No Darker Place--A Thriller

by Debra Webb

  He put his face in hers. “I know you’re operating on emotion, and that will be your downfall. You want him dead. You don’t care when or how as long as it happens. You’re playing fast and loose, no plan—just draw him in. Don’t think for one second that Perry hasn’t noticed. He has and he’s using it against you.”

  Shade was guessing. “Good thing you’re not a poker player.” She jerked free of his hold, her skin on fire from his touch. “I have a plan.”

  He moved his head side to side. “You walked into the Evans home against the advice of the negotiator and the SWAT commander. You sat at an intersection and permitted one of the most notorious gang leaders in the city to get into your car. You allowed me—a complete stranger—into your home. Right this second you’re standing in a low-rent motel room with that complete stranger. You don’t have a plan—you have a death wish.”

  The truth in his words seared through her soul. “I was armed in each of those instances.” Her fingers itched to draw her backup piece and shove it in his face. “I’m armed right now.”

  “You protect yourself from what’s right in front of you, but you don’t protect your back.”

  “What does that mean?” He was grasping at straws in an attempt to distract her.

  “Even butterflies and moths use their wings to deceive their predators into believing they’re much larger and more dangerous than they really are. You.” He moved his head slowly from side to side. “You don’t bother. You throw caution to the wind—opening yourself to attack. You’re practically begging him to come get you.”

  “I know the enemy, Shade. It’s called setting a trap. Are you familiar with the concept?” She turned to the crime scene photos stacked in ominous rows like a freshly planted killing field. She needed to calm the hell down. The man had done some serious digging; she had to give him that. He had photos of the Storyteller going all the way back to his childhood.

  “A monkey recognizes its enemy, as well,” he said, his voice too damned soft. “Which is why some of its wiliest predators have developed a way to mimic the distressed cries of baby monkeys. Are you certain you’re the one setting the trap here?”

  “Damn straight.” She wanted to scream. What else could she do but lure the son of a bitch? A woman was missing. Two children were missing...two blond-haired, gray-eyed children. Like Jamie. Her heart squeezed. Obviously Shade knew as well as she did what could happen to them. She evicted the too-painful reality and glared at the man standing so damned close. “Who the hell are you?” She shook her head. “Better yet, what are you?”

  “Who or what I am is irrelevant. All that matters is that I will find Gaylon Perry, and I will stop him. But I can’t do what I need to do if you get in the way.”

  Bobbie laughed. “Really?” She lost her cool completely then and poked him in the chest with her forefinger. “You come into my jurisdiction and tell me not to get in your way? Get over yourself, Shade. You’re not some comic-book superhero, and I’m no terrified victim running for my life. I’m a cop and a damned good one. I know what I’m doing. What I don’t know is who you really are and what the hell you’re doing.” She gestured at his work. “With all this.”

  Shade held her glare for what felt like an eternity. “First, you are a good cop, but your instincts are compromised by emotion.” When she would have protested, he held up a hand. “Before you make any more rash decisions, why don’t I tell you who Gaylon Perry is?”

  “I already know who he is. He’s a twisted psychopath and a serial killer.” Shade was evading her question. She would not waste time going back and forth with him. If he didn’t start giving her some straight answers rather than repeating the same bullshit, she was out of here. Three lives were counting on someone to find the goddamned Storyteller.

  “We’ll see about that, Detective.” He motioned to the chair next to the table. “Have a seat, and I’ll tell you what you don’t know about the serial killer who devastated your life.”

  Saying no wasn’t an option. She never made it to the chair. Her knees held out only long enough to lower herself onto the foot of the bed. As much as she needed any information this stranger could give her...the fact that he was right on at least one count scared her to death.

  Emotion had compromised her instincts, which made her an easier target. She had to fix that problem. She was too close to make a mistake now.

  She could not get herself killed until the Storyteller was dead.

  Nine

  She could hear them again.

  Gwen Adams tugged at her bindings. She had decided there was more than one child being held in the other room. Either that or the drugs the son of a bitch had given her were making her hallucinate. Fear and anger warred inside her. This was Liam’s and Carl’s fault. Her heart ached at the thought of sweet, sweet little Tara. Gwen couldn’t really hold Carl responsible for his actions. He was only trying to save his precious Tara. Another eruption of anger twisted in her belly. But Liam, he was nothing but a no-good piece of shit.

  How had he fooled her for so long? He was the reason she was here. He was the reason she would die.

  Terror, ice-cold, snaked through her naked body. Liam had told her to meet him over on Highland Avenue to look at a house. He knew how badly she wanted to buy a place of her own. He’d sworn the house was just what she was looking for and the price was right, only he hadn’t shown. He’d set her up. Gwen was certain of it. She wondered what he’d gotten paid for delivering her to the damned serial killer who’d almost killed Bobbie Gentry.

  Please, God, don’t let him kill me.

  Tears flooded her eyes as fear and defeat welled in her chest. She didn’t want to die.

  Soft whimpers interrupted her desperation. The children. She wasn’t hallucinating. There were children here. At least two. How could she lay here feeling sorry for herself when those children needed her? She swallowed against the awful taste in her mouth.

  She had to get loose so she could help the children. First she swiped the edge of the duct tape covering her mouth against her arm over and over. She pushed at it with her tongue. Finally it came loose, and she was able to rub it aside. Then she tugged at the cloth that tethered her wrists above her head to something she couldn’t see. Her legs were extended and spread wide apart, her ankles bound to the floor. Pulling on her right hand as hard as she could, she stretched toward the cloth and chewed at it. Over and over she ripped and yanked with her teeth. Finally the cloth ripped, and her heart leaped. Her right hand was free!

  Turning to her left, she went through the same steps, tugging and tearing at the cloth. Victory seared through her veins as she freed her left hand. She sat upright and reached for her ankles, first one and then the other. Her heart pounding, she scrambled up from the awful mattress that smelled like the ones she’d helped remove from the beds of patients who’d died in a nursing home where she’d once worked.

  She swayed, then steadied herself. Whatever he’d given her, her muscles were weak. Hold it together, Gwen. She could do this. The room was dark. She held still for a bit until her head stopped spinning. Her first instinct was to run; instead she listened for any sound beyond the whimpering of those kids. Quiet. Thank God. He was gone for now. He’d drugged her and then left her alone several times. He might be gone for hours.

  Her fingers numb, she struggled with the rope around her neck. Hard as she tried she couldn’t loosen it. The damned thing just bit more deeply into her skin. Screw it! She moved toward the window and looked out. In the distance she could see the lights of downtown. Her pulse raced faster and faster. All she had to do was get the children and get out of here. Her legs started to shake. No. No. No. She couldn’t allow the shock to set in now.

  Clothes, she needed clothes.

  Gwen shook her head. Check on the children first.

  Hands out in front of her in the darkness, sh
e felt her way across the room. The first door she encountered was locked. She twisted and pulled hard on the knob, shook the door, but it was no use. The urge to run was nearly overwhelming. She wanted to kick and pull until the damned thing fell off its hinges.

  “Find those babies—then you can run,” she muttered, letting go of the knob.

  She moved cautiously around the room until she felt another door. This one opened easily. The sobbing and whimpering was louder now. Her heart stumbled. She instinctively made shushing noises as she eased into the room. Their cries grew shriller. Even with her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she couldn’t really see anything. If there was a window in this room, it was boarded up. She felt for the nearest wall and then moved slowly around the space. Stumbling into or over one of the children might injure one of them or her. They wouldn’t be able to escape this hellhole if she was injured.

  “Shh...it’s okay now. I’ll get you out of here.”

  The sobs grew more frantic, breaking her heart.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she murmured as she moved closer to the sounds. Her fingers touched silky hair. Her heart pounded harder. “There you are.” She squatted and felt the first child’s face and then the other’s. There was tape over their mouths. She started to peel it free but stopped. If she pulled off the tape the children would likely scream and that might alert him if he was somewhere outside.

  Something moved against her leg. She roved her hands over the second child. Her body started shaking again. She had to get these children out of here while the adrenaline was still pumping through her veins.

  More movement drew her attention beyond the second child. Jesus. How many kids did he have in here? She felt for the second child’s hands. Wrists and ankles were bound together but not tethered to anything. She’d have to get them loose first.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “I’ll get you out of here and take you home to your mommas.”

  The child’s body trembled. “It’s okay—it’s okay,” she promised.

  More rustling of fabric against the wood floor drew her attention to the third child. She reached over to pat the poor baby. “Don’t be afraid. It’s okay now.”

  His hateful chuckle filled her ears before her brain registered the danger. He grabbed the rope around her neck and yanked her downward. A scream filled the room—her scream. The children’s sobs grew louder. Gwen tried to fight. She twisted her body and clawed at the bastard with her both hands as he climbed atop her.

  He grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her head against the floor again and again. Her arms grew limp and so very heavy. Her body went lax against the floor.

  He pressed his weight down on hers. “Did you really think it would be so easy?”

  She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but now that it was so close to her own she could hear his heavy breathing, could feel his hot breath. “Please,” she whimpered. “Do whatever you want to me, but let the children go.” What in the world was he going to do with the children?

  He laughed, the sound booming all around her like thunder.

  Her head hurt, and the room wouldn’t stop spinning. She tried to make her body move, but she couldn’t...

  He held her limp arms above her head with one hand and fumbled between their bodies with the other. She tried to rally the strength to fight, but she couldn’t.

  “When you chose rescuing the children over trying to escape,” he murmured against her cheek, “I got so hard I thought I’d burst.”

  “Please,” she murmured. “Don’t hurt the children.”

  He rammed into her. She grunted...couldn’t scream. The children...

  Bile rushed into her throat. He rammed into her again. The body that no longer belonged to her jerked with the deep intrusion. A sort of numbness spread through her, as if her body was already dead. She heard the sounds of his assault but felt nothing.

  As her mind faded to black, she thanked God for the darkness that prevented the children from seeing what the animal was doing to her.

  Then the blackness consumed her.

  Ten

  Economy Inn, 11:30 p.m.

  Nick wasn’t sure if he’d gotten Bobbie’s full attention yet, but he was getting there. She was the first victim he’d interacted with—the victims of those he hunted were always deceased. That she was a cop created yet another challenge. The goal wasn’t to impress her; it was merely to help her better comprehend the situation. She stood squarely between him and his objective. Her compromised emotional state made her far too unreliable to provide any value to the hunt.

  If he was going to maintain his focus, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by her. She needn’t worry that sitting on the sidelines would hinder the outcome. Gaylon Perry would not escape. Nick doubted saying as much would yield the hoped for reaction. The detective wasn’t going to thank him and go hide in protective custody. He had to tread carefully. This was, as she’d said, her jurisdiction.

  “So if we add the three victims from France, and the two students who disappeared from the university he attended, along with his friend Kevin Woodson, we still have one victim unaccounted for.”

  He nodded. “That’s correct.”

  She moved along the wall, studying the photos. “So Perry—” she inhaled slow and deep as if saying the name was a tremendous burden “—goes off to France and has a wild summer with his equally weird friend and then he returns to settle into college life. But he’s had a taste now. He has to kill again.” She paused on a photo of Perry’s father. “He’s from a conservative family and community. From all accounts, his father was a strict disciplinarian, a religious fanatic some claimed.” She met Nick’s gaze again. “The father denies it, but I believe the scars on Perry’s body were from being abused by one or both parents. It fits the FBI’s profile.”

  Her eyes told Nick they shared the same feelings on the matter: too bad the old man hadn’t killed him long ago. “I spoke to a few former members of the congregation and a couple of neighbors who weren’t fans of his father,” Nick said. “All said the same—he preaches fire and brimstone sermons and would stone sinners if he had his way.”

  “Who’s this?” Bobbie reached up and traced the close-up of the hideously scarred body in the first of four photographs. Each showed a portion of a female body from the neck down.

  “Perry’s mother.”

  “His mother died of a stroke.” Bobbie’s confusion showed in her frown. “I’ve seen plenty of photographs of his mother and none—”

  “Her husband abused her,” Nick interrupted what he knew would be a repeat of one or more FBI reports. “Their entire marriage, I suspect. He was careful to ensure the damage was never visible. All the scars are below the neck and above the knees and elbows.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Bobbie leaned in to more closely examine the photos. “How did we not know this? Some of the patterns...”

  Her gaze met Nick’s. She didn’t have to say the rest. Bobbie’s body was marked with similar patterns of torture, as was Perry’s.

  “His mother was quiet and kind and completely dedicated to her husband, the church and her son—in that order.” Nick gestured to the other photos of Perry’s mother that showed an overly modest woman who hid her attractiveness most likely to avoid additional beatings in the event another man dared look her way. “Her whole life revolved around obedience and sacrifice.”

  “How did you get these photos? There was no autopsy.” Bobbie put a hand to her throat. “At the time of her death, no one knew Perry was the Storyteller.”

  Although Nick never revealed his sources, he felt her comprehension of the scope of his preparation was essential. “When I begin, everyone and everything related to the killer is relevant. Nothing is too insignificant. I don’t wait for an opportunity to come to me. I search for and make the opportunity. Th
ese photographs were obtained from someone who had access to the body after her death.”

  “You mean you bribed a morgue assistant or funeral home attendant.” She made a scoffing sound. “How could you be sure he would have photos, much less photos of this?”

  “I couldn’t, but I made it a point to find out.”

  She made a face. “Was your source some sort of necrophiliac?”

  “Does it matter?”

  For a moment her pale blue eyes held his, searching for answers he would never allow her to see. “No,” she confessed, “I suppose it doesn’t.”

  She turned back to his research. “The FBI profile concluded that when his mother died, he lost control and sought comfort by taking another victim.” Her voice was distant now; the memories took her all the way back to the time and place that marked the beginning of the devastation to her world.

  “He took a leave of absence from his position at the high school,” Nick picked up from there, “to help his father with the funeral, and he never returned. He abducted and murdered Alyssa Powell, and then he became obsessed with you.” He agreed with those conclusions in the FBI’s lengthy report.

  She hugged her arms around her chest and looked away. “No girlfriends, no wife, no history of any relationships outside the family.”

  “Other than Woodson,” Nick pointed out, “that’s correct.”

  “Family friends and neighbors, even the father, claimed Perry was too dedicated to his work and to the church for a social life.” She shuddered and hugged herself tighter. “Do you agree with the FBI profile that the abuse his father staunchly denies triggered his need to kill? That it’s the only way he can find sexual release?” Her gaze swung to his.

  “I do.” Nick had to look away. The dark shadows haunting her eyes now tugged at him in a way that was detrimental to his ability to stay centered on the task that lay ahead. “For the record, I don’t agree with the part that suggests Perry’s volunteer work with community youth groups was a way to make up for his bad deeds. In my opinion, it was simply another way of hiding in plain sight and proving his superiority. He was so clever, he could fool the whole town. To trust someone with your child is the deepest trust.”