by Debra Webb
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but right now she couldn’t think clearly. Evidently Shade was an alias. “Anything else?”
“Oh yeah. Sure. I thought I’d heard the name before so I checked it out. Nicholas Weller is the son of Randolph Weller, the most...”
His words faded into the background. She didn’t need Andy to tell her who Randolph Weller was—one of the most notorious serial killers on the planet. She understood what this news meant; she simply couldn’t react. The damaged heart she had thought no longer capable of feelings was broken.
“Thanks, Andy. Keep this between the two of us, okay?”
“Sure thing. You know I’m always happy to help you out, Bobbie.”
She ended the call and tossed the phone aside. Nick Shade was Randolph Weller’s son. Jesus Christ. Weller had killed his wife—Shade’s mother. What kind of sick shit had he seen in his life? Bobbie felt ill. No wonder he’d decided to hunt serial killers. The urge to call Newt and tell him was followed by profound sorrow.
Newt was dead.
A sob wrenched from her throat. Bobbie steeled herself. Her partner...the man she loved like a father was dead. Fury lit inside her. She was going to kill Gaylon Perry.
Today.
* * *
Bobbie drove straight to her house on Gardendale. Her cell vibrated again and again. She didn’t have to look to know it would be the chief or Owens or somebody else from her team. She couldn’t talk to anyone right now. She couldn’t talk about Newt.
Her objective at the moment was to get rid of her surveillance detail. ASAP. If Shade heard the news he would be trying to find her, too. She had to stay focused and she had to make this happen fast.
For that, she needed help.
She climbed out of her car and went inside. The surveillance detail would inform the chief of her whereabouts, so she didn’t have much time. She did the usual check and quickly stripped off her suit and work shoes. In record time she pulled on jeans, a tee and her running shoes. She tucked her small Taser into her bra, the knife and sheath she secured to the inside of her left shin. Her Glock she settled in her waistband at the small of her back. Her ankle holster was already in place above her right sneaker.
Once she was back in her car, she drove to the end of the street and pulled over at the curb in front of Javier’s place. The usual gang—his bodyguards—was on the porch. She climbed the steps and looked to the guy who generally did the talking.
“I need to see Javier.”
The door opened and the man himself jerked his head for her to follow him inside.
She closed the door behind her. “I’m ready for that help you promised me.”
Javier turned to face her. “I heard about your partner, mami.”
The whirlwind of emotions that pressed against her breastbone was nearly too much to bear. “Will you help me?”
He braced his hands against the door on either side of her and leaned in close. “Whatever you need, if it’s within my power, I will help you.”
Bobbie blinked back a wave of tears. “I’ll drive back to my house and go inside. After a few minutes, I’ll go out the back and come here.” First she would call the chief and assure him she was at home and that she needed some space to deal with what happened. She would give him something to explain her message to Perry and once he was satisfied, she would move. He had far too much on his plate right now to give her any trouble. “My surveillance detail can’t follow me where I’m going. I want them to believe I’m in my house. Can you take me where I need to go?”
He smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
“No bullshit, Javier.”
He held his hands up. “You got it, mami.”
Bobbie drew in a much-needed breath. “Thank you.”
Before she was out the door, his voice stopped her.
“Then you will owe me, mami.”
Bobbie hustled across the porch and down the steps. As she climbed into her Challenger, she figured that Javier would have a hell of a time collecting on her debt.
There was a good chance she’d be dead before tomorrow.
Thirty-Two
The bleeding wouldn’t stop.
Gaylon screamed and banged on the steering wheel with his fists.
He’d driven past several urgent cares, but he didn’t dare stop at any of them. They were required to report gunshot wounds. Then he’d remembered he had a nurse at his disposal, so he’d put on the jacket his father had left in his mother’s car last winter and he’d gone into a chain pharmacy for supplies. The clerk kept looking at his hands but he’d washed them with a bottle of water before going in. The way his hands shook must have made her uncomfortable. Or maybe she’d recognized him. Women were such fucking pathetic excuses for human beings.
Since no blue lights had shown up in his rearview mirror, he decided the worthless clerk had not recognized him.
Careful of his speed, he gritted his teeth against the pain as he drove. He kept the radio on the local news channel that had announced the cop’s death. The idea of how his death had injured Bobbie almost made getting shot worth it. Just when he’d thought his new plan to lure Bobbie had failed, he heard her voice on the radio.
Tell him I’m waiting for him. He knows the place. I’m ready to finish this now.
Indeed he knew the place. As soon as his wound was taken care of, he would go to her. His heart beat faster. He could hardly wait.
It felt like hours rather than minutes before he reached the house. He gathered the supplies he had purchased and hurried to the door. His fingers fumbled with the key and the locks. His side throbbed with pain. He could feel the blood oozing down his skin.
What if he died?
He shook his head as the lock released. He wasn’t going to die. Everything was finally falling into place. He opened the door just a crack to ensure his guests remained as he’d left them. A smile tugged at his lips. All was as it should be. He was quite relieved to be rid of the children. He hated the little beasts. As they grew up they only became worse. So many times he had sat in his classroom and imagined cutting off the various limbs and heads of his students. He’d considered how exciting it would be to rape their torsos as blood gushed from the fresh wounds. Particularly the tall female ones with their beautiful long, dark hair.
LeDoux’s eyes were closed. Gaylon kicked him in the side. He made a grunting sound but his eyes never opened. Perhaps he had dosed him too heavily. He would need to be sure LeDoux was fully awake later for the big finale.
It was coming very soon.
The pain in his side reminded him what needed to happen next.
He dropped the bag of supplies on the floor next to Gwen. She jerked, her eyes wide with new terror.
After peeling off his father’s coat and tossing it aside, he knelt next to her. “I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth and then I’m going to release your hands. If you try to get away—” he held up the knife he kept handy at all times “—you will regret it in ways you cannot even imagine. Are we clear?”
She nodded her understanding.
“Very well.” He removed the tape from her mouth.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, her voice rusty.
“I need you to attend to my injury.” He removed the items from the bag and set them on the floor. Alcohol, sterile pads, tweezers, large sewing needles and nylon thread that were not designed for human flesh but it was the best he could do. Antibacterial ointment, gauze and tape.
He released the cuffs around her wrists. She rubbed at the red, damaged flesh and winced. She pushed up to a sitting position, and then he held still while she inspected the wound. The bullet had gone in on the front right side of his torso. His memory of anatomy eluded him at the moment, but based on the fact that he was still functioning, he fel
t sure no vital organs had been damaged. Still, it was imperative the injury was attended to promptly.
He poured alcohol on a couple of sterile pads. “Clean your hands.”
When she had done so, he showed her the knife again. “Remember to behave.”
She nodded, the lead from the noose around her neck sliding up and down between her breasts, and quickly picked through the items he’d purchased. Blood trickled from the wound even as she reached with shaky hands for gauze to staunch it. “I’ll need to use alcohol to clean the wound. Can you tolerate the pain? Maybe you need something to take the edge off.”
He grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. “Do not patronize me, whore!” He squeezed tighter just to watch her eyes bulge.
When she’d gagged and snorted for about five seconds he released her.
“Now.” He took a breath. “Shall we begin again?”
She nodded quickly and set to the task.
He had to give her credit; once she’d started, her hands steadied and she worked quickly. He locked his jaw against the pain and thought of more pleasant times.
His mind took him back to that summer in France with his friend Kevin. He had fucked and fucked and fucked. It was that summer he’d found something far more amazing and mind-blowing than mere sex. Feeling a woman die with his fully erect penis deep inside her was the most incredible sensation. Her body relaxed so completely, he could go deeper. Nothing touched the climax of murder. Nothing.
Too bad his old friend hadn’t shared Gaylon’s feelings. He’d sworn he would never tell. Ironically, Gaylon was fairly certain he never had. Still, why take the risk? A couple of years later, he’d looked his old friend up and removed the variable. He doubted anyone would ever find his body in the bottom of that old well on his father’s farm.
Oh yes, there was nothing like the thrill of watching life slip away.
He could not wait to empty himself inside Bobbie Gentry as she lay dying.
Thirty-Three
11:00 a.m.
Bobbie wasn’t answering her cell.
Nick was worried. He’d heard on the radio about her partner’s death. He had to find her. Her emotions were already fragile. Newt’s death would be the last straw.
He should have stayed close to her, but he’d needed to keep searching for Perry.
Frustration tightened his lips. He was here for Perry after all...not for Bobbie. This was exactly why he never allowed himself to become involved with the players in a case. His sole mission was to stop the serial killer.
“Damn it!”
He tried her cell again. This time it went straight to voice mail.
Speeding up, he made the turn onto Gardendale and drove to her house. According to his tracker, she was at home. Sure enough, her Challenger was in the driveway and her surveillance detail was on the street. He parked at the curb and climbed out of his vehicle. He waved to the detail before striding up to her door. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again.
A new worry crawled up his spine. He dismissed it. There was no way Bobbie would hurt herself. She wanted Gaylon Perry dead. The only way she was leaving this earth before she accomplished that goal was if someone killed her.
As he returned to his car, one of the uniforms called out to him. “Detective Gentry’s partner died a little while ago. She’s pretty upset. She might not be up to having company right now.”
Nick shook his head. “I heard the news. It’s a damn shame. I’ll just check on her later.”
“Yeah, she was a mess at the hospital,” the driver went on.
Impatience pounding in his veins, Nick listened as the two told him how she’d thrown down the gauntlet to all those reporters outside the hospital. Dread hardened in Nick’s gut as he walked toward his car.
What the hell have you done, Bobbie?
He drove around the block to the street behind her house. He parked and hustled through the rear yards until he reached the back of her house. He knocked on the back door. Still no answer. More of that foul-tasting worry churned in his gut. He tried the knob. The door opened. He eased into the dark house.
Adrenaline zinged along his nerve endings. Had Perry already taken her? How had he slipped past her detail?
Most likely the same way you just did.
Inside was deathly quiet. He flipped on lights as he went through the house. In her bedroom, her discarded suit of the day—the one she’d been wearing when she headed to the hospital—lay on the floor. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The weapons she carried when running were missing. Her running shoes were gone, as well. If she’d gone for a run the detail would be following her.
Whatever means of transportation she’d used, it was clear Bobbie had left of her own volition and purposely given her detail the slip by exiting the back way.
He returned to his car and started the engine. For about two seconds he considered driving back around and giving the uniforms a heads-up, but then he changed his mind. The last thing he needed was to be detained by the cops. He would check the taxi companies. She could have crossed the property behind her and taken a cab from there.
“Where the hell are you, Bobbie?”
You know the answer.
The news resonated from the radio and he turned up the volume. Maybe something else had happened. Why hadn’t she called him? According to the broadcast, the manhunt for Perry had expanded. A cop was dead; of course it had.
The voice on the radio droned on about the loss of one of the city’s finest. “It’s a real shame,” another voice said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m still reeling from the message Detective Bobbie Gentry sent to the Storyteller.”
A horn blew and Nick swerved back to his side of the middle lane. He struggled to keep his attention on the road as he listened to the report.
“I don’t think there’s any mystery what Detective Gentry has on her mind,” the first voice said. “Let’s play that one more time. If one of MPD’s finest wants the word out, we should give her a hand making it happen.”
Nick’s blood ran cold as he waited for the playback.
“Tell him I’m waiting for him,” Bobbie’s voice, listless and heavy with grief, filled the car. “He knows the place. I’m ready to finish this now.”
“Son of a...” Nick slammed on his brakes and executed a U-turn; then he hit the gas hard. He understood exactly what she was doing and where she was going. He wished he knew how long it had been since she’d made that statement.
He could be too late.
When he reached the intersection at Fairground Road blue lights blinked in his rearview mirror.
He scrubbed a hand across his face and considered attempting to outmaneuver the vehicle. Before he could put the thought into action an MPD cruiser skidded to a stop in either direction on Fairground Road. A big black SUV moved around the cruiser in the northbound lane and pulled over next to him.
The rear passenger-side door opened and Agent Hadden emerged. The front window on that same side powered down and Agent Mason flashed him a tight smile. “We need a few minutes of your time, Mr. Shade. Why don’t you join us? We’ll have someone take care of your vehicle.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Hadden ordered.
Nick shut off the engine and got out of his car, his hands visible as the agent requested. He got into the SUV. Hadden climbed in beside him.
“Relax, Mr. Shade,” Mason said with a glance in the rearview mirror. “We just have a few questions for you.”
Montgomery Police Department, 11:45 a.m.
Nick had expected to be taken to an interview room but that hadn’t happened. Mason had brought him to the chief of police’s office and then Mason had disappeared. Nick had been sitting here alone for a good ten minutes.
The door behind him opened. He glanced over h
is shoulder to see Chief Peterson and Agent Mason. Peterson closed the door and took his seat behind his desk. Mason took the chair next to Nick.
“Mr. Shade, you’ve been spending a lot of time with Detective Gentry,” Peterson said. “Can you tell us how the two of you met?”
“We met through a mutual friend. I’ve been doing research on the Storyteller for quite some time and Bobbie offered to help me.” Keeping his tone even grew more difficult with each word.
“Detective Gentry told me you were an expert on serial killers, Mr. Shade,” Mason countered.
“You could say that.” His pulse rate kept building. He did not have time for this. If he could just keep his cool until they accepted his story and let him walk. Relax. The truth was, if Mason’s security clearance was high enough he had some knowledge of who Nick was. Typically the feds stayed out of his way and he stayed out of theirs...only there was nothing typical about this case.
“I’ve run your name, Mr. Shade,” Mason said. “You don’t seem to exist outside a driver’s license. Why is that, Mr. Shade?”
The constant use of his name was a pressure tactic. The agent wanted Nick to feel threatened and uncertain of what might happen next. When, in fact, the agent’s body language told a whole different story. He was tense. Though he smiled, his expression was pained. His eyes were clouded with worry. But it was his overly relaxed posture that was the real tell. Agent Mason was terrified that he’d lost control of this investigation. Two people were dead. He had an agent and another hostage missing. He was feeling serious pressure to come up with some sort of break.
“I have no idea, Agent Mason. Maybe I simply haven’t accomplished anything Google worthy.”
“Let’s cut the shit, Mr. Shade,” Mason said. “Your real name is Nicholas Weller. The prints on file with the US Army confirmed your identity, and I made a few calls.”
Another reason he never got this close. You screwed up this time.
“Your father is quite the celebrity at the bureau,” Mason said. “I’ve been bringing Chief Peterson up to speed.”
