The Coldest Fear. Debra Webb
two days ago. His killer had left a message for her: This one’s just for you, Bobbie. The same killer almost succeeded in taking the life of her uncle, the chief of police.
Bobbie sucked in a deep breath. How did she muster the strength to keep going? Revenge? Justice? She’d gotten both. The world was free of two more heinous killers and still it wasn’t enough. The expected relief and satisfaction came but the hollow feeling, the emptiness, remained her constant companion. But there was the tiniest glimmer of hope. A fragile bond had formed between her and the man who’d helped her stop the two monsters who had destroyed so many lives, including hers. The development was completely unexpected, but surprisingly not unwelcome.
Nick Shade had given her something she’d been certain she would never again feel: the desire to live for more than revenge...for more than merely clipping on her badge each morning. Now he needed her help—whether he would admit as much or not.
Those who knew of his existence called him the serial killer hunter. Nick was unlike any man Bobbie had known. Brooding, intense, impossible to read and yet deeply caring and self-sacrificing. At twenty-one he had discovered his father, Randolph Weller, was a depraved serial killer with forty-two murders to his credit. Since ensuring his father was brought to justice, Nick had dedicated his life to finding and stopping the vicious serial killers no one else seemed able to catch. Like Bobbie, he’d stopped feeling much of anything beyond that driving need for justice a very long time ago. Maybe that was the bond that had initially connected them—the thin, brittle ties of utter desolation and desperation. Two broken people urgently attempting to make a difference that neither of them could completely define nor hope to quantify.
Yet they’d found something together. Something that felt real.
Whatever they’d found had gone up in smoke three days ago when Randolph Weller escaped the Atlanta hospital treating him for an alleged heart condition. Nick was determined to do whatever necessary to find him—including risk his life. Since Bobbie refused to give up on him or that tenuous bond that had developed between them, she had to find a way to give him the backup he needed.
Her search had brought her well beyond her jurisdiction in the middle of the night to the one person who might know how to find Randolph Weller. Her chief as well as her lieutenant were not happy about her decision.
Sometimes you have to do what you have to do no matter the cost to career and relationships.
Bobbie stared up at the big house perched on a hillside well above the street. Towering trees blocked the moonlight, casting long shadows across the lush landscape. She chugged the last swallow of cold coffee, her third cup since leaving Montgomery, squared her shoulders and tucked the empty container back into the slot on the console. She reached down and checked the backup piece strapped just above her ankle. The truth was it really didn’t matter how far out of her jurisdiction she’d come since she wasn’t in the Peach State in an official capacity.
In fact, there was a strong possibility she would no longer have a place in the department after the actions she’d taken in the past six hours. She’d barely reached the Montgomery city limits when the blue lights in her rearview mirror forced her to pull over. The chief had sent two uniforms chasing after her with orders for Bobbie to report in ASAP or face suspension. There hadn’t been time to convince her overprotective uncle that she had no choice. So she’d offered her police issue Glock and her detective’s shield to the officer who’d pulled her over and told him to consider her on suspension. The officer had refused to take her weapon or her badge, but she felt confident the message had been adequately relayed to the chief.
Bobbie wasn’t backing down until this was done. She would do all within her power to hunt down Weller, the killer who had orchestrated five murders as well as the attack on the chief himself in the past seven days, with or without the department’s blessing.
A caffeine burst shuddered through her system. No more wasting time. She’d wasted too much already. Judging by the home’s dark windows the attorney she’d come to Atlanta to see was either gone or in bed. A smart man would have disappeared the moment he heard the news of his client’s stunning escape.
Bobbie grabbed her Glock from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. She tucked the weapon into the waistband at the small of her back and took care to close the car door quietly. She’d long ago set the interior lights so they didn’t come on when a door was opened. Just another one of those cop things. Right now she was counting on the decade of cop experience she’d built with MPD to keep her instincts sharp despite the lack of sleep and the utter desperation clawing at her.
Lawrence Zacharias was the one person on earth who knew most, if not all, of Randolph Weller’s secrets. He lived in this multimillion-dollar mansion in one of Atlanta’s most affluent neighborhoods, Ansley Park. The community was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and was filled with overpriced homes from charming century-old bungalows to newer, mega mansions like this one. Bobbie hadn’t been surprised Zacharias lived so lavishly. She gazed up at the two-story brick. The tasteful landscape lighting ensured that, no matter the hour, passersby would never miss the full impact of the luxurious estate. More than a dozen limestone steps glowed a ghostly white in the moonlight, providing an eerie path to the towering double front doors that appeared better suited to a small castle.
Zacharias was without doubt Atlanta’s most well-known attorney. Fourteen years ago his representation of serial killer Dr. Randolph Weller had put him on the map. If anyone had the slightest inkling where Weller would go after his escape, it would be his trusted attorney. Bobbie intended to get from the man what the FBI and local police apparently could not.
According to the many text messages she’d received from her chief, she wasn’t thinking straight, which might be true to some degree. She hadn’t slept more than a minute here and there in better than forty-eight hours until she’d pulled over on Interstate 85 at ten-thirty last night. Recognizing that the safety of everyone else she encountered on the road was greatly compromised by her need for sleep, she’d parked at a truck stop with the intention of catching a twenty-or thirty-minute nap. She’d awakened two hours later to the sound of a semi’s air horn. She’d cursed herself the rest of the drive for losing so much time, but she’d done the right thing. Like soldiers, cops fully comprehended the risks of going too long without sleep. Concentration and focus went first. Cognitive impairment only worsened as the hours passed. Even after the extended nap, she was running on empty. But it couldn’t be helped. Stopping wasn’t an option.
She pressed the doorbell and listened as the classic chime echoed through the house. No lights came on. No swishes or clatters of the owner stirring. She glanced back down at the street where she’d parked her Challenger. Nothing moved in the near darkness. Not even the distant sound of interstate traffic that wound around the city detracted from the atmosphere of beauty and wealth cocooning the elegant homes. A soft breeze kicked up, sending a handful of autumn leaves scattering across the cobblestoned porch, the deep russets and browns reminding her of all the shed blood she’d seen this week.
So much blood.
After another stab of the doorbell garnered no response, Bobbie reached up to give the door a firm knock. As soon as her knuckles hit the solid slab of wood, the right side of the looming entrance swung inward. Her Glock was in her hand before she’d mentally ticked off all the reasons the door might have been unlocked and ajar. She eased closer and listened. Quiet. Dark, except for the moonlight filtering over her shoulder and through the open doorway.
Taking a deep breath and then holding it to ensure she didn’t miss the slightest sound, she stepped inside, weapon held at the ready. In the last house she’d entered under similar circumstances she’d discovered a rotting corpse. She barred thoughts of Steven Devine, the cop who’d fooled her and everyone else for an entire month. As hard as she tried to tamp down the memory of his hand on her breast...of him ripping open her jeans, she couldn’t quite accomplish the feat. Sorry bastard. Weller had commissioned Devine to do his dirty work. He’d murdered one of the few remaining people who’d owned a piece of Bobbie’s fractured heart.
If she somehow managed to live through what was coming next, her shrink would no doubt insist she return