Just as he had hoped, Scudder had kept a current address and phone number for Cindy “Di Blasi” Dobbins.
Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.
He laughed. He had put off killing Poppy Chappelle, but not without a good reason. He wanted her alone when he killed her. No witnesses. No collateral damage. Following in the Carver’s footsteps as closely as possible didn’t allow him much leeway.
He wasn’t sure exactly how much Cindy knew, but if she knew anything at all that might help the police or the Powell Agency, she was a liability, just as Wyman Scudder had been. He no longer needed either of them, just as he no longer needed Jerome Browning. But Browning didn’t pose a threat. He had used the convicted killer for his own purposes. And as smart as Browning was, his ego had prevented him from realizing the complete truth. However, by now, the Carver knew that Albert Durham would never write Jerome Browning’s life story.
He could have waited until tomorrow to hunt down Cindy. Maybe he should have. But the moment he read the info from Scudder’s file on Cindy, he realized that she was probably hiding out at her sister’s place in Apple Orchard, South Carolina, and he had gotten an overwhelming urge to get the job done as soon as possible. And that’s why he had driven straight from Savannah, a nearly three-hour trip. That’s why he had set up about 250 yards into the woods, just far enough in so that he couldn’t be seen from across the road at Jeri and Lonny Paulk’s house. He had parked his car at a safe distance, but close enough to make a quick getaway. Hitting a small target, the size of a human head, at between 200 and 300 yards required the type of skill that he had acquired years ago and had used numerous times. He never became attached to a specific weapon, neither pistols nor rifles nor knives; instead he used whatever he considered perfect for the individual job. Tonight he had brought along a recent purchase—an M24 SWS.
One clean shot was all he needed. One shot directly into the kill zone where the bullet would sever the brainstem and cause instantaneous death.
He hadn’t been there more than six or seven minutes now, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. How long had the Powell agents been talking to Cindy? Lifting his Bushnell binoculars, he zeroed in on the Paulks’ front porch. Cindy had gone back into the house and the Powell agents were standing in the front yard talking. Just what had Cindy told them? She couldn’t have told them something of any real importance because her knowledge was limited. And with her out of the way, the agents would have no way to verify what, if anything, she’d told them.
Minutes ticked by, four, six, ten. The Powell agents hadn’t left, which meant they were waiting for something or someone. During the wait, he had gone over his plan, preparing for several different scenarios, one that included having to kill the Powell agents as well as Cindy’s sister and brother-in-law. Having to kill that many people would complicate the situation, make it messy. He preferred neat loose ends, all tied up, no usable evidence left behind. He always wore thin leather gloves that had been handmade in Italy, thus leaving no fingerprints. Whenever there was a possibility of leaving footprints, he made sure he wore inexpensive shoes that could be picked up at Wal-Mart. He prided himself on not making mistakes. Mistakes could be deadly. And he intended to live to a ripe old age.
When the front door opened, it was Lonny Paulk who came out onto the porch, not Cindy Dobbins. This time he wasn’t carrying a shotgun.
“Cindy’ll be out soon,” Lonny told Maleah and Derek. “The wife ain’t too happy about her going off with you two. She says we don’t know y’all, don’t know if we can trust either of you. But Cindy says she trusts you, so I reckon that ought to be good enough.”
“We’ll make sure Cindy is kept safe,” Maleah assured Lonny. “She can call her sister every day if she’d like. We’re not taking her prisoner.”
“She says that the lawyer she hooked up with a while back got himself whacked and that the guy who killed him just might come after her next,” Lonny said. “Any chance that me and the Mrs. might be in any danger?”
“I don’t think you and Jeri have to worry. The killer has no reason to harm either of you, especially once Cindy is no longer staying here with y’all.”
Lonny turned halfway around and hollered into the house, “You two women stop your yakking and get out here. You’re keeping these folks waiting.”
When she glanced his way, Maleah noted the smile in Derek’s eyes although he hadn’t changed his expression in any way.
“Hold your horses,” Jeri told her husband as she held the screen door open for her sister. “I needed time to say my good-byes to Cindy.”
“I’m ready,” Cindy said as she followed Jeri onto the porch.
Derek moved forward, reached up and took Cindy’s small, seen-better-days suitcase while Jeri and Cindy walked down the steps and into the yard, the two women arm-in-arm. Maleah opened the SUV’s driver’s side door, slid behind the wheel and impatiently strummed her fingertips on the steering wheel. After placing the suitcase in the back of the Equinox, Derek stood outside the SUV. The sisters hugged each other and shed a few tears. Cindy released Jeri and walked toward Derek, who had opened the door for her and waited to help her up and into the vehicle.
Suddenly, halfway to the SUV, Cindy dropped like a stone falling through water and instantly hit the ground. The crack of rifle fire pierced the bucolic stillness just as the bullet entered Cindy’s head. The sound was familiar in a rural area where hunting was a major pastime. But Maleah quickly realized that this nighttime shooter’s prey had been human and that Cindy Dobbins had been killed by a skilled rifleman.
Jeri screamed at the top of her lungs.
Lonny mumbled, “What the hell?”
After reaching inside the SUV to grab the Beretta Maleah kept under the seat as a backup weapon, Derek got to Cindy first and checked for a pulse. He looked up at Maleah, who rushed in behind him, and shook his head, then rose to his feet.
“Call nine-one-one,” Maleah yelled as she flipped open her holster, pulled out her Glock, and headed across the country road.
Derek caught up with her just as she entered the woods. “Hold up,” he told her. “We don’t know where this guy is. It could take us a while to find him, if we can find him. Slow down and think this thing through.”
“Damn it, Derek, while we’re thinking, he could be getting away.”
As if on cue, a car started somewhere nearby.
Without hesitation, they both rushed from the edge of the wooded area and ran up the road toward the sound of the vehicle’s screeching departure. The red taillights winked mockingly at them as the car sped off in the opposite direction.
Maleah cursed under her breath as she turned and raced back up the road toward her SUV still parked in the Paulks’ driveway.
“She’s dead,” Jeri wailed. “My sister’s dead.”
“Shot clean through the head,” Lonny said, a look of shock in his eyes.
“Call 911, damn it,” Maleah told them. “Get the sheriff out here.” She jumped in the Equinox and revved the motor.
Derek barely got the passenger’s side door open before Maleah started backing up the SUV. By the time he managed to jump inside the Equinox, she had the vehicle headed up the road, back toward the main highway.
Chapter 15
Derek noted that Maleah hadn’t secured her seatbelt.
“I’m going to reach across and grab your seatbelt,” he told her.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Once he buckled her in, he did the same for himself.
“I doubt the Paulks contacted 911,” Maleah told him as she pressed her foot down on the gas pedal. “Call 911 and tell them what’s happened and let them know that we are in pursuit of the shooter.”
Knowing a reply was unnecessary, Derek hurriedly placed the call, gave them his name and then explained that there had been a shooting, the victim was dead, and her sister and brother-in-law were with the body. He rattled off the address and then explained that he and his partner, both Powell Agency employees, were pursuing what they believed to be the shooter’s vehicle.
The 911 operator kept him on the line, asking questions as she began the process of contacting the proper agencies.
The scenery flashed by in a dark blur as they chased the red taillights all the way back to the main highway. Maleah made the turn at eighty miles an hour. The SUV swerved and tilted as they rounded the curve and sailed into the oncoming traffic lane. Luckily, there wasn’t another vehicle anywhere in sight, except for the getaway car.
Derek couldn’t help being impressed with Maleah’s driving skills. The Equinox had just hit ninety and was beginning to close in on the car ahead of them by no more than a hundred yards.
“Can you make out anything about the car?” Maleah asked. “Make? Model? Color? Car tag?”
“Not yet,” he told her.
Staying on the line with the 911 operator by placing his phone between his ear and shoulder, he undid his seatbelt and climbed into the back of the SUV. Maleah didn’t react. Remaining focused straight ahead, she kept driving in hot pursuit of the shooter. Derek plopped down in the backseat, spread his legs, reached into the floorboard and unzipped the black vinyl equipment bag. He rummaged around in the bag until he found what he’d been searching for—binoculars.
“I’ve given you all the info I can,” he told the operator. “I’m going to hang up now.”
He crawled over the console and back into the front passenger seat. After adjusting the Yukon night vision binoculars, he aimed them straight ahead.
“God damn it,” Derek cursed.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“He’s playing with us, letting us get closer. There’s no way in hell you’re going to catch that bad boy.”
“Bad boy?”
“Our shooter is driving a Dodge Charger. We’re talking a Hemi V-8 standard on that car.”
“Shit!”
Derek directed the binoculars toward the license plate. “It’s a Georgia tag.” He rattled off the number. “Bibb County.”
“It’s a rental, right? Otherwise he’d never let us get close enough to catch a glimpse of the tag. You can rent a Charger, can’t you?”
“Sure can.”
“Bibb County,” Maleah said. “That’s Macon. He rented a car in Macon, either before or after he killed Wyman Scudder.”
“He wants us to know. Son of a bitch, he’s telling us that he’s tied up loose ends and—” Maleah mumbled a few choice curse words under her breath. “Damn, he’s speeding up again.”
“I’ll call 911 back and give them the numbers I saw on the tag,” Derek said. “I can’t believe he’s stupid enough to hand us that tag number on a silver platter.”
“He’s going to switch cars somewhere or he’s got an accomplice waiting with another vehicle somewhere up the—”
“Watch out!” Derek yelled the moment he saw the pickup truck pulling onto the highway from a side road.
Maleah swerved to avoid hitting the truck, taking the Equinox all the way across the highway and onto the shoulder of the two-lane roadway. Derek’s binoculars flew out of his hand and landed in the floorboard beneath Maleah’s feet. Keeping her hands on the wheel and her wits about her, she managed to take charge of the quickly careening-out-of-control vehicle.
By the time she got the SUV leveled off and back on track, a couple of flashing blue lights coming from the opposite direction dove directly in front of her, effectively blocking her pursuit. She had no choice but to slow down and stop. Either that or deliberately ram into two patrol cars.
“Take a deep breath,” Derek advised. “We have a lot of explaining to do. They don’t know we’re the good guys.”
“I know. I know,” Maleah said, aggravation in her voice. “These local guys just ruined any chance we had to catch the killer.”
“No, they didn’t. They’re just the reason we ended our pursuit sooner rather than later.” Once she cooled off a bit and could see reason, she would realize he was right.
In the meantime, they had to deal with local law enforcement and hope these guys would let them explain the situation before hauling them off to jail.
“Get out of the vehicle,” a deputy called to them. “Slow and easy. And put your hands on your head.”
Derek saw two deputies, pistols drawn and aimed, standing on either side of the Equinox, and one deputy directly in front, which mean the fourth was no doubt stationed at the rear.
“On the count of three, open your door and get out nice and slow,” Derek told her. “And for once, would you please let me do the talking?”
Twenty minutes after he lost his pursuers, he drove into downtown Augusta. Once he realized they were no longer following him, he had slowed the Charger from a hundred to eighty and gradually down to the allowed limit. In retrospect, he knew he should have refrained from showing off by deliberately thumbing his nose at the Powell agents. But on occasion, he could not resist the urge to show lesser mortals that they were dealing with a smarter, superior, and more deadly opponent. There was no way they could ever best him.
He needed to ditch the rental car as soon as possible, but not before he was within walking distance of transportation. By now, it was likely that the Powell agents had given the Edgefield County sheriff’s boys the license plate number and make, model and color of the vehicle. Using the GPS system, he’d gotten directions to the Greyhound bus station, which, as luck would have it, was now only five minutes away. When he reached the twelve hundred block, he pulled off the street and into the parking area for the Greene Street Presbyterian Church. After getting out, he popped open the trunk and removed a carrying case and a large suitcase. Then, working quickly, he disassembled the sniper rifle, carefully arranged the parts inside the carrying case, and placed the case inside the suitcase beneath his clothes and toiletries.
Before closing the suitcase, he removed his thin leather gloves and tossed them inside; then he closed and locked the bag. Whistling softly, the old familiar tune from his childhood, he clutched the suitcase handle and headed toward the bus station. Glancing at his lighted digital watch, he smiled. He had plenty of time to get there before the ticket counter closed at 11:59
P.M.
He would go to Atlanta, take a day off to revise his plans, and then return to Savannah for the Copycat Carver’s next kill.
By the time they were allowed to leave the Edgefield County sheriff’s office, Maleah knew more about the sheriff and his department than she’d ever wanted to know. And she had gained a new appreciation for just how far Griffin Powell’s sphere of influence reached, apparently all the way to Edgefield County, South Carolina. Otherwise, she and Derek would probably be behind bars.
Sheriff Gene Lockhart had taken charge of the murder case, the first murder in his county since he’d been elected. All three of the county’s criminal investigators had been called in and two had been dispatched to the scene of the crime at the Paulk residence, along with the Chief Investigator and the forensic investigator. The third criminal investigator, Lieutenant Nelson Saucier, a middle-aged black man, with a wide smile and an intimidating stare, had been assigned to interrogate Maleah and Derek.
She had to give the man credit—he had assumed they were innocent of any wrong doing and had actually listened to what they had to say. And as soon as Derek had given him the license plate number and info about the Dodge Charger, he had issued an all points bulletin.
As difficult as it had been for her to keep her mouth shut, Maleah had done as Derek requested and allowed him to do most of the talking. There was no point in the two of them giving the lieutenant the same information. They were Powell agents working a case involving a suspected serial killer, a copycat murderer who was targeting their agency. Their investigation had led them to Apple Orchard in their search for a woman named Cindy Dobbins.
After patiently listening to Derek explain why they were on the scene when Ms. Dobbins was shot and why they were chasing the person they believed to be the shooter, Lt. Saucier interrogated them further, asking them question after question in rapid-fire succession. He expected answers from both of them and that’s what he got, similar answers to each question, but not word for word identical responses.
The inspector had excused himself a couple of times, leaving them alone, but they had sat quietly and waited without indulging in conversation. The second time he had come back into the room, he’d handed each their driver’s license and Powell Agency ID.
“Well, at least we know you’re both who you say you are, but until I get the okay from Sheriff Lockhart, I’m afraid I’m going to have to hold y’all.”
And so they had waited for what seemed like an eternity—well past dawn—before the sheriff, looking as if he, too, had been up all night—arrived at headquarters. He came in, introduced himself to Maleah and Derek and told them that they were free to go.
Maleah opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t get out the first word before Derek grabbed her arm and said, “Yes, sir, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” the sheriff replied. “Thank the attorney general. I’ve never gotten a direct order from the man, never even spoke to him before tonight.”
“We’ll be sure to let him know how grateful we are,” Maleah said as Derek all but dragged her out of the sheriff’s office and straight to where her SUV was parked.
“Give me your keys,” Derek told her. “I’ll drive.”
She hesitated momentarily, then pulled her keys out of her jacket and tossed them to him. Before getting in on the passenger side, she stretched, tossed back her head, and stared up at the early morning sky. She ached all over, from head to toes. She was also sleepy and hungry and ill as a hornet. Despite the surprising competence of the sheriff’s department, Maleah felt that too much time had been wasted on grilling her and Derek when that time could have been utilized in a better way. But then again, how could she fault local law enforcement, with their limited resources, for not catching their killer when the entire Powell Agency, with unlimited resources, had been unable to apprehend the Copycat Carver?
“Jump in,” Derek said. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge while the getting is good.”
Offering him a weak smile and a weary nod, she opened the SUV passenger door and hopped up and into the seat. While she adjusted her seatbelt, Derek started the vehicle, hurriedly checked his mobile phone and within two minutes, they were headed south. Struggling to keep her eyes open, Maleah began concentrating on the road signs and soon realized they were not headed back to Augusta.
“Where are we going?”
“Aiken,” Derek replied.
“What’s in Aiken?”
“A decent hotel that’s not too far away.”
“Is that what you were doing with your phone, checking for a hotel?”
“Aiken’s closer than Augusta and I don’t know about you, but the sooner I get something to eat and a few hours of sleep, the better.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
“Will wonders never cease.” He chuckled.
Although the trip from Apple Orchard to Aiken had been relatively short, Maleah had fallen asleep. She woke suddenly when Derek pulled the SUV under the entrance portico at the Holiday Inn Express in downtown Aiken.
“Get out and book us a couple of rooms,” he told her. “I’ll park, grab our bags, and meet you inside.”
She shook her head to dislodge the cobwebs and without saying a word, got out and walked into the hotel. Before she reached the registration counter, the smell of the complimentary breakfast coming from the nearby dining area reminded her of how long it had been since she’d last eaten.
First things first,
she reminded herself, and went straight to the check-in desk. She explained to the clerk that she didn’t mind paying full price for the two rooms for two nights—last night and tonight—although it was doubtful they’d still be here tonight. By the time Derek joined her, she had charged the rooms to her credit card and pocketed two room keys.
“They’re still serving breakfast,” she told him.
“Then what are we waiting for? I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse.”
She led, he followed. After finding an empty table, he pulled over a third chair, dumped their bags into the chair and made a beeline to the coffeemaker.
As complimentary hotel breakfasts went, the food at the Aiken Holiday Inn Express wasn’t half bad. Of course, Maleah was so hungry that anything edible would have tasted like a feast.