No Darker Place

The little boy drew the door open wider, and she stepped into the bedroom. She confirmed the four children—three girls and one boy, all still dressed in their pajamas, trembling and red-faced from crying—appeared to be uninjured. Her tension eased marginally. The walls of the room were a soft pink. The twin beds were unmade, cartoon character bedcovers hanging this way and that. Dolls and a plastic tea set littered the floor. In the center of the room, between the two beds, the children stood in that ominous circle around their father. She easily spotted the daughter with the health issue; she was thinner and paler than the others. After numerous rounds of cancer treatments, she’d lost her hair, but it was growing back now and was almost as long as her little brother’s. Poor kid. Evans should be ashamed of himself for putting her through this kind of bullshit.

Booting aside her anger for the moment, Bobbie lifted the sides of her jacket from her torso. “I’m unarmed just like you requested, Mr. Evans.”

The small boy, three or four years old maybe, who’d opened the door stood next to the huddle, staring at Bobbie. She purposely kept her attention away from him. Those memories of another little boy, not much younger, kept whispering through her mind.

Can’t look. Can’t look.

When Evans said nothing, she gently prompted, “It’s time to make good on your promise and let the children go, Mr. Evans.” It would go a long way in turning this crappy day around if the guy stuck by his word. She might even be able to breathe again, and maybe the world would stop expecting her to fail every time the pressure was on.

Ten endless seconds passed before he spoke. “First, close the blinds,” he ordered.

Bobbie walked to the window and did as he asked. Miller would go ballistic and the no-more-negotiations clock would start ticking louder. She hoped like hell Evans understood he was on borrowed time.

“What now?” Careful to keep her hands up, Bobbie readied to tackle Evans. So far she hadn’t spotted his weapon.

“Go outside and wait with your mother,” he said to the children.

The older girl reached for the small boy’s hand and herded the others out the door. When the sound of the front door slamming behind them echoed through the house, Bobbie felt as if an elephant had been lifted off her chest. Sensing the shift in her tension, Evans lifted the .38 clutched in his right hand and aimed it at her.

Take it slow. Get him talking. “How can I help you, Mr. Evans? We all want to see a favorable resolution to this situation. Your wife and children need you.”

Carl Evans was a tall, thin man. He sat cross-legged on the floor in his T-shirt and boxers. His face was pasty from the long hours at the office; his shoulders sagged from slumping over a desk. As if he felt the weight of her assessment, he sank back against the bed behind him. What had taken this forty-three-year-old number cruncher down this ugly path?

He shook his head. “It’s too late for happily-ever-afters, Detective.”

“It’s never too late, Mr.—”

“Just listen,” he cut her off. “I don’t have much time. What I did was...wrong.”

No shit. “Tell me what happened, and maybe I can help.”

“You need to listen!” He jerked at the loud sound of his own voice reverberating in the small room.

Bobbie’s tension cranked up a few more notches. “Okay. Okay. I’m listening.”

“It was necessary.” He shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t stop to consider how it would end.”

The muzzle of the weapon angled downward as he spoke, his attention shifting inward. All she had to do was keep him talking, and when his aim strayed far enough, she would make a move. Less than four feet separated them. Keep talking, pal.

“I did what I had to do,” he said, his voice resolute even as his hands shook. “I would do it again. Anything to save my little girl.” He fell silent for another moment. “I didn’t think you would be hurt—not really, I mean. I had no idea...”

Bobbie’s attention swung from the muzzle to the man’s face. “Me?”

His lips quivered. “I was desperate. The treatments for my daughter had taken everything. My credit options were maxed out. The house is already triple mortgaged. I couldn’t pay for the new treatments, and my family was going to be homeless.” His head moved from side to side with a weariness and resignation that were palpable. “The insurance company claimed the new treatments—the ones that might save her life—are experimental, so they won’t pay. I would have done anything.” He searched her face as if looking for understanding, his eyes glimmering with emotion. “I had no choice.”

“You love your children. No one can fault you for that, Mr. Evans.” She felt badly for the family, especially for the kid, but the man wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. What did this have to do with her? “What can I do to help?”

He scrubbed his face with his free hand. A sob tore loose from his throat. “I need my family to know it was for them. Tell my wife I checked the life insurance policies. She and the kids will be okay.”

Oh hell. “I’ll make sure they know,” Bobbie promised. “But, Mr. Evans, whatever trouble you’re in, you don’t have to do this. Your family needs you. I can help you.”

His shoulders stiffened, and he steadied his aim at her. Anticipation coiled in her muscles.

“You can’t help me. You are the reason he came looking for me.”

Suddenly there was not enough air in the room. “Who came looking for you, Mr. Evans?”

“He’s coming for you, Detective Gentry.”

A chill as cold as ice settled in her belly. “Who’s coming?”

His gaze, clouded with defeat, locked on hers. “He was right. Your eyes are the palest blue I’ve ever seen.”

A shudder quaked through her before she could grab back control. How could he know that? Her mouth went so dry she could scarcely form the words. “I don’t understand, Mr. Evans.” 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.