by Debra Webb
Nick turned his back and started for the door. He would not listen to another word the monster had to say.
“Elizabeth would be proud of you, Nicholas.”
He whipped around, rage battering against him anew. “Never say her name. Never.”
Weller sighed. “Very well. Please accept my deepest apology.”
His movements stiff, Nick reached for the door once more.
“It was good to see you, son.”
Twenty-Two
Criminal Investigation Division, 5:50 p.m.
Clutching her desk phone to her ear, Bobbie rolled her chair deeper into her cubicle. The receptionist answered on the second ring and recited her practiced spiel. “This is Detective Bobbie Gentry.” She spoke barely above a whisper. “I need to cancel tomorrow’s appointment.”
She waited through the expected calendar check for next week’s appointment. “Sure,” Bobbie agreed. “That works. Thanks.” She placed the receiver back in its cradle and glanced around just to be sure no one had walked up while her back was turned.
The chief would surely understand her skipping this week’s appointment with the shrink. She stood, went up on tiptoe and peeked over the cubicle wall to see if Newt had finished his report. His chair was empty. She frowned. Where did he go? She hadn’t realized he’d left his desk.
“I finished the report.”
She jumped and turned around to face her partner. “Great.”
He offered her one of the two cups of coffee he held. “It’s been a long day.”
She accepted the cup and tried to appear at ease. “There’s still more than two hours of daylight. Should we check in with the search team commander?”
Agent Mason was in charge of the grid search. Bobbie and Newt had spent the entire afternoon reviewing footage from the city’s cameras. Too bad they’d gotten nothing for their trouble. The Storyteller had prepared well. He knew the areas to avoid. But he was out there somewhere. Every wasted minute was one stolen from his hostages. Jesus, she still couldn’t believe he’d gotten the drop on LeDoux.
He got the drop on you, didn’t he?
She blinked away that reality and sipped the too-strong, too-hot coffee. Maybe the bitter burn would clear her head.
“Listen.” Newt tipped his cup to his lips and grimaced. “We’re overdue having dinner together. How about you follow me home for a good home-cooked meal?” She readied herself to decline, and he tacked on, “Carlene will really be disappointed if you don’t come. I gave her my solemn promise I’d talk you into it.”
Bobbie caved. Why the hell not? If it made her partner happy, she could give up a couple of hours. “How can I say no?”
Newt shrugged. “Feel free to invite Shade.”
She hadn’t seen him since early that morning when he announced he had a source he needed to check in with. “He’s following up with a source.”
“Just the three of us then.” Newt confirmed with a wink. “Nothing like having two lovely ladies at the dinner table.”
Bauer bullied into their huddle. “Holt wants to see all of us in her office.”
Since Holt had a cubicle like the rest of them, her office was code for the men’s room. The ladies’ room wasn’t an option since Owens might walk in.
“What’s up?” Bobbie asked as they headed in the direction of the men’s restroom.
Bauer shrugged. “Got no idea.”
“Liar.” Bobbie jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. He never had been a good liar.
“You’ll see.” Bauer shot her a grin.
“Have a little patience, partner,” Newt added.
Uh-oh. Whatever this meeting was about, it was feeling more and more like a setup.
Once all four were in the men’s room, Bauer placed an out of order sign on the door. A smile tugged at Bobbie’s lips. She hadn’t met with the team like this since...before. She had missed these people so much. Bobbie hesitated, waiting for the guilt to surface. It didn’t come this time. She’d spent every waking moment since leaving the hospital feeling guilty that she had survived. She didn’t know how to feel about suddenly not feeling that way.
Holt rested her hands on her hips and looked straight at Bobbie. “Things are getting messy.”
That was a hell of an understatement. Bobbie glanced at Newt. Just what did these three have up their sleeves?
“Since Perry took LeDoux, Bauer and I have been talking,” Holt explained. “We’re a team, Bobbie. You know each of us is doing all within our power to make sure that piece of shit doesn’t get away this time. We just wanted to make sure you understood you can come to us for anything you need—on or off the record.”
Bauer draped his arm around Bobbie’s shoulders. “You’re not in this alone. We’ve got your back.” He hitched his head toward Holt. “We’re following up on every damned tip coming into the hotline. We will find him. Don’t hesitate to come to us if you need us beyond the job, if you get my drift.”
Newt gave a nod of agreement. “We’re here for you, Bobbie. Anything you need, day or night.”
Bobbie tried her damnedest to keep it together. Tears crowded her vision. “I really appreciate it more than you can know.”
“You’re doing great, Bobbie,” Holt assured her. “Not many people could have come back from what you went through. We let you down last time. We’ll make sure he pays this time—one way or another.”
Bobbie hadn’t stopped to think that her team might feel in part responsible for what happened with the Storyteller. The hurt in their eyes told the tale. She’d been so busy pushing them away that she hadn’t noticed. “You’ve always had my back. There’s no one else I’d rather be with on a team.”
Newt clapped her on the back, breaking the tension. “Good. Let’s get out of here and have a nice, relaxing evening.”
“What’s the deal with the guy I’ve seen hanging around with you?” Holt asked as they exited her “office.”
Images and soft sounds from her bath last night whispered through Bobbie. “He’s a friend.”
“He’s an expert on serial killers,” Newt said.
“Whatever he is, he’s damned hot,” Holt said with an approving glance at Bobbie.
“What?” Bauer griped. “You don’t even like guys.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
Bobbie laughed; the sound startled her.
Newt squeezed her hand and smiled. “There’s my girl.”
As they exited CID, Bobbie wished she could get back to this—to the way things used to be. But going back wasn’t possible. It meant a great deal to her that these people would risk everything to help and to protect her.
The problem was, they couldn’t. They’d just end up dead. She couldn’t let that happen.
She had to do this...alone.
Crestview Avenue, 8:30 p.m.
Bobbie couldn’t eat another bite. “Carlene.” She set her napkin aside. “That was incredible.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a home-cooked meal. The roast had been divine. The peas and potatoes utterly delicious. She’d eaten two rolls. Tonight she’d have to run at least two extra miles just to burn off the homemade lemon icebox pie.
Carlene smiled. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Bobbie. We need to do this more often.”
With one daughter in Nashville and the other newly married and settling in Louisville, Bobbie suspected the two got a little lonely. “Are you still planning that cruise?”
Newt groaned. He did not want to spend fourteen days on a ship.
Carlene’s attractive features spread into a smile. “I can’t wait! We’re leaving the first of November.” She stood and started to clear the table. “I’m dragging Howard to the post office to get his passport on Saturday.”
&nb
sp; “Really?” Bobbie shot him a look as she stood and gathered her plate.
Newt rolled his eyes.
“You two go chat while I take care of this,” Carlene insisted. “Police work is your domain—this is mine.”
“You heard her.” Newt ushered Bobbie from the dining room. “Wonderful dinner, sweetheart.”
Bobbie followed him out onto the back patio. The air was still too warm, but there was a gentle breeze. As hard as she tried she couldn’t help wondering where Shade was and who he’d gone to see.
“When this is done—” Newt gestured to one of the big rockers he and his wife used “—we need to do one of those interventions on Bauer. I smelled alcohol on him at work today.”
Bobbie dropped into the big comfortable rocker. She had noticed the bloodshot eyes. “He blames himself for Leyla’s death.”
Newt shrugged. “Whatever’s driving him, Holt told me she’s planning to give him a verbal warning when things settle down.”
“He’s a good guy—a good cop, but Holt’s right,” Bobbie agreed. Her cell vibrated, and she dragged it from her pocket. Unknown caller flashed on the screen. “Gentry.”
“It’s me.”
Shade.
That her heart beat a little harder annoyed her. “You have news?” She had no intention of allowing him to believe she wanted to hear anything else.
When Newt gave her a questioning look she mouthed Nick Shade.
“Nothing concrete,” Shade said.
A few seconds of silence lapsed. If he didn’t have anything, why did he call?
“I wanted to check on you,” he said as if she’d asked the question out loud.
Be careful, Bobbie. Don’t get yourself dead. Even as her pulse reacted to his words she reminded herself that Shade had an agenda. He didn’t really care about her beyond her connection to the Storyteller. The weight on her chest seemed to get heavier.
Why did that realization bother her so much?
More important, why didn’t she just tell him to stay gone?
“Any new leads on your end? Anything on LeDoux?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
The idea that another day had come and gone and they were no closer to finding Perry made her sick. Where are you, you son of a bitch?
“It’ll be morning before I’m back in Montgomery,” Shade said, drawing her from the troubling thoughts. “I’m in Mobile checking up on an old friend.”
He’s in the way, Bobbie. Standing between you and Perry. “Let me know if you find anything.” She ended the call without saying goodbye or waiting for anything else he might have to say.
No one could get in the way of what she had to do.
She turned to Newt. “This was a great idea, partner.”
Why not enjoy the evening with Newt? No one had the promise of tomorrow.
Twenty-Three
Killer Fishing, Mobile, Alabama, 9:00 p.m.
Nick parked two blocks from his destination and walked the rest of the way. He’d spent the past three hours worried about Bobbie. Hearing her voice had done little to assuage his concerns.
As much as he tried to deny it, a bond had developed between them. He had to stop Perry before he got to her. The memory of touching her, of needing desperately to comfort her, tore at his soul. As damaged as he was himself, she made him want to heal her.
Maybe he could do nothing about that unexpected need, but he could end Perry’s reign of terror. He could give her that much.
Starting here. He scanned the dark yard once more. Winston Fletcher, aka the Lady’s Man, forty-one years old, had raped and murdered at least half a dozen women according to some sources. He’d been a person of interest in three cases, but no evidence had ever been found connecting him to the crimes. According to Nick’s off-the-record sources, Fletcher had died four years ago. No new victims with his killing signature had been found, which seemed to confirm that conclusion.
Apparently Nick’s sources had been wrong. It happened. Most of the people he reached out to were either cops or criminals. The percentage of reliable information was about as good from one as the other. As much as he needed a break, he hated like hell that the information had come from Weller.
He dismissed that particular frustration. He had more pressing concerns. Coming here straight away had been essential. For whatever reason Weller hadn’t shared this information with the feds already, but they would certainly know it by now. His cell and the interview room were no doubt monitored.
Nick had to hurry. Stopping Perry was not the issue. He would make that happen. It was Bobbie whose unpredictability made his work particularly time sensitive. She was the only reason he had gone to Weller.
Like Weller said, Fletcher had purchased a home with river access and set up his fishing guide operation under the name Willie Finley. Nick imagined Fletcher got a good laugh every morning at the idea that no one would ever understand the inside joke as to why he’d named his operation “Killer Fishing.”
Nick shook his head at the irony and surveyed the area once more. There were other homes nearby, and all appeared to be occupied. Nick had been watching the house for an hour. No one had come in or out. The blinds on the windows prevented him from seeing inside. He’d considered going in through an upstairs window, but he’d decided that knocking on the front door would be the stealthier access since Fletcher wouldn’t be expecting a straightforward approach.
Before he reached the front door, Nick checked the only weapon he had selected for the encounter, a stun gun. He stretched his neck and then knocked on the door.
“Who the hell is it?” the male voice shouted from inside.
“I hate to bother you,” Nick called back, moving to the right side of the door. “My car won’t start and your neighbor Mr. Henagar said you might have some jumper cables.”
“I need a name and some ID,” echoed through the door.
“Nick Shade.” He removed his driver’s license and slid it through the mail slot since there was no other way to show the man on the other side.
Silence.
Fifteen seconds later, he decided Fletcher had no intention of responding. Nick braced to kick in the door, but the knob turned and the door opened a crack. The same voice as before said, “Come in.”
Tension throbbing in his pulse, Nick pushed the door inward. Winston Fletcher sat in a wheelchair. He weighed at least 350 pounds and his long hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his many elaborate tattoos and cutoff sweat pants that revealed frail legs.
Fletcher pointed to the license still lying on the floor. “You can never be too careful.” He looked Nick over again.
Without taking his eyes off Fletcher, Nick picked up and pocketed his license. “Like I said, I hate to bother you, but your neighbor Mr. Henagar said you had jumper cables. He never mentioned...”
“Don’t worry about it.” Fletcher jerked his head. “They’re in the toolshed. You’ll have to get them yourself. Both my helpers have gone for the day.”
“Henagar said he’d give me a jump if you provide the cables,” Nick added. His instincts warned this guy was not as harmless as he pretended. “He was pretty sure you keep them for the boats.”
“Can’t do without ’em.” Fletcher rolled through the living room and the kitchen and into what had once been a back porch that now served as a mudroom of sorts. “Out there.” He pointed to the back door. “Walk straight to the first shed, they’re hanging on the wall right inside the door.”
Nick didn’t move. He hadn’t spotted a weapon, but he sensed that if he turned his back—
Before he finished the thought Fletcher reached between his right leg and the chair. Nick grabbed his beefy arm and wrenched it behind his back. Fletcher howled in agony and dropped th
e .38 he’d snatched from its hiding place.
Nick seized the weapon. “I guess you figured out I’m not here for jumper cables, Mr. Fletcher.”
Face red, Fletcher shook his head. “The man you’re looking for is already dead.”
“Is that right?” Nick opened the screen door and pitched the .38 outside. “I’m glad to hear it. Maybe you can help me with something else.”
“My neighbors know I’m crippled,” he warned. “If they get suspicious, they’ll call the police. You said you spoke to one of ’em. He’ll remember your face.”
“I’m not here to kill you, Fletcher. I have questions. Answer my questions and I’ll leave, and then call the police. You’ll have time to do whatever you chose, make a run for it or end this yourself.”
Recognition flared in Fletcher’s eyes, and he gave a chuckle that sounded more like a cough. “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess you’re real after all. My money was on myth. I didn’t think there was anyone left out there who cared enough to be a monster slayer.”
“Answer my questions,” Nick repeated, “and then you can make your decision.”
“As you can see, I can’t make a run for it.” Fletcher gestured to the wheelchair. “Four years ago I bought this operation looking for warmer temps and fresher meat, if you know what I mean. I was sick of the cold-ass weather up north. Anyway, I was on the roof making some repairs and I fell, fractured my spine. Came home from the hospital paralyzed from the waist down. Now when I get those old urges I have to watch somebody else doing it on the internet.”
Nick ignored his sob story. “Gaylon Perry is in hiding somewhere in Montgomery. I hear the two of you are old friends. What do you know about where he is?”
Fletcher shrugged. “The two of us go way back, yeah. I ran into him at a college hangout back in Duluth about twenty years ago. He was a student, and I was keeping a low profile after a close call with cops in Detroit.” He laughed. “We were both looking for a little fun. We shared a couple of sweet little cunts from the college.”