The Coldest Fear

by Debra Webb

  Bobbie couldn’t imagine what might have been done to Noah Potter if he was the one who’d been held in that basement all those years.

  As soon as they arrived at the coroner’s, they were escorted into Weston’s office.

  “You have something new for us?” Troy asked, a hopeful note in his weary voice.

  Weston opened the file on his desk. Bobbie found herself leaning forward in anticipation.

  “You asked us to work with the lab to find something that might tell us whether the fourth set of remains belonged to the Potter boy or to...your sister.”

  Seated next to her, Troy’s posture changed, stiffened. His fingers curled around his chair arms. Bobbie felt for him.

  “We believe,” Weston went on, “the children’s clothes were removed to ensure the concrete mixture adhered to their skin. Since human hair can survive for centuries if properly preserved, we had hoped to find usable strands in the concrete. Unfortunately, it appears the moisture in the mixture sped up the decomposition process of the keratin.”

  “Then you have nothing new.” The hope Bobbie had heard in Troy’s voice had flatlined—his disappointment was painful to hear.

  “I believe,” Weston began, “we’ve found enough to call the identity of the final set of remains discovered at the pet cemetery. A few tiny threads of nylon fabric were encased in the concrete tomb with the fourth child.”

  Bobbie spoke up, “I thought there were no traces of clothing found.” He’d just said they believed the children’s clothes were removed before they were entombed.

  “We thought so, too, but in the area where the child’s head would have been there were tiny bits of fabric. My colleague, Dr. Mather, believes this is from a product that would have been composed of cotton and nylon. The cotton, of course, decomposed but the nylon remained.” Weston looked from Bobbie to Troy. “The nylon bits are pink. According to the statements made by the parents when the children went missing the only child wearing anything pink when she disappeared was—”

  “Brianne,” Troy said. “She wore a pink ribbon in her hair.”

  “I have to say it’s not conclusive,” Weston allowed. “We’ll still pursue a DNA comparison, but with this new find and the size of the bones, it’s my opinion the remains are Brianne’s.”

  Troy stood and reached across the desk to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you, Dr. Weston. I’ll let my folks know.”

  Bobbie, too, thanked the coroner as they left his office. Troy didn’t speak until they were outside on the sidewalk. He looked around the street as if searching for something. Bobbie understood. He needed something to kick or someone to scream at. Some way to rid himself of the mounting grief no doubt burgeoning inside him.

  Bobbie reached out to him, put her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry. At least now your family can have some sense of closure.”

  He pulled Bobbie into his arms so fast she lost her breath. Though he never made a sound, she felt the shuddering sobs rocking his body. She allowed him to hold her for as long as he needed. Bobbie closed her eyes and remembered the day she had been told her son was dead. She had survived three weeks of hell—the kind of hell no other victim of the Storyteller had survived—for one reason: to get back to her little boy. Only he was dead, too.

  Sometimes no amount of preparation for the worst and no amount of time was enough.

  Willow Road

  5:52 p.m.

  Bobbie followed Troy’s lead as his mother ushered them inside the house where he’d grown up. Mrs. Durham eyed Bobbie speculatively as if she regretted what she’d shared on her last visit. The woman needn’t worry. Bobbie would never expose her secret.

  Troy’s father muted the evening news as they entered the living room. “Y’all figured out who killed Cortland yet? I just heard about Lucille Bonner.”

  Troy waited for Bobbie and his mother to settle before he took the end of the sofa nearest his father. “We have a number of leads.”

  “Which means you don’t have jack shit.” The older man turned his attention back to the silent screen.

  “We do have an update from the coroner’s office,” Bobbie spoke up, mostly because she wanted to shake Luke Durham. When was he going to stop punishing his son for his own mistake?

  Durham stared first at Bobbie then at Troy.

  “Dr. Weston found a few trace fibers encased in the concrete with the fourth set of remains.” Troy glanced at his mother. “The fibers were pink. We believe—”

  Heather Durham burst into tears, her sobs loud in the room.

  Bobbie reached across the sofa and took her hand. The other woman held tightly to Bobbie.

  “We believe,” Troy repeated, “the remains are Brianne’s.”

  “What about the Potter boy?” his father asked. He tried to look unfazed but Bobbie noticed the tremor in his hands before he tightened his fingers on the arms of his chair.

  Troy shook his head. “We haven’t found his remains yet. I’m sure you’ve heard about what we found in the basement of the Bonner home.”

  His father looked away. “I heard something about it. That woman went a little crazier than she already was when she lost her son. God only knows what she’d been doing.”

  “When can we make final arrangements for our little girl?” Heather struggled to regain her composure.

  “I’ll talk to the chief,” Troy offered. “I don’t see any reason why any of the remains should have to be held any longer. There’s nothing else they can offer us in the way of information. Dr. Weston can keep what he needs for the DNA.”

  Heather nodded and dabbed at her red eyes.

  “I wanted to talk to you again,” Troy began, “about a security detail. Or you could come stay with me for a while.”

  His father focused his attention back on the television screen. “We’re fine right here. I can protect my family.”

  Bobbie felt the tension in the room escalate.

  “You didn’t protect Brianne,” Troy said, anger simmering in his voice.

  Heather started to cry again. Luke shot a scalding look at his son. “That was your job. You’re the one who let her down.”

  Troy stood. “You’re right. I did let my little sister down, but I was a child. You were her father. You’re the one who should have known whatever the hell was going on with Lucille Bonner and her son. You should have known Bill Sanders was not who he appeared to be. You—” he pointed a finger at his father “—let us all down.”

  Bobbie stood and touched his arm. “We should go.”

  “That’s right.” Luke got out of his chair. “You should go. You think you can come in here and upset your mother and then accuse me of not protecting my family.” He shook his head. “Get out. We don’t need anything from you.”

  Heather ran from the room, her sobs echoing through the house.

  “Mr. Durham,” Bobbie urged, “Troy wants to protect you and his mother. Randolph Weller is extremely dangerous. Whatever he’s here to do, he won’t stop until he accomplishes his goal. If you’re keeping anything about what happened—”

  “Don’t come into my home,” he shouted, “and accuse me, Detective.”

  “Sir,” Bobbie put a hand against Troy’s chest to prevent him from interfering, “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to make you see that you and Mrs. Durham could be in grave danger because someone else may believe you know something about what happened all those years ago. Whatever you’re keeping to yourself could seem irrelevant to you, but it may not seem that way to Weller.”

  Durham threw up his hands. “I have nothing else to say.” He turned to Troy. “Go. I need to comfort your mother.”

  Troy hesitated but then he relented. Bobbie followed him to the front door. He paused again but changed his mind. It wasn’t until they were in his SUV and had driven away tha
t he spoke again.

  “For the life of me I can’t understand why he would cover for Bill Sanders or anyone else involved in this.”

  Bobbie had to admit the man’s reactions were off. Way off—even for a man still harboring guilt for an affair all those years ago. There had to be more than what his wife knew.

  “Unless he knows something he only now recognizes would have made a difference.”

  Troy shook his head. “I just hope it doesn’t get him killed.”

  Thirty

  East River Street

  7:05 p.m.

  Nick watched as Amelia Potter locked the door to her shop and reversed the sign from open to closed. The woman stood for a moment and peered out into the darkness as if she felt someone watching her. He couldn’t get an accurate read on her. Her past was uncluttered and unremarkable beyond a few issues in high school before she dropped out.

  She was born in Boston but moved with her family to Atlanta when she was only six. Her high school record showed drug issues and the suggestion of emotional problems. He found no police records or any other kind of history—good or bad—between age sixteen and eighteen. Then, a few months after her eighteenth birthday, she showed up in Savannah, got a driver’s license and cleaned houses for the wealthy. Less than two years later her child was born. There was no record of a marriage or divorce before or since. On her son’s birth certificate the father was listed as Nathan Crowder. Crowder, deceased, had been a local handyman.

  Shortly before becoming a mother, Potter opened The Gentle Palm. The people he had interviewed under the guise of writing a book on Potter claimed she was kind and helpful. During her early years in Savannah she had become close friends with a Camille Balfour who likely funded her business endeavor. Balfour had refused to speak with Nick.

  Had Potter’s son been taken as punishment for her statement about seeing Treat Bonner with the Foster girl? Since she moved to Savannah from Atlanta, was it possible she had known Weller? There was something about her that felt vaguely familiar. Had she been a patient of Weller’s? He’d found no record but that didn’t mean her parents hadn’t taken her to the prestigious psychiatrist.

  Had she sensed his evil way back then? Was that what had sent her fleeing to Savannah?

  Perhaps when Weller came here to evaluate Bonner, he found her again. Had he murdered her son, allowing everyone to believe he simply disappeared along with the others? There was nothing in Weller’s past kills that suggested he ever worked in a team—not until the Steven Devine murders. It wasn’t impossible that Nick as well as the FBI had not discovered all of Weller’s murders.

  The urgency that stirred in his blood warned that he was onto something. The need to talk to Bobbie was nearly overwhelming.

  He pulled his cell from his back pocket and opened to a photo of her. As hard as he’d tried not to, he had grown too close to Bobbie. She had been right about his feeling more than he wanted to admit. Finding and stopping the Storyteller had been his goal when he first saw Bobbie. The only way to find him had been to watch and wait for him to come back for the one victim who got away. Bobbie was that lone survivor. Nick had watched her for months, learning all he could about her. He’d broken into her house and watched the home videos of her and the family the Storyteller had murdered. He’d memorized every part of her, the way she laughed—before her life was devastated—the way she smiled up at her husband...the way she kissed him.

  Nick had wanted her to look at him that way, for her to kiss him and want him. Not once in his adult life had he wanted anything the way he wanted Bobbie. But he could not have the kind of life she and her husband had shared. This was his life. Living in the shadows, tracking the most heinous killers.

  A few hours ago he had watched from a safe distance as she and the Savannah detective exited the coroner’s office. He had hugged Bobbie and Nick had felt the kind of pain he never imagined he would feel again...not since he lost his mother.

  No matter what he felt, he could not give Bobbie what she deserved. A man like Durham could. He could love her.

  Nick could only bring more tragedy to her door.

  He had spent his life avoiding taking a life at all costs. Whatever else he was, he never wanted to be like Weller. Protecting Bobbie had forced him to take a life. The fact that he had savored that moment confirmed his worst fears. He was destined to be like the monster Weller was. Killing was in his DNA, no matter what Bobbie wanted to believe. Every ounce of restraint and focus he could muster would be required to stay on track. Hunting down the depraved killers no one else could find and seeing that the local authorities captured them had to be his singular objective.

  He would not drag her into that life or expect her to wait for him while he was gone for months at a time. She deserved better.

  In time she would forget him.

  Nick pushed those thoughts away for now. He had a job to do.

  The photos from the Bonner crime scene Bobbie had sent him clearly showed Weller’s work. No question. Was Weller tying up loose ends? Had he used Lucille Bonner somehow in the travesty that happened here thirty-two years ago?

  Weller was close. Nick could feel him. The bastard was keeping a low profile. Other than Bonner, someone else appeared to be doing his dirty work.

  But who? Better yet, why?

  It was possible someone else not connected to Weller was involved and responsible for Cortland’s murder as well as those of Bill and Nancy Sanders, but it seemed impossible to separate the murders. The victims were far too closely associated.

  Nick started to fade back into the darkness but the jingle of the bell over the shop door across the street stopped him.

  Amelia Potter stepped onto the sidewalk, the glow of the streetlamp like a halo over her. A white cotton gown flapped against her legs in the cold breeze. She pulled her blue shawl more tightly around her and stared directly at Nick.

  He should have moved, but he did not.

  “Who are you?”

  Her words traveled across the night wind and brushed across his senses. He didn’t answer. He knew if he didn’t she would speak again, and he wanted to hear her voice a second time.

  Her hand went to her chest as if her heart were pounding in fear or anticipation. “What do you want from me?”

  The wind picked up a wisp of her hair and slid it across her face before dropping it back to her trembling shoulder. She was afraid.

  Nick withdrew, stepping into the darkness and away from her too-seeing eyes.

  She’d asked who he was but she knew.

  He was the son of a monster.

  His phone vibrated with a text from Bobbie. She was ready to meet.

  But he wasn’t.

  He couldn’t talk to her tonight. He couldn’t have her near or smell her skin.

  Instead, he returned to the alley near her room and waited. When she appeared, he stayed out of sight and followed her to his building. When she’d given up on finding him, he followed her back to the inn.

  In time she would forget him.

  Thirty-One

  Happy Pets Cemetery

  11:30 p.m.

  Wayne Cotton stared toward the street. Where the hell was Hoyt? He’d demanded this meeting. His text had said it was urgent that they meet tonight.

  After those divide-and-conquer interviews with their wives, both Wayne and Hoyt understood that Troy Durham and that detective from Montgomery were watching them. They couldn’t possibly have any evidence but they were suspicious.

  What better place to meet than this cemetery? The police had finished here already. The crime scene tape had been removed. Wayne glanced toward the clinic and the house where the people he had considered friends had lived. He hoped Bill and Nancy Sanders were burning in hell.

  No matter that thirty-two years had passed, Wayne st
ill felt the pain of losing his youngest son. His mistake had cost his child’s life.

  He would never forgive himself.

  He shuddered as he thought of the way Edward had died. Who the hell would have done such a thing? If Hoyt wasn’t worried that one of them was next, he damned well should be. Which was exactly why Wayne had brought his gun with him. He checked the weapon tucked into his waistband at the small of his back. He was nobody’s fool.

  He gazed across the cemetery to what remained of the broken statues. How had the children ended up here? Had Bill helped Lucille kill those babies because he was fucking her?

  What the hell? No matter that Bill had no children of his own, surely to God the man hadn’t traded the lives of those innocent children for pussy.

  “Piece of shit.”

  Wayne closed his eyes and shook his head. He had no right to judge anyone. If he and the others had left that Bonner retard alone, none of this would have ever happened. God knew he’d made his share of mistakes over the years. His wife had always overlooked his indiscretions. But Shelia could never know what he and the others had done. None of the wives would have forgiven them...

  Though he had forgiven Shelia for her affair with that fucking Irish gigolo. Whore. But then, she’d only fucked him, she hadn’t killed him.

  He closed his eyes and cursed himself. His wife might never have strayed at all if he hadn’t been so busy bedding all those other women. He was the whore.

  Lucille Bonner was his biggest mistake. He’d screwed her every Tuesday afternoon for months back when her husband worked. How else was he supposed to occupy his time before he went off to college? The first thing the crazy bitch had told his daddy when her husband had his accident was that her baby was Wayne’s. His daddy had paid her plenty to keep her mouth shut about that part, but she’d rubbed it in to Wayne every chance she got. He’d lived in fear that one day she would tell the world that her retarded kid was his child. So, yes, he’d taken the first chance that came along to be rid of the bastard.