The Coldest Fear

He should have let it go at that, but some part of him couldn’t resist a final dig. He hesitated at the door and glanced back at the two he suspected were ultimately as instrumental in Weller’s escape as the prison nurse the bastard had chopped into nearly a dozen pieces. “Trust me on that.”

In the corridor, two agents waited for Tony. Without a word they escorted him to the first floor and out of the building. When they reached a waiting sedan, he said, “I’m starving. Any chance we can stop for lunch before we reach the airport?”

The two glanced at each other and then the taller one shrugged. “Why not? All you’ve got now is time, LeDoux.”

He flashed a fake smile. “Lucky me.”

Tony would get back to Virginia eventually, but right now he needed to be in Savannah.

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

Habersham Street, Savannah

1:15 p.m.

Bobbie parked on the street. She’d spent almost as much time watching her rearview mirror as she had the highway during the nearly four-hour drive from Atlanta. She’d tried returning Lieutenant Durham’s call but she’d gotten his voice mail. Since she had no idea what the call was about or the actual identity of the caller, she’d opted not to leave a message. In fact, she’d decided to drive directly to Savannah-Chatham Metro headquarters and make sure Durham was actually who he claimed to be. The address LeDoux had given her would have to wait until she made a decision as to whether or not she was walking into a trap. At this point she didn’t trust anyone except Nick.

Climbing out of her Challenger, she surveyed the headquarters. The building was a collage of the new and the old, the newer part of the three-story brick building’s facade being a deeper red like the Georgia clay for which the state was known. A wide sidewalk led from the street to the steps and created a border around flowering shrubs and sago palms. Majestic oaks draped with moss blocked the afternoon sun. Bobbie climbed the half a dozen steps that rose to the main entrance. The glass doors were decorated with orange pumpkin cutouts and ghosts. Inside a wide counter cut through the center of the lobby, a statue of a big black cat waited on the counter, back arched in fury. On the entrance side of the counter the usual bulletin board loaded with notices and dispatches hung on the wall to the left. Beneath it stood a table covered with informative and instructional brochures. Four chairs lined the wall to the right. Typical police headquarters lobby. Straightforward and practical.

A receptionist looked up from her desk behind the counter. She adjusted her reading glasses. “May I help you?”

Bobbie held up her badge. “I’m Detective Gentry. I received a call from a Lieutenant Durham.”

The sixtyish woman—Delores Waldrop, according to the nameplate on the desk—smiled. “Oh yes. Troy asked me to be on the lookout for your call. I guess you decided coming in person was better. Montgomery, right?”

Bobbie nodded. “That’s right.”

Delores removed her reading glasses and let them fall against her chest, a strand of pearls serving as the neck strap that held them in place. She shook her head. “Sorry. I was under the impression you were a man.”

Bobbie produced a smile. “It happens. Is the lieutenant available?”

The woman’s expression turned somber. “Since you’re here in person, I’ll send you straight on over to his location.” She drew in a heavy breath. “We’ve had quite a startling day. It started just after midnight.”

Deciding it was better not to mention that she didn’t have a clue what was going on, Bobbie nodded as if she understood completely.

Delores stood and moved toward the counter. “You spend your whole life thinking you know someone and then you discover you never knew them at all.” She shook her head as she reached for a tourist-type map of the city from the neat stack next to the sign-in sheet. “All right.” She circled a spot on the map. “This is where we are. You’ll go right on East Jones.” She traced the route and then handed the map to Bobbie. “It’s just a little piece off Skidaway Road. Look for the Happy Pets Veterinary Clinic. If you get to the cemetery on Bonaventure, you’ve gone too far. It’ll take you about ten minutes to get there from here.”

Bobbie thanked her and walked out of the building the same way she’d entered. As she settled behind the wheel, she considered that the sweatshirt and jeans she wore weren’t exactly proper work attire, but hopefully her excuse that she was on vacation would fly. Maybe she could gain some insight as to what was going on and why someone had inserted her name into the situation before the locals figured out her sticky situation. One call to her chief and she would probably be escorted back to the interstate.

She itched to drive by the address LeDoux had given her but she had to do this first. The more time Durham had before she spoke to him, the more opportunity he had to reach out to Montgomery PD for additional information. Whatever she could learn before that happened might help find Weller. She’d spent most of the drive trying to recall a case where a detective from Savannah had called her or Newt—Howard Newton—her former partner. Newt had died two months ago after a run-in with the Storyteller. The hurt sliced through her chest afresh.

Miss you.

Since she couldn’t call Newt and checking in with Sergeant Lynette Holt, her immediate supervisor back in Montgomery, was out of the question, Bobbie had to rely on her memory and so far she hadn’t recalled ever assisting a Savannah detective on any sort of case. If Newt had taken a call from this department he wouldn’t have given her name as a point of contact without telling her.

Although both cities were positioned next to a river, Savannah and Montgomery had little else in common. The many manicured parks and the ornate antebellum architecture made Savannah a definite tourist destination. The city’s label as one of the most haunted places in the world didn’t hurt tourism either. Savannah had a slow, genteel feel about it, far more so than Montgomery. The politics of being a state capitol gave Montgomery a not always pleasant underlying intensity Savannah didn’t suffer. She and James had spent a few days here before Jamie was born—a babymoon, her husband had called it.

Like the receptionist said, the drive scarcely took ten minutes. The half dozen official vehicles and the crime scene tape were visible as soon as Bobbie hit the intersection before her final turn. Two news vans had been pushed back a block from the scene. As she stopped for the uniform at the perimeter, she noted a coroner’s van. Definitely a homicide. Not surprising. For a city so laid-back and steeped in history and tourism, Savannah had an inordinately higher than average violent crime rate.

Bobbie showed her badge to the officer. “Lieutenant Durham is expecting me.”

The uniform stationed at the outer perimeter nodded and pointed to the side of the road beyond the house and the more modern clinic where all the official vehicles were gathered. “Park anywhere over there.”

Bobbie rolled forward, easing off the road and onto the grass. The veterinary clinic had been built next to an older craftsman bungalow, probably historic, much like the ones back home. The typical oak trees dripping with moss surrounded it. The house appeared well maintained and the lawn was nicely manicured. The same was true of the clinic. Pumpkins sat near the doors while witches and ghosts hung from a couple of trees. A sign advertising a church trunk-or-treat was posted in the front yard of the house. She showed her badge again as she approached the inner perimeter of yellow tape that draped around the property. The uniform gave her a nod and lifted the tape.

Since the activity was focused in the grassy area slightly beyond the clinic, Bobbie bypassed the sidewalk that forked, one side going toward the clinic and the other toward the house, and followed the stepping stones around the corner of the clinic. The yard was larger than expected. Dogs yapped in the fenced-in kennels behind the clinic. Between the clinic and the woods was a small park. Wait, no. As she moved closer she recognized headstones. Not a park, a cemetery. The small cemetery could have been any one of the thousands of family cemeteries that dotted the Old South. An old-fashioned iron fence surrounded the space. More of those big old trees with low-hanging limbs shaded the slumbering residents. Bobbie surveyed the first of the small headstones she encountered. Except this cemetery was for pets. The statue of an angel partially covered in moss watched over the rows of markers. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around the iron fence, the breeze making the plastic flop back and forth against the metal.

Two guys in suits, detectives she suspected, as well as a couple of forensic techs dressed in full protective gear stood around a grouping of small statues in the center of the cemetery. Another man, this one wearing protective clothing, as well, knelt next to a broken statue. Now that Bobbie looked more closely, all the statues were damaged in some way. An arm broken off, the head missing. The statues ranged in size from three to five feet—children. The intricately detailed pigtails and wide skirt of a little girl as if she were skipping along. A perfectly formed baseball cap on a little boy with bat in hand. The sculptor certainly showed a talent for capturing the essence of children at play.

She hadn’t spotted a body but there had to be one around here somewhere. As if she’d said as much aloud, a man turned and looked at her. His cowboy boots, jeans and button-down shirt told her little, but the weapon in the shoulder holster, the shield clipped at his waist and the weary look on his face said plenty. This was Lieutenant Troy Durham. The cell phone he held at his ear was likely the reason he had turned from the activity. Maybe to hear better or maybe because he’d received a call to say Bobbie was headed his way.

He tucked the phone into his back pocket and walked toward Bobbie, meeting her a few yards from the ongoing activity. Thrusting out his hand he said, “Troy Durham. Glad you could make it, Detective Gentry.” Confusion or something along those lines furrowed his face. “I apologize for staring, but I had you figured for male and a whole lot older.”

As tired as she was, Bobbie smiled. “And I was certain you would be a little older yourself and maybe a lot shorter.” Durham was probably late thirties. Very tall, blond hair, blue eyes. The way his shirt and jeans fit, it was clear he spent a good deal of his off-duty time at the gym. His current attire made her feel loads better about her own.

He laughed, the sound as fatigued as the lines around his eyes. “I guess I had that one coming.”

“So what’s going on?” If he felt her driving all this way rather than simply calling until she reached him was odd, he kept it to himself.

He glanced back at the damaged statues. Bobbie watched as a trace sheet was spread on the grass and bones—small bones—were placed one by one onto the sheet by a forensic tech or a coroner. Near the statue with the missing head was another trace sheet with a lone human skull placed on it. A child’s skull.

A lump formed in Bobbie’s throat. What the hell happened here?

“Why don’t we go inside where we can speak in private?”

Bobbie drew her attention back to the lieutenant and followed him across the yard. The dogs in the kennels yapped even louder as they passed along the backside of the clinic. Durham led the way straight to the back porch of the house that was apparently part of the crime scene. More of that yellow tape adorned the perimeter. Durham tossed his keys to a passing officer and asked him to bring his briefcase inside. As Durham opened the door another forensic tech exited. Inside, the kitchen was clear of bodies and official personnel. No sign of foul play. No coppery smell of blood. The room was clean save for the scattering of dust used for collecting prints. Apparently, all the trouble was outside.

Durham settled his attention on her once more. “I guess I’m a little confused.”

“Because I’m a woman or because I’m younger than you expected?” Maybe there was another detective somewhere with the name Bobbie Gentry. But it was her cell phone number Durham had called.

“Have you ever consulted on a case in this jurisdiction?”

Bobbie shook her head. “Never.”

Maybe the call from Durham had been sheer coincidence. She thought of the name and address LeDoux had given her. No way. Whoever had given her name and number to Durham wanted her in Savannah as this case broke. But why? Wouldn’t be Nick. Weller? He was the most likely possibility. Could be LeDoux, but that option was doubtful. He’d already given her a reason to come to Savannah.

The officer returned with Durham’s briefcase and keys. Durham thanked him and placed his briefcase on the floor. He dug out a brown file folder. The edges were dog-eared as if the contents had been rifled through a thousand times. He spread the folder on the counter and flipped through a collection of photos—photos of children. The children ranged in age from three to five or six. Three boys, two girls. There was no particular consistency to their appearance. Dark hair, light hair, brown, blue, green eyes. With each photo Bobbie’s heart rate increased and the lump in her throat expanded.

The photos of the children were stamped with the word MISSING. She thought of the broken statues and the bones outside. Not anymore. These children were dead. Their remains were right out that door.

Damn.

A sheen of sweat rose on her skin.

“See here.” Durham pointed to a handwritten note in the file. “Detective Mike Rhodes, the detective in charge of this case back when the kids went missing, mentioned you in his notes.”

Sure enough, there was Bobbie’s name and cell phone number at the bottom of one of the detective’s reports. Her mouth dropped open when she read the date. Thirty-two years ago. Bobbie laughed. “I’m certain you don’t need me to point out that this report is dated three months before I was born. How many people had cell phones back then?”