The Coldest Fear

He grabbed her arm as she passed. “We want the same thing, Bobbie. But I’m not sure we can win this.” His thumb rubbed across the scar on her wrist.

“That won’t keep me from trying.” She tugged free of his hold and shut herself up in the bathroom. She placed her clothes, her Glock, the ankle holster with her .22 and her cell on the closed toilet lid and then sagged against the door. She squeezed her eyes shut to block the memories that tried to intrude. The long scars on her wrist burned as if LeDoux had dashed lighter fluid on her skin and lit a match rather than simply touched her there.

The first cut had been long and deep. She hadn’t been able to hold the knife well enough to slash the other wrist so she’d taken the handle between her teeth and sliced as hard and deep as she could. Blood had flowed like a river. The knife had dropped to the floor and she’d slumped against her little boy’s bed and waited for the relief of death.

Only it hadn’t come.

Bobbie opened her weary eyes. Now, despite that horror, she had something more than revenge or just the job to live for. “Where the hell are you, Nick?”

He had no right closing her out like this. He thought he was protecting her, but he was wrong. Forcing herself to move, she turned on the water in the shower and placed a towel over the curtain rod. She watched herself in the mirror as she methodically undressed. Stripping off her sweatshirt first, she dropped it on the floor. Reaching behind her she unfastened her bra, pitched it on the pile. She shucked her jeans and underwear next.

For a long moment she stood staring at her reflection. She made herself inventory the ugly journey she’d taken ten months ago. Every step was carved onto her flesh. The thin line around her throat where a plastic surgeon had repaired the deep groove left behind by the noose she’d worn like a too-tight dog collar for weeks. The marks on her breasts where the monster in her nightmare had cut around her nipples and then sewed them back on like a demented surgeon. The slashes and gouges that had healed into grotesque ridges and shallow craters. The unsightly ridges from the surgery to repair her right leg. The small bulges that gave away the location of the screws and pins that held it together. The things he had done to her on the inside couldn’t be seen, but they were there...always would be.

It was the words tattooed on her back that told the real story. The words she chose not to remove. The words that spilled across her skin in broad black strokes like a tragic monument to all she’d lost.

She had left the story the bastard started on her back to remind her of what she’d done.

Bobbie had chosen to risk her life, but she hadn’t realized until it was too late that she’d put her family at risk, too.

The hot steamy air clouded the mirror, hiding the things she didn’t want to look at. She shook off the pity session and climbed into the shower. As she scrubbed her body and washed the sour smell of worry and desperation from her skin and hair, she considered that the Atlanta PD’s forensic unit would be lifting her prints from Zacharias’s front door. If he was dead she would be a person of interest in the investigation no matter her explanation. Her chief would not take it well.

As much as she didn’t want to hurt him, she couldn’t call in yet. She’d known Chief Theodore Peterson her whole life. He was her godfather. He’d been her father’s best friend, the best man at his wedding. The two had played football together in college, had married the same year, and she’d grown up calling him uncle. Bobbie had to do this and the chief didn’t agree. He wanted her clear of whatever fallout was coming related to Weller’s escape and the inevitable federal investigation into Nick’s actions.

Bobbie shut off the spray of water and climbed out of the shower. As soon as she’d dried off, she checked her cell. Still nothing from Nick. Another missed call from the chief, of course. A text from her sergeant and another from her lieutenant. Both ordered her to return to Montgomery.

Not yet.

She dressed and tucked the phone into her back pocket. Strapped the .22 back to her ankle and nestled her Glock into her waistband. With a deep breath she opened the door and the cooler air made her shiver. Rather than deal with the noise of the hair dryer she took the towel with her to continue rubbing at her damp hair. LeDoux had crashed on the sofa. Four empty beer bottles and an empty bottle of vodka she hadn’t noticed before lay on the floor next to his abandoned loafers.

Bobbie sat down on the end of the bed and watched him sleep as she squeezed the dampness from her hair. LeDoux wasn’t much older than her. She’d turned thirty-two this year; he was thirty-six. His beard-shadowed jaw and the tousled light brown hair that was almost blond added believability to the idea that he was as desperate as she was. The weary man lying only a few feet away was not the hard-ass agent she’d first met last December.

She laughed, a dry sound. Like she was the same naive, ambitious detective she’d been back then. Bobbie tossed the towel aside and went in search of her phone charger. She found it in the bottom of her bag. After scooting aside the night table she was able to unplug the lamp and plug the charger into that slot. Out of habit she checked the lock on the door and turned out the other lights before climbing under the covers. She tucked the Glock under her pillow and kept her cell phone next to her so she could feel it if it vibrated. Maybe she was being paranoid, but if she received a call or a text from Nick—which was highly unlikely but she could hope—she didn’t want LeDoux to know.

Forcing her eyes closed and her mind to quiet, she thought of D-Boy, the dog she had adopted from her negligent neighbor. She missed him. As an adult she’d never had a pet to worry about. She and James, her late husband, had been too busy for a pet and then she’d learned she was pregnant. James had taken up her slack with Jamie, their little boy, during the extra-long hours she dedicated to the job. She missed them both so much. It had taken her a very long time to allow another living creature close. Now she had D-Boy. When she’d decided to come after Nick, she had panicked at first. Who would take care of D-Boy? She couldn’t just leave him locked up in the house, even with plenty of food and water and a doggie door providing access to the backyard. There was no way to calculate how long she would be gone.

She’d called Andy Keller, a lab tech in Montgomery. He was a friend. He’d been only too happy to come pick up D-Boy. He had a pit bull of his own. D-Boy would be fine with Andy.

Bobbie allowed her eyes to close and stopped fighting the need to shut down.

Five (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)

Coventry Court, Norcross, Georgia

6:05 a.m.

Nick Shade pulled on a pair of gloves and knocked on the door. The small brick house was the last in a cul-de-sac, with a yard bordered by trees on three sides. The two neighboring houses were empty, faded for-sale signs leaned precariously in the neglected yards. The driveway of his destination was empty and there was no garage. Overall, the condition of the house was poor at best. The only light or sound inside was a television set to the early-morning news broadcast from an Atlanta station.

If Lawrence Zacharias was in hiding, he’d picked a damned good place for camouflage. No one would look for the affluent, high-powered attorney in these living conditions.

Nick rapped on the door again. Their meeting had been scheduled for six. Either Zacharias was still en route or he wasn’t coming.

Fury twisted in Nick’s chest. Zacharias had ignored his calls and then, around midnight, he’d called to say they needed to meet in person. Zacharias had insisted he must pass along in person information imperative to Nick’s future. If the son of a bitch had ditched him, Nick would hunt him down no matter where he tried to hide. And when he found him, there would be no forgiveness.

If this was a distraction to keep Nick from catching up with Weller, Zacharias would pay for that misstep, as well.

One way or the other, he would end this cat-and-mouse game with Weller.

Nick made his way around to the rear entrance of the house. A small covered deck surrounded by the trees that grew denser behind the house allowed for a reasonable amount of privacy. When the door opened with nothing more than a twist of the knob, a new kind of tension filtered through Nick. He used the flashlight on his phone to confirm the lock had not been tampered with. Not just any lock either. Nick frowned. The door was secured with a state-of-the-art deadbolt set—only it was unlocked.

Inside the meteorologist on the newscast was giving a rundown of the day’s weather. Nick closed the door behind him and listened. No sound beyond the television. He inhaled a deep breath and analyzed the scents permeating the space.

Blood. Human waste. Both smelled fresh.

Defeat nudged him. No matter that he’d arrived on time for the meeting, he was too late.

He scanned the room with the flashlight app. No blood or evidence of foul play in the kitchen. As ramshackle as the house looked outside, the inside was clean with generous amenities. The fixtures were high-end. Nick wondered if Zacharias had used this place as a getaway during the more notorious days in his career.

He had a bad feeling the attorney’s career and likely his life were over.

He moved into the main room and there on a white sheet in the center of the room was Lawrence Zacharias. Weller had gotten here first. He’d taken Zacharias apart as he did all his victims. Nick’s jaw tightened with hatred. Weller started with an arm or a leg. All four limbs were separated at the joints, elbows and knees. Then, the stubs were chopped from the body at the main joint. The torso was divided in half and, finally, he removed the head. Before his incarceration, Weller had only taken victims to use in his art projects. He mutilated their bodies and spread the parts on a white sheet in some grotesque manner and then he painted the scene on a painter’s canvas.

Nick hesitated. One of Weller’s victims hadn’t been an art project. His wife—Nick’s mother—had discovered the kind of monster her husband was. Weller had murdered her and buried her in the backyard when Nick was only ten years old. For the next decade or so he had believed his mother had deserted him...that she hadn’t loved him enough to take him with her.

Just another reason to hate Weller.

Nick searched the house, knowing full well he would find nothing to help in his hunt for the bastard. Weller would have taken anything relevant with him. The only bedroom revealed another victim. This one a younger man. The younger victim’s shirt had survived mostly intact as his body had been chopped into pieces. The previously white polo shirt sported the logo of a well-known courier service.

Moving through the house a second time, Nick found nothing other than the smattering of possessions that apparently made Zacharias feel at home whenever he visited this place. A framed photo of his family sat on a table. Now the family that had deserted him was rid of the scourge on their name.

Nick slipped out the back door and into the darkness. The darkness had always been his closest ally. It was the one thing he could count on. He reached the car he’d parked three blocks away and climbed inside. His only recourse now was to attempt picking up Weller’s trail again. The murders were barely a couple of hours old. He wouldn’t have gotten far.

Several hours ago Bobbie had arrived in Atlanta. She’d gone to Zacharias’s home. The tracking software Nick had installed on her phone gave him her exact location every minute of every day. It wasn’t the same as being near her, but it made him feel better to know where she was and, to some degree, what she was doing.

If she steered clear of him maybe she would stay safe. Bobbie deserved a real life. He could never give her that.

His cell vibrated and Nick checked the screen.

Dwight Jessup.

Jessup was Nick’s resource within the FBI. Their relationship was a tenuous one, but Jessup had not let him down in the six years since they literally ran into each other on an investigation in Minnesota. Nick had been watching his target for weeks when Jessup showed up and accidentally plowed into the house where Nick had set up surveillance. An icy road had been the culprit. Jessup had also facilitated Nick’s way into Bobbie’s life.

He had no business being a part of her life now.

“You have something for me?” Nick asked, going straight to the point.

“The Atlanta field office is about to bring in Anthony LeDoux. The word is they think he has knowledge of your or Weller’s whereabouts. I thought you might want to know.”

Nick had suspected LeDoux was on the edge. The agent was almost as obsessed with stopping Weller as Nick.