A Deeper Grave. Debra Webb
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“I know my son. In all these years he has not allowed himself to draw so close to anything or anyone...until you.”
She’d heard enough. Bobbie stood. “If I can reach him, I’ll pass along the warning.”
She turned away from Weller’s too-seeing eyes and headed for the door. She needed air. The very scent of the bastard on the other side of the room was making her feel ill.
“Make no mistake, Detective Bobbie Gentry.”
She paused at the door and slowly faced him once more.
“Do not romanticize your relationship with my son. However desperately he wants to be a hero, there will come a day, soon I fear, when he will be forced to kill. When that time comes he will learn the deep, dark secret he has denied for so long.”
Rather than give him the satisfaction of a response or a moment longer to analyze her, she turned her back and banged on the door.
“Once he has experienced taking a life,” Weller continued.
She didn’t want to hear another word. She pounded on the door again. “I’m done in here.” Open the damned door.
“He will not be able to resist killing again and again.”
Weller’s warning followed her out the door.
Gardendale Drive
10:30 p.m.
Bobbie slowed to a walk as she turned up the sidewalk to her house. D-Boy rushed to the front door ahead of her and waited, panting, tongue lolling after the long run. Bobbie stepped up onto the stoop and jammed her key into the lock. Before opening the door, she reached down and scratched the animal behind his ears. “Good boy.”
The brindle pit bull had belonged to a former neighbor. The single mother and her children had moved last month and she’d happily agreed to let Bobbie have the dog. For the most part Bobbie had been taking care of him since the day he moved into her neighborhood, and now he belonged to her. The first order of business had been a trip to the vet for a checkup and for shots. She had learned that he was two years old, had no health problems and showed no signs of abuse. Every evening since bringing D-Boy home she had worked with him, teaching him simple commands of obedience. So far he was an attentive student and a quick study.
Inside the door she silenced the security system and listened to the sounds of the place she called home. Though the day had seen a high of sixty degrees, it was only about forty outside now. The absence of the steady hum of the air conditioner left the house silent. The vague scent of scrambled eggs and butter from the breakfast she’d prepared that morning lingered in the still air. The security system was another new addition. The chief had been so happy when she had it installed that he’d insisted on paying for the first year of service. Rather than argue with him, she’d surrendered to his need to be the protective uncle. She’d learned over the years to choose her battles carefully.
Ever patient, D-Boy stared up at her. “Go ahead, boy,” she said, giving the animal permission to have a look around. Once he’d padded through the two bedrooms and one bath, he trotted to his water bowl in the kitchen. The first night she’d brought him home he’d watched her check the house and he’d been performing the duty himself since.
Nick had told her in August that she needed a dog. At the time she couldn’t possibly have allowed anyone or thing into her life. As if she’d spoken the thought aloud, D-Boy hustled back to where she stood. Water dripped from his mouth as he studied her expectantly. He was accustomed to her full attention in the evenings. Her unexpected trip to Atlanta had disrupted their routine.
Bobbie smiled. “I could use a drink myself, buddy.”
Door locked, she headed to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. D-Boy followed close on her heels. She checked his food and water bowls and then she latched the doggie door she’d had installed in the back door. Though she doubted anyone would get beyond the door with D-Boy in the house, no need to leave an open invitation. A quick shower and she intended to hit the sack early. Today had been a long one and tomorrow was stacking up to be even worse.
Her thoughts ventured to the meeting with Randolph Weller. The man was pure evil. How had such a sick bastard created a son his complete opposite?
He will not be able to resist killing.
Bobbie refused to believe that DNA made monsters as some believed. Maybe the twisted genes passed along tipped the scales in rare cases, but she rejected the idea that it started there. Every person was unique. No matter that Weller was a killer, that didn’t mean his son would be one any more than her mother’s singing like an angel in the church choir gave Bobbie the ability to carry a tune.
Weller might be an expert on human nature but he couldn’t see the future.
She flipped on the hall light as she made her way to her bedroom. At the door to the spare bedroom that had until recently remained empty, she paused. D-Boy glanced back at her and waited. Seven or eight boxes sat in the room, a couple of them open. The familiar ache that started deep in her chest was one she was reasonably certain would be with her the rest of her life.
The boxes contained important things from her old life that she couldn’t bear to part with. Her son’s favorite blanket. Her husband’s beloved vintage Foo Fighters T-shirt. Photo albums and videos. The locket that had belonged to her mother and her mother’s mother before her. The folded flag from her father’s funeral.
Bobbie Sue Gentry was thirty-two years old and those few boxes, about two feet by two feet each, represented the best of her life to date. Her old life. She couldn’t live that life anymore, couldn’t be that woman. Most people didn’t understand. Sometimes she thought Bauer might, but maybe not. Those boxes were all that remained of her early history, her marriage and her family.
She turned away from the door and continued on to her bedroom. Her old life was dead and buried. Her penance for survival was to carry on. Why not devote her life to being the best cop she could be? Perhaps one day it would include something more than her job, but not now. The idea that she could even conceive such a notion was relatively new and still a little hard to swallow.
She was a work in progress.
Bobbie removed her backup piece and the ankle holster and placed both on the bedside table. The knife she kept strapped to her left shin landed there next. She’d stopped carrying a stun gun tucked into her bra. The one she’d owned had ended up in evidence and she’d never bothered to claim it or to buy another. She didn’t need it now. She toed off her sneakers and peeled off her sweat-dampened clothes.
With a pair of clean panties and her backup piece in hand she padded across the cold wood floors toward the bathroom. D-Boy followed. She flipped on the bathroom light and he took his position outside the door. She smiled. He was a good guard dog.
She went inside, closing and locking the door behind her. With her .22 on the closed toilet lid, she turned on the shower and waited for the warm water to make its way from the water heater at the other end of the house. Her face was flush from the three-mile run. She’d gained a little weight the past couple of months. Not a bad thing, according to the doc when she’d had her required department physical last week. With her forefinger she traced the thin, barely there line that looped around her neck. The nylon hangman’s noose she’d worn for three weeks had left a gruesome scar. She’d had plastic surgery to remove it in hopes of preventing the inevitable stares and questions from everyone she met.
As steam started to fill the air, her fingers trailed down her chest, tracking the scars. So many scars. Her palm flattened on her belly. Below her waist her right thigh and calf were riddled with ugly marks from him and from the surgery to repair the damage he’d wielded. Bauer teased her about being the bionic woman with all the hardware in her leg. She angled her head and peered at the reflection in the narrow full-length mirror behind her.
She read the words tattooed on her back, the meaning curdling in her gut.
Over and over she cursed herself for the path she chose to take.