No Darker Place--A Thriller

by Debra Webb

  Court Square, 11:20 a.m.

  Bobbie parked on Commerce and walked over to the fountain where Newt and Michael Hadden, the agent from the local FBI field office, were pointing to a camera high atop the Winter building. A frown tugging at her brow, she double-timed it over to see what they’d found.

  Bauer and Holt had rolled to follow up on a call from the hotline. None of the tips had panned out so far, but there was always the chance one would be the real thing.

  Newt saw Bobbie coming and put his phone away. “I was about to call you.”

  Hadden held up a plastic evidence bag. “We just fished this out of the fountain.”

  Bobbie took the bag and inspected the silver chain and the cross it held. Even if the initials hadn’t been engraved on the back, she would have recognized it. A fist drove into her stomach. “This is Gwen’s.” She handed the bag back to Hadden. “It was in the water?”

  “Along with all the coins.” He glanced at the scattering of coins under the water. “It’s a miracle I noticed it.”

  “We were checking the cameras in the area.” Newt pointed to the two cameras positioned high overhead. “We figured while we were here we’d take a walk around the fountain. Just in case.”

  Alyssa Powell’s body had been left here. At the time, there had been no cameras downtown. Not that it would have mattered. If the Storyteller hadn’t wanted to be seen, he would have taken precautions. He hadn’t gotten away with murder all these years without a highly developed sense of self-preservation.

  Bobbie surveyed the fountain, remembering the day Powell had been found. Her murder had been the beginning of the end of Bobbie’s life. She came here often. Always in the middle of the night. She glanced up at the cameras. She supposed the FBI was about to learn that sad fact about her.

  Bobbie followed Newt and Hadden to city hall. One of the city’s media technicians, Lane Knott, had set up three monitors for watching the playback.

  Lane adjusted his eyeglasses. “The playback will move forward quickly, otherwise we’d be here forever. When you see something you want to look at more closely we can change to slow play. We can zoom in. We can do all sorts of things.”

  He tapped a few keys on the keyboard and the feed from the first of the two cameras monitoring the fountain appeared on the screen. “We’ve begun our search on Thursday, August 25.”

  By the time the video reached Friday night, they’d all taken seats. The playback might be on fast-forward, but it took some time. When her car appeared on the screen, followed by her surveillance detail, Newt glanced at her. Hadden kept his gaze locked on the screen. She shifted in her seat, no longer comfortable, as she watched herself climb out of the car and cross the courtyard. For what she knew to be several minutes, she stood alternately staring at the fountain and surveying the square. The silence in the room was deafening. Finally, the video showed her walking back to her car, and then driving away.

  Daylight came with morning, and then afternoon traffic whizzed around the fountain. Pedestrians strolled along with no idea or no care their every move was being captured on video. Dusk fell, the street lamps came on and night claimed the city once more. The time stamp on the screen passed midnight, and a black Altima stopped near the fountain.

  “There he is!” Bobbie scooted closer to the screen. “Back it up.”

  Lane went back to where the Altima first appeared on the screen and changed the setting to slow play. The Altima parked and the driver emerged. He wore the same baseball cap and tee as in the hotel video. He walked over to the fountain and tossed something into the water. Bobbie reminded herself to take a breath. Then he turned and looked up at the camera. He removed the cap and smiled, his bald head gleaming in the moonlight.

  “Can you zoom in a little closer?” Newt asked.

  Bobbie loosened her grip on her chair arms.

  “Sure thing.” Lane tapped a key or two, and the face on the screen rushed forward as big as life.

  Bobbie drew away, her chair almost tipping backward.

  Newt reached out and squeezed her hand. “You okay?”

  She nodded, dragged in a breath. “I’m good.” She cleared her throat. “Can you run that last few seconds back for me, please?”

  Lane reduced the zoom a little and backed up a full minute. He gave a nod to Bobbie. “This should be better.”

  This time Perry’s face didn’t fill the screen, but his image was as clear as if he were standing across the room.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Hadden muttered.

  “Wait.” Newt tapped the screen. “Zoom in on the car. What’s that in the backseat?”

  They all leaned forward, hoping to make out the glimpse of something in the backseat of the Altima. Black or dark blue...then a flash of a man’s face.

  “It’s LeDoux.” Ice hardened in Bobbie’s veins. “He’s got LeDoux in the backseat.”

  “Back it up once more,” Hadden said, “to the point where the Altima appears in the shot.”

  Lane reduced the zoom and went back to the requested starting point. They watched Perry arrive and emerge from the vehicle. He threw Gwen’s necklace into the water, and then he stared up at the camera. After removing his cap, he smiled and then he reached up and blew a kiss.

  Bobbie’s stomach hit the floor. She clamped her jaw shut to prevent the bile that rushed into her throat from spewing forth. Perry climbed into the Altima and drove away. Unfortunately his path and the camera’s angle didn’t intersect on the license plate.

  “Let’s pull the feed from all the cameras downtown,” Newt suggested, “one by one and see if we can track him.”

  “I believe Agent Price already has someone on that,” Hadden offered.

  Newt nodded to Lane. “A second look never hurt.”

  Bobbie pushed out of her chair. “I need a minute.”

  Newt glanced up at her.

  “I’m only going to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

  Bobbie struggled to keep her stride steady and unhurried. The bitter bile burned like fire in her throat. She pushed through the door, locked herself in the stall and bent forward in the nick of time. The violent heaves emptied her stomach of the coffee she’d had this morning. She hadn’t eaten—not that a failure to fuel herself was uncommon. She couldn’t care less if she ate.

  She grabbed a length of toilet paper and wiped her mouth and nose. Closing her eyes she leaned against the cool metal wall of the enclosure. He’d been watching her closely. Why hadn’t he made a move toward her? Why the big production with all these victims? Jesus. Why hadn’t he taken her instead of LeDoux?

  Shade.

  Nick Shade was the problem. The surveillance detail wouldn’t be a problem to work around. She knew it, and so did Perry. Shade, though, presented an unknown variable who had planted himself inside her home the past two nights.

  Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe Shade’s insights weren’t worth the obstacle he presented between her and Perry. The idea that he’d made her feel things she didn’t want to feel was like...cheating. Her jaw hardened as she made up her mind. As soon as he showed up again, she intended to tell him to stay away. Whatever insights he had, he could share with Newt and her partner would pass them along to her.

  The sooner Perry had a clear path to her, the sooner this would be over.

  She couldn’t allow anyone else to die.

  Twenty-One

  Atlanta Federal Prison, 1:15 p.m.

  Nick signed his name on the visitor’s log and tossed his driver’s license on the counter.

  The guard looked at his license, then eyed Nick for a moment. “Empty your pockets.”

  He’d expected the inconvenience, so he’d left his cell and change in the car. He placed his wallet on the counter.

  The guard studied Nick a moment longer before jerking his h
ead toward the gate. A warning buzzed and the gate slid open.

  “This way, sir.” Another guard walked with Nick.

  The corridor was long and gray. Fluorescent lighting overhead added another layer of starkness to the facility. Nick had only been here once, and he hadn’t made it this far. Even now his palms were sweating and his heart pounded. Fourteen years ago he’d gotten as far as signing his name to the log, and then he’d walked out. Part of him wanted to turn around and make that same mad dash now.

  Not today. He had to do this for Bobbie. He thought of the way it felt to touch her. He’d wanted to show her she could feel again. He’d wanted to prove to her that it was possible to live again.

  Except he hadn’t lived in more than a decade and a half—who the hell was he to show her anything?

  The one thing he could do was help her stop Perry, and this might very well be the only way. He needed leverage to get a step ahead of Perry. Nick hadn’t felt this kind of desperation since the beginning.

  He clenched his jaw as he considered what he’d come here to do. There were men in this world who didn’t deserve to share the same airspace as the rest of the human population. One of those men was in this facility. As much as he hated that man, he knew things—things only a vicious killer would know.

  Nick needed a no-holds-barred tap into that cesspool of disgusting, yet valuable information.

  Just this once.

  “Your attorney called the warden and made all the necessary arrangements,” the guard, Malcolm Clinton, explained.

  The attorney wasn’t actually his attorney, but Nick saw no reason to correct him.

  “The prisoner is only allowed outside his cell one hour a day. Today, this will be his hour.”

  “I won’t need an hour.”

  Malcolm glanced at him. “You just let the two guards waiting outside the door know when you’re finished. The prisoner will remain fully shackled during your visit. You are not to touch him or pass anything to him. He’ll undergo a full-body and cavity search after your visit.”

  The thought almost made Nick smile. He hoped the guard who performed the cavity search had big, careless hands. No one on the planet deserved abuse more than the vile serial killer he’d come here to call on.

  As Malcolm had said, a guard waited on either side of the interview room. At the door, Malcolm paused to give Nick final instructions. “Bear in mind, Mr. Shade, that this prisoner has mutilated and murdered forty-two victims, including his own wife. Before he was sentenced to life in prison, he was a renowned psychiatrist. Do not trust him in any capacity.”

  “I’m well aware of his crimes.” Nick reached for the door. “I wouldn’t trust him in a pond full of alligators.”

  Nick took a breath and entered the interview room. He stood just inside the door for a moment before taking a seat. Randolph Weller’s arms were manacled to the belly shackle at his waist. Beneath the table where he sat, his ankles were shackled together, and then to the floor. The table was a long narrow conference table. A chair sat on either side. Against the wall on the south end of the reasonably large room were four more chairs. There were no windows. More of those harsh fluorescent lights lit the space.

  Lastly, Nick allowed his attention to settle on the man in the baggy prison jumpsuit. His sandy-blond hair had long ago grayed and receded, leaving him with an inordinately high forehead. His face was pale and lined with age. His hazel eyes sparkled with something like pride. The concept made Nick queasy.

  Hundreds, maybe thousands of times over the past decade and a half he had wished this pathetic excuse for a human dead. He’d actually tried to kill him but he’d failed miserably. No matter that fourteen years had passed since Nick had laid eyes on him, he still longed to reach across that table, wrap his fingers around his repulsive throat and choke the life completely out of him.

  “Imagine my surprise when Lawrence called this morning to say you were coming.” Weller smiled. “I’m certain the world must be coming to an end and the guards failed to inform me.”

  Nick reached deep for his faltering determination. This meeting was necessary. It was a first, but life was full of unpleasant firsts. Just get it over with. He pulled out the chair on his side of the table and sat, his spine rigid.

  “You’re looking well,” Weller said. “Lawrence told me you’d changed your name.”

  Lawrence Zacharias was the bastard’s attorney.

  “I came here to ask—” Nick swallowed his pride “—you a question related to a case I’m investigating.”

  The slight smile Weller had brandished from the moment Nick entered the room disappeared. “Your career choice is a rather dangerous one. Lawrence worries that you’ve become quite self-destructive.”

  “I don’t care what Lawrence worries about.” Nick stared unflinchingly at the man across the table. “I know you have ways of getting information in here. I’m certain you keep up with all your old friends. Who among your network is acquainted with the Storyteller?”

  The older man’s eyebrows reared upward. “The Storyteller. Ah. Quite a vile fellow, that one. His work is self-centered and completely lacking in originality. He’s next, is he?”

  Nick said nothing. He had no desire to share unnecessary exchanges.

  Silence stretched between them with the bastard staring unblinkingly at Nick.

  “Winston Fletcher,” Weller announced finally.

  Nick was surprised to hear that name. “My sources list him as deceased.”

  “Not quite,” Weller refuted. “You’ll find him using the name Willie Finley. He operates a rather rudimentary fishing business in Mobile Bay, Alabama. While Perry was attending the University of Minnesota in Duluth, he and Fletcher became chums. They shared a penchant for rather brutal sexual intercourse with their victims. I’m confident they’ve kept in touch over the years. It is, after all, human nature to catch up with old friends.”

  At least now Nick had a good idea where Perry had disappeared to after leaving his friend the doctor who patched him up. Nick wasn’t surprised he’d hung around in Alabama. Perry had wanted to stay close to Bobbie. What better way to avoid capture than to remain close to the scene of the crime? The world had expected him to run far and fast.

  The name was all he’d come for. Nick stood and pushed in his chair.

  “Perry is a simple man. Why don’t you ask me anything else you’d like to know? I’ve studied most of the high-profile ones.” Weller chuckled. “Even a few who aren’t so famous. One of the perks of agreeing to assist our friends at the prestigious FBI.”

  Nick grudgingly met his gaze. Why not? The bastard’s infinite knowledge of murder and murderers was another of the reasons he’d bypassed the death penalty. Nick pulled out his chair and settled in it once more. “What’s the one thing Perry would do anything to protect?”

  His expression one of amusement, the serial killer named Randolph Weller cocked his head and studied Nick. “How you disappoint me, Nicholas. You should know the answer to that question. It’s so very elementary.”

  Fury roared through him but he held it back. He refused to rise to the bait. “My life’s goal is to disappoint you.”

  Weller considered him for a moment. “Be that as it may, I wouldn’t want you to have come all this way for nothing.”

  Nick reached for patience. “I’m listening.”

  Weller smiled. “His mother, of course. She is the one thing he would go to any and all lengths to protect.”

  Nick gritted his teeth for a moment before responding. “His mother is dead.”

  “But he still loves her, worships her actually. You see, dear Gaylon is a regular Norman Bates. He loves his mother more than anything. He wanted to protect her from his father, but he never could, not until he was a man himself anyway. All those years he was forced to listen to his mother being brutaliz
ed as well as to endure the way his father brutalized him. Love, hate and the purest form of obsession. An incubator for evil, as they say.”

  “He chooses victims who look like her,” Nick pointed out. “When he rapes and murders them, he’s punishing her for not saving him.” He refused to acknowledge that some part of him wanted to impress the bastard.

  Weller gave a conceding nod. “You are so very close.”

  Nick restrained the anger that continued to build with his every word. “Why don’t you enlighten me then?”

  Weller gave a nod. “Deep down Gaylon resents that his mother didn’t protect him—that’s true. But he resents even more that all those times he listened to his father torturing his poor mother he grew aroused. His first experience masturbating was likely to the sound of his father raping his mother. As he matured he yearned for that sort of power, for the raw, animal sex. The need was overwhelming and eventually he gave in. The only way to hide what he’d done was, of course, to murder the victim. So, you see, Nicholas, when Gaylon takes a victim, he punishes himself by becoming the thing he hates more than anything else—his father.”

  Silence thickened, pushing the air out of the room.

  Just when Nick would have again stood to go, Weller added, “What better medium than the silky skin of his victims on which to convey his tortured story. Learning the art of tattooing was his one truly creative act. I suspect his old friend Fletcher had something to do with that.”

  As interesting as his additional theories might be, Nick had what he’d come for. His body rigid with mounting tension, he stood.

  “Before you go,” Weller ventured, delaying Nick’s exit, “please tell me. Have you felt it yet?”

  Rage ignited in Nick’s gut. The urge to reach across the table and rip off the bastard’s head blazed through him before he could quiet it. “I’m nothing like you.”

  “I remember the first time.” Weller closed his eyes as if recalling. “The urge was overwhelming. It swelled like the tide and I was helpless to its power. That’s the way of it. When it comes, you’re completely helpless. You’ll see.”