No Darker Place--A Thriller

by Debra Webb

  The garage smelled the same. A little like gas and oil from the lawn mower. The blank space on the top storage shelf where the Christmas ornaments usually sat was dusty now. The decorations and the tree were still right where they were the day her life ended. She inserted the key that still hung on her key ring into the lock and gave it a turn. Shoving the keys into her back pocket, she opened the door slowly and eased into the laundry room.

  Unable to help herself, she closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of home. The fluttering in her chest made her tremble.

  Without turning on a light, she slipped into the kitchen. After Jamie was born, she and James had installed night-lights in every room. No more stumbling over furniture and toys, he had insisted after taking a tumble while going for a middle-of-the-night bottle. Images from that last night he’d been in this kitchen flashed one after the other in her head. Her husband lying on cold white tile, deep crimson pooling around him. His beautiful gray eyes open and unseeing.

  Don’t look back, Bobbie.

  Tonight the house was silent. Outside in the distance the wail of sirens reverberated. Her senses on alert, Bobbie moved through the kitchen and into the long center hall. The memory of pushing Jamie out the front door and her head snapping back as the Storyteller grabbed her by the hair arced through her brain.

  Pounding on the door made her jump.

  “Detective Gentry, are you in there?”

  One of the uniforms from her detail. She flipped on the overhead light and squinted at the brightness. Surveying the hall she moved backward toward the door. Long dead pine swags scented the air. Red, green and silver ornaments filled a large glass bowl on the table next to the door.

  Bobbie unlocked the door and allowed the uniforms inside. “No one moves past this point until I say so,” she ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” echoed in unison.

  She made her way to the living room—the last place where she sat cuddled with her precious son. They’d been watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. James had been in the kitchen baking cookies for Santa.

  The artificial tree they’d decorated that very morning still stood before the towering palladium window at the front of the room. Giggles and happy chatter echoed through her mind. Those hours were the last that felt real to her. Everything since was like functioning on autopilot and just cruising through time.

  The gifts sat unopened under the tree. Her breath caught beneath her breastbone. All these months later and she still couldn’t bear the idea of opening the ones from her husband and baby. She simply couldn’t. If she left everything exactly as it was maybe she would wake up from this pretend life—this nightmare—and find her family here, smiling and happy and waiting for her.

  “They’re here, ma’am.”

  The officer’s voice dragged Bobbie from the painful memories. She was out of time.

  With a last look at the Christmas tree, she returned to the entry hall. “I’ll take a look upstairs. Tell them to stay down here until I give the go-ahead.”

  Bobbie climbed the staircase, memories of the first time she and James had opened the front door flooding her senses. He had carried her across the threshold and later that night he’d carried her up the stairs after hours of lovemaking on the bare living room floor.

  The doors along the upstairs hall were closed, the way she’d left them, except one. There were four. Three bedrooms and a hall bath. The first on her left was the bathroom. She approached the one on the right. Jamie’s room. The one door that remained open. Jamie never liked his door closed.

  Downstairs raised voices sounded. The deep insistent chords of Shade’s voice clashed against the more uncertain tone of one of the uniforms. Ignoring the ruckus, Bobbie reached for the switch and bright light flooded her baby’s room. The blue race-car bed and the dresser James had painted to match, even adding racing stripes, made her heart ache. Jamie’s Legos and cars were scattered around the floor where he’d left them. His favorite stuffed animals—a fox, a bear and an elephant—waited on the bed. The bear was almost worn-out, one eye missing...

  Bobbie trembled as she leaned down to visually examine the one thing that didn’t belong. The note left on the pillow. Broad red strokes of what looked far too much like blood spelled out the words.

  You can’t save them.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and fought the burn of tears.

  Footfalls echoed on the staircase. Bobbie dragged in a breath and scrubbed back the damned tears. She cursed herself and faced whoever was about to appear at the door of her son’s room. Shade.

  “We need to close down the area and look for the boy.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about but the urgency in his voice, on his face had her moving toward him. “You think the child is still here?” Bobbie surveyed the room once more. It was possible the little boy could be hidden somewhere in the house. Her pulse shifted into a faster rhythm. Would they be lucky enough to have the second child delivered unharmed?

  “We rescued a child in traffic last night,” Shade reminded her. “You got a call from a child—from this house. He may be hoping to reenact what happened that night. He wants to cause you pain, Bobbie.”

  Understanding hurtled into her. She rushed out the door and down the stairs.

  “Shut down the neighborhood. No one comes in or leaves until we check all the driveways, garages, beneath cars—anywhere a child might be in danger of being run over.”

  The way Jamie had been...the night she pushed him out the door to what she hoped would be safety.

  Shade caught up with her on the sidewalk. “If his goal is to make you live through that horror again, that means he’s close by. Watching.”

  Bobbie surveyed the street she had loved so very much before... Fury roared through her. Come on, you bastard, show yourself.

  * * *

  They searched every house, garage and parked car in the neighborhood. No one had seen Perry or the Black Altima he drove. And the boy was not here.

  Bobbie wanted to scream in frustrated agony. She wanted to turn this whole county upside down, but they didn’t have the manpower or the time for that kind of manhunt.

  Reporters waited outside the entrance to the subdivision. She could feel their zoom lens following her every step.

  Where the hell was Shade?

  He’d disappeared again. She’d noticed that he kept his back to others, particularly reporters, as often as possible. Was he worried about his face ending up in the news? Could he possibly have a criminal record under another name? Hell, he could be a fugitive for all she knew. Doubtful, she amended. The authorities were aware of him. Newt’s friend at the bureau had confessed as much.

  She walked back to the house she had once called home and went around to the side the reporters couldn’t invade from their position. Leaning against the brick wall she closed her eyes and reached for some semblance of professional focus. Where would he take the child? Was he keeping him in the same place he was keeping Gwen? God, Bobbie hoped not. No child should see what she knew firsthand Gwen was going through.

  Bobbie had never been much for church, not as an adult anyway. Her mother had insisted they go every single Sunday without fail. After her mother died, Bobbie and her dad hadn’t felt compelled to attend Sunday services any more. They had found special ways to spend their Sundays together. After all, if God had abandoned them, why wouldn’t they abandon him?

  Made perfect sense to a twelve-year-old.

  Bobbie squeezed her eyes shut a little tighter and did that thing she hadn’t done in about twenty years.

  She prayed little Aaron Taggart would be returned safe and sound to his mother. She prayed Gwen would come through this alive, as well. And she prayed for the strength and courage to do what needed to be done. She opened her eyes and pushed away from the house.

  She
would find the Storyteller and she would kill him.

  10:50 p.m.

  A full half hour later Bobbie climbed into the back of a cruiser and closed her eyes as the two uniforms who’d followed her to the Ryan Ridge house drove her home. Shade had taken her car, damn him. Not that she actually cared, but she’d intended to drive around for a while.

  Don’t kid yourself, Bobbie. The Storyteller is long gone by now.

  And so was Aaron. Agony swelled in her chest and she fought the urge to cry. Not here. Not now. The bastard would never spare Gwen and the boy’s lives. He’d likely meant for Joey to be killed on the interstate.

  Bobbie hugged her arms around herself and stared out at the passing lights. This would end soon. The Storyteller wouldn’t keep pressing his luck. The FBI’s current profile indicated he expected to survive and move on after he finished here.

  Not if I can help it.

  The cruiser slowed and made the turn onto Gardendale Drive.

  “Looks like your friend is here,” one of the officers said, interrupting the long span of silence.

  Bobbie sat up just as the cruiser’s headlights flashed over her Challenger. Shade leaned against the hood. Her heart reacted. Why in the world it suddenly mattered to her that he was here waiting for her made no sense at all. Just another indication of how total exhaustion messed with a person’s head.

  She climbed out of the cruiser.

  “We’ll be out here if you need us, Detective.”

  She thanked them as she closed the door, or she thought she did. Hoped she did. Her attention had landed on Shade and stayed there. Some part of her needed to hear him say he’d left before her because he’d spotted the Storyteller. She wanted desperately to hear him say he’d found him and it was all over.

  Bobbie stopped three or so feet away from him. Not once in all these months had she wanted to hear that someone else had captured or killed the Storyteller. She wanted it to be her. She wanted to take his life the way he had taken hers. Except she was so tired, so very, very tired. For the first time she wanted it to be over.

  As if he read line and verse on her face, Shade said, “I didn’t find him.”

  Those four little words crushed her. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she swayed on her feet.

  He reached for her, and she held up her hands. “Don’t.” She shook her head. “Don’t touch me.”

  He glanced at the street. “Let’s go inside.”

  His soft words made her angry. Anger gave her strength. She stormed to her door and went inside. It was unlocked; he’d obviously already checked to see that the house was clear. She went straight to the bathroom and tore off her jacket. It hit the floor. One by one she tossed her weapons on the counter, her gaze glued to the tormented face in the mirror.

  She was no closer to stopping the son of a bitch than she had been more than eighty-some-odd hours ago when Carl Evans blew his brains out. The Storyteller was playing with her, and she was helpless to stop him. The entire department and the illustrious team from the FBI were helpless...just like before. The damned blouse hit the floor next. She flattened her palms against the cool counter and closed her eyes.

  You failed then and you’re going to fail this time, Bobbie.

  A sob rose in her throat. How had she ever expected to do this? She should have known that Perry would use her desperate need to get him against her. He’d taken Gwen and those babies. He’d killed the Taggart boy’s father. All on her watch...all with her waiting, wishing he would come for her. But no! He wanted to punish her some more first.

  The tears she struggled to hold back spilled past her lashes. Goddamn it! She sucked in a breath and scrubbed them away. In the mirror she saw Shade watching her from the doorway. She hadn’t even shut the fucking door. She closed her eyes and swore again. “Enjoying the show?”

  He moved behind her, and she grimaced. With her blouse on the floor he would see the scars and the words the bastard had inscribed on her back.

  When she would have told him to go away, he stepped over her clothes and knelt next to the tub. He turned on the tap and adjusted the water temperature. Before she could summon a rant, he was standing behind her again. Somehow she mustered enough dignity to say, “This is one thing I can handle myself.”

  His dark eyes searched hers for a moment. Despite her best efforts, her lips trembled. Before she could launch another protest, he reached beyond her and turned off the light. His hands landed on her waist, and she gasped. Bobbie opened her mouth to argue, but his fingers slipping beneath the back of her bra stole the words. He released the clasps and slid the plain cotton garment down and off.

  Trembling, she moistened her lips. “What’re you—”

  “Shh...”

  The sound hummed against her cheek. She wanted to make him stop but she couldn’t summon the wherewithal to manage the feat. He slipped her belt free and let it fall to the floor. He knelt and removed her shoes and socks. When he reached up to draw her trousers down her hips, she clutched at the counter and dragged in a deep breath of the steam-filled air. His fingers traced back up her legs, lingering on the scars before slipping into her waistband and tugging her panties down next. A distant ache began deep inside her.

  He pushed to his feet, and she held her breath, uncertain what would happen next. Part of her wanted to demand he stop, the other desperate part wanted him to do anything to make her forget for just a little while. In the darkness he wouldn’t be able to see the real her and she could pretend for just a little bit that she wasn’t the broken Bobbie anymore.

  He scooped her up into his arms and held her against his chest. She savored the smell of his skin. Before she lost all sense and dove her fingers into his hair, he settled her into the tub. Warm water splashed around her, over the side. He shut off the faucet and the silence closed in. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. What was she doing naked and alone in the dark with this man? A man she didn’t even really know? Maybe she had lost her mind. All this time she’d been so certain she knew exactly what she was doing—what she had to do.

  Now she wasn’t sure of anything.

  His hands plunged into the water and sought her body. He guided her deeper into the water and washed her hair, the feel of his fingers on her scalp chased away all other thought. Then those long-fingered hands moved to her body, slowly, gently gliding the soap over her skin. Her shoulders, arms and torso and then her legs. He placed the soap in her fingers and used her hand to wash the most intimate part of her.

  The water was cooling by the time he helped her from the tub and dried her body. He rubbed and squeezed her hair with the towel until it was nearly completely dry. Then he took her in his arms and carried her through the darkness to her bedroom. He drew back the covers and tucked her in.

  “Sleep,” he murmured against her forehead.

  Then he was gone.

  The woman she had been certain had died in that shack all those months ago roused, and for the first time in 248 days Bobbie felt something besides pain.

  Eighteen

  Renaissance Hotel, Montgomery, 11:45 p.m.

  “No, that’s not acceptable.” Tony LeDoux stared at the pale circle on his finger where his wedding band had once been. Five years. The woman he had loved—still loved—was willing to throw it all away over a few snags.

  He heaved a heavy breath. “If you keep the house in DC, I get the cabin in Virginia. That’s my final offer, Giselle. If that’s not acceptable to you, then we’ll let a judge figure it out.” He ended the call and tossed his phone on the bed. He tunneled his fingers through his hair and wished for a drink.

  His drinking was another of the issues she claimed had ruined their marriage. He rolled his eyes and plopped down on the foot of the bed. When a guy worked the kind of cases he did, he needed a stiff drink when he got home. What kind of wife didn’t understa
nd that?

  His soon-to-be ex-wife, apparently.

  He thought of Bobbie Gentry and the bullshit game the Storyteller had put her through tonight. The bastard had murdered her husband, caused her kid to be killed and almost killed her. Now, seven months later he tortures her with other kids he abducted. Amazingly Giselle couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to have kids?

  Any man in his right mind would feel the same way after seeing the things he had seen. God, he’d seen children cut into pieces and mailed to a parent. He’d uncovered remains of children brutally beaten to death—as often as not by their own parents. Every day children were burned, stuffed into garbage containers and thrown into rivers like an unwanted litter of kittens. How in the hell could he work up the courage to participate in the act of bringing a child into this world? He’d seen too many taken out by the worst kind of killers.

  He loosened his tie. The search in Bobbie’s neighborhood had given them nothing. The Taggart boy hadn’t been found. Chances were he had never been in Gentry’s house. Perry may have recorded the kid’s cries and played them from the house phone. Whether or not the kid was there, Perry had been there. He was torturing Gentry and relishing every move made by her and every law enforcement officer involved.

  Watching the devastation sucked. Tony had been on the Storyteller case for six long years. Until November last year they’d had nothing but thirteen bodies—a female victim taken from one state and her body dropped in another for each year the Storyteller had been active with that MO. Then on the third day of December a second body in the same year had been deposited at a drop site. Twenty-one days later Bobbie Gentry had gone missing.

  They hadn’t known until she escaped in late January of this year who the Storyteller was. Based on Gentry’s observations of the bastard’s methodology and his own scars, much of their original profile had been confirmed. A lot more had been revised. Bottom line, he was still out there. It had taken Tony and his team months to piece together his killing history and to understand that his mother’s death had apparently sent him over the edge.