No Darker Place. Debra Webb
Her heart rammed harder and harder against her sternum. “Who’re you talking about?”
“He said he has to finish your story.”
The words rocked her with the strength of hurricane-force winds. He couldn’t mean...
“This is the end of my story.” Evans jammed the .38 into his mouth.
Bobbie lunged for the weapon. She needed him alive.
The bullet exploded from its chamber, charging through his skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed the pink-and-white cartoon character comforter and matching sheets.
She dropped to her knees. “Jesus Christ.”
Deep breath. Bobbie shook her head. Torn between desolation and elation. Seven long months she had waited, and finally he was here.
But why like this? Her chest ached with the agony brought against the Evans family.
Why drag anyone else into her private hell? To shock her? Fury hardened her against the softer emotions.
Blood trickled from Evans’s mouth and nose. Poor bastard. Bobbie closed her eyes and tried to banish the image from her retinas.
The front door banging against the wall announced SWAT’s entrance into the house. Bobbie got to her feet. It made her sick that a man had died, leaving behind a wife and children, to serve the whims of the psychopath who had already destroyed too many lives.
She drew in a deep breath as determination roared through her. Now it seemed he was back, and it was her turn to destroy his life. He just didn’t know that part yet. Anticipation joined the determination.
Come and get me, you son of a bitch.
Montgomery Police Department
320 North Ripley Street, 6:45 p.m.
“The chief is ready to see you now.”
Bobbie stood. She’d flipped through every magazine in the lobby during her twenty-seven-minute wait. Apparently Chief of Police Theodore Peterson wasn’t concerned that she had other things to do, like hound the lab to see if they had gleaned anything from Evans’s computer. Or maybe conduct the interview with the one unavailable colleague who would be returning from business in Birmingham in about half an hour.
“Thank you, Stella.” Bobbie flashed a smile and headed for the door to the top cop’s inner sanctum.
Her time was being wasted because the SWAT commander had tattled on her for making him look bad. Arrogant bastard. Miller had probably blown the whole incident out of proportion. She had Miller’s number. He didn’t like having women—especially a younger woman—order him around. If her partner had been the one going into that house, no one would have said a word. Some things never changed.
“Bobbie!” The chief tossed a report aside as she walked in. “Close the door and have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” She did as he asked, settling in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. She worked hard to appear relaxed, but inside about a half a dozen emotions were battling for her attention. The Storyteller had sent her a message. He was back. Finally. For months she had worried that he’d slipped beyond her grasp. The idea of him escaping was unbearable. She could not allow that to happen.
“We need to talk.”
Bobbie snapped her attention back to the chief. Theodore Peterson was a towering hulk of a man. He’d been a lineman for the Crimson Tide with her father under Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. Forty years later, he’d lightened his playing physique by a few pounds and his hair had gone from blond to gray. Still, Theodore—Teddy to his family and closest friends—was an intimidating figure and a genuinely handsome man. As chief of police he was respected by friends and enemies alike. Even those who disagreed with him couldn’t argue with his outstanding record of keeping the citizens of Montgomery safe and happy at the same time. Not an easy feat.
He removed his reading glasses and studied her for a moment. Tension trickled through Bobbie. She had known this man her whole life. The deep frown lines he wore told her he was far from pleased at the moment.
“I’m having trouble with this one, Bobbie.”
“I’m not following, Chief.” Don’t let him see what he can’t possibly know. Other than relaying the message to his wife, she hadn’t told anyone what Evans said to her. The Storyteller’s message was meant for her alone.
“According to your statement, Mr. Evans asked you to convey his regrets to his family.”
“Yes, sir. He did.”
“Had you and Mr. Evans met before?”
Bobbie shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I did speak with his wife when I first arrived on the scene. She probably mentioned my name, which would explain why he asked for me.”
The chief grunted a noncommittal response. Dread started a slow churn in her belly.
“Clearly Mr. Evans suffered some sort of breakdown,” she added for good measure.
“Clearly,” the chief agreed. He picked up the paper he’d moments ago put aside. “Based on this report from the lab, I have reason to believe any detective on the scene would have had to round you up for Mr. Evans.”
Well damn. She’d been pacing the floor waiting for news from the lab. She’d hoped to see it before anyone else for exactly the reason the chief no doubt now understood. Carl Evans’s actions hadn’t been any more random than his request for her presence had been. “Is that the report on Mr. Evans’s computer?”
The chief nodded. “Evans’s first cousin is a nurse. You might remember her, Gwen Adams?”
Surprise registered before Bobbie could suppress the reaction. “Of course I remember her.” Frustration threatened to resurrect the headache she’d suffered earlier. Or maybe it was just hearing the name. Gwen Adams was the private nurse who had taken care of Bobbie all those months as she recovered. What did Gwen have to do with any of this? Bobbie hadn’t seen her in four or five weeks, not since the day before the orthopedist signed off on her release to return to work. “Has she been interviewed?”
“We’re trying to locate her now. She’s not answering her cell or home phone. Since she didn’t show up for her shift at the hospital today, we’ve issued a BOLO.”
A new thread of tension wove its way through Bobbie. Choosing her words carefully, she shrugged as if she didn’t see how Gwen’s absence and Evans’s suicide connected. Frankly, she didn’t...yet. “How is she involved? Is she helping with the little girl who has leukemia?” Valid questions.
“According to Evans’s wife, Adams has been immensely helpful during their daughter’s illness.” He waved the paper. “But that doesn’t explain the troubling aspect of this report.”
Bobbie consciously relaxed her shoulders once more, and then her facial muscles. Whatever Forensics found on that computer, her only reactions could be surprise and disbelief. She hoped the chief was about to give her something she could use rather than more questions. Deep inside a new fear trickled its way into her bones. Don’t let Gwen be in trouble.
“Evans’s most recent internet search history showed he had been reading everything he could find on you, Bobbie.”
Bobbie pretended to mull over the news, and then she turned her hands up in a so-what gesture. “Who hasn’t? I’ve been the local freak show for a while now. Returning to the job put my name back in the news. Gwen probably mentioned me.”
“Your medical records—specifically the ones from this year,” the chief went on, his tone reflecting his unhappiness with her indifferent attitude, “were on his computer. We believe those records were provided to him by Adams.”
Damn. Bobbie blinked and hummed a sound she hoped suggested confusion rather than the slow, icy climb of uncertainty up her backbone. “Maybe Evans intended to sell info about me to