Debra Webb - A Deeper Grave

Weller might be an expert on human nature but he couldn’t see the future.

She flipped on the hall light as she made her way to her bedroom. At the door to the spare bedroom that had until recently remained empty, she paused. D-Boy glanced back at her and waited. Seven or eight boxes sat in the room, a couple of them open. The familiar ache that started deep in her chest was one she was reasonably certain would be with her the rest of her life.

The boxes contained important things from her old life that she couldn’t bear to part with. Her son’s favorite blanket. Her husband’s beloved vintage Foo Fighters T-shirt. Photo albums and videos. The locket that had belonged to her mother and her mother’s mother before her. The folded flag from her father’s funeral.

Bobbie Sue Gentry was thirty-two years old and those few boxes, about two feet by two feet each, represented the best of her life to date. Her old life. She couldn’t live that life anymore, couldn’t be that woman. Most people didn’t understand. Sometimes she thought Bauer might, but maybe not. Those boxes were all that remained of her early history, her marriage and her family.

She turned away from the door and continued on to her bedroom. Her old life was dead and buried. Her penance for survival was to carry on. Why not devote her life to being the best cop she could be? Perhaps one day it would include something more than her job, but not now. The idea that she could even conceive such a notion was relatively new and still a little hard to swallow.

She was a work in progress.

Bobbie removed her backup piece and the ankle holster and placed both on the bedside table. The knife she kept strapped to her left shin landed there next. She’d stopped carrying a stun gun tucked into her bra. The one she’d owned had ended up in evidence and she’d never bothered to claim it or to buy another. She didn’t need it now. She toed off her sneakers and peeled off her sweat-dampened clothes.

With a pair of clean panties and her backup piece in hand she padded across the cold wood floors toward the bathroom. D-Boy followed. She flipped on the bathroom light and he took his position outside the door. She smiled. He was a good guard dog.

She went inside, closing and locking the door behind her. With her .22 on the closed toilet lid, she turned on the shower and waited for the warm water to make its way from the water heater at the other end of the house. Her face was flush from the three-mile run. She’d gained a little weight the past couple of months. Not a bad thing, according to the doc when she’d had her required department physical last week. With her forefinger she traced the thin, barely there line that looped around her neck. The nylon hangman’s noose she’d worn for three weeks had left a gruesome scar. She’d had plastic surgery to remove it in hopes of preventing the inevitable stares and questions from everyone she met.

As steam started to fill the air, her fingers trailed down her chest, tracking the scars. So many scars. Her palm flattened on her belly. Below her waist her right thigh and calf were riddled with ugly marks from him and from the surgery to repair the damage he’d wielded. Bauer teased her about being the bionic woman with all the hardware in her leg. She angled her head and peered at the reflection in the narrow full-length mirror behind her.

She read the words tattooed on her back, the meaning curdling in her gut.

Over and over she cursed herself for the path she chose to take.

The pain a reminder of those devastated for her sake.

The Storyteller had tattooed those lines on her flesh. Her story. She could have had them removed but she needed to look at them every day. She never wanted to forget. Just thinking about the psychopath who had tortured and raped her for better than three damned weeks made the bones in her right leg ache. The Storyteller had left a trail of bodies, including her husband’s, across the southern United States over the past thirteen years. He was the reason her little boy was dead. The bastard might never have been caught except that having a victim survive to identify him had marred his record and he hadn’t been able to resist coming back to correct that anomaly. Bobbie had been that victim and she’d been waiting for his sorry ass to return. Images from those final moments in that dilapidated shack in the woods flashed one after the other through her head.

She’d made sure he got what he deserved.

Her choices were the reason she would never hold her baby again. She would never make love with her husband again. Her old partner would never call her “girlie” again. She stared at the long scars on the backs of her wrists. At first she had wanted to die, too.

She exhaled a heavy breath, only then realizing how thick and damp the air in the room had grown. No looking back.

She climbed into the shower and let the hot water sluice over her weary muscles. Tomorrow and the day after and the day after that she would do all in her power to be the best cop possible.

The image of Nick Shade edged into her thoughts. Her hands stilled on her skin, body wash slipping away. She wondered where he was. If Weller wasn’t playing some sadistic game, Nick was in danger.

Tomorrow she would try to reach him.

She hurried through the rest of her shower and quickly dried off. On second thought, why wait until tomorrow? Why not call him now? If the number he’d used previously was still in service, they could talk tonight. Now.

Wrapping the towel around her body, she grabbed the .22 and left the steamy bathroom, headed for her bedroom. D-Boy trotted after her. Her cell was already vibrating loudly in the quiet room. She reached the bedside table and grabbed it up. Devine’s name flashed on the screen. She couldn’t pull the charging cord loose and hold on to her towel, so she bent forward to answer, pinning the towel with her forearm. She placed the .22 next to the knife once more.

“What’s up?” Her pulse thumped a little harder with anticipation. There could be a break in the case or another murder. Anticipation fired through her. Maybe Fern Parker had been found.

“I didn’t wake you, did I? Damn. I just realized how late it is.”

“No, no. I was in the shower.” Bobbie dropped onto the side of the bed. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve spent the past six hours going back through what we have. I’ve called every name on Fern’s contact list again and then called every person suggested by anyone on that list. For the last two hours I’ve focused on the parents. Despite all that work I’m left with nothing more than a couple of new names. I want to go over them with you. Do you mind? My mind is racing with possibilities on this damned case. I don’t think I’m going to sleep again until it’s over.”

“Sure.” Bobbie pushed the wet hair back from her face. She was always ready to talk about the case. This was the first homicide she and Devine had caught as partners. “Let’s hear ’em.”

“Wait, how did your appointment go?”

Bobbie cringed. She’d told her partner she had a doctor’s appointment. “Good,” she lied. “I have to wait for some of the test results, but I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Nothing like having the doc give you a clean bill of health.”

Thankfully he moved on to the names he wanted to discuss. Bobbie felt guilty for lying to her partner but sometimes it was necessary. As soon as she and Devine had finished she would call Nick.

She owed him more than she could possibly hope to repay.

Four

New Orleans

11:30 p.m.

Nick Shade waited in the darkness for another full minute. The shotgun house he’d been watching for the past two weeks was dark. The woman who called the place home was always in before dawn. Like a vampire, she didn’t make public appearances during daylight hours.