No Darker Place--A Thriller Page 3

  “You might start with what Evans said to you in that house.” His gaze narrowed with blatant suspicion. “What he really said.”

  “If you’ve read my report, you know what he said.” She hoped he couldn’t see the lie in her eyes. This man had known Bobbie her entire life.

  The chief folded his hands atop his desk and sighed loudly. “I promised your father on his deathbed that if you ever needed anything, I would make sure you were taken care of.” Bobbie opened her mouth to protest his use of the father card, but his sharp glare had her snapping it shut once more. “Eight months ago Gaylon Perry almost killed you. If he’s back...”

  The air evacuated her lungs. Just hearing his name spoken aloud set off a chain reaction of voices, sounds and images that rushed rapid-fire through her mind before she could block them. Not a day—not an hour—passed without some thought of the monster sweeping through her brain. The memory of him was imprinted on her very DNA. The way her mind worked had changed because of him. She ate, slept and breathed differently because he was with her every minute of every damned day. And still the sound of his name was like having her entire body dunked in ice-cold water. It stole her breath and shocked her system.

  With effort, she steadied herself. “Surely you know if I had any insights about the Storyteller, I’d be the first to share them. We’d have the FBI in here pronto.” She produced an unconcerned expression. “Besides, he hasn’t taken a victim since my escape. The feds think he’s dead. You know and I know that if he was still alive, he would have taken one by now.”

  She had damned sure tried to kill the son of a bitch. But she knew he wasn’t dead. Deep inside, she could still feel him. He was out there...waiting for the right opportunity. He wanted to finish what he’d started. Come on, asshole.

  “I hope that’s true, Bobbie.” The chief leaned back in his chair. “As for the FBI, I’ve already made the call.”

  Which meant she didn’t have a lot of time. Urgency hummed in her veins. “Well, then, I guess we’ll know soon enough whether it’s really him. Anything else?”

  “You don’t feel the need to amend your report in any way?” he pressed.

  Telling him won’t help. “No, sir.” She stood. “I should get over to the lab and pick up a copy of that report.” Once the feds confirmed a connection to the Storyteller, she wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the investigation.

  “I’d like you to take a few days off, Detective.”

  “What?” She should have seen that one coming. “This is my case, Chief. Maybe Gwen reminded Evans about what the Storyteller did to me, and that gave him the idea to try using it to make the money he needed. Plenty of people have offered to buy my story. Maybe he sold the info to some rag. Desperate people do desperate things. Until we have proof the Storyteller is involved—”

  “Apparently,” he cut her off, “you’ve forgotten what Gwen Adams looks like.”

  He opened a folder and displayed a snapshot of the nurse who had worked closely with Bobbie for six long months. Gwen’s long dark hair spilled over her shoulders. She was tall and thin, with pale skin that refused to tan. Bobbie’s heart dropped. Like her, Gwen matched the profile of the Storyteller’s preferred victim.

  No. No. No. She would not believe the worst yet.

  Bobbie shook her head. She’d felt confident the Storyteller wouldn’t risk taking another victim—unless it was her. “You can’t be sure Gwen isn’t in hiding. If she’s involved, she did break the law.” No matter that her intentions might have been noble. Bobbie’s head was really throbbing now. The knowledge of what the Storyteller would do to Gwen if he had taken her twisted in her gut like a wad of fishhooks.

  The chief rose from his chair. “No buts, Detective. Until we locate Adams and uncover exactly who Evans was working with, you are on paid administrative leave. Now go home. I don’t want to see you here again until we understand what we’re dealing with.”

  “What about—”

  “Until I say otherwise,” he cut her off, “I want to know where you are and what you’re doing every minute. I’m assigning a surveillance detail. Don’t give them any grief.”

  Bobbie stowed the rant she wanted to launch and squared her shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

  Holding back the anger and frustration, she walked out. How could she find the Storyteller if she was on admin leave? Maybe she didn’t have to find him. If what Evans said was right, he was already here. All she had to do was make sure he had the opportunity to come a little closer.

  A damned surveillance detail would complicate that goal.

  As she bounded out of the building, she reassured herself that the cunning psychopath would find a way. After all, he was here to finish her story.

  It was what the bastard did between this second and then that scared the hell out of her.

  Where the hell are you, Gwen?

  Two

  Coosa Street, 8:50 p.m.

  Bobbie paced the sidewalk outside Central, one of the city’s most celebrated restaurants that overlooked the Alley, an equally prominent downtown entertainment district. When she’d called, Newt had urged her to come inside, but she couldn’t. She shouldn’t even be here.

  This is what desperate people do, Bobbie. Just like poor Carl Evans.

  She peered through the expanse of windows and scanned the crowd inside. Smiling guests were huddled in clusters of conversation. Chatter and laughter spilled out onto the sidewalk every time the door opened. The popular dining spot was a preferred venue for elegant social gatherings from campaign fund-raisers to wedding rehearsal dinners. Newt was here for the latter. His daughter’s future in-laws had chosen Central for the rehearsal dinner. Almost a decade ago Bobbie’s in-laws had done the same.

  If only she had known then what she knew now.

  “Another life.” Bobbie exiled the memories as she leaned against the old brick building that more than a century ago had been a warehouse. The location so close to the freight depot and waterfront made for prime real estate then and now. Smart entrepreneurs had helped turn Montgomery’s historic downtown district into the most happening scene in the city. Tonight was a perfect example. The foot traffic was heavy, even for a Friday night. Unlike her, most people had social plans at the end of the workweek.

  Guilt nagged at her. Interrupting Newt’s evening was wrong. So damned wrong. She pushed away from the wall with the intention of leaving. Desperate or not, she shouldn’t have come here like this. Her partner was too good to her. She had no business taking advantage of him this way. Tonight was a special time for his family.

  “Whoa, where you going, girlie?”

  Bobbie’s chest tightened at the sound of his voice. She stopped and turned to face the man who was more like a father to her than a partner, even if she had tried a dozen ways to distance herself from him these past months. Her family was gone. She refused to hold anyone else that close anymore.

  The risk for pain was too great. Coward.

  However hard she tried, she couldn’t quite deny or ignore the deep attachment she felt for the man. The tension clamped around her ribs eased a fraction. The charcoal double-breasted suit Newt wore had probably set him back a full month’s pay. The red tie provided a nice contrast to the light gray shirt. He’d had a fresh haircut, maintaining his vintage salt-and-pepper flattop. He looked good. He looked happy. A little more of her tension melted away.

  “Is my tie crooked or something?” Howard Newton adjusted the silk accessory.

  She hadn’t realized she’d been staring for so long until he spoke. “Sorry. I got distracted for a minute.” Her lips twitched with the unexpected need to smile. It had been so long since she’d wanted to smile she’d forgotten how. “You look great, Newt. Really great.”

  Grinning, he strolled over to where she stood. “I try.” He pulled her into a hug. “I love it w
hen you smile, even just a little bit.” He drew back and searched her face. “It reminds me that the real you is still in there.”

  She looked away. “This is the real me, partner.” Forcing her gaze back to his, she added, “The girl you used to know isn’t coming back.”

  As usual when they hit this particular wall, he changed the subject. “Why don’t you come inside and have a drink with me. Have you had dinner?” One eyebrow reared up his forehead. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten all day.”

  He’d win that bet. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Really, I shouldn’t have interrupted your evening.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “Trust me—I was ready for a break. They’re just drinking and chatting in there now. Besides, if you’ll recall, you were invited, but you said you couldn’t come.” He patted his pockets and grimaced.

  Bobbie scowled at him. “I thought you quit smoking for good this time.” They had been partners since she’d made detective. He’d quit three times during those seven years.

  “I did—I swear,” he promised. “I need a stick of gum or a mint.”

  Bobbie shifted her purse around and dug for the Tic Tacs she carried. “The chief put me on administrative leave.”

  Her partner accepted the box of mints and shook out a couple. “Yeah, he called me.” He popped the mints into his mouth.

  The urge to kick something came and went, thankfully without her acting on the impulse. To occupy her hands, she stuffed the box of mints back into her bag, and then clutched the leather straps. “It’s my case, Newt. Miller had no right running off at the mouth—”

  “Bobbie,” he said gently, “we both know this isn’t about your pissing contest with Miller. This is about Perry.”

  She turned away from him, watched the couples and families strolling along the sidewalk. Her surveillance detail idled in a no-parking zone on the opposite side of the street. She wanted to scream. “There’s no proof the Storyteller is involved. For all we know, this could be a copycat looking to grab the headlines.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to, Bobbie Sue?”

  Frustration knotted tighter. She should have known better than to take that approach with Newt. Foolishly she’d hoped to keep him and the whole damned department out of her private war. “Go back to your party. I should go home.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  Reluctantly, she turned to him once more. He wore his stern face—the one her father used to wear when she’d gotten into trouble at school. Nothing too serious, just the occasional playground or lunchroom scrape. Even as a kid she was never able to tolerate a bully. Didn’t matter how big he or she was, Bobbie refused to accept the role of bystander. She had to get involved, had to stand up for the tormented and the intimidated. More often than not as a teenager, her blackened eyes had nothing to do with makeup trends.

  But you couldn’t be a hero when it counted most. The fist crushing into her chest prevented a decent breath.

  “Peterson and I were there,” Newt reminded her, “in that cabin in the woods where that bastard held you.”

  She stared at the cobblestone sidewalk, unable to look at the hurt in his eyes—the same hurt that coiled like barbed wire inside her, ripping wider the wounds that would never completely heal.

  “We took turns sitting next to your bed every day and night for weeks in that hospital,” Newt went on, despite the knowledge that she did not want to hear the words. “First waiting for you to wake up, and then for you to be well enough to come home.”

  Bobbie squeezed her eyes shut. He was also the one who gave her the news that devastated her as nothing else in this world could have.

  Jamie’s gone, Bobbie. He died three days after you were abducted. I’m so sorry. We kept it out of the news to protect you.

  Her baby was dead, and that, too, was her fault. She forced the haunting memories away.

  “I’m the one who moved in with you after you tried—”

  “You made your point.” His words were like salt grinding into those old, festered wounds. Bobbie cleared her throat of the emotion wedged there. Keeping the truth from Newt was the hardest. He deserved better from her. “Maybe the Storyteller has resurfaced.”

  “I’d say that’s a given. Peterson is worried sick.” Newt sighed and tugged his tie away from his throat. “And, frankly, so am I.”

  “You think I’m not.” She shook her head. Her partner and the chief wanted to treat her as if she were incapable of handling the pressure, much less any potential threat. If the bastard had Gwen, Bobbie had to do all in her power to find him before it was too late. “No matter how terrifying the idea is, I can’t sit on the sidelines. I need to work this case—it’s my case.”

  “What you need, girlie,” he countered, “is to be extra careful.”

  She gestured to the cruiser across the street. “I’m reasonably confident careful isn’t going to be a problem.”

  “Just promise me you’ll take every precaution until we figure this out.”

  “We?”

  “Owens assigned the case to Bauer and me. Tomorrow, as soon as my daughter and her new husband are carted off to the airport in that two-hundred-dollar-an-hour limo, we’re meeting at the office. He’ll bring me up to speed.”

  Ridiculous! She should be on this case, damn it. Newt was her partner, not Bauer’s. “How’s your wife going to take you ditching her as she watches your youngest offspring drive off into the sunset? Don’t you think maybe she’ll need your shoulder tomorrow evening?”

  “Trust me, if this wedding goes off without a glitch, she’ll take a couple of Xanax and go to bed for the rest of the weekend.”

  Bobbie rolled her eyes and heaved a big breath. “This sucks—you know that, right?” She had walked out of that hospital the last time for one reason and one reason only—to get the Storyteller. Peterson was not going to take that away from her. Of all people, her partner should understand.

  Newt stared at her for a long moment, visibly torn about what he wanted to say next.

  Bobbie scowled at him. “What?”

  “There’s someone you may want to talk to. He’s here. I’ve seen him. I didn’t want to mention it and get you upset.”

  “Who?” LeDoux, the FBI agent in charge of the Storyteller investigation, couldn’t be here already. Even if he was, Bobbie had no desire to ever lay eyes on the man again. He had purposely put her in harm’s way last year. No, that was wrong. He’d asked for her; the decision to work on the Storyteller case had been hers.

  “While you were in the hospital the...second time,” Newt explained, “a man visited you. His name is Nick Shade, or at least that’s what he goes by. You won’t remember him. He was there the last day you were in the coma.”

  She ignored the whispers that tried to intrude. “Who’s Nick Shade?”

  Newt shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone really knows. He didn’t say a lot about himself. I talked to an old buddy of mine, Dwight Jessup, up at Quantico. Jessup says the feds are familiar with him. They just don’t acknowledge him—which is code for they’re not giving the guy credit for what he does.”

  “What does he do?” Newt’s story had taken a turn toward totally confusing, and her patience was wearing thin. She felt like a caged tiger. She needed to do something besides this incessant going back and forth, accomplishing nothing at all.

  “Some call him a hunter,” Newt went on. “Others call him a ghost. Anyway, Jessup said Shade was unofficially connected to dozens of arrests. As long as he doesn’t get in their way and he’s useful, they let him do what he does without interference.”

  An unsettling feeling stirred deep inside her. “So why was he at the hospital when I was there?”

  “He heard you survived the Storyteller, and he wanted to talk to you.”

  Bobbie laughed, a dry, w
eary sound. “Did he not notice I was in a coma?”

  Newt held her gaze for a moment, his expression suddenly clean of tells. “I can’t explain it, but even before I called Jessup, I had this feeling that Shade was okay. I let him sit with you for a few minutes.” He held up his hands as if he expected her to rail at him. “Don’t worry. I checked him for weapons, and I was watching through the glass the whole time.”

  “He just wanted to look at me or something?” That was creepy.

  Newt shrugged. “Guess so.”

  “You said he’s here—do you mean in Montgomery? Now?”

  After surveying the street, her partner nodded. “I’ve spotted him around. Yeah.”

  “You think someone hired him?” She couldn’t fathom any other reason for the guy’s appearance. Still, he couldn’t possibly know what Evans had told her, and the lab analysis of the victim’s computer had barely made it to the chief. Not one word about the possible Storyteller connection had been released to the media. “Is he like a private investigator?”

  Newt shook his head. “Word is he can’t be hired.”

  “You said some call him a hunter. So what does Shade hunt?”

  Newt hesitated for five seconds before answering. “Serial killers. The ones no one else can find.”

  North Montgomery, 10:50 p.m.

  Five...more...blocks.

  Bobbie charged forward in the darkness, running harder along Fairground Road. The pain had faded two miles back, overpowered by the endorphins that finally kicked in after three grueling miles. Slowing to a jog, she made the turn onto Gardendale Drive. Air sawed in and out of her nose and mouth in an attempt to keep up with the racing organ in her chest. Her muscles felt warm and fluid, as if she could run forever.

  She’d pushed to five miles tonight rather than her usual three. The too-familiar twinge in her right leg served as a reminder that hardware held it together. No matter how young and strong the endorphins made her feel, she was still Bobbie Gentry—thirty-two and broken inside. Somewhere deep in the darkness she kept hidden from the world, memories of the woman she used to be dared to stir.