Читать книгу The Coldest Fear - Debra Webb - Страница 11

Four

Bobbie had barely reached the end of the block when she spotted the cruiser in her rearview mirror. The Atlanta PD official vehicle rocked to a stop in the spot she’d vacated mere seconds before. Unable to help herself she’d sat a moment at the intersection and watched the two uniformed officers rush up the steps toward the house. LeDoux hadn’t said a word but she’d felt the tension vibrating from him.

Eighteen minutes later she pulled into the parking lot of the Country Inn and Suites where LeDoux had a room. Definitely a step down from the luxurious four-and five-star hotels the agent typically called home when on assignment. Just another indication of how much LeDoux had changed over the past year. He didn’t wear his scars on his skin the way she did, but they were there nonetheless.

“You’ll need a jacket or something,” he said. “Unless you’re planning to leave your weapon in the trunk.”

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation or the burden of so many murders so close together but her mind felt as if her head were under water. Every thought, every reaction was far slower than it should be. Agreeing to come to this hotel with LeDoux was likely another sleep-deprived decision she would regret.

He works for the FBI, Bobbie. He used you once...

Considering she didn’t have a better plan, she popped the trunk and climbed from the driver’s seat. She glanced at LeDoux as she grabbed her overnight duffel bag from the back seat. There were a lot of people she’d let down. Her son, her husband, her partner, her friend, the chief. Special Agent LeDoux was guilty of that egregious sin the same as she was—all the more reason she shouldn’t trust him, except he had certain connections she didn’t.

She moved around to the trunk and dug out the windbreaker she kept there for emergencies. Dragging on the jacket, she reluctantly admitted to herself that whatever LeDoux had or hadn’t done, she owed him. He had protected her that once when there was no one else—when it counted. He had allowed the monster to take him instead. His screams echoed deep in her soul. Bobbie shook off the haunting memories.

“We have to go through the lobby to get to the room,” LeDoux explained as if the silence or her lack of a response had gotten to him and he needed to speak just to make sure they were both still alive.

The two of them were like the walking dead—ghosts. Mere shadows of their former selves moving among the living. The breeze she’d noticed earlier felt colder now. She zipped the jacket and secured the car. “How long have you been in Atlanta?”

She hadn’t seen LeDoux since late Tuesday night, some fifty hours ago, when they’d met at a crime scene in Athens, Alabama. Weller’s latest victim had been chopped into pieces and then displayed like a broken doll that had been reassembled by a two-year-old. Had LeDoux come straight to Atlanta after that to question Zacharias?

“About twenty-four hours.”

So what had he been doing between Tuesday night and yesterday? At some point this past week she’d gotten the distinct impression he was on thin ice with his superiors. Something else they had in common.

When he reached for the entrance door, she asked, “Are you on the Weller task force?”

He hesitated, his gaze settling on hers. “Not officially.”

Before she could ask the next question poised on the tip of her tongue, LeDoux headed through the lobby. The clerk, young and female, smiled as they passed. LeDoux gave her a nod. The clerk grinned, checked out Bobbie and then looked away. Whatever else he was, LeDoux was an attractive man with plenty of charm when he chose to use it. When he and Bobbie worked together the first time, he’d had a wife. She’d had a husband and a child. Ten months and a couple of vicious serial killers had changed everything.

Without speaking, they took the stairs to the second floor. LeDoux stopped at room 216 and swiped his keycard, then held the door open for her. Bobbie stepped inside, tossed her bag on the floor and surveyed the room. Window on the far side. Drapes pulled tight. Desk, chair. Small sofa. King bed.

One king bed.

“You take the bed,” he said, noting her gaze there as he locked the door. He crossed the room and rummaged in the mini fridge, found a bottle of beer and collapsed on the sofa.

“If you’re not officially on the task force, then you’re tracking Weller on your own.”

He shrugged. “Aren’t you doing the same thing?”

Rather than answer him, she pitched another question at him. “You’ve watched Zacharias since you arrived?”

Her real question was pretty clear. How did he get away or get himself injured and maybe dead with you watching? God she needed a shower. And sleep. It was three-thirty in the morning. She couldn’t think clearly anymore. Maybe she hadn’t been thinking clearly in a long time.

Rather than answer her question, he opened the beer and chugged a long swallow. When the need for oxygen overrode his desire for alcohol, he lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand.

Finally he said, “The local cops interviewed Zacharias on Wednesday, as did the Bureau. I tried to question him this morning—” he glanced at the clock by the bed “—technically yesterday morning, round eight. He wouldn’t talk to me. Just before dark, five-thirty maybe, a local courier service picked up a small package at his front door. I followed the guy to see where the package was going. By the time I got back to Zacharias’s house he was long gone or he appeared to be.” He shrugged. “I took advantage of the unoccupied house for sale across the street. I’ve been watching his place since, waiting for him to come back or for the right opportunity to get inside. At some point I guess I fell asleep. When I woke up I saw your car and decided to find out what you were up to.”

“So you lied to me earlier,” she accused, “when you said you were already in the house when I arrived.”

He waved off her charge. “There wasn’t time to explain all the nuances involved so I ad-libbed.”

Bobbie let his lie go for the moment. The way he referred to the Bureau—as if his decisions and theirs were mutually exclusive—reiterated her feeling that Agent LeDoux’s career was like hers, teetering on the brink of disaster. Bobbie crouched down and dug through her bag for the clean underwear she’d packed.

“So you never saw Zacharias when the courier went to the door?”

“I did not. I suppose anyone could have given the guy the package.” He downed another long swallow of beer. “But I never saw anyone else go in or come out of the house.”

She tucked the panties into her back pocket and got to her feet. “Who was the package addressed to?”

He lifted his shoulders in another listless shrug. “Who knows? The courier refused to tell me the name.”

“You stopped him?” Jesus Christ. LeDoux really was flirting with the edge.

“I followed him to the service center parking lot, showed him my credentials and told him I needed to see the package. He told me to get a warrant.”

“Did you inform the agent in charge of the task force?” The package could be headed to wherever Weller was hiding. Anticipation had her pulse pounding. “This might be a major lead in finding Weller.”

Rather than answer, LeDoux finished his beer and went for another. Images of Weller’s numerous victims filtered one after the other through her mind like flipping the pages of a macabre family album. Randolph Weller, aka the Picasso Killer, wasn’t just another serial killer. He’d spent most of his adult life as a celebrated, highly respected psychiatrist whose secret hobby was mutilating the corpses of his victims and then painting macabre scenes of the carnage. More shocking, the sick son of a bitch had served as a consultant to the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit—still did, or at least he had until he escaped. Weller was also a father. Images of Nick flashed through her mind. Unlike his father, Nick had spent his adult life stopping the most ruthless serial killers, the ones no one else appeared able to find. He’d found the one who’d stolen Bobbie’s life. The Storyteller. She flinched. Hoped LeDoux hadn’t noticed.

“The Bureau has no fucking idea where he is.” LeDoux grunted. “They’ve torn Atlanta apart. Can’t find him.” He shook his head and downed more of his beer. “Zacharias gave them zip. He’s sticking by his attorney-client-privilege bullshit.”

“What about the package, LeDoux?” she repeated, impatience swelling inside her.

He lifted a bleary gaze to hers and exhaled a big breath. “He wouldn’t tell me who the recipient was, but—” the hint of a smile tugged at his lips “—for a hundred bucks he gave me the address.”

“Where?”

The smile made a full appearance. “The same place I’m headed after a few hours’ sleep. Savannah. I would’ve left already but I guess I was actually waiting for you. I knew you’d show up eventually.”

“Savannah?” She ignored the remark about him waiting for her. Why would Weller risk staying in the state of Georgia? Savannah was only three or four hours away. “That makes no sense.”

“Who knows? But I’m damned sure going to find out.” LeDoux laughed, the sound as weary as she felt. “That’s why I brought my car back here and took a cab to Zacharias’s house. In case the courier grew a conscience and decided to report me.”

At least that cleared up her question about how he’d followed the courier and why he didn’t have a rental car.

“You’re here,” he went on, “we have a lead. You going with me?” He tipped up his second bottle of beer and finished it off.

Either LeDoux had gone rogue or his new assignment was to keep her off track. Considering his apparent need to inhale those beers, maybe if she nudged him enough he’d slip up and reveal his true objective.

She chose her words carefully. “The FBI is still suspicious of Nick?”

Just saying the words out loud had anger stirring inside her. Bobbie had no idea exactly how many killers Nick had stopped in the past decade but the FBI wanted to label him a vigilante. The man was anything but. He hadn’t taken a single life...until just over twenty-four hours ago. Montgomery PD had cleared him of any wrongdoing in Steven Devine’s death. If Nick hadn’t stopped the bastard who had used being a cop as a cover for what he really was—a cold-blooded murderer—he would have killed both of them. Devine had already taken five lives, including a fellow cop she’d loved like a brother.

Bobbie pushed the memories of Asher Bauer away. No looking back until this is done.

“There are those who want to take him down,” LeDoux acknowledged, “but they have no proof. All they can do is watch and wait for him to fuck up. They got nothing on Shade and nothing on Weller. You and I are the only ones with a lead.”

She wanted to rant about the injustice of it all. Nick was a hero. “Then I guess we’ll be working together again.” At least as long as it benefited her goal of helping Nick. She didn’t wait for LeDoux to respond. She picked up her cell and headed for the bathroom.

He grabbed her arm as she passed. “We want the same thing, Bobbie. But I’m not sure we can win this.” His thumb rubbed across the scar on her wrist.

“That won’t keep me from trying.” She tugged free of his hold and shut herself up in the bathroom. She placed her clothes, her Glock, the ankle holster with her .22 and her cell on the closed toilet lid and then sagged against the door. She squeezed her eyes shut to block the memories that tried to intrude. The long scars on her wrist burned as if LeDoux had dashed lighter fluid on her skin and lit a match rather than simply touched her there.

The first cut had been long and deep. She hadn’t been able to hold the knife well enough to slash the other wrist so she’d taken the handle between her teeth and sliced as hard and deep as she could. Blood had flowed like a river. The knife had dropped to the floor and she’d slumped against her little boy’s bed and waited for the relief of death.

Only it hadn’t come.

Bobbie opened her weary eyes. Now, despite that horror, she had something more than revenge or just the job to live for. “Where the hell are you, Nick?”

He had no right closing her out like this. He thought he was protecting her, but he was wrong. Forcing herself to move, she turned on the water in the shower and placed a towel over the curtain rod. She watched herself in the mirror as she methodically undressed. Stripping off her sweatshirt first, she dropped it on the floor. Reaching behind her she unfastened her bra, pitched it on the pile. She shucked her jeans and underwear next.

For a long moment she stood staring at her reflection. She made herself inventory the ugly journey she’d taken ten months ago. Every step was carved onto her flesh. The thin line around her throat where a plastic surgeon had repaired the deep groove left behind by the noose she’d worn like a too-tight dog collar for weeks. The marks on her breasts where the monster in her nightmare had cut around her nipples and then sewed them back on like a demented surgeon. The slashes and gouges that had healed into grotesque ridges and shallow craters. The unsightly ridges from the surgery to repair her right leg. The small bulges that gave away the location of the screws and pins that held it together. The things he had done to her on the inside couldn’t be seen, but they were there...always would be.

It was the words tattooed on her back that told the real story. The words she chose not to remove. The words that spilled across her skin in broad black strokes like a tragic monument to all she’d lost.

She had left the story the bastard started on her back to remind her of what she’d done.

Bobbie had chosen to risk her life, but she hadn’t realized until it was too late that she’d put her family at risk, too.

The hot steamy air clouded the mirror, hiding the things she didn’t want to look at. She shook off the pity session and climbed into the shower. As she scrubbed her body and washed the sour smell of worry and desperation from her skin and hair, she considered that the Atlanta PD’s forensic unit would be lifting her prints from Zacharias’s front door. If he was dead she would be a person of interest in the investigation no matter her explanation. Her chief would not take it well.

As much as she didn’t want to hurt him, she couldn’t call in yet. She’d known Chief Theodore Peterson her whole life. He was her godfather. He’d been her father’s best friend, the best man at his wedding. The two had played football together in college, had married the same year, and she’d grown up calling him uncle. Bobbie had to do this and the chief didn’t agree. He wanted her clear of whatever fallout was coming related to Weller’s escape and the inevitable federal investigation into Nick’s actions.

Bobbie shut off the spray of water and climbed out of the shower. As soon as she’d dried off, she checked her cell. Still nothing from Nick. Another missed call from the chief, of course. A text from her sergeant and another from her lieutenant. Both ordered her to return to Montgomery.

Not yet.

She dressed and tucked the phone into her back pocket. Strapped the .22 back to her ankle and nestled her Glock into her waistband. With a deep breath she opened the door and the cooler air made her shiver. Rather than deal with the noise of the hair dryer she took the towel with her to continue rubbing at her damp hair. LeDoux had crashed on the sofa. Four empty beer bottles and an empty bottle of vodka she hadn’t noticed before lay on the floor next to his abandoned loafers.

Bobbie sat down on the end of the bed and watched him sleep as she squeezed the dampness from her hair. LeDoux wasn’t much older than her. She’d turned thirty-two this year; he was thirty-six. His beard-shadowed jaw and the tousled light brown hair that was almost blond added believability to the idea that he was as desperate as she was. The weary man lying only a few feet away was not the hard-ass agent she’d first met last December.

She laughed, a dry sound. Like she was the same naive, ambitious detective she’d been back then. Bobbie tossed the towel aside and went in search of her phone charger. She found it in the bottom of her bag. After scooting aside the night table she was able to unplug the lamp and plug the charger into that slot. Out of habit she checked the lock on the door and turned out the other lights before climbing under the covers. She tucked the Glock under her pillow and kept her cell phone next to her so she could feel it if it vibrated. Maybe she was being paranoid, but if she received a call or a text from Nick—which was highly unlikely but she could hope—she didn’t want LeDoux to know.

Forcing her eyes closed and her mind to quiet, she thought of D-Boy, the dog she had adopted from her negligent neighbor. She missed him. As an adult she’d never had a pet to worry about. She and James, her late husband, had been too busy for a pet and then she’d learned she was pregnant. James had taken up her slack with Jamie, their little boy, during the extra-long hours she dedicated to the job. She missed them both so much. It had taken her a very long time to allow another living creature close. Now she had D-Boy. When she’d decided to come after Nick, she had panicked at first. Who would take care of D-Boy? She couldn’t just leave him locked up in the house, even with plenty of food and water and a doggie door providing access to the backyard. There was no way to calculate how long she would be gone.

She’d called Andy Keller, a lab tech in Montgomery. He was a friend. He’d been only too happy to come pick up D-Boy. He had a pit bull of his own. D-Boy would be fine with Andy.

Bobbie allowed her eyes to close and stopped fighting the need to shut down.