Striking Distance

by Debra Webb

  “What now?” Careful to keep her hands up, Bobbie readied to tackle Evans. So far she hadn’t spotted his weapon.

  “Go outside and wait with your mother,” he said to the children.

  The older girl reached for the small boy’s hand and herded the others out the door. When the sound of the front door slamming behind them echoed through the house, Bobbie felt as if an elephant had been lifted off her chest. Sensing the shift in her tension, Evans lifted the .38 clutched in his right hand and aimed it at her.

  Take it slow. Get him talking. “How can I help you, Mr. Evans? We all want to see a favorable resolution to this situation. Your wife and children need you.”

  Carl Evans was a tall, thin man. He sat cross-legged on the floor in his T-shirt and boxers. His face was pasty from the long hours at the office; his shoulders sagged from slumping over a desk. As if he felt the weight of her assessment, he sank back against the bed behind him. What had taken this forty-three-year-old number cruncher down this ugly path?

  He shook his head. “It’s too late for happily-ever-afters, Detective.”

  “It’s never too late, Mr.—”

  “Just listen.” He cut her off. “I don’t have much time. What I did was…wrong.”

  No shit. “Tell me what happened, and maybe I can help.”

  “You need to listen!” He jerked at the loud sound of his own voice reverberating in the small room.

  Bobbie’s tension cranked up a few more notches. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”

  “It was necessary.” He shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t stop to consider how it would end.”

  The muzzle of the weapon angled downward as he spoke, his attention shifting inward. All she had to do was keep him talking and when his aim strayed far enough, she would make a move. Less than four feet separated them. Keep talking, pal.

  “I did what I had to do,” he said, his voice resolute even as his hands shook. “I would do it again. Anything to save my little girl.” He fell silent for another moment. “I didn’t think you would be hurt—not really, I mean. I had no idea…”

  Bobbie’s attention swung from the muzzle to the man’s face. “Me?”

  His lips quivered. “I was desperate. The treatments for my daughter had taken everything. My credit options were maxed out. The house is already triple mortgaged. I couldn’t pay for the new treatments, and my family was going to be homeless.” His head moved from side to side with a weariness and resignation that were palpable. “The insurance company claimed the new treatments—the ones that might save her life—are experimental, so they won’t pay. I would have done anything.” He searched her face as if looking for understanding, his eyes glimmering with emotion. “I had no choice.”

  “You love your children. No one can fault you for that, Mr. Evans.” She felt badly for the family, especially for the kid, but the man wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. What did this have to do with her? “What can I do to help?”

  He scrubbed his face with his free hand. A sob tore loose from his throat. “I need my family to know it was for them. Tell my wife I checked the life insurance policies. She and the kids will be okay.”

  Oh, hell. “I’ll make sure they know,” Bobbie promised. “But, Mr. Evans, whatever trouble you’re in, you don’t have to do this. Your family needs you. I can help you.”

  His shoulders stiffened, and he steadied his aim at her. Anticipation coiled in her muscles.

  “You can’t help me. You are the reason he came looking for me.”

  Suddenly there was not enough air in the room. “Who came looking for you, Mr. Evans?”

  “He’s coming for you, Detective Gentry.”

  A chill as cold as ice settled in her belly. “Who’s coming?”

  His gaze, clouded with defeat, locked on hers. “He was right. Your eyes are the palest blue I’ve ever seen.”

  A shudder quaked through her before she could grab back control. How could he know that? Her mouth went so dry she could scarcely form the words. “I don’t understand, Mr. Evans.” Her heart rammed harder and harder against her sternum. “Who’re you talking about?”

  “He said he has to finish your story.”

  The words rocked her with the strength of hurricane-force winds. He couldn’t mean…

  “This is the end of my story.” Evans jammed the .38 into his mouth.

  Bobbie lunged for the weapon. She needed him alive.

  The bullet exploded from its chamber, charging through his skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed the pink-and-white cartoon character comforter and matching sheets.

  She dropped to her knees. “Jesus Christ.”

  Deep breath. Bobbie shook her head. Torn between desolation and elation. Seven long months she had waited, and finally he was here.

  But why like this? Her chest ached with the agony brought against the Evans family.

  Why drag anyone else into her private hell? To shock her? Fury hardened her against the softer emotions.

  Blood trickled from Evans’s mouth and nose. Poor bastard. Bobbie closed her eyes and tried to banish the image from her retinas.

  The front door banging against the wall announced SWAT’s entrance into the house. Bobbie got to her feet. It made her sick that a man had died, leaving behind a wife and children, to serve the whims of the psychopath who had already destroyed too many lives.

  She drew in a deep breath as determination roared through her. Now it seemed he was back, and it was her turn to destroy his life. He just didn’t know that part yet. Anticipation joined the determination.

  Come and get me, you son of a bitch.

  Montgomery Police Department

  320 North Ripley Street, 6:45 p.m.

  “The chief is ready to see you now.”

  Bobbie stood. She’d flipped through every magazine in the lobby during her twenty-seven-minute wait. Apparently Chief of Police Theodore Peterson wasn’t concerned that she had other things to do, like hound the lab to see if they had gleaned anything from Evans’s computer. Or maybe conduct the interview with the one unavailable colleague who would be returning from business in Birmingham in about half an hour.

  “Thank you, Stella.” Bobbie flashed a smile and headed for the door to the top cop’s inner sanctum.

  Her time was being wasted because the SWAT commander had tattled on her for making him look bad. Arrogant bastard. Miller had probably blown the whole incident out of proportion. She had Miller’s number. He didn’t like having women—especially a younger woman—order him around. If her partner had been the one going into that house, no one would have said a word. Some things never changed.

  “Bobbie!” The chief tossed a report aside as she walked in. “Close the door and have a seat.”

  “Yes, sir.” She did as he asked, settling in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. She worked hard to appear relaxed, but inside about a half a dozen emotions were battling for her attention. The Storyteller had sent her a message. He was back. Finally. For months she had worried that he’d slipped beyond her grasp. The idea of him escaping was unbearable. She could not allow that to happen.

  “We need to talk.”

  Bobbie snapped her attention back to the chief. Theodore Peterson was a towering hulk of a man. He’d been a lineman for the Crimson Tide with her father under Coach Paul Bear Bryant. Forty years later, he’d lightened his playing physique by a few pounds and his hair had gone from blond to gray. Still, Theodore—Teddy to his family and closest friends—was an intimidating figure and a genuinely handsome man. As chief of police he was respected by friends and enemies alike. Even those who disagreed with him couldn’t argue with his outstanding record of keeping the citizens of Montgomery safe and happy at the same time. Not an easy feat.

  He removed his reading glasses and studied her for a moment. Tension trickled through Bobbie. She had known this man her whole life. The deep frown lines he wore told her he was far from pleased at the moment.

  “I’m
having trouble with this one, Bobbie.”

  “I’m not following, Chief.” Don’t let him see what he can’t possibly know. Other than relaying the message to his wife, she hadn’t told anyone what Evans said to her. The Storyteller’s message was meant for her alone.

  “According to your statement, Mr. Evans asked you to convey his regrets to his family.”

  “Yes, sir. He did.”

  “Had you and Mr. Evans met before?”

  Bobbie shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I did speak with his wife when I first arrived on the scene. She probably mentioned my name, which would explain why he asked for me.”

  The chief grunted a noncommittal response. Dread started a slow churn in her belly.

  “Clearly Mr. Evans suffered some sort of breakdown,” she added for good measure.

  “Clearly,” the chief agreed. He picked up the paper he’d moments ago put aside. “Based on this report from the lab, I have reason to believe any detective on the scene would have had to round you up for Mr. Evans.”

  Well damn. She’d been pacing the floor waiting for news from the lab. She’d hoped to see it before anyone else for exactly the reason the chief no doubt now understood. Carl Evans’s actions hadn’t been any more random than his request for her presence had been. “Is that the report on Mr. Evans’s computer?”

  The chief nodded. “Evans’s first cousin is a nurse. You might remember her, Gwen Adams?”

  Surprise registered before Bobbie could suppress the reaction. “Of course I remember her.” Frustration threatened to resurrect the headache she’d suffered earlier. Or maybe it was just hearing the name. Gwen Adams was the private nurse who had taken care of Bobbie all those months as she recovered. What did Gwen have to do with any of this? Bobbie hadn’t seen her in five or six weeks, not since the day before the orthopedist signed off on her release to return to work. “Has she been interviewed?”

  “We’re trying to locate her now. She’s not answering her cell or home phone. Since she didn’t show up for her shift at the hospital today, we’ve issued a BOLO.”

  A new thread of tension wove its way through Bobbie. Choosing her words carefully, she shrugged as if she didn’t see how Gwen’s absence and Evans’s suicide connected. Frankly, she didn’t…yet. “How is she involved? Is she helping with the little girl who has leukemia?” Valid questions.

  “According to Evans’s wife, Adams has been immensely helpful during their daughter’s illness.” He waved the paper. “But that doesn’t explain the troubling aspect of this report.”

  Bobbie consciously relaxed her shoulders once more, and then her facial muscles. Whatever Forensics found on that computer, her only reactions could be surprise and disbelief. She hoped the chief was about to give her something she could use rather than more questions. Deep inside a new fear trickled its way into her bones. Don’t let Gwen be in trouble.

  “Evans’s most recent internet search history showed he had been reading everything he could find on you, Bobbie.”

  Bobbie pretended to mull over the news, and then she turned her hands up in a so-what gesture. “Who hasn’t? I’ve been the local freak show for a while now. Returning to the job put my name back in the news. Gwen probably mentioned me.”

  “Your medical records—specifically the ones from this year,” the chief went on, his tone reflecting his unhappiness with her indifferent attitude, “were on his computer. We believe those records were provided to him by Adams.”

  Damn. Bobbie blinked and hummed a sound she hoped suggested confusion rather than the slow, icy climb of uncertainty up her backbone. “Maybe Evans intended to sell info about me to some reporter or one of those publishers who’s been pestering me about a book deal.” She lifted one shoulder in a stilted attempt at a shrug. “I can’t see Gwen being involved in something like that.”

  The chief nodded. “Those were my first thoughts considering around the same time he transferred the files to one of those personal cloud storage services, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit was made into his bank account.”

  Bobbie gave another wooden shrug. “Well, there you have it. The man had a sick child, and he needed money. Is there any way to tell who bought the files?”

  Her blood pounded in her ears. It was him! Any doubts she had were gone now. One way or another she would make him pay for what he had done to her…for all the lives he had destroyed. She would not rest until he was dead.

  Again the chief studied her for several seconds before responding. “Mrs. Evans mentioned something her husband said this morning that we believe sheds a little light on the other party involved—the buyer.”

  Anna Evans had been too devastated at the scene to give a statement. Whatever the chief had learned, he couldn’t possibly know what Evans said to Bobbie before blowing his brains out.

  “Before getting up this morning Evans tossed and turned, according to his wife. He kept muttering the same phrase over and over. He wants to finish her story.”

  Bobbie flinched. Damn it. She clenched her jaw against the anticipation, fury and determination twisting inside her. Do not let him see.

  “That’s it?” the chief demanded, making no attempt to hide his outrage. “No shock? No anger or fear? Just a little tic?”

  “The whole country was privy to what happened to me,” she fired back. “Carl Evans as well as everyone else in Montgomery had it shoved down their throats day in and day out for months.” Deep breath, Bobbie. One by one she quieted the emotions pressing against her chest. And then, more calmly, she added, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “You might start with what Evans said to you in that house.” His gaze narrowed with blatant suspicion. “What he really said.”

  “If you’ve read my report, you know what he said.” She hoped he couldn’t see the lie in her eyes. This man had known Bobbie her entire life.

  The chief folded his hands atop his desk and sighed loudly. “I promised your father on his deathbed that if you ever needed anything, I would make sure you were taken care of.” Bobbie opened her mouth to protest his use of the father card, but his sharp glare had her snapping it shut once more. “Eight months ago Gaylon Perry almost killed you. If he’s back…”

  The air evacuated her lungs. Just hearing his name spoken aloud set off a chain reaction of voices, sounds and images that rushed rapid-fire through her mind before she could block them. Not a day—not an hour—passed without some thought of the monster sweeping through her brain. The memory of him was imprinted on her very DNA. The way her mind worked had changed because of him. She ate, slept and breathed differently because he was with her every minute of every damned day. And still the sound of his name was like having her entire body dunked in ice-cold water. It stole her breath and shocked her system.

  With effort, she steadied herself. “Surely you know if I had any insights about the Storyteller, I’d be the first to share them. We’d have the FBI in here pronto.” She produced an unconcerned expression. “Besides, he hasn’t taken a victim since my escape. The feds think he’s dead. You know and I know that if he was still alive, he would have taken one by now.”

  She had damned sure tried to kill the son of a bitch. But she knew he wasn’t dead. Deep inside, she could still feel him. He was out there…waiting for the right opportunity. He wanted to finish what he’d started. Come on, asshole.

  “I hope that’s true, Bobbie.” The chief leaned back in his chair. “As for the FBI, I’ve already made the call.”

  Which meant she didn’t have a lot of time. Urgency hummed in her veins. “Well then, I guess we’ll know soon enough whether it’s really him. Anything else?”

  “You don’t feel the need to amend your report in any way?” he pressed.

  Telling him won’t help. “No, sir.” She stood. “I should get over to the lab and pick up a copy of that report.” Once the feds confirmed a connection to the Storyteller, she wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the investigation.

  “I’
d like you to take a few days off, Detective.”

  “What?” She should have seen that one coming. “This is my case, Chief. Maybe Gwen reminded Evans about what the Storyteller did to me, and that gave him the idea to try using it to make the money he needed. Plenty of people have offered to buy my story. Maybe he sold the info to some rag. Desperate people do desperate things. Until we have proof the Storyteller is involved—”

  “Apparently,” he cut her off, “you’ve forgotten what Gwen Adams looks like.”

  He opened a folder and displayed a snapshot of the nurse who had worked closely with Bobbie for six long months. Gwen’s long dark hair spilled over her shoulders. She was tall and thin, with pale skin that refused to tan. Bobbie’s heart dropped. Like her, Gwen matched the profile of the Storyteller’s preferred victim.

  No. No. No. She would not believe the worst yet.

  Bobbie shook her head. She’d felt confident the Storyteller wouldn’t risk taking another victim—unless it was her. “You can’t be sure Gwen isn’t in hiding. If she’s involved, she did break the law.” No matter that her intentions might have been noble. Bobbie’s head was really throbbing now. The knowledge of what the Storyteller would do to Gwen if he had taken her twisted in her gut like a wad of fishhooks.

  The chief rose from his chair. “No buts, Detective. Until we locate Adams and uncover exactly who Evans was working with, you are on paid administrative leave. Now go home. I don’t want to see you here again until we understand what we’re dealing with.”

  “What about—”

  “Until I say otherwise,” he cut her off, “I want to know where you are and what you’re doing every minute. I’m assigning a surveillance detail. Don’t give them any grief.”

  Bobbie stowed the rant she wanted to launch and squared her shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

  Holding back the anger and frustration, she walked out. How could she find the Storyteller if she was on admin leave? Maybe she didn’t have to find him. If what Evans said was right, he was already here. All she had to do was make sure he had the opportunity to come a little closer.