Nameless

by Debra Webb

  The scent of spilled blood reached him, exploded in his nostrils, filled him with need. What he would give for one taste …

  He would have to wait until the other two were finished taking what they would. Then he would take what remained.

  It was the only way to fill his needs … to be satisfied, if only by the tiniest fraction.

  Nothing filled him completely … not since he had lost the other part of himself.

  The pain howled through him. He groaned with the force of it. Wrestled it away.

  The frantic struggles at the other end of the alley ceased. Those committing the violent acts turned their attention in his direction … searching for trouble.

  He would need to leave now or risk exposing himself.

  He could not be exposed at any time for any reason.

  Never.

  His true identity could not be known until he was dead. Then they would all know the truth.

  But he was not ready to die tonight.

  He scurried out of the dark alley and onto the well lit sidewalks of Beale Street and embedded himself within the crowd of tourists heading for their bus.

  Hailing a taxi, he resigned himself to the fact that his needs would not be slaked tonight.

  Tomorrow, perhaps.

  As he settled into the back seat he provided the driver with his home address. If he had only caught himself in time to notice how small she was, he could have given another address, a remote one where they were sure to be alone. He could have taken the driver.

  He was certain he could have handled her.

  But then she could be carrying a weapon … or pepper spray.

  No. It was best to do what he had been trained to do. To watch and take what remained.

  Thirty minutes passed before they reached his quiet home on a cul-de-sac surrounded by small, attractive homes where mothers and fathers and children lived their lives as if all were right with the world. As if no harm could ever come their way.

  He paid the fare, but no tip. The driver shouted vile names at his back as he strode up the sidewalk. She would never know that he had left her the most valuable tip of all—life.

  As he unlocked his door he thought of the Stewarts to his right and the Barretts to his left. Both had small children. Little toddlers and even one still crawling around on the grass like a puppy. Many nights he had lain in his bed and considered stealing into one of those quiet homes and snatching the perfect snack. But his shelter, his work was here. Such an undisciplined act would only force him to relocate again. To change his name and start over.

  He had done that far too many times already.

  This time he would be extremely careful. The homeless, the elderly who lived alone, those would have to do. No one usually cared or put up much of a fuss over those victims. They were expendable.

  Take one child and the whole fucking world was after you.

  Inside, he locked the door behind him and went in search of food. If nothing else, he would gorge with chocolate. It wasn’t nearly so good as soft, warm flesh, but it would have to do for tonight.

  He clicked the remote to catch the news. He had been taught to always remain aware of the goings-on around him. Vigilance was essential.

  The words and images on the screen captured his attention immediately, prompting him to unmute the sound.

  “ … was identified as the final victim. The former Ms. Taylor is now a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She changed her name seven years ago after surviving the most brutal serial rapist-murderer of the last century, Nameless.”

  He dropped the box of chocolates and walked across the room, didn’t stop until his nose was no more than an inch from the screen.

  “Agent Vivian Grace is assigned to the Birmingham, Alabama, field office and …”

  The words died away as the image … long silky hair … huge brown eyes … and those lips … perfect, lush … appeared on the screen.

  It was her …

  Number Thirteen.

  Hatred coiled inside him. She had killed the other part of him … his heart … his soul mate.

  Had she been that close all along?

  He touched the face on the screen … traced those unusual, puffy lips.

  “I’ve been watching for you, Number Thirteen … and now I know exactly where you are.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  10:20 P.M.

  Birmingham, Alabama

  “Isn’t she lovely, Deirdre?”

  Oh yes, very lovely

  Martin smiled at his beloved wife as she watched the final few minutes of the ten o’clock news. The part about Agent Grace was so hard to hear. Poor girl. The thought that all those years ago she had been mistreated so badly by that vile creature infuriated both of them. There was a special place in hell for such evil.

  McBride should have been on her case. He would have stopped that horror long before twelve women were brutally murdered, their bodies ravaged. Martin shuddered. He would look into this Nameless business. The report said he was dead, but Martin’s curiosity was stirred now. He would learn all there was to know. That was his way. It was Deirdre’s way as well. Perhaps there would be something he could do for Agent Grace. He did so love helping those who helped others. Especially the heroes, and Agent Grace was swiftly joining those ranks.

  “What’s that, dear?”

  McBride could have saved her.

  Martin nodded. “You’re so right. If Agent McBride had been in charge of that case he would have stopped that nonsense before that sweet girl was harmed.”

  McBride likes her.

  Martin chuckled. “I agree. I think he likes her too.”

  A good couple.

  Martin patted his wife’s hand. “Yes, that’s true. McBride needs someone in his life.” He smiled at the woman he had loved since high school, over forty years now. “The way we have each other.”

  Martin turned his attention back to the news. Usually, he and Deirdre watched Fox News, but at five and ten, they caught the local news on WHMG, never WKRT. They had no use for that woman—that Nadine Goodman. She was not a nice person.

  Before the hour grew too late, Martin should clean up the kitchen. It was the least he could do after his wife had prepared such a delicious meal. He would see her to bed, tuck her in as he always did.

  And then it would be time to set the final challenge in motion.

  Soon the trials would be over for McBride.

  And all those who needed atonement would have found it.

  Then life would be just as it should. He patted Deirdre’s hand. She would finally have peace. Their family had been torn for far too long. It was time for peace and happiness.

  Finally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Tuesday, September 12, 1:05 A.M.

  Tutwiler Hotel

  Vivian’s parents had called twice to make sure she was all right. She appreciated their concern but she didn’t want to talk about this.

  Pierce had tried her cell three times. The third time she had told him she didn’t want to talk.

  Not to him anyway.

  She wasn’t sure she would be ready to talk about anything personal with him again in this lifetime. Trust didn’t come easily. Which made the fact that she had spilled her guts to McBride completely irrational. They had talked about her childhood, which couldn’t have been more satisfying or complete. High school had been high school. She hadn’t exactly been a nerd … but she hadn’t been popular either.

  Then college, and her life had turned upside down.

  Until it happened to them, no one realized how much could change in a mere instant.

  The night air was cool; the view from the balcony calming in a strange way. What lay all around her was home, though for years she had tried to deny it.

  McBride had loosened her up with a miniature bottle of Jim Beam whiskey. What could she say? She was a cheap drunk. One little bottle and she was ready to tell him anything he would sit still long enou
gh to hear.

  Or maybe she just needed to tell someone.

  “After study group ended,” he prodded, reminding her that she had stopped mid-story.

  “I was on my way back to my dorm.” She moistened her lips and forced her mind to look at that painful memory. “It was late. Dark. Past curfew. I knew if I was caught I’d be in trouble, so I stuck to the shadows. Stupid, huh?”

  “Not stupid.” He leaned against the banister, exhaled the drag he had taken. “Understandable. You were seventeen. You were more afraid of disappointing the dean and your parents than you were of the dark.”

  She made a derisive sound. “Boy, I learned that lesson in a hurry.” Taking in a big breath, she continued. “I never saw or heard him. I woke up in a room later, hours, maybe minutes. Felt like a basement. I found out later it was. The bastard had a mansion in Brentwood, just outside Nashville. He was a doctor … or at least he pretended to be one. His license was phony. Dr. Lyle Solomon didn’t exist beyond the two years he had been practicing medicine in Nashville.”

  McBride didn’t ask any questions. He just let her talk.

  “The first few days I was certain someone would come. Then I slowly began to realize that no one was coming.” She remembered that moment, as if it had only been that morning. The realization had almost caused her to give up. Then, for some reason she would never understand, her determination kicked in. “From the beginning I did whatever he told me. I’d heard about a couple of his other victims. I knew what would happen if I didn’t. Maybe it was the whole obedience mentality of growing up in a conservative Southern home. Whatever. I did exactly what he told me—no matter how sickening.”

  “Hey, you’re alive. You were smart.”

  Or a coward. “I wasn’t smart, McBride, I was desperate.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, but the chill came from deep within. “I didn’t have a weapon. He was bigger and stronger than me. I was helpless. Then he said something to me that made me think.” She shuddered at the memory. “He touched my throat …”—she demonstrated—“at the pulse and reminded me how fragile life was. I thought about that and decided he was right. All I had to do was hit the right spot. I’d have only one chance. I’d either kill him or he’d kill me.”

  “Desperate can be good,” McBride allowed. “You got the job done.”

  Yeah, she did. “I never saw his face until after he was dead. Just heard his voice …” She had always been certain that there were two men. That certainty nagged at her even now.

  “You made sure he couldn’t hurt anyone again,” McBride said as he tamped out his cigarette. “That’s something to be proud of, Grace.”

  “There were times …” Should she do this? The shrinks, the investigators, they had all told her that the second man’s voice was her mind playing games on her. The fact that she had murdered a man, even such a sicko, in what could only be called a heinous manner, had caused her to invent the other voice. “I was certain there were two men. Two distinct, different voices. But the evidence indicated only one subject was involved and I killed him.”

  McBride considered her revelation a moment. “Are you afraid that the owner of that other voice is still out there? Do you look over your shoulder when you cross a dark parking lot?”

  The answer was yes. She did. As hard as she tried to pretend she didn’t, she did. “Yeah, I do.” She took a deep breath. “I guess I’m still a little afraid when I let myself dwell on it. Maybe that’s why anonymity felt safer.”

  He assessed her with those blue eyes that saw right into her soul. “Then you’re human, Vivian Grace. If you felt anything else, you wouldn’t be.”

  He was right. For the first time in a really long time, she felt that someone understood.

  “Thanks, McBride. You’re not nearly as shallow as I originally thought.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He straightened away from the railing. “Have another whiskey, Grace.” He sniffed his shirt. “I need a shower.”

  She watched him disappear into the room, the smile on her lips widening instead of slipping. Though she had known him four days, she had scarcely cracked the surface of the complex man beneath the indifferent veneer. What she had found underneath, she liked … a lot.

  Maybe she would have another of those whiskeys. She could sleep like the dead for a couple of hours and then get back to the office. One thing was clear, she could not live her life hiding from the past any longer. It was time to face it head-on. If any of her colleagues gave her any grief, she would set them straight.

  She had just twisted off the top of another miniature bottle when her phone vibrated. On the table next to the bed, McBride’s phone trembled against the wooden surface.

  She looked at her phone’s display before taking the call. Agent Davis.

  She flipped it open and then answered, “Grace.”

  Davis’s first three words had ice forming in her veins. Come in now.

  Vivian glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table, her pulse reacting to the tension in Davis’s voice. “It’s only one-thirty.” She and McBride weren’t scheduled to go back in until four. “What’s going on?”

  Davis told her that he had tried to call Worth at home and had gotten his wife. Worth hadn’t made it home and there was no answer on his cell. But the strangest part was that his car was parked in his driveway.

  Devoted Fan’s most recent e-mail scrolled past her mind’s eye, pausing on one particular part: “ … this one is a lesson I am sure you will appreciate as much as I.”

  How could Devoted Fan have known that Worth and McBride didn’t particularly like each other? The bastard couldn’t be watching them that closely.

  “I’ll call Pierce,” she told Davis. “McBride and I will meet him and head that way.”

  Vivian closed her phone. Jesus. If this scumbag could get to Worth … no one was safe.

  2:00 A.M.

  1000 Eighteenth Street

  McBride drove since Grace preferred not to after having had that single shot of whiskey. Pierce followed. If he knew any more than they did, he had said nothing.

  As if the media had sensed trouble in the wind, the crowd outside the field office had multiplied to what it had been prior to Trenton’s rescue.

  The rush inside and up the stairs left no opportunity for chitchat. Suited McBride fine. He had nothing to say to Pierce. Neither did Grace it seemed.

  “Let’s have an update,” Pierce ordered as soon as they entered the conference room that had served as a command center for the past few days.

  “Talley and Aldridge are working with Birmingham PD on the scene at Worth’s home,” Pratt related. “Apparently he drove his Crown Victoria straight home after leaving the office. His wife and son were in bed asleep and didn’t realize he had even arrived or that he hadn’t come inside until Davis called. According to ADT Security Services, Worth didn’t enter the home since the alarm was activated at 10:15 P.M. and that status remained so until Mrs. Worth got up to check on his whereabouts at 12:50 A.M.”

  McBride propped a hip on the edge of the conference table and studied the timeline board where new notations were in the works as Pratt spoke. Davis was scribbling away with a Dry Erase marker.

  An agent McBride hadn’t met, male, young, skinny guy, hurried into the room. “Agent Pierce,” the new guy said, evidently knowing where the most power lay, “there’s a new communication from Devoted Fan.”

  McBride shoved off the table and headed for the computer. Grace waited next to his chair. Pierce, Pratt, and Davis moved up behind him as he clicked the necessary tabs.

  McBride,

  As I am sure you know by now, Randall Worth is a part of your latest challenge. He has a lesson to learn, atonement to find, as did the others. Once more, survival depends upon you.

  It is such a shame that when someone or something grows older, many times it is set aside for a newer model. Flesh and blood, brick and mortar, nothing is respected for its true value.

  U
nfortunately for Agent Worth, the tearing down of the old could destroy him as well. Amid a cloud of controversy the old sometimes falls, ending many, many stories. Perhaps the fall is inevitable. In the end, it is only the truth that really matters, not the story at all. Not even a century of stories.

  This is the final test, Agent McBride. I trust you will not fail … Agent Worth is counting on you … he is hanging by a thread. This time I do have one minor condition: no one but you and Agent Grace are to enter the scene. I will be watching; any failure to adhere to that condition will result in great calamity. You have six hours … starting now.

  Sincerely,

  Devoted Fan

  “Does any of the phrasing reach out to anyone?” Pierce asked.

  Six hours.

  That phrase reached out and grabbed McBride by the throat. Fuck.

  “I’ll run the phrasing against any historic landmarks in Birmingham,” Pratt volunteered. “Brick and mortar … stories.” He shrugged. “Controversy.”

  “So far, historic landmarks appear to be his crime scene of choice,” Grace explained to Pierce. “If Worth is at risk of falling as suggested by the e-mail, then we’re looking for a location with more than one floor or an elevation of some sort.”

  Lila Grimes, Worth’s secretary, appeared at the door, her eyes red and swollen. “I thought you might need my help,” she offered. She cleared her throat. “Agent Worth’s cell calls have been forwarded here. I’ll take those calls until he … he returns.” She hesitated, seemed to gather her composure. “There was a call from Agent Schaffer. She’s faxing a number of letters she found in Agent McBride’s files.”

  Schaffer. The boot lady. “Thanks,” McBride said to the distraught secretary as he pushed out of his chair. He strode over to the fax machine, which had already whirred to life.