by Debra Webb
“Just tell me already,” she muttered.
“His mother came home from work and found him in her kitchen. Deep stab wound to the gut. He bled out right there on the floor just like...” He shrugged and looked away.
Just like her husband had. “Thanks, Bauer.” She glanced back at LeDoux and Neely. “You might want to stay for this.”
“You worried this guy will give you a hard time?” Bauer asked, surprised.
“I’m worried I might give him one,” she let him know. She couldn’t afford even the slightest misstep, or she’d be back on admin leave.
Bauer grinned. “You got it.”
Bobbie returned to her seat while Bauer loitered near the door.
“I believe that’s all for now.” LeDoux stood. “Thank you, Mr. Neely.”
Neely looked up. “Am I free to go now?”
LeDoux looked to Bobbie before saying, “You’ll have to work that out with Detective Gentry.”
Bobbie pushed up from her chair. “Liam Neely, you’re under arrest.” As Bobbie explained the charge and read Neely his rights, Bauer took him into custody.
“Wait!” Neely shouted. “He said I wouldn’t be arrested.” He stared after LeDoux as he exited the interview room.
“Agent LeDoux said he wouldn’t arrest you,” Bobbie clarified.
Whether or not Gwen would have been spared her fate if she’d never become involved with a no-account like Neely was an unknown variable. What Bobbie did know was that the woman who had taken such good care of her deserved far better.
“Why aren’t you out there searching for Gwen?” Neely demanded. “Look at all she did for you! She helped you!”
The words hit Bobbie hard even though she’d been thinking the same thing. “We’re doing all we can, Mr. Neely.” And none of it would save her... The painful understanding bored deep into her bones.
Neely dug in his heels as he and Bauer reached the door. “This is all your fault!”
Bobbie met his accusing glare.
“Shut your face,” Bauer ordered.
“You know that, right?” Neely shouted at Bobbie as he was dragged out the door. “None of this would have happened if you’d just died like all the others.”
Seven
The last of the coffee he’d drank this morning burned its way up his throat and splatted into the toilet. Asher spit and gagged at the nasty-ass taste. The anger had subsided, and all that was left was the goddamned dull, throbbing pain that never really went away.
His body shook from the receding rage. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got to his feet. A toilet two stalls away flushed. Frustration and humiliation wrapped around him and tightened like a vise as he waited for the other guy to clear out. Two quick pumps of soap accompanied the rush of the water running in the sink, and then the drag of paper towels yanked from the dispenser conveyed that he was almost finished. Finally the door opened, followed by the slow sigh of the hydraulic closer allowing the door to drift back into its frame.
Asher braced his forehead against the cool metal wall of the stall and focused on leveling out his breathing. He couldn’t tolerate bastards like Neely. What kind of no-good son of a bitch treated a woman the way Neely had treated Gwen Adams? Asher would give anything—any damned thing—to have Leyla back while ass wipes like Neely tossed away the woman he supposedly loved like yesterday’s trash.
No man should get away with that shit.
Who was he to throw stones? Maybe if Asher had been a little more tuned into Leyla, he wouldn’t have lost her so soon. He would have recognized the signs and stopped her from taking her life. If he’d been there for her the way she needed, she could have been stronger.
He shut down the painful thoughts. “Gotta pull it together.”
He fisted his trembling fingers and fought to regain control. He had a job to do. People were counting on him. Bobbie needed him to help find that damned serial killer. He owed it to the department to do the job right.
Hard as he tried he couldn’t get the shakes under control. He damned sure couldn’t go back out there like this.
Just a taste. That was all he needed. Enough to get through the morning and then he’d be good to go. He didn’t permit this kind of lapse often. Once in a while wouldn’t hurt. He was always in full control of his faculties.
Damn straight. Always.
He dug into the interior pocket of his jacket and fingered out the slim flask he carried for emergencies. This morning definitely met the classification of emergency. He downed a couple of shots of smooth whiskey and savored the familiar burn. Even before the Jack Daniel’s hit his bloodstream he felt the flood of relief.
Tucking the flask away, he exited the stall. He washed his hands and face and popped an Altoid. As the shaking slowly subsided he drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He was good to go.
Work was all he had now. Fucking it up wasn’t an option.
Eight
Gardendale Drive, 9:20 p.m.
Bobbie retied the laces of her running shoes. She checked the small holster strapped at her ankle, tucked the stun gun into a better position in her sports bra and gave the knife sheathed at the small of her back a final pat. Shade’s words about her checking her weapons ricocheted through her mind. She’d have to make a conscious effort not to check them during her run.
Pulling on her spiral wrist key chain, she headed for the door. She went through her usual routine of checking beyond the window blinds before exiting her house. Once the door was locked, she bounded down the cracked sidewalk. Her surveillance detail readied to roll. The two new officers on duty tonight had obviously been advised of her nightly rituals.
Rather than allow her frustration to compound, she focused on the street and cleared her head of the day’s stressors and static. No matter how hard she tried, Neely’s voice intruded again. None of this would have happened if you’d just died like all the others.
Her jaw tightened, and she pushed into a run. Maybe she should have told him that she’d wished the same thing too many times to count. But she couldn’t take the easy way out. She had a different mission. She had to find Gwen and the children. Once the Storyteller was dead...then it wouldn’t matter if she lived or died.
D-Boy wagged his tail as she sprinted past his yard. She was already dreading winter for the animal. Maybe she’d call the landlord and see about getting permission to install a large fenced enclosure in the side yard. As long as it didn’t cost the landlord, surely the woman who owned D-Boy wouldn’t mind. She could buy D-Boy a good-sized doghouse, and then he’d stay warm this winter. She couldn’t bear the idea of him freezing on that porch. Winters in Alabama weren’t severe, but the weather dropped well below the freezing point too often for an animal to be chained to a porch post with no proper shelter. More often than not when she came home, his chain was tangled to the point that even if he had a decent shelter on the porch he wouldn’t be able to reach it. He should be freed from that damned chain.
Farther up the next block a dark car eased to the curb on her side of the street beneath the only working street lamp. The nose of the black Ford sedan pointed in her direction. No one she recognized. Tension rippled through her warming muscles. As she approached the vehicle’s position the driver’s-side window powered down. Light from the street lamp spilled over Nick Shade’s face.
Bobbie slowed to a walk. The surveillance detail moved up next to the vehicle. Bobbie waved them on, but they didn’t go far. The cruiser pulled to the curb a few yards beyond her position.
She braced her hands on the roof of the car and stared down at the driver. “If you plan to show up every night like this, you need to come prepared to keep up on foot. Using your car to tag along is an unfair advantage.”
He studied her a moment, his dark gaze eventually settlin
g on hers. “There’s something I need to show you.”
Bobbie laughed, mostly to cover the unexpected tremor prompted by his words. What the hell was wrong with her? “You really should sharpen your pickup skills, Shade. But, just so you know, don’t waste your time with me.” She straightened, drawing away from his car.
“It’s about Perry.”
She hesitated for about three seconds, long enough to remind herself that no matter what Newt had heard, she didn’t know this guy.
“I’m not armed, Detective. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Somehow she doubted the latter was true. She rounded the hood and climbed into the passenger side. “Where we going?”
“The motel I’ve been staying in since the middle of May.”
Not wanting him to see her surprise, Bobbie fiddled with her seat belt rather than look at him as he guided the car onto the street. He’d been here—watching her—for more than three months? Why the hell hadn’t he talked to her before Carl Evans blew his damned brains out? Before Gwen Adams and two children were abducted?
She didn’t have to ask. The answer was simple. If he was the kind of hunter Newt believed he was, lying in wait for his prey was what he did. A good hunter familiarized himself with his prey’s territory and behavioral patterns. Shade was no doubt well aware his prey—the Storyteller—would return to Montgomery for the one that got away.
Whatever Shade was, he was no better than the media vultures who showed up at her door every few weeks and pestered her. Anger rumbled inside her. He had his agenda and nothing else mattered. Did he even care about the victims? Did someone somewhere pay him to track monsters like the Storyteller? Some benevolent benefactor of mankind in general? Or some twisted recluse obsessed with serial murders?
She took a breath and reminded herself that if he could somehow contribute to her goal of finding the Storyteller she didn’t give a damn what he was or who sent him—as long as he didn’t get in the way.
“We want the same thing, Detective.”
She frowned, hating the notion that this guy seemed as though he could read her mind. Damned sure felt as if he could. “I doubt you know what I want, Mr. Shade.”
“You want to stop him. I want the same.”
What she wanted was to watch him die, but she kept her mouth shut. Holt was right. She shouldn’t mention that to anyone if she wanted to continue working in an even remotely official capacity—and that was the sole way to ensure she was kept in the loop. As long as Owens allowed her to work on the case, she intended to keep her mouth shut and play by the rules, at least when anyone was watching and until she had the right opportunity. When that opportunity presented itself, nothing and no one would stop her from killing the Storyteller by any means possible.
Bobbie watched the street signs as Shade drove. The cruiser’s headlights remained in the rearview mirror. He made no attempt to lose them. The dim glow from the dash allowed her to see the rigidity in the line of his jaw. He wasn’t as relaxed as he would have her believe. His fingers were clenched on the steering wheel. She inhaled deeply, smelled his skin but nothing else. He wore no aftershave or cologne, only the clean scent of soap or maybe shampoo. His shirt was long-sleeved, but the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Like before, he wore jeans. She couldn’t see his footwear, but she imagined they were the same boots she had noticed the first time they met.
He made a turn onto South Boulevard, and then into the half-empty parking lot of the Economy Inn. He backed into a slot in front of a door she would lay odds on as the one leading to his room. He shut off the engine and climbed out of the car. Before she’d opened her door, he was there waiting.
Her surveillance detail parked facing their location. She gave them a wave while Shade unlocked the door to his room. Maybe the two cops would believe this was a booty call and wouldn’t report it to Owens or Peterson. She doubted she would ever be that lucky.
Shade opened the door and waited for her to enter before him. The room was the usual single. A bed, along with a table and a chair that sat in front of the one window, and not much else. Next to the sink on the far side of the room were the closet and a door to the bathroom. Under the counter that held the sink was a chest cooler—the kind people used for tailgating parties.
When Shade closed the door and she turned back in that direction she saw the reason he’d brought her here. The entire wall had been cleared of any cheap artwork that came with the room and was now devoted to the Storyteller case.
Startled and at the same time curious, Bobbie wandered to that side of the room. Photos from every single crime scene attributed to the Storyteller were posted. Older crime scene photos that she couldn’t readily identify drew her to a column topped with a big question mark.
“I believe those were his first murders, but I have no evidence to support that theory.”
The deep, rich sound of his voice stirred something distant and somehow familiar inside her, but it was the suggestion that made her shiver. “These were where?” She tried to identify the official vehicle captured in one of the photos. “France?”
“Yes. In a village just outside Paris.” Shade indicated one of the photos as he moved closer, the heat from his body crowding around her, making her feel restless. “Perry and his best friend from high school, Kevin Woodson, spent a summer in Paris after graduation. Though the murders were very different, the victims were remarkably similar to the ones Perry has chosen since. I believe those young women were his first kills. Maybe he and Woodson killed them together. The two had been friends since grade school and were the class nerds voted mostly likely to be forgotten senior year. I’ve tried to locate Woodson, but he disappeared a couple of years after their return to the States.”
Bobbie studied the photos, her pulse beating faster and faster. “Perry...” She swallowed the bitter taste of his name on her tongue. “He may have killed his old friend to keep him quiet. He told me he’d killed three men—” she wished her throat wasn’t so damned dry “—including my husband.”
“I read the reports.”
She swung her attention to him. “How do you have access to official MPD files?” Not to mention FBI files.
“Accessing databases isn’t that difficult.”
She started to demand a real answer, but right now what she actually wanted was to know more about the Storyteller. “You don’t find it surprising he’s killed both women and men?”
“Less than one-third of serial killers do, but the answer as to whether he falls into that category or not lies in the motive for murdering the male victims,” Nick explained. “If he murdered Woodson, it was likely to ensure his freedom was never in jeopardy. He murdered your husband to accomplish a particular goal. Neither of those kills was for pleasure as his others were.”
He murdered James to get to me. Bobbie blinked away the thought. “Do the French authorities know about this?” She looked from the man to the photos on his wall and back. With him so close she could see the fine lines that bracketed his eyes—the ones that came with pain and defeat rather than age.
“After the FBI announced his identity, I started digging, as did LeDoux and his team. I anonymously forwarded the information to the detective in France who worked this case.” He indicated the victims listed beneath the question mark. “LeDoux did the same a couple of weeks later.”
Shade gestured to the other photos she hadn’t seen before, two women with very similar physical characteristics as the victims discovered in France. “I sent the same information to the investigator who worked the case at the university Perry attended in Minnesota. I believe he’s responsible for those murders, as well.”
“I hope you tip the housekeeper well.” She was surprised MPD hadn’t gotten a call already about Shade and the collage in his room.
“The manager and I have an arrangement. I clean up after myself and
pick up fresh sheets at the office.”
Sounded like the man had all his bases covered. Putting a little distance between them, Bobbie examined the other photos and the accompanying details. Her lungs struggled to draw in enough air as she scanned Shade’s in-depth accounting of the Storyteller’s killing history. He had documented facts even the feds hadn’t discovered—at least, if LeDoux knew about some of this he had chosen not to share the information with the MPD.
“This is incredible...” Her breath caught again as she came to the photos of her. Shade had documented her history from college until now. Whispers from those memories she couldn’t quite grasp resonated inside her. The newer photos—the ones of her running, going to work, dropping by the supermarket—ignited an emotion she couldn’t fully label.
She turned to him, the unfamiliar feeling making her angry. “You have no right to watch me like this.” She reached for a photo of her outside her home...the home she had once shared with her family. She ripped it from the wall. “This is private.” She trembled with the bombardment of raw sensations. How dare he intrude on that part of her life? That part had nothing to do with this goddamned nightmare.
He tugged the photo from her hand. “This is the part that will get you dead, Detective.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do or—” she waved a hand at the intrusive photographs “—watching over me.”
He stepped in toe-to-toe with her, sending her tension to a whole new level. “You can’t really believe you’ll be able to stop him alone.”
She refused to argue the point. “I’ve seen enough. I’ll catch a ride back to my place with the uniforms outside.”
Long fingers closed around her arm. “He’ll use this weakness against you. You can’t win with all that emotional baggage strapped to your chest. It’s like a ticking bomb, and it will go off.”
Another burst of fury charged through her. “What the hell do you know about me other than this?” She flung her free hand at the wall. “You don’t know me at all.”