Chapter 26
Maleah sipped on the coffee, black with
one packet of Splenda, that Derek had brought her. When she had
opened the door to him a few minutes ago, her expression had been
filled with questions and doubts. Knowing what she wanted and
needed this morning, he had set the tone for their day. Back to
business as usual. Partners working on a case, their once
adversarial relationship now bordering on friendship and definitely
based on mutual respect. There would be time later, tomorrow or the
next day or a week or month from now, for them to explore the
reasons behind the sexual tension driving them both
crazy.
“Anything you want to go over with me
this morning?” he asked as he sat down on the sofa, snapped open
the lid flap on his insulated coffee cup and took a sip of his
black coffee.
“I don’t think so. I believe we pretty
much took care of every possible scenario last night.” She joined
him on the sofa.
“More than likely, Browning is going to
tell you about how he killed Noah Laborde and the pleasure he
derived from what he did. We assume he doesn’t know anything else
about your personal life, and if we’re correct, that means he’s
going to use Noah. He sees your former boyfriend as your Achilles’
heel.”
“I’m prepared for whatever he tells
me.” She took several sips from the cup before placing it on the
coffee table. “I’ll give him what he wants. I won’t try to
completely control my emotions. If he wants to see me cry, I’ll
cry.”
“I have to remind you that this may all
be for nothing. You may give him exactly what he wants and get only
useless information in return.”
“I know. I’m willing to take that
chance.”
Derek nodded. “Barbara Jean contacted
me about half an hour ago. Our orders are to head back to Knoxville
after your visit with Browning.”
“Why? Has something happened? Has the
copycat—?”
“No, and since the trail is cold and we
have no new leads to follow, Sanders wants us back at headquarters
to sit in on a top-level powwow, the two of us, Griff, Nic,
Sanders, BJ, and Dr. Meng.”
“Any idea what this big powwow is
about?” Maleah asked.
“BJ didn’t say, but I suspect Griff
wants to discuss his theory about who the copycat is, who hired him
and why.”
“And as Griff so often says, all roads
lead to Rome.”
“In this case, Rome being Malcolm
York.”
“Rome being Griff’s obsession with the
pseudo York, if he actually exists.”
“I don’t think any of us can dismiss
the real possibility that someone who calls himself Malcolm York
exists,” Derek told her. “And if we accept that possibility, we
also have to be prepared to accept the possibility that York hired
a professional assassin to carry out some diabolical plan against
Griff.”
“Have you actually bought into Griff’s
theory?”
“I’m keeping an open mind and you
should, too.”
“You’re right,” Maleah agreed. “If all
of these copycat murders are a part of some elaborate scheme to
exact revenge against Griff, then we’re up against far more than a
single killer. Even if we find the copycat and stop him, that won’t
be the end of it.”
“You’re right. It won’t end until York,
whoever he really is, is found.”
Miss Carolyn was an early riser, as was
Heloise. They enjoyed leisurely cups of coffee each morning in the
small den adjacent to the kitchen, the television tuned to WJCL,
channel 22, the local ABC affiliate. Her employer, whom she thought
of after all these years as a dear old friend, watched only
Good Morning America. She had been a huge
Charlie Gibson fan and bemoaned his exit from the show, but had
found consolation in watching him on the evening newscast until his
retirement.
“I prefer to get my evening news from a
man,” Miss Carolyn had said. “But I like Diane Sawyer well enough.
She’s a smart lady. And as long as they keep Robin Roberts on
Good Morning America, I’ll keep watching
that show, too. I like her.”
Miss Carolyn was nothing if not
opinionated and always believed her opinion was superior to and
more important than anyone else’s.
Little Miss Poppy was not an early
riser. She often slept until well past ten, sometimes as late as
noon, much to her grandmother’s displeasure.
“These young people sleep away the best
part of the day,” Miss Carolyn often said.
With the breakfast dishes neatly
stacked in the dishwasher—she had a precise system of where to
place each item—and the television turned off until the local
mid-day news, Heloise began lunch preparations. Since it was only
nine-thirty and lunch wouldn’t be served until noon, she had more
than enough time to bake a blueberry pie, using the fresh berries
she had bought at the Farmer’s Market. And she intended to use last
night’s leftover chicken to make chicken salad, which she would
serve with some of the buttery croissants she had picked up at the
bakery.
Wearing her wide-brimmed sunbonnet and
carrying her gardening gloves, Miss Carolyn came through the
kitchen and paused at the back door. “If you need me, I’ll be in
the garden. I want to prune the roses before it gets so hot. I
can’t abide these ungodly humid days. I don’t remember it ever
being this miserable in late June. When I was a girl summertime
weather didn’t hit until the Fourth of July.”
Heloise didn’t bother pointing out to
Miss Carolyn that the Fourth was only a few days away.
After Miss Carolyn was halfway out the
door, she stopped, glanced over her shoulder and said, “When Miss
Lazybones gets up, please tell her that I expect her to be here for
lunch today because her great-aunt Sarah will be joining us.” She
sighed heavily. “The woman is an absolute bore, but she is family.
She was married to my dear brother Courtland for forty
years.”
“I’ll be sure to remind
her.”
“Oh, is the pool boy coming today? If
he is, I need to speak to him.”
“Yes, ma’am, this is Tuesday and he
comes every Tuesday. He should be here any time now.”
“I can see the pool from the rose
garden, so I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
Heloise smiled as she removed the
blueberries from the refrigerator. Miss Carolyn had her good
qualities and her bad. But being a perfectionist and expecting
everyone else to live up to her high standards did not endear her
to the people she referred to as “the hired help.” This included
the young man who cleaned the pool each week.
Heloise gently dumped the berries into
a colander she had placed in the sink, turned on the water and used
the sprayer to wash the berries.
A bloodcurdling scream startled
Heloise. Who was screaming? The sound was coming from somewhere
outside, wasn’t it? Oh mercy God, it’s Miss
Carolyn. She must have fallen. Or she had come across a
snake in the rose garden.
Heloise wiped her damp hands off on her
apron as she headed for the back door, running as fast as her old
legs would carry her. She searched the rose garden for any sign of
Miss Carolyn, but quickly realized the screams were coming from the
pool area.
And then she saw Miss Carolyn, soaked
through and through from head to toe, on her knees, slumped over
something—no not something, someone—lying at the edge of the
pool.
Merciful
Lord!
Heloise rushed through the open gate
leading from the garden to the pool. “I’m coming, Miss Carolyn. I’m
coming.”
As she drew nearer, Miss Carolyn
stopped screaming and looked up, her eyes glazed with shock. When
she glanced down at the person Miss Carolyn was holding in her
arms, Heloise barely managed not to scream herself. Apparently Miss
Carolyn had jumped in the pool and pulled Little Miss Poppy’s body
from the water. But it was more than obvious that the child hadn’t
drowned. Someone had slit her throat and hacked out pieces of flesh
from her arms and legs.
Salty bile rose up Heloise’s esophagus.
She was on the verge of vomiting. Help me, Lord.
Help me.
“Call nine-one-one,” Miss Carolyn said
in a choked voice. “We have to get her to the hospital as soon as
possible.”
“Oh, Miss Carolyn . . .”
Heloise would call 911, but knew there
was nothing anybody could do to save Poppy Chappelle.
Maleah thought she had prepared herself
for the worst, and had believed she could listen to Browning
describe in detail how he had murdered Noah and still remain in
control of her emotions. She’d been wrong. Nothing had prepared her
for Browning’s self-satisfied smile or his giddy excitement as he
recalled, step-bystep, the last moments of Noah’s
life.
While he relived what for him had been
an exhilarating experience, Maleah envisioned, with sickening
horror, Noah Laborde’s death.
“Can you imagine it, Maleah? Noah’s
shock? When he woke that morning, he had no idea it would be the
last day of his life. What must he have been thinking in those
final few seconds before he died?”
Maleah swallowed.
I’m still in control.
I’m shaky. I’m nauseated. I’m angry. But I’m not
defeated.
She could give Browning a little of
what he wanted—her blood, sweat, and tears—without pretending. What
she felt at that precise moment was all too real.
“I—I can imagine.” The tremor in her
voice was not faked. “Noah must have been shocked by what happened
and so very afraid of dying.”
Browning chuckled. “I’m sure he was. He
knew that I possessed all the power and he was powerless. He knew
that I had taken his life away from him.”
“That’s what it was all about for you,
wasn’t it—power and control?”
“God, yes! You have no idea . . .” He
paused, leaned forward and glared directly into her eyes. “But then
again, maybe you do. You’re a lady who prides herself on being in
control, aren’t you?”
A red warning flag popped up in
Maleah’s mind. How could Browning know that she had dealt with
control issues most of her life?
He can’t know. He’s
only guessing.
When she didn’t reply to his question,
he smiled. God, how she hated his smile.
“What would it take to snap that tight
control you maintain?” he asked. “I would love to see that happen.
I’d enjoy breaking you, taking your power away and controlling
you.”
Maleah understood that for Browning,
killing another human being was far more about power and control
than about their pain, but the rush he experienced when he took a
life was probably the same as a sadist who physically tortured his
victim.
“I’m not good at play-acting,” she told
him. “You know how difficult it was for me to listen to you tell me
the details about Noah’s murder. What more do you want from
me?”
“Ah, yes, it was difficult for you. I
noticed your misty eyes, but there were no real tears, no weeping.
I heard the tremor in your voice, but you didn’t scream with
uncontrolled outrage.” Browning leaned back in his chair and
studied her for a moment. “It wasn’t enough. No, not nearly enough.
I want much more.”
“So do I,” she told him. “Up to this
point, I’ve been doing all the giving and you’ve been doing all the
taking.”
“All right, then. If you want payment
for the pleasure you gave me, I’ll pay up. After all, fair’s fair.”
He tilted back his head, pursed his lips and hummed. Then he
lowered his head and looked at her. “I don’t know Durham’s real
name. He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. But he was younger than
he appeared to be. Being a keen judge of human beings, I’d say that
his disguise added ten or fifteen years to his appearance. The man
you’re looking for is probably in his forties. He was average
height and build, but he was muscular, his body well-toned. Look
for a man who keeps his body in tiptop shape.”
Although she was slightly stunned that
Browning had willingly given her the information, when he stopped
talking, Maleah managed to ask, “Do you recall anything else about
his physical appearance? Moles, scars or tattoos? Were his arms
hairy? Did he speak with an accent of any kind?”
“No visible moles or tattoos,” Browning
said. “His arms had a fine dusting of light brown hair, his
eyebrows and lashes were the same color and his eyes were blue. Of
course he could have been wearing contacts. As for an accent . . .
well, he wasn’t from the South. He had more of a Midwestern accent,
as if he had practiced the way he talked, trying to make his speech
pattern as nondescript as possible, you know, the way English and
Australian actors speak when they’re mimicking an American
accent.”
“Do you think he was
British?”
“Possibly.”
“What about—?”
“That’s all for now. If you want more,
you’ll have to give me more.”
Maleah nodded, understanding that he
was ready to put her through Act Two of Her Torture
for His Pleasure. And she had no choice but to take on the
starring role.
Derek paced back and forth in the
warden’s office, unable to sit down, let alone relax. Everything in
him wanted to rush down to the interview room, barge in and rescue
Maleah from Browning’s evil machinations.
Not an
option.
All he could do was wait. And
worry.
The waiting was difficult, but the
worry came all too easily. He repeatedly reminded himself that
Maleah was a big girl, strong, tough, tenacious, her soft
underbelly well protected. But she would not come away unscathed.
He had warned her that if she revealed even a hint of weakness,
Browning would go in for the kill.
Derek didn’t know what the hell was
wrong with him. It wasn’t like him to go all chest-beating,
manly-man protective where a woman was concerned. Any woman. He
honestly couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. When they’d been
kids, he’d run interference between his kid sister and his mom and
even between his older brother and Mommy Dearest a few times. But
he’d done that more to piss off their mother than to protect either
sibling.
For the past forty-five minutes, Claude
Holland had done his best to engage Derek in conversation, but had
soon realized keeping Derek’s mind off Maleah’s visit with Browning
was an impossible task. Finally, the warden had settled down to
business as usual, made a couple of phone calls, went over various
paperwork, and drank three cups of coffee.
Derek decided he would give Maleah
thirty more minutes and if she hadn’t returned to the warden’s
office, he’d go get her. His gut told him that Browning had been
playing her—playing them—and today’s interview would be a burnt
run. No matter what happened, not even if Maleah retrieved some
usable info from Browning, she was not going to return to this damn
place for a repeat performance. This would be her final visit with
the Carver. If he had to hogtie her and guard her night and day, he
would. She’d have to understand. A guy could take only so much
waiting and worrying.
When his phone rang, he paused
mid-stride and checked caller ID. A knot formed in his stomach. He
had already talked to Powell headquarters this morning, via Barbara
Jean, whom he affectionately called BJ. This call was from
Sanders.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Derek
asked.
“There has been another copycat
murder,” Sanders said.
Derek’s stomach knots tightened.
“Who?”
“Saxon Chappelle’s young niece, Poppy.
She was only sixteen.”
“When? Where?” Derek cursed under his
breath. “Hell, I don’t suppose it matters, does it?”
“She was visiting Saxon’s mother in
Savannah for the summer. Her grandmother found her in the backyard
swimming pool this morning.”
“This was kill number six and we’re no
closer to nabbing this guy than we were weeks ago.”
“Is Maleah with you?”
“No, she’s still in with Browning,
doing her damnedest to get something out of him. Why?” Derek asked.
“Do you want us to leave here and head straight for
Savannah?”
“No, we are sending Holt Keinan to
Savannah today. As we speak, Saxon Chappelle is over the Atlantic
on the Powell jet, accompanying Meredith Sinclair to London. On his
return, he will be taken directly to Savannah and Holt will meet
him. Griffin still wants you and Maleah to return to Griffin’s Rest
as soon as possible.”
“Can you tell me what’s going
on?”
“You and Maleah are the only two
employees, other than Luke Sentell, who are privy to all the
information we have accumulated on the Copycat Carver, a man named
Anthony Linden, and a mystery man who is calling himself Malcolm
York. I believe Griffin wants the two of you included in a
strategic planning session.”
“All right, then, as soon as Maleah
finishes up here, we’ll go back through Vidalia, check out of our
hotel, and head your way.”
“Very good. I will tell Griffin that we
can expect you this evening.”
“Sanders?”
“Yes, sir?”
“How’s Griff?”
Several seconds of contemplative
silence followed. And then Sanders replied, his voice a reflection
of the man’s stoic personality, “You will be able to ask him
yourself when you see him tonight.”
Without so much as a by-your-leave,
Sanders ended their conversation. Well, what had he expected? He
should have known better than to ask the man anything personal
regarding Griffin Powell. Sanders guarded Griff’s privacy as
strongly as he guarded his own.
They were both men with secrets. Dark,
deadly secrets.
What had really happened on Amara
sixteen years ago when Griff and his cohorts had killed Malcolm
York? Derek knew only the basic facts—Griff had been kidnapped at
twenty-two and held captive by a sadistic madman for four years
before he, along with Sanders and Yvette, both also York’s
prisoners, had revolted and killed York. The details Griff had
given him had been, at best, sketchy, huge chunks of info not
included. If Nic knew more about the events that took place on
Amara, she had not shared them with Maleah, who seemed to know
little more than he did.
“Has there been another copycat
murder?” Claude Holland asked Derek.
He had forgotten that the warden was
still in the room. “Yes, I’m afraid there has. This time, he’s
killed a sixteen-year-old girl, the niece of one of our
agents.”
“I’m so sorry,” the warden said. “Let’s
hope that Ms. Perdue has some success in getting Jerome Browning to
tell her everything he knows.”
“I don’t think Browning knows a goddamn
thing,” Derek said. “But Maleah just won’t give up. She was damned
and determined to give it one more try.”
Warden Holland shook his head sadly. “I
hate to say it, but I agree with you, and I’m afraid Ms. Perdue is
going to come away from this latest interview with little more than
a few mental bruises.”
He had been waiting for nearly six
hours and was beginning to grow restless. When he had reported in
after he left Savannah before daylight this morning, his employer
had applauded him on a job well done, then instructed him to check
into a hotel in Atlanta and remain there until he got in touch with
him again.
“I am finalizing my plans and should
have further instructions for you before noon Atlanta
time.”
During the past few months while he had
been carrying out the copycat murders, as soon as one kill had been
accomplished, he had been given the information about the next
victim. But not this time. Was the Copycat Carver’s reign of terror
over?
Stripped naked, down to his bare skin,
the real man revealed, he lay on the king-size bed in the four-star
hotel and stared up at the ceiling. When on an assignment, he
always wore disguises and only in moments of solitude such as this
did he allow himself such indulgent freedom. Even with the
expensive whores he bought for a few hours of pleasure, he didn’t
remove his wig or colored contacts or, if using them, the fake
mustache and beard. He kept his body in perfect condition, lean,
muscled, healthy. He kept his head and chest shaved and since he
was not an excessively hairy man, he had only a sprinkling of light
brown hair on his arms and legs.
When his phone finally rang, he didn’t
rush to answer it. Let him
wait.
He picked up between the fifth and
sixth rings.
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid you’ve been compromised. Or
should I say that Anthony Linden has been.”
“How did that happen?”
“Not to worry, not to worry. The leak
will be plugged.”
“Give me a name and I will take care of
it myself.”
“No, no, you’re too valuable to me
where you are. Someone else can resolve that problem. I need you
there in America to handle something extremely delicate for
me.”
“Another kill?”
“Actually, no. I want you to pick up a
guest for me and bring her with you when you return to London.
There will be a private jet waiting for you in Nashville. You and
my guest will be the only passengers.”
“Am I to bring her directly to
you?”
“No, I have arranged for a lovely,
private retreat where I want her guarded night and
day.”
“You’re giving me a babysitting
assignment?”
“I’m putting you in charge of a mission
that will allow me to continue with my attack against the Powell
Agency. Your job will be to deliver my guest safely to London. I
wouldn’t trust anyone else with such an important task. As soon as
she is delivered, another payment will be transferred to your bank
account.”
“Half now and the other half once I
deliver her.”
“If you prefer. I don’t quibble over
unimportant details with people who have proven themselves to me
the way you have.”
His employer gave him the necessary
details, including the name of his “guest” and her present
location.
“I’ll need twenty-four to forty-eight
hours to put a plan into motion.”
“Very well, but I need this done in no
more than forty-eight hours. If you can pick her up and deliver her
by tomorrow morning, I’ll add a bonus to your
payment.”