Nick had just finished a hunt. He’d been physically and mentally exhausted, but the news that a victim had survived the Storyteller was too significant to ignore. The Storyteller had been on his top-ten list already. After seeing Gentry and hearing her story from her partner, Nick had made his decision. The Storyteller would be next. He’d been tracking him since.
Gaylon Perry wasn’t the most intelligent serial killer he’d hunted, but he possessed incredible willpower. He allowed himself one theatrical event each year, and then he returned to school in the fall and carefully maintained his seemingly normal persona until summer rolled around again. Last November his mother’s death had caused him to act out of character, to make a move beyond his meticulously maintained boundaries. Then a second trigger had prompted a dangerously impulsive move.
That trigger had been Bobbie Gentry.
Since Perry had taken several broad steps outside his established MO, maybe Nick should move his grid search closer into the city. Perry would want to be near her. He would need to see Gentry often. To relish her flagrant actions of invitation. Her every move was like foreplay to the serial killer who had already come so very close to ending her life.
Nick wanted to shake her. She had to know she couldn’t do this alone.
As if she’d felt his censure across the night, she climbed back into her Challenger and drove away. Her official shadow rolled behind her. Nick allowed some distance and then he followed. She returned to her house on Gardendale and backed into the driveway. Nick watched until she was inside and the house went dark again before he returned to his motel.
Once he was between the sheets, he closed his eyes and waited for exhaustion to take him. Between now and then one face and one voice would taunt him. He hadn’t slept a single night without thinking of Bobbie Gentry since back in February, when he’d held her hand in that hospital room and made that damned promise.
She wouldn’t remember and he couldn’t forget.
In that sterile room all those months ago he’d watched her sleep, absorbing the pain and desperation emanating from her weak and broken body. He had known then that Perry would come after her again. She would be the key to stopping the sadistic bastard. From that moment Nick had learned all he could about her. He’d searched the home she’d shared with her husband and child; over and over he’d watched the videos they’d made. He knew her every move, her every look, her serious side as well as her playful one. The nuances of her voice and the sound of her laughter. He understood her vulnerabilities, few though they were, and her infinite strength.
The woman he had spoken to tonight was nothing like the one captured in those videos with her family and friends. He thought of the way she had smiled before...the way her eyes lit with happiness in the videos. The light was missing from her eyes now, and he was yet to see her lips form a real smile.
Something about her—something he couldn’t quite name—haunted him. Reached a place inside him that no one had touched in a very long time. The longer he remained near her, the more powerful that inexplicable link became.
He never permitted personal involvement to develop during his hunts. His life as well as his sanity depended on maintaining distance. Somehow in the past few months he’d lost the ability to distance himself from Bobbie Gentry.
Something he and Perry had in common.
The hum of her cell phone vibrating woke Bobbie. She reached toward the floor and snatched it up. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again in an effort to force her bleary eyes to focus. She hadn’t come to bed until after four. It was... 7:30 a.m. glared at her from the screen of her cell. Groaning, she rubbed her eyes and read the name flashing beneath the time. The boss.
Bobbie bolted upright. “Morning—” She cleared her throat. “Ma’am.”
“I need you at the office ASAP, Detective.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Owens ended the call and Bobbie stared at the phone. Had the chief forgotten to tell Lieutenant Owens about the admin leave? Doubtful. Something was up.
Bobbie pushed to her feet; her right leg protested. She winced and made a path down the hall to the bathroom. One glance in the mirror confirmed she looked as bad as she felt. Good thing she’d showered after her run last night. She dragged a brush through her hair and wrestled it into a ponytail. She washed her face, rolled on deodorant and took care of other necessary business.
She reached for the door and froze. For the first time since she left the rehab center she found herself without a weapon. Her Taser, her knife and both her handguns were still in her bedroom.
Fear expanded in her chest, sliding over her muscles, creeping along her limbs and lodging in her throat. The Storyteller was alive and he was close, and she was in this damned bathroom with no window for escape and no weapon. Sweat coating her skin, she steadied herself and struggled to suck in air around the swelling fear.
Bobbie flattened her hands against the door and closed her eyes. Listen. You know his footsteps. You know the sound of his breathing. She forced herself to quiet. Slowed her respiration. Her heart and pulse rates followed suit. The roar of the blood in her ears hushed. Then she held her breath. The low hum of the air coming from the floor vents...and silence.
Drawing in a gulp of air, Bobbie concentrated on the doorknob. Slowly her hand descended to wrap around it. Braced for battle, she twisted the damned thing and jerked the door open. No one jumped at her. No sound of running footsteps echoed. Nothing but the darkness and the stale air being circulated by the old HVAC system.
“Coward,” she cursed herself as she stormed back to her bedroom.
Just another secret she kept from the world. Bobbie Gentry was a coward. Without at least one of her weapons she was nothing but a sniveling scaredy-cat. No matter that she’d taken every defense and hand-to-hand combat class she could find between here and Birmingham, she was still a coward.
The world knew the Storyteller had taken her family, but they didn’t understand he’d taken something else from her as well...some vital piece she couldn’t name.
Doesn’t matter. She peeled off the T-shirt and shorts she slept in and tossed them onto the bed. She didn’t need that piece to do what she had to do.
Stepping into a pair of panties, she scanned the floor for her shoes. The black leather loafers lay next to the closet door. She pulled on a sports bra and grabbed a pair of socks. Yanking the plastic from a freshly laundered suit, she surveyed the row of pullover blouses that were basically alike except in color. Scooped neck, short-sleeved, functional. She grabbed a white one. The navy suits and black suits were all the same. Serviceable and comfortable.
Dressed, she threaded a regulation leather belt through the loops on her trousers, and one by one stationed her police-issue Glock, cell phone and badge around her waist. She grabbed the black leather shoulder bag that held the rest of her life, including Tic Tacs, latex gloves, an emergency tampon, sunglasses, wallet and her keys, and stepped into her loafers. She headed for the door. At the living room window she checked the street, noted her surveillance detail at the curb. Only one uniform this morning. He lifted a McDonald’s coffee cup to his lips, and her own need for caffeine awakened.
There would be coffee at work. She didn’t want to take the time to stop at a drive-through en route. Now that her head was clear of sleep, she realized the call from Owens meant new developments. If her presence had been requested despite being on admin leave, something big had gone down—something related to the Storyteller.
Outside, the young officer flashed her a smile as she loaded into her Challenger. “Nice ride.”
“Thanks.”