by Debra Webb
Her heart broke for the other parents. Their deepest, coldest fears had been realized.
Their babies were dead.
Dear God, why?
When those precious babies had gone missing not the first piece of evidence had been uncovered. It was as if they had simply vanished into thin air. In the beginning the other parents had come to her and demanded to know why she couldn’t use her gift to see their babies the way she had seen the Foster girl with Treat Bonner. Merciful Lord, if only she could have.
Sadly, the glimpse she had gotten of the Foster girl and Treat had led the police in the wrong direction. Had likely cost poor Treat his life. Another burden Amelia lived with every day of her life. She had gone to Lucille, his mother, and explained how she had tried to tell the police that Treat had not hurt Christina Foster, but the damage was done. Lucille had only stared at her. It was too late for apologies.
In all these years Amelia had not once felt the children’s presence. Her gift had become a curse and yet it was her only means of survival. For thirty-two long years she had clung to the thread of hope that her little boy would be found. That perhaps he had grown up and would eventually find her in this shop where he had been born.
Only he had not found her, nor had she found him.
Amelia closed her eyes.
Maybe the dark-haired woman would help her see. Or perhaps she had come to end Amelia’s misery once and for all.
Fifteen
Back Street
11:10 p.m.
A six-pack of beer hadn’t made a dent in reality.
Troy rummaged in the cabinet under the sink until he found the bottle he was looking for. He blew off the dust and twisted off the top. Not giving himself time to rethink his strategy, he turned up the Jack Daniel’s sipping whiskey and drank until he had to breathe.
Bottle in hand, he walked back to the table and collapsed into the chair. The pictures of the children were spread on the table. Other photos from the crime scene in the Sanders house were stacked next to them. He’d shuffled through those damned photos a dozen times and he didn’t know one damned thing more now than he had when he first saw the fucked-up scene.
How the hell had he lived in the same town with Bill and Nancy Sanders most of his life and not realized they were killers? That they had encased those babies in concrete and erected the statues in their freaky little pet cemetery like an inside joke that only they knew about?
He’d shown his parents the photos of the bones and explained that they couldn’t be sure to which of the three-year-olds they belonged. His mother had cried so hard. His father had only stared at the images. The truth was Troy had killed his parents the same day he killed his baby sister. They hadn’t been living these past three decades. They’d existed. Now he’d ripped open that wound all over again. It was as if his entire career in law enforcement had culminated in this one nightmarish act—to reiterate what he had done or failed to do all those years ago.
He should have stayed gone.
Drawing long and deep from the bottle again, he ignored his body’s need to breathe until he choked. Whiskey spewed from his mouth.
He’d graduated high school and gone straight into the Marines. He’d done two tours in the Middle East where he’d volunteered for the most dangerous assignments in hopes of getting himself killed while doing something that mattered. When that route failed, he’d become a cop in New Orleans where there would be plenty of opportunities to get his throat cut or his head blown off. During all that time, his mother had written to him faithfully two or three times a month. Once in a while he would call to check on her, always picking a time when he knew his father wouldn’t be home. Luke Durham and his retired department buddies had coffee once a month like clockwork and Troy used that time to call on the rare occasions he worked up the nerve.
Most likely he would never have come back, but then three years ago his father had a major heart attack and his mother had called. For the first time in nearly thirty years she’d asked him for help. Troy had transferred to Metro that same week. He and his father rarely spoke beyond hello or goodbye, primarily because he despised Troy for what he’d done.
Tonight had torn another rip in their damaged relationship. When his mother had excused herself to wash her face, he’d asked his father if there was anyone in the department—now or then—who would tamper with the case file. His father had exploded.
It’s not bad enough that you nearly destroyed your mother leaving the way you did. Now you want to damage my name and the department’s?
No matter what Troy said in an attempt to explain that he hadn’t meant his father, the old man wouldn’t listen. Troy downed another swig of JD. He scrubbed a hand over his face as the alcohol slowly numbed his mind. Every damned thing he did was wrong in his father’s eyes.
“Nothing you don’t deserve, dumbass.”
He thought of the woman who’d answered his call. Bobbie Gentry. The kind of shit she’d suffered through made him feel like a coward. She was as tough as any Marine he had known. He wondered how she had managed to go on with her life. Maybe she merely existed the way he did. The way his parents and the other parents of the children did.
The parents had all asked him the same question today. How did they die? Cause of death is inconclusive at this time. Most likely they would never know how the children died and the possibilities would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
He reached for the bottle but stopped himself and then pushed it away. He’d had enough.
Too much.
He folded his arms on the table and laid his forehead there. All these years he had hoped that one day he would find his little sister. He had hired private detectives. He’d even gone to fucking psychics. A waste of time. All these years Brianne had been dead and entombed only a few miles from home.
He hoped she hadn’t suffered before she died. The thought hurt like no other pain he’d ever experienced. She must have been terrified. Had she been tied up and forced to lie there and watch the bastards prepare to murder her? Had the other children cried, the sounds making her own tears more desperate?
He should have watched after her, protected her.
The burn of soured whiskey rushed up his throat. Troy shot out of the chair and staggered to the sink. He puked until it felt like his eyeballs would pop out. Then he crumpled to the floor and leaned against the cabinet. When he was sure he wasn’t going to puke again, he pulled his knees to his chest and did the thing men weren’t supposed to do.
He cried.
Sixteen
East River Street
Saturday, October 29, 8:05 a.m.
Bobbie stacked her empty coffee cup inside the other three filling the slot in her console. Lou Ella had caught her an hour and a half ago as she’d tried to slip out of the inn unnoticed. Despite Bobbie’s protests the woman had dragged her to the kitchen for breakfast.
How long had it been since she’d had homemade blueberry muffins? A year, maybe? Bobbie couldn’t remember when bacon had tasted so good. Or eggs, for that matter. Until recently most everything had tasted the same, like cardboard or dust. Her shrink had told her that the ability to enjoy the taste of anything was often hampered by trauma and tragedy.
Though she’d started her return to the land of the living around two months ago, there were times when the guilt still piled on at the idea that she was moving on with her life.
One day at a time, Bobbie.
Last night, she’d sensed Nick watching her before she’d glimpsed him disappearing into the shadows. She’d hurried outside and caught up with him. He’d made his feelings on the matter of her involvement in finding Weller crystal clear, but Bobbie didn’t care. He was wrong to push her away.
Still, she shouldn’t have called him a coward. He had to get it through his head that he didn�
�t have to do this alone. If they stuck together, Weller was far less likely to accomplish his ultimate goal.
If only she knew what that goal was.
The lights came on inside The Gentle Palm. Bobbie sat up a little straighter. She’d been watching Amelia Potter’s shop for thirty-four minutes. According to the placard hanging on the door the shop opened at nine.
Troy would be at his office and Bobbie needed to be there, too, but this visit couldn’t wait any longer. The shop door opened and Potter retrieved the newspaper lying on the sidewalk. She stared at the headlines—all of which were related to the case—as she went back inside and closed the door. Since one of the missing children had been her son, seeing the news splashed across the pages had to be painful. Noah Potter had been three.
Just like Jamie.
Bobbie didn’t have to imagine Potter’s pain. She knew it well. The uncertainty must have been agonizing. Thirty-two years of not knowing whether her child was dead or alive was assuredly a fate worse than death. Then again, Potter had likely clung to the remote possibility that he would one day be found.
Those kinds of happy endings rarely happened in real life.
Grabbing her shoulder bag, Bobbie climbed out of the car and hit the fob to lock it. She tucked it into her bag and crossed the damp street. The drizzling rain had stopped right after she woke up this morning. She tugged her jacket closer around her to fight the damp chill. The jeans and sweater she wore today were the only other outfit she’d hastily packed. At some point soon she’d have to grab a few necessary items. She reached for the shop door and hesitated. The sensation of being watched had the fine hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Bobbie turned around and scanned the street. Morning traffic rolled past. A man in a black trench coat hurried toward his destination. Two women, deep in conversation, rushed along on that same side of the street, their heels clicking on the cobblestone.
Nick was likely following her every move in hopes of spotting Weller—which made his determination to keep his distance that much more illogical.
Shaking off the frustration, Bobbie opened the door to the shop and the bell jingled. In Montgomery they had a couple of shops like this. She’d been in one during the course of an investigation. The atmosphere had been dark and mysterious with blackout curtains over the window and all sorts of psychic tools like birth charts, runes and tarot cards for sale. Various teas and books on magic and mysticism had lined the shelves while the scent of sandalwood was thick in the air. The so-called psychic had worn clothes as if she were reliving her 1960s teenage years.
The Gentle Palm was different. The large windows on the front of the shop were free of curtains or blinds. The meager morning sun filled the space. The soft scent of lavender reminded Bobbie of home and the body wash she used. She’d always preferred lavender. Shampoo, candles, air freshener, even laundry detergent. The worn wood floors were bare with nothing more than aged varnish for color. The walls were white. Nothing to draw the eye from the jars, candles and books for sale on the display shelves and counters. I love Savannah T-shirts hung on a clothing tree in one corner. A fair-sized table draped with a white linen cloth sat in the middle of the shop, a chair on either side. Another, smaller table and two chairs sat closer to the rows of shelves. At the back was a small counter with an antique cash register much like the one at the inn.
The woman Bobbie presumed to be Amelia Potter appeared in the cased opening that led into the storeroom or whatever lay beyond the small counter.
She hesitated, then smiled. “Good morning. I’m not open just yet but feel free to make yourself at home.”
Her hair was that soft white gray color that came from being a natural blond. Her eyes were brown. She was as tall as Bobbie. Thin but not fragile. Her strength showed in her eyes.
Bobbie unclipped her badge and held it up for her to see. “I’m Detective Bobbie Gentry. Amelia Potter?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m Amelia Potter.”
Bobbie clipped her badge back on her waistband. “I have some questions for you if you have a few minutes.”
“Of course. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks.” Bobbie reminded herself not to stare. Something about Potter made her want to stare. The curve of her cheek, the shape of her nose seemed familiar though Bobbie was reasonably certain they hadn’t met before.
“Please,” Potter gestured to the two chairs flanking the smaller table that sat to the side rather than the larger table in the center of the room. “Let’s sit. If you’d prefer, I have a private room in the back. Some of my visitors prefer more discretion.”
Bobbie shook her head. “This is fine.” She couldn’t really say her visit was official business, though on some level it was. Troy had asked for her help on his investigation.
Potter moved to the chairs. The oversize cowl neck of the dress she wore skimmed her shoulders, the fabric of the skirt flowed to just below her knees. There was nothing sparkly or fancy about the dress or the fabric but it somehow gave her the look of old Hollywood. There was a quiet elegance in the way she moved.
When they had settled into the chairs, Bobbie opened her mouth to ask her first question but the words eluded her. Strange. She was usually more on her toes than this. The past week was catching up with her way too fast.
“You’re working with Troy?”
Bobbie blinked back her surprise. At least one of them wasn’t having trouble staying on point. “Yes. I came down from—”
“Montgomery,” Potter said. “Troy told me last night. He said you’re helping with the children.”
Bobbie nodded slowly. “Do you mind answering a few questions about what you recall from the time period the children were abducted?”
“The children,” she repeated. “That’s what we’ve always called them. The case was never given one of those names like Black Dahlia or the Angel of Death.” She lifted her thin shoulders and let them fall. “Just ‘the children.’”
“I’m sure you’ve told countless officials what happened, but will you share with me what you remember from the night Noah went missing?”
Potter dropped her head and seemed to consider the request. Bobbie suddenly regretted asking. How many times had she been forced to repeat those final moments as she’d pushed her little boy out the front door of her home?
Run, Jamie! Run for help like Mommy showed you!
Bobbie’s heart ripped open all over again as those words echoed through her.
“I couldn’t have saved him.”
Bobbie jerked at the sound of Potter’s voice. “What?”
Had Potter said those words or had Bobbie thought them. Newt had told her hundreds of times—everyone had told her. You couldn’t have saved him. But she should have saved him. He was her little boy. A mother was supposed to protect her child.
“Detective Rhodes told me that so many times. You couldn’t have saved him.” Potter swiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I always cry when I talk about this. You’ll have to forgive me.”
Bobbie forced her head up and down in a nod. “I read your statement. You had put Noah down for the night. You still had appointments.” Bobbie could see the single mother working long hours to keep a roof over her child’s head. “The intruder came up the fire escape at the back of the building.”
“I’d felt ill at ease all day. As if something were about to happen.” She drew in a sharp breath. “But I couldn’t see it.”
Bobbie gave her a moment then asked, “Was there anyone during that time who paid particular attention to your son or to you?” Any good cop would have asked the same questions she intended to ask, but none of the answers were in the reports—didn’t mean they weren’t asked. Just meant they weren’t documented.
“No one.” She shook her head. “I have gone over those days and weeks so many times I could write a script
of my life during those final two weeks...before. There was nothing unusual. It was October so tourist season was high.”
Bobbie swallowed to moisten her throat. “Most of the time when a child is abducted, it’s by someone you know. Someone the child knows.”
Potter looked away. “The Sanderses weren’t exactly friends of mine.” A smile trembled across her lips. “Their church, like most others, frowns upon what I do. Considers it a sin.”
“Was there ever any trouble between you and the Sanderses or their church?”
“Not at all. That’s the true irony.” Potter picked at her dress as if she’d spotted a piece of lint. “After Noah was gone, they were the first to show up at my door bearing gifts of food. They even paid my utilities that month. Leon Collins—his wife owns the clothing boutique next door—worked at the utility company. He mentioned at their church that he had been instructed to turn the power off since I hadn’t paid my bill. Bill Sanders paid it the very next morning. I didn’t know until years later. I was so devastated I could hardly function much less attend to my bills.”
Some killers liked to show their softer side by helping those left behind. “Nothing the Sanderses did or said ever made you feel uneasy? Nothing unusual that you noticed about any of their friends?”
Potter opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.
“Anything at all could be useful,” Bobbie assured her.
“They all—the other parents, especially the fathers...” She clasped her hands in her lap and appeared uncomfortable. “Whenever they see me, they look the other way. If we meet on the sidewalk, they walk around me. I’ve always thought that it was their disapproval of my chosen beliefs and what I do but...”
“But you don’t think so.”
She pressed her fingers to her lips, then she looked directly at Bobbie. “No. Last night I was thinking about the days before Noah was taken. It was after Troy had stopped by and I couldn’t get my mind to settle down.” She shrugged. “It happens sometimes. My mind has a mind of its own, so to speak.”