No Darker Place. Debra Webb
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stared at her for a long moment, visibly torn about what he wanted to say next.
Bobbie scowled at him. “What?”
“There’s someone you may want to talk to. He’s here. I’ve seen him. I didn’t want to mention it and get you upset.”
“Who?” LeDoux, the FBI agent in charge of the Storyteller investigation, couldn’t be here already. Even if he was, Bobbie had no desire to ever lay eyes on the man again. He had purposely put her in harm’s way last year. No, that was wrong. He’d asked for her; the decision to work on the Storyteller case had been hers.
“While you were in the hospital the...second time,” Newt explained, “a man visited you. His name is Nick Shade, or at least that’s what he goes by. You won’t remember him. He was there the last day you were in the coma.”
She ignored the whispers that tried to intrude. “Who’s Nick Shade?”
Newt shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone really knows. He didn’t say a lot about himself. I talked to an old buddy of mine, Dwight Jessup, up at Quantico. Jessup says the feds are familiar with him. They just don’t acknowledge him—which is code for they’re not giving the guy credit for what he does.”
“What does he do?” Newt’s story had taken a turn toward totally confusing, and her patience was wearing thin. She felt like a caged tiger. She needed to do something besides this incessant going back and forth, accomplishing nothing at all.
“Some call him a hunter,” Newt went on. “Others call him a ghost. Anyway, Jessup said Shade was unofficially connected to dozens of arrests. As long as he doesn’t get in their way and he’s useful, they let him do what he does without interference.”
An unsettling feeling stirred deep inside her. “So why was he at the hospital when I was there?”
“He heard you survived the Storyteller, and he wanted to talk to you.”
Bobbie laughed, a dry, weary sound. “Did he not notice I was in a coma?”
Newt held her gaze for a moment, his expression suddenly clean of tells. “I can’t explain it, but even before I called Jessup, I had this feeling that Shade was okay. I let him sit with you for a few minutes.” He held up his hands as if he expected her to rail at him. “Don’t worry. I checked him for weapons, and I was watching through the glass the whole time.”
“He just wanted to look at me or something?” That was creepy.
Newt shrugged. “Guess so.”
“You said he’s here—do you mean in Montgomery? Now?”
After surveying the street, her partner nodded. “I’ve spotted him around. Yeah.”
“You think someone hired him?” She couldn’t fathom any other reason for the guy’s appearance. Still, he couldn’t possibly know what Evans had told her, and the lab analysis of the victim’s computer had barely made it to the chief. Not one word about the possible Storyteller connection had been released to the media. “Is he like a private investigator?”
Newt shook his head. “Word is he can’t be hired.”
“You said some call him a hunter. So what does Shade hunt?”
Newt hesitated for five seconds before answering. “Serial killers. The ones no one else can find.”
North Montgomery, 10:50 p.m.
Five...more...blocks.
Bobbie charged forward in the darkness, running harder along Fairground Road. The pain had faded two miles back, overpowered by the endorphins that finally kicked in after three grueling miles. Slowing to a jog, she made the turn onto Gardendale Drive. Air sawed in and out of her nose and mouth in an attempt to keep up with the racing organ in her chest. Her muscles felt warm and fluid, as if she could run forever.
She’d pushed to five miles tonight rather than her usual three. The too-familiar twinge in her right leg served as a reminder that hardware held it together. No matter how young and strong the endorphins made her feel, she was still Bobbie Gentry—thirty-two and broken inside. Somewhere deep in the darkness she kept hidden from the world, memories of the woman she used to be dared to stir.
She hadn’t been that woman in 246 days.
She is never coming back.
Cursing herself for the lapse in restraint, she banished the echoes of the past as she walked the final block. Two of the three streetlights were out of commission. Didn’t matter. She knew the area by heart. The line of unremarkable houses in sad need of routine maintenance. The narrow, unkempt lawns used as parking lots for the multiple families crowded into the compact two-bed, two-bath rentals. Same old, same old. Very little changed in this neighborhood.
Three doors from hers the brindle pit bull named D-Boy surged forward, testing the heavy-duty chain that secured him to the porch post. The dog issued a low, guttural growl before he captured her scent and recognition registered.
“Good boy,” she murmured. He whimpered and whipped his tail back and forth. She made a mental note to check his water bowl before going to bed. The single mother of three who lived in the ramshackle two-story left her kids at home alone more often than not. Making sure the chained animal had food and water was even lower on her list of priorities. Some people shouldn’t have kids or pets. Then again, Bobbie had no right to judge anyone.
Her legs felt a little rubbery climbing the steps to her front door. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her left arm as she jammed the key into the lock. A long, hot shower was on her agenda, and then she planned to review the lab reports from the Evans case. The chief could take her off the job for a few days, but that wouldn’t stop her. She had friends at the lab. Andy Keller, the new tech, had been delighted to email her the report when she’d called. Of course, she hadn’t mentioned being off the case.
The MPD cruiser assigned as her surveillance detail edged up to the curb in front of her house. She didn’t know the two uniforms in the car. If she wanted to play nice, she would offer them coffee. Maybe later. It wasn’t their fault the chief had gone all overprotective today. Bobbie understood from experience that his need to keep her safe wouldn’t be going away anytime soon. The man would do all within his power to keep her out of the line of fire. If not for Lieutenant Owens, her division commander, she might be jockeying a desk. After spending nearly six months in physical rehab and psychiatric counseling in order to be deemed fit for duty once more, the chief had barred her from field duty. Somehow the lieutenant had convinced him the move was a mistake. Bobbie had worked hard to make certain her division commander never regretted backing her up.
Now here they all were back at square one. She hoped Owens could calm down the chief this go around. It was bad enough word of his overreaction would spread through the department like a new strain of summer flu. Guys like Miller would use the chief’s resolve to protect Bobbie as proof she received preferential treatment. So not true. If anything, the chief held her to a higher standard. Since there was nothing she could do about it one way or the other, she ignored office politics most of the time.
Confrontations like the one today made following that self-imposed rule difficult.
She opened the front door and stepped inside. The cool air instantly enveloped her, making her shiver. Before closing the door, she held her breath and listened for a few seconds. The incessant low hum of the air-conditioning unit underscored the silence. The blinds throughout the house were shut tightly, leaving the interior nearly black. She inhaled deeply, sorting through the lived-in house smells for anything new. Clear. She shoved the door shut with her foot as she hit the switch for the narrow entry hall’s overhead light. With a few flicks of her wrist she secured the two dead bolts.
Room by room, she moved through the house. Bedrooms and closets. Clear. Bathroom and kitchen. Clear. She turned on the rear floodlights, parted the blind on the back door and scanned the yard. Nothing to get excited about. Grass that needed to be mowed, a rickety picnic table left by previous tenants in bad