that I’m saying I agree with your theory,” Bobbie warned, “but what do you need me to do?” Why else would he want to see her? He wanted something and since he wasn’t involved in the investigation, he likely needed someone inside.
“Watch your back. Urge this cop, Durham, to keep the feds out of the loop. And tell Shade to stay clear of the whole damned shooting match.”
“I can do that.”
Silence settled between them for a moment.
“I really need you to trust me, Bobbie.”
She told him the truth. “I’m not sure I can do that.”
“When we were in that place...with Perry...”
Bobbie closed her eyes against the memories of Gaylon Perry aka the Storyteller.
“I would have done anything to save you,” he went on, “because I understood that what he did to you was my fault.”
She turned to him, saw the stark devastation on his face. “You were desperate to catch a serial killer.”
“I used you to lure him in. I knew he’d be drawn to you. I put my need to solve the case ahead of your safety...of your family’s safety.”
Her eyes burned but she would not cry in front of him. She would not.
“We have to find Weller,” he reiterated, “before Kessler gets to him. She’s still here. She isn’t going anywhere until she finds him and kills him. Pitts will make sure she gets the job done or goes down.”
A burst of anger knocked the softer emotions to the back of Bobbie’s mind. “Why would Pitts or Kessler provide Weller with anything he could use against them? What you’re suggesting doesn’t make sense.”
“Pitts used him to make a name for himself. His ability to gain Weller’s cooperation has set his career on track and gotten him a fucking book deal. Kessler had her own career goals. Weller did things for her, too”
“Things?” Bobbie cleared her throat. “What the hell does that mean, LeDoux?”
Her cell vibrated again. Troy.
Where are you?
“That’s all I can tell you for now,” LeDoux said.
“I have to go.” She reached for the door.
He touched her arm. “Don’t trust anything you hear coming from the Bureau, Bobbie. Pitts is spinning this to his own benefit.”
“Don’t worry.” His admission about using her echoed in her ears. “I don’t trust anyone associated with the FBI.”
Bobbie walked away without looking back. As she reached the front entrance to the headquarters building, Troy exited.
“I had a call.” She shrugged. “I needed some privacy.”
He acknowledged her excuse with a nod. “We’re going to interview Lucille Bonner again. Agent Ellis provided documentation that Bonner met with Weller two times after he evaluated her son.”
“Why would she lie about meeting with Weller?” Bobbie matched his stride as they headed for his car.
“Beats the hell out of me.”
Anderson Street
11:10 a.m.
“Her car is in the driveway,” Bobbie pointed out. Troy had knocked several times and still there was no answer.
He drew his weapon. “I’ll have a look around back. Keep knocking.”
Bobbie reached around and rested her right hand on the butt of her Glock while she pounded a couple more times on the door.
The beagle that belonged to Bonner hadn’t moved from the front of the garage. Bobbie had never owned a beagle but most dogs barked when someone knocked on their master’s door. This one—what was his name?—appeared content to lie with his nose pointed toward the garage.
Jelly. That was it. “Hey, Jelly.” Bobbie walked toward him. “Where’s your mama?”
The dog looked at her without moving his head. As she drew closer he growled and showed his teeth.
Damn. He’d seemed friendly enough on their first visit. “Is your food in the garage? Did Mama forget to feed you this morning?”
Moving nothing but his eyes, the dog watched as Bobbie eased closer to the set of handles in the center of the garage doors. The doors were the carriage style that opened outward rather than rising overhead.
As her hand landed on the iron handle Jelly growled another warning. “It’s all right, boy. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Bobbie released the latch and swung the doors outward. Jelly shot to his feet and bounded inside. Her weapon leveled and ready for any threat, the morning sun poured over Bobbie’s shoulders and filled the interior of the small one-car space as the coppery scent of coagulated blood rushed into her lungs.
Lucille Bonner lay on a white sheet that had been spread on the stained concrete. Her body had been hacked into the eleven pieces used in Weller’s MO. The pieces had been rearranged in the same bizarre, broken mannequin manner as all his victims. On an expanse of the dingy wall at the rear of the garage a painting of Lucille in her current state had been drawn for all to see.
“Holy shit.” Troy moved up beside Bobbie.
“This,” she said, her heart pounding, “is Weller’s work.”
While Troy rounded up the dog who had already tracked through the blood, Bobbie stepped carefully around the mangled body. She studied the poor woman who had died such a horrifically violent death.
“What the hell did you do, Lucille?”
The forensic unit arrived within minutes. Uniforms were instructed to canvass the neighbors. Agent Ellis showed up, his cell phone attached to his ear. Bobbie imagined he was on the phone with Kessler letting her know she had been wrong about Weller not being in Savannah. An ambulance had come and taken Mr. Bonner to the hospital for evaluation. He appeared unharmed and oblivious to the violence that had happened in his home.
Bobbie took a couple of photos with her cell and sent them to Nick, then she left the scene to the forensic folks. On the back porch, she found Troy.
“They find anything inside?”
Troy shook his head. “I was about to check the basement.”
“Basement?” Bobbie hadn’t noticed a basement entrance in the house.
He gestured to the double doors at the back of the house that sat at a forty-five degree angle to the ground and seemed to open carriage-style. Back home they called it a root cellar. Chains and a lock lay on the grass next to the doors.
“Mind if I join you?” She thought of the old hole in the ground that Devine had used to hold the women hostage only days ago. Maybe that was where Lucille Bonner had kept her secrets, too.
Troy hitched his head in an affirmative. “Underground exploration is always better with company.”
Bobbie followed him to the end of the house. Lots of older homes back in Montgomery had root cellars or old-style basements. Some had dirt walls and floors. Others had stone or brick but most were just plain old dirt.
The doors opened outward, the same as the garage doors had. With his flashlight in one hand and his weapon in the other, Troy slowly descended the narrow steps. Bobbie kept a reasonable distance in case they ran into trouble. The dark hole smelled like the one where she’d found the women Devine had kidnapped. Dank and musty, a little like urine and feces.
The beam of the flashlight reflected against something metal. Troy traced the beam over the object. Twin bed. The metal kind with rusty, metal springs and a thin, dingy mattress. As they moved closer she could see that one leg had been broken free of the bed and lay on the packed dirt floor. The metal leg was shinier than the rest of the bed.
Where a chain rubbed against it.
“She kept someone chained down here,” Troy said, his voice soft with disbelie
f.
“I was thinking the same thing.” Her heart thundering, Bobbie slowly surveyed the space. The bed with its broken leg. A table with a kerosene-type lamp and a book, Gulliver’s Travels. There was an old-timey pot with a lid that had served as a toilet for whoever had been chained in this hole. Drawings made with crayons hung on the rock walls.
“Do you think she kept her son hidden down here all this time?” Bobbie spotted a stuffed dog, the kind a small child would love. “Or maybe the Potter boy?” She’d shared her thoughts with Troy about the possibility that Bonner had taken a replacement for her son.
“Great minds think alike.”
“If that’s the case, where is he?”
“If Weller killed his mother, maybe he took the boy.” Troy grunted. “Boy? He wouldn’t be a boy now. He’d be a forty-eight-year-old man—or thirty-five if her guest was Noah Potter.”
Bobbie stared at the broken chains. A very strong man who was likely not happy that he’d been locked away in a basement for the past thirty-two years.
Had he heard his mother’s cries as Weller hacked her into pieces?
Where the hell was he now?
Twenty-Nine
East Sixty-Seventh Street
5:00 p.m.
The chief of police had designated the case the highest priority, so the autopsy on Edward Cortland’s body had already been completed. Lucille Bonner’s would begin first thing in the morning. Unless the lab came back with some unexpected drug in the systems of the vics, there wouldn’t be anything new, which was why Bobbie was surprised when Weston called and wanted to see Troy.
As he drove, Bobbie considered what she’d seen at the Bonner home. A BOLO had been issued for Treat Bonner in the event he was the prisoner from the Bonner basement. The FBI had taken a photo of him as well as the one of Noah Potter from thirty-two years ago to have age progressions done. It would take some time before the FBI’s findings filtered down to the local police, but when the photos arrived, they would be circulated on social and media outlets. Had whatever happened to Treat Bonner all those years ago made him uncontrollable? Did his mother fear him? What kind of mother kept her son chained in the basement, particularly after he was cleared in the Foster case? Was Treat the one who murdered Cortland and the Sanderses?
