Читать книгу The Coldest Fear - Debra Webb - Страница 12

Five

Coventry Court, Norcross, Georgia

6:05 a.m.

Nick Shade pulled on a pair of gloves and knocked on the door. The small brick house was the last in a cul-de-sac, with a yard bordered by trees on three sides. The two neighboring houses were empty, faded for-sale signs leaned precariously in the neglected yards. The driveway of his destination was empty and there was no garage. Overall, the condition of the house was poor at best. The only light or sound inside was a television set to the early-morning news broadcast from an Atlanta station.

If Lawrence Zacharias was in hiding, he’d picked a damned good place for camouflage. No one would look for the affluent, high-powered attorney in these living conditions.

Nick rapped on the door again. Their meeting had been scheduled for six. Either Zacharias was still en route or he wasn’t coming.

Fury twisted in Nick’s chest. Zacharias had ignored his calls and then, around midnight, he’d called to say they needed to meet in person. Zacharias had insisted he must pass along in person information imperative to Nick’s future. If the son of a bitch had ditched him, Nick would hunt him down no matter where he tried to hide. And when he found him, there would be no forgiveness.

If this was a distraction to keep Nick from catching up with Weller, Zacharias would pay for that misstep, as well.

One way or the other, he would end this cat-and-mouse game with Weller.

Nick made his way around to the rear entrance of the house. A small covered deck surrounded by the trees that grew denser behind the house allowed for a reasonable amount of privacy. When the door opened with nothing more than a twist of the knob, a new kind of tension filtered through Nick. He used the flashlight on his phone to confirm the lock had not been tampered with. Not just any lock either. Nick frowned. The door was secured with a state-of-the-art deadbolt set—only it was unlocked.

Inside the meteorologist on the newscast was giving a rundown of the day’s weather. Nick closed the door behind him and listened. No sound beyond the television. He inhaled a deep breath and analyzed the scents permeating the space.

Blood. Human waste. Both smelled fresh.

Defeat nudged him. No matter that he’d arrived on time for the meeting, he was too late.

He scanned the room with the flashlight app. No blood or evidence of foul play in the kitchen. As ramshackle as the house looked outside, the inside was clean with generous amenities. The fixtures were high-end. Nick wondered if Zacharias had used this place as a getaway during the more notorious days in his career.

He had a bad feeling the attorney’s career and likely his life were over.

He moved into the main room and there on a white sheet in the center of the room was Lawrence Zacharias. Weller had gotten here first. He’d taken Zacharias apart as he did all his victims. Nick’s jaw tightened with hatred. Weller started with an arm or a leg. All four limbs were separated at the joints, elbows and knees. Then, the stubs were chopped from the body at the main joint. The torso was divided in half and, finally, he removed the head. Before his incarceration, Weller had only taken victims to use in his art projects. He mutilated their bodies and spread the parts on a white sheet in some grotesque manner and then he painted the scene on a painter’s canvas.

Nick hesitated. One of Weller’s victims hadn’t been an art project. His wife—Nick’s mother—had discovered the kind of monster her husband was. Weller had murdered her and buried her in the backyard when Nick was only ten years old. For the next decade or so he had believed his mother had deserted him...that she hadn’t loved him enough to take him with her.

Just another reason to hate Weller.

Nick searched the house, knowing full well he would find nothing to help in his hunt for the bastard. Weller would have taken anything relevant with him. The only bedroom revealed another victim. This one a younger man. The younger victim’s shirt had survived mostly intact as his body had been chopped into pieces. The previously white polo shirt sported the logo of a well-known courier service.

Moving through the house a second time, Nick found nothing other than the smattering of possessions that apparently made Zacharias feel at home whenever he visited this place. A framed photo of his family sat on a table. Now the family that had deserted him was rid of the scourge on their name.

Nick slipped out the back door and into the darkness. The darkness had always been his closest ally. It was the one thing he could count on. He reached the car he’d parked three blocks away and climbed inside. His only recourse now was to attempt picking up Weller’s trail again. The murders were barely a couple of hours old. He wouldn’t have gotten far.

Several hours ago Bobbie had arrived in Atlanta. She’d gone to Zacharias’s home. The tracking software Nick had installed on her phone gave him her exact location every minute of every day. It wasn’t the same as being near her, but it made him feel better to know where she was and, to some degree, what she was doing.

If she steered clear of him maybe she would stay safe. Bobbie deserved a real life. He could never give her that.

His cell vibrated and Nick checked the screen.

Dwight Jessup.

Jessup was Nick’s resource within the FBI. Their relationship was a tenuous one, but Jessup had not let him down in the six years since they literally ran into each other on an investigation in Minnesota. Nick had been watching his target for weeks when Jessup showed up and accidentally plowed into the house where Nick had set up surveillance. An icy road had been the culprit. Jessup had also facilitated Nick’s way into Bobbie’s life.

He had no business being a part of her life now.

“You have something for me?” Nick asked, going straight to the point.

“The Atlanta field office is about to bring in Anthony LeDoux. The word is they think he has knowledge of your or Weller’s whereabouts. I thought you might want to know.”

Nick had suspected LeDoux was on the edge. The agent was almost as obsessed with stopping Weller as Nick.

“LeDoux is in Atlanta?” If he was here, he had a lead. Nick didn’t know why he was surprised—LeDoux was damned good at his job. At least he had been before almost losing his life to the Storyteller.

“Hold on and I’ll give you his exact location. I just saw the alert.”

Nick slid behind the wheel of the Buick he’d bought in Chattanooga in the middle of the night.

“Here we go,” Jessup said. “He’s at the Country Inn & Suites.”

Nick knew where LeDoux was before Jessup provided the physical address.

Bobbie was there, too.