Moonlight illuminated the predawn sky and cast shadows over the lawn. Tree branches swayed in the warm summer breeze, their tips scratching at the upstairs windows on the east end of the house. Security lights at the back of the house kept the pool area well lit, but the basement door, the lock now broken, lay hidden in darkness behind a row of red azaleas.
He had parked his rental car in the driveway. If by any chance some neighbor happened to be awake at this hour and looked out a window, he or she would see a nondescript sedan and possibly assume the Chappelles had an overnight visitor. He had no intention of returning the rental and there was no way it could be traced back to him, only to the real Albert Durham. He would leave the car at the Atlanta airport tomorrow. With the time difference between the U.S. East Coast and London, his employer would be enjoying a late breakfast when he reported in, once he was on the road. After he spoke to his employer, he would make flight arrangements. This morning’s kill would be number six, the exact number he had been paid for by wire transfer to his Swiss account, which had been opened under one of his many aliases.
He was known by many names and yet he remained nameless. He was a man of a hundred disguises and yet he remained faceless, unidentifiable. In his world, he was known only as the Phantom, except by a precious few who had once known him as Anthony Linden. But he was not Anthony Linden and hadn’t been in more than ten years. For all intents and purposes, Anthony Linden was dead.
Poppy woke with a start, her mouth dry and her cotton sleep shirt damp with perspiration. She kicked back the light covers and lay there, her eyes open, her heartbeat racing. She stared up at the shadows dancing on her ceiling. She’d had the most god-awful dream.
You shouldn’t have watched that old Twilight show marathon on TV last night with Heloise.
Her nightmare had been a convoluted jumble of scenes, none of which had made the least bit of sense. Headless zombies creeping toward her. Pig-faced people hovering over her. Outraged men and women chasing her down the street, screaming at her, accusing her of being an alien from outer space.
Poppy shuddered.
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. Bad dreams can’t hurt you. No, but they can sure scare the bejeezus out of you.
She wished her bedroom—Aunt Mary Lee’s old room—wasn’t at the opposite end of the hall from Grandmother’s and Heloise’s rooms. She certainly had no intention of walking up that long, dark corridor. The old house moaned and groaned enough as it was without her padding down the hall and making the wooden floors creak.
She could turn on the light, get up, and read a few chapters in the paperback romance novel on her nightstand. Or she could go downstairs to the den and watch TV or grab a snack in the kitchen.
Just close your eyes and try to go back to sleep.
The odds were if she went back to sleep, she wouldn’t dream again. Not if she thought about pleasant things. Think about going sailing with Court and Anne Lee on Wednesday afternoon. Think about Court’s friend Wes Larimer. Anne Lee had promised that Court would invite him to join them.
“I think Wes likes you,” Anne Lee had told her. “If Mother wasn’t best buds with his mother, I’d go after him myself. But God forbid that Wes and I hook up and make our moms happy.”
“He’s cute, isn’t he?”
“Do Chihuahuas shiver? Girl, Wes Larimer is cream of the crop.”
Think about Wes. And who knows, maybe you’ll dream about him instead of weird characters out of an old TV show.
Poppy closed her eyes and imagined Wes putting his arm around her and kissing her. It would be explosive, like fireworks lighting up the sky. They were alone on Court’s sailboat, just the two of them. The ocean was smooth, the sun was warm, the breeze balmy.
“Oh Court, kiss me again,” she mumbled to herself and then yawned before dozing off to sleep.
He moved through the Chappelle house as quietly as smoke rising from a chimney. He turned off the slender flashlight he held, pocketed it and took the back stairs two at a time, being careful to tread lightly. Even when the old staircase creaked occasionally as his weight pressed on the carpeted runner, he didn’t pause. Those living here were accustomed to the odd sounds that the nearly eighty-year-old house made in the night. When he reached the landing, he glanced down the corridor toward Mrs. Chappell’s suite and across the hall to Heloise McGruger’s bedroom. Both doors were closed.
He turned and went in the opposite direction, straight toward the young girl’s room decorated in fancy ruffles and lace. Unlike the older ladies in the house, Poppy slept with her door partially open. A thin line of moonlight seeped through the narrow opening and painted a pale yellow-white line across the threshold and onto the floor beneath his feet. He reached out, grasped the crystal knob and slowly eased open the door all the way. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness so he could see quite well with only the moonlight brightening the bedroom just enough to reveal the furniture’s silhouettes.
Poppy Chappelle lay beneath a ruffled canopy, one arm and one leg tangled in the top sheet and lightweight blanket. The upstairs central air unit kicked on, sending a rush of cool air from the ceiling vent. He stood over her bed and watched her while she slept. So very young. So pretty.
Such a pity he had to kill her.
He didn’t choose the victims. His employer did.
He was simply an employee following orders, a professional doing his job.
Easing up to the edge of the bed, he rubbed his glove-encased hands together, collected his thoughts and prepared for the kill. He slipped his hand into an inside pocket, removed the disposable scalpel from the small carrying case and returned the case to his pocket.
I’m sorry, little girl.
A momentary calmness came over him, steadying his hand and clearing his mind. The rush of excitement would come later, with the act itself. The moment the knife entered her body, he would experience an unparalleled exhilaration. He always did.
He watched her for another minute, noted the rise and fall of her tender young breasts as she inhaled and exhaled.
And then he plunged the scalpel into her jugular. Blood gushed.
A mental and emotional orgasm began to build inside him. He sliced the sharp blade across her neck, from one carotid artery to the other, effectively cutting her windpipe in the process.
She died almost instantly, without a sound, never having opened her eyes.
His hands were steady, his outward demeanor calm. But a soul-deep enjoyment burst wide open inside him and sent climactic pleasure through his entire body.
Mimicking the Carver’s MO, he worked quickly, cutting triangles from her upper arms and thighs and stuffing the tiny pieces of flesh into the small insulated bag he had brought with him.
He took no pleasure in the mutilation of a body, but he was under orders. This was business, a necessary part of the job assignment.
At the foot of the staircase, the grandfather clock struck four times. He would be gone well before daybreak. And it would be morning before anyone discovered Poppy’s body.
Leaving his victim lying in her bloody bed, he walked across the room, opened the widow, and lifted the screen. Then he returned to the bed, picked the dead girl up into his arms and carried her to the window.
From the height of the second floor, he glanced down at the moonlight shimmering across the pool. Keeping a firm grip, he held her body out the window as far as he could reach and then released her. She sailed down, down, down, and hit the side of the pool. While her legs crashed onto the patio, her head and the upper two-thirds of her body sank into the water. Then the weight of her head and upper body submerged in the pool gradually dragged her legs into the pool and she slowly disappeared beneath the water’s surface.
Chapter 26
Maleah sipped on the coffee, black with one packet of Splenda, that Derek had brought her. When she had opened the door to him a few minutes ago, her expression had been filled with questions and doubts. Knowing what she wanted and needed this mor
ning, he had set the tone for their day. Back to business as usual. Partners working on a case, their once adversarial relationship now bordering on friendship and definitely based on mutual respect. There would be time later, tomorrow or the next day or a week or month from now, for them to explore the reasons behind the sexual tension driving them both crazy.
“Anything you want to go over with me this morning?” he asked as he sat down on the sofa, snapped open the lid flap on his insulated coffee cup and took a sip of his black coffee.
“I don’t think so. I believe we pretty much took care of every possible scenario last night.” She joined him on the sofa.
“More than likely, Browning is going to tell you about how he killed Noah Laborde and the pleasure he derived from what he did. We assume he doesn’t know anything else about your personal life, and if we’re correct, that means he’s going to use Noah. He sees your former boyfriend as your Achilles’ heel.”
“I’m prepared for whatever he tells me.” She took several sips from the cup before placing it on the coffee table. “I’ll give him what he wants. I won’t try to completely control my emotions. If he wants to see me cry, I’ll cry.”
“I have to remind you that this may all be for nothing. You may give him exactly what he wants and get only useless information in return.”
“I know. I’m willing to take that chance.”
Derek nodded. “Barbara Jean contacted me about half an hour ago. Our orders are to head back to Knoxville after your visit with Browning.”
“Why? Has something happened? Has the copycat—?”
“No, and since the trail is cold and we have no new leads to follow, Sanders wants us back at headquarters to sit in on a top-level powwow, the two of us, Griff, Nic, Sanders, BJ, and Dr. Meng.”
“Any idea what this big powwow is about?” Maleah asked.
“BJ didn’t say, but I suspect Griff wants to discuss his theory about who the copycat is, who hired him and why.”
“And as Griff so often says, all roads lead to Rome.”
“In this case, Rome being Malcolm York.”
“Rome being Griff’s obsession with the pseudo York, if he actually exists.”
“I don’t think any of us can dismiss the real possibility that someone who calls himself Malcolm York exists,” Derek told her. “And if we accept that possibility, we also have to be prepared to accept the possibility that York hired a professional assassin to carry out some diabolical plan against Griff.”
“Have you actually bought into Griff’s theory?”
“I’m keeping an open mind and you should, too.”
“You’re right,” Maleah agreed. “If all of these copycat murders are a part of some elaborate scheme to exact revenge against Griff, then we’re up against far more than a single killer. Even if we find the copycat and stop him, that won’t be the end of it.”
“You’re right. It won’t end until York, whoever he really is, is found.”
Miss Carolyn was an early riser, as was Heloise. They enjoyed leisurely cups of coffee each morning in the small den adjacent to the kitchen, the television tuned to WJCL, channel 22, the local ABC affiliate. Her employer, whom she thought of after all these years as a dear old friend, watched only Good Morning America. She had been a huge Charlie Gibson fan and bemoaned his exit from the show, but had found consolation in watching him on the evening newscast until his retirement.
“I prefer to get my evening news from a man,” Miss Carolyn had said. “But I like Diane Sawyer well enough. She’s a smart lady. And as long as they keep Robin Roberts on Good Morning America, I’ll keep watching that show, too. I like her.”
Miss Carolyn was nothing if not opinionated and always believed her opinion was superior to and more important than anyone else’s.
Little Miss Poppy was not an early riser. She often slept until well past ten, sometimes as late as noon, much to her grandmother’s displeasure.
“These young people sleep away the best part of the day,” Miss Carolyn often said.
With the breakfast dishes neatly stacked in the dishwasher—she had a precise system of where to place each item—and the television turned off until the local mid-day news, Heloise began lunch preparations. Since it was only nine-thirty and lunch wouldn’t be served until noon, she had more than enough time to bake a blueberry pie, using the fresh berries she had bought at the Farmer’s Market. And she intended to use last night’s leftover chicken to make chicken salad, which she would serve with some of the buttery croissants she had picked up at the bakery.
Wearing her wide-brimmed sunbonnet and carrying her gardening gloves, Miss Carolyn came through the kitchen and paused at the back door. “If you need me, I’ll be in the garden. I want to prune the roses before it gets so hot. I can’t abide these ungodly humid days. I don’t remember it ever being this miserable in late June. When I was a girl summertime weather didn’t hit until the Fourth of July.”
Heloise didn’t bother pointing out to Miss Carolyn that the Fourth was only a few days away.
After Miss Carolyn was halfway out the door, she stopped, glanced over her shoulder and said, “When Miss Lazybones gets up, please tell her that I expect her to be here for lunch today because her great-aunt Sarah will be joining us.” She sighed heavily. “The woman is an absolute bore, but she is family. She was married to my dear brother Courtland for forty years.”
“I’ll be sure to remind her.”
“Oh, is the pool boy coming today? If he is, I need to speak to him.”
“Yes, ma’am, this is Tuesday and he comes every Tuesday. He should be here any time now.”
“I can see the pool from the rose garden, so I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
Heloise smiled as she removed the blueberries from the refrigerator. Miss Carolyn had her good qualities and her bad. But being a perfectionist and expecting everyone else to live up to her high standards did not endear her to the people she referred to as “the hired help.” This included the young man who cleaned the pool each week.
Heloise gently dumped the berries into a colander she had placed in the sink, turned on the water and used the sprayer to wash the berries.
A bloodcurdling scream startled Heloise. Who was screaming? The sound was coming from somewhere outside, wasn’t it? Oh mercy God, it’s Miss Carolyn. She must have fallen. Or she had come across a snake in the rose garden.
Heloise wiped her damp hands off on her apron as she headed for the back door, running as fast as her old legs would carry her. She searched the rose garden for any sign of Miss Carolyn, but quickly realized the screams were coming from the pool area.
And then she saw Miss Carolyn, soaked through and through from head to toe, on her knees, slumped over something—no not something, someone—lying at the edge of the pool.
Merciful Lord!
Heloise rushed through the open gate leading from the garden to the pool. “I’m coming, Miss Carolyn. I’m coming.”
As she drew nearer, Miss Carolyn stopped screaming and looked up, her eyes glazed with shock. When she glanced down at the person Miss Carolyn was holding in her arms, Heloise barely managed not to scream herself. Apparently Miss Carolyn had jumped in the pool and pulled Little Miss Poppy’s body from the water. But it was more than obvious that the child hadn’t drowned. Someone had slit her throat and hacked out pieces of flesh from her arms and legs.
Salty bile rose up Heloise’s esophagus. She was on the verge of vomiting. Help me, Lord. Help me.
“Call nine-one-one,” Miss Carolyn said in a choked voice. “We have to get her to the hospital as soon as possible.”
“Oh, Miss Carolyn . . .”
Heloise would call 911, but knew there was nothing anybody could do to save Poppy Chappelle.
Maleah thought she had prepared herself for the worst, and had believed she could listen to Browning describe in detail how he had murdered Noah and still remain in control of her emotions. She’d been wrong. Nothing had prepared her for Browning�
�s self-satisfied smile or his giddy excitement as he recalled, step-by step, the last moments of Noah’s life.
While he relived what for him had been an exhilarating experience, Maleah envisioned, with sickening horror, Noah Laborde’s death.
“Can you imagine it, Maleah? Noah’s shock? When he woke that morning, he had no idea it would be the last day of his life. What must he have been thinking in those final few seconds before he died?”
Maleah swallowed.
I’m still in control. I’m shaky. I’m nauseated. I’m angry. But I’m not defeated.
She could give Browning a little of what he wanted—her blood, sweat, and tears—without pretending. What she felt at that precise moment was all too real.
“I—I can imagine.” The tremor in her voice was not faked. “Noah must have been shocked by what happened and so very afraid of dying.”
Browning chuckled. “I’m sure he was. He knew that I possessed all the power and he was powerless. He knew that I had taken his life away from him.”
“That’s what it was all about for you, wasn’t it—power and control?”
“God, yes! You have no idea . . .” He paused, leaned forward and glared directly into her eyes. “But then again, maybe you do. You’re a lady who prides herself on being in control, aren’t you?”
A red warning flag popped up in Maleah’s mind. How could Browning know that she had dealt with control issues most of her life?
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