Читать книгу: «The Coldest Fear»

Two

Atlanta, Georgia

Friday, October 28, 2:30 a.m.

The simple definition of fear according to Merriam-Webster: “an unpleasant emotion caused by being aware of danger; a feeling of being afraid.” Bobbie Gentry hadn’t felt that emotion for her personal safety in 309 days. It wasn’t that she no longer sensed danger or felt afraid, she did. The sense of danger that haunted her was always for the welfare of others.

As a detective with the Montgomery Police Department she encountered plenty of opportunities to fear for her well-being. Cops felt the cold, hard edge of fear on a daily basis. But it was difficult to fear death when all that mattered most in life was gone and the small steps she had dared take toward building a new one had been derailed.

A psychopathic serial killer known as the Storyteller had murdered her husband and caused the deaths of her child and the partner she loved like a father. Nearly a year later she had learned to some degree to live with the unthinkable reality and, wouldn’t you know, along came another crushing blow. A second serial killer had devastated her life all over again. A fellow cop she dared to keep close was brutally murdered a mere two days ago. His killer had left a message for her: This one’s just for you, Bobbie. The same killer almost succeeded in taking the life of her uncle, the chief of police.

Bobbie sucked in a deep breath. How did she muster the strength to keep going? Revenge? Justice? She’d gotten both. The world was free of two more heinous killers and still it wasn’t enough. The expected relief and satisfaction came but the hollow feeling, the emptiness, remained her constant companion. But there was the tiniest glimmer of hope. A fragile bond had formed between her and the man who’d helped her stop the two monsters who had destroyed so many lives, including hers. The development was completely unexpected, but surprisingly not unwelcome.

Nick Shade had given her something she’d been certain she would never again feel: the desire to live for more than revenge...for more than merely clipping on her badge each morning. Now he needed her help—whether he would admit as much or not.

Those who knew of his existence called him the serial killer hunter. Nick was unlike any man Bobbie had known. Brooding, intense, impossible to read and yet deeply caring and self-sacrificing. At twenty-one he had discovered his father, Randolph Weller, was a depraved serial killer with forty-two murders to his credit. Since ensuring his father was brought to justice, Nick had dedicated his life to finding and stopping the vicious serial killers no one else seemed able to catch. Like Bobbie, he’d stopped feeling much of anything beyond that driving need for justice a very long time ago. Maybe that was the bond that had initially connected them—the thin, brittle ties of utter desolation and desperation. Two broken people urgently attempting to make a difference that neither of them could completely define nor hope to quantify.

Yet they’d found something together. Something that felt real.

Whatever they’d found had gone up in smoke three days ago when Randolph Weller escaped the Atlanta hospital treating him for an alleged heart condition. Nick was determined to do whatever necessary to find him—including risk his life. Since Bobbie refused to give up on him or that tenuous bond that had developed between them, she had to find a way to give him the backup he needed.

Her search had brought her well beyond her jurisdiction in the middle of the night to the one person who might know how to find Randolph Weller. Her chief as well as her lieutenant were not happy about her decision.

Sometimes you have to do what you have to do no matter the cost to career and relationships.

Bobbie stared up at the big house perched on a hillside well above the street. Towering trees blocked the moonlight, casting long shadows across the lush landscape. She chugged the last swallow of cold coffee, her third cup since leaving Montgomery, squared her shoulders and tucked the empty container back into the slot on the console. She reached down and checked the backup piece strapped just above her ankle. The truth was it really didn’t matter how far out of her jurisdiction she’d come since she wasn’t in the Peach State in an official capacity.

In fact, there was a strong possibility she would no longer have a place in the department after the actions she’d taken in the past six hours. She’d barely reached the Montgomery city limits when the blue lights in her rearview mirror forced her to pull over. The chief had sent two uniforms chasing after her with orders for Bobbie to report in ASAP or face suspension. There hadn’t been time to convince her overprotective uncle that she had no choice. So she’d offered her police issue Glock and her detective’s shield to the officer who’d pulled her over and told him to consider her on suspension. The officer had refused to take her weapon or her badge, but she felt confident the message had been adequately relayed to the chief.

Bobbie wasn’t backing down until this was done. She would do all within her power to hunt down Weller, the killer who had orchestrated five murders as well as the attack on the chief himself in the past seven days, with or without the department’s blessing.

A caffeine burst shuddered through her system. No more wasting time. She’d wasted too much already. Judging by the home’s dark windows the attorney she’d come to Atlanta to see was either gone or in bed. A smart man would have disappeared the moment he heard the news of his client’s stunning escape.

Bobbie grabbed her Glock from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. She tucked the weapon into the waistband at the small of her back and took care to close the car door quietly. She’d long ago set the interior lights so they didn’t come on when a door was opened. Just another one of those cop things. Right now she was counting on the decade of cop experience she’d built with MPD to keep her instincts sharp despite the lack of sleep and the utter desperation clawing at her.

Lawrence Zacharias was the one person on earth who knew most, if not all, of Randolph Weller’s secrets. He lived in this multimillion-dollar mansion in one of Atlanta’s most affluent neighborhoods, Ansley Park. The community was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and was filled with overpriced homes from charming century-old bungalows to newer, mega mansions like this one. Bobbie hadn’t been surprised Zacharias lived so lavishly. She gazed up at the two-story brick. The tasteful landscape lighting ensured that, no matter the hour, passersby would never miss the full impact of the luxurious estate. More than a dozen limestone steps glowed a ghostly white in the moonlight, providing an eerie path to the towering double front doors that appeared better suited to a small castle.

Zacharias was without doubt Atlanta’s most well-known attorney. Fourteen years ago his representation of serial killer Dr. Randolph Weller had put him on the map. If anyone had the slightest inkling where Weller would go after his escape, it would be his trusted attorney. Bobbie intended to get from the man what the FBI and local police apparently could not.

According to the many text messages she’d received from her chief, she wasn’t thinking straight, which might be true to some degree. She hadn’t slept more than a minute here and there in better than forty-eight hours until she’d pulled over on Interstate 85 at ten-thirty last night. Recognizing that the safety of everyone else she encountered on the road was greatly compromised by her need for sleep, she’d parked at a truck stop with the intention of catching a twenty-or thirty-minute nap. She’d awakened two hours later to the sound of a semi’s air horn. She’d cursed herself the rest of the drive for losing so much time, but she’d done the right thing. Like soldiers, cops fully comprehended the risks of going too long without sleep. Concentration and focus went first. Cognitive impairment only worsened as the hours passed. Even after the extended nap, she was running on empty. But it couldn’t be helped. Stopping wasn’t an option.

She pressed the doorbell and listened as the classic chime echoed through the house. No lights came on. No swishes or clatters of the owner stirring. She glanced back down at the street where she’d parked her Challenger. Nothing moved in the near darkness. Not even the distant sound of interstate traffic that wound around the city detracted from the atmosphere of beauty and wealth cocooning the elegant homes. A soft breeze kicked up, sending a handful of autumn leaves scattering across the cobblestoned porch, the deep russets and browns reminding her of all the shed blood she’d seen this week.

So much blood.

After another stab of the doorbell garnered no response, Bobbie reached up to give the door a firm knock. As soon as her knuckles hit the solid slab of wood, the right side of the looming entrance swung inward. Her Glock was in her hand before she’d mentally ticked off all the reasons the door might have been unlocked and ajar. She eased closer and listened. Quiet. Dark, except for the moonlight filtering over her shoulder and through the open doorway.

Taking a deep breath and then holding it to ensure she didn’t miss the slightest sound, she stepped inside, weapon held at the ready. In the last house she’d entered under similar circumstances she’d discovered a rotting corpse. She barred thoughts of Steven Devine, the cop who’d fooled her and everyone else for an entire month. As hard as she tried to tamp down the memory of his hand on her breast...of him ripping open her jeans, she couldn’t quite accomplish the feat. Sorry bastard. Weller had commissioned Devine to do his dirty work. He’d murdered one of the few remaining people who’d owned a piece of Bobbie’s fractured heart.

If she somehow managed to live through what was coming next, her shrink would no doubt insist she return to weekly therapy sessions. After all, someone as broken as Bobbie Sue Gentry, who’d lost her husband and her child not even a year ago and her partner of seven years just two months back, couldn’t hope to rebound so quickly. Nearly being raped and having a dear friend murdered all within the past forty-eight hours was more than any human should have to bear. She would need months, maybe years of counseling. Or maybe all the loss and devastation had piled so high on the shattered pieces of her heart that she was beyond the point of no return.

Her gut clenched. Could she trust her instincts at this point?

This wasn’t the time for second-guessing. Focus on what you came here to do.

Bobbie closed the massive door and put her back against it. Take a breath. Another. No metallic odor of blood. No lingering scents of a dinner the owner may have had hours ago. Did Zacharias have his evening meal prepared in the kitchen by a personal chef? Or did he eat out?

The oppressive silence sent another shot of adrenaline into her blood. Did any member of Zacharias’s household staff live in the residence? His wife had divorced him years ago and his children had grown up and moved across the country, no doubt to separate themselves from images of bloody, mutilated corpses arranged in grotesque venues for a depraved mind to capture on a painter’s canvas.

She wondered if his money brought Zacharias much comfort when he turned out the lights all alone each night.

Alone...exactly the way you do, Bobbie.

The sound of Nick’s voice whispered across her senses reminding her that for just a little while she hadn’t been alone.

Survey the scene, Bobbie. This was not the time to be distracted.

Why wasn’t Zacharias’s security system singing a warning about the open door? Bobbie glanced at the dark keypad on the wall not three feet away. Evidently he’d left in a big hurry and hadn’t bothered setting the alarm or checking the door.

Or had someone gotten here ahead of her? Someone who wanted more than to ask a few questions?

The extravagant lock on the door appeared undamaged. As for visitors, the feds as well as the local police had questioned him in the past forty-eight hours.

Did you take off right after that, Zacharias?

Seemed strange that a surveillance detail hadn’t been assigned to keep an eye on their one potential lead to finding Weller. She shook her head. Maybe the problem was that the FBI and the task force created to recapture Weller were far too focused on proving Nick was somehow involved with his father’s escape. No matter that he’d been debriefed by the feds scarcely twelve hours ago and cleared of any wrongdoing in Devine’s death by Montgomery PD, the suspicion about his connection to Weller lingered. In part because Nick had spent most of his adult life living in the shadows, finding the killers no one else could. Even trained and experienced members of law enforcement at times feared what they didn’t understand. Nick Shade was innocent of his father’s crimes. He had turned his back on Randolph Weller years ago after finding him in the process of creating art from his two most recent kills. Worse, he’d discovered that Weller had murdered his mother when she learned her husband’s despicable secret. Nick’s entire life up to that point had been a lie.

As true as it was that both Bobbie and Nick had suffered some seriously fucked-up heartbreak, the big difference between them was that she’d at least had a real family who cared about her. Nick had never had anything real. The people who should have taken care of him had let him down.

I will not let you down, Nick.

Bobbie forced her full attention to the here and now. “Where the hell are you, Zacharias?”

There was always the possibility that the feds had been watching the attorney and were even now following him to see if he would lead them to Weller.

The truth was she hadn’t driven all this way simply to see Zacharias. She didn’t even care if he’d taken his millions and fled. Speaking to him wasn’t actually necessary. All she wanted was to find any files on Weller that Zacharias might have in his home office before those files and any other notes were confiscated by the task force on his trail. Zacharias was a brilliant attorney. He had endless connections in Fulton County. The man would know all the ways, including attorney-client privilege, to challenge any attempts to seize his files or warrants to pilfer through his home or his phone records.

“But you can’t outmaneuver the feds forever,” Bobbie murmured. Which was exactly why the man would disappear very soon if he hadn’t already.

She glanced around the cavernous entry hall. She was here, the door was unlocked and the place appeared deserted—might as well have a look around. Zacharias had called her to Atlanta less than two weeks ago. No one could prove she hadn’t been in his house previously if her prints were found.

There could be security cameras.

After bumping three switches with her elbow, the giant chandelier spilled light over the marble floors. The cool gray paint on the walls spread out to meet the gleaming white trim and lent a cold feel to the space. A massive painting of Zacharias and his family, obviously commissioned a dozen or more years ago, served as the focal point. A round table of mirrored glass sat in the center of the hall, directly beneath the chandelier. The large vase stationed there was filled with cut flowers. The once lush and richly colored petals had browned and now littered the tabletop. A man of means living in a house like this one would certainly have a cleaning staff.

Had he sent them all away before he took his own leave?

Bobbie surveyed the room again. No sign of cameras. In Zacharias’s shoes she would have been far better prepared with a surveillance camera in every damned room as well as around the perimeter of the house. On the other hand, an attorney willing to interact with such depraved murderers probably harbored a serious God complex and didn’t want any electronic documentation of his movements or those of his visitors. With his most notorious monster no longer in chains behind those drab prison walls, Zacharias might not be feeling so high and mighty now.

“Mr. Zacharias? Are you home?”

Bobbie moved from the entry hall with its elegant curving staircase leading up to the second floor to the parlor on the right. She rubbed her arm against her side, pushing the sleeve of her sweatshirt down over her fingers before reaching under the nearest lampshade to switch on the light. The expected sophisticated furnishings were gathered around an equally stylish stone fireplace that spanned the full height of the room—at least twelve feet. She listened again before progressing across the entry hall to the next room, a library. Floor-to-ceiling rows of bookshelves stood where the fireplace would be and distinguished the room from its near mirror image across the hall. No sign of a struggle or that anyone had combed through the space. Other than the open front door, all appeared to be in order.

One by one Bobbie advanced through room after room, calling the owner’s name and bumping a light on with her elbow in each one. Clear.

Since she’d found no sign of foul play or of the homeowner so far, Bobbie suspected Zacharias had in fact gotten the hell out of Dodge. His statement about Weller’s escape had played over and over on every available media outlet the past forty-eight or so hours.

I am shocked and saddened by this turn of events. No one will be safe until Randolph Weller is caught.

“That includes you, Zacharias.”

Bobbie imagined he was well aware of the imminent danger. Under the circumstances, she had known finding him was a long shot but she’d had to try. He hadn’t been answering his phone. No-damned-body had been answering their phones—including you, Bobbie. Her calls to Nick as well as to Special Agent Anthony LeDoux had gone unanswered. Her instincts told her LeDoux was in one way or another up to his eyeballs in this, too.

As much as she wanted to trust LeDoux after what they’d been through together, she couldn’t. The secret the two of them shared was like an open, festering wound deep below the surface where no one else could see. Like cancer, eating them up one inch at a time and at the same time making them dangerously reckless.

Like not calling backup in a situation like this one.

Exiling the warning voice honed by years of investigating homicides, she moved deeper into the house. Just off the kitchen and tucked beyond the family room, she found the attorney’s study. Bookshelves lined one wall. Framed photographs of the family that had abandoned him sat in a neat arrangement on one corner of the desk. The blotter was a clean, crisp expanse of white marred only by the fallen blooms from the floral arrangement that sat next to it, a smaller version of the one in the entry hall. To the right of the desk was a set of French doors.

Open French doors.

Shit. Bobbie’s fingers tightened on her Glock. She executed a three-sixty, scanning the room.

No movement. No sound.

For a moment she considered calling it in, but she had crossed the line coming into the house. There had been no true exigent circumstances. Knowing her chief, he’d put out a BOLO on her and the Atlanta PD would be on the lookout for her already.

Check the files in the study and get the hell out.

Zacharias could very well be on a private jet headed for some tropical island whose laws didn’t include an extradition treaty with the US.

Or Weller had taken him.

With the second set of doors left open, foul play was the more likely of the scenarios. No way two doors in this mansion had faulty locks. Even if Zacharias had been in a hell of a hurry, why leave both doors unlocked and open?

Hold on. She hadn’t been upstairs. Was someone up there stealing his Rolexes and platinum cuff links at this very moment? Zacharias could very well be dead in his bedroom. It was the middle of the night after all. Bobbie braced her back against the nearest wall to ensure no one came up behind her. Too quiet. A thief would have heard her calling out to Zacharias.

A spot on the floor near the desk snagged her attention, then another spot and another. Red wine maybe? Not so lucky.

Blood.

She visually traced the pattern of splatters, a stark crimson on the champagne-colored rug. The blood trail led around the large mahogany desk.

Adrenaline stinging her senses, she followed the path her gaze had taken, glancing over her shoulder repeatedly and taking care not to step in the blood. The amount of blood increased exponentially as she drew closer to the other side of the desk, as if the bleeder had lingered there. At this point the urge to fish out her cell and call 911 was fierce, but she ignored it.

Not yet.

Behind the desk the trail of blood became a series of small puddles. The phone that had been blocked from her view by the floral arrangement had been dragged to the edge of the desk, the handset dangling from its curly cord. Blood was smeared on the keypad; crimson fingerprints encircled the handset.