by Debra Webb
Assuming she was still alive. As long as she got those kids out of there little else mattered.
If you get yourself killed, who’s going to get him then?
She hushed the nagging voice as she hustled up the sidewalk. At the end of the block, television cameras and the eagle eyes of reporters would be straining to see what Montgomery’s most damaged detective was doing next. Let them gawk. She didn’t care what they wrote about her.
Shouldering the weight of York, Miller and the rest watching, she opened the front door and slipped into the living room. The interior was as quiet as a tomb. One would never know that half a dozen MPD cruisers, a SWAT van and crisis negotiation vehicle, along with a horde of reporters, were on the street. Not to mention two ambulances prepared to provide medical care if the shit hit the fan.
As she crossed the living room and entered the hall, she called out to the man responsible for all the excitement this sweltering summer morning. “Mr. Evans, it’s Detective Gentry.”
She paused at the door to the first bedroom on the left. Oddly, the man had chosen a bedroom at the front of the house, giving SWAT a reasonably clean view between the slats of the partially open blinds. Had he planned on committing suicide by cop and chickened out at the last minute?
Never take a gun in your hand unless you’ve got the guts to use it. The words of wisdom her father had shared so often after she announced her intent to follow in his career-cop footsteps echoed inside her. If they were all lucky, Evans lacked the courage to use the weapon he’d waved around at his wife. Shielding himself with the children was certainly the act of a coward.
“I’m here to talk, like you asked,” she reminded him when Evans failed to respond. She wiped her sweating palms against her trousers and braced for his move.
The doorknob turned, and Bobbie held very still, her breath stalling just shy of her lungs. The steel of the backup piece strapped to her ankle suddenly felt hot as blazes and far too heavy.
A small face peered up at her from the narrow crack made by the barely open door. Bobbie’s heart fractured as memories of another child she couldn’t bear to think about attempted to intrude. Seeing this little boy’s face sent a jolt of urgency through her. What was this guy doing? How could he risk the lives of his own children?
Like you have room to talk.
“Come in,” Evans called, “and I’ll send the children out.”
The little boy drew the door open wider, and she stepped into the bedroom. She confirmed the four children—three girls and one boy, all still dressed in their pajamas, trembling and red-faced from crying—appeared to be uninjured. Her tension eased marginally. The walls of the room were a soft pink. The twin beds were unmade, cartoon character bedcovers hanging this way and that. Dolls and a plastic tea set littered the floor. In the center of the room, between the two beds, the children stood in that ominous circle around their father. She easily spotted the daughter with the health issue; she was thinner and paler than the others. After numerous rounds of cancer treatments, she’d lost her hair, but it was growing back now and was almost as long as her little brother’s. Poor kid. Evans should be ashamed of himself for putting her through this kind of bullshit.
Booting aside her anger for the moment, Bobbie lifted the sides of her jacket from her torso. “I’m unarmed just like you requested, Mr. Evans.”
The small boy, three or four years old maybe, who’d opened the door stood next to the huddle, staring at Bobbie. She purposely kept her attention away from him. Those memories of another little boy, not much younger, kept whispering through her mind.
Can’t look. Can’t look.
When Evans said nothing, she gently prompted, “It’s time to make good on your promise and let the children go, Mr. Evans.” It would go a long way in turning this crappy day around if the guy stuck by his word. She might even be able to breathe again, and maybe the world would stop expecting her to fail every time the pressure was on.
Ten endless seconds passed before he spoke. “First, close the blinds,” he ordered.
Bobbie walked to the window and did as he asked. Miller would go ballistic and the no-more-negotiations clock would start ticking louder. She hoped like hell Evans understood he was on borrowed time.
“What now?” Careful to keep her hands up, Bobbie readied to tackle Evans. So far she hadn’t spotted his weapon.
“Go outside and wait with your mother,” he said to the children.
The older girl reached for the small boy’s hand and herded the others out the door. When the sound of the front door slamming behind them echoed through the house, Bobbie felt as if an elephant had been lifted off her chest. Sensing the shift in her tension, Evans lifted the .38 clutched in his right hand and aimed it at her.
Take it slow. Get him talking. “How can I help you, Mr. Evans? We all want to see a favorable resolution to this situation. Your wife and children need you.”
Carl Evans was a tall, thin man. He sat cross-legged on the floor in his T-shirt and boxers. His face was pasty from the long hours at the office; his shoulders sagged from slumping over a desk. As if he felt the weight of her assessment, he sank back against the bed behind him. What had taken this forty-three-year-old number cruncher down this ugly path?
He shook his head. “It’s too late for happily-ever-afters, Detective.”
“It’s never too late, Mr.—”
“Just listen,” he cut her off. “I don’t have much time. What I did was...wrong.”
No shit. “Tell me what happened, and maybe I can help.”
“You need to listen!” He jerked at the loud sound of his own voice reverberating in the small room.
Bobbie’s tension cranked up a few more notches. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”
“It was necessary.” He shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t stop to consider how it would end.”
The muzzle of the weapon angled downward as he spoke, his attention shifting inward. All she had to do was keep him talking, and when his aim strayed far enough, she would make a move. Less than four feet separated them. Keep talking, pal.
“I did what I had to do,” he said, his voice resolute even as his hands shook. “I would do it again. Anything to save my little girl.” He fell silent for another moment. “I didn’t think you would be hurt—not really, I mean. I had no idea...”
Bobbie’s attention swung from the muzzle to the man’s face. “Me?”
His lips quivered. “I was desperate. The treatments for my daughter had taken everything. My credit options were maxed out. The house is already triple mortgaged. I couldn’t pay for the new treatments, and my family was going to be homeless.” His head moved from side to side with a weariness and resignation that were palpable. “The insurance company claimed the new treatments—the ones that might save her life—are experimental, so they won’t pay. I would have done anything.” He searched her face as if looking for understanding, his eyes glimmering with emotion. “I had no choice.”
“You love your children. No one can fault you for that, Mr. Evans.” She felt badly for the family, especially for the kid, but the man wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. What did this have to do with her? “What can I do to help?”
He scrubbed his face with his free hand. A sob tore loose from his throat. “I need my family to know it was for them. Tell my wife I checked the life insurance policies. She and the kids will be okay.”
Oh hell. “I’ll make sure they know,” Bobbie promised. “But, Mr. Evans, whatever trouble you’re in, you don’t have to do this. Your family needs you. I can help you.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he steadied his aim at her. Anticipation coiled in her muscles.
“You can’t help me. You are the reason he came looking for me.”
Suddenly there was not enough air in the room. “Who c
ame looking for you, Mr. Evans?”
“He’s coming for you, Detective Gentry.”
A chill as cold as ice settled in her belly. “Who’s coming?”
His gaze, clouded with defeat, locked on hers. “He was right. Your eyes are the palest blue I’ve ever seen.”
A shudder quaked through her before she could grab back control. How could he know that? Her mouth went so dry she could scarcely form the words. “I don’t understand, Mr. Evans.” Her heart rammed harder and harder against her sternum. “Who’re you talking about?”
“He said he has to finish your story.”
The words rocked her with the strength of hurricane-force winds. He couldn’t mean...
“This is the end of my story.” Evans jammed the .38 into his mouth.
Bobbie lunged for the weapon. She needed him alive.
The bullet exploded from its chamber, charging through his skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed the pink-and-white cartoon character comforter and matching sheets.
She dropped to her knees. “Jesus Christ.”
Deep breath. Bobbie shook her head. Torn between desolation and elation. Seven long months she had waited, and finally he was here.
But why like this? Her chest ached with the agony brought against the Evans family.
Why drag anyone else into her private hell? To shock her? Fury hardened her against the softer emotions.
Blood trickled from Evans’s mouth and nose. Poor bastard. Bobbie closed her eyes and tried to banish the image from her retinas.
The front door banging against the wall announced SWAT’s entrance into the house. Bobbie got to her feet. It made her sick that a man had died, leaving behind a wife and children, to serve the whims of the psychopath who had already destroyed too many lives.
She drew in a deep breath as determination roared through her. Now it seemed he was back, and it was her turn to destroy his life. He just didn’t know that part yet. Anticipation joined the determination.
Come and get me, you son of a bitch.
Montgomery Police Department
320 North Ripley Street, 6:45 p.m.
“The chief is ready to see you now.”
Bobbie stood. She’d flipped through every magazine in the lobby during her twenty-seven-minute wait. Apparently Chief of Police Theodore Peterson wasn’t concerned that she had other things to do, like hound the lab to see if they had gleaned anything from Evans’s computer. Or maybe conduct the interview with the one unavailable colleague who would be returning from business in Birmingham in about half an hour.
“Thank you, Stella.” Bobbie flashed a smile and headed for the door to the top cop’s inner sanctum.
Her time was being wasted because the SWAT commander had tattled on her for making him look bad. Arrogant bastard. Miller had probably blown the whole incident out of proportion. She had Miller’s number. He didn’t like having women—especially a younger woman—order him around. If her partner had been the one going into that house, no one would have said a word. Some things never changed.
“Bobbie!” The chief tossed a report aside as she walked in. “Close the door and have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” She did as he asked, settling in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. She worked hard to appear relaxed, but inside about a half a dozen emotions were battling for her attention. The Storyteller had sent her a message. He was back. Finally. For months she had worried that he’d slipped beyond her grasp. The idea of him escaping was unbearable. She could not allow that to happen.
“We need to talk.”
Bobbie snapped her attention back to the chief. Theodore Peterson was a towering hulk of a man. He’d been a lineman for the Crimson Tide with her father under Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. Forty years later, he’d lightened his playing physique by a few pounds and his hair had gone from blond to gray. Still, Theodore—Teddy to his family and closest friends—was an intimidating figure and a genuinely handsome man. As chief of police he was respected by friends and enemies alike. Even those who disagreed with him couldn’t argue with his outstanding record of keeping the citizens of Montgomery safe and happy at the same time. Not an easy feat.
He removed his reading glasses and studied her for a moment. Tension trickled through Bobbie. She had known this man her whole life. The deep frown lines he wore told her he was far from pleased at the moment.
“I’m having trouble with this one, Bobbie.”
“I’m not following, Chief.” Don’t let him see what he can’t possibly know. Other than relaying the message to his wife, she hadn’t told anyone what Evans said to her. The Storyteller’s message was meant for her alone.
“According to your statement, Mr. Evans asked you to convey his regrets to his family.”
“Yes, sir. He did.”
“Had you and Mr. Evans met before?”
Bobbie shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I did speak with his wife when I first arrived on the scene. She probably mentioned my name, which would explain why he asked for me.”
The chief grunted a noncommittal response. Dread started a slow churn in her belly.
“Clearly Mr. Evans suffered some sort of breakdown,” she added for good measure.
“Clearly,” the chief agreed. He picked up the paper he’d moments ago put aside. “Based on this report from the lab, I have reason to believe any detective on the scene would have had to round you up for Mr. Evans.”
Well damn. She’d been pacing the floor waiting for news from the lab. She’d hoped to see it before anyone else for exactly the reason the chief no doubt now understood. Carl Evans’s actions hadn’t been any more random than his request for her presence had been. “Is that the report on Mr. Evans’s computer?”
The chief nodded. “Evans’s first cousin is a nurse. You might remember her, Gwen Adams?”
Surprise registered before Bobbie could suppress the reaction. “Of course I remember her.” Frustration threatened to resurrect the headache she’d suffered earlier. Or maybe it was just hearing the name. Gwen Adams was the private nurse who had taken care of Bobbie all those months as she recovered. What did Gwen have to do with any of this? Bobbie hadn’t seen her in four or five weeks, not since the day before the orthopedist signed off on her release to return to work. “Has she been interviewed?”
“We’re trying to locate her now. She’s not answering her cell or home phone. Since she didn’t show up for her shift at the hospital today, we’ve issued a BOLO.”
A new thread of tension wove its way through Bobbie. Choosing her words carefully, she shrugged as if she didn’t see how Gwen’s absence and Evans’s suicide connected. Frankly, she didn’t...yet. “How is she involved? Is she helping with the little girl who has leukemia?” Valid questions.
“According to Evans’s wife, Adams has been immensely helpful during their daughter’s illness.” He waved the paper. “But that doesn’t explain the troubling aspect of this report.”
Bobbie consciously relaxed her shoulders once more, and then her facial muscles. Whatever Forensics found on that computer, her only reactions could be surprise and disbelief. She hoped the chief was about to give her something she could use rather than more questions. Deep inside a new fear trickled its way into her bones. Don’t let Gwen be in trouble.
“Evans’s most recent internet search history showed he had been reading everything he could find on you, Bobbie.”
Bobbie pretended to mull over the news, and then she turned her hands up in a so-what gesture. “Who hasn’t? I’ve been the local freak show for a while now. Returning to the job put my name back in the news. Gwen probably mentioned me.”
“Your medical records—specifically the ones from this year,” the chief went on, his tone reflecting his unhappiness with her indifferent attitude, “were on his computer. We believe those records
were provided to him by Adams.”
Damn. Bobbie blinked and hummed a sound she hoped suggested confusion rather than the slow, icy climb of uncertainty up her backbone. “Maybe Evans intended to sell info about me to some reporter or one of those publishers who’s been pestering me about a book deal.” She lifted one shoulder in a stilted attempt at a shrug. “I can’t see Gwen being involved in something like that.”
The chief nodded. “Those were my first thoughts, considering around the same time he transferred the files to one of those personal cloud storage services, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit was made into his bank account.”
Bobbie gave another wooden shrug. “Well, there you have it. The man had a sick child, and he needed money. Is there any way to tell who bought the files?”
Her blood pounded in her ears. It was him! Any doubts she had were gone now. One way or another she would make him pay for what he had done to her...for all the lives he had destroyed. She would not rest until he was dead.
Again the chief studied her for several seconds before responding. “Mrs. Evans mentioned something her husband said this morning that we believe sheds a little light on the other party involved—the buyer.”
Anna Evans had been too devastated at the scene to give a statement. Whatever the chief had learned, he couldn’t possibly know what Evans said to Bobbie before blowing his brains out.
“Before getting up this morning Evans tossed and turned, according to his wife. He kept muttering the same phrase over and over. He wants to finish her story.”
Bobbie flinched. Damn it. She clenched her jaw against the anticipation, fury and determination twisting inside her. Do not let him see.
“That’s it?” the chief demanded, making no attempt to hide his outrage. “No shock? No anger or fear? Just a little tic?”
“The whole country was privy to what happened to me,” she fired back. “Carl Evans as well as everyone else in Montgomery had it shoved down their throats day in and day out for months.” Deep breath, Bobbie. One by one she quieted the emotions pressing against her chest. And then, more calmly, she added, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
