Chapter 27
Even if the general description that
Browning had given her of the copycat matched that of Anthony
Linden, former MI6 agent, there was no way they could be certain
the two were the same person. So far, the information Browning had
given her was pretty much useless, just as Derek had warned her it
would be. If he was right about how little Browning actually knew,
then she would be wasting her time if she continued playing his
game.
But what if he actually
does know something that will help us? What if I give up now and
walk away? If I do that, I’ll never know for sure and I’ll always
wonder if I could have done more to stop the copycat
killer.
She had to stay a while longer. She
couldn’t give up. Not yet. She had to keep trying. But at what
cost?
Browning wanted to see her suffer. He
wanted to stick the knife into her, figuratively speaking, and then
twist it.
“Have you decided?” Browning asked.
“Are you staying or going?”
His eyes all but sparkled with
anticipation.
You son of a
bitch!
“I’m staying,” she told
him.
“Ah, that’s my girl. Just as I had
hoped—a fighter to the bitter end.”
“I want a show of goodwill,” she told
him. “I’ll make a statement and all you have to do is reply yes or
no. Agreed?”
Smiling as if she had just handed him a
get-out-of-jail-free card, he shrugged. “Maybe. If I agree and I
give you this one thing, then you swear that you’ll answer all my
questions, no matter what I ask?”
She hesitated, contemplating what he
might ask her. But she knew she had to take the risk. “Yes, I’ll
answer whatever you ask. But for every answer I give you, you give
me one in return. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Now, the next move is yours,
Maleah.”
“The copycat chose the Carver’s kills
as the model for his murders because he wanted a connection between
the killer he mimicked and a Powell agent,” Maleah said. “He chose
you because you killed Noah Laborde, who had been my college
boyfriend.”
Browning’s smile widened. “Yes, of
course. Any idiot could have figured that out. But you needed to
hear me confirm it, didn’t you?”
Yes, of course she had known. And yes,
she had needed to hear him confirm it. But his confirmation of that
fact didn’t necessarily confirm that Durham or Linden or whoever
the hell the copycat was had shared this information with Browning.
As he’d said, any idiot could have figured it out.
“Now, we get down to business.” She met
his eager gaze, despising him, but determined to show no
reluctance. “You’ve already told me you don’t know the copycat’s
real name, and that you knew he wasn’t the real Albert Durham. Is
that the truth?” When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up her
hand in a Stop signal. “You also implied that you know why the
copycat is killing people associated with the Powell Agency. I want
you to tell me why. What’s his reason?”
“That’s really the question, isn’t it? The one you’ll pay any price to
know.”
“You’re such a smart man, I’ll bet you
already know the answer to your own question.”
“Do you trust me to tell you the
truth?” he asked.
“No, of course I don’t trust
you.”
Browning laughed. “You must have been a
pretty little girl, all blond curls and pink cheeks. Did you smile
a lot? Laugh a lot? Were you happy as a child?”
Those were not the questions she had
expected him to ask, but she answered them all the same. “When my
father was alive, I smiled and laughed a lot and I was very
happy.”
“And after your father died? He did
die, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he died when I was quite young.”
But how did you know?
“Poor little Maleah.”
She didn’t flinch and never broke eye
contact.
“Was your mother as beautiful as you
are?” Browning asked in a low, seductive tone.
“My mother was very
beautiful.”
“Was she a good mother? Was she a good
role model? Did you want to grow up to be just like
her?”
“She was the best mother she knew how
to be,” Maleah said honestly. “Why do you want to know these things
about my mother?”
Browning slowly twisted his neck around
and around, as if trying to loosen aching muscles. Then with his
head down, his chin almost touching his chest, he rolled his eyes
up and then lifted his head slowly.
In that moment, she realized she had
said the wrong thing, that her reaction to his questions about her
mother had triggered his curiosity. Unwittingly, she had played
right into his hands.
“I want to know everything about you,”
he told her. “And where better to start than learning about the
woman who gave birth to you.”
Maleah did not like where this
conversation was heading. Her gut instincts told her that somehow,
someway, Jerome Browning knew things about her that he couldn’t
possibly know.
Shake it off. All those
doubts and fears and uncertainties. Browning doesn’t know anything
about your personal life. He’s guessing. He’s smart. He picked up
something in your reaction. The tone of your voice. A glint in your
eye. An unconscious gesture of some type. Don’t give him any more
ammunition to use against you.
“I loved my mother,” Maleah told him.
“She was gentle and kind and sweet and—”
“And you swore you’d never be like
her.”
She simply stared at Browning without
responding and then quickly realized that her reaction had spoken
for her. So far, in this stupid game, she was losing.
“Gentle, kind, sweet women tend to need
a man around to take care of them,” Browning said. “Did you have a
stepfather?”
Don’t go there. Please,
don’t go there.
There was no way he could know anything
about Nolan Reeves, her mother’s sadistic second
husband.
“Yes, I had a stepfather.”
“Was he a good man?”
“No.”
“You disliked him?”
“Yes.”
“Hated him?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, Maleah, being worthy of your
hatred must indeed be a sweet, sweet thing. I envy your stepfather.
How wonderful it must have been having all that power over you when
you were a helpless little girl.”
Her heartbeat accelerated, the sound of
her racing pulse drumming inside her head. Don’t
give him one damn thing. Keep everything on an even keel. You can
do this. You know you can.
“Did he rape you?” Browning asked,
excitement in his voice.
Perspiration dampened her forehead and
hands. She swallowed hard. “No, he never raped me.”
“Fondled you
inappropriately?”
“No.”
“Ah, nothing sexual. That means he must
have beaten you. There are men like that, sadistic men who enjoy
inflicting pain.” Browning burst into laughter. “I’m going to tell
you something that I’ve never told anyone else, not even Albert
Durham, my so-called biographer. I didn’t want his kills to be
exactly like mine, so I failed to mention that before I killed, I
waited for a few seconds before I plunged the scalpel into the
jugular because I needed to see the fear and agony in their eyes.
Just for a moment.”
She sucked in a deep breath and
released it slowly. “If I answer your last question, I’ll expect
you to give me more than your rambling memories that mean nothing
to me. I’m not interested in your kills, only in why the copycat is
killing Powell agents and members of their families.”
“Then answer my question first. Did
your stepfather beat you?”
“Yes.”
“Often?” He was practically licking his
lips over the prospect of hearing the gory details.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but he beat
me only once.”
“Only once?” Disappointment in his
voice, Browning frowned.
“Yes, only once, but it was a severe
beating. I had bruises and welts on my back and legs and buttocks
and I could barely stand after he finished.”
There, you son of a
bitch, are those details gruesome enough for
you?
“Why only once? Did you mother
intervene?”
“No.” Maleah stood her ground and
stared the devil down. “And if you want any more answers, then I’ll
need a few from you.”
Browning studied her as if trying to
decide whether or not the pleasure he derived from tormenting her
was worth the price she was asking.
“Durham and I actually played our own
game,” Browning admitted. “He came to understand that he wasn’t
dealing with an ordinary person, that I was his intellectual equal
and therefore deserved his respect. Once I realized he was not the
real Albert Durham, I demanded payment for my
services.”
“You asked for a new lawyer and a
female visitor . . . what else?”
“Information.”
“And he was willing to tell you
whatever you wanted to know? I can’t believe—”
“No, of course not. But I didn’t ask
for very much. We understood each other, so he was willing to give
me what I required. He knew that the information I requested would
in no way harm him. I asked him why he had chosen me. And he told
me what I believed was the truth. After all, who was I going to
tell?”
“And he explained why—because of your
connection to Noah Laborde, who was the former boyfriend of a
Powell agent.”
“Not in those exact
words.”
Maleah glowered at Browning, her
patience growing thin.
Stay calm. Pace
yourself. Let him have all the time he needs.
“Explain,” Maleah said. “Give me his
exact words.”
Browning ran his tongue over his teeth,
licked his lips, and sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid that I don’t
recall his exact words.”
“Then paraphrase.”
“He told me that he admired my work. I
thanked him. I asked him why he had chosen me. He simply said, ‘You
killed a man named Noah Laborde.’ I said yes. And when I told him
that I didn’t understand the significance, he told me that I didn’t
need to understand.”
“Did he ever mention the Powell Agency
or Griffin Powell by name? Did he tell you or did you sense that he
was a professional?”
“That’s two questions,” Browning
reminded her. “Neither of which you’ve paid for, my
dear.”
She nodded as dread spread through her
like quicksilver, fast and poisonous, because she knew what was
coming next.
“Why did your stepfather beat you only
once?” Browning asked, the glint of anticipation sparkling in his
eyes again.
Maleah knew she could lie to him,
perhaps even convincingly, but she couldn’t fake the emotion that
went along with lying. And it was an emotional reaction that
Browning wanted from her. Blood, sweat, and
tears.
“Because my big brother made a bargain
with our stepfather to take both his own beatings and
mine.”
Browning’s eyes widened with
exhilaration. “How noble and heroic of your brother. But you must
have felt terribly guilty allowing someone else to take your
punishment while you got off scot-free.”
Answer him, damn it.
No, wait. Let him see how much his question affected you, how it
brought back painful memories.
“What’s wrong, Maleah?”
“Nothing.” That slight
tremor in your voice was a nice touch. Browning had to know it was
real and not faked.
“Then answer me.”
“I didn’t know . . .” Maleah admitted.
“Not until years later. All I knew was that my stepfather never
beat me again.”
“But you were afraid of him, weren’t
you? Why was that?”
“You already know the answer. I’d think
it would be obvious to you.”
“Ah, but I want to hear you say it . .
. in your own words.”
“Yes, I was afraid of him, deathly
afraid. Afraid for my mother and my brother and for myself. He was
a cruel, heartless bastard.” With tears misting her eyes, she
looked right at Browning. “He never beat me again, but he berated
me every chance he got. Once a day and twice on
Sunday.”
Browning chuckled. “It’s good to see
you’re able to maintain a sense of humor about such a tragic
childhood. That shows just how tough you are now, doesn’t it,
Maleah? And you pride yourself on being tough, on being strong and
in control.”
“Damn straight about that,” she told
him, not trying to conceal the anger in her voice. He wants emotion—I’ll give it to him. She shot up out of
her chair and looked down at him. “Did the copycat ever mention
either the Powell Agency or Griffin Powell by name?”
Browning didn’t respond.
“Answer me, you goddamn, sadistic,
lowlife son of a bitch. I paid for your answer and you’re going to
give it to me.”
Angling his head sideways, he rolled
his eyes upward and glanced at her. “What a delicious thing your
anger and hatred is, my dear Maleah. I can’t tell you how much
pleasure you’re giving me.”
“Tit for tat, Jerome. I give to you.
You give to me. If you try to change the rules of the game now, I’m
out of here so fast that—”
“He never mentioned Griffin Powell by
name,” Browning said.
“What about the agency?”
“No. The name Powell never came up, not
the man or his agency.”
“Then the only name the copycat ever
mentioned was Noah Laborde?”
“That’s right.”
Once again, Browning had given her
information that was all but useless.
“Did you ever suspect or did the
copycat ever imply that he was a professional, that he was working
for someone else?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar
question, isn’t it?” Browning stretched languidly, rotating his
shoulders slowly and then twisting his head from side to
side.
“What’s the going exchange rate between
sixty-four thousand and my tears?” she asked, knowing what he
wanted.
“A few more insights into the real
Maleah Perdue,” he said. “And one small stipulation.”
“What small stipulation?”
“I want to taste them.”
“You want to taste what?” Dear God, he
couldn’t mean what she thought he did.
“Your tears. I want you to come close
enough for me to wipe away your tears with my tongue.”
No way in hell was this monster going
to put his mouth on her!
“It’s not going to happen,” she told
him.
He shrugged. “It’s your choice. But I
can answer your question with certainty. And maybe, just maybe, I
can give you even more.”
She didn’t believe him about the even
more part and wasn’t sure she believed that he could or would
answer her question. But she was close, so very close, to ending
this. She couldn’t stop when she had made it almost to the finish
line.
“If I cry, then you tell me what I want
to know first and if your answers are worth anything to me, you can
use your fingertip to wipe my tears.”
“Hmm . . . a compromise.” He nodded.
“Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
“Sit back down, Maleah. Let’s get all
comfy cozy.”
She sat, crossed her ankles, and folded
her hands together in her lap. She didn’t try to hide her
apprehension. Allowing her emotions free rein was the only way she
could give Browning what he wanted. A large part of the pleasure he
was seeking would come from knowing how difficult it would be for
her to relinquish control over her emotions.
“Your stepfather, did he beat your
mother?”
“Yes, I believe he did. I know he
slapped her quite often whenever she did anything that displeased
him.”
“And what do you think it was like for
her during sex? Did you ever think about how he must have
brutalized her? I’ll bet you could hear her crying, couldn’t
you?”
Memories that she had kept buried deep
inside her subconscious broke through the barrier of her iron
control, memories that she didn’t want to recall.
“Yes, I heard her crying, but . . . I
was too young and innocent at the time to know why.”
“But when you were older and you knew
all about sex, about what goes on between a man and a
woman—”
“I tried not to think about
it.”
“No, of course not. You wouldn’t let
yourself, would you? No man would ever hurt you. No man would ever
dominate you, control you, beat you into submission.” He paused, as
if waiting to see if one of his accusatory arrows had hit their
mark. “And yet here you are giving me something you’ve never given
another man.”
She clenched her teeth, hating
Browning, hating herself.
Finish it. Give him
everything he wants. Pay the price. And then get the hell away from
him.
Maleah brought the memory up from the
dark corners of her soul. Her naked mother running down the hall,
her face bloody and bruised. Nolan catching her, shoving her down
on the floor and—
Thirteen-year-old Maleah had heard her
mother’s screams, gotten out of bed and opened her door. Jack had
been gone for only a few weeks. He had joined the army and left her
all alone in the family’s house of horrors.
Maleah hadn’t realized she was crying,
not until she heard Browning’s deep intake of breath, so satisfied,
so pleased with himself.
She looked at him through her
tears.
“Did you ever try to help your mother?”
Browning asked.
“No.”
After all these years, she still felt
guilty that she hadn’t done more to save her mother. But even as a
teenager, she had been terrified of Nolan Reeves, of the threats he
had made to kill both her and her mother if she ever interfered or
told anyone “lies” about him.
“Your stepfather beat your mother,
raped her repeatedly, abused her terribly and you did nothing,”
Browning said.
Tears threatened to choke Maleah.
Emotions long bottled up inside her rose to the surface. It took
all of her energy to hold them at bay.
Enough!
She had paid his price. She had given
him her tears. Now, by God, he’d give her whatever information he
had or . . . Or what?
“Tell me,” she managed to say, her
voice a mere whisper.
“Thank you, Maleah.” Jerome Browning
leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and released a heavy,
orgasmic sigh. “It’s been a long time since a woman has given me so
much pleasure.”
Every instinct she possessed urged her
to attack, to rip out the monster’s heart and throw it to a pack of
wild dogs. At that very moment, she hated Jerome Browning almost as
much as she had hated Nolan Reeves.
“Tell me, damn it,” Maleah
demanded.
“Of course, my dear. I am an honorable
man who always pays his debts. You give to me and I give to
you.”
“Then give, you sick son of a
bitch.”
“He referred to himself as a death
technician and an international contractor. I like those terms,
don’t you?” Browning’s gaze sparkled with amusement, but he didn’t
smile when he said, “As a professional courtesy, one skilled death
technician to another, the man you refer to as the Copycat Carver
did not deny it when I asked him if he was a professional hit man.
As far as I’m concerned, his silence was a confirmation. He knew
that as well as I did.”
Maleah swiped the tears trickling down
her cheeks.
“Save just a taste for me,” Browning
reminded her and then ran his tongue across his upper
lip.
Ignoring his comment and gesture, she
asked, “Do you know anything at all about who hired him and
why?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ve paid you in full, so don’t try to
play me. Not now. It’s too late in the game,” she reminded him.
“You still owe me.”
Browning hesitated for a moment before
replying. “Why would you think he would have shared that kind of
information with anyone, even with me? He is no sloppy amateur. He
kills people for a living. And he’s quite good at it, isn’t
he?”
Instinct told her that Browning did
know something else and she was determined he share that info with
her, no matter how insignificant. “I want the rest of the
information I paid for.”
“Yes, of course. A deal is a deal.” He
couldn’t take his gaze off the tears clinging to her lashes and
seeping from the corners of her eyes. “Sometimes, during his
visits, we talked philosophy, past experiences, things like that.
We exchanged confidences the way people in the same profession do.
It’s not often that you meet someone who is your equal, perhaps
even slightly superior. Of course, he didn’t mention names, but . .
.”
Maleah waited, allowing him this one
final moment of victory.
He savored the moment, let it drag on
and on, and she knew what he wanted.
“But what, Jerome?” She jumped up,
leaned over him and glanced at the guard out of the corner of her
eye, trying to nonverbally ask him to stay put. “You can’t tell me
anything, can you? You’ve been stringing me along all this time.
You really are a son of a bitch, aren’t you? And I hate you.” She
balled her hands into fists and held them in his face, letting him
see how much she wanted to pummel him. “I hate you, hate you, hate
you, hate you!” she shouted.
“My copycat is a very proud man and if
he has one flaw, it’s that he’s boastful.” The words flowed out of
Browning like water from a dam that had just burst wide open. “He
liked to brag about how rich and powerful those who have employed
him are. As I said before, he couldn’t mention names, but he did
tell me that he has worked for political leaders and crime bosses
throughout the U.S., Europe, and around the world. That makes him
an international contractor. His current employer is a billionaire
who owns a private island retreat where he enjoys some of the perks
of his business.”
A billionaire? A
private island retreat.
“Exactly what are those
perks?”
“Human trafficking,” Browning said with
such delight that it was all Maleah could do to stop herself from
actually striking him. “A smorgasbord of human delights. Whatever
your pleasure. Male or female. Child, teen or adult. Dark or fair.
Experienced or virginal.”
The description of a billionaire who
made his fortune from human trafficking and who owned an island
retreat sounded all too familiar.
Malcolm
York.
The real Malcolm
York.
But that isn’t
possible.
The real York is dead,
has been dead for sixteen years.
“A deal’s a deal.” Maleah leaned close
enough for Browning to touch her.
Smiling, he lifted his cuffed hands,
and then slowly and very tenderly wiped a tear from the corner of
her eye. As she lifted her head, she watched as he placed his index
finger on his tongue, licked his finger and then sucked it into his
mouth.
Maleah turned and, without a backward
glance, walked away.
When she reached the guard who had been
assigned to escort her to and from the interview, he opened the
door for her. At that precise moment, Browning called her
name.
“Maleah?”
She paused, but didn’t turn around or
look back.
“It was good for me,” he told her. “Was
it good for you?”
The sound of his laughter followed her
as she hurried away from him as fast as she could.