No Darker Place

Her baby was dead, and that, too, was her fault. She forced the haunting memories away.

“I’m the one who moved in with you after you tried—”

“You made your point.” His words were like salt grinding into those old, festered wounds. Bobbie cleared her throat of the emotion wedged there. Keeping the truth from Newt was the hardest. He deserved better from her. “Maybe the Storyteller has resurfaced.”

“I’d say that’s a given. Peterson is worried sick.” Newt sighed and tugged his tie away from his throat. “And, frankly, so am I.”

“You think I’m not.” She shook her head. Her partner and the chief wanted to treat her as if she were incapable of handling the pressure, much less any potential threat. If the bastard had Gwen, Bobbie had to do all in her power to find him before it was too late. “No matter how terrifying the idea is, I can’t sit on the sidelines. I need to work this case—it’s my case.”

“What you need, girlie,” he countered, “is to be extra careful.”

She gestured to the cruiser across the street. “I’m reasonably confident careful isn’t going to be a problem.”

“Just promise me you’ll take every precaution until we figure this out.”

“We?”

“Owens assigned the case to Bauer and me. Tomorrow, as soon as my daughter and her new husband are carted off to the airport in that two-hundred-dollar-an-hour limo, we’re meeting at the office. He’ll bring me up to speed.”

Ridiculous! She should be on this case, damn it. Newt was her partner, not Bauer’s. “How’s your wife going to take you ditching her as she watches your youngest offspring drive off into the sunset? Don’t you think maybe she’ll need your shoulder tomorrow evening?”

“Trust me, if this wedding goes off without a glitch, she’ll take a couple of Xanax and go to bed for the rest of the weekend.”

Bobbie rolled her eyes and heaved a big breath. “This sucks—you know that, right?” She had walked out of that hospital the last time for one reason and one reason only—to get the Storyteller. Peterson was not going to take that away from her. Of all people, her partner should understand.

Newt 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 need of an overhaul. Bobbie exhaled a tired breath as she shut off the floodlights and then checked the dead bolts on the back door. Time for that shower.

She hesitated, toed off her running shoes and dragged the elastic band from her ponytail. For a moment she closed her eyes and indulged in a slow massage of her scalp. The headache was long gone, but she felt the tension in her shoulders and neck gaining a second wind. She stretched her neck and groaned. The shower was going to have to work some serious magic tonight. The prospect of standing under the flow of steaming water until she emptied the water heater had her weary body moving in that direction. After the shower and a cold beer, she intended to check D-Boy’s water bowl, and then—

A solid rap on the front door derailed her train of thought. She stalled, the cold of the hardwood floor seeping through her damp socks. Why would anyone drop by at this hour? Couldn’t be about a case because she was on leave by order of the chief. Wouldn’t be her partner since he was no doubt home by now, getting some rest before the big day tomorrow.

Another round of bangs, this time hard enough to shake loose the peeling paint on her shabby door and have it drift down around her visitor’s feet like dingy gray snowflakes. Could be the cops outside, but why not call if they wanted to talk to her? She checked the screen of the cell phone strapped to her upper arm. No missed calls.

Bobbie bypassed the door, her steps silent, and eased to the living room picture window a few feet away. When she’d first moved in, she’d cut out a tiny section of one plastic slat in the cheap blind as a way to see a visitor without becoming an easy target bellied up to the door. The overhead porch light, dimmed by the hundred or so bugs that had found their way inside and died there, stayed on 24/7. The faint glow allowed her to confirm the visitor was male. Her pulse rate bumped up a few beats. Dark hair, too long to be a cop, unless he was undercover. Tall, six feet or so. Thin. Broad shouldered.

He suddenly turned his head and stared directly at her as if he’d felt her scrutiny.

She drew back. What the hell? Giving herself a mental shake, she moved toward the door. The living room was dark; he couldn’t possibly have seen her. At the door she decided to leave her backup piece in the holster strapped around her ankle for now. Considering there were two uniforms parked in front of her house, she didn’t expect she would need to use it. She leaned toward the door.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” No point beating around the bush.

“Nick Shade. We need to talk.”

Surprised and more than a little intrigued, she peered through the peephole she’d installed. So this was the guy Newt had told her about. He was younger than she’d expected. “Let’s see some ID.”

He withdrew his wallet and stuck his driver’s license in front of the hole. Nicholas Shade. Atlanta, Georgia. She harrumphed. Thirty-five. He wasn’t much older than her. Did she open the door or not? Newt’s Quantico contact hadn’t given him anything concrete on Shade other than a generic assessment that he was one of the good guys. Shade might be after nothing more than the inside scoop on the Storyteller in hopes something she knew would be useful to him. He wouldn’t be the first to show up at her door. She’d had reporters, publishers and private investigators come knocking. Just because Shade supposedly tracked down serial killers didn’t mean he wasn’t in it for the money. A man who couldn’t be hired had to be making a living somehow.

Even so, why would he appear now? As of the ten o’clock news Evans’s connection to her hadn’t been made, but that would change soon enough, and then her street would be littered with reporters once more. Any member of the media familiar with the Storyteller would give just about anything for an exclusive from his only surviving victim. If that was the reason Shade was here, he needed to get in line somewhere besides her front door. This was her hunt.

“Call your partner if you have any questions,” Shade suggested, taking her delay for uncertainty. “We’ve met.”

“Did my partner send you here?” His showing up only a couple of hours after Newt mentioned him was a little convenient.

“No one sends me anywhere.” Shade stared at the peephole as if he sensed her watching him.

Who the hell was this guy? She released the dead bolts and opened the door. “What do we have to talk about?”

Dark eyes assessed her. “May I come in?”

Not a chance. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it right where you stand.” She bracketed her hands at her waist and blocked the doorway.

He glanced over his shoulder at the cruiser on the street. “I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say in private.”

The tension that had started in her neck rushed through her chest, spreading quickly through her limbs. “Are you carrying?”

“No.” He held his arms up and turned all the way around for her to see.

The shirt and jeans hugged his body. He wasn’t carrying unless, like her, a small backup piece was strapped to his ankle. “Let’s see what kind of socks you wear, Mr. Shade.”

He lifted one foot and tugged up the pants leg, and then did the same with the other. Black socks and matching hiking boots, both of which fit too snugly to conceal a weapon. “Satisfied?”

“Fine, but make it fast. I take issue with having my time wasted.” She stepped back and allowed him inside before closing the door. “What is it you have to say?”

The weight of his gaze settled on her. When he continued to stare without speaking she fought the impulse to fidget. His eyes were more black than brown and impossible to read. He wasn’t thin as she’d first believed, more lean. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off muscled forearms. The broad shoulders she’d already noted filled out his cotton button-down shirt with no room to spare. His jeans were well-worn, as were his boots. Her attention drifted back up to his face, where those dark eyes watched her steadily. Rather than be put off by her sizing him up, he seemed to expect it. As undeniably handsome as he was, with that square jaw and classic straight nose, there was something distant about him...something untouchable and more than a little unsettling.

She rubbed at her neck. Enough with the silent treatment. Had he intruded on her evening to stare at her or to talk? Maybe he only wanted an up-close look at the anomaly who’d escaped the Storyteller while losing everything else in this world that mattered. Her irritation flared. “I don’t know what you want—”

“I need the full details of what happened inside Carl Evans’s home.”

Bobbie made a halfhearted sound that failed the definition of a laugh by any stretch of the imagination. “If you’re looking to verify the manner of death, I’ll be happy to set the record straight. He stuck the muzzle of a .38 into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Any other questions, Mr. Shade?”

Something flickered in his eyes, too quickly for her to read. “I’m well aware of how he died, Detective. I’m interested in what he said to you while you were alone together.”

Now she understood. Shade was on a digging expedition. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the press release the same as the rest of the world. Now, if that’s all you wanted...” She gestured to the door.

Rather than leave, he moved a step closer. “You asked me not to waste your time—maybe you can refrain from wasting mine. What did Evans say to you before he pulled the trigger?”

“I’m certain you’re aware I can’t comment on an ongoing case.”

He watched her closely, analyzing her answer, her expression, as well as her body language. “Did the exchange between the two of you have anything to do with his recent interaction with Gaylon Perry?”

Bobbie froze at the mention of his name. How could he know what Carl Evans had been doing? “Why would Evans be involved with the Storyteller?”

Shade’s penetrating gaze narrowed. “I’ve been briefed regarding the findings on his computer, Detective.”

Impossible. “This conversation is over, Mr. Shade. If you have more questions, you can direct them to the department’s community liaison officer.”

She reached for the door.

“Carl Evans was a pawn. Perry used him to get information on your recovery. He’s active again. Doesn’t that concern you in the least?”

Shock moved through her, tracing the fault line in her heart. He could not possibly know any of this for a certainty. He had to be guessing, hoping for a telling reaction. Whoever this guy was, she wanted him out of her house. All she had to do was open the door and send him away. Somehow her body wouldn’t take the necessary action.

“Perry used him,” Shade went on when she remained still. “And it cost Carl Evans his life. Gwen Adams may be next. Whatever you believe or don’t believe, you need to understand this is only one of many steps toward the Storyteller’s final goal—finishing what he started with you.”

What the hell? Did he read minds, too? Bobbie struggled to quiet the whirlwind of emotions threatening to develop into a raging storm inside her. Don’t let him see. “Good night, Mr. Shade.” Just open the fucking door. Her fingers tightened on the knob but refused to turn the damned thing.

“I see what’s driving you, Detective Gentry,” he warned, his voice dangerously low. “It shows in every move you make. Your need for vengeance is blinding you. You should think long and hard about the danger to yourself and to others before you proceed.”

A flood of outrage spun her around to face him once more. “You’ve done your homework. Good for you. You’re damned straight I want him to pay for what he did to me.” Her fingers curled into fists. “For what he did to all the others. Come back when you have something original to talk about, Mr. Shade.”

“He stole everything from you.”

The words were uttered so softly and yet they pierced her like the sharpest knives. She closed her eyes, unable to conceal the pain burning there. He’s seen too much already.

“He crushed you, shattered your entire world. Knowing he’s still out there can’t be easy. It would be completely understandable if you wanted nothing more than to lock yourself away and hide in fear.”

Bobbie blocked the images his words triggered, summoned her goddamned MIA courage and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re mistaken if you think I can give you any answers. Now.” She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “I’ve had a long day. I need it to be over.”

When she reached for the door once more, he flattened his wide palm against it, blocking her move. “You’re the one who’s making a mistake, Detective.”

If she managed to hold back the hurricane of emotions another thirty seconds, it would be a miracle. She grasped the doorknob tighter as if it were the anchor that prevented her from spiraling out of control. “Leave or I’ll have you hauled away for harassment.”

“We both know you’re not the slightest bit afraid,” he went on, ignoring her edict.

He was so close she could feel the heat of his words against her skin, blocking her ability to do anything except to listen.

“You maintain a public Facebook page without turning off the location services when you post. You go to work, and you come home. You’ve pushed away all the friends you once had, unless you count your partner and the chief of police. I suspect you only interact with them because you have no choice.”

A new rush of anger roared through her. She hated herself for permitting him to see her emotions. She hated him for making her lose control. “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”

“I know all I need to. You have a home in a tidy, middle-class neighborhood on the east side, yet you rent and reside in a house in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. You run alone every night well after dark.”

“That’s right.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m more than capable of defending myself if the need arises.”

“I’m sure you are.” His gaze slid down her body and back up once more, pausing on her lips when they trembled. “You carry a piece strapped to your ankle, a sheathed knife at your back and a mini–stun gun tucked in your bra.”

She stiffened. How the hell did he know all that?

As if she’d asked the question aloud, he said, “I’ve been watching you. At some point during tonight’s extended run, you adjusted each of your hidden weapons.”

She put up her hands in a wait-a-damned-minute gesture. “First, you have no business following me around. Second, I arm myself because I’m smart, not because I’m afraid.”

“I got that last part loud and clear. You’re not afraid of anyone, and you’re certainly not hiding from the Storyteller. You’re baiting him. You want him to find you.” He leaned closer still. “Tell me, Detective, what do you think your chances are of surviving him a second time?”

For one fleeting instant she couldn’t move, and then she drew back, putting much-needed distance between them. “So you’re psychic and a shrink, too, are you?” She told herself to make him leave. She told herself to stop talking and to open the damned door. She apparently couldn’t do any of the above. “What would you know about how it feels to survive the worst a monster can do to you?”

His jaw tightened a little more. “Trust me,” he murmured in that dangerous whisper of his, “I know that feeling very well, and I don’t need to be a psychic or a shrink to understand that if you wanted to avoid trouble you wouldn’t live here. You’d have a monitored security system and a mean-ass dog.”

“I don’t have time for a dog.”

“Time has nothing to do with it.” He gave a dry chuckle and dropped his hand from the door. “You can’t have a dog because you won’t risk allowing another living creature to get close to you. You won’t take the chance that someone else—not even a dog—will get caught in the cross fire of what you have to do.”

She couldn’t contain the tremors any longer; her body shook in spite of her best efforts. She pointed to the door. “I want you to leave now.”