by Debra Webb
He inhaled deeply, drawing in the sweet scent of her that still lingered. He gritted his teeth and swore silently for allowing himself to come so close.
Twelve years he had stayed vigilant, never getting too close. Never failing in what he set out to do. Emotion was weakness. He knew better than to feel the need to protect or to desire something he could never have. The urge to protect was a distraction from the hunt, and desire was dangerous under any circumstances. As well versed as he was in these cold, hard facts, he could not deny feeling both. When that car had swiped her, his heart had stopped. Taking her into his arms and holding her had shifted something deep in his chest.
He could not have this... He could not be that man.
Not for her. Not for anyone.
Tomorrow he would reset his boundaries.
For now he would search the perimeter of the property and ensure the house was secure. A shower and a couple of hours sleep would go a long way in clearing his head.
Careful not to make a sound, he slipped out the back door. An unhurried walk around the house and the adjoining yards slowly worked the tension from his muscles. He checked on the dog she pretended not to care about despite making sure the animal had food and water. It had only taken a few treats and a gentle stroke now and then to gain the creature’s trust. Nick inhaled deeply of the night air, clearing her scent from his lungs, as he made his way back to the door. The surveillance detail remained in place.
He moved cautiously through the door and closed it without a sound. When the dead bolts were set, he stilled. He sensed her presence before he captured the subtle fragrance of her skin. He turned around slowly. She stood a few yards away, her Glock leveled on his torso.
He raised his hands in surrender. “Did I wake you?”
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, lowering the weapon.
“Perimeter check.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand why you’re still here.”
With that she turned and disappeared down the narrow hall.
He doubted she would like his reason for staying any more than he did.
Fourteen
4:00 a.m.
Gaylon was careful to stay within the posted speed limit, though it proved incredibly difficult. Fury and contempt churned inside him.
The dark-haired man was with his detective.
Whoever this man was, he would die. Bobbie belonged to Gaylon. He would not allow another man to have her—at least not until he was finished with her.
Clearly, his efforts to draw her attention were not sufficient. She was distracted.
Despite his anger and disdain, he was still aroused by what he’d witnessed on the interstate. He hadn’t been able to stop for more than a few seconds as he would have liked to do. Staying with the flow of traffic had been imperative. Still, he’d watched as Bobbie rushed through the traffic to rescue the boy. She had looked so very heroic. So strong and capable in spite of all the things he had done to her. Her limp was scarcely noticeable. What a wondrous recovery.
When she’d handed the boy over to that other cop and rushed forward to look for Gaylon, he’d experienced a moment of panic. He felt immensely grateful to the fool who had suddenly shot out of the line of traffic and rushed away. Admittedly, he had been concerned at first. If Bobbie had been too seriously injured, his plans would have been foiled. But she hadn’t been hurt badly at all.
Rage roiled inside him again as his mind replayed the dark-haired man picking her up and carrying her away. He’d watched as their images had grown smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror. The scene might have been considered romantic by some. Poor Detective Gentry. Had she finally found someone to replace the husband she’d lost?
A sneer pulled at his lips. He would know who this man was. He had taken Bobbie to the hospital. More than two hours later they had exited. She had climbed into his car of her own volition. Gaylon was most displeased with this turn of events. There was no time to revise his plan. He’d waited too long already.
The final scene was near. There could be no rewrites. There was no time!
It was glaringly apparent that Bobbie needed a reminder to stay focused.
First, he needed fuel. He turned into the parking lot of the convenience store to fill the gas tank. He’d been careful not to stop at the same place twice. But this morning he was going to make an exception. He parked at the pumps and noted that neither of the two clerks behind the counter was blond. Safe to go inside, he decided. People rarely remembered a face if they only saw it once. If they saw it twice, the odds of remembering went up considerably.
He reached for the glasses he’d taken from his father’s bedside and tucked them into place. A glance at the rearview mirror and he smiled. The glasses gave him quite the eccentric air. With the track suit and running shoes he could be headed to the gym. He reached into the glove box and removed the envelope of cash he carried with him. His resources were running a bit low. Between his own savings and that of his parents, he had managed quite well. As long as he finished up on schedule, his funds would be adequate for slipping out of the country. He wished he could visit his mother once more but that would have to wait until things cooled off. In time the FBI and others would stop actively searching for him and he would become just another unsolved cold case stored in a cardboard box in some back room where no one bothered to go.
He tucked the envelope back in the glove box. His father hadn’t been very happy about having to withdraw his life savings and turn it over to Gaylon, but he’d been fairly easy to convince. It was one thing for one of God’s warriors to have the world discover his son is a closet serial killer, but entirely another to have his own secrets exposed. Oh yes, Wyman Perry had a few naughty secrets of his own.
Gaylon pushed the memories aside and emerged from the car he’d borrowed. Perhaps later, when he returned to visit his mother, he would castrate his father and send him to hell where he belonged. He’d considered doing so on his last visit, but once the money was in his hand there simply hadn’t been time to do the deed right. He wanted to take his time and watch his father writhe in pain. He wanted to leave his body marked with hideous scars. Inspiration lit inside Gaylon. What a story he would leave on the old bastard’s back.
The bell over the door jingled as Gaylon entered the convenience store. The two women behind the counter looked up and smiled at him. The shorter of the two said, “Good morning. You need gas, sir?”
Gaylon approached the counter and laid two bills there. “I do—” he glanced at her name tag “—Rory. You just keep whatever is left over.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
She was moderately attractive in a rather ordinary way. Her mousy brown hair was neatly styled, and the dark eyes were clear. She might consider losing a little weight.
“Is your coffee fresh?” he asked, turning his attention to the other one, Gayle. She was far older than her coworker. A smart woman would have chosen to go lighter with her hair color as she grew older. As it was the dark brown gave her face an ashen look. Not attractive at all.
He had a friend down in Mobile who would have loved these two. When he was active, he’d preyed on the plain Janes of society. Age had never been relevant as long as they had all the right parts, he would say.
Gaylon’s tastes had been far more refined. He preferred women like his mother. He wished she were still alive. He missed her so.
“Just made the pot,” Gayle announced. “What size do you want and I’ll get it for you.”
He produced a smile. “That would be lovely, Gayle. A medium will be fine. One cream, no sugar. I need my caffeine before hitting the gym.”
The two chatted about the heat and how they needed to work out. Rory brought up the news about the serial killer on the loose. They couldn’t believe such an awful monster was right he
re in their town.
“I’m certain the police will catch him,” Gaylon assured them as he accepted the coffee. “Be safe, ladies.”
With a final smile, he left the store. When he pumped the gas he was careful to leave considerable change for the clerks. Before driving away, he tossed the coffee into the trash can. His mother always said Southern women were the sweetest.
“You’re always right, Mother.”
Fifteen minutes later Gaylon parked next to the house and got out. He’d been gone far longer than he’d intended. Hopefully his guests hadn’t tired of waiting. He unlocked the chain on the front door. Inside was quiet. He turned on the battery-operated lantern he’d purchased when he’d selected his supplies for the big finale he had planned.
With the lantern on the table, its pale glow poured over the woman stretched out on the mattress. This time he’d secured her wrists and ankles with the handcuffs he’d picked up at a spy shop he’d happened upon late yesterday. He hadn’t bothered trying to locate the nylon rope he generally used. The hardware store where he’d stopped first had been out save a meager four feet. He had purchased what little the shop had on hand since it was absolutely essential for the noose and small lead. He’d actually intended to stop at another store, but then he’d gotten excited by the news of Carl Evans’s suicide and forgotten. He’d had to rip apart Nurse Adams’s clothes to restrain her.
A minor glitch. Later, when he’d considered how easy it would be for her to escape, he’d decided to make a game of it. So he’d sat in the darkness and listened to her efforts. Even without the aid of visual stimuli, it had been incredibly arousing, particularly when she touched him, thinking he was another child.
She hadn’t opened her eyes since he returned, but she was awake. Her breathing pattern was far too uneven for sleep. He thought of Bobbie and how she would look stretched out here. He couldn’t wait to marvel over all the scars from their last time together. He couldn’t wait to take her apart.
He stood and moved to the other room to check on the boy. He lay curled into a ball. Duct tape bound his ankles and wrists. He’d had to install eyebolts in the floor for the nurse and the guests he’d be entertaining next. Since there was no bed frame with which to secure his guests, he’d had to devise his own system. It wasn’t the first time the accommodations were somewhat less than suitable for his needs.
As much as he would like to entertain himself again for a while with the lovely nurse, sleep was essential to his ability to react sharply. He spread out the sleeping bag and slid his body inside. He would sleep for a few hours, and then he would check on Bobbie. He would show his nurse the photo he had snapped of the dark-haired man. If he was the same one who had visited Bobbie in the hospital, Gaylon would be concerned.
He couldn’t wait for Bobbie to see what he had planned next. Each remaining step required careful orchestration to achieve the proper, escalating effect. By the time they were together again, sweet Bobbie would be more than ready for the end.
He closed his eyes and thought of her pale skin and dark hair. But it was her eyes that made his heart beat faster. They were the most unusual blue. So very light and pale...so very much like his mother’s.
He burrowed deeper into his sleeping bag. She would be his again soon, and, like all those before her, her story would end with him.
Fifteen
Criminal Investigation Division, 8:52 a.m.
Bobbie waited while Lieutenant Owens finished her call. LeDoux had called Bobbie at seven this morning and told her to meet him in the conference room. The chief had called her next and told her not to set foot outside her house or he would have her taken into custody. Then about fifty minutes ago he’d called back and told her to report to her commander’s office.
Evidently there was a war happening between the chief and the feds. The chief wanted her tucked safely out of trouble’s reach, while the feds wanted her in the middle of the fray. Bobbie wanted to tell them all to stay out of her way. Frustration stiffened her muscles, making her grimace. Her entire body felt like she’d been hit by a truck rather than side bumped by a car. She was sore as hell. The problem, as she saw it, was that until the Storyteller got what he wanted he would continue creating havoc.
Scott Taggart was dead. Gwen Adams and the Taggart child remained missing. Bobbie closed her eyes. Who was going to stop Perry? No one had been able to stop him in thirteen years. They all—including Shade—needed to understand there was only one way to end this.
“Am I keeping you from your beauty rest?”
Bobbie snapped her eyes open and sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was just thinking how I could be a great deal more useful to the investigation if I was out there—” she nodded to the door “—instead of in here.”
Eudora Owens leaned back in her chair and scrutinized Bobbie. She had been the commander of the Major Crimes Bureau for five years. She was a beautiful, sophisticated woman. Not a single hair was ever out of place. She always wore skirts, never trousers. Not once had Bobbie seen her look anything other than elegant and polished. But those lovely features hid a woman who was best described as forged of steel and fire. Bobbie had a great deal of respect for her. A black woman from humble beginnings, Owens had worked hard to make her way through Alabama State University on her own. Her mother had been terminally ill during those years and her father had died when she was a child. Like Bobbie, Owens was an only child, so there had been no siblings to offer support. In her senior year, Owens had been raped and left for dead, but she’d survived. They had the latter in common, as well.
Bobbie wondered if the rape was the reason the lieutenant had never been married. God knew, Bobbie couldn’t imagine ever allowing a man to touch her again, much less sharing her life with one—with anyone for that matter. The memory of Nick Shade grabbing her up and carrying her to the ambulance last night intruded in an attempt to make a liar out of her. She hadn’t wanted him to touch her but she hadn’t exactly been in a position to resist. And then she’d melted into the warmth and strength of his arms.
Not smart, Bobbie.
Thankfully he was gone when she woke up this morning. She couldn’t deny that his help might prove useful, but she didn’t like anyone bulldozing his way into her personal space. The memory of that wall in his motel room nagged her. He appeared to want to stop the Storyteller almost as much as she did. Had one of the victims been related to him or a friend to him? She wasn’t completely sold on the idea of him not having a personal stake in this. He was far too dedicated and wholly absorbed by the case.
Bobbie dragged her attention back to Owens who was reminding her that she was the only roadblock standing between Bobbie and administrative leave.
When Owens paused, Bobbie interjected, “Yes, ma’am, I’m aware that you’re the sole reason I’m even in the building today. I appreciate your support.”
“Take my word for it, Detective,” Owens warned. “I’m not bucking the chief’s edict for the fun of it or even because I think you’re the best detective we’ve got.”
Owens paused to allow that news flash to sink in. Bobbie didn’t take the admonition personally. She knew she was a good detective. One of the best for sure, but Owens never allowed anyone on her team to sport an oversize ego. Frankly, Bobbie felt confident that if her commander were anyone else in MPD, the chief would never have allowed his decision to be swayed. Bobbie suspected there was more to his relationship with Owens than anyone realized. Long ago when her father had still been on the force, the chief had held the position of Major Crimes commander. Maybe that connection was the special bond Bobbie sensed between them.
“I challenged his decision because,” Owens continued, “the crazy bastard who almost killed one of my best detectives is back, and he’s already murdered at least one person. He’s abducted a nurse, and a child is still missing—all on my watch. I can’t have
that, Detective. I won’t have it. No one knows him better than you do. I need you. Those victims need you.”
Bobbie couldn’t agree more. “LeDoux appears to want me on the case.” Though she doubted his motives were as straightforward as the lieutenant’s. Owens wanted the Storyteller stopped to protect the community. LeDoux wanted to be the hero—the fed who finally nailed the serial killer no one else had been able to find.
“I want you focused on Gwen Adams.”
Bobbie couldn’t see where Owens was headed with that statement. “What about the child?” The damaged organ in her chest squeezed painfully. Don’t let another child die.
“Recovering the child will get the most coverage in the media. LeDoux and his team will be all over it. I want you to retrace Adams’s steps. Lean on her boyfriend. With Evans dead, Neely is all we’ve got.”
Made sense. “What do I tell LeDoux?” He’d already called Bobbie’s cell twice.
“Don’t tell him anything. You answer to me, not to him. Grab Newt and roll.”
Bobbie stood. “Yes, ma’am.”
When Bobbie opened the door to exit Owens’s office, shouting had her bracing for trouble.
Newt stood between the short corridor created by the rows of cubicles and the LT’s office, blocking the path of someone Bobbie couldn’t see.
“Ma’am, as soon as Lieutenant Owens is available—”
“I’ve called twice this morning and she still hasn’t called me back.”
Marilyn Taggart. Bobbie walked quickly to where Newt was attempting to persuade the woman to return to the lobby and wait.
“Mrs. Taggart, how can we help you?”
Newt stepped aside, his face a study in worry. Bobbie gave his arm a squeeze.
Taggart shifted her attention to Bobbie. “You!” Her face twisted with anger. “This is your fault.”
“Ma’am, why don’t you come this way, and I’ll see if Lieutenant Owens is available,” Bobbie offered.
